by Cathy Holton
Laura.
She felt a cold prickle at the nape of her neck, an odd shiver of recognition. That was the name Alice had whispered on the monitor that first day, her voice hoarse with sorrow and regret. Stella remembered Adeline’s expression when she mentioned the experience, the way her face had changed and she had drawn herself up warily. You must be mistaken.
Alice was quiet for most of the drive but by the time they returned home she seemed to have recovered some of her earlier talkative mood.
“We’ll do our exercises now and get them over with,” she said to Stella. “You be the counter.”
“I’ll be the counter.”
She followed Alice through the butler’s pantry as they began their loop, turning on lights so Alice could see. It had not occurred to Stella that the wealthy could suffer from despair and adversity. She had believed money to be a protection against tragedy and she was amazed now that she had ever been so naïve as to accept this. The rich, despite their advantages, were no different from the poor when it came to human suffering.
“On our way rejoicing,” Alice said, pushing the walker ahead of her. Her curly hair was parted in back and the pink scalp showed through, tender and fragile as an infant’s.
As they walked through the dining room, the eyes of the beautiful young woman seemed to follow them. Her lips curved in a sly, reticent smile. Looking at her, Stella felt again that strange feeling of recognition, as if something inside her might be swinging open, revealing itself. She hesitated, staring at the woman, wanting to ask Alice who she was, yet not wanting to hurt her, to bring back the painful past.
The wheels of the walker whined softly. As they crept past the living room coffee table, one of the waxy leaves of a tall white orchid dropped to the table.
It was just as likely that Alice would not remember the woman in the portrait at all, would have no idea who she was.
“Okay,” Stella said as they reentered the pantry and she began her counting of their laps. “That’s one.”
“Just begun,” Alice said, snagging one of the wheels of the walker on the door frame. She extricated herself, muttering, “Now who moved that door?” and went on.
They walked again through the kitchen and out into the dining room. Stella glanced at the portrait and then down at the carpet, following Alice’s slow, shuffling footsteps. “I saw on the calendar that someone named Harry Rosser is visiting you today at 3:00.”
“Who?” Alice said.
“Harry Rosser.”
“Oh, Harry Rosser.” Alice lifted the walker and put it down again on top of the faded Oriental carpet in the living room.
“Who’s he?” Stella said.
“He’s a boy I helped get through Smithson School. He lived with his grandmother, she was a schoolteacher, and she wanted him to have a good education. I guess that’s how I got involved.” Alice, slightly breathless, thrust the walker ahead of her. She shook her head slowly. “Little Harry Rosser,” she said.
“How long since you saw him?”
“Oh I don’t know. He was at Sam’s funeral. I don’t remember when that was.”
Sam. The son who had died. The one who Alice never spoke of. They entered the foyer and walked down the long hall to the butler’s pantry.
“Okay, that’s two,” Stella said loudly.
“Woo hoo hoo,” Alice said.
She stopped in the kitchen at the desk where Stella had set a tall glass of ice water. Alice leaned and picked it up, her hand cupped and twisted with arthritis. Stella turned her head and stared out the kitchen window while she drank.
“Very good,” Alice said, setting the glass down carefully. “Very nice indeed.”
They walked on into the dining room. The sky was overcast and the light falling through the long windows was gray and oppressive.
“Well, that’s nice of him to come for a visit,” Stella said, wondering if she should turn on a few of the lamps for Alice. “Harry Rosser. Does he live here in town?”
“Oh I don’t know. No, I guess he doesn’t. I don’t know where he lives.”
Beyond the living room French doors, the valley was shrouded in low-lying clouds. The mountains rose like islands in a foamy sea. Alice picked up the walker and set it down on the Oriental rug. She was breathing heavily now.
As they reached the pantry again, Stella said, “Okay, that’s three.”
“Tee hee hee,” Alice said.
It was their last full circuit through the dining room past the portrait of the Woman in Blue. The last loop would be a short cut through the pantry door and across only one end of the long dining room. They would not pass the portrait again.
Stella flicked on the wall switch. As they reached the long wall she pointed at the portrait and said, “Alice, who is that woman?”
Alice stopped walking and stared at the painting. Her expression was odd, dreamy and reflective and filled with sadness, too. They both stood gazing at the young woman whose face was turned slightly away from them as if she was coyly avoiding their inquisitive stares.
“Why,” Alice said. “That’s me.”
“That’s you?” Stunned, Stella stood trying to see the resemblance. “Oh my God, you were beautiful.”
“The artist was generous,” Alice said wryly.
She began moving again, pushing the walker out in front of her and shuffling along behind. Stella followed her, leaning to switch on lamps. She couldn’t help but feel disappointment over the portrait; she had been so sure she was onto something. She felt certain the forgotten sister was named Laura, and she had hoped that this might be a portrait of her, a key to unlocking Alice’s forgotten memories. She wanted to know what had happened to Laura. She was like a child, wanting to know what had happened, wanting Alice to tell her a story.
