The Book of Speculation (18 page)

When Evangeline took her hands away, he stood.

“You are the lion?”

He touched his forehead to her shoulder and she held him in the comforting way of women. “And I…”

When she stated her understanding, a simple
oh
, it little mattered. The gesture had already spoken.

Later, in the dark of the mermaid’s empty tub, they unwound his hair from its binding. Evangeline marveled at its sleekness and color. Amos did not realize she found it beautiful; his thoughts were disjointed, so taken was he by the curve between her hip and waist; the sweet, salty taste of the skin on her wrist, the inside of her arm; the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck. Where he had known bodies were made to hunger, to labor, to run and work, he had not known they were meant to feel such sensation from another. Where before he’d held her to comfort and to quiet, she now held him to sate and slake. He feared that he would cry out, would make the awful sound as he had in the woods but, mercifully, he stayed silent.

*   *   *

When it was done and they lay limp on the bedding, cradled by the tub’s boards, Evangeline drew the sharp edge of a fingernail along his collarbone. How good it was that people, like houses, had frames and that those frames could be so beautiful. This thing they’d done, Will Aben had thought to do with her. Had she never spoken with Will, she would not know the man she lay with.
I am a killer.
When she shivered, his arm squeezed tight around her.
A killer who beds a lion.
She smiled. How strange it was that
cleave
had two such disparate meanings; she’d known to cut and tear, but now she knew to cling. She rested her cheek in the valley between his shoulder and chest.

Amos lay awake until light bled under the edge of the canvas. He swore his skin still burned from where she’d touched it—a pleasure so profound it dwarfed all else. Nearly. He smiled into Evangeline’s hair, more pleased with life than he’d thought possible. He’d found a way to speak.

13

JULY 18TH

“How long does approval take?”

On the other end Kath Canning sips tea. “Several months to a year. It needs to go through land use and zoning committees. You know the town.”

She doesn’t have to say it. “Slow.”

“For the work you’re talking about you need an environmental impact study.”

“More money.” I shift the phone to the other ear.

“I have to be honest with you. The historical society can help with landmarking, but we don’t have the money you need. It’s just me, Betty, and Les these days, and we’re all volunteer. Your best bet is a loan.”

“Thanks, Kath. I appreciate your time.”

“Best of luck. The Timothy Wabash house was lovely.”

Yes, it was. I hang up, more screwed than I was ten minutes ago.

Enola walks into the living room, rubbing some kind of goo into her hair that makes it stand up in chunks. We’re going to the McAvoys’ for dinner. I suggested a restaurant, but Alice said Frank wouldn’t hear of it. She broke the news last night at the Oaks, while grumbling into her gin.

“Dad went on about how Enola’s hardly ever here and it’s ridiculous that no one’s cooked you a decent meal. Did he bother to ask my mother? No, he just assigns her cooking.”

“Enola’s boyfriend’s with her.” I grimaced down a gulp of rye. Definitely the drink of the recently fired.

Alice sighed. “Sure, fine. What’s another person? Maybe he’ll distract my dad.”

“From what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mom said seven-thirty. Is that okay?”

I twisted the end of her braid around my finger, and gave it a tug. “Seven-thirty is fine.”

As we said good night she said, “It’s weird to not have you at work.” It was almost an afterthought.

Frank is going to ask about Pelewski and the house. And find out his jobless neighbor is dating his daughter and needs a quarter million dollars.

Enola and I wait while Doyle shaves. She picks stuffing from the sofa, tossing it onto one of my shirts. She’s been away so long that every change seems enormous, from her hair to her thinness, the trances, and the man who followed her here. When I came in last night she was dealing cards while Doyle snored on her bed. No, they’re not a Marseille deck or a Waite deck
.
They’re different, but familiar. I tried to get her attention, but she was engrossed.

“Enola, are you okay?”

A piece of foam flicks from the couch. “Yep. Are you?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No, but you will anyway.”

“Your cards look very old. My book—Churchwarry doesn’t know much about it because it was part of a big lot, but it reminds me of your cards, they’ve got the same kind of wear. I was wondering where you got them.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t
want
to tell you about the book,” she mutters. “The cards were Mom’s.”

