Souls Dryft

by Jayne Fresina

  He walked to the table and sat heavily, putting his heels up. Richard would never put his dirty heels up on a table. Arms stretched over his head, he let out a stifled groan and the house exhaled with him. I could hear a clock ticking loudly; a reminder that time was running out again for us, but we had this moment. We wouldn’t waste it.

  "Come here and sit with me, woman," he said, watching me through lowered lashes, not so sure of himself as he liked to pretend.

  I waited a beat. The sun moved around the room in a slow, meandering sweep, showing me into the past again: the window seat, the chair with all the notches and nicks in its wooden arms, the pewter plates on the mantle and cards spread out on the table, abandoned in the midst of a game. Above stairs someone whistled my tune and any minute they would come down. A door creaked. The odor of burnt jam, equal parts sweet and bitter, tried to compete with the wood ash and tallow.

  He whistled for me now, pushing his luck. "Haven’t got all day," he warned, licking his lips.

  "Don’t you ever ask politely?"

  He considered, head on one side. "Come to me. If you will. If it pleases you."

  It pleased me, so I went.

  His tongue tasted of apples and cinnamon. His hair carried the heat of the sun and beneath, when I tangled my fingers through it, I felt the damp sweat of his scalp. I was back there in an instant and if I could have stayed, I would have.

  But I knew it couldn’t last forever.

  Of course he kept out of the way when others came to the house. I understood because I didn’t want to share him with anyone either. He left little presents for me around the house: a bunch of dog daisies and forget-me-nots on my pillow when I woke, rose petals sprinkled in my bath water, a message scrawled in his untidy hand across the dirty window.

  The end came suddenly, without warning. One morning, while I was at work, he picked up my book and read the end. The spell was broken. As I walked through the door, I saw my manuscript on the kitchen table, left open on the last page – just to let me know he’d read it and now knew how he died.

  Harsh sunlight swept through the house, as if to prove that he was gone and make me sorry for it. The antique poker was on the floor by the stove. Wondering vaguely how it came to be knocked off its hook, I put it back.

  I heard her crying, "Bring him back to me" but it was my mouth that moved and let the words out.

  * * * *

  Mr. Scroggs gleefully waved me into his cluttered backroom to show me what he’d found. "I must say, it has quite enlivened this old soul." He unlocked a drawer and fumbled through it, huffing and puffing, his belly spilling through the gaps between cardigan buttons. "It has brought me back to life, you might say."

  I smiled numbly. With Marian’s wedding just two days away, the world moved forward, sweeping me along, whether I wanted to go or not. As often was the case, I was an extra in someone else’s movie and might just as well be replaced by a large urn of flowers. Finally having this small scene to myself, I was oddly disconnected.

  He opened the wooden box and set the ring before me with great reverence. "You see here, the symbols under the band, my dear?" He lifted the ring and showed me.

  "They look like scratches."

  "At first glance," he agreed, "but under closer inspection, I saw they were words – Arabic — and very small, engraved with a remarkably steady hand I should say – a master in their work, no doubt. Of course," the old man sighed pensively, "no one takes so much trouble over the details these days. Craftsmanship like this is long gone."

  "Arabic?" I was confused.

  He took a folded sheet of paper from his cardigan pocket. "I wrote the words down and took them to a Muslim neighbor of mine for the translation." He spread the paper out to show me. "From the Court of the Orange Trees: where water brings life." Then he looked up, expectantly, as if I should understand.

  Orange trees. I thought of the stubborn plants I’d found in the garden at Souls Dryft, growing and surviving all those years, despite severe negligence. No living thing should have survived that long, but look at me.

  "The Court of the Orange trees," he explained, "or the Patio de Los Naranjos, is one of Spain’s ancient Moorish gardens." Now he opened a book from the shelf and turned it toward me, pushing aside his half-eaten ham sandwich. "Few of their gardens remain, but this is one of them, you see, by Cordoba’s great mosque. The Moors placed great importance in their gardens, and they were most resourceful in the management of water for irrigation. Water was precious – and so were their orange trees."

