The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender

by Leslye Walton

  “Your ch-ch-chariot awaits,” he said, opening the truck’s passenger door with a flourish.

  He was funny, too.

  “I hope my granddaughter falls in love with you,” she said, and when his face flushed red, she immediately regretted having said such a thing. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She tried to ignore René’s eerie shadow in the back of the truck.

  “Wilhelmina says the solstice can have that effect on people,” Rowe said.

  Emilienne smiled.

  They were quiet during the drive, listening to the rain beat across the top of the old Divco truck. Rowe drove all the way up to the end of the Lavenders’ driveway and then walked Emilienne up to the front door of her house. From the foyer, Emilienne watched Rowe navigate the truck back down the slippery hill. She turned and looked directly at René. “I hope he falls in love with my granddaughter,” she confided.

  THE GRIFFITH HOUSE was like nothing Viviane remembered, reminding her of how fast the world changed and of how insignificant she was in the grand scheme of things. She thought it unfair that her life should be both irrelevant and difficult. One or the other seemed quite enough.

  As Viviane made her way up the front walk, a gust of cold, rain-soaked wind rushed up the bottom of her coat. It took the strength of both Viviane and the housemaid to keep the door open enough for Viviane to slip in.

  “Quite the full-blown storm out there, isn’t it?” the housemaid said, taking Viviane’s coat.

  Viviane nodded and watched as her sodden red coat was hung carefully in the entryway closet alongside several mink stoles and a chinchilla fur muff. The maid offered Viviane a box of tissues. She obligingly took a few, wiped them over her face and hair. If her hair wasn’t already a mess, it surely was now.

  When she was finished, the housemaid gave her a complaisant nod. “Come this way, please.”

  Viviane followed the housemaid through the house. Gone were the cramped rooms, the rotted floorboards, the crumbling fireplace. Everything was so chic — the sunken living room, the wet bar, the big television set. Gone were the details that made it a home — the tiny bowls of potpourri, the lace curtains Beatrix Griffith hand-washed each spring with furze-blossom ashes. There weren’t even any family photos. The house looked like it belonged in a catalog.

  The maid left Viviane to wait in the kitchen — a room full of shiny appliances, some of which Viviane had never before seen. The countertops were a ridiculous shade of green. A large windowed door led out to the backyard. Looking outside, Viviane saw a pool in the spot that once led to the mysteries of King Tut’s remains. Rain bounced angrily off the surface.

  On one side of the kitchen stood an oblong chrome table. In a teal-colored vinyl chair at the end of the table sat Henry, furiously finishing a detailed map of the neighborhood. Eight other such maps were spread across the table. Trouver lay at Henry’s feet, and the big dog raised his head when Viviane entered. He thumped his wet tail against the floor, splattering mud on the wall.

  She heard him walk into the kitchen behind her. “He’s pretty good with those maps, isn’t he?” he asked.

  Viviane turned. Though his tie was undone, in every other way his suit was immaculate: clean and sharply creased, not one missing button or loose-hanging thread. Who was this unfamiliar man?

  “Did you know that one of the most distinguished American mapmakers of the early nineteenth century was named Henry as well? Henry Schenck Tanner.”

  “Did you read that somewhere?” she asked quietly.

  He smirked, suddenly cocky. “Must have.”

  He shrugged off his suit jacket and slung it coolly over one of the chairs. Viviane wondered if he sat on his bed every night polishing his shoes and expensive cuff links, or if he had someone to do that for him.

  “I picked him up on Phinney Ridge. I have no idea where he might have been going. And in this weather.” He shrugged. “I figured I should collect him and call you.”

  The last fifteen years had taken their toll on Jack Griffith — there were flecks of gray near his temples, but that wasn’t what threw her. It wasn’t even the impersonal house or the ridiculous red-and-white-striped suspenders he wore under his jacket. It was that he seemed unable to look her in the eye.

  “It’s good to see you, Viviane,” he said, in what Viviane heard as an attempt to sound casual.

