The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,48
he says, “and take it easy. Everything is under control.” If Sam wakes up I should call him, but otherwise don’t worry about a thing.
I’m pretty sure this is all going to go wrong.
I am equally sure there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The world has gone crazy, and I’m along for the ride.
More evidence: Going outside for some air, giving the shed a wide berth, I find Roy Meakin snoozing in an Adirondack chair in the Smythes’ English garden, over by the stone wall. He looks serene, hands folded over his paunch, a wisp of gray hair on his forehead shimmering in the breeze. I’ve never seen the chair here before, let alone caught Roy in the middle of an alfresco afternoon nap. I’m uncertain of the etiquette in such situations.
He must sense me gazing down at him. His eyes open. Casts disoriented glances left and right.
“Where’d she go?” he asks.
“Who—Deedee? I haven’t seen her.”
“She was right here. Painting. I shut my eyes for just a moment and . . .” He gets to his feet, shaking off a couple of flame-red leaves that fell on him while he was sleeping. He catches the last in his hand, holding it up for inspection, then tosses it to the ground. “This is embarrassing.”
“Don’t mind me.”
“She was so excited,” he says. “She’s experienced something of a breakthrough. I was going to run her straight over to the church as soon as she’d packed her things here.”
“I guess she went ahead without you. Maybe you looked too peaceful to disturb.”
He laughs. “More likely she forgot I was here. That husband of yours is the only man she has time for anymore. She’s become quite obsessed.”
“With Rick?” I ask, remembering the offering of flowers.
“Oh yes. But don’t get too worried. It’s more of a religious fascination. The Catholic schoolgirl obsessing over Saint Whatshisname. If your husband’s not careful, he might end up in Deedee’s mural.”
“That’s just what I need.”
Roy pats his pockets absently, making sure he has everything, pretending he didn’t pick up on the acid in my tone. “Well, I guess I’d better get going.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, feeling guilty. “It’s not a big to-do or anything, but today’s Eli’s birthday and after school we’re having some cake. If you and Deedee are back around, say, three, why don’t you come over?”
“That sounds nice. I’ll let her know.”
Roy passes through the garden and around the side of the Smythes’ house, heading for his car parked on the curb. I follow him as far as the back steps that lead to the wraparound gallery, an exquisite Victorian gingerbread affair, though the detailed woodwork is missing a few dentals and could use a new coat of paint. I rap lightly on the back door. Loud enough for Margaret to hear if she’s downstairs, and light enough not to disturb her if she is still in bed, which she often is these days.
“Why, look who’s here,” she says.
“Just wanted to check on you, Mrs. Smythe.”
“Come in, come in.”
Instead of swinging the door open, Margaret clutches the edge and walks a circle, carrying the door along with her. Then she takes a step toward the back of a couch, resting her hand on the wooden rib that protrudes from the cushions. She edges around to the front of the couch by resting her fingertips lightly on the shade of a side table lamp. Everywhere she goes, she’s always reaching and resting and touching her way forward, which makes watching her progress slightly terrifying. I keep expecting her to take a fall.
She settles herself in an armchair with crocheted doilies draped over its back and sides.
“Won’t you have a seat?”
“I can’t stay long,” I say, choosing the sofa across from her. “I wanted to invite you over for Eli’s birthday party. He’s turning sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” she says, her blue eyes widening. “I remember when I turned sixteen.”
Margaret is a white-haired little pixie, cute as can be, with hunched, narrow shoulders and slender hips. She wears these knee-length dresses that zip up the back, covering her all the way to her neck, which is trimmed in pearls no matter the time of day or the occasion. The fabric of these dresses reminds me of old curtains. Although she’s practically housebound, rarely leaving these days, even to attend mass, I have never seen her less than immaculate, her hair all done. She’s a little bit Miss Marple, a little bit Queen of England. I just love her.