“My aunt?”
Brownie opens the back door, whips off his cap with a flourish, dips low, as if to announce the Queen of Sheba.
The tip of a polished hickory cane is set out on the ground. Aunt Beatrice Mary Mahoney—can't be, but it's her—steps out onto the red dirt. Her suit is a fine tweed and she's wearing white gloves, sturdy shoes, and a brown felt hat with a pheasant feather is cocked on her head. Her eyes are like root beer candies, her hair, reddish brown—probably dyes it. She has the Mahoney hawk nose, not quite as pronounced as Jonah's, which earned him the nickname, Beak, in high school. Aunt Triss would be seventy-something…if she were alive.
“Don't have a heart attack—Jonah, is it now? I'm not a ghost.”
“I…I…Aunt Triss!”
She laughs. Sweeps into his arms, bangs her cane on his back.
“Daddy…who is she? Who is she, Daddy?”
“Coral Kay, meet your great-aunt Beatrice Mary Mahoney.”
Last he heard from Aunt Coral, Aunt Triss was on her sixth or seventh husband, and lived in Florida. He had tried to call to inform her that Aunt Coral was about to die, and about the birth of Coral Kay, but her phone had been disconnected, and the card he sent was returned, addressee unknown.
She bends and hugs Coral Kay. “Just Aunt Triss, Coral Kay. Very pleased to meet you. I brought you a present. I'll show you, as soon as Mr. Giuseppe unloads the car.”
“How did you find me?” Jonah asks.
“Paid a hacker to break into the IRS files.” She flutters a gloved hand. “And other sources. If you wanted to disappear, you should have chosen a name a little more removed from the family. Why Jonah? Are you in love with whales?”
“Big fish storyteller.”
She laughs. “Yes, you were always a storyteller. I remember when…”
Jonah is feeling a riot of emotions. He's thrilled that Aunt Triss is alive, and here to visit, that's great! But when is Brownie going to stop hauling bags and boxes out of the back of the limo? A television set, too? And a violin? Correction. Violins.
“Oh, look at that, will you! Just as I envisioned.” Jonah's aunt is pointing her cane at the cottage. “Do you mind if I take a look?”
Jonah shakes his head, shrugs, holds his palms up, stares at the murky sky.
Aunt Triss is slightly bow-legged, but doesn't look like she really needs that cane, the way she's swinging it as she marches over to the cottage.
Yes, this would fit with strange, wouldn't it? Spend all afternoon making sure it's really okay for Zion to move into the studio, and what do you know?
The youngest of the Mahoney trio, Triss was the prettiest, his mom always said. (In Jonah's opinion, the Mahoney women were handsome, not pretty.) Aunt Triss was everything wild that his mom and Aunt Coral never dared to be. Look at the wild behavior right now…opening the door of the cottage, walking right inside, Coral Kay going in, too, to show her around.
“Watch out for the dog turds!”
Brownie taps him on the shoulder.
“Your aunt is a very gregarious person, Jonah. Her husband died a couple of months ago. Number six. Mr. Mendelheusen—technically, number five. She never married Ramon Lorenzo, supposed to be number three. One of those hot Latin lovers ran off before she could get him to the altar. Number six crafted and repaired violins until he wasn't fit to fiddle anymore. He was eighty-seven years old. Went for his morning walk out on the beach, fell, and hit his head on a big seashell. Doctor Lubonnovich said he died instantly. God rest Maurice Mendelheusen's soul.” Brownie grins.
“How do you remember so many details?”
“IQ of 173. Why else would I be driving a limo in Apple Valley?” He pinches Jonah's arm.
“Ouch.”
“I can see you're in a state of shock. She couldn't call you because your number is unlisted. She feels real bad about being unavailable when your Aunt Coral died, and your daughter was born. All that happened when she was in a secretive phase. Some UFO group she belonged to, thinking the government was investigating them. When the heat was off, she tried to find you. Found out her sister was dead and you had disappeared. When she discovered your whereabouts, she thought it would be unfamily-like just to write you, after closing herself off like she did. She's all alone, Jonah. Feels she's too old to marry again, and she's tired of husbands dying on her. She always went for older men, but eighty-seven is pushing through the ceiling, wouldn't you say? She said she didn't expect you to be overjoyed, but she trusts your Mahoney heart. You have a Mahoney heart, Mahoney? Big enough for three women?”
“Three?”
