Time After Time

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  She took the red-lacquered box that was sitting next to the Dunkin' Donuts box and slipped the garnet pin back into its black velvet lining. It was, she supposed, a vague attempt at being scientific. But the results were disappointing; she could not induce the maddening sound, no matter how many times she opened and closed the lid.

  Liz shook her head and swore under her breath. "It must be like some kind of genie," she muttered. "Once it's out, you can't get it back in." She removed the pin and handed it back to Victoria.

  With a look almost of relief, Victoria pinned the gold heart through the fabric that lay over her own heart. "That had nothing to do with Caroline's birthday party," she said shrewdly. "What's going on, Liz? You're as tense as a cat in a kennel."

  Liz sucked in a lungful of air, then blew it out through puffed-up cheeks. "It's too dumb to tell, really," she said.

  She meant it. With sunlight pouring through the big uncurtained windows, and a warm west wind fluttering through the lofty, spreading branches of the leafed-out trees, and the sweet-smelling promise of summer wafting through the screen door — on a morning as gloriously normal as this, it was embarrassing to remember how she'd trembled with terror in her bed just a few eerie, foggy hours earlier.

  But remember it she did. "I ... um ... think I may have seen a ghost," she confessed, gently closing the lid of the red-lacquered box.

  "Excuse me? As in Casper?"

  "He wasn't nearly so cute." Liz shuddered and closed her eyes; she could see it all so well. "His clothes were spattered — with blood, I think."

  Liz was able to describe in detail the fleeting apparition that she'd seen by the grandfather clock in the entry hall of East Gate, but she had infinitely more trouble explaining the chiming sound that she'd first heard in the locksmith's shop.

  "It's like a ringing in the ears," she said, struggling with the concept, "but it's a more beautiful sound — enchanting, even. I think the sirens' song in Greek myth must've sounded something like it."

  "But the locksmith couldn't hear it? And no one at East Gate?"

  Liz shrugged. "I guess not."

  "What happened after the chime-sound?"

  "Who knows? I shot through the doors like a bat out of hell.''

  "This is wonderful," said Victoria, clapping her hands together. "You hear about these ghosts in Newport mansions all the time, but you never know what to believe. If you saw a ghost, though, then all the other stories must be true as well," she concluded cheerfully. Apparently she meant it as some kind of compliment.

  Liz shook her head, bemused by her friend's logic. "Could I have a multiple-personality disorder, you think?"

  Victoria laughed and said, "Can you afford more than one?"

  Suddenly it hit Liz: What if someone decided she was unstable? Would they take Susy away? The thought was more horrific than anything Liz had experienced so far.

  "This is all pure fantasy on my part," she said emphatically. "I was tired. I was upset."

  "Not in the locksmith's shop, you weren't," said Victoria with a crafty look.

  "Stop it! You know what these old houses are like. East Gate is no exception. Their personalities are so intense. I think we project all that atmosphere into some kind of human form ... we create the ghosts ourselves," Liz said in desperation.

  Victoria merely smiled. "I see. So after what you considered a bloodletting of a social event, you came up with a bloodied ghost. Interesting. But you still haven't explained the chime-sound."

  "Oh, just ... stop it," said Liz tersely. She began stacking the cups and saucers. "I'm sorry I said anything."

  She decided to shift the subject from her neurosis back to Victoria's. As she loaded the dishwasher she said, completely without irony, "Have you learned anything more from the letters besides the fact that you and Miss St. Onge share a fear of snakes and a love of chocolate?"

  She resisted the impulse to add, "And by the way, who the hell doesn't?"

  Happy to be asked, Victoria promptly answered, "As a matter of fact, I played the piano last time, too. I'm probably Frédéric Chopin's oldest fan. And I had a green thumb; I'm willing to bet that I planted some of those peonies you gave away."

  From one surreal conversation to another. Liz gave silent thanks that no one from the Department of Children, Youth and Families was overhearing this. The one thing she had to do was keep Susy out of it. This would pass. All of it would pass.

  But if it didn't?

  Liz found herself running water to fill the sink, despite the fact that the dishes were now sitting in the dishwasher.

