Emily Dickinson Is Dead

by Jane Langton

  Now he was safely asleep. Tilly smiled down at him in his crib and sighed with relief. For the next hour she would be free to indulge herself in the new pastime that was becoming so absorbing, her investigation of the old boxes in the attic. Tilly had begun it as a matter of duty. But now she was really enjoying her random study of life in the little village of Amherst in the old days.

  And therefore, on the day the body of Alison Grove was removed from the Quabbin Reservoir, on the day Owen Kraznik and Ellen Oak drove Peter Wiggins to the emergency room of the Cooley-Dickinson Hospital, on the day Dr. Kloop was able to stump with his new crutches into the hospital morgue to do a postmortem on the body of Winifred Gaw, on the day all the lush grass in Amherst suddenly needed cutting for the first time—on that very same day, Tilly Porch came upon an interesting photographic negative, an old glass plate, in her attic.

  Holding it up to the light, Tilly could see four small dark images, the same one repeated four times over. Darks and lights were reversed, of course, but it was obviously a photograph of a woman with a full face, her hair parted in the middle and pulled down and back in the fashion of the eighteen-sixties.

  Climbing over a pile of her husband’s ancient camping equipment, Tilly stepped boldly on a pillow of pink insulation batting and inspected the plate in the sunny attic window. Of course she couldn’t really be sure, but the silhouette on the plate looked an awful lot like that of the Emily don’t like this much picture that had been planted in Tilly’s attic by Peter Wiggins. Owen Kraznik had said to forget about Peter’s picture. It was just a mistake, he said. And then he had begged her not to say anything, just to keep quiet about it forever. Well, that was all right with Tilly. It was none of her business. But now she doubted the genuineness of what she had found. What if the glass plate, too, had been planted by Peter Wiggins? Was it just another example of his sly presence in her attic? Holding it firmly in both hands, Tilly went back to the chest and examined the big faded envelope in which she had found it.

  The envelope was obviously an old one, yellowed and disintegrating at the edges. And surely that was Great-Great-Grandmother Louisa’s handwriting on the outside? Tilly had already found sheaves and sheaves of Louisa’s letters. There was no mistaking that tiny hand.

  Tilly squinted at it, reading in the dark. Then she almost dropped the glass plate.

  There was a date on the envelope, February 18, 1860. And the name of the woman whose image was recorded in quadruplicate was Emily D.

  43

  Life is deep and swift—

  The wind was still whipping down Main Street when the party of five assembled in the Gaslite restaurant for lunch.

  Harvey Kloop struggled out of his car and heaved himself up on the sidewalk with his crutches. The door of the restaurant gave him a hard time. At last he opened it a crack, but then the wind took it and slammed it against the wall, and one of Harvey’s crutches went sailing away down the street.

  “Good heavens, Harvey,” cried Owen, jumping up from a table, rushing to the door. For a moment the two of them spun around each other, Harvey’s plaster leg as helpless as Owen’s plaster arm. Then Mary Kelly ran up with Harvey’s crutch and Homer held the door open, and the two cripples at last achieved an entrance into the restaurant. At the table Ellen Oak slid over on the bench so that Harvey could sit on the outside and stretch his leg.

  Dr. Kloop did not know Homer and Mary Kelly. There were introductions by Owen and Ellen, followed by joyful announcements and hearty congratulations. Then Harvey too had an announcement.

  “I think,” he said shyly, “my wife has gone away.”

  “Oh, Harvey,” said Owen, “you mean Eunice Jane has”—it seemed too good to be true—“left you?”

  “That’s right. At least I think that’s what she’s done. She left this note. I guess it’s a quotation from Emily Dickinson.” Harvey drew a scrap of paper out of his pocket and passed it around. They all looked at it and shook their heads in mystification.

  Good night, because we must,

  How intricate the dust!

  “I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of farewell,” said Harvey. “Anyway, all her clothes are gone. And her case of sauerkraut juice.” Harvey smiled wickedly, then cleared his throat and got down to brass tacks. “I performed an autopsy on the body of Winifred Gaw this morning. Fortunately I had some familiarity with Winnie’s medical history, since she had been a patient of mine. Not a very good one, I’m afraid. Terribly obese, as you know. Wouldn’t take my warnings seriously. Of course I wanted to put her on a diet, but she claimed dieting gave her insomnia. She wanted diet pills. Well, I wouldn’t give her the pills, of course, but I wrote a prescription for Secanol tablets to help with the wakefulness. And the other day when she requested a refill, I assumed she was taking them. But I gather she had been hoarding them instead.”

