CHAPTER 1 - VERY OLD WHISKEY

Violet McFee refuses to eat anything other than Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.

At least that’s what my notes from the West Virginia Happy Homemakers Service said. I put the typed sheet back into the folder on the warped old picnic table and pulled out the road map. The rest area I was sitting in was about five miles from the little town of Oberon. Violet’s house was ten miles beyond that.

As I gazed at the ancient hills rolling off in every direction, shimmering blue in the late July heat, I began to relax a little. My first day as a visiting homemaker had been bumpier than the backroads I’d driven over to get to my patients’ houses.

The first person I tried to call on was sleeping and could not be disturbed according to his snotty daughter-in-law. I stood on the front porch for an eternity as “Miss My-Job’s-More-Important-Than-Yours” droned on about her expectations.

My luck didn’t improve at stop number two, a married couple’s doublewide trailer. The husband refused to let me in because his wife was at the doctor. He wouldn’t even open the door all the way. He peered through the crack and accused me of being a stalker when I asked what time she was due home.

I did better at stop three. I made it all the way to the living room and spent an hour watching a woman with dementia sit silently on the couch. To top it off, I’d been lost twice. The second time I got so confused, it took more than an hour to find my way back to the main road.

Okay, I thought. Break time is over. I grabbed my folder and walked to my car. The steep hillside I’d parked next to was covered with daisies, Queen Anne’s lace and soft purple clover. Basically weeds, but they were still pretty. Violet was the only one of my patients who lived alone. I decided to pick her a little bouquet.  

About ten minutes later I rolled into Oberon. I hadn’t been there since I was a senior in high school, 17 years. I’d forgotten how nice it was. The little downtown was three blocks of shops and businesses housed in two-story brick buildings that stood cheek to jowl. The Coffee Bean. Betty’s Beauty Barn. Crawford Insurance. The Bright Spot Dry Cleaner. Valley Medical Supply.

Baskets overflowing with purple petunias and pennants that said “Welcome to Historic Oberon” hung from each light post. With the green hills surrounding the town and the clear summer sky, it looked like a Visit West Virginia travel poster.

Brightly colored awnings shielded the sidewalks from the afternoon sun and topped several of the upper story windows. I wonder what’s upstairs in these old buildings. Apartments maybe. What would it be like to live in small town like this? Probably boring as hell. Hmm, there don’t appear to be any bars. Huge drawback. Parkersburg isn’t exactly an entertainment mecca but at least you can get a drink anytime you want. Plus, everyone in town doesn’t know every damn thing everyone else is doing.

I glanced at the map and directions lying on the passenger seat. The turnoff to Violet’s has to be pretty soon. I swear to God, if I get lost again . . . There it is! I turned left in front of a pink house with pale blue shutters and a pointy tower. Within minutes I was back in the woods.

According to the directions, Violet’s driveway was right after the old railroad bridge. As soon as I saw the tracks, I slowed down. I still almost missed it. Tall weeds surrounded her mailbox and the driveway was little more than a rutted, dirt path. A white wooden sign that said “The Mound House” in faded black letters leaned against the trunk of a dried-up old pine tree.

I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair looked like I’d styled it with an eggbeater. I tried to smooth down the top, but that just made the sides look worse. Wait a minute. What the hell? There was a brown stain on my brand-new white blouse. A dribble. It was centered over my stomach. How long has that been there? I yanked up my shirttail and sniffed the spot. Coffee. It’s been there all day.

I glanced in the rearview mirror again. If someone that looked like me knocked on my door, I wouldn’t let her in either. My hair is embarrassing and I’m way too pale. I need color. It’ll make me look younger, healthier, less scary.

I pawed through my purse until I found a tube of lipstick. The lid was off. Lint, tobacco, a few hairs and several bits of unidentifiable purse debris clung to the lipstick’s surface. So much for that idea, I thought as I tossed the tube out the car window. Violet is going to have to accept me as I am.

Her driveway twisted through tall trees and dense underbrush for about half a mile before emerging into a clearing at the bottom of a steep hill. On top sat an enormous stone house. I followed the drive up the hill and around to a parking area in the backyard.

There were some beautiful old houses in the hills and hollows surrounding Oberon. Violet’s wasn’t one of them. Her house was completely gray. Gray chimneys, gray walls, gray roof, gray shutters, gray porches, gray doors. It reminded me more of a dreary old prison than someone’s home.

I got out of the car and walked across the gravel parking area. The gravel was gray too. Two green saucers sat on a flat, moss-covered rock next to the back steps. One had milk in it. The other had chicken noodle soup and white chunks that looked like boiled potatoes. Cats. I’d never heard of cats eating potatoes, but I figured country cats would eat just about anything.

