Flora (10 page)

“Just Helen. I don’t have a nickname.” Too late it came to me that he hadn’t remembered my name, either, and was trying to get around it. “What do
you
like to be called?” At least I had not said his name.

“Finn is fine. It was all last names in the Army and I’m used to it. My birth name is Devlin. Devlin Patrick. Devlin was my mother’s brother who died and Patrick was the saint. There are slews of Patricks in Ireland.”

“Are you Irish?”

“Born Irish, but I’m an American citizen now. How else would I be wearing U.S. Army Parachute Infantry boots? My father’s cousin adopted me when I was ten. They were Finns who’d settled in Albany, New York, and did well for themselves.”

“Did your parents die?”

“No, but they had five kids and no money, and my father’s cousin and his wife had money but no kids, and they asked if they could have one of us boys.”

“You mean your parents sold you?”

“It wasn’t a term anyone used, but there were benefits to both sides.”

“But how did
you
feel about it?”

“Oh, I was thrilled to be the one chosen. I couldn’t wait. Everyone wants to go to America.”

We scuffed on downhill toward my grandfather’s shortcut, Finn half-smiling at his parachute infantry boots and probably remembering things while I imagined what I would feel if my father suddenly said, “Helen, I’ve got a proposition. How would you like to go to America and live with ———?” But I was already in America, where everyone wanted to go, and the only cousin I had was Flora—and my father was paying her to live with me.

“You were ten, like I am,” I said. “Though I’m going to be eleven in August. Didn’t you miss your
house
in Ireland?”

He laughed his high-pitched laugh that sounded like a cry being squeezed out of him. “What house? My brother and I shared a room with my father in town, and the girls, who were still little, stayed with my mum and her people in the country.”

“Didn’t you miss your brother? Was he jealous when he didn’t get chosen?”

“Ah, that’s another story,” he said, looking suddenly unhappy, “and that’s enough about me.”

When we got to the hairpin curve I told him about the ruffians who came from the other side to shoot out the street-light and he fell into the same trap I had with Nonie. “Why didn’t they stay on their side of town and shoot out their own
streetlights?” he asked. “Because,” I said wryly, “they already
have
,” making him laugh.

“Remember it’s all grown over,” I warned, when we were at the entrance of the shortcut. “Don’t expect to see a path or anything. And just a little way in, there’s this horrible crater. I should probably go first.”

“I see the path, it begins here,” he said, diving ahead of me into the brush, “then it follows that old fallen railing and down there it dips out of sight.”

“Watch out for that crater. Flora couldn’t see anything when I brought her here.”

“That’s because she didn’t spend two years of her life studying the ground and learning how to use it to keep yourself alive.”

I followed behind his fast-moving boots, wondering what it would be like to be a boy.

“Now your grandfather,” he called back, “why was it he built the shortcut?”

“So the Recoverers could walk straight down the mountain to the stores without having to walk miles of extra circles on the road.”

“The Recoverers were the patients?”

“Well, they weren’t really patients anymore. They had finished with their treatments at other places in town, like Craggy Bluff, if they were inebriates—”

“Now that is a lovely word I haven’t heard for a while: inebriates.”

“—Or if they had had TB they would have been at Ashland Park, or, if they had TB and money, up at Highmount. And if they had mental problems, they would have been treated at Appalachian Hill. When they came to us they were pretty much
recovered, but they still weren’t ready to go back to where they came from.”

“Like me.” He laughed. “Did you know any of these Recoverers?”

“Oh, no, they were all gone before I was born. The last one left in 1916, when my father was sixteen. I don’t think the shortcut’s been used much since. My father is the age of the century, so it’s easy to remember his age.”

“The year of the Easter Rising.”

“The what?”

“Some very bad Irish history that happened in 1916. Nobody talked about anything else when I was a boy.”

“You better be careful.” I had to pant to keep up with him. “There’s this crater just—”

But, uttering a sort of war whoop, he had already disappeared over its edge.

“Mr. Finn?” I crept closer, fearful of falling in myself. “Are you all right? Did you fall?”

