Wilma Wade Holiday Mysteries

CHAPTER 1

If there is one thing Miss Wade likes more than her evening walks, it’s the way the moon curves itself in her kitchen, staining the walls with startlingly beautiful precision. The only place where the moon makes a mark is her kitchen. Sometimes, Wilma will find herself there with the windows open to allow for the harsh light from the moon. Sometimes it makes her feel alive.

Her house is small, but she’s colored it a pale green to make it feel more personal. Outside, she’s made a garden with flowers that bloom at all times of the year. She likes this detail and how it makes her house feel like stepping into a different world. She’d bought it as part of her retirement. When her friends had tried to dissuade her, she’d pressed a finger into their sides.

It’s going to be wonderful, she’d told them. 

Aside from the loneliness sometimes, Wilma considers the move a wonderful one. Many years ago, she’d grown up near Barwick, Maine. It was only fitting that she came back after her retirement. 

Some days, when she walks along the sloppy trail, she feels connected to this place, like she was made specifically for this town. It’s the kind of connection that makes her want to curl up on a bench and cry, the kind where her entire body shares a stream of consciousness with the town and the strangers, and it feels like she becomes reborn every single time. 

Still, on the days when Miss Wilma forgets to take a stroll outside, and the moon bathes her kitchen with its eerie glow, she makes herself tea and tries to write. When she was younger, she believed she would become a brilliant writer one day. Decades later, Wilma writes the things she’s seen around town without the weight of being great. To her, the words matter, but behind the glaring words, the story and the underlying meaning sometimes make her clutch at her chest. 

Wilma has written a story about her fiancée who’d died during the Desert Storm Conflict. In her story, she paints him as an overgrown child because she can’t remember what it means to hold someone else’s dreams and love in her hands without crushing it. She does not title her stories and leaves them vague enough to make her question what other people might think if she lets people read. It’s a hobby now, and she likes it.

It’s almost Christmas, and winter has exhausted her, but Miss Wilma Wade enjoys the carefree moments alone at her home. When she gets the call from her cousin, Mrs. Martha Bowen, to spend the Christmas holiday with her, Wilma takes a second to envision herself away from her home. Martha and her husband live in a rather large house on Mount Acadia Island. And even though Wilma’s been planning a vacation, she hesitates, one hand heavy against the phone.

Wilma, dear? Mrs. Martha drags her words like she’s in a hurry. You should come here for a few days. My husband is gone to Boston on business, and I miss you.

Wilma sighs. Perhaps this is what she needs. I’ll be there then.

She hears the sharp intake of breath and then laughter that begins quietly before rising to a crescendo. Martha is excited, more than if she thinks about it, but she says nothing about how she feels like she’s betraying her home if she leaves. Instead, Martha clasps her wrists and laughs, too.

In the morning, she packs a small bag, arranging the clothes in order of color and her favorites. Miss Wade becomes conflicted over her shawls: the green one she’d gotten as an early birthday gift from her fiancée before he’d passed still looks just as new and beautiful. Then, there is the blue one she bought one day during her walks around town. Both remind her of a version of her trapped in someone else’s memories. Twenty seconds later, she stuffs the green one in as a sad attempt to have him close to her.

Martha calls her when she gets a bus and sits in a corner away from prying eyes.

It’s such a hassle, Martha says. Her voice sounds different today as if she’s stuffed her mouth with too many words and not enough time.

It’s nothing, Wilma tells her and looks out her window at the sun halved by the clouds in the sky. Snow has covered the streets, and as she stares out, she sees the wild stretch of white and immediately feels a sense of tranquility. I texted you.

When Martha hangs up, Wilma makes a mental note to tell her of the stoic expressions of strangers she’s met before and how their eyes have made marks on her skin. She’s carrying the weight of their eyes, memories, and hushed laughter under her skin like stitches. That’s what she wants to tell Martha when they meet. 

Three hours later, she finds herself at her door. Before she presses the doorbell, Martha has swung the door open. 

Oh, Wilma, she calls and wraps a slender arm over her neck. I’m so glad you could come.

She smells lavender and citrus, which is an odd combination to Wilma. Wilma compliments her creamy skin as they stand outside in the cold. 

Martha laughs and fingers her necklace. Come inside, dear. It is freezing out here, right?

Her house reminds Wilma of the places her fiancée used to like: the décor is warm and accommodating. Inside, it’s warm, contrasting to a cold she’s stepped away from. She peels her coat away from her body and hangs it on the coat rack by the door. 

Martha clasps her hands in front of her and smiles. She is standing in the middle of her large living room, one hand hidden behind her back. Behind her stand two dehumidifiers that have been added as an afterthought. Everything is arranged in a neat pile, with nothing out of place. There’s even a fire going in the hearth. 

What do you want? she tells Wilma like she’s speaking to a little child. I’ve got tea and some cookies.

Some cookies will do then, and maybe a cup of tea, Wilma replies and brushes past her cousin. How long ago had they seen it? A year or two? Wilma wants to apologize for all the calls she’s missed and all the excuses she’s piled up, but it seems like it isn’t the right time to bring up such issues. She trails a shaky hand over the framed photograph above the grate, her fingers finding the smiles tucked neatly behind the camera. In the picture, she sees Martha and her husband, Harry, and in her head, she wants to hide out the love she’s seen.

Behind her, Martha calls, Do you put a lot of milk in your tea? Tell me, I must have forgotten.

The years haven’t been good for us, Wilma drags the words out slowly so she can have something to hold on to. At seventy, there are things she’s forgotten and memories that still hang loosely. Without these small words, Wilma is unsure she’ll have anything to fill the silence with. 

