“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Once the front door closed behind me, I stood on the porch waiting for the return of reality. The old woman had led me into a dim realm of … what? Religious hysteria?
And I still didn’t know, not really, why she disliked me and Serena.
• • •
When we were settled at Ming Ho’s, Professor Cromwell asked, “How did it go?”
I shivered. “Does she talk religion with you?”
“Only to the extent that she wants me to read her the New Testament.” He sipped from a steaming cup of tea. “Is that what you mean?”
“No. I mean does she talk about going to meet Him, as she puts it, when her young face and body are returned to her?”
Flicking his napkin across his lap, he looked up. “Her young face and body?”
I nodded. “I know we’re supposed to get our bodies back at the end of time, but, well, she made it sound … I can’t even explain.”
“I should have gone with you. I’m sorry I talked you into the visit.”
“She wants me to come again tomorrow.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Whatever she has to say, I think she’d hold back if you were there.”
“That’s the whole point in my going—so she’ll hold back.”
“As unpleasant as it will be, I have to hear it.” He looked dubious. “It’s to do with my family. She hated her brother—my grandfather. That much is obvious. If I understand correctly, which I probably don’t, it carried over to Serena and now me. Anyway, I need to know the rest, even if it does mean listening to her creepy meditation about heaven.”
Sunday morning I wrote to the Schoonovers and Dora, enclosing affectionate greetings for Roland. Affection!—what a bloodless, milksop word. I smoked a cigarette on the balcony, then carried the letters downtown to the post office.
The day was bright and inviting, so I wandered till I found a little cafe off the square and took a seat by the window, indulging myself with a pastry and coffee. The sun shone warm through the glass, and I felt as lazy and cossetted as a cat on a sill. I kept a small book of Keats in my bag—bits and pieces, odes and sonnets—and as the cafe was not crowded and the morning was one for Keats, I took it out.
Opening it at random, I met these lines:
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.
Later, climbing the stairs to Aunt’s bedroom, I was glad for the hour I’d had in the cafe. Keats’s passion and sympathies had sweetened my mood and I felt ready to beard the beast. In the bedroom doorway, I straightened my shoulders.
“So you’ve come,” Aunt said, echoing the previous day’s greeting and opening her eyes. “Well, come in, then.” She pointed again to the straight wooden chair in the oriel. “Have you been to church?”
“No. I’ve come from coffee and pastry and reading poetry in a cafe.”
“Do you ever deny yourself pleasure?”
“Not if it doesn’t hurt anyone.” But did we always know?
“Sin is sin, whether or not it hurts people. It hurts our Lord.”
“By ‘our Lord’ you mean Jesus?”
“Who else would I mean?”
“I’m never sure when people say ‘our Lord’ if they’re referring to the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit.” How had we gotten into this?
“They’re all our Lord, but I’ve taken Jesus as my personal lord. We’re very close.”
“Does He talk to you? I mean, you said He assures you of His love.”
Aunt looked up at me with mistrust under half-lowered lids. Was my question some form of sophistry? If so, “Are you planning to marry Professor Cromwell?” she asked out of the blue.
“No.”
She nodded. “Just as well. He’s a cultured man.” She flourished another one of her handkerchiefs.
“I agree.” I shifted in the chair, gazing out the window at late November where a man across the street dug old leaves from under denuded shrubs. From the stuffy unreality of this room, he might as well have existed on another planet. “Tell me about Ohio,” I said.
“What about Ohio?”
“Where in Ohio? Columbus? Cleveland? I don’t know for sure.”
She coughed into her handkerchief, then struggled to rearrange the pillows behind her, buying time. I crossed to the bed, plumped the pillows, and handed her the water glass from the table.
Gathering her wits, she sighed, a deep, grum sigh. “Originally, home was Crawfordsville, east of Columbus. Known—not very far nor very wide—for the healing water and mud. A mucky little cave outside of town, closed up half the year. Desperate cases, one’s who’d tried better places without luck, came for a last crack at a cure.”
