Death Watch (17 page)

Dolores had gone upstairs to her room after dinner and had not come back down. Silas might have gone to bed as well, although for all Uncle knew, his nephew could be wandering the town.
Brave, that one. Intrepid
. How like himself, he thought. It was becoming clear that Dolores had little if any discernible
maternal instinct. That would not serve the purpose for which he’d brought her here. Not at all. Two failures—the father and now the mother—both unsuitable. Uncle tried to comfort himself by remembering that this was, after all, an experiment, and setbacks were to be expected. And really, two errors could be considered two steps closer to eventual success. Dolores wouldn’t be any trouble, though. No need to take any action yet. She might prove useful in unexpected ways. When she drank, she was in her own little world, usually quiet and detached from the daily noise and doings of the house and blissfully uninterested in the long hours he spent above stairs dealing with the other occupant in the north wing.

From the side table, he picked up the fossil of a small, domed, star-marked urchin that Silas had left there earlier. As he held it in his hand, Uncle wrapped his palm and fingers about it like a protective nest.

“Did you have a mother, I wonder?” he said to the fossil’s stony, rippled surface. How permanent and individual it seemed, how it appeared to have been made exactly as it was, a little immortal thing waiting down the ages. He admired those qualities.

“Never mind,” he said to the fossil, putting it gently back on the shelf. “Hardly matters now what’s become of
her
, does it?”

E
VENING AT UNCLE’S HOUSE
became a ritual set in stone. Reliable. Unchanging.

Dinner at six. Candles lit as usual and melting onto the tablecloth. Uncle and Dolores, at opposite ends of the table, gazed at each other while they chewed and dabbed the edges of their mouths with linen napkins. Occasionally, Dolores would drop a hint about a trip to Florida or going shopping in Kingsport. Then Uncle would say how lovely that would be if only his work would allow him such indulgences. Dolores never asked Uncle to elaborate on how he filled his days.

While they talked, Silas looked out the window at the amber light. It was about an hour before dusk, and he loved how the town changed at twilight. He wanted to be outside, rambling among the long shadows on the streets, watching the little candles being lit in the windows of houses he had thought were abandoned the night before.

Also, Silas wasn’t sure how much more he could stand of watching his uncle watch his mother. Uncle’s eyes moved over his mother’s arm as it lifted food to her mouth. Uncle’s eyes eagerly watched her empty her glass, and looked hopeful each time she tipped in a little more scotch.

Tonight Silas excused himself from the table before dinner was quite finished. Said he felt a headache coming on—a trick
he’d learned from his mom—and that a little fresh air would do him good. He left the dining room without waiting for a response from either Uncle or his mother. He went directly to the front door and out into the street. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the air of the approaching evening was coming in off the sea with the promise of a cool breeze.

He walked slowly up Fairwell Street, feeling that the entire town was his. There was a particular gravity in Lichport, a sort of pull he could feel, as if the town’s streets and stones were continually calling him. Or maybe it was just the comfortable weight of his father’s watch in the front pocket of his jacket.

He passed by a gate on his left that led to another of the town’s many family cemeteries. Atop the gate, iron was twisted into calligraphic letters spelling:
UMBER
.

The Umber family plot.

Just over the name “Umber,” also in iron, was a head of Janus, much like the one on his pendant. He opened the gate, and it whined in protest. Silas entered the overgrown little graveyard and looked around. He noted with interest that a number of stones had the same image either carved into them, or as an ornament on the gravestone.

Here are my people
, he thought proudly.

In the very middle of the cemetery, there was a large granite mausoleum in the classical style, surrounded by briars at its back and sides. At first the bronze doors seemed locked, the handles unwilling to budge. But Silas kept turning them this way and that, and eventually, the door creaked open.

The light from the low sun, though fading fast, hit the stained-glass windows on the west wall so the inside of the tomb glowed in jeweled light: ruby, emerald, amber, and sapphire. There were numerous engraved plaques that marked the hollows in the walls
that held some of his more ancient ancestors, and he could easily follow the names back well beyond the few he knew. Near the still-open chambers nearest the door were the coffins of his grandfather and grandmother, his father’s father and mother. And there, just beyond them, were the coffins of his paternal great-grandparents. Tradition seemed to be that the most recent dead were left out for the continuance of mourning, but after a time, their coffins would be set into the walls and covered over so as the coffin dissolved, it was done out of sight of the curious. It also appeared the custom had been abandoned or forgotten, since clearly no one had been in the mausoleum since his grandfather died.

So, Silas thought, for all Uncle’s formality, he clearly didn’t cling closely to tradition. The light was fading, and as much as Silas liked being around any family other than his uncle, he didn’t much care for the idea of being in the mausoleum after it got dark.

As he exited through the bronze doors, he saw her standing just inside the gate, under his family name. She looked at him and tilted her head to one side as if offering an invitation, but she didn’t speak.

Silas was nervous. Maybe she’d think he was weird skulking around the cemetery at night, so he sort of waved an arm around and said, “These guys are my family.”
Idiot
, he thought instantly after that.
Idiot
.

But she was smiling now.
Good. She likes weirdos
. Or maybe she felt sorry for him. Silas was okay with either reason. He looked at the pale skin of her face and at the bright aquamarine of her eyes and guessed that he and she must be about the same age.

“You’re Silas,” she said, calling him over. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Silas Umber. I just moved here.” He looked down and
tried not to smile too broadly, which was hard because he thought she was the prettiest girl he’d ever spoken to.

“I know who you are,” she said, looking up at the word “Umber” over the gate.

“How do you know?”

