The Drowning Tree (5 page)

“Here’s to the Lady in the Window,” I say, leaning forward to strike the rim of my glass against hers. The chime they make is still resonating in the air when I sip my water. “The lecture was a success and now the window will be restored in time for the college’s centennial celebration in the fall. You’ll come back, won’t you?”

Christine sets her glass down on the table and tears off a piece of
bread. “If they’ll have me. I have a feeling my talk wasn’t quite what Gavin Penrose expected. He knew I was going to identify the subject of the window as ‘The Lady of Shalott’ but I don’t think he was happy about me bringing up Eugenie’s sister, Clare.”

“The research you did was amazing. I never even knew that Eugenie had a sister. How did you find out about her?”

“My aunt Amy told me about this woman Clare Barovier who had spent her whole life in Briarwood and I recognized the name as Eugenie’s maiden name. Then I went over to Briarwood and did a little digging around—” Christine smiles mischievously. From my past experiences with Christine I know that “digging around” could mean just about anything, including actual digging. Once, when she was doing a paper on landscape design she sneaked into the formal rose gardens next to Forest Hall and dug up one of the borders to prove that the garden had originally been laid out according to a knot design copied from a fifteenth-century gardening book. The college trustees wanted her expelled, but when her paper was published in
Architectural Digest
they thought better of it. “—I thought Gavin would be interested in what I found out but I guess no one wants to be reminded of their crazy relatives … shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …”

“It’s okay, Christine, you don’t have to tiptoe around the subject.” I wonder if this is why Christine’s been so distant these last few months. Was she afraid that her discovery of Eugenie’s crazy sister would remind me too painfully of Neil? “Of course I worry about Bea inheriting Neil’s instability, but so far she doesn’t seem at all like him. She’s the most levelheaded kid I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve done a remarkable job raising her.”

“Bea’s amazing, but I’m not sure I can take credit for that. You remember what I was like after what happened with Neil—there were days when I was so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed. I used to wake up and find Bea sitting on the foot of my bed pretending to read to herself. If you hadn’t come and stayed with us I might never have gotten out of bed. After that I was so busy working for my dad during the day and going to night school that I had hardly any time for her. I look at her now—she’s not afraid of anything, she hardly seems to need anything or anyone—and
I don’t know whether to be grateful for her independence or guilty that’s she’s had to be so strong to grow up with me.”

“But you don’t wish that you never had her.”

It’s such a wild suggestion, even for Christine, who has a habit of saying exactly what she’s thinking, that I stare at her. Blood rises to her skin and fills the curve of her cheek, making her face appear fuller than usual. She looks away and then says, softly, “I mean, you had to give up a lot when you had her.”

“You mean not graduating from Penrose or going abroad to study art the way I wanted to? Lots of people dream of becoming a painter and don’t … who knows if I would have even if I hadn’t had Bea.”

“So you don’t mind the loss of freedom?”

“No, not that kind of freedom, at least.” I take a sip of my water, wishing it were wine, and look away from Christine, toward the river and the light on the boat landing in the park beyond the train station’s parking lot.

“What I do miss is freedom from fear. Like right now,” I say, half laughing, trying to ease the tension that has crept into our conversation, “I’m waiting for Bea to get home from the kayaking trip she took upriver today. She spent the morning rowing against Poughkeepsie, but she still couldn’t wait to get out on the river when we got back. She should have been back an hour ago and I can’t help worrying that she’s tipped over and been dragged under by a current. The Hudson is full of treacherous currents—we’re not far from what the Dutch called World’s End. The current there tends to sink ships a whole lot bigger than Bea’s little kayak.”

Christine follows my gaze out over the water. Without the sun on it the river looks cold and forbidding, the current moving relentlessly to the sea. “I remember what World’s End is, Juno,” Christine says reprovingly.

“Well, then, you’ll understand why what looks like a pretty view to you looks like a death trap to me. Trust me, it’s not a pretty way to look at the world.”

