The cat on my lap decided to make a leap for it, digging its untrimmed claws in my thighs. I grimaced, but Maggie kept talking. “The Reverend Bonus Tyler and his congregation, they were supposed to end up in Massachusetts but landed here, and decided enough was enough.” Then she laughed at some memory. “Back during some anniversary event, I was asked by the historical society to write a commemoration about my ancestor, the Reverend Bonus Tyler. The story that had been passed on from generation to generation was that he left England with his congregation to get away from the oppressive government and godless society and discover a new land and life in the New World. Well, that was partially true.”
“What was the other part?”
“One of my cousins, from the Maine branch of the Tylers, she was a funny sort and really got a kick out of doing some serious genealogical research. She even flew over to England, to the village where those first settlers came from, and after some digging around in the archives and old court papers, she found out the good Reverend Bonus Tyler had abandoned his pregnant wife before setting out across the Atlantic.”
“That doesn’t sound very saintly,” I said.
“Yeah, especially since the Reverend Tyler came across the Atlantic with a new, younger wife. I wrote up that particular tale and wouldn’t you know it, the historical society suddenly found out that it didn’t have room for my article.”
That garnered another laugh from Maggie and she kicked the wooden filing cabinets one more time. “History. Here in this part of the world, it’s all around us. But beware of what you look for, or what you dig up. You might just be goddamned surprised.”
In the darkness of my bedroom—the television having switched off automatically, just as one housewife tossed a glass of white wine into the heavily made-up and Botoxed face of another—I thought about Maggie, and who she was, and what she sold, and what she had …
History. It often had a violent past, but did Maggie ever dream or even consider that hers might end with a shotgun blast to the face, in the safety and comfort of her own antique shop?
A hand gently caressed my shoulder. Paula.
“Hey,” I whispered.
No reply.
I turned around some, expecting to see her awake, or perhaps dreaming, but when I rolled over, there was the smiling and aware face of my long-dead and long-missing Cissy Manning.
CHAPTER NINE
I froze, just staring, all the memories and thoughts and sensations coming down at me, like I was standing in the middle of the old Boston and Maine railroad tracks, as a train came barreling right at me, unable to move or even lift a hand.
“I … I …”
Cissy smiled. “You’re doing well.”
I think I found my voice. “I’ve done better.”
She kept on smiling, her full red hair on the pillow, lacy straps of something black on her shoulders, freckles prominent, and old sweet melancholy memories of rainy Sunday afternoons spent at her condo in Maryland, playing “freckle hunt” …
“Let it go,” she said.
I tried to speak again but couldn’t. So much to say. I shook my head.
Her smile got wider.
“Let me go,” she said. “Please, my old love.”
I couldn’t say anything.
I woke up. I shivered and shivered and shivered.
The house was here, it was all the same.
I shivered some more.
I wrenched around, a sharp pain driving into me, and Paula was there, sleeping away, her face peaceful and soft.
A pang of guilt joined the earlier pain, making me wince. Paula was here, Paula was loving, Paula was taking care of me.
So why was I dreaming about a past love, a dead love?
Guilt? A memory? A sense of loss of what had once been, what could have been … if not for that training accident in Nevada that had killed her and the others.
I rolled back, shivered again, and stared out into the darkness of the room until I saw the sun rise out over the Atlantic.
Paula breathed easy behind me. The pain in my back lessened a great deal, but the guilt stayed.
Restless, I got up and went to the bathroom, twisted around, and saw it was time once again to empty the bladders. “Work, work, work,” I whispered.
I swung around and got the first one out with a minimum of strain and effort. Well done, although the amount of blood and fluid coming out was the same. At least I got the bladder back into the cloth pocket without any problems.
Then it was number two’s turn, and with the long pliers, I did get it out, sweating some and gritting my teeth. Once it was emptied, measured, and put back in place, I was bone-tired again.
I avoided looking at myself in the mirror when I got back into bed, careful not to wake up Paula.
But about an hour later, she didn’t return the favor when she jostled my feet and pulled away my blankets to wake me up. Still dressed in her sleepwear, she yawned and said, “Up and at ’em, patient Lewis. Time to get your blood sucked away.”
“It’s already been sucked, drained, and measured, you meanie, you.”
Paula yawned again, her ears sticking through her hair. “How? You got a secret nurse stashed away in the attic?”
“Ain’t no attic here, sweetie, and I got them out myself about an hour ago.” I checked the time. “You were in deep sleep and
