It wasn’t that. The Mayor cocked his head and his ears went up with a quizzical hoist. It was this baffling sense that something was amiss.
“Just mind you don’t tear that big web there,” she hissed and followed him through down on all fours. Right above her head was Iris’s tentative silhouette. And then she was gone. She left the light on though. She’d be back. Claire pitched herself against the Japanese maple to wait for her return. The living room, aside from the monstrous television set, looked like something from a long-gone era. Through the parted velvet drapes she could just make out the unusual antique furniture, Chinese and Louis XV mostly … oriental screens and bookcases and figures … little figures … what in blazes? It looked like a couch full of children. A hot wind blew and the curtain fluttered shut. The Mayor drew close to her feet. It was so damned quiet. He would have preferred to go but wasn’t about to leave her flat. She was glad he was there but dared not speak. She had to get a closer look. If she could just get up to that branch, she could look in the breezeway window. The Mayor looked on skeptically. Clumsy Claire. She’d never make it. White lightning lit up the sky. Of course. Where else would she want to be but up a tree in a lightning storm? Easy does it … easy does it … she was up with a round roll of thunder.
“Na? So you’ve come for dat tea after all!”
Iris’s voice, and the sudden sight of her eerie, pale-moon face behind and underneath her, jolted Claire right out of the tree.
She wasn’t hurt, but rain was pelting down on top of them now in a resolute gully-washer. There was nothing to do but follow Iris into the house. The Mayor stuck like glue. Iris, trailing an invisible chiffon scarf with one hand up in the air, ushered them in through the hall to the parlor. The smell of cat was very thick.
“Sit down, sit down,” Iris gushed. “Take off dose sopping shoes.” She was all keyed up.
“I shouldn’t have come over like this … in the middle of the night. I ought to go, really. I—”
But Iris wouldn’t hear of it. She was delighted.
“Ve older people don’t sleep a lot, you know. Und I don’t too much like da television. So violent. No, no, no, you couldn’t have come at a better time, to tell you da trute.”
“Fine.” Claire took one careful step backward and sneezed.
“Und dis is my family,” Iris presented the back of the couch.
I can always beat her up, Claire told herself. She’s just a frail old woman. Then she saw who was sitting on the couch. It was a family of dolls. Big dolls, little dolls. There was one enormous one that looked like Shirley Temple. Her wig was golden ringlets of real hair. Most of the dolls were obviously valuable German and French bisque, as old, perhaps, as Iris herself. They were all done up in hand-crocheted, vibrant colors, opulently turned out but now softly muted with time and a gray film of dust. They were everywhere: staring out from glass-doored cabinets and countless musty shelves.
“Dese are my dollies.” Iris sat down on the hassock and crossed her legs, revealing just a touch of lace-trimmed slip. Black.
“How nice,” Claire smiled hard. She edged over toward the window. It was open and she could always jump out. Across the street a car pulled up. Claire’s heart thumped. It was a man, rushing around the car with an umbrella. She didn’t know him, wait, she did. It was that doctor from Stefan’s party and he was opening the passenger door for Zinnie. “Hi!” she waved, pretending they could see her. “My sister and her new boyfriend,” she said. She could hear them laughing as they scooted through the rain. They were kissing now, thick as thieves in each other’s arms on the porch.
Iris was talking about how beneficial a thunderstorm was, shooting lovely bolts of ozone into the earth … like a tonic for the plants.