  She had imagined this moment many times. She’d prayed and wished for the chance to see him again, yet now that it was here, she couldn’t think of anything to say. It was strange. He was strange. Different.

  My mother nodded, cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, thank you for finding him,” she murmured. She turned and began collecting the scattered maps from the table. “We’ll be out of your way in just a minute.”

  From out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack’s face fall.

  “You don’t have to go right away,” he said in a rush. “I could get Rita to make up something to eat. It’s really no trouble.” He walked up behind her, stopping so close that the toes of his shoes lightly touched the backs of her heels. “It’s just so good to see you,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Viviane turned around. He smiled, revealing the gap between his teeth that haunted Viviane’s dreams.

  “Listen, I —” He paused. He pointed to Henry. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”

  Viviane froze, then nodded. Yes. He was his. So was she, come to think of it. For fifteen years, in fact, she had been his.

  “God, Viviane!” Jack exclaimed. “I have a son. You have no idea how exciting this is!” He reached over to ruffle Henry’s hair. Henry cringed and pulled away. “He looks exactly like me, doesn’t he?”

  “He doesn’t like to be touched,” Viviane explained softly.

  Jack seemed not to hear her. He turned suddenly and took her face in his hands. “I think about you all the time. You have to believe that. I think about you every day.” Viviane’s face turned a glorious pink at his touch. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, delighted to find that he still smelled of soap and Turtle Wax.

  “No one has ever loved me the way you did, Vivi. And the thought of you having to raise our son all alone . . .”

  Vivi? Viviane looked up sharply. There was only one person who called her Vivi, and that was Gabe. Hearing Gabe’s nickname for her — just for her — in Jack’s voice was unsettling. She could feel coils of doubt creep over her. She tried to ignore them. “I wasn’t exactly on my own,” Viviane replied softly, irritated that she was suddenly thinking of Gabe when she finally had Jack standing right in front of her. Gabe with his kind eyes, his strong hands, his unfaltering . . .

  “But I wasn’t there.” Jack touched his forehead to Viviane’s.

  Why haven’t I seen it before? she thought. Gabe loves me.

  “I can help you now,” Jack boasted. “Look around. I can give you anything you could ever need!”

  She glanced at Henry. It was funny. Henry resembled Jack so much, but when she looked at her son, the other person who came to mind was Gabe: Gabe helping Henry climb into the truck before taking off on another one of their adventures; Gabe and Henry chasing down that ridiculous bat; Gabe looking at her shyly when he cradled Henry in his arms for the first time fifteen years ago.

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Viviane sighed, closed her eyes. Of course she could forgive him, and then surely be happy for the rest of her life.

  “In a way, we could even be a family,” he added.

  Viviane opened her eyes. “What do you mean, in a way?”

  Jack motioned to the room around them. “Look what I’ve done with my life! I’m finally someone important in this town. You can’t expect me to forfeit all of this?”

  Viviane narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still searching for your father’s approval? He’s been gone for years, Jack!”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Jack spat. “People who never respected my father respect me now,” he sa
id. “They look up to me; they ask my opinion. I’m not going to just give all of that up to take up with —”

  Viviane flinched in anticipation of the old and ugly phrase.

  Jack ran his hands over his face, sweaty with aggravation. “Look, I’m sorry to be so blunt. But, Jesus Christ, Viviane, I thought you of all people would understand.”

  Viviane helped Henry into his coat, and the two quietly left the impressive house, followed closely by Trouver. She forgot her red coat hanging in the hall closet.

  Back in the truck, she wrapped Henry in two old, scratchy blankets she found under the seat. She used a third one to dry off Trouver. The blankets smelled a bit musty, but neither Henry nor Trouver seemed to mind. She turned the key and the truck sputtered and gasped and died.

  Then it hit her. She did understand. At last, when it came to Jack, she could say that she understood completely. The house was renovated. There was a pool in the backyard. And there were his ridiculous, expensive clothes. A lot of things had changed. In spite of all that, Jack hadn’t changed at all. And with that realization, my mother began to laugh. And she laughed.

