In the Absence of Angels

by Hortense Calisher

  Rigid, the man looked back at him cataleptically, seeming, for a moment, all eye. Then, his mouth stretching in that medieval grimace, risorial and equivocal, whose mask appears sometimes on one side of the stage, sometimes on the other, he fell forward on the desk, with a long, mewing sigh.

  Before the doctor could reach him, he had raised himself on his arms and their foreheads touched. They recoiled, staring downward. Between them on the desk, as if one of its mahogany shadows had become animate, something seemed to move — small, seal-colored, and ambiguous. For a moment it filmed back and forth, arching in a crude, primordial inquiry; then, homing straight for the doctor, whose jaw hung down in a rictus of shock, it disappeared from view.

  Sputtering, the doctor beat the air and his own person wildly with his hands, and staggered upward from his chair. The breeze blew hypnotically, and the stranger gazed back at him with such perverse calm that already he felt an assailing doubt of the lightning, untoward event. He fumbled back over his sensations of the minute before, but already piecemeal and chimerical, they eluded him now, as they might forever.

  “It’s unbelievable,” he said weakly.

  His visitor put up a warding hand, shaking it fastidiously. “Au contraire!” he replied daintily, as though by the use of another language he would remove himself still further from commitment. Reaching forward, he gathered up his papers into a sheaf, and stood up, stretching himself straight with an all-over bodily yawn of physical ease that was like an affront. He looked down at the doctor, one hand fingering his wallet. “No,” he said reflectively, “guess not.” He tucked the papers away. “Shall we leave it on the basis of — er — professional courtesy?” he inquired delicately.

  Choking on the sludge of his rage, the doctor looked back at him, inarticulate.

  Moving toward the door, the visitor paused. “After all,” he said, “with your connections …try to think of it as a temporary inconvenience.” Regretfully, happily, he closed the door behind him.

  The doctor sat at his desk, humped forward. His hands crept to his chest and crossed. He swallowed, experimentally. He hoped it was rage. He sat there, waiting. He was thinking of the luncheon table.

  A Wreath for Miss Totten

  CHILDREN GROWING up in the country take their images of integrity from the land. The land, with its changes, is always about them, a pervasive truth, and their midget foregrounds are crisscrossed with minute dramas which are the animalcules of a larger vision. But children who grow in a city where there is nothing greater than the people brimming up out of subways, rivuleting in the streets — these children must take their archetypes where and if they find them.

  In P.S. 146, between periods, when the upper grades were shunted through the halls in that important procedure known as “departmental,” although most of the teachers stood about chatting relievedly in couples, Miss Totten always stood at the door of her “home room,” watching us straightforwardly, alone. As, straggling and muffled, we lined past the other teachers, we often caught snatches of upstairs gossip which we later perverted and enlarged; passing before Miss Totten we deflected only that austere look, bent solely on us.

  Perhaps, with the teachers, as with us, she was neither admired nor loathed but simply ignored. Certainly none of us ever fawned on her as we did on the harshly blond and blue-eyed Miss Steele, who never wooed us with a smile but slanged us delightfully in the gym, giving out the exercises in a voice like scuffed gravel. Neither did she obsess us in the way of the Misses Comstock, two liverish, stunted women who could have had nothing so vivid about them as our hatred for them, and though all of us had a raffish hunger for metaphor, we never dubbed Miss Totten with a nickname.

  Miss Totten’s figure, as she sat tall at her desk or strode angularly in front of us rolling down the long maps over the blackboard, had that instantaneous clarity, one metallic step removed from the real, of the daguerreotype. Her clothes partook of this period too — long, saturnine waists and skirts of a stuff identical with that in a good family umbrella. There was one like it in the umbrella-stand at home — a high black one with a seamed ivory head. The waists enclosed a vestee of dim, but steadfast lace; the skirts grazed narrow boots of that etiolated black leather, venerable with creases, which I knew to be a sign both of respectability and foot trouble. But except for the vestee, all of Miss Totten, too, folded neatly to the dark point of her shoes, and separated from these by her truly extraordinary length, her face presided above, a lined, ocher ellipse. Sometimes, as I watched it on drowsy afternoons, her face floated away altogether and came to rest on the stand at home. Perhaps it was because of this guilty image that I was the only one who noticed Miss Totten’s strange preoccupation with “Mooley” Davis.

