Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Haskell House

 

It was almost mid-afternoon by the time he arrived in Two Lights. As he drove down Main, his motorcycle caused quite a fuss. A couple of small children ran after him and the old timers in front of the barber shop stared, wrinkled faces following him like sunflowers tracking a traveling sun. There was a timeless quality to the town. Though the sights and even a few faces seemed familiar, Leon felt bizarrely alien. He stood out, marked by the bike and the leather jacket, the shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his chin.

 

He drove faster.

 

The way returned to him easily enough, memories filtering in one by one: Main, left on Josephine, right when you hit Haskell Launderette, right on Parkhurst, and down down down til you could smell the ocean. High on the grassy hill, outlined against a sea blue sky, was Haskell House. His house. His home.

 

He stopped his bike and drank it in. Five years since he'd last set eyes on it, the white clapboard, two stories bright and bold and clean, the ornate architecture making his chest clench, the way his lifeless apartment back in New York never could. It stood proud on the hill, its seat of glory, solid and unshakeable, dormers casting small shadows in the sun, cornices jutting outwards like a white corona. It reminded him of a ship on the ocean.

 

He parked his bike out on the street and climbed up the brick steps, high green hedges hemming him in on either side. They led him straight to the front door and he had no choice but to knock.

 

Steeling himself, he clasped the brass lion knocker and thumped it three times in a solemn, slightly ominous toll. 

 

He counted out exactly six seconds before he heard an out-of-breath female voice answer "Coming!" from inside. His heart skipped a beat. He knew that voice. He'd grown up with it.

 

He heard a few galumphing steps before the heavy oak door was unlocked and swung open in a wide arc. Edie Johnson's round, dark face greeted him, her black eyes bright with curiosity.

 

"Oh my Lord," she gasped, placing a hand on her breast as if to still her beating heart. Maybe he really hadn't changed that much if she'd recognized him that fast.

 

"Hi, Edie," he said with a rueful smile.

 

"Leon! Leon, honey, you're back! You're home!" She reached out and jerked him forward into a bone-crushing hug. For a 65 year old, 5''3' housekeeper from Cape Elizabeth she was surprisingly strong.

 

"Yeah, yeah, just for a little while."

 

"Goodness me!" She thrust him back, and he almost tripped over the door sill. "Why you're - Just look at you -- I mean -- Gracious -- " She opened her mouth and then closed it abruptly, as if cutting herself off from saying something unkind.

 

"Yes, I know I look -- "

 

"Like a heathen," she finished, clucking her tongue, but her eyes were soft. "Oh, baby..." She clasped his cheek with her hand, the movement as familiar as the sky. She'd done it five years ago, after he'd told her he was leaving. His throat felt prickly as he forced his mouth into a smile.

 

"Need to get you cleaned up," she continued. "Goodness -- and that jacket. Looks like something the Devil himself would wear. Well, it's no matter. Still got some of your old clothes up in your room. Can't go seein' your father looking like that."

 

She ushered him inside, still talking to herself. At the mention of his father, Leon felt his insides freeze.

 

"Is he -- is Dad here?" he asked her.

 

"Oh, no, baby," she replied. "He's down at the general store doing inventory. Just me and your mother here now."

 

The house was cool and smelt of furniture polish. Everything was the same: the expensive oak furniture gleamed, not a speck of dust to be found (Edie prided herself on polishing every Tuesday). The wide french doors gave the downstairs a breezy, open look, the dining room, the library, the parlor all linked. As a child, he remembered running from room the room, twisting the golden door handles and flinging himself through the house like a slingshot, usually chasing Whitney or following John. The area was spacious and refined. Pastel watercolors decorated the white walls and an immense golden mirror hung over the white granite fireplace. He caught a glimpse of his reflection; in his black leather jacket, he seemed like a splotch of oil marring the pristine white splendor.

 

Yeah, he really had to change.

 

"You just go on upstairs and I'll fix you something to eat. You wash up, and I'll take you to see your mother later." Edie's kind face crumpled a little, but she turned away from him before he could ask.

 

He climbed the staircase slowly, examining the old photographs hanging above the steps. A couple were old black and white daguerreotypes of his great grandparents, a few of his parents when they were young. Though the Haskell House spoke of gentry, only a generation back his relations had been living in shacks along the beach, fishing for food and money. But his father was an astute businessman -- an unrelenting man, some would say, who wouldn't take no for an answer. He had provided for his family, his wife and three little boys. John, Leon, and Whitney had grown up with the best money could buy.

 

The majority of the photos were of Leon and his brothers. Leon examined them, step by step. He and Whitney, the middle and the youngest, respectively, looked the most alike. Pale, blond, and blue-eyed like their mother, their pink lips a little pouty and faintly feminine. Whitney, especially, looked like a girl in some of the older pictures, long, tousled, straw yellow hair and a round, apple-cheeked face. He'd never lost his puppy fat and had grown up to be the shortest of the three.

