Holly begins throwing the figurines into the fireplace, really heaving them. Some don’t shatter, but most do. All the ones that hit the not-log do.
Holly doesn’t take as much pleasure from this as she expected. It was more satisfying to smoke in a kitchen where smoking had always been verboten. In the end she dumps the rest of the figurines from the trash bag onto the coverlet, picks up a few shards that have escaped the fireplace, and bundles the coverlet up. She hears the pieces clinking inside and that does give her a certain grim pleasure. She takes the coverlet around to the garbage hutch on the side of the house and stuffs it into one of the cans.
“There,” she says, dusting her hands. “There.”
She goes back into the house, but with no intention of circling through all the rooms. She’s seen what she needs to see and done what needs to be done. She and her mother aren’t quits, will never be quits, but getting rid of the figurines and the coverlet was at least a step toward prying that come-along hold from around her shoulders. All she wants from 42 Lily Court are the papers on the kitchen table. She picks them up, then sniffs the air. Cigarette smoke, thin but there.
Good.
Enough of memory lane; there’s a case to chase, a missing girl to be found. “A new millionaire jumps in her car and drives to Upsala Village,” Holly says.
And laughs.
February 8, 2021
Emily checks out Barbara’s red coat, hat, and scarf and says, “Aren’t you pretty! All done up like a Christmas package!”
Barbara thinks, How funny. It’s still okay for a woman to say things like that, but not a man. Professor Harris’s husband, for instance. He did give her a good looking over, but you can’t MeToo a man for that. You’d have to MeToo almost all of them. Besides, he’s old. Harmless.
“Thank you for seeing me, Professor. I’ll only take a minute of your time. I was hoping for a favor.”
“Well, let’s see if I can do you one. If it’s not about the writing program, that is. Come in the kitchen, Ms. Robinson. I was just making tea. Would you like a cup? It’s my special blend.”
Barbara is a coffee drinker, gallons of the stuff when she’s working on what her brother Jerome calls her Top Secret Project, but she wants to stay on this elderly (but sharp-eyed, very) woman’s good side, so she says yes.
They pass through a well-appointed living room into an equally well-appointed kitchen. The stove is a Wolf—Barbara wishes they had one at home, where she’ll be just a little longer, before going off to college. She has been accepted at Princeton. A teapot is huffing away on the front burner.
While Barbara unwinds her scarf and unbuttons her coat (really too warm for them today, but it does give her a good look—young woman perfectly put together), Emily spoons some tea from a ceramic cannister into a couple of tea balls. Barbara, who has never drunk anything but bag tea, watches with fascination.
Emily pours and says, “We’ll just let that steep a bit. Only for a minute or so. It’s strong.” She leans her narrow bottom against the counter and crosses her arms below a nearly bosomless bosom. “Now how may I help you?”
“Well… it’s about Olivia Kingsbury. I know she sometimes mentors young poets… at least she used to…”
“She still might,” Emily says, “but I rather doubt it. She’s very old now. You might think I’m old—don’t look uncomfortable, at my age I have no need to varnish the truth—but compared to Livvie, I’m a youngster. She’s in her late nineties now, I believe. So thin it wouldn’t take a strong wind to blow her away, just a puff of breeze.”
Em removes the tea balls and sets a mug in front of Barbara. “Try that. But take off your coat first, for heaven’s sake. And sit down.”
Barbara puts her folder on the table, slips off her coat, and drapes it over the back of the chair. She sips her tea. It’s foul-tasting, with a reddish tinge that makes her think of blood.
“How do you find it?” Em asks, bright-eyed. She takes the chair across from Barbara.
“It’s very good.”
“Yes. It is.” Emily doesn’t sip but gulps, although their mugs are still steaming. Barbara thinks the woman’s throat must be leather-lined. Maybe that’s what happens to you when you get old, she thinks. Your throat gets numb. And you must lose your sense of taste, too.
“You are, I take it, an acolyte of Calliope and Erato.”
“Well, not so much Erato,” Barbara says, and ventures another sip. “I don’t write love poetry, as a rule.”
Emily gives a delighted laugh. “A girl with a classical education! How unusual and delectably rare!”
“Not really,” Barbara says, hoping she won’t have to drink this whole mug, which looks bottomless. “I just like to read. The thing is, I love Olivia Kingsbury’s work. It’s what made me want to write poetry. Dead Certain… End for End… Cardiac Street… I’ve read them all to bits.” This isn’t just a metaphor; her copy of Cardiac Street did indeed fall to pieces, parted company with its cheap Bell College Press binding and went all over the floor. She had to buy a new copy.
“She’s very fine. Won a batch of prizes in her younger years and was shortlisted for the National Book Award not long ago. I believe in 2017.” Em knows it was 2017, and she was actually quite pleased when Frank Bidart won instead. She has never cared for Olivia’s poetry. “She lives just down the street from us, you know, and… aha! The picture clarifies.”
Her husband, the other Professor Harris, comes in. “I’m going to gas up our freshly washed chariot. Do you want anything, my love?”
“Just the Sheepherder’s Special,” she says. “A cup of ewe.”
He laughs, blows her a kiss, and leaves. Barbara may not like the tea she’s been given (hates it, actually), but it’s nice to see old people who still love each other enough for silly jokes. She turns back to Emily.
“I don’t have the courage to just walk up to her house and knock on her door. I barely had the guts to come here—I almost turned around.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. You dress up the place. Drink your tea, Ms. Robinson. Or may I call you Barbara?”
“Yes, of course.” Barbara takes another sip. She sees that Emily has already finished half her cup. “The thing is, Professor—”
“Emily. You Barbara, me Emily.”
Barbara doubts if she can manage calling this sharp-eyed old lady by her given name. Professor Harris’s mouth is smiling, and there’s a twinkle—so to speak—in her eye, but Barbara isn’t sure it’s an amused twinkle. More of an assessing one.
“I went to the English Department at Bell and spoke with Professor Burkhart—you know, the department head—”
“Yes, I know Roz pretty well,” Emily says drily. “For the last twenty years or so.”
Barbara flushes. “Sure, yes, of course. I went to her about maybe getting an introduction to Olivia Kingsbury, and she said I should talk to you, because you and Ms. Kingsbury were friends.”
Livvie may think we’re friends, Emily thinks, but that would be stretching the truth. Stretching it until it snapped, actually. But she nods.
“We had side-by-side offices for many years and were quite collegial. I have signed copies of all her books, and she has signed copies of mine.” Emily gulps tea, then laughs. “Both of mine, to say fair and true. She has been considerably more prolific, although I don’t believe she’s published anything lately. Looking for an introduction, are you? I suspect rather more. You want her to mentor you, which is understandable, you being a fan and all, but I fear you will be disappointed. Livvie’s mind is still sharp, at least so far as I can tell, but she’s very lame. Can hardly walk.”