What the Dead Want(15)

Yours,

Fidelia





NINE


“MAYBE SHE DIDN’T TELL YOU ABOUT WHAT WAS GOING on here because you were too young,” Esther said, answering Gretchen’s question and swirling her drink with a bony finger as she settled into a chair that had long since lost its original form.

Gretchen shook her head. She was a city girl. She’d seen more strange things just riding the subway with her parents before she was five than most people see in a lifetime. And her mother told her all kinds of things when she was very young; about ghosts and psychics and what the Chelsea Piers were like in the seventies. It wasn’t like her mother kept things from her. She wanted Gretchen to be strong and able to take care of herself, to think for herself. There had to be a better reason her mother had been silent on nearly everything Axton-related.

She took the tiniest sip of the gin fizz Aunt Esther had made her. This liquor tasted flammable or like it would make her blind. Gretchen thought maybe another reason this tough, smart white-haired old lady never made it out of upstate New York all these years was because she was an alcoholic.

Esther held up her glass in a toast and Gretchen took her picture.

“Okay. So tell me about it,” Gretchen said. “All of it. Did you ever visit when my mother was a kid living here?”

“No,” Aunt Esther said. “In those days, I was traveling.” She rattled the ice in her glass and downed the clear liquid. “When your mother’s parents moved, they just gave the house to me, didn’t even want to sell it, or have anything more to do with it. Piper’s death had taken so much out of them. Mona had some little tumble, tripped on a rope, and they made their decision to leave; move on and concentrate on giving your mother a good life.

“When I first came back, I thought I would simply pack up everything, sell it, and move to New York City. But after a little while of poking around here I knew the house needed me.” Esther got a distant look on her face and shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I failed it, Gretchen, I failed the house. But I stayed as long as I could.”

It was clear that she had indeed “failed the house” in some way—in forty years she’d not managed to do anything practical, like rent out rooms or renovate—but to say the house “needed her” seemed crazy.

Why wouldn’t someone living alone have sold some of the furniture or artifacts? The place was full of antiques and architectural salvage, and the vintage clothes alone could make thousands in New York. If Janine had inherited this house, it would be shipshape by now and they’d be sitting on some fancy modern furniture watching TV and eating takeout while landscape architects put in a placid Japanese garden in place of the crazy overgrown yard.

Gretchen was waiting for the details Esther had promised. But the woman just took another sip of her drink and seemed to be lost in thought.

“That’s a beautiful piano,” Gretchen said, trying to change Esther’s mood, get her talking about something relevant again.

“Some of the keys stick a little, but Hawk tuned it just two months ago and it sounds fine. He’s quite a musician. Plays a mean banjo, has a good ear. It should be fine for another year. But you’ll have to take better care of it. I’ve left instructions about all of this, of course, for when I’m gone. All of it. And you’ll need to talk to Hawk pretty soon, I figure. He and his sister, Hope, are right down the road if you need help—oh, you know that, you saw their house. You’ll like Hope, she’s a smart one. Their mother’s famous too. You’ll be fast friends.”

Suddenly, Gretchen’s aunt seemed full of melancholy urgency. All the “wes” in her conversation had disconcertingly been replaced by the word “you.” Gretchen nodded but said nothing. She had no intention of staying in the place alone, and it suddenly looked like Esther might actually bail, maybe even after this drink.

“Hey, are you going somewhere right now?” Gretchen asked.

“Soon,” Esther said. “Soon. Why don’t you go play the piano for us, sweets.”

Gretchen got up to do as her aunt requested but she felt uneasy, as if Esther might leave when her back was turned.

If Esther was going to be leaving, Gretchen wanted to be able to come and go. And by “go” she meant go home. The good thing about being raised by her dad, who was always gone, and by Janine, who was great at fixing things, was that Gretchen had learned by example how to get things done. Janine was a great combination of meticulous and coolheaded. And when faced with a situation like this, Gretchen missed her. She wanted nothing more than to channel all the practical powers of Janine. She’d delegate tasks, have coherent and pointed conversations in which she’d explain exactly what should be done, then go home and sit on the couch and eat ice cream while other people did what she’d laid out. Competently. If they did things incompetently, she’d get someone else to do it. No big deal. Gretchen wished she could go read all Fidelia’s letters and journals while someone else dealt with the mess of the house. Some rooms seemed so frighteningly dilapidated she thought she might fall through the floor.

Gretchen went over to the piano. She set her gin fizz beside her on the bench. On the music stand was a little faded prayer card, torn and scorched across the top and bottom. It read:

Blood that washest away our sins;

Cleanse, sanctify, and preserve our souls to everlasting life.