 

Leon was the handsomest, everyone said. He had a strong jaw and his father's height, a high, intelligent forehead and an aquiline nose. His eyes were piercing -- he'd been told he didn't blink a lot -- and a shade darker than Whitney's.

 

John was the dark one, a black sheep in appearance if not disposition. Though he had the same pale skin as his brothers, he had black hair, black eyes, and thin lips. Edie always used to say he looked like he’d just gotten back from a funeral, his face was so dour. But John had been fiercely intelligent, a realist, yes, but not cynical or pessimistic. Though he'd been accepted to Stanford, he'd joined the army a day after Pearl Harbor and rose through the ranks faster than a shot.

 

The pictures tugged something deep within Leon. He loved his parents, he really did, but his brothers were what he thought of when he thought of family. Love. John and Whitney, one older, one younger, sandwiching him in the middle, in hugs and noogies. They'd graduated from comic books to nudie mags together, shared clothes and toys and even the love of a green-eyed girl.

 

John and Leon and Whitney had looked out for each other -- because nobody messed with the Haskell boys of Two Lights. The photos showed that, in the way John's arms were slung around Leon's shoulders, and the way Leon's arms were slung around Whitney's.

 

Maybe it was because he was gone now, but Leon studied John the most. His dark hair made him easy to spot, and he stood out in every picture he was in. He was like a blackhole, sucking in Leon's gaze.

 

John was frozen in time. Perfect in the spring of his youth. He would've been almost forty by now, probably had a mustache and a couple of kids. Been married to that green-eyed girl, no doubt.

 

But here he was, trapped in these pictures, trapped under Leon's gaze like a bug under a microscope. That glinting white smile. The black hair gelled so that it shined midnight blue. There was that varsity jacket he was so proud of. Man, Dad's smile when he came downstairs that morning, wearing it for the first time. Once-in-a-lifetime thing.

 

Hard to believe John was dead, really.

 

Blown to pieces in Germany. Kablooy and 27 years of living gone. Vanished. What a waste of a mind, a life. John had such promise. He was the eldest, the smartest, the leader of their trio. Everybody loved him.

 

The thoughts turned painful and Leon couldn't look at the pictures any longer. He hurried up the stairs and turned right on the landing. There was his old room. The house was big enough that they each had had their own bedroom, though Whitney liked to sneak into his whenever he had bad dreams. He remembered those nights, Whitney's chubby little body curled up against his, his breath hot and whispery against the nape of his neck. Whitney had always been a restless sleeper, had a nightlight up into his teens.

 

The walls of Leon’s bedroom were a vast expanse of sea blue, broken only by wide curtainless windows. The room itself was plainly decorated, evidence of a young boy's apathy for appearances. An old school banner was tacked above his bed and a few weathered seashells sat resting on the dresser. It was a soothing place, unpretentious, naturally welcoming. He plopped down on his bed and immediately felt the need for a nap. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of the ocean.

 

Whitney's room was next door and John's room was down the hall. He felt no urge to revisit them -- John's because it was maudlin and Whitney's because it was invasive.

 

Absently, he wondered where Whitney was. When he'd left five years ago, Whitney was still living here. Heavily confined by his paralysis, he'd barely leave his room and would only talk to Edie.

 

Leon stilled and listened. The upstairs was quiet, but in an empty kind of way. He didn't think Whitney was here, though where he could be was a mystery. The man couldn't walk, for Christ's sake, so he couldn't have gotten very far.

 

Leon heaved himself off his bed and went to his closet. His clothes smelt of mothballs and everything seemed to be coated in a fine layer of dust. Evidently, Edie didn't show the same care to places visitors didn't see. But, he thought charitably, if Edie had known he was coming, she certainly would've washed. Changed the bedsheets, at least.

 

He beat out a pair of jeans and an old plaid shirt. He changed and washed his face, but didn't shave, too exhausted to care. He examined himself in the mirror. He looked like a fraud -- a man only claiming to be Leon Haskell. The Leon that had left Two Lights five years ago had been full of hope, dimmed by the war but not extinguished, handsome and unpeachably all-American. This reflection showed only a weary, shady traveler, passing through and not to be trusted.

 

God, what would his mother think of him?

 

He walked back downstairs and met Edie in the kitchen. She'd made a sandwich for him and he scarfed it down, hungrier than he'd realized. Edie leaned against the sink studying him, her flour-dusted hands absently twisting her white apron.

 

"Now, Leon, your mother's not doing so well these days, so don't you go upsetting her. I know you can be hard-headed when you set your mind to it, so be polite, like the good boy I raised."

