continued to move, but slower and slower,
The batteries were running down, I thought. It
might have been triggered hours and hours ago. I
pried the transmitter out of Uncle Palaver's frozentight, hard fingers, and the doll's head stopped
moving.
I didn't know what to do. I just stood there
stupidly looking at my uncle and his life-size doll entwined on the bed like two lovers who had made a
suicide pact and carried it through. The realization of
what had happened sank into me, or rather. I felt as
though I were sinking into it, reality climbing up my
stunned body until it reached my chest and clamped
itself around my torso, making it hard for me to
breathe.
I stumbled back and ran out of the room, falling
to the floor by the sofa. The motor home's engine was
still running. I felt my stomach twist, and suddenly,
almost without any warning at all. I began to heave. I
crumbled on my side and lay there, nearly traumatized
by my own hysteria. Finally, it eased. and
I
pulled
myself to my feet, hovering and trembling. I cleaned
up my mess quickly and then drank a cold glass of
water.
This can't be happening It just can't be
happening I chanted to myself, but the only sound
being the sound of the engine brought home the
reality of the dead who don't speak. Uncle Palaver
was gone. I was not only alone. I was lost, lost in so
many ways.
I took deep breaths, wiped my face with a cold
wash cloth, and returned to the driver's seat. For a
while, I just sat there staring out at the fields, the
brush, and the trees on both sides of the broken road. I
was still afraid of attempting to turn the motor home
around. It was tricky with my car hitched behind it. so
I started forward. I hadn't noticed, but the clouds that
had been blending and turning darker had changed the
sky to completely overcast. Rain was coming, and
soon. I was nervous enough driving this big vehicle in
good weather.
I drove at least another two miles, and still there
was no place to make an easy turn, Then I came
around a long, winding curve and saw what looked
like a very old but very big farmhouse off to my left.
As I drew closer, my heart sank, because the three-star
building, although very elaborate, with a triplewindow high tower, double-door front entry, large
full- width side porch, and what looked like two-story bay windows in front, appeared deserted. The wood cladding was a very dull gray in desperate need of painting. The grounds were overgrown, and the statuary all looked unwashed, stained, and forgotten. Weeds invaded the gazebo like green parasites smelling death. This property was a shadow of what it
once was. I thought.
The long, straight driveway that led up to the
house was as cracked and pitted as the road I was on. I
was going to continue and almost did accelerate
before I caught sight of a pickup truck parked at the
side of the house. It looked relatively new. Someone
was there. I thought. I slowed down and turned into
the driveway. The motor home bounced and swayed
so much as I made my way up that I was afraid my car
would break loose. I saw no one at first, but as I drew
closer. I could see that the windows were draped, and
there was some light coming from within.
Encouraged. I continued until I could park in front.
Then I shut off the engine, took a deep breath, and
stepped out of the motor home,
Before I reached the half dozen steps that led
up to the portico, a tall, stout black man with silvery
gray hair came around the corner of the building. He
was carrying a shovel and a hoe over his right shoulder and wore a pair of high rubber boots. When he saw me, he paused and wiped his forehead and his
eyes as if he couldn't believe his sight.
"I need help!" I cried.
"Don't we all," he replied, and walked toward
me.
As he approached. I saw he had gray stubble
over his chin and patches of it over his jawline and
cheeks. Although his hair indicated he was along in
age, his face was smooth, his eyes bright and friendly,
like the eyes of someone much younger and more
innocent trapped in an older body.
"What's the trouble?" he asked. He wore only a
flannel shirt open at the collar. The sleeves were
frayed. His jeans were mud-stained and worn through
at the knees. He wore no watch, just a silver chain
with what looked like a silver heart.
"It's my uncle. Something terrible has happened
to him," I said.
He looked up at the motor home. "Like what?" "I don't know," I said, now unable to hold back
my tears.