“Of course I didn’t fall,” came his voice from below. “I jumped. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if this isn’t the mother of all foxholes!”

I peered over the edge to see him dancing a little jig on the floor of the crater, his arms pointed skyward from the elbows, a silly, ecstatic grin on his upturned face. The crater was wider than I remembered from when Flora and I had seen it. Maybe because there was more light in it at this hour.

“Come down,” he called.

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes you can. It’s fabulous down here.” He was still dancing the jig with a look of mad ecstasy. From where I stood above,
the hair on his head looked like sharp little orange spikes sticking up in a field of flesh. For all I knew he might still have mental problems.

“Come on, I’ll help you. See that young sassafras? Grab hold of it and swing down until you’re standing on the root below.”

“I really
can’t
.” I wondered whether it might not be wisest to run away and leave him there.

“You can, you can. Come on, it’s great!” He had stopped the dancing, and his sunlit green eyes glittered up at me. He raised his arms, beckoning with his fingers. “Trust me, I’ll catch you.” It seemed important to him that I trust him. He would dismiss me as a child if I ran away. My hand was already on the young sassafras. How did he know to call it that? I didn’t know anything but the limited world of my “strange childhood.”

“Now keep hold of it and step onto the root—”

One blue Ked on the root, then the other. Two blue Keds. What would Mrs. Huff think if she were watching me right this minute?

“Now grab my hand and ye’re down.”

My knees were wobbly, my heart was thumping, yet somehow I gripped his hand and was down.

“Good girl.” He shook my hand before releasing me. “I’m proud of you.”

The whole thing felt overdramatic. It was not
that
far down, really.

“Now what?” I tried to act blasé, though I was still shaking.

“What do you mean, now what?”

“What do we do now that we’re in this hole?” I sounded just like my father.

“What do we do?” he cried incredulously. “We admire it. Man, what I could have done with this hole. And I didn’t even
have to dig it. It dug itself. Just imagine, all those days and nights and years since the uprising, since your father was sixteen, this amazing thing was quietly creating itself, slowly sinking and shifting and forming itself into this lovely shelter. Why, a body could set up housekeeping here. There’s spaces for little side rooms, and that lovely moss for the floor, even some little flowers for natural wallpaper, and twining vines for curtains. And smell the lovely earth odors, all the odors coming from the pores of the earth. And so dry. In a foxhole like this I would not have come down with pneumonia.”

I was getting worried. Not only was I standing in a hole in the woods with a man I barely knew but he might be crazy. He’d admitted himself he’d had mental problems after the collapsed lung.

“Well, I don’t think my grandfather had it in mind to create a foxhole,” I said, taking on the voice of reason. “Or even a future foxhole. This would all have to be filled in if we were going to fix the path.”

Elation and playfulness drained from his countenance. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Your wanting to surprise your father. I got somewhat carried away, didn’t I?”

“Oh, no … I can see … I mean, if someone’s just come back from having to dig their own foxholes in the war, this must seem like …” I trailed off, unable to think of a comparison. “I better be getting back,” I said. “Flora will be worrying.” For good measure I added untruthfully, “She gets really upset if I go out of her sight.”

With relief I watched him reassume his adulthood. “Then, up you go,” he said, giving me a boost till my foot was firmly on the root. I grasped the slim trunk of the sassafras tree, and realized I could probably climb up and down by myself whenever I
wanted. It would be fun to show someone. Like Brian, who I was sure had never climbed into or out of a hole in his life. But Brian would probably never climb anywhere, up or down, again.

We hurried along the paved road to Finn’s motorcycle. “I hope we won’t have upset Flora too much,” he said.

“We’d better not say anything about going in the crater,” I said. “It’ll worry her and she’ll cry. My cousin has the gift of tears.”

“God forbid we make your lovely cousin cry,” he said. “If you ride behind me on the seat, we’ll get you home that much faster.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Ah, you can do anything you set your mind to, Helen. I’ve seen you in action now. So climb up and hold on tight.”

XII.

