The Secret of Hailey's Comments

by Kristy Tate

  I followed her into the kitchen. She opened the archaic refrigerator and the faint odor of sour milk escaped. I put my things from the dairy beside an open box of baking soda. Lucy pulled open the freezer. “You’ll need to defrost it before you leave.” A couple of empty trays sat in the metal space.

  “There’s a space heater, over there,” Lucy said, pointing to a dark corner where a collection of wires nestled in a rusty, dented metal box. “And there’s wood in the shed, should you need it.”

  Making ice I could do, I didn’t know if I could make a fire and I had misgivings about the space heater.

  “Matches, here,” she said, shaking a tin cylinder on the fireplace mantel.

  I tried to smile confidently. It’s June, no need for sissy space heaters and fires, right? Lucy pushed past me through the tiny kitchen into a mud room complete with a modern washer, but no dryer. “You have to hang your clothes to dry,” Lucy said, motioning to the clothes line strung between the house and the shed. A mean wind tossed the cord in a jiggly dance. The gray cloud lowered over what I now considered my side of the island.

  “You don’t really think Helen Dunsmuir was murdered, do you?” I asked Lucy’s back.

  “I just said I didn’t, didn’t I?” Lucy turned her dark gaze on me.

  “Then why did you mention it?”

  Lucy rolled her eyes and sighed deeply and I guessed she found the conversation painful. “I better get back,” Lucy said, reminding me of the dirt path we’d bounced along to get here.

  I nodded. “You don’t want to get caught in rain or mud.”

  Lucy sighed again, as if rain and mud were her constant, unhappy companions. She shouldered past and cast a look at my luggage at the foot of the stairs.

  “You’re perfectly safe here,” she said.

  #

  I pulled a sweatshirt from my bag and slipped it on, keeping the hood over my head. I sprinted down the brick path with Wyeth who whined and strained at his leash. I selected a couple of the largest fallen apples, put one in my pocket and tossed the other into the air. I blinked away raindrops as I caught it. Wyeth looked at me as if I were nuts, but he followed me to the beach. Standing on the shore, I lobbed the apple into the Sound. Wyeth whined when I dropped his leash. “Go on,” I urged. “Go and get it.”

  The apple bobbed in the gray foamy tide. Wyeth whined again. I nudged him with my knee and he obediently, although reluctantly, fetched the apple. There, stains removed. We ran back to the cottage. Wyeth shook his fur at me so violently I worried about his balance, but he finally stopped and looked at me as if to ask what are we doing here? I made him wait on the porch until I found a towel in the mud-room to dry him off.

  “Come on then,” I said when he passed inspection. I gathered up my things, pushed into the large room and headed up the tiny, steep stairs. A claw-footed tub dominated the bathroom. The toilet had a pull chain and a lone light bulb dangled over the mirror on the medicine chest. “Charming,” I told Wyeth.

  From the front bedroom window, I saw Sucia, Matia, and Patos Islands across the Georgia Strait. Rain fell across the glass, making the distant islands watery mirages. Beyond the islands lay the jagged peaks of the Canadian Cascades. Angry, thick clouds hugged the mountain’s middle, and the tops pointed up through the clouds. I wondered if on a clear night I’d be able to see Vancouver’s lights. I watched the drizzle turn into a full-fledged storm, the clouds climbing up to engulf the mountains. Far out over the water lightning cracked. A faint rumble of thunder shook the house and something or someone scurried above me.

  “We’re not so alone after all,” I told Wyeth. I found the attic hatch in the closet of the second bedroom. I hauled a red ladder-back chair into the closet and made sure the attic door was secure. I didn’t want any night time intruders.

  I laid a tarp and set up shop in the bedroom, but I was beginning to think I could be more creative in the broom closet. The view from the window kept distracting me from my easel. The wind tossed the normally gentle waves of the Sound into frenzy. Lightning split the now purple sky and the neighboring islands had long since disappeared behind the rain and clouds.

  I turned my attention back to my canvas imagining my work hanging in the Tate Gallery. My work was Turneresque, sea, sky and weather caught in passion. But my inner art critic took over and sadly, she was not a fan. She ran a commentary, largely unflattering, in my head whenever I tried to work and she wore a lemon-sucking expression on her face. She was right—my trees looked like they belonged in a child’s diorama.

