Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 22 (14 page)

"I was once, yes.” Perhaps in tacit sympathy for my own poor technique, she was doing knife-work, a rarity for her, and she'd been making disgruntled noises for an hour. “The fact is, I am old, Nathan, an old woman. The garden tells me what's coming next."

I thought about the mole, the desperate circle of maggots, and the way the daylight faded a little sooner each day as August headed toward September.

My parents called the next afternoon and said they'd be coming on Saturday. They'd stay for a few days, if that was all right, and then it would be time for all of us to go. What, they asked Grandpa, had I been up to lately?

"He's been a great help in the garden,” Grandpa chuckled. “Aren't many boys his age who can spell ‘variegated hosta’ in English
and
in Latin."

A great help I may have been, but that was the last day I worked in the garden. Gran had a whispered conversation with Grandpa while I was washing up the lunch dishes, and just as I was heading for the garage to strap on my work gloves, she caught me by the shoulders and faced me toward the front door instead.

"Enough,” she said. “Go find your friends. Have some fun. Be eight again."

I bicycled away, too thrilled to even look back. I found my half-forgotten gang and off we went, in and out of their homes, up and down the hills, into low-limbed maple trees and tunneled-out forsythia. Pirates, bombardment, sandlot baseball: We played them all. We must have, because it was summer.

Gran and Grandpa tended to eat late, so it didn't matter much that I only got home at dusk. I could see a light on in the kitchen and I heard water running in the sink. The smell of curried something-or-other wafted out of the house, probably lamb. I skidded to a stop and hopped off my bike and almost jammed my foot through the top of my second dead mole of the season.

Grandpa had put out more rat poison two days before, so the mole's presence shouldn't have been any sort of surprise. Even so, I wondered how long it had lain there unnoticed at the edge of the drive, tucked under an invading arch of crab grass. Gran had not ventured out in about two days, of that I was almost sure, and Grandpa had probably confined himself to perfecting the back yard. The intervening days had been hot and muggy, and the mole was likely just a shell, as the first had been. Under the skin, it would be literally seething.

In the moment, I'm sure I didn't come up with such precise vocabulary, but I did realize that I had a choice. I could either deal with the mole, or at least tell Grandpa about it, or I could pretend I hadn't noticed it at all. In another day or two, it would surely be cooked to leather by the sun, and the surviving maggots would have winged away as flies.

As I hesitated, debating, the mole's carcass shifted ever so slightly, and out from underneath crawled the single largest maggot that I have ever to this day beheld or heard of. It wrenched itself free from the mole's underbelly, it raised its faceless face, it got its bearings—and then, with an awful clarity of purpose, it sped directly toward my foot.

It didn't matter that I was several thousand times bigger than that sightless, pallid grub. I panicked. I jumped backward, knocked the Huffy sideways—the bike toppled over with a clatter of spokes and pedals—and I sprinted for the open garage. I grabbed the first shovel I found—a flat-backed spade, almost my height—and I ran to the mole and I slammed the flat of the blade down on that maggot as if my life depended on it.

Crazed and frenzied, I moved on, raining blows on that poor husk of a mole. I hammered and whacked at it until every last maggot was crushed to an unholy jelly. Then I staggered backward to the lawn and collapsed in a heap, bawling to wake the dead.

Neighbors came out of their houses, curious about the fuss. Gran followed Grandpa as they hurried down the steps to the walk, probably thinking I'd wrecked my bike. Six feet away from me, across an ocean of crumbling tarmac, a splatter of flesh and ooze judged in silence, as the guiltless always do.

The next morning, more or less recovered, I was back with Gran in the confines of the studio, mixing white and yellow and sepia into a warm but waning light, the sort of light I wanted to have glowing from my cabin's single window. I did my best work on that glass, there and on the snow beneath, where I allowed the light from the cabin to spill out onto a midwinter drift, a cruel echo of the cozy air inside.

"Does anyone visit this cabin?” Gran asked.

"Not really."

"Who lives there?” Gran asked.

"I don't know."

"You know."

"Well.” I squirmed. “Maybe me, sometimes."

"Maybe you. Sometimes."

