Stony River Page 4

  “What should we make for dinner?” Doris asks, as if she and Miranda do so every day.

  “Colcannon,” Miranda says, surprised at her own spontaneity.

  “Aha! The accent I couldn’t quite place,” Doris says, glancing over with a smile. “You must be Irish. Bill loves colcannon. Never heard of it before I met him.”

  “Sure I’m not as Irish as James.”

  “Your father?”

  “Aye.”

  “I wouldn’t have the nerve to call my father by his first name.”

  “He wanted me to. I’m supposing he was not like most fathers.”

  Doris’s laugh is a song.

  Miranda thinks on her father. Was it only yesterday he said, “Well, then, if I’m to get in a good day’s work, I best be off.” His usual jest. His only work was foraging for their food and other supplies, made easier when the money tree was in bloom. She said, “Strawberries would be lovely if you can manage them.” That’s when he wheeled around sharply and said, “I can’t cover the sun with my finger, can I?” That had to be it: the only thing not as usual, not as always. If she hadn’t asked for strawberries, James would still be alive. The back door would have opened that night and Nicholas would have skidded across the floor to greet him.

  Doris turns onto a wide street with a ribbon of trees down its middle. She nods to a building on the right. “Good old Stony River High. Did you go there before the baby?”

  “I did not.”

  “Private school?”

  “Nor that.” How fortunate she was, James said, to be free of the distraction of school and friends. They would only draw her away from her spiritual path. She would advance more under his tutelage because most classrooms moved only as fast as their slowest pupils. And Miranda had too fine a mind to queue up for an education she could easily get from him. Not the true reason, of course—if she were to place even one foot in a school “they” would take her away from James—but his argument made her envy less the young people she saw from the attic window ambling toward the river she pictured shimmering with faeries and moonlight.

  “Did you ever go to school?”

  “No.”

  Doris presses her lips together for a long, silent moment before humming under her breath: a joyless, ominous hum. Miranda wants to say more and, at the same time, nothing. She doesn’t know if she can trust Doris.

  Doris rounds another corner. “Has Keen had his shots?”

  “And what might those be?”

  “Inoculations. Needles to prevent a whole nightmare of things that could kill him: smallpox, whooping cough, diphtheria, tetanus.”

  “I think not.”

  “Do you have a doctor?”

  “We do not.” James kept them well with infusions, poultices, teas and tonics of ginger, yarrow, nettles, mullein, lavender, evening primrose, meadowsweet, lemon balm, bergamot, milk thistle, sage and more. The recipes were in a book handed down from his mother and grandmother, a leather-bound notebook of spells, magic charms and potions he called a grimoire. He’d added to it with his own brews using plants that grew wild in the area and ones he cultivated behind their house.

  “Honey, he’s got to have his shots. I’ll phone Carolyn’s pediatrician tomorrow.”

  Miranda hugs Cian tighter. This brave new World is a dangerous place.

  AT TWENTY-SIX, Doris was behind schedule for the six kids she and Bill wanted. It had taken two years of doing it every which way before she got pregnant with Carolyn. All the while she’d been working for Children’s Aid, typing up case studies about parents who didn’t deserve the precious babies they’d been given. It broke her heart to come across a neglected child she could have been sheltering. And now two were in her car, although Miranda was old enough to be more sister than daughter. If not for the missing side tooth and morbidly pale complexion, she’d have been a looker, with her Teresa Brewer nose and wide-set green eyes. Doris wanted to take a brush to that gorgeous but tangled red-gold hair. The boy was another matter. It had taken all the restraint she could muster not to gasp at his stunted head and narrow, receding forehead.

  “Welcome to Nolan Manor,” she said, trying to lighten things up as she pulled into the carport beside the modest red-brick ranch house.

  The desk sergeant who phoned had said only that Bill needed help with a toddler and a teenager whose father had died. He wanted to put them up for a night or two if that was okay with Doris. Of course it was: whatever Bill’s job demanded came first. She’d learned the practical wisdom of that perspective from her army Wife-witha-capital-W mother. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was Who fathered Miranda’s baby? While Doris dreaded what she might learn, she was drawn to the mystery as to a locked diary. The whole drive she’d been yakking like an old gossip, trying to loosen the girl’s tongue.

