Mason's Daughter (16 page)

The nurse came and I looked away as she gave Mother an injection. Daddy finally stood up while the nurse studied her wristwatch as she took Mother’s pulse.

After wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I ran back to Mother’s room and yanked open her closet door. I lifted all the hangers from the rod and threw her clothes on the bed. One by one I shook them to be sure the brooch wasn’t stuck in a pocket. Then I pulled her shoes off the shelf and turned them upside down, dropping them to the floor. I had worked halfway through emptying Mother’s dresser drawers when my father appeared in the doorway.

Frowning, he surveyed the mess. “Sally, what are you doing?” Maybe he was worried I was going to turn out like her.

“Looking for Mother’s brooch. It’s got to be among her things somewhere.”

He came to stand next to me, so close I detected the faint odor of cigars and carnation-scented soap. “It isn’t here.”

“How do you know?” I slammed the bottom drawer. “Did someone steal it?”

He sighed and picked up Mother’s hairbrush. “There is no brooch. She’s making it up.”

“You hid it from her.”

“She can’t . . . the doctor says she isn’t allowed to have any sharp objects.”

I glared at him. “You’re lying.”

It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have drawn her portrait with the brooch, so it wouldn’t remind her of what she lost. If only I could find that stupid piece of jewelry.

Angelique and I stop at the door to Colton’s room and I knock. He wears a headset as he lies sideways across his bed, long legs dangling to the floor. I tap him on the shoulder and say, “Judith will be here to pick you up in a few minutes. Try to get some rest until then.”

When he sees Angelique over my shoulder, he peels himself from the mattress and ambles toward her. She stretches out both arms and hugs him. “Be brave,” she says. “We’ll both be fine.” Her eyes glisten.

On the way to the garage, Angelique and I enter the kitchen, where the sweet toasty aroma of pancakes and maple syrup lingers. Colton has left the two pills on the counter. I stop and glance at the clock. Ten forty-nine. Shouldering my purse, I jangle my keys and press the button to raise the garage door.

“I remember driving
you
to the doctor’s office once, a long time ago,” Angelique says in the car.

“We found out I was pregnant.” I smile at her.

“Beyond the realm of my experience or imagination, but utterly thrilling anyway.”

We reminisce about that mysterious and joyful time all the way to the medical building and slip inside the door of the doctor’s office at two minutes after eleven. In the lobby, I sit and pretend to read recipes from
Southern Living
magazine while Angelique fills out paperwork for new patients.

Another fifteen minutes passes while we wait. I wonder if Judith has arrived at my house yet. No point in calling there. Colton won’t answer or speak to me if he did. Maybe I can phone Mike and ask him to find out.

As if by magic, a nurse in a white uniform appears at my elbow. “The doctor will see you now.”

We both stand up, but Angelique steps forward ahead of me. “
I’m
the customer,” she says to me. “You wait here.”

“Make her answer lots of personal questions,” I whisper to the nurse, loud enough for Angelique to hear. “Be sure she tells you everything,”

Once they vanish behind the doors to the inner sanctum, I ask the receptionist where the pay phone is located.

“Down the hall by the water fountain.”

As I walk, I feel the bottom of my purse for a quarter but recognize only two nickels instead. Waving a dollar bill, I return to the receptionist to ask for change. She acts like I ordered one of her kidneys on shaved ice, but she gives me four quarters from her purse.

“I only need one,” I say, nudging the other three toward her. To punish her huffiness, I leave my dollar on the counter. Good thing I don’t require change for a hundred.

There is no answer at Mike’s office. I hang up, retrieve my solitary quarter, and dial again. Still no Mike. I turn around, but return to the phone when I remember my neighbor across the street usually stays at home with her twin toddlers. She answers after five rings.

“Sally, you better get home right now. There are fire trucks in front of your house.”

“Oh, my God! Can you see what’s happening? Is anything burning?”

“There’s smoke coming from the back of your garage, and I heard some explosions a while ago.”

“Do you see Colton anywhere?”

“There are too many people, too much commotion. My kids are scared and crying.”

“You tend to them. I’ll be right there.”

