Evenfall (21 page)

“It seems some visitors here made quite a mess of my front porch,” she begins. “Not to mention my front lawn.”

“These visitors—they wouldn’t happen to be friends of my son’s, would they?” Catherine says shrewdly.

“Not exactly,” Gert hedges. “More like acquaintances. Anyhow, what with the mess and the fact that it’s high time the cottage was painted, I was hoping you might be able to persuade Cort to help me fix the place up.”

They spend the next fifteen minutes negotiating time and rates. Catherine’s all for giving her son into slavery, but Gert thinks a little money might sweeten her trap, so she holds out for giving Cort a fair rate. Once that’s decided, she has to persuade Catherine to let the boy come in from the dairy barn for lunch before sending him over.

The extra time gives Gert the opportunity to prepare her attack. And so it is that when Cort arrives, he finds her sitting on the porch, cool and fresh in clean khaki shorts and a white shirt. She’s fanning herself with yesterday’s edition of the newspaper, a pitcher of lemonade by her side.

“Lemonade?” she offers, waving him to the other chair. She pours him a glass without waiting for an answer. She passes a plate of oatmeal cookies, and he takes one and sniffs at it suspiciously. She doesn’t blame him—they look like hockey pucks. She never did learn how to cook, but she sees how it could come in handy.

Cort takes a bite of the cookie. To his credit, he doesn’t
spit it out; just places the remainder on the armrest of his chair and swigs some lemonade.

She judges him to be sufficiently softened up, and begins the attack. “I assume your mother told you about our conversation,” she says.

Cort nods.

“I’ll have you know I didn’t mention the abominations you’re keeping up on the hill.”

Another nod.

“Nor did I mention the fact that they tore up my lawn and damaged my porch.” She waves her hand around in the general direction of the gnaw marks and hoofprints.

When the boy still doesn’t say anything—just sits there looking glum—Gert’s small reserve of patience runs out. This is another reason she doesn’t meddle—it takes too much energy.

“Well?” she says. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Gert, but your cottage was in tough shape way before my goats came along.”

Gert exhales a great gust of air through her nose. It is times like these that she misses her sister the most. Clara could take the most recalcitrant man and sweet talk him into doing her bidding, all the while making it seem it was his idea in the first place.

“I admit, the cottage needed some work,” she concedes. “But your animals didn’t help matters. And I saw on my walk this morning that you’ve still got them corralled on my property.”

Cort shifts in his chair. “I’m working on moving them,” he says.

“Maybe you don’t have to. I have an idea we could help each other.”

The boy doesn’t say a word, just sits there, looking at her. Gert ignores his lack of enthusiasm and carries on.

“I need someone to perform some general chores. Nothing too difficult—painting, landscaping, that sort of thing. In exchange for your help, I’d be willing to let those goats stay here—and give you some much-needed advice about their care.”

“I don’t know, Miss Gert.”

“I’d also pay you a fair wage,” she adds. “And you could work at your own schedule, provided we agree upon the tasks to be completed each week.”

“I don’t know,” he says again. He looks into his lemonade glass as if he expects to find an answer there.

“Of course, I’d need some help with the big house, too,” she says, playing her trump card. “There’s quite a bit of work to be done there. I can guarantee through the end of summer—say, September first? That’s four weeks. It should give you plenty of time to accomplish what you need to do.”

He looks at her straight on for the first time. His eyes are brown and guileless, and it’s clear he knows what she’s thinking. “That’s a long time just for some handyman work,” he says.

“September first,” she repeats.

He takes a sip of lemonade, and she can see him working through the idea of having a legitimate excuse to be on the
property every day. She counts to ten, then counts again. On the third count, she decides she’s waited long enough.

“Well?” she says.

“What the hell—heck, I mean.” He sets his empty glass down beside his chair. “You’ve got a deal.”

“Good. You can start today.”

“I thought you said I could work at my own schedule?”

“I spoke with your mother, Cort. You have no schedule. I’ll expect you back here in an hour, no less. You can start by scraping the cottage. You’ll find a ladder behind the garage.” She stands, collects their glasses and tray of cookies, and walks inside to the kitchen. As she’s rinsing the plates, she listens. There’s only silence outside. She moves to the screen door and sees Cort sitting where she left him, morosely contemplating the few morning glories that escaped the goats’ rampage.

