by Alan Finn
Only she was scowling at me.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said, “but are you leaving?”
“I am,” I replied.
“Why so soon?”
“I’m feeling unwell. I’m afraid I need to go home at once.”
Her response was surprisingly indignant. “You look perfectly fine to me.”
“I can assure you, miss,” I said, “that I am nowhere close to being fine. The same could be said about the rest of the men in there.”
“I know,” the woman replied. “All of us know that. And, I must say, it’s very rude of you to leave after so many people put so much work into trying to help you. Why, did you even have a piece of cake?”
I stared at her a moment, blinking incredulously. “Cake?”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly rambling. “There’s a divine chocolate cake that Mrs. Tracy baked herself. And a lemon cake. That’s from Miss Cecilia Hughes. I brought a cinnamon cake, although I can’t take credit for baking it. Our cook did that, but I asked her to make the best one she possibly could because it was for men like you.”
Rather than finding it endearing, her stream of words only furthered my foul mood. By that time, I had had my fill of stuffy rooms, of forced cheer, of pretending that the horrors of the war had never happened. Listening to the girl babble caused something inside me to snap.
“Do you really think cake, cinnamon or otherwise, will help men like me?” I asked. “You can’t begin to understand the things we’ve witnessed. I have seen friends, standing at my side, struck down by bullets that could have been meant for me. I have seen men turned to pulp by a single cannonball. I have seen them bite through chunks of wood two inches thick as a field doctor sawed through the bones of their leg. So, miss, despite having witnessed all of these things and despite having to see them again in my nightmares, you think it can all be forgotten with a dance or two and a bit of dessert?”
If the young woman had been hurt by my tone, she didn’t show it. Indeed, she displayed no emotion as she took a step forward and said, “No, sir, I don’t think that. I understand you all have been through a terrible ordeal and that many of you will never recover from it. I also understand that whatever we ladies do, it will never be enough to properly repay you for the bravery you have shown. I know all of these things. Yet I still see no reason why that prevents you from enjoying a piece of cake.”
Her response, so naive yet filled with logic, caused me to do something I hadn’t done in months—I laughed. It erupted from the pit of my stomach, loud and boisterous, the sound and sensation at once foreign yet familiar to me.
“Are you mocking me?” the woman asked.
“Not at all,” I said, clutching my stomach. “I’m agreeing with you. There honestly isn’t any reason at all why I shouldn’t be able to enjoy some cake.”
She gave me the once-over, eyes scrunched in confusion. “So . . . would you like some?”
“I would love some.”
She led me back inside, where I had a piece of the cinnamon cake she had brought. After that, I moved on to the lemon cake, followed by a slice of Mrs. Tracy’s chocolate one, which was indeed divine. In total, I ate four pieces of cake, not because I was hungry—I was, in fact, making myself sick—but because I was afraid that if I stopped, the lovely girl next to me would lower her cake knife and leave to convince some other fellow to remain at the dance. But she stayed by my side, even after I forced down my final slice of dessert. Then we danced, the cake sloshing uneasily in my belly. When the dance was over, I asked the girl her name.
“It’s Violet,” she told me. “Violet Willoughby.”
“I’m Mr. Edward Clark. And I must say, Miss Willoughby, that it is a great pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Clark.”
“Forgive my boldness,” I then said, “but could I ask for permission to call on you sometime?”
“Of course you can,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for you to ask that since your first slice of cake.”
I came around to her house a week later, then the week after that. Soon I was making the journey across the Schuylkill River each Friday night and Sunday afternoon, with a few additional visits during the week. I found myself lighter in Violet’s company, and much happier. Even Barclay noticed it and, after a few months, told me I should consider marrying her. I took his advice to heart, proposing to Violet in front of her parents’ house on Christmas Eve as snow drifted from the sky and melted against her tear-stained cheeks.
“You’re very quiet this afternoon,” Violet remarked, bringing me back to the present. “What are you thinking about?”
“You,” I told her.
“That’s a coincidence, for I’ve been thinking about you as well. You see, I have a surprise planned.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“It wouldn’t be one if I told you, Edward. You’ll see when we get there.”
I looked out the window, having at first no idea where we were. We had definitely left Chestnut Street and were heading north. After traveling another block, I saw a street sign indicating that we were on Broad, just above Girard Avenue. It wasn’t until Winslow brought the brougham to a stop that I realized where we were.
“Surprise!” Violet said, throwing open the door and gesturing to the white house before us. “Our future home.”
Even without her pointing it out to me, there was no way I could have missed noticing the structure in front of us. Immense in every possible way, it clearly was built to be noticed. Three floors high and equally as wide, the house sat, solid and squat, in the center of a lawn that flowed like an ocean swell to the edge of Broad Street.
“Would you like to see the inside?” Violet asked, giving my arm a squeeze.
“Of course,” I said, although I found the prospect somewhat daunting. I assumed I would compare its interior to my own tall and rickety home, feeling small as well in the process. Still, I followed Violet up the flagstone walkway that cut through the lawn, my neck craning as I examined the house from foundation to roof.
