Voices From The Other Side

by Brandon Massey

  The Arrangements

  Patricia E. Canterbury

  Agrimonia Eupatoria—October

  I opened the mail that was delivered addressed to Grandfather. I had no way of informing Mrs. Lily Parks of his passing a month earlier. None of his correspondence to her was addressed to other than the house on Thorne Island, and she lived on the Island only during the late-spring and summer months. I absently tapped the letter on the side of my computer, then opened it to read:

  Mr. Harrison Snyder III

  Attorney-at-Law

  Thorne Island, Vermont

  Dear Mr. Snyder:

  I hope that your family is well. It is time once again for my daughters and me to return to our summer home. Will you ensure that the house is aired out and that Simon has the garden ready for our arrival, as I would be most pleased?

  Your humble friend,

  Mrs. Lily Parks

  The letter was written on old-fashioned stationery with embossed exotic birds in the upper-right-hand corner. The handwriting was weak and spidery, as one would expect from a woman of advanced age. Mrs. Lily Parks would have to be in her late eighties or early nineties. She and Grandfather were close in age. Grandfather had been taking care of Mrs. Lily Parks’s legal affairs for over sixty years. I smiled remembering that after all these years, Grandfather was still Mr. Snyder and she, Mrs. Lily Parks, so unlike today’s instant familiarity with strangers. I looked at the letter, at everything about it: the halting handwriting, the scent similar to a spring bouquet. The sentence structure screamed elderly grandmother. It was addressed to Grandfather, and I had been expecting it since late March. Grandfather left specific instructions that I was to follow the information received from Mrs. Lily Parks, and to expect a letter no later than April 1.

  Mrs. Parks and her four daughters were a legend on the Island. Only I had never seen them. I usually spent my summers in New Orleans, Paris or New York—any place but Vermont. The old women spent theirs on Thorne Island. Every year for as long as I could remember, Grandfather spoke about how the women would board up the house in September and return the last week in April. It was as if they brought spring with them.

  Grandfather and others who call Thorne Island their home all year state that the Parks Family has some of the most beautiful women seen in the northeast. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would find sixty-, seventy-or eighty-year-old women beautiful, but I indulged the old-timers as I cleared out my grandfather’s business.

  “Too bad that you’re not takin’ your grandfather’s practice,” old-timers would tell me when I’d see them in the bank or grocery store.

  “Thanks. I have plans that don’t include Island practice. Perhaps when I’m a little older and more settled,” I replied with a smile, so as not to hurt the natives’ feelings. To tell the truth, the only reason I was even on Thorne Island was because I was Grandfather’s only living relative who was also a lawyer.

  “Paolo, you should think about living up here on Thorne Island. You could make a lot of money. The folks in Vermont are real nice, and you would start with my dear friends Mrs. Lily Parks and her lovely daughters,” Grandfather said just last fall, after he’d called me to come up to see his practice for myself.

  “Gramps, I didn’t go to the university to settle on a tiny island on Lake Champlain. Perhaps when I’m much older, settled, married, the kids in college, maybe then I could get acquainted with the Island folk.” I didn’t mean it, of course. I had no plans to settle on an island, but it made Grandfather happy, and I knew that he’d be gone long before I would be ready to settle for small-town America. Of course, I had no way of knowing that he would be dead so soon after that visit.

  “Tell me about Mrs. Lily Parks and her daughters,” I said the last day of last year’s visit. The women had just left for their winter home. I should have noticed then that Grandfather was fading, but I was preoccupied with getting on with my life. I wish I had paid attention and asked more questions.

  “There’s not much to say. They’re quiet and keep to themselves. If they need my help to get the house ready, I hear from them in late March or early April. As you know, I’m responsible for their winter mortgage. I make sure that it’s paid monthly. They may send their handyman and gardener, Simon, to get you. He’s been with the women forever. He seems almost as immortal as the women. But you should go and see them. They live in one of the most beautiful homes on the Island.”

