The Wish Collector
Page 14
If her back was younger and stronger, Myrtle said, she would have given it more attention, but why bother, Jonah thought, when it seemed to do just fine on its own?
Jonah described the rooms of the plantation—the way the hardwood floors squeaked and creaked and yet still gleamed with polish in some areas. The house had been redecorated in the thirties, but never since, and though the furnishings, curtains, and the dishes showed signs of age and wear, they still held beauty.
As he spoke, Jonah noticed his accent became thicker, his drawl more pronounced as he heard the voices of those who had first talked about Windisle Plantation and told him the story of Angelina.
Clara listened, seemingly enraptured, to each detail Jonah imparted. And then he asked her about dancing, about the schools she’d attended, about the first time she knew she wanted to dance for a living.
She told him about her teachers, the other girls in the ballet. She told him about arabesques, and soubresauts, relevés, and brisé volés. And he laughed as she rhymed, speaking the terms in a haughty French accent, her own laughter sparkling through him—sweet, effervescent—like champagne bubbles. Like magic she’d tossed over the wall and he’d swallowed from the air.
And yes, their time together felt magical to Jonah—a reprieve from his life as a monster. He knew it couldn’t last, but he didn’t let himself think too much about that while he was with her. When it ended, as it would, he would deal with it.
For now they were just a boy and a girl, sitting on opposite sides of a wall, a layer of thick stone between them, but their hearts connected nonetheless. And for now, he would enjoy the moments they had.
**********
"What on God's green earth are you doing there, Jonah Chamberlain?"
The sound of Cecil's voice brought Jonah from his thoughts and he stood straight, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, and propping the shovel he was holding in the mulch. He leaned on it, attempting to look casual as he watched him approach.
"I'm"—he looked around—"I'm mulching."
Cecil stopped in front of Jonah, his face twisted in confusion as he looked to the mulch at their feet and back to Jonah’s face. He scratched the back of his neck. "All right." The words were dragged out as if he were trying to buy himself time to back away slowly before calling the men who brought the buckled jackets.
Jonah couldn't help chuckling softly. "It's just a . . . thing someone I know suggested I do."
Cecil tilted his head, looking back over his shoulder. "Myrtle?"
Myrtle appeared on the path. "What?"
"Jonah here's got a . . . someone."
Oh, Lord. "Cecil, it's not that big a thing."
"A someone?" Myrtle walked closer, a look of blatant hope on her face that was so obvious, Jonah groaned.
"Please stop it, you two."
"Who is she?" Cecil asked. "Someone you met on the email?"
Jonah propped the shovel against the bush he had been adding mulch to and removed his gardening gloves. "I think you mean the Internet. And no, I didn’t meet her on some dating site."
Although the idea was amusing in a pitiful way. What would his bio say? Perhaps something along the lines of:
Pathetic and hideous recluse seeks . . . well, anyone female really, to meet in the dark of night in a dilapidated, ghost-infested plantation home.
Jesus.
Cecil and Myrtle exchanged a look. They both knew Jonah didn’t leave the house and had to be wondering if he’d finally cracked and started seeing the ghosts everyone claimed lived at Windisle.
Jonah abandoned his task and started walking toward the house. He’d lost his will to garden. Cecil and Myrtle followed, close on his heels. He considered turning toward them and explaining, but the thought brought a sharp, panicky feeling to his chest. What would he say? I met this girl through the wall. I've never seen her, but I think I could easily fall in love with her?
He stopped dead in his tracks. His heart slammed against his chest and alarm bells rang in his head.
Ridiculous. In love? He sounded pathetic, even in his own damn head.
His relationship, if you could call it that, with Clara was an invention formed from his loneliness and isolation. Nothing more. Yes, she’d called herself his friend but in actuality, she was barely an acquaintance. She was someone he talked to now and then. If he’d lived a normal life, he’d have equated her to the chatty mailperson, or the neighbor you stop on the street to catch up with. Inconsequential.
She’d made him consider things he hadn’t considered in a long time, that was true, but she, Clara, the individual, did not matter.
Talking to anyone other than Myrtle and Cecil would have brought about the same feelings in him. And yet, the thought rang hollow in his head. He knew he was lying to himself. And he knew what he had to do about it.
**********
Later that day, Jonah arrived at the weeping wall, sliding down and taking his usual spot under the oak tree. A bright green leaf floated down, landing in Jonah’s lap. He picked it up, tilting his head so he could see it with his good eye, spinning the delicate thing between his fingers, noting the subtle yet vibrant striations of gold and yellow that wove through the veins. Something he only noticed because he’d taken the time to examine it closely. How many things had he overlooked in his life because he’d been too busy—too self-important—to take a moment to dig deeper, look closer, understand more fully? The thought was depressing. If only . . . if only . . .
