Child of a Rainless Year (11 page)
Read Child of a Rainless Year Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
My scrounger reflexes flared up at the realization. I thought about phoning Betty Boswell and asking her to mail me a box of the reference books I had at home, books I’d accumulated because there were times that my scrounging for art supplies had led me to a real find. Eventually, I’d wanted to know how to identify the next one. With those books, I could do some classifying, set up a shop on one of the Internet auction sites, make a huge killing …
Then the impulse died back, quickly as it had risen. As I understood it, estate taxes and the like had been paid back when my mother had been declared dead. Property taxes had been dutifully paid every year. I didn’t need any money, not immediately at least. I would certainly have major expenses if I decided to do anything with the house, but right now I didn’t need to—didn’t want to—look at the place merely as a repository of things to be looted and sold. I needed to know what was here, yes, but more important, I needed to know what had happened here.
Deliberately, as if making a declaration of some sort, I pulled out three plates of the Fiesta ware—one blue, one red, and one sunshine yellow—and three tall, pressed glass tumblers. I rinsed them, dried them, and made up plates of cookies and fresh fruit. Then I mixed a tall pitcher of iced tea from a powdered mix and bottled water.
Going to the door, I called out above the sounds of nails being pulled and two male voices giving each other orders: “Domingo, why don’t you and your nephew come take a break?”
They did, and Blanco got his cookie after all.
Painting, n. The art of protecting flat surfaces from the weather and exposing them to the critic.
—Ambrose Bierce,
The Devil’s Dictionary
The mirrors were the worst. Somehow I had forgotten their omnipresence, but as I began taking down the enshrouding dustcovers, I was forced to remember.
After finding the kitchen so overwhelmingly filled with memories, I had decided to take my time getting to those rooms that I had never forgotten: the library, my own nursery, the front parlor—Mother’s rooms. The kitchen was plenty large enough for me to use as a base of operations. I could sleep on one of the wide sofas in the formal living room. With this in mind, I uncovered the sofa I remembered as being the most comfortable, then opened the closet in which I vaguely recalled seeing the silent women put away the cleaning equipment.
There was a mirror inside the door, another on the wall in back so my reflection—I had a smudge on my nose—looked back at me, seemingly as startled as I was. Hurriedly, I got out the canister vacuum and trundled it after me down the hall to the living room.
Like the dishes, the vacuum would probably fetch me a tidy price on the Internet, but right then all I cared about was that it started without a fuss. There were attachments for furniture, and I carefully cleaned the sofa cushions as well as the surrounding floor. Time enough later to unroll the carpets.
Then I trotted upstairs to the linen closet. An odor of mothballs and cedar—whoever had last been here hadn’t been taking any chances—eddied out as I opened the door. This was no mere multishelved cabinet as in my house in Ohio, but a narrow little room lined in cedar. There were shelves all along one side, and a pull-chain for a light up above.
I pulled it, and the light snapped obediently on. This time I was somewhat more ready for the mirrors, but they surprised me nonetheless. I draped a few pillowcases over them, tired of seeing my dirty, startled features. Then I selected a pair of flat sheets, a few more pillowcases, and a blanket. I had my own pillow with me—something I usually do when travelling by car. I was glad. There were no pillows in the linen closet, and I didn’t particularly want to try any of the bedrooms just yet.
When I had transformed a corner of the living room into a sort of bedroom, I returned to the kitchen. It was a brighter, lighter room now that Domingo had taken down the boards over the windows. Unlike the living room, it lacked heavy drapes over the windows. A not too intimidating mirror set over by the sink made me decide that I really needed to wash my face. After I’d done so, I looked around.
“If I’m going to start somewhere, it might as well be here. Otherwise, I’ll be eating dirt.”
Despite the years the kitchen had been left abandoned but for Domingo’s periodic inspections, it was surprisingly—clean wasn’t a word I’d usually apply to surfaces covered in dust and spiderwebs, but it was the right word.
Most kitchens—even the best kept—have their slightly grimy spots, the places where grease or moisture has caused dirt to adhere. Not in this room. It looked as though the last thing the silent women had done before going wherever they had gone had been to wash every surface. I had dust to wash away, spiderwebs to brush down, but there was no real need to scrub. Even so, it was a big room—a working kitchen designed to serve the needs of a household that would have included livein servants as well as the resident family.