  I took the ring in my hand again. The little gas fire by his chair, puttered away contentedly, making me sleepy. His words danced about like fireflies in my brain. I waited for them to settle.

  He continued, "This was made as a gift perhaps. I wonder if there might have been seeds inside." He leaned back, resting his hands across his belly. "Of course, you should take it to a museum for proper authentication." Smiling again, he added, "I am but a keen amateur – a purveyor of memories, but perhaps I have brought you some answers."

  I thanked him and offered payment, which he wouldn’t accept.

  "I am simply glad indeed to see you again, my dear," he exclaimed, clutching my hand in both of his. "I have missed you all these years."

  Slipping the ring box into my pocket, I stepped out of the dark shop to find that the sun was out. People passed me in the street, dashing along with their heads down, no one stopping to appreciate this beautiful, rare, sunny day, or the time they had.

  * * * *

  "What I’d like to know is, why is she marrying that old man?" Nana’s dulcet tones echoed around the walls of the church, but not a soul looked up, or turned their head. I heard a slight titter from our side of the aisle. My father, having just ceremonially given his youngest daughter away, turned his eyes to the gothic arches and stuck a finger under his collar. I could see him mentally clicking his heels together – one down; one to go.

  Unfortunately I’d forgotten the toffee to keep Nana quiet. I knew where it was — sitting on my mother’s coffee table, right where I left it just before I picked up my bouquet and headed for the door. I would really be in my mother’s bad books now. She’d gone to great lengths to remind me about that toffee, as it was the only thing sure to keep Nana’s teeth soldered together for the ceremony. With so many other things on my mind, however, something was bound to be forgotten.

  After the sad traipse down the aisle, I slid into Nana’s pew to keep her company, at which point she patted my knee and exclaimed, "Bridesmaid again, eh? Some girls just aren’t suited to marriage. I daresay you’re better off. It’s fashionable to be a lesbian now you know. I saw it on TV."

  I was still recovering from that remark and the accompanying startled glances from fellow wedding guests, when she twisted around in the pew and demanded at the top of her lungs, "Did somebody just fart in here?"

  Seated on her other side, Jack started directly ahead, looking like a defendant in court, about to be sentenced. The "new and improved" thoughtful, considerate Jack was surely on trial today. I struggled not to laugh, the freesias in my bouquet trembling madly.

  "Have you met my granddaughter?" Nana demanded of the still, silent man beside her. "I don’t think she’s a lesbian, but sometimes you can’t tell. I’ve seen them on TV."

  Managing a stiff smile, he whispered that he had indeed met me.

  "Remember, Nana," I whispered to her, "that’s Jack. You know Jack. We picked you up earlier from the station."

  "Nobody picked me up. I waited an hour and finally had to take a taxi. They left an old woman like me to pay for her own taxi. It’s a scandal, but I should expect nothing more from my ingrate of a daughter. I suppose she hoped I wouldn’t come."

  In the front row, two pews ahead, my mother’s hat bobbed angrily.

  "Nana," I whispered, "you didn’t take a taxi. We picked you up."

  "Picked me up? I didn’t fall down, I was resting," she hissed rapidly, almost losing her false tee
th in the process. "And I wasn’t drunk, I just had one of my turns." She clutched my knee suddenly. "Poor Grace!" she sighed, remembering my name and knowing, instinctively, that she ought to be sorry for me about something, but not sure what.

  After the ceremony she couldn’t wait for our pew to be emptied, but pushed ahead of the procession, worrying that the food would all be gone, if we didn’t get to the reception early enough. I dropped my flowers and saw them trampled underfoot, as Nana dragged me along, muttering about needing to take her pills. Under fast-moving, gun-metal grey rain clouds, the wedding party gathered at the side of the church for photographs and I was supposed to be with them, but, true to form, no one seemed to notice my absence.

  "Why is your mother wearing that hat?" Nana exclaimed. "All done up like a dog’s dinner." She waved, smiled evilly and raised her voice, "You look a picture, Joan! You should always wear hats with big brims. You’ve got the face for it."