Brownie holds up his hand, ticks off his stubby fingers. “Pay attention, reality check, Jonah. One, Mrs. Mahoney-Mendelheusen; two, Coral Kay; three, the wandering Jewess.”
“The who?”
“That's what we used to call her in high school. Zion's going to live here, isn't she?”
Jonah tries to answer, but a sound like a honk emits from his throat.
Brownie reaches up, pats him on the back. “Your aunt may complicate your life, but you don't have to worry about money. She can hold her own. Drawing on three husbands' pensions: Mendelheusen, veteran's pay; Theodore Carlotti, number four, private pension plan; Elgin Fitzsimmons, number two, big settlement on some kind of wrongful death suit, which made her vulnerable to Ramon, number three; number one, David Halley, she divorced, glad to leave without a dime; and she supported Leonard Paulsen, number five, until he croaked of a heart attack. I don't think she killed them, do you?”
“Aunt Triss? No way. She's just eccentric.”
“Not like you,” Brownie cracks. “Might have to change the name of your dwelling from Jo's Abode to Jo's Haven for the Homeless.”
“Zion owns the house, Brownie.”
“I didn't say who was homeless, Jonah.”
Chapter K (11)
“Frame!”
Jonah's eyes are bugged, watching out the kitchen window, as he talks to Frame on the telephone.
“Jonah…I'm right here.”
“You busy? Good. This is serious. Listen fast, I don't have much time. Zion just took off to go settle up at the Flame; she's going to bunk in Jo's room. Be back, twenty minutes. Very important she feels comfortable, considering her fragile state of being. Room's a mess. Didn't even get started on it, and guess who shows up not two minutes after Zion drives away?”
“Her husband? Jessica?”
“Things could be worse. My aunt, Triss. Thought she was dead. Aunt Beatrice Mary Mahoney, arriving in Giuseppe's limo. As we speak, she's out in the back dirt, teaching Coral Kay how to play the violin. Boxes are all over the place. Frame—she's moving in! Oh, man…”
“Jonah, here's what you do. Sit your aunt down, ply her with coffee, tea, whiskey, water, Seconals. Pardon yourself, tell her you have to tidy up for someone who showed up first, which is the truth. Do your best in Jo's room. When Zion comes, introduce the two women. They'll start gabbing, you excuse yourself, you haul in your aunt's boxes, down to the basement—you still have that Hide-A-Bed? Good. You get her settled, you go out, unload the U-Haul—Zion will probably have to return the trailer Monday to avoid fines—you move all her stuff in, and then you tell the women you're going out for pizza. By then it's nine, ten o'clock, so everyone's starved. And you just keep driving west. I'm sure they'll take good care of Coral until you get a job cleaning swimming pools in Palm Springs. Then, after you're settled, you send for Coral.”
“Swenson, you are a genius.”
“Anytime.”
So far, Frame's advice is actually working.
Aunt Triss, recently resurrected, called by the Lord to come to the aid of his favorite son out in Almost-Eden, insisted on fixing her own tea—just point her to the teabags and kettle, and would he mind if she goes ahead and unpacks a bag downstairs? Coral Kay understands her role—not a chance he can work a miracle in Jo's old room without his daughter's help.
“First we gotta make the bed,” she orders him, marching dow
n the hall, towing her father.
“It's not made? I thought we made it last year.”
Probably forgot to change the sheets after Donny Lyman spent the night after his beloved kicked him out when he came home stinking like an intoxicated buffalo.
Jonah pauses at the doorway to Jo's room, struck dewy-eyed when he sees that Coral has already found a box and begun piling into it the junk cluttered atop the bed. He doesn't know what he did to deserve such a bright child, who, when she isn't doing something that makes him want to whack down the fence with a machete, displays the makings of a first-rate woman.
“Fabulous!” he praises her. Coral runs, finds another box from some secret stash known only to the fairer sex, they finish boxing the elements on top of the bed, she runs, grabs the feather duster. Jonah wins the argument as to whom gets to flit it over the dusty surfaces.
The crap on top of the dresser and the nightstand gets shoved into a lower drawer that contains so many mysteries, he dares not let his eyes linger. Contents in upper drawers, odd and assorted articles of clothing (all of which appear to belong to some other family, a big one), he stuffs into a basket that Coral pushes down the hall to the spare room, grunting as if she were rolling a boulder toward a pit, into which, if they had one, Jonah would cheerily shove most of what they are relocating.
