Just as Susan Trevally was deciding how to gracefully flee, the impact of the cottage captured her. She stopped and, uncharacteristically, stared.
It seemed to be constructed directly on the ground with numerous windows and an intriguing slope to the roof. The right corner was a porch that was not a porch, a room that was not a room but a combination of both with the wooden floor turning into flagstones and weathered bricks, the bricks leading up toward the main house, the flags down toward the lane gate. Two chairs, a tiered table, stack of books and a cat were on the wooden floor part. Through the window behind the table she could see what looked like a den or possibly bedroom. In the corner of the alcove were two split doors but on second glance she could see that one of the doors was actually a window. Both upper halves were open. The doors and windows were red cedar but the floor looked like old oiled fir. The house itself was narrow planks stained a golden cinnamon.
Harold did not hurry her from her gazing.
“It’s, quite – amazing,” she said at last and led by his outstretched hand she walked from the rock and brick onto the floor and then into the cottage. She immediately halted again and half-turned to him with an apologetic laugh, “Sorry, but you must be used to this reaction.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
She could see now that the roof lines let in light and offered a view of sky and tree tops; she had to look twice to make sure there was glass in them. Her estimation shot up another notch or two and she wondered who on earth had come up with such a design.
“I did,” Harold answered her thought, “the hard part was to get someone to execute my plan. What a word – such awful associations – to signify bringing about something of beauty.”
She ignored this second flight of word speculation. She was not done with looking. The area in front of her was all windows, paned ones, with real wood dividers, not plastic. To the right was a curved wall – curved! - with an arch through which she could see a kitchen, again with more windows. The entire wall seemed to be made of trees, not twigs like the gate and fence, but real trees.
She looked at him for an explanation. “A woodlot being cut down for development. My brother rescued it for me and dried it and then helped me install it. That was many years ago and it has not done all the things people told me it would do.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, you know, bugs, warping, sap seepage, limited appeal. I have never grown tired of it.”
Through the door to the right she could see that it was indeed a bedroom with some sort of carved wooden bed and a spread of what looked like – she took a second look, - t-shirts.
Harold laughed. “Please feel free to look – yes, it is t-shirts. Collected by my wife and eldest daughter starting, oh, maybe ten or fifteen years back, and putting -, what do you call that puffy stuff – ?
“Batting?”
“ – yes, batting, into them and stitching them all together into a quilt.”
Susan shook her head slightly at all this. It didn’t fit into any neat slot in her orderly mind.
“Come and sit down.”
He placed them in the wing chairs turned toward the windows. A rug in uneven blocks of magnificently earthy colors covered the fir floor under the chairs and Susan admired it as she lay down her purse.
“A friend of ours back in Ontario did that.”
“Is it woven – no, it looks stitched.”
“It is. Gros point, another wrongly descriptive word.”
Susan bit back saying that if he pronounced it right, ‘grow’ not ‘gross’, it would not be inappropriate. Instead she said, “These chairs remind me of the Empress, the lobby.”
“Bang on!” he chuckled. “That’s where they come from. Bought them at a sale when they were doing those renovations. I used to spend some worthwhile time sitting and thinking in that lobby before they turned the whole area into a tea room. I was so happy to acquire a tangible reminder of those days. Like marbles in my pocket.”
Susan thought she could follow this train of thought so did not dismiss it but smiled.
“Some tea?” he was asking. “It’s Japanese lime from the tea store on Fort Street.”
“Please.” she said. “And then let’s get on with it,” she thought but did not say.
“Then we’ll get on with it,” he echoed her words. She had a shot of discomfort at his seeming to know what she was thinking.
He poured the tea from what looked like a workman’s thermos into pottery cups and saucers. She declined lemon or sugar or honey and noted the delicacy of the cup. Clay breathing porcelain.
“Now we can start. I understand from our phone – “
“Grammppppppaaaaaa. Graaaaaammmmmmpppaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Harold put down his cup, strode to the door, went out into the outdoor room and in a surprisingly loud voice yelled, “What is it, Melanie?”
The child’s voice called something back which Susan did not catch.
“I’m working. Where’s your grandmother?”
Then he came back into the house, said excuse me to Susan, picked up an intercom phone and pushed a button. Then, “Thickest floors this side of the Rockies.” He spoke into the phone. “Melanie has managed to raise me with her shouts from the attic when she couldn’t make you hear downstairs. I’ll have to talk to her about leg power as well as voice power.” He sounded amused and Susan did not think it was presented for her benefit.
