DEC WENT BACK up to the big house later that evening. The trees were full of rain. The moon between the clouds seemed to sputter and flare like a candle in a drafty room. He followed the meagre path of his flashlight up the hill. Then he made his way through the house, turning lights on as he went. Through the dining hall — click. The arched and narrow corridor that led to the vast kitchen — click. Left to the pantry — click. Left again to the servants’ entrance — click. Left a third time to the cellar door. Click.
The stairs were steep. They creaked under his weight. At the bottom he pulled a string and a bare bulb glowed, though not nearly bright enough in the crowded darkness. The cellar was really several connected cellars, floored here in cement, there in brick and, in the oldest reaches, nothing more than compacted earth.
She is not ever going to be around, Dec. Get used to it. He grabbed a hold of the stair rail. He tried to remember Ezra’s comforting voice explaining away his mad thoughts.
The heart of the cellar, where he now stood, was ruled by a giant oil furnace that reminded him of some medieval torture chamber. It was no longer in use. His father had put in an efficient electric furnace some years back, but he had left the old iron monstrosity in its place, part of his private museum.
Stooping under the old ductwork, Dec made his way down a corridor crowded by wide shelves lined with cloudy pickle jars and ancient dark jars of fruit preserve. This was the way. Click. The deeper he went, the less adequate the light seemed. The ceiling was lower, the walls and cupboards closed in around him. There was a smell of dampness and rot.
His grandfather’s old shop was under the newer east wing. There were steps down, just a couple, but they allowed some head room, some breathing room. The work table stood against the farthest wall of the room, beyond the perimeter of the light. Dec made his way towards it holding his breath and staring into every shadowy corner. He reached for the string above the bench. Click.
He had loved this work table. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been down here. The bench was exactly as he recalled except for a blanket of dust. But there was no boat. He must only have imagined making it.
And yet…
He scanned the worktop. Nothing was out of place. The tidy bottles of nails and nuts and bolts screwed to the under side of the shelf; the tools hanging or lying upon painted outlines of themselves. He touched things reverently: a bit brace, a jack plane, the pitted and scarred vice mounted on the table’s edge. Beside the vice there was a deep-sided wooden scrap box. The last time he had come down here the sides of the box had reached nearly to his chest.
He looked down into it now and gasped.
There it was among the angular shadows: a boat. He picked it up — needed both hands. He blew at the dust and then coughed at the cloud that rose from its decks. He placed the boat on the work table. From a hook on the wall he took a paintbrush and began to swab the decks. The brush was stiff with age so he found an old rag, shook it clean, spat on it and slowly washed the boat down.
It was three levels high. A tight railing of finishing nails surrounded the main deck. The ship boasted a rubber-band-operated paddlewheel at the stern, and a dowel mast topped by a triangular flag.
Lindy, he read. It was written in the best hand he could muster at ten.
Yes, he had been ten. Looking at it now he knew exactly when he had made it. He bent down to see the boat at deck height, then he rested his arms on the work table and his chin on his arms. He imagined himself the size of a toy captain; he imagined his mother lounging on a chair on the plywood deck playing her guitar.
“Build me a boat that will carry two.”
He looked behind him suddenly, across the expanse of the shop, back down the shadowy corridor.
“Mom?” he called. He listened, but all he could hear was the wind swirling around in the window wells. “Lindy?”
Nothing.
He returned his attention to the boat. Who had put it in the scrap box? He lifted it up and turned to leave, making his way back through the labyrinthine cellar, turning lights off as he went, feeling the darkness close in behind him like something chasing him and threatening to catch up to him at any moment. He found himself hurrying until he was fairly flying. Finally he reached the stairs and looked to his right down towards the oldest stretch of the basement. His eyes picked out a row of garden tools ranged along a wooden wall of peeling paint. He stared at the spade with its sharp point.
She never dreamed she was going to rot away in a huge empty house.
It’s not possible, he told himself, and then he tore up the cellar stairs, falling in his flight and scraping his shin. He sat holding it and holding back the panic he felt inside.
He placed the boat on the shelf in Lindy’s room. He was about to leave when he recalled what Sunny had said about things disappearing. He checked the bookshelf. One, two, three yearbooks — just as Sunny had said. It was her last year that was missing. Graduation year.
Getting off his knees, he was about to leave the room when he stopped and turned and picked up the boat, cradling it in his arms. He had lost it once before; he didn’t want to lose it again.
It started to rain as he made his way down the hill to Camelot. He took off his windbreaker and wrapped the boat in it. At the back door, as he returned the house key to its hook, he listened. They were downstairs in the den, Bernard and Birdie, watching television.
He made his way to his bedroom, where he placed the boat proudly on his dresser. He was shivering with cold, so he towelled himself down and changed into his pyjamas. He stared at the boat, leaning close to it to count the finishing nails around the deck. There were twenty-nine.
Twenty-nine. That was how old Lindy had been when she left home. It must have been the last thing he had made her, but somehow had never had the chance to give to her. He didn’t remember any kisses and hugs associated with this boat. All he remembered were tears.