Strange clothes in the closet, these also belonging to that other family, the big one, he smashes into a lump. A couple of old shirts try to return, but he persuades them to rejoin the lump.
Not too much on the floor of the closet. A thrill of hope zips up his back. Maybe they will transform this clutter nook into a real guest room.
“No way,” he mutters. He and Coral are staring at the bed. No time to wash the sheets. The extra flat was used last Halloween for a ghost costume for McNalley's oldest boy.
“Looks kind of…empty or something. Coral, do we have talc?”
“You mean baby powder?”
“Yeah…”
She's down the hall and back, lickety-split. “Sprinkle it all over the room?” she asks.
“Maybe we should be more conservative.” He peels back the covers. Sheets don't look too bad. A critical inspection may give rise to a suspicion that these sheets have not lately seen a washing machine, but a polite shift of the eye will report they are merely dingy from age, a condition that might evoke sympathy for a household that barely meets expenses.
Against his better judgment, Jonah allows Coral to perform the powder sprinkling ceremony. The odor is light and sweet, not a trace of buffalo.
He plumps up the pillow. Flips it over. Fewer grease spots on the reverse side. A nice pink floral pattern, just a little faded.
“Turn down the covers? A kind of welcoming sign?”
“Uh-uh. She'll think you want her to get in bed right now.”
Among other startling talents, his daughter can read his mind.
“We sure don't want her to think that.”
They stand back, look at the bed. “Still seems something is missing,” Jonah says.
“I know….” Coral runs out, returning with the throw Aunt Coral knit for her. Aunt Coral was sometimes psychic: she was absolutely certain the baby would be a boy. The shawl-like throw is a brilliant blue color with white fringe speckled with silver threads.
Coral spreads it on top of the chenille bedspread. “You think she'll like it, Daddy?”
“She'll love it, Sugar Punkin.”
“Can I go see Aunt Triss, now? She's so nice! She's going to teach me how to play the violin. She brought one just for me. Just my size!”
Jonah bends down and hugs Coral to his chest. “What did we do to deserve such wonderful women coming into our lives?”
“I don't know!”
“It's probably you, Sweetie. Wherever you go, whatever you do, probably there are going to be more wonderful surprises!” He stands up, swats her playfully on the rump. “Be sure and ask Aunt Triss if it's okay to visit her. Remember how it was with Jo?”
“Um-hmmm. Manners.”
Jonah lingers at the door, giving the room another look.
Flash of memory, candlelight and white wine after baked red snapper and wild rice, the night Jo revealed she had a tumor in her brain. Grim dinner, you might think, but Jo had a way of coming to terms with life's surprises that almost made you envy her. He cried that night. Jo saw his tears, laughed, and socked him in the arm. And she could hit.
He recalls her last days, remembers promising her that after she died, he would call in Lulu Greystone to do her thing with sage, feathers and crystals, to “rebalance the energies” in this very room where Jo died, the same room father and daughter have just prepared for Zion. No croaking in some musty hospital room for Johanna Vanderbond; no, sir, when Jo's spirit leapt free of her body, her friends were all around, grasping her hands, knees, ankles, bidding her a raucous fare-thee-well. They cheered, they wailed, then helped each other move through the grief.
And he forgot to call in Lulu Greystone.
But maybe it wouldn't have made any difference….
Chapter L (12)
The ticker on the microwave oven in the kitchen reports it is 4:33 p.m. Jonah can't decide the primary cause of the acid rising in his stomach—the fact of Aunt Triss's sudden appearance, the fact he can't think of one decent thing to fix for dinner, or the fact that Zion has not returned yet. And there are Aunt Triss's boxes to haul downstairs—Aunt Triss! He can't get over it…showing up the day after Zion comes…. Jo would have attributed it to some portentous arrangement of the planets, but Jonah doesn't believe in that stuff. Still, it's a pretty weird coincidence…two women. He remembers that crazy prayer he uttered the other morning…down on his knees, asking for a woman. Now he's got two needy women to look after. Is this how life works?
He expels an audible gasp when he sees Zion's old Ford turning into the drive. Man, he was really worried she might not come back. Emotions due to severe and prolonged deprivation of company with a quality woman, or is he flipped-out, over his head, truly in love with her already?
