Eccentric Circles

Rebecca Lickiss

Chapter One

Grandma Dickerson’s funeral went well, even though Piper was the only mourner wearing black. A little over thirty close family members stood by listening to the crank of the winch lowering Grandma Dickerson’s casket into the cold, sandy earth.

Piper brushed at her eye, wishing for tears. She would miss the old dear, but hadn’t been able to cry yet. She wondered if the problem was guilt at not seeing her favorite relative in over six years, or if she was just scared that the instability of her life currently left her unable to face her grief. Both seemed incredibly selfish, and unworthy of her great-grandmother’s memory. How much had she moaned and complained that her liberal arts degree and a lousy job market left her unemployed and in debt? Grandma Dickerson was more important than that, so why couldn’t she cry?

The cemetery flowed over an artificial hill, providing the deceased with excellent mountain views and a grand city overlook. The winter-dried grass crunched underfoot, and the bare trees swayed gently in the chill wind. The stark, short, marble blocks sat still and uninviting in orderly rows and columns, without a single statue or ornament in sight.

On the other side of the grave, Uncle Clem stood with head bowed, appearing to stare at his darkest, multicolored, tie-dyed T-shirt, and polyester, earth-tone, bell-bottom pants. Beside him, Aunt Gleda’s pink, purple, and green flowered muumuu flapped in the stiff springtime breeze blowing down from the mountains. Piper looked away from her aunt and uncle, only to see her own parents standing next to her, wearing their almost new Easter finery. She really didn’t want to see her mother’s hand-painted straw hat with the long, yellow ribbon flowing in the breeze.

Hamlin, Piper’s younger brother, shifted his weight from his right foot to his left foot and tucked his right foot up under his tan duster. Piper hadn’t bothered trying to tell him that April in Colorado was not the time for going barefoot. He wouldn’t have listened anyway. At least he’d come up from New Mexico for the funeral. He’d worn the duster, completely buttoned, through the entire funeral, viewing and all. It made him look like a flasher who’d stumbled onto a funeral, and was waiting for the right opportunity to ruin the proceedings.

After the casket had been lowered, the funeral director glanced from person to person, appearing to be at something of a loss. Piper tried not to come under his notice, but he’d latched on to her quickly as an island of sanity. Someone behind her nudged Piper hard enough to make her step forward.

She glanced back to see Aunt Nellie, her mother’s sister, making shooing motions.

From beside the funeral director, Grandma Dickerson’s brother, Feargus Ruffcorn – a tall, gray-haired scarecrow of a man – waved her forward. “He wants someone to throw the first handful of dirt onto the grave.”

Piper blinked and caught her breath to protest. “She was your sister. You should have that honor.”

Great-uncle Feargus patted her shoulder. “You go ahead, dear.”

She momentarily considered telling the funeral director that, once someone got them started, there was no telling what this crowd would throw in the grave. But she wasn’t in charge of handing out truth today. The sandy dirt trickled easily through her fingers to patter on Grandma Dickerson’s casket.

Great-uncle Feargus followed suit with dirt and a few dried wild-flowers. Everyone else took turns, adding poems, books, knickknacks, and faux jewels along with the dirt. The funeral director wisely didn’t say anything.

As per the instructions Grandma Dickerson had given Great-uncle Feargus, the party retired to Flannagan’s for the wake. Jorge directed them into a dark side room, away from the bar. In the side room all the green-tablecloth-covered tables had been pushed together to make two rows, each row surrounded by twenty bentwood chairs. The room overlooked the parking lot, not that much could be seen through the smoke-tinted square windows.

Even before everyone arrived and was seated, Jorge’s staff began setting plates of corned beef and cabbage with mashed potatoes on the tables, and pouring beer and ale into mugs. Jorge tapped Piper’s shoulder. “Water?”

“Yes, please.” Piper settled the napkin onto her lap and sipped her water.

Hamlin took the seat next to hers, but their parents sat across the room on the other row, next to Uncle Clem and Aunt Gleda. Piper’s view of her parents was blocked when her cousin Africa dropped into the chair across from her. Africa pushed her long, curly, honey blond hair back out of her pale blue eyes. Africa had acquired her name by being born in Africa while her parents were in the Peace Corps. “Hi, Lin. Hi, Pi. You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Africa’s husband, Sherlock Telfour, sat down. A visual contrast to his wife, Sherlock was a very dark skinned black man. Africa maintained it was love at first sight when he introduced himself in high school with the words, “My name is Sherlock. My father was a big fan of Sherlock Holmes. However, it means blond one.” His attention was on Uncle Clem, and the look on his face spoke eloquently of his disquiet. Piper could tell that Africa squeezed Sherlock’s hand under the table, for reassurance no doubt.

