That afternoon, Teresa stands outside the Mantecombe post office. She has just sent off the first draft of the memoir to her editor. She feels sad to be finished, but there is also an inner lightness, a sense of relief. It is rather like the euphoria one feels after a bout of the stomach flu, when there is nothing left to purge and the internal fireworks have subsided. Teresa tells herself to enjoy the sensation, since she knows that she’ll be revising great chunks of her writing as soon as Janine has read it.
The work of revision, however, is in the future. Right now she has hours of free time, and a date–well, let’s just call it a dinner– tomorrow with Father Michael. She should get something nice to wear, a swirly skirt, or a bright summer dress. Teresa decides to drive south as far as she can go today, all the way to Land’s End. The tourist towns in Cornwall will surely have some clothing stores. She returns to the Manor, packs an overnight bag, and leaves a note for Miss Micklewhite that she’ll be back tomorrow.
The traffic gets worse the closer Teresa gets to Penzance. While creeping along in a line of cars, Teresa muses over finishing the memoir. She knows the therapeutic value of writing; there are innumerable self-help books that recommend journaling, goal-setting, or some other type of writing to achieve clarity or release. The memoir has freed her of some weighty baggage. In particular, writing about the process of forgiving changed her. She had been inhabiting her past. Now the past is just that, past, and it has lost its grip. A new feeling is tickling the space between her ribs, like a fresh green sprout. She might, just possibly, call it peace.
What if Margaret forgave her father? Teresa wonders. The next thought comes in a flash of surprise: what if I write forgiveness into the story? What would happen to the real ghost if the story I write has a different ending? By the time Teresa finds a hotel and dinner, it is late. She lies awake in her hotel bed, her mind unable to let go of this new intriguing idea. She knows how she would write the scene. She can see it unfold as if on a cinema screen.
It takes place in Margaret’s room at the Manor House. There is a fire crackling in the hearth, giving light and warmth into the darkness of the room. Outside the window, it is still night. George sits slumped in a chair, dozing. Margaret is on the bed, a blanket thrown over her. Her skin is the color of skim milk, her face bruised and swollen. She stirs and opens her eyes. She sees George.
“Da?” she says. “Is that you?”
He snaps awake. “Margaret? Nooo, it can’t be!” He kneels at the bedside.
She lifts her hand, reaching out to him. “Da, where’s Lucas?”
“He’s alive, but he’s hurt some. He’s at a farm nearby, with a woman who’s a healer. She has a babe, too. She’s feeding Lucas.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She lapses into silence from the effort of talking. Then she says, “And Mary?”
“Died of a fever, three winters past.” George begins to weep. “Oh, Maggie, I’ve missed you these years. We treated you poorly, we did. Even Mary said so, before she died.”
Margaret squeezes his fingers. “It’s all right, Da. It’s over and gone. I knew you loved me.”
“Always did, always will, Maggie-pie.” He kisses her hand.
Here the film in Teresa’s imagining fades into blankness. Would it be too corny if Margaret turns to look out the window where dawn is beginning to show its light, and then dies? The camera could pan out the window, over the farm fields and down to the sea, where the wreck of the Maeve lies broken on the rocks. Teresa wrinkles her forehead. I’ll have to work on that part.
Teresa finally falls asleep. She will stay at the Manor to write Margaret’s story. She’ll do more research and see more of Father Michael. And maybe Father Michael will understand how Teresa’s life and Margaret’s life were meant to come together across time. How it had to be Teresa, with her own ghost and bearing the loss of her own child, who would uncover Margaret’s secret. And maybe Father Michael would also understand about the writing. That just like history is rearranged in textbooks to suit the particular slant of the government in power, memories can be rearranged as well. And if Father Michael is really astute, and truly compassionate, he might also understand how Teresa could write her own and Margaret’s way out of anger, into forgiveness and peace of heart. He might be a man like that. If he is, it could be a very good year.
Dear Readers,
I’d love to know your reactions to The Manor House. Please drop me a comment.
Salerno Enterprises did not go under. Not only did Angelina keep the business afloat, she also made shrewd investments. She found other markets for the olive oil, making the boycott by the stores in New York ineffective. When she was ready to retire, she turned over her position of CEO to Dolly. By that time, Dolly knew all the inner workings of Salerno Enterprises, and had some of her own innovations to contribute. Angelina went to live in Florida where she still resides with her three obnoxious Yorkshire terriers, Mimi, Fifi, and Lulu.
Cousin Alberto was released from prison. His sentence was reduced by five years for cooperative behavior. I saw him only once after that, at a restaurant. He did not appear to be a broken man, but he was definitely damaged. There was none of the old bravado. His dyed dark brown hair had gray peeking out along the part line. His smile startled me; he had false teeth! I guess the prison diet wasn’t that healthy, or maybe he offended a prisoner with a big fist.
