Sing It to Her Bones Read online

  I took a sip of my fruit juice. “Oh, Connie. Whatever am I going to do? No one wants to hire an old woman like me. Not with my medical history.”

  Connie put down her cappuccino and touched my arm. “Your medical history is none of their goddamned business.” She leaned close, her breath sweet with cinnamon. “Give it a rest, Hannah. Take some time off to consider your options.”

  “Gawd, Connie, you sound just like Fran.” I smiled to let her know that I was just kidding.

  She ran her finger around the inside of her cup and licked off the foam. “Why don’t you come stay with me for a while? Hang out at the farm?”

  The waiter had put a Chocolate Diablo on the table in front of me, and I had just taken a bite. “On the farm?” I mumbled through a mouthful of devil’s food. “What would I do there?”

  “You could help me with my paperwork, Hannah. I’m useless at it. One day the IRS is going to catch up with me.”

  “I never thought I’d be seriously considering working for my sister-in-law.”

  “Well, the pay isn’t great, but the food is wholesome. I don’t do desserts like this, though.” For the next few minutes, we ate in silence, except for the twittering mynahs and the snarling leopards.

  Eventually I stood, lifted my sweater off the back of the chair, and picked up the wig box. “Thanks awfully for lunch, Connie, but I’d like to go home now. I need to think, and I can’t do it in here with all those damn birds and monkeys chattering away.”

  While Connie took care of the check, I watched the room darken as it had every few minutes since our arrival with the flashes and rumbles of a mock thunderstorm. A toddler waiting in line with his father cowered, clinging, to his father’s leg. I thought about Connie living all by herself, with no one to cuddle up to when the weather got bad. Connie had been married to a Prince Georges County police officer. Ten years ago they had moved back to the family farm near Pearson’s Corner, an old fishing community on the Truxton River in southern Maryland, to be with her ailing father. Then the old man had died, and Craig had been murdered by a fugitive bank robber following a routine traffic stop on Route 301. Connie had been a widow for almost a year, turning her grief inward and focusing on her art, all the while playing good Samaritan to me.

  We walked out of the restaurant past a young man with a pair of macaws perched on his arms. The colorful birds were obligingly doing tricks for three small children who stood off to one side in a little huddle, apparently afraid to approach the birds any closer.

  “I feel like crap most of the time,” I complained as we reached Connie’s car. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company. And what about Paul?”

  “Paul’s a big boy, Hannah. He can fend for himself for a few weeks.”

  “And my doctors? What about them?”

  “Pearson’s Corner isn’t exactly the dark side of the moon, Hannah. You’ll be only a two-hour drive from Johns Hopkins.”

  Connie had an answer for everything.

  I had to admit that the offer was attractive. A quiet place to go where no one would bother me and I could wait, peacefully, for my hair to grow out.

  Several hours and a long, hot bubble bath later, I’d convinced myself to do it. Paul could hardly object. Connie was his sister after all.

  chapter

  2

  Paul didn’t seem to mind at all. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said with enthusiasm. Too much enthusiasm, if you ask me.

  “You could at least pretend some reluctance to see me go.” I was standing in front of the stove, stirring oatmeal. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and rested his chin on the top of my head.

  “I’ll manage fine for a while.” He kissed my neck, then gave my bottom a friendly pat.

  I turned and pointed the wooden spoon, gooey with oatmeal, at him. “You’re not exactly the world’s greatest cook, you know.”

  “Trust me, I’ll manage. I can eat in the hall with the mids if I get tired of hot dogs and hamburgers.” He opened the cupboard over the microwave and pulled out a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. “This is always good.”

  I laughed and ruffled his graying hair with my free hand. “Paul, you’re a prince.”

  “Not really. Connie called and twisted my arm. Hard. She threatened to tell you all about Theresa Jane Delaney if I didn’t agree to let you come.”

  “Who’s Theresa Jane Delaney?”

  “The love of my life …” He paused just a fraction too long, long enough for me to pull a dish towel off the rack and snap it at him. He feinted to the left. “When I was sixteen! Long before I met you, sweet cakes.”