Alice said, “My mother dragged Adeline and me up to New York to have our portraits done. I had already married Bill; I was really too old for such foolishness, but my mother was a formidable woman when she set her mind to something. There was no arguing with her. She insisted on being shown into the studio of one of the celebrated New York portraitists, and would not allow herself to be cowed by the other grand dames who were waiting there ahead of her. After all, her grandfather had started the First National Bank of Chickamauga. He had been one of the first millionaires in Chattanooga. She had nothing to apologize for.
Anyway, she breezed into this well-known photographer’s studio dragging Adeline and me in her wake. In the middle of his crowded waiting room she raised her arms like a stage actress and said grandly, ‘I’ve come to have portraits of my two beautiful daughters painted.’”
“Wow,” Stella said. “And what did you do?”
“My sister and I looked around to see who the two beautiful daughters might be.”
Stella laughed. She could picture the scene, the mother heavy and dowdy in the way middle-aged women of those days always were, dressed in clothes that would have been considered chic in Chattanooga, but not in New York. The two humiliated daughters. “Well, it’s a lovely portrait,” she said.
“Adeline hated hers so badly she hung it in the garage.”
Stella had no problem imagining Adeline doing this. Adeline, the perfectionist, couldn’t help but be disappointed in any portrait painted of her. Still, if Alice’s painting was even close to being realistic, she had once been a beautiful woman. Looking at the frail, stooped woman who moved slowly across the living room in front of her, it was hard to imagine the young woman, so blonde, so slim and graceful, her shoulders bare, draped in the blue dress that so admirably matched her eyes.
They had reached the pantry for the last, short leg of their walk. “Okay, Alice, that’s four. Last one.”
“Oh, goody. Can I go through the door?”
“Yes, you may. And I’ll get your water so you can hydrate.”
“Okay. I’ll wait for you,” Alice said, stopping.
It was something Stella had never seriously contemplated; old age, infirmity, being locked
up inside her own head with nothing but illusive memories of the past. Odd, how she could not picture herself this way. When she tried to look into her own future all she saw was drifting clouds and snatches of a moonlit sky.
Alice stood in the doorway of the butler’s pantry, breathing heavily. Stella walked into the kitchen and picked up the glass of ice water and hurried back.
“I’m here,” she said.
“I’ll go back to my room and work on puzzles until lunch,” Alice said, beginning to move off. Stella followed her, turning off the lamps. Alice didn’t like the lights left on, anymore that she liked to see food wasted or restaurant meals bought without the use of coupons.
“You might want to take your nap a little early today,” Stella said, following her. “Since Harry Rosser is coming at three.”
“Who?” Alice said.
“Harry Rosser,” Stella repeated loudly.
“Oh, Harry Rosser.”
“The boy you sponsored at Smithson.”
“Oh, that one.”
“It’s awfully nice he’s coming to visit you.”
“I hope he’s not going to ask for money,” Alice said.
They arrived promptly at three o’clock, two well-dressed gentlemen in a white Lexus. When Stella opened the door, the shorter of the two said in a loud, animated voice, “Hello. Would you like to buy some encyclopedias?” The tall one with the shock of gray hair let his eyes roam over Stella, coming to rest, pointedly, on her chest and t-shirt that read Ladies’ Sewing Circle and Terrorist Society. They looked a little like car salesmen with their smiling, predatory manner and their suits and ties and dark shiny shoes. Stella guessed them to be in their mid-sixties.
“Please come in,” she said. “We’ve been expecting you.” She walked ahead of them into the living room and indicated the long sofa. “If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll tell Alice you’re here.” The taller one was staring at her ass. Stella turned around and faced him, putting her hands on her hips and eyeing him boldly. Neither one seemed inclined to sit down on the sofa, and ignoring her, they walked over to the French doors overlooking the valley. They stood looking down at the river, chatting in the manner of men who are nervous and ill-at-ease while trying not to show it.
Stella went back to the bedroom to get Alice.
“Is he here?” Alice said, looking up from her puzzle book.
“There’s two of them.”
“Two of them?”
“Yes. I didn’t catch the other one’s name.”
“Oh, Lord. They’re definitely here to ask for money then.”
“Should I call Sawyer?”
“I told him Harry Rosser was coming at three today and he said he’d come over.” She rose slowly from the bed and reached for her walker. “Here, look in that top drawer over there and see if you can find me a scarf to wear.” Stella did as she was told, pulling out a multi-colored scarf that matched Alice’s green dress.
“Don’t you know how to tie it?” Alice said, watching helplessly as Stella, flustered, attempted to loop the scarf around her neck.
“I have no idea.”
“Sling it around this way until it’s just a narrow strip and then tie it on the side.”
“There,” Stella said when she was done. “That looks good.”
“Does it?” Alice stared at herself critically in the mirror above the dresser.
“Yes,” Stella said. She was afraid Alice would make her retie it.
“Okay, bring me my gold earrings from that drawer over there and brush my hair will you? I look a sight.”
As she entered the living room, both men turned. The shorter one walked toward her with outstretched arms.
“Hello, Alice dear,” he said, embracing her gently.
“Hello,” Alice said. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you remember me?” he said, pulling way. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m Charlie Connor.” He had a spiral-bound book clamped under one arm.
“Oh,” Alice said. “Charlie Connor.”