Neither Debo nor Dolly ever married. Dolly lived with Jason for many years. He died of a heart attack two years ago. Debo finally wearied of police work in the City. Now she teaches classes at the New York Police Academy. The four of us, Dolly, Debo, Angelina, and I, get together twice every year, once at Christmastime in Florida, and again at Easter in New York City. I never did tell them about Father’s ghostly visits. At first I was too ashamed of my own role that caused his appearances, and then too much time went by to bring it up. When this memoir is published, we’re going to have plenty to talk about!
And Father? He never appeared to me again, but Dolly, who lives in our old apartment, swears that when she’s taking a shower, she hears him singing arias in the kitchen.
The sun is high in the window when Teresa wakes up from a blissfully deep and dreamless sleep. Before getting out of bed, she closes her eyes to better recall Margaret’s appearance. Now Teresa remembers that she did see Margaret’s shoes, a pair of sturdy leather boots, repaired and worn. One more detail comes to Teresa in the daylight. Margaret’s wrist was wrapped in a dark, stained cloth. Teresa shivers, remembering the reason for the bandage. Eddie Thomson’s version of the story seems to be true.
Teresa is hungry. She decides to have a real English breakfast at the cafe in town. She washes and dresses quickly, thinking of fried eggs and tomatoes, sausage, and toast. She is delighted to get a seat at a table by the window. She orders her breakfast while pushing down the guilty knowledge of how the heavy food will make her feel later on. She is sipping her first cup of tea and gazing out the window when Father Michael passes by. Here is the one person in Mantecombe she can tell about Margaret. Even if he doesn’t believe her, he will listen and keep her tale in confidence.
A moment later, Father Michael steps into the cafe. He sees Teresa just as she is lifting her hand to wave to him. He strides over to her table.
“What serendipity!” he says. “Miss Salerno! I was hoping to catch you. May I?” He indicates the chair opposite her.
“Please, Father Michael. Sit down.” She returns his broad smile. “I’m having the death-defying English breakfast. Would you like to join me?”
“That would be a pleasure, one that I allow myself to indulge in perhaps twice a year.” They laugh together. Teresa notices the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles.
“I have to confess, Miss Salerno, that I googled your publications after our last meeting.”
“You did?”
“Yes, and I found you to be quite a prolific writer. A good one, too, I might add. I read the articles you wrote on the effects of television on young children. Rather horrifying.”
Teresa finds her cheeks getting hot. When was the last time I blushed? she asks herself.
Father Michael leans forward over his teacup, his expression earnest. “But don’t you think there should be more longitudinal studies, ones that follow the children through their secondary schooling?”
“Absolutely. In fact, one of the teams of scientists that I interviewed is trying to get funding to do just that.”
Their conversation flows easily through breakfast, ranging from children and television, to the Middle East, to the New York Times Book Review that Father Michael reads weekly. Teresa joins him in laughter often during their talk. When he leans toward her to make a point, she catches a whiff of his after-shave, fresh and citrus-y. She likes everything about this man, his kind face, his intellect, and his zest for life.
Finally, the last cup of tea is drained, the plates are removed, the cafe is almost empty of customers.
“This has been a delightful meal,” Father Michael says, standing up. “I have another confession. I also googled your bio, Miss Salerno.”
“Oh, dear. I haven’t looked at it for months. I hope it wasn’t too pompous.” Or too revealing, she adds in her mind.
“Not at all. However, you have had quite an interesting life so far. And quite a few losses,” he adds after a pause.
“Yes, well…” she hesitates, embarrassed, and determines to google herself as soon as she gets back to the Manor. Then she gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh! Father Michael! I have the most amazing news about Mar— my research. I completely forgot that I wanted to tell you about it.”
“I should love to hear,” he says. Then wrinkling his brow, “Today I’m all booked up. I know! How about we have dinner tomorrow evening? There’s a little inn just north of here, quiet, good food. What do you say?”
“That would be lovely,” Teresa answers, her mind racing. Is this a date? What shall I wear?
“I’ll meet you in the Manor car park, at seven o’clock. How is that?”
“Perfect,” she says, smiling. “That will be perfect.”
Father’s ghost came to speak to me three more times in the next months. Each time the odor of his cigar alerted me to his presence, and each time he was harder to see, but easier to hear. It was as if he had to choose to focus his energy on only one mode of manifestation. The second appearance came only three days after the first. He hovered faintly in the corner by the chair
“You were a good sister, Teresa. You took care of the twins.”
Perhaps that took all the spirit energy he had, since he faded out before I could stop shivering and gather my wits. When at last I did, I spoke angry words to the spot where he’d been, hurling my rage into the dark room.
“Somebody had to take care of them! You were off in Italy for weeks on end, with Angelina, I suppose. And Mother was out with Cousin Alberto. You were total losers as parents! The girls could have become whores or heroin addicts, and you’d never have noticed!”
The baby inside me moved, as if protesting the angry tone and the influx of adrenalin that my emotion transferred to him. Even though I stopped lambasting Father aloud, I continued the diatribe in my mind, until I heard the clash of the trashcans announce the coming of the day. I maintained a long litany of his failings that I fingered mentally, as if telling a rosary made of pain.
