Pish Posh

by Ellen Potter

  “What do you want to speak to him about?” Annabelle asked suspiciously.

  “Just about ... a woman,” Clara said evasively.

  “What woman?” Annabelle asked sharply. “Is she rich? Do you want him to steal something from her? ”

  “Annabelle, can you just put him on?”

  Thankfully, Mr. Arbutnot took the phone out of his daughter’s hand and asked Clara what he could do for her.

  “I can’t hypnotize all people,” Mr. Arbutnot replied to her question. “They have to be willing, of course. And some people just seem to resist it naturally. But yes, I can hypnotize most people. ”

  In the background, Clara heard Annabelle wail, “Don’t encourage him, for cripes’ sake!”

  “Would you be able to hypnotize someone who doesn’t remember who she is?” Clara asked.

  “Someone with amnesia, you mean?” Mr. Arbutnot sounded intrigued. “Hmmm. I’ve never worked with an amnesia case before. I’d be willing to give it a whirl.”

  “Do you think you can hypnotize her in her home?” Clara asked. “Today, maybe?”

  “As a matter of fact, my afternoon’s clear. Where does she live?”

  Clara gave him Pish Posh’s address, which he repeated. In the background she heard Annabelle yell, “I hate you, Clara!”

  “She doesn’t really,” Mr. Arbutnot said.

  “I know,” Clara replied.

  It was early afternoon and Pish Posh was empty—no staff, no customers. The tables were all covered with crisp white linen and set with gleaming silverware. Everything was still and quiet.

  “So this is the famous Pish Posh restaurant?” Mr. Arbutnot said, looking around. He seemed a little disappointed. “It’s not quite what I expected.”

  “It looks different when the people get here,” Clara explained. Even to her eyes, though, she could see that the restaurant lacked its usual dazzle. She hated to admit it, but without the customers, the restaurant looked pretty ordinary, just like any other nice restaurant in New York City.

  Clara led Mr. Arbutnot up the kitchen stairs and pounded hard on Audrey’s door with the side of her fist.

  “Take it easy there, sport,” Mr. Arbutnot said, looking at her askance.

  “She won’t hear otherwise. ”

  The door opened and Audrey appeared with a sketchbook under her arm and clutching a stick of charcoal. She gazed at Clara, squinting a little through her glasses, then confusedly over at Mr. Arbutnot.

  “If you’re here to fire me again—” Audrey began.

  “This is Dr. Arbutnot,” Clara hastened to reply. Well, it wasn’t quite true that he was a doctor, but close enough, Clara reasoned. “I brought him here because I think he might be able to help you. ”

  “Help me with what?” Audrey frowned, squinting from one to the other. “Anyway, I have a doctor. ”

  Dr. Piff. Of course, Clara realized, Audrey didn’t know. Clara lifted her glasses and propped them up on her head. It was the sort of news that you couldn’t give behind a pair of large dark sunglasses.

  “Dr. Piff died, Audrey,” Clara said. “A few days ago. He had a heart attack.”

  Audrey’s lower lip dropped a little. She turned and sat down in her rocking chair by the window. In silence she dropped her sketch pad and charcoal on the floor beside her—a quick, sad gesture. A gesture of defeat.

  Clara looked down at the sketch pad. All you could really make out were vague blobby figures and a long tubular shape, which Clara guessed was the old elm tree. For a while the only sound in the room was the uneven bumping of the rocking chair as Audrey rocked, staring blindly out the window.

  “Did Dr. Piff tell you about me, then?” Audrey asked finally. There was a note of resentment in her voice.

  “Dr. Piff never told me anything about you,” Clara said, which was true, after all. “But there’s this. ” Clara opened Ms. Blurt’s book to the painting of St. Theresa and put it on Audrey’s lap. Audrey looked down at it, and then brought the book close to her face to see.

