The Monsters of Templeton

by Lauren Groff

  Another confession: I am in despair. Perhaps I have been too precipitate by proclaiming that I do not ever wish to marry. I have been trying, perhaps, to flirt with Mr. Le Quoi, but I can’t seem to. He is so charming, though not necessarily handsome, that all the women try to flirt with him, and I am stuck in the corner, burning when Bertha or Minnie giggle and chatter and make him say such gallant things. I think, perhaps, my heart is filling with him. Please say nothing about this to anyone. You probably laugh at me. Please don’t. I am not like you, Cinnamon: I know I am plain and solemn and shy. Perhaps you could teach me how to flirt, how to make myself as appealing as possible. Please don’t laugh. I do want to learn, quite desperately, and you are the perfect candidate to teach me. Do you think you could?

  My face burns with embarrassment. I will end this letter and send it to you, in the hope that you do not laugh too much at me.

  With great affection,

  Charlotte Temple

  Averell Cottage, Templeton

  December 5, 1861

  My dearest Charlotte—

  You have given me so much joy! Here is a worthy project—I have often wanted to suggest to you a small improvement here or there, for if I am good at anything, it is at making myself agreeable to men—and I am certain that when we are finished with you, you shall be married. In fact, I guarantee it! But, first, I must scold you—take from your heart any silly affection for the bald old Frenchman—he is so below your station that you should barely notice him, even in the best society. Oh no—when I am finished, you will have wed a prince! We shall use your sisters’ high places in society—you will make a brilliant match!

  I have carefully considered and below is my advice. Follow it as best as you can.

  Appearance:

  1) Hair—My darling, we must do something about your hair-style. Though you were charming at eighteen with your long masses of curls framing your face, you have a very young face, and the out-of-date style only now serves to make you look childish. Consider putting your hair up at your nape and cutting and curling small frizzes around your cheeks.

  2) Dress—We must get you out of black, my dear. Although I understand you are in mourning for your father, no man dares to approach a woman whose whole heart is invested in a dead man. I should know. Your colors are purple or dark green. Zina Mix is Templeton’s best dressmaker, but you must ask your sisters to send you the latest style-books from Europe. Also, please order slippers—one cannot wear the sturdy boots you wear and expect a man to marvel at your delicate feet.

  3) Jewelry—My darling, at their very cores, men are all still the boys who built castles of sticks and gutted clocks to see how they worked. They are fascinated by whirling, clicking things. Earrings that dangle and tinkle like bells are your friends—bracelets that chime when you move and fill the air around you with music. This must be discreet, however—otherwise, you will sound like a one-woman band!

  Flirtation—We shall work with, not against, your natural shyness, as if we were to work against it, you would only be full of artifice. And you know artifice, since you know Susanna Clarke, and how it is not attractive in the least.

  1) When a man comes into the room, allow yourself to blush. Now, I know you have little control over your blushing, but you usually hide your cheeks by ducking your head down so your hair covers them, or you ask hasty questions so attention is diverted to another. Instead, hold your head high, give a small, private smile, and try very hard not to look at the man of your choice. It will be apparent that this is what you intend to do—good!

  2) When he speaks only to you, look at his lips or his eyes—you tend to gaze at a man’s collar when you speak in a tête-àtête. Delicately bite your lip, smile up at him, through your lashes again, and mimic the way he is sitting on his chair or standing, taking care to make it look ladylike—everyone loves a mirror, even if one doesn’t know one does.

  When you have mastered these points, you will be well on your way. I shall teach you then how to write a love-note, how to arrange for a secret rendezvous (don’t be shocked—everyone does it), how to convince your servant how to keep a secret, et cetera.

  I hope this is not overmuch. I am only interested in your happiness! Please write to me as soon as you have mastered some of these effects. Also, do not worry about stupid Susanna Clarke and her paramour. They are not subtle, and so they are not dangerous.

