Chapter Four

Claire

Those days passed—like spring days should, I suppose—with rain. It befitted my mood and the lonesomeness of the job at hand. It was what I needed, though. And if it wasn't raining when I walked out of the cottage, there would be Mrs. Dellaverna watering down the reconstructed wisteria vine with her hose just to make sure it stayed soaked. Its tendrils remained dilapidated, but if you walked up to it and held the core, you could somehow tell it was alive. Cupping its stalk, I almost sensed its pulse. A small, manipulated miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.

All the cleaning people I could find wouldn’t be available for a while so, rolling up my sleeves, I began to do it myself. I worked like mad on the inside of that cottage, so occupied with discarding and redistributing I hardly had time to think of Enoch. And all around it was beautiful. At the start, the pale pinks of crabapple and cherry had decorated the hills; now tight buds of creamy dogwood were loosening. Tender, impertinent mushrooms sprang up all over. About midday I’d always treat myself to a break. Sometimes I’d prepare a bowl of oatmeal and milled flax on the tiny stove, lopping in the five almonds allotted by Edgar Cayce, some banana and canned black cherries, slathered it with half-and-half, sprinkled it with cinnamon. I’d take one of Noola’s well-worn novels and climb onto the huge, lumpy easy chair that must have been her favorite for it faced the window like someone else’s would the TV. I could knot myself into Noola’s chair and stare out at the sea any time I chose, I realized. As the rainy weeks passed, I began to appreciate my own company and didn’t particularly want someone around, confusing my steady, slow progress. I’d even managed to patch the leaky roof, climbing up with Mrs. Dellaverna as my ladder holder and watch. Granted, it was makeshift, stuffing heavy cardboard and unmatched socks into the gaps, but it stopped the drips and no one was the wiser. Little by little I was making headway, and I didn’t want some thoughtless girl throwing out the mate of an under-the-chair mukluk until I’d found the other. And find it I did, locked between the headboard and the fitted sheet. I decided to keep them for myself. I threw them into the warm wash twice, way overdoing the fabric softener, then stuffed them with paper towels and let them dry slowly, away from any direct heat. They had hand-sewn buffalo leather soles so you had to be careful. It took a few days for them to relax but—I looked down at my feet, admiring them—now they were as soft and cuddly as buntings. The weather stormed and blew, but that was all right with me and I had the windows open almost all the time. It wasn’t cold anymore, or if it was, I didn’t feel it much because I was working so hard. It was only my hands, red as lobsters from all the cleaning stuff. I took one corner at a time. After a while, I managed to categorize and pile up boxes of antiques for Morgan to come and get, and I had seventeen black bags to be picked up by the St. Mary’s by the Sea truck on Thursday. The floor was swept of clutter and scrubbed by yours truly with good old-fashioned soap and water.

Mrs. Dellaverna had been a doll, popping over with unexpected necessities: paper towels when I ran out, a box of matches, a phone book, and plenty of southern Italian dishes. I cranked up the old gas stove and kept it going, telling myself it would be that much easier to clean—and it was. The warm gunk peeled away easily. I spent hours and hours on that stove until it shone, and one day, while folding a big pile of giveaway from the dryer, I realized I was pretty much done with the inside of the house. Ceremoniously, I tied up the last bag and staggered to the porch with it, then looked around with satisfaction. The uncut grass blew in the breeze like an undulating river. Now all at once the rest of the trees seemed to have sprung open at once and my views of the neighboring houses and Twillyweed were obliterated.

I heard someone climbing up the path from the beach and bent over the railing. Why, it was Jenny Rose! And she had the little boy, Wendell, with her. Excitedly, I ran back in and put the teakettle on.

“Hello! Anybody home?” her clear voice called.

“Come in! Come in.” I ushered them in.

“Bless all who enter here,” said Jenny Rose as they crossed the threshold. “Look who I’ve brought! Hey! What’s happened here? This is fucking great! Oops. Sorry, Wendell. I’m not to curse in front of you, am I?”

“I’ve been busy,” I agreed. “And I did a couple of big shops. How do you like it?”

“Hey, you could take a picture. Looks like a granny house back in olden times!” She’d brought scones and laid them out on the table, light and fragrant in a checkered cloth.

I couldn’t resist. “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “Where did you buy these? They’re delicious!”

“I made them. Simple.”

“Mrs. Mooney lets you use her kitchen, then?” I set the table while they looked around.

“I helped myself this morning while she was deep in the arms of Morpheus. Take a deep breath, Wendell! Good salt air.”

Obediently, the boy took a deep breath in and held it.

“There’s a good lad. All right, don’t turn blue. You can let it out.” She twirled around. “I swear, you and I have certainly landed on our feet. We’ve got the two best views of the sea on Long Island.”

“I thought you said you were stuck in the cellar.”

“I talked Patsy Mooney into trading with me. Turns out she hated it up there. Just wait till you see my turret! A circle of windows! Got my easel set up already. I see you’ve a hearth, you lucky duck! Do you use it?”

“Not yet. I thought I’d better have the flue checked first. The chimney sweep will be here this afternoon. And then I’ll need a cord of wood.”

“Oh, the chimney sweep will bring luck to the house, but already it’s that cozy!”

“Thank you,” I said as I placed a vase of tulips on the table. There was some pound cake left over from yesterday’s lunch and I laid the orange marmalade out with it. At the back of a cupboard I’d found honey—Noola’s honey. Horrible how life goes on without you once you’re gone.

Jenny Rose arranged Wendell with a big cardboard box and a plate full of buttons so he could play store. There was a basket of brightly colored embroidery threads and I let him have those as well. She flung herself onto a chair. “I’m beat.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I’ve made a good strong tea. This will cheer us both up.” I sat down across from her and lifted an eyebrow. She really did look tired. “You’ve been seeing too much of that Glinty, haven’t you? You know, I think he dyes his hair.”

Jenny Rose pulled her knees up to her chest. “It’s blue-black like that all over.”

The way she said it. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for him!”

