Read Child of a Rainless Year Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
Child of a Rainless Year (19 page)
“I can guess,” I said, whacking the hard lump of my ice cream with the bowl of my spoon, “what the uncharitable said.”
“And that’s about all I know,” Hannah concluded.
“That’s all about Colette the woman,” I said. “What about the girl? I haven’t found anything yet about where she went to school, her parents, all that—and, no, she never talked about any of that to me.”
“I can ask,” Hannah said, “but Mother has never said anything specific, none of that ‘Now I know Maria who went to school with her and she said that …’ I do think Colette was local, but maybe she was educated at home.”
Hannah’s expression filled with compassion. “When we were kids, I thought your father had died. I figured your mother was odd because she was weighed down with sorrow.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “If so, I never saw it, and a constantly changing string of boyfriends is hardly the way to mourn.”
“I don’t know,” Hannah said. “They say that widowers who were happiest in a first marriage are the most likely to remarry. Maybe it’s the same with widows—only most women outlive their spouses and don’t exactly find a ripe crop of new prospects waiting around. Your mother was young and beautiful. It would have been different for her.”
Hannah’s tone became dreamy as she went on, “That string of boyfriends could have been part of her endless search for a man who could live up to her memories of the man she had lost.”
“And she dumped each one,” I said, putting my white china coffee mug on the table with a thump, “as he failed to measure up? I suppose.”
“Well,” Hannah said. “It’s a nice alternative to my mother’s version.”
“True.” I rubbed my temples, feeling exhausted. “I just wish I knew more. Being here has been good for me. I’m actually adjusting to the idea that Aunt May and Uncle Stan won’t be there in Ohio when I go back—for a while I realized that’s how my subconscious was trying to jolly me along. Work on Phineas House has been absorbing, but I don’t know what to do next.”
“Let it go,” Hannah suggested. “Come up to Albuquerque next week on my day off. We’ll run the kids to a game or something, catch up, go to the zoo …”
“Maybe,” I said, but both of us knew my tone meant “probably not.” “When do you come back to see your mother?”
“I usually make it here about twice a month,” Hannah said. “She has a friend who drives her down to Albuquerque on one of the off weeks.”
“Maybe next time you can come over and see Phineas House,” I said. “I’ll give you the tour.”
“I’d like that.”
We exchanged e-mail addresses, and I insisted on settling the bill. When we went our separate ways in the parking lot, I felt good. Meeting with Hannah all these years later could have been disastrous, but it had actually been fun. She was nicer than I remembered, and I wondered if some of my mother’s elitism had made me see Hannah and her family as rather “below stairs.”
I also had the possibility that Colette had been in the State Hospital to check out—but I only would if nothing else panned out. I didn’t know much about my mother, but of one thing I felt certain, for all her self-absorption, she had been coolly, even terrifyingly, sane.
But maybe my thinking so was simply proof that I was becoming as crazy as she had been.
When I got back to the house, I stopped to chat for a moment with Domingo and admire the advancing work on the dragon frieze.
“Want to have a hand?” he asked.
For a moment I was tempted, but I shook my head resolutely.
“Maybe tomorrow. Today I have to get some things done inside.”
“I’ll save it for you,” Domingo said, “when we have the base coat on.”
“Thanks.”
“By the way,” he called after me, “you look very nice.”
I waved a hand in acknowledgment, but I was pleased.
Inside, I changed out of my blouse and skirt, and into a pair of my collection of increasingly disreputable jeans and tee shirts. I’d never been one of those slovenly artists—the influence of both of my mothers, I guess—and I made a mental note that I needed to go shopping.
Right now, Phineas House was folding itself around my mind. Even though some of the windows were open, I hardly heard the workmen’s music or the occasional street noise. There was nothing but that room across the landing. My fingers found the key on its ring as surely as if I’d opened the door dozens of times before.
I was unsurprised to find the suite elegantly tidy, smelling warmly of wood polish and wax. The curtains had been cleaned of dust and tied back, but the blinds were drawn, retaining privacy. Today’s painting was going on over on another side of the house, so I felt no reservations about pulling up the blinds and letting in the afternoon light. I slid open a few windows, enjoying the fresh air.
“Clean windows, too,” I said aloud. “I’m impressed. I wonder if you ever sleep?”
I went into my mother’s bedroom, and again opened windows. I found that the bed—where yesterday the mattress had been naked beneath the dust sheet—had been made up. I peeked beneath the thick quilted bedspread—gold tissue embroidered with white swans—and found only a mattress pad.
“I see,” I said. “Not anticipating company, just putting something between the mattress and dust. That’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought about it, but then it’s dustier here than in Ohio.”
Carpets that yesterday had been rolled were now spread out in their accustomed places. I stood in the center of the largest and forced myself to look where Colette’s portrait hung. As I expected, the enshrouding dust cover was gone, the frame with its glinting mirror inclusions clean and polished. Yet ornate as was its setting, Colette’s image dominated it all, even as her personality had dominated her surroundings in life.
She stood tall and regal, one hand resting gracefully on the edge of a table. The painter had chosen a three-quarter angle that showed Colette’s arrogant head on that long, slender neck in profile, the shining dark hair up in an elaborate arrangement in which jeweled pins glinted. Her gown was shown in full, the flaring skirts in-cut to reveal shimmering inner layers. She looked like a young queen from a book of fairy stories.
I didn’t recognize where the picture had been painted, and while she looked a bit younger than I remembered, the difference was not great. Could this picture have been painted during that mysterious year when she had been absent? If so, she certainly hadn’t been pregnant at the time. The pinched waist beneath her swelling bosom showed no sign of thickening.