  I was always too busy to follow up. Besides, with Grandfather alive, there wasn’t a reason for me to spend any time with a bunch of sixty-year-old spinsters and their aged mother. Nor did I question their equally old gardener. And I didn’t question why after sixty years, Mrs. Lily Parks was still paying a mortgage.

  Another week passed since the arrival of the letter before Simon, the Parks’s gardener, came to the office and informed me that Mrs. Lily Parks had some urgent business with me.

  “Mrs. Lily Parks requests the honor of your presence for tea at three o’clock,” Simon whispered. He was nearly as old and withered as I assumed Mrs. Lily Parks to be. His lean, ebony body was rock hard from years of backbreaking work. Yet, his voice was as soft and smooth as if he were speaking in a cathedral. He had an odd gracefulness about him, a sense of authority, as if he were used to giving orders rather than following them.

  “Simon, tell Mrs. Parks that I will be pleased to meet with her this afternoon.” Simon nodded, and walked out of the office.

  I was not calling Grandfather’s place mine even for a short time. I have played and replayed that conversation over and over in my mind. Why didn’t I ask Simon more questions? Why didn’t I ask Grandfather more about the women when we talked? Why didn’t Grandfather feel free to warn me? Did he know about them? At the time, none of these questions was anywhere near my consciousness.

  Lily—April

  I drove to the Parks’s estate, which had a magnificent view of Lake Champlain from three of the four sides of the wraparound porch. An eight-foot-tall rustic gate was right in front of the circular driveway and seemed to keep strangers from wandering through the beautiful wildflower garden that greeted visitors from the main road and the fourth side of the porch. The gate appeared locked, so I got out of my car and looked for a bell to announce my arrival.

  Simon appeared seemingly out of nowhere and opened the gate. “Welcome, Mr. Snyder,” he said in a low voice that I had to strain to hear. “You can leave your car here and follow me onto the grounds. Mrs. Lily Parks will see you on the east porch.”

  I thought it strange to leave my car on the street when there was an empty circular driveway large enough for ten cars just inside the gate, but I didn’t say anything. I grabbed the bouquet of cut flowers I had purchased for Mrs. Lily Parks.

  I also didn’t notice how Simon opened the gate, but seconds later he and I stepped past the gate and onto a rough, small-pebbled walkway that led to the house. The yard was filled to overflowing with plants. Butterflies and ladybugs seemed everywhere. It was as if every flower had its own personal butterfly.

  Something slithered through the tall grass to my right.

  “Are there snakes here?” I asked. Snakes and I were not on nodding terms.

  “Snakes? Why yes, sir, there are harmless garden snakes. You don’t have to be afraid of them.” Simon smiled, shook his head and continued walking. I watched my step as we approached the house.

  “Have a seat. Mrs. Parks will be with you shortly. Let me take the flowers, and I will take care of them,” Simon said as he gestured to a high-backed rattan chair near a round table that held a silver teapot and two pale blue china cups and matching saucers. He then walked through a door that opened into what looked like a formal dining room from what I could see through the lace curtains.

  “Mr. Snyder, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Simon told me about your grandfather. You have my deepest sympathies. I should have sent a condolence card earlier,” a short woman the hue of café au lait who appeared to be about forty-five years of ag
e and had premature gray hair said, as she reached out and shook my hand. Her skin was petal-soft and the smoothest that I’d seen on anyone older than sixteen. She was dressed in a milk-white silk suit with a pale yellow silk blouse beneath the jacket.

  I noticed women’s clothing. It was a gift that came naturally, one that I cultivated to a fine art in college. It helped me to size up professors, mates, best friends and one-night stands. Clothes say a lot about women.

  Her tiny tan feet were clad in snow-white sandals, and her silver hair was cut short and smooth, close to her head. She wore a thin, dark yellow silk scarf around her neck. Her eyes were clear and the darkest black I’d ever seen. She wore the most alluring perfume, which seemed to shift strength in the breeze.