By the time I was finished, I had stopped several times for coffee (I’d bought a drip coffeemaker at the grocery store), and even so I was beat. Still, I felt good about what I’d done. This room, at least, was liveable. I’d tested the stove, and like the refrigerator it was old but in good, working condition. I’d had to replace a bunch of lightbulbs, and had made a note to pick up some types I hadn’t thought to get.
Even the mirrors set here and there were beginning to bother me less. I was remembering the reflexes of my childhood. How to register motion in the mirrors but not be distracted by it. It was even somewhat helpful. When Domingo came to the back door, I greeted him without turning around.
“Come on in,” I said. “I’ve just made coffee. You’re welcome to something cold if you’d prefer. It’s astonishing how well the fridge is working.”
I saw Domingo start slightly at my greeting, but despite what Mrs. Morales had said, he was no fool. He noticed the absence of dustcovers and the mirrors they had revealed, and drew the correct conclusions.
“I would like coffee,” he said. “Sometimes hot is better than cold when one is hot.”
“I agree,” I said. “I have a few cookies left.”
“I would not say no.”
“Sit down then. I actually know where everything is—at least in here.”
After pouring for both of us, I joined him at the kitchen table, my own coffee in a cup and saucer set I only vaguely remembered. Somewhere must be the mug in which I’d been served cocoa. I remembered it well. It had scenes out of a Currier and Ives print painted on the side—too wintery for a summer day like this.
“My nephew has gone home to his family,” Domingo said. “We have finished the ground floor windows, and I would like your permission to do some touch-up painting before moving up to the second floor. Some of the wood was a little—not damaged—but distressed by our handling.”
“By all means,” I replied. “I have enough to do down here to keep me busy for several days—weeks maybe.”
He nodded. “You worked hard today. It looks good.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s still a lot to do, especially if you don’t want to be cleaning house into the autumn.”
“I don’t have’til autumn. School starts again the end of August.”
“School? Are you a student, then?”
I smiled. “Teacher. Grammar school art. Everything from finger painting to sketching and modeling.”
“Do you like it? Working with all those small children?”
“Sometimes they get to be a bit much, but most of the time, yeah, I like it.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.” I realized I sounded a bit rude and added quickly, “Never met the right man. You?”
Domingo shook his head. “No. Nephews and nieces, plenty of those, but no children. Like you said, I never found the right person.”
We’d been sitting companionably enough until then, but suddenly I felt odd—shy, aware of him not as the caretaker of my property or an amiable individual, but as a man. I struggled to find something to say, some way to fill the silence. Surely I could ask about his family. He’d mentioned a sister … .
But, as I was shaping my incoherent thoughts into a sentence, Domingo rose. He carried his cup, saucer, and cookie plate over to the sink.
“Thank you, Mira. I should be going now.”
He was out the door before I could do more than nod. I rose, unwilling to chase after him, but not wanting to end the day on this uncomfortable note. He must have heard me open the screen door, for he turned and gave me a friendly smile.
“I told Enrico to come over at eight so we could start pulling off boards again. Will that be too early?”
“Not at all. I expect I’ll be up long before then.”
He waved and continued striding off across the lawn. I thought about calling him back, offering to take him to dinner—not a date, just payback for dinner last night. I didn’t though. He probably had things he needed to do. My return to the old family home had probably disrupted his routine. After all, I was the one on summer break, not him.
Determinedly, I went back into the kitchen. There would be daylight for hours yet, but I didn’t much feel like continuing housework. The walled garden around the back seemed like the perfect refuge. I could sit there with a book until I was tired enough to shower and sleep.
That’s what I did. I sat there, the paperback beside me on the wooden bench. I did nothing, just stared without focusing at a profusion of roses. My thoughts drifted through a tangled maze of memory, sorting through things I hadn’t considered for years. Eventually, I dug a stub of a pencil out of my pocket and started making a list on the inside back cover of the book.
Mrs. Little
Hannah
School
Police????
Newspaper?
Servants. Teresa Sanchez
Domingo’s dad?
I felt exhausted, as if this hour or so of meditation had been more wearing than all the scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming, hauling, sorting, and folding I’d done that day. My head swam as I made my way back into the house, through the kitchen, and into the living room.