  They entered through the side door. Doris set the girl’s suitcase on the faux marble linoleum Bill had installed last year for their fifth anniversary. With the boy on her hip, Miranda spun around slowly, googly-eyed, as though she’d never seen a kitchen. She walked her fingers along the turquoise tabletop and matching counters, the paper-towel rack above the sink. “What’s this?” she asked, opening the refrigerator without the slightest do-you-mind. She lifted the wall phone receiver, listened and smiled. Flicked the ceiling light switch up and down. Turned on the tap and let perfectly good water escape down the drain.

  “Looks like you’re thirsty,” Doris said, slipping a glass under the tap. She filled Carolyn’s Tommie Tippee for Cian and held it up to his mouth. He stuck his tongue in it and lapped. “Adorable,” she said, because he was—like any frail creature needing protection. “We’d better feed him soon. He wolfed down the cookie I gave him at the hospital.”

  Miranda pulled out a kitchen chair and unbuttoned the dress that looked like a USO hostess hand-me-down with its shoulder pads and Peter Pan collar. Her small, blue-veined breasts were braless. On the shopping list she kept by the fridge, Doris wrote Bra for M—nursing/ other?

  “Carolyn stopped nursing at nine months.”

  “Sometimes this is all he’ll take,” Miranda said with a challenging lift to her chin.

  “Well, sure, if you keep indulging him.” Doris immediately regretted her words. Bill complained that she was quick to judge and sometimes he was right. “Will he eat a banana?”

  “Sure I don’t know. We never have them. They’re too dear.”

  “Let’s give it a go.” Doris held out her arms and Miranda uncoupled Cian from her breast. He whined as Doris lowered Carolyn’s high chair tray over his head. Settled down as she sliced a banana onto it. When he stuffed all the slices into his mouth at once, Doris laughed, nearly missing Miranda slipping into the hallway. She lifted Cian from the chair and hurried after.

  “I must relieve myself,” Miranda said. Doris directed her to the bathroom. Miranda asked Doris to go with her and insisted the door stay open. Doris made a mental note to add panties to the shopping list. And more appropriate shoes. She would have liked to throttle someone. After Doris showed her how to flush, Miranda remained, watching the swirling water.

  Doris handed Cian to Miranda, desperately needing to pee herself. When she came out, Miranda was in Doris and Bill’s bedroom, as though no one had taught her manners, studying a Blessed Virgin postcard Doris kept tucked in the frame of her dressing table mirror.

  “And who’s this?” Miranda asked softly.

  “Mary, our Blessed Mother.” Doris wasn’t surprised the girl hadn’t had proper religious instruction.

  Miranda stared at a framed photograph of Carolyn on Bill’s shoulders, taken last month at Surprise Lake, and then, like a breeze, deserted the room with Cian on her hip. Doris followed her to the living room. Miranda pushed back the sheers covering the picture window and pressed her face against the glass, leaving marks.

  “Would you like to go outside?”

  Miranda didn’t reply. She plopped herself onto the dark green Hide-A-Bed and, moments later, bounced u
p to try one wingback chair and then the other. She stood, picked up a newspaper from the maple coffee table and read out, “‘A hundred and forty-nine confirmed polio cases among children receiving Salk vaccine.’What’s polio, then?”

  “You can read!”

  “Aye.” She glanced about. “Where are your books?” She turned away, not waiting for an answer. Her hand caressed the wooden console TV. “What is this for?”

  “I’ll show you later,” Doris said. “Bring Keen into the kitchen, please. It’s time to cook dinner.” She was done letting this flippy girl call the shots.

  MIRANDA IS BEWITCHED by Doris’s house, especially the kitchen with its white box that keeps food cold and the counters and tabletop the color she imagines the ocean to be, the glittery specks in them like the sparkle of sunlight. Knowing from James that water flowed from other people’s pipes doesn’t make witnessing it any less thrilling. And the long-legged chair! Cian is in it, his hands and mouth happily occupied with tiny animal-shaped biscuits. Doris has given him a clean nappy—she calls it a diaper—and smeared thick white cream on his rash. Doris is so clever, Miranda wonders if she has invented her along with all else that’s happened today.

