It Burns a Lovely Light (3 page)

But Paddy patiently persisted, and eventually she began to believe. And then, that Indian summer Sunday, down at the old pond.

I have something for you, Claire Justus...meet me at the bottom...swimming through the darkest murk...wrapping his arms around her...pulling her legs around his waist...his kiss, so tender and soft...you really don't get it, do you...you're the one for me, darling girl...

Her feet were wet. Claire looked down. The sink had overflowed and a thin blanket of suds was creeping its way across the kitchen floor. She turned off the faucet, the overhead light. Untying her apron, she
stood in the dark and smoothed her skirt with her hands.

Out of habit she raised her hand to knock before entering Paddy's office. The room had always been off limits unless one was invited in -
Claire had insisted on this rule herself. A man needs his space.
A place of his own, where he could get away from it all.
She ransacked his briefcase and upended his desk drawers, while marveling that she had never created such a space for herself. On the middle shelf of the bookcase, tossed inside a tatty
cigar box like so much small change from his pockets, she found the barely hidden confirmation of her husband's duplicity.

Uncorking Paddy's Irish whiskey decanter, she poured a shot
and coughed as the russet liquor seared its way down her throat. The next one went down trouble-free. Then she lowered herself onto Paddy's leather couch to examine the sorry contents of the cigar box. A book of matches with a phone number scrawled across the inside. A handful of unopened condoms, decked to the
nines in perky square containers. A small spray bottle of cologne. She squirted some on her wrist and inhaled. Apparently Patchouli was making a comeback. She unfolded a pile of rumpled receipts: restaurants, a movie, a hotel on the North
Side. And one slightly underdeveloped Polaroid of Paddy and a pencil-thin woman in a tight short skirt. The woman was beaming at the camera, her arms barely making it around Paddy's thick waist. Paddy wore an uncomfortable smile. He
looked tired. Which only made sense, Claire reasoned as she walked upstairs to pack. Adultery must be exhausting.

Careful to avoid the third step from the top - it had an
awful squeak - Paddy tiptoed up the stairs and into the dark bedroom. As he did every night of his life, he pulled the covers tight under his chin, smacked his lips and closed his eyes.

"Goodnight darling girl," he whispered, already
drifting off. "Sleep tight, God bless."

Up with the sun, Paddy went straight to the bathroom. He scrubbed his teeth and took a shower, vigorously soaping his belly as he belted out a song in his deep rumbling voice. He sang loud enough to wake not only his
household, but the neighbors on both sides.

"Can't get her up, can't get her up, and can't get her up in the moooooorning!"

Only after he returned to the bedroom, his naked body pink
and steaming from the hot water, did he see the note on Claire's undisturbed side of the bed.

"Why do insane people always live in dark and lonely
houses?" asked William, staring at the flickering television screen.

Farley, William and Pauline lay sprawled across Pauline's bed, eating buttered popcorn and watching
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane
.
Bette Davis, as the garishly made-up Baby Jane, was happily tormenting her crippled sister, Blanche. Tonight was their last 'us four' movie night before the first day of school. (Officially, as William pointed out, they were 'us
three.' Jack was working on his flight plan at the kitchen table.)

It had been six weeks since Farley's near-debacle on the high dive. For all its spectacle, the day had actually ended well. After dropping Farley and Pauline off at the house, Jack and William had disappeared
for a few hours and returned with engraved bracelets for 'their girls.' A shiny strip of silver imbedded in the leather bore the words:

Brave and Daring

Contrary to Farley's fear of living out her time in Arizona
as a friendless outcast, she had already made a few friends, and was even weighing the possibility of a potential best friend. And now that she wouldn't be one of those kids who wandered the cafeteria, tray in hand, trying not to
appear desperate for someone to sit with, she was actually looking forward to the fourth grade.

Farley scooped a handful of popcorn and considered William's question.

"The reason insane people always live in dark and
lonely houses," she said, "is because dark and lonely houses
make
people go insane. I mean, just look at Bridge Manor..."