“Well, why not? He’s a bit like me, if you must know. He comes from shit. Oh, I don’t mean Deirdre and Brigid are shit. They raised me as best they could. But, you see, they’re both sort of bats, aren’t they? It’s not like you, coming from a house with a mom and dad and kids at the table all eating together. A substantial home. I know it’s hard for you to understand. But see, it just wasn’t like that for me. I was fed in the pantry before they could shuffle me off to bed at eight o’clock so they could get on with it. To this day I stay up later than everyone just to stay up. It wasn’t like I was in the way, but I was always aware that I’d been left behind. That I was someone else’s, see? I know they loved me”—her eyes swam and she wiped her nose with her sleeve—“but I was always waiting for my ma to come and claim me.”

“Oh, don’t!” I cried and tried to reach for her.

“No!” She pushed me off. Wendell, sensing trouble, looked up. Jenny Rose lowered her voice. “It’s not that I want you to feel sorry for me. I just want you to understand.”

“I know how you must be feeling. But just think for a minute. We don’t know anything at all about him except he’s from a broken home! That’s no reason to feel—”

“Aunt Claire, it’s too late. Look. If you must know, it’s that Glinty and me, when we’re together, him and me, it’s like we make one, see? Like he’s got no arms and I’ve got no legs but together we’re a complete person.”

“But, Jenny Rose, it’s all too quick! You’re a wonderful, complete person just as you are. You don’t need a boy to make you feel—”

“I do.” She cut me short and eyed me fiercely. “He’s the moon and stars for me, okay?”

My heart sank. I could say nothing.

She bit her lip. “And there’s somethin’ else.”

“What?”

“And this is between you and me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jenny Rose, with something fidgety in her hazel eyes, took a small green satin sack from her pocket. She checked to see that Wendell was distracted then tipped out two silver-rimmed buttons that seemed to move with undulating color. Baffled, I looked down at them on the plate and I remember thinking, Hang on, those aren’t buttons.

And then she told me all about it.

On Sunday I went to early Mass. It was a fine, windy day. I parked in St. Greta’s lot and was practically blown into the church, then found my way through the regular parishioners to the back. Newcomers have to be careful they don’t take someone’s pew; the devout are so often territorial. It was especially crowded and I soon saw why: It was the day of the May crowning, when the children who’ve recently received their first Holy Communion march in wearing their white outfits and veils and the last girl goes up to the statue of Our Lady and places a wreath of flowers on her head. It’s lovely, especially the songs, which take you back to childhood. I settled into a dark spot. If ever my faith is tried, I just have to go on a Sunday and watch the family men who manage to get there every week, kids in tow, the backs of their necks bent in reverence at each appropriate moment—there is something so beautiful and true about them, like soldiers relieved from combat. If it’s not too much trouble, Lord, I prayed silently, lead me in the right direction in the Jenny Rose department. I don’t seem to have the hang of it on my own. Help me know what to tell her, all right? Then I posed the puzzle of the gems to the Almighty. You never know what might spark His interest—and at that point I didn’t look at it as that much of a problem. After Communion, I sat back in the pew and watched the children, unable to be still any longer, acting up. Suddenly I blinked twice, for there was Morgan Donovan over on St. Joseph’s side with his head in his hands. Hurriedly, I left by the side door so he wouldn’t notice me. He was at least entitled to his private grieving time. Rain had come and gone, but now the wind tore at me. I opened my umbrella but gave up before it blew inside out. “Claire!” I heard Morgan call my name over the bells ringing and the wind. He caught up to me and loomed, moving back and forth above me.

“Hi,” I said, hoping my eyes didn’t reveal how absurdly significant his nearness was.

“Hi, yourself.” He fell into step beside me. “I noticed your front headlight is out.”

“Thanks. I didn’t see it,” I said. “I’ll take it in this week.”

“No, you’ll need to be weeding through the stuff in the cottage.” He raised his voice to be heard. “I’ll take it to the marina for you and have Mr. Piet put one in.”

“I’ve been finding out that Mr. Piet can do just about anything. But, by the way, I’ve got quite a few boxes of valuable stuff for you to come pick up.”

“Help yourself to anything. It’s so depressing in there the way it is.”

“Really? I was hoping you’d let me. You won’t be sorry,” I promised, adding, “I didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”

“So you’re a good little girl,” he teased.

Was he flirting with me? “Not that good,” I grumbled, not sure where to look.

He laughed cheerfully. “There’s enough wickedness in Sea Cliff. You’ll soon find that out.”

Whirling bits of trash were moving past us down the steep hill, little toy boats in the gutter.

I ventured, “I saw that fellow Daniel. He was walking on the beach, crooning to a doll.”

He laughed. “Oh, he’s harmless.”

“Is he?” I thought of his demented leer. “How can you be so sure?”

Morgan cleared his throat and squinted toward the sea. “Ah, that’s a story. I wouldn’t worry about him, though. He’s afraid of his own shadow, Daniel is. He’s even terrified of me! But there’s something else I wanted to tell you … what was it?” He looked into my eyes, and for a moment the two of us just stood there and I went on that cloud height journey I always went on around him. He seemed to go there, too. It’s always reassuring to me when someone else forgets what they’re talking about. “Oh, yeah,” he said, returning to himself, “I saw Jenny Rose and Wendell bicycling and I thought, There’s a bike in the wee shed beside the cottage. It’s not very fashionable and it only has foot brakes, but the tires are fine.”

“I love foot brakes!”

“Good, then. I thought you might. Enjoy it. And what has Jenny Rose to say?” He pushed my hair off my face so he could see me.

“I think she loves the little boy,” I said, annoyed that I should be so moved by his simple, tender touch. “So that’s great. She’s coming with me today to Queens, to visit my parents.”

“Ach. She’ll like that. What about Wendell?”

“We’re bringing him with us.”

“Oh? Tell you what.” He pointed to his old black Saab. “You take my car and I’ll run yours down to the marina this morning. You wouldn’t want to be getting a ticket.”

“Are you sure?” I was doubtful.

“Ach, everyone uses it,” he said. “Key’s under the front seat. Full tank of petrol.”

“In that case, it’s a deal.” I handed him my keys.

