Death By Drowning (4 page)

Over the next several days, I pumped Irene for information concerning her nephew while we went sightseeing around the island. After extending our walks a little more each day, Irene would bring me home by taxi, so I could take a long nap and then finish my pool therapy. After dinner, I was ready for bed. While we occupied ourselves, Jake made arrangements to close the house and to transport Baby and me back to Kentucky.

On the last day of her visit, Irene pulled me into a brightly painted beauty shop on Catherine Street in the Cuban section of Old Town. There were pictures of the Madonna on the mirrors at every station and old black and white snapshots of a young Cuban woman standing in a deserted Paseo del Prado in Havana or with the El Morro Fortress in the background, smiling and waving at the person taking the picture.

“Josiah, I don’t want to fuss, but you need to have your hair done. You shouldn’t go back to Kentucky looking like . . . well, like you do.” She played with my hair, which was three inches long in some areas, four inches in others along with a bald patch here and there. “I’ve made arrangements for a total make-over and I’m gonna pay for it. That’s the least I can do for you. I’ve ’splained everything to this here lady.”

I started to protest, but Irene motioned towards a grim-looking woman who gently took me by an arm and deposited me into her chair. I looked again at the snapshots and determined the older beautician working on my hair and the young girl in the picture were one and the same. Irene, with her Kentucky country accent and the Spanish-speaking woman prattled like old friends, both obviously disgusted with my appearance. The Cuban lady tsk-tsked while Irene clucked like an old hen when discussing my hair. Irene dug out an old photo of us together from her purse and negotiated the color of my hair with the beautician. The beautician nodded and her work began in earnest.

I couldn’t stand to look in the booth mirrors, so I pretended to be asleep for most of the time. My eyebrows were waxed and chin hairs plucked first. Then the work on my head began. My hair was colored, trimmed and styled. A hot solution of bath oils soaked my raggedy-looking feet. Afterwards toenails were painted, as were my fingernails.

After several hours, Irene said, “Let’s put some make-up on her.” Before I could open my mouth to protest, Irene said, “Shut up, Josiah. This is my party.”

I slumped down in my chair yielding to exhaustion. It was past my naptime. Finally, I heard, “Josiah, open your eyes and look in the mirror. Trust me.”

After seven months of deliberately not looking at myself, I opened my eyes to a three-paneled mirror. The woman before me had a jaunty spiked haircut of golden red hair. Her green eyes stood out against the dark eyeliner and bronze makeup. I touched my cheek. No – that wasn’t makeup. That was a tan. I felt my jaw line and brow. I lifted my hair to see the telltale signs of plastic surgery. My fingers lingered on the fading welts, scratches, and surgeon’s cuts. I sat back in my chair and stared at the woman in the mirror before me.

“Everything lines up,” I gushed breathlessly.

“Yep, they did a good job putting you back together. Nothing seems out of kilter. They even matched up your eyeball sockets.”

“I have cheekbones,” I said.

“That’s cause you’ve lost so much weight, they stand out. If you lost more of that belly flab, you’d be a stunner.”

I gaped into the mirror at a woman I hadn’t seen for many years. “Irene, do I look ’ounger to ’ou?”

“Like you did when I first met you.” Irene chuckled. “Your daughter told the surgeons, while they were working on you to make you look younger. That girl never misses an opportunity. I was there when she told them, ‘now don’t make her look too young, just younger.’”

Laughter gurgled up my throat and escaped into delighted hoots. “Oh my gawd!” I cried ecstatically. “I thought I looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame. I actually look presentable. What a freaking relief!”

The Cuban hairdresser started speaking to me in Spanish, which I don’t understand but it didn’t take a translator for me to realize that she was happy too. “Good lady,” I said, “thank you. Thank you.”

Irene helped me out of the chair and we walked out of the tiny little beauty parlor with the Cuban lady chatting merrily behind us. She called to people in the street, who strolled over to take a good gander at me. One middle-aged man gave me a thumbs-up before joining his buddies playing chess across the street. Several matrons reached up and rearranged my bangs during a heated debate with the hairdresser. She pushed them away and taking a comb out of her apron, gave my hair a final pat.

Jake was waiting with a cab. He did a double take and then broke out into a broad grin. When he saw tears in my eyes, Jake gave me a big hug. “I told you it wasn’t that bad. The docs did a good job on you.”

