Poison to Purge Melancholy (8 page)

Beth Ann must have thought so, too, because she said, “That’s weird,” descending enough stairs that, bent over, she could see
beneath the level of the ceiling. The stairwell was so narrow, however, that I couldn’t see around her.

“Grandmom?” Not a yell this time, but a puzzled question.

“Is it on?” Glad’s voice, sounding fine.

“Yeah,” said the girl. “Didn’t you hear me call you?”

“No.” Glad appeared at the base of the stairs and started up, so Beth Ann and I retreated to give her room. “The walls of this house are thick, you see. Ev and I have commented on it often, how sometimes we can’t hear each other, even as close as the dining room and kitchen. Far superior to those modern homes with walls so thin you have no privacy whatsoever.”

Bag of extra fuses in hand, she led us back around to the kitchen. Again, I felt nothing in the hall or beneath the mistletoe. Except foolish.

* * *

I planned to hide out the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. Problem was, Glad wanted us all to leave. As Beth Ann had warned, viewing the preparation of the meal was a Lee no-no. Hugh must have known this, so he’d better have a good explanation for not warning me. Something about big Christmas presents with my name on them would be acceptable.

“Why don’t you all go up to the Palace Green now?” Glad suggested, standing beside the oven as if guarding a bank vault. “You won’t want to miss the Firing of the Christmas Guns.”

Christmas Guns?
Sounded barbaric. What happened to peace on earth, goodwill toward men?

“It doesn’t begin ’til five o’clock, Ma,” Horse said.

“Yes, but Beth Ann likes to walk right beside the fife and drum for the Grand Illumination, so you’d better go early.”

Beth Ann’s face went crimson. “That was when I was little, Grandmom. I haven’t done that in years.”

Horse carried his empty eggnog glass over to the sink, saying to his niece, “Let’s go anyway, Squirt. We can walk up to Greenhow’s Store. They’re bound to have something that’ll ruin our appetites before dinner. Coming Foot?”

He wrinkled his nose. “I have some reading to do. Where did you say you put my bag? First bedroom?”

As Foot left, Horse turned to me. “You’d like the ceremony, I think, but it’s a lot of walking. How’re your legs?”

“Better.” They were, slightly—apparently the aspirin helped—but I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of another long walk. Then again, I’d need a bathroom eventually, and no way was I about to go upstairs alone. Though I couldn’t run over to the historic area’s restrooms every time nature called this weekend.

Instinct was telling me to get in my car and drive back to Bell Run. What with the ghost-abstention promise I made to Hugh, I should do just that. But
because
of Hugh, I couldn’t leave.

Common sense was telling me this had to be a bad dream brought on by holiday stress. Any minute now I’d look down, find myself stark naked, then wake up in a cold sweat, vowing never again to eat peanut butter as a bedtime snack.

Horse mistook my indecision. “You should rest those muscles this afternoon. They’ll do the Grand Illumination again. You can catch it Sunday.”

His “doctor’s orders” manner seemed to seal my fate. Glad obliged further with, “Why don’t you lie down until dinner, Pat? I put you and Magnolia in the back room, right at the top of those stairs.”

She nodded toward the door to my right, which I’d labeled a closet. The bump-out didn’t look large enough to contain a stairway. I tried to dwell on that enigma, but kept imagining myself upstairs, alone, prone on a bed, vulnerable. “I’d rather stay here. I ... I’d like to hear more about Elizabeth Carson.” The act of a desperate woman, yes, but I didn’t think Glad would let me remain in the kitchen otherwise.

I was right. Her whole face lit up—that one request scored me big points. With Glad, anyway. Horse looked as if he feared for my sanity, and Beth Ann’s eyes narrowed, no doubt mentally stamping me “kiss-up.”

“Come on, Uncle Horse,” the teen said, scowling. “Let’s get our coats.” She headed for the dining room and he followed.

“So you want to hear all about Elizabeth,” Glad gushed, coming to sit beside me, turkey forgotten. “She’s such a fascinating person, don’t you think? And you can
feel
her in this house.”

Not
her
, I wanted to say. Whatever kissed me under the mistletoe, it wasn’t a woman. Which, come to think of it, gave me a place to start. “What was her husband like?”

“Thomas?” Annoyance flashed through her hazel irises at me. I’d asked a dumb question. “He was a tinsmith. Left Elizabeth a widow with two children to feed.” Her tone made it clear how thoughtless this was of him.

“Did he die in this house?”

