The Rainy Season Page 12

  Colin stopped working with the rag and stared at his hands, as if he hadn’t been listening to her. She wondered suddenly if he were thinking about Appleton’s bit of glass, if he were utterly caught up in it, as Alex had been. Everyone seemed to have been waiting for the season of rain that would return it to them. None of them, apparently, had been waiting simply for her, or for Jeanette either.

  In fact May had lied about the object when Alex had asked her. Alex had been right enough about her hatred of lying, but a hatred of lying didn’t necessarily make a person stupid. In effect, she had begun to lie hours ago when she had hidden the object in the tower. And she would go on lying, silently. Colin didn’t need the object any more than Alex did. And even if he were serious about returning it to the mission, nearly a hundred years late, what virtue was there in that? For now the damned thing could rest in peace.

  “… and so we know that his car will be around here somewhere,” Colin was saying. May realized that she hadn’t been listening to him. “I’ll look for it while it’s still dark,” he said. “I don’t know what else to do with it besides leave it somewhere and walk away. There’s no reason to think anyone would trace it to us. None at all.”

  She nodded. Clearly he thought that she would be concerned with this, but she couldn’t pay any real attention to what he was saying. It sounded extravagant to her—a lot of plotting and planning that signified nothing. She recalled Colin hefting the piece of glass in its bag as if he coveted the thing every bit as much as Alex had coveted it, as if Colin had fallen under the thing’s spell, and his life was now defined by the object and his part in its story. The years had changed him just as they had changed Alex, and right now she felt even more alone than ever, and was filled with a cold regret at ever having arisen from the fleeting, silent darkness of the old well.

  And now, picturing the stone ring outside, where the waters were slowly disappearing into the ground, she asked herself why she hadn’t simply thrown Appleton’s glass curio into the water earlier this evening—made it vanish the way her own world had vanished. But perhaps there was something irreverent about the very idea of disposing of such a thing, of thinking that it was hers to give, or hers to take away.

  She felt in her pocket for the velvet bag that contained her inkwell, and she found that she could picture in her mind every blemish and crack in it, as if she had spent hours studying it—the way the glass was discolored, the way the piece was malformed and yet somehow beautiful, like the living shape of a memory transmuted into cloudy glass. She searched her mind for it, for the memory itself, but what she recalled about her bearing her child was incomplete, like a painting half sketched-in. The missing parts lay in this inkwell. And she wondered then if memories ever went entirely out of the world, or whether they weren’t all caught up together somewhere after they were lost, finally washed clean of any claim of ownership, glittering like gold dust in a sandy creekbed.

  23

  THERE WAS A swing in the elm tree in the front yard, and Phil watched through the window as Betsy listlessly kicked herself back and forth under a cloudy Austin sky. She wore her softball glove on her left hand, and now and then she took the softball out of the pocket, tossed it in the air as she swung backward, and caught it again when she swung back. She was usually easy to talk to, but today she hadn’t said six words to him. The sidewalk and the street were dry, but water still glistened on the lawn, and the wind blew down out of the hills. It was another lonesome morning. Last night Mr. Benner had asked Betsy what it was that she wanted to do, even though she didn’t have any real choice in the matter. Still, Phil had to know. The future was uncertain, it was always uncertain, and if there had ever been a time when he needed to know how things stood in the moment, it was now.

  Betsy had said, without coaxing, that she wanted to go to California. She wanted to live with Uncle Phil. She didn’t want to live with Mrs. Darwin. That made Phil happy enough, except that it would make Mrs. Darwin so unhappy. And he still wondered why Betsy was so certain, but he only wondered idly, because now that things were decided, he didn’t really want to know more about Mrs. Darwin than he had to. Carrying her troubles with him to California wouldn’t help any of them. It certainly wouldn’t help Mrs. Darwin.