I let Jake help me into the cab while Irene dug in her big purse for a handkerchief. I ruined my eye makeup blubbering all the way home. After giving me a final once-over, Irene declared me fit for society and that she could go home satisfied.

A day later, she left on a commuter plane bound for Miami, but not before she laid her hands on my head and gave me her blessing. “And Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until the breaking of day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and Jacob’s thigh was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, ‘Let me go.’ But Jacob said, ‘I will not unless you bless me.’ And he said to him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said, ‘Jacob.’ Then he said, ‘Your name shall be Israel for you have striven with God and with men and have prevailed.’”

“In other words, keep the faith, baby.”

“Keep on keeping on, Josiah. It’s all we can do. See you in Lexington.”

A week later I boarded a rented RV with Jake, Baby, my new paintings, lots of hair dye and a driver heading for Kentucky. I counted every mile marker going home as I craved to walk on the sacred hunting grounds of the Shawnee.

I also had a mystery to solve.

5

We turned onto the gravel driveway that divided two mowed pastures with new plank fences. Bluebird boxes nailed to the fence posts sparkled with blue-pink flashes of hurrying nesting pairs rushing back and forth. Past the bird boxes, into the left pasture grazed a stallion whose coat gleamed blue-black in the spring sunlight. He stared at the passing RV before contemptuously galloping to the far side by jumping across the stream that divided the field, his black mane and tail fluttering in the wind. A couple of nanny goats trotted after him.

In the other pasture grazed several old racers that had been rescued from the butcher’s block. They good-naturedly raced the RV the length of their field.

The redbuds, their full, pink glory fading, were accented by the white blooms on the dogwood trees as they were beginning to reveal their flowers in the patch of woods beyond the clearing.

The last time I had been home, the leaves had been turning orange.

We slowly passed the old ’baccer cure barn that nestled in a once-neglected tobacco field which had been recently tilled. It was freshly painted black with a bright quilt square of a star blazing its forehead. Missing planks had been replaced and weeds cut from around the base of the early twentieth-century relic. From inside the open doors of the barn peeped a new tractor. A llama and her new baby, several feral cats along with a flock of wild turkeys, using the barn as a base, scurried to the woods upon sighting the RV.

My, my but Matt and Shaneika had been busy in my absence. The RV rattled passed Matt’s caretaker’s shack, which had been painted dark green with sea green shutters and door. A shiny metal roof graced the top. New patio furniture sat on the front porch and several flowerbeds had been excavated, waiting patiently for their new occupants. Japanese maple trees, Kentucky bamboo and ornamental birch trees lay casually strewn, still in their burlap balls. I could see Matt had plans for my little cottage.

The dusty gravel road gave way to the more expensive pea gravel that had been raked into a wavy pattern. We turned the bend and there stood my house, the Butterfly, but not as I had left her. Water thundered down from her middle copper gutter making a spectacular waterfall splash creating a small rainbow at its granite basin. The windows winked back with shimmering clean glass. The flowerbeds were raked free from years of debris with new native plants and trees freshly planted. The house’s limestone and wood looked as though it had been power washed for it was free of weather and age stains. The Butterfly looked brand new.

“Man oh man,” whistled Jake. “This is some house.”

“I haven’t see the Butterfly look this good since she was built.” I clapped my hands together. “Oh, she’s a grand old lady.”

When the RV stopped by, I had to wait until Jake let me down the handicap lift with Baby wagging his tail beside me.

One of my daughter’s over-muscled minions opened the front alcove door. Baby growled and leaned against me, putting pressure on my bad leg. I patted him reassuringly while trying to shift his weight.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds. I trust you had a pleasant trip. My name is Cody and I’ll be assisting you until your daughter returns. There have been some security changes. I will explain those after you’ve had a chance to rest.” He exchanged glances with Jake, and then went to help the driver retrieve our luggage.

“Cody?” I murmured to Jake. “Sounds like he’s named after a horse.”

“Don’t underestimate him. Cody’s very good.”

I limped through the bamboo alcove and passed through the double steel doors. I paused in the foyer, inhaling the house’s new odors. She smelled from the damp of the river, Chanel No. 5 and fresh paint.

As I roamed the rooms, the song from the
Wizard of Oz
“can you even dye my eyes to match my gown” – from when Dorothy and her compatriots first entered the wondrous Emerald City – wouldn’t leave my head. I began humming the tune. I was just as enthralled with what I saw as had been the tin man, scarecrow and lion. And just like me, the Butterfly had had an overhaul.

