The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Page 7

  “Scandalous!” he replied, making a small touch-up. “Wilbur sure loves that tractor. He’s shy. Until Gaysie and Micah, all he had was Blue. He’s been a real good friend and neighbor, like a grandfather to those boys.”

  “I don’t know why Wilbur likes Gaysie at all,” I said. “It’s not like she’s nice to him, always swatting at him and changing her mind about ‘do this, do that.’ She killed Micah’s floatie yesterday—stabbed it to death on the kitchen counter.”

  “That is most unfortunate.”

  “Floatie murderer,” I said darkly, remembering Micah’s tears. “Just plain old mean. I don’t blame Wilbur a bit if he never comes back.” But even as I said it, I wondered. Where would a farmer as old as Wilbur go?

  My father turned to look at me. “What do you mean, if Wilbur never comes back?”

  “Well, Daddy, he’s always around and suddenly he isn’t! We haven’t seen him for days.”

  Just then Nana pulled into the drive, interrupting us. Bitty waved at me from the backseat, as my father and I walked to the car.

  “Next summer,” Nana said, loading my arms up with groceries, “Gwyn and I are going to be gardening buddies, and we won’t have to buy all this produce from the store.” I followed her in, wondering how she could consistently forget that I hated vegetables—especially corn.

  Bitty held up a cantaloupe. “Nana let me pick the best one!” A strange and familiar swoosh of terror went through me.

  My father came in and washed his hands, the gray paint swirling down the drain.

  Nana turned, hands on her hips.

  “I just spoke with Dottie at the grocery store. Wilbur didn’t show at the barn raising this past weekend, which is odd, don’t you think? And he didn’t come this morning to till my garden like he promised.”

  “Gwyn just said he hasn’t been around for a few days. Maybe he’s sick or out of town,” my father said.

  Nana shook her head impatiently. “Why wouldn’t he call?”

  “Send Gwyn and Bitty over to Gaysie’s to ask, if you’re worried,” my father said. “I’ll start supper.”

  “I don’t think Wilbur’s at Gaysie’s,” I said. “I already told you, he doesn’t come by anymore. I think they had a fight—maybe a lover’s quarrel.”

  “Guinevere!” Nana clucked. “Wilbur is old enough to be Gaysie’s father! Do as your father says and go—no dawdling.” I went to grab my jacket as Nana continued to talk.

  “Dottie went to visit Ms. Myrtle, and she said that Wilbur’s tractor hasn’t moved for days—and if anyone knows anything, it’s Ms. Myrtle. She keeps tabs on the entire neighborhood.”

  “Maybe he’s fishing. Always did like a good fish fry.”

  “I don’t think so!” I yelled.

  “That man!” Nana said, exasperated. “Ride your bikes. You’ll go faster.”

  “Come on, Bitty,” I said.

  “And put a helmet on,” Nana added.

  Bitty nodded and lifted the heavy cantaloupe over her head. My heart began to hurt at the sight.

  “And make sure you stay on the right side of the road,” Nana said.

  My eyes were fixated on Bitty as she stood up onto her tiptoes and very carefully placed the cantaloupe on the edge of the counter. Slowly, she took her hands away. The fruit balanced precariously before settling. I slowly exhaled.

  Bitty walked toward me, but I continued to watch. The cantaloupe wobbled slightly forward.

  “It’s gonna fall,” I whispered.

  “Gwyn?” my father asked.

  Watching that cantaloupe, I found myself thrust back to the grocery store when I lost my mother, standing by a yellow SALE! sign.

  I could hear her light, happy voice. She walked easily then, without shuffling. She was Mama, not Vienna.

  I was four years old and riding on the outside of the grocery cart, holding on with both hands. She leaned over the bin of cantaloupes, knocking on them to get a good one. I breathed in the smell, right at nose level; earthy and slightly sweet. Bitty was nine months old and strapped in her car seat, starting to fuss. Mama undid the buckle, picked Bitty up—Sweet pea, she said to me. Could you please hand me a pacif ier for our baby girl? Sweet pea. I was always her sweet pea.

  Had she known it was coming?

  She suddenly stopped and became still. Her eyes locked into mine.

  Sweet pea.

  I remember her eyes, her dark blue eyes staring at me, the cantaloupe falling from her hand.

