The Book of Speculation: A Novel

*

When it was done and they lay limp on the bedding, cradled by the tub’s boards, Evangeline drew the sharp edge of a fingernail along his collarbone. How good it was that people, like houses, had frames and that those frames could be so beautiful. This thing they’d done, Will Aben had thought to do with her. Had she never spoken with Will, she would not know the man she lay with. I am a killer. When she shivered, his arm squeezed tight around her. A killer who beds a lion. She smiled. How strange it was that cleave had two such disparate meanings; she’d known to cut and tear, but now she knew to cling. She rested her cheek in the valley between his shoulder and chest.

Amos lay awake until light bled under the edge of the canvas. He swore his skin still burned from where she’d touched it—a pleasure so profound it dwarfed all else. Nearly. He smiled into Evangeline’s hair, more pleased with life than he’d thought possible. He’d found a way to speak.





13

JULY 18TH


“How long does approval take?”

On the other end Kath Canning sips tea. “Several months to a year. It needs to go through land use and zoning committees. You know the town.”

She doesn’t have to say it. “Slow.”

“For the work you’re talking about you need an environmental impact study.”

“More money.” I shift the phone to the other ear.

“I have to be honest with you. The historical society can help with landmarking, but we don’t have the money you need. It’s just me, Betty, and Les these days, and we’re all volunteer. Your best bet is a loan.”

“Thanks, Kath. I appreciate your time.”

“Best of luck. The Timothy Wabash house was lovely.”

Yes, it was. I hang up, more screwed than I was ten minutes ago.

Enola walks into the living room, rubbing some kind of goo into her hair that makes it stand up in chunks. We’re going to the McAvoys’ for dinner. I suggested a restaurant, but Alice said Frank wouldn’t hear of it. She broke the news last night at the Oaks, while grumbling into her gin.

“Dad went on about how Enola’s hardly ever here and it’s ridiculous that no one’s cooked you a decent meal. Did he bother to ask my mother? No, he just assigns her cooking.”

“Enola’s boyfriend’s with her.” I grimaced down a gulp of rye. Definitely the drink of the recently fired.

Alice sighed. “Sure, fine. What’s another person? Maybe he’ll distract my dad.”

“From what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mom said seven-thirty. Is that okay?”

I twisted the end of her braid around my finger, and gave it a tug. “Seven-thirty is fine.”

As we said good night she said, “It’s weird to not have you at work.” It was almost an afterthought.

Frank is going to ask about Pelewski and the house. And find out his jobless neighbor is dating his daughter and needs a quarter million dollars.

Enola and I wait while Doyle shaves. She picks stuffing from the sofa, tossing it onto one of my shirts. She’s been away so long that every change seems enormous, from her hair to her thinness, the trances, and the man who followed her here. When I came in last night she was dealing cards while Doyle snored on her bed. No, they’re not a Marseille deck or a Waite deck. They’re different, but familiar. I tried to get her attention, but she was engrossed.

“Enola, are you okay?”

A piece of foam flicks from the couch. “Yep. Are you?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No, but you will anyway.”

“Your cards look very old. My book—Churchwarry doesn’t know much about it because it was part of a big lot, but it reminds me of your cards, they’ve got the same kind of wear. I was wondering where you got them.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to tell you about the book,” she mutters. “The cards were Mom’s.”

The cards Mom was dealing when Dad begged her to stop. “I didn’t know Dad gave them to you.”

“He didn’t. Frank did.” She continues methodically divesting the couch of stuffing.

“Why would he have them?”

“You’d have to ask him. He gave them to me before I left.” By left she means left me.

“When can I expect you to start stinking up the house?”

“What?”

“You burn sage to clean tarot cards, don’t you?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s called smudging and you don’t have to do it every time.”

“But you do have to do it.”

“These aren’t work cards, they’re my private deck. Cards kind of gather energy from people and build history. You talk to the cards and they talk to you. These I don’t clear because we’re talking.”

A conversation with Mom’s cards is disturbing.

“What do you talk about?”

“You,” she says with a shark-toothed grin.

Doyle exits the bathroom, clean-shaven. Though it does little to improve his appearance, it reveals the shadow of what might have been a nice-looking young Midwestern man beneath the layers of ink.