“I don’t talk about God,” he said. “Conflict of interest.”
I saw Max talking to the mayor. Papa was backed up against the egg salad, and a short stout woman had him by the bicep. She had a hunched back that made her pink suit jacket pull up under her arms, and a fat brown mole wedged in the groove on one side of her nose. Papa kept lifting his head and looking to the horizon as if he was waiting for a helicopter rescue crew to airlift him out, and every time he did this the pink woman squeezed his bicep and thrust out her neck farther, tilting her head and squinting up at him.
I noticed that Blanche was eating the artichoke heart I was saving for last. “Blanche!” I whacked her head.
“Kids!” said Mrs. Pike.
“I’m telling! I’m telling the minister!” Blanche said.
“Go ahead.”
“I’m going to!” Blanche turned, and I kicked my foot out from under her, and we went down in a rain of green peppers. Again, everyone was looking at us.
“Whoa,” said the minister’s son. “What an illustration of my father’s point!”
THE DOLLHOUSE REDUX
Early the next morning I repacked my bags, gave sleepy, sulky Louche a hasty hug, checked my e-mail at the macrobiotic café with no interesting results, and took the tube to the train station. I was carried south through miles of muddy industrial yards and misty fields dotted with sheep to bleached, disconsolate Brighton, where I bought a geometrical lunch: two isosceles triangles of white bread cleaving to a cold fried egg, and a hard brown sphere of breaded sausage with another, phenomenally tough boiled egg inside it. I caught a bus that rattled west along a narrow wet road through glittering greenery that occasionally parted to reveal a stretch of pale ocean, and finally discharged me in a cobbled square in Arundel, a tiny, impossibly quaint cluster of white plaster walls and red tiled roofs around a castle that looked so real it had to be some sort of hologram. I set out walking. I had an address, but finding the building itself was surprisingly difficult; the side streets made a series of determined turns and released me onto the same small street, its video store, post office, Boots Pharmacy looking as anachronistic as the fillings in a Shakespearean actor’s teeth. Frail trees agitated in the small spaces allotted for them in the occasional brick-walled gardens. A seagull yawped.
I leapt rank puddles, passed two churches, a Doll Museum, and a Museum of Industry. Upon checking the address for the Potter, I realized I had missed it. I retraced my steps, making sure of the street names, and found myself at the Doll Museum once again. I shrugged and went in. I had told Louche I was going to visit a doll museum somewhere in West Sussex. It appeared I had been telling the truth.
The precise young man behind the counter had never heard of the Potter Museum and seemed affronted to be asked. He handed me a phone book. I found a listing for the Potter and showed him that the address was the same. Could I use his telephone to try the number? He pointed to the red squiggle of a phone booth visible through the thick window, chewing his gum with neat, disappointed movements of his mouth, as precise as if he were forming words.
An old man put his head out of the back and said something without moving his lips. I eventually made out that he was saying they had moved it. Moved the Potter Museum? Aye. Where? Jamaica Inn. As in the novel? Aye, abominable.
“Abominable?”
“The gentleman said, in Bodmin Moor,” put in the young man, with icy precision. “That is in Cornwall. Have you heard of Cornwall? Cornwall is in the west of England.”
Did he despise me because I was American, or a twofer, or both? Just to spite him, I bought a ticket for the show. He tried to make me pay for Blanche as well. I rolled up her eyelid to display her immaculate whites and he backed down, but watched us narrowly as I walked away, ready to pounce if Blanche showed signs of waking.
The exhibit, which was tiny, but augmented with photographs and other documents, concerned dollhouses designed by notable architects. I’d had no intention of really doing the research Papa had suggested, but I found myself reluctantly interested, though the dollhouses themselves made me uneasy. The yellowing nighties laid out on the bed. The sacrosanct spaces, so intimate but exposed. I remembered how through my eyes I could inhabit the smallest places; the doll was a kind of lens, a device for shrinking and focusing, by which I could gauge and set the size of my imagined self. The doors were what made me feel it this time, and the windows, the feeling of a self-sufficiently interior space. I considered a dollhouse with tiny, framed blueprints hanging in its parlor, then moved on.