  Most of us in Miss Totten’s room had been together as a group since first grade, but we had not seen Mooley since down in second grade, under the elder and more frightening of the two Comstocks. I had forgotten Mooley completely, but when she reappeared I remembered clearly the incident which had given her her name.

  That morning, very early in the new term, back in Miss Comstock’s, we had lined up on two sides of the classroom for a spelling bee. These were usually a relief to good and bad spellers alike, since it was the only part of our work which resembled a game, and even when one had to miss and sit down, there was a kind of dreamy catharsis in watching the tenseness of those still standing. Miss Comstock always rose for these occasions and came forward between the two lines, standing there in an oppressive close-up in which we could watch the terrifying action of the cords in her spindling gray neck and her slight smile as a boy or a girl was spelled down. As the number of those standing was reduced, the smile grew, exposing the oversize slabs of her teeth, through which the words issued in a voice increasingly unctuous and soft.

  On this day the forty of us still shone with the first fall neatness of new clothes, still basked in that delightful anonymity in which neither our names nor our capacities were already part of the dreary foreknowledge of the teacher. The smart and quick had yet to assert themselves with their flying, staccato hands; the uneasy dull, not yet forced into recitations which would make their status clear, still preserved in the small, sinking corners of their hearts a lorn, factitious hope. Both teams were still intact when the word “mule” fell to the lot of a thin colored girl across the room from me, in clothes perky only with starch, her rusty fuzz of hair drawn back in braids so tightly sectioned that her eyes seemed permanently widened.

  “Mule,” said Miss Comstock, giving out the word. The ranks were still full. She had not yet begun to smile.

  The girl looked back at Miss Comstock, soundlessly. All her face seemed drawn backward from the silent, working mouth, as if a strong, pulling hand had taken hold of the braids.

  My turn, I calculated, was next. The procedure was to say the word, spell it out, and say it again. I repeated it in my mind: “Mule. M-u-l-e. Mule.”

  Miss Comstock waited quite a long time. Then she looked around the class, as if asking them to mark well and early this first malfeasance, and her handling of it.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “Ull — ee.” The word came out in a glottal, molasses voice, hardly articulate, the l’s scarcely pronounced.

  “Lilly?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Lilly what?”

  “Duh-avis.”

  “Oh. Lilly Davis. Mmmm. Well, spell ‘mule,’ Lilly.” Miss Comstock trilled out the name beautifully.

  The tense brown bladder of the girl’s face swelled desperately, then broke at the mouth. “Mo’ol,” she said, and stopped. “Mmm — oo — ”

  The room tittered. Miss Comstock stepped closer.

  “Mule!”

  The girl struggled again. “Mool.”

  This time we were too near Miss Comstock to dare laughter.

  Miss Comstock turned to our side. “Who’s next?”

  I half raised my hand.

  “Go on.” She wheeled around on Lilly
, who was sinking into her seat. “No. Don’t sit down.”

  I lowered my eyelids, hiding Lilly from my sight. “Mule,” I said. “M-u-l-e. Mule.”

  The game continued, words crossing the room uneventfully. Some children survived. Others settled, abashed, into their seats, craning around to watch us. Again the turn came around to Lilly.

  Miss Comstock cleared her throat. She had begun to smile.

  “Spell it now, Lilly,” she said. “Mule.”

  The long-chinned brown face swung from side to side in an odd writhing movement. Lilly’s eyeballs rolled. Then the thick sound from her mouth was lost in the hooting, uncontrollable laughter of the whole class. For there was no doubt about it: the long, coffee-colored face, the whitish glint of the eyeballs, the bucking motion of the head suggested it to us all — a small brown quadruped, horse or mule, crazily stubborn, or at bay.

  “Quiet!” said Miss Comstock. And we hushed, although she had not spoken loudly. For the word had smirked out from a wide, flat smile and on the stringy neck beneath there was a creeping, pleasurable flush which made it pink as a young girl’s.