I toss the receiver at the switch hook and race down the hallway to the doctor’s office. A silver-haired woman holds the door open for her husband, who blocks the entrance. Without stepping inside, I call to the frosty receptionist that I have an emergency at home. I’ll send someone to pick up Angelique later or she can take a taxi.

All the way home, I pray Colton didn’t fall asleep and get caught in the fire. Had he taken another pain pill and passed out? Maybe someone rescued him through the upstairs window. Where is Judith? What could have exploded?

Saint Trixie, you better have a damn good excuse for letting this happen.

By the time I turn onto my street, I can smell smoke. Three trucks are parked at my house, one in the circle driveway and the other two in front on the street. Hoses lead from the fire hydrant down the block, crisscrossing the shrubbery, and neighbors are gathered in the corners of their yards. I pull over to one side and get out of my car. Mike Avery stands on the front lawn, locked in deep conversation with the captain. The man hands him a plastic bag containing a hodgepodge of colorful fabrics, charred at the edges. I recognize them as remains of the three tee shirts Colton rejected wearing earlier. The captain turns around to join his men at the adjacent truck.

When Mike sees me approach, he waves me forward. His face muscles tighten as he slips his arm around my shoulder.

“Where’s Colton?” I look up at him.

“We can’t locate him. He’s not in the house or the garage. We searched around the greenhouse and the backyard. One of the neighbors saw him leave the house about ten minutes before the first explosion.”

“Explo–?” I can’t make a whole word, much less an entire sentence.

“The blaze started in the garage and spread to your greenhouse. The windowpanes shattered after the fertilizer in your greenhouse caught fire. When the outside wall collapsed, the greenhouse caved in.”

“But–” I put my hand to my lips, or maybe I feel my cheek for tears.

“He can’t have gone far, if he’s still on foot.”

“But where’s Colton? Is the fire–”

“The fire’s mostly out now. Your house is not damaged inside. No smoke, no water got in, nothing else is ruined. The trouble is, we have reason to think it’s arson.”

“Who? Have you seen Skipper hanging around here?”

Mike holds out the bag of tattered and burned tee shirts. He doesn’t have to say anything.

I shove his arm away and shudder. “No, no, it wasn’t Colton!” I shout. “He didn’t
do
this!”

“They’re soaked in gasoline.”

“My son did
not
”–my voice breaks as I sob–“burn down my greenhouse.”

“Right now, he’s a suspect. Or at least a person of interest. When I find him, I’ll have to bring him in.”

I shake my head as I clutch the front of Mike’s shirt.

Mike gently pries my hands loose. “He’ll have to answer some questions. No more hiding.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I stand in my driveway. As Mike’s patrol cruiser pulls away from the curb, it’s all I can do to keep from running after him, screaming my son’s name. For a moment, I wait at the edge of the heat from the smoke-filled garage, wondering if I can simply faint and escape my misery. I head toward the house to call my lawyer.

“Mrs. Edwards?”

A young man’s voice jerks me back. One of the firefighters needs directions where to relocate a damaged bench removed from what is left of my blackened greenhouse.

“Here, let me help you with that.” I approach the garage, relieved for a distraction.

He holds up his gloved hand. “Sorry, ma’am, but you can’t come in here.”

My expression must relay my confusion, and I keep walking until he trots in front of me and halts. “The area’s now under investigation,” he says. “You have to stay clear of it.”

Any other day I would argue about my rights as a homeowner, but Mike’s suspicions, plus the bag of gasoline-soaked tee shirts belonging to Colton, force me into obedience. “All right. You can set the bench on the patio behind what’s left of the garage. Am I allowed in
that
section of my property?”

He nods, and I surrender the smoldering area to the professionals. The trip through my house, front door to back patio, takes less than a minute. As I inspect scorched terra cotta pots, smoke stings my eyes and my hands shake. I wipe my face, but can’t distinguish sweat from tears.

While the firefighters continue their job, I wash whatever items they set to one side of the patio, as if I can rinse the damage down between the bricks. One thing cannot be salvaged: Jack’s appointment book. I stare at the charred cover, soaked with water, the ink washed out and the pages stuck to each other like they had melted together.

The discovery is more than I can bear. I break down and sob as I rip the book apart along the spine, section by section, and throw the smeared puckered pages in the trash heap. Never had I felt drained by something more final, not even Jack’s death. All my hopes and expectations snatched from my grasp and lost forever. Swept away by fire and an ocean of tears.