She turns slowly and follows the voice away from the living room, past another space filled with paintings with no names, until she sees the kitchen. There is a kettle in front of Martha on the stove in the kitchen. Yellow and blue flames lick the sides of the kettle, and Martha giggles as she watches them.

From the door, Wilma wants to cry. Although both women have turned seventy with two months apart, there’s something annoyingly fragile about Martha. Wilma sees Martha as the sort of woman who has been too strong for too long and is failing dramatically to be ordinary. Martha still has creamy skin and wears a blue gown. Her socks make her look like a still painting of a ghost in a man’s body. 

Closer, Martha has saggy skin and wrinkles like scars along her cheeks and hands. She’s stooped too. Lord, Wilma thinks, they are both old.

Come in, Wilma, Martha says, licking her lower lips.

Wilma steps in fully and drags her feet along the hardwood floor. The kitchen is big and spacious. On the floor, the brown wood is a shiny and complex thing; a gentle reminder of having too much money too late in life. Wilma wants to ask her if she’s happy with everything, but Martha beats her to the question.

Martha says that they made a few changes. What do you think?

Martha’s children have moved away from home and are married. Wilma thinks she’s trying to fill the emptiness with too many things all at once, but then again, it could just be her. Martha has always enjoyed the wild side of life. Maybe what she thinks doesn't matter.

It’s beautiful, she says instead, and it isn’t much of a lie. The house is beautiful and better. It overlooks the Northeast Harbor and shorelines near Mystic Terraces. Are your children coming over?

Martha shakes her head immediately. The kettle whistles. She turns off the stove and pours hot water into two cups. You’d think we’d be more modern, but no. We still have a stove.

It’s a joke, right? That’s what Wilma wants to ask. But soon she finds that she’s holding out from saying things, and it’s not because she is scared. Old age brings out certain emotions and feigned growth. That’s her answer.

And your children? Wilma asks instead as she watches Martha make tea. 

Martha looks up at her, and, for a second, she wants to look away. In those brown eyes, the color of sunlight on a coffee bean, Wilma sees a kind of sadness that weakens her to the bone. 

Now that you mention it, I should tell you, she says. My children won’t be coming over this year. Since they moved out, Harry and I often spend our holidays in fancy restaurants. There’s even a B and B resort that feels magical, too.

Wilma nods her head and looks out through the kitchen window. Snow’s falling still. Nothing has changed, and she does not know what she feels inside.

CHAPTER 2

Wilma is halfway through her cup of tea before realizing something is wrong with the picture. The sadness she’s seen in her cousin’s tired eyes makes her edgy. She says, It’s unbelievable they wouldn’t come through. Can’t they spend a day with you?

Martha empties her cup in the kitchen sink and chuckles to herself. They sometimes come, spend a day and all. But this year, they won’t be coming.

Wilma says nothing. She’s never been married nor carried her own child, so perhaps she knows nothing of such things. 

Martha touches her earrings, twirls them, and glances at her feet. We could spend Christmas and Boxing Day together. Harry should be back by Boxing Day. It’s been a while since we spent time together.

Wilma nods her head. Her hair bounces lazily, staining her cheeks with a few strands. She uses a finger to push them back and looks at Martha’s hair. It’s shorter now, and she’s styled it into a French bob, leaving enough space for her neckline and that pearl necklace.

It’s entirely gray now, like mine. 

It’s nice, Wilma agrees with her.

Later, when they sit opposite the hearth, Wilma wonders if she’d meant the hair, the house, or the fact that she’d spent so much time with her cousin when she made that statement.

What do you like about Barwick? Martha asks. Don’t you get lonely?

And Wilma answers, Sometimes, yes, but most of the time, I feel genuinely happy. It’s a beautiful place.

I’d like to go there sometime, Martha says, looking at her fingers. Green veins have popped in her hands like silky tendrils, but she makes no move to hide them. I’ll visit you and check out the place when I’m free.

 Wilma knows it’s a lie. She can recognize lies from afar, and as the words curl up in the space, she can tell there’ll never be freedom for Martha. She knows that people like Martha never get the time to do anything except stay alive and call their children. She’ll never visit, she thinks.

In the morning, Martha knocks on her door and comes in. Wilma sees that she’s fully dressed in an oversized jacket and pants. She giggles as she sits upright in bed. Where are you headed so early?

Martha dips her hands in her jacket pockets and leaves them there. I’m heading into town for some Christmas shopping. I’ll be back in an hour or two. Will you be all right alone?

I can accompany you, though, Wilma says.

Martha shakes her head quickly. I’m in quite a hurry. Will you be okay alone at home?

Wilma slips out of bed and tiptoes to the window. In one swift move, she pulls open the curtain. Although the window is closed, she can see the white stretch of snow as far as her eyes can see. She turns around to look at Martha. I’m not a little child, she says. It tinged her voice with laughter. Go on. I’ll be fine, goodness.

Martha offers her a smile that feels genuine, and Wilma feels warmth when it comes to her. Later, when she’s all alone, she skips through the house. At every turn, she becomes enthralled with how spacious and neat it really is. Without overthinking, she can tell Martha has put much thought into the house arrangement. She likes it, likes how spacious and audacious the house is, but alone, she feels a quiet loneliness that settles in her chest.

Wilma becomes unclear about what’s expected of her in the room with the unnamed paintings. Does she make up names befitting the paintings or watch wide-eyed at the tantalizing mixture of watercolors? The first picture resonates more with her. In it, there are two manly feet in heels. Beneath it, there are words in French: tu appartiens quelque part. You belong somewhere.

She stares at it for long minutes, trying hopelessly to grasp the meaning behind the painting. In the end, all she gets is nostalgia for a life she’s