She paused long enough to inspect my brushes, still damp with thinner and laid across a paper towel like bodies, victims of some nameless disaster. An earthquake, perhaps. A devastation of plague.

When next she spoke, it was in a different voice, the kind that required that she clear her throat. Whether it was lecture or sermon, I'm still not sure. Perhaps she was speaking to herself.

"Unless you're a hack, Nathan—and I trust that you are not—then painting is a trade that leaves scars. Wounds, even. Some stay open, they bleed. They bleed over into real life, into friendships and family. May God forgive me for both."

Had the room grown darker, or was that my imagination? I suspect a trick of memory, the danger of looking back from where I stand today, forty-three and growing older by the second. My mind's eye has that painterly impulse to shift and smudge, so while I know it may not be a literal truth, I emboss her words with an image equally dark and unruly.

Regardless, I am sure of what she said next, and of how she said it. She patted my head, she ran her dry-skinned fingers through my hair. She laughed!

"Oh, my poor sweet Nathan. The paint is in your blood, like it or not. Now I will always know what to send you for your birthdays."

But Gran died in November, and I have spent the last thirty-five years procuring everything I need—paints, brushes, frames and an endless supply of time—for myself.

My first painting doesn't hang from a prominent spot on my wall. Its place of honor is a box in the attic. I have told myself for years now that the only reason it isn't up where family and friends can see it is because it simply isn't very good. The fact is, I keep it hidden because the honesty of that first image frightens me. A simple cabin, lit from within, engulfed by lonely winter twilight. I included a copse of trees on the crest of a low hill, but other than that, the landscape shows nothing but storm-gray clouds and snow.

And on the cabin, not even a door.

It took me years to notice that, but apparently it never occurred to my eight-year-old sense of design to add a means of exit or entrance. I don't count the window. It's the old fashioned kind, primitive and sealed. And so I am tormented by a question: Were I to transform into Alice Liddell and enter a looking-glass world, would I discover a door on one of those two unseen walls? Or did I paint myself a prison?

There we have it, the incomplete story of Paints, grandson of Paints No More. It began in shadow. It ends, for now, like this:

Grandpa died a year after Gran, and the house was sold. In general, the estate was left in equal portions to the three children, for them to divvy up among themselves and the nine grandchildren as best they could. I, however, thanks to a special codicil, received the entire contents of one particular portfolio. I have it still, of course. I keep it locked in a steamer trunk bought especially to house those lost, dangerous paintings.

Not so dangerous, perhaps. I dig them out now and again and show them to my wife, to my children. I want to share with them my version of life's myriad possibilities. I want my cabin to have a door.

And so we put on Schubert for safety, and we spread Gran's images across the floor, and we try to tear our eyes from the strange clumps of flowers. We hardly know what to make of what we see, but we are born again in the viewing, reincarnated a thousand times over. To exorcise the demons of sight and premonition, we tell fresh stories to explain each canvas, and I, like Arthur's Taliesyn, relate the life-threads that Gran herself attached so many years ago. We peer through the greenery toward what huddles and clusters beneath, and then we shiver, we cling together, and we swear the damned things aren't moving.

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Kristine Dikeman

Gwendolyn Marsh to Professor Cecily Howe, April 4th

Dearest Cecily,

Oh my wonderful Cec, how shall I begin? Your sweet gift is too clever for words. A genuine Polynesian tiki? He must have cost the earth. I should have thought the local authorities frowned on the export of such treasures, particularly one of such magnificent workmanship. But you mustn't think I'm accusing you of anything, darling Cecily. You're so very clever, I suppose you found some wonderfully inventive way to acquire him; you so rarely let things like laws and local customs stand in the way of what you want. He's simply too adorable, squatting and brandishing his fierce spear. And he's so remarkably—how shall I say—well equipped? From his ... attributes I deduce he is a fertility tiki. The inscription along the bottom somewhat resembles ancient Niuatoputapu, but it's not quite the same, is it? Do I sense a sly little test from my dear teacher?

Never fear, I've dusted off my notebooks, I'm deciphering just as quickly as I can. It's been ages since I've gotten my hands dirty with translation work, and I find it a welcome distraction from all these terribly boring wedding and honeymoon details.

