Chapter One
Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides,
Who cover faults, at last with sham derides.
—King Lear, act 1, scene 1


The wind! It went with no holds barred. It was like being at sea. She couldn't keep her eyes open, didn't know which way to go—the shops or the canyons of redbrick apartments. She didn't think she could take either. Claire hesitated, discarding east and west. "When true love hits," he used to tell her—like he knew what he was talking about—"you can almost hear it go click."
That was a laugh.
She would walk north, the hard way, straight through the forbidden woods. Down and up the ancient glacier holes, where you had to hold on to branches not to slip. The woods. If they killed her, it would be over. She didn't care. She didn't care.
She went in. The trees were naked and sharp, but so profuse that they broke the gale and you could catch your breath. Claire wandered on, letting it take her along, just bring her where it would until she was good and lost. She supposed she could walk in circles and never find her way out. Maybe no one would ever find her. She went toward the evergreen, the ground there a shadowed cushion of needles and dung and sodden frozen leaves.
He'd gambled everything away. All their savings. The Christmas club money. The tuition. Everything. It was almost funny. She'd stuck with him through the drinking days, the perfume on his jacket days—when that Portia McTavish had been after him. They'd gone through so many hard times together, and here she'd thought they'd finally be able to breathe. But when she'd stopped at the bank that harried morning on her way to the supermarket and there'd been nothing left—nothing—she'd said no, that couldn't be. She thought she must have put that money in the college-fund account by mistake. And then the clerk had said he was very sorry but that account had been closed out, as well. She'd gaped at him, then thrown her head back and howled with what sounded like laughter. She'd laughed until she'd cried, and he'd tiptoed to the back to fetch the manager.
She'd cried for months, really. Cried when people came to look at the house. Cried at the closing. Cried at the lawyer's when she'd filed for divorce. Cried, especially, when the children tried to be kind.
Well, it was over. She wasn't crying anymore.
Claire dropped to her knees. There'd been no snow yet this year. She lay down on the ground, on her back, never wanting to leave, drowsily looking up at the shelves of fragrant darkness. She stayed there a long time and let the cold enter.
Claire rested one ear to the earth and heard the muffled sea, turned her body on its side and watched the brittle tangle of reeds and brush along the verge. There was the smell of burning leaves. A beautiful smell. And yet—burning leaves? A smell of risk in a forest. She wondered idly how quickly it would take to burn.
Then something way feral in her became alert. She peered harder and deciphered the camouflaged face of a red fox. Its tail flicked in an affronted salute. It looked right at her. Danger, its quick glance said. Then it was gone. For a moment, she wasn't sure if it had happened. But it had.
Fascination with misery was one thing, true peril another. She hoisted herself up and went on, lurching toward a circle of creamy white birches. They were young, lithe as a waltz. She touched each of them as she passed through. They were dormant, but you could sense that they were alive. It was odd how you could, these things so bleak and fathomless, but the supple resiliency beneath the bark, the green sap in them spoke through her fingertips. Yes, you could feel life.
Suddenly, the woods ended. Over there was the empty playground, the swings hurling merrily without their children.
She staggered up the incline to the top of the hill. A fire engine raged up Park Lane South, then into the woods. The wind found her again, pushed and kept at her all the way down to the foot.
Across the road, a FOR SALE sign flapped and creaked before the old antebellum, the house they called "the southern mansion."
She didn't stop. Yellow police tape flew like ribbons from the landmark oak. She hurried back to her mother's house. The sky had rendered the evening lavender, etched with the rakes of black treetops.
When she went through the arbor, she saw her sisters at the kitchen window. She went to the garage instead and got out the old hacker.
"The truth is," Zinnie, the blond sister, the cop, was saying, "he left her long before she left him."
"What's she doing out there?" Mary asked.
"She's digging."
"It's November. She can't plant now," Carmela, the dark one, said. Then: "Look at her. She's still wearing that old pea coat and beret."
Zinnie, ever loyal, said, "What do you expect her to do? Go buy clothes?"
Carmela said, "What? I just mean she ought to try a new look. It's battered." But good lines, Carmela couldn't help thinking. Good lines still.
"She's making my bed ready," their mother, Mary, said. "Turning the soil. Lord, it's getting late. She'll freeze."
"It's good for her to be out," Zinnie said. "She holes herself up and reads too many books."
Carmela watched her sister hack away at the unyeilding soil. "I can't believe she lost that nice house." She said this with a certain amount of satisfaction.