I thought about going up and knocking on the back door but decided to go to the front since it was my first visit. A stone path wound around to the front yard. I was looking at my feet as I climbed the front steps and didn’t realize Violet was in the doorway until I got to the top.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

I jumped back and almost lost my balance.

I’m five-foot-four and Violet was at least six inches taller than me. She had on tight black Capri pants, a silky gray tunic and a long, double string of pearls. Silver beads and tiny stars cascaded from her chandelier earrings and her white hair was skinned back into a thin braid. She was barefoot. Her crimson toenails glittered in the afternoon light.

She stared down at me, squinting. “And who might you be?”

“My name is Ginger Stewart. I’m your new homemaker.”

“You’re forty-five minutes late.”

“I know. I’m sorry about that. I—”

“Speak up. I can barely hear you.”

“I haven’t been down here in years.” I coughed. “I got lost a couple of times.”

“May I assume that will not happen again?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “I don’t want to hold this door open all day. Insects will get inside.”

I stepped into her cool, dim foyer. A wide staircase with an elaborate dark wood banister curved toward the second floor. The air smelled of lemon furniture polish with a faint undercurrent of sandalwood incense.

She arched her eyebrows and looked directly at the coffee stain on my blouse before pointing toward an open door to my left. “Please wait in there. I’ll be with you shortly.” Her earrings tinkled as she disappeared down a narrow hallway.

The room I walked into was huge. Windows without curtains stretched from the floor to the ceiling. The white walls were completely bare and the polished wood floor glistened like a skating rink. A sideboard was centered along one wall and a round coffee table with claw feet stood in front of the fireplace. There was no other furniture, not even a straight-backed chair. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stood near the door and fiddled with the hem of my blouse.

When Violet came back, she handed me an envelope. “Would you mail this for me?”

“Sure.” I stuffed it into my purse. “I’ll take care of it this evening when I get back to Parkersburg.” 

“The letter carrier doesn’t stop here every day, even though he has been instructed to do so. It’s crucial that the letter be posted at once. Now then,” she plucked a loose thread off my shoulder, rolled it into a ball and dropped it into the pocket of her tunic. “Since you will be assisting with the cleaning, let me show you my house.”

There were three living rooms. Violet called the room I had waited in the front room. The other two were the parlor and the drawing room. They were all decorated the same way, if decorated is the right word for bare white walls and no curtains or rugs. She didn’t have a single knickknack, keepsake or old photograph and I don’t know where she would have displayed them if she had. There wasn’t a stick of furniture in either the drawing room or the parlor. 

As I followed her through the empty rooms, the soles of my tennis shoes squeaked on the bare wood floors. It was driving me nuts, but she didn’t seem to notice. We ended up back where we had started, in the front room.

Violet ran her hand over the top of the sideboard. “There’s dust on this, Ginger.” She frowned, tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling.

I looked up too. I didn’t see anything but more flat whiteness.

“Cobwebs,” she said. “Disgraceful.”

I looked around the room again. I don’t know about disgraceful, I thought, but it sure is monotonous. If I lived here, I’d put up some wallpaper or spring for a couple of gallons of paint.

She lowered her gaze from the ceiling and looked at me. “I find strong colors and patterns disturbing.” 

“Well, Violet, it’s, um, it’s your house. You should have it just the way you want.”

She narrowed her eyes and nodded. “The cobweb situation needs to be remedied as soon as possible. Please make a mental note. Let’s move on, shall we? I haven’t shown you the reading room.”

It was as if we’d walked into a different house. The reading room’s walls were soft yellow. Lace curtains hung at the windows and a comfortable looking leather couch and two matching chairs stood on a fluffy white rug in front of the fireplace. Shelves filled with books and magazines covered one wall. The glass eyes of a stuffed armadillo peered down from the top of the center section.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Look around.”

I was way beyond having any idea what to say. Violet sat on the couch and watched while I read the titles on the spines of her books. Occult Symbolism in Egyptian Art. The Connoisseurs Guide to Eighteenth Century French Antiques. The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

When I’d drawn that out as long as I could, I wandered over to the fireplace. Five blue and white porcelain dogs were arranged on the mantel. I wonder if those are eighteenth century French antiques, I thought. I’m going to have to be really careful when I clean in here. I can just see myself knocking one of those onto the floor and breaking it.

Violet got up from the couch and joined me in front of the fireplace. She stood very close to me. Too close. I backed up a few inches.

“I adore this picture,” she said looking at the oval painting hanging above the mantel.

Three women stood on a columned marble balcony high above a turquoise sea. Ivy and roses twisted through their hair and their long, filmy dresses floated in the breeze. Two of the women were looking down at the water. The third was stroking the back of a large, black bull.  

“I’ve never seen a painting quite like that,” I said. “Is that supposed to be ancient Rome?”

“No, dear. It’s Atlantis. During its classical period, of course.”

