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NOLA KNOX
Monday, June 15, 2020
After Maggie left, Nola opened each closet carefully, fearful that an avalanche of musty dish towels or cardboard boxes filled with old shoes would crash down on her. Nearly every nook and cranny of the house was crammed with their things. Nola hesitated. She wasn’t sure if she should dismantle her bone collections and stow each piece into its own hiding spot or keep each memento together.
She was overthinking this. There was no reason to think that the police would want to come back in and search the house after twenty-five years but it was prudent to be prepared. The discovery of her collections would be shocking and difficult to explain even among the miscellany that filled the house.
She finally settled on the basement. Dank and dark with its cobwebbed corners, concrete floors and exposed joints, it too was overflowing with items her mother had no room for on the other two floors and garage but wasn’t able to part with. There were garden tools, empty mason jars, sets of dishware found in thrift stores and boxes of baby clothes that Charlotte enthusiastically bought when there was still a chance that Nola might give her grandchildren. There were golf clubs and lawn chairs and garbage bags filled with empty cans of Diet Coke at the bottom of the steps creating a black barrier.
First, Nola taped old sheets over the small drafty windows with rotting panes that provided a ground level view of the yard. It wouldn’t do to have peering eyes.
Beneath a dimly lit, exposed lightbulb, Nola placed each group of specimens into bigger plastic bins, secured the lids, and then covered them with boxes filled with holiday decorations of red-and-green glass ornaments, sparkly gold-and-silver garland, and Christmas stockings cuffed with red velvet and embellished with felt snowmen and reindeer and elves.
Up and down the steps, Nola went, picking her way through boxes and bins and garbage bags, positioning her boxes beneath the stairs where they had less of a chance of being crushed by toppling junk. Over these boxes she set thick loops of fake Christmas garland.
Behind an old kitchen table stacked with empty cardboard boxes was a pocket door that led to a smaller storage room. Nola nudged the table aside, unlocked the padlock and slid the door open. Nola flipped the light to reveal a nearly empty room. In the center of the room sat a stainless steel table on wheels and against one wall was a large utility sink. That was all. The storage room was incongruous with the rest of the house; the walls were bare, the floor spotless. It looked completely out of place.
Nola dragged a few boxes into the space and set an old paint can and dirty brushes in the sink. Grabbing a broom with half its bristles missing she swept dust from the main storage area into the room. That was better, Nola thought.
She closed the door then pushed the table back into place. This time Nola didn’t lock the door. She looked around. It would have to do.
Back upstairs in the kitchen, Nola navigated around more newspapers and boxes of old mail. Cans of peas and beets and corn and every kind of bean imaginable filled every inch of counter space. The only clear space was the small kitchen table where they used to sit as a family. Nola rarely ate at home, preferring to grab her food while on the road.
She chose a can of green beans from the tower, popped the top and dumped the contents into a glass bowl. She wrestled to open a drawer crowded with knives and forks and spoons but gave up and took the bowl outside and sat down on the front step and began eating the green beans with her fingers.
She had been so absorbed in her work that hours had passed unnoticed. The humid night air felt good on her skin after the chill of the basement, the dark a welcomed camouflage from the eyes of her neighbors.
The Kennedy house was unlit and quiet. Nola knew that Colin Kennedy, Maggie’s brother, had recently come back to town to help care for their father. Alzheimer’s, Nola’s mother said and laughed bitterly. It’s not fair, she had said cradling one of the china dolls she collected. I’m the one who needs to forget. What bliss that would be.
The door to the Harper house opened and out stepped Joyce Harper with her dog. Curious, Nola watched from the shadows as the corgi mix sniffed the grass and circled the yard. Joyce Harper hadn’t changed much over the years. Austere and sharp-angled—just like her house. She had never been a fan of Nola’s. Not since that unfortunate incident with Riley. Or was it Rebecca? No, it was the boy. Nola wasn’t really going to push the kid off the edge of the bluff, she was just curious to see how far they could go. And anyway, what kind of mother doesn’t notice that her three-year-old isn’t in the house? So really, it was her own fault.
What a scene she had caused. Joyce Harper running barefoot through her perfectly maintained backyard, her long skirt gathered up in her fists so she wouldn’t trip over the fabric, sleek hair barely moving, a look of terror on her face. Joyce had struggled to open the back gate that led to the bluffs, her manicured fingers scrabbling at the latch. When she finally reached Nola and the child, Joyce had yanked the boy away from Nola so hard that the little boy’s head snapped back violently, snatching the air from his lungs. When he finally opened his mouth to take a breath, blood dribbled down his chin where he had bitten his tongue.
Joyce picked up the boy and clutched him to her chest and scurried to the Kennedy house, screaming bloody murder. When Nola caught up to her, Joyce was crying and ordering the chief to arrest her. Nola talked her way out of it. She always did. I saw him wandering around outside by himself, Nola said innocently. I was just trying to help.
Joyce Harper was having none of it. Stay away from my children! she had squawked. Stay out of my yard.
Nola laughed softly at the memory and the dog lifted her head as if catching a scent and cocked her head in Nola’s direction.
“Come on, Winnie,” Joyce urged. The dog ignored her and trotted away and began exploring the Knoxes’ burnt, brown lawn.
Nola set aside her bowl and clicked her tongue. The dog paused and looked at Nola.
“Winnie, come!” Joyce called. “Come here!”
“Here, Winnie,” Nola whispered in the tone she used with all the animals she worked with. They liked the sound of her voice. Calm, reassuring, mesmerizing. Winnie approached her cautiously and sniffed the back of her hand.
“Winnie, get back here, now!” Joyce yelled but Nola scooped her up and began stroking her fur.
“Good girl,” Nola soothed and ran her fingers across the soft hollow of Winnie’s throat.
“Winnie,” Joyce called again, her voice edged with panic.
Nola stood and started walking over to the Harper house, an austere Frank Lloyd Wright constructed of concrete and ribboned with lead glass windows. Commissioned by a wealthy newcomer to Grotto in the 1920s, the house was an anomaly around here. Modern and sleek, so different than the simple traditional Dutch colonial and ranch homes that most townspeople lived in. The original owners left and the house went through many owners until the Harpers purchased it in the early nineties.
“Hello, Joyce,” Nola said, emerging from the shadows and causing Joyce to jump.
“Nola,” Joyce answered, her eyes darting around the neighborhood as if in search of a friendly face. No one was around. “How’s your mother doing? We heard about her accident.” Joyce held out her arms for Winnie but Nola took a step backward, just out of reach.