Francesca, hearing the tremor in my voice, rises to her feet and lays her long delicate muzzle in my lap. I stroke her silky ears, looking down into her large, liquid eyes to avoid Christine’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, Juno. I know it’s been hard raising her alone. Have you seen Neil at all … I mean other than those
astral visitations
we spoke of earlier?”

I laugh, relieved to hear Christine venture a joke even if it doesn’t seem as funny as it did before when we were crossing the college lawn. “No, no visits in the flesh. As far as I know he’s still at Briarwood,” I tell her, “but you know, all kidding aside, I
do
dream about him
—a lot
. Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t projecting himself into my dreams.”

I look up at Christine, expecting her to appreciate the humor, but instead it appears she’s taken me seriously. “And what is he like in your dreams? I mean, is he the way he was when we first met him—charming, funny Neil—the artist who did those incredible paintings …” She pauses for a moment, looking away from me toward the water, and then speaks in so soft a whisper I have to lean toward her to hear what she’s saying. “Or is he the way he was at the end—the way he was out on the river that day?”

I stare at her a full minute before answering, shaken by the memory of that day. Maybe bringing up such an intimate memory is Christine’s way of bridging the distance that’s grown between us these last few months, but it has the opposite effect, making me pull back and retreat into an apparent chilliness I don’t really feel. “Christine, I was just kidding, I don’t really dream about Neil,” I finally tell her, although the truth is I wasn’t kidding. Neil has been invading my dreams almost nightly.

Christine nods and then sits up. Her hair, caught on the torn vinyl webbing of the chair, comes loose from its knot and cascades over her shoulders as she stands up. She bends down and takes a brush out of her bag and brushes it—a fan of dull gold that nearly reaches to her waist—and then briskly coils it into a rope and knots it at the nape of her neck. I can feel the weight of the lie I’ve told between us, closing off the possibility of her telling me something. I’m sorry for it, but I’m not willing to talk about those dreams or relive that day on the river.

“I’d better get going,” she says, handing me her empty glass and picking up her bag, “or I’ll miss my train.”

I
TAKE THE DOGS AND LET US OUT THE FIRE ESCAPE DOOR, DOWN AN OUTSIDE FLIGHT
of rusting metal stairs—warning Christine which steps to avoid—to a narrow grassy alley in between the north wall of the factory and the fence surrounding the train station. We have to walk toward the river, over the train tracks, and past the waterfront park to get to the station, but it’s quicker than going around by River Street—plus I get to take a glimpse at the landing beach where Bea should be coming in any minute. As we pass the park the dogs’ ears prick up and they strain against their leashes.

Christine peers into the shadowy park toward the water and checks her watch. “I’ve still got a few minutes if you want to see if she’s come in.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” I ask, unable to disguise the relief in
my voice—relief, not only at the chance to check on Bea’s whereabouts, but also at Christine knowing so well that this is what I’d want to do.
There’s still time
, I think, following Christine, who is in turn trailed by the two ecstatic greyhounds,
to mend the distance that’s grown between us in the last six months
.

We pass the old boathouse, which was used in the twenties by guests at Astolat who paddled across the river and in my day by Rosedale high school students looking for a place to make out and smoke cigarettes. Now it’s the headquarters of Hudson Kayak. I hear voices from the water and then the thump of heavy plastic on sand as two narrow-prowed kayaks nose up the beach. Paolo and Francesca strain toward the farthest kayak and I let go of their leashes.

“Hey,” I hear Bea’s voice as the dogs splash into the water, “what are you guys doing here?”

In the dim light from the boathouse I can just make out Bea’s lanky figure unfolding itself from the low boat. The rubber and nylon spray skirt that kayakers wear to seal themselves into their boats makes her look like a Victorian lady with a bustle. She steps out of the plastic hull into ankle-deep water with all the grace of a titled socialite dismounting from a coach and four, but then ruins the effect by tumbling to the sand to wrestle with the dogs. This is what she’s like these days—my fifteen-year-old—one minute a graceful woman, the next a gawky child.