  “But, Dr. Kloop,” said Ellen, “we suspect she didn’t die from an overdose of Secanol. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Harvey tucked into his plate of fried clams. “And of course, as you indicated in your report, it wasn’t the axe. I’ll tell you how the poor girl died. It was cardiac arrest.”

  “You mean a heart attack?” Owen was astonished. “Good heavens. Then she didn’t commit suicide?”

  “Well, I’m not sure what she meant to do with those pills. All I know is she succumbed from a coronary first. Sudden arrhythmia. This morning I was shocked at the condition of her arteries. I mean, she was such a young woman. And there was a lot of sugar in her urine, and an enormous amount of fibrous tissue in her pancreas. She must have been diabetic into the bargain. No wonder she keeled over.” Harvey poured ketchup on his fried clams. “Did they ever figure out what happened in that bedroom? The axe and all? The overturned furniture?”

  Homer picked up his beefburger club sandwich. “No, not so far. We can’t think who could have been mad enough at Winnie to get into a real battle. Unless it was her father. I must say, he strikes me as a really sinister sort of bastard. But Archie Gripp claims Jesse Gaw was miles away all the time, working the night shift with a whole gang of men and a supervisor. And then he was doing a special job at somebody else’s repair shop, working on a front end.”

  “There’s one more thing.” Harvey’s face had lost its good humor. His melancholy eyes drifted vaguely from Ellen to Mary to Owen, then fixed upon Homer in a hollow stare. Reaching across the table, he gripped Homer’s shoulders convulsively. “Listen, there was this amazing—I mean, you won’t believe it, but something happened at the reservoir, something strange, something really weird. Well, you know, it was a miracle.”

  Homer stifled an impulse to recoil and cry out, I fear thee, Ancient Mariner, I fear thy shinny hand. Instead he laughed. “Oh, sure, Owen told me. I gather the two of you were in the hospital together, having your miscellaneous broken parts patched up. I know what you’re going to say—you saw Emily Dickinson, right? Walking along under the water? Wow, that was a big help. They found her. I just heard from Archie. Picked her up this morning from the water at Shaft Twelve.”

  Harvey’s cadaverous face paled. He dropped his fork. Fried clams skittered across the table. “They found Emily Dickinson?”

  “Oh, Homer, who was it?” said Owen, looking at him in pained anticipation. “Not—?”

  “Yes,” said Homer flatly. “It was Alison Grove.”

  Owen gasped, and his eyes filled with tears.

  Then Homer explained it to Harvey. “Alison was a student at U Mass. She turned up missing a few days ago. Alison Grove, you see, not Emily Dickinson.”

  Harvey frowned, clinging stubbornly to his terrible vision of the woman in the white dress. “But she was walking, I tell you. She was walking along the road under the water. And the church bell was ringing. I heard it. I did, I really did. I figured it out. It’s a big hole in the nature of things, you see. Like maybe sometimes there are these big cracks in the universe. I mean, it had to be something like that.”

  Mary K
elly exchanged an amused glance with Ellen Oak, and then Homer shed more light on Harvey’s metaphysical dilemma. “Listen, don’t worry. You’re right. She was walking along the road. But it was because she had a weight attached to her ankle. It made her drift along upright. It was a bell, a heavy bronze bell. That’s what was ringing. It was Jesse Gaw’s own personal bell.”

  “No kidding?” Relief flooded Harvey as the universe turned rightside up again and snapped into place in seamless perfection.

  “The trouble is,” said Homer, “we can’t figure out how Alison’s body got there. We think she was at Shaft Twelve sometime or other, dead or alive, because she left a shoe there. But her body couldn’t have made its way into the reservoir from Shaft Twelve, because the valve was closed at the time. And, anyway, there’s a screen over it to keep fish out of the water supply—deer carcasses, things like that. All we know is that somebody opened the door with a key stolen from Jesse Gaw. We can’t help thinking of Winnie.”