  “Hello . . . I-I’m waiting for your grandmother? Uh . . . Mrs. Lily Parks?” I managed to stammer. I thought Grandfather said that none of the Parks daughters were married. Well, things happen. No one needed to be married for there to be a granddaughter. And this woman was one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen; she had to be a Parks relative. Her skin, hair, eyes, all were flawless. She looked fresh, as if she’d just stepped from a shower. She exuded warmth.

  She laughed. The sound was like glass wind chimes in the distance. Her laughter reminded me of a sound I’d heard at a temple in a village in Africa.

  “How sweet. But I’m Lily Parks.” There was something so formal about her that I immediately realized why Grandfather always referred to her as Mrs. Lily Parks, as did I from that day forward.

  “But . . . I-I was told that Mrs. Parks . . . uh . . .” I let the words fade in the air as an equally gorgeous but much younger woman opened the door and said, “Mama, do you want more tea?”

  I was still standing somehow unable to find my voice. I felt as if I were fourteen and trapped in a room full of college-age women and that whatever I said would sound childish.

  “Mr. Snyder, please have a seat.” Mrs. Lily Parks gestured toward the rattan chair. “Rose, we haven’t drunk this pot yet. Mr. Snyder, I’d like you to meet my eldest daughter, Rose,” Mrs. Lily Parks continued.

  While Lily was dressed in white and her skin was golden, the color of winter wheat, Rose was dark brown like fresh mud, and she wore a pale green sleeveless summer dress that hugged her tiny figure and accented her round hips, even teeth and bright green eyes. I’d never seen a person as dark as Rose with eyes as green as hers. She smiled, and the air seemed to grow visibly warmer.

  If I’d been a betting man, I would have bet that Rose was no older than thirty. Who were these women who looked at least thirty to forty years younger than their true ages? What had my grandfather been doing for them over the past sixty years? What was their secret?

  “Call us if you need us. We’re going down to the lake,” Rose said, her voice a whisper even softer than her mother’s. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Snyder.” I shook her outstretched hand. It was smooth, soft and velvety.

  I’m sure that I responded, but I have no idea what I said. I sat down and watched as Rose and two other young-looking women ran out of the house, across the porch and down the hill to the water. A third woman, dressed similar to Mrs. Lily Parks, glared at me, then kneeled over a mound that I swear looked like a tiny grave, where she buried the flowers I’d just purchased. I was too stunned to say anything. Instead, I looked over to the lake side of the Parks’s property, which was steep, rough and extremely dangerous looking. I had no idea how the women climbed down to the sand. I couldn’t see steps or a gate in the rusting iron fence. None of the women looked at their mother and me as they left.

  Mrs. Lily Parks poured a cup of green tea. She lifted her cup to her lips. I stared at her as if I’d never seen a woman drink before.

  “Uh . . . your daughters?” I asked, gesturing in the direction of the disappearing women.

  “You’ve met Rose. The next are the twins, Violet and Daisy, then my youngest, Daphne. You’ll meet all of them in due time. Right now, I need to follow up on the instructions that your family has followed regarding the care of the house during the winter months. I noticed that one of the tower windows was broken and not repaired before our arrival. I cannot have that. Your grandfather was a very exacting man, and my family trusted him completely. There were never any problems.”

  Even though I was being scolded, I seemed to be locked in a time warp and was helpless to do anything but agree that I was not fit to fill my grandfather’s shoes. I, who had no intention of following in Grandfather’s business, felt ashamed that I was not going to be working for the beautiful Parks Family.

  I didn’t say anything about not taking over from Grandfather, yet the disappointment in Mrs. Lily Parks’s eyes was almost more than I could bear. Somehow she knew that I would be leaving as soon as I completed the last of Grandfather’s duties and found someone else to pay the winter mortgage. I found myself trembling, and apologizing for not meeting her standards. Grandfather’s papers indicated that he had begun his practice with the newcomers to the Island, folks who would take a chance on a black man during the forties. It didn’t occur to me to question Mrs. Lily Parks, as it seemed natural that the longtime African-American inhabitants on the Island would turn to Grandfather for his legal expertise.

