by Jane Langton
The hats had been a great find. It was an entire boxful, unopened since the 1950s. Maud Starr had bought the whole thing for a song from an impoverished old lady milliner. There were pillboxes, toques, beanies, snoods and tiny chapeaus with feathers. Maud had priced them top dollar. They were going like hotcakes.
But right now business was slow. Maud passed the time of day with her friend Sally on the phone, keeping a sharp watch on the passersby on the sidewalk. A lot of women paused to study the hats. One of them excited Maud’s interest. She said, “Whoops, Sally, gotta go,” and snapped the phone shut.
It was a stranger, a smartly dressed woman in a green coat. Maud watched her gaze at the hats for a moment, then move out of sight.
The coat! Surely it was the very same green coat that had been bought a couple of months ago by an interesting man named Leonard? So interesting that she had followed him up the hill? Since then Maud had tried a couple of other ruses, hoping to snare the guy’s attention. So far they had failed.
But here was a possible new connection, the coat. Leonard must have given it to this strikingly handsome woman.
Maud bounded out of the shop, hurried after the woman and pulled at her sleeve. “Oh, excuse me,” said Maud. “I couldn’t help noticing your coat. I think it was in my shop.” She waved at the pretty hats in the window. “I think I sold it, this very coat, a few months ago. Am I right? Did someone give it to you?”
To some people, Maud’s aggressive curiosity might have been offensive. To the woman in the green coat, it was not.
She whirled around and gazed eagerly at Maud. “No, but there was another one. They were on sale and I bought two at the same time. I gave one to my niece. Did you get it from her?”
“No, no, I didn’t see who brought it in. But I know who bought it and took it away. It was a man.”
“A man?” It was Maud’s turn to be grasped by the arm. “What man? Did you get his name and address?”
Maud was surprised, but she was delighted to plunge deeper into this fascinating mystery. “Leonard, that’s his name. And he lives”—Maud pointed—“just around the corner on Sibley Road. Number 24, an old house at the top of the hill.”
Mary and Homer Kelly had once been acquainted with Maud Starr. They had thought of her then as a bird of prey, a vulture, a snake. She was still a snake. Here on the sidewalk on Huron Avenue there were now two coiled and poisonous snakes, swaying their narrow heads and flicking their forked tongues. One was preparing to strike.
56
When the doorbell rang, Eloise Winthrop rose slowly from the sofa. She was not feeling at all well, but the thought of a visitor cheered her up.
She was almost too late. Frieda had started down the porch steps when Eloise opened the door.
“Oh, my dear,” called Mrs. Winthrop, “do come in.”
Frieda turned back, smiling. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Winthrop. I’m on my way to Mount Auburn, but I couldn’t resist stopping by to thank you for the other day.”
“Dear child.” Mrs. Winthrop fluttered after her into the house. The front hall was dark, but a flicker of sunshine glowed on Zachariah Winthrop and his Zulu warriors. His safari helmet was effulgent. Frieda smiled up at him as she followed her hostess into the sitting room.
“Do sit down.” Mrs. Winthrop picked up a blanket from the sofa and tossed it aside. “I’m sorry it’s so untidy. I was just having a little nap.”
“Oh, did I wake you up, Mrs. Winthrop?”
“No, no.” Eloise sat down carefully, while Frieda sank into an upholstered chair across the room. “You’re visiting your uncle this morning?”
“Not exactly.” Frieda jumped up and dragged a straight chair close to Mrs. Winthrop—there was something about the old lady that invited affection. “I want to climb the tower.”
“The tower?”
“The tower of Mount Auburn. Remember, I told you it was like one of the pieces in a chess game?”
Mrs. Winthrop put her hand on her breast, feeling the faint rapid beating of her heart. “A chess game?”
The rook, Mrs. Winthrop, the rook in the Escher print called Metamorphosis, the little tower on the bridge to the beautiful city. “Do you play chess, Mrs. Winthrop?”
“Oh, no, dear. Zachariah tried to teach me, but I couldn’t understand.”
“Well you must have seen the pieces. They have funny royal names. The piece like a horse’s head is the knight, the ones with crowns are the king and queen, the little tower is called the rook, or the castle.”
