April Shadows

  There was something about the way she looked at me and spoke that compelled me to tell her my story. Perhaps it had all been bottled up inside me too long. I was surprised myself at how much came out, how much I revealed, and how fast I spoke. At first, she just stood there listening. Then she slowly lowered herself into her dark brown cushioned chair. upon which she had placed an additional cushion to keep herself higher and make it easier for her to get up when she wanted.

  She leaned on her walking stick and looked at me as I continued, her face showing little emotion, surprise, or displeasure.

  "Sometimes. I wonder if it was God or the devil who made us," she said after a long pause when I stopped talking.

  The entire time I spoke, tears rained down from my eyes, and my throat opened and closed, choking back words and then freeing whole paragraphs in one breath. I didn't realize Trevor had been standing in the living room doorway awhile, waiting for permission to speak himself. Mrs. Westington finally nodded at him.

  "They're on their way here," he said. "and so is an ambulance."

  "What good's an ambulance?" she muttered back at him as if he had ordered it.

  "Got to take the body to the coroner. Mrs. Westington. Ain't gonna take him in my truck."

  I waited to see if she was going to chastise him for what he had said in reply, but she just nodded and looked as if she appreciated his cold, factual answer. She looked at me again.

  "How old are you. girl?"

  "I'm seventeen, nearly eighteen," I said.

  She shook her head and then turned to Trevor.

  "Seems like the world's going to end up filled with orphans. Women drop out children these days like field mice and as soon as they can walk on their own, leave them to manage for themselves."

  "Yes, ma'am," Trevor said.

  "Well, let's get the girl something to eat and drink while we wait," she said, rising out of the chair. "I'll make some blackberry tea and tuna fish

  sandwiches. You can go down the hallway to the powder room on the right and clean yourself up some," she told me.

  "Thank you," I said, and followed her out. "I'll wait for them outside," Trevor told us.

  I could see the bathroom fixtures were quite old, the porcelain sink spotted with rust. Everything worked fine but revealed the age of the house, which I later found out was built nearly eighty-five years ago when the property was a successful vineyard and the family had its own winery. It was not hard to imagine that at one time, the house must have been beautiful. There was so much detail in the wall trim and the freplace. The chandeliers, although looking as if they could use a good dusting and cleaning, were quite elaborate. Quality materials had been used in the construction. The hardwood floors probably needed only a good polishing, even after all this time.

  Mrs. Westington told me to go into the dining room, where she put the tea and the sandwiches, cut into small squares, on the long, dark cherry-wood dining table. I thanked her again and sipped the tea and nibbled on the sandwiches. She watched me eat for a few moments, and then she rose and said. "They're here."

  I had heard nothing. It was as if she had radar that told her when anyone had stepped onto her property. I rose and followed her out.

  The sight of the police and the ambulance put a new wave of chills and then numbness into my body, which had somehow taken an intermission from the sad and terrible events that had just occurred. The police went into the motor home, followed by the two paramedics. I watched from the portico. The rain had begun. as Mrs. Westington had predicted, and fell in a steady, dull drizzle.

  One of the highway patrolmen, a stout, tall man with light brown hair, sauntered over to us as though the rain wouldn't dare make him wet. He stepped up and reached into his back pocket to pull out a notepad. He flipped it open, tipped his hat at Mrs. Westinaton, and directed his attention to me.

  "What's your full name, miss?"

  "I'm April Taylor."

  "That man in there was your uncle?"

  "Yes, sir. Palaver."

  "Palaver?"

  "He's a magician. hypnotist. I was helping him with his show. We travel to different theaters."'

  "How old are you?"

  I glanced at Mrs. Westington.

  "She's eighteen," she replied for me. "The poor girl's been through hell and back. Get to the point."

  "I'm just trying to do my job. Mrs. Westington, There's a man dead in there. This is an unattended death. There's procedure."

  "Well, no one's telling you not to follow your procedures. officer. Just get along with it. I just gave the poor girl something to eat when you arrived. Tears getting cold."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, and turned back to me. "What happened to your uncle?"