  I was afraid my art hadn’t improved since I left the institute. “I like teaching children,” I told the critic. He called me my father’s pet name, Chicken, but from him it didn’t sound endearing. Maybe I’d progress if I taught more challenging adult art classes.

  I put down my brush and thought about calling Gram or Artie. I wondered when Artie was coming, not that I’d have time for her, because I was going to be so busy painting. But Gram sounded desperate for my help, which was good, because, let’s face it, I was never going to be able to support myself as an artist.

  I shut down my negative thoughts. I’d come to this solitude for artistic growth and I was determined to grow. I was the little train that could, the ant moving the rubber tree plant, David conquering Goliath. Didn’t Hailey always say you should go confidently in the direction of your dreams? Actually, Thoreau also said that, but I gave that advice often enough that I should believe it. At the end of the month I’d enter the Hawthorne and non-imaginary art critics would murmur, ‘Turneresque, a light-filled expression of romance and dreams’ and nod their appreciation of my daring use of color and motion. I painted a swirl of blue.

  Fudge. I ruined it.

  I spent half my life pretending to be Hailey and the other half pretending to be an artist. I wanted to be both, but I was neither. I didn’t know who or what I was. I went to my bag to get the linseed oil to remove my blue mess. June days in the Pacific Northwest last forever, but the storm had squelched the sun and I couldn’t see inside my bag. I found the light switch.

  I flipped it a few times, but to no avail. Frustrated, I went into the second bedroom. No light. Wyeth looked up when I clambered down the stairs to try other switches and plugs.

  No electricity. I located the fuse box under the eaves of the back porch. I tried to pull it open, but it stubbornly refused.

  “Nothing’s working for me, Wyeth.” I looked across the stormy backyard at the shed, where I guessed the tools would be kept, but after considering the rain went in the kitchen in search of a knife to pry open the fuse box.

  I pulled on the drawers: dish clothes in one, a pile of unopened mail addressed to the Henderson family, and finally, the utensils.

  I jimmied the knife into the fuse box. The opened door revealed twists of multicolored wires and receptors. I stared at the electrical mess. Success comes in cans, not cannots, but I still couldn’t bring myself to touch the mess of wires. I’d rather be in the dark than electrocuted.

  I washed out my brushes in the semi-dark bathroom. After eating a snack of sliced apples and nuts, I brushed my teeth, climbed into a pair of flannels and went to bed. I listened to the storm outside and the rustling in the attic.

  ‘Rats,’ the critic sniffed.

  “Raccoons,” I told him.

  I awoke to a very different sort of noise.

  Chapter Four

  Howling wind, creaking house, branches scratching at the windows, I slept through, but when someone began to sing, I had to get up. Wyeth howled in accompaniment. Wyeth barked and barked and scratched furiously at the bedroom door. After I let him out, I fumbled for my glasses, tried the light again, then stumbled down the dark stairs.

  A fire had been lit in the fireplace and flames cast long flickering shadows across the room. In the corner of the room, away from the light of the fire, Wyeth had a man pinned against the wall.

  The man held his hands over his head. “I give up,” he said. “Take whatever you
want, but make sure you include the dog, and get the hell out.”

  “Get out?” I grabbed the fire poker from the fireplace irons. It felt warm and heavy in my hand. “That’s my line.” My voice only shook a little.

  Wyeth had enough courage for both of us. He had turned into a snarling beast, his fur standing in outrage and his lips curled in hostility.

  “Call off the dog!” the man shouted.

  “Not yet.” I considered the intruder. He had thick wavy dark blond hair, the type that looks blond in the sun and dark indoors, green eyes, fair skin, a stubble of beard, and body much too big to be allowed free range of the room. I wondered if Artie had sent him. He inched away from the door and Wyeth went berserk.

  “Hold it,” I said, shifting into batting position and brandishing my fire poker. “Tell me who you are and why you’re here.” My voice sounded stronger and more confident than I felt. I rocked a little on the balls of my feet, as if I were going to hit a solid base line drive. See the balls, hit the balls.