I forced myself to confront that image, to compare it without hesitation to my own as it was captured in a hundred versions in as many bits of mirror. The comparison was not kind. I was older, greyer, stouter, and shorter, but for the first time in my entire life I saw a similarity. There was something in my bearing that was like Colette’s—not the arrogance, but something of the same unflinching pride in how I held myself. There was in both of our postures that which said: “Here I am, as I am.”
It was a startling revelation, especially since to that point I had seen nothing alike between us—indeed, I had seen much more alike between myself and Aunt May. Still, if there was something I had to have inherited from Colette, this was not a bad thing at all. I smiled, and turned to inspect the room.
Bed, several dressers, built in closets, vanity. There was a blanket chest at the foot of the bed, and I started my search there. I found nothing but several blankets of varying weight, each woven of the finest lamb’s wool, soft as the hues that whispered to me from interstices between the weave.
Next I turned to the closets, but I found that unlike the closet in my former nursery these were filled with clothing, the floor beneath the hanging skirts arrayed with neat lines of shoes.
I balked. Colette’s favorite perfume—something like Chanel Number 5, but with a muskier, sexier bite—eddied from the ranks of elaborate dresses. I staggered back from it as I had not from the portrait, overwhelmed once again with fear, with the sense that I was a trespasser here.
Holding onto the edge of the closet door I steadied myself, forcing myself to breathe deeply, to accept this stale scent for what it was—a bygone breath, dissipating even now by the fresh air from the open windows.
“She’s not in there, Mira,” I said aloud. “She hasn’t set foot in the house in over forty years. Get a grip on yourself.”
I managed not to run, but neither did I delve deeper into those clothing-crowded closets. Later. There would be enough time later.
Guessing that the dressers would be as filled as the closet had proven to be, I cast around. My dilemma was not too few choices, but too many. Here there was no evidence of methodical searching by the police. Doubtless they had made a cursory check, probably focusing on whether Mother had taken a change of clothing or luggage with her when she had vanished.
I really had to see if I could get a look at the police records.
For now, though, I had a sense that if I started going through closets I’d become mired in minutiae. What I was looking for might be hidden within the folds of a skirt, the dip of a sculptured bodice, but my feeling was that Mother would not have hidden anything important where it might be found—say by a servant doing mending or alterations, or laying out that evening’s formal wear.
I paused, wondering if the silent women, well, counted as people that way. I decided to act as if they did. Mother had been careful enough with those blank checks she’d sent out for local purchases that the silent women must have merited being watched.
Or something. My thoughts were swimming as I tried to make sense of things that wouldn’t add up in a sensible fashion. I didn’t want to go through the closets. Fine. I wouldn’t. I cast around, looking for a new target. My gaze rested on where the vanity stood by itself on one side of the room, uncrowded, an altar to the perpetuation of beauty—or perhaps to the perpetuation of illusion.
Compared to the closets and dressers the vanity was a contained challenge. I crossed over to it with something like eagerness, for once finding comfort in the repetition of my familiar image in the mirrors that faced me.
Like the rest of the bedroom set, the vanity was painted antique white, elegantly accented in gold. The table was kidney shaped, and held seven drawers: three on each side, a broad one in the center. Bracketed to the vanity’s back were triple mirrors, angled so the one seated there could apply her cosmetics to the greatest effect. Bulbs to provide even lighting were set around the edges, but I didn’t bother to activate them. My interest here was exploration, not adornment.
I sat myself on the elegant little bench seat. It wasn’t a comfortable fit. Mother had been much trimmer behind than I was. Still, I soon forgot my discomfort as I focused on my search.
I started with the center drawer and found there, as I vaguely recalled I would, the smaller cosmetics: tubes of lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara all arranged in neat order, lighter colors to the left, darker to the right.
The top drawer on the right-hand side yielded a variety of hairbrushes and combs, as well as a hand mirror, doubtless for those times Mother needed to see the back of her head. The drawers below were filled with more hair-related items: nets, pins, clips, even a couple of shower caps, never removed from their packaging. There were spare brushes, old combs with a few teeth missing. Oddities that had probably been tried and found, for some reason now lost to time, wanting.
The one thing I expected to find but didn’t was hair coloring. Later, I found a store of it in the bathroom cabinet under the sink. It was, for the time, professional grade stuff, and I wondered if one of the silent women had been trained to act as a beautician. The idea seemed very likely.
The left-hand drawers were devoted to cosmetics: eye shadow, eyeliner, eyebrow pencils, foundation, powder, rouge, nail polish, more lipstick, lip liner, gloss, mascara, and exotic items I couldn’t identify. Mother had more cosmetics than many a well-stocked store, all of very good quality. She must have had the stuff shipped from New York or California.
I opened a tube here, a case there, and found that, natural deterioration aside, some of it was in fairly good condition. Most of it had been transformed by time into pure junk, oils separating from coloring compounds, pastes drying and cracking so they looked like highly colorful renditions of drought-stricken riverbeds.
My scrounger self was making a mental note that the cases and bottles might fetch something, even while my artist heart was weeping at so much lovely color gone to ruin. I wondered if I could do something with it, and the odd idea of painting a second portrait of Colette, a counterpoint to the one that now dominated this room, came to mind with almost frightening force.
I was fingering through the drawers, estimating volume and coverage and wondering if I could somehow salvage something from all the pretty, perfumed trash, when I realized that the bottom drawer on the right side was shallower than it should be.
Pushing back the bench and kneeling on the floor, I slid out the drawer. It came easily enough, the tracks unswollen as they almost certainly would have been in a more humid climate. Gingerly, I tipped the accumulated mess of old combs and brushes onto the carpet. With them came a heavy piece of stiffish white fabric folded up around the edges.
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