Although in fine condition, the house gave off an aura of abandonment. The shrubs bordering the property were a bit too unruly, and the trees in the yard seemed slightly too gnarled and bedraggled. As we got closer, I noticed chips in the paint not visible from the street and a crack or two in the windows. When we stepped onto the front porch, the wood beneath our feet sighed from the weight.
Instead of producing a key from her silk purse, Violet approached one of the windows that flanked the front door. She pulled back a shutter, the wood protesting the movement with an irritated creak, and revealed a small key hanging from a nail.
“We leave it for the caretaker,” she explained. “He looks in on the place every month.”
“You mean no one from your family ever checks on the house?”
“Of course not,” Violet said as she moved to the door and slipped the key into the lock. “We’re all much too busy for that.”
“Then what prevents the caretaker from moving in himself without your knowledge?”
She gave me a patient sigh before pointing to the street. “Because the caretaker is right there. It’s Winslow. And I’m certain we would be able to deduce that he’s been living here.”
With the door unlocked, Violet gave it a mighty push, revealing an entrance hall larger than the entire first floor of my house. It was a grand home, built for grand people. I felt out of place the moment I tiptoed inside.
Violet, to that very manor born, strode through the door with confidence and asked, “What do you think?”
I surveyed my future home. To the left, a front parlor sat on the other side of a graceful archway. A dining room, glimpsed through a similar arch, was to the right. In the center was a curved staircase that swept upward to the second floor.
“It’s . . . big,” I said.
“Not too big, though. The perfect size for a family.”
Roaming the first floor, I recalled
Mrs. Willoughby saying that their growing family was the reason they left this house for a different one. Yet it seemed like more than enough space for the family, even with the addition of twin boys. I imagined that a twenty-person clan could have lived comfortably inside the place, let alone a family of five.
What I couldn’t imagine was living in such a home myself. I was accustomed to a sort of comfortable confinement, a world of small rooms stuffed with well-worn furniture. The old Willoughby home, by contrast, boasted rooms of imposing width and height. Walking through it, I felt like a storybook character exploring the residence of a giant.
I didn’t tell any of this to Violet, of course. She seemed so eager to show it off, so desperate for me to like the place, that when she prodded me for compliments, I found myself offering them freely.
“I think it will make a wonderful home,” I said.
While the Willoughbys had taken most of their furniture with them during the move, a few pieces littered the first floor. In the dining room, for example, I saw a few wooden chairs waiting for a proper table to surround. I discovered a sofa and a wingback chair in the parlor, covered with white canvas. On the wall, facing the window, was a painting so sun paled and coated with dust that I couldn’t make out what it depicted.
“Let’s have a look at the upstairs,” Violet said, pulling me toward the grand staircase.
On the second floor, the hallway stretched from one end of the house to the other, dotted with doors on both sides. Some of them were closed. Those we didn’t bother with. Others were wide open, including one for what looked to be a child’s bedroom. Poking my head inside, I saw two beds side by side, their headboards pushed against a wall painted light blue.
“How long has it been since you’ve lived here?” I asked Violet.
“It must be going on fourteen years now, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Now, let’s go see the third floor. The nursery is up there. You can see where I spent my childhood.”
She moved farther down the hall, heading to another, more modest set of stairs at the end of it. I remained on the threshold of the bedroom, looking inside. The twin beds were covered with white sheets, making them look as if they belonged in a hospital ward instead of a child’s room. A coating of dust clung to the cloths, turning them gray. There was dust everywhere, in fact, dirtying the walls and weighing down the cobwebs in the corners. Almost a quarter of an inch of dust covered the floorboards, save for several indentations where it had been tamped down.
I looked closer, seeing that the indentations were none other than footprints. They were scattered around the room in all directions, as if someone had been roaming it fairly recently. Judging from the lack of footprints in other parts of the house, I couldn’t imagine it was Winslow who had been doing the walking.
I was about to ask Violet if she was certain no other people were coming and going in the house, but never got the chance.
For at that very moment, she began to scream.
The sound sent me bolting down the hall to the staircase at its end. I took the steps two at a time, almost running directly into the wall at a narrow landing where the stairway turned. All the while, Violet’s screams echoed down the steps, filling my ears and making my heart pump with fear.
When I reached the top step, I saw her running toward me in full panic.
“Bees!” she cried out. “They’re everywhere!”
At first, I didn’t understand what she was talking about. Then I spotted a honeybee crawling on the yellow lilies affixed to her bonnet. Another inched its way along the brim, while two more scurried over her shoulders. I swatted them away while at the same time pulling Violet to the landing.
“I’ve never seen so many in my life!” she said, tears springing from her eyes. “Oh, Edward, it’s horrible!”
“Stay right here,” I told her before ascending the steps again.
I heard the bees before I reached the top—a monotonous humming that engulfed the room above me. Climbing one last step, I finally saw them.
There were thousands of bees inside that old nursery, filling it. Several hundred flew about the room, careening from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. The rest swarmed over every conceivable surface—great, writhing bunches covering the walls and the discarded furniture. Several large hives drooped from the ceiling and spread across the rafters, connected to each other.