  "Victoria—I know that asking you if you believe in ghosts is like asking Queen Elizabeth if she believes in monarchy. But tell me this," she said, turning off the water and facing her friend. "You claim to be a reincarnated spiritualist. Have you actually ever ... seen a ghost?" she asked in a voice humbled by fear. "Either time around?"

  Victoria's porcelain-pale face turned a little more pale. "Not this time around," she admitted. "But before, when I was on the way up in Newport society ... I might have conducted a séance or two."

  "I didn't know Victoria St. Onge was a social climber," said Liz, surprised. Clearly she was going to have to read the letters, starting today. "During these séances, then: did any kind of ... spirits ... ever appear?"

  Instead of answering Liz, Victoria bit her lip and stared out at the huge copper beech that flung a deep, wide shadow over the grounds of East Gate. "People thought they did," she murmured at last.

  "People?" asked Liz, alert to something in Victoria's manner. "What about Victoria St. Onge?"

  Victoria looked back with eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Liz — I think we might be a fake!"

  She jumped up from the little pine table and dashed into the living room with Liz following in confusion. It was in this room that Victoria had organized all the attic papers as chronologically as possible before she ever began to read them. It had taken all week, but eventually she'd ended up with thirty-seven shoeboxes spanning the years 1880 to 1911, and then 1931 to 1935. The first six shoeboxes were arranged neatly on the bluestone hearth of Liz's brick fireplace; the rest were taking up a big chunk of her upstairs bedroom.

  Victoria fell to her knees, pulled out the shoebox marked 1881, and plucked a letter tagged with a Post-it label. In her softly shirred blouse and gauzy white skirt, she looked like some New Age secretary to Saint Peter.

  "I hope I'm wrong," she said fiercely. "Tell me what you think. This was written when I was — she was — twenty-nine, not so young anymore, but still managing to make her presence felt in circles that mattered. Victoria St. Onge had just arrived in Newport for her first summer here."

  Victoria unfolded the letter and in a faltering voice at first, then more confidently, read the words which presumably she herself had written over a century earlier.

  "'My dear Mercy,' " Victoria read aloud.

  It is the middle of the night, and I have only just returned from a champagne feast hosted by Ambassador Schilling in honor of his "dear friend," the Duchess de Tino. Before I retire, I must write and tell you everything — everything! — while it is fresh in my mind.

  Let me say at once that Newport is both the prettiest town, and the most vulgar, that I have ever seen. It is, quite simply, the perfect place for us. A mad gaiety abounds here which is much in need of a spiritual corrective. I think, dear sister, that between us we can restore the balance.

  You must come just as soon as you can. I have no doubt that my hostess, who suffers the painful afflictions of rheumatism, can much benefit from your healing touch. And she has recently lost her third husband, of whom they say she was fond.

  Victoria looked up at Liz and said, "When I first read this part, I took what she said at face value. Everyone knows that Newport entertained on a decadent scale back then. I thought she believed she could do some good. And Mercy, too — I do believe in faith healing," Victoria added with a defiant lift of her chin.

  "As we know," said Liz in her d
ry way. "What made you have second thoughts about Victoria St. Onge?"

  "Well, she seems a little too enthusiastic about the material world for a spiritualist. She raves about all of it, from the canopied dancing pavilion on the grounds to the two-hundred-foot-long red carpet they rolled out to it from the house. And she loved the dinner menu — four different kinds of fowl, six of seafood ... blah, blah. Okay, now listen to this part about the woman she was actually staying with, the recently widowed Mrs. Gundrun."

  I have it in mind to reunite, if ever so briefly, Mrs. Gundrun with her dear Eckhard. I understand that when he was alive, the lady was completely under her husband's influence and spent her considerable fortune according to his instructions. We shall see.

  Victoria made a funny little grimace, then said, "How does that sound to you? Snotty or genuine?"

  "I would have to say snotty."

  Victoria sighed. "To me, too."

  "Did she ever get them together?"

  "Well — see what you think." Victoria took out several sheets of stationery from the 1881 shoebox and handed them to Liz.