  “Who are you? And why are you here?” He didn’t try to move again, but his voice still sounded too self-assured.

  I took what I hoped looked like a menacing step. “Look, I’m the one with the fire poker and the dog. I get to ask the questions.”

  The man lowered his hands. “Not much of a weapon,” he said. “Maybe I have a gun.” He patted his pocket.

  I fractionally lowered my poker. “I’m not alone,” I said. Regardless of policy, honesty is always easier on the nerves, but seeing as how my nerves were figuratively shot, or, if he really did have a gun, in danger of being literally shot, I decided to excuse myself from honesty.

  “You’re not?” He raised his eyebrows and smirked. He took a step closer.

  Wyeth leapt at him, teeth barred, barking border lining hysteria.

  A poem by Parnell sprang to mind. It matters not what you do- Make a nation or a shoe; For he who does an honest thing, In God’s pure sight is ranked a king. I shook my head and demoted myself to scullery maid. “There are some big guys upstairs.”

  He glanced up the stairs and turned the smirk into a smile. “Really? Why aren’t they down here?” He pulled over a kitchen chair and sat down backwards. “Call them down.”

  I didn’t like the smile or his casual position on the chair. “Tell me who you are and I’ll call off the dog.”

  “I live here. This is my house. See?” He reached into the gun pocket and then held out his hand. In the dark I could see the pale shine of the skeleton key. “Although, to be fair, I haven’t been here for a few years.”

  I lowered my poker a fraction. “I rented this house from Lucy Morgan, in the village. I’d assumed she was working for the owners.”

  Wyeth downgraded his frenzied barking to a low growl punctuated by snarls.

  “Wyeth, come!” Wyeth, managed to reach my side without taking his eyes off our intruder.

  “Henderson- Phil Henderson.” He put the key in the gun pocket and then extended his hand.

  I looked at his hand, refused to be drawn in even though I recognized the name from the unopened mail. “You can’t really say you live somewhere if you haven’t been there for a couple of years.” Wyeth emphasized my words with a short, unhappy yap.

  Phil let his hand drop, but his smile didn’t falter. “I’m sorry,” Phil said, “But that is a nasty, ugly dog.”

  “A mirror reflects a person’s face, but his friends reflect his true self,” I threw out a quote from Proverbs. “The dog is my friend, not yours. You’re not welcome here.”

  “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Hebrews 13:2.” Phil’s eyes trailed over me, and I pulled my flannel tighter. “Do you really want to have a scripture chase?”

  I shook my head, knowing I’d be hard pressed to come up with another spontaneous scripture. The only one I could think of was “thou shalt not kill,” and that seemed provocative and dangerous.

  “I told you who I am, and that this is my house.” He leaned his chin down onto his folded arms and narrowed his eyes at me. “Now it’s your turn.”

  I went over to the sofa and sat down. Wyeth came to sit beside me, his woolly back pressed against my leg. I tangled my fingers in his fun. “I’m Emma Clements, on vacation, apparently renting a house from someone who doesn’t own it.”

  “Funny vacation spot.”

  “An even funnier place to live,” I countered.

  “I travel a lot. I’ve been in the Sudan.”

  “Would you like some cocoa, Mr. Phil Henderson from the Sudan?”

  “Nothing stronger?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry,” I bit back a Hailyism on the dangers of drink. “Not even caffeine, unless, of course you count the buzz in the chocolate. But I do have whipping cream fresh from the dairy.” I made my way into the kitchen, making sure I gave him wide berth. Wyeth trailed after me.

  He twisted in his chair to watch me pass. “Ah, the controversial dairy.”

  I nodded while I filled a pot of water. I set it on the stove and turned on the heat. “Do you oppose the dairy? Lucy seemed most definitely opposed.”

  He swiveled in his chair and propped one ankle on top of his other knee. “Lucy, who rented my house without my permission?”

  “That would be her.”

  “I know Lucy. She doesn’t want the island turned into a cow pile.”

  “But she has her own cows.”

  He shrugged. “More reason, I suppose. Only so much pastoral pleasure to go around.” His words carried a heavy bitterness.

