A hefty gust of wind impaled his pores. There’d been another drop in temperature between the time he had left the park and when he arrived at Shadow Garden and he buttoned his coat and made his way toward the center of the courtyard.
As he approached the building called the Ridge, he suddenly realized he hadn’t seen a single soul about but the guards at the gate. Donna’s apartment was the first one on the ground floor. He knocked and the door opened. Marleen stood, impeccably dressed, her eyes darting past him, not as if she expected someone else, but as if she was nervous being seen with him.
“Mr. Pryor, how are you?” Marleen asked.
“I’m well, thank you,” he said but they both knew it was far from the truth.
“Mrs. Pryor is asleep.”
“I figured,” he said.
Edward handed Marleen a box. The flaps were open, within it a gaudy ceramic container. He held on to it because Marleen’s grasp wasn’t quite firm enough.
“Mr. Pryor, I don’t—”
“Marleen, please. I would never do anything to cause Donna any kind of—”
“I have always supported your efforts but I’m conflicted about this.”
“Please. We talked about this. I just need . . . I can’t . . . please just put it on the mantel,” he stuttered. “I have to go,” he added. The moment Marleen shut the door, he turned and walked away.
Edward sat on a nearby bench with a view of the building. The unit next to the ground floor was clearly inhabited; an elderly woman stood on the balcony. He wasn’t sure if he was watching her or she was watching him.
“Excuse me,” he said and approached her.
“Yes?” She squinted but made no attempt to use the glasses that dangled on a chain around her neck.
“Do you know the woman on the first floor next to you?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?” she asked and rolled up the top of a plastic bag she had rummaged through just then. Behind her, between an array of pots with plants and flowers of varying height, sat more plastic bags.
“Do you know her?” he repeated.
He observed her upper body slightly pulling back. She switched on the overhead light and he got a better look at her. The woman was sixty, maybe older. Her gray bob was immaculate, and she wore discreet makeup. She had been attractive once upon a time, and there was something to be said about the good old aging-with-grace thing. He couldn’t imagine any scalpel making her more beautiful.
She looked him up and down, her eyes squinted, her lips pressed tight. “Am I required to give you an answer?” she said, then added, “I guess you can find out if you want to, right?”
“Do you know each other? Donna Pryor? Your neighbor?” He made his voice sound low and monotone, as if this was of no concern to him. “Do you ever talk to her?”
The woman pulled her shawl tighter.
“Did she tell you about her daughter?” he asked. “It’s quite a tragedy. Does she ever, you know, mention her?”
The woman took a step toward the patio door. Edward didn’t want her to just disappear into the building, and he scrambled for ways to prolong the conversation.
“I thought maybe you’d know something about her, being out here, with your flowers and everything.”
“I’m not out a lot. I couldn’t tell you anything.”
“Those hydrangeas there, I didn’t know they bloom this late in the year,” Edward said and pointed at the bushy pink heads.
“Depends on the variety. Some do, some don’t.”
“Well, they seem to be doing well.”
“A little care goes a long way,” she said.
“I saw them from all the way over there. How do you get them to grow so large?”
“Just luck, I guess,” she said and looked around as if to make sure no one was listening.
“I guess so,” Edward said.
If she ever talks about Penelope, will you let me know? He wanted to say that but he didn’t. He imagined a blank page with all his questions and below he’d scribble Penelope, Penny, and Pea, if she ever mentions those names, call me, tell me what she said, but that seemed counterproductive, it might only confuse her or make him appear unstable.
“Does she ever talk about her daughter?” he insisted, then caught himself. “Please don’t think I’m a creep or anything like that, but she . . . she—”
“You act like one. Since you’re wondering.”
“Your name is?” Edward asked.
“Vera Olmsted,” she said, with her voice so low he could hardly make it out. “And you are?”
“Edward Pryor.”
“We value our privacy. I hope you understand.” She nodded and turned, as if she realized she had said too much.
“Well, Ms. Olmsted, I appreciate your talking to me,” he called after her.
Things were simple one moment, difficult the next. He stilled himself, like a bow in suspense. Above him the heavy clouds prepared to descend on the lush gardens, and cold air entered his nostrils. His body was overtaken by a scent, he couldn’t tell if it was some sort of fertilizer the Olmsted woman used on her porch or if it was the gardens all around him, or maybe it was just his imagination, but he smelled—
It was just a moment in time, a fragment of a recollection he hadn’t acknowledged in years. Yet here it was, alive. Urgent. The memory came hasty and unbidden in the form of a scent, dust and hay and ammonia. He had asked to see the barn and the residents didn’t object, though he never told Donna—and he remembered a horse standing in a stall, so regal with the white coat and brown patches, skin pink around its nose. How its ears flicked back and forth, rapidly swiveling about.
That boy, Gabriel, he wasn’t well. Would never be well again. A brain can only take so much impact, though there’d been hope with him being so young and one can never underestimate a body’s capability to heal itself but his skull was no match for that horse. Edward had spoken to the boy’s parents often over the years, told them he felt responsible somehow, their being at his party and all, but he never mentioned Penelope, never mentioned that he had put two and two together. He had seen tiny flecks of sawdust on the floor of Penelope’s room the night the search for the boy was underway. At first he told himself those powdery particles could be anything but then he spotted larger curly wooden bits placed in the fireplace of the dollhouse and that’s when he knew.
The wind picked up and Edward buttoned his coat. It was only going to get worse. That Blue Norther was coming, ready or not. It was coming.