I forget about Angelique until she appears an hour and a half later. She hurries toward me with her arms outstretched.

I raise my palms toward her. “You don’t want to get this . . . this grime on you.”

Without hesitation, she enfolds me in a sympathetic embrace. “There, there, my sweet angel girl, I’m just here to be with you.”

At that moment, she knew the perfect thing to say. Judith might have encouraged me not to worry or assured me everything would be all right, but I’d have sent her straight home without packing her overnight things. With my head nestled on Angelique’s shoulder, a long howl threatens to erupt from my throat. I tell her about the loss of Jack’s book. “How did you get here?” I finally ask.

“Mike sent Nate to pick me up from the doctor’s office.” She relaxes her grip on me and surveys the growing pile of charred lumber and broken glass. “What on earth happened?”

I swallow what feels like a lump of charcoal. “Somebody . . . the captain said someone started a fire in the garage, and it spread and ignited my greenhouse.”

“Somebody?” She chucks me on the chin and raises my face to meet hers. “I thought maybe it was the new heater gone faulty.” Shaking her head, she furrows her brow. “Arson! Who would do such a thing?” Her frown recedes as her eyes widen. “Oh, no. Not . . .”

How can I argue? I have my own suspicions, too, dragging my heart down into a blackened pit. “According to my neighbor, Colton left the house before the fire started. Mike has gone to look for him. Just to ask him some questions.”

“Has Colton run away from home?’

I shake my head, but the truth is, I don’t really know.

“Sally, what are you going to do?”

“The fire department won’t let me–”

“About Colton.” Her sympathetic tone now sounds serious. “If you can’t figure out what’s driving his crazy behavior, then, for God’s sake, get some professional help.”

“Do you think he’s
crazy
?”

“Okay, poor choice of words. If he won’t tell you what’s bothering him, get him talking to an expert who can sort through all this mess. Someone without any connection to your family history.” She pulls on her ponytail. “Have you asked yourself why he might have started the fire?”

I squint. “As of last Wednesday, it’s been a year since Jack died. For the past week, Colton has seemed increasingly distraught at the mention of Jack’s death. I’ve
had
to speak about it, because . . .”

Angelique nods but says nothing.

“. . . he’s grieving for his father so much, and he’s angry that Jack isn’t here to . . . to be his dad any more.” My eyes search her face, as I silently plead for approval. “You can’t say I am totally ignorant of his feelings, can you?”

Angelique brushes a strand of hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “Can you imagine what it must have been like for Colton–”

“To find Jack’s body in the garage the next morning?” As the familiar sharp sensation pricks my eyes, I bite my lip. “No wonder he wanted to burn it down.” I drop to a chair in the shade of the eave over the porch and put my head in my hands. Even rubbing my eyelids, I can’t erase the vision of sooty residue.

Angelique sits beside me. She rests her hand on my arm, massaging with gentle pressure. “I know you love your home.” Her hand grows still. “But maybe it’s time to let it go.”

I sit up and run my hand through my grime-dusted hair, wishing my mother were here to brush it for me, the way she sometimes used to do.

In my mind’s eye, I entered the house through the front door for the first time. The curved railing of the front staircase seemed to lead to heaven, and echoes of distant laughter resounded from the high ceilings in each room. Light from the crystal chandelier scattered a shower of golden sparks across the polished oak floor. I glided through each doorway, expecting treasure, and somehow found Grandmother Mason and my mother as her little girl, smiling back at me, the way I remembered from old sepia-toned photographs.

I touched the doorknobs and reached for my mother’s hand just beyond my grasp, gazed in the mirror over the mantel, and longed for her face to emerge from the shadows. Aromas from the oven in the kitchen beckoned me, and I licked my chocolate-smeared lips and crunch peppermint candy canes, as I awaited trick-or-treaters and St. Nicholas.

The shades over the windows dropped like sleep-drenched eyelids, while the scent of pine logs in the fireplace chased away the darkness and cheered the corners of the room. Night sang an encore, notes woven through the tall columns of the front porch, as the sun trailed its glory off the worn-out stage.

