The Clairvoyants(18)

The light changed and Geoff pulled away from the intersection, turning soon after down a gravel road that proved to be the driveway of a picturesque yellow farmhouse. Dried sheaves of corn leaned against a lamppost, buttressed by bales of hay and lit jack-o’-lanterns, their grins toothless, their brows arched in ironic expressions of fear.

“Welcome to Windy Hill Farm,” Geoff said.

We pulled alongside a Camaro with a crystal rosary hanging from the rearview mirror, a GTO with a new paint job and racing stripes, all of the cars sporting various stages of rust.

“It’s the night of the dead,” Del said.

Geoff laughed and put the car in park. “The poor souls are freed from purgatory, allowed to return to their old homes.” He shut off the car and the keys jangled as he stuffed them in his pocket. “My grandmother used to say that after supper they would spread a clean cloth on the table and set chairs up for their returning loved ones. They’d recite the De Profundis and go to bed and you’d hear one of the townsmen ringing the bell.”

“What was the bell for?” Del asked.

“To warn everyone that it wasn’t safe to roam the streets at the time of the returning souls.”

I worried about Del reading too much into the All Hallows’ Eve thing.

“It’s just an outdoor party,” I said, trying to make her laugh.

Geoff opened his door and slid out of the car. The driveway gravel crunched under his boots. “Whatever it is, we’re here. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Anne.”

I had thought it was kind of Geoff to invite us to the party, but now that we were there I wondered why. Some people subscribed to the notion of “the more the merrier,” and as Del and I climbed out of the car, I told myself that was the case with Geoff. But was it odd that he would single us out? He walked ahead of us, his gray hair blowing around his head.

“He must have noticed we hardly go out and he feels sorry for us,” I said, my voice low.

“Maybe this is a coven,” Del said.

“And we’re virgin sacrifices,” I said.

Del snorted. “Speak for yourself. I was scourged and led down into the vault a long time ago.”

As children, Del and I had read how the corrupted vestal virgins were taken to a vault furnished with a couch, a lamp, and a table with a small amount of food. They were sealed in and left to die. We used to joke that we’d sneak in a book to read in our lamplight, and we’d discuss which one we’d take.

We followed Geoff across the lawn to a path that led around to the back of the house. There the brown grass was interrupted by scattered trees—ash and maple—nearly barren of leaves and roped with strung lights. In the center of the lawn, surrounded by folding chairs, was a bonfire, the smoke unfurling across the harvested cornfield like gray ribbon. Stone steps led to a terrace, where a linen tablecloth covered a card table for a makeshift bar. About thirty people stood clutching bottles of beer or wine goblets, most of them young, a few others mixed in who were clearly not—men with graying hair, like Geoff, sporting button-down oxfords and suede slip-ons, women in bulky cardigans, glasses dangling from their necks on beaded strings. Geoff was greeted heartily by everyone, and he gave a sheepish wave and led us up the stone steps to the back door.

“Is Anne inside?” he said to no one in particular, his hand on the sliding glass door.

“I’m right here,” a voice answered, and an older woman stepped from a group of younger ones who all seemed preoccupied and sad. Anne tossed her arm around Geoff and kissed his cheek. “We’re all trying not to be morose,” she said, not to him, but to me and to Del. She took both of our hands in her own, her hand so light it felt insubstantial. “Anne Whiteside,” she said.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

Anne wore a bright patterned headscarf. Beneath it I could see the delicate bones of her skull. It was evident that she was ill. Anne looked at me, her eyes clear and searching. Del was surveying the yard, taking in the groups of people, the illuminated lights between the trees, garish and out of place, like carnival lights.

“I’m Martha,” I said. “This is Del, my sister.”

“You look like twins,” Anne said. “Are you?”

Del roped arms with me and pressed her cheek against mine. “Yes,” she said. “We are.”

“That’s interesting,” Anne said. “I love twins. Maybe you’ll let me paint you.”

“We’re not,” I said. “We’re not twins.”

Someone started some music—it sounded like an old recording of a plaintive, classical cello piece—and it filled the backyard, the swirls of blown leaves, the line of pine trees beyond the shorn fields, with a sense of haunted sadness. Despite the few days of warmth it was too cold, really, to be outside, but everyone had put on sweaters and jackets, and were fortifying themselves with alcohol, moving their chairs closer to the bonfire. Geoff had gotten a glass of bourbon and ice. He looked at us. “I don’t really see the resemblance.”

Anne seemed affected by the music. Her eyes grew wet. “Well, I see it,” she said.

Del fluffed her dyed hair. “I’m not as curly.”

“Well, you’re curvy enough,” Geoff said.

Del laughed out loud, one of her exuberant laughs that offset the sad cello.