The third time Father came, four months later, I was awake with indigestion. The clock in the hall had struck 1 a.m. As I sipped my second cup of peppermint tea, I read the galleys of a book I was editing. For several nights I had slept poorly. My pregnant belly made it hard to find a comfortable position. When I smelled the cigar smoke, I slapped the papers down on the quilt.
“Not again!” I growled. “Haven’t you caused enough pain and trouble? What do you want from me?”
Father’s voice seemed to emanate from the walls. “Forgive me,” he said.
“Forgive you? Is this some sort of celestial homework assignment?”
“Forgive me, Teresa. Let me go.”
I was so stunned that I hardly noticed when he faded away. I had never considered that my hurt and rage could be binding Father’s spirit to me. No one else, not Debo, not Dolly, not Angelina, had mentioned a visit from Father’s ghost. He kept coming to me. All my life, the mere mention of him caused me to be swallowed in a wave of rage and hurt. All the memories that I nurtured highlighted Father’s neglect, and his withdrawal of affection, attention, or approval. It took effort to maintain this mountainous grudge I carried against my father. Did I have any positive memories of Father? Any at all? In the lamp light of my bedroom, I made myself reconsider.
In the years before Junior was born, I was wrapped in the warm blanket of Father’s love. It seemed to end with my brother’s birth, but now, in the wee hours, with the scent of cigar smoke still drifting in my bedroom, I could recall other times. Some small, sweet moments came back to me. I remembered practicing a Chopin Etude on the piano while Father sat in his recliner. When the piece came to an end, I glanced at him. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling.
“That was beautiful,” he said. “Play it again, little bird.”
I remembered one evening when I was doing my homework at the kitchen table, he came home with a velvet jewelry box that he put in my hands. I looked at him, surprised, searching in my mind for the occasion that merited a gift, but I could think of none. I was eleven years old, as awkward and funny-looking as I could be, with braces, a bad haircut, and an attitude.
Father smiled at my consternation. “I saw these in the window at Saks. I thought you’d like them.”
In the box was a pair of pearl stud earrings. The pearls were set in gold petals, making a delicate, luminous flower. They were lovely. I wore them for years, and I have them still. Now other events came back to me. There was the time he took me, just me, to the opera. I was fourteen and the performance was La Boheme. Junior sulked for days because he wasn’t invited.
Father said to him, “I’ll take you to the opera when I know you can behave yourself.”
The evening was that much sweeter for me because Junior was excluded. I wore my best navy suit and, of course, my pearl earrings.
When I was working at the publishing company during the summer, Father came by occasionally to take me out to lunch. Mostly we talked about the business and the twins, nothing personal or significant. But it was time that he gave to me alone.
As I sifted through my twenty-three years with my father, I was slowly filled with shame. All along there were expressions of his caring, and I had blocked them out in order to feed my rage. I cried a great deal that night, hot tears of regret. I even called out to his spirit to come back, but he did not reappear.
A week went by during which my heart felt like it was being reshaped. The process involved an ocean of tears and much chest pain, like the organs between my ribs were imploding. When finally Father swirled in on the scent of smoke, I wept as I said, “I’m so ashamed and sorry that I’ve stayed angry at you for so long. I can forgive you, Father. But can you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “I did not love you well enough. I will do better the next time, my little bird.”
With that eerie promise, the smoky trail dispersed. To this day, the odor of cigar smoke sends prickles up my spine, but Father’s ghost has never returned.
The smell of cigar smoke woke me. It was such a familiar odor that, at first, my sleep-muddled brain didn’t register that the apartment had not reeked of smoke for over a month. As my mind cleared, I had the eerie sensation of being watched. I sat up and peered into the darkness. At first, all I saw was a cloud of smoke moving like a slow tornado around the wicker rocker in the corner of my room. The cloud began to pulse inward. Each time it pulled in, the shape of the cloud altered. It was rather like watching a bad science fiction movie. I was too unnerved to move or scream. Finally, the mist resolved itself into a semi-transparent shape that was trying to look like my father. I heard a voice then, thin and transparent like the smoke.
“This isn’t so easy,” it said.
“Father?” I croaked from a dry throat.
“Yes, my little bird,” he said. His face assembled and then fell back into mist. Parts of him came together, feet, an arm, a knee, and then disassembled. “I get the voice, then the face goes,” he said.
“Father, why are you here? What do you want?” I whispered. “Shall I get Angelina?”
“No. Let her rest.” He paused, then in a thin thread of a voice he said, “I’m sorry, Teresa.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I should have loved you better.” His voice was so faint that I almost thought I was imagining it. His face faded, then his legs and feet. The last part I saw was his hand holding the cigar. And then the mist dissipated.
I fell back on the bed, clutching my chest to contain my pounding heart. Of course, there was no more sleep for me that night. I huddled in my bed with all the lights on. Every few seconds I’d look at the chair, but no mist reappeared. In the hours before daylight, I struggled to cope with the experience. Should I tell Angelina? Would she believe me? For that matter, did I believe what I heard, or was I possibly creating a long-hoped for scenario in which I received, at last, an acknowledgement from Father?