He looked at the motor home again as if it were
somehow forbidden territory. Then he dropped the
tools, scratched the top of his head, and slowly approached the motor home door. Just as he did, the front door of the house opened, and an elderly lady in a faded blue housecoat stepped out. Her gray hair was whiter than his but brushed and combed neatly into a bun. She had a dark brown walking stick with a pearl handle. Her thick-lensed glasses slipped down over
the bridge of her nose as she peered out at me. "What's gain' on. Trevor?" she called, and took
a few more steps forward. She was wearing what
looked like a pair of fluffy white slippers.
"This girl says she's in trouble. Mrs.
Westington."
"What sort of trouble?"
"She says her uncle is in a bad way inside here.
I was just going to look."
"Well, we don't need no more trouble here." she
muttered loudly enough for me to hear.
"Yes, ma'am. I know that." Trevor said, glanced
at me. And then entered the motor home.
I stood outside. The elderly lady remained firrn,
frozen, leaning on her cane and staring hard at me. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm lost."
"Yeah." she said, nodding. "No one comes up
here anymore less they are,"
When Trevor came out, he looked shocked. "Well?" Mrs. Westington demanded
immediately. She approached the top step.
"There's a man dead in there, all right, and he's
lying beside a giant doll."
"What?" she asked. recoiling. "What kind of a
nonsense story is that?"
"I swear. Mrs, Westington," Trevor said, raising
his hand.
I continued to sob and embrace myself. "My
uncle's a... performer... and... the doll is part of our
act," I explained breathlessly.
"How'd he kick the bucket?" Mrs. Westington
asked Trevor.
"Don't know as I could say. Mrs. Westington.
Must've been pretty sick. Looks to me like he spat up
some blood," he added, looking my way.
"He drank," I mumbled.
"What's that?" she asked,
"My uncle was an alcoholic," I admitted. "Oh. Well. I know a little about that. My
husband drank himself to hell. It ain't no pretty kettle
of fish. Well, don't stand there. It's going to rain cats
and dogs shortly. We'll make the proper phone call.
Leave that vehicle door open. Trevor. Air it out." "Yes. ma'am."
She tapped her cane hard on the portico wood
floor. "Come along. We ain't got all day," she said
turning.
I looked back at Trevor.
"It's best to do what she says," he told me. I
followed Mrs. Westington into her house.
I didn't know it then, but it wouldn't be all that
long before it became mine as well.
Inside, the house looked as if it had been frozen in time, the owner stubbornly refusing to throw anything away. Whether
it
was a worn rug, a frayed sofa, a broken vase, or a cracked figurine on a ricketylooking pedestal, everything was obviously still cherished. The wide entryway had a mahogany coat stand and hat rack with garments on them looking as though they had been placed there fifty years ago and never touched since.
Up close, Mrs. Westington resembled her possessions. Her pale alabaster complexion had patches of tiny, spidery veins close to the surface, making her resemble a life-size cracked porcelain doll. There were some futile attempts at cosmetics, patches of face makeup applied too thickly in spots and completely absent from other areas. Her lipstick was thicker on her bottom lip for some reason than it was on her top lip.
However, in spite of her fragile appearance, her bony shoulders, long thin-fingered hands, and reliance on the walking stick, she had an air of firmness and grit about her, especially discernible in her dark gray but vet bright eyes.
"Close the door!" she shouted at Trevor, who was just behind me.
"It's closed. Mrs. Westington," he said.
She turned and looked as if she didn't trust a word he uttered, and then nodded. "House is coming apart at the seams. Wind blows right through these days."
"Yes, ma'am," Trevor said. "I patched up that window frame on the pantry."
"Um," she said. She pointed at the sofa with her cane. "You sit there, girl," she told me. "Trevor, you go to the phone and call the highway patrol. The number's on the board by the phone.'
She was obviously used to giving orders. I sat, and she stared at me a moment and then went to the window to open the drapes. The grandfather clock in the corner groaned instead of bonging the hour. She looked at her watch and shook her head.
