Several weeks ago I walked a path.
A path that put Duncan, Annie’s son, in prison for more years than he is probably capable of enduring and plunged Annie into a quagmire of despair and anger.
I was told to leave The Farm.
The number of dollars I presently control do not allow for more than a corner room in Teller’s Hotel, a dim, crowded slum catering to nearly destitute seniors. Two ancient suitcases and a bulging duffel rested quietly beside several stacks of books, waiting.
I sighed, pulled the last of the Lancers out of the refrigerator, filled a yellow plastic mug, and slumped in the settee.
Cat, always astute, was aware that something profound was happening and, having the feline distaste for disruption and change, was coping by spending most of her time in the cavelike berth under the cockpit. Hearing me fill the mug, she decided to join me, limped out of her nest, and pulled on the cuff of my pants with her good paw. I picked her up, set her on the table, and between sips massaged the scarred tissues of her small, frail body.
I upended the bottle and watched the last drops of wine splash into the mug. I wondered if it would be worth the effort to hike to the barn and snag a bottle from one of the old refrigerators lining the wall in the makeshift kitchen. Thunderstorms were imminent, and Cat, who insists on accompanying me on every journey, does not tolerate thunderstorms well. She clamps herself to my chest, pants like an exhausted puppy, and drools profusely.
I peered out the window to check the weather.
And probably performed a classic double take.
Dressed in bright yellow rain gear a Gloucester lobsterman would envy, gripping a long walking staff, and clutching a plastic bag to her chest, Annie marched across the clearing to the boat. I listened to her climb the stairs, drop into the cockpit, and hammer on the hatch with the staff.
She was undoubtedly here to deliver an ultimatum. I had told her I would be gone by the end of April, and that bitter day was fast approaching. I struggled to my feet and pushed open the hatch.
She lowered an arm, and I grabbed it and helped her down the four steps into the cabin. Annie is somewhere in her seventies, looks it in a handsome way, and stares at the world through hard, flat eyes that calm hurt, frightened animals and make humans squirm. It was Annie who labored over Cat after I appeared at her door with Cat’s maimed, blood-soaked body in my arms.
She nodded curtly, handed me the bag, which obviously held a large bottle, shucked out of her rain gear, and let it drop to the floor. Then she leaned her staff against the steps and, with a critical eye, surveyed the stacks of books, the two suitcases, the packed duffel, and muttered, “Going somewhere?”
A number of biting retorts rose, but I pushed them back and smiled thinly. “I’ll be gone by Friday.”
With pursed lips she nodded, sat down, and put her hands on the table. “I’ll have a large glass of that wine, please.”
So I poured her a glass from the two liter bottle she’d brought, which must have cost four or five dollars, sat down across from her, and raised my eyebrows. She ignored the inquiry, hefted Cat to the table, and ran her long, thin hands over Cat’s body. “I’m surprised. She looks pathetic but is fairly healthy. You’ve done well by her, Harry.”
“Perhaps, but the five hours you worked on her is what gave her a future.”
Annie smiled briefly and drank. She set the glass down and sighed.
“I visited Duncan yesterday. He also is doing surprisingly well. I thought prison would kill him, would reduce him to suicidal pathos. But he seems to be... well, if not thriving, certainly coping. The highly structured life behind bars obviously suits him — he was almost smiling.”
Duncan was going to spend a minimum of fifteen years in that prison, and Annie’s apparent case with that was disturbing, considering her initial reaction. So I just nodded and kept quiet.
She refilled her glass and studied me with those flat eyes as if I were an artifact someone had dug out of the south pasture. Then in a hoarse near whisper she said, “Harry, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking. Reasonable, unprejudiced thinking, and I’ve decided that, if you want to, you may stay. You’ve done well by The Farm and certainly by me, and to evict you over a difference in values is behavior that is repellent. So, if you want, you may unpack and remain here in the grove.”
Casually, and with a surprisingly steady hand considering the sudden increase in my heart rate, I raised my mug, drank deeply, and asked, “Where’s the string?”
She smiled, the genuine article this time. “No strings, Harry. Stay and do as you please. And if you aren’t interested in my little puzzle, that’s fine also.”
Aha. “Your little puzzle?”
“As I said, you’re free to stay. No restrictions. I would not endeavor to coerce you into anything you wouldn’t want to do.”
Unbidden, a smile crept across my face. “Your little puzzle?” I repeated.
She rummaged in her pants pocket, brought out a ring of keys, and dropped them on the table.
Rain started to hammer the boat, and a hard rumble rolled across the pasture and bowled through the grove. Cat struggled to her feet, teetered on the edge of the table, and with a sorrowful yowl dropped into my arms and laid her scarred head against my chest.
I picked up the key ring and fanned the keys across my palm. Four keys. Two were automotive, with Chrysler’s five-pointed star stamped on the end of each one. There was also a smallish key of tarnished brass and a large skeleton key with that characteristic notched piece of flat metal at the working end. I let the keys dangle in my hand, raised my eyebrows, and said, “The keys to the kingdom?”
Annie shook her head and muttered, “Unlikely. A few days ago I noticed that all my kitchenware was on the countertop or stuffed in the dishwasher and my kitchen drawers were filled with crap. It was obvious things had gotten a little out of hand and action was called for.”
She paused, took a healthy swig of wine, gave me a thin-lipped smile. “So I set myself to the task, and now my utensils are back in the drawers where they belong and about forty pounds of crap is residing in our illegal landfill.”
“A grand blow to the solar plexus of Entropy,” I murmured.
“Indeed. In the front of the last drawer, covered by seven hundred and eight pennies, was that key ring. I had forgotten about it. It was Bob’s; I found it in his coat pocket two days before he died. He had had two big strokes by then, and it was obvious he was dying. And it was equally obvious that we both wanted to get it the hell over with. At any rate, we were in the process of deciding what to do with things. What child should get what, what to do with The Farm, how badly to lie to the tax people, and all that.
“As I said, I found those keys in a coat of his, an old corduroy thing with a fur collar. He was wearing it the day he had his first stroke.” She paused, her eyes on the ceiling, then she mentally shook herself, looked at me, and forced a smile. “I showed him the key ring and asked him what the keys were for and what I should do with them. One of the last coherent things he said to me was, ‘My love, you hold the keys to your dream.’ ”
I picked the keys up and looked at them. “The keys to your dream. Did he explain?”
Annie shook her head. “He was drifting in and out, having good spells, bad spells, but usually not making much sense. Bob and I were married for forty-six and a half years, and he knew I didn’t have any dream or dreams worth mentioning. My idea of a dream was a trip to the theater or an art museum, and I rarely mentioned them ’cause I knew Bob had no interest in those things.”
I looked away and while pushing the keys around with my finger said, “But...”