  “Oh!” she exhaled softly. “I haven’t seen this in so long ...” As she turned the pages, her face flushed and a smile touched her lips, stretching the scar on her chin upward a bit. It transformed her momentarily. She looked beautiful and unearthly, like a goddess who, much to her amusement, had been plunked down in a musty little room without knowing why. Clara could suddenly see why Caleb Fizzelli had been so quick to strike his deal with her all those years ago. Mr. Arbutnot, too, seemed struck by the woman in front of him. He stared at her, blinking quickly, as if the sun, which was now slowly creeping by the window, were toying with his vision.

  Finally, Audrey closed the book and looked up at them. Her smile had vanished.

  “I’m tired,” she confessed.

  “We should leave you then,” said Mr. Arbutnot.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean ... I’m tired of life. I know you can’t imagine such a thing. My body is young, but my soul is old.” Her eyes flitted around the room, as if she were seeking something that her dimming vision could not find. “I suppose there must have been a time when things were different. When I took pleasure in the feel of the sun on my skin or the crunch of snow under my boots. When I laughed easily at silly things. But if I ever felt like that, I can’t remember, so what good is it to me?”

  Clara understood. She understood so well, in fact, that for the first time in her life—or at least the first time she could remember—her heart actually ached for another person. She looked over at Mr. Arbutnot anxiously.

  “What do you think?” she asked him. “Can you help her? ”

  “The sooner we get started,” he said, pulling up an armchair near Audrey’s rocker, “the sooner we’ll find out.”

  “Ready?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

  “Do I have to close my eyes?” Audrey asked uneasily.

  “Only if you want to.”

  She did, and then Mr. Arbutnot began.

  “Imagine that you are floating on your back in the middle of a lake, on a warm sunny day . . . , ” he started. His voice was calm, soft. “Your body begins to sink beneath the water, slowly, peacefully. You have no trouble breathing. As you sink deeper and deeper, you are moving backward in time: yesterday, the week before, the year before, way back, year by year ... ” He went on like this for some time until Audrey’s eyes opened abruptly.

  “We’ve hit some turbulence,” Mr. Arbutnot said quietly to Clara.

  “Is that bad?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “On the contrary.” Then he said, “Tell me what you see, Audrey.”

  “Don’t call me Audrey,” Audrey said, with some annoyance.

  “Isn’t that your name?”

  “No. I gave myself that name later, much later . . . ”

  “What’s your real name, then?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

  “Theodosia. Theodosia Pender. You may call me Miss Fender.”

  “Miss Pender, where are you?”

  “Right here, of course. ”

  “I mean, where do you live?”

  “Right here,” she said impatiently. “In this house. Where else would I be? ”

  “My apologies. What are you doing this evening?”

  “I’ m to have a party. ”

  “And what will you wear?”

  Audrey smiled. “The loveliest blue velvet gown trimmed with satin of a deeper blue. It was made in Paris. What do you think? Isn’t it charming? ” She had not moved a muscle, but there was great animation in her face.

  “It looks terrific on you,” Mr. Arbutnot said.

  “I know it does. Do you think I’m conceited?” she asked archly.

  “No, just honest,” Mr. Arbutnot replied.

  “Exactly! Most people are horrible liars. Look how well the dress goes with my necklace. It makes the diamonds shine beautifully.” She touched her neck, which was bare. “My mother gave this necklace to me before she died. My father is dead, too, as I’m sure you know.”

  “No, I did
n’t know. Please tell me about your party, Miss Pender. ”

  “Dull, dull, dull! But I find most people stupid in general. ”

  Clara blushed. Miss Pender sounded a little bit like Clara herself. She wondered for a moment if Audrey was making fun of her.

  “Is she really under hypnosis?” Clara asked Mr. Arbutnot. He nodded and put his finger to his lips.

  “We are all in the parlor,” Audrey continued. “Some people are playing cards while one man is playing the piano and singing a ballad. Everyone is talking about the same dreary things: about the shameful way that pigs are allowed to roam the streets of New York City. About the woman who was murdered in her room on Clarkson Street, and how Regency hats with their ostrich feather are all the rage, and blah, blah, blah. ”

  For a moment Mr. Arbutnot seemed confused.

  “Miss Pender, what is the date?” he asked.

  “The sixth of September. ”

  “And the year, Miss Fender?”