  The letter was written in a hurry; the handwriting was annoyingly illegible. Liz curled up in the wing chair that was too small for Jack Eastman's shoulders and began to read.

  My dear Mercy,

  I was disappointed, as you can well imagine, to learn you have decided to prolong your stay in Baden-Baden. I cannot blame you, of course. The hot springs there have great allure for the wealthy infirm, and where they provide no benefit, surely you, dear sister, can step into the breach. With whom do you stay? Write me with more care than you have taken so far. You are much too brief!

  As for me, I like my little Newport very well indeed. After a month here, I have settled into a pleasant routine. If the weather is fair, some of the bolder of us head for the shore. I don my silk stockings, my corset, my pantaloons and my black wool dress, then I slip into my bathing shoes, put on my largest veiled hat, take up my black parasol — and voilà! I am ready for bathing at Easton's Beach, a pretty crescent of white sand that is oriented, praise heaven, to the prevailing breeze.

  It hardly seems fair: no sooner do we ladies get wet up to our knees, when the flag is run up signaling us to evacuate the beach so that, beginning promptly at twelve o'clock noon, the men may have their turn to bathe — and they bathe, I may add, completely unencumbered!

  But the afternoon beach is perhaps the only thing that society ladies do not control in Newport. The wealthiest women are very powerful here — indeed, they can hardly be anything else, since their husbands are away all week in Boston and New York tending to the families' vast fortunes. If it is true that Saratoga was created for the amusement of sporting men, then it is equally true that Newport exists for the amusement of ladies of high fashion.

  Make no mistake, sister dearest — the competition to reign socially over all others is a vicious sport here, being fought to the death. At the moment the queen is undeniably Mrs. Astor of Beechwood, but that may easily change. A grander ball, a bigger mansion, a more titled guest list — any one of these factors could result in an overthrow of the monarchy.

  Liz looked up from the letter. "This is historically very interesting, but ... what about the séance?"

  "How can you not be fascinated by it all?" asked Victoria, disappointed in Liz's lack of interest. "That's my life she's writing about. One of them, anyway," she added without a smidgeon of humor in her voice.

  "I have to take Susy to the dentist."

  "Oh, go to the fourth page, then."

  Liz did so.

  When it is foggy and we are forced to stay inside, my skills are much in demand. It is very puzzling to me how a Newport grande dame can dissolve in tears as her departed husband begs her to seek guidance from someone like me, now that he himself is gone — and the next day, how that same lady can demand that I guess the content of each of her guests' purses, and explode in shrieks of gaiety when I am right.

  I must close for now; we are off to a picnic in a few short moments. Tonight there is to be a rather grand affair at Chateau-sur-Mer, an imposing castle on Bellevue Avenue. (Everyone in Newport seems to crave his own European-style palace; I predict that more will come.) I wish you well, dear sister.

  "Wow!" said Liz. "I see what you mean. Is she or isn't she?"

  Victoria began nervously rearranging the cheerful clutter of framed photos on the painted mantelpiece in Liz's living room. "Exactly," she said, obviously distressed. "On the one hand, she seems able to summon a widow's dearly departed — knowing beforehand what he's going to say."

  "But on the other hand," mused Liz, "she's able to guess what's in women's purses. Not that that's so hard," she added.

  Victoria moved the framed photo of Liz's daughter to the back, her mother to the front. "So you think she is a fake?"

  "Heck, I don't know," said Liz, feeling a little preempted by Victoria and her spiritualist. "Read some more and find out."

  "How can I do that?" asked Victoria, turning to her with a stricken look. "You know I'm going to Martha's Vineyard for the next week. And you're not letting the letters out of your house!"

  Once again, the guilt. Victoria was younger than Liz, prettier than Liz — unless you happened to prefer nice-looking brunettes to knockout redheads — and much, much richer than Liz. And yet time after time, Liz found herself deferring to Victoria out of pity. How could she not? Victoria had no memory; and if she had, her tragedy would be twice as profound.

  "Okay," Liz said. "Take the first two shoeboxes with you. That should keep you going. But whatever you do, please, please don't lose them."

