A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Two

 (Scroll down for Chapter One)

Later that evening TP went into his guest bedroom and looked around. Twin bed with a red coverlet, night stand, dresser, closet, desk beneath the north window holding a globe atlas and a gooseneck lamp. The overhead light shone through a frosted glass pentangle with pale butterflies floating across it. Two book shelves held his collection of Audubon books and another shelf displayed three oriole nests, a dead locust - how did that get there? - a piece of driftwood, shells, fossils and a jar of dried grasses. He supposed those things could stay, but the Lord of the Dance poster above the bed would have to go. It would surely be frightening to a child. TP was half afraid of it himself. The god Siva was an imposing figure, half male, half female, with a huge headdress and many arms waving about. One leg was raised, the other stood firmly on an evil-looking dwarf. Who wouldn't feel uneasy sleeping beneath it?  

TP hadn't had an overnight visitor for ages, other than Madeline, but she was different. That girl was fierce enough to stare down Siva any day. He made a mental note to call her and see how her finals had gone. She'd just finished her first year of art classes at the university. 

The poster could go to the lab. What else? Should he change the sheets? He swiped at the windowsills, checking for dust. The scenery outside the east window was blocked by a large cypress tree, but the larger north window had a pleasant view of his big back yard and garden and a small copse of pine trees beyond. A wax myrtle hedge hid his neighbor Glady's house to the west. A necessity, really, because Gladys was a snoop. 

He loved his hedge for other reasons too. Wax myrtle was a host plant for the red banded hairstreak butterfly. Many insects visited the nectar-filled flowers in spring, and the fall berries attracted vireos, warblers, tree swallows and bluebirds to name a few, and gave them winter shelter. 

TP ran a dust cloth over the shelves, vacuumed, then stood debating. A sudden inspiration had him rummaging through the large hall closet. He unearthed a much worn book of children's poetry kept from his childhood and, at the bottom of a musty box, his old teddy bear, faded and lumpy but still intact. Did six-year-old boys still play with stuffed animals?  He beat the bear against his knee to dislodge the dust, put it on the bed, took it off, put it back on, then put the poetry book on the night stand. That would have to do.

If only he could get himself in line as easily. Here he was, doing little chores and pretending to be a normal person while inside his soul the dark Thing twisted and turned. He dared not give it a name, even though he knew what it was. If it remained nameless, he could keep pretending it wasn't there.

By six a.m. the next morning TP had showered and dressed in his usual duds - an old pair of black dress pants and a white shirt. Wearing the same thing every day made life simple. If he went out he wore a newer pair of pants with a black suit jacket; if the occasion was fancy, he added a vest and tie.

Next he started the garden sprinklers. June fourth and already it was hot and muggy with no rain for the last week. TP grew lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, strawberries, onions and herbs, and a large patch of flowers for the pollinators.

Back inside he fixed breakfast - coffee, an orange and some of Gladys' oat bread topped with nut butter and cucumber slices (his favorite vegetable, he ate them with everything). He cleaned up the kitchen, then paced the floor, staring out the window every few minutes even though Evalda couldn't possibly arrive before eight unless she'd left at five-thirty a.m. She lived in Philadelphia, a good two hours away from his modest, ranch-style home in Cheswolde, a quiet neighborhood in North Baltimore, not far from the Johns Hopkins Homewood campus where he'd taught for thirty-some years.

He finally settled at the kitchen table with the latest copy of the Bay Journal and lost himself in an article on marsh grasses. At eight-twenty he looked out the window to see his sister striding up the sidewalk pulling a wheeled suitcase and clutching a large grocery sack. She wore a slim navy skirt, a cream colored blouse with cap sleeves and blue polka dots, and taupe slip on shoes. Her silver hair swung seamlessly against her shoulders and those ridiculous cat eye glasses hung from a chain around her neck.

Behind her trudged a small, pale boy wrestling with a back pack and a large furry cushion. His skinny legs poked out of brown shorts cinched up with a belt, and above that he wore a tan knit shirt, half tucked in, half hanging out of his waist band.

Bringing up the rear was a brown and white basset hound, bobbing along on crooked legs, tail aloft, ears dangling on the ground as he sniffed his way up the walk.

Harold tripped on the cushion and almost went sprawling, and TP hurried out to help. Evalda handed him the grocery sack and offered him her cheek, which he dutifully kissed.

"You need a haircut," she said. "Harold, this is your Uncle TP."

Harold gazed up at TP solemnly, taking in his great uncle's 6'2" height, his unruly shock of salt-and-pepper hair, his hawk-like nose and sharp blue eyes.

