Acts of Violet(89)
Quinn types something into her phone and holds it up. “It’s a quote from The Way We Were.”
While I preferred Streisand’s musicals, I did watch that movie whenever Violet would put it on. For the longest time, I could never understand why it was her favorite. Then we watched it together after Mom died. When the credits rolled, we pawed at the tissue box between us, and I said, “I don’t know how you can watch this over and over. It’s too tragic. You have two people who love each other fiercely but are so different, they can’t find a way to live together peacefully.”
Sniffling, Violet dabbed at the mascara streaks beneath her eyes. “Yeah, it kind of reminds me of us. That’s why it’s my favorite.”
That made me cry more than the movie, and remembering it now makes me cry even harder.
March 20, 2018
It’s 4:00 PM. Gabriel, Quinn, and I meet Cameron outside a teahouse on a tree-lined side street that straddles the border of Willow Glen and Finchley. There’s an old-timey SORRY WE’RE CLOSED signboard hanging from a suction cup on the front door, but when Cameron knocks, a woman’s voice from inside trills, “Come on in!”
The small room has low ceilings dotted with hanging spider plants, which we duck around, in search of the voice.
Antoinette is tucked away at a corner table but stands to greet us. Between the ornate tea set, the gaudy flowered wallpaper and tablecloths, and her ensemble of stacked petticoats and mismatched velvets, I feel like I’ve been thrown into a British period film about a quirky headmistress.
After making the introductions, we jam our bodies into cramped wicker chairs, except for Cameron, who remains standing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I guess I’ll catch up with you later,” he says to nobody in particular, making a slow exit in case one of us calls him back. None of us do.
“I imagine coming here was not easy for you.” Antoinette pours tea for us all as she speaks. “I’m so grateful you did. And how lovely for your family to join you.” She motions to the tiered trays of finger sandwiches and miniature pastries before us. “Please. Help yourselves.”
But I can’t add any food or liquid to my jittery stomach.
“You have a lot to tell us today,” Antoinette says to me. “Go at your own pace.” Her glasses are tinted yellow and I can’t tell what color her eyes are behind them. Still, her overall demeanor is less deranged than I expected.
“I don’t know how you know that,” I say. “And you probably wouldn’t give me a satisfying answer, but … Fuck it. I’m just gonna start, before I lose my nerve. I…” Only it’s become too dizzying, this merry-go-round of the peculiar and nostalgic spinning faster and faster, to center on one thing.
“Why don’t you begin with the twos,” Antoinette coaxes.
And so I do, recounting the synchronistic parade of triple twos, on clocks, receipts, lottery numbers, TV channels, and misdelivered mail.
“I can’t help but think all these surreal and inexplicable things are adding up to something bigger. And that it connects to an incident from my childhood, something I’ve tried to put out of my head ever since it happened.”
I keep my eyes trained on the tea in my cup, my hands warming on the porcelain.
“Violet and I grew up with the lore of the Finchley Mining tunnels. Every year, there’d be at least one kid who went down there and got lost or hurt, or worse. When we were little, our parents would try to scare us into staying away, telling us a nasty man lived down there who liked to shave the heads of little girls and chop off their feet to make soup. I understand wanting to keep your kids obedient, but little girl foot soup? Gotta love how twisted our parents were.
“We heard other rumors of sketchy activity that went on down there. Teenagers sneaking off to smoke weed, have sex, fight, graffiti parts of the tunnels … There were even rumors of weird religious rituals taking place down there—the Satanic panic was still a thing back then. Even if there wasn’t an actual boogeyman waiting to shave our heads and eat our feet, there was still plenty to keep us afraid of that place.
“The summer before sixth grade, we read a story in the Willow Glen Gazette about buried treasure in the Finchley mines. This was a couple years after The Goonies came out, which made every child who saw it desperate to search for buried treasure.
“Violet and I took it a step further. You know those doorknobs that look like giant crystals? We used to unscrew the one on our bathroom door and pretend it was a big diamond, then take turns hiding it and make up all kinds of scavenger hunts for each other to find it. Dad got so annoyed having to screw the doorknob back in all the time, he went to the hardware store and got us one just to play with.
“When we read that story about how there might be actual treasure in those tunnels, there was no question that we had to be the ones to find it.
“One Saturday after lunch, we told our parents we were going to play with some friends at Cordova Park, packed some supplies into our book bags, and set off.
“As soon as we entered the tunnels, I was sure it was a horrible mistake. Our flashlights only penetrated a little bit of the darkness, our jackets were too thin against the cold, it was eerie and musty, and some sections smelled like pee.
“Violet had to have been creeped out, too, but every time I suggested we turn around and go home, her resolve only strengthened, and her annoyance with me grew, until she snapped and said I didn’t deserve to find the treasure if I was going to be such a baby about it. That was it. I wouldn’t let her bully me into what I believed was a dangerous situation, so I huffed and said I was leaving. Only I got turned around on my way out. Once I realized I was lost, I didn’t know if it was better to keep looking for an exit or stay and call out for help.