  I kissed him firmly on the mouth. “I just love it when you talk dirty.”

  On the long drive down Route 2 from Annapolis to Pearson’s Corner, I tuned the radio to WETA-FM and, between classical selections, listened with smug satisfaction to the traffic reports. An overturned tractor-trailer on westbound New York Avenue near Kenilworth at the District line had Route 50 backed up all the way to the beltway. Not my problem anymore!

  As I drove, sipping McDonald’s coffee through a red stirrer straw I had jammed through the plastic lid, I recalled the time Paul first brought me to his family’s farm, in 1973, the year we were married. I was thinking that not much had changed in Chesapeake County since then, although yuppies from nearby Baltimore and Washington, D.C., were beginning to discover the area, seeking decent schools and a quiet, relatively crime-free place to raise their children. The friendly communities, verdant fields, lush forests, and unspoiled water views that had drawn them to this quiet part of the county in the first place were still to be found in abundance. For the time being at least.

  At Milford, just past the Maryland State Environmental Research Station, I slowed at the flashing yellow light and waited for a delivery truck to pull out of the 7-Eleven and onto the highway. At the next intersection I turned left on Pearson’s Road and left again almost immediately at the high school, where the road forked. I slowed to ease my car around the curve that skirted a pond, then accelerated past the old Nichols place. Within minutes, I spotted Connie’s mailbox, which had at one time been beautifully painted with irises á la Vincent Van Gogh and her name, C. Ives, in black gothic letters. Unfortunately the mailbox had been battered, almost beyond recognition, in a drive-by whacking. Rust was developing where the paint had been chipped away by the vandal’s bat. So much for low crime, I thought.

  After the first long day getting settled in at Connie’s, it felt strange to crawl into bed alone. I missed Paul and remembered how odd it felt when we first slept together in the bedroom he had used as a child, right there on the plaid bed sheets surrounded by the memorabilia of his youth: his Hardy Boys books and old school texts, seashells from a class trip to Ocean City, a second-prize bowling trophy so ornate and improbably tall that it barely fitted on the shelf and made me wonder what on earth the first-prize trophy had looked like. Like now, it had been spring, and we left the window open. I remember lying in his arms, listening to mournful owls, frogs clearing their throats, and the constant creaking of the crickets, sounds that kept his city bride from Cleveland wide awake.

  Now most of those youthful trappings were gone, replaced by Laura Ashley curtains and matching bedclothes, the bookshelves full of art books, knick-knacks, and family photographs. This time the night sounds that drifted into the window on a soft, sweet-smelling breeze soothed me like a lullaby, and I fell asleep almost instantly.

  I awoke refreshed with the sun on my face. I lay quietly for a while, listening to the birds argue in the tree outside my window and studying the shadowy, shifting patterns cast by the leaves on the wallpaper. The steady hum of a tractor drifted in from the Baxter farm just to the east. I plumped my pillow and sandwiched it between my back and the tall, carved headboard while considering the picture on the wall nearest my feet, an aquatint of Paul and Connie’s great-grandparents, looking severe. The first time we’d made quiet love in this room, Paul had turned their picture to t
he wall.

  A few moments later I heard a toilet flush and the sound of running water. I lay lazily in bed until the sounds died away, then padded downstairs in my nightgown. The pine floors felt smooth and warm beneath my bare feet and creaked comfortingly in all the familiar places—the third step down from the landing, just inside the dining room as you pass the buffet, the first board as you step over the threshold into the kitchen. Connie had the radio tuned to WGMS, where Pachelbel’s Canon was playing softly, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  “Connie!” I called.

  “Out here!” she replied.

  The water in the coffee machine on the counter had just finished burbling through the filter, so I poured myself a cup and one for Connie. In the refrigerator I found some half-and-half. Connie drinks her coffee black with sugar, so I checked the sell-by date before pouring any of it into my mug, just in case this carton was left over from the last time I visited, over three months ago.

  Carrying both mugs, I passed through the utility room into Connie’s studio, which had been cleverly converted from a derelict screen porch.