I remembered to check that the doors and windows were locked before undressing and sitting on the edge of the sofa. I’d meant to shower before I went to bed, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I put my head on my pillow, and was in the middle of a thought that the linens smelled rather too strongly of mothballs when I fell asleep.
I didn’t dream that night or any of the others I stayed there in the living room of Phineas House. I think I didn’t dream because my days were filled with dreams, the waking dreams that are memories.
I maintained my resolve not to go into certain rooms, but there was still plenty to keep me busy. I began on the living room, deciding I preferred the mirrors to sleeping surrounded by dust sheets. The front hall followed that, then the formal dining room.
Nor did the incredible luck of my first day-or-so’s residence hold. A couple of pipes sprung leaks, doubtless from being asked to carry water for the first time in four decades. The phone service was scratchy, and a new line had to be laid. The old clothes washer and dryer were simply too archaic for me to keep using them. I could practically feel how much power they used. One day I stood outside and watched the new meter the electric company had installed. The little dial whirled around merrily. I made a resolution.
I paid an electrician Mrs. Morales recommended to review the house’s wiring. He assured me that after he did a few repairs, I could run modern appliances on the existing wiring, I went on the Internet and ordered a new refrigerator, washer, dryer, and stove. They constituted a major expense, but one that I easily balanced by surfing the Internet one evening until I found a site specializing in “antique” appliances.
It’s really becoming truer every day that if you have something, there’s someone out there who will buy it. In this case, the sums I got for the old appliances more than covered my purchases—and the electrician’s fee, too. Even though I experienced a twinge of sadness at seeing the old appliances go, I also felt a whole lot safer when I no longer needed to fear that one of them would cause a short and bring the whole towering Victorian monstrosity down in flames.
So it went. The residents of houses on neighboring streets started dropping by. I kept my entertaining to the back garden, making the excuse that the house wasn’t yet safe for visitors. Since most of them were living in similar houses—in a few cases, were restoring houses that hadn’t been as well cared for as Phineas House—my excuse was easily accepted.
Yet, despite the friendliness of the neighbors, despite Domingo’s presence on the periphery of my days, I was becoming a hermit. The house and the memories it held claimed me and seized hold of all my attention. I was living half in the present, half in my childhood, trying to understand what once I had taken so much for granted.
Caught within waking dreams, I woke one day, my mind full of thoughts of finally getting into the front parlor, and how I just might move my sleeping quarters from the living room into one of the upstairs bedrooms, when I glanced at the calendar and realized that it was August. It had been August for several days now.
August. I needed to be back to work in a few weeks. I’d done nothing for my lesson plans for the fall term. Of course, the first few weeks weren’t all that demanding. Half the time elective courses were canceled for one special assembly or another. I usually found myself moderating lunchrooms or helping the office to unsnarl the annual maze of new student problems.
I sat up on the sofa and met my gaze in the nearest mirror.
“But I don’t want to go,” I said. “I’ve hardly started here.”
“Then don’t,” I answered myself. “Stay. Tell the administrators you need some sort of compassionate leave. You did just lose your parents a few months ago—and you’re not hurting for money. The House will give you more if you need it.”
“But my house. Aunt May and Uncle Stan’s house.”
“This is your house.”
“My friends.”
“Can visit you. New Mexico isn’t the end of the world. They can fly into Albuquerque and drive to Las Vegas. It’s only one hundred and twenty or so miles. Or if they don’t want to do that, they can catch a puddle-jumper or shuttle into Santa Fe. That’s even closer, about sixty-five miles. You could even pick them up yourself.”
I stared at my reflection, seeing it as nothing but patches of color, listening to my internal debate. One thing was true. I didn’t really want to go back. For all I had been living like a hermit, I hadn’t felt in the least lonely. When I wanted conversation, there was Domingo or one of the neighbors. Now that I had an Internet connection, I was even keeping up with the daily lives of my Ohio friends.
Yes, I had two houses back there that would eventually need my attention, but I didn’t like to think of Phineas House boarded up again. Like Domingo, I had started thinking of it as a person, with feelings and preferences, and I imagined how it would feel to find its eyes boarded shut again just when it was getting the dust out of its passages.
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