Memories of his rejection came to me in fresh waves of feeling. The straight A report cards he’d only grunted at, and set aside, the piano recitals he’d missed or slept through. He’d never missed one of Junior’s baseball or football games. The excuses Father made for my delinquent brother still left me sour and angry. Beyond the hurt and pain of my childhood, I always carried a volcano of rage inside me. Even after the fright of his ghostly appearance, I felt the same fury.
Once that volcano exploded once, when he brought Angelina, his new wife, home from Italy only months after Mother’s death. I confronted Father in his office at work. I came in without knocking, brushing past Mrs. Romano, the secretary. I shut the door.
“Teresa?” he said, raising his thick eyebrows, surprised to see me.
“How dare you!” I hissed, knowing that Mrs. Romano was surely trying to listen in. “How dare you bring that woman home, and mother barely in her grave for three months!”
He stared at me, then scowled.
“It’s obvious that she was your mistress. For how long? How long were you cheating on mother while she was dying?”
“Teresa, be careful what you say. I’m still your father,” he began.
“Yes,” I said, my voice shaking, “and you disgust me.” I began to sob furious tears. I rushed out past a gaping Mrs. Romano, down the hall and out of the building.
Eventually Angelina’s patience and good nature won me over. But I closed my painful heart against my father. And now, here he was, in spirit, anyway, offering an apology. Would I accept it?
It is still early in the day as Teresa winds her way back up the bluff to the Manor House. Her two canvas grocery bags are full of fresh supplies from Sainsbury’s. At the top of the rocky cliff, she stops again to look out at the sea. Even though the day is fair, the waves are still fierce, splashing white and high on the jagged, dark rocks just yards away from the beach. She stands, mesmerized, hearing the crash and swoosh clearly even from this distance.
Teresa’s thoughts return to Father Michael. He must be about the same age as she, sixty-ish, and he is in hearty good health. Moreover, he’s a decent-looking, vigorous man with a quick mind and cheerful demeanor. Although she has chosen to be single for many years, Teresa admits that there are still pleasures to be had in male company, pleasures she realizes she has missed.
After Giancarlo, Teresa was absorbed in her family’s concerns, and then, when Marco was born, all her energy focused on him. The doctors watched and waited until Marco was three years old. Then they began a series of operations and hormone treatments to make it possible for Marco to walk. The first surgery went well. During the second operation, Marco stopped breathing and was resuscitated. But in the recovery room, his leg threw a blood clot and her little boy quietly died while she slept by his hospital bed. All the wires and monitoring machines failed to alert the nurses’ station. There was an investigation, but it came to naught. No one was to blame. They had done their best.
With no child to care for and fill her days, Teresa went to work at Random House, in the Young Books division. The work was interesting and challenging enough to be satisfying. She met Aaron at a book-launching party, two years after Marco’s death. Aaron was a lawyer at Random House. All was well until Aaron decided he wanted to marry her and have children. That was territory Teresa refused to enter again. Unable to find a way to compromise, they split up. Teresa was thirty-one years old and single once again.
“And now I’m sixty-three and I’m fantasizing about a priest. Pathetic.” Teresa says this aloud. She slides back into the car. In less than a quarter of an hour, she is settled in front of her computer.
Teresa watches the sunrise through her bedroom window. The storm strewed leaves and twigs all over the garden. The greens of leaf and grass are so clean and intensely bright that they hurt her eyes. High cirrus clouds sail in a smashing blue sky. The day calls for an outing. But first she needs to see the church records once more.
Mrs. Allston is not happy to see Teresa in her office again. “Father Michael is visiting a sick parishioner,” she says. Her expression is one of slight disgust, as if she detects a foul odor.
“When will he return?” Teresa asks. She knows it is futile to ask Mrs. Allston to let her see the records without Father Michael’s permission.
“Don’t know,” Mrs. Allston says, turning away.
Teresa is incensed. “Look, Mrs. Allston. I may not have a letter of introduction, but I am a legitimate, published writer doing legitimate research for a book already under contract.” That last part stretches the truth a bit, but Teresa doesn’t care.
Mrs. Allston clears her throat and looks down at her notepad. Then she glares at Teresa. Teresa can almost hear the woman’s thoughts. “These American women! They are all the same, pushy and loud. This one thinks she can have her way, but she can’t. Not with me.”
Father Michael bustles in the door beaming and interrupts their staring contest. “Ah, Miss Salerno! What a pleasure! What can we do for you?” he says. “That was quite a storm last night, wasn’t it, ladies?”
Mrs. Allston taps her notepad of messages. “Father, you have two calls.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Allston. I’ll take care of that shortly.” The priest has caught the icy silence between the two women.