"Believe it." Zinnie snorted. They would all miss Johnny. They'd all loved him.
"At least she's got money from the house sale. That fancy neighborhood's a gold mine now. 'Twas only the savings he gambled away," Mary said.
Only. They looked at her. Her great breasts heaved and she continued: "She can buy a nice co-op in Kew Gardens." It would suit her to have Claire nearby again. She'd get to see her grandchildren more often. They'd not been far, living in that grand neighborhood out on the island, but they might as well have, for all she got to see them. Yes, that would be the right thing for Claire. A handy little co-op nearby.
"Don't be silly," Zinnie said. "I know my sister. Don't forget that before she married Johnny, she was the world traveler. Claire will go live in the south of France. That's what she's always said she'd do. Why would she want to hang around here?"
"Always remember"—Mary held up a finger—"you make your mark no matter where you are,"
"That's the other finger, Ma," Zinnie said.
They all laughed, then sighed collectively and returned to the comfort of the table. They were finishing making the pies they would freeze for Thanksgiving. There was blackberry jam and sourdough toast.
"You heard about Maria Gonzalez's house?" Zinnie asked Carmela.
Mary broke in. "Burnt to the ground!"
"That's what happens," Carmela agreed, her voice quick with venom. "They close one of the firehouses while no one's paying attention, and the Gonzalez house burns to the ground because of it."
"One firehouse just isn't enough where almost all the homes are wood and one on top of the other. It's disgusting. Why, one fire could wipe out a whole block. Try this." Mary dug through a tumble of jars on the shelf. "It's Mrs. Miller's beach plum jam." It had the purple ribbon still rolled in a bow on the top. "She and Janny made it when they were up in Cape Cod."
"I think Claire ought to move to Cape Cod," Carmela mused, imagining herself arriving for long weekends.
Zinnie munched on a piece of toast. "She should have left him when he had that affair with Portia McTavish."
"He didn't have an affair with her," Mary said, defending him. Mary was all for the eternal aspect of marriage, never mind if the participants didn't play fairly. "That was a flirt," she added.
"Yeah, right," Zinnie said. "Him and the tooth fairy."
The back door flew open and they busied themselves.
Claire went right over to the sink, bringing in the cold. She washed her hands. Her unruly long hair, no longer red, burst loose in different places from braids pinned halfheartedly up.
"What?" she asked, facing them.
"Nothing," said Carmela. They presented her with blank faces.
Zinnie, always fair, admitted, "We were discussing you."
"Oh." She sank to a chair. Oil paintings of ships at sea, sails against blue skies, stood out behind her head.
Mary put a plate of toast in front of Claire. Outside, gusts turned the whirligig on the garage roof. The little farmer sawed as though his life depended upon it. The smell of toast filled the kitchen.
Carmela said meanly, "Zinnie said you should have left him when he had that thing with Portia."
Claire's smile collapsed. She looked from her china blue cup to Zinnie. "You're right," she said.
It was as though Zinnie was the good witch and Carmela the bad. If you found yourself alone with Zinnie, you'd relax automatically. She was so good-natured and friendly—always looking to make a joke out of life. She had a wonderful sense of the ridiculous, whereas with Carmela, right away you felt your hackles go up. You were put on your guard by the defensive tone of her voice, her accusative way of thinking.
Claire closed her eyes. In her mind's eyes, she watched Carmela go, watched her taillights disappear around a fan-off bend. I always tell her how good it is to see her, she thought, but I always feel worse. I feel unhappy for days.
"At least you've stopped crying," Carmela went on. "I don't think I could take much more of that."
"Sure, she's all cried out." Mary Breslinsky tut-tutted, refilling their cups, glad to have them all about.
Zinnie craned her neck, looking out the window. "Lookit this! Somebody's walked off with Daddy's outdoor thermometer."
Carmela leaned back and stretched voluptuously. "This whole neighborhood's gone to pot," she complained, ruffling through the bowl of Halloween candy and coming up with a Tootsie Roll. "There's nobody left in Queens. Even the Witzig house is for sale."
Claire looked up. She started to say, I saw a fox, but then she didn't. Carmela would only tell her she'd been mistaken. Instead, she said, "I passed the Witzig house. It's so odd to see a sign in front of it. How could she sell?"
"The old lady died." Zinnie said.
"Finally," said Carmela. "She must have been a hundred."
"She was a hundred and two," Mary said, standing still with the pot.
"What a shame," said Carmela. "It's one of the prettiest houses I've ever seen."
