Drizzle (22 page)
Authors: Kathleen Van Cleve
But she smiles, and I do too.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Grandmom
I fell asleep after Beatrice assured me that Freddy was okay. For once, I was asleep in a second. I think I have a dream—something with diamonds popping up, and psychedelic watering cans—but I’m not sure. What I do know is that I wake up completely alert at two in the morning. I know it’s two in the morning, because I check my watch, which also tells me the date. It’s September 20.
The day Grandmom died.
It’s weird, I think, how understanding something flashes through your mind at the strangest times. Or maybe it isn’t strange at all—maybe it’s just some bigger force, Mother Nature, maybe, or God, waiting until the exact right moment for you to figure something out.
Spark spelled out Silo. But that’s just because the bench is right near the Silo. I’m suddenly sure that I’m supposed to go to the bench. Tonight. Right now.
If you ever have a question, Polly, just come sit on my bench.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt and a pair of socks. I open my desk drawer and take out my book light.
Slowly, I open the door to my room, holding tight to the doorknob so it doesn’t make any sound when it turns. I release it quietly, but when I push the door farther out into the hallway, there’s a loud squeak from the hinges. I freeze, waiting for someone to come out in the hall. But Patricia and Basford fell asleep hours ago, and Mom and Dad are staying overnight at the hospital with Freddy. Beatrice and Chico are in their rooms on the other side of the castle. It should be okay.
As quietly as I can, I step down all the stairs to the living room. My work boots are lined up against the wall. I slide them on and push open the door.
It’s very, very dark. The tiny beam of light from my book light barely illuminates anything and yet, here I am, taking steps in the middle of the night toward the one place on the farm I can’t even bear to look at, even from the safety of my turret. But here I am,
step step step,
on top of brown dirt and a narrow, paved road, alongside unseen but dying plants.
step step step,
on top of brown dirt and a narrow, paved road, alongside unseen but dying plants.
There’s some sense that this is directed by something—someone—I can’t see. I’d like to think it’s Grandmom, but I don’t know. I just know
something
is pushing my feet farther and farther toward the Dark House, the slugs, the bench.
something
is pushing my feet farther and farther toward the Dark House, the slugs, the bench.
When I cross the bronze bridge, I stop. I can see the black outlines of the Dark House about one hundred yards ahead of me. My crooked finger starts to ache, but it’s a dull pain next to the sudden image of Freddy on the rope bridge, dazed and gray and so unlike my brother.
This is for Freddy. This is for Freddy.
I step on something soft, making me jump. It isn’t a slug. It’s just a wayward patch of dirt. But the slugs are near here, I know it. I must be careful.
Step step step.
Step step step.
The bench is about fifty feet away. I can barely make out its shape—its swirling framework, the tilted seat. The bench faces the lake, with Teddy, Aunt Edith’s Giant Rhubarb plant, swaying next to it. It seems remarkably upright, relative to our other rhubarb plants.
The pain in my finger amps up: Now it feels like the electric shocks that shoot up my arm when I put my hand in the dragonfly mist. It hurts enough that I put the book light in my left hand and shove my right hand, clenched tightly, in my pocket. I’m not paying attention to where I walk, and I step on another soft patch. This time, when I flash the light on the ground, I see that I have squashed a couple of slugs.
Sorry, Beatrice
.
Sorry, Beatrice
.
I take a deep breath and lift my head, looking up to the moonless sky. Stars twinkle, but otherwise it’s as black as the Dark House. I’m suddenly so scared, it’s hard to breathe.
Something moves near the bench. I blink—it’s still a black mass, but something is definitely moving. A moth? A bat?
A mutant vampire bat moth?
Coward Polly has returned. She’s screaming for me to turn around, run back, pull up the covers, and shut my eyes until morning.
I take a step forward. Something moves
again.
again.
I’m close enough now to recognize the shape. It’s a person. Someone sitting on the bench. I approach faster, shining the light to see who it is. The second I shine the light, a voice breaks through the stillness.