Sherlock glanced at his wife, then across the table. A look of relief and a hint of a smile crossed his face when his eyes met Piper’s. “Hi, Pi. Hi, Lin.”

United in a common bond, the dislike of their names, Piper wondered why none of the four of them had ever filed the papers to change it. Piper Pied. She’d always used the excuse of family loyalty to stop herself from changing her last name, but could never find an adequate excuse for not changing her first name. What was it with their parents generation that made them give those names to their children?

The room had filled with friends and relatives of the deceased, milling about, greeting each other, and gossiping. Great-uncle Feargus tapped his fork against an empty glass for attention. “Since everyone is here, go ahead and start eating. We’ll probably do the reading during dessert.”

Murmuring voices, laughter, the tinkle of ice against glasses, and the clank of utensils against plates filled the room for a while. The four cousins ate without speaking. At the top of their table, Great-uncle Feargus carried on a heated debate with Aunt Nellie on the overuse of special effects in movies to cover a dearth of plot, characters, and acting. Hamlin rolled his eyes. Piper almost wished for the days when they’d been relegated to a kids’ table in another room. She would have bet money Sherlock would have preferred it, too. He hadn’t known anything about Africa’s family when he was younger, and therefore wouldn’t have even been there. Piper always wondered if Africa had hidden her relatives from Sherlock until after he’d said for better or for worse.

They finished eating quickly. Sherlock leaned across the table to whisper, “I’m sorry we couldn’t make the funeral.”

“That’s all right.” Piper folded her green napkin. “It was rather windy and brisk. You can always visit the grave later.”

Hamlin pushed his plate away. “It’s too bad the law wouldn’t let Grandma be buried on her own property like she wished.”

Great-uncle Feargus tapped his glass again for attention. “As per Alfreida’s wishes we’ll have the reading of the will first, then anyone who wishes can take a turn telling a humorous anecdote about her or her life. She wanted to encourage all of us to laugh. She didn’t want her death to be a sad occasion. Personally, I think if that’s what she wanted, she should’ve made herself a mint to be dished out on her death, but she didn’t consult me on that.”

He paused for a scattering of laughter. “Alfreida was a good sister and a fun person, and I think we should all do our best to smile when we remember her.”

Opening his coat, he pulled a sheaf of papers from the pocket inside. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.” He settled his glasses better onto his nose, looked at the papers, sorted them, and cleared his throat, before reading. “Says here, Last Will and Testament of Alfreida Dickerson. Sound mind and all that legal stuff. Etc. Etc. Ah, here we go. The estate is to be settled out and divvied up as follows. All moneys from all accounts, investments, insurance settlements, and such are to be combined and divided into six equal portions. One portion allotted to each of my grandchildren: Gleda Van Kekwik, Tuesday Pied, Nellwyn Fletcher, and Evan Dickerson.” He smiled at Aunt Gleda, Piper’s mother, Aunt Nellie, and Africa’s father, in turn. “My brother, Feargus Ruffcorn, is to receive a double portion.” He grinned largely at that, shaking the papers. He took a deep breath and frowned, before continuing. “The house, because of certain preexisting legal agreements, is to be figured separately. The house, with its property and contents, is to be given to whoever throws the first handful of dirt onto my grave.”

Piper gasped. He had to have known in advance. Looking around the room, she realized several people knew in advance.

Africa leaned across the table. “Who threw ... Oh, no. Didn’t anyone warn you?”

“No. No one ever warns us,” Hamlin drawled.

Great-uncle Feargus smiled at Piper. “We have a few papers for you to sign.” He motioned for Aunt Nellie to take over. “You lead the wake for a while. I need to speak to Piper.”

Piper walked to a corner of the room with Great-uncle Feargus. The sound of Aunt Nellie talking followed them, but Piper didn’t bother distinguishing the words. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “So, what are the preexisting legal arrangements?”

“We wanted you to have the house.” He took her shoulders in his gnarled, age-spotted hands and leaned down to kiss her forehead. A little light filtered in through the tinted windows to make his gray hair appear yellowish. “We knew how much you loved books, what with being an unpublished writer and all. They really should be organized and cataloged. It’s a very picturesque place. Something right out of a story, really.”

Up close his green-and-orange houndstooth check suit made her head ache as much as his words. Picturesque probably should be translated as run-down, and her liberal arts degree hadn’t included any library science. She shuddered. “What are the preexisting legal arrangements?”

“You’ll be getting a fully stocked house. Furniture, utensils, linens, everything.” Great-uncle Feargus’ green eyes smiled down on her. “It’s a wonderful place for a writer. Perfect for writing. All you’d need is a part time job, if you kept the garden up and such. Alfreida got by on only social security.”