“Cheerio.” He waved over his head and strode off down the road to my dear little green PT Cruiser, who would have him all to herself. I stopped to lose a pebble from my shoe and leaned against a lamppost. Now why, I asked myself crossly, can’t I find me a man just like that? Why? I found the keys under the front seat just as he’d said I would—obviously the man had no common sense—then went to pick up Jenny Rose and Wendell.

“Nice wheels,” Jenny Rose, who seemed to know about things like cars, said admiringly. “A classic.” She petted the butterscotch seats.

“Have you any grand shops out in Queens?” Wendell wanted to know as I shackled him into his seat belt. By God, he was taking on Jenny Rose’s Irish brogue. I laughed to myself. He looked so cute in his little red plaid shirt. I told him all about the stores I knew and we drove, top down, to Richmond Hill.

Jenny Rose had the stones with her. We’d decided we would tell my mother the story and she would know what we should do. “Take them,” Jenny Rose said as she slipped them into my pocket. “They scare the shit outta me.” She fiddled with the radio, Morgan’s stations all too corny for her. Because I’d spoken so highly of the nickelodeon at the original Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor, Wendell had to see it, so we made a stop there. We sat on stools at the counter under Tiffany lamps and drank from authentic Coca-Cola glasses. I had a bad moment when I looked at the table where Enoch and I used to sit. But children have a way of making you move on. And already the day was a success as far as Wendell was concerned. We ran out and stood underneath the elevated trains every time one clamored by. Wendell screamed with delight. Whenever you want to entertain a Long Island kid, just drag him with you to Queens.

At my mother’s house, the TV blared as usual. In fact, the living room was lined with consecutive rows of chairs like in a theater, my father’s hearing and my mother’s eyesight not being what they were but to varying degrees. Wendell went right up to my dad in the first row and climbed over Lefty onto the La-Z-Boy with him. My dad must be the last living pipe smoker who smokes in the house in America. With Lefty at their feet, they watched one World War II battle after the next on the History Channel. You might think that sort of stuff harms children but my father believes it arms them for the world. Or, he points out, is Hansel and Gretel a warm and cuddly story? And what about the Little Match Girl or the Tin Soldier?

My mother made a great fuss about Jenny Rose. They stood together and marveled at her picture in the paper. She told her how she’d sent copies home, but as soon as she’d hugged her and kissed her enough she put us right to work. “Just peel these taters for me, darlin’,” she said, handing me a pot and a paring knife, and she gave Jenny Rose the apples to peel for the pie. We sat there at that table at the back kitchen window almost all that Sunday afternoon, drinking tea and eating cheese-filled sheet crumb cake from Oxford’s on Liberty, my mother telling stories of when she was a girl in Ireland and Jenny Rose asking her questions and Mom drilling Jenny Rose about whether the Gorta Thrifty Shoppe was still there over the bridge from Bridge Street in Skibbereen and what about Paddy’s on the cemetery lane and all and Mom running back and forth finding pictures of Carmela at twelve, Carmela at the prom, Carmela with the perilous mumps.

I watched and listened to all this with interest, but on my eleventh potato, I saw through my peels to a picture in last week’s wrinkled newspaper. Distractedly, I pushed the peels aside to read the article. There was that story of the priest who’d been bludgeoned for the valuable statue, and a picture of him standing before the statue in happier times. But as I gazed at the picture, I noticed something else. The eyes of the statue—and here the hairs on my neck stood up—looked just like the two set in silver, blue moonstones that were that minute in my pocket! Oh, my God.

“Mom,” I swallowed, “it’s the picture of that statue.”

“Oh, see, now, I kept those papers for you because you said you wanted them for the real estate.” Then to Jenny Rose she complained fervently, “Claire thinks she’ll be better off without Enoch. Doesn’t know which side her bread is buttered, and him the finest man you’ll ever meet!”

Jenny Rose and I looked at each other.

“Any red Jell-O left in there, Mary?” my father called through.

“No,” she called back.

“Mary?”

“No!” she shouted, clicked her tongue and shook her head, and muttered, “His hearing’s worse and worse.”

I gave Jenny Rose the warning look, but she snapped at me, “Auntie Claire, don’t go giving me no warning looks, now. Who will you be protecting? Enoch? Your mother?”

“What’s she mean?” my mother said suspiciously, looking back and forth at both of us.

“The truth is, Grandmother, that that fellow Enoch was prepared to marry your daughter while he’s just as gay as a three-penny opera.”

My mother raised up. “What did she say?”

“Mom,” I said as I hung my head, embarrassed for him, “it’s like she says. Enoch is gay.”

“What do you mean, gay? Homosexual?”

“Yes.”

“He can’t be. You slept with him.”

“I did,” I agreed.

“Well, didn’t you know?”

“Mom, he seemed fine. If anything, he was particularly solicitous.”

“That should have been your clue right there,” Jenny Rose snipped.

From the other room there was a noise and we all strained to listen. My mother leaned in and heard my father demonstrating the times tables for Wendell. She cupped her mouth and sat back down. “He’ll have given you the AIDS!”

“Jesus, I hope not!” I cried.

“Well, did he wear a jacket or not?”

“Not with me, he didn’t. I mean, not lately.”

Wendell stood in the doorway.

“What is it, lad?” Jenny Rose said.

“I’ve got to go for a little attention.”

“You mean you’ve got to go pee?”

“Yes.”

My mother said, “Well, it’s right down the stairs.”

“He’ll not know his way,” Jenny Rose pointed out.

“Or up. Go up,” my mother called. “Stan, take him upstairs, will you?”

My father rumbled from his chair.

“Hold his hand so he won’t fall,” my mother instructed. They held hands up the steep stairs. My mother went over and stood at the bottom with her wrists on her hips to watch them.

“Jenny Rose!” I grabbed her arm and whispered a shriek. “Look at this!”

“What?”

“The eyes!” The two of us stared at the picture and gulped.

“Fuck,” she said.

“What did you say, young lady!” my mother reprimanded.

“It’s an Our Lady statue!” Jenny Rose exclaimed.