  And she laughed.

  And she laughed.

  She laughed until Henry covered his ears with his hands and Trouver began to howl. She laughed until her cheeks were sore and her throat hurt and her eyes watered. She laughed for her wasted, difficult life that never had to be wasted or difficult in the first place. She laughed for her two gloriously beautiful but strange children and for a carpenter she should have loved from the moment her mother heard the birdsong announcing good love’s arrival.

  But more important, she laughed because finally, after all these years, she didn’t love Jack Griffith anymore. It was the laugh of relief.

  Viviane turned to Henry. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “There’s a bee in the bush and a cat on the wall,” he said miserably, pushing one of his hand-drawn maps into Viviane’s lap. It was remarkable, she noted, how accurate the drawing was. Even the street signs were posted on the correct side of the road. Then she noticed that this particular map was different from every other map Henry had made in one way. On the door of one house appeared to be a smear of blood.

  “What is this? Are you bleeding?” Viviane did a quick check of Henry’s fingers and arms, his nose, ears, stomach, tongue.

  Henry shook his head and slapped her hands away. “There’s red on the floor and feathers everywhere!” he shouted, stabbing the map with angry fingers.

  “Henry, listen to me . . .” Viviane spoke slowly. She hated when other people did that, spoke to Henry as if he were still a small child, but sometimes it was hard to tell if he was listening.

  She took a long look at her son, wrapped in blankets and a rain jacket, his worried face sticking out from the hood.

  “You were certainly smart to wear a coat,” she mused. The day had not implied that such a fierce storm was on its way.

  “It happens after the rain,” Henry said.

  After the rain?

  “You knew,” she whispered. “You knew it was going to rain.” And if he knew that, what else did he know? What happens after the rain?

  Henry pushed his map at her again. “Pinna is hurt,” he pleaded. “The Sad Man says listen.”

  The engine of the old truck finally turned over and roared to life.

  NATHANIEL LED ME to the back of the house, where a fire blazed. The fireplace was made of stacked stone and ran from the ceiling down to the floor, where it yawned into an opening large enough that I could feel the heat of the fire from the hallway. A pile of newly cut wood was stacked beside the fireplace, the ax delicately tipped into the top log.

  I’d never actually been in anyone else’s house before — not even Cardigan’s. It was strange, doing things that other people — normal people — did. But the thing was, being in that house didn’t make me feel like everyone else. Instead, I felt as if I were acting out a part in a play, a fictional character playing a role that someone else had written for me. When it was over, I would take my place at curtain call, and then I would go home to where I was real again.

  Marigold Pie’s living-room floor was covered with a soft brown carpet. There was an olive-green couch and a glass-topped coffee table in the room. A tall table in a corner held glass bottles of different shapes and sizes, each containing a fluid of some color or another. An impressive ship in a bottle was displayed on the mantel. The only thing that I wasn’t sure about was the huge needlepoint kitten staring at me from over the mantel. I figured that was just an isolated lapse in taste.

  Nathaniel leaned his umbrella against the metal screen in front of the hearth and walked over to the table of bottles. “How about something to drink? Might help with the cold,” he said.

  I hesitated for a second. “Okay.”

  I stood quietly in front of the fire, the warmth of the flames wicking through my calves and my outstretched hands until I stopped shivering. I pulled off my socks and shoes, hung the socks on the fire screen, and stretched the tongues out from my shoes before setting them in front of the fire. I pulled Rowe’s coat from my shoulders and draped it, lovingly, next to my socks. I shook out my wings, scattering little droplets of water across the room, sprinkling pictures and furniture.

  “Some brandy should warm you right up,” Nathaniel said, handing me a glass. He sat down on the floor in front of the fire.