“Atlantis! Wow, the artist must have had a good imagination.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it would be hard to paint an imaginary place.”

“Imaginary, Ginger? Certainly, you realize many people believe Atlantis was real.”

“Well, yes, I . . .”

“Some think it still exists.” She rested her hand on her throat a moment then slowly caressed her pearl necklace. “I assume you’re familiar with the various theories. Parallel universes. Time warps. Different planes of physical reality.”

I didn’t have a frigging clue what she was talking about, so I just stood there nodding like a bobble head hula doll on a car dashboard. Both Violet and the stuffed armadillo were staring at me. I cleared my throat, shifted my weight from one foot to the other and for the tiniest fraction of a second wished I was back at the car dealership.

“Enough of that,” she said. “Let me show you the rest of the house. You haven’t seen the kitchen or the powder room. We’ll visit the powder room first. I apologize. I should have offered you the facilities as soon as you arrived. I’m seventy-seven years old. Did you know that? Sometimes I forget things.”

After I used the powder room, I went to the kitchen. It was so long and narrow, it looked like a bowling alley with appliances. An antique refrigerator and a prehistoric white enamel sink on legs teetered against one wall. There were dozens of tall wood cupboards with glass doors. Almost all of them were empty. The countertops were spotless and bare except for a small microwave in one corner. Violet didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who did a lot of cooking. I couldn’t imagine her whipping up a meatloaf. Hell, I couldn’t even picture her making toast.

She leaned against the ancient gas stove. “I believe I’ve shown you everything.”

“What about the upstairs?”

“There’s nothing to see up there. I have arthritis in my knees and the steps are more than I can handle. I only go upstairs when I absolutely have to.”

The powder room didn’t have a shower or tub. Where did she sleep? The couch in the reading room? That didn’t seem likely, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask.

As I glanced around the empty kitchen again, it occurred to me there might be a reason she ended our house tour here. “I understand you like chicken noodle soup,” I said. “If you show me where the pans are, I’ll heat some up. How does that sound?”

“It’s very nice of you to offer, but you don’t need to do that.” She smiled at me.

All right, I thought. We’re making progress. She’s relaxing a bit, getting friendlier. “Are you sure you don’t want soup? It’s no trouble.”

She shook her head and smiled again. “The fairies have already eaten.”

Fairies. I gawked at her. I knew it was rude, but I couldn’t help it. She’d probably been frolicking with them before I arrived. Maybe they all had lunch together in a nice restaurant on Atlantis. Who knows? Maybe they even brought back a Styrofoam box of leftovers for the armadillo in the reading room.

“Ginger? Are you all right? You’re pale.”

“Yes, yes.” I took a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

“When you come tomorrow . . . you are coming tomorrow, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “I’ll be coming every weekday.”

“Sometimes after homemakers visit the first time, they don’t want to come back. I’m not sure why.”

I looked at my shoes for a few seconds. “It probably has something to do with the long drive from Parkersburg.” It was only thirty-five miles, but it was the only thing I could come up with.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it. I’m glad the drive doesn’t bother you. I really do need your help. Is there any way you could stop at a grocery store and pick up a few cans of soup?”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Wonderful! Get five cans. Buy the big ones, the kind schools use. Make sure you get Campbell’s. Don’t waste your time looking for a cheaper brand. It must be chicken noodle. Not chicken and rice or chicken and stars. And don’t get reduced fat or low sodium. I must have the original kind. Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

“I have a good memory. Anything else?”

“Ten pounds of potatoes and a quart of whole milk. Whole. Not two percent. Not one percent. Not skim. And be sure it’s fresh. Check the expiration date.”

“Okay. What kind of potatoes?”

“Just run-of-the-mill. But get the biggest and cleanest ones you can find. Absolutely no sprouted eyes.”

“What about cat food?”

“Cat food? I don’t have a cat. I don’t believe in keeping animals as pets.” She reached into the sink, pulled out a damp sponge and began wiping off the spotless counter tops. “I want you to mop the floors three times a week and wash the windows at least twice a month. I’m terribly embarrassed about how filthy the house is at the moment.”

“Filthy! You’ve got to be kidding. I can practically see my reflection in the floors.”

She whirled around. “The house is filthy.”

I looked over her shoulder at the sparkling glass cabinet doors. Not a smudge, water spot or fingerprint in sight.

“Well, things can always be cleaner, can’t they?” I said.

“They most certainly can. It’s essential that every surface be as clean as possible.” She put down the sponge. “Absolutely essential, Ginger. I’m especially concerned about the floors.”

I folded my arms over the stain on my blouse. Christ, I thought, if she knew what my apartment looked like, she’d sue the Happy Homemakers on basic principle. I put mopping floors in the same category as going outdoors and washing the ground. “What would you like me to do today?” 