He rushes over to the door, steps out. “Watch out for the boxes on the ground!” No need to holler like a whipped mule; she saw the boxes; she's pulling over close to the cottage.
He's down the steps and across the dirt before she's out of the vehicle. She's just sitting there, looking at him, looking at the boxes.
He opens her door. “Weirdest thing happened while you were gone….”
Jonah couldn't have made up a story as convoluted as were the events that occurred over the next three and a half hours. Act One was The Introduction, down in the basement. Aunt Triss had changed clothes; now she had on a sporty purple fleece outfit and tennis shoes. Her TV was up on the wet bar, a video recorder next to it. Both machines were plugged in, ready to go, but all she could get was snow and static. She had planned her whole trip west around making sure she would arrive in plenty of time to watch X Files. Jonah explained that no one in the Valley had access to TV without a cable hookup, a reality that seemed to his aunt so harsh, he thought she was going to bawl.
He couldn't read Zion's reaction to Aunt Triss exuding about how the cottage was exactly as she envisioned! Aunt Triss didn't want to be in anyone's way, she explained. She could buy a mobile home…better than living in one of those senior citizen's apartment houses…but she'd never lived alone for very long. So she thought, maybe, just maybe, Jonah might need some help, and wasn't this just how the universe worked when you trusted your gut instincts? And here he is, the big handsome lug, raising a little girl all by himself, thinking he was alone in the world, his Aunt Triss, dead, and of no use to anyone anymore.
Act Two: Illegal Hookup of Cable, because never mind Mahoney's big Mahoney heart, do we really want Aunt Triss pacing upstairs, wringing her hands, going on about missing X Files? And that's just tonight. What about all the shows tomorrow and the next day and the next?
One of the advantages of living in a small town is the way people are willing to
help you out at a moment's notice. A quick phone call, and Willie Wysop is on his way over to save the day, the night, and Jonah's sanity, until he can right the matter with the cable company. Willie lives a block outside the law on matters more serious than illegal cable hookups, but so many people owe Willie favors, he lives a free man, if constantly scuttling in the shadows.
Willie is up the pole, saving the day, Jonah is huffing boxes down the stairs, while Aunt Triss holds forth with Zion downstairs, recounting the whole damn history of the Beaumonts, Mahoneys, Stuarts, Erickssens, Hoffmeisters, Godfreys—and almost forgot the Ojibwa Indian princess who is responsible for the hawkish Mahoney nose, although we could have gotten that from the Erickssens; they were Vikings, you know.
Jonah walks Willie out to his pickup, parked out front.
“You owe me, J.Q.” Willie tugs on the brim of his oil-spotted cowboy hat. “Call me when you're ready for a down hook, then you'll owe me double.”
“Yup. And thanks a lot for coming over on short notice.”
“Man can't have enough friends.” Willie gets into his Chevy pickup, slams the door.
Jonah is friends with the chief of police, who has been trying to nail Willie for growing and selling marijuana for years. But where does he grow and stash the stuff? Not on Jo's acres, that's all Jonah knows, and if he did know the whereabouts of Willie's stash, he wouldn't whisper it to Thunderpaws, or even the trees and birds in the Valley, because some are terrible gossips.
In his Ram, Jonah follows Willie down Crabapple Drive on his way to Betsyboy's Italian Eatery to pick up a pizza for dinner, but he doesn't think he'll keep on driving west, because, joking aside, even if he were the kind of man to ditch two needy women, could anything in Palm Springs rival the excitement brewing in this house tonight?
Conveniently, Zion doesn't need to return the U-Haul until Tuesday, so that's one less complication, but how does she feel about his aunt showing up, just moving right into her house? No opportunity yet to explain the situation to Aunt Triss, and what's he going to say? He doesn't even want to think about the possible repercussions of his aunt's not-subtle claim on the cottage after all the talk about where Zion was going to bunk. The studio is “just right,” she said. And how's she going to feel about sleeping down the hall from him and Coral Kay, sharing the bathroom? And how's he going to feel if it turns out she does move out to the cottage, and Aunt Triss makes a home in the basement? At least there's a half-finished bathroom down there, shower stall, commode, and a cracked mirror hanging on the bare cement wall. But does that mean her TV will be on all hours of the day and night? No matter where she ends up, he's going to have to talk to her about Coral Kay's viewing time. He doesn't want her raised on TV. She sees enough, down the road with her pal, Timmy O'Keefe, a lecherous six-year-old.
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