“You’d better get going,” she tells him. “With all you’ve got to do, why are you still sitting there?”

“I’m just wondering if your cookies are as poisonous as your flowers are.”

“Shoo, you,” she says, opening the door to flap her dishtowel at him. He gives her a small smile, the first she’s gotten out of him today, before he stands, stretches, and clatters down the steps.

“Mind you’re back here in an hour—no less,” she calls after him, and he waves a hand in response. She finishes washing the dishes, and when she takes the kitchen towel outside to dry in the sun, she walks past the mirror without a glance.

NEAL Roberts smokes. Slender brown cigarettes he keeps in a leather case. The tobacco has an earthy sweetness to it, and combined with the leather it’s a heady scent. He wears cologne, too. It’s subtle, spiced with the warmth of distant places I’ll never see. He splashes it on and then smokes a cigarette out the bathroom window.

The day I died, the only things I could smell were rubbing alcohol, medicinal and harsh, and lemon cleaner. Now, scents that were lost to me—the salty tang of sweat, the cool richness of creek mud, the dry, leathery odor of a dog’s paw—come easily. Like changing stations on the radio, it’s a simple matter of tuning in to the right frequency.

Neal’s cologne, for example. The scent’s not sharp-edged, like the grapes ripening outside; it’s made up of soft, rounded
bits that float to all corners of the house and yard. If I concentrate hard enough, I can move them to a place of my choosing, batting them like bubbles through the air.

In the week he’s been here, I’ve discovered I most like to concentrate them over Neal’s head, a homing beacon of sorts for the mosquitoes and wasps that roam the air searching for their next landing spot. It’s nothing personal, I tell myself, or at least not much. Neal’s pleasant enough. He’s handsome, I suppose, with a kind of sophisticated charm you don’t see much in these parts. Andie’s probably brought home worse. But there’s something there, just beneath the surface, that I don’t care for. It shows in his eyes sometimes, a shrewd, calculating glance that weighs the value of Evenfall and everything in it, even Andie.

He’s calling to her now, his voice carrying throughout the house. It reaches me in the attic, and when she doesn’t answer I find him and tag along behind. She’s outside, pulling weeds from between the bricks in the front walk. The cloud of fragrance hangs above his head as he stoops to kiss her. His clothes are clean and neat, unmarked by any stain, and for some reason this annoys me.

“Morning, babe.”

“Morning. You were out early.” Already there’s a faint sheen of sweat on Andie’s forehead, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand before she goes back to work. Andie smells like dirt and sunshine, like the sharp bitter tang of bruised weeds.

Neal watches her for a minute. “Want to take a break and come for a ride with me?”

“Where to?” Andie doesn’t look up.

“The guys at the feed store said some teenager a town over is trying to unload a cache of fireworks. I thought we could pick some up.”

“You went to Baxter’s?” Andie stops working and rocks back on her heels to look up at him.

“Is that what it’s called? Man, it’s a crazy place. Did you know they sell everything from donuts to live ducklings there?”

On a slow Saturday afternoon, I’ve known Henry Baxter to take a tipple or two from the flask he keeps under the counter. He also likes to put a mousetrap in the donut box, to discourage sampling.

“The donuts are only on weekends. And make sure you pay before you reach in to grab one,” Andie says.

“I bought these for your aunt.” Neal holds up a brown paper bag, and pulls out a glass jar filled with golden peach halves. “Seems like the kind of old-timey thing she’d like.”

“Thanks,” Andie says. “But what’s with the fireworks?”

“I don’t know. I just thought, we missed the Fourth, so maybe we should try and do a little something. We could have a barbecue, set some off, and invite your aunt and maybe your dad.”

Richard coming to Evenfall again is as likely as my rising from the dead, and by the snort Andie gives I’d say she agrees. She stands and stretches, then takes the peaches from him.

“Whatever. But if you light so much as a sparkler on the property, Aunt Gert’s liable to have you arrested. She’s not big on the whole burning-down-the-house thing.”

Andie’s not just talking. The woods are dry enough this time of year that they’d go up like kindling.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure that would be a bad thing,” he says, looking around. “Might save a developer some bucks, you know? Your dad didn’t tell me how much work the house needed. Of course, he didn’t tell me about all the antiques, either. The place is loaded.”

