Brush With Death

Chapter Two

Despite the July heat, Deo felt a sudden chill of panic slither down her spine. Great, she’d gotten off in the wrong place, and now here was another fine mess she’d trodden in. How could she be so stupid? She shoved the Walkman deep into her backpack, and zipped it carefully. Better late than never, she thought ruefully, heading for an ancient looking bench sagging in the shade of a scrawny maple tree. At least it was somewhere to sit. God knows how long it would be until anyone found her. She could starve to death in this wilderness.

Pull yourself together, said DeoQ sharply. You have a phone. Just call Byron and ask him to come meet you here.

How can I call him, when he’s waiting for me someplace else, she thought aggrievedly.

Leave a message.

And tell him to meet me where? Even I don’t know where I am.

Tragabigzanda. The woman told you it was Tragabigzanda.

So if it’s Tragabigzanda, where is Byron? Deo got to her feet and paced up and down. She glanced at the signboard whenever she passed, but the harder she tried to focus on reading it, the more the letters swam around; rearranging themselves, backwards, forwards, upside down. Deo’s head swam, too, and she began to feel nauseous in the heat. Words always made her sick. She sat down again and closed her eyes.

Somewhere beyond the trees, on the far side of the lot, a hum of traffic suggested civilization nearby, but she was afraid to leave her bags and explore, and despite her Amazonian proportions, she was too demoralized to hike around carrying them; they were heavy. Besides, what if Byron should eventually turn up—like he was supposed to do—and she wasn’t anywhere in sight? Wouldn’t he just leave again?

A car swished smoothly into the parking lot, and Deo looked up expectantly, but it was only a small sedan disgorging three teenagers: a girl and two boys. Deo closed her eyes again, and pretended she was waiting for the train going back to North Station. She didn’t handle peer pressure well, and she felt bad enough as it was without other kids laughing at her for being a total Emo. She could hear the kids talking, the easy banter and gentle teasing of people comfortable with each other and themselves. Not for the first time, she wished she was normal, too, and that people would accept her for who, and what, she was.

A second car drove into the lot, accompanied by the wheezing rattle of a consumptive exhaust. Deo opened a cautious eye, and watched the driver, a lean long-limbed guy dressed in work clothes and a grubby panama, ease himself out of the ancient station wagon and lope toward the platform. In the distance, she could hear the train whistling on its return journey. She picked up her bags and prepared to move to a safer distance. She didn’t want the conductor to see her still sitting there. As she crossed the platform, the workman, who had been heading towards the three teenagers, suddenly stopped, frowned and then veered in her direction instead. Deo dropped her gaze, and walked determinedly towards the parking lot. Up close, the man had a gaunt unshaven look about him, more like a bum than a laborer, and she didn’t want to give him the opportunity of engaging her in conversation.

The train was much closer now, Deo could hear the track beginning to sing; the clatter of wheels rose on the air and echoed across the parking lot. She angled away from the turquoise-blue station wagon, in case the bum was heading back to his wheels for something he’d forgotten, but then he changed direction, too, and cut in front of her, mumbling something and trying to grab her bag.

“No, stop it!” she cried, wondering if anyone on the train would notice if he dragged her into his car, but she was too busy hanging onto the strap of her bag to turn and see if the teens were watching, or if they even cared.

The bum threw up his hands and backed off a couple of paces, looking around in confusion. “I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet someone….” His voice trailed off as he realized the train had pulled in and the conductor was observing him with interest, if not downright suspicion.

“Oh, my…” Deo peered closer. “Mr. Graves?” He was leaner than she remembered, and somewhat stoop-shouldered, as if overburdened with the cares of the world, but the eyes shaded by the brim of his hat, were the warm brown she remembered, and they still crinkled at the corners, even though, at that moment, his generous mouth was tight-lipped rather than smiling.

He swung back to her. “Of course,” he said impatiently. “And you are Demeter? I did ask. Don’t you know your own name?”

Now it was her turn to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think… actually, Mr. Graves, most people just call me Deo.”

He unpursed his lips slightly and raised his eyebrows. “And most people just call me Byron. Come on, I don’t have all day.”

For a second, it occurred to Deo that she was the one who’d been kept waiting, but she didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot, so she just nodded and let him take her bags, which he tossed over the tailgate of his wagon. She winced, hoping her Walkman would still be in one piece at the end of the journey.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” she said, sliding into the front seat and watching him coil his lanky frame behind the steering wheel. “It’s been a while. I was only seven the last time we met.” She tried to stop herself, but she tended to babble when she was nervous. “Anyway, I’m really glad to see you. I was beginning to worry I was in the wrong place.”