  Betsy twisted in the swing, then spun around in reverse, then half-spun back again. She glanced across the yard at Mrs. Darwin’s house, craned her neck just a little as if she were looking for something in particular, and then stood up out of the swing and stepped across to the base of the old elm tree. She peered into a deep hollow in the trunk, darted a glance next door again, then put her hand into the hollow for a moment before removing it again and moving back over to the swing, evidently simply waiting for time to pass. She tossed the ball in the air but didn’t catch it this time, and when the ball fell onto the grass, rolling across the sidewalk to the parkway, she let it lie there.

  She was tall for a nine-year-old, and thin, and she looked more like her father than like Marianne. She had her father’s auburn hair and a scattering of freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes were dark, like her mother’s, but they had a crinkly, cheerful quality to them, whereas Marianne’s eyes were perpetually sad. Her father had laughed easily, and Betsy had that quality, too, but Phil had always thought that Betsy had something solid about her, some real depth. Her father had used the easy laughter to brush the world off, and Phil had always thought that he had brushed Marianne off that same way. Betsy lost herself in books, and he would have felt slightly better if she had one in her hands right now, because she looked utterly alone to him, as she sat in her swing in the wind, waiting to leave.

  The back seat and the trunk of the rental Thunderbird were full of luggage. Phil had shipped half a dozen big boxes of Betsy’s things this morning. There were more boxes to pack and ship, but Mrs. Darwin had insisted on doing the rest. Their plane departed in three hours, and, for the moment, there was nothing left to do but wait, which Phil hated above almost anything else. He looked at his watch, realizing that he would rather be at the airport waiting than to be under the ever-watchful eye of Mrs. Darwin. All morning long she had been hustling around the house, familiar with every part of it. She intended to separate out any of Marianne’s belongings that she thought Betsy might want, and ship them just as soon as she could, since rent on the house was paid only through the end of the month. Betsy had already pointed out a few of her mother’s knickknacks that she wanted: a couple of Hummel figurines, some framed photographs, some books, most of Marianne’s jewelry. Mrs. Darwin would use her own judgment on the rest, and what was left over, the furniture, the clothes, the plates and glasses and pots and pans—all of it was going at an estate sale that Mrs. Darwin had already placed an ad for.

  Phil had told her to keep the money from the sale, along with a commission on the money from the sale of Marianne’s Mazda, which would amount to another three or four thousand dollars, give or take, but Mrs. Darwin had put up a fight, refusing absolutely to profit even a penny from Marianne’s death. All of it, she had said, belonged to Betsy, which of course was true. He was probably overly sensitive, but once or twice, when the subject had come up, she had seemed to imply that Phil shouldn’t try to make her feel better by trying to pay her off. And, what was worse, that he was acting a little high-handed with Betsy’s inheritance.

  As of this morning Mrs. Darwin had apparently shaken off the sorrow that she had felt at Benner’s office yesterday. Probably she was putting up a front. Phil respected her for that. She was making it easier on Betsy, and on him, too. Once or twice he had caught what had appeared to be a resentful glance, but this assessment was quite possibly due to his own sense of guilt. Even if it was authentic resentment—as was her comment about Betsy’s inheritance—he could hardly blame her. But the sooner he was out of here, the happier he’d be.

  The doorbell rang now, and when he opened it, Mrs.

  Darwin stood there on the concrete stoop, holding a cardboard carton and wearing an apron over her hous
e dress. Betsy still sat on the swing, and Phil saw her glance at Mrs. Darwin and then look away. Maybe the girl was already missing her, having second thoughts about moving away from Austin.

  “Just a word with you, Phil, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind. And you don’t need to ring the bell. Just come on in. You’re family.”

  “I was family, Phil. Let’s not be coy about it. The family that I knew is broken up. This has been a second home for me. I didn’t realize how much so—how I needed Betsy as much as she needed me. I have some … some photographs here, and some mementos. They’re not rightly mine.”

  In the box lay a framed photograph of Betsy, taken when she was five or six. There were a number of paintings and drawings, too, the sort of thing that children turn out in elementary school classes and that end up stuck to the refrigerator.

  “I can’t take what’s not mine,” she repeated.

  Phil’s first thought was that she was kidding in some impossible way, but the look on her face checked him. “I’m sure you were meant to keep these,” he said.