Despite the sounds in her chest, Aunt seemed stronger today, more focused. Though she paused frequently for breath, she appeared intent on continuing.
“My family had money. We weren’t much affected by the terrible war. In fact, Papa’s little factory was doing well.”
“Did my grandfather—Hiram—serve in the war?”
In a voice rich with disdain, she said, “No. An accident cost him his left hand. His own fault.” She laid her head against the pillows and closed her eyes.
I hadn’t known that my grandfather had lost a hand. “How old was he, when that happened?”
She opened her eyes, slowly, as if the question wearied her beyond my imagining. “Sixteen.”
“Did he use the healing mud?”
As before, something at the back of her rheumy eyes leapt out, then was gone. She hesitated. “I forget,” she said, fussing with the matelassé spread, smoothing it on either side of her thin legs.
I wanted to know more about my grandfather’s hand. It was a terrible thing to lose at any age, but especially at sixteen, when you were coming into your powers. Emphatically, I said, “It would seem natural that he’d use the healing mud.”
The mobcap threatened to come off as she shook her head. “You’re exhausting me,” she hissed, dismissing my queries with a wave of the handkerchief. “You’ll kill me.” She closed her eyes again.
“You told me that God’s the one killing you. He’s forging you in the fire.” I was goading her, and I was only a little sorry for it. “I want to know about my grandfather.”
I sat stubborn on the chair, waiting as slow minutes passed. Downstairs, a clock chimed three. In Aunt’s throat, phlegm wheezed. She probably expected me to leave, wanted me to leave.
At length she said, “I’m not obliged to tell you any of this.”
“Yes, you are. I’m family.”
“Not my family.”
“I’ll keep coming back until you tell me what I want to know.” I rose to go. “Why do you hate my grandfather?”
Without opening her eyes, she said, “Maybe another day. Maybe not. I don’t make promises.” She smiled expectantly. “Tomorrow, He may come for me.”
Once again I stood on the porch, filling my lungs with cool, cleansing air. The man across the street had gone indoors, and now a golden light shone from his front windows.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The following Saturday, when I arrived, Beatrice told me that Aunt was sleeping. “She took her medicine early,” she said.
Though a cold rain fell the next morning, I repeated the previous Sunday’s routine: a walk to the post office, coffee and pastry at the cafe off the square, and a return to Aunt’s. Once there, I followed Beatrice into the hall, handed her my umbrella, and mounted the stairs. Intensified by dampness, the odor in Aunt’s room was heavy and sweet-sour, as I imagined death smelled. The old woman appeared groggy and faraway, only lifting a hand off the spread to acknowledge me. When had she taken her “medicine”?
Crossing to the chair, I inquired, “How are you feeling?”
“Deathly sleepy.” Though mucose and labored, her voice was impatient. How did I imagine she was feeling?
“I won’t stay,” I said.
“Sit.” Imperious even in her torpor. “You wanted to know more, and I’ve decided you shall.”
“Your brother, Hiram, lost his left hand in an accident,” I prompted. “How did he lose the hand?”
Her glance was venomous, and I shrank from it. She sat up straighter, bony breast heaving with emotion. Her hand shook as she reached for the water glass. After she’d sipped, she slammed the glass back on the table, drops flying. I’d struck a nerve still raw after three score years.
Ignoring my question, she cried, “The story begins earlier—my story!” She struck her chest with a fist. “Papa came home to tell us he’d met a young man named James Jasperton. James had come from Connecticut hoping the mud would relieve a war wound he’d suffered the previous October, and Papa had invited him for dinner that evening. ‘The man was wounded at Ball’s Bluff,’ Papa explained. That had been a massacre of Union soldiers in Virginia.”
Perspiration stood out on Aunt’s forehead and clung to her brows. I rose to blot the moisture, but she brushed me away.
“After several dinners, Mama and Papa were so taken with Captain Jasperton, they invited him to move into our guest room while he was ‘doctoring’ at the cave. After all, the man’s a hero,’ Papa said.