"Was, dear. Was. It's run-down now. She hadn't done a thing in years to keep that house up." Mary shook her head. She was one of the few people who had ever been invited into the big house. Miss Witzig had been so finicky. And genteel. She would invite Mary each Boxing Day for candied grapefruit rinds and tea with a spoon of good bourbon. Mary had brought the girls with her many years ago, all dressed the same and wearing velvet ribbons. But Carmela had spit her gingery candy out, exclaiming, "Christ!" Then Zinnie had disappeared. They'd had to traipse through the house looking for her, Miss Witzig worrying out loud the whole time that she'd fallen into one of the closets and would never be found. All the while, she'd been in the kitchen, in a box, with the cook's little boy, Hedzik. Then, to top it off, Claire had climbed up onto the piano stool and attempted to play, smearing marmalade across the blue shantung seat.
They were never asked again. But Mary always was. Stan used to laugh at her for going, but she'd looked forward to it, really. She thought of it now, those days so gone for good. She shook her head. Then she said, "Well, if we want to make five, we'd better hurry." So they all rushed through the dishes and set off, each taking a quick turn at the mirror in the pantry.
Claire stayed where she was.
Mary touched her cheek. "Will you not come along?"
"I'll go tomorrow," she replied, lying. She watched them, then said, "It's really funny, all the men the three of us have deposited here over the years, and yet here we all are again, single, even maidenly, off to church with Mommy."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Zinnie gave her a cold look and went to find her keys. Cops lived their faith. They might need it.
Mary came back in for her favorite rosaries, and then they were gone.
Claire picked up the phone and dialed.
"Hello?"
"Eileen? It's Claire Breslinsky." There. She was back to her maiden name. It was the first time she'd used it since the divorce, and it tasted bittersweet.
"Claire!" Eileen's undisguised pleasure at hearing from her made Claire feel better. "How's life out on Long Island?"
Claire didn't say anything for a moment. She wouldn't go into that now. "Eileen," she said finally, "I'll tell you why I'm calling. I saw your name on a sign at the old Witzig house. I thought you were in the travel business."
"I do both now. I finally got my other license. I hooked so many people up with their homes, I figured I might as well get paid for it. That's some dinosaur! It's like a trip to another era. Really. Every time I go in, I feel like I'm in a museum." She knew Claire took pictures. "Do you wanna see inside before we sell it?"
"I'd love to."
"When are you coming to Queens?"
"Well, that's it. I'm at my mom's at the moment, and I thought if tomorrow you'd be free to—"
"How's right now?"
"Not too much trouble?"
"Hey. The alternative's dishes. Danny's home for the kids. How soon can you be there?"
"I can meet you out front in five minutes." She hung up.
Claire stuffed her hair up under her beret and went out. It was almost dark now. The wind still howled, but it seemed farther off. There were puffs of clouds like fish scales—herring sky. She walked hurriedly, then stood looking at the house. It was beautiful in this light. Old-world and magnificent. She was waiting by the sign when Eileen drove up.
Eileen climbed from the station wagon. She had eyes like washy rectangles. Car seats were in a row in the back of the wagon.
Claire peeked in. "How many now?"
"Five." Eileen grinned. "All boys." She pulled a hoop of labeled keys from her cavernous handbag. "Gotcha camera, I see. Never without it, huh? Come on in! You won't believe this."
Eileen chatted on. There was no hesitation as she struggled to find the right key. On the loop, there was only one lacy iron key that would fit this portal. The front door was the size of two. It stood midway on a sprawling, dipping porch, the boards so old and rolling, you had the sensation you were on a ship.
The door swung open smoothly. The center hall reached through to the back of the house. A stairway swept in a half circle to the second floor. The banister, smooth and curving, was chestnut. Katharine Hepburn might slide down at any moment. Claire started to speak but couldn't.
"Like a Civil War house, isn't it?" Eileen was saying. "We thought the nephew would send someone to come and take the rest of the stuff away, but it turns out he's in a nursing home. He's eighty-three, and lives in Wisconsin. I spoke to him on the phone and he said just to sell it as is, fast as we can. He practically drooled through the phone when he heard there'd be money. We already did the title search. That was easy—the Witzig family have owned this house since 1760. For someone who claims to have no money, he went on and on. But it was his nickel, so I let him talk. Whoever gets the place is going to have a hell of a time cleaning it out. I think he loved the house, you know, because he had good times here as a kid. ‘Plenty of great hiding places,' he told me." She whirled about and looked Claire in the eye. "You know there's a mystery that goes with the house."
