Swoon 02 - Swear Page 4

  A small chamber, with rounded contours, set as it is in a narrow, cylindrical tower. Aside from ladders and toolboxes, a drop cloth across the floor, it’s empty. And I mean empty. I feel no “presence” of any kind, but then again, I never actively sought a spirit before—the mofos always came looking for me.

  Instead I notice only the obvious and earthly. A fine layer of dust everywhere. The air musty, chalky, vaguely chemical and, buried under all that, something else, more unpleasant, and though familiar, I can’t place it.

  The ornate moldings and decorative ceiling medallions are in the process of being restored, but the most striking aspect is the mantelpiece. That’s where the crew must have quit for the weekend—the fireplace is a demo zone—but the mantel is intact and truly a work of art: pure white marble, intricately carved.

  Marsh traces the craftsmanship with her fingers, but no one remarks on what the carvings depict: roses.

  I soon become conscious of all eyes on me.

  “Well,” I say. Might as well get this over with. “Let’s just sit on the floor and try to get as comfortable as possible.” Only Pen makes a small pout of protest. Of course she’s in all black, and of course she’ll be covered in chalky, dusty stuff when we’re done.

  Box, open. Scarf, untied and spread before me. “I’m not going to do a Celtic cross,” I say, like they know what a Celtic cross is. “We have some pretty specific questions, so I think if we all focus”—my eyes flick on Tosh—“and keep it open, respectful”—back to the cards—“we might get some answers.” They are quiet around me, heads bowed, concentrating.

  Cool. I get this party started.

  “Where is Crane Williams?” I beseech the tarot. I cut. I reveal. Result: the Tower.

  Considering the very room we sit in, Duck’s theory is looking pretty good right now.

  Three more times I shuffle. “Why did Crane leave?” I beseech, cut, reveal. Result: the Lovers.

  A sharp little gasp from Marsh over the courting couple on the card.

  Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle for a final query. “Who’s responsible for Crane’s departure?” Beseech. Cut. Reveall. . .

  This time it’s me who gasps. My mouth a horrified O. My hand snatching back as if singed. My eyes springing stinging tears. The card on the silk before me, taunting and tripping and toying with me, is the Hanged Man.

  VII

  Only Pen comprehends my freak-out. Only Pen knows who the Hanged Man is, our Hanged Man. So I can’t really blame her when she mutters, “Oh, crap.” Yet I do shoot her a look that spells out, in no uncertain terms, that if she makes another peep on the subject, I’ll cause her bodily harm. Marsh knows Sin as my ex, no more. Duck knows Sin only as that fabulously charismatic devil who hung around last fall. Tosh doesn’t know Sin from a stick in the ground. Their ignorance is my, well, not bliss but preference.

  “I . . . I don’t get it,” says Marsh.

  I don’t either. If I could breathe, maybe it would come to me.

  I shut my eyes, rub my temples. “Just give me . . .” What’s Sin got to do with it? Nothing, nothing, a thousand times nothing.

  “A minute . . .” Compelling myself to calm down, to finish my sentence, “To interpret this . . .”

  The Tower. The Lovers. The Hanged Man.

  Mustn’t take the images literally, or sweat the orthodox significance of the cards either. Always a tarot dilettante, I’ve relied on my gut, my gift, to make sense of the messages.

  That’s what I ought to do now—it’s not so much what I see as what I feel. So I sandwich the Tower between my hands, and,

  “Something sudden, a shock, like an explosion, a conflagration.

  Destruction . . . upheavall. . . rubble.” On to the Lovers. Picking up the card, I say, “This one’s a no-brainer: love, sex, passion, happiness—a bond.” Feeling it panini-style, I add, “Trust . . . but also temptation . . .communication . . . and mixed signals . . . a bond betrayed.” The last card. The Hanged Man. I let myself look at him.

  Let myself love him—because I do. “See how he’s upside down, more like an animal in a snare than a criminal at the gallows?

  And the innocence on his face.” This is a revelation to me—I’d never noticed it before. “Whatever happened was a mistake.” Then I press him to my heart. “He got caught in something he doesn’t understand. He stepped into this mess, and he submits, suspended, since what else can he do?”

  On the floor, three pictures that mean everything and nothing. “That’s it,” I say.

