A Summer with the Dead Read online

  Elly stared at Maya with squinted eyes and open mouth. “Who?”

  “Tony Bradley.”

  Elly’s voice dropped a full octave. “Who’s Tony Bradley?”

  Through the window Maya spotted Coty striding down the driveway. She wanted to open the door and call him inside. When Coty stood beside her she felt more able to deal with Mr. Elly.

  “Nobody important, I guess,” she said.

  Maya searched her bedroom for her wristwatch. She changed the sheets on the bed and flipped the mattress, dug through her empty luggage, the bedside drawer and even under the braided oval rug. She sifted through the ashes in the fireplace and ran her hand inside every pocket of her wardrobe. Nothing. If the watch had been a gift from Benson she wouldn’t have cared but she’d bought it with her very first paycheck. It was a nice watch, with one tiny diamond at twelve o’clock. Watches made Maya think of time and time made her think of her father and how quickly life passed by.

  “I’ve got to phone Mom today, Elly. I haven’t spoken to her since I arrived here.” Maya dreaded a conversation with her mother. “She’ll probably start interrogating me.”

  “Interrogating you how, honey?” Elly asked.

  “Asking me when I’m coming home, or if I’ve talked to Benson. She’ll want to know if I’ve found a job yet. Things like that.”

  “I’d tell her to kiss my hinny.”

  Grinning, Maya climbed the stairs to stand beside the morning glory window, ready to enter her mother’s phone number. Her grin faded as she recalled her mother’s judgmental tone when Maya mentioned the classes she had chosen for college.

  “Art? Will an art degree get you a good job, Maya?”

  “A degree in anything helps. It proves you have perseverance,” Maya said. Every job since graduation, however, had been a financial disappointment and her mother was always eager to point that out.

  “Another receptionist position, Maya? At a car dealership?” And two years later, “A word processor? Isn’t that just a typist?” The word processing job lasted seven months before Maya found a job as an office manager for a book distributor. “I hope this job pays better, Maya.” A year later, when Maya was hired as manager at the art gallery, her mother said, “Now we’ll see what effect your art degree has on your income.” When Benson insisted Maya stop working and stay at home, Maya’s mother approved. “Now, your job is to support your husband. Behind every successful man is a wife with social skills. A supportive wife can make a big difference in a man’s career.”

  Where was Benson at that very moment? Maya leaned against the wall beside the lavender window, glancing twice toward the door at the far end of the hall. She pictured Benson in the hospital, legs hoisted in a metal framework. Or was he recovering at home already? With both legs and one arm in casts, he would need help with just about everything. Perhaps his mother, Peggy, was there with him. Every time Benson screwed up, Peggy arrived to bail him out. Maya figured Benson had ‘borrowed’ over ten thousand dollars from Peggy in the last seven years. He’d never paid a cent of it back.

  Maya tapped her mother’s number into her cell phone. It rang several times. Maya was ready to leave a brief message when her mother answered.

  “Hi, Mama. It’s Maya.”

  “Of course it’s you, dear. No one else calls me Mama.”

  “How are you?”

  “Great. My realtor just called. Someone made a full offer on the house. Apparently there were multiple offers. There might be a bidding war. He said I could get a lot more if I wait.”

  “I don’t remember you saying where you planned to live after selling the house, Mama.”

  “I plan to travel a bit. I’ve always wanted to spend a month or two in Italy.”

  “Italy?”

  “And Spain. Maybe Portugal too.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, not alone.”

  “Who are you going with?”

  “You wouldn’t know this person. The two of you have never met. Oh, someone else is calling, dear. It might be the realtor. I’ll call you back.”

  “You don’t have to, Mama. I’m going out for the day anyway. Talk to you in a day or two.”

  “Okay. Love you, Maya.”

  “Love you, Mama.”

  Maya entered the upstairs bathroom and stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. She didn’t want to move back in with Mama. The idea of living with her mother, for even a short period of time, made Maya’s heart flutter with anxiety. Not even for a brief transition between jobs would she consider that.