  “But if Alison’s body didn’t get into the reservoir from Shaft Twelve,” said Mary, “how did it get into the water?”

  “Darned if I know.” Homer scooped up a huge gelatinous bite of lemon meringue pie with his fork. “Musht have been toshed in shomeplashe elshe. Mmmm, izhn’t thish delishioush.”

  Then Harvey Kloop gasped with understanding. “Oh, my God, I saw it. I saw the whole thing, and I drove away. Oh, Lord, my oath. I knew it, I violated my Hippo-something oath.”

  “Your oath?” said Owen. “Harvey, for heaven’s sake, tell us what you saw.”

  “I saw Winifred Gaw pick up the body. I was too far away to see her clearly. But that’s what must have been happening.” Harvey groaned in tortured-recollection. “I was going off on my little fishing holiday, you see, really anxious to get away, and I couldn’t be bothered to stop and find out what was going on. Oh, Lord, there was this huge woman in the street, in front of a truck, a big van, right there at the traffic light. I sort of half recognized Winnie Gaw, but she had her back to me. She was bending down, picking up something. All I could see was something white. But that’s what it must have been. It was the girl I saw in the water, later on. Winnie must have run her down. It all fits, do you see? And I just drove away, violating my Hippogriffic oath. Oh, Jesus, how could I do a thing like that?”

  “Well, good for you, Dr. Kloop.” Homer was ecstatic. “So that’s it. Winifred Gaw set fire to Coolidge Hall. Winifred Gaw killed Alison Grove, and dumped her in the Quabbin Reservoir. Congratulations! That explains everything. Pippohoptic. Hippoticktock. I know the oath you mean.”

  Harvey reached for his crutches, and. wrestled himself to his feet. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Work to do. My oath. From here on out, I swear I’m going to obey my Hippospastic oath, or whatever the damn thing’s called. So long.”

  “Just a minute, Harvey.” Ellen slipped off the bench and accompanied him to the cash register. Then she held the door open for him and followed him onto the sidewalk. “Hippocratic,” she said firmly, helping him into his car. “I swore one of those things myself.”

  She came back to find Owen staring at Homer in shocked disbelief. “But surely it wasn’t Winifred. It couldn’t have been Winifred. Winnie couldn’t have killed Alison Grove. Why would she do such a thing? And why on earth would poor Winnie set fire to Coolidge Hall?”

  “Damned if I know.” Homer grinned at Owen. “I suppose there are things we aren’t meant to understand in this world. Holes in the nature of things. Yawning cracks and voids in the rational universe. Like the axe. We’ll probably never know what that crazy girl was doing in Emily Dickinson’s bedroom with her father’s axe. All we know is that she stole it from his garage, along with the can of paint and the bell and the key to Shaft Twelve. But whatever for?”

  “The axe?” said Ellen quickly. “I think I understand the axe. It was a metaphor.”

  “A metaphor?” said Mary, astonished. “The axe was a metaphor?”

  “That’s right. Even poor old Winnie was clever enough to know a good image when she saw one. Remember, Homer, the book on the floor in Emily’s bedroom? The Letters of Emily Dickinson? I shouldn’t have touched it, I suppose, but I did. I picked it up and noticed that one passage had been heavily underlined. It was in one of those three mysterious love letters Emily wrote to someone she called ‘Master.’” Ellen closed her eyes and tried to say the passage by heart: “Tell me my fault, Master. You send the water over the dam in my brown eyes. I’ve got a Tomahawk in my side, but that don’t hurt me much. My master stabs me more. Something like that. Winnie underlined the words and put the book on the bedside table as a kind of suicide note. I think she meant to take a lot of pills and go to sleep with the axe on the bed beside her.”

  “I see,” said Mary, nodding wisely. “The axe was supposed to represent the tomahawk. You mean it stood for the pain some perfidious person had inflicted on her? Someone she loved?”

  “Ah, but how do you know Winnie did the underlining?” objected Homer. “And how do you know it was that particular page she meant someone to read?”

  “Simple,” said Ellen. “It was covered with blood.”