How are you settling into your new room?” Mrs. Jones asked. It was Tuesday again and I was helping her change the linens on Nonie’s bed.

“Oh, fine.”

“Have you … dreamed anymore?”

I knew from her wistful tone she meant had I dreamed about Nonie. The answer was yes, but, as it had been a hideous nightmare, I weaseled.

“I’ve heard her
voice
a couple of times. And one night I woke up really sad and so I did this strange thing.”

Mrs. Jones smoothed down the top sheet on her side and companionably waited.

“I got her new hat out of the closet. She was trying it on when she had her heart attack, you know.”

“That’s right.”

“Then I put it on. I sat down in front of the three-way mirror and pinned it on. It still had her hatpin in it. She always carried this pin in her purse in case she felt like trying on hats downtown.”

“How did it look on you?”

“Well, I tried it different ways but none of them looked right and then I saw if I scrunched down far enough so I couldn’t see my shoulders, it was just the hat on a person’s head. And it was like she was there.”

Mrs. Jones sighed.

“It was like she was showing me how she looked just before she died. I mean how she would have looked if I had been standing behind her.”

We each plumped our pillow in its fresh case and then together folded the counterpane over them.

“That’s wonderful about that hatpin,” she said at last. “What did you do with it?”

“Oh, I put it right back in the hat afterwards and put everything back in the box.”

“That’s exactly what I would have done!” Mrs. Jones raised her eyes to the ceiling and seemed to be recalling some precious item belonging to Rosemary that she had cared for in a particular way. After a minute she added, “That little girl died, you know.”

“What little girl?”

“The one who came down with polio the same time as your friend. It was in the paper. How is your friend doing?”

“They may let him go home, but it will be a long road to recovery.” I was quoting Father McFall. The rector had “dropped by” the house on his way to the hospital and sat and talked to Flora while I finally wrote a letter to Brian that he could handdeliver. “He has been asking about you,” Father McFall explained, just short of scolding, “and I know you’ll both feel better if you send him a few lines on paper. Something he can keep and reread.”

“Unlucky little fellow,” said Mrs. Jones. “And they’re saying
now it was just the two cases, not an epidemic. They may even reopen the lake for the fireworks on the Fourth.”

Would my father lift our quarantine when he heard there was no epidemic? Somehow I doubted it. He liked us where we were. “Getting on a-okay here,” he had scrawled on the back of a postcard of the American flag. “I am much more suited to this kind of work. You and Flora stay on your hill. That way I know you’re safe. Will try to call soon. Harry.”

Flora had received a second rejection and spent that day in tears, but the following day she was offered a job teaching fifth grade in a county school in Dothan, Alabama, and was now making lesson plans upstairs on the porch outside the Willow Fanning room. After my great adventure with Finn, we had had the okra fried crunchily in egg and bread crumbs and she had bemoaned her “stupid mistake” of being in the tub when Finn had brought me home. I hadn’t believed my luck when Finn had helped me down from the motorcycle and Flora hadn’t come flying out the door, but I was beginning to think it might have been better to get it over then. Because now she wanted to go over and over everything that had been done and said in my first free hour away from her.

“Now where was it you two met up on Sunset Drive … ?”

“Just before where the shortcut is.” Naturally, I didn’t tell her about starting to lose myself and having to sit down.

“And so you showed him the shortcut. Did you walk or ride to it?”

“We walked there and back and then we rode to the house.” Of course I didn’t tell her we had gone down into the crater. That was Finn’s and my secret.

“And he told you he was Irish, then adopted by Americans.”

“By his father’s cousins who had done well.”

“Did he say how?”

“How he was adopted?”

“No, how they had done well.”

“No.”

“Did you offer to pay him for the okra?”

“No. It was a gift.”

“Did he say that? Did he say it was a gift?”

“He said he was bringing it because you had sounded disappointed when the store didn’t have any. That sounds like a gift to me.”

“He said I was disappointed? How sweet. Maybe we should ask him to dinner, or would that be wrong?”

“Why would it be wrong?”

“Because he’s the person who delivers our groceries and also there’s your father’s orders about staying away from people.”