  “Marianne lent me the photo, although the frame is mine. But I don’t guess I’ll have any use for an empty frame. The rest of it I thought you might want. It’s almost like a record of Betsy’s growing up.”

  “You know what? You’ll appreciate them more than I will. And I’ve got plenty of photos. There was a box of them with the stuff we shipped this morning.”

  “Still,” she said sadly, and shook her head, “they’re Betsy’s property now.”

  “Seriously, Mrs. Darwin. These are yours to keep. If some time in the future Betsy asks about any of this, or says she wants any of it, I’ll let you know. Right now, though, I just couldn’t take any of it.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’m sure you know best.” She stood looking at him for a moment, bit her bottom lip in a gesture that Phil had grown familiar with over the last twenty-four hours. “There was something else. I don’t really know quite how to put it,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” Phil said. “Like Mr. Benner told us, this is a good time to tell the truth.”

  “Well, yes. So it is. There was one item that’s missing.”

  “Missing? From the house here?”

  “No, not exactly. This is difficult, and I don’t mean to be making accusations, but there’s a little glass inkwell, small enough so that you could nearly hide it in your hand. It’s missing from my house, actually—from my hutch.”

  “Okay. Do you think we might have shipped it by mistake?”

  “I can’t see how. I mean, it didn’t belong to Marianne. It was never out of my hutch until the last couple of days. At least I think it’s only been in the last couple of days. I had some men in to paint the kitchen a month ago, and one of them might have taken it, but I don’t know why they would have. It’s just an old glass trinket. It’s not valuable, even as an antique, and it was in a bag, a purple velvet bag, and they could hardly have known what the bag contained.”

  “So you think it was stolen?”

  “I don’t like to use the word.”

  “Borrowed.”

  “All right.”

  “By … Betsy?” Phil asked. There was clearly nothing else the woman could mean, unless she was accusing him of having taken it.

  “I’m not suggesting that,” she said, shaking her head. “Betsy was entirely at home in my house. She might easily have taken it as … as a memento of her own, of the time we spent together. I almost didn’t bring it up at all, except that it’s rather special to me, if you understand. If she had asked for something else, I would have given her nearly anything. But this inkwell … Let me say that it was given to me by my husband Al, who’s been dead these ten years. It had belonged to him when he was a child. His father had made him a quill pen, you see, and he drew wonderful pictures with that pen and with the ink that he kept in that inkwell. When he grew older he gave it up, which was a pity. He said it was a child’s dream, drawing pictures with a special pen. Sometimes, in the years before his death, he wondered out loud what it would be like to fill the inkwell and sharpen that old quill pen, and put his hand to paper again.”

  She shook her head sadly, as if recalling those days, those lost dreams. “Do you understand me?” she asked. “I’m babbling like an old fool, but I … It’s unbelievably dear to me—very old and very delicate. And now someone’s got it who doesn’t know what it is, what it’s worth. She stopped to wipe away a tear. “I just can’t stand any more tragedy.”

  “I understand you absolutely, Mrs. Darwin. I’ll think of a way to ask Betsy about it before we leave. If it’s anywhere around, I’ll return it.”

  “As I said, I keep it in a velvet bag to make sure it stays safe. Do an old woman a favor, and just leave it in that bag. The more it’s taken out and handled, the more likely it’ll be broken, and I couldn’t stand that. So if you could simply ask her where it might be …”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Under any other circumstances I’d ask her myself, but I don’t think I could survive it. Not today of all days.”

  “Of course.”

  She smiled wistfully at him and then opened the door and went out again, taking the photograph and the drawings with her. Phil waited for a moment, watching her cross the lawn, back toward her own house. When she was out of sight, he walked outside and leaned against the tree where Betsy was still sitting in the swing, dragging the grass-stained toes of her sneakers across the lawn. He picked up the fallen softball and tossed it to her.

  “About ready to go?” Phil asked.

  She nodded at him, smiling with her cheeks, but not with her eyes.

  “It’s a couple of hours till the plane takes off, but I thought we could grab some lunch down at the airport. I don’t like waiting around.”

