Chapter 18: Rite of Transition

 

Juno and I retreated to Maida House and found Everett and Sarah in the kitchen. They had made free use of the supplies I’d purchased to assemble a reasonably civilized dinner. As we seated ourselves at the library table to eat, Juno spoke of light things, and even Sarah seemed cheerful. I ate and smiled and commiserated with Everett over the humid heat of the afternoon. It felt a little like…family. The vehement disagreement between Juno and me on several important topics—the existence of God, the cause of the infant deaths, the nature of our relationship—had the contrary effect of making me feel more at peace. I would rather argue again with Juno than exchange inane pleasantries with any other woman.

“I carted another load of your plants up here, Mrs. Stephens, and put them in the glass room,” said Everett. He had made two plates of food disappear in the way that only young men can do.

“Thank you so much,” Juno replied. “Setting up new planter beds will keep me busy all day tomorrow.”

The following day was Sunday. “All day?” I asked.

“Perhaps not. What’s your counter-offer for a better diversion?” Juno parried.

“I am walking with my mother to attend church services. Do you care to accompany us?”

Juno raised her water glass and sipped.

“I’m going too, with my mother and sister,” Everett said, looking at Sarah.

“As am I,” Sarah added. “I mean, not with my mother and sister. Just me. I find it calms my thoughts, even as my mind has expanded. My father is always asleep on Sunday mornings, so I needn’t worry about encountering him.”

“You might come and sit with us, Sarah,” Everett said. “If you want. Or not. Lucy is annoying, but her singing voice is quite good.” He was trying too hard to sound like he didn’t care either way.

“Thank you, I will.” Sarah gave a tiny smile. “I do like singing.”

“I must decline, I’m sorry,” said Juno. “But I hope to meet Mrs. Hood very soon.”

“You will,” I said. “But why must you decline? Will you turn to smoke and ash on the blessed doorstep?”

“Ben, don’t be awful,” Everett objected. “Sorry, Mrs. Stephens.”

“Don’t apologize for me. I’ll be rude and awful if I please.”

“No smoke or ash, as far as I know. But I’m a terrible liar, and I can never pay any attention in church. I won’t bother going,” Juno said briskly. “What if I prepare a luncheon and have it waiting for you all when you return?”

“Good,” I said, then slid my chair back. “And now, the gentlemen are retiring to the study for port.”

“Is there a study?” Juno asked.

“Is there port?” asked Everett.

“Yes and yes. Although it’s rather disheartening to think you both supposed I referred to hypothetical port in Joe’s imaginary study. Such low estimations of my mental stability. Are you coming, Everett?”

“Your study,” Juno said softly.

“Pardon me?”

“You said ‘Joe’s imaginary study.’ It’s yours if it does exist.” One dimple appeared fleetingly.

I picked up my water glass and gulped down the last half-inch of liquid. My study, my house, my family. “Quite right. Bring your cup, Mr. Toth, lest we find only illusory vessels on the sideboard. Goodnight, ladies.”

Juno dropped her hand to her side, below the table, and caught my fingers in a brief, tight squeeze before I stood.

The study was tucked into the front corner of the main floor, and it was cold and damp when we entered. I laid a fire while Everett dusted off chairs and poured two measures of wine. I had no desire just then to sit behind the big walnut desk, although I knew eventually I must. A portrait of St. George occupied the place over the mantel, and Opere et Omissione had been carved into the stone to match the library. The shelves behind the desk held two decades’ worth of records and account books. The spines from Father’s era were neatly labeled, but the books for the years after his death grew more and more disorganized. The last shelf was a jumble of loose papers, some creased as if Joe had crumpled pages in his fist before tossing them aside.

We turned two armchairs away from the desk and sat facing the fire. Everett propped his boots on the fender, so close to the flames I thought the leather soles would smoke.

I sipped my wine and let my head fall back against the chair. Everett spoke of his admiration for Sarah’s culinary creativity. We talked about the work needed to prepare Maida Green for the winter ahead, but neither of us was in the mood for serious planning.

“This is good, Ev,” I said after the fire had chased the chill out of the air. I poured myself more port, then tipped the bottle at him in silent invitation. He extended his tumbler toward me without taking his eyes from the fire.

“What is?”

I stared into the purple-black depths of my glass. “This. The fire, the wine, us. Sarah and Juno are down the hall. The wind has died down, and tomorrow is Sunday.” And Juno has promised to show me something she thinks is important. Maybe I would find the pattern of the infants’ deaths.

“It is good. It’s also just a transition, a deep breath before the next storm. Things are changing fast.”

“Out with it, Toth,” I commanded. “I can hear you thinking again.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. A broken window, that’s all. At our house. Probably a rock thrown up by a passing wagon, or maybe the glass was weak.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. “When?”

“Yesterday evening, while I was here with Sarah. I should have been at home. My mother is anxious.”

“Last night was the fire at Juno’s house.”

“Yes. And…”

“And what?”

“I don’t know. A strange mark over the doorway, smudged in charcoal.”

A shiver ran along my forearms, and I tightened my hands on the arms of the chair. “Was it an open triangle?”

“Yes!” Everett exclaimed. “You’ve seen it? What does it mean?”

I’d seen it only once, on his doorway. Someone had redrawn it after I’d erased it. Juno might know something, but I evaded his question for the moment. “A girl passed you her greetings today. Abigail Meading. She said something that didn’t make much sense. She seemed to think your family was hexed.”

He snorted. “Abigail. Sometimes I’m inclined to think the same.”

“Have you heard that before?”

“Perhaps, although not spoken directly. My mother has had her share of bad luck and good, as well as these things can be tallied. My father left her, and people wondered. You know people want to think we’re different.”

Everett did not seem alarmed, so I fell silent.

“Speaking of bad paternal luck, what are we going to do about Greeley?” he asked. “Sarah would like to salvage her relationship with her father if she can.”

I sighed and swallowed more wine. “I would like to help her, but she has not confided what happened between them, so I don’t know where to start.”

“I don’t either, but you don’t have to do it alone. Whatever it is. Probably.”

I had to chuckle at his pragmatism. “Thank you.”

We lapsed again into silence. By the time the fire had burned low, the bottle was nearly empty, and we were both half-asleep in our chairs. Finally, I stood and levered Everett to his feet. I led him into the hall and peeked into the library, but Sarah and Juno were nothing more than small mounds of blankets.

Everett and I used the tunnel to return to Maida Green. I relocked the big front gates after he’d left for home.

While removing my coat, I found a slip of familiar notepaper in the pocket. I lit a candle and angled the page to catch Juno’s sinuous script in the light.

I thought I knew what I wanted to do with my two fortunes. Today I’m not as sure. –J.