“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Winthrop’s smile was angelic.
Frieda quelled an impulse to kiss her. “Are you going to visit your husband this morning, Mrs. Winthrop? Won’t you come with me?”
“Oh, no, dear. Perhaps I’ll walk down a little later.”
But when the next visitor came to the door and sounded the buzzer, bzzzt-bzzzt, two whole hours had gone by. Mrs. Winthrop was still lying quietly under her blanket. With difficulty she heaved herself to her feet and went to the door.
What a surprise! Mrs. Winthrop gasped, “Why, Mrs. Fell!”
Kitty stared at her suspiciously. “I do not believe we have met.”
“Well, not really.” Mrs. Winthrop giggled. “But in a way we’re neighbors. In the cemetery.”
Kitty was still frowning, failing to understand.
“Narcissus Path,” explained Eloise. “I’ve often seen you there, Mrs. Fell. My husband’s grave is just above you on Willow Avenue.” She pointed at the photograph on the wall. “He was a very distinguished anthropologist.”
Kitty did not turn her head to look at the picture. She continued to stare at the dotty old lady. Coldly she said, “I’m looking for Leonard. Is he here?”
“Leonard? Oh, no, I think he’s gone out.” Mrs. Winthrop knew very well that Leonard had gone out. She had heard his step on the back stair and she had waited with the steaming kettle in her hand, hoping to hear a knock.
There was a pause. Mrs. Winthrop felt a kindly concern for the strain in the woman’s face, the nervous twitching of her hands. With natural graciousness she pointed to the precious things in her husband’s collection and explained the two-stringed tamrong from Cambodia, the prayer wheel from Nepal, the Kwakiutl totem pole. Then with a heavenly smile she turned back to her visitor and said, “Your little boy. You often visit him.”
The animal faces on the totem pole bared their teeth at Kitty. Staring back, she thought of her bitter grudge. “Why, yes. Yes, I do.”
“And a young relative of yours comes too, Frieda, such a darling girl, bringing flowers for her uncle’s grave.”
Kitty woke up. She grasped Mrs. Winthrop’s arm and said sharply, “Frieda? You’ve seen Frieda?”
“Why, yes, dear Frieda. She was here just a minute ago. She stopped by on her way to the cemetery. She wants to climb the tower.” Mrs. Winthrop’s heart quivered in her breast. “You see, it’s like a chess piece. She explained it all to me so nicely, the knights and castles and kings and queens. She said the tower is like the castle.”
“Oh, my God.” Kitty gaped at Mrs. Winthrop, then whirled and started for the door, stumbling on the tiger rug, grasping at the hookah and falling flat. The hookah crashed to the floor with an echoing clang.
“Oh, my dear, are you hurt?” Mrs. Winthrop helped Kitty up, and said kindly, “I’m going there myself, to visit Zachariah. Won’t you share my taxi?” She made a deprecating gesture. “I know it’s silly of me. I usually walk because it’s so near. But today I think I’ll call a cab.”
57
Once again the Goodyear blimp floated over Mount Auburn Cemetery.
“Pretty dull down there today,” joked the pilot. “Nobody committing suicide.”
“Kind of empty, matter of fact,” said the co-pilot, staring down at the paths winding among the spreading canopies of the trees. The spring flowering time was over, giving way to the fresh green leaves and emerald lawns of early summer. “Where is everybody?”
“Weekda
y today. Everybody’s at work.”
“Nice afternoon though. Hey, there’s a taxi. Imagine taking a cab to visit a tombstone.”
“You got anybody dead yet?”
“Me? Heck, no, I’m only twenty-two.” The co-pilot kidded the pilot. “You’re an old guy. How about you?”
“Oh, sure, my grandparents. Memorial Day, that’s when we go. Pay our respects once a year.”
It was true that the burgeoning garden of Mount Auburn was nearly empty of visitors on this lovely afternoon in late June. But a bunch of children from a day camp trailed after their counselor along Cypress Avenue and gathered around the sphinx. An amateur photographer wandered along Central Avenue, looking for interesting graves. He snapped the tower of boulders dedicated to the memory of Brigadier General Jones and stared into his viewfinder at the marble dog guarding the Harnden monument. Near Halcyon Lake a birdwatcher knelt in the bushes. He had heard a report of a peregrine falcon. His binoculars were at the ready.