“Come into my office,” he says to Teresa. When the door is closed, he whispers, “Do forgive Mrs. Allston. She’s a bit of a bulldog, I know, but she means well.” He sits in his creaky chair. “Now tell me. How is your research coming along? Did the records help?”
“Immensely,” Teresa says. “Father Michael, I’m Catholic and I don’t know much about Anglican priests. If I tell you something private, are you bound to hold it in confidence?”
“Yes, of course,” he says, his face solemn. “Unless you intend harm to yourself or another. Then I am required to contact the proper authorities.”
“Do you know Eddie Thomson?”
“Yes, I do. Has the old fellow been misbehaving?”
“No, not at all,” Teresa replies. “But last night he told me a family secret. At least he said it was a secret.” Teresa recounts an abbreviated version of Eddie’s tale to the priest. “I’d like to go back to the records to see if I can find Jonah Thomson.”
“Fascinating.” Father Michael stands up. “Let’s go.”
Moments later, the two of them are leaning over the records, squinting at the fine, spidery writing of the entries. Teresa can smell the priest’s aftershave. He is so close that she can feel the warmth of his arm next to hers. Her concentration is slipping away into forbidden realms. Honestly, Teresa, she says to herself, he’s a priest, for God’s sake. But it has been a long time, a very long time, since Teresa was close to a friendly, kind, attentive man. She lets herself enjoy it.
They come away triumphant, having traced Jonah Thomson’s line of descendants from Jonah’s marriage entry to Eddie Thomson’s name and birthdate in 1938.
“I’m curious, Father Michael,” Teresa says as they return to his office. “Would Eddie have any legal claim to the Manor House property?”
“I don’t know the intricacies of the law, but I suspect that George Braithewaite’s offspring would have an equal claim.”
“That’s what I thought,” Teresa says. “Thank you so much, Father Michael. Do you priests shake hands?” She offers hers.
He smiles and takes it, covering her hand with his own warm palm.
“You’re most welcome, Miss Salerno. Do come around and tell me of any more discoveries.”
The legal system dragged its way toward Alberto’s trial. By the time Cousin Alberto’s case finally made it to court, I was three months pregnant. I still felt tired, but I was no longer subject to morning sickness. Through some connections at Columbia, I found part-time work as an editor at a small publishing house. Angelina continued her blithely positive attitude toward all things regarding the baby. She was convinced it was a boy. He would be beautiful; we’d find a nanny for him so I could keep working in the mornings. She advised me not to tell Father about the pregnancy. I wore loose-fitting blouses and dresses, but it didn’t matter. Father was so absorbed in his own misery that he barely noticed me at all.
Gradually Father sank deeper into a dark sea of worry, shame, and depression. Angelina arranged a trip to Italy for him, thinking it would give him a fresh perspective and some comforting scenery. He came home early, having been shunned by most of the relatives except for Uncle Gio and Gio’s immediate family.
Early one afternoon I arrived home from work and found Father unconscious, lolling sideways in his recliner. An empty pill bottle sat on the coffee table next to what was left of a bottle of gin. After the paramedics wheeled him away to the ambulance, Angelina and I combed through the house, removing pills and hard liquor, anything we thought could abet suicide. When he came home from the hospital four days later, Father hardly spoke. He wouldn’t go to the office, no matter how Angelina badgered him. He refused to see a counselor or a psychiatrist.
Late at night, a few weeks after Father came home from the hospital, I woke up freezing. A chill breeze swirled around my room. I got up to check the thermostat in the foyer. The night was alive with sound, as it always is in New York City. I heard shouts and sirens and vaguely realized that the ruckus came from nearby. In the living room, the big window was wide open. Snow speckled the carpet. The drapes billowed like red damask sails. I knew then that Father had found a way out of his pain. I screamed for Angelina, and then I passed out.
When I came back to consciousness, there was a stethoscope on my chest and a gentle hand was pushing up my right eyelid. From where I lay prone on the sofa, I could see Angelina sitting in a chair across the room. I kept hearing a strange, moaning sound and finally I realized it was coming from Angelina. Another paramedic was giving her an injection.
The medic who was checking me sat back on her heels. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“My side hurts,” I said.
“May I look?” She lifted my pajama shirt and pulled my pants down below my waist. “That’s quite a bruise you have there. Why don’t you let us take you to the hospital? How far along are you? Twelve weeks?”
“Fourteen,” I said. “But please, can I wait until this afternoon, or even tomorrow? I need to stay with Angelina.”
When at last I did see my own obstetrician, he said everything looked fine, except for the multihued bruise above my hip. I’ll never know if it would have made a difference had I agreed to go to the hospital that night. The doctors and specialists could not agree on what caused the damage to Marco’s legs. He was born as perfect as any cherub from his hips to his head, but his legs never formed properly. The physicians tried to fix his poor little legs, and that is what caused his death.
Father’s funeral was well attended. Our family’s notoriety was now complete. We had legions of reporters hounding us wherever we tried to go. Debo and Dolly came home for three days. Both had just started their first year of college. Dolly was at Boston University. She planned to go straight through undergraduate and graduate school to obtain a Masters in Business Administration. As for Debo, after her graduation from New York Military Academy, she decided to become a police officer.