“James was with us all that spring and early summer. He took a great interest in Papa’s button factory, often visiting him there. Perhaps he saw himself running it, years hence.” Pausing, she glanced with fondness at the picture of Jesus on the table.
“James Jasperton was courtly. Not so handsome as some but more prepossessing than most. We were all impressed when he related the dreadful scenes at Ball’s Bluff and what he’d endured there, including the gunshot wound. He tried to spare the ladies’ sensibilities, but I wasn’t shocked. Death and gore didn’t bother me. I wanted to know everything that had happened to him.
“He played the piano and had a marvelous baritone. In the evenings, we gathered in the parlor and sang sentimental songs. We were all smitten with James. You couldn’t help yourself.” Her voice was fervid but growing weak and thready. Eyes closed, she lay her head back. I wondered if, behind those eyes, she was seeing Jasperton as he had been. Downstairs, the hall clock struck the half hour. In the street outside, a child rolled a hoop through petering-out rain.
Just when I thought Aunt had fallen asleep, she said in a low voice filled with decades of regret, “As you may have guessed, James and I fell in love. We planned to marry, though we hadn’t yet told Mama and Papa.” Angrily, she hissed, “We should have eloped.” Then she did fall asleep. Suddenly and deeply.
I wasn’t done with Aunt. I sensed that we had come close to the heart of it. This was one last thing I could do for Serena—and for myself as well.
The next Saturday, as I took my place on the chair, I said, “Aunt, you haven’t answered my question. How did Hiram lose his hand?”
“Have the courtesy to let me tell my own story.” Despite mortal illness, the old woman could instantly call up anger. Her story, never Hiram’s.
“It was June. Mid-June. A lovely morning full of birdsong. Though his wound vexed him, James insisted upon walking the mile or two out to the cave. While he was there, I took the buggy for a drive. When I returned, I left it in the road in the event it was needed in the afternoon.”
So smoothly did her story unspool, so letter-perfect was she, I knew that Aunt had been rehearsing it, probably daily, since that long-ago June.
“Looking forward to mealtime conversation with James,” she went on, “Papa had come home to eat. Your grandfather, Hiram, was late returning from an errand to the post office. Then suddenly he was there, rushing in, breathless and wide-eyed, letting the screen door slam and holding his side as if he’d run all the way. ‘It’s James,’ he blurted. My heart seized. Had something had happened to James?
“Mama said, ‘Sit down, Hiram, catch your breath.’ Finally he told us he’d seen a wanted poster outside the post office with a picture that looked exactly like James. But the wanted man’s name was Jacob Johnson. He had killed a teller in a Missouri bank robbery gone wrong, and he had been wounded there. It wasn’t known if he’d survived.
“The moment Hiram finished his story, he took off for the cave. When he returned, he told us James had already begun the walk home, and fled across the fields when he saw Hiram coming.
“Papa threw down his napkin. ‘Hiding somewhere till the next train!’ he cried. He’d been duped and he was furious.”
Suddenly, Aunt was gasping and hacking. I half-rose but she put up a hand. I sat on the edge of my chair.
Even as she quieted, the rattle in her chest was louder. Eventually, she rang the bell sitting beside Jesus on the bedside table. When Beatrice appeared, Aunt asked for more water and her medicine. When this was done and Beatrice had retired, the old woman grimaced, putting a hand to her middle where her insides were consuming themselves. Still I waited.
After some minutes she asked, “Where was I?”
“James … Jacob had taken off when he saw Hiram.”
“Heartbroken, I cried out and ran from the table. Father tried to grab me, but I flew out the front door, Hiram close behind. ‘Bertie,’ he called, ‘don’t go.’ But nothing could stop me. I had to find James. We would run away—wherever.
“I jumped into the buggy and cracked the whip. Hiram screamed, but I didn’t stop. His hand must have caught in the spokes.”
I stifled a moan.
Flecks of spittle appeared at the corners of Aunt’s mouth. The bones and cords of her neck stood out like a delicate mechanical construction.