“Polly,” says Aunt Edith from her seat on the bench. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
SAME DAY, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
I Did It for You
“Aunt Edith?” My hand trembles and I stumble, my right foot almost smashing back into the muck of the slugsand. “Aunt Edith? What are you doing—how did you know I’d be here?”
“It’s Friday,” she says. “Well, now it’s Saturday. I’ve been sitting here a long time.”
I shine my book light at her. There she is, dazzling even under this dark, dark sky. “I had a feeling that if I sat here long enough, you might appear.” She extends her hand. “Sit down.”
My first impulse is to refuse. That’s what Jongy would do. If Aunt Edith wanted to sell Jongy’s home, Jongy would cut her off completely, no regrets, no second thoughts, no need to understand where she was coming from. In her mind, to do anything else would be “passive.” It’s what I think Mr. Emerson was talking about: a hobgoblin with foolishly consistent thoughts, no matter what the situation.
But I’m not that kind of person. I know that about myself. I’m someone who has to hear and consider all sides. I love Aunt Edith. Or at least, I did. I think I still do. It’s confusing and messed up and I don’t know anything except that when I look at her, right this second, all I know for sure is that I missed her so much.
Jongy would
definitely
think I’m a pushover. Maybe she’s right.
definitely
think I’m a pushover. Maybe she’s right.
Teddy stands tall, shockingly tall, as if he’s defying the lack of rain by pushing up his leaves like the most well-watered of plants. I realize that he must be reacting to the power of Aunt Edith’s force field. That must be why he has energy. None of the other rhubarb plants can stand up at all.
I sit on the bench next to Aunt Edith, facing her, my back against the armrest. My crooked finger, still shoved in my pocket, feels like it’s on fire.
“How is Freddy?” she asks.
“You know about Freddy?”
“Polly. Of course I know.”
“He’s getting tested,” I tell her. “He’s stable.”
Aunt Edith laces her long fingers together. “I’m terribly sorry about that.You can’t be out here very long. You have to get some sleep. That was a terrible fall today.”
“But how—”
“Word travels fast. That bridge is a menace. I told your father not to build it.” She pauses, her eyes flickering over the lake. “He didn’t listen.”
This doesn’t sound like Aunt Edith. This sounds grouchy, like I sound when I’m mad at Patricia for not paying any attention to me.
“He liked the way the bridge looked,” I tell her.
“So he said.” Her voice is clipped, angry.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “about the article in the paper.”
“It was bound to happen. It doesn’t matter.” She turns, pressing her clasped hands against her knees. “What matters, Polly, is you.” For a long second, she stares at me, serious. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“Why what?”
“Why I want to sell the farm.”
I don’t answer her immediately. Instead, I bring my knees up to my chest, pulling my feet onto the bench. I circle my knees with my left hand, the one that’s holding the book light.
“I’ve learned some things since you went away,” I tell her. “About Alessandra di Falciana. Other things.”
Aunt Edith turns to me with a beautiful, genuine smile. “Of course you did,” she says. “You’ve always loved to learn. Even as a very little girl.” Her whole face seems to brighten, even out here in the dark. “My own sons never showed any genuine appreciation for learning. Neither did Freddy or Patricia. Pleasant children. But no real interest, no seeking for anything.”
Her emerald ring gleams. “But you. You’re so interested in everything. You couldn’t ask enough questions.”
“I didn’t ask everyone questions,” I tell her. “Just you.”
She nods. “So what did you learn about Alessandra?”
“A lot,” I say. “She wants to uproot everything that matters here, she wants to keep a
preserve
here, whatever that is.”
preserve
here, whatever that is.”
“You’ve been busy.”
I can tell that I’ve pleased her, which makes me mad. Where has she been? Does she even know how bad the farm is doing? Does she know the plants are dying and that the lake is draining?
Does she know that Freddy and the rain are connected?
I turn sharply and face her, shining my light directly on her face. She’s startled, putting her hands up.
I turn sharply and face her, shining my light directly on her face. She’s startled, putting her hands up.
“Yes. I would like to know why you wanted to sell our farm,” I say quietly.