  “Well, that’s bloody bewildering!” Duck spouts. “Really, Dice, you muddled the situation more than illuminated it.”

  “I am a little rusty,” I admit, pulling my legs to my chest and hugging my shins, my bones heavy with their burden, my psyche drained. Duck, Marsh, all of them—were they expecting divination on demand? Guess I let them down. I won’t even look at them now. All I want is to be out of this ruined, acrid room, away from these people, their problems.

  All I crave is that surreal semiconsciousness that brings my love to me, a state I cannot conjure or control. I lift my head, shake it again. “Sorry, Duck,” I say, “but in tarot, as in life, questions often beget questions.”

  “And that’s a good thing!” This, coming from Tosh, rattles our assembly. “No, really,” he insists. “Look, I never thought I’d put any credence in trumped-up playing cards, but the reading is a start. Something sparks questions, you follow the questions, keep following until you get the truth.” Tosh looks at each of us, then settles on me, his eyes in a green phase, inquisitive, excited. “But I think you can put your deck away, Dice. It said what it had to say.”

  “So what do you suggest we do next?” Pen shifts from hip to hip. “Hit up the Magic Eight Ball?”

  Tosh grins at her indulgently. “How about books.

  Newspapers.” He points to the Tower. “You really believe that one means this house? Well, you might want to find out all you can about the place. Calamity? Upheaval? If it happened, I bet there’s a record of it.” Tosh gets to his feet, lacing his fingers in a satisfied stretch. His work here is done. “There’s a historical society in Norris; I drive by it every day. I’m just saying you might want to check it out.”

  Follow the questions, huh? Yeah, well, what if I don’t feel like it? What if I’d rather curl up in a nice, warm ball of denial?

  Since first of all I don’t believe that Sin has anything to do with the Crane thing—the card popped up in the reading, sure, but anyone could be the Hanged Man in this case. Maybe Crane is the Dangled Dude. And second of all, following the questions won’t do much to get Miss Average American Teenager printed under my yearbook photo. I love Marsh, and I’ll be there for her emotionally, but I don’t see why she can’t follow the questions without me. Frankly, our whole crew trying to solve this mystery—all we need is a Great Dane with marbles in his mouth and we could be the next Scooby-Doo!

  “Which would make you who, Candida? Velma, right?” Oh, terrific. Simply swell. Splendid. Ruby Ramirez hasn’t come to visit in the longest—ever since I exposed her, in fact, telling her story, our story, to Sin. Flatly, I announce her name. Not that it isn’t great to see her, just that she has a way of showing up when I need her—and I’d rather not need her.

  “You ever hear of privacy?” I am, after all, in the tub, seeking bubbly solace, post-tarot, on Sunday night.

  “Between us, baby girl? Since when?”

  True that. Ruby and I have no secrets, and we’ve certainly seen each other in various compromising positions and states of undress. Joining me here, she’s in her birthday suit as she perches on the rim of the tub. The body that was such boy bait as a living, breathing human being hasn’t changed a bit, and bountiful waves of brown hair spill across her spine. I have no reply, so she goes on.

  “Because, lo siento, sweetie, Marsh gets to be Daphne.” Leisurely, her flawless manicure wanders through my bathwater.

  “Duck is . . . what’s the preppy one’s name?”<
br />
  “Freddie.”

  “Right. Freddie. And Shaggy is your new boy.” I grab the soap. Maybe if I hurry up and finish, she’ll go away. “Tosh is not my new boy.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Ruby doesn’t push it. To her, males and females can never be just friends.

  “So who’s Scooby-Doo?” I ask, and at the same time we both spout, “Pen!”

  “Might as well change her species; she’s changed everything else,” Ruby observes.

  “Funny . . . but I think she’s still Pen. She’s just going through some shit.”

  “Generous to a fault, as usual, Candy.” Ruby holds one finger high: recognize. “If my cousin messed around with my man? Uh-uh-uh, I don’t know I could be so forgiving.”

  “I think she feels bad enough about that already,” I say.

  “Among other things. I mean, why gain twenty pounds and chop all your hair off unless you don’t want guys to look at you ‘that way’ ever again?”

  Ruby’s hair, suddenly, is piled in an elaborate updo the size and general shape of a wedding cake. “I guess,” she allows.