  "He died." Mrs. Westington said as if the policeman were a total idiot. I nearly laughed. I was feeling so confused. I was drunk on the insanity of what was occurring.

  The patrolman grimaced and looked at me.

  "My uncle was drinking heavily for a long time. I think he finally got very sick from it," I said.

  "That big doll in the bed was part of his act?"

  "Oh. Lord have mercy," Mrs. Westington muttered. "What's that got to do with anything now?"

  "Where is the rest of your family. April?" he asked, trying to turn away from Mrs. Westington.

  "Back in Memphis. My sister is a professional basketball player."

  "And your parents?"

  "Both dead," I said.

  "I knew it," Mrs. Westington told him.

  The paramedics carried Uncle Palaver out of the motor home on a stretcher, his whole body covered, and put him into the ambulance. I started to cry again.

  "Oh, dear. dear," Mrs. Westington said. She put her arm around my shoulders. "I'm taking her inside. You can come in and finish procedures or stop by afterward," she said firmly, and turned me.

  "Someone will be by. Is she staying with you?"

  Of course, she's staying with me. What do you expect she'll do, get into that contraption and drive off?" she asked, nodding at the motor home with my car attached.

  "No, ma'am, it's just..."

  "It's just raining harder. Tend to your procedures," she said, and guided me into the house.

  "I've got to call my sister," I said. Telling the policeman about her reminded me it was something I should do immediately.

  "Well, you go right ahead. The phone's in the kitchen on the wall," she told me, and pointed her cane in the direction of the kitchen.

  I walked down to it and sucked in my breath a moment, closing my eyes to gather the strength I would need to tell Brenda everything and to hear her chastise me for staying with Uncle Palaver so long. Then I picked up the receiver. The phone was a rotary type and looked as if it had been manufactured a day after Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone. I dialed Brenda's number and waited. It rang twice, and then a mechanical voice said. "I'm sorry, but this number has been disconnected. There is no

  forwarding number." I held the receiver while the message was repeated. That was followed with some number code, and then the phone went dead.

  Mrs. Westington was standing in the hallway watching me.

  "My sister... is gone," I said. "She's moved out. Her phone's disconnected."

  "Doesn't surprise me. Half the world's disconnected," she said. "Go in there and finish your sandwiches and tea. There's plenty of time to do what has to be done."

  "I'm not hungry," I said.

  "Don't matter. Your body's had a big shock. You'd better fortify, girl, or you'll get sick yourself and not be worth a plumb nickel to anyone. Go on," she commanded.

  I returned to the dining room and continued to nibble on the sandwiches. She went to get the water hot again for my tea. As I sat there. I thought again about Brenda. I had to find her. I got an idea and went out to the motor home to get the papers that Brenda had forwarded to me after I left Memphis. Then I hurried back inside.

  "What are you up to, girl?" Mrs. Westington asked. "You're letting the water get
cold again."

  "I realized a way I might be able to find my sister." I said. "Our attorney should know."

  She nodded. "Yes, attorneys usually know everyone's business. Go on. Use the phone again," she said, and brought the kettle back to the kitchen.

  I called, and Mr. Weiss came on after his secretary told him who I was. He listened and told me he did know where Brenda was. She was with a team about to leave for Germany, and he had just faxed some documents to her hotel in New York City. He said he would try to reach her immediately.

  "What are you going to do?" he asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Call me for whatever help you need there. April."

  He asked for the telephone number, and I asked Mrs. Westington, who stood by listening. She told me. and I gave it to him. He promised to get right on it and try to reach Brenda as soon as possible.

  "There's nothing more you can do," Mrs. Westington said after I told her what the attorney had said. "The police know you're here. They'll call."

  The rain began to fall harder. We could hear it dancing on the roof as the wind whipped it along.

  "A good drenching," Mrs. Wtstinaton said, gazing out the dining room window.