“I guess,” Andie says. “I’ve never thought about it that way—as antiques. It’s just stuff that’s always been here.” She looks down at the peaches in her hands, then back up at Neal. “I didn’t know you and Richard had talked about Evenfall at all.”

While Andie and Neal talk, I try my hand at redirecting a yellow jacket. I’ve just gotten it aimed right when Neal jumps. At first I think I’ve been successful, but the bee is just buzzing a confused figure eight pattern over his head. I look again and see that a shadow has detached itself from the house and is heading toward Neal, who takes a step back and trips over Andie’s trowel.

“Jesus.” He staggers but doesn’t fall down.

“Relax, it’s just Nina,” Andie says. The dog steps forward, wagging her tail, and grazes against Neal’s shorts. He pushes her away and brushes at his clothes with his free hand.

“Nice of you to show up,” I say. She whines and rolls over on her back, muddy paws in the air.

If Nina’s here, it’s likely that Cort’s around, too, a thought that’s clearly occurred to Andie. She stands and turns in a slow circle, searching the surrounding woods. Two days ago, Cort was weed-whacking around the grapevines just after
sunrise, but by the time Andie got dressed and downstairs, he was gone. Yesterday, the sound of hammering echoed from the woods shortly after dawn, and the noise kept up for over an hour. Both times, Cort’s truck was nowhere to be seen. I’ve a thought as to where it may be, and I wonder if the same thought’s occurred to Andie.

“These shorts are Italian linen, for christsakes,” Neal is saying, still trying to fend off Nina, who has risen and is trying to rub her face against him.

“She’s just trying to say hi,” Andie says, grabbing Nina by the collar with her free hand and dragging her back. Neal opens his mouth to respond, but I’ve finally brought the yellow jacket in for a landing, right where his chest hair peeks out of his pink collared shirt.

“Shit!” Neal slaps at his chest, but the insect is already in the air and happily heading toward the grape vines, its mission accomplished.

“It probably thought you were a flower,” Andie says. “I think there’s a nest of them up in the attic. I keep hearing this humming.”

“Jesus Christ.” He scrunches his neck, trying to see the sting.

“It’s just a little sting,” she says. Her face softens and she comes closer to him, pokes a finger at the swelling. “Come in the house and I’ll put some ice on it.”

He brushes her hand away. “Forget it. Look, there’s a big antique depot on the way—I thought we could stop in and shoot the shit with them for a while. Get some prices for things, so you know what you’re dealing with.”

She shakes her head. “I think I’ll finish up here. You go and I’ll see you later.”

“The damn dog of yours is right in front of my car,” he says.

“It’s not my dog,” Andie says, but whistles anyways, and Nina slowly crosses the yard to her. My niece gives him a kiss before he stomps off, and a moment later his car is roaring down the driveway.

The second he’s gone, Andie turns her attention to Nina, who slinks onto her belly.

“All right, you,” she says. “Where is he?”

The dog squirms until Andie relents and stoops to pat her head. Beads of water glisten in her fur, and she has a damp, earthy smell.

“At the creek, hey?” Andie says, but she doesn’t take the path that leads toward the water. Instead, she looks thoughtfully at the woods before she walks toward Gert’s cottage. She carries the peaches in their brown paper sack, Nina trailing behind.

I consider. Leaving the farm requires more energy than I like. For days after, I’m reduced, an echo of an echo. But if Gert’s up to something, as both my niece and I seem to think, I’m curious to see what it is, so I drift along behind.

Andie walks at a quick pace, head down, and in no time we’re at the cottage. Gert’s standing on the front porch, a watering can in her hand. She looks up, and it is as if she’s been waiting for us.

The sun’s behind her, and I can see the outline of her body through the white shirt she wears. She’s thinner than
I like, and when she moves I’m overcome by the memory of the warmth of her skin, the sharpness of her hip bones beneath me.

Andie’s said something, but I’ve missed it. I follow her gaze and realize that my first impression—the cottage is more run-down than usual—is wrong. It’s been scraped clean in preparation for painting. And judging by the shingles that litter the ground, the hammering yesterday was somebody working on the roof. Cort’s truck parked at the top of the driveway pretty much eliminates any question of who the somebody is.