  “1812.”

  Mr. Arbutnot smiled. “Ah.”

  “Someone new has just come in with my cousin. A young man. My cousin introduces him to me as Frank Ploy. He is tall and slim and dressed in an elegant yellow waistcoat, knee breeches, long boots, and a white ruffled shirt. His face is handsome. But somehow ... rough.

  “ ‘Miss Pender,’ he says when he greets me, ‘your cousin has told me so much about you that I insisted upon meeting you.’

  “‘Oh?’ I glance wryly at my cousin, who has now turned very red. ‘Did my cousin tell you that I am rude and intolerant, and that though I am terribly wealthy, I have managed to frighten away every young man in New York City through my bad temper? Is that what he told you?’

  “I expect Frank Ploy to hem and haw, but he looks at me straight in the eye and says, ‘Yes. And much worse, too.’ Then he smiles, and I like him instantly. What do you think of him? ”

  “A very likable fellow,” Mr. Arbutnot agreed.

  “Yes, exactly. Very likable. My cousin leaves us to mingle with the other guests. Frank Ploy looks at me and smiles.

  “‘Already I can see that we have much in common,’ he says cheerfully.

  “‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  “‘We are both scarred,’ he says, indicating the scar on my chin—an old injury from a boy who threw a rock at me when I was a child.

  “‘But I see no scars on you,’ I reply.

  “Then he extends his right hand toward me and makes a fist. His knuckles are covered with small silvery scars, as though a crazed seamstress had sewn it willy-nilly with fine silver thread.

  “He tells me, in a quiet voice, that he was born under the very poorest conditions, and as a young boy became a bare-knuckle boxer on the streets of New York. He was very good, I suppose, because he managed to make money. Quite a bit of money. He fought in England and France and eventually grew rather wealthy.

  “‘I can never forget who I was,’ he says, ‘because it is etched across my fist.’

  “At first I am alarmed to hear this. That means he is not one of us, regardless of his beautiful clothing and fine manners. Yet, as we speak further, I begin to think that although he isn’t my equal, he may perhaps be better than my friends and me, because we have done nothing to earn our wealth, and he has struggled so hard for his.

  “Every now and then we are interrupted by someone who wishes to chat with me. It’s annoying, as I have no interest in them, and to escape from their attentions, I ask Mr. Ploy if he would like to see the garden while there is still some light outside.

  “He readily agrees, and I take him to our little courtyard. We walk around the garden while we talk and talk, and finally sit beside each other on a bench, surrounded by beautiful asters, which have only lately begun to bloom—starry lavender, blue, and pink.

  “‘They were my mother’s favorite flower,’ I tell him. ‘She planted masses of them while she was ill. To remind me of her each year. She gave me this necklace, too, right before she died. She wanted me to wait till I was married to wear it, but because I am the most sharp-tongued, cold-hearted woman in all of New York, I decided it would be silly to wait.’

  “‘Funny,’ Mr. Ploy says, touching my necklace briefly and looking at me with great seriousness, ‘I am tremendously fond of ladies with sharp tongues and cold hearts.’

  “We talk until it grows so dark that even the bright asters fade into the shadows. When we return to the house, I find my guests have all gone. Oh, I’m certain my disappearance will be the talk of the town for weeks to come, but I don’t care!

  “When we part, Mr. Ploy wonders if he might visit me again the next day. I should refuse, shouldn’t I?”

  “Well, that depends upon how you feel about him, Miss Pender,” Mr. Arbutnot replied.

  “You may call me Theodosia now that we know each other better. ”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Arbutnot said graciously. “How do you feel about him, Theodosia? ”

  “I like him,” Audrey said firmly, her face glowing. “I allow I have never liked a person so much in my life! I agree to see him again tomorrow. Are you terribly shocked?”

  “Not in the least,”

  “After he leaves, I rush up to my bedroom and lean out the window to watch him as he walks down the street. In the yellowish glow of the streetlamps, I can see him walking slowly yet with purpose, holding himself straight—not like so many of the men I know who pretend to be rakes, and slouch and swagger.