 

"What's wrong with her?" he asked, his stomach turning over the sandwich uncomfortably.

 

Edie's face crumpled like it did before and she let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking her head. "Lordie, I don't know. I guess she's just getting old. Her mind -- her mind ain't what it used to be. She forgets things -- somedays she doesn't even know who I am. What year it is."

 

"Did you take her to see a doctor?" The question was sharper than he'd intended and Edie's eyes flashed impatiently.

 

"Yes, of course, me and your father accompanied your mother to see a specialist in Bangor. A neurologist. He said it wasn't a brain tumor like we'd thought, but some kind of degenerative dementia. He said there's nothing to be done about it so it just keeps getting worse and worse." She looked near tears. "There are some good days when she's lucid -- but they're getting less and less." 

 

"How is she today?"

 

"She hasn't said much, but I think she's doing alright. No fits. No tantrums. On her really bad days, I have trouble getting her out of bed. She fights me like a wildcat." Edie sniffed. "Your mother... your mother was one of the kindest women in the world. So refined. Not a bad word to say about anyone. To have this happen to her -- " She wiped her face with her apron. "Makes a person question God's goodness."

 

Leon gave into the temptation and buried his head in his hands, hunched over his empty plate. He closed his eyes, reveling in the darkness, guilt washing over him in a heavy, flat wave. God, he was such a f**k-up. A terrible son.

 

"When I left," he mumbled, eyes closed, his vision still peacefully black, "I knew she was depressed. I mean, she was crying all the time -- John -- " He swallowed. "But I didn't know she was -- I would've stayed -- if I'd known she'd been sick."

 

"She wasn't showing symptoms back then, I remember the time as well as you. She was real sad, though, it's true. Even now, when she has lucid days, she still mourns your brother."

 

"And on her bad days?"

 

Edie let out a long-suffering sigh. "She don't get no reprieve. Sometimes she thinks he's still alive. Calls out for him." Her eyes assessed him. "Calls out for you too."

 

His stomach dropped and he looked up at her with beseeching eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, choking out a sob.

 

"Oh, baby, you don't need to say that to me. You ain't done me no wrong, and you know I love you like my own blood."

 

"I -- I shouldn't've left..." he stammered.

 

Edie humphed and crossed her arms. "Well, at least you didn't go off to live in sin like your brother Whitney. That child..."

 

"What?"

 

Her cheeks flushed, irritation and embarrassment flashing across her face. "I can't barely stand to talk about it, it makes me so angry. I can feel my blood boiling already." She scowled at the sugar bowl. "Two years ago, Whitney took it into his head to go and stay with that Frenchman's daughter. No engagement, no marriage, nothing. Just, upsy-do, gone to live with that wisp of a girl, flouting God's law as easy as you please. As if his momma hadn't taken him to church every Sunday. As if I hadn't brought him up right."

 

"That Frenchman's daughter," Leon repeated. "You mean the deaf girl? Antonia Dupont?"

 

"Yes." She huffed. "Such a highfalutin name for such a strumpet."

 

"Do they still live in Two Lights?"

 

"Yes, and they're the scandal of the town. When Whitney first left I could hardly show my face in church I was so ashamed. They live on her father's land, in some sort of... shanty."

 

Leon repressed the urge to laugh, sure Edie wouldn't be as amused. The idea of Whitney living in poverty was absurd, his pale, sickly, slightly pudgy baby brother, who'd been coddled and cared for his entire life, living in sin with a deaf-mute in a shack by the sea, with no money and the entire town talking about them behind their backs. That sure didn't sound like the Whitney he'd grown up with.

 

"I visited, tried to get him to come home, but he wouldn't hear of it. Pigheaded like the rest of you Haskell men. And your mother..." She released a long, drawn-out breath. "Most days I just pray for her not to remember. Your father refuses to speak of him. Well," she amended, "he refuses to speak of you both."

 

The subject of his father was something Leon wasn't yet ready to approach so he pushed his plate forward and got up. "Can I see Mom now? Where is she?"

 

His mother's absence was admittedly jarring. Marion Haskell had run Haskell house with poise and ease in her younger years. She glided through the rooms, gently guiding her servants and three little boys with a light, but firm hand. Her soft-spoken presence had lent the house an air of respectability and refinement. His father might have brought home the money but his mother had given it the class.

 

"She's outside on the patio. She likes to have her afternoon tea out there. The sun feels good on her bones." Edie nodded to the back door and pursed her lips. "You be gentle with her now, you hear."

 

"Yes ma'am."

 

Leon got up, his stomach clenching nervously. He clasped the door handle, the movement strangely sluggish. Silently, he sent a plea up to God: Let her know me, let her remember her son. Because if there was one thing worse than his mother not accepting his apology, it would be her not recognizing him at all.