“I never imagined it had anything to do with us,” I whispered, “but it’s the eyes from the statue! It has to be,” I cried. “Mom, what’s the story with this statue?”

“Sure, that’s a terrible, wicked thing. Lust for power, it is.” She stomped back in and tapped the table firmly with her pointer finger. “Those criminals don’t know the half of what they’ve got themselves mixed up in. That there’s a miraculous statue.”

I looked at Jenny Rose. “They probably just took the jewels and threw the statue away.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” My mother glanced to the side and leaned in close. “People pray through that statue and miracles happen. Sick people get well. That sort of thing. Really, what’s a couple of stones? Stones you can pick up easily enough on the shopping network. It’s the statue itself that’s of value, the blessing within that contains the mystery of healing.”

We stared at her.

“Sure, look at Sal and Terry down in Florida; his father had the pancreatic cancer and the doctors gave him four months to live. Patsy McKenna told them about the statue and the lot of them came up and stormed heaven. When they opened the old man up, what do you think? There wasn’t a trace of cancer! And they couldn’t explain it. He lived eight years! That statue will find its own way home. You’ll see.”

“You believe in all that?” I said.

She cracked me on the head. “And for what did I send you to Catholic school!”

I ducked and covered my head with my arms. She never hurt you much. “But we were also constantly warned against idolatry,” I pointed out. “And trickery.”

“That’s the devil, in case you’ve forgotten. That’s his job. You kids! You act like there’s no source of wickedness. It’s all understanding the perpetrator and Prozac. That’s where the Holy Spirit comes in, filling us up with the courage to fight!”

Jenny Rose whispered, “She means it’s not the statue that cures, it’s the faith it inspires.”

“That’s it.” My mother lifted my chin. “A test. That’s exactly it.”

I thought of Morgan Donovan. That great hunk of a man, humble in church. If a man like that ever came at me, I doubted I would have the strength or goodness to resist. “You’re the warrior, Mom,” I murmured softly.

“Not anymore I’m not. It’s your turn, now, Claire. My fighting’s done.” She sighed, worn out, and sat down with a heave, spilling her tea as she reached for more toast. I’d been just getting ready to tell her about the gems and then, for some reason, when I looked at the spilled tea, I couldn’t.

“You’d better go collect your clothes, Auntie Claire. I think we ought to be leaving, now.”

“What, leave, now?” my mother cried and I cringed at what was to come, but it turned out she wouldn’t get as disgruntled as she used to, as I’d imagined she would. It was getting on late in the day anyhow so we packed up and left, my mother only slightly put out that we wouldn’t be staying for supper. Sadly I realized I hadn’t had much of a fight with her because, and this came as a shock, she was getting old. My ma. The brigadier general, letting things pass. It broke your heart. But tomorrow my father’s sisters—the bad aunts renowned to have a fortune but who were tight as string and would doubtless leave all their money to the dog and cat hospital—would be coming in from Ridgewood and this way she’d have everything already prepared.

“You can drop him off here anytime,” my father said about Wendell. “He and I get along very well.”

“And I don’t mind at all that you smell,” Wendell rhymed and my father chuckled.

My mother wrapped her shoulders in a peppermint-striped apron and walked us to the car with enough instructions on life to fill a catalog. “Drive slow. Here, take some gladioli, they’re the last of them but they’re lovely! Watch out there’s no one lurking in the backseat. Put your seat belts on. Have you enough gas? Whose car is that, by the way?”

“It’s my boss’s,” I said, looking away. The rain had stopped and the stars were out. It was cold now again, and I found I was still shivering but, in an odd way, ready. It always pays to go home, one way and another, if only for how wonderful you feel when you leave. Jenny Rose wrapped Wendell up in one of my mother’s woolen blankets, worn soft and pink from years of laundering, and I overheard him explaining patiently to my mother as she strapped him in, “Paige says you must say a little attention and a lot of attention when you’ve got to go make.”

“Is that right,” my mother answered him without missing a beat, “and I’ll be waiting to hear your multiplication tables when you come back next time.”

“I wouldn’t pass any heat on that,” he retorted in a replica of Jenny Rose’s fresh way of speaking, and as we set off his eyes batted and struggled to stay open but he lost the fight even as we pulled away. We passed Enoch’s and my rented house, but I didn’t say so to Jenny Rose. This was my new life, I thought. What was the point? Also, I was ashamed of how ugly that house was. But as we tooled past I caught a glimpse of my dog, Jake, at the window. He was standing up at the glass, his big paws up on the sill and he was gazing forlornly down the road. The house was dark. I only noticed him because of the streetlamp’s glare from the huge saliva stain on the glass. I felt an actual tug at my heart. Then I thought, Hey! Enoch said he was going to take him with him to the firehouse when he worked. And if Enoch wasn’t there, it was a perfect time to pick up some clothes. I turned right at the corner and swung around the block.

While Jenny Rose waited in the car, I went in with my key. You’d have thought I was the greatest person ever invented the way Jake carried on at the sight of me. We hugged each other a good long time and I could actually hear his true pleasure whine groaning from the depth of his rib cage. I was shocked to notice he smelled like he needed a bath. Jake loved his bath. Saturday night, he’d wait by the sink until I would lug him up into it and give him a nice sissy bubble bath. “Enoch?” I called up the stairs. But he wasn’t home. I felt my lips tighten at the empty water bowl. Gently I held open the back door and let Jake into the yard to take care of business, which he did with such alacrity and volume I had to wonder just how long he’d been left alone. I stole up the stairs and packed as many clothes as I could fit into Enoch’s duffel bag. The hell with him if he needed it. I tossed in my other cameras, cell-phone charger, my electric toothbrush, and my double-duty jar of Nivea cream. I remain loyal to Nivea because when I was in Germany, the company booked me to photograph the still shots of a commercial in Rio, a job so exorbitantly plush and luxurious and fun, I remain impressed and grateful to this day. I took one last look at the neatly made bed. Fussy, when you thought about it. At that moment I felt no remorse, only anger that he’d left Jake alone so long in the dark, cold house. I lugged the bag downstairs and looked out. Violets were strewn across the clumpy lawn and for a second I felt a pull of regret in my throat. Enoch always said how lovely it smelled when you mowed. But Jenny Rose was moving uneasily back and forth in the front seat of the car—probably worried she was in some scary New York neighborhood. I rinsed Jake’s bowl and filled it up with nice cold water and called him back in, explaining in a reasonable way about what had taken me away after I’d promised I’d always be there for him. “Look,” I said as I stroked his brown bear fur, pretending to sound happy, “you’re better off here with Enoch. Go ahead, now, hop into your beddy-bye. I’ll see you soon. I promise. Be a good boy. That’s it.”