The entire nursery had been transformed into a colossal beehive.
Gathering my wits about me, I stepped into the room only long enough to grab the handle of the door Violet had unwittingly opened. Then, keeping my head down and swatting the air like a madman, I slammed the door shut. A few bees escaped in the process and either flew on down the stairwell or returned to the door, bumping against it in agitation. Not wanting to anger them further, I quickly took my leave.
I found Violet at the bottom of the steps, leaning against the wall for support. She looked paler than usual, and for a moment I feared she might faint. But she regained her strength quickly and managed to stand on her own. She even surprised me by lifting her chin and saying, “I suppose we have some work to do before we move in.”
“Yes,” I replied. “But first, the bees must move out.”
“I wonder how so many got inside.”
“A window, probably,” I said. “Or perhaps there’s a hole in the roof that one found and then the others followed.”
I offered Violet my arm and led her through the hallway and down the grand staircase. She still looked a bit shocked, so we descended slowly. In an attempt to lift her spirits, I said, “My mother once told me that bees are nothing to be afraid of. In fact, she said they’re a sign of good luck, because they create sweetness wherever they go.”
Violet, brave girl that she was, summoned a smile. “Then, Edward, we must be the two luckiest people on earth.”
IV
As luck would have it, the dinner party was located just around the block. It was at the home of Mr. Bertram Johnson—Bertie to his friends—who had known Violet since they were both children. The backs of their houses had faced each other, their rear lawns running together. At the halfway point, separating one property from the other, was a thin strip of trees and shrubbery. In the summertime, Violet, Bertie, and their various siblings and friends played there until far into the evening, when fireflies would flit between the branches.
I learned this as we strolled to Mr. Johnson’s house, having left Winslow and the brougham behind. I assumed that a walk would do us both some good after our honeybee scare. It seemed to, because Violet chattered nonstop the entire way.
“They were such wonderful times,” she said with a sigh. “That’s why that house means so much to me. It was the place where we were all the happiest.”
But now it was infested with stinging insects, which poor Winslow apologized profusely for overlooking. He told Violet he had neglected to check on the nursery since the previous summer.
“And what about the twins’ old bedroom?” I had asked. “When was the last time you were in there?”
“Not for a very long time, sir,” he had replied. “I don’t dare set foot in there.”
For her part, Violet was very forgiving of Winslow and seemed a hundred times more vibrant as we climbed the porch steps to Bertie Johnson’s front door. As it opened, I prepared for the deluge of hugs, kisses, and gossip that would surely commence when Violet saw her friends. They all adored her, which was wonderful to see. About me, however, they remained completely ambivalent. They were nothing but cordial, yet no matter how many times I met them, I got the sense they thought Violet should be with someone more appropriate, more handsome, more fun.
Someone, for instance, like Bertram Johnson.
Bertie was one of those rare men who inspired admiration and envy in equal measure. A tall and strapping twenty-three, his social skills were unparalleled. I’d seen him be boisterously crude among other men and delicately sincere with members of the fairer sex. That easygoing manner made everyone,
from the youngest child to the oldest widow, feel comfortable in his company. In any social situation, Bertie was the sun and the rest of us had to simply be content to orbit him.
On that night, Bertie answered the door himself, smiling widely as he ushered us inside. He gave Violet the briefest of welcomes before turning to me and saying, “And here he is, the man of the hour!” The pat on the back that followed was so jovially forceful it almost knocked me to the floor.
“It’s good to see you, too, Bertram,” I said, not yet a close enough acquaintance to call him Bertie. “And thank you for that warm welcome.”
“You’ve earned it, Edward,” he replied.
“How so?”
“Why, with this, of course.”
Clutched in his other hand was a copy of the Evening Bulletin, fresh off the presses on Chestnut Street. The other half dozen people in attendance also had copies, which they read together while pressed shoulder to shoulder. Seeing my arrival, they soon clustered around me, pumping my hand and congratulating me on writing such an exciting article. Bertie slapped me on the back two more times, impressed. He even began dinner with a toast dedicated to me.
I was, quite unexpectedly, in fashion.
Talk of Mrs. Pastor’s death continued for the next hour. All through dinner, I was peppered with questions about the incident. Could Lenora Grimes Pastor really summon the voices of the dead? What was it like when she passed away? Did she immediately turn into a spirit and ascend toward the heavens?
I answered them the best I could. Mostly I recounted what was already in the Bulletin article, my audience not caring that it was the exact same story they had just been reading.
The only two people not weighing in on the topic were my fiancée and our host. Violet, displaying patience that deserved sainthood, smiled brightly throughout dinner, even though I knew she had no interest in all that talk of Mrs. Pastor. At one point, I looked across the table and caught her yawning discreetly into her glove.
Bertie, however, was more vocal in his desire to at last change the subject. I got the sense that, eager as he was to make a show of my arrival, he had grown tired of having a mere moon such as I eclipse his sunlight. For that, I couldn’t blame him. Even I was bored with the sound of my voice.