Your good friend,

Gwendolyn

PS. Though I didn't send you an invitation, I hope you'll consider coming to the wedding. We've had several last minute cancellations, so there's room now. Do let me know if you need help picking something suitable to wear. I've attached an updated registry.

Professor Cecily Howe to Gwendolyn Marsh, April 12th

Gwendolyn,

I'm sorry to say I won't be able to attend your wedding, but I'll be thinking of you and Roger on your special day, that's a promise.

How goes the translation? Making any progress? I can send you a hint, if you're having trouble.

Best,

Cecily

From Gwendolyn Marsh to Professor Cecily Howe, April 24th

My Dear,

No hints! Not the eeeniest one! I'm having such fun with your little challenge. It takes me back to my days as your assistant, accompanying you on those jolly expeditions, typing your notes, sitting in the lecture hall for hours on end listening to your fascinating talks. And how could I forget dear little Jojo, and our walks? How I miss those carefree days.

My wee tiki man and his funny secret are welcome distractions just now. The decisions one must make when planning a wedding—especially one as elaborate as mine. Every minor detail requires such hand wringing, such soul searching—but it's really impossible to understand until one has gone through it oneself. Take my advice, when—someday—the time comes for you to tie the knot, elope. I wish now that we had, I truly do. Still, it will all be perfect in the end, and that is what counts.

Sweet Cecily, what I love best about your present is that it means you really, truly have forgiven us. Roger and I are so happy, so blissful, I know our love was meant to be, and this little figurine tells me you've finally come to see that, too. How like you to bless our wedding in such an unconventional way. You have a very beautiful soul, and I just know that—someday—you're going to find a wonderful man to marry, someone just meant for you, the way Roger is meant for me.

Roger and I are so sorry you aren't able to come to the wedding. But after our honeymoon—we're spending an entire month in the glorious south of France—I'm going to ask you to luncheon, and I hope, I just really hope that you say yes, because I'm going to have ever so much to tell you.

Your
good
friend,

Gwendolyn

From the same, to the same, May 10th

You unspeakable bitch—

How could you? Roger is livid. If you had some idea this would win him back, you are even crazier than I thought.

Do you think I won't find a way to fix this? I might not have as much experience as you, since I'm not NEARLY as OLD as you, but I've got friends, and I've got money, and I will find a way. And then I'll fix you, you pathetic old cow. I am NOT your assistant anymore. you can't treat me this way and get away with it. This isn't over.

Mrs. Gwendolyn Pierce

PS. The wedding was perfect. The cake was perfect, the dress was perfect, and I looked perfect. AND IF ANYONE SAYS DIFFERENT, THEY ARE FUCKING LIARS. YOU ARE A HORRIBLE NASTY OLD WITCH AND I HATE YOU.

Professor Cecily Howe to Gwendolyn Pierce (nee Marsh), May 16th

Gwendolyn,

Really, my dear, such language. I'm afraid you've let your humble beginnings show, just the “eeniest” bit.

I knew you'd see the translation for what it was: a challenge—something you've always been game for. How perfect that you completed it in time for the ceremony; I imagine you were hoping to show off in front of Roger's colleagues at the reception. He's a fierce little warrior, your chastity tiki, and absolutely unique. He was crafted by a Polynesian shaman-king with a beautiful daughter he wished to keep safe from marauding tribes. Once the princess held the little fellow tight and recited the inscription, any man that looked upon her with desire would become violently ill on the instant. It's nice to know the spell still works so effectively after all these years—they just don't make black magic like that anymore. My sources tell me your walk down the aisle was truly unforgettable. I know an excellent cleaning service, should you need help getting the vomit stains out of Roger's Persian rug. He is so very fond of all his pretty things.

Your first impression was correct. The tiki did cost me a great deal, but it was a small price to pay to give you and Roger the wedding you deserved. Pity I didn't think to ask for the counter-spell that releases the victim from his protection. Oh well, Tongapukau is lovely this time of year. The rainy season is almost over, and I'm told the malaria problem is well under control. Since your honeymoon trip to France is off, perhaps you can exchange your tickets.