  Sweet pea.

  “Gwyn?” my father asked again, shutting off the sink and shaking me out of my memory. But my heart was pounding so hard I could feel the beat in my bones. Instinctively, I reached out both hands. I lunged forward, trying to catch the melon, but it fell, hitting the floor with a loud thud, cracking open.

  Too late.

  I covered my ears and screamed.

  • • •

  We made it to Micah’s on our bikes ten minutes later, after I’d almost given Nana a stroke. She apologized about a hundred times in the space of three minutes, mentioned seeing a psychologist, and promised never to buy cantaloupe again. My father had closed his eyes like he was steadying his insides, and reached for me. I tore off with Bitty before there were tears from either one of us.

  When we reached the Cutters’ ratty driftwood sign, the opera music was so loud it rattled the windowpanes we peered through. Jimmy, Micah, and Gaysie were eating spaghetti. There was one extra plate at the dinner table. It was empty. A small, uneasy knot began to lodge in my stomach.

  “Bitty,” I whispered, inching away. “Don’t . . .”

  But she was already knocking.

  “Enter!” Gaysie yelled. We jumped at the sound of her voice.

  “Sorry,” Bitty squeaked.

  Bitty held my hand tight as we entered the kitchen and walked to the table.

  “Nana’s looking for Wilbur . . . ,” I began.

  Gaysie held up her bandaged hand a moment, closed her eyes, and hummed the final notes of the opera, which sang from a small portable CD player on the kitchen counter. I grimaced at the dirty gauze on her hand, at the place where a finger was supposed to sit. Didn’t she know anything about clean dressings and infection control?

  “Ah,” she said, tears rolling down her face. “That voice, that voice!” She shook off her emotion and blew her nose on her shirt. “Wilbur’s favorite. Now. You are looking for him,” she said in a brisk voice. “As you can see, he’s not here.”

  I eyed the extra dinner plate.

  She fixed her eyes on me.

  “I’ve been having the same dream for days now,” she said, changing the subject. “It involves you, Guinevere, and the river. Water is not something to be trifled with, do you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned to Bitty, who was hiding behind me again. “What’s the matter with you, Elizabeth? Honestly, I don’t know how anyone can say the name ‘Bitty’ with any sort of dignity.”

  And just like that I hated her again. It was no wonder Wilbur was gone, that no one in town liked her or wanted to be her friend.

  “Come here,” Gaysie said. “Let me see what you’re made of.”

  Bitty showed us exactly what she was made of by bravely walking forward until she looked like a tiny, shadowed Jonah about to be swallowed up by a giant whale. Gaysie squeezed Bitty’s shoulders and arms and looked her right in the eyes.

  “There’s a lot of smart in that pretty head of yours. You make sure to use it!” Bitty smiled and, shockingly, sat down at the table. I wanted to jump up and shout, I object!

  Gaysie leaned back in her chair and patted her large stomach. “Mmm, full as a tick.” She looked at me. “Hungry?”

  “Um,” I said, thinking of Nana cooking.

  “Sit!” Gaysie ordered.

  Micah patted my back as I sat, his smiling, big brown eyes magnified behind his thick glasses. Jimmy nodded his head across the table and opened his full mouth of chewed-up spaghetti.

  “You
’re disgusting,” I said.

  Gaysie came back to the table with two plates piled high. “We’ve already said grace. And that sauce is made from our very own garden, isn’t it, boys?”

  “Yep,” Micah said.

  “Garlic, onion, tomatoes, of course, eggplant, squash, spinach, and zucchini!” Gaysie said.

  I snapped my fingers, remembering why I was here. “Nana sent me because Wilbur was supposed to help her dig a garden.”

  A shadow crossed Gaysie’s face. I suddenly noticed how ragged it looked, how red her eyes were, like she’d rubbed them raw. Even the scar down the side of her face looked more purple and pronounced.

  She leaned forward, changing the subject again. “What I want to know is why Elizabeth never talks.”

  “She . . .”

  “Shh!” Gaysie said, glaring at me. “Elizabeth needs to find her voice. You’re quite the number to try to follow, you know, mother and older sister rolled into one.” She turned back to Bitty. “What do you have to say, Elizabeth?”

  Micah burped and Jimmy asked for seconds. Gaysie kept her eyes on Bitty, waiting.