Jake did as he was told. But as I took my leave, he held my eyes with such trusting devotion that I was overcome with guilt. Never mind, I told myself, grown-ups had business to attend to and this was Enoch’s fault, not mine. I made it as far as the door and then made my mistake, turning for one last look at Jake’s rumpled face, his broken ears that someone had once tried to trim then given up and so they hung like floppy, clobbered leaves. He’d dropped his gaze at the sound of the doorknob, knowing I was really off, and now his gaze held on to nothing, where it would be stuck for hours and then days, no doubt imagining that I’d been devoured by predators and would never come again.

Jenny Rose was alarmed to see me emerge with a bounding, colossal dog, a duffel bag, a doggy bed, and a whopper-sized bag of dry food. “What is it?” she cried in fright.

“He’s part pit bull, part Irish wolfhound they tell me. His name is Jake.”

Wendell, utterly unafraid, threw open his arms in delight. He scooted over right away and patted the seat beside him. Jake tumbled in.

When we were well onto the Northern State and both boy and dog had fallen asleep, Jenny Rose said sternly, “You didn’t tell your mum we’ve got the stones.”

“How could I tell her? She’d worry herself sick. She’s got a stent, you know.”

“Yeah. It’s bad enough she thinks you’ve got AIDS.”

“And now I’ve got to go get a blood test.” I squirmed in my seat. “That bastard!”

“At least you won’t miss him now you’re so mad at him.”

“That’s true.” I shook my head in exasperation. “As if we don’t have enough to worry about with the moonstones! What are we going to do?”

“Beats me.” She worried a cuticle with her teeth.

“Well, we’ve got to tell Mr. Cupsand,” I said. “That’s the first thing.”

“What? And what if he’s the one who stole the gems to start with?”

“Oh, don’t be silly.”

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the boy was still asleep. “Don’t be silly? Listen to you! Somebody stole them. Wendell got them somehow. You just want to go straight to Daddy, the male authority figure, so it’s out of your hands.”

I opened my mouth to argue but I realized she was right. I said, “It could have been anyone. Wendell’s teacher. A kid in school. Maybe we should go to the police.”

“Oh, that’s smart. I’ll be the first one they suspect. Working illegally. They’ll send me back.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ve got to tell someone. We’re in over our heads here.” We drove in silence. Then I said, “Maybe my mother’s right and the statue is the real object of value. Then the stones could have been used to pay off the thief. If we find the thief, we find the buyer.”

Jenny Rose glared at me. “Who are we, Detectives Scott and Bailey?”

I gave her a hard look and she said, “Right. I’ll make a list.” She ruffled around Morgan’s glove box and came up with a ballpoint and paper.

I said, “Clearly, what we’re looking for is a collector. Fine arts. That sort of thing.” Even as I said it, I thought of Morgan.

“That reminds me,” Jenny Rose said, “the day I pulled Radiance out of the drink, there was something suspicious about it. Come to think of it, she wasn’t very grateful. And she had marks on her. I thought at the time I’d done them but the more I think about it, it doesn’t fit. Now I’m sure of it. See what I’m saying? Maybe she’s afraid of someone.”

Startled, I looked at her. “You mean like someone threw her in?”

Jenny Rose shrugged. “What the fuck do I know?”

Again I thought of Morgan Donovan. That day I’d met him, his wrist was hurt. I started to tell her then stopped myself.

“Well, what is it?” she said shrewdly.

I wasn’t going to protect him, was I? If Jenny Rose and I were partners, we were going to have to be honest with each other. “I was just thinking Morgan’s wrist was hurt that day.”

“Doesn’t strike me as a thief, though,” she said and then she looked at me. “Oh, there you go thinking it’s Glinty. Just because he looks so … what was the word Paige used?”

“Slippery,” I supplied.

She gave me a mean look. “He’s just hot,” Jenny Rose defended him. “Dishy.” She struggled to find a word her old auntie would understand. “Hip.”

“Write down Patsy Mooney.”

“Oh, please. She wouldn’t know a work of art from a coupon.”

“Look. If we’re going to investigate this, we’ve got to think of everyone who had opportunity and motive,” I said.

“Well then, investigate Teddy.”

“Teddy?”

“Why not? He’s always hanging around. What’s he after?”

I tried not to laugh at the thought of wholesome Teddy as a criminal, but I remembered his bitterness toward Morgan. I didn’t object as she wrote him down.

“Let’s put on the list whoever was in Sea Cliff after the statue was stolen.”

“Right.”

“How do you want to do this?”

I said, “We can eliminate the two of us.”

“No. To be fair, we should head the list.”

I laughed. “That makes no sense.”

“But it’s fair.”

I held my head, “Oh, fine. You and me.”

“Paige?”

I remembered the pen at Noola’s, which I had little doubt was hers. What had she been up to at Noola’s? “Yes. Put her down.”

“Oliver?”

“Sure. He could have done it. Everybody. And don’t forget Glinty.”

“Uh! He wouldn’t dare.”

Don’t be so sure, I thought but didn’t say. I said, “Come on. Everybody in the pool.”

“All right, all right, I put him down.”

“Morgan.”

“Yes. I wrote his name.”

“Mr. Piet?”

“Ah, Mr. Piet. If anyone threw Radiance overboard, it would be him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s always got it in for her. Telling her what to do—and she a grown woman! He thinks Twillyweed is like Upstairs Downstairs and she’s the parlor maid.”