A pinched smile crossed Byron’s swarthy features. “Well, I’m sorry if you had to wait. I got delayed… somewhere.”

“It’s not a problem,” she said quickly. He smelt strongly of turpentine, and Deo hoped fervently that he’d been using it, not drinking it. What was it bums drank anyway, turps or meths?

The all-new DeoQ brought her up short. What are you thinking of? Of course he’s going to smell of turps; he’s a famous portrait painter, not a bum, you idiot.

The engine gave a throaty cough and Byron, holding the stick in gear, aimed the car out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

“This is great,” Deo said, in a feeble attempt at conversation; adults made her nervous. “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. When my parents said they were going to Europe for the summer, I thought they’d just dump me at my Nana’s house again, either that or Creativity Camp. Instead they send me to you. It’ll be cool being a real art student, instead of just a camper. I’d like to go to Art School when I graduate. Dad says I’d better ‘cos I’m not fit for anything else….”

She sucked in a deep breath as Byron barged across an intersection into a line of traffic. When she opened her eyes again, she could see he was frowning, but whether it was at her constant talking or the driver behind him, she couldn’t tell. They were alongside the docks now and she felt a little cheated. She’d realized it wouldn’t be quite like the old paintings she’d seen of Tragabigzanda in its heyday—graceful schooners and picturesque fishing shacks—but even so, there was something depressing about the new workaday draggers with their homely shapes and rust-stained paint. Maybe she was just tired.

She rubbed her eyes and prattled on. “I’m really glad Mom thought of this. I know they feel better about me staying with an old friend of the family, instead of going to camp where I wouldn’t know anyone. I hate going new places. Although I could have managed,” she added hastily. “After all, I am going to be a junior in the fall.”

Byron drove in silence, his eyes on the road, but when she risked another sidelong glance, Deo could tell his mind was elsewhere. Obviously she was a nuisance to him already.

“I suppose all your other students drive themselves,” she said, in another desperate attempt at conversation.

“Other students?” Byron looked blank for a moment, and then shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. I picked Jackson up last week. He’s a senior at some preppie day school in Washington. Has talent, but he can’t stand being criticized.” Byron looked at her then, and managed a crooked smile. “You’ll probably like him though.”

They were in an older part of town now, a long avenue lined with lofty trees, gambrel cottages and ancient picket fences choked with honeysuckle. Deo gawked out the window, and didn’t think to ask Byron why he had qualified his last remark with ‘probably.’

“This is so great,” she said, her mind already two jumps ahead. “Will we paint along here?”

“No,” said Byron curtly. “This is chocolate-box stuff. Everyone does it. You’re here to learn the principles of art. There’s plenty of subject matter around Willow’s Harp for you to work on.”

Crushed, Deo slumped lower in her seat. Was this going to be like being back at school, she wondered.

Further on, just as the road dipped into a left hand curve, Byron swung the car, protesting, into a sharp right and drove slowly along a single-track dirt road. From her window, Deo could see a gracious white house sitting amongst manicured lawns, but it didn’t look like the painting of Willow’s Harp that was hanging over the fireplace in the den at home. In Byron’s painting, Willow’s Harp was all gingerbread and gables with a wraparound porch. Stick-style her mother called it, with Queen Anne overtones, and she was a realtor so she should know. While Deo was pondering Byron’s artistic license, he eased the car around a pothole in the road and turned left into a driveway marked by a large sign announcing ‘ROF LASE.’ Despite her dyslexia, she didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to recognize a realty board when she saw one.

Her spirits plummeted even further. It had been a long journey—the drive to North Station from her home in the boonies had taken over two hours—and to end up here….  Deo tried not to show her disappointment, but it wasn’t easy. Over the fence on one side of the driveway was an unkempt orchard, and on the other, a stone wall held together by a profusion of brambles barred the way to a dilapidated boathouse. Straight ahead, in the middle of the drive, stood the humongous willow tree that gave the house its name.

“When the wind ripples through the leaves,” her mother had told her, “it sounds like a harp. Sailors used to listen for it. If they could hear the willow’s harp, they knew they were near land.”

Deo had often thought the sailors must have been blind if they couldn’t see they were near land, but she’d never said so to her mother who, Deo suspected, still had a soft spot for her old flame.

Byron drove the car around the tree, and killed the engine. In the sudden silence his voice seemed unnaturally loud. “Welcome to Willow’s Harp, Deo.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

Byron shoved his door open, uncoiled himself from behind the wheel, and strode round to the back of the wagon. By the time Deo got there, he already had her bags in hand.

“Come on,” he told her, loping towards the porch. “Just watch the bottom step—needs a little work. I’ll show you your room, and then you can get settled before supper.”

