Cynthia nods sadly. I wonder if she’s always been this quiet, or if her spirit, too, has changed over time, like that of the home.
Marjorie looks at me, perking up again. “So you plan to restore all of the gardens? Not just the big one?”
I nod. “That’s the idea. Unfortunately the gardens’ gates need to be repaired before I can start working in them.”
We all look down toward the places along the walls where the ivy is cut back from the arched gates.
“What happened?” Cynthia asks quietly.
“The ivy grew right over them, and the wood is rotting,” I tell her. “They’re beautiful, though. Jill thinks they’re original to the home.”
“Then we must save them,” Marjorie declares. “And I know just the person for the job, don’t I, Cynthia?”
Cynthia thinks for a moment and then nods.
Marjorie turns back to me, chin raised. “I happen to know a world-famous restoration carpenter,” she says proudly.
“Oh…” I begin, but the truth is I’m not sure how seriously to take Marjorie. I’m saved from having to come up with a suitable reply when a loud crunching noise fills the air. All three of us quickly turn to see an elderly man making his way across the terrace toward us, a rolling walker tight in his grip. His mouth is pinched shut in a severe way, and even from across the terrace I can see that his eyes, which I realize with a start are locked on my face, blaze with emotion.
He seems to be headed straight for me.
“Fitz!” trills Marjorie in a startled, excited voice. “This is a nice surprise.”
The man doesn’t respond. I barely resist the urge to step back as he makes his way closer and halts his walker inches from my toes. His scent is a tempest of witch hazel, black licorice, newspaper, and a tight acrid note that rings of shame or… guilt?
“Hello,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m Lucy.”
His rheumy eyes rake over my face with fierce urgency, his lips twisting as though he’s preparing to spit something out.
“Fi-itz,” Marjorie tries again in a careful singsong. “Howareyou?”
He ignores her and goes right on staring at me. “What are you doing here?” he demands, his voice a low growl.
“Well, I’m… I’m working in the garden,” I say haltingly.
His eyes narrow as though he doesn’t believe me. I can see the beat of his pulse in his temple, but I can’t tell if he’s confused or furious. He’s wearing a stiff, short-sleeved shirt with faint gray stripes, and he’s put the buttons in the wrong holes, making one side of his collar stick up closer to his jaw than the other. He grips the walker so tightly that the veins in his arms are visible. He’s neither tall nor muscular, but I sense that he was once both—there’s an old, intimidating silhouette that looms behind him like a shadow.
After what feels like an interminable stretch of time, he grumbles something and turns away, shaking his head as he shoves his walker toward a corner of the terrace.
I release my breath and glance toward the home. Does anyone knows that these three are outside? Should I try to find Jill? Or try to convince everyone to return inside myself?
“Is everything okay, Fitz?” Marjorie asks. “You seem very upset.”
He flicks his hand irritably as though swatting away a fly, but Marjorie is no fly.
“What is it?” she presses. “What’s wrong?”
Silence hangs in the air.
Then, at last, he answers: “She looks like someone I used to know.” His eyes meet mine for one cold moment and then flick away.
Marjorie clucks her tongue sympathetically. “That’s a funny feeling, isn’t it? Like you’re seeing a ghost.”
“I didn’t say the woman was dead!”
“Oh! No, you didn’t,” Marjorie amends quickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, sheisdead!” Fitz barks so loudly that Marjorie, Cynthia, and I all draw in our breath. He rattles his walker. “Of course she’s dead! I just didn’t say it. You don’t have the right to know everything about everyone just because we’re all stuck here together. This isn’t a sorority! You’re not class president!”