"Don't know where the time goes," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "Okay," she said. "Now, tell me what you're doing on this road, driving that big thing with your uncle dead inside."
There was something about the way she looked at me and spoke that compelled me to tell her my story. Perhaps it had all been bottled up inside me too long. I was surprised myself at how much came out, how much I revealed, and how fast I spoke. At first, she just stood there listening. Then she slowly lowered herself into her dark brown cushioned chair. upon which she had placed an additional cushion to keep herself higher and make it easier for her to get up when she wanted.
She leaned on her walking stick and looked at me as I continued, her face showing little emotion, surprise, or displeasure.
"Sometimes. I wonder if it was God or the devil who made us," she said after a long pause when I stopped talking.
The entire time I spoke, tears rained down from my eyes, and my throat opened and closed, choking back words and then freeing whole paragraphs in one breath. I didn't realize Trevor had been standing in the living room doorway awhile, waiting for permission to speak himself. Mrs. Westington finally nodded at him.
"They're on their way here," he said. "and so is an ambulance."
"What good's an ambulance?" she muttered back at him as if he had ordered it.
"Got to take the body to the coroner. Mrs. Westington. Ain't gonna take him in my truck."
I waited to see if she was going to chastise him for what he had said in reply, but she just nodded and looked as if she appreciated his cold, factual answer. She looked at me again.
"How old are you. girl?"
"I'm seventeen, nearly eighteen," I said.
She shook her head and then turned to Trevor.
"Seems like the world's going to end up filled with orphans. Women drop out children these days like field mice and as soon as they can walk on their own, leave them to manage for themselves."
"Yes, ma'am," Trevor said.
"Well, let's get the girl something to eat and drink while we wait," she said, rising out of the chair. "I'll make some blackberry tea and tuna fish
sandwiches. You can go down the hallway to the powder room on the right and clean yourself up some," she told me.
"Thank you," I said, and followed her out. "I'll wait for them outside," Trevor told us.
I could see the bathroom fixtures were quite old, the porcelain sink spotted with rust. Everything worked fine but revealed the age of the house, which I later found out was built nearly eighty-five years ago when the property was a successful vineyard and the family had its own winery. It was not hard to imagine that at one time, the house must have been beautiful. There was so much detail in the wall trim and the freplace. The chandeliers, although looking as if they could use a good dusting and cleaning, were quite elaborate. Quality materials had been used in the construction. The hardwood floors probably needed only a good polishing, even after all this time.
Mrs. Westington told me to go into the dining room, where she put the tea and the sandwiches, cut into small squares, on the long, dark cherry-wood dining table. I thanked her again and sipped the tea and nibbled on the sandwiches. She watched me eat for a few moments, and then she rose and said. "They're here."
I had heard nothing. It was as if she had radar that told her when anyone had stepped onto her property. I rose and followed her out.
The sight of the police and the ambulance put a new wave of chills and then numbness into my body, which had somehow taken an intermission from the sad and terrible events that had just occurred. The police went into the motor home, followed by the two paramedics. I watched from the portico. The rain had begun. as Mrs. Westington had predicted, and fell in a steady, dull drizzle.
One of the highway patrolmen, a stout, tall man with light brown hair, sauntered over to us as though the rain wouldn't dare make him wet. He stepped up and reached into his back pocket to pull out a notepad. He flipped it open, tipped his hat at Mrs. Westinaton, and directed his attention to me.
"What's your full name, miss?"
"I'm April Taylor."
"That man in there was your uncle?"
"Yes, sir. Palaver."
"Palaver?"
"He's a magician. hypnotist. I was helping him with his show. We travel to different theaters."'
"How old are you?"
I glanced at Mrs. Westington.
"She's eighteen," she replied for me. "The poor girl's been through hell and back. Get to the point."
"I'm just trying to do my job. Mrs. Westington, There's a man dead in there. This is an unattended death. There's procedure."
"Well, no one's telling you not to follow your procedures. officer. Just get along with it. I just gave the poor girl something to eat when you arrived. Tears getting cold."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and turned back to me. "What happened to your uncle?"
