Read Child of a Rainless Year Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
Child of a Rainless Year (9 page)
“You’ve kept it oiled,” I said.
“Graphite powder,” Mr. Navidad said, removing a small tube of it from the toolbox he’d brought along. “It works very well. Not all the interior locks may be as easily handled, so I brought this for you.”
I thanked him, then, as I turned and pulled the door open I asked, “Aren’t you coming with me?”
Mr. Navidad made an apologetic gesture. “If you wish, of course, but when I went back to the carriage house there was a message waiting from my sister Evelina, asking if I might come and help with a window that has been broken. If you don’t mind …”
He trailed off, and I nodded, feeling a mixture of relief and mild apprehension. There was something creepy about going into a house that had been closed for so long, but on the other hand, this way I could stand and stare as much as I wanted.
“That’s fine,” I replied. “I have your cell-phone number. If anything crops up, I can reach you.”
“Good,” Mr. Navidad said. He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. “This has my sister’s number, just in case the cell phone is not working. I will leave you this toolbox.”
“Won’t you need it at your sister’s?”
“I have another,” he said, “and so does Evelina. You may find yourself wanting a screwdriver or something, and this way you will not need to search.”
I watched Mr. Navidad go passing through sunlight into shadow and back again, the little white dog bouncing at his heels. Then I turned back toward Phineas House. Bending to lift the toolbox, I balanced one of the more powerful flashlights in my free hand. Then I stepped over the threshold into the house of my childhood.
The hallway was filled with ghosts. Pale shadowy forms moved slightly, as if uncertain whether to stay or vanish soundlessly away. Then my eyes adjusted to the yellowish gleam cast by the flashlight, and I realized that what I was seeing was furniture swathed beneath dust sheets.
I let my breath out with a hard
poof
and played the light around—to get my bearings, I told myself, though I knew perfectly well that at least part of the reason was to reassure myself that there was indeed no one there.
poof
and played the light around—to get my bearings, I told myself, though I knew perfectly well that at least part of the reason was to reassure myself that there was indeed no one there.
There wasn’t, unless you counted the shapeless lumps under white cloths. My mind struggled to equate each lump with a remembered furnishing. There had been a coat tree and one of those elaborate stands that has, in addition to hooks for coats and hats, a large mirror and a chest for boots or other impedimenta. There’d been a long narrow table, perfect for callers to leave their gloves or for stacking letters and packages that were to go out with the mail. That shorter, fatter lump must be the big Chinese urn that had doubled as an umbrella stand—though umbrellas weren’t much needed here.
To my left, the foyer opened out into the formal living room. To the right was the door into the front parlor. The door beyond it on the same wall would lead into the library that had also served as my mother’s office and sometimes as my classroom. The living room bordered the formal dining room. The kitchens, pantries, laundry, and associated rooms were toward the back of the house.
When I had been a child, there had been an invisible line on the first floor dividing the front and back of the house. I had rarely gone in back of that line. My meals mostly had been eaten upstairs in the suite of rooms on the second floor generally referred to as the nursery. My mother had hers brought to her wherever was most convenient. Therefore, it was with a certain sense of daring that I followed my flashlight beam toward the back of the house. The electric company had suggested I turn on the lights only after I had inspected the fuse box, and I assumed that this would be back here.
“I should have asked Mr. Navidad,” I said to myself, hearing my voice swallowed by the swathed furniture, but echoing from where carpets had been rolled up, leaving the hardwood floors bare.
I was immensely bucked up when I found the fuse box down in the basement. Not only that, I found it in good repair. It was an old model, but everything was in place and a penciled chart taped to the inside of the metal cabinet door noted when old fuses had been replaced with new ones. I resolved that I would look into having the fuse box replaced with a more modern circuit-breaker system. After all, who knew how much longer it would even be possible to buy fuses?
The basement was smaller than the rest of the house, extending only under about a quarter of the space. The furnace was here, along with an assortment of the usual odds and ends that migrate to such places. I decided that I could do worse than test the lights here, and after the small ceiling fixture had obediently come on, I ascended to the ground floor with a much lighter heart.
Without the flashlight’s wavering beam as illumination, the house looked a great deal less strange. I walked through all the rooms on the ground floor, occasionally replacing a lightbulb from the stash I’d brought with me. Now and then, I peeped under a dust cover, mostly to see if my memories of the furnishing were correct. Everything looked in fine condition, especially considering how long the house had been empty. I didn’t even find any traces of mice, a thing I had fully expected.
The second floor was much the same: swathed furnishings, rolled up rugs, and dust. I didn’t linger in any one room very long, not even opening the door to my nursery. Instead, I moved on to the third floor, then climbed up into the various cupolas and towers. I even went up into the attic, telling myself I was making certain that the roof was indeed sound, that there had been no water damage. In reality, I was aware of a restless feeling, as if I was searching for something, and had no idea what.
I was coming down from the second floor, wondering what I should do next, when I heard a voice.
“Hello? Señora Fenn?”
“Mr. Navidad?” I realized my pace had picked up, and that I was relieved beyond all reason to hear another human voice.
“Hello,” he repeated, stepping over the threshold and looking around the electrically lit entry foyer. From how he was blinking, I realized that bright as the electric lights seemed in contrast to the flashlight, they were dim indeed compared to the sunlit outdoors.
“Did you fix the window?” I asked.
“All finished,” he replied with a broad, illustrative gesture. “My nephew—he is the one who broke it practicing baseball pitches—he helped me fix it. Now Evelina has him washing some of the other windows, just so he won’t forget them in the future.”
“She sounds like a good mother,” I said.
“I think she is,” Mr. Navidad said contently. “Enrico, he probably does not think so right now.”