"A mystery."
"Yeah, a real one.
"You know I never fall for any of that horseshit, Eileen."
"No, no, really. A true story. History. Something about a puzzle. I don't know. My husband could tell you all about it. I don't pay too much attention to that sort of thing, either. It's cold cash I like. Frankly, Claire, I hated to put up a sign. Years ago … a house like this … word of mouth was enough." She looked at Claire accusingly. "But I don't have to tell you how fast people are moving out. My partner thought we might sell the furnishings at auction, but it's so much work—labeling, waiting for a date. Might not be worth the trouble. We're still not sure. The rabbi wants to come over and have a look at it Monday. I spoke to him, but he couldn't come today. It's the Sabbath for them, you know. He's no fool, though. He's got his engineer all lined up to knock down the price. I mean, it'll move fast." She mentioned the price they thought they'd get.
Claire's mouth dropped open in astonishment.
Eileen shrugged. "I know it sounds low, but, well, it needs an awful lot of work. That's all we'll get. Wait till you see the boiler. I think it once doubled as a locomotive. There's still some coal down in that cellar, I swear."
"Are you sure that's correct? The price?" Claire said. She'd gotten three times that for her house, even though selling in a hurry.
Eileen laughed. "You're used to Long Island prices. I mean, we're asking double that price, but by the time they whittle us down … All they have to do is bring a plumber in here and any deal will be off anyhow. No bank will approve too big a mortgage once they do an inspection. Only thing is, you never know who you'll get. Some Indian could just close the porch off and rent to five families, like an apartment house. There are eight bedrooms, counting the attic. And it's zoned commercial—God knows how they did that, but they did. It's right there on the deed in black and white. So the only way to stop anyone turning it into a botch job would be to have the house plaqued by the Historical Society. They did that over on One Hundred and Second Street to the house where Betty Smith lived when she wrote A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Fellow's got it all fixed up like it was in the old days. Trouble is, someone has to own the house and be living there when they designate it a landmark. They can't while it's in transition. Anaïs Nin used to live in one of those Sears and Roebuck cottages along the railroad. I just heard that the other day. Incidentally, these carpets are real. Unfortunately, they're fit to these huge rooms, and the only buyers for rugs that size are hotels and funeral parlors, but they want new, or at least not threadbare. And you wouldn't believe how much they want to transport and repair the darn things! You can see where the cat sharpened her claws on those two corners." She shook her head sadly as they walked across the hall. Cobwebs laced the chandelier. "Know anyone who needs a dining room set? Nobody I know has a room big enough." She sighed. "This neighborhood's changed so much even since you left, Claire. My partner said we ought to put it in the Times; plentya turkeys in the city, especially after the World Trade Center bombing. People want to get away from Manhattan."
"Although living between Kennedy Airport and Manhattan is hardly a respite," Claire said.
Eileen banged on the sill a few times, then shoved open one of the long dining room windows. "It isn't? Listen."
They stood, ears cocked, in the formal dining room.
Claire said, "I don't hear a thing."
"Exactly my point. That's a virgin wood in there, not a park. The woods absorb the noise. So next weekend, that's where this baby'll be—in the Times." She held up both hands in a "Stay put" gesture, then went back through the living room and around to the kitchen.
Claire stood there obediently. After Eileen's busy prattle, the genteel expanse of the room seemed to lengthen, shining quietly in the bleary light cast by the chandelier. Most of the time, when you returned to a house you'd been in as a kid, it grew smaller. But this house felt just as enormous and grand as when she'd first seen it. She pointed her camera and peered through the lens. A gust of wind blew in, fluttering the ghostly length of curtain. She clicked automatically. Gee. There was so much beauty here. If you blurred your eyes and didn't look too closely. But wasn't that the way with everything?
"Okay!" Eileen popped back in. "Get a loada this." She pushed open the swing-through door to the kitchen.
It was like stepping back in time. The kitchen was huge. There were shelves along one wall, like in an English country house. Claire noticed a Frigidaire with the motor on top. There was a gas stove with legs. A plain pine table, covered in filth, stood in the center of the room, with space on each side to walk by. When Eileen touched the table, it wobbled. The gracious back windows looked out through their grime onto a border of holly berries. As if in slow motion, it began to snow.
Claire almost sank with desire. "I'll take it," she said.
THE CORDELIA SQUAD. Copyright © 2003 by Mary Anne Kelly. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.