Chapter 4 - The Midnight Visitor
By twoin the morning,the wardhadsettledinto the dull,rhythmicclickof nightnursing.The epidural-freelaborhadleftmy bodyhummingwitha strange,hollowvibration,as if everymusclespindlewerea pluckedguitarstringthat refusedto rest.My breastswereheavyandraw,alreadyyieldingthe firstdropsof ambercolostrumintothe plasticsyringesthe lactationnurseshadshownme howto fillfor the NICU.
My doorcreakedopen.It didn'thaveDaniel’sharried,authoritativejerk.It swunginchby inch,silentandcautious.
Rosemarystoodin the doorway.
Shehadhungherwetcoaton the hookby the hand-washingstation.Sheworethe blackwoolholidaydressI hadhelpedherironthreeafternoonsago,the fronthemspottedwithslush.In herwrinkledarms,shecarriedan old,blackleatherattachecase—the onethat Haroldusedto taketo the WestchesterLandRegistrywhenhe stillhadthe strengthto contestthe county’sassessments.
“Maggie?”hervoicewashoarse,barelylouderthanthe HVACvent.
“I’mhere,Rosemary,”I said,shiftinguprightagainstthe stiffpillows.Everymovementpulledat the deep,unseenstitchesinsidemy pelvis,makingme catchmy breath.“Is Danielstillout there?”
“The policeescortedhimto the parkinglotan hourago,”sheanswered,closingthe doorfirmlyuntilthe latchclickedwithan unmistakablefinality.“He wasthreateningto sueAlvarez.He wasshoutingaboutpatientrights,aboutguardianship,aboutreputation.He wasdisgusting.”
Shewalkedto the sideof the bed,her kneescreakingloudlyin the room’squiet,andsat downon the stiffplasticvisitor’sstool.Sheset Harold’sattachecaseflat on herknees,her fingersstrokingthe wornpebble-grainedleatherthe wayonecaressesan oldhound’sear.
“Didyouseeher?”I asked.
“I stoodat the nurseryglassforfortyminutes,”Rosemarysaid,andfor the firsttimesincethe frontdoorhadopenedat HollisManor,her facerelaxedinto linesof unblemishedwonder.“ShehasHarold’supperlip.The long,stubbornone.Andyoureyes.Sheisgoingto beverytall,Margaret.”
“I’mnotsorry,”I said,the defensivereflexrisinginstinctivelyto my tongue.“AboutwhatI didwiththe ring.AboutwhatI saidto himat yourtable.”
“Don’tyoudareapologize,”the oldwomanretortedsharply.Her eyes,cloudedwiththe milkyringsof incipientcataracts,fixedonmine witha fiercedensity.“If youhadstayedsilent,I wouldhavehit himwiththe gravyboatmyself.I havespentthirty-fiveyearsraisingthat boy,Maggie.Andthirtyof thoseyears,I havelookedat himwiththe terrorthat I hadproducedsomethingentirelymadeof mirrors.EverythingwithDanielis surfaces.The car,the suits,the developmentnameswith‘Estate’and‘Ridge’in them whenit’sjustswamplandcoveredin sod.”
Sheclickedthe brasslatchesof the attachecase.Theygavetwoheavy,metallicchimes.
“Hethinkshe ownsthe manor,”shesaidquietly.“He hasspentthe pasttwelvemonthsbringingthosegreasyarchitectsandinvestmentbankersthroughthe parlorswhileI wasrestingin the afternoon.HethinksbecauseHarolddiedwithoutcompletingthe probateon the 1888deed,the landpassesdirectlyto the HollisDevelopmentholdingcompany.”
“Doesn'tit?”I asked.“He showedme the corporateresolutionsixmonthsago.He saidHarold’strustnamedHollisHoldingsas the solebeneficiaryof the Bedfordsite.”
Rosemarypulledout a thick,cream-coloredenvelopeboundwithfadedredtwine.Across the front,in Harold’sheavy,slantedcarpenter’shandwriting,waswrittena singleline:ForMargaret,Whenthe HouseGrowsCold.
“Haroldwasn’tblind,Maggie,”Rosemarysaid,her voicefallinginto an almostreverentcadence.“In the lastyear,whenDanielrefusedto visithimunlesstherewasatouristtax-creditaffidavitto sign,Haroldrealizedwhatwouldhappentothe familyseatthe momenthe wasinthe dirt.Danieldoesn'tcareaboutthe trees.He doesn'tcareaboutthe wellsthat havebeenpumpingpurewaterfortwohundredyears.He wantedto subdividethe elevenacresinto fourminimansions,clearthe timber,andknockthe manorhousdownfor a cul-de-sac.”
My stomachflutteredwitha newsort of chill.“He toldme he wantedto builda guesthouseforus in the orchard.”
“He lieslikehe breathes,Margaret.Smoothlyandforprofit.”Rosemaryhandedme the envelope.It washeavy,smellingfaintlyof cedarshavingsandHarold’sfavoritecherryblendpipeweed.“Openit.”
My fingerstrembledas I untiedthe twine.Inside,foldedin thirds,wasa legalinstrumentdraftednotby Daniel’scityattorneys,butby ArthurPennington,the eighty-year-oldconveyancerwhooperatedout of a brickfrontbesidethe Katonahlibrary.
It wasa deedof lifetenancycoupledwithan executoryinterest,datedthreehundredandfortydaysbeforeHarold’sdeath.
“I,HaroldHollis,”the textread,its legalarchaismsstandingout likehand-hewnoakbeamsa hundredyearsafterthe fact,“beingof soundmindandwearyheart,do herebytransferthe fee-simpletitleof the propertyknownas HollisManor,inclusiveof the eleventimberedacresandallappurtenancesthereto,notto the HollisDevelopmentGroup,nor to my sonDanielHaroldHollis,whoserespectfor thissoilhaswitheredto greed;butdirectlyandexclusivelyto MargaretAnneHollis,in recognitionof herunpaid,unsolicited,andundividedfaithfulnessuntothis houseandmy person;subjectonlyto the lifetenancyof my belovedwife,Rosemary.”
I staredat the seal,at the blueinksignatureof HaroldHollis,andat the countersignatureof ArthurPennington,stampedwiththe notary’sraisembossment.
“Thiswasneverrecorded,”I whispered,the roomseemingto tiltingaroundme.
“It wasrecordedthe dayafterHarold’sfuneral,”Rosemaryclarified,a grim,savagesmilespreadingacrossthe wrinklearoundhermouth.“At the countyclerk’sofficein WhitePlains.HaroldinstructedPenningtonto keepthe registrationquietuntilthe finaltaxreconciliationswerecomplete—oruntilDanielbroughtthe wrongwomanto dinner.”
May you like
“Rosemary...”
“The houseneverbelongedto Daniel,Maggie,”shewhispered,leaningforwardandclaspingmy cold,swollenrighthandbetweenbothof hers.“It doesn'tevenbelongto me.I havethe rightto sit by the fireplaceuntilI die,thankGod.Butthe land,the timber,the walls,the carriagehouse,andthe keyto everydoorthat he triedto openfor that Prescottgirletonight...theybelongto you.Andto Clara.”