And two women came in a cab. They were Eloise Winthrop and Kitty Fell. While Eloise paid the driver, Kitty took off, galloping up Central Avenue.
Mrs. Winthrop called after her, “Oh, Mrs. Fell, do you know the way to the tower?”
Kitty merely loped up the hill, panting. She did not turn her head.
Mrs. Winthrop looked after her, a little disconcerted. There had been something strange in her companion’s fierce silence in the taxi, and now there was something even stranger in her lunging ascent of the hill. She was pursuing her niece, that charming young woman called Frieda.
Walking slowly along Beech Avenue, Mrs. Winthrop could not stop wondering about it.
Settled at last in her comfortable encampment beside Zach’s grave, she lifted her face to the exquisite summer air and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she was stretched out flat on the grass. Why, she must have dozed off for a minute. Turning on her side, she could see straight down the little hill—past the azaleas, past the trunk of the beech tree, past baby Patrick’s grave—all the way down to Narcissus Path, where she was not surprised to see her tenant pacing up and down.
She called to him, “Leonard, dear.”
His white face looked up at her in a dream. Slowly he climbed the little hill, following the procession of black-clothed mourners who were carrying their small casket on their bowed shoulders. When they swept silently past Mrs. Winthrop, Leonard stopped and bent over her.
Her face was ashen. She sat up and leaned against her husband’s tall stone, her hand on the front of her dress. “Leonard, you told me—”
Leonard knelt in front of her. “Yes, Mrs. Winthrop?”
“You told me you were interested in that nice girl—” Mrs. Winthrop paused, looking puzzled.
“In Frieda? Yes, yes, I am.”
Her attention strayed. “Oh, look, dear, there’s the peacock.”
Leonard glanced at the long dark shape stalking past the Lowell monument in the direction of Oxalis Path. The peacock moved like a chicken, jerking its head and pecking at the ground.
Mrs. Winthrop had been thrown off course. Wistfully she said, “I wish it would—”
Leonard was not interested in the peacock. “Mrs. Winthrop,” he said urgently, “you were talking about Frieda.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me.” Mrs. Winthrop clapped her hands feebly. “She’s here. She’s on her way to the tower.”
Leonard was thunderstruck. He started up and stared wildly at the treetops rising to the south.
“Wait, wait.” Mrs. Winthrop crouched lower against her husband’s gravestone. She was gasping for breath. “Her aunt—”
“What? Her aunt? Go on, Mrs. Winthrop, go on.” Leonard reached out and took her hand. The poor old lady looked so ill. “Mrs. Winthrop, are you all right?”
She looked up at him with a smile. It was the same smile that had won the heart of Zachariah Winthrop, so long ago. “Oh, yes, dear, I’m quite all right.” But then her expression changed to a look of alarm. “Leonard, I think you should—it’s Mrs. Fell, you see. Frieda’s aunt is following her, and I think perhaps—”
Leonard turned away and began to run. At once the dark procession blocked his way. The long parade of mourners was taking its time crossing Willow Avenue. He had never seen so many marchers in the solemn parade, so many crouching figures ascending and descending, going around and around.
He was confused. Which way had he been going? The veiled woman at the head of the procession was turning back, she was looking directly at him. He could see her eyes through the black haze of her veil. She was beckoning with her black-gloved hand.
At once it was clear to Leonard that she knew the way. Gladly he nodded and followed her, becoming part of the procession. She walked ahead of him, her veil lifting and flowing, the men bearing the casket plodding soundlessly behind him, their black shoes rising and falling. Around they went, around and down, then around and up again.
It was a Moebius strip of course, he should have guessed it before. Oxalis Path along the shore of the lake twisted once on the way up to Willow Avenue, then flowed smoothly around and around.
There was no escape. Leonard marched uneasily, trying to remember what it was that he had been trying to do. They went around once, twice, three times. They were parading along the shore of Auburn Lake for the fourth time when Leonard heard someone call his name.
58
Why, Mr. Bates, you startled me.”