  I’d live at the YWCA before I moved back in with Mom.

  Even so, Maya had happy memories of the house where she grew up and of the neighborhood. She smiled, picturing her father reading the newspaper in his big armchair with sunlight coming through the window behind him. She held fond memories of how he looked, tinkering in the garage, pruning the rose bushes out back, or replacing a pane of glass in the enclosed back porch. But those memories were like old photographs, the colors fading, the details blurring, the occasions hazy. What she remembered most often was her father’s smile and the sound of his laugh, even though his laugh was a rare thing.

  Maya remembered every item in her old bedroom. The twin canopy bed and bedside table were secondhand, given to her by Mama’s sister, Ruth. It was white with hand painted pink roses across the headboard. The quilted pink bedspread and curtains were a set Mama ordered from J.C.Penny, and the white, fluffy rug from Montgomery Ward. Maya’s father hand-built a trunk for her toys, although there were very few of those. Maya wedged her one, lonely doll, Sally, between the pillows on her bed, and her tricycle and bicycle stayed in the garage. Even so, of all the things Maya cherished, it was that trunk, built like a pirate’s treasure chest with wide bands of brass and a brass lock with a brass key. Maya’d kept the key in her jewelry box, under the ballet dancer that pirouetted when she lifted the lid. The trunk now sat in the back of her closet in Aunt Elly’s house. The doll, Sally, rested behind netting in the arched lid.

  The thought that the house where she grew up would now belong to someone else felt amiss. Tears stung Maya’s eyes. She blotted them with her sleeve. There was no longer the option of moving back home. For the first time ever, she felt homeless. Until now, she’d always felt as if the decision were hers. Reality, however, shouted it wasn’t her decision after all and it made turning thirty years old even more painful. She’d never considered how turning thirty would feel, until it happened. “Home hasn’t been home for nineteen years anyway. Not since Daddy …” Maya couldn’t say the word, died. “Not since Daddy—left,” she said.

  The yard-garage sale took place on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. The concrete block warehouse had a corrugated metal roof and it held ten long banquet tables. Four of the tables were piled with items from inside Elly’s house. Seven more tables displayed tools and equipment from sheds and barns. A six-foot long clothes rack held all of Harlan’s clothes. Almost everything on that rack was outdated but in excellent condition, as if he had seldom worn them. One leather jacket looked new.

  Six early shoppers arrived while Maya and Elly were still setting things up for business. They wanted first peek at the goods, they said, but Elly shook her head no.

  “Come back at nine o’clock, like the sign says. I’m not giving you first crack at anything.”

  “I’ll give you top dollar,” one man said. He dug a wad of bills from his pants pocket, held together by a sturdy blue rubber band. He held the bundle of bills up high, as if tempting a dog with a meaty bone. He wore pristine Cole Haan shoes, a cashmere sweater and summer weight wool slacks. He had pulled up in a classic old red Ferrari and parked it sideways in front of the warehouse doors, as if to block others from entering.

  Elly spoke up. “Your money is no greener than the next fella’s. So get out, or I’ll turn the Dobermans loose.”

  Maya giggled as the man climbed into his Ferrari and drove away. There were no guard dogs, Doberman or other br
eeds. She was about ready to compliment Elly on her method of scaring the man away, when she realized Elly’s voice had changed again. Mr. Elly was showing up more often lately. One minute it was Elly’s high-pitched voice and a minute later it was Mr. Elly’s growl. It wasn’t the voice change that concerned Maya. It was Mr. Elly himself. It was as if he slept for days at a time and then he’d wake up, demanding to know what was going on, furious at things he saw. Mr. Elly seemed to disapprove of almost everything, but especially the fact that Maya and Coty were living on the farm. When Maya called him Elly, his face changed. He squinted, frowned, drew his brows together over his nose and focused his deep-set eyes on her. It was frightening when he glared at her like that, more frightening than Benson’s face when he tried to strangle her. At least Benson was there, behind those eyes. With Benson, there was a light on. Mr. Elly was temporary. Where did he go when he left?