I felt sorry for Mr. Piet. Jenny Rose was so young. She couldn’t know what it was like to have an unruly child.

“Nah,” she vetoed. “It wouldn’t be him. He was off that day.”

“He still could have been out on the boat with her.” Suddenly, I thought of something. I said, “Jenny Rose, he was fishing, remember? He caught that weakfish we were eating that night!”

“That’s right! Good thinking.”

I, who forgets why I’ve entered a room once I’m there, was happy someone thought so. “Put the heat up, will you?” I said. “It’s freezing. And Radiance. Don’t forget her. I wonder what the real reason she was out sailing was. Fishing! I thought she was a showgirl.”

“A dancer. She wants to be one of those girls in a line at Radio City. Jake, do move your paw. How can you be in the front and the back at the same time?” She put her head back and closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Maybe the stones have nothing to do with any of them. You realize we have no idea what we’re talking about?”

“What about that school bus driver?”

“Right.” She stopped fiddling with the control panel. “I’ll throw him in. I can’t stand him.”

“And the lady from the rectory.”

“Lassiter? Oh, I hardly think—”

“Just write her down. How many is that?”

“Oh, creepy. There are thirteen.”

I turned off at Glen Cove Road and we headed north.

Jenny Rose wrung her hands. “I think you’re right. We’ll have to have a talk with Radiance.”

“Now that she’s back at her place, we’ll go tomorrow while Wendell’s in school. We’ll say you want to check on her. See how she’s doing.” I glanced at Wendell asleep in the back. “It could get dangerous.”

“Yeah,” her eyes lit up.

When we got back to Twillyweed, Jenny Rose carried Wendell in and I waved good night. We were concerned about the gems, but it was all still a kind of mad adventure for us. Had we known what evil lurked, I don’t think either of us would have remained in Sea Cliff.

I took off up the steep hill, realigning Morgan’s radio buttons to their original stations, then sat for a while in the car while Jake dozed and I watched the distant, dreamy lights across the sound, listening to Morgan’s Jonathan Schwarts–style station with its old-fashioned ballads. I touched the dashboard, smelled the friendly leather seats. “Take good care of him,” I said to the car, letting Jake out to sniff around. I locked it up and walked to the cottage in the hurling wind, wondering enviously about Morgan’s weather stick. When fine weather did come, I’d buy myself a little Hibachi and grill hot dogs, I promised myself hungrily. And tomorrow would be a good day, regardless. I’d put the cushions outside to air on the deck. I shivered and carried my stuff up the short walk to the cottage. Jake was delighted with everything. There’s something about putting the key into the lock of your own digs. The door swung open and I stepped in. The place no longer smelled of dust and decay, but refreshed and lived in. The little kitten’s head popped out of a sneaker. Jake bounded in and then, spotting her, froze. The kitten’s fur stood up in a shriek along her little back. My heart stood still. At that moment it could have gone either way. I said a fervent prayer to St. Francis, who has a way with animals, put down a bowl of water for Jake, and said in as calm a voice as I could muster, “All right, you two, you don’t have to like each other but we’re going to all have to live together. So draw up enemy lines or have it out now—but somehow we’re going to have to get along, got it?” More worried for Jake’s eyes than I was for the kitten, I turned my back so there would be no show for my benefit and went into the bathroom. I held my ear to the door. There were no screams or flying fur as far as I could tell. I took a nice warm shower and slipped on my own cozy, flannel nightgown, relaxing immediately. But when I went outside, the kitten was standing up on the table, still as a statue with her tail straight up in the air. Jake had slopped the water dish but he hadn’t settled down. He sat in a rigid pose, waiting, I supposed, to see what would happen next. Ignoring them, I opened the old burgundy phonograph and put a record on for company, took the slipcovers out of the washer, and threw them in the dryer. Then I put the curtains in the washer and tackled my next job, sorting through the piles of books and records, working into the night. Noola had wonderful records, Tony Bennett, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Dinah Washington, Ella in Berlin, Albinoni, Mozart, Claude Debussy, Keith Jarrett’s The Köln Concert. I put that one on, loud, and wiped the rest of them down with a damp cloth and returned them to their sleeves. When my cell phone jangled from my purse, I almost didn’t hear it. “Hello?” I shouted.

“It’s me,” Enoch said. “How could you just take Jake without talking to me first?”

If he thought this was the way to start with me, he was very mistaken. I lowered the volume on the music and said, “Enoch, you left the dog alone in a dark house with no water—and he had to go! You told me you’d take him to work. When I let him out, he hardly made it out the door!”

He sighed. “Claire. We had a six alarm over in Jamaica. Terrible. Three people—”

“Oh. All right, all right. I’m sorry. But still, don’t go blaming me for taking my dog when your job interferes with his well-being!”

“Well-being! He had to hold it in for an hour! Jesus!”

“Enoch, was there something else?”

“Well, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m out on Long Island. I have a safe place to stay and there’s nothing, really, you need to know after that.”

“Whose house are you staying at?”

I looked up at the shelves of dusty books. “Some old woman’s house.” I didn’t exactly lie.

“So what are you doing?”

“At the moment I’m cleaning out that old woman’s jelly safe.”

“So now you’re a cleaning lady.”

“Sort of.”

“Claire. This is ridiculous.”

“No more ridiculous than living with you under false pretenses.”

“I keep telling you. I’m not gay. It was so unimportant! Every guy—”

“No, Enoch, not every guy,” I said, my lips tight, thinking unhappily of Morgan Donovan and his loyalty to a pledge. “While I’m on my way to the city to get some go-nowhere, stupid job you put me up to so you could have unprotected sex with some man—”

“It wasn’t unprotected sex. I wasn’t having unprotected sex with anyone but you.”

Something about the way he said it rang true. “At least that.” I gave a guarded sigh of relief, my chances for survival improving.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said.

“Look. I’m not hurt. Not anymore. I don’t know what I am, but I just don’t want to see you.”