  I remembered a pack of Juicy Fruit gum in my coat pocket. As usual, my mother had insisted everyone bring their coats, incase we got caught out in the dastardly rain. It was truly an obsession with her. Fortunately the car door was unlocked, so I was able to grab my coat and retrieve the gum. "Have some of this, Nana, to tide you over."

  "I don’t know what your sister wants with a husband. Husbands are obstacles to a woman’s happiness." She watched me unwrapping the gum and said, "He’ll only murder your sister for the insurance payout and flee to Barbados with his secretary. Like on TV."

  I nodded, agreeing.

  "Such a tragedy about that plane going down," she added.

  My wretched hoop skirt got caught in the car door, so I was busy struggling to free the trapped ruffles. "What’s that, Nana?"

  "The plane in the ocean. Everyone dead. Still, I suppose that’s the way to go – quick like that and not dragging on being a burden."

  "That happened months ago, Nana." Evidently she was confused again, but I had the inherent sense suddenly of something being "off" with the day.

  "I saw it on the TV," she insisted.

  "Yes, so did I."

  "Fancy your sister wearing white. That takes some nerve," she chuckled. Then she looked at my dress. "And what are you wearing?"

  "Tiffany box blue," I replied apologetically.

  "You look like a big varicose vein."

  Jack finally fought his way over to the car. He wasn’t pleased about ferrying Nana around; he’d had his fill of my family already and the day had barely begun.

  "Did you hear anything about a plane accident this morning?" I asked.

  "No. Why?"

  Relief swept over me like a cool wave across blistering hot sand.

  When we got to the reception, I found Nana a seat and a glass of champagne to wash her teeth; then I dashed to the ladies room to repair my make-up. I was in the cubicle, adjusting my bra-strap to the accompaniment of some dreadful muzak, when I heard two women at the sinks.

  "They don’t even know what happened?"

  "Well, they have to find that black box thingy, don’t they?"

  "All those people just wiped out…dropped out of the sky like that. Honestly, it makes you think, doesn’t it?"

  I came out of my cubicle, still in a fair amount of disarray. "What happened?" I demanded, my voice bouncing off the tiles. "What are you talking about?"

  They looked at me, one of them poised with her lipstick, the other leaning against the towel dispenser. "There was an accident this morning. A plane flying to New York from Heathrow," she said, eyes flicking over my hideous gown with barely stifled amusement.

  The floor tipped. I grabbed the cold tap and splashed water on my face. Better. I didn’t stop to look in the mirror there, as they were waiting for me to leave so they could snicker about me. Genny had tried to warn me…

  No. I was letting my imagination run away with me again. Flying was safer than crossing the road, so they say.

  Out in the lobby, I found my mother, sitting by a fake rubber plant, on one of those sofas that are rock hard and purely ornament, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. I walked up to her slowly. "What is it?" I said, expecting the worst. "What happened?"

  She shook her head rapidly. "Your sister. Oh dear, I hope she hasn’t made a terrible mistake."

  I exhaled. "That’s why you’re all weepy? I thought you liked Clive."

  Her corsage trembled, as she wiped her nose. "Look at what she’s getting herself into, a man with two children already and an ex-wife. I tried to warn her."

  I sat beside her on the small, hard sofa. "She wouldn’t listen."

  "She’s so stubborn!"

  I agreed; then immediately protested, "I thought I was the stubborn one?"

  She blinked her damp lashes, sighing. "You both are. Two stubborn girls!"

  "Marian will be fine," I assured her. "She knows how to look after herself."

  "Yes," she agreed sorrowfully, "I suppose so." Suddenly she straightened up. "Is Nana behaving? I’m so sorry, Grace. Your father said we should have sat her with us, but I just couldn’t face it today with so much else to worry about." Then she shocked me, adding, "Sometimes it’s hard looking in the mirror."

  I wondered if she’d had one too many sherries already. She reached over to squeeze my hand. "Your hair looks quite nice today, dear." Now I knew she was definitely under the influence. "And your eyes done like that," she went on, "It’s very…." Oh, now she struggled, "very…Sophia Loren."

  Sophia Loren?

  "Okay, thanks," I said hurriedly, "That’s….enough."