  Your loving,

  Cinnamon Averell Graves

  From the Desk of Charlotte Temple, Franklin House, Blackbird

  Bay, Templeton

  December the Ninth, 1861

  Dear Cinnamon,

  Thank you for your kind advice. I admit that I am overwhelmed by all the changes I must make to my person and manners. I did not know I had so much to improve. I have ordered the books and slippers from my sister Marguerite. I am not at all sure of my eventual mastery of the art of flirtation, but I shall try.

  Also, I am afraid that I cannot dislodge Monsieur Le Quoi from my heart. I have tried. But I saw him at Church on Sunday, and his eyes are so kind that I wanted him near me again. Please say you’ll help me, even with him as my object. Please do.

  Your friend,

  Charlotte Temple

  Averell Cottage, Templeton

  December 11, 1861

  Dear Charlotte—

  I have considered, and I will help you, even with the Frenchman as your object. Sometimes the heart cannot listen to reason. I was like you with my first husband, dear Paul Stokes, and thought I’d die when he was thrown from his horse and broke his neck. I shall renounce all hope of a prince for you—for this husband, at least! I joke, but the Frenchman is quite a bit older than you, my dear, and you should be prepared for anything.

  Remember, il faut souffrir pour être belle. I have been reading in French again, so that I can practice with you when I come out of heavy mourning in November.

  I shall write more later,

  Yours,

  Cinnamon Averell Graves

  Mon Cher Monsieur Le Quoi—

  [rough draft, unblotted]

  Please listen to the song of a small bird who would like to inform you that you have an admirer—the highest lady of the town. This little bird wishes for her happiness and would sing gladly to see you escort her on her walk home after Church on Sunday. She says she walks the miles to her mansion as a penance for her sins—but this little bird knows that she has no sins, and that you, monsieur, could turn her penance into a blessing.

  A Friend

  The eleventh of December

  My dearest, kindest, most beautiful friend, Cinnamon,

  Forgive the scribbled note. I am beside myself. Oh, Monsieur Le Quoi walked me all the way to Blackbird Bay from Church! Your advice works wonders, my dear. You are the most wonderful friend I could imagine. I must send this now with Joseph, who is going into town in a moment, and must go to my room and be by myself until my elation is gone.

  Your loving (!)

  Charlotte

  Averell Cottage

  19th Dec.

  [rough draft in a wild hand]

  Oh, Charlotte—

  I don’t know what to do—I am all in a muddle—I must write to you immediately—something terrible has happened—I had a letter, a long one, twenty pages, I was to send it to you in the morning, all flirtation advice, but it is useless now—I threw it in the fire. Now I fling this missive at you—you must help me!

  You will get this as soon as I finish—I will send one of the stableboys with it immediately—I hope he can make it over the snowdrifts. I have not slept, I am all a-tremble. Oh, Charlotte, you remember the blizzard last night. The terrible wild wind and snow and the cracking branches—Marie-Claude went home early to care for their cows—I was eating my little supper, when there was a terrible knocking at my door, a pounding. And before I could stand, it was flung open, and there, a bear stood in the door, covered in snow!

  No—not a bear, it advanced into the room, and grunted and took off th
e odd hat, with the long muffler, and shook itself, and suddenly, under the snow, I saw the face of my sister, Ginger. Ginger! Do you remember—so huge and bossy, Ginger who made you cry by forbidding you to play base-ball with her and the boys because you were a rich girl, Ginger, who ran away from my father when she was fourteen. Rawboned Ginger, grinning at me in the firelight, dressed in a man’s clothes—she looked like a man, and if I hadn’t known her face, I would have said she was one. She had not changed, just grew more massive. Ginger had come back to Templeton.

  Before I could unfreeze from my place, to spring up, to close the door, to embrace my sister, she bellowed out, “Come in!” And suddenly there was a mess of people clomping in, all across the floor that Marie-Claude had just scrubbed that morning, there were only four, I counted later, but at that time, it seemed like a veritable army. All shook snow off, took off boots, jackets, all rushed in, a great babble of voices toward the fire. I had stopped breathing, and when I could start again, Ginger turned to me. “Cin!” she boomed, “I’m home!”