"He died." Mrs. Westington said as if the policeman were a total idiot. I nearly laughed. I was feeling so confused. I was drunk on the insanity of what was occurring.
The patrolman grimaced and looked at me.
"My uncle was drinking heavily for a long time.
I
think he finally got very sick from it," I said.
"That big doll in the bed was part of his act?"
"Oh. Lord have mercy," Mrs. Westington muttered. "What's that got to do with anything now?"
"Where is the rest of your family. April?" he asked, trying to turn away from Mrs. Westington.
"Back in Memphis. My sister is a professional basketball player."
"And your parents?"
"Both dead," I said.
"I knew it," Mrs. Westington told him.
The paramedics carried Uncle Palaver out of the motor home on a stretcher, his whole body covered, and put him into the ambulance. I started to cry again.
"Oh, dear. dear," Mrs. Westington said. She put her arm around my shoulders. "I'm taking her inside. You can come in and finish procedures or stop by afterward," she said firmly, and turned me.
"Someone will be by. Is she staying with you?"
Of course, she's staying with me. What do you expect she'll do, get into that contraption and drive off?" she asked, nodding at the motor home with my car attached.
"No, ma'am, it's just..."
"It's just raining harder. Tend to your procedures," she said, and guided me into the house.
"I've got to call my sister," I said. Telling the policeman about her reminded me it was something I should do immediately.
"Well, you go right ahead. The phone's in the kitchen on the wall," she told me, and pointed her cane in the direction of the kitchen.
I walked down to it and sucked in my breath a moment, closing my eyes to gather the strength I would need to tell Brenda everything and to hear her chastise me for staying with Uncle Palaver so long. Then I picked up the receiver. The phone was a rotary type and looked as if it had been manufactured a day after Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone. I dialed Brenda's number and waited. It rang twice, and then a mechanical voice said. "I'm sorry, but this number has been disconnected. There is no
forwarding number." I held the receiver while the message was repeated. That was followed with some number code, and then the phone went dead.
Mrs. Westington was standing in the hallway watching me.
"My sister... is gone," I said. "She's moved out. Her phone's disconnected."
"Doesn't surprise me. Half the world's disconnected," she said. "Go in there and finish your sandwiches and tea. There's plenty of time to do what has to be done."
"I'm not hungry,"
I
said.
"Don't matter. Your body's had a big shock. You'd better fortify, girl, or you'll get sick yourself and not be worth a plumb nickel to anyone. Go on," she commanded.
I returned to the dining room and continued to nibble on the sandwiches. She went to get the water hot again for my tea. As I sat there. I thought again about Brenda. I had to find her. I got an idea and went out to the motor home to get the papers that Brenda had forwarded to me after
I
left Memphis. Then I hurried back inside.
"What are you up to, girl?" Mrs. Westington asked. "You're letting the water get cold again."
"I realized a way I might be able to find my sister." I said. "Our attorney should know."
She nodded. "Yes, attorneys usually know everyone's business. Go on. Use the phone again," she said, and brought the kettle back to the kitchen.
I called, and Mr. Weiss came on after his secretary told him who I was. He listened and told me he did know where Brenda was. She was with a team about to leave for Germany, and he had just faxed some documents to her hotel in New York City. He said he would try to reach her immediately.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Call me for whatever help you need there. April."
He asked for the telephone number, and I asked Mrs. Westington, who stood by listening. She told me. and I gave it to him. He promised to get right on it and try to reach Brenda as soon as possible.
"There's nothing more you can do," Mrs. Westington said after I told her what the attorney had said. "The police know you're here. They'll call."
The rain began to fall harder. We could hear it dancing on the roof as the wind whipped it along.
"A good drenching," Mrs. Wtstinaton said, gazing out the dining room window.
I sat quietly, still feeling dazed. She considered me a moment and then nodded to herself.