  I looked at him sharply. Three things bothered me at once, the thoughts so surprising I almost dropped my mug. First, there wasn’t electricity, so the stove wouldn’t work. I couldn’t heat the cocoa. Second, Phil Henderson recently in the Sudan didn’t have a tan. And third, Phil Henderson, possibly from the Sudan, possible owner of this house, was one of the most attractive men I’d ever met.

  Slowly I set down the mugs. “How did you get here? Why come in the middle of the night?” I looked out at the rain streaming down the black windows. Wind howled through the eaves.

  “Pulled my boat up into the Dunsmuir house cove. There’s a nice bay, very sheltered and quiet, even on nights like this.”

  “But—” I began to question him but I was interrupted when the front door burst open, and a cold wind swept through the room. Wyeth, who had been keeping a watchful eye on Phil, leapt to his paws when a man in a black anorak came in and slammed the door.

  Phil reached for his gun pocket, a move I recognized from action films. The type of movie in which I had no interest in a starring role.

  Wyeth resumed his barking, but he sounded tired and defeated.

  “Hey, I’m sorry to barge in on you guys,” the man in the anorak said, shaking the rain off his shoulders. “But it’s pouring outside.”

  I looked at my watch. It was after two. “It’s been raining for several hours.”

  The intruder pulled back the hood of his coat to reveal a thatch of white blond hair. His startling blue eyes looked sheepish. Good one, I thought, congratulating Artie on her taste. Phil Henderson got up, knocked over the chair, then picked it back up.

  “I know, I um… I’m a photographer with National Geographic, camping out on the headland. My tent blew over,” the intruder said, a smile toying around his lips. “I saw the lights so I thought I’d crash in on your hospitality,”

  Wrong answer. There are no lights.

  “James Hopper,” he said, introducing himself and extending his hand.

  I didn’t take his hand but watched as Phil did. He flinched when James took his hand in what looked like a strong hold. Their eyes met and held and I was sure they knew each other. Phil looked as if he wanted to say something, but then closed his mouth. Awkward silence followed. I looked back and forth between the men. James Hopper, in dripping wet clothes, shifted his weight from one foot to the next and fiddled with the zipper of his coat. Phil stood casually in th
e kitchen, one hand resting on a kitchen chair, as if he might need to pick it up and use it as a shield.

  Rain dripped off James’s blond hair and left water marks on the T-shirt he wore under his slicker. “Should we let him stay?” he asked.

  I looked into his eyes and wondered if I saw amusement or a challenge. I wasn’t amused. I rarely find anything amusing in the hours before dawn. “Why don’t you and the photographer stay on your boat?”

  Phil returned to the kitchen chair and looked at me as if I were crazy. “We’d be bruised from the bouncing tide and besides, this is my house.”

  James Hopper watched both of us and slowly began to unzip his anorak, a clear statement he hadn’t any intention of leaving.

  “You told me the bay was quiet,” I reminded Phil.

  Phil answered by looking out the window at the storm. The wind howled and a branch from a nearby tree cracked and fell with soggy thud. Phil looked back at me with an I-rest-my- case-face.

  “Or,” Phil said. “We could throw you and your dog out and you can choose between the boat and the tent. Combined, we outweigh you by about 200 pounds.”

  The photographer smiled and shook his anorak. Rain sprayed across the room. He draped the coat across a kitchen chair. “I’ll take on the girl. You get the dog.”

  Sometimes no answer is the safe answer. Wyeth followed me up the stairs where I retrieved extra linens. By the time I returned Phil had either won a coin toss or had commandeered the sofa. The camping photographer had taken off his shirt and was toweling off his chest when I tossed sheets and blankets at them.

  “Emma, there are two bedrooms upstairs.” Phil wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. James frowned at me.

  “One for me and one for the dog,” I replied without turning to look at them. “Neither of us likes to share.” But when we reached the landing, Wyeth accompanied me into my room. I closed the door, secured the bolt, and picked up a bottle of linseed oil for protection. I sat down with my back pressed against the door. Wyeth flopped down beside me. He twitched and snorted in his sleep. Above me, the raccoons and rats scampered. I heard only murmuring below.