  I gasped. “Welcome,” I said, and one of the others with Ginger said, “Fine one, your sister, Papa Gin. Lady, in’t she?” and it was a woman, I saw. And, I saw, they were all women—all in dresses so bright under their wrappings that my eyes were dazzled, and there was a strong smell, cologne and bodies, rolling up in the steam from their clothing by the fire. Ginger turned to the woman who spoke, and the woman ducked her head, like a cur. Ginger said, “Let me introduce you. Cinnamon, meet my girls. This here’s Lolo—she’s French from New Orleans. This two is twins from Indiana, Minerva and Medea. This last one is my best, Barbara, but his name’s really Samuel.” And then they were shaking my hands with their cold hands—the fat, indolent redhead with bright cheeks, the skinny ugly blondes, the beautiful boy I would never have known was a boy, for he wore skirts and had a long collar that covered his Adam’s apple. I looked at them, dazzled, and looked at my sister, who was grinning at me.

  “Oh,” I breathed. “Ginger, what in the world are you doing in Templeton?”

  “Been a long time,” she said. “Lots of life happened. I done a lot of things, some I’m shamed of, some proud. Sit down,” she said to me, and I obeyed her command, if only in shock. I was close to swooning—I had the queerest feeling then—as if I saw every characteristic of my parents isolated, boiled down, distilled, then pressed into the opposite molds of my sister and me. Ginger has my father’s height and dark skin and flashing eyes—his strong jaw, his bad temper, his craftiness—though my mother’s stout figure and straight chestnut hair, and—perhaps—a glimmer of her madness. I have my mother’s petite height, rosy skin, her kindness and gentleness, but my father’s thin build, coppery hair, his fluted voice, his cleverness with money. My sister and I—we are divided as people are who cannot be related.

  Then Ginger at last broke the silence. “First,” she said, “won’t you offer the weary travelers refreshments?” and I, ashamed for some reason, though they were not invited, in fact this was scandalous—they should never have been there, I was in heavy mourning!—I stood and cut some ham and bread and cheese (the good cheese, from Starlin Yeoman’s farm), and made some strong coffee. The girls in the bright dresses wolfed down this meal as if they hadn’t eaten in days. At last, Ginger slid my bowl over to herself, the soup that had long since cooled, and drank it down without asking me. When she was finished, she sat back, patted her lips, smiled—it was a terrible smile, Charlotte.

  “No children? I heard you had yourself four husbands already, Cin, and you don’t got no children? You barren?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. “And you?”

  “Nah,” said my sister. “Lost one early. Never could have no more after. Guess it makes the job easier.” And my sister’s girls all snorted into their teacups, hinnying dreadfully.

  “What job?” I said in a panic. “Why are you here?”

  “Why we here? Ah, Cin, you know why we’re here. Always playing the innocent, ain’t you. Ah, Cin, Cin,” she said. Until that moment, I swear I did not understand their presence, but it all fell into place—the bright dresses, the perfume, the slatternly girls, the boy in a girl’s dress. I fear your innocence, Charlotte—I must tell you—to be blunt, they were there to set up a bordello.

  “Oh, Ginger,” I gasped, “so it’s blackmail?” I thought she wanted me to give her money so she would go away. But she laughed and her eyes bulged and she said, “A good idea, that. But, no, you couldn’t never give me as much as we’re going to get usselves. We’re here to stay.” I felt faint—I looked at the girls—I saw one pluck at a louse that was crawling across her cheek, crack it under her fingernails.

  “To stay?” I said. “Oh, no, Ginger.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Gold opportunity. My girls, they don’t like following no army around no more—too much competition—too many dead boys we seen. Diseases, too. No, we seen that Templeton’s a transfer station for regiments from up here, and with all them rich boys at the Academy and what with the new hotel at the bottom of Front Street for the health-nuts, it’s going to be a fashion town. With fashion people, come fashion money. Picked up a few tricks on the Mississippi, going to open up a billiards, cards place, too, someday. No, we’re here to stay. Stay out of your way, though. You won’t need to worry about us. I call myself Papa Gin Stone—nobody going to connect you to me.”

  And that unnatural boy in the girl’s green dress fluttered his eyelashes, said, “We be sure, Madam, to be quiet as church mice. No one ever know we here.”

