The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 4

  Fully aware of Annie’s antisocial habits, and not surprised in the least by her confession, Mrs. Weatherall merely chuckled. She pointed to the dress. “It reminds me of the first time you came into the store,” she said. “Do you remember?”

  Still glued to the mirror, Annie’s eyes crinkled as her lips curved into a smile. “The lace Easter dress. I was eleven. Or was I twelve? Auntie Liza dressed me up with a bonnet, parasol, and matching gloves. It was to be a surprise for Mom.” She glanced slyly at Mrs. Weatherall. “I seem to recall that she drew the line at the pearl choker, though.”

  “You were such a strange little creature. Seemed to live with one foot in another world. Came through my door that day sounding like Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. And you were absolutely infatuated with that dress.” She strode to Annie’s side and untangled some of the appliqué on the bodice. “What ever happened to your Aunt Liza? She was a formidable woman.”

  “Formidable?” Annie smirked as she rubbed the appliqué between her fingers. “Don’t tell me you’re still smarting over that little dustup after all these years? What was that about, anyway?”

  Caught off guard by the question, Mrs. Weatherall turned a trifle pink herself before replying, “I chided your aunt for letting you play hooky, and she—” She paused, searching for a diplomatic explanation. “Well, let’s just say that she taught me to mind my own business.”

  Annie blinked, looking scandalized. “Did she even bother to tell you I was homeschooled?” Seeing Mrs. Weatherall’s look of consternation, she burst into laughter. “Apparently not.” Annie smiled sadly. “Auntie Liza died the following year,” she said as she stepped back to admire the dress in the mirror. “She wasn’t really my aunt, you know. She was my godmother.”

  “No, I had no idea.” Mrs. Weatherall reached for Annie’s hand. “Look at you now,” she said. “All grown up, as strange as ever and even more beautiful.” Secretly, she also thought that Annie looked too pale, but she wasn’t about to say so. “You’ve been popping into my store for, what, fifteen years now?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And I bet you wouldn’t know a pair of jeans if you tripped over them.”

  Annie danced several steps of the waltz, then twirled in circles, causing the dress to fan out around her before collapsing in a rich melody of tinkling beads. Short of breath, she placed the dress on the counter and wiped the sheen of perspiration from her forehead. What little color she had was quickly draining away, and Mrs. Weatherall couldn’t help but notice that Annie’s hand was trembling.

  By the time Annie had stirred through the contents of her bag to pull out a packet of cheese and crackers, her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t get a proper grip on the cellophane wrapper.

  Alarmed, Mrs. Weatherall snatched it from her hand and tore the packet open, watching as Annie quickly downed a couple. “Are you all right, my dear?” she asked.

  Annie tried to smile reassuringly as she nibbled on the last cracker, but it wasn’t very convincing. She grabbed her cell phone, a novel thing forced on her by Christian, and punched in some numbers as she stepped across the room, talking quietly into the receiver. “I’ll never remember that,” she said, striding back to the counter to grab a pen from her purse.

  One step ahead, Mrs. Weatherall reached into a tray to grab a piece of paper, but set it aside to stare at the pen in Annie’s hand.

  Annie looked from the pen to Mrs. Weatherall and spoke into the phone. “Can I call you right back?” she asked, and disconnected the line. She sighed, glaring at the pen as if it were gossiping out of turn—the California Pacific Oncology logo stamped on its surface in white lettering. “This will be our little secret, yes?”

  “But, my dear—”

  “Please.” Annie put the pen away. “And would you mind terribly calling me a cab?”

  Elsbeth pried open the door to her cabin and stared suspiciously at the letter box sitting at the end of the footpath leading from her front door. It had been three days since she’d heard from her new neighbor and she still wasn’t sure how she felt about the silence. Certainly, she was glad to be left alone, but three days without communication did more than push the boundaries of propriety. It was simply bad manners. And the letter box appeared entirely too smug, as if teasing her by saying, “You haven’t lifted a finger. Why should she?”