TP looked down as Harold looked up. Were all six-year-old boys so small, or was Harold a midget? He seemed so vulnerable standing there with his bowl cut brown hair, pale skin and blue eyes. Freckles dusted his nose and his cheeks were flushed from sun, or effort, or both. He had inherited the largish Dunlap ears, TP noted. An unfamiliar emotion flitted through him.

"Ah, yes, well, hello Harold," he said in a hearty voice. "I met you once, but you were only a baby. You've grown since then." What a stupid thing to say.

"Hello." Harold turned around and grabbed the basset hound's collar, pulling him forward. "This is Archie. Do you like dogs?"

"Certainly," said TP, holding his hand out for the dog to sniff. The saddest eyes he'd ever seen gazed into his. Oh my.

"Help him up the steps," Evalda said, "he's a little stiff from the car ride."

TP put down the grocery sack, slid his arms around the dog and hoisted, staggering under the weight. Good grief!

"I thought you said it was a little dog." He'd been picturing a terrier or poodle.

"He's barely over a foot tall, that's not very big."

TP shook his head. Her logic bewildered him. "He must weigh close to 80 pounds, Evalda, that's not small."

"Nonsense. Sixty eight pounds at most. You're out of shape. Help us get the rest of the gear in."

The next half hour was a flurry of activity supervised by Evalda. She sent Harold out to the back yard with Archie, then whirled through the kitchen like a dust devil, inspecting the cupboards, drawers and refrigerator, sniffing and poking and peering, dumping what she considered unsuitable down the garbage disposal.  TP barely saved his latest batch of fermented chili paste.

"Egads, TP, this is covered in mold! You can't possibly eat it." She made to dump it but he snatched it out of her hand.

"It's not mold, only harmless yeast. You scrape it off before eating. Peppers do that." He put it firmly back in the refrigerator and hid his jar of homemade sauerkraut behind a loaf of bread.

"Don't you dare give Harold food poisoning. Lord knows what else you're eating. I've brought some things from the deli, and Harold's favorite crackers. What's this?"

She scrutinized the contents of a Tupperware container.

"Crab pithivier with scallop frangipane," TP said smugly.

Evalda raised her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you're taking a cooking class."

He smiled. "We'll be having it for lunch, with tossed salad and strawberries, if you'd like to stay." He would dearly love to let her think he'd made it himself, but honesty won out.

"My neighbor Gladys cooks."

"Oh?" Evalda's expression turned speculative. "How old is Gladys?"

"I don't know, fifty something, I guess."

"Is she married?"

"Widowed." 

"Are you dating her, TP?"

"Heavens no!"

"Why not? She's obviously angling for you. No one cooks crab pithivier unless they're trying to impress. You should take her out."

"Mind your own business, Evalda." 

"I want to meet her sometime."

Not if he could help it. Evalda on her own was one thing, but she and Gladys together? It would be a tsunami.

"Show me where Harold will be sleeping."

TP took her down the hall to the guest bedroom. She checked the closet for spiders, ousting three in brutal fashion. The dead locust went into the waste basket, as did the dried grasses.

"Dust catchers. Bedrooms should be as free of dust as possible."

Her eye fell on the bed. "Really, TP," she said, lifting the ancient teddy bear by its ear. "Is this the best you could do?"

"Yes, on less than twenty-four hour's notice."

"It's filthy!" She pitched it into the waste basket and moved on, circling the room and reciting a list of instructions: Harold's bed time, meal times, suggested activities. Sun screen was a must; Harold burned easily. Archie needed a daily walk of at least a mile, two if possible. No snacks. One or two dog biscuits, period.

TP's head was beginning to ache. Finally he herded her back down the hall. She stopped as they passed the door to his lab.

"What's in there?"

"My lab," he said, blocking the doorway. "I keep it locked." No way was she setting foot in his sanctuary.

"What are you working on?"

"An alchemical formula."

"What's it for?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," he said vaguely. The tone of his voice had Evalda putting on her glasses and looking him up and down.

"Something's off about you, TP. I can't put my finger on it, but I knew as soon as I heard your voice on the phone. You're not coming down with a virus, are you?"

If he said yes would she take Harold and the sad-eyed dog and go away?

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

If she only knew.

"Everything's fine," he said.

"Maybe you should try a parasite cleanse. Do you still spend so much time in the marshes? If so you're exposed to all sorts of microorganisms."

He was saved from answering when Harold and Archie came in the back door.

"I found a toad." Harold held it up for inspection.

"That's wonderful, dear," said Evalda. "I'm sure you'll find all sorts of things here." She gave TP a look.

"Come give Grandma Evie a hug. I've got to go now. Your mama has Uncle TP's number and I'm sure she'll be calling. You can call me any time you want. Don't forget to brush your teeth."

Finally she was gone. TP took a deep breath and looked down at his small charge.

"Let's take the toad out to the garden and look for strawberries."