The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Page 6

  “How do you do that?” Bitty asked when he came to sit down next to us.

  “The goose thinks Micah’s its mother,” Jimmy said.

  “I was the first thing she saw as a gosling,” Micah said. “She remembers me.” Micah turned to me. “She remembers you, too.”

  “The mean goose?”

  “No, your mom.”

  I looked at him, startled.

  “I visit her with my mom.”

  “You visit Vienna?”

  “We bring flowers, and she really likes them, and she talks about you—and Gus.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Gus was her cat. She doesn’t really remember me.” But I folded my arms across my body, wondering. “I’m sorry about what I said—about your Boy Scout shirt. I didn’t mean it. It’s a great shirt.”

  “Nah,” he said. “It’s okay, girls never like me. They always like Jimmy.”

  “Oh no!” I said. “I’m sure all the girls loved it.”

  “Come on, let’s get a Popsicle,” Jimmy said. “It’s freakin’ hot.” We followed him into the kitchen and stopped. It was deathly quiet except for the small squeak of a rocking chair coming from the other room. Moving closer to the living room, we could see someone was sitting in it, wrapped tightly in a brown blanket.

  “Ma?” Micah whispered. There was dirt all over the floor, traced back to muddy boots sitting in the middle of the kitchen. As my eyes adjusted to the shadowed room, I noticed the dirt in Gaysie’s hair, and smudged on her face. On the floor lay dirty old jeans and a men’s shirt smeared with red, like when I’d had a bad bloody nose last winter and it dripped all over my pants.

  “Ma?”

  When she didn’t answer, Micah tiptoed closer. Gaysie made no sound, just continued to rock, her face turned away from us. Micah put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Ice,” she whispered. Micah went to the freezer, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, and brought it to her. She began speaking in a low voice, and Micah leaned down to hear. His eyes went wide. His face turned white.

  “Should I get Wilbur?” Micah asked. Gaysie made a low noise that sounded like Willowdale crying.

  Micah turned. “Go, go, go,” he yelled. We followed him outside as he jumped down the front stairs, fell, and got back up before running toward the backyard.

  “What are you doing?” Jimmy yelled.

  Micah kept running, his bony legs wobbling like a calf until we were all the way down by Wilbur’s tractor.

  “What are we doing?” Jimmy repeated.

  “Uh, uh, looking for . . . ,” Micah stuttered and trailed off, getting down on his hands and knees.

  We knelt down and began combing the grass and dark dirt, but with no idea what for.

  “She’s sometimes a little crazy, you know that, Micah,” Jimmy said. “Is she seeing dead people again?” He looked at me, a wicked, goading smile on his face.

  “What do you mean, dead people?”

  “Be quiet, Jimmy. Keep looking!” Micah yelled.

  “Well, tell us what we’re looking for!” I yelled back.

  Micah shoveled frantically in the dirt. “Um, um, um.” The ground looked soft and oddly lumpy underneath the tractor, so I crawled closer.

  I was all the way under the tractor digging when I lifted my hands up.

  “Is this . . . blood?” I whispered. My hands were covered with chunks of brown dirt, but there was also something else, something red. I looked up, seeing smears of red and brown all over Bitty’s shirt, Jimmy’s face, and Micah’s clothes. Then my eye caught sight of something underneath the tractor wheel.

  “I know what we’re looking for,” I said, pointing. There, lying on the dirt, gray and fat like an overcooked sausage, was Gaysie Cutter’s finger.

  • • •

  She said she’d have our heads if we called an ambulance, so Bitty and I ran all the way home, after Jimmy had picked up the finger and put it in the freezer like I told him to—right next to the Popsicle box.

  “Gaysie cut off her finger!” I yelled, bursting through our front door.

  We watched our father speed off faster than a NASCAR driver before Bitty and I were hustled to the bath. Afterward we sat down for a silent dinner, one I could barely swallow. We were in bed before my father was home, but late that night, he came into our room, his face troubled. He had taken off his shoes, but his clothes were dirty and rumpled.

  “What happened?” I whispered.

  “An accident lifting the back of the tractor.”