  “Hey, you want me to do your back?”

  There she is, equipped with a frothy sea sponge. Without a word, I tilt slightly, lean over, and let her wash the expanse from nape to coccyx, shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Water gushing, sponge scrubbing, her diligent ministrations all so good. Every muscle turns to mush and pleads for more—more strength, more tenderness, more love. Because Ruby does love me, and miss me. A lot. Enough to finish what she instigated the night we concocted our caustic witch’s brew? I had only sipped before the goblet slipped from my fingers; Ruby guzzled like it was Gatorade. I woke the next morning with a hangover; Ruby . . . did not. My hand reaches around, finds hers, firmly stills it.

  “That was nice.” I sit up straight. “Thanks.”

  “De nada.” As Ruby flips air, I notice her sporting a diamond the size of a kumquat.

  I rinse the sponge and spy, on Ruby’s thigh, a single garter trimmed in satin and frilly white lace. “So, Rubes . . .” If she’s here, it’s no doubt to kibitz on the paranormal soap opera I find myself guest starring in. “Duck thinks his brother was jacked by someone of the poltergeist persuasion. What’s your take?”

  “Pffff!” she spews. “What, you think we all know each other or something? Because let me tell you, we don’t have Facebook, all right? There’s no Twitter on the other side.”

  “All right, okay, I’m sorry.” I pop the plug. “It’s just, Marsh and them expect me to step up, and frankly, I’d rather not. I mean, maybe Crane just got a bad case of commitment-phobia, and instead of giving Marsh a ring, he’s off having himself a big old bimbo binge!” Giving voice to my ruminations feels good, and I stand up with a wet sploosh. “But then why do I get attacked by rosebushes? And hit the piano like an instant virtuoso?” Water recedes around my calves, around my ankles, to the sound of slurping. “Why do I get myself roped into a tarot reading that implies the only boy I ever loved is behind the whole thing? Why?” I wonder madly as fists form at my sides. “Why?” I wonder madder still as Ruby begins whirling like a cartoon tornado. “Why, goddamn it? It’s just . . . not . . . fair.”

  “Because life isn’t fair, Candida,” Ruby tells me just before she’s sucked down the drain. “And neither is death.”

  VIII

  Come Monday, Marsh and I ditch school to nose around the local outpost of the Litchfield Historical Society. Now that it’s just us (reducing the Scooby-Doo factor), I can let myself enjoy the intrigue a little. Plus, it’s a gorgeous day: sunny, breezy, summer jumping the gun. Too bad Marsh is in a mood, our conversation bumpy as the roads are smooth.

  “I talked to Duck this morning,” she says. “His parents hired a private investigator. Someone fitting Crane’s description was seen in Waterbury.” She bites her lip. “I mean, if it was him, he’s alive—but . . . but Waterbury!”

  People consider Connecticut the Snooty State, and they’re right, but it has its share of rough spots, and most of them, apparently, are in Waterbury. Marsh can’t imagine what a sweet, innocent guy like hers would be doing there. “His description?” I say. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Marsh—I bet Waterbury is crawling with lanky, sandy-haired guys.” This allays her concerns not one iota. “Besides, it’s good to cover all the bases.

  And I bet the private investigator is the best in the business.” We ride in silence awhile, and then Marsh blurts out, “What did you mean by a bond betrayed?”

  “What? Oh . . . the reading.” I shrug. “I don’t know, Marsh.

  I just . . . pick things up. Intangible transmissions, metaphysical signals. I say what I say because that’s what I sense. I wish I could explain what it means.”

  She turns from the wheel like she’s got another question, then opts against it. Scanning the radio dial, I search for something that won’t wig her out, even though that means WDNC, the dance station, nothing but soulless, mechanized club bangers.

  As I tune the radio out of my mind, Tosh jumps into it, and I can’t help but smile at having met someone who listens to a different drummer, literally. What a trip it would be if we did start doing blues. People our age would probably hate us, but I bet we could land gigs; we’d be like a novelty act, young kids channeling this brutal badass stuff from a bygone era. But of course, we’d have to be good, we’d have to be on it, we’d have to be—Here.

  Marsh has parked in the lot and turned off the engine and is sitting there watching me like I’m in some kind of trance instead of indulging goofy fantasies about appearing on America’s Got Talent.