I laughed. “Children see things differently,” I agreed.
“So true. How is the house?”
“Dusty, but as far as I can tell, in wonderful shape.”
Mr. Navidad looked pleased. “Evelina sent me back with some chicken enchiladas. If you are interested, perhaps you could come to the carriage house and have some lunch?”
I glanced at my watch and noticed it was already eleven-thirty. I also noticed that my hands were filthy.
“If I can borrow your washroom,” I said, “and you don’t mind me making your house dusty, I would be delighted.”
He smiled. I let him lock up the front door while I beat the worst of the dust out of my jeans and shirt.
“It’s gotten hot,” I marvelled as we walked along beneath the elms. I realized that I was almost instinctively moving from shady patch to shady patch.
“It is, and it will get hotter still,” Mr. Navidad agreed. “Inside, though, it will be cooler. I can warm the enchiladas in the microwave.”
Inside the carriage house was comfortably cool. Mr. Navidad showed me where his bathroom was, handing me a clean washcloth and a worn but serviceable towel without my having to ask. When I emerged, somewhat more presentable, he motioned me to a chair at his kitchen table and poured me a glass of iced tea.
“Is Phineas House,” I asked, feeling a little uncomfortable about using a name I hadn’t known existed until just the day before, “equipped with any form of artificial cooling?”
“No,” he said. “I think retro-fitting would be a challenge. The House is built on so many different levels, you see, and has so many odd shapes. It doesn’t have central air, but it does have central heat—maybe something could be done with that.”
“It stayed pretty cool while I was in there,” I said, “but then I guess it would with the windows shuttered.”
“Even without that,” Mr. Navidad said, “the heat might not be too bad. The central stair acts as a way for heat to drain out, and the trees keep it shaded—as do the porches. People then built with an awareness of the weather, not like today. Today people only build to suit their fancy, without thinking about how the house is oriented on its lot, or where the windows are. Take a look at Phineas House later. Windows placed where the sun will linger are shaded.”
“I suppose that makes it cold in the winter, then,” I said, trying to remember.
“It’s probably not so bad,” he said. “Then the leaves are off the trees, awnings can be taken down, and more sun can get in. These old houses worked, not like machinery, but they worked.”
All the time we had been talking, Mr. Navidad had been moving easily about his kitchen. The matter-of-fact way he set the table for the two of us, got out some vegetables that looked like they came from the garden patch I’d admired earlier, and put together a quick salad told me that he was not one of those bachelors who subsisted on a diet of canned soup and takeout.
When the enchiladas emerged, smelling heavenly, and he was serving us each a generous portion, the little white dog appeared. He balanced on his back legs and danced a few steps that might have been a waltz—and might just have been some skilled begging.
“Not for you,” Mr. Navidad scolded. “Green chile gives you an upset stomach.”
He spilled a few kibbles into the dog’s bowl, and the dog settled down with a resignation that said that although he didn’t get table scraps very often, he hadn’t given up hope. Indeed, as soon as the kibbles had been bolted down, he settled by my knee, warm brown eyes under whiskery brows appealing and hopeful.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Blanco,” Mr. Navidad said. “Whitey, in English, but he wouldn’t know that, though he is very bilingual in most things.”
“Blanco,” I repeated. “Easy enough to remember. I had a little Spanish in school.”
Mr. Navidad seemed pleased. “That is good. Although New Mexico is officially bilingual—like Blanco there—still there are places where it is good to know a little Spanish.”
“I speak it very badly,” I said. “I read a bit better.”
“Good to have a start. How are the enchiladas?”
“Wonderful,” I replied. “Creamy and dense. I can feel myself gaining weight with every bite. When you mentioned they had green chile in them, I thought they might be too spicy for me, but these are just right.”
“Ah, Evelina knew you might be having some, and she is a thoughtful woman.”
“I hope they aren’t too bland for you,” I said.
“Not at all. Some things are better not too spicy. Enchiladas are one of those.”
We talked food for a bit, then gardening, then dogs, and by the time Mr. Navidad said, “May I offer you some more tea, señora?” I wondered why I had ever resented him.
“I’m Mira,” I said. “Please call me that.”
“Then if you would call me Domingo,” he replied. “I would be pleased.”
We smiled at each other, suddenly both a little shy, but happier for having stopped being quite so much employer and employee.
“If I may ask, Mira,” Domingo said, refilling my tea glass, then his own. “Do you know what you plan to do with Phineas House?”
“I hardly know,” I said. “I hadn’t even realized I owned it until recently.”
“No?”
I thought he must have heard the story from Mrs. Morales, but his surprise seemed genuine. I sketched the details for him, ending with my decision to come here and see the place for myself. His first words surprised me. I had thought he’d ask what I thought of the place, but instead he looked very sad.
“So you have been orphaned, and so recently. I am very sorry. These adoptive parents of yours sound like good people.”
“They were,” I said, determined not to embarrass myself by starting to cry, but hearing myself getting choked up nonetheless. “And even though I keep telling myself that they died in about the best way possible—together and with very little pain—you’re right, I do feel orphaned.”
“I have read,” Domingo said, “that no matter how old we are when our last parent dies, still, we feel orphaned. I know it will be so for me.”
“Then your parents are still alive?”
“My mother and father both,” he assured me. “I was their eldest, and I am not so very old yet.”
“I know.” I laughed. “You said you remembered me from when we were both children, so I figured we had to be around the same age.”
“I am fifty-three,” he said.
“I’m fifty-one.”
Again, as when we had traded names, there was that sense of shyness, and I found myself talking through it, hearing myself saying things I hadn’t realized I wanted to say.
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