  “Elly, your yard sale was a success,” Maya said. “Almost everything is gone, and what’s left has SOLD tags on it. Those buyers better get back here for their stuff before we close up shop.”

  Elly opened the cash box beneath the counter and counted the money.

  “Eleven-hundred-forty dollars. Is that good?” Elly asked.

  “That’s excellent, and that antique dealer said he’d give you four thousand for the furniture at the farm. I’m sure he’ll double that when he sells it later.”

  “You think he’s cheating me?”

  “No. He has employees and taxes to pay. Plus, he has to haul everything away and that takes labor and gas money. I think his offer was fair.” Maya hesitated and then added, “But you could phone him and tell him you’ve changed your mind if you think you could get a better price somewhere else.”

  Elly shook her head. “Nah. I’m too old and tired to negotiate anymore. I just want to be done with it. It’s time to move on. Harlan will understand.”

  I sure hope so, Maya thought. “How old was Uncle Harlan when he died?”

  Elly looked thoughtful for a moment. “He was—my goodness, seventy-six, the same age I am right now. I hadn’t realized that until just now when you asked.”

  “So, if Uncle Harlan were still alive, he’d be about eighty-one, eighty-two?”

  Elly nodded. “Harlan would be almost eighty-two. He’s been gone … heavens … over six years already.”

  Harlan takes over Elly’s thoughts, her emotions, her body … but she doesn’t realize it while it’s happening. Does Harlan not realize he’s dead?

  A sudden rain shower danced in puddles outside the warehouse. Moments later, three cars pulled up and ten people climbed out. Talking and laughing as they entered the warehouse.

  “Do you still have that glass, bubble-milk lamp?” One woman asked. “I asked you to hold it for me.”

  Elly motioned for the woman to follow her. Two people paid Maya cash for their items and loaded their treasures into their cars. When all three vehicles drove away, the last banquet table was bare and the cash box held over twelve hundred dollars.

  “Shall we close up shop?” Elly asked. “It’s three-forty-five and we said we’d close down at four o’clock. This is close enough isn’t it?”

  “After this next guy leaves.” Maya recognized the man from earlier in the day, the man with the wad of bills. He now wore faded blue jeans and a black sweatshirt. Instead of a red Ferrari, he drove a brown Chevy Malibu.

  “Howdy, ladies,” he said. “Hope I’m not too late.”

  Maya smirked. Elly wasn’t the only person whose voice changed. His Texas drawl sounded faked.

  “I was here earlier,” he admitted. “You had some oil paintings against the back wall. Still got’em?”

  “I’ll walk back there with you,” Maya said. “I know the paintings you’re talking about and yes, they’re still there.”

  Side by side they headed toward the back of the warehouse.

  “You related to that old shrew?” he asked, dropping the accent.

  “Did that old shrew scare you away the first time?” Maya asked. “Is that why you came back in disguise?”

  He smiled. “Yup.”

  “Are these the paintings?” Maya halted in front of three framed oils. She pointed to the first one. “That one’s the best of the three.”

  “How much do you want for it?” he asked.

  “Six hundred dollars.”

  “That seems steep, considering …” The man leaned close and squinted at the name in the bottom right corner. “I don’t recognize that artist’s name.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s a fine painting.”

  “And you’d know that because?”

  “Because I know. That’s why.”

  “I’ll give you five hundred for all three paintings,” he said.

  “I want twelve hundred for all three paintings. Otherwise I’ll keep them myself.”

  He stepped back. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “I’m from Tacoma, where I managed the Michael Sherridan-Smith Gallery for five years.”

  Without another word the man counted out twelve hundred dollars into Maya’s palm, picked up the paintings and left. Maya strolled back to the warehouse entrance and handed the money to Elly.

  “Now, we can close up,” Maya said. “Twenty-four hundred dollars is a very successful garage sale, Elly.”