  Doris chops a cabbage she’s taken from the cold box and has Miranda wash her hands before peeling the potatoes. Warm water over her fingers makes Miranda giggle. Doris opens a cabinet filled with pots and pans. What bounty. Miranda and James had only what they needed. Whenever she asked for more of anything, James would say she was indulging in wishful jam-on-your-egg thinking.

  “I add onion. Do you?” Doris asks.

  “When we have it, aye.”

  They boil the potatoes in one pan, the cabbage and onion in another. Miranda marvels at the blue flame Doris can force higher or lower simply by twisting a knob. Living here could be as fine as living with James, perhaps finer. If he were here right now, Miranda would be worrying she hadn’t done her lessons correctly or meditated long enough. She’d be watching his eyes and the set of his mouth for what they might mean to the evening ahead.

  Doris mashes the potatoes with butter, seasonings (the true art of the dish, according to James) and real milk from a bottle, not the powdered kind. She mixes it all with the cabbage and onion. “Want a bath while it’s in the oven?” she asks. “I’ll keep an eye on Keen.”

  Doris fills the tub with water and bubbles so sweet-smelling they make Miranda laugh and cry at once. At home, she had a tub bath once a month after her bleeding ended. The water had to be heated on the stove. Not enough to cover her chest and never, ever, bubbles. Doris brings her a spare nightgown and tells her that Bill phoned to say they shouldn’t hold up dinner for him.

  Since it has started to rain they eat at the kitchen table, an electric fan blowing on them with the breath of a dozen snow angels. Doris touches her forehead, chest and shoulders with two fingers and mumbles something. Miranda touches her forehead, chest and shoulders and mumbles, “Thank you, Mother, for sending Doris.”

  Miranda and Cian will sleep in the small, square unborn babe’s room. Its yellow walls close around Miranda like a hug. “The crib is Carolyn’s old one,” Doris says. So a cot is called a crib. A nappy a diaper. Biscuits: cookies or crackers. Miranda has grown new eyes and ears.

  Doris plugs a tiny light bulb into an outlet, pulls the sheet over Miranda’s shoulders and kisses her forehead. Crouching by Cian’s cot, she recites, “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom His love commits me here. Ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.” Miranda would have said “Angel of god and goddess,” but that would have spoiled the rhythm of the prayer that has lulled Cian into closing his eyes.

  Doris leaves the room and returns with a white plastic figurine: a woman in a hooded robe, no taller than Miranda’s hand. Like the picture in Doris’s mirror, it could easily be Ethleen. “Our Blessed Mother will watch over you tonight and light your dreams,” Doris says, placing the figurine on the dresser near Miranda’s bed. She closes the door.

  There’s too much daylight for sleep, even with the curtains pulled. Miranda retrieves the valise from under the bed. With an expectant breath, she withdraws the two parcels James had with him when he died. Inside: only packets of powders and dried plants. No strawberries that would speak of love and forgiveness. She removes the drawing of Ethleen and the chunk of moonstone from the valise. She places the drawing beside the figurine. Taking the translucent stone in her left hand, she whispers “I am one with the moon” three times. The ritual often yields the sense of a wise and caring presence that Miranda associates with her mother. Tonight, it’s Doris.

  Miranda tiptoes to Cian’s cot and studies his sleeping face. Now that she’s seen a picture of Doris’s daughter Carolyn, she suspects something is amiss with the lad. James claimed Danú and Dagda brought forth nothing but geniuses. But wouldn’t they give a genius a bigger head?

  She returns to the bed and watches shadows skip along the ceiling. It’s her first night here, yet she can almost believe this is the life she’s always had. James would be proud she’s forgotten to be afraid and allowed herself to trust. Tomorrow she will be the same and not the same as she is tonight. Tomorrow she will take Cian to a park and ask again about Nicholas.

  As the longest day finally darkens, the Blessed Mother begins to glow.