She froze. That last part wasn't supposed to come out of her
mouth. Fiddling with her bracelet, she glanced at her mother. Thankfully, Pauline seemed not to have heard Farley's wisecrack about her childhood home.

Bridge Manor was a large Victorian surrounded by green trees, winding trails, and a mind-blowing view of the city below. It was also
where Farley's grandmother, Abigail, had died young of a 'nervous condition.' When pressed for more details, Pauline would only say that the dear woman was better off with God.
Better off with God?
Farley's imagination took it
from there. Clearly, her grandmother had been a lunatic.

"Shhh, I love this part," said Pauline, never taking her eyes off the screen as she scooped a handful of popcorn. She shook her head as she chewed. "I swear to God. Nobody does crazy like Bette."

On the screen Blanche whined,
"You wouldn't be able to do these awful things to me if I wasn't in this chair."

They all shouted along with a gleeful Baby Jane:
"But
ya AAH, Blanche! Ya AAH in that chaya!"

"Nothing like the sound of good clean fun," said Jack, sticking his head in the room. "Pauline, your sister's on the
phone."

"Something's wrong." Pauline handed Farley the popcorn bowl, rolled off the bed and headed for the kitchen. "I've had a bad feeling all month. I guess she's finally ready to tell me what it is."

Farley ran a piece of popcorn along the salty-buttery bottom of the bowl. The fact that Claire and her mother were twins never failed to amaze her. The two women could not be more different - each seemed to be the reverse of the other. Pauline was lean, tanned, bleached-blonde, friendly, and
outgoing. Claire was heftier, prematurely gray, with sallow skin and an off-putting tendency to frown.

Of course, the twins also shared many similar traits. Both were tall, with long legs, a strong nose, and high cheekbones. Their taste in food was almost identical. They even had a mutual best friend in Veda Marie Tendersheets. And, on occasion, Claire and Pauline shared an insight into one another's feelings - they literally felt each other's happiness or pain. They
called this rather unique ability their 'twin instinct.'

William fingered his happiness cloak. "Last time Mom had a twin instinct, Aunt Claire called to say Grandfather dropped dead."

"Nobody dropped dead. He just died, like any old person. You worry too much, kiddo."

"I told you not to call me kiddo. That's a mom and dad thing."

The movie cut away to a commercial. Loud music came on and
two overly-ecstatic couples kicked up their heels as they walked along the beach, drenching their neatly pressed, haphazardly rolled-up pants. A deep-voiced male announcer declared, 'What a good time for a Kent!'

"If you stood in the living room," said William, "you could accidently overhear Mom talking to Aunt Claire. Just to be sure no one is dead or in a coma or anything."

"I mean it William; you're giving me the creeps."

"Fine." He stared at the television. "I just hope it's not Veda Marie - like a heart attack or an aneurism or something. And I really hope Joe didn't get hit playing hockey and get a concussion or a deep
laceration. Most of all I hope..."

"All right, already." Farley rolled off the bed. "But I'm taking the popcorn with me."

Relieved, William turned back to the television. A glamorous
telephone operator with impeccably coiffed hair asked the viewing audience to remember, 'long distance is the next best thing to being there.'

"You
iron his boxers?"

Phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder, Pauline poured a glass of white wine with her free hand. Jack looked up from his flight plan.

"She irons his boxers?" he mouthed.

"Of course that's not significant, hon," she said, putting her finger to her lips and shaking her head at Jack. "What did Paddy have to say for himself?"

Still holding her wine glass, the phone tight to her cheek,
she slid down the wall to the floor and settled in for a long conversation. In the distance, Bette Davis croaked, '
I've written a letter to Daddy.'

"Get some sleep," said Pauline. "I'll call
you tomorrow."

Re-filling her glass, she took a seat at the table.

"I don't get it," she said, "Paddy's been crazy about Claire since...forever."

"What happens now? Did Paddy move out?"

Pauline pursed her lips. "Not exactly. She took Joe and moved back to Bridge Manor."

"You mean, temporarily," said Jack cautiously, "since we've got it up for sale."