Later I carried a small bundle across the threshold, trussed in soft trappings, fresh and white as the bride I had once been, and watched for a sign of hunger. A tiny fist secured its future by gripping a strand of my hair and pulling me into its milky breath. I relinquished time and myself in the trundle of feeding and sleeping, mostly to watch God’s promise to remember me, growing and thriving, even as my baby slumbered.

Pacing the gardens bequeathed blooms, not footprints, and shade to cool the heat of creation, season after season. With my hands, I dug in the damp ground and buried my soul, and waited for each new season’s awakening to leave the protection of the earth’s womb. Under my fingernails resided the energy of ownership, my house, my home, my heart. All of which tied me to my mother by an invisible cord.

I shake myself as if waking from a dream. With my fists relaxed, I look at Angelique and say, “I always thought”–my mouth goes dry–“I would stay in this house forever.” Cupping my hands over my knees, I let my head droop. “You’re right. Maybe it’s time to sell.”

Angelique slips her arm around my shoulder. “I know that’s a big decision.”

“I’m good at detachment, remember?” Sitting up straight, I look at her from the corner of my eye. “I should be good at it. I’ve had years of practice.”

She smiles and nods.

One of the young firefighters approaches me with a toasted cardboard box. “I think this was in your storage closet in the garage. There’s nothing in it we need for evidence.” He sets it next to my feet.

“Thank you.” The odor of charred fibers makes my nose itch. With my toe, I lift the flap and lean forward to peek inside. My doll Esmeralda stares back at me with bright blue eyes, her blonde hair drenched and her cheeks dusted with soot. I lift her from the wreckage and smooth her pink corduroy jumper and remember when she lost her shoes.

Daddy said I couldn’t stay home by myself because I was only eleven. Also because Mother came home for a short visit from the hospital in Baltimore. The doctor sent two nurses with her. Since it was Mrs. Gussmann’s day off and Aunt Mary was at the doctor’s office, Clyde had to bring me with him on his errand to the airfield. I liked to ride in the car with him, just the two of us, because he talked to me more when no other adults were around.

Esmeralda sat on the front seat between Clyde and me. I didn’t have permission yet to go for a spin with Danny, but I planned to ask Daddy when we got there. Last time he said yes right away.

Danny, our pilot, hasn’t come to the house lately because Daddy has stayed in town all week. He saved his visits until my father was gone on a long trip across the ocean. He must have thought Daddy was still mad at him for breaking Mother’s dresser drawer.

Mother liked for Danny to come roaring up the driveway on his motorcycle. She giggled a lot around him. I bet my father would have been surprised to hear her laugh so much. She also wore her new dresses when Danny was around. Mrs. Gussmann wondered how he got any work done, but maybe he dropped by to check on things, like Clyde did when Daddy was away.

I asked Clyde if he thought Daddy would let me go for a ride, but he didn’t talk much and frowned a lot. He must have had something on his mind. He already said he’s been working on a special project for Daddy, and maybe he wasn’t finished with it yet.

I picked up Esmeralda and showed her the view out the side window. She couldn’t count the horses in the pastures as we go by, but I could. I liked the times tables better, starting with my favorite number five. By the time I reached eighteen, I couldn’t remember what came next. When I turned to ask Clyde for help, I accidentally dropped Esmeralda on the gearshift.

“Hey, watch it!” Clyde shoved my doll to the side. She landed face down on the floorboard.

Clyde had never yelled at me before, and my eyes got teary. Large drops spilled down my cheeks and I sputtered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–” I scooted forward, as I tried to reach Esmeralda.

“Aw, don’t cry.” He stepped on the brakes and Esmeralda rolled forward as the car came to a stop beside the highway. “I wasn’t paying attention, there now.” He pulled Esmeralda up by her hair. “Here’s Esther for you, good as new.”

I took my doll from him and cradled her against my shoulder. “Her name’s not Esther.” I choked the words out, trying not to blubber, but I cried as if my heart had broken. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard anyone yell. Mother yelled at Daddy all the time, and sometimes at the servants. It was why they never stayed long, all but Mrs. Gussmann. Ever since he arrived, Clyde has acted like my special friend. He spoke to me the way no one else did. I laughed at the funny stories he told me when we were by ourselves. Except today there were no funny stories.