“You must rest,” I told her, crossing and laying a palm on her restless, flittering hands.
But she was not done. “Mama and Papa never forgave me,” she whispered. “‘You heard your brother scream,’ they said. ‘Hiram nearly bled to death, there in the dust, in the road. And for what? For a murderer!’ They wouldn’t see my side, my pain. Everything was about Hiram—but it was all Hiram’s fault, stupidly running into the road!
“Days of sitting at Hiram’s bedside, not knowing if he’d survive the infection, sickened them against me. They couldn’t look at me. Papa sold the factory and they moved to Columbus, but not before setting me up, away from them, here in Illinois.” She sighed. “I never saw James again. Hiram did me out of my love and my family.”
I stood at the foot of the bed. What could I say? Some things that are meant to be can never be? I understood the desperation of what she’d felt for Jacob Johnson, but her hatred of her brother—that I couldn’t understand.
Then she began to cough and couldn’t stop, her body convulsing with spasms. I went to her. Her breath was foul.
My God, how she clung to life.
On my final visit, she held to her breast the picture of Jesus, calling him James. Before I left, she motioned me to the bed. I bent close. “I wanted someone to listen,” she whispered. She was done with me.
I had served her purpose, someone who asked, someone who listened. And she had served mine.
Rest well, Serena.
• • •
As it transpired, the old woman had more days remaining to her than I’d have guessed. Despite her dismissal, I half-expected a summons, but I did not hear from her again, although memories of our sessions visit me in odd moments. Something about sin unatoned for.
The war in Europe ground forward. England entered on the side of Belgium and France. President Wilson was committed to American neutrality, but we held our collective breath. Professor Cromwell was convinced that we must inevitably be drawn into the conflict. “We’re like kissing cousins, we and the Brits. We couldn’t allow them to fall to the Kaiser.”
Dora wrote, “I worry about the war. Do you think Roland would go? What would I do?” I told her no, I didn’t think Roland would go. He had a farm to run. But the possib
ility of his going was worrying.
The year drew to a close, and the Lander house emptied as her young ladies headed home for Christmas. Even Mrs. Lander herself departed, leaving behind a box of homemade divinity for me: I don’t like to think of you alone at the holidays. Of course there’s the professor, but still …
The night before she left for St. Louis, June came by, whistling “Jingle Bells” and handing me a tin of her mother’s sugar cookies. “She sent them especially for you.” They were delicious but not so heavenly as the molasses ones from Emma.
The week before Christmas, I scoured the stores around the square searching for a gift for Professor Cromwell. Finally, at the stationer’s, I chose a pen and a box of elegant stationery, not unlike that on which he’d written me in Harvester.
Those few days alone in the Lander house, I imagined living in such a space with Roland—how we would decorate for the holidays, carrying in evergreen boughs and holly from the backyard. The rooms would smell of greenery and, when I baked, cinnamon as well.
More than once, I sat on the sofa in the living room and imagined Roland in the nearby armchair, reading. He would turn a page, look up smiling, then set the book aside and take my hand, leading me up the stairs. In this way, I drove myself mad.
Professor Cromwell invited me to Christmas dinner at Ming Ho’s, the only open restaurant for miles around. “For orphans and strays,” the professor said, and it was a full house of orphans and strays under the cutouts of Santa and Jesus and angels and deer and camels and kings and President Wilson and Abraham Lincoln cheek by jowl with the Chinese villagers and cloud-capped mountains on the walls.
Ming Ho did not serve alcohol, but Professor Cromwell and others had brought bottles of wine or flasks, and Ming Ho turned a blind eye as pots of tea were laced with rye. When we had emptied the tea from our cups, Professor Cromwell poured white wine into them, joking, “I suppose I might be accused of leading a young lady down the garden path.” He raised his cup.
“After a long day of feeding threshers,” I told him, “we would occasionally indulge.” I lifted my cup and sipped. “I have already set foot on the garden path.”
Ruby & Roland Page 16