  Connie was working, sorting through a pile of dried ornamental gourds of all colors, shapes and sizes. On the workbench in front of her, pots of paints and brushes waited, lined up in orderly rows. The room smelled of oil paint and shellac.

  Connie squinted critically at the gourd she had been painting. She had turned a plump butternut squash into a whimsical farm boy in blue overalls, his face dotted with freckles.

  I chuckled. “How you do it is beyond me, Connie. You see beyond the vegetable exterior right into its very soul.”

  I picked up a crooked neck squash and turned it in several directions. “They all look like ducks to me. Or swans.”

  Connie laid the farm boy down on a sheet of newspaper and began work on another figure. It was clearly a French schoolgirl, her beret formed by the curling stem end of the gourd. Connie dabbed a spot of pink onto each of the figure’s cheeks.

  I passed her the coffee.

  “Thanks, Hannah.”

  She took a sip, then held up a graceful sandpiper, its neck bent as if caught in the act of picking clams out of the sand. “What do you think of this one?”

  “I think they’re all wonderful. Where are they going?”

  She waved her arm in a wide arc, including in its scope most of the shelves on the wall behind her. “I’m sending this lot up to New York at the end of the week.” The shelves were full of gourd soldiers and gourd musicians. Whole gourd families—boys, girls, mamas, papas—smiled out at me with twinkling eyes. There were scores of ducks, geese, swans, roosters, and other fanciful figures.

  “You’ve come just in time to help me pack up.” Connie pointed to another corner of the room where flattened cartons, rolls of bubble wrap, and bags of plastic peanuts were stored. “I haven’t had much help out here since Craig died. Except for Colonel, of course.”

  Hearing his name, the old dog raised his head from where it rested on his paws. Until then he had been sleeping comfortably on a braided mat in front of the screen door that opened out into the backyard.

  I put my coffee down on Connie’s workbench, knelt down, and called to him, patting my knee. “Come here, boy. Come on, Colonel.”

  Colonel slowly unfolded, stretched, and staggered stiffly over to lick my face. I grabbed both his ears and scratched behind them, the way he liked.

  Colonel was a short-haired, white and brown mixed breed, half German shepherd and half fox terrier. Fortunately for Connie, who wanted a watchdog, the part that barked was German shepherd.

  “You’re looking pretty good for an elderly dog.” I scratched vigorously down the bumps along his spine. “Joined AARP yet?”

  Connie laughed. “He’s got arthritis so bad he can sometimes barely move. But let him catch sight of a squirrel, and he’s a pup again.”

  Colonel rolled onto his back and offered me his stomach. As I rubbed, his back legs quivered in ecstasy. I thought about all the times I had considered adopting a dog. But we live in downtown Annapolis, where you’ve got to fence the yard and walk your dog on a leash. Not much fun for a dog or its owner.

  Colonel had been a companion to my father-in-law during his final illness. He’d been named after a Korean war buddy of Paul’s father, and though at first the dog had been called Colonel Sam, it wasn’t long before it was shortened to Colonel.

  “Want to take Colonel out for a walk while I fix breakfast?” Connie rinsed out the brush she had been using and set the schoolgirl figure on a shelf to dry.

  “Sure. Soon as I get dressed.”

  Back in my room, I changed into jeans, pulled a sweatshirt over my head, and slipped into my jogging shoes. As I tightened and tied the laces, I was reminded that I hadn’t been doing a lot of jogging lately, just exercises like spider-walking my arm up a wall. This was supposed to keep the damaged muscles on my chest and under my arms from tightening up. I didn’t bother with any makeup and didn’t feel like putting on my wig. Instead, I rummaged in one of the plastic grocery bags that passed for matched luggage when I’m in a hurry to pack. This one was full of hats friends had given me: a hat dripping with sequins, one with cat ears, a navy cap from the USS Ramage DDG61. Sequins weren’t exactly appropriate for dog walking, I thought, and certainly not the cat ears! After a few moments I selected a Baltimore Orioles cap with my name, Hannah, stitched on it in elaborate sewing machine script and settled it snugly over the soft brown stubble just beginning to reappear on my head.