Another dumb question. “Died in the war. Right after Yorktown.” Glad turned a worried frown on me. “Oh, dear. You aren’t afraid to stay in a house where people have died, are you? Because as old as these walls are, of course they’ve seen their share of death. Elizabeth herself perished here in 1795, only forty-two at the time, but then, women often did die young. She passed peacefully, though, in her own bed, surrounded by her grandchildren.”

Sounds of a car on the shell drive reached my ears. I knew it couldn’t be Hugh and Miss Maggie so soon.

Glad shuffled over to the door as Beth Ann and Horse returned to the kitchen in their coats. Horse was wearing an extra-large Redskins jacket and announcing, “Acey’s here.”

I’d already figured that out. Hugh’s oldest brother, Rich, wasn’t coming—they were doing Christmas with his wife’s family instead—and every other sibling was accounted for.

“I saw her pull onto the drive,” Horse continued as his mother opened the door. “She got out to open the gates herself. Is she alone?”

“No,” Glad said as a red car crossed my line of vision through the doorway. “Her new boyfriend’s beside her. She only told me he was coming on Tuesday. What was his name again?”

Horse shrugged, nudging Beth Ann. “Let’s help them unload.” Glad went out onto the porch.

Curious as to what Hugh’s only sister looked like, I grabbed my jacket from atop my suitcase and went outside, too.

The red car was a Toyota hybrid, more in need of a wash than my own, so I felt an immediate kinship toward the owner. Beth Ann barely gave her aunt time to undo her seat belt before opening the driver’s door. A sound emerged—a cry of sheer exuberant delight—and a tall woman shot out of the car, wrapping Beth Ann in an intense hug, both of them laughing.

Acey wore a poncho of Southwestern geometric tones that completely hid her niece except for Beth Ann’s red mane. The woman’s hair was dark blonde, frizzy, and shoulder-length, with long bangs, framing her face like a wig out of ancient Egypt. When she let go of Beth Ann and came up onto the porch to hug her brother and Glad, she had the same easy smile as Horse, under wide blue eyes. She gave off energy without being perky. I knew Acey was the baby of the family, but she looked and acted younger than I expected—almost like a teenager. Yet, with med school and all, she had to be around thirty.

“So you’re Pat,” she said, coming to me. Clasping my hand, her eyes gave me a once-over, but not a LAG. Then those baby blues reconnected with my own. “We’ll talk,” she said in a way that made us instant conspirators. I liked her at once.

Turning back to her mom and brother, she said, “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” She swept back her arm, giving us a view of the man stepping up onto the porch behind her. “Meet Kevie.”

And that’s when I was
certain
this was all a bad dream, because there stood the one man I least wanted to come face-to-face with in a social situation: my gynecologist.

“Dr. Weisel,” I said,
my mouth being the only part of me that worked when I was in shock. Of course, I was hoping the man would say I had him confused with someone else, that his name was Smith. I mean, I’d seen the doctor for, what? Twenty minutes? More like fifteen. I could be wrong.

I knew I wasn’t, though. Oh, his features were average, easy-to-mistake, and yes, he looked different wearing a leather jacket and black cords instead of scrubs and latex gloves, but what made him distinctive was his personality—pleasant and confident, just shy of patronizing and conceited.

“Yes,” came his reply, along with a bewildered but friendly smile. “Have we met?”

I told myself doctors see a lot of patients each day. Understandable that he wouldn’t remember me. I should have kept my mouth shut. But he was bound to recognize my name, especially since Acey had referred me and I’d only seen him two weeks ago last Friday, so best to get this over with. “Pat Montella.”

Still the blank look.

“I’m a patient of yours. I was in your office less than three weeks ago?”

“Ah! Oh, right!” He uttered exclamations while thumbing through mental index cards. “Of course. Nice to see you.”

He shook my hand as if he meant it. I was certain he still didn’t know me, and I felt like a chassis off his assembly line.

Two beats of awkward silence went by, then Horse said, “Well, let’s get your stuff inside. You’re coming with us to see the Christmas guns, aren’t you?”

Acey, I noticed, was frowning at me, but when I caught her eye, she quickly turned to her brother. “I drove like a bat out of hell to get here in time.”

“You always drive like a bat out of hell,” said Horse as they headed back to her car. Acey swatted him on the arm, though I doubt he felt it through the lined jacket and massive biceps.

Glad played traffic controller as everything was carried into the kitchen. “Beth Ann, take Ann Carter’s bag to your room—”

“Pajama party time!” Acey said to her niece. Beth Ann’s face lit up. Taking a large, framed knapsack from Horse, she led her aunt toward the dining room, the two of them whispering and giggling.