  “It is when I ready myself for bed that evening that I discover my necklace is missing. I look everywhere for it, then wake the servants and entreat them to search as well. It is nowhere to be found. How perplexing! I think back to when I last knew the necklace was around my throat. Then I remember—it was when Frank Ploy touched it, in the garden. Oh.” She placed a hand against her stomach and winced. “I feel sick suddenly.

  “I can’t sleep that night, I am so consumed with the problem. As the hours pass, I grow more and more convinced that I have been the victim of a swindler. I’ve heard about such men before. When he touched my necklace in the garden, he might have cunningly cut it with palm clippers, a thing I have read about in the newspapers. By the morning, I can no longer lie to myself. I know that Frank Ploy is a thief. He flirted with me and flattered me so that he might steal from me! He made a fool of me. I cannot tolerate that! You understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Arbutnot said.

  “As soon as I am dressed, I go directly to the constables and tell them what has happened.

  “A few days later, on my way to the milliner to have a hat made, I glance at the front of a newsboy’s Evening Post and see Frank Ploy’s face on the front of it. The headline reads, ‘Man Arrested for Stealing Jewels from New York’s Most Prominent Young Heiress.’ The article says that he is also suspected of murdering the woman on Clarkson Street, because he lived in a boardinghouse nearby and jewels were also stolen from her room.

  “I am shocked. He was in my house. Alone with me. He might have murdered me as well. ”

  “You were lucky, Theodosia,” Mr. Arbutnot said solemnly.

  “I know.” Audrey stopped here, and it seemed as if she were finished. But then her hand rose up to her chest and her breathing quickened.

  “Is she okay?” Clara whispered to Mr. Arbutnot. He nodded shortly.

  “What is happening now, Theodosia?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

  “Today is the day that they are to execute Frank Ploy. He will be hanged from a tree in Washington Square Park at noon. Not for murder—they failed to convict him on that charge. But the punishment for theft is harsh. And rightly so! The city would be full of savages otherwise.

  “I am keeping myself busy around the house, checking to see that my silverware is polished, that my pantry is full, that my porcelain is dusted. Anything to take my mind off what is to come. But as it grows closer to noon, I can hear the crowds gathering in the park.

  “From my bedroom window, I have a clear view of Washington Squa
re Park, as well as the elm tree from which they hang criminals. They call it the Hanging Tree. Oh, there are so many hangings from that elm! Men, women. They always hang them from the same branch, that very thick one there.”

  Clara took a quick glance out the window. Indeed, there was the tremendous elm tree—the one that Clara had always been mesmerized by—with a branch that was thicker than the others, jutting out like a stern hand, saluting the city. Beneath the tree was the little artist who had offered to draw Clara’s portrait, working away on a sketch of a woman who was sitting in a folding chair by his easel.

  “I open the window and lean out. A crowd of people is milling around, waiting for the hanging to start, as if it were a show. There is even a woman selling oysters to the spectators. I can see Frank Ploy now. He is being marched from Newgate Prison on Tenth Street to the park. His hands are tied behind his back, but I notice that he still holds himself as upright as possible. I feel a pang as I catch a glimpse of his face, pale but firm. I remind myself that he deserves his punishment, no matter how severe.

  “They haul him up a set of stairs to a wooden platform. Above, a rope is lashed to the tree limb, with a noose dangling down. Parents are lifting up their little children to get a better view—how can you bring a child to such a thing? A few words are said to Mr. Ploy—I can’t hear them from here—and the hangman puts Mr. Ploy’s head into the noose. I can’t watch, it’s too horrible. I look away, dropping my eyes so that they look down at the street below my window.

  “What is that?” Audrey cried suddenly, her eyes wide. “Down there. What is that?!”

  “What do you see?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

  “Oh, no! Oh, no!” She was breathing hard now and shaking her head.

  “Theodosia,” he said. “Theodosia! What do you see?”

  But Audrey did not seem to hear him anymore. A sheen of sweat had broken out across her face, and she was making a small, whimpering noise.

  “What’s happening to her?” Clara asked Mr. Arbutnot, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.