It was Barnabas Bates, the founder of cheap postage. “Letter for you, Mrs. Winthrop,” he said politely, holding lout a creamy envelope.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Bates.”
“Invitation to a garden party,” confided Mr. Bates, slapping his bulging leather bag. “She’s invited everybody.”
“Who has, Mr. Bates?” said Mrs. Winthrop, eagerly opening the envelope and slipping out the pretty card.
“Mrs. Gardner. Down there on the lawn in front of her place. You know, beside Auburn Lake. You’d better hurry, Mrs. Winthrop. They’ve already lighted the Japanese lanterns.” Mr. Bates strode away to deliver more invitations. Over his shoulder he called back something about triangular sandwiches.
Yes,yes, the invitation was for this very afternoon. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late.
Mrs. Winthrop struggled to her feet and made her way across the first half of the loop of Willow Avenue, and then the other. Oxalis Path was steep, but already she could hear the happy sounds of the garden party. Cautiously she made her way down, clinging to twigs and branches.
At the bottom she stopped to take a shaky breath and calm her racing heart. It was so exciting! There was the little stone bridge across Auburn Lake, and there was Mrs. Gardner herself on the other side, her long skirt trailing on the grass. She was holding out both hands.
“Welcome, my dear,” called Mrs. Gardner, laughing. “Welcome to the other side.”
Overjoyed, Eloise hurried across the bridge. The party was in her honor! Gently Mrs. Gardner took her arm and introduced her to the other guests. “Mrs. Winthrop, have you met Mr. Longfellow? Do you know Mrs. Farmer? Oh, Fanny, dear, your triangular sandwiches are so delicious.”
Eloise was entranced. The Japanese lanterns glowed orange and pink, green and blue. Mary Baker Eddy was there at one side, holding court in a crowd of men and women, all beautifully dressed. One was Senator Sumner, so handsome and youthful in his black frock coat. And look, there was Harold Edgerton snapping pictures, his flash bulbs sparkling on and off. And oh, someone was bowing to her! Mrs. Winthrop beamed at Joshua Stetson as he swept off his ten-gallon hat.
So many guests! They were all talking cheerfully, holding their delicate teacups and nibbling at their sandwiches. Near the wide-open door of the Gardner mausoleum stood Buckminster Fuller, cracking jokes with Oliver Wendell Holmes. And who was that handsome officer in blue? Surely it was Robert Gould Shaw? Even the Mountforts were there, so charmingly triangular. What a splendid gathering of distinguished and important people!
And then to her astonishment Mrs. Winthrop saw a familiar person on the other side of the lake.
It was Leonard. There he was again, right there on the other side of the bridge, looking at her doubtfully.
Oh, but he must join them. He must come to the party. He must be one of them, here on the other side.
“Leonard,” cried Eloise, “cross the bridge! Leonard, dear, cross the bridge.!”
She saw him hesitate, but then her attention was distracted by the peacock. How delightful! It was poking through the shrubbery and strutting among the guests, the perfect final touch to this most perfect of all garden parties.
Smiling with joy, fainting and dying, Eloise dropped to her knees. But Zach was coming, striding across the grass, stooping to embrace her.
And look! Look at the peacock! It was spreading its tail in a splendid fan of green and gold. At last!
And therefore Mrs. Winthrop did not see Leonard tear himself away from the procession of mourners and race across the bridge. She did not see a second Leonard, a backwards reflected Leonard, brush roughly past him.
Leonard was free. The Escher transformations had all reversed themselves, the spiral whirlpools had gushed the other way, the double mirror had released him and engulfed his spectral twin, the endless staircase had sprung a trapdoor, the imprisoning crystal had been smashed—and the ends of the two-dimensional miracle that Frieda had called bewitched, the Moebius strip, had flown apart.
Their two fantasies—Leonard’s and Mrs. Winthrop’s—had mingled into one.
59
Frieda stood on the parapet at the top of the tower on Mount Auburn’s highest hill. Around and below her the green hills land valleys were dotted with graves. Beyond the encircling road a pair of obelisks rose narrow and tall. Above her hovered the Goodyear blimp, voyaging in the mild soft air.