  That was how Mooley Davis got her name, although we had a chance to use it only for a few weeks, in a taunting singsong when she hung up her coat in the morning, or as she flicked past the little dust-bin of a store where we shed our pennies for nigger-babies and tasteless, mottoed hearts. For after a few weeks, when it became clear that her cringing, mucoused talk was getting worse, she was transferred to the “ungraded” class. This group, made up of the mute, the shambling, and the oddly tall, some of whom were delivered by bus, was housed in a basement part of the school, with a separate entrance which was forbidden us not only by rule but by a lurking distaste of our own.

  The year Mooley reappeared in Miss Totten’s room, a dispute in the school system had disbanded all the ungraded classes in the city. Here and there, now, in the back seat of a class, there would be some grown-size boy who read haltingly from a primer, fingering the stubble on his slack jaw. Down in 4-A there was a shiny, petted doll of a girl, all crackling hairbow and nimble wheelchair, over whom the teachers shook their heads feelingly, saying: “Bright as a dollar! Imagine!” as if there were something sinister in the fact that useless legs had not impaired the musculature of a mind. And in our class, in harshly clean, faded dresses which were always a little too infantile for her, her spraying ginger hair cut short now and held by a round comb which circled the back of her head like a snaggle-toothed tiara which had slipped, there was this bony, bug-eyed wraith of a girl who raised her hand instead of saying “Present!” when Miss Totten said “Lilly Davis?” at roll call, and never spoke at all.

  It was Juliet Hoffman, the pace-setter among the girls in the class, who spoke Mooley’s nickname first. A jeweler’s daughter, Juliet had achieved an eminence even beyond that due her curly profile, embroidered dresses, and prancing, leading-lady ways when, the Christmas before, she had brought as her present to teacher a real diamond ring. It had been a modest diamond, to be sure, but undoubtedly real, and set in real gold. Juliet had heralded it for weeks before and we had all seen it — it and the peculiar look on the face of the teacher, a young substitute whom we hardly knew — when she had lifted it from the pile of hankies and fancy notepaper on her desk. The teacher, over the syrupy protests of Mrs. Hoffman, had returned the ring, but its sparkle lingered on, iridescent around Juliet’s head.

  On our way out at three o’clock that first day with Miss Totten, Juliet nudged at me to wait. Obediently, I waited behind her. Twiddling her bunny muff, she minced over to the clothes closet and confronted the new girl.

  “I know you,” she said. “Mooley Davis, that’s who you are!” A couple of the other children hung back to watch.

  “Aren’t you? Aren’t you Mooley Davis?”

  I remember just how Mooley stood there because of the coat she wore. She just stood, there holding her coat against her stomach with both hands. It was a coat of some pale, vague tweed, cut the same length as mine. But it wrapped the wrong way over for a girl and the revers, wide ones, came all the way down and ended way below the pressing hands.

  “Where you been?” Juliet flipped us all a knowing grin. “You been in ungraded?”

  One of Mooley’s shoulders inched up so that it almost touched her ear, but beyond that, she did not seem able to move. Her eyes looked at us, wide and fixed. I had the feeling that all of her had retreated far, far back behind the eyes which — large and light, and purposefully empty — had been forced to stay.

  My back was to the room, but on the suddenly wooden faces of the others I saw Miss Totten’s shadow. Then she loomed thinly over Juliet, her arms, which were crossed at her chest, hiding the one V of white in her garments, so that she looked like an umbrella which had been tightly furled.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, addressing not so much Juliet as the white muff which, I noticed now, was slightly soiled.

  “Jooly-ette.”

  “Hmm. Oh, yes. Juliet Hoffman.”

  “Jooly-ette, it is.” She pouted creamily up at Miss Totten, her glance narrow with the assurance of finger rings to come. Something flickered in the nexus of yellow wrinkles around Miss Totten’s lips. Poking out a bony forefinger, she held it against the muff. “You tell your mother,” she said slowly, “that the way she spells it, it’s Juliet.”