Sometimes I thought that Debo was trying to be another Junior for Father. It had pained me to watch her work so hard for his attention and approval just as I had, and with the same result. For Father, nothing we achieved changed our gender or the fact that Junior, his shining star, was dead.
After the funeral, Angelina arranged a buffet at Father’s favorite Italian restaurant. We all agreed that holding a brunch in the apartment carried a gruesome shadow.
“People will be staring out the window and looking down to see how far he fell,” Dolly said.
In fact, none of us felt comfortable in the living room. Angelina and the twins and I sat in the kitchen for meals and did all our conversing and planning there. At one of these sessions, Angelina said, “Girls, I’ve been thinking about the living room. The furniture gives me the creeps now. I was wondering if you’d mind—” she paused.
“What?” I thought she was going to sell the apartment. Then where would the baby and I live? But that’s not what she said.
“I was wondering if you’d mind having the living room redone,” she finished.
Debo, Dolly, and I burst out laughing.
“When in mourning, redecorate!” said Debo.
“It’s a good idea,” said Dolly. “Get new curtains, too.”
The apartment felt different with Father gone. I hated to admit, even to myself, that the atmosphere was lighter. Angelina plunged right into the renovation project. After the living room was finished, the dark clouds that had filled the rooms with their thick sadness were finally released. Don’t get me wrong. I grieved for my father. But without the heavy brown leather sofa set, the heavy red curtains, and the ever-present odor of cigar smoke, the whole apartment felt clean and fresh.
The night that the living room was completed, and all the paintings and knick-knacks were replaced, Father’s ghost appeared to me for the first time.
Teresa is too agitated to do any writing when she gets into her rooms behind the Manor House. She makes a cup of hot chocolate and some toast. Sitting at the kitchen table, she writes some notes, trying to piece together Eddie’s story with the rest of her information. Then, upstairs, she falls asleep listening to the rain pelting her window. And she dreams.
At first, she is playing with her son, Marco. They are in the apartment in New York City, and she is waltzing with him in his cheerfully decorated yellow bedroom. Then the room around her changes. The walls are whitewashed plaster; there is a cradle in place of the crib. Darkness moves in; she is no longer holding Marco. She can’t find him. She’s out in a storm, flailing against the driving rain. She calls his name, and the wind snatches her voice away. The wind wails and it sounds like her baby crying. It could be her baby. He needs her; she can’t find him. Crying, screaming his name, Teresa wakes herself up. But the name she screams and hears echoing in the room is “Lucas!”
“Oh, my God.” Teresa is shaking, sobbing. The window is open, swinging in the wind. She leaps out of bed to latch it, and hurries back under the covers. The room stays cold and damp. Margaret is there.
The clock blinks a glowing red 1:56. Lightning flashes. Teresa curls into a fetal shape and surrenders to the memory she keeps locked away. Marco, her boy. At one year of age, he had his father’s shiny, black curls. His little teeth were perfect as pearls, and his laugh was such a bubbling gurgle that, no matter how tired she was, Teresa always laughed too. She had him for two more years. And then she lost him. All the medical geniuses couldn’t save him. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Marco together again. Teresa hugs her sides and lets the tears come. It’s been so many years–how many? —over forty—and the pain is just as fresh, just as deep.
A coldness trails across Teresa’s cheek. It makes her shiver. This is the touch of a ghostly hand. Margaret.
“At least your baby lived,” Teresa says. It is after two o’clock and Teresa knows she will get no more sleep tonight. She turns on both lamps and clicks on her laptop. To the chill air around her, Teresa says, “Please go away. I need to work.”
A knock at the door pulls Teresa out of her past. She saves the chapter and shuts down the laptop before thumping downstairs. Lord Braithewaite, dressed in a well-tailored suit, is standing on the doorstep. He holds a monogrammed leather briefcase in one hand, and with the other he removes a bowler hat from his head. Teresa imagines for a wild moment that she has stepped into the bank scene from the movie Mary Poppins.
“May I come in?” he asks.
“Of course.” Teresa gestures him inside, then rushes to clear a space on the sofa. She sits in a chair opposite him.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed your work,” he begins.
“Not at all. It was time for a break.”
“Miss Salerno, I cannot tell you how important the document and the jewelry are to my family. My curator friend in London confirmed the authenticity of the contents of the packet. He is keeping the confession to see if he can discern the missing parts using all that fancy technology he has in his laboratory.” He clears his throat and adjusts his shirt collar.
Teresa opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it. Lord Braithewaite is about to give a prepared speech.
“Miss Salerno, my family and I wish to express our gratitude for your honesty and goodwill by offering you free lodging at the Manor for as long as you choose to stay. I’ve spoken to Miss Micklewhite already.”
“Why, Lord Braithewaite, that is most generous of you.” Teresa hesitates, then says, “I do have a request, though. When your friend completes his work with the confession, may I see the results?”