  My body sat on the porch and listened to her lecture and to her history as I drank her tea and ate the cinnamon cookies that I had failed to notice when I first sat down. All the while, my mind wandered to where her daughters played. They laughed and giggled like teenagers. Their laughter rang through the trees and seemed to surround the house. I wanted to join them. I wanted to listen to their laughter. I, a worldly man of thirty, found myself lusting over women more than double my age. I looked over at Mrs. Lily Parks. She smiled as if she could read my thoughts, and I felt the familiar swelling between my legs. I blinked. How could this be? What was in the tea? That’s it. There had to be something in the tea that made me think that the women were as beautiful, young and firm as my eyes told me.

  After what seemed like an eternity, I got up slowly from the rattan chair. “Thank you for your afternoon, Mrs. Parks. I will make sure that someone repairs your broken window immediately. I have to get back to the office.” I had been daydreaming about how Mrs. Lily Parks’s skin would feel under my fingertips. I wanted to know if she tasted as nice as she smelled. I wanted to . . . I dared not think of what I wanted to do to her for fear that I would rip her clothes off and ravish her within the sound of her daughters’ laughter. I had to get away. I needed to think.

  “Oh, you’re leaving so soon? The girls will be disappointed that you’re not staying for supper.” With those words, Mrs. Lily Parks got up and extended her hand.

  I felt that I should kiss it instead of shake it. It took all of my willpower to shake her hand and then to walk down the four stairs to the walkway. I’m sure that she noticed my erection. How could she not? But she turned away from me just as Simon walked around from the side of the house. He accompanied me to the gate.

  “Simon, how long have the Parks lived on Thorne Island?” I asked, my voice and body returning to their natural state.

  “The Parks have been here since before the Island was named.”

  “I mean, how long has Mrs. Lily Parks and her daughters lived on the Island?”

  “I believe that I answered your question, sir.” We were at the gate, and I stepped outside and got into my car. I needed to find out who had worked with Mrs. Lily Parks prior to Grandfather. And I needed to find out what was in the tea I’d drunk and the cookies I’d eaten all afternoon.

  What was left of the afternoon I spent in exhaustive research of my grandfather’s papers. Nothing in the office told me anything further about his relationship with Mrs. Lily Parks or her daughters.

  When it grew too dark to read by natural light, rather than turn on the lights and encourage curious neighbors, I decided to walk home. The house, my grandfather’s house, was small, comfortable and highlighted by large windows that looked over the main street and the lake beyo
nd. I would soon be selling the house along with the practice. The house—I had forgotten to search the house for clues about the Parks.

  I hadn’t eaten anything except the cinnamon cookies Mrs. Lily Parks served with tea, and my stomach growled, reminding me that nourishment and a clear head went hand in hand.

  “Did you attend school with any of the Parks daughters?” I asked the waitress in the local mom-and-pop diner. She looked every bit of the sixty years of age that I assumed her to be. She wore her lined face and pursed lips proudly, much like a badge of survival. Her eyes were clear and gray, the shade of gray that changes color with whatever the person is wearing. The waitress, Dottie, according to what her name badge said, was stooped from years of standing on her feet, carrying trays and working long hours. She still had a flirty, if tired, smile. Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She wore serious walking shoes and white socks. The clean, washed-out, blue-pinstriped uniform showed that once she had had a decent figure.

  “The Parks women keep to themselves. I’ve seen them shopping in town, and they’ve never come in here for eats. None of them grew up here, so we didn’t go to school together. They return every spring. They always look so fresh and new. Wherever they spend their winters sure agrees with them. I wish I had skin like theirs. It’s so soft, petal-soft. Me, I look like a dried prune.” Dottie smiled, removed the pencil she’d placed behind her ear and waited for my order, having exhausted her knowledge and appreciation of the Parks women.