  THREE

  JUNE 29, 1955. Another scorcher. Waiting for Tereza in the small woods she’d dubbed The Island, Linda closed her eyes and pretended the pines were palms and their cones coconuts. Last year Aunt Libby airmailed a coconut from a real island and Daddy smashed it open with a hammer. Aunt Libby was a buyer for a department store in Elizabeth. She wore Tabu perfume and suits with pleated skirts. Linda could still taste the bittersweet crunchy insides that Aunt Libby claimed would make Linda’s complexion soft and creamy like hers. Mother had said it must be nice to gallivant around the world.

  Linda sat on the old hollowed-out log, the ridges scratchy against her bare legs under Bermuda shorts. The log stowed props she and Tereza had stashed for Swiss Family Robinson: a bent spoon, acorns, some string, the silver foil from gum wrappers. Tereza saw uses for things Linda considered trash, like cigarette butts. She stripped them and collected the loose tobacco in a Wonder Bread bag. She said they could sell it for food when they escaped from The Island.

  Escape to where?

  Eyes still closed, Linda was listening to the ebb and flow of cars and trucks on Route 1 four blocks away, pretending it was the sound of the shipwrecking sea, when Tereza snuck up on her like an Indian scout and stomped on her foot. She laughed when Linda yelped in fright. Tereza’s hair was wild, as if she’d just gotten out of bed. She wore red shorts tinier than Mother would have allowed and her arms were full of cattails.

  “What are those for?” Linda didn’t care how grouchy she sounded.

  “If we let the punks dry out they’ll be better smokes. When they turn to fluff we can make pillows. We can weave the leaves into sleeping mats.”

  Linda sighed and rolled her eyes. “The rule is we live on whatever we find on The Island,” she said. “Punks don’t grow here. Berries and acorns do.”

  “It’s our game, right? We make the rules.”

  “It’s my game. I played it a whole year before you came.”

  “Yeah, and what have you got to show for it? You didn’t make a tree house. You didn’t make nothin’ we could sell when we get off The Island.”

  “What if I don’t want to get off? What if I want to live here forever?”

  “Why? Nothin’ to do here, nobody to see. Might as well be Crazy Haggerty’s kid, locked up in that house.” It had been a week since they’d watched the teenager and her baby leave.

  “Maybe she liked it there.”

  “Not a chance.” Tereza stuffed the cattails in the log and sat next to Linda. “Jimmy said her old man must’ve parked his car in her garage.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tereza made a hand gesture Linda co
uld tell was dirty. “I told Jimmy he tries that with me, I’ll kick him in the balls. He backhanded me for that.”

  Linda sucked in a breath. You weren’t supposed to say balls; at least she wasn’t. Her cousin’s dog was always licking his. She didn’t like to think of fathers having them.

  “Maybe Jimmy’s wrong,” Linda said hopefully. The way the girl walked out as though she wasn’t in any hurry to leave had stuck in Linda’s head. “Maybe Haggerty wasn’t her father.”

  “Nope,” Tereza said. “Ma found this.” She pulled a newspaper clipping out from under her waistband and began reading aloud as slowly as a third grader, shaping each word with her lips as though tasting it. It made Linda’s jaw ache.

  She held out her hand. “Here, let me.”

  James Michael Haggerty, 48, of 2 Lexington Street, passed away June 21 of natural causes. Predeceased by his wife Eileen. Survived by his daughter Miranda. He will be buried in the potter’s field section of Stony River Cemetery.

  Seeing the girl’s name in print gave Linda a thrill, as though she’d discovered the secret in Nancy Drew’s old clock. “It doesn’t say anything about the child,” she said.

  “They don’t want nobody knowing that crazy coot knocked her up. My mom got knocked up with me, you know.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  Tereza laughed so hard Linda wanted to punch her. She stood and said, “I’m leaving.”

  “No, wait. Go with me to Crazy Haggerty’s. You gotta see something.”

  Linda didn’t want Tereza to call her a chicken again and she itched to learn more about the girl who now had a name. “As long as you don’t tell your folks so they can’t tell mine.”