  Then she dismissed the rest of us but put a delaying hand on Mooley. Turning back to look, I saw that she had knelt down painfully, her skirt-hem graying in the floor dust, and staring absently over Mooley’s head she was buttoning up the queerly shaped coat.

  After a short, avid flurry of speculation we soon lost interest in Mooley, and in the routine Miss Totten devised for her. At first, during any kind of oral work, Mooley took her place at the blackboard and wrote down her answers, but later, Miss Totten sat her in the front row and gave her a small slate. She grew very quick at answering, particularly in “mental arithmetic” and in the card drills, when Miss Totten held up large Manila cards with significant locations and dates inscribed in her Palmer script, and we went down the rows, snapping back the answers.

  Also, Mooley had acquired a protector in Ruby Green, the other Negro girl in the class — a huge, black girl with an arm-flailing, hee-haw way of talking and a rich, contralto singing voice which we had often heard in solo at Assembly. Ruby, boasting of her singing in night clubs on Saturday nights, of a father who had done time, cowed us all with these pungent inklings of the world on the other side of the dividing line of Amsterdam Avenue — that deep, velvet murk of Harlem which she lit for us with the flash of razors, the honky-tonk beat of the “numbahs,” and the plangent wails of the mugged. Once, hearing David Hecker, a doctor’s son, declare “Mooley has a cleft palate, that’s what,” Ruby wheeled and put a large hand on his shoulder, holding it there in menacing caress.

  “She ain’ got no cleff palate, see? She talk sometime, ’roun’ home.” She glared at us each in turn with such a pug-scowl that we flinched, thinking she was going to spit. Ruby giggled.

  “She got no cause to talk, ’roun’ here. She just don’ need to bother.” She lifted her hand from David, spinning him backward, and joined arms with the silent Mooley. “Me neither!” she added, and walked Mooley away, flinging back at us her gaudy, syncopated laugh.

  Then one day, lolloping home after three, I suddenly remembered my books and tam, and above all my homework assignment, left in the pocket of my desk at school. I raced back there. The janitor, grumbling, unlocked the side door at which he had been sweeping and let me in. In the mauve, settling light the long maw of the gym held a rank, uneasy stillness. I walked up the spiral metal stairs feeling that I thieved on some part of the school’s existence not intended for me. Outside the ambushed quiet of Miss Totten’s room I stopped, gathering breath. Then I heard voices, one of them surely Miss Totten’s dark, firm tones, the other no more than an arrested gurgle and pause.

  I opened the door slowly. Miss Totten and Mooley ra
ised their heads. It was odd, but although Miss Totten sat as usual at her desk, her hands clasped to one side of her hat, lunch-box, and the crinkly boa she wore all spring, and although Mooley was at her own desk in front of a spread copy of our thick reader, I felt the distinct, startled guilt of someone who interrupts an embrace.

  “Yes?” said Miss Totten. Her eyes had the drugged look of eyes raised suddenly from close work. I fancied that she reddened slightly, like someone accused.

  “I left my books.”

  Miss Totten nodded, and sat waiting. I walked down the row to my desk and bent over, fumbling for my things, my haunches awkward under the watchfulness behind me. At the door, with my arms full, I stopped, parroting the formula of dismissal.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Totten.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  I walked home slowly. Miss Totten, when I spoke to her, had seemed to be watching my mouthy almost with enmity. And in front of Mooley there had been no slate.

  In class the next morning, as I collected the homework in my capacity as monitor, I lingered a minute at Mooley’s desk, expecting some change, perhaps in her notice of me, but there was none. Her paper was the same as usual, written in a neat script quite legible in itself, but in a spidery backhand which just faintly silvered the page, like a communiqué issued out of necessity, but begrudged.

  Once more I had a glimpse of Miss Totten and Mooley together, on a day when I had joined the slangy, athletic Miss Steele who was striding capably along in her Ground Grippers on the route I usually took home. Almost at once I had known I was unwelcome, but I trotted desperately in her wake, not knowing how to relieve her of my company. At last a stitch in my side forced me to stop, in front of a corner fishmongers’.

  “Folks who want to walk home with me have to step on it!” said Miss Steele. She allotted me one measuring, stone-blue glance, and moved on.