Aunt Rosebud lived nearby. She was a widower; a tall, stern woman with amber, reptilian eyes and a bun of black hair coiled on the top of her head. Every morning she would visit my mother, sit by her bed. Every morning she would bring her needlework, for she enjoyed embroidering biblical phrases onto lace, and every morning she would bring with her a homemade cake to cheer my mother up. Little comfort gifts.
One morning, before Aunt Rosebud’s visit, I took my mother some snowbells, which I had picked from the garden. The flowers were so delicate, like fairy bells, as white as whirlpools.
“Good morning, Mamma,” I said, The room smelt of lavender and something salty.
She smiled and I kissed her on the cheek and put the snowbells into the empty vase by her bed.
“How lovely they are John. Thank you.”
Around the room, the embroidered biblical phrases hung mounted and framed on pieces of lace. They were surrounding her. They were closing in on her.
“How are you feeling?”
“The same,” she said, sadly. “Tell me about your telescope. What did you see last night?”
“Orion’s belt and the Great Bear. They were very clear, very bright. And I saw a shooting star, which is good luck.”
“Do you think the angels are up there John? Do you ever see angels in the night sky?”
“Not yet. But I will keep looking. Maybe the shooting star was an angel and he’s coming to get you well again.”
There’s a tap at the door and Aunt Rosebud enters, steely eyed, holding a ribboned box.
“Good morning Lily,” (she ignores me) “I have brought a walnut cake.”
“That’s very kind of you, sister; but I haven’t much of an appetite.”
“Nonsense, you must eat.” And she glared at me, my cue to leave.
This time, when I left the room, I sat by the keyhole and watched and listened. I had never done this before. But there were too many of those biblical lace gifts. There were too many of her cakes. My mother was drowning in them.
Aunt Rosebud perched by the bed, her voice low and hissing: “Lily, dear. Will you not try some of the walnut cake I have brought?”
“No. Perhaps later.”
“Just a little, Lily, just a little. It will help you get better. Good girl.”
“It tastes funny. It tastes strange.”
“Just eat it my dear.”
That was all I needed to hear.
* * *
pOiSoNeR
* * *
When my father returned from Paris that evening I went up to his study and I told him what I heard.
“And what are you suggesting, John, exactly?” he said, sitting at his study desk, half glancing at the grandfather clock.
“Aunt Rosebud is poisoning Mamma.”
He looked at me for quite some time. I think he knew. And then he looked at the grandfather clock, its eyes shifting towards him.
“Don’t be silly, John, and never mention this again.” His eyes fixed upon the clock. I stood in the way between the clock and him, blocking his vision of this weird idol.
“Father, look at me.”
My father’s connection with the clock was broken, and he stared at me sadly. “You will never mention your ridiculous theories to anyone. It would break your mother’s heart. Now go to your room.”
He knew. He knew. He knew.
That evening I crept into my father’s study and looked at the clock. I had thoughts of burning it, pushing it out of the window. I kicked it. I kicked it again. I looked into its great moon face. I am sure it was smirking at me.
I looked through my father’s desk and I found a locket. A curl of black hair; my mother’s was sunflower yellow. And a picture of a woman with dazzling eyes, slanted like an Egyptian princess, and a smile that curved like a scimitar. A wondrous witch-woman for my father.
There was no one to protect my mother, but me.
The clock chimed midnight and I went softly into my mother’s bedchamber.
She heard me step in. “John, is that you?” A heap of books rested on her night table. I glimpsed The Mysteries of Udolpho and Jane Eyre. I stepped close to my mother and sat down next to the bed. “Mother, I need you to listen to me.”
She stroked my face with her hand gently. “What is it, darling?”
“You are being poisoned by Aunt Rosebud. I have told father and he will not listen.”
She looked startled for a moment. “No one is trying to poison me, sweetheart. You are so imaginative.” And she laughed.
“Mother, please. You must believe me.”
“Go to bed, John,” she said sadly, and turned away from me.