A slight breeze wafted over him, the mineral scents of the Mississippi River finding him through the woods and marsh that separated him from that vast body of water, behind a wall, protected by the dim shade cast by centuries-old trees. Some things you simply couldn’t hide from. Some things you could never escape. He’d already discovered that, though. He’d learned the lesson well.
He heard a car door open and close and a moment later, Clara’s breathless voice greeted him as she took her seat on the other side of the wall. “How are you?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Sore.” She groaned. “We stayed late at practice last night. I stopped using Mrs. Guillot’s liniment because of the smell, but I’ll tell you what. That stuff works. I might have to make you suffer through it again.”
Jonah chuckled. “I’m on the other side of a wall, Clara. You should probably be more concerned with the people you spend face-to-face time with.”
There was a moment of awkward silence and Jonah cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, I never asked who drops you off here each week.” He assumed she was getting a ride from a friend but she’d never mentioned him or her.
“Oh, I take an Uber.”
“What’s an Uber?”
“You know, a personal taxi. It’s a location-specific app.” She paused. “Have you really never heard of an Uber?”
Jonah was embarrassed. Not only had he never heard of an Uber, he couldn’t even remember if he’d ever used any apps. “I don’t get out much, Clara. I guess the world has sort of . . . passed me by in some ways.” How many ways, he couldn’t even begin to guess. Just the thought of what was going on “out there,” on the other side of the wall, sent a shock of anxiety coursing through him, and he put his palms down on the cold, solid ground, gripping the grass, and feeling it slide between his fingers. The contact made him feel immediately calmer.
“You don’t get out much?” Clara repeated, hesitance in her voice. She had asked him questions about himself before, but he’d always neatly sideswiped them, bringing the topic back around to Windisle.
She’d asked him why everyone thought the place was deserted, whether he used lights at night, or kept them off, and he’d answered her truthfully, that though the landscaping lights had ceased working years ago, the lights from the house simply couldn’t be seen because of the trees that surrounded the grounds.
But he didn’t tell her that he also kept the lights very low, or even off sometimes, because by the end of the day, they hurt his injured eye and brought on headaches.
He closed his eyes then, reminding himself what he had to do. Knowing it was the right thing, knowing he should be forthcoming. She should know that he didn’t leave this plantation—not ever—and they might be temporary friends, but he wouldn’t leave this place under any circumstances. And she should know the reason why.
Jonah described the rooms of the plantation—the way the hardwood floors squeaked and creaked and yet still gleamed with polish in some areas. The house had been redecorated in the thirties, but never since, and though the furnishings, curtains, and the dishes showed signs of age and wear, they still held beauty.
As he spoke, Jonah noticed his accent became thicker, his drawl more pronounced as he heard the voices of those who had first talked about Windisle Plantation and told him the story of Angelina.
Clara listened, seemingly enraptured, to each detail Jonah imparted. And then he asked her about dancing, about the schools she’d attended, about the first time she knew she wanted to dance for a living.
She told him about her teachers, the other girls in the ballet. She told him about arabesques, and soubresauts, relevés, and brisé volés. And he laughed as she rhymed, speaking the terms in a haughty French accent, her own laughter sparkling through him—sweet, effervescent—like champagne bubbles. Like magic she’d tossed over the wall and he’d swallowed from the air.
And yes, their time together felt magical to Jonah—a reprieve from his life as a monster. He knew it couldn’t last, but he didn’t let himself think too much about that while he was with her. When it ended, as it would, he would deal with it.
For now they were just a boy and a girl, sitting on opposite sides of a wall, a layer of thick stone between them, but their hearts connected nonetheless. And for now, he would enjoy the moments they had.
**********
"What on God's green earth are you doing there, Jonah Chamberlain?"
The sound of Cecil's voice brought Jonah from his thoughts and he stood straight, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, and propping the shovel he was holding in the mulch. He leaned on it, attempting to look casual as he watched him approach.
"I'm"—he looked around—"I'm mulching."
Cecil stopped in front of Jonah, his face twisted in confusion as he looked to the mulch at their feet and back to Jonah’s face. He scratched the back of his neck. "All right." The words were dragged out as if he were trying to buy himself time to back away slowly before calling the men who brought the buckled jackets.
Jonah couldn't help chuckling softly. "It's just a . . . thing someone I know suggested I do."
Cecil tilted his head, looking back over his shoulder. "Myrtle?"
Myrtle appeared on the path. "What?"
"Jonah here's got a . . . someone."
Oh, Lord. "Cecil, it's not that big a thing."
"A someone?" Myrtle walked closer, a look of blatant hope on her face that was so obvious, Jonah groaned.