  I sat quietly, still feeling dazed. She considered me a moment and then nodded to herself.

  "I want you to go lie down now. girl. I'll show you to your room. Don't worry." she said before I could raise any opposition. "When you get a call. I'll let you know. Come along." she ordered, and started out to the stairway. It went up and curved like a "J" onto the second floor of the house. She guided herself with the banister but seemed to have no trouble going up the stairs.

  The heavy overcast and rain made the secondstory landing seem even darker than it was. I saw there were no windows, The two chandeliers dripped shadows along the panel walls. She led me to a bedroom immediately off to the right and opened the door.

  "I'm sure you'll find it comfortable," she said. "Used to be my daughter's room."

  I looked in at a beautiful white and pink canopy bed. The matching dresser, armoire, and vanity table had the same pink swirls in them. A soft, milk-white area rug surrounded the bed.

  "I got a Mexican woman comes to clean the house once a week, and she always does this room. Bathroom's in there," she said, pointing her cane at the door on the right. "Just make yourself at home. I'll shout up when your call comes, and you can use that phone.," she added, pointing to an antique brass phone on the nightstand beside the bed.

  "I'm not really tired," I said.

  "You're more tired than you imagine. Your insides have been turned and twisted. Don't tell me what you are and what you're not," she added sternly. "Go on, take a rest, and we'll see about it all soon enough. One thing about tragedy. It don't forget you for a moment when it visits.'

  The bed did look inviting. I walked in and sat on it.

  "Make yourself comfortable," she urged. "Get under the comforter. You been riding about in that contraption so long you forgot how to enjoy a real room?" she asked when I hesitated.

  "No, ma'am."

  "Well, then, do as I say," she said.

  I pulled the blanket back, took off my shoes, and slipped in. The pillows felt like clouds beneath my head. I saw her watching me from the doorway for a while. My eyelids drooped and then closed. Minutes later. I was asleep. She was right. My insides had been turned and twisted.

  When I opened my eyes again. I thought I was still dreaming. Standing right by the bed and staring down at me with wide eyes was a girl who looked no more than fourteen. She wore a dark blue one-piece dress with a frilly white collar. Her very curly black hair was chopped short and looked as if someone had put a bowl over her head and trimmed it. Even though she had black hair, her eyes were almost Kelly green, She had a rich, peach complexion with a small, slightly turned-up nose, soft, fall lips, and a cleft chin.

  I braced myself up on my elbows and wiped my eyes. "Hi," I said.

  She continued to stare and then suddenly raised her hands and, with her right forefinger, circled her mouth and pointed the finger at me.

  "I don't understand," I said, and she did both gestures again, only more emphatically. She looked as if she might cry if I didn't figure out what she was doing. I thought a moment and then smiled. "Oh. You're asking who I am?" I said, pointing to myself.

  She smiled and nodded.

  "You're deaf," I whispered to myself. 'My name is April." I said, And then, for some reason. repeated "April" slowly, enunciating each syllable. She obviously studied my lips.

  She pressed her fingers down and showed me her palm, then moved her fingers quickly. I shook my head, and she grimaced. Then she thought a moment, went to the drawer of the nightstand and took out a pen and pad. She wrote on it and handed it to me.

  She had written "April",

  "That's right," I said. "That's my name. Who are you?"

  She moved her fingers rapidly three times, and when I shook my head again, she took the pad back and wrote 'Echo".

  Echo? Didn't she understand me? I pointed to her again and mimicked her signing "Who?"

  She nodded and pointed to the pad.

  What a strange name, if that was really her name. I thought, but I smiled at her and nodded.

  She smiled back and then watched as I rose out of the bed and slipped on my shoes. Hadn't Brenda called yet? What was happening? Was this little girl Mrs. Westington's granddaughter? Where were her parents? I started for the door, and she immediately seized my hand. It took me by surprise. but I saw she meant only to walk with me.

