Текст книги "There was an old woman"

Автор книги: Hallie Ephron

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

The sound track of Mina’s dreams that night was the roar of heavy equipment. She saw herself standing helplessly across the street as a wrecking ball slammed, over and over, into the front of her house. She could hear poor Ivory meowing and see a skeletal Angela Quintanilla rapping at the front window, both of them trapped inside.

She woke up, drenched in sweat, to find that Ivory really was mewing and rattling the closed bedroom door. This was Ivory’s morning routine, sticking her paw under the door and trying to pull it open. Mina had done everything she could think of to discourage her. Quiet would reign again only after the cat had been fed.

Mina tried to sit up, but she felt like a cement block was resting on her chest. Her heart pounded, and the acrid smell of diesel filled her head. What finally got her up was the cat. Not mews but silence. Like a quiet toddler, that was never a good sign.

Sure enough, when she got out to the kitchen, Ivory was perched on the counter, licking a puddle of liquid that had dripped off the package of chicken parts that Mina had left to thaw on the shelf and forgotten all about. Before Mina could stop her, Ivory sat back on her haunches, tail twitching, and leaped for the shelf, catching the edge of the plate, which came down with a crash.

“Bad cat!” Mina scooped Ivory off the counter and dropped her with a thud on the floor. Ivory gave her a sour look and a reproachful meow.

Mina had put the chicken into the refrigerator and was sweeping up the broken plate when she noticed it was nearly eight o’clock. She hadn’t slept that late in years. No wonder the cat had been frantic with hunger. As if sensing her advantage, Ivory started to complain again.

“All right, all right already,” Mina said. She opened a can of Fancy Feast tuna and mackerel, even though she hated the smell. That was Ivory’s favorite.

Mina’s breakfast would be her usual instant oatmeal with raisins and a splash of maple syrup and skim milk. She turned on the kettle to start the water, still puzzling over what could have happened to those papers she knew she’d hidden under the seat cushion of the couch. Well, they didn’t just sprout legs and walk. That’s what her mother would have said.

That girl, Evie, could have taken them. But why would she? More likely it was Brian, thinking he’d be so very clever. He could easily have tucked those papers under his jacket. Which would mean that he was onto her little charade. Perhaps it was just as well. No would still have been her answer even after slogging through that document and looking up every unfamiliar term.

She opened a kitchen cabinet, reaching for where she always kept the oatmeal. Only it wasn’t there. She stared at the empty spot. She’d made oatmeal yesterday morning, and the box still had four or five packets left in it. Had Brian walked off with that, too?

Mina hauled over her step stool and got up on the second step for a better look. There was Raisin Bran cereal that probably needed to be thrown out. Gingersnaps. Minute Rice. Egg noodles. Crackers dotted with sesame seeds instead of the salt that she’d have much preferred but that the doctor told her to avoid. Though why, at this point in her life, did it really matter what she ate?

She pulled everything down, setting the packages on the counter, until the cabinet was completely empty. No oatmeal.

Sighing, she poured some Raisin Bran into a bowl and opened the refrigerator. There, right next to her half gallon of skim milk and the thawed chicken parts she’d just put away, sat the oatmeal.

That didn’t bother her so much. Many’s the time she’d put ice cream away in the refrigerator, only to find it melted to soup the next morning. What shook her to her core was that, sitting on the refrigerator shelf on the other side of the skim milk, was her pocketbook.

She reached in and touched the hard, cold vinyl, just to convince herself that it was really there. Then she took her purse from the refrigerator and looked around, as if someone might be in the kitchen watching her.

What could she have been thinking? Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking at all. If Brian could have seen her now, he’d have had a field day.

She was about to remove the oatmeal, too, when an infernal screeching sound startled her. Instinctively, her hands flew up to cover her ears.

Of course she knew that sound. Her smoke alarm. She spun around to see plumes of smoke billowing from her teakettle. She grabbed for a dish towel, reached for the kettle, and flung it into the sink. Then she turned on the water, full blast.

She jumped back as steam hissed and spat. The air was thick with scorched-metal smell, and the alarm seemed to blare even louder.

Mina turned the water off, switched on the fan over the stove, opened the kitchen windows, and stood there, holding on to the counter, her heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst from her chest. As she gulped in fresh air, the speckled gray and white of the Formica countertop seemed to swirl before her eyes.

She peered into the sink. The kettle lay there on its side, a black char covering the bottom and running halfway up the sides. A scorched hole was burned into the dishcloth. For some reason, the whistle—that infernal whistle that had been her reason for buying that particular teapot in the first place—had not gone off. Or if it had, she hadn’t heard it, and how could she have missed that?