“See to her please. Yes, I am in consultation.” He ended with something that sounded like “Arbunzo.” She wondered what language that was.
“Sorry about that,” he said as he settled back into his chair and picked up his cup. She wondered if he were English or had lived in England. Canadians didn’t know how to enjoy tea comfortably from easy chairs with a table at just the right height. She abhorred coffee tables; they were only suitable for stretching legs out to and putting feet upon – if no one else were about.
“Now, tell me why you have come.”
She looked at him, took another sip of the excellent tea, put her cup down, thought, well, here goes nothing, because it was an unusual situation.
“My daughter is being stalked by her former husband and she doesn’t know what to do about it.”
“I see,” Harold said and sat holding his cup in front of him in both hands like some kind of offering. When he didn’t immediately say anything but held to that absurd posture Susan asked somewhat snappishly, “Do you think you could help?”
“I hope so,” he answered, still holding the cup aloft after taking a sip of tea.
Something about the supplicant position clicked in her mind. “Oh my god,” she thought but said, “You’re not that psychic, are you?”
She was rather aghast at the possibility. What had Agnes gotten her into.
“Oh, likely,” he answered which was not at all encouraging or enlightening. He was finding himself annoyed with parts of this woman. He had a few times in his career reacted so strongly against someone that he had had to admit it and most of the time the relationship had ended then and there. Perversely, once it had not and the outcome was very successful. He felt in this case it was simply a personality clash that he could keep subdued, not close down around.
“I have heard that there is someone in town who solves problems by reading auras or some such thing.” Her voice left nothing to guessing as to how she felt. Oh well, if it was rude, at least get her feelings out into the open and let her get out of here. Maybe he would defray his fee as the time spent being within testing limits.
“I can’t see auras,” he told her, and sounded a bit regretful. “People say all sorts of things about me and how I work but I don’t use cards or read palms or count the bumps on your head. I can be quite conventional. My training is in western medicine and psychology so I have the book learning but I am not licensed to practice as either a doctor or psychologist.”
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“Too restrictive,” he told her simply.
“Well then what do you do? I mean how?”
He felt disinclined to explain, wanted to simply put on a take-it-or-leave-it-look, but he took in a deep breath, felt for compassion, found it, and went on, “I use all that book knowledge, of course, and try to keep up to date with new thoughts and findings in those fields. I have a wide network of professional people who I can call on. For myself I go by feelings. I have my greatest successes when I can let go of the mind and listen to what the body tells me.”
She was feeling most uncomfortable with this. Her face showed it for he said, “I could give you references, you said your friend had recommended me. But how about we discuss the situation for a bit and see where it takes us. I – I won’t charge you if you are not satisfied after we talk.” He had never been at ease discussing money.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter – “ she started to say but then realize it did matter, his fee was hefty, so she added, “Well, thank you very much.”
“Not at all. Since I appear quite unorthodox many people have initial reservations and I am glad you have expressed them.” He was. He could cope with humanity, hers and his, given a chance.
He finally put down his cup and she felt a barrier had been removed. She had an instant thought that maybe he was unsure of his clients, at first, as well, and that he felt better as a session progressed. The idea made her feel more kindly toward him. He turned in his seat to face her directly.
“Why is your daughter’s husband stalking her?”
“He’s crazy.” Her eyes narrowed.
“What would he say his reasons were?”
She stared. “Oh, I see what you mean, well, I guess he’d say it’s because the marriage broke up and he didn’t want it to.” She would have thought this was obvious. Maybe he didn’t deal in the obvious which seemed a detriment to her at first, followed closely by the thought that it didn’t seem anything this man did was ordinary.
Harold was twisting his fingers slowly together and she wished he would stop. Really, he had the most irritating mannerisms.
“Are there children?”
“Ye-sss.”
He caught the hesitation and now raised his eyebrows at her, dominant ones.
“That isn’t an issue,” she hastily assured him.
“How can they not be?”
“Graaannnnnnpaaaaaa” came the child’s voice again and Harold ‘s twisting fingers clenched so they shone white but the call was not repeated and he relaxed again.
“How can they not be an issue?” he repeated. “There must be custody agreements.”
She touched the corners of her mouth with her thumb and fore- finger. “Well, yes, that is part of the problem. I suppose you’ll say he’s justified, then.”
“I didn’t say that. Custody of children is almost always a problem. Custody of pets can be. I’ve known people to be moved to bizarre behavior over houseplants.”
Susan felt he wasn’t about to leap in judgment so she offered more. “The children are an issue, yes, but I don’t think it’s the only reason. He didn’t want the marriage to end.”