“I put, er, Kevin upstairs,” Glad said to Horse, heading for the closet. “Second room, next to Magnolia and Pat.”

“We’ll leave the gifts down here,” he replied, placing my carryall and Acey’s three boxes wrapped in Sunday comics beside the hearth stove. Then he picked up Miss Maggie’s tote and both of our suitcases—all still beside the closet door—and followed his mother. Dr. Weisel waved me in front of him, so I joined the procession.

The mystery of the closet was solved. It contained an enclosed spiral stairway which was so tight, Horse had trouble maneuvering my bags and his bulk up the triangular steps.

At the top, another door opened facing down a narrow hall. The hall ran the length of the outside wall and—owing to the uncovered windows, white plaster, and the fact that we were now above backyard fence level—was brighter than downstairs, even in the waning winter afternoon. I couldn’t quite call it cheery. Some human touch was needed, like throw rugs over the dark red-brown floorboards, or artsy-craftsy wall hangings.

“The bath for this wing is down this hall and around the corner,” Glad said, waving Horse and me through the first doorway. Nothing about imagining Elizabeth here, thank goodness. Glad took Dr. Weisel next door to his room, letting me figure out my space without her.

Not much to figure out. The room was squarish, with a small hearth and one window letting in a meager amount of illumination through dark wooden blinds. Horse switched on what was the only light in the room—a floor lamp not far inside the door, at the base of a daybed that hugged the wall. The bulb—no more than a forty, watt-wise—threw a muted glow over the crocheted afghan on the bed. Three small throw pillows huddled in the far corner.

Between window and hearth was the kind of chair that could be folded out to make a thick mattress on the floor, and stacked on its seat were a set of flowered sheets, two anemic-looking pillows, and an Army blanket.

I walked over to the window and raised the blind. The view was of the porch roof, cars, and the rear windows of the main house. Uphill to the left, in the historic area, lights were beginning to come on.

“Kind of spartan,” Horse said, “but then, if you’d come last year, we’d have had to clear floor space for you in the den. This place has enough rooms, at least.”

“Was her old house much smaller?” I asked, turning from the window. I slipped out of my jacket and tossed it on the chair.

“Three bedrooms. When Ma moved back to Williamsburg after she and Dad split, Rich and Foot were already in college, so she figured she didn’t need anything bigger. Wasn’t bad every other Christmas when Rich visited his in-laws, except for Acey, who had to share with Ma—I bet she’s thrilled to be in with Beth Ann instead this year. The kids always got the sofabed in the living room, and for the years Hugh was with Tanya, I got the daybed in the den. Then, after Hugh became the postmaster at Bell Run, Miss Maggie started coming. So when Rich and his family showed up, and Acey brought the boyfriend-of-the-month, Hugh and I made do with sleeping bags in the dining room.”

Strange to hear him refer to Tanya so casually. Hugh almost never talked about his late wife, and Beth Ann didn’t remember much about her mother. I wanted to ask Horse what Tanya was like—in particular, how I compared—but we heard a commotion out in the hall before I had a chance.

“Come on, Kevie,” Acey was saying. “Beth Ann and I are ready for our frontal assault on this sleepy little burg. We tried to collect Foot on the way, but he’s having too much fun being a curmudgeon. Where’s Horse?”

We met Acey and Beth Ann in the hallway and Glad led the way back down the tiny staircase.

Acey waved everyone down ahead of her, except me. “Stay up here a sec,” she said in a low voice, pulling me away from the stair door, waiting until the others were out of earshot. “When I gave Hugh the referral, I said you should ask for Dr. Vaughn.”

“I did, but she was booked solid for four months, so they asked if I’d see Dr. Weisel instead.”

“Oh.” Acey looked surprised. Didn’t doctors ever have problems making appointments for themselves?

“Does it matter?” I asked. My goal had been to get in to see a gynecologist, and I had, and the exam hadn’t been any worse than all the others I’d had in my lifetime. Not better, either, but that’s the nature of the ordeal.

“No. I just—I thought you’d like Dr. Vaughn, that’s all. See if you can get her for your next annual. In fact, I’ll talk to her about you.”

I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.
What’s wrong with Dr. Weisel?
I wanted to ask. Then it occurred to me that some kind of jealousy might be involved. Though, if Acey had a problem with her sweetie looking at other women’s privates, she was dating a man in the wrong profession.

She was already headed down the steps. And chicken me, not wanting to be alone upstairs, followed her.

* * *

Night came too quickly, as it always does on gloomy winter days. The overhead and fluorescent lamps lit the business part of the kitchen well enough, but left either end in shadow, particularly the pantry and dining room beyond.