Or . . . She poked at the kettle, turning it over. The whistle, that little gizmo that reminded her of miniature organ pipes on the end of the spout, was gone. She didn’t even know that it came off, and yet somehow it had.

Finally, the smoke alarm stopped. Mina sat down. An incinerated teakettle she could rationalize. It could happen to anyone, and after all, she’d been distracted. But coming right on top of leaving her handbag . . . in the refrigerator? That went beyond misplacing and uncomfortably a few steps beyond what her doctor referred to, in that patronizing tone that fortysomething doctors used to address their elderly patients, as “benign senescent forgetfulness.” There was nothing benign about senescence.

Mina stood, straightening her bathrobe and tucking her hair behind her ears. She’d be damned if she’d let herself be swallowed up by self-pity. All she had to do was put things back in order. She took a deep breath. And then keep them that way.

She placed a quilted placemat on her kitchen counter and set her purse on it. From now on, she promised herself, that was where she’d leave it. Then she lined up everything she’d taken down from the cabinet, sorting the packages—cereal, cookies, crackers, grains, and beans—and checking the expiration dates before placing them back in the cupboard.

While she was at it, she reorganized her canned goods in the adjacent cabinet, wiping tops that had become dusty and tossing anything past its use-by date. Then she double-checked the shelves in the refrigerator to be sure that everything that was there belonged.

Later, after eating the stale bran cereal, she boiled herself a cup of water in the microwave, dropped in a tea bag, and carried the cup and the morning paper out onto the back porch. There, she settled into the glider and opened to the obituaries, determined to start the day afresh.

Chapter Twenty

Cocooned in blankets on the mattress she’d dragged down from upstairs, Evie woke up thinking: jelly doughnut, jelly doughnut, jelly doughnut. She’d completely forgotten about those doughnuts, and how her dad used to make what he called his “doughnut run” on Sunday mornings. Coated with velvety powdered sugar, the light cakey doughnut left not a trace of the usual greasy film that said “store-bought.” Sparkles’ doughnuts had been literally jam-packed, front to back, so every bite risked spurting some of the filling out the other end—filling that was in a league of its own, too, thick and tangy and intensely raspberry. Not that pallid, sugary-sweet, gelatinous stuff that doughnuts were filled with these days.

Could the doughnuts Finn said they still sold be anywhere near as good as the ones she remembered? It was worth a trip to find out.

Evie rolled off the mattress onto the living room floor. She ached from all the lifting and bending she’d done the day before. Still wrapped in a quilt, she made her way to the bathroom. After washing her hands, she opened the medicine cabinet looking for toothpaste. No toothpaste, but the medicine cabinet was stocked: Nyquil, Excedrin, a few bottles of bright red nail polish and nail polish remover. Plus numerous bottles of various shapes and sizes, all with pale-green NaturaPharm labels. Vitamin A. Thiamin B₁. Riboflavin B₂. Niacin B₃. Vitamin C. Calcium. And more. It was an impressive collection.

Evie found a tube of Crest in the drawer. As she brushed her teeth, she wondered when her mother had started taking vitamins. Even more surprisingly, given the complete disarray of the rest of the house, she’d kept them lined them up in her medicine cabinet in alphabetical order.

Evie didn’t bother changing out of the plaid flannel pajama bottoms and NYU sweatshirt she’d slept in, though she did take a moment to brush her hair into a ponytail and wash her face, checking that she didn’t have flecks of sleep still in her eyes. She was about to leave when she paused. If Finn saw her sorting the mail in the house, anyone could have. She went back inside, took the envelopes of cash from under the mattress, stuffed them into her purse, and took her purse with her.

As she locked the front door, she remembered how her parents and all their neighbors used to leave their doors unlocked. It didn’t really surprise her that her mother had given a garage key to Finn. That way, she wouldn’t need to worry about being there when the deliveries arrived; more to the point, she wouldn’t have had to worry about being sober or even awake.

Evie was out on the sidewalk before she realized that the steps hadn’t creaked. She went back to inspect them. New planks were already in place. Finn must have come over at the crack of dawn to do the work.

Evie started for Sparkles at a brisk clip. The morning was chilly, but with each stride away from the water the air grew warmer, and she slowed her pace. She checked her phone on the off chance that she’d missed any calls. Nothing from the hospital. Nothing from Seth. She was as relieved by the latter as by the former.

She’d been surprised that Finn had known instantly where her father’s fire station, Rescue 3, was located. She hoped he wasn’t one of those fire freaks—sparkies, her dad used to call them—men who chased the apparatus and were so obsessed with the spectacle that they didn’t have the good sense to get out of the way. When Evie’s parents’ house had burned, a group of them had come to watch, eager to add the Ferrantes’ address to the list of fires they’d witnessed firsthand. Meanwhile their mother tried to comfort Evie and Ginger, who were crying hysterically, knowing the dogs were still in the house.