  Mrs. Westington came to the foot of the stairway when she heard me descending. She immediately began to sign with Echo. She looked angry. too. Echo let go of my hand and stopped descending. She looked at me and then turned and ran back up the stairway and down the hall.

  "What happened? Who is she?" I asked.

  "Never mind who she is. She knows better than to bother guests."

  "She didn't bother me," I said. "Didn't anyone call back yet?"

  "No. I told you I would call you when they did. didn't I? Come along," she urged. "You can help me prepare dinner, peel potatoes while I shell some peas. I have a roast for tonight"

  She didn't wait for my reply. She turned and headed for the kitchen. I looked back and saw Echo peering out of a doorway. As soon as she saw me looking at her, she backed away and closed the door.

  What was going on here? I wondered, and continued down the stairway and to the kitchen. The potatoes were in a bucket on the table. the peeler beside it. Mrs. Westington nodded at it. She sat and began to shell the peas.

  "Who is she?" I asked as I sat to begin the work.

  "She's my granddaughter. She's deaf. Was deaf at birth. My daughter had her out of wedlock and then decided it was too hard to be gallivanting about with a handicapped infant. She lived here with her for nearly four years before she just up and walked out on the both of us one day, supposedly just to have a vacation. That vacation has gone on for nearly ten years next month. So. here I was, a woman in her early sixties, becoming a full-time mother again willy-nilly."

  "Does she go to a special school?"

  "Yes, here. I have a tutor come regular, a young man who is a specialist with the deaf." She paused. "What about your own schooling?"

  "I'm going to get my high school equivalency." I said. "I guess I'll have to start thinking about it more seriously now, and what I'll do afterward."

  "Well. I guess you will. Time to pay the piper and end this running away from your troubles, girl. You don't see them, maybe, but they're always right there, like gum on your heel. Trouble with young people today is they have no grit, no staying power. Some difficulty comes, and they give up and run off. My daughter is a prime example.

  "Think I like being left with a little zirl who's deaf to boot?" she asked before I could disagree. "No, but I don't whine and moan and wring my hands and cry. 'Woe is me. Oh, woe is me.' I do what has to be done. Always have, always will. Take a letter," she said. r />
  "Pardon?"

  "Take a letter, take a letter. Write that down and remember it." She started shelling the peas again and then stopped. "She tell you her name?"

  "She said her name was Echo. Is that true?"

  "Yes, it's true. Her idiot mother named her that because when she spoke to her, it just came back at her, being the girl was deaf. Thought she was being cute. I guess. As it turned out. I like it. and I think Echo does. too. Although it's not easy to tell when she likes something and when she doesn't."

  Just then, the phone rang. We both looked at it.

  "Finally." she said, rising and answering. "Yes, she's right here. Well, she ain't running off. Okay, I'll tell her that." She hung up and turned to me. "They begun the work on your uncle, and preliminarily it looks like an acute case of cirrhosis. You know what that is?"

  "A liver disease," I said.

  "Yep. Alcoholics get it. My husband died of it, which was ironic, being we owned a winery. He wasn't fond of wine. He drank Scotch like water. We're all our worst enemy and put ourselves behind the eight ball. Keep peeling. I'd like to eat dinner tonight, not tomorrow," she said, and sat again.

  "How'd your parents kick the bucket?" she asked after a moment.

  I told her about Daddy and tried to soften what Mama had done, making it sound as if she had simply made a mistake.

  "Everyone stews in his or her own juices in this world. I guess," she said. "Ain't you been through a tunnel of hell, and now with your uncle and all," she added, showing some warm sympathy, but it didn't last long. She grimaced and finished the peas. "Hardships come and go. You just have to gird up your loins and push ahead. No sense crying over spilt milk."

  The phone rang again. This time, my heart began to thump hard and fast. She answered it, listened, and then nodded and held out the receiver. I rose slowly and took it from her.

  "April, what happened?'" Brenda asked immediately after I said hello.

  I told her how Uncle Palaver had been drinking and how I had tried to stop him or slow him down but nothing had helped.