  “I dropped the cantaloupe and made Gwyn scream.”

  My face colored at Bitty’s betrayal.

  “You see?” Gaysie said. “Now we’re getting somewhere!” She turned to Micah and Jimmy. “Stop eating like pigs. I didn’t raise you to behave like barnyard animals!”

  I looked at Jimmy, wondering again why he never went home and instead spent his time with her.

  “Now, why did you scream over a cantaloupe, Guinevere?”

  I looked down at my shoes. None of your business, that’s why.

  When I didn’t speak, Gaysie said, “I saw your mother this morning.”

  I looked up.

  “I get such great pleasure bringing her flowers,” Gaysie said, animated. “Her whole face lights up. There’s no guile, no pretense—and we both know she’d tell me if she didn’t like them.”

  True. That sounded like Vienna.

  “I know something of head injuries,” Gaysie said, her finger absently stroking the long scar on her face. “Jimmy and Micah told you about me, didn’t they?”

  I glanced at them.

  “Oh, it’s not a secret,” Gaysie said. “Though we all have a couple of those in our back pocket. If I were a more perfect woman, I would be more like your father, who’s never kept anything from you.”

  I nodded, but slowly. My father didn’t lie to me, but the longer we were in Crow, the more I wondered about what he’d chosen not to tell me.

  “You don’t know the details of the accident, Guinevere, but you want to, don’t you?”

  I kept my eyes on her, wishing I didn’t want to know anything about Gaysie.

  “I don’t know why Vienna has to live the way she does when I escaped with little more than a scratch.” I looked at Gaysie’s face. Her long scar was more than a scratch. “Life isn’t always equitable, is it?”

  Bitty shook her head.

  “I didn’t have it easy as a child. My parents were . . . not kind people. I was smart and loved learning, but life was difficult. I was never pretty like Vienna,” she said. “Not even mercifully plain. Not athletic. Very clumsy with big feet. The closest compliment I can remember is ‘sturdy.’ And every day I went to school smelling of pig slop.”

  “Pig slop?” Bitty said.

  “It’s true. I smelled like pig slop because my stepfather raised pigs, and oh!” Gaysie banged the table with her fists. “Those swine smelled so bad! You can imagine how terrible it is for a young girl to show up at school smelling like slop. I endured the insults, the foul smells, the too-small hand-me-downs. But there was that one thing . . . one thing I desperately longed for!”

  “A shower?” Jimmy asked.

  “More than a shower!” Gaysie said. “What I desperately wanted was for someone to need me.” She looked longingly at Bitty and then to me. “Guinevere and Bitty, you are so remarkably lucky.”

  Bitty needed me, that was true. And I needed her. But I thought of that feeling I got deep down sometimes, a restless longing sort of feeling. An image of Vienna came to mind, screaming my father’s name every time he appeared. The way she asked for him every five minutes. She never screamed for me. If need was love, then Vienna didn’t love me. Vienna needed only one person, and that was my father. I sometimes thought that this need is what kept him tethered to her, even when she was awful.

  “I didn’t have a family like yours,” Gaysie said, as if mine was the epitome of bliss. “But I did eventually find true friends, your parents and Myron, and oh, what a grand thing it was.” She blinked rapidly, as if pushing forward a memory. “I would have done anything for them.

  “But our last real adventure was something we shouldn’t have done, and that’s how the accident happened. Vienna, Jed, Myron, and I put my sled on the biggest hill in town.”

  I felt myself going into shock, and my mouth dropped open.

  “Didn’t you know?” Gaysie asked.

  I sat, frozen solid to my chair. They were there! Why had my father never told me this story?

  “We had been forbidden to even try it.”

  “Try it?” I managed.

  “To sled down that spectacular hill! You know the one, right on the town line as you enter Crow, next to Dingle.” Gaysie laughed, far away in her recollection. “We were attempting the biggest dare in Crow—sledding down the hill and right across the frozen water to the other side of the river. We had made it too, several times that winter. What a ride! But that last time, well, it was nearly spring. The ice was melting. We crashed right through.”

  “Her head split in two,” Jimmy said.

  “She died,” Micah added.