  Ginger just stroked the boy’s cheek, said, “That’s right, darling. We’ll stay the night here, only. We’re gone in the morning.” Then the fat one who had been lolling her head on her chest began to snore, and the others stood and unrolled their blankets on the floor. And in the morning my sister was gone, as was my entire set of family silver, and the housekeeping money for the winter from that canister in the pantry.

  I do not know what to do, Charlotte. It is morning—I am still in my clothes from last night—Marie-Claude has come in and is muttering French curses as she scrubs the floor again—I simply don’t know what to do. Please, please help me with your wisdom and your discretion. Please don’t tell a soul. Tell me what I should do. Please forgive me for not writing a fresh copy—my hand aches—I must send this to you, or else I feel I shall lose my mind. I know this is hasty—I just beg of you to help.

  Your friend in need,

  Cinnamon

  Averell Cottage, Templeton

  Christmas Day, 1861

  My dearest Charlotte—

  You are an angel. What would I have done without you? You have provided such comfort on these dark and terrible days, even perhaps at the expense of your romance with your dear Frenchman. You have not had time to walk with him as you usually do. Oh, you did calm me, care for me. You are right—I must be patient—I am not my sister’s keeper—the Lord will judge her, not I.

  Charlotte, I do believe I would have harmed myself had you not hurried across the frozen lake and up the lawn to come to my aid. And returned, and returned, every day, until I was calm. I have taken the tincture you have sent again, and am drowsy, but before I sleep, I will send this present to you. I wrote Aristabulus Mudge and had him make it up for me—it is a love-potion—I have used it myself—believe me, it works well. You must put it into food that you make with your own hands, and have your beloved eat it.

  Have I told you that when I am drowsy like this, I begin to see my husbands? It is quite alarming. They are in the shadows. They do not smile. What am I writing? I can barely follow my own pen, I am so tired. Now, my dear, I must sleep. I am forever in your debt.

  Your loving,

  Cinnamon Averell Graves

  Ginger “Papa Gin Stone” Averell

  March 1862.

  Taken by Telfer’s Studios in Templeton, this photo shows Ginger in her woman’s garb. She must have puzzled the poor photographer, showing up out of nowhere one day, and disappearing
the next. One wonders why she chose to sit for her portrait as a woman: one suspects she would have made a far more attractive man.

  17

  An Interruption

  I HAD BEGUN to read Cinnamon’s and Charlotte’s letters late the night before, after a dinner with my mother and an old black-and-white movie on television that I watched after she left for work at eleven. I was surprised, then, when I looked out my window with still half of the pack of letters left to read, only to see the sun beginning to slip from behind the hills and paint the lake a paler color. I yawned and stretched, then told the ghost in my room that I needed a little break. It was lilac colored, had seemed to be pulsing quickly all night, like a rabbit-heart bared, still beating. When I tried to look at it directly, it made itself invisible.

  I went downstairs and made some coffee, then turned on the television, and laughed. Sitting primly before me on the screen, like boys at a spelling bee, the Running Buds were yukking it up with a pretty, petite woman, and she was giggling like a fool. It was a repeat of their interview on the Daybreak! show. But I only caught the end. The woman thanked the Buds for being on, and the camera cut away to a very handsome reporter who was striding purposefully forward.

  “For the past week,” he was saying, “professional divers have been trying to reach the bottom of this nine-mile glacial New York lake, in order to see if Glimmey, the ‘monster’ that was discovered last week, is the only one of its kind. Remarkably, not one single diver has been able to reach the bottom. This lake is so deep that the divers cannot swim any deeper than four hundred feet below the surface. Today, however, that will change. Today”—the camera slid off center to show a bright yellow machine beside the reporter—“a deep-sea pod will go under the fabled waters of Glimmerglass and will discover what, if anything, lives so far beneath the surface of this placid, lovely lake. And,” he said with great solemnity, “exactly how deep the lake goes.” Here, the camera shifted again, to show my lake, pink and golden in the sunrise, wreathed with wisps of fog.