“It’s not a very big town. Word travels fast,” she said, waving her arms around at the graves, imitating him.

“Have you lived here long?” said Silas. He hoped she wasn’t making fun of him.

“I come and go.”

“But you live in Lichport now.”

“Yes. My family’s been here a long time.”

“I think I saw you the other day near the millpond.”

“That’s where I live.”

“Which house?”

“The dark one.”

“Which one?”

“It’s one of the older houses. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” The girl ran her hand over her hair from her temples to the back of her neck. “Don’t you want to know my name?”

“I really do.”

“Bea,” she said so softly Silas could barely hear her. “I am Beatrice.”

Silas smiled and bowed slightly, then opened the gate for her, and they walked out of the cemetery and onto the sidewalk.

“Where are you going, Silas?”

“Don’t know. I thought I might walk along the river,” Silas said, as he realized that he hoped she’d want to come along.

“Oh, I’ve just been swimming,” she said, seeming a little sad. “Tell you what, why don’t I meet you here another time?”

“How will I find you?”

“I’ll find you. You kind of stand out here,” she said. With that, Beatrice turned and walked off up the street.

Distressed at her quick departure as well as the sketchy nature of the plan, Silas called out, “But what if I want to find you?”

“Just look for me at the gate. Or whistle, if you like, and I’ll come to you.”

And as Beatrice walked away, Silas saw that she was still wet from her swim, and in her long hair, among the chestnut strands, green weeds were woven; and where she’d walked, he could see the trace of wet footprints. He pulled his collar up against the evening breeze. He hoped she didn’t catch a cold on her way home.

Silas walked absently along Main Street, and then down Coach until the lights of the general store were glowing before him. Silas hadn’t yet visited Peale’s General Store and Mercantile, and so, not wanting to go home yet, he entered. Little bells rang from a string on the back of the door. A woman in her fifties stood behind the counter and beamed at him.

“Silas Umber! Have you finally come to see me about a job?”

“Sorry?” Silas said, distressed that while he knew no one, people in Lichport generally seemed to know him.

“No, no. I’m sorry to tease you,” she said, still smiling warmly. “I’m Joan Peale, and this is my father, John.” She hugged an elderly man, maybe in his eighties, who was sitting next to her. Silas could tell Mr. Peale wasn’t well, even though the man smiled at him from his chair. For an instant, as Mr. Peale looked at Silas, he seemed to be looking right through him into a room that wasn’t there. But after his daughter gently tapped his shoulder, Mr. Peale reached out a shaking hand to Silas and said, “I hope to see you again soon, Mr. Umber.”

“We all knew your dad very well,” Joan said, “especially my
mom. I was wondering how long it was going to take you to sneak out of your uncle’s house and come to see us.”

An older woman came through a back door and into the shop. She was wearing a long apron over a faded dress, and her head was covered with a sort of loose bonnet like women wore centuries ago.

“Silas,” said Joan, “this is my mother. But you can call her ‘mother’ too. Everyone does.”

“How do you do, Mother Peale? I am Silas Umber,” said Silas, as he extended his hand to her.

Instead of shaking hands with him, the old woman grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward her, then threw her arms around him. Silas could feel her walking stick pressing against his spine. She laughed heartily as she hugged him, then held him out at arm’s length and looked at him very carefully, studying, it seemed, all the features of his face in minute detail.

“So you’re back then?”

“Back? You mean back home? Because I was born here?” “I mean because Umber folk always come back, and we Umbers and Peales keep finding one another. Little things like time and generations don’t matter very much with good friends who are fond of each other’s company.”

She squinted at Silas now, as she looked closer and closer at his face.

“Of all the faces I’ve looked on, I was curious which one you’d have. Yes, it is very much like your father’s, but there are differences, in the right light. No. I’ve not seen your face for a very long time.”

“How long is that?” asked Silas, enjoying what he thought was a game.

“Oh, ages it feels like. And not perhaps on this land. But good
friends and kin always find each other, don’t you find?” she asked with a hoarse laugh. “Anywise, we are who we were, so everyone’s always coming back, that’s how I see it. And here we are, all one in the moment, for the moment, if you take my meaning, Silas Umber.”

“I’m not sure I do, ma’am.”

“Well, well, let it be then, until you’ve settled in and remembered yourself.”

“What can I get you today, Silas?” asked Joan.

“Just looking really,” said Silas, as he gazed with wonder at the oddly stocked shelves.

There were the sorts of things you’d expect: flour, sugar, cereals, bread, canned fruits and vegetables, coffee, chocolates, and other staples. However, most of the shelves were filled with things Silas had never seen, with labels he either couldn’t read or couldn’t understand. There were things he was not accustomed to seeing in cans, and packets of things no one ate anymore. Someone obviously liked something called Jell-O Spoon Candy, because there was a whole shelf of it. There was canned milk and canned apples and lots of lard and something called “graisse de canard.” One can appeared to contain some kind of stewed chrysalis from Asia. There were cans of jellied eels and cans of haggis from Scotland. There seemed to be every kind of canned fish, which seemed absurd considering Lichport was a seaside town.

On a high shelf, Silas saw a can of roast veal and gravy marked 1824. He looked at the can, and then at Mother Peale.

“You’re looking hard at my shelves, Silas Umber,” she accused.

“Just curious. What is all this stuff?”

“Old families, Silas. Old families. Stuck in their ways. They like things as they were, and some of ’em, I can tell you, go back a long ways. Folks just like what they’ve always liked and what
their parents liked and back and back … and so I try to get it for ’em. And I’ll have you know, cans of veal and gravy sailed with Captain William Edward Parry when he went to find the Northwest Passage!”