  Exasperated by her own peevishness, Elsbeth determined that a quick peek inside was, in no way, an indicator of her eagerness for more correspondence, and a walk would do her good. She wandered to the end of the path and brushed a spider from the lid.

  May 20, 1995

  Hello!

  I apologize for the delay, but I’ve been a bit under the weather and, to be honest, thought it best to give you a few days to adjust to the change in our mutual circumstances.

  It was a fair enough beginning, Elsbeth thought. There’s not much you can do about a cold. She waded through the letter like a guilty pleasure, torn between annoyance and enchantment with Miss Aster’s obvious enthusiasm. Regardless, she read each line carefully, only pausing to sniff when asked what led to such an early retirement and at Miss Aster’s suggestion that an ongoing correspondence might prove to be of some interest to both parties—not for the suggestion, but for having the presumption to natter away as if Elsbeth’s acceptance was a matter of course.

  There was the requisite polite chatter, and Elsbeth begrudgingly admitted that her new neighbor’s diction was surprisingly adequate, despite the occasional odd turn of phrase. There was also some talk about a door that El found curious. Then Miss Aster advanced a number of peculiar philosophical questions and general folderol regarding Elsbeth’s existence, which served only to elicit another sniff. As if El needed to confirm she existed. The fact that her life was unremarkable made it no less real. And to suggest she may be a ghost! Bristling, Elsbeth prepared to toss the letter aside when her eyes lit on the final paragraph.

  I’ve enclosed a recent photograph. My friend Christian took it as I was sitting on a bench in Dolores Park.

  Delightedly,

  Annabelle Aster

  P.S. I offer a topic for discussion. The past is nothing more than the present romanticized, while the future is history with imagination.

  Any thoughts?

  El swayed gently in her rocker and shook the envelope until the photograph in question fluttered out to land in her lap. One glance at the uncanny image, and she froze—an unexpected pinprick of delight lighting in her chest. Tearing her eyes away, El snatched her spectacles from their perch on her nose and stared at the walls to regain the comfort of her natural belligerence. When her spine became as rigid as her resolve, El replaced them to dare a second look.

  To her nineteenth-century eyes, this was not a photograph. It was a window.

  And on the other side was Annabelle. She sat on a wooden park bench with a panoramic cityscape, unlike anything in Elsbeth’s experience, in the background. The park opened behind her like a fan, sloping downward before easing itself to an expanse of lawn in the distance. But it was the church bell tower at the base of the park, its dome almost pulsing off the photographic paper in brilliant turquoise, that did Elsbeth in.

  The cityscape spread out behind the tower, and something about its complex geometry of cubes and rectangular prisms reminded Elsbeth of a geode. There were glimpses of a bay showing between the buildings in the distance, and the sun was just breaking through the trees in the foreground to scatter whippedcream dollops of light everywhere.

  Elsbeth turned her attention to the figure on the bench. Annabelle was wearing a high-necked, champagne-colored dress that shimmered in the dappled sunlight. Her hat had a large brim and a diaphanous wrap-around scarf. She was relaxing with her elbow on the park bench arm rail, her fist resting on the side of her head, obviously flirting with the camera.

  Annabelle was beautiful. And her eyes, most especially her eyes, revealed a woman of character. Rubbing her thumb across the edge
of the photo, Elsbeth reluctantly decided that something about Annie appealed to her.

  Despite that admission, however, she did not intend to make things easy for her new correspondent.

  20th of May, 1895

  Dear Miss Aster,

  Well, truth be told, I’m a bit of a suffragist who was coaxed into early retirement by the powers that be when, during a class discussion on that very topic, I cut off an unenlightened (and smelly!) young man by saying, “Johnny! Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to speak with your mouth full of stupid?” We have an informal three-strike rule in Pawnee County, which I managed to exceed with that single sentence, apparently. (Nobody told me Johnny’s father was on the school board.) When, during the inquiry, it was suggested that my pension be halved, I announced I would be writing my memoirs, complete with anecdotes on my former students. The matter was dropped.