  As I paused through the kitchen again, Connie was frying bacon. I left my mug in the sink—Connie didn’t have a dishwasher—and returned to the studio.

  “Come on, boy.” I unhooked the screen door, and Colonel loped happily through.

  Connie’s backyard was a square of grass the size of a tennis court, closely mowed. It grew rich and green where the shadow of the maple trees protected it from the hot sun, more yellow where the grass was exposed. To my right a gravel driveway led up to the barn that Connie used as a garage. Beyond the barn a fence marched off into the distance, dipping now and then as it followed the gently rolling fields that sloped down to a large pond just visible on the horizon. Colonel trotted ahead, his tail in a tight C curled smartly over his back.

  Near the barn I opened the gate and passed through, remembering to close it behind me. It was a habit I’d got into when there used to be cows around. A stick leaned crookedly against the gatepost, and I picked it up, mostly so I’d have something to do with my hands.

  Behind the barn we passed Connie’s kitchen garden, where neat rows of young plants were just beginning to push their way up through the soil. In the field beyond, nearly an acre of hills and poles was devoted to the business of cultivating her ornamental gourds. Colonel and I skirted the planted fields and walked through the tall grass, following the fence line. The farm to the west of the fence belonged to the Nichols family, but they had moved to Florida long ago, abandoning their farm.

  When we reached the pond, Colonel planted his front paws at the water’s edge, took a long drink, then chased a frog into the water. He sat alert, ears erect, studying with hopeful eyes the ripples where the frog had submerged. When he panted, his clean, pinkish purple tongue hung out, dripping saliva onto the ground.

  He probably would have sat there forever, but I raised my arm to distract him and threw the stick as far as I could into the nearby woods, the scar on my chest stretching and stinging with the effort.

  Colonel bolted off through the trees. He returned in triumph a few moments later, carrying the stick in his mouth. He trotted over and laid it at my muddy feet. I retrieved the stick and continued walking as Colonel danced and circled around me, urging me to toss the stick again, but I was already tired of the game.

  Once the fence had been a continuous line of posts and barbed wire. Occasionally, to save posts, Paul’s father had nailed the wire to the trees that grew naturally along the property line. After many years the trees had grown aroun
d the wire, engulfing it. It now appeared as if some magician had pulled the wire right through the trees. In other places where it was not adequately supported, the wire had rusted through and separated, leaving gaps.

  For some reason I was profoundly happy. I found myself singing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah,” whacking the stick against my leg to the rhythm of the song as I walked. Colonel grew bored and ambled on ahead, sniffing at fence posts and tree roots, lifting a leg every so often to mark his territory.

  Suddenly he began to root around, poking his nose into a pile of leaves that had blown up against the fence last fall. I heard a frantic rustling; then a rabbit bolted out of the leaves and dashed easily through the fence into our neighbor’s field. Colonel raced off in joyful pursuit.

  “Colonel! Colonel! You get back here!” The beastly dog ignored me.

  I wasted some time searching back along the way we had come for a break in the fence, then gave up. Risking a tear in my “Smith College—100 years of Women on Top” sweatshirt, I held down the lower strand of barbed wire with one hand and carefully squirmed through. I ran after the dog, yelling, “Colonel, come!” and waving my stick impotently.

  Colonel had disappeared behind the house.

  I had never seen the old Nichols place up close. The once-white siding on the ancient two-story dwelling was pitted and stained gray-green from the woodsmoke that used to pump out of the chimney night and day. Dark green shutters, missing most of their slats, hung crookedly from an insufficient number of nails. Nearly all the windows were broken—juvenile delinquents in training were responsible for that, I was sure—and most had been boarded up. Shingles torn from the roof by the wind littered the ground.

  Colonel had apparently cornered his rabbit. As I rounded the side of the house, I saw him guarding an old cistern that had been used to collect rainwater back in the days when wells weren’t so easy to dig. The cistern was a concrete cylinder about five feet in diameter, set deeply into the ground and topped by a cover of wooden boards joined together with wide metal straps. Two large, flat stones rested on top.