  “Can they reattach it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Gaysie sure gets in a lot of accidents.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Vienna said there was an accident, and Jimmy and Micah told me about a boy named Myron—”

  “Yes, yes,” my father interrupted quietly. “It was a very sad day. One I don’t like to think about.” He shook his head. “We all used to be such good friends.”

  “Did you say friends?”

  “Yes, me and Gaysie. Vienna, too.”

  I sat back, aghast.

  “Your friendship with Micah and Jimmy feels so familiar to me.” He laughed at my expression. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “It’s just that you’re so . . . different from each other.”

  “Maybe now, but back then we were just good pals.”

  Good pals. I made a face. “Daddy, Jimmy said something about Gaysie seeing dead people.” I thought he was going to laugh it off. Instead, he became very serious.

  “Well, she had an . . . experience that day she likely talked too much about. People didn’t understand or didn’t want to. Plus, she was the oldest of us. In a small town, it was hard for her to ever get out from underneath what happened. You know, I like to think Crow is a little bit better every day, but it’s hard for people to forgive and forget, to move on and let go.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Ironic, isn’t it, given why we’re here. I’m sure some people think we’re crazy with what we’re trying to do for Vienna. But Gaysie? She deserves better than she got.”

  I bit my tongue instead of saying something wicked like I wanted to.

  “Now, Guinevere, get some sleep.” He kissed me on the forehead and walked to the door.

  “Dad . . .”

  He held up his hands. “No more questions. Sleep.”

  “Okay, but was Wilbur at the hospital?” I called after him. “If he wasn’t, she’s gonna be even more mad at him for what happened, because it was his tractor—I mean, Mistress!”

  My father turned, his face lit by the hall light. “No, he wasn’t there. But Wilbur can handle himself with Gaysie. Now shhh . . . good night.”

  But it was too quiet to sleep. I tossed and turned, longing for the sounds of city driving to lull me into a sound slumber. Instead, I dreamed of fingers and dripping red blood. I dreamed of Gaysie Cutter sledding and hitting thin ice. I dreamed of Wilbur and the Blue Mistress, waking with a dread I couldn’t shake.

  • • •

  We went to Micah’s before school on Thursday and Friday, and all the next week, but never saw Gaysie or Wilbur. Not once. The Blue Mistress remained strangely quiet and still, and even the reclusive Ms. Myrtle was unnaturally mute, not once yelling hateful comments out the front door, even when I purposely walked on her lawn.

  CHAPTER 7

  ON SATURDAY, THE LAST DAY of August, it was blazing hot. After we took Vienna on a short walk to the library and back, where she recognized Ms. Priscilla but asked her why her hair looked like a skunk tail, the only place for me and Bitty was the river.

  That morning I introduced my comrades to the legend of King Arthur and his queen. Naturally, I was Queen Guinevere. Nana let us use some old sheets (that didn’t look at all old) for capes.

  Jimmy came forward, shirtless from swimming, in his wet jeans, carrying a sword he had made out of a long stick and duct tape. He knelt before Micah, Bitty, and me.

  “Noble servant,” I said, motioning for Bitty to come f
orward while I put a wreath of sticks on his head.

  “Ow!” Jimmy yelled, twisting away.

  “Quiet, fool!” I commanded. “For your faithful and honorable service you shall be knighted Sir Lancelot. May you be ever valiant in your quests.” I held out my hands, and he gave me his homemade wooden sword.

  I brought it down on his left shoulder and then his right.

  “You are hereby knighted Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table. You shall serve me, Queen Guinevere, and King Arthur, and my maid, Elizabeth, all the days of your life.”

  Micah stepped forward. “I am Arthur Pendragon! It is better to die with honor than live as a coward!” He bowed toward Lancelot.

  “You may arise,” I said, holding my hand out.

  Jimmy stood and bowed.

  “Death before dishonor,” I said.

  “Death before dishonor,” my court repeated.

  Jimmy nodded, tore off his cape, dropped his weapon, and yelled, “Cowabunga!” before bombing into the river.

  “That kind of ruins the moment!” I yelled, wiping my forehead. But it was so hot that Bitty and I plunged in after him.