“What’s up, Mom?” Bea asks wiping wet sand from her lycra biking shorts.

“I’m just walking Christine to the station,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying not to sound as if I’d been imagining her drowned for the last hour. Kyle, who runs the kayaking rental and tour operation, gives me a skeptical look as he drags his kayak up the sand. I recently confessed to him—over a bottle of Valpolicello—how nervous I am when Bea’s out on the water.

“Hey, Aunt Christine.” Bea straightens up and leans toward Christine to kiss her on the cheek, being careful not to drip on her. But Christine steps forward on the sand, teetering a bit in her high-heeled boots, and hugs Bea to her. When she steps away her hand lingers on the damp ends of Bea’s long braid for just a moment.

“I’m sorry I missed your lecture, Aunt Christine, but we thought about you. We paddled across the river and up the Wicomico onto the grounds of Penrose’s abandoned estate. There are all these cool statues underwater.”

“The sunken gardens of Astolat,” Christine says. “Penrose was inspired by the Sunk Gardens at Great Dixter, which he saw on a trip to East Sussex in the twenties. I didn’t realize there was much left of them—or that the property was accessible.”

“Yeah,” Kyle says while motioning for Bea to grab the front end of the kayak, “it’s private property but if you enter from the river no one stops you. You have to know what you’re doing though. Some of the statues are half submerged. The first time I saw one I thought it was a dead body. Scared me half to death.”

Christine turns toward Kyle, who’s coiling a nylon towline. He’s wearing lycra bike shorts and a Polartec fleece vest half unzipped over his bare chest. Beads of river water on his arms—deeply muscled from paddling and rowing—catch the light from the boathouse. It’s hard to imagine him being scared off by a bit of garden statuary. “I’d love to see what’s left of Penrose’s landscape designs,” Christine says. Kyle tosses the coiled towline and gives Christine a more careful look. Even in this light, Christine’s gold hair and sapphire blue eyes are striking. I can’t blame Kyle for being drawn to her—men always are—or Christine for the flirtatious lilt to her voice. I’ve learned over the years that she does it without meaning to. It’s like there’s so much extra energy in her that she gives off sparks.

“You’d love it, Aunt Christine,” Bea says. “Why don’t you come up next weekend? I’m sure Kyle would take you …”

“We’d better get going or we’ll miss your train,” I say, making a mental note to lecture Bea later on the penalties for trespassing. “Bea, would you take the dogs home?”

Christine hugs Bea again and waves toward Kyle. As we’re passing the boathouse I remember to ask about Eugenie’s notebook.

“That officious secretary of Gavin’s demanded I give the original back,” Christine tells me. “I told her I still needed it for research and she said she would make me a copy, so I asked her to make you one while she was at it.
If that wasn’t too taxing for her
. Make sure you get it from her.”

I thank Christine, trying not to laugh at her aggravation. Fay Morgan is famously protective of Gavin and everything to do with Penrose College. We cross over the trestle to the southbound side—Christine already has her ticket so we bypass the station—and descend onto the brightly lit platform, where I notice that she’s covered with wet sand.

“You’re going to be miserable all the way back to the city,” I say, batting at her damp dress.

“Tell me about Kyle,” Christine replies, swatting my hand away. “Did I notice something going on there?”

“With Bea? Don’t be ridiculous, she’s fifteen, he’s our age.…”

“I’m not talking about Bea.”

I sigh and look up the tracks to see if the train is coming. “Bea’s been dying for me to go kayaking with her so Kyle’s given me a few lessons …”

“Lessons, hm …”

“And we’ve had a few glasses of wine afterward … he’s really an interesting guy. He’s been everywhere, reads a lot, knows everything about computers and the stock market …”