“The legal arrangements?”

“You can’t sell it.” He ran his gnarled hands through his hair, pushing it into new messiness. “Well, you can sell it, but at a terrible loss. See, when they went to build the suburbs around Alfreida’s house, she wouldn’t sell. Several of the builders were so persistent that she figured a way to get rid of them. She had legal papers drawn up and signed by herself and the largest builder. Basically the papers say that for twenty-five years from the time of signing the property can’t be sold unless it is to that builder, at the price he quoted her first.” Great-uncle Feargus sighed. “That was only eight years ago. And the papers are binding on her heirs.”

Piper blinked and stared, horrified. “You’re telling me I now own property I have to pay taxes and upkeep on, but can’t sell for at least seventeen years?”

“That’s about it.” He grinned. “You’re young, seventeen years will pass quickly. You’ll see.” He patted her shoulder again. “You have to sign some papers, then you can get settled in.”

Great-uncle Feargus wandered back to the table and took control of the wake from Aunt Nellie, who was leading everyone in an Irish drinking song. Piper remained standing in the corner. No job. No money. And now she’d inherited what had to be a money pit.

Somehow, she knew that no objection she could raise would work with her family. The house was hers now, like it or not.

Sitting in her car, in Flannagan’s parking lot, Piper looked through the papers Great-uncle Feargus had given her. Certain papers had to be filed with the county or state, others were hers to keep. There was a letter from Grandma Dickerson to whoever inherited the house. On one page of Flannagan’s stationary, wheedled from Jorge, Piper’s father had scribbled directions. That had been insulting. Piper remembered the way to Grandma’s house.

A bit of doubt crept in as she looked at the directions. She hadn’t seen Grandma Dickerson in six years; she’d been too busy with college and her life. She hadn’t been to Grandma Dickerson’s house in longer than that. They’d last seen each other at a Thanksgiving dinner, but Piper hadn’t been to Grandma’s house in years and years. It was too small to be a family gathering place.

The directions weren’t what she remembered of the route to Grandma’s house. She decided she’d find the house first, see what she’d need to get before she moved in, then see about getting her stuff moved over from her parents’ house.

Through college, and since, Piper had more or less lived a vagabond life, without any fixed address. Her stuff had simply piled up at her parents’, in her old room, stored more than used, except for a some clothes that went wherever she did. Her clothes were currently in suitcases at her parents’ house, a few mountain ridges west, since she was currently between homes.

A knock on the car’s window drew Piper’s attention away from the papers. Aunt Nellie peered through the window, waved, and opened the passenger-side door. She held a business card out to Piper. “Something else for you, dear. I talked with Mr. Martin Gumble, he’s the manager of Independent Books, he said if you want a job to be there at 3 P.M. sharp tomorrow, and be prepared to work.”

Managing a smile, Piper took the card and said, “Thank you.”

Aunt Nellie waved and left.

Piper sighed and turned the key. “Come on, baby.” The engine thought about it, coughed, and turned over. She drove the old, blue Chevy Nova out of the nearly empty parking lot and into the busy traffic on University Boulevard.

Following the directions took her into the northwest end of the city, into a newer suburb of two- and three-car-garage houses, of earth-tone brick and siding, with one staked-straight tree and five generic shrubs in each small green yard. Little children rode bicycles on the sidewalks and streets; older children played basketball with portable hoops in driveways. A jogger in brilliant purple and yellow waved at Piper from the opposite side of the road.

None of it looked as Piper remembered. Her memory supplied a narrow, pothole-filled road that rambled in and out, over hills and across a small stream. The road had been surrounded only by scrub and pine trees. Long ago, Piper had looked out at the tops of the hills to see the city below. Now she could catch occasional glimpses, only if the top of the hill coincided with the space between two houses.

At the end of a long cul-de-sac, Piper spotted a stand of old pines and scrub. A gravel driveway led into them. As she parked the car beside the small house and in front of the detached garage, she estimated that approximately one to two acres of pines and scrub surrounded the house like a fortress, blotting out the suburbs beyond.

In the center of the clearing sat a picturesque, tiny, Victorian gingerbread cottage. The house had always reminded Piper of a face; the two attic gables were eyes over a smiling covered porch mouth, the porch railing made the lower teeth and the gingerbread fretwork above made the upper teeth. The body of the house was the same pale pink it had always been, and brown shingles still covered the roof. But the white accents had changed. The rails and decorations were now painted in the vibrant colors of the rainbow.