New polished riverbed limestone counters graced the kitchen. The backsplash was inlaid with Kentucky agate. The house’s inside concrete walls had been freshened while the classic 50’s and 60’s furniture, sprinkled here and there with antiques, had been steamed, cleaned or polished. My treasured Nakashima table was burdened with a dramatic flower arrangement of birds of paradise. In fact, large flower arrangements in huge glass vases graced all the living areas. My art collection had been rehung and ceiling lights installed to highlight the most dramatic pieces. I counted the paintings. Uh oh. Some were missing.

I spotted my art glass collection and smiled. Stephen Powell had fixed his piece and returned it to me. It was standing by itself on an eighteenth-century dough table by a window. For a moment the sight of it reminded me of my struggle with O’nan and I felt chilled, but the piece seemed to reach out to comfort me with its startling beauty. I limped over to examine it. I couldn’t tell where it had been damaged. Good. But I didn’t like it on the dough table. Somewhere in the house was a column with a built-in light box that illuminated from the bottom up. That would really bring the piece to life, but I didn’t see it. Maybe O’nan had broken it during his rampage. I would think about that tomorrow. “After all, tomorrow is another day,” I whispered to myself mimicking Scarlett O’Hara’s voice.

I showed Jake the guest room and bath. It had been completely redone with new paint, drapes and bedspread. Jake placed his luggage on the bed and opened the glass door stepping out onto the back patio. Sensing that he wanted to be alone, I closed his door, knowing that he must be exhausted from the trip. He had kept vigil while I slept most of the way home.

While Jake took in his new surroundings, I hobbled to my bedroom. The room had been redone in soft blues and greens. My Hans Wegner twin beds had been pushed together to make a large bed while white faux fur rugs covered the floor. Cheerful Jesta Bell landscapes adorned the walls. Somehow they fit with the austere Danish modern furniture. In the corner sat a blond ’50’s vanity set complete with my brushes, perfume and toiletries. The dark gray slate floors had been buffed to a soft sheen. It was the right mixture of elegance and kitsch.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I murmured to Baby. “Oh, Baby, look. You have your own bed.” A large dog bed lined with fake mink was placed next to mine. “We’re living at the Ritz now,” I kidded, patting his massive head. Baby swallowed a substantial amount of drool and looked at me with his eyebrows arched. He sniffed the dog bed as though knowing it was meant for him. “How much did this cost and who paid for it?” I whispered to myself.

Large new colored glass tiles with a water wave pattern in the bathroom replaced the brown and orange ’80’s tiles, which had been popping out for the past two years. The chipped tan sink was replaced with a blue-green glass bowl and all new faucets had been installed as well as handicap bars and a land phone.

A huge flat-screen TV sat opposite my bed. Underneath, a mini refrigerator was discreetly hidden along with my movie collection. My mind swirled.

As I opened the patio door, a honeybee immediately flew past my face. Lots of honeybees flitted around the pool with the intention of getting a drink of water. Their water tank must be empty. I would check on them tomorrow. One landed on my arm. I brought her up to my face for inspection, looking for mites or misshapen wings. She stared back and then shook her pollen-covered body before flying off.

Tears threatened to spill onto my face. I had endured the darkest winter of my life, worse than the death of my husband. But I had survived. Not better, not even whole, but somewhat intact. So had my bees.

Under the warm sun, the bees hummed along the patio searching for bright flickering colors, which signified flowers moving in the breeze to their compound eyes. Occasionally, they used me as a platform where they could rest while brushing pollen from their furry bodies into the pollen baskets on their hind legs.

Kicking off my bedroom slippers, I gazed at the turquoise sky while drawing strength from the earth, through my clothes, through my skin deep into my muscles, through my bare feet on the dirt. An occasional red-tailed hawk drifted overhead. As the wind lifted the hawk, it carried the sounds of the humming of insects, the calls of red-winged blackbirds, the chattering of gray squirrels, dogs howling on a faraway farm, Angus cattle mooing and the occasional cries of peacocks. An American goldfinch flittered past, his feathers turning from winter olive green to bright summer yellow. The droning of the bees almost lulled me to sleep. Reluctantly I went back in, waving goodbye to my sisters – the bees.

I was home.