  Minutes later the Goodwill truck arrived and hauled away the remaining items, including some of Harlan’s clothes and two sets of old mechanic’s tools. Maya and Elly slammed the warehouse doors closed and attached the big padlock Tony Bradley provided. They climbed into the Ford Edge and headed for home.

  “Those paintings were valuable?” Elly asked.

  “Yes. Where did you get them?”

  “Harlan painted them.”

  Maya tried to remember the signatures. Why hadn’t she paid more attention?

  “Uncle Harlan painted?” Maya asked. “You never mentioned that.”

  “When he was younger. He painted those when we lived in Chicago, many years ago.”

  “I didn’t know you ever lived in Chicago.”

  “Well, that was long before you were born, Maya. Harlan and I lived there after we got married and he drove a delivery truck, but after a while Harlan said he couldn’t breathe. He said he had to get away from those people and that city, so we moved west. He swore he’d never move east again.”

  “It was a stressful job?” Maya asked.

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  “You might, you might not.” Elly lowered her window. She leaned back, her gray head against the headrest. “How odd. I had no idea those painting were worth anything. I almost threw them away.”

  “They were done in a primitive style. It’s difficult for adults to achieve such freedom when they paint, but small children often can. Somehow, we lose our ability to paint the things the eye craves. Colors. Shapes. Shadows. Instead, we get caught up on details. So many artists try to make their paintings look like photographs. It’s a common mistake.”

  “Imagine that,” Elly said. “Never heard of a primitive style before.”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  PINE NEEDLES CRUNCHED UNDERFOOT as Maya climbed the trail leading up through the evergreen forest. This was Maya’s second time up the trail. The warm day made it felt steeper. Sweat beaded her lip and forehead by the time she reached the meadow with the log cabin. The cabin’s moss roof had sprouted spring grass, waving like fine, green baby hair in the sunlight.

  The meadow grass had also grown taller in the past two weeks. It brushed her knees as she circled the old cabin. Where the door clung to the frame by one rusty hinge, Maya spotted something blue through the rubble. She stepped closer and spotted a stained glass window in the rotten door. It was about an eight-by-ten-inch window and she was amazed that it’d never broken as the cabin surrendered itself to the meadow and the mountain. She was surprised hikers had never taken it, or that harsh win
ters hadn’t fractured it. Would that ancient glass survive another winter? Would it survive being pried from that old wood?

  Maya appreciated the simple flower design … a yellow tulip with four green fronds and a background of sky blue. The outer edges were clear panes of bubble glass. Maya was tempted to pull the entire door away from the house, but was afraid she would damage the window. She decided to come back later and bring tools. Maybe Coty would come with her.

  Around the cabin, the earth felt soft and spongy and, with every step, Maya struggled to haul one hiking boot upward while her other boot sank deeper. Staggering, she lost her balance. She went to her knees and the toes of her boots dug in deep. It felt as if the earth beneath her shuddered. Her knees sank into a depression; the prairie was now at eye level. Elly’s nightmarish description of the earth swallowing the farmhouse flashed through her mind, and then she remembered Coty’s warning of sinkholes.

  Splintered, rotten boards protruded from the earth now along with the corner of an old step. It was an ancient porch. The weather and the meadow had taken their toll. The meadow was reclaiming everything, inch by inch, including the cabin, the porch, the steps … and now her?

  Maya leaned back and grabbed a giant dandelion with one hand and a large stone with the other. The stone was smooth with rounded corners, like those used in old foundations.

  “Help!” she yelled. She gathered more air in her lungs and yelled again. “HELP!”

  The spongy earth inched downward again. Her left boot broke through and dangled inside open space.

  Maya dug her fingers deep into the roots around the dandelion and held on. The clump made a tearing sound and pulled free, dirt and dandelion roots sliding into the sinkhole with her. Seconds later she was up to her waist, both legs dangling in an open space below ground.

  “Help!” she screamed gain. She glimpsed the yellow tulip and the sky blue glass before the earth collapsed and she dropped through. Seconds later she landed in fir needles and a pile of brittle sticks. The sticks snapped under her weight. In the dark, something scuttled through the sticks.