The cards Mom was dealing when Dad begged her to stop. “I didn’t know Dad gave them to you.”

“He didn’t. Frank did.” She continues methodically divesting the couch of stuffing.

“Why would he have them?”

“You’d have to ask him. He gave them to me before I left.” By left she means left me.

“When can I expect you to start stinking up the house?”

“What?”

“You burn sage to clean tarot cards, don’t you?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s called smudging and you don’t have to do it every time.”

“But you do have to do it.”

“These aren’t work cards, they’re my private deck. Cards kind of gather energy from people and build history. You talk to the cards and they talk to you. These I don’t clear because we’re talking.”

A conversation with Mom’s cards is disturbing.

“What do you talk about?”

“You,” she says with a shark-toothed grin.

Doyle exits the bathroom, clean-shaven. Though it does little to improve his appearance, it reveals the shadow of what might have been a nice-looking young Midwestern man beneath the layers of ink.

“Hey, we ready?” Doyle asks. He looks back and forth as if sensing something off.

“Sure.” Enola flings herself at him, dropping a loud kiss right over his ear.

“You told them you’re bringing me, right?” Doyle asks. “You gave a little warning.”

“About what? The McAvoys are nice,” she says.

He looks at me, concern pulling the tentacles on his jaw downward. “People can be weird about the tattoos.”

I think of everything Frank will hear tonight. “I’m sure you won’t be a problem.”

I follow them down the pebble driveway, across the street, to the McAvoy house. White-shingled, a picket fence and freshly painted porch, a plaque proclaiming it the homestead of Samuel L. Wabash, established 1763. In the yard is a swing set Dad helped build for Alice.

“Looks like my mom’s place,” Doyle says, sticking the tip of his tongue from the corner of his mouth.

The blinds snap down on one of the front windows. Frank’s wife keeps a pair of binoculars on the windowsill, watching all the comings and goings. Leah probably told Frank the instant the gutter broke on my house.

Enola waits for us on the porch. For a moment there’s terror in her eyes, then as Doyle approaches the look dissolves.

“Hey,” I say to her.

“What?” she replies, the
what
that ends a conversation.

The door opens and Enola hugs Frank.

“Too long, Enola. It’s been far too long,” he says.

I wave to Leah, who hangs back in the living room. She smiles and politely says hello. She’s never been quite as warm as Frank.

Frank’s eyes land on Doyle. He blinks a few times before greeting him, gawking. To his credit, Doyle appears to not mind. The Electric Boy sticks out a hand to shake.

“Doyle Bartlett.”

I never even asked his last name. I assumed that Doyle
was
his last name.

“Frank McAvoy. Pleasure to meet you.” The handshake lasts too long. I clear my throat and Frank drops his hand. “No sense in standing around on the porch. Leah’s almost got dinner ready,” he says, scratching his sunburned nose, “and Alice is here.”

“Great.”

“Good to have all you kids under one roof,” he says, and pats my shoulder. I follow him inside. It’s like my house; couch against the far right living room wall, a kitchen off the back, the hall to the left that leads to the bedrooms—three of them—only Frank’s house has gone right. The walls are pale yellow, free of cracks, and sprinkled with pictures of Alice. By the door is a photo from our high school graduation. Alice is in the back row, the tallest of the girls. She’s in the kitchen, delaying the inevitable awkwardness, the amount of which even she doesn’t fully understand. She waves at me, then spots Doyle. She mouths with library-perfect silent diction,
What
is
that
?

Dinner is formal. Leah’s taken out the good china, which only makes the meal more uncomfortable. Enola picks at the lace tablecloth. The fancy silver is out, and we’re drinking tap water from the crystal, which is out of place in Doyle’s green and black hands.

Alice radiates nervousness, or maybe it’s me. Leah sat us together and our knees touch. When I say hello, her lips tighten, but under the table she weaves our fingers.
Hi.
I remember the Alice of the graduation photo and how she used to giggle at the smallest things; that is not this person, and she isn’t the smiling woman from the library, either. Here she’s a daughter. She steals quick looks at Doyle and he catches her at it. She blushes and it’s beautiful.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen Leah, but unlike Frank she looks the same, still wearing her hair in a long red ponytail. She might dye it. Maybe she’s softened, gotten a line or two, but she’s still Leah and openly gaping at the tattooed man sitting across from her.