"Claire is asking us to consider taking it off the market. She wants to turn it into a boarding house."

Jack scrubbed his face with his hands. "Pauline, the place is falling apart. We can't afford to keep pouring money into it. We've
got to start saving for the future. We still haven't opened a college fund for Farley." He hesitated. "God only knows what kind of money we'll need for William. You know what the doctors say; he'll never be able to live on his
own."

"I know." Pauline chewed her bottom lip. "Still, I don't think a boarding house is such a bad idea. There are so many colleges and universities nearby; Claire won't have any trouble finding
boarders. She's even going to offer reduced rates in exchange for help with repairs around the house."

"
Repairs around the house?
For Christ's sake!"

"Keep your voice down."

When Jack finally spoke, he kept his voice calm. "Let's be realistic. The roof leaks, the wiring is shot, and kids use the windows for target practice."

Pauline gathered her hair into a ponytail and crossed her
legs like a teenager. She filled her cheeks with air and exhaled slowly.

"All I'm asking you to do is think about it," she said. "Any renovations we made would be an investment. Obviously no one
wants the house in its current state. We've had it up for sale since Father died, and have yet to receive a single reasonable offer."

"What does Ryan say about all this?"

From the other side of the kitchen door, Farley clutched her
empty bowl of popcorn. Don't go down the Uncle Ryan road, she thought. The last time Ryan's name came up, her father referred to him as 'the Christ-child' and her mother responded with a vigorous dose of the silent treatment.

"You know my Mutt," said Pauline. "He's against anything Claire wants. He told her to forgive and forget and go home to her husband."

Mutt was Pauline's pet name for her younger brother. No one
else called Ryan Mutt, nor would he have allowed it. After their mother's nervous breakdown, their father seemed to forget he had a family - specifically his baby boy. This was perfectly fine with twelve-year-old Pauline. She claimed
the child as her own and went about raising him.
She cut his food, scrubbed behind his ears, and taught him the importance of manners. Over the years she oversaw his homework, his clothes, even his choice in friends. Pauline made sure he never went to sleep without saying his prayers and he
never left the house without a hot breakfast and a kiss.

By her own admission, Pauline was strict with Ryan. She believed someday her brothers flawless manners, sports accomplishments, and
academic awards would turn their father's heart around. She would often encourage him by saying 'Be the best, Mutt. Then father will love you.'

"Ryan's not going to go for turning Bridge Manor into a boarding house," said Jack. "He was the first one to suggest we sell
the place."

"Don't worry about Mutt. I'll talk to him."

The rigid tone of her mother's voice and the subsequent silence made Farley's stomach hurt. She could hear the crinkle of paper as Jack
folded his maps and the exhale of yet another count-to-ten from Pauline. After what seemed like an eternity, her mother spoke.

"How about this: we take the house off the market for a
year or two. Just until the demand for stately manors picks up."

Jack stacked his maps and connected them with a rubber band.

"We can wait until the cows fly home, Pauline. The
demand for a falling-down, decrepit mansion is never going to 'pick up.'"

Farley held her breath. Here we go, she thought. She was pretty sure her mother's cheeks were combusting right about now.

"Jack James," said Pauline, "that 'decrepit
mansion' is my childhood home. I do not appreciate your cavalier attitude..."

Exhaling, Farley shoved the door open.

"Guess what! I decided Loretta Vega is my new best
friend. She's really cool." She laid a buttery index finger across her forehead. "And she has one great big eyebrow that goes all the way across, like this."

Jack turned off the bedside lamp and reached for Pauline.
She tucked her head into his shoulder and entwined her legs through his. They held each other in the dark and listened to the shrill chirp of crickets outside their window.

"You
do
know cows don't fly," whispered
Pauline.

"They don't?" Jack kissed her hair. "Maybe not where you come from."

She raised herself up on one elbow. "Farley thinks
Bridge Manor is a dark and lonely house."

"Isn't it?"

"Wise guy." She poked him with her finger. "It wasn't always dark and lonely, you know. For a while there, it was really something."