  Micah still didn’t swim. He sat on the rocks watching us splash, laugh, and float on the water. We took turns having sovereign power until we got tired.

  “How is Gaysie?” I asked. “Is her finger back on?”

  Micah shook his head and shuddered. “They couldn’t attach it. She’s been in a real bad mood.”

  “How’d it happen, exactly?”

  “Working,” Micah answered. “And she’s always telling me to keep my hands off the Mistress.”

  “I need a Popsicle,” Jimmy stated. I sometimes wondered if he ate anything else.

  “The ones next to her finger? No thanks!” I said. “Let’s go to my house.”

  “Too far,” Jimmy said, climbing onto the bank. I reluctantly followed.

  We walked through the field and past Wilbur’s small cottage.

  “Where’s Wilbur been?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask us,” Jimmy said.

  We walked back to the cottage door. Micah knocked three times. No answer.

  The four of us peeked in the window. It was tiny, with one room and a small bathroom with the door wide open. But no Wilbur.

  “Come on,” Micah said hopefully. “Maybe he’s at the house.”

  • • •

  My heart thudded, as usual, when I walked into Gaysie Cutter’s kitchen. Jimmy quickly looked around.

  “Not here.”

  Micah opened the freezer and pulled out the Popsicle box, tipping it upside down. Empty.

  We heard footsteps across the ceiling and then a slow lumber down the stairs. My heart went from thud to pound. I backed up closer to the door, Bitty tucked behind me. Gaysie entered the kitchen with a large load of laundry in her arms, not acknowledging us. Her face was red, sweaty from the heat, but flat and expressionless.

  She walked into the small laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. Her right arm was raised slightly, still wrapped in gauze, the edges tinged with dark, dried blood.

  “It’s too hot for you to be taking up space in my kitchen. Go swim,” Gaysie yelled.

  Micah looked at Jimmy. They exchanged unspoken words. Jimmy raised his eyebrows. Micah gulped and stood still.

  “Any . . . more Popsicles?”

  “Look with your eyes not your mouth, boy!” Her rage reminded me of what Wilbur had said: When Gaysie was mad she was a tornado meeting a hurricane.

  Jimmy narrowed his eyes and folded his arms like a sheriff overseeing a duel. Bitty and I inched even closer to the back door. Micah stood still and small in the kitchen.

  Gaysie kicked the dryer and walked out, heaping a wet load of bedding into Micah’s arms, before stomping back to the laundry room. “If you’re not going to swim, go hang the laundry and stay outside.”

  “You could ask Wilbur to fix the dryer,” Micah squeaked.

  “No. I cannot ask Wilbur.”

  Micah stood in the kitchen, holding the wet laundry, drooping under its weight.

  “Where’s he been, Ma?”

  The question triggered a load of other ones. Why had Gaysie been lifting the tractor without him in the first place? Why hadn’t Micah and Jimmy seen him? Where was Wilbur?

  Gaysie ignored Micah’s question, but came out of the laundry room and slammed an inner tube onto the counter. It was in the shape of a clown and its head bobbed maniacally back and forth.

  “Hang the laundry. Go float,” she snapped. “I’m too tired and upset for you to be here. My hand is aching something fierce.”

  Despite all my questions, I silently begged Micah not to say another word, as anyone with half a brain could see this volcano was about to explode.

  Micah stood still, his arms full of wet clothes.

  “Micah,” I whispered.

  “Hush up,” Jimmy hissed at me.

  Micah glanced at Jimmy, who stood with his chin raised proudly.

  Gaysie turned slowly to face Micah. “Go.”

  Time stopped. We stared at Micah. He gulped and raised the load of laundry slightly higher to cover his face.

  “But, Ma,” Micah said behind the wet clothes. “It’s . . . it’s . . . a baby floatie. I’d sink.”

  “Do something!” I hissed at Jimmy.

  Jimmy focused his eyes on Micah but stayed silent.

  “Jimmy!” I said. “What kind of friend are you?”

  Keeping his black, intense eyes focused on Micah, Jimmy’s voice was low and dangerous.

  “I’m his best friend.”

  Gaysie picked up the giant bobbing clown and handed it to Micah.