Harold’s finger twisting had become less annoying and almost soothing to her sight.
“Why did it?”
She shrugged. “Why does any marriage end?” she asked but he got the impression she just didn’t know.
“Is there another man involved?”
“No!” Susan looked shocked.
“Is her husband a reasonable man? Did you find he was normally understanding when you knew him under less stressful circumstances?”
Her lips twisted into a disclaimer but she felt she should be fair. “Yes, he was. But not lately.”
He poured out more tea. “This was the thermos my father took to work every day.”
She didn’t care what his damned father did or didn’t do; she just wanted to get on with this. To feel the knot in her stomach over it all ease.
“I’ll need more details,” he told her. “I would like to tape the conversation.” She sighed and gave a bit of a nod as permission. He asked the most extraordinary questions, seemed to latch onto areas no one else would think of. She felt rather exhausted when they were finished and as if she had exposed everything she could possibly know to him. If she had given pieces of a puzzle well good luck to him in trying to piece it all together into a picture that would solve anything!
Finally he said, “That’s all for now.”
“Well, fine,” she said, reaching for her purse and then rising. “When will I hear from you?”
“I have to think about all this for awhile. Then I’ll be in touch and we will take it from there.”
There was nothing she could do and nothing she could say so she walked to the door and out. He followed.
“Thank you for the tea,” she said politely and as they walked onto the flagstones he reached out and gently touched her arm. “I know it seems strange, this way of going about it, but I have been effective in the past with domestic disputes and I don’t doubt that I will be now. I need time to take this all in and see what comes back out. I’d say don’t worry but this seems foolish – of course you are worried – all I ask is that you have a bit of trust for the time being and I will do my best not to let you down.”
He took his hand off her arm. He had the most reassuring touch and she felt oddly comforted, like the time the nurse was giving her a needle, which she hated, and instead of telling her to relax-this-won’t-hurt-a-bit, had taken a moment to just rest a hand on her hand and say, “Needles can be scary at any age,” and she had relaxed.
He pointed out the lane and suggested she come that way next time, it being closer and easier, and mentioned the little alcove where she could park. She did peer into the windows of the kitchen as she walked past the house this time and there seemed to be a number of people there but only a child paid her attention.
Susan got in her car and started on the drive home, the feel of his touch still on her bare arm. She realized how much she missed being touched now that her husband had died. She missed it when he was alive, she admitted to herself, but then at least there was the potential of reaching out to someone and having physical contact. Now she missed the chance as well.
Putting that train of thinking aside as being too painful she thought about Andrea; she was not going to say a word to her daughter until she heard from him and had something definite. He had asked many questions about herself, Susan, as well. Which she found surprising. She was purely an onlooker in all this, a well wisher.
After she had left, Harold walked up to the main house, dropped to his knees just inside the kitchen door and with palms in a prayerful position and raised dramatically, he implored, “Please, please, please, do not, not, not disturb me when I am working.”
Polly said, “Sorry,” as she had many times before, even though it was not her fault. Melanie, the guilty one, non-contrite, said, “Grandpa you are totally crazy.” Harold bared his teeth at her, got up off his knees and sat down at the table.
“What’s the problem with her title?” he asked Polly .
“You never mentioned it to her?” Polly clenched her teeth at him.
“Of course I did.”
“What title? Who?” Melanie wanted to know.
“We’re talking business, smooge,” Polly told her. “Be patient for a bit and then you can tell gramps about what we are going to do tomorrow afternoon.”
“You never suggested I not mention it.”
“I certainly intended to. Something must have interrupted.”
“So, what?” he inquired, aware of ears on even a six-year-old pitcher.
“Talk of her husband having bought it.”
“No wonder she wasn’t pleased.”
“What’s a title and where do you buy them?” Melanie wanted to know.
“You know what a title is, it’s what a book is named,” Polly told her. “And you can’t really buy them, that’s just a grown-up way of saying things.”
“I know,” Melanie assured her, “I’ll understand-when-I’m-older.”
“Ex-actly! Now tell Gramps where we are going tomorrow.”
“Where is everybody?” Harold asked before she launched into the telling. Melanie was never short-winded.
“Sera’s gone home, Melanie is staying the night, Josephine called to say she will drop by again later, she has something to discuss”
She looked at Harold. He gave a quick grin. “One up-manship,” he revealed. “A father with five daughters needs that occasionally that a female will confide in him first.”
“Now can I talk?” pleaded Melanie.
“Go to it.” And she did.
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