That day, news vans and police vehicles had parked at Sparkles. Now the half-dozen parking spaces outside the store were filled. She went inside, taking a deep inhale of rich coffee aroma. Two checkout lines were operating to handle the morning crush. She got in Finn’s line. She caught his eye and mouthed Thank you! He flashed her a thumbs-up.

As Evie waited her turn at the register, from outside she heard the polite toot-toot of a car horn. Through the plate-glass window she caught a glimpse of the outside parking area. A dark Mercedes was pulling out. A moment later, a Land Rover pulled in.

Land Rover? Mercedes? That made her take a second look at the other people in line. They were more racially mixed, and some were speaking Spanish, but otherwise they were not all that different from the clientele who lined up at Dunkin’ Donuts in her quickly gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhood.

Finally she was at the front of the line. But by then only a few plain cake, chocolate iced, and glazed doughnuts remained in the glass case. No jelly. It was ridiculous how disappointed she felt.

“I saved you one,” Finn said, reaching under the counter and bringing out a little paper plate holding a single perfect powdered-sugar-covered jelly doughnut.

Chapter Twenty-one

It was an exceptionally clear morning. Mina buttoned her sweater and folded her arms against the chill as she rocked on her back porch. The sun was already high in the sky, making the water sparkle, and the Manhattan skyline was in sharp focus. Mina picked out the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building, both still distinctive amid the surrounding welter of box-top skyscrapers.

The girl had wanted to talk to her about what it had been like working at the Empire State. Did she remember? she’d asked. How could Mina not? Steadying herself with her cane, she stood and stepped to the porch railing. Every day she looked out at that building and was reminded. Maybe talking about it would be a good thing.

A loud smack startled her as something solid caromed off the porch column, inches from her head. Far too late, Mina cried out and ducked. With a gentle whoosh the missile landed in the marsh grass beyond her narrow strip of neatly mowed lawn.

Idiotic. Pea-brained. Had to be that man from across the street using the narrow strip between her house and the one next door as his own private driving range. Had he been at it all morning?

Mina took cover at the edge of the house, imagining him teeing up another ball, lining up his shot, swinging . . . Nothing. She waited a few moments more before stepping to the side of the porch and daring a glance back between the houses. There was no one there. Frank Cutler and his trusty nine-iron must have beaten a hasty retreat when he heard her cry out.

She had a good mind to march over there and confront him. But she knew what he’d say. Golf ball? What golf ball? Then he’d shake his head at her delusional, overactive imagination.

He could scoff at her all he wanted, but she knew what she knew. And now—she gazed speculatively out to where clumps of marsh grass that had been planted by city workers two years ago along the shoreline were now filling in nicely—she’d have proof. This time, if she wasn’t mistaken, the ball had landed just a few feet in.

She looked down at her feet. She had on bedroom slippers. What she needed were boots. Rubber boots. Like the tall fishing boots that her father used to wear back when you could cast your net into the river and pull out healthy, foot-long herring.

Mina found her father’s old boots, dust covered but intact, in the back of the hall closet behind the set of matching luggage that she’d used only once when she and Henry went to Niagara Falls. She pulled them on over her slippers. The boots came up over her knees, and even with the slippers they were too big, but they’d do the job. She tucked her pant legs into them. This time, Frank “Sam Snead” Cutler was not going to get away with it.

Cane in hand, Mina clomped back outside and down off the porch to the edge of the marsh. There she paused for a moment, closed her eyes, and replayed the sound of the ball landing. Envisioned the spot. Then she opened her eyes, took a breath. She waded into the tall grass at the edge of the marsh, poking her cane ahead of her as she went.

It was high tide, and the muddy water quickly closed over the tops of her feet. Each time she took a step her boot came out of the muck with a sucking sound. When she reached the spot, she used the cane for balance as she nudged apart the reeds.

There was an empty beer can. A little farther on, a plastic grocery bag. She tucked the can into the bag and tossed them onto her lawn.

A few more steps in, she was over her ankles in mud. The ball had probably sunk beneath the surface, too. If only she’d thought to pull on a pair of rubber gloves, but it was too late for that now. Reluctantly she pushed up her sweater sleeve, bent over, and began rooting around, feeling through the nasty root-clogged slime for something solid. She tried not to inhale the sulfurous marsh gas that wafted up as she disturbed the mud.

She found snails, stones, bits of shell. She was about to give up when she felt something hard and round. Triumphant, she dug it out. A golf ball!