“Well, hmmm, I don’t see why not. I’m off to Kent to visit my nephew’s family, but I’ll give you a ring when I hear anything. How is that?”
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
At the door, Lord Braithewaite replaces his hat and walks away with a brisk, purposeful stride. Teresa shakes her head and smiles at his transformation from the grubby gardener in a smashed hat to this ever-so-proper aristocrat.
Teresa spends the afternoon touring a miniature pony farm near Exmoor. She takes photographs of the shaggy, dog-sized horses and their shy foals. Part of her feels appalled that humans take pride in distorting the majestic horse in this way. She is almost ashamed to be so charmed by the tiny ponies.
Visiting the farm with Teresa is a busload of nursing home residents. Some are being pushed around in wheelchairs; some struggle over the uneven ground with walkers. Teresa sees their wrinkled faces beaming as goats nuzzle their hands for treats. One old woman in a wheelchair shrieks with laughter because a goat is chewing on her shoelaces.
A sign proclaiming “Carriage Museum–this way” points to a huge barn. Inside, Teresa finds a display of carriages and carts. She saunters along in the dim shafts of light sprinkled with dust motes, peering at the cards in plastic frames that describe each vehicle. In front of a heavy cart made of thick planks, she stops with a sharp drawing in of her breath. Fumbling in her backpack for her camera, Teresa photographs the words:
Wagon–Circa 1790
Smugglers carried goods away from wrecked ships using sturdy carts like the one displayed here.
–donated by Lord Morris Braithewaite, Manor House, Mantecombe, Devonshire
By the time Teresa returns to Mantecombe, it is almost seven o’clock. The sky is still light as she enters the White Horse pub, but there is a brooding line of roiling clouds at the edge of the horizon and the wind is gusting. Teresa orders a glass of dark ale and fish and chips. The stained corner table where she sits exudes the odors of years of beer and smoke. When the barman brings over her basket of steaming fried cod and potatoes, Teresa says, “Is Eddie Thomson here?”
“That old grunion?” The barman glances around at the handful of men seated in the pub. “Not here yet. I’ll give you the nod when he comes in.”
Teresa looks at her meal, grins, and shakes her head. She can’t believe she’s eating this food. Unhealthy it may be, but she loves the greasy, crisp fries, especially doused in vinegar. Teresa does not need the barman’s wave to know Eddie Thomson when the fellow rolls into the pub. He’s a crab of a man, hunched and grizzled. With white hair and a scraggly, tobacco-stained beard, he’s dressed in an indefinable garment of an indefinable age and color. Teresa rises and taps him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Thomson?”
“Oh, Mr. Thomson, is it? And what can Mr. Thomson do for you?” he says, grinning to show teeth like black and yellow piano keys. His breath sends Teresa back two steps.
“I’d like to ask you about local history. Wreckers, actually.”
“Wreckers, is it?” He fixes her with watery, pale blue eyes. “Buy me a pint and give me a minute, see, to collect me thoughts.”
Teresa signals to the barman who pulls a pint of ale and hands the glass to Eddie. Eddie drags a chair over to Teresa’s table and straddles it backward.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Thomson? Would you like some dinner?” she asks.
“This here’s me dinner,” says Eddie, draining half the glass.
Teresa explains to Eddie that she is researching local history, and that she is staying at the Manor House. At the mention of the Manor House, Eddie draws back and cuts his eyes aside with a grimace. “Aye, that there’s a history, all right,” he says after a long pause.
“What can you tell me about wreckers?” Teresa asks as Eddie tips up the last of his ale.
“For that telling, I’ll need another pint,” Eddie grins. He wipes drops from his mustache.
When he is settled in with his new glass, Eddie begins. “Now the coastal folks hereabouts have made a good commerce from the tales of wreckers and smugglers and pirates and all. That Daffy Du Maurie and her Jamaica Inn and all. It’s good for the tourist trade. But I can’t say the locals were great wreckers. Nay, I would say there never was deliberate wrecking. As for the false lights, there’s no evidence that such criminality ever took place here.” Teresa senses she’s being hustled; that this is the image the locals prefer to offer to outsiders.
“Then the story of George Braithewaite putting out false lights and wrecking the ship his daughter was on—you think it is a fabrication?” Teresa is surprised. Obviously, Eddie hasn’t heard of the discovery of George’s confession.
“Braithewaite? Now that one’s a bird of a different color,” Eddie frowns, then gives her a wink and adds, “I’ll need another glass for that tale.”
Teresa has never intentionally gotten someone drunk, but it is obvious to her that she is playing a game whose price is dark ale. She signals to Tommy, the barman, and fetches Eddie his pint.
“Me great-great–I don’t know how many greats–grandfather was Frederick Thomson. He was with that Braithewaite fellow on the night the ship hit the rocks. Some say George Braithewaite put out a false light, but as I heard the story, it was a storm that fetched the Maeve onto the rocks.” Eddie stops for a swallow of ale. His eyes are clouding; his nose is red and his words are blurring at the edges.