Deo followed him, mounting the steps carefully and then stopping dead when she saw the view. The porch looked out over a sweeping expanse of grass and wildflowers to a rock ledge beyond which was a sparkling view of Tragabigzanda’s outer harbor.

“Wow, what a great view,” she said, without having to feign enthusiasm this time.

Byron stopped and smiled too. “I told you there’s plenty of material to paint around here,” he said, and Deo thought that, for a moment he looked less careworn. It didn’t last, of course.

“Will we paint tomorrow?” asked Deo brightly.

“Of course,” he said, holding the screen door for her and shepherding her inside. “All day, every day. That’s why you’re here. The more you do, the more I can help you. I have a box ready for you, like your mom asked.”

Deo shivered slightly as she entered the cavernous hall. The wood paneling gave it an air of gloom, even oppression, and the enormous paintings lining the walls didn’t help. Deo paused to look at a portrait of a fearsome looking woman while Byron loped up to the half landing and stood there waiting for her impatiently. Her sneakers squeaked on the checkerboard-tile floor as she hurried across the hall to catch up with him.

“What do you think of this?” Byron asked, inclining his head toward a heroic-sized painting on the wall beside him. “It’s called Shipwrecked Mariner Lured by Sirens.”

It looked like a drowning sailor to Deo, but she didn’t like to say so in case it was one of his. “It’s very—big,” she said finally.

Byron snorted and continued up the stairs. “It certainly is. He loved monumental. Loved to capture the soul in its height of passion.”

“Oh—isn’t it one of yours?” she said trotting after him.

He gave her a hideous scowl. “No, it isn’t. Didn’t your mother tell you? I am the grandson of the late great Owen Trearddur. This mausoleum is dedicated to him.”

Mausoleum, thought Deo, isn’t that where you keep dead bodies? “Don’t you mean museum?” she said hesitantly.

“I know what I mean,” Byron snapped. “Here, this is your room.” He nudged the door open with his foot and stood aside for her to precede him into a small sunny room with a sloping ceiling and windows on two sides. One window looked out over the aging boathouse, and the other—a small dormer—looked out over a rocky cove.

“Very nice,” Deo said glumly. The bead board walls were festooned with pastels and drawings of a young girl with dark eyes and black hair. Everything else was painted in old-fashioned buttermilk, including the wide plank floor and the iron bedstead. Byron must have gotten a good deal on it, Deo thought. She liked dark earthy colors best; shadow colors she could shrink into when she needed a place to hide. The drapes were chintz and the flower pattern toned artistically with the small hooked rug, but they were dusky pink flowers, and not the dark reds and gold that she liked best. She dropped her backpack sadly on the white antique quilt. Maybe, she thought, the all-new DeoQ could learn to love it.

“You must be tired,” Byron said, apparently mistaking her lack of enthusiasm for exhaustion. “Take it easy. I have to go talk to Amphora—she keeps house for me. Supper is in an hour. Come on down when you’re ready.” He stopped in the doorway, hesitating as if he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure where to start. “I hope you’ll be happy here. The bathroom is just across the way. Holler if you need anything else.”

Deo forced a smile, but as soon as Byron closed the door, she threw herself on the bed and began to pound the life out of the pillows. This is all a hideous mistake, she thought. I should have stayed at Nana’s. How am I going to stand this all summer?

An antique clock ticked noisily on the bedside table, and Deo made a mental note not to wind it. She hated the steady hypnotic note ticking off the seconds of her life. She hated the dark-eyed girl, too, staring at her from a dozen different frames; watching Deo’s every move. Waiting.

A door slammed somewhere down below, and raised voices beneath Deo’s window roused her from self-pity. Leaning on the bedside table, she could just see Byron on the deck below, arguing with a raven-haired woman in a flamboyant pantsuit. Undoubtedly Amphora, Deo decided, because she looked as exotic as her name.

“That’s all I have to say,” Byron growled, jabbing a forefinger at the woman. “You’ve caused enough trouble already with your ghoulies and your Ouija board.”

Amphora murmured a reply that Deo couldn’t catch.

“Tarot, then,” Byron snapped. “That’s not the point. You’ve done enough harm. I don’t want you scaring her to death like the last one, Deo’s just a kid.”

“Who are you calling a kid?” Deo muttered indignantly. She strained to hear more, but Byron had apparently said his piece because he suddenly stomped off around the side of the house, his cowboy boots resonating across the planking.

Amphora waited until he turned the corner and then shouted after him, “You can make your own plans, Mr. Graves, but the outcome is in God’s hands. I know what I know.”

What did she know, Deo wondered. And more to the point, what kind of nut house was she going to be living in for the summer?