  “Oh,” said Homer. There was a mournful silence, and then Homer slapped the table and snickered in callous sarcasm. “A metaphor, by God. Listen, you know what? Maybe Lizzie Borden’s axe was just a metaphor too. I mean, maybe Lizzie was just thinking about poetry when she gave her mother forty whacks, did you ever think of that? And then when she saw what she had done, maybe it was just another pretty little figure of speech she had in mind when she gave her father forty-one. How about it?”

  Owen clutched his throat and gagged, struggling to breathe. Mary kicked Homer under the table. “Shut up, dear, it’s lunchtime.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Homer. He looked at Ellen inquiringly. “But who was Winnie’s message for? I mean, who was this loved one, this ‘Master?’” And then, as Owen moaned and got up from the table, his face ashen, Homer murmured, “Oh, of course,” and reached for his wife’s hand in remorse, remembering the keepsakes in Winnie’s darkroom, the bits of eraser, the ends of pencils, the scraps of notes, Dear Winnie, would you please call the library—Dear Winnie, this book is overdue. Homer was ashamed of himself.

  But it was too late. Owen was breaking down. Ellen had to take him outdoors and sit him down on a park bench on the Common.

  44

  Given in Marriage unto Thee

  Oh thou Celestial Host—

  Bride of the Father and the Son

  Bride of the Holy Ghost.

  And Owen was destined to shed more tears at the funeral of Alison Grove. As he entered the sanctified gloom of the memorial chapel, he could feel them welling up.

  “That must be Mrs. Grove, Alison’s mother,” murmured Ellen. “Doesn’t she look like the mother of the bride?”

  It was true. Alison’s mother seemed to have planned her daughter’s funeral as if it were the splendid wedding reception she had been denied. In her powder-blue dress she stood behind the casket in queenly grandeur. Beside her, the groom, Tom Perry, looked uncomfortable in morning coat and striped trousers. Between them Alison lay like a lovely doll, her white wedding dress foaming around her in clouds of net and lace.

  The viewing line was long. One by one the guests shuffled forward to exclaim at Alison’s loveliness and touch the glove of Mrs. Grove. Owen joined the line timidly, gripping Ellen’s arm. Warily he studied Alison’s mother as she listened hungrily to exclamations of sorrow and took greedy note of weeping eyes. No tears were falling down the ivory cheeks of Mrs. Grove, but her hands were never at rest. Again and again they darted forward to rearrange Alison’s hair, or smooth her lacy gown, or fluff her tissued veil.

  It was Ellen’s turn. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Mrs. Grove.

  Alison’s mother closed her eyes and nodded majestically. But Tom Perry was waiting for Ellen. Hurrying around the casket, he took her arm. “Listen, Ellen, I want to talk to you.”r />
  Ellen hardly saw him. Beside her, Owen was dissolving. He was leaning over the casket, sobbing, “Poor child, poor child.”

  “Oh, Owen dear, sit down,” said Ellen. Once again she helped him to a chair.

  Homer and. Mary Kelly were late. Homer refused to join the line filing past the open casket, but Mary decided to do what was expected of her. When it was her turn to take the hand of Alison’s mother and encounter Mrs. Grove’s large tragic eyes, she was at once reminded of Mrs. Jesse Gaw. And that was strange, because Mrs. Grove was a strikingly handsome woman, utterly unlike Winnie’s scrawny mother. It was in the rapacity of their grief that the two women resembled each other, decided Mary. Nodding at Tom Perry, she moved away, as Mrs. Grove reached out her hand again to the casket and fiddled with Alison’s ring, turning the flashing diamond up to the light.

  At the other end of the chapel two women were pouring tea. Mary made her way past the sobbing organ, accepted a cup gratefully and introduced herself. Soon she was chatting comfortably with Barbara Teeter and Dottie Poole.

  “It should have been Alison’s wedding, don’t you agree, Mrs. Kelly?” said Dottie Poole. “Lemon and sugar?”

  “Sponge cake?” said Barbara Teeter. “Oh, Mrs. Kelly, isn’t it terrible? When you think of all the sorrow she’s been through. Poor Shirley Grove.”

  “Sorrow?” said Mary. “You mean, there have been other—?”

  Dottie Poole leaned forward confidingly. “First it was Alison’s grandfather, and then it was Alison’s father, and now it’s Alison herself. It’s like a curse on the family.” Dottie lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned still farther in Mary’s direction. “And they couldn’t even bury Alison’s grandfather.”