  “I’m quite certain my death was instantaneous,” Gaysie said. “And I wasn’t altogether sad. In fact, I felt relief. No more pig slop, unbearable home life.” Gaysie’s eyes became distant, seeing something beyond us. “The light came. It was so warm, so beautiful. All my pain was gone, every bad feeling, all the horrible things done to me—gone!” Gaysie snapped her fingers. “Heaven,” she said, “is a place you never want to leave.”

  Gaysie swallowed carefully, and I had a sharp and uncomfortable pang of conscience. Had I misjudged her? Was I being cruel like the other kids had been? I thought of Nana and my father, and even Vienna. An unusual family, yes, but what did I know of pig slop and a harsh family? Gaysie’s eyes became heavy with tears that pooled under her red eyelids.

  “If you were dead, then how did you come back?”

  Gaysie tilted her head at me. “Because I realized that there were people who needed me.”

  Either Gaysie was a masterful liar or she believed this story without a doubt. But I wanted to know: How exactly does one die and come back to life? How long was she underwater? How cold was the water? How long was her body deprived of oxygen? I knew the statistics and they were grim. What was the extent of her head injuries? How had everyone gotten out of the water but Myron? And who exactly needed her to come back? Did she mean her friends? My parents . . . or someone else?

  I opened my mouth.

  “That’s all for tonight,” she said with a decisive nod, and walked to the kitchen window.

  The sun was setting over the cornfields, day heading into night. I sat, stewing. How could she leave me hanging like that?

  “Is Wilbur coming to dinner tonight?” Micah asked, his voice like an eager puppy’s.

  “No. Wilbur is not coming to dinner.” The way she said it, with such finality, made me sure that Gaysie knew the where and the how and the why. For all her talk of no secrets, Gaysie was keeping a few. She turned slowly and looked longingly at the empty dinner plate. “But I had to set a place anyway. Just in case.”

  • • •

  After we ate, we got on our bikes, the sun completely gone to sleep. Micah and Jimmy, told to accompany us home, turned on their headlamps. Gaysie came out onto the porch.

  “Don’t you dare talk to anyone,” she
yelled. “You’re just the sort of children the circus would love to borrow!”

  “Can you yell any louder?” Jimmy yelled back at Gaysie.

  “Oh, you bet your bootstraps I can yell louder than that!” she hollered, her voice echoing all the way down the street.

  Jimmy shook his head and led the way down Lanark Lane. It was spooky, with the sun almost down, the air cooling and becoming so dark I couldn’t see the road ahead. Bitty whimpered beside me. I imagined this was the sort of night the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow would appear.

  “Come on, Bitty!” We pedaled faster, but it only brought the panic closer. Control your imagination, my father would say. I suddenly thought of the Creepers. Were they allowed outside after dark? The only lights were from Micah’s headlamp and the few that dimly shone out the occasional farmhouse window. I shivered though it wasn’t cold, with a feeling that someone was watching us. Corn, now tall enough to hide grown men, monsters, and ghosts, rustled on either side of the road. I wouldn’t have been able explain how or who, but I just knew: We didn’t bike home alone that night.

  I didn’t have time to think more about it though, because when we arrived home it was to Nana who was annoyed we had stayed so long, annoyed we’d intruded on Gaysie’s dinner, and annoyed we hadn’t found out anything about Wilbur’s absence. My father left for the care center before I could ask him anything about sledding and Gaysie’s version of events. It was after visiting hours, and I wished they wouldn’t let him in. I wished they’d see the tired shadows under his eyes and tell him to go home and sleep. And part of me wished he’d just stay with us, instead of always running to her.

  We climbed into bed, and Bitty hugged me around the waist as I began our Peter Pan story. I was barely to the Lost Boys when she whispered, “Is Jimmy a Lost Boy?”

  “He has Gaysie, I guess.”

  “Then Gaysie is like Peter Pan, right?”

  “More like Captain Hook,” I scoffed. We lay quiet in the darkness of our bedroom, looking out into the vast sky that was just outside our window. The stars were bright, the night cold. I think we both fell asleep thinking of a girl named Gaysie: a lost, ugly little girl nobody loved, nobody wanted. Never feeling needed. I could not imagine her ever being small or having a mother or a father. But I guess she had been a little girl once, had run around Crow—had played with my parents! She had even died, like Vienna. Wasn’t it extraordinary that they had both come back to life, but with scars of different sorts?