 

~~~

 

The smell of the ocean was stronger out on the patio and a fresh, salty breeze ruffled his hair. His eyes landed on his mother immediately. She was reclining in a wooden deck chair, a wide-brimmed hat casting most of her face in shadow. A tea tray was on the small iron table beside her, a book -- The Tenant of Wildfell Hall -- splayed open, its pages slapped back and forth by the wind.

 

She was wearing an old terrycloth robe, soft, faded pink, tied loosely around her waist. For a moment, he barely recognized her -- the mother of his childhood was immaculate, salon nails, flawless make-up, tailor-made dresses hugging her hips, the smell of Chanel No. 5 trailing behind her like the vestiges of a dream. That Marion Haskell would never still be in her bathrobe at noon.

 

She looked up at him curiously, and for a moment his heart plummeted, sure she didn't know him, but then her mouth opened a little and she began to get up, clawing the arms of her chair. He was there by her side in an instant

 

"Mom -- " He was breathless, dizzy with exhilaration. "Mom, it's me. It's Leon."

 

She fell into his arms and he hugged her unthinkingly, struck by how tiny she was. It was like she had shrunk somehow during their years apart. She was birdlike, strikingly fragile, and he held her carefully, as if afraid he'd crush her.

 

This was his mother. How she had changed -- surely more than him. Edie hadn't prepared him for this -- but nothing could've. His eyes filled with tears, blurring her shape.

 

"Leon," he heard her say. "You've come back.

 

Taking a deep breath, he slowly disengaged and endeavored to get himself under control. Memories were swirling around in his head, assaulting his calm.

 

"Come," he directed her. "Sit back down. I didn't mean to disturb you." He sat down in the chair beside her, feeling shaky and glad to get off his feet.

 

"Oh, darling, you didn't disturb me, I was only resting my eyes." Her voice was faint, a little shell-shocked, and Leon felt another punch of guilt to the stomach.

 

Though his mother's face was lined with a few more wrinkles than when he'd last seen it, her innate beauty still shined through. She had cerulean blue eyes and thick smoky lashes, all the more striking against her pale, bloodless skin. She was thinner, though, her face disturbingly skeletal, like a cheap, decorative Halloween skull. She must've really lost her appetite then, cause Edie's cooking was impeccable.

 

"Are you -- ?" She stopped, recollecting her thoughts. "How long do you plan to stay?"

 

"Just today, maybe tomorrow, if I can call and get off work."

 

She smiled at him and took hold of his hand. "Are you a photographer? I remember how much you loved taking pictures." The pride in her voice made him blush and for a brief, childish moment he felt the urge to lie. What did it matter what she thought he did, anyway? But he swallowed and came to his senses. His father would know the truth, and he didn't take too kindly to his wife being lied to.

 

"I work for an ad agency in Manhattan. T. B. Walker?" The name meant nothing to her, of course, it was only served to obliterate some of the silence, the distance, between them. "I'm an assistant art director there."

 

"That sounds lovely, dear. I'm very proud of you."

 

This was not what he wanted. She shouldn't be saying things like that. She should be yelling at him and he should be pleading for her forgiveness on bended knee. He shouldn't have yielded to these platitudes so easily. His mother had every right in the world to be angry with him.

 

“It, uh, pays the bills.” He smiled sheepishly, his eyes roaming over her face. In the bright afternoon light there was something angelic about her. He wanted to photograph her, capture her here and now in the crystal light of day, before her personality was completely obliterated by disease. Some of her grace, her strength remained, he could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she tightly clasped his hand in hers.

 

It really was her. His mother. The thought hit him suddenly like a brick, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe with how much he loved her. For five years, he banned all thought of her, unable to cope with the hurricane of emotion surrounding her memory. It smothered him now, and he leaned in close, trying to memorize everything about her, as if it could somehow make up for his lack of concern these past five years.

 

“Are -- are you okay?” he asked haltingly. “Edie says -- ”

 

“Yes, dear,” she answered, “I’m fine. Just coping with old age. Your father has his back problems and I have this…” She waved a hand at her head, a small, private smile on her face. “It’s a nuisance really. Can’t even remember to pick up sugar when I go out for groceries.”  

 

Now that was quintessentially Marion, brushing off her problems -- no, no, he amended, not brushing them off, just hiding them from the ones she loved. Her grief was a private grief, her pride a fierce, beautiful little thing, a hummingbird frantically flapping its wings to stay aflight.

 

“I’m right here if you need anything, just call me,” he said, but the words were wanting. There was nothing he could do, not really. He would lose her. She gazed at him, her eyes full of knowledge and sorrow. “I would’ve come from New York sooner, I swear -- ”

 

“Sweetie, I know.”

 

“Mom -- ” God -- “I love you.”

 

“I love you too, Leon, and I’m so glad you’re back.”