I was looking at a photograph of our dollhouse.
Except it was not the dollhouse. Its facade was shaggy with ivy. There was smoke coming from one chimney and what appeared to be a peacock on the lawn.
The legend beneath the photo referred me to a catalog number. “Do you have a catalog of the dollhouses in the show?” I asked the attendant.
“Naturally.”
“Well, can I have one?” I said, a little testily.
“You’ll have to pay for it.” Exasperated, I paid, and flipped to the item number in question.
No photographs survive of this dollhouse, so admired at the time, but contemporary witnesses report that it bore an extraordinary likeness to John Seymour Laine’s masterpiece, down to the finest details of the molding, so we feel confident in presenting a photograph of the full-sized structure in lieu of the miniature. It remains a topic of speculation whether the dollhouse was a model for the great house, or a copy of it. Reportedly, the dollhouse was made by the great architect himself, as a gift for the daughter of the house, but a rumour circulated to the effect that the dollhouse was made some years before by a journeyman-architect to demonstrate his prowess, that with justifiable pride (and some hope of gaining employment) he showed his work to the master, who admired it; flattered by the great man’s attention, he presented him with the dollhouse, and was thanked warmly, but was never shown any further signs of regard. Some years later this young architect, seeing a drawing of the latest triumph of the master, was flabbergasted to observe that the great Laine had copied his work in every particular.
In either case, it is certain that the dollhouse was a near-perfect miniature of the house, and the two stayed together through several changes of ownership. The family fortunes declining, the house passed to an obscure fabulist of the early 1800s, who wrote effete, eroticized versions of old fairy tales under a pen name, but was in reality the notorious rakehell Chubb Wykehead, who had scandalized London and the continent with his exploits, and after one particularly infamous escapade involving the daughter of a lord and His Nib’s prize ram, only escaped imprisonment on condition that he retreat to a country house and cloister himself in it, ‘and never again permit his name to be publicly Advertized or associated with any Acts or Writings howsoever sober their Disposition in any Field of Church, State or Society.’ On his solitary death, the house was sold, then sold again.
House and dollhouse parted company at last, sometime in the 1800s. The dollhouse was acquired by the family of Morlett (in an intriguing side note, the minor Hollywood star Evelyn North, who was the last owner of the house, is reported to have said she was drawn to it because it reminded her of a dollhouse she had seen at a castle when she was a little girl. If this was the dollhouse, then the ‘castle’ was probably the country seat of the family, which opened to the public two days a week somewhere around the future star’s fifth year). Their fortunes declining in turn, they sold it—one of the last treasures to go before the impoverished heirs moved to a neat modern house in Stoke Newington—to a private collector. The collector, who later acquired a large number of extraordinarily fine German and Austrian-made dollhouses during WWII, under circumstances that caused him some embarrassment in the post-war climate, moved with his entire collection to America shortly after the war. There, his circumstances worsened. He found himself living in a small flat in West Hollywood, selling off his dollhouses one at a time. No doubt the dollhouse changed hands again in
this time, but it has not resurfaced, and what became of the collector we do not know.
Well, I knew. Grandfather’s sister, my great-aunt, bought it for her daughter, who died young, and when my great-aunt herself died, she left the dollhouse to Papa, in case he should ever have a daughter.
I went back to the photograph. The dollhouse, but big enough to live in! There were people behind those walls, practically life-sized. This amazed me, as if creatures of wood and glue were to suddenly rise up and perform The Duchess of Malfi with appropriate gestures.
There was a tiny caption engraved on a plate inlaid in the frame. At last I made it out. It said, “The Manor House, Glass Lane, East Loode.” “I hate to ask, but can you tell me where Loode is?” I asked the clerk. He flicked a road map in his display.
“Do I have to pay for it first? No? Just checking,” I said.