“It hurt to get them done,” Doyle says. “They go everywhere. It’s the worst when the needle is over bone, but after a while you kind of fade out and it’s not so bad.”

“Oh,” Leah says, her mouth going round. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s cool,” he says. “You can’t help it.”

“Why so many?” she asks.

“It’s sort of like a hobby, but kind of like addiction?” he says, voice tipping up as he cocks his head. “You think you’re gonna get just one, but then one starts looking really good with another and before you know it you want every piece of you drawn on. I wish I had more space. Some people don’t like their skin, you know?” He pops a piece of broccoli into his mouth, using his fingers. “I picked mine.”

“I got stuck with mine,” Leah replies. “Horrible. I burn to a crisp if I’m in the sun for five minutes.”

“Guys like freckles,” he says. “True story.”

A slow smile crosses Leah’s face. “I know.” Soon she’s laughing, in pleasant conversation with a tattooed Electric Boy. Enola chimes in now and again. Alice stays quiet but keeps brushing my hand. She hasn’t brought us up. That should feel good; it doesn’t.

“Did Pelewski come by?” Frank asks around a forkful of pot roast. “He said he would.”

Enola’s eyes flick in my direction. I set my silverware down. “Yes. He gave things a good once-over.”

Alice looks at me.

“Contractor friend of mine,” Frank says to Alice. To me, “He’s a good guy. Did the roof last year. What did he tell you?”

There is no easy way to say it. Pulling the Band-Aid slowly is just as bad as tearing it off. “A hundred and fifty thousand. To start. Probably closer to two hundred fifty for everything.”

Alice stiffens. There’s a blue flower on the wallpaper just to the left of Frank’s ear. I look at its petals. Talk to them.

“What?”

I repeat the figure. Leah and Doyle’s conversation stops.

“That’s not a repair; that’s a goddamned mortgage,” he says.

“I know.”

“You don’t have it.”

“I called the historical society.” Now is where I’m supposed to ask, but I can’t. Not with Alice next to me. Her hand pulls away.

Frank drinks some water, chews a few more bites, and looks down at his plate. “Well, we can’t just let it fall in.” He puts his palms flat on the table, as if the decision is made. “I’ll float you some money, enough to get started. Give me a day or two to get things in order.”

From Leah comes a quiet, “Frank.”

“Dad.” I’ve never heard Alice hiss before.

“It’s not right to just let it go. Paulina and Dan loved that house.”

He wants to save the house for my parents, dead people. I should refuse, but I’m in no position. “I’ll pay you back.”

Alice pushes her chair out, smashing the leg into my foot. My knee hits the table and the gravy boat spills.

“I’ll go make the coffee,” she says, and disappears into the kitchen. Enola and Leah look at their napkins.

“I’ll see if she needs help,” I say.

I walk to the kitchen as Doyle tells Frank, “That’s a huge thing, man. Huge. You’re a real good guy.”

Alice grinds coffee by the sink with a large hand grinder, a relic of a machine. Her fist moves in hard circles. The counter light flickers over the gentle curve of her arm as she cranks the handle. If it’s possible to grind coffee sadly, this is what she’s doing. Her shoulders slope and her movements have a weight that makes everything deliberate and painful. Her yellow blouse is stained with dampness under her arms and the hair at her nape curls with sweat. I know she tastes like sweet salt. I have an old memory of her in her green field hockey skirt, freckles peeking over shin guards and knee socks. I have a fresh memory of her in her bed, feet twisted in pink sheets, dimples at the base of her spine.

“Hey, are we okay?”

“You didn’t tell me about the contractor. You didn’t tell me anything. You talked to my dad, but not me.” She continues grinding. “Were you planning on asking him for money?”

“No,” but then I know I’m lying. “Not unless I had to.”

“They don’t have much. And I don’t want you taking it.”

“I know.”

“I can’t make him not offer, just like I can’t stop him from doing any other stupid thing he wants to, but I can ask you not to take it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry.” Alice measures out spoonfuls of coarse black grounds and heaps them into her mother’s percolator.