"I want you to go lie down now. girl. I'll show you to your room. Don't worry." she said before I could raise any opposition. "When you get a call. I'll let you know. Come along." she ordered, and started out to the stairway. It went up and curved like a "J" onto the second floor of the house. She guided herself with the banister but seemed to have no trouble going up the stairs.
The heavy overcast and rain made the secondstory landing seem even darker than it was. I saw there were no windows, The two chandeliers dripped shadows along the panel walls. She led me to
a
bedroom immediately off to the right and opened the door.
"I'm sure you'll find it comfortable," she said. "Used to be my daughter's room."
I looked in at a beautiful white and pink canopy bed. The matching dresser, armoire, and vanity table had the same pink swirls in them. A soft, milk-white area rug surrounded the bed.
"I got a Mexican woman comes to clean the house once a week, and she always does this room. Bathroom's in there," she said, pointing her cane at the door on the right. "Just make yourself at home. I'll shout up when your call comes, and you can use that phone.," she added, pointing to an antique brass phone on the nightstand beside the bed.
"I'm not really tired," I said.
"You're more tired than you imagine. Your insides have been turned and twisted. Don't tell me what you are and what you're not," she added sternly. "Go on, take a rest, and we'll see about it all soon enough. One thing about tragedy. It don't forget you for a moment when it visits.'
The bed did look inviting. I walked in and sat on it.
"Make yourself comfortable," she urged. "Get under the comforter. You been riding about in that contraption so long you forgot how to enjoy a real room?" she asked when I hesitated.
"No, ma'am."
"Well, then, do as I say," she said.
I pulled the blanket back, took off my shoes, and slipped in. The pillows felt like clouds beneath my head. I saw her watching me from the doorway for a while. My eyelids drooped and then closed. Minutes later. I was asleep. She was right. My insides had been turned and twisted.
When I opened my eyes again. I thought I was still dreaming. Standing right by the bed and staring down at me with wide eyes was a girl who looked no more than fourteen. She wore a dark blue one-piece dress with a frilly white collar. Her very curly black hair was chopped short and looked as if someone had put a bowl over her head and trimmed it. Even though she had black hair, her eyes were almost Kelly green, She had a rich, peach complexion with a small, slightly turned-up nose, soft, fall lips, and a cleft chin.
I braced myself up on my elbows and wiped my eyes. "Hi," I said.
She continued to stare and then suddenly raised her hands and, with her right forefinger, circled her mouth and pointed the finger at me.
"I don't understand,"
I
said, and she did both gestures again, only more emphatically. She looked as if she might cry if I didn't figure out what she was doing. I thought a moment and then smiled. "Oh. You're asking who I am?" I said, pointing to myself.
She smiled and nodded.
"You're deaf," I whispered to myself. 'My name is April." I said, And then, for some reason. repeated "April" slowly, enunciating each syllable. She obviously studied my lips.
She pressed her fingers down and showed me her palm, then moved her fingers quickly. I shook my head, and she grimaced. Then she thought a moment, went to the drawer of the nightstand and took out a pen and pad. She wrote on it and handed it to me.
She had written "April",
"That's right," I said. "That's my name. Who are you?"
She moved her fingers rapidly three times, and when I shook my head again, she took the pad back and wrote 'Echo".
Echo? Didn't she understand me? I pointed to her again and mimicked her signing "Who?"
She nodded and pointed to the pad.
What a strange name, if that was really her name. I thought, but I smiled at her and nodded.
She smiled back and then watched as I rose out of the bed and slipped on my shoes. Hadn't Brenda called yet? What was happening? Was this little girl Mrs. Westington's granddaughter? Where were her parents? I started for the door, and she immediately seized my hand. It took me by surprise. but I saw she meant only to walk with me.
Mrs. Westington came to the foot of the stairway when she heard me descending. She immediately began to sign with Echo. She looked angry. too. Echo let go of my hand and stopped descending. She looked at me and then turned and ran back up the stairway and down the hall.