Aunt Edith stares at me, her eyes trained on mine. “Good.” She shifts on the bench, sitting more upright. “I have three reasons. The first is the most prosaic.”
She shifts again, now facing the lake.
“I need money.”
“But you’re
rich
,” I say immediately.
rich
,” I say immediately.
Aunt Edith smiles tightly. “I
was
rich. Now I’m not. Or at least, not as much.”
was
rich. Now I’m not. Or at least, not as much.”
“But—”
“You’ll see when you grow up that there’s a lot of talk about economic theory and arcane finance terms. But try to remember two rules: If you spend more than you earn, you’ll get in trouble. And you can’t expect other people to care about your money as much as you do.”
“What does that mean?”
“I made some bad decisions and now I need an influx of money. The sale of the farm would fix everything.” Her smile fades. “And your family would have enough money for the rest of their lives. Most people would be thrilled.”
She sounds snippy, almost mad. It’s hard to believe that Aunt Edith really needs money. But I think she’s telling the truth. She’s not the type to make up stories, especially ones that show she’s made a mistake.
“What’s the second reason?” I ask.
A hopeful, young-looking smile spreads over her face. “I want to go back to work,” she says softly.“I’m a writer. I’m not a farmer. I never wanted to be here. I did the best I could with it—made it what it is today, no matter what your parents tell you. But it was a sacrifice.”
She takes a deep breath. “I spent years and years building my career, Polly, bulldozing over obstacles that other women couldn’t begin to understand. It wasn’t about my looks or my behavior. It wasn’t about whom I married or whom I dated. It was about how hard I worked, my opinions, my
mind.
” She pauses, grabbing my knees with her hands. “Polly, there was a time when I felt I was literally operating in the heavens, brushing the stars. People cared about what I had to say. People cared about what I did and, more importantly, what I thought.”
mind.
” She pauses, grabbing my knees with her hands. “Polly, there was a time when I felt I was literally operating in the heavens, brushing the stars. People cared about what I had to say. People cared about what I did and, more importantly, what I thought.”
She lifts her hands off of my knees, gently, replacing them on her own lap. “Then I came here. Thinking all the while that it was okay, that my family—your family—was worth it. More important than my achievements. More important than my work. No.” She shakes her head impatiently. “It isn’t.
“I’m going back to New York. I am going to return to the life that was meant for me to live—the life I’ve given up.”
Aunt Edith sits back against the bench. When she turns, her eyes are glittering. “
A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall give him no peace.”
A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall give him no peace.”
“Mr. Emerson,” I say, recognizing the quote.
She smiles. “This is important, Polly. Listen.” I turn my face up to meet her gaze. “There’s a feeling you get when you achieve something all by yourself that will bring you more peace and contentment than anything money or love can provide. Men or women, it’s all the same. It is that moment when you can look around and say ‘I did it’—and know no one can take it away from you.You don’t need to brag about it, you don’t need to try to get credit for it, because it is you, who you are, who you are meant to be.”
She looks away then, toward the Dark House.“Unless you give it all up, throw it up in the air.” I watch as her expression changes to all hard lines and strong eyebrows. “This farm is not who I am,” she says simply.
I look at her. “You said three reasons. That was only two.”
“Well, the last one, that’s simple.” She turns to me with a gentle smile. “I did it for you.”
“Me?” I shake my head, not understanding. “But I love it here.”
“I know you do. Of course you do. You’re a child. But you’re too smart, Polly.You have too much to offer the world to stay here.” She grins. “I know you’re going to tell me again what my mother told you.” She imitates Grandmom’s high-pitched voice.
“You can find all you need to find right here, in this rhubarb patch!”
“You can find all you need to find right here, in this rhubarb patch!”
Other books
Near To You by King, Asha
Breathe by Kristen Ashley
Lovers & Haters by Calvin Slater
How the Whale Became by Ted Hughes
Pretty Wanted by Elisa Ludwig
Deeper by Moore-JamesA
The Turning of Zachary Degaud (A Witch Hunter Saga Short Story) by Nicole R. Taylor
Chains of Destruction by Selina Rosen
One Last Love by Haines, Derek