“There’s a TV up in my bedroom, Pat,” Glad said, “if you want to go watch it.” Another attempt to get rid of me, though this time it sounded halfhearted. Probably she wanted me to ask about Elizabeth again.

So I did, with a twist. “How did you go about researching your ancestors? You know so much about Elizabeth Carson.” Yes, I was brown-nosing. “I’ve done a little of my family tree, but not in so much detail.” Truth was, I’d tried to diagram the Giamo side once, out of self-defense because I had so many second cousins, I couldn’t keep straight who was whose kid. The sum total of my footwork involved visiting two cemeteries to find the names and dates of all my great aunts and uncles.

“Oh, I started very young,” Glad said. “When I was a girl, every time we drove past this house, my father would tell me how he was born and raised here, and how the place had been in his family from the time it was built until his mother sold it to John D. Rockefeller, Jr., during the Depression. Of course, my father meant Rockefeller’s Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, but he always said it like Rockefeller himself sat in at settlement.” Distracted, Glad began to open the oven door, then remembering I was still there, hesitated.

“Go ahead, I won’t look. Swear to God.” I averted my eyes to the opposite wall, hoping the bird wouldn’t suffer for my presence. “So your father told you about your ancestors?”

“Heavens, no.” The oven door squeaked open and the delectable aroma coming from within quadrupled in intensity. “His parents could trace their roots back to the Civil War, but no further. Wasn’t until I had to go to the Foundation library to work on a school paper that I discovered the Carsons.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white flash in the dining room. My heart vaulted up my windpipe. Then I realized the electric candles in the front windows had come on by themselves. On a timer, I guessed, or a light sensor.

As if the candles were a cue, Glad said, “Five o’clock already. Pat, open the porch door a moment. Let’s see if we can hear the guns.”

I obeyed, wishing I hadn’t left my jacket upstairs. Outside, the air seemed damper now, and except for the sounds of traffic out on Francis Street, the night was quiet. “What
are
the Christmas Guns?”

“Back in colonial times,” Glad explained, over the crinkle of the aluminum foil she was removing from the roasting pan, “men used to fire their flintlocks on Christmas or New Year’s Day, perhaps a carryover from earlier times, when loud noises were thought to keep evil spirits away. Now we do it at night instead of dawn.”

A muted
boom-bm
came down the hill, a shot with a half-beat echo.

“There they go,” Glad said. “I never could hear them from my old house.”

The delight in her voice was so unmistakable, I asked, “How are you adjusting? I mean, you lived in your other house, what—twenty years? And this one, well—”

“Not your idea of how to spend retirement?”

“The place
does
seem to require a lot of attention.”

“Exactly why I
should
be here.” She closed the oven door. “Since I came back to Williamsburg, I’ve driven by this house almost every day. More than half the time, it was deserted. I hated seeing it neglected all those years. You can close the door now. Better turn on the porch light, too—the button by the door. Gets awfully dark back there. I should have told them not to take the shortcut. Though, at least, it’s no longer marshland like it was in Elizabeth’s day.”

I did as asked, pushing the outtie on another antique switchplate. A drab, yellow glow lit up the porch floor and fronts of the cars. “Why was this house deserted? I thought employees of the Foundation live in its buildings.”

“They do, for the most part. That’s why the structures are so well-preserved, you see. A lived-in house is taken care of.” A loud screech sounded from the stove area. I glanced over to see that Glad had opened the drawer under the oven and was removing a rectangular glass baking dish. “And also—I suppose you’ll think me silly for saying so, but I think an empty house becomes, well, melancholy. Oh, not in the sense of it having emotions, of course. It’s just that,” she faced the dining room for a moment, “the walls absorb and radiate back the life within them. That’s why old houses have a different feel than new.”

“That’s not silly at all,” I said, thinking of Miss Maggie’s cozy Reconstruction-era house that seemed to welcome me from the moment I climbed the porch steps. And my Aunt Sophie’s tiny row home, pulsing with the energy of two to four generations under its roof at any given moment through the last century. My former apartment, only a decade old, felt lifeless. Still, as much as I could see that the Carson house had been unloved for quite a while, I knew there was more to its “feel” than simple neglect.

Glad closed the oven drawer, which let out another screech in protest, then considered the dish she held as if at a loss about what to do with it. I was cramping her style again, but I wouldn’t be forced from my sanctuary. And anyway, I can’t watch someone else cook without wanting to get my hands greasy or floury or whatever. “Can I help? You can swear me to secrecy. I understand, being a cook myself.” I didn’t, though, firmly believing that good recipes ought to go forth and multiply.