  "I'd never do that," said Victoria, eagerly scooping up the boxes. "It'd be as bad as losing a family album."

  She gave Liz a quick good-bye hug and went off to pack. Liz was left feeling funky and restless and at the same time somewhat paralyzed. What was she supposed to do now? Sit around and wait for her ears to ring?

  It wasn't her style. Elizabeth Coppersmith had a long history of meeting crises head-on. When Keith took off right after Susy was born, Liz had reached deep down and come up with a new career in party planning. By giving up sleep and with the help of Tori and her parents, Liz had managed — without a cent of child support — to hold on to both her pride and her credit rating.

  She decided to tackle this latest combination of setbacks head-on as well.

  Between the apparition and the ruined rugs, Liz much preferred to deal with the rugs. She'd simply offer to have them all cleaned, no matter what the cost, thereby demonstrating that she was both successful and gracious. After a quick call to Netta, she put on a happy face and a new skirt and drove the minivan over to East Gate to collect her gear.

  In the bright morning light the Queen Anne mansion looked far more charming than spooky, convincing Liz that the ghost had been a combination of fog and her imagination. After Netta admitted her into the marble-floored entry hall, Liz tested her confidence by pausing and admiring the grandfather clock, a Chippendale mahogany longcase of museum quality. There was nothing spectral about it; it was just your ordinary fifty-thousand-dollar clock.

  "I'm sorry I haven't had time to pack up your things," said the elderly housekeeper, dressed today in workaday brown and black, "but Bradley is home from day care today. A summer cold, I expect; the poor dear is limp as a rag."

  Liz apologized profusely for having walked out before finishing the cleanup. "I don't know what came over me," she said ruefully. "I really lost it, especially with Caroline."

  Netta threw open the doors to the Great Room, which smelled pleasantly of carpet cleaner, and said, "You didn't do anything I wouldn't have done. Mr. Eastman and I had a good chuckle over it later when I told him what you did with the cake."

  Scandalized, Liz said, "You saw me? You told him? Which Mr. Eastman?"

  "Well, that would be Jack, of course. I would never have told his father. Mr. Eastman — Cornelius Eastman, that is — is a bit on the blind side when it comes to the child
. But Jack—"

  Netta locked her arthritic hands over her stomach in a prim way and said, "Jack is not what you call your modem male. In many ways — I suppose it's the schools he was sent to — he harbors old-fashioned notions. About children, certainly. And — this I hate to admit — about women. Yes. He's a bit, what do you say, chauvinistic," she said with obvious affection.

  Despite her own hostility to Jack, Liz liked his housekeeper very much. There was something about the woman's ample size and lisle stockings, something about the kind and faded blue eyes behind the plastic eyeglasses, that made Liz want to confide completely in her.

  "This was my first event for influential clients," she said, almost wistfully. "And I think I blew it big-time."

  "Now that's just silly. Several of the guests commented on how clever the decorations were. It's not your fault that Snowball got diarrhea. Which is exactly what I told Mr. Eastman — Jack, that is. He did overreact at the end. For goodness' sake, look at the rugs — there's no harm done.

  "It's the strain," Netta added, shaking her head. "The shipyard's in bad trouble financially. It's not easy watching a hundred-year-old family business fade away," she said with a sigh. "People aren't buying pleasure boats ... the fishermen are hurting ... regulations are strangling everyone ... taxes are up. Jack tells all this to me, you know, because no one else seems to care."

  The housekeeper paused to listen for something, but whether it was for Bradley's crying or for approaching footsteps, Liz couldn't tell.

  "Then, too, they've had such terrible luck lately," Netta went on, lowering her voice. "Did you see in today's paper about the toxic spill they found there yesterday evening?"

  Liz didn't get the morning Journal, but she nodded sagely, as if she knew all about it.

  "I don't understand what's so toxic about turpentine," Netta admitted. "In my day it was just something you cleaned paintbrushes with. The police think it might have been vandals. Be that as it may, it's the shipyard that's responsible. My poor, poor Jack."