  She nodded, her mind already elsewhere; her duty done. Now she used her damp tissue to clean dust off the leaves of the faux rubber tree. "By the way, Cousin Eddie’s looking for you. You’ll dance with him Grace, won’t you?" Cousin Eddie had absolutely no rhythm and – even worse – no depth perception. But someone had to dance with him and, as usual, it would have to be me.

  My mother gathered herself together, patted her hair, sniffed her corsage and returned to the ballroom, only slightly askew. Keep calm. Things were odd today, definitely, but I would get through it. Like my mother, I stiffened the old upper lip and followed the merry thumping echo of the Macarena.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  I watched Jack chatting up one of the other bridesmaids over by the bar. He hadn’t once asked me to dance, or said I looked nice. While I didn’t expect the latter, he might have managed the former.

  "Jack the lad," Nana exclaimed, smacking her lips over a chocolate-dipped strawberry. "He won’t stick around when something better comes along."

  I sighed. "Nana, couldn’t you at least pretend there would be nothing better than me?"

  "All this fruit will give me the runs," she muttered.

  Marian swept over in her frothy gown, her headdress knocked off-kilter, a champagne bottle dangling dangerously from one hand. "I saw you dancing with Cousin Eddie," she teased.

  I’d just kicked off my shoes and my toes were still throbbing. "Never again," I groaned. "I’ve done my bit for the family. Someone else can dance with him next time."

  "Poor Grace," Marian laughed, giddy with champagne. "Such a pity Richard couldn’t be here," she added, falling to a chair beside me. "He’s gone to New York. Left on the early flight this morning from Heathrow." She slurred her words slightly and her cheeks were all pink. "What’s the matter with you? You’re white as a sheet."

  Of course, there would be more than one plane flying to New York, so why would I assume….? Because I knew. Genny had tried to warn me. There were too many signs.

  Marian became overly emotional, the way people do on occasions like these. "Poor Grace. I really did think you two were perfect for each other. I really did you know." When I looked into her eyes, I saw champagne tears severely testing the limits of her waterproof mascara. It was like being at my own funeral. "He pestered me to set up that dinner date with you, when he found out we were sisters. He just wouldn’t give up."

  So he’d lied to me, pretended it was a favor to
her. It was a defensive mechanism; I knew all about those.

  The fragrance of her bouquet was overwhelming, sickly sweet. I turned away slowly. For just a brief moment, I thought I saw him standing in the open doors of the ballroom, looking around for me. He wore a white shirt beneath a slashed leather doublet and his hair was unkempt, as if he’d not long been out of bed. When he scratched his nose in a nervous manner, I saw his scarred knuckles and the ruffled cuffs of his shirt. He was leaving now, not seeing me there.

  I took the ring box out of my purse and gave it to Marian, asking her to return it to Jack for me.

  "But…what shall I say?"

  "You’ll think of something. You’re good with people. You’ll let him down kindly, whereas I’d just get that tone in my voice."

  I left her before she could argue. Without shoes on my feet, the skirt ruffles dragged along the ground, gathering dirt and confetti, but there was no time to go back. Running out into the lobby, I saw him again, striding toward the revolving glass doors. I tried to call his name, but nothing came out. The revolving doors spun before me, bringing a blast of cool air into the lobby; the brass door handles caught sparks of light as they turned, flipping like the pages of a book. Following him into the doors, I suddenly found myself trapped. My long, unwieldy skirt was caught again, stuck between the edge of the glass and the curved wall. Someone tried to push from the other side, but the wrong way, jamming the door even tighter. Through the glass I saw him crossing the street, never looking back.

  Suffocating, I began to scream, thumping on the glass, but the doors wouldn’t budge one way or the other and I was pinned there, falling to my knees as the last breaths were sucked out of me. The daylight was too bright, bleaching out all the colors and he faded into the old, worn film. Holes appeared, popping and spreading across the scene until the picture disintegrated.

  Suddenly, mercifully, the door came unstuck and I was released, thrown by the force of the swinging door, screaming into the blessed air.

  Part Six

  Genny, She Rest Here in Pieces