He said nothing. He hadn’t wanted this, didn’t ask to favor men. But, I reminded myself, he’d brought this on himself. I was his cover. I remembered that long-ago man in the park jacking off every chance he got to a young girl at a lonely bus stop. A girl who’d felt too guilty to tell. Well, I was grown up now and I sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life as somebody’s cover. “Look, Enoch, it’s over. You and I both know it. Let’s just get on with our lives.”

“You’re just going to dump me?!”

His astonishment was so outraged I almost laughed. Finally, I said, “Look, I’ll call you before I come back to Queens to pick up the rest of my stuff.” We hung up and I thought, That’s it. My days of devoting myself to inappropriate love are over. Finished. Basta. A man with a yen for other men. A man engaged to another woman. A man still carrying a torch for the wife who’d left him! What was wrong with me? Well, whatever it was, I was done. I turned up the volume on the music. From now on I was off to a new start. And, as my ex-husband would say, Let everybody else go get locked up! So resolutely did I simmer, I never heard the door I’d never thought to lock creak open until Jake went berserk. He jumped up on it, knocking over one of Noola’s pretty china vases, banging the door shut with such an intimidating cacophony of barks that whoever it was had to have run down the hill in a sissy fit. I didn’t even think to be frightened as I picked up the pieces of china. I was more concerned I’d scared off Mrs. Dellaverna, or maybe a raccoon. Raccoon would be bad. I went to the door and opened it. I craned my neck but didn’t see a soul. Whoever it was had dropped a lovely gray glove on the step when Jake had gone into protection mode. I picked it up and laid it on the mailbox till someone would claim it, went back in the house, and then, with an odd feeling, turned around and locked the door.

It was the sky that had gone crazy, not him. He almost laughed at the churning, whipping treetops, dense and black as pitchforks against the starry sky. And that music. What lunacy! Oh, she was someone he was going to have a lot of fun with.

He tromped easily through the bush and heavy pine, the steep hill propelling him down and along. He hadn’t counted on that dog. That was a surprise. But dogs were no problem. Cats were the sly ones. Sinister, he thought with a smile, like me.

Unconcerned and hatless, he kept on down through the heavy undergrowth. He was just beginning to enjoy himself and then suddenly—foraging through his pocket and remembering he’d forgotten his glove—he slammed to a halt. His shoulders tightened and hunched, his breath came short and rapid. Fir branches swatted and shushed the moldy stone along the Irish fence.

But it wasn’t important, he soothed himself. He’d get it back. And then he’d have to go underground for a while. But just for a while. …

Jenny Rose

Jenny Rose sat dwarfed in the blue flowered easy chair. She lit up a cigarette and tried to smoke, but it made her feel sick. She stuck it into a soggy tea bag and listened to it go sss. Her mother’s family all lived these entire lives and here she’d never known them, never been part of their holidays or meals or any of those things they took for granted. They probably never even thought of her. Never. You could see it on their smug faces when they posed for Christmas pictures. No one thought If only Jenny Rose were here. No one had longed for her. She leaned her chin against the windowsill. The paint was so old it was probably lead. And yet … she remembered today and her grandfather’s face.

She’d turned to see him watching her while she’d trimmed the fruit and their eyes had met. He hadn’t looked away as though he were loaded with guilt. His eyes, so much like her own, had said something nice. A little bit like love, she thought. He was her own grandfather, wasn’t he? She rocked with a fair dose of pleasure. Her own precious blood.

Claire

It was morning. Jake sat politely before me, his head cocked, his drool forming a puddle to his left on the floor. “Hello,” I said, “have you eaten the kitten?” I looked around. There she was, up on top of the fridge, sound asleep. But as I spoke to Jake, one little ear of the kitten stood up to listen. I’d stripped the windows before I’d gone to bed and now I rose, eager to see what had become of the delicate curtains. They looked all right. They hadn’t shrunk, anyway. I opened the screen door and let Jake out, hoping he wouldn’t frighten Mrs. Dellaverna. The kitten streaked past us and with equal measures of hope and fear I thought, Oh, boy, I’ll never see her again. The curtains were still damp so I put them in the dryer for a short time and then laid them out flat on the table, now blessedly empty and scrubbed to a sheen. I lugged the ironing board out and touched them up, then the embroidered dishtowels. Those ironed up so prettily, I hung them over the sink window with fish hooks I found in a bait box and stood back to admire my work.

When I went to let Jake back in, I remembered the glove from last night and looked to the mailbox. It was gone. That was odd. Jake lumbered happily over, ready for breakfast now. “What did you do,” I said, rumpling his fur, “hide it?” Oh, well, I figured, it’d turn up eventually. We went back in. I navigated him through a bowl of water and wiped his muddy paws, then gave him a dish of dry food livened with Mrs. Dellaverna’s leftover manicotti. He devoured this with gusto and when he’d finished, he mopped his snout this way and that on the old Turkish carpet. He came back to me with that drunken sailor gait of his and pressed the side of his warm body against my leg. I stood there for a moment just being with him. One of the bulbs in the pretty hanging lamp over the table gave a notifying flicker and went out. I knew I had plenty of bulbs and went to the closet to fetch one, then stood on a chair and peered into the bowl of stained glass while I had the pack in my hand. My heart sank. Six dead bees. I don’t know what it is about me and bees, but to see so many of them dead in there, it just made me feel horrible. I reeled and held on to the lamp and climbed down. But I’m a modern woman and I don’t bother with omens. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands and face and brushed my teeth. We were going to visit Radiance this morning and I wanted to organize my thoughts. I fixed myself a percolated cup of coffee and opened the window to the cold and sat down with the view. The clean smell of the salt air wafted in. I didn’t know what I’d done right in life to have that view for me alone, but there it was and here I was. I wrapped myself in Noola’s old shawl and hugged my hot, milky coffee to my chest and listened to the screams of the gulls and—Was that him? Yes. The man with the doll. I’d behaved terribly. He might be crazy but no one deserved to be made to feel like a monster! I leaped to my feet and raced out the door, hoping to catch him, to apologize.

“Aye!” Mrs. Dellaverna stood at the gate barring my way. “Buongiorno!”