  She shook her head in agreement, looking up the empty street.

  “I’ve got to ask you something. I want you to tell me the truth. After I ask you, whatever you say, I’m not ever going to ask you again or say anything more about it, all right?”

  “All right,” she whispered.

  “Mrs. Darwin had a little glass inkwell that she can’t find,” he said awkwardly. “It’s really special to her. She kept it in a purple velvet bag. She thinks it’s possible that some house painters took it about a month ago, but she’s not sure. She was wondering if maybe you borrowed it or something. I guess she’s really worried that somebody’s going to handle it who doesn’t know about how delicate it is. Do you know where Mrs. Darwin’s glass inkwell is, Betsy?” He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows when he asked the question, trying not to sound anything but curious and well-meaning.

  “Mrs. Darwin’s glass inkwell?” Betsy asked. She looked almost theatrically puzzled, raising her eyebrows and pursing her lips.

  “That’s right. Her inkwell. She said that she kept it in her china hutch in a velvet bag.”

  The girl shook her head slowly, looking straight into his face. There was more than denial in her eyes, but he couldn’t decipher what it was. He was struck with the sudden certainty that no matter what Mrs. Darwin thought about Betsy, Betsy herself thought a good deal less of Mrs. Darwin. “I don’t know where Mrs. Darwin’s glass inkwell is,” she said.

  “All right. That’s the end of that. If it turns out that it was mixed up with our stuff by mistake, we’ll ship it home from California. That would make Mrs. Darwin happy. Now, there’s some rags on the bench in the garage. Why don’t you wipe the grass and dirt off your feet and then hop into the car. If you’re ready to go, that is.”

  “I’m ready,” she said, and she got up off the swing, and headed into the open garage.

  Phil walked over to Mrs. Darwin’s house and rang the bell, and almost immediately the door was opened. “She doesn’t know where it is,” Phil said. “Sorry.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Darwin said, covering her mouth with her hand as if this had hit her particularly hard. “I was so hoping …”

&nbs
p; Phil was in no mood to discuss the possibility that Betsy was lying. This was his first real crisis as her new father, so to speak, and he simply wasn’t ready for complications. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep my eye open for it. If it turns up, I’ll ship it off to you wrapped up in its bag, just like you said. I’ll make sure it’s good and padded. I’m pretty sure that there’ll be a better time for me to bring the subject up again, too.”

  “Of course there will be.” She smiled unconvincingly and he had the vague feeling that she wanted to say more to him, that she still wasn’t satisfied, but what the hell could she say, aside from accusing Betsy outright? As far as he was concerned, the inkwell issue was dead and gone unless it reincarnated itself.

  Mrs. Darwin broke into tears then, as if she’d been holding it in all morning long, but couldn’t anymore.

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve finally and said, “Can I visit her, Phil?”

  “I think we can arrange something like that,” Phil said. “I’ll talk to Betsy about it when she’s settled in.”

  “And I can still sew her an outfit now and then?”

  “Of course, if you want to.”

  “I do want to. You send me measurements and a photo. And find a good seamstress to take the measurements.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “And if Betsy remembers anything about the inkwell before your plane leaves … Well, no questions asked.”

  “Absolutely,” Phil said. He looked out into the street, and saw that Betsy was already in the car. The swing under the elm was ghosting back and forth, propelled by the wind now. He thought about the hollow in the elm tree, remembered Betsy’s reaching into it, and immediately filed his thought away for future reference. Right now they were bound for California, first things first.

  24

  SANTIAGO CANYON ROAD would away uphill behind the Ainsworth house, so that the house was hidden from passengers in cars coming downhill. Those passengers would have seen, had they looked out the window to their right, only a narrow, sycamore-planted hill. The hill ended abruptly at a driveway which itself was hidden by low-hanging tree branches and which doubled back parallel to the road, so that to see the house at all required looking back sharply in the moment before the road angled away again downhill. The house had an air of isolation, then, which was increased by its age and by the five acres of eucalyptus-edged grove that separated it from the relatively close-by neighborhood to the west.