She straightened, swiping aside tendrils of hair with the back of her arm, rage beating in her chest. What did he think, that a golf ball was going to dissolve like a lump of sugar in a cup of hot tea? It would be there for decades, centuries even, assuming it didn’t end up down the gullet of one of the majestic great blue herons that were returning to the marsh in record numbers.

With each step out of the marsh, it felt as if the mud were trying to pull those old boots off her feet. Finally she was back on the grass. Speechless with fury, she marched around her house and stood on her front lawn, leaning on her cane and shaking her fist at the house across the street. He was probably inside, behind drawn shades, laughing at her.

Mina crossed the street and up her blasted neighbor’s front walk, trailing wet footprints up those fancy granite steps he’d installed, each one bigger than a tombstone. She marched across the narrow porch he’d slapped on the front and up to that fancy walnut door with its stained-glass insets on either side. The doorbell was the old twist kind but in shiny, brand-new brass. Ridiculous. She turned it. Heard chimes ringing—the opening notes of “Goodnight Irene.”

No answer. No footsteps. No sounds at all from inside the house. She raised her cane and rapped it against the door. He had to be in there. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes ago that he’d driven that ball.

Mina gave an anxious look behind her. No one was watching. She reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pushed. To her amazement, the door opened.

Chapter Twenty-two

Mina had just started to peer into Frank Cutler’s house when a light in the darkened front hall started flashing and a blaring Klaxon nearly blew her off the steps. She fought her first impulse, which was to scramble off the porch and race home. But scrambling and racing had long ago dropped out of her repertoire, and besides, it was too late for any of that. Two neighbors had come out and were looking on, and a dark car with a bubble light going in its windshield was already tearing up the street toward her.

She covered her ears to muffle the blaring alarm and waited. The sedan pulled over in front of the house. A man in a dark uniform got out. Well over six feet tall and whippet slender, his skin a rich reddish-brown, he reached back through his car window for a cap and set it on his head.

“Ma’am,” he said, touching the visor of his cap. Above it was stuck a silver badge.

That’s when Mina realized he was eyeing her less than respectfully. Not disrespectfully, really. More like he was looking at a suspicious package. His gaze lingered on her feet, those oversize rubber boots coated in mud.

Mina straightened and cleared her throat. Before she could explain what her neighbor had been up to, and how this time she had the evidence to prove it, he tilted his head and tsk-tsked. “We have to stop meeting like this, Miss Mina.”

Miss Mina? She wasn’t about to play Driving Miss damned Daisy to his Uncle Tom. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”

“Breaking in. Again?” He reached for her arm.

Mina didn’t like that. Not one little bit. She backed away. “Don’t you lay a hand on me. I was not trying to break in. That man . . . he was—” She held up the ball and realized she had an opera-length coating of mud up her arm. She switched hands and held out the ball. “I found this in the salt marsh. It’s a protected area, isn’t it?”

But the officer was looking past her. She turned to follow his gaze. Racing—much too fast, if you asked her—up the street toward them was a red sports car like the one that belonged to Frank Cutler. As it got closer, she could see the man himself, sitting right there at the wheel.

Another car pulled to a stop behind him. Brian’s. She might not have recognized the gray car as a Mercedes, but the ’60s peace sign in the front grill had always struck her as a hilarious irony.

“You’d better come with me.” The officer grabbed for her arm again.

“I’ll do no such thing.” She wrenched away.

Frank Cutler got out and charged over to the house and up onto the porch. “What in the hell is going on?” he demanded.

Brian got out, too, and stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at her from beneath the red brim of a blue baseball cap. “What on earth is she up to now?” He put his hands on his hips, like he was the grown-up in the room.

“Everything’s under control,” the officer said. “Caught her trying to break in—”

“Again? You stay off my property,” Frank Cutler said, taking a menacing step toward Mina. They were like cartoon characters, all of them, and Mina almost expected a blast of steam to erupt from the top of Frank Cutler’s head.

“Well?” the officer said to Mina.

“I . . . He . . . It’s not . . .” Mina took a deep breath and tried to gather herself. “I was not trying to break in.”

“So you’re not responsible for setting off my alarm?” Frank Cutler said.

“I am. I guess. But it wasn’t my fault. I—”

“For the third time, it’s not your fault?”

Third time? What on God’s green earth was he talking about?

“You’ve been warned and warned again,” the officer said. He reached into his pocket and removed a pair of handcuffs.

That frightened her. “Put those fool things away. Brian? For heaven’s sake, say something.”

But Brian stood there staring at the ground like he was examining the roots his feet had grown. Frank Cutler’s jaw was clamped in a grim, satisfied smile. And the man in uniform advanced. When he grabbed her arm, Mina’s cane went flying.

Mina couldn’t think what else to do, so she screamed.