Stella could see that she had no idea who he was. Alice lifted her face to the taller man who leaned over and put his arms around her.
“Hello, Little Mother,” he said, patting her gently on the back. Stella could see his face, sly, obsequious, as it rested on Alice’s shoulder. A handsome man used to having his own way, Stella thought, with just a touch of self-conscious arrogance about him.
“Sit down, sit down,” Alice said.
The tall man let her go. “You remember me, don’t you, Little Mother? I’m Harry Rosser. I used to come up and spend the night with Sam when I was at Smithson. You were like a second mother to me.”
“Little Harry Rosser,” Alice said.
“I remember Sam’s bedroom had stars painted on the ceiling. I thought that was the most wonderful thing.” He looked at Charlie Connor as if for confirmation of this miracle. “Stars painted on the ceiling.”
“I don’t remember that,” Alice said.
“And this chair,” Harry Rosser said, pointing to one of the wingback chairs flanking Alice’s fireplace. “I remember this very chair. I used to sit on it and Sam would lie on the sofa in your big house over on Hammond and we would listen to the radio.”
“Speaking of chairs,” Alice said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“Oh no,” the smaller man said, moving up closer to Alice. They both faced her, towering over her so that she had to look up to see them. “We’ve brought you something, Miss Alice. Something we’d like to present to you if the lighting was better. It’s pretty dark in here.” He looked anxious and flustered and it occurred to Stella that they’d rehearsed this speech, and that it wasn’t going well. She went around the room and began to switch on the lamps.
Both men moved up on either side of Alice and the short one held out the spiral bound book formally. He cleared his throat and said, “As you may or may not know, Miss Alice, it’s the fiftieth reunion of our class at Smithson.”
Alice broke in and proceeded to tell them that her people had always been “Westover people”, and that she’d only sent her sons to Smithson because Bill’s family were “Smithson people.”
Both men smiled politely while she rambled on. When she had finished, Charlie cleared his throat and began again. “It’s the fiftieth reunion of our graduating class and we’ve put together this book on the class members especially for you. There are some pictures of Sam in here, too.”
Alice said, “What was the name of the headmaster at Smithson?”
“Dallas,” Harry said helpfully. “Dallas Calhoun.”
“That’s him,” Alice said. “I always told Bill it was a good thing Dallas Calhoun’s great-grandfather had started the school because otherwise he might have been out of a job. He wasn’t exactly the sharpest crayon in the box.”
The two men stared at each other above Alice’s head. The shorter one colored and began to smooth his tie on his chest. “Well,” he said. “Well.”
Through the sunroom windows, Stella could see Sawyer come out of his front door and start across the lawn toward his mother’s.
Harry Rosser put his arm around Alice’s shoulders. “Would you like to see some of the photos of Sam, Little Mother?”
“No, I think we should do the presentation first,” Charlie said.
“I don’t think it matters,” Harry said.
“You two aren’t here asking for money, are you?” Alice said, peering up at them.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then they both laughed.
“Little Mother,” Harry said mildly.
“Of course not,” Charlie said.
“Well, that’s good,” Alice said. “Because Sawyer keeps my checkbook. I couldn’t write a check now even if I wanted to.”
On the mantle behind them, the clock ticked steadily. Harry dropped his arm from Alice’s shoulders.
“Do you think Sawyer might be home?” he asked politely.
“He’s on his way over,” Stell
a said. “He should be here any minute.”
Harry turned his head and gave her a cool, appraising look.
“Well, we might as well sit down to wait then,” he said, his tone distant, reserved. Alice sat down in one of the wingback chairs and Charlie sat down in the other. Harry pulled a chair up close to Alice’s and opened the book. “Here,” he said. “Here’s a photograph of Sam at homecoming.”
“Remember when the girls at Marymount voted him Mr. Personality our senior year?” Charlie said.
“Well, he was Mr. Personality,” Harry said. “What was the name of that girl he dated all through prep school? The tall, plain one.”
“Leonora Ferguson,” Charlie said.
“That’s the one! Funny, he could have dated anyone but he stuck with her. She had big hands and was flat-chested like a man. They were always laughing and having such a jolly time together. I wonder what ever happened to her?”
“She married someone else,” Alice said shortly.
“I mean, Sam could have dated anyone,” Harry said quickly, picking up on Alice’s tone. “He was always popular with the girls. They were crazy for him. That’s why it’s so funny he never married.”
“Too many choices, I suppose,” Charlie said. “He was having too much fun being a swinging single.”
The front door opened and Sawyer walked in. “Well, look who’s here,” he said, shaking hands with both men.
“They aren’t here to ask for money,” Alice said to Sawyer.
“Well, that’s good,” Sawyer said.
“Can you believe this is little Harry Rosser?” Alice said. “I would never have recognized him.”
“We brought your mother a copy of our fiftieth reunion book,” Charlie said to Sawyer, sitting down again.
“Wonderful,” Sawyer said. His manner was guarded, vigilant, and it occurred to Stella that people like the Whittingtons were always having to erect barricades against money seekers and scam artists. Sawyer sat down on the sofa across from them. Stella turned and walked across the living room and dining room into the sunroom. She sat at the table where she could observe them quietly.