“There’s no call to be rude,” he said. “You mushies certainly have a chip on your shoulder.”
The solitary dot that was East Loode—there was no Loode, let alone a West Loode—was about an hour farther west, the approximate direction I was going, if I was still going to the Potter Museum. I suddenly decided I was. On my way back to the bus stop I stopped at an Internet café—really, a couple of computers at the back of a stationery-and-candy store—and sent Audrey an email.
What do you know about Evelyn North? Will explain later. xxxN
The bus route ran for a time along a beach. I gazed absently at the close and rippling waves, which broke neatly on the pebbles with a minimum of splashing, as if quelled by the weight and dignity of the sea behind. Then a man appeared, very pink and seemingly about two feet high, stepping firmly along the band of sand, which revealed itself thereby in a sudden, disquieting perspective shift to be much broader and farther away and the waves more unruly than I had thought.
Somewhere along the way I fell asleep, and when I woke, everyone on the bus seemed to be looking angrily at me. Had Blanche done something to embarrass or alarm them? I hiked up my coat to conceal her and leaned my head against the window, pretending drowsiness, though I was no longer sleepy. I got off the bus in the small village of East Loode, and walked back along the bus route. The Manor would not be in town but in the neighboring countryside, I thought. Just before the stone church tower announced the start of the village, we had passed a turnoff.
The road wound first through cottages, then a few larger modern houses on artificially smooth green lawns, then fields where distant sheep were demonstrating traditional poses. An intricate wickerwork wall of thorns and thistles rose up on all sides and closed out the light. Deep in one thicket that was swallowing a signpost I made out the letters lass La, which reassured me. I was on the right road; if the Manor was visible at all, I would see it. The occasional muddy drive penetrated the wall and afforded cropped views of what seemed to be the same field over and over, the same wary sheep. Finally the road swerved around a tight corner and dead-ended at a T intersection with a bigger road. I had gone too far.
I started back. My feet were beginning to hurt. I walked all the way back to the cottages, and realized I had missed it again. I decided to give it one more good try and then give up. It would be annoying to leave without seeing it, but the sun was starting to sink in the sky, and it would take me five hours, at least, to get to Jamaica Inn. I turned around, and started back over the same ground for the third time, very slowly now.
This time I looked, not for the house itself, but for the disposition of the trees around the house, the shape of the hill behind it. Looking in this way, not for the figure but for the ground, I spotted something through one of the gaps in the hedge. On the ridges around Too Bad, it is a common enough thing to pause for a sip of stale water from a canteen and watch the rocks slowly shape-shift underfoot. Scattered boulders among the boulders form a line, a corner, then another, and you realize you are inside what was once a room, hundreds of years ago.
I slipped through the hedge. The sheep retreated en masse to the far corner. The sheep-shorn grass covered everything with a thick springy pelt, but underneath it I could make out the outlines of foundations, and here and there the crumbling butts of walls stuck up through the grass like teeth. I had the feeling that if I peeled it up, there would be perfect flagstones, stairs, curbs underneath.
It was peaceful. There was a small orchard of fruit trees behind what had once been the house. When the clouds parted, the sun was very bright and clear, delineating each frisking leaf. Small apples vibrated in a tree that looked all branches, as if a sinkhole had consumed the trunk. In a neighboring field, someone was spreading some green netting with finicky twitches.
Had this been the Manor? I got on my knees on the flowered carpet of grass inside one sketchy room, wondering if I would feel something. The gardener had lifted his head, and was staring at me the way the sheep had. I got up again, feeling foolish.
Then I stepped between two sprawling thistles, and the shapes fell into place around me. I knew where I was. I was standing in the quondam scullery. A funny thing happened to my eyes: The bushes and trees seemed like miniatures, the sky far above was my bedroom ceiling. My legs felt numb and stiff as a doll’s. I slipped in some wet sheep’s droppings and landed facedown.
The sides of my torso tingled, expecting a gargantuan hand to seize hold, make me walk and talk. Look what dolly wants to do! Bad dolly!