“Good morning!” I called in return, relinquishing any idea of the beach. And I got a load of what Mrs. Dellaverna was carrying: a pot of homemade gravy and ravioli, all for me. This would have to stop or I’d be big as a house. I invited her in to get acquainted with Jake and sat with her while she talked. Not once did I look at my watch.

By the time I got to Twillyweed, the sun was high in the sky. When Jenny Rose saw me coming up the drive, she burst out the door. There was no walking out the door for Jenny Rose; wherever she went it was always a bursting, the door slammed and the birds holed up in the bushes took off for their lives. I got a warm hug and a How’s the pooch? and then she ran back in and upstairs to grab her stuff. I was standing in the kitchen waiting for her to come back down when I heard a car in the driveway. It was Oliver’s snazzy red vintage Alpha Romeo. Jenny Rose sort of danced back down the stairs.

Paige came in wrapped in a perfectly ironed lavender bathrobe. She threw open the cabinet over the sink. Without greeting me she said, “Turn off that fluorescent light, will you? I have such a splitting headache! Jenny Rose, will you run upstairs and ask Patsy Mooney where the painkillers are?”

Oliver opened the back door and rubbed his hands together. “Man! It’s nippy out there.”

He looked happy to see me. He was wearing a lightweight navy blue cashmere overcoat and brought the cold in with him. He looked like a diplomat, his blond hair brushed straight back. He was different when he wasn’t drinking. Younger. His eyes were bright. I was glad to see him, too.

Paige pursed her lips. “And where have you been all night?”

He went to the sink and washed his hands. “Just over in Freeport.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “Took the casino boat.” He flicked his wrists to dry off rather than disturb the ironed hand towel, purposely sprinkling water on the potted ivy. “Claire,” he said, “I was wondering if you’d accompany me to the dance?”

Paige put in hurriedly, “We have to go. It’s not a dance dance. It’s for charity. Everyone sort of has to go.”

“When’s that?”

“After the big race.”

“I’d love to.” I smiled.

Paige crossed her arms. Out of the blue, she said, “Look, Claire, I know from Jenny Rose that you’re worried about the AIDS thing. I’ve got a friend over at St. Francis. She’s a volunteer. Runs the joint, to hear her tell it. Anyway, she could get you in for a test. In and out. What do you say?”

I tried not to look at Oliver. What must he think? “Absolutely. That’s so kind of you. I have insurance. I just … haven’t had time to do anything about it yet. Thank you so much.”

“Not at all.” And then, knowingly, “I don’t want my brother catching it.” She winked. “Oh! That reminds me. Oliver, come inside and help me pull down the crystal punch bowl. It’s our contribution. They want to show it off today to raffle it. I asked Patsy to get it down yesterday and she never did.” She saw his face and frowned. “Don’t look so aghast. We never use it.”

“Can’t it wait?” He moved her perfunctorily aside.

“No, it can’t. Mrs. Lassiter is stopping by to pick it up for the dance. I don’t want her coming in and sitting down, wasting my time,” she insisted ungraciously. “I really want it done now.”

He padded halfheartedly behind her into the dining room. His toes, I was sad to notice, pointed out.

Jenny Rose trailed the rim of the sugar bowl with her finger and cocked her head at me.

“So what now? You fancy Cupsand saucers?”

“It’s just a dance, Jenny Rose.”

She lowered her voice, “Did you ever notice that Morgan Donovan watches you when you’re not watching him?”

I fought the coming blush with all the might of last night’s resolution. “Morgan? He’s nice.”

“Nice? He’s worth two of that moron you’re thinking of seeing.”

“Morgan happens to belong to someone else.”

“Who?”

“That ‘moron’s’ sister, as if you didn’t know.”

“That’s not the way I see it. He doesn’t love her. And they’re not married. Anyway, it’s pretty obvious he’s got a crush on you.”

I looked up, desperate to hear just these very words and yet knowing the hopes they brought with them would ultimately be dashed. Jenny Rose was just a girl. She thought a man’s keen interest meant he was stuck on you. She didn’t realize that in the end, commitments held men accountable. I was just the new gal in town. Besides—and this I knew for sure—I wasn’t about to be anybody’s last fling before he tied the knot.

Oliver came back in in his shirtsleeves and Paige, not trusting him, followed carrying the crystal bowl, then rested it on the marble countertop. “How’s our boy?” Oliver said.

Jenny Rose leaned over a basket of fruit on the table. “Off to school. And,” she added merrily, “he walked the whole way.” She took a bite of a green apple with a delicious-sounding crunch.

Irritated, Paige touched her temples. “Jenny Rose. Please. The Tylenol. I’m dying.”

“Okay.” She trotted off down the stairs.

“Why is it so quiet?” Oliver said. Brother and sister squared off and faced each other.

The atmosphere between them was so thick they seemed about to have an argument. “Well …” I stood. “I’d best be off. I’ll wait out—”

“Don’t be silly.” Paige raised a shoulder. “Have some tea.”

It didn’t take much of a dimwit to realize I was in the way. “If I have any more tea this week, I’ll float away.”

“It’s the clock.” Paige stood erect. “No one’s wound the clock.”

“Oh, that’s it,” Oliver agreed. “Someone’s walked off with the key. Wait, Claire. I’ll drive you up. Car’s still warm.”

I considered what to do. If I told him we were off to Radiance’s, I might get Jenny Rose in trouble. Maybe her mornings weren’t her own. “I really do want to walk.” I smiled insincerely at him. “But thanks.”

There was a clunking, banging sound. We all looked up. The cellar door flew open and Sam the cat shot across the room like a bat out of hell. Jenny Rose staggered into the room. Her mouth was in an O. She didn’t look at us. She grabbed her throat and with a pitch to the heavens, she screamed and screamed and screamed.

“What’s happened?” Mr. Piet hurried in, knocking over the avocado plant and spilling dirt across the white tiles.

“It’s Patsy Mooney,” Jenny Rose gasped.

Oliver and Mr. Piet rushed down the stairs she’d come up.

“She’s dead,” Jenny Rose whimpered.

They came back up.

“Call the police,” Oliver said. He was pale as a ghost. “She’s been strangled.”