  Very slowly, Micah reached his hand out from under the mound of wet clothes in his arms. I saw Jimmy’s shoulders droop with disappointment. As much as I feared for him, I also felt my spirits drop. Micah should stand up to the beast.

  But then Micah dropped the floatie on the floor.

  Mother and son stood looking at each other. Micah did not bend to pick up the clown. Bitty grasped my arm with both hands and buried her face into me.

  When Micah didn’t move, Gaysie swung down and grabbed the floatie off the floor, slamming it on the counter. Using her undamaged left hand, she grabbed a steak knife from the counter and raised it in the air. Our mouths dropped open in silent screams. And then she brought the knife down and stabbed the clown. It squeaked gasping breaths as the blade came down again and again until the clown deflated into a small, rainbow-colored, plastic heap on the counter. Gaysie lowered the knife so that it hung parallel to her side, the tip sharp and shiny.

  “There you go,” Gaysie said. “Now you won’t sink—you’ll have to swim!”

  I grabbed Bitty and pushed her out the back door. Seconds later Micah followed, dropping the load of laundry in front of the clothesline without a word.

  Jimmy came out last, his face drawn.

  Micah shook out a wet, pale blue pillowcase and reached up on his tiptoes to hang it awkwardly with a clothespin. I grabbed some laundry, stealing glances at Micah as I tried hanging pants to dry, a chore I had never done before. Jimmy grabbed a wet shirt that looked like Wilbur’s and slung it sloppily over the line.

  We finished hanging clothes as Micah silently cried the entire time, his tears hitting his glasses, then diverting like a slow and silent river down his face.

  “Brother . . . ,” Jimmy began, “you did good.”

  Micah blinked slowly and shook his head.

  My fists curled into tight balls as I glared at the clementine house. Did it make her feel good to make a sweet boy feel so bad? It wasn’t any wonder Wilbur was staying away. Who would be friends with a wretched woman like Gaysie Cutter? I picked up a rock, wanting to throw it at her window and watch it smash into a million smithereens.

  Instead, I spit on her hanging pants.

  I didn’t care what Nana said about the word, I hated her so much.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE NEXT DAY, MY FATHER stepped bac
k from the dental sign he was painting. “How’s that?”

  We were in the backyard with an easel set up, overlooking the fields of green, the sunset turning a golden yellow, the color of Vienna’s hair. My father was not using pink paint as Bitty had suggested, but a soft white, gray, and blue.

  “I wish I could paint like you.” I reached over the wooden fence to pet Willowdale. She tossed her head and came closer.

  “Practice,” he said. “Painting well is ninety-five percent practice. The great Merzenich would say that practicing a new skill under the right conditions can change millions of connections between the nerve cells in the brain. Isn’t it fascinating,” he continued, “that we can change the very structure of our brain and our capacity to learn? There’s very little such thing as natural talent.” My father repeated this information so often that both Bitty and I could quote long passages of neuroscience as easily as The Little Red Hen.

  Though I believed my father, I doubted I’d ever be able to paint anything anyone considered a masterpiece. He, however, used his hands as an extension of his mind, a gift he could have used as a surgeon, but now used to extract teeth and paint pictures for Vienna, small snatches of beauty on white canvas. Her favorite was the one of a mother holding her baby. Sometimes, when she was gazing at it, I secretly pretended she knew who that baby was.

  My father looked up at the sunset about to hit the horizon. Because the Midwest was so flat, the sun hit the corn crops from very far away, drawing closer until it peaked and backed off into twilight. At its peak it appeared to take up the entire earth like fire; reds, yellows, and bright streaks of orange all the way to space. There was no fog, smog, exhaust, or hard, blinking lights to dilute the effect. And when night came, the stars came too, dotting the sky like brilliant diamond flashes. The only competition was the moon, sometimes as big and fat as the round fiery sun; it was a bold beauty you never ever saw in the city.

  “The end of the summer harvest,” my father said as a tractor—not blue—rolled through the back fields, pulling a giant swisher through tall, overgrown grass. “It will be cut, left to dry, fluffed, then gathered into hay bales.”

  “Did you know Gaysie calls Wilbur’s tractor ‘the Blue Mistress’?” I said.