Roll over, dolly.
I rolled over. My eyes, painted open, stared straight up. I heard furniture scraping across the floor above. Someone giggled in the secret attic.
Then a seagull fell through the ceiling, crying, and the rain started. I jumped up, released, and ran for the road.
THE SIAMESE TWIN REFERENCE MANUAL
Siamystic Meanderings
To make peace with our twin is the spiritual task of the next millennium; we must enlist the help of all those with double vision, second sight, a gift for looking both ways. Please join the debate on the wisdom of making a strategic alliance with the Togetherists in the important work of bringing to a halt the criminally unilateral operations of the so-called Dr. Decapitate.
Our public profile is growing daily. Member Ron alerts mailing list readers to Tuesday’s not entirely positive article in the Washington Post. Friends, refrain from extravagant statements in communiqués with the press. Whenever possible refer hostile inquirers to our Web site. As we witnessed in the Salt Lake City debacle, media will use every chance we give them to label us fringe-thinkers and extremists. Where possible, emphasize the differences between our positions and those of the well-meaning but the sometimes impetuous Togetherists. Like it or not, we live in a world of “spin,” so take the time to memorize a few of the handy catchphrases drafted by a crackerjack New York publicist working pro bono (thanks, Anonymous!) SASE to the address below, or fire us an e-mail.
For those in the San Jose chapter, Sister Marjory is hosting a bake sale to raise funds. Encourage your friends and neighbors to try her toothsome treats. Thank you, Marjory! Why not try this in your community?
As one door closes, another opens, and amid these financial difficulties we are happy to welcome a new healing presence to our community. Please join us in celebrating Sister Pearley, who has taken over the mailing list. Our soul’s joy throbs.
DOOM TOWN
A black 5 trembled in the crosshairs. The second hand spun, dragging the perimeter of a grey circle behind it. 4. 3. 2. 1.
The teacher had said, “Class, have you ever heard of Survival City?” The class was mute. Finally I had raised my hand. “You mean Doom Town?”
The slit in the blinds was a burning wand suspended in the close air. A foot gently explored the back of our chair. I turned. “Stop it,” I hissed, thrilled. Chris Marchpane had reached puberty and doted on me and Blanche with newly mature effects, derided by our classmates. At least once a day his baggy white shorts would come to a point in his lap, though he tried to hide it by bringing up his big knees to clasp the sides of the desk—which was s
et a fixed distance from the chair, so that when he slammed the desk shut he ran a risk of defanging his obsession forever. We demonstrated our disdain with all the martial arts of childhood, but at home in bed I watched the sandy grains of the dark assemble themselves into bawdy tableaux in which his snowy, Olympian shorts played the lead part in a combinatory series unfettered by any firsthand knowledge of the limits of the male body. Over and over, in the role of the disdainful desired, we spread our scornful thighs and let him…what?
A black and white man was carrying a black and white lady across a living room. The lady held a stiff, seated position (ankles crossed), and traversed the room at a slight tilt. Set down in an armchair, she rocked a little. Well! Grown-ups played with dolls. There was the proof.
“The sister city.” We had heard the old ladies at the Natatorium call Grady that, but nobody ever named the city whose sister it was. It was Granny who finally told me its name: Doom Town. Was it a ghost town, I asked. It seemed like a good name for a ghost town. “In a way,” she said, “if there’s such a thing as a ghost of what was never alive to begin with.” Doom Town was a city in which no real people lived, only dolls.
“A tiny town!” Blanche said, intrigued.
No. The houses were large as life. But the streets were short and led nowhere. The dollhouses had exquisite furnishings, but if you turned a tap, no water would flow. The stove was clean and cold. The lamps shed no light. But the boomerang-patterned linoleum tables were laid with Fiestaware and the cupboards stocked with real food: Special K, Shredded Wheat, Quaker Oats. And the dolls…
Another woman, carried like a roll of tent poles, was angled and poked into a car that had a number 24 daubed on its side door.
“The dolls,” we’d prompted.
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