“The tale gets gruesome now. Are you sure you want to hear it?” he asks with a leer.
“Quite sure.”
“Frederick found that maid, Margaret, between rocks on the shore. Her face was battered and bruised beyond recognition. He thought surely she was dead. She sported some few jewels, but her fingers were curled up so cold and stiff that Frederick couldn’t get them off. George came over, took out his knife so as to cut off her hand to get at the bracelet and rings. When he made the first cut across her wrist, she gave out a moan. There was George, all affrighted, wrapping up her wrist in his kerchief, and her bleeding out her life, if she wasn’t to have lost it already. He and Frederick carried her up to the cart and laid her amongst the casks. They thought they might have a reward from her people if she lived. If not, they’d give her back to the sea.”
Eddie pauses to drink. The pub is filling up with the evening crowd. Three musicians are setting up their instruments on a platform in the back. Teresa waits, hoping to hear Eddie out before the music begins.
“George took himself off away to the Manor with his cart, but Frederick, my great-great, he went back to the beach for more wreck. That’s when he heard the crying and he found the babe.”
“Lucas? Margaret’s baby boy?” Teresa was aghast. Could this be true?
“Aye, the poor laddie’s legs was crushed. He was alive, but barely.”
“And? What happened then?” Teresa feels her own eyes must be wide as salad plates. Eddie shoves himself backward out of his chair.
“I’m off to the loo,” he says. He sways across the pub floor to the men’s room. Teresa can barely restrain herself from following him. She bites at a hangnail and tears it down until her finger bleeds. At last, Eddie lurches out of the men’s room door, but then he leans on the bar to chat with another regular. He appears to have forgotten Teresa. After several minutes, she gets up and coaxes him back to the table with another pint and a bowl of peanuts.
“Now where was I?” Eddie says. He tries to crack open a peanut shell but his fingers are rubbery.
“Frederick Thomson found the baby and he was alive.” Teresa takes a peanut and opens it for him. She shells peanuts and hands them over as he continues.
“So me great-great what-all granddad takes the boy to his mam, who’s a baby-catcher and a bit of a healer for the locals.” He crunches on some peanuts while Teresa resists shaking his shoulders to make the story come out faster.
“The babe lived, only his legs never healed up proper. They was bent like two sickles. Even so, you’d think that George Braithewaite would have been grateful. You’d think he’d have taken his grandson in. But he shunned the boy, refused to raise him. Said he’d already killed his own daughter, and how could he face her son with such a great sin on his head.”
“It does seem rather heartless, considering how he loved Margaret,” Teresa says, almost to herself. She remembers the vivid dreams of the loving father with the pony.
“Aye, he loved her, all right, but George Braithewaite was an odd one. Me mam once told me she heard say that he had two families, a wife at the Manor, and another in Dorset. The one wife died young and he brought in the other, smooth as glass. Neighbors were gobsmacked, and gave them Braithewaites a wide berth.”
“But what about the boy, Lucas?”
“Ah, that’s the great family secret. What happened to the boy?” He leans forward and his breath is so foul that Teresa blinks several times. “If I tell you the truth, you’ll not breathe a word?”
“I can’t–” She is about to say she can’t promise silence, she’s a writer, but he interrupts.
“The Thomsons, Frederick and his wife, took the babe in, bandy legs and all, and they raised him as their own. Named him Jonah, since he survived the sea, you know. He turned out a fine, clever fellow, too. And me very own so many greats granddad. Me granddad!”
Eddie’s brows lower and he scowls. “Aye, and I’m the rightful heir, you see. The rightful heir to the Manor House.” He sits up and slams his palm on the table. Teresa jumps back and some others glance over at Eddie.
Eddie points a gnarled finger at Teresa. “If it weren’t for that lily-livered, slithery eel of a two-timing bigamist, George Braithewaite, I’d be living in comfort in me old age!” Eddie pushes himself to his feet, stumbling sideways so he has to catch on to the chair. “Mine! It shoulda been mine!” he yells.
One of the men at the bar stands and comes over to Eddie. “‘S’allright, now, Eddie, me boy. You’ve had enough for this evening. Let’s get you home.”
Teresa sinks down into the dark corner while the man helps Eddie out of the pub. Her head is aching with the fright of his outburst and the thoughts that are swirling in disjointed words in her mind. So Lucas lived. And George Braithewaite did have two wives! Slowly Teresa gets to her feet. She pays the bill and drives back toward the Manor House.
At the top of the hill, before turning into the drive, Teresa stops the car and crosses over to the edge of the bluff. She can see the lights of the town, but a bank of billowing inky clouds obscures the moon and stars. The wind swirls and buffets her. She can just make out bursts of white water as the rising waves smash against the jagged rocks near the shore. As the rain begins, Teresa scuttles back to her car. This will be a wild storm tonight, she thinks. I wonder if the cradle in Margaret’s room will move.
Tangled Magic 