  I sat down next to him, watched the way he swirled his drink and placed his nose at the edge of the glass before drinking the gold liquid. When I tried to do the same, I inhaled too deeply. My nostrils burned and I could already taste the brandy in the back of my throat. Determinedly, I took a sip. It stung my lips. When I swallowed, my tongue wanted to spring from my mouth. But then a warmth, like slow-burning honey, ran through me. It was not entirely unpleasant, but I didn’t drink any more.

  The fire crackled; the flames faded to short purple triangles. Nathaniel added another log to the blaze, and I watched the fire grow with a sharp hiss. He settled next to me and tipped the last of his drink into his mouth, then got up and set the empty glass on the fireplace before sitting down next to me again. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.

  I could smell the tang of the alcohol on his breath, the stink of unwash on his skin. I was suddenly very aware that I was alone in a strange house with a strange man I hardly knew.

  “Where’s your aunt?” I asked.

  “She’s around,” he said noncommittally.

  “I should go,” I said, pulling away. “I need to find my mom.”

  “You can’t go yet,” he commanded, and grabbed at one of my wings, making me yelp. A dark look crossed his face. But when he looked down at the handful of feathers in his hand, he laughed a little and let go. “I have something to show you,” he said, his voice amicable once again. “Just wait for a minute.”

  I swallowed hard. “Okay,” I lied.

  I jumped up as soon as he left the room, knocking over my glass of brandy. As quietly as I could, I wandered up the hall. I took a wrong turn and found myself in a room where I could just make out the shapes of furniture in the dark — a couch, a lamp, a chair. I stepped in farther and felt the floor under my feet dip and change. I crouched down to peer at the carpet. A path that ran the length of a large center window had been worn into the carpet, like a trail cut through a forest grove.

  I stood back and looked up. The window provided a clear view of my house, of my bedroom window. Then something on the windowsill caught my eye. It was a feather — not brown and white like my own — but jet black and as long as my arm. The feather was beautiful, shiny and gleaming. I reached for the floor lamp standing next to me and switched it on. Then I saw them.

  Birds. Littering the floor, covering the chair and the couch, piled around the room in stacks of ten or twenty. Some had been pinned to the wall with wings outstretched, as if in flight; others hung upside down from the ceiling by tiny bits of string wrapped tightly around their curled feet, as if bei
ng punished for a terrible crime. Some had been stripped of their feathers, some stripped of their wings. Others were missing their eyes.

  The once-warm brandy turned cold in my stomach. I gagged, then swallowed fast to keep from vomiting.

  “I didn’t intend for you to see them.” Nathaniel had come up behind me. He gently plucked the long black feather from my hand. He sighed.

  “What do you mean?” With growing dread, I noted that he was between me and the door.

  He picked up one of the dead birds and shook it in my face. “Masquerading as a holy creature,” Nathaniel said with disgust. Then he dropped it back onto the floor, where it landed with a sickening thud. It was a spotted towhee — a male — with black-and-white wings and a patch of red on each side. The bird’s insides dribbled from a wound in its belly.

  “Blessed with wings like God’s messengers, and what do they do with them? Soil them in birdbaths and mud puddles. Eat garbage.” He kicked at a pile of carcasses near his foot. “These monstrosities are the reason no one sees you for what you are.”

  He reached out and stroked my wings.

  “But I’ve never been fooled,” he said, gently now. “I’ve always known.”

  I made a move to step around him.

  What I remember most vividly was that he told me he loved me before he grabbed me.

  “Please!” I begged, struggling against him. “Let me go!”

  I kicked at him wildly. When my foot made contact with his shin, he tightened his grip. I threw my arm back and cracked his rib with my elbow. He dropped to the ground with a shout, and his grip loosened enough for me to break free. I ran for the door, but he caught me and wrenched me back.

  He pulled me by my hair back to the room with the fireplace. He seemed surprised to find me so strong; to be honest, so was I. He wrestled me to the ground, shoved me flat on my back, and pressed his knee against my sternum. The pressure against my lungs made it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the fear choking me. I tried to scream. He gagged me with one of his handkerchiefs. Hot tears streamed from my eyes.