"Please stop it, you two."
"Who is she?" Cecil asked. "Someone you met on the email?"
Jonah propped the shovel against the bush he had been adding mulch to and removed his gardening gloves. "I think you mean the Internet. And no, I didn’t meet her on some dating site."
Although the idea was amusing in a pitiful way. What would his bio say? Perhaps something along the lines of:
Pathetic and hideous recluse seeks . . . well, anyone female really, to meet in the dark of night in a dilapidated, ghost-infested plantation home.
Jesus.
Cecil and Myrtle exchanged a look. They both knew Jonah didn’t leave the house and had to be wondering if he’d finally cracked and started seeing the ghosts everyone claimed lived at Windisle.
Jonah abandoned his task and started walking toward the house. He’d lost his will to garden. Cecil and Myrtle followed, close on his heels. He considered turning toward them and explaining, but the thought brought a sharp, panicky feeling to his chest. What would he say? I met this girl through the wall. I've never seen her, but I think I could easily fall in love with her?
He stopped dead in his tracks. His heart slammed against his chest and alarm bells rang in his head.
Ridiculous. In love? He sounded pathetic, even in his own damn head.
His relationship, if you could call it that, with Clara was an invention formed from his loneliness and isolation. Nothing more. Yes, she’d called herself his friend but in actuality, she was barely an acquaintance. She was someone he talked to now and then. If he’d lived a normal life, he’d have equated her to the chatty mailperson, or the neighbor you stop on the street to catch up with. Inconsequential.
She’d made him consider things he hadn’t considered in a long time, that was true, but she, Clara, the individual, did not matter.
Talking to anyone other than Myrtle and Cecil would have brought about the same feelings in him. And yet, the thought rang hollow in his head. He knew he was lying to himself. And he knew what he had to do about it.
**********
Later that day, Jonah arrived at the weeping wall, sliding down and taking his usual spot under the oak tree. A bright green leaf floated down, landing in Jonah’s lap. He picked it up, tilting his head so he could see it with his good eye, spinning the delicate thing between his fingers, noting the subtle yet vibrant striations of gold and yellow that wove through the veins. Something he only noticed because he’d taken the time to examine it closely. How many things had he overlooked in his life because he’d been too busy—too self-important—to take a moment to dig deeper, look closer, understand more fully? The thought was depressing. If only . . . if only . . .
A slight breeze wafted over him, the mineral scents of the Mississippi River finding him through the woods and marsh that separated him from that vast body of water, behind a wall, protected by the dim shade cast by centuries-old trees. Some things you simply couldn’t hide from. Some things you could never escape. He’d already discovered that, though. He’d learned the lesson well.
He heard a car door open and close and a moment later, Clara’s breathless voice greeted him as she took her seat on the other side of the wall. “How are you?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Sore.” She groaned. “We stayed late at practice last night. I stopped using Mrs. Guillot’s liniment because of the smell, but I’ll tell you what. That stuff works. I might have to make you suffer through it again.”
Jonah chuckled. “I’m on the other side of a wall, Clara. You should probably be more concerned with the people you spend face-to-face time with.”
There was a moment of awkward silence and Jonah cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, I never asked who drops you off here each week.” He assumed she was getting a ride from a friend but she’d never mentioned him or her.
“Oh, I take an Uber.”
“What’s an Uber?”
“You know, a personal taxi. It’s a location-specific app.” She paused. “Have you really never heard of an Uber?”
Jonah was embarrassed. Not only had he never heard of an Uber, he couldn’t even remember if he’d ever used any apps. “I don’t get out much, Clara. I guess the world has sort of . . . passed me by in some ways.” How many ways, he couldn’t even begin to guess. Just the thought of what was going on “out there,” on the other side of the wall, sent a shock of anxiety coursing through him, and he put his palms down on the cold, solid ground, gripping the grass, and feeling it slide between his fingers. The contact made him feel immediately calmer.
“You don’t get out much?” Clara repeated, hesitance in her voice. She had asked him questions about himself before, but he’d always neatly sideswiped them, bringing the topic back around to Windisle.
She’d asked him why everyone thought the place was deserted, whether he used lights at night, or kept them off, and he’d answered her truthfully, that though the landscaping lights had ceased working years ago, the lights from the house simply couldn’t be seen because of the trees that surrounded the grounds.
But he didn’t tell her that he also kept the lights very low, or even off sometimes, because by the end of the day, they hurt his injured eye and brought on headaches.
He closed his eyes then, reminding himself what he had to do. Knowing it was the right thing, knowing he should be forthcoming. She should know that he didn’t leave this plantation—not ever—and they might be temporary friends, but he wouldn’t leave this place under any circumstances. And she should know the reason why.