It reminded her so powerfully of her great-grandmother that she had to catch her breath. Piper climbed the stairs to the front porch. Everything reminded her of her grandmother. Using the key, she opened the door. Inside the parlor, the familiar smell of books, old dust, mothballs, and lavender overcame her. She expected to see Grandma Dickerson walk through the door to the kitchen any moment. Tears streamed down her face. She stood in the doorway, crying, finally. After a while she composed herself, so that she could see to navigate the room.

Bookshelves lined all four walls. A window seat stacked high with newspapers and magazines protected the heavy gold brocade curtains at the front window. In the center of the room a low, small table nearly bowed under the weight of books on it. Three Queen Anne chairs surrounded it, holding their own stacks of papers. A conversational sat in the front corner of the room, covered in cloth-bound journals. A fainting couch rested under the side window, amazingly clear of anything but dust.

Piper negotiated her way through the chairs and table to the kitchen door. On her right in the kitchen a small corner housed the cupboards and stove. A sink and refrigerator held up the wall along the side of the house. A table with two chairs guarded the back door of the house. Books and papers covered all flat surfaces, and small bookshelves were placed throughout the room.

On her left was the door to the bathroom, which if Piper remembered rightly, had been half tucked under the stairs to the attic, making standing up from the toilet something to be done with caution. A glance confirmed her memory. A small, filled magazine rack clung to the wall by the toilet.

Next to the bathroom door was the bedroom door. Filled bookshelves on all four walls surrounded a floral canopied bed. Narrow walkways surrounded the bed and led to a small wardrobe tucked into the far corner. The window seat under the front window was clear but dust-covered, and Piper pushed the floral curtains back to allow some light into the room. She did the same with the curtains on the side window.

The yellow-and-red rose-patterned bedspread had no dust on it. The lace and frills on the pillows were starched and stiff. Someone had changed the sheets and tried to fix up a little for her. Piper suspected Aunt Nellie. Grandma Dickerson had died in the hospital, so Piper didn’t have to worry over any residual ickiness about sleeping in the bed.

Piper ignored the door leading to the attic stairs. She’d look up there later. She tossed her purse on the bed, and the papers and Grandma’s letter spilled out onto the bedspread. Sitting on the bed, Piper picked up the envelope. Opening it, she found a single sheet of lined yellow paper and read the faint scrawled script.

“To the new owner of my house: I know it’s small and may seem cramped, but if you’ll give it time, you’ll find a wonderland within its walls. The books have served me well, better than most people. There are hidden treasures in them, if you know how to look. Some of the neighbors may seem strange, and some of them truly are, but if you give them a chance, you may find they, too, are a pleasant surprise. Don’t form a hasty opinion, Dearest, of the house or of the people. Remember not to judge a book by its cover. I hope and pray you are as happy here as I was. Love, Alfreida Dickerson.”

After another good cry, Piper put the letter back in the envelope. It was good to know Grandma had been happy here. Piper wiped the last of the tears from her eyes. She tried to pull herself together; there was work to be done.

With a deep breath, she stood up, and headed out of the room, trying to figure out what she’d need to get to settle into the house. She started by looking into the kitchen cupboards, to see what she had.

A few old cans and boxes of food huddled in the upper cupboards. Piper figured she was probably only slightly better off than Mother Hubbard. In the lower cabinets, some old leaking cleaner bottles hid behind a fortress of books and magazines. She decided she’d be better off trashing everything in the cupboards and starting fresh.

Searching the countertops, she found a blank scrap of paper and pencil, and started a list. Dust rags headed the list, followed by food and cleaners. She wandered through the house, trying to think of what she’d need. By the time she finished her list, ending with toilet paper, the sun had started to set.

She drove carefully through the suburbs in the growing dim, trying to find landmarks in the sameness, so she could find her way back in the dark. It was near midnight when she made the return trip, with only her clothes and a few things from her list gathered at her parents’ house.

The sun, streaming in through the windows, woke Piper in the morning. She snuggled deeper into the softness of the bed’s old mattress, feeling the crispness of the starched sheets. After alternating a few moments between stretching and snuggling, she swung her legs out from under the sheets and set her bare feet on the cool wooden floor. She kept her eyes half-closed, the better not to see the dust and mess, and wandered into the kitchen.

She leaned on the counter by the stove, rubbing her eyes until she could focus on the scraps of paper with recipes scribbled on them. As she opened the cupboard door to look to see what she’d brought to eat for breakfast, the feeling that something was different gripped her. The tangled mess of recipes looked the same. The stove, the refrigerator, and the sink looked the same. The kitchen table was still covered with papers and junk.

But the handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed man sitting at the table hadn’t been there last night.

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To see cover photo and other art by Alan L. Lickiss go to:

http://cophotog.deviantart.com/

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