“It’s too late to start on anything now.”

“I’ll get here earlier tomorrow. I promise.”

“I know you will, dear. We’ll start the cleaning then. Let’s have a cocktail, shall we?”

A cocktail? That was the last thing I’d expected, although I should have guessed alcohol might be a factor when she mentioned the fairies. And so what if it was? At seventy-seven years old Violet had earned the right to do whatever she wanted. Besides, it had been a long, stressful day and having a cocktail was an excellent idea. The only thing I would have liked more was a cocktail and a cigarette. But I figured that was out of the question. 

I followed her to the front room. She got a pewter ice bucket with handles shaped like leaping dolphins out of the sideboard and handed it to me.

“There’s ice in the icebox.” She chuckled. “I suppose you could have figured that out on your own. Please fill the bucket, then come to the reading room.”

I hadn’t seen metal ice cube trays in years and I’d forgotten what a pain in the ass they were. While I was banging them on the counter to get the ice out, I wondered if Violet had friends or family in the area. She must be lonely, living all by herself in this big, empty house in the middle of nowhere. I’ll bet she asked me to stay and have a drink because she wants to chat for a while. Oh well, what’s wrong with that? Socializing with the patients is part of my job.        

When I got to the reading room, she was curled up in a corner of the couch. She was incredibly flexible for a woman her age. She’d twisted her legs like a couple of pipe cleaners and tucked them underneath her. I was surprised she could do that with arthritis in her knees. Then again, what did I know about arthritis? Maybe sitting that way improved her circulation. 

Two crystal tumblers and a matching decanter filled with a golden liquid were on the coffee table. Music was playing. It sounded like flutes, bagpipes and bells, but the volume was so low, I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t tell where the music was coming from. I hadn’t seen a computer, TV, stereo, CD player or even a radio anywhere in the house.

I eased myself into one of the leather chairs and watched Violet pour.

“What are we having?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s something special. I brought it out to celebrate our getting to know one another. This is whiskey. Real whiskey. It’s very old.”

I hate whiskey. The smell makes me gag. But she was making such a big deal out of it, I held my breath, took a tiny sip and swished it around in my mouth a few times before swallowing it.

“What do you think?”

“I’ve never tasted anything so, so . . . I’m not sure how to describe it,” I said as I licked a drop off my lower lip.

“Delectable?”

“Well, yes. I guess that’s a good way to describe it.” I took a much larger sip. “It really is delicious, Violet. I could get used to this.”

She didn’t respond. I took that to mean she wasn’t planning on offering a refill. Even though we were supposed to be getting to know each other, she didn’t say another word. So, I didn’t either. I just sat there quietly and tried not to gulp my drink.

After I set the empty tumbler on the coffee table, I checked my watch. “It’s after five. I better get going.”

Still no response. She was looking at the painting over the fireplace and I wasn’t sure she’d even heard me.

I stood up and slung my purse over my shoulder. “Okay, then.”

She turned slowly toward me.

“I have to go now,” I said, “but don’t worry. I’ll get started on the cleaning tomorrow and I’ll bring you plenty of soup.”

“I’m not worried.” She set her glass on the coffee table. It was still full. She cocked her head slightly. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Right! Your letter. I’ll drop it off at the post office tonight.”

“That’s fine, dear, but I was referring to something else. Don’t you have a gift for me? Some flowers?”

My cheeks felt like they were on fire. I’d forgotten all about the bouquet I’d picked for her at the rest area. It was lying on the backseat of my car.    

“That was very thoughtful, Ginger. I’d like to have them.”

I went to the car and got the flowers. She was on the back porch holding a cut-glass vase when I turned around. I climbed the steps and handed her the droopy little bouquet. “I’m sorry they’re wilted,” I said.

“They just need a drink of water.”

“Violet, I’m sure I didn’t mention the flowers. How did you know I had them?”

“I have second sight.” She disappeared into the house.

“You have what?”

The back door clicked shut. 

I was dizzy and I almost tripped going back down the steps. I got into my car and sat with the door open for a few minutes before starting the engine.

When I got to the bottom of Violet’s driveway, I couldn’t remember which way to turn. I dug the road map out of my folder. I knew I wanted to take Route 68 back to Parkersburg, but I couldn’t figure out how to get there. I had completely lost my sense of direction and the longer I looked at the map, the more disoriented I became.   

I finally gave up, killed the engine, got out of the car and lit a cigarette. Wind chimes tinkled in the distance. I leaned against the hood and closed my eyes. As the sun warmed my eyelids, I slowly started to feel more human. God, I thought, I was really out of it for a while there. It was like my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. Oh well, whatever. I’m all right now. Time to take another look at that map.   

As I stooped to grind out my cigarette, a stick snapped in the woods. I looked up just in time to see a naked boy dart into a grove of trees.