  I give her a sheepish smile and we go in. The little old lady presiding at the desk is happy to point us in the right direction, and we pull out massive leather-bound tomes. I’ve always been decent at research, a no-BS to the psychic thing, and I’m soon immersed in an architectural record of the eighteenth century.

  “Marsh, come here. I think I found it.”

  Over my shoulder she reads the description of Forsythe Manor, commissioned by the magistrate Archibald Forsythe, in the town of Swoon, and completed in the year of our Lord 1765. “Sure seems like the place,” she concurs.

  “And compared to the rest of the town, it was way over-the-top—practically Versailles. I mean, there were some nice houses in Swoon back then, the limestone Congregationalist church, but nothing like Forsythe Manor.” Marsh actually gives a little laugh. “Whoa, Dice, that book must be better than it looks—you sound like you’ve been there.” I clap my trap, since of course I have been there—a little time tripping with Sin last fall. Closing the book, I tell Marsh we should start on newspapers. “Let’s see what we can dig up on Archibald Forsythe,” I say. “A magistrate, that’s a lawyer, right? Or a judge? Which I guess was a prominent position back in the day, but unless he was collecting graft up the yin-yang, he wouldn’t have been able to afford a spread like Forsythe Manor.”

  Back to the stacks then, and Marsh digs up the next vital bit of info. It even makes her go, “Ooh!”

  “What?”

  “A wedding announcement,” she says, and reads. “‘Archibald Randolph Forsythe of Swoon, Connecticut, wedded to Lady Anne Marcella Radcliffe, Devonshire, England, on March the twenty-second, year of our lord 1752.’”

  Now I’m reading with her. “‘The groom, recently appointed’ blah-blah-blah, ‘is the son of’ yadda-yadda-yadda. ‘The bride,’ here we go.” Luckily I have the manners not to remark on how Archie married into mega-money, and royalty to boot, lest Marsh take it as a slam.

  “Is that weird, Dice?” she wonders. “I think Crane and Duck’s dad was a regular guy before he met Lady Lillian.”

  “Weird how? Regular weird, or connected weird?” We’ve got to ensure, while perusing the vast past, that we focus on clues that relate to the matter at hand.

  “Connected weird.”

  I lay my palm on the notice to see if I get a vibe. Zilch. “We could poke around to see if Lady Anne and Lady Lillian share an an
cestor—all those blue bloods were tight,” I say. “But I doubt it’s important. Let’s call it a coincidence and see if we can dig up anything even mildly calamitous or upheaval-y going on in that house.”

  We read on. We read until we break to pee. We read until we break for lunch. We read from a place of fascination to a place of absolute boredom. We read about Forsythe’s cases, but magistrates basically do misdemeanors, so that’s a big snore, and by the time we read about his promotion to a higher court, we’re so sick of him we couldn’t care less. Lady Anne, on the other hand, seems to have had a life, but suffice it to say the pious Swoon-Norris Sentinel-Courier was no In Star magazine.

  It reported on her comings and goings in about as much juicy detail as the departures and arrivals at Kennedy Airport.

  “Well,” I say at one point. “Looks like Lady Anne stayed in one place long enough to get pregnant. Blah-blah . . . oh, a daughter, 1753 . . .”

  “I wouldn’t call that calamitous unless she was born with a tail,” Marsh says. “Really, Dice, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.”

  I yawn, sip surreptitiously from the water bottle we smuggled in. The clock on the wall reads one forty-five. “I hear you,” I say. “Fifteen more minutes.”

  We agree. Then I find it. The date: 1 January 1769. “Oh, how sad!”

  “What?”

  “‘Fire in Forsythe Manor,’ that’s the headline. ‘The home of magistrate Archibald Forsythe fell prey to fire in the early morning hours yesterday,’” I read. “‘The blaze—the cause of which is under investigation—partially destroyed the topmost floor of the east wing. Mr. Forsythe and his wife, Lady Anne Forsythe, heralding the arrival of the New Year with a grand ball on the premises, escaped unharmed, along with their illustrious guests. Yet the fire claimed the life of their daughter, Antonia Radcliffe Forsythe, aged sixteen years . . .’” Marsh does not take the tragic news well. “Did . . . did you say . . . Antonia?” she asks.