  All that being said, I have yet to decide whether your letter is welcome, as, frankly, I remain more comfortable thinking of you as a burr in my stocking. In truth, I originally hoped you were nothing more than a bout of mental indigestion and would disappear with a good dosing of baking soda and apple cider vinegar. It appears, however, that you are here to stay, and through no fault of your own.

  And while it is possible I was a bit hasty in my original assessment, and even less circumspect in making my feelings known, I’m not thrilled with the prospect of sharing my damn wheat field!

  I’d like to start again by stating that your diction is surprisingly tolerable for an interloper. Before you think I’m one to toss compliments about cavalierly, however, let me caution you. I am not. But language is dear to me and I appreciate its elegant employment.

  The door you mentioned intrigues me and bears investigation. Logic leads me to wonder if, while you found it there, it may not have been made here. I can think of nothing else that explains your presence.

  Am I a ghost, you ask? I’m certainly old. Perhaps even a bit dusty. But I think not. How can one be sure, however? Would a ghost know itself to be such? What a poor state for one, if it is required to carry into the beyond every ache and pain earned in life. I snap and pop with every movement, an uncongenial condition for haunting.

  Thank you for the “photograph.” I was quite taken by it. Enclosed is one of me at the state fair a few years ago.

  As to your question in regard to past and present, I must admit to a decided lack of an opinion, being no philosopher.

  In Your Confidence,

  Elsbeth Grundy

  Setting the letter aside, Annie shook the faded envelope and a small photograph—more brown and yellow than black and white—fell out.That the photographic paper wasn’t worn by time seemed significant, though she didn’t know why. El, State Fair, 1889 was written on the back. A large splotch of black ink sat just below the number nine with another drop at the bottom. Annie turned the photograph over. She was simultaneously drawn to and taken aback by the diminutive figure in the foreground. Elsbeth was standing proudly, if not defiantly, before the camera in a field just outside the fairgrounds, bearing an uncanny likeness to the spinster daughter in the painting American Gothic.

  Her eyes spoke of hidden knowledge, yet the line of her mouth was hard, curving neither up nor down, and Annie wondered what type of life had left Elsbeth unable to smile at a fair.

  Couples were promenading in the background between booths, food stalls, and other amusements. Overall, the photo felt harsh, its austerity matched by Elsbeth’s clothes. She was wearing what appeared to be a dark cotton dress with long sleeves and lace around the neckline and cuffs. The dress had no other ornamentation except for a row of three large wooden buttons running down the bodice. Elsbeth held a slim book close to her side. Annie pulled out a magnifying glass and could just make out Common Sense, by Thomas Paine.

  She reached for the letter. By the end of the first paragraph, she’d slumped into the sofa, giggling. Elsbeth was certainly a nononsense character, and Annie took an instant liking to her. More than that, however, Elsbeth’s compliment had challenged her, and she was determined to live up to it. Blowing a wisp of hair from her eyes, she drummed her fingers on the sofa’s arm before making her way to the desk. Pulling out paper and pen, she began to write— tapping into her inner Jane Austen, as Christian would put it.

  May 20, 1995

  Dearest El,

  Thank you for the compliment, and do please call me Annie, for heaven’s sake. We’ll never get anywhere with this “Miss Aster, Ms. Grundy” routine.

  Both my parents were writers and taught me to appreciate prose in all its forms. But it was something my Auntie Liza said many years ago that changed forever the way I thought of words. “If the command of language dictates the elegance of our thoughts,” she said, tapping my nose for attention, “then those which people think today must be dull, indeed. There is very little pride in written or spoken words, Annie, and people wield them like a sledgehammer rather than a brush. I am raising you to be an artist, not a construction worker.”

  From that point on, I was hooked.

  I must admit to occasionally “dumbing down” for public consumption, and on those occasions I don’t, Christian, my best friend, pokes fun at me for putting on airs.

  Your letter would’ve had him in stitches.

  There was something about your photograph that left me feeling as if I’ve known you forever, and while you won’t be so quick to come to the same conclusion, I’m beginning to suspect that we are kindred spirits, Ms. Grundy, if for no other reason than our predilection for beginning sentences with a conjunction.

  And in the spirit of our budding friendship, rest assured it never entered my mind to accuse you of being a flatterer— unreasonable, maybe; cantankerous, certainly; and perhaps a little trigger-happy—but no flatterer. To be honest, my early imaginings had run wild, as I pictured an ascetic spinster who milks the cows, feeds the pigs, and finds entertainment in trapping and drowning orphaned kittens in the well out back. Your letter shows you to be much more substantial (though I still fear for the kittens).

  As to your indisposition, I do regret it. But if the apple cider vinegar and baking soda is intended solely for my disposal, do leave off, dear. I’m here to stay. More to the point, we have a mystery to solve.

  Sincerely,

  Annie

  Across the wheat field and into a bygone era, El read the letter and jolted with surprise. Her spectacles fell from her nose to land unceremoniously in her lap. She stared in the direction of the house on her back forty, frowning. Then she huffed so quietly it could have gone without notice. The huff was followed by a giggle. The giggle by a laugh. The laugh by a wheeze and a guffaw so profound that El began to cough. Slapping the rocker while she tried to catch her breath, El thought, Fine. Annie, it is. Wiping her eyes before replacing her spectacles, El got up from the rocker with her customary snap and pop. She began to whistle reedily and ambled over to the stove to put on some hot water for her evening tea.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  A Book, Antihistamines, and a Scheming Universe

  May 21, 1995

  The universe is not immune to surprise. Every now and again that perfect combination of gravity, oxygen, dust particles, hydrogen, stellar winds, neutrinos, the kitchen sink, and a good dash of radiation converges in a single, unique instant that results in a big KABOOM! A hole is torn in the fabric of space and time. Sometimes a similar convergence, no less profound in the strategies of the universe, can lead simply to two people meeting at the intersection of Castro and Eighteenth streets. This particular confluence of events involved, among other things, a book and antihistamines. It was Saturday, and Saturdays spelled errands for Christian. He was off to Walgreens, not that he knew why. It was just that he always ended up there eventually when running errands, and he figured he could get a jump-start on things by heading there straightaway. His peculiar logic dictated that, although he didn’t know what he needed at the drugstore, there must be something (as there
always was) and he would recognize it once he got there.

  An unacknowledged but very real corollary to this line of reasoning was the sad fact that were he not to run these errands he didn’t need, Christian would have no excuse to leave the house at all.

  So, grabbing his keys, wallet, and a book from the counter, he whisked out the door and began meandering down the street in that particular way of his, paying more attention to the book in his hands than the sidewalk beneath his feet.

  He looked up only once, as he passed the copy shop on Market Street, to see a thing he knew wasn’t really there. It sat atop the awning, looking like a cross-legged angel, and watched his every step. They were well acquainted, Christian and the thing that wasn’t really there, and he did what he always did. He ignored it.

  Just over the hill from Christian’s home and two blocks to the left, Edmond, known at this point only as “the face,” was stepping from his door to run errands as well. In stark contrast to Christian, however, he had a list. His first stop would also be Walgreens. It was allergy season, and Edmond was going to stock up on antihistamines. From there, he planned to head to the nursery, where he would buy annuals for the small garden behind his apartment. It was doubtful he’d buy impatiens. He’d planted them the year before, and while they did very well in his garden, Edmond was ready for a change.

  Walgreens was a five-block walk from Christian’s house. Coincidentally, it was also a five-block walk from Edmond’s apartment. Were Edmond’s apartment, Christian’s home, and Walgreens to be marked on a map and the dots connected, a perfect isosceles triangle would be formed. The significance of that fact was, at this particular moment, unknown.

  Ignorant of the influence geometry would soon have on his life, yet confident that he would meet the day on his own terms, Edmond stepped from his door at the exact moment Christian stepped from his. Unlike Christian, however, he walked down the street with the certainty of someone who was an old hand at navigating the neighborhood. Indeed, Edmond had lived there for more than four years, though he had found himself in San Francisco completely by chance.