The Other

by Thomas Tryon

  Suddenly she was startled by a movement in the grass. She laughed to herself. A tramp cat—one she had not seen before—peered through the weeds and, tail curled like a question mark, strutted across the swale toward her.

  “Ah, zdravstvuĭte, zdravstvuĭte,” she said, crooning to it in her native tongue. “Podoidi, koshecka.” As she bent to it, the animal bounded to pounce on Niles’s catfish. It seized it in its mouth and scampered off to the meadow. Up at the barn Russell stood in the loft door fanning his face, his glasses glinting in the sun. Mr. Angelini was no longer in view.

  Ach. Ada shook her head again, thinking about her own cat—Pilakea. Pilakea was a word Holland had collected from somewhere; “trouble,” it meant, in Hawaiian. Trouble indeed. But of course there wasn’t any more Pilakea; that one had come to a bad end, back in March, right after St. Patrick’s Day. On Holland’s birthday. Died horribly, poor koshecka; Holland had hanged it in the well. Holland . . . what senseless, what tragic destruction. She could weep. And all those years of pain he had caused, all the things preceding. The day he set fire to the Joacums’ shed. The day he ran away, went and hid in the freight car behind Mr. La Fever’s costume trunk, and the circus got all the way to Springfield before he was discovered, and the family half out of their minds. Yes, she could weep for Holland.

  So alike, yet so different. She remembered the way they reacted to “doing the game”; this almost mystic “transference” she had discovered as a girl and taught them. So different, Niles a child of the air, a joyous spirit, well disposed, warm, affectionate, his nature in his face; tender, merry, loving.

  Holland? Something else again. She had always loved them equally, yet Holland was a child of the earth; still, guarded, bound within himself, fettered by secrets unshared. Craving love but not able to give it; so mysteriously withdrawn.

  Holland’s very birth—his body struggling, rending the womb, emerging dead. Slapped into angry life by the doctor. Twenty minutes later, when midnight had come and gone, Niles appearing with miraculous ease. Smoothest delivery I ever saw, Dr. Brainard had said, delicately removing the caul. Imagine, born with the caul.

  “Twins? With different birthdays? How unusual.” Indeed, for identical twins, very. Oh yes, there were the mixed signs, on the cusp, as one says—they should have been more alike; nevertheless, the difference. Holland a Pisces, fish-slippery, now one thing, now another. Niles an Aries, a ram blithely butting at obstacles. Growing side by side, but somehow not together. Strange. Time and again Holland would retreat, Niles pursue, Holland withdraw again, reticent, taciturn, a snail in its shell.

  It hadn’t always been so. As twins should, they had been inseparable to begin with. Why, they had shared the same cradle, head to foot—that old wicker cradle, still in the storeroom—until they outgrew it, and then they slept in the same crib. You would have thought they were Siamese twins, so close they were; one being housed in two forms. What had happened? Whose fault? She could not tell. Always the same question, over and over . . .

  Yes, for Holland she could weep.

  “Why, Niles would give that boy the shirt off his back.” I expect he would. It is his nature. Generous to a fault, that was Niles. Half the things given him had found their way into Holland’s possession. Give each a tin soldier, Holland would end up with a pair; some cars, Holland would have a fleet. And a sorcerer when it came to money. Niles—born with the caul, naturally he was lucky with money—found a dollar bill tucked between the pages of Granddaddy’s Bible, a piece of old-fashioned Civil War currency. Finders keepers, Vining had said; but turn around and Holland had the money, squirreled away behind the picture roll of the Chautauqua desk. Alexandra had found it later, dusting.

  And Holland’s nature? There was the day, for instance, when he was sent home from school. “I’m sorry,” informed Miss Weeks, the Principal, seated stiffly in the parlor, “we’re all sorry, really, Niles is such a good pupil; however, Holland—” She turned red.

  “But what has he done?”

  “Holland is a disturbing influence . . .”

  “How? What do you mean exactly, a disturbing influence?”

  Her stringent, tight-lipped report was more than disturbing: shocking.

  “Nonsense!” They denied the stories. But the facts were there.

  “Perhaps a psychologist—” Miss Weeks had suggested.

  So, Dr. Daniels: “High-spirited boy. Boisterous, but with no defects, unless an excess of spirits. Not unnatural in young boys. Keep him busy. Lots of exercise.”

  But there was more to it: stormy, fretful, surrendering himself to blind rages, torn by tantrums, this was Holland. Rash, sulky, proud by turns. “Holland,” she would say to the scowling imp-face he put on, “you can catch a lot more flies with sugar than you can with vinegar. Holland, smile—you don’t want your face to freeze that way.” And in time the smile would come, reluctantly at first, then dazzlingly; afterward, an extravagance of affection. Dear Holland, she could weep. She lowered her head and her hand moved past her face as though to brush away, like a cobweb, some painful memory, then, raising her eyes again, she stood motionless for some moments, her parasol tilted against the sun, her figure oddly turned, held as though awaiting some event while the breeze rippled the slight fabric of her parasol, causing it to shudder.

  And up in the barn, moving from the open door, out of the sunshine, stepping back into the shadow of the loft and once more laying his glasses down, Russell Perry blinked into the dim void and took four long steps to the edge of the loft. Arms flung wide, he leaped. “I’m the King of the Mountain!” Down and down and down. Hardly soaring, but dropping merely, the smell of fresh-cut hay in his nose, holding his breath and dropping into the cool dark nothingness, rushing as though late for an appointment, hurrying to where, only a blur at first, then more clearly, clearer than anything he had ever seen, astonishingly clear, reaching for him with cruel beckoning fingers, waiting to catch him as he fell, he saw in the blackness the glinting silver prongs, sharp, sharp, and fire-cold . . . “Eeeyaiee!” As the steel tore through his chest, shattering flesh and bone, his scream sent the mice scurrying with fright, and hot blood, all red and frothy, with little ruffles like ghastly lace, spurted into the yellow hay, and in another moment Winnie and Mr. Angelini had come running from the pump, and, at the landing, her parasol quivering, Ada stood, her body rigid, her head slightly averted, listening as the cry reached her ears, with it, on the breeze, the lazy thrum of a harmonica, while the fingers of her trembling hand pressed ever more fiercely against the sharp points of the golden crescent moon pinned at her breast.

  5

  Russell Perry is in the parlor, in his coffin, open to view. It is from the parlor that the Perrys have always been buried. In the parlor they are christened, are betrothed, are married; dead, in the parlor they are laid out. It has always been so: the shades drawn, the casket on black-draped trestles looped with cords and tassels; sighing, whispery, shadowlike forms slipping in silently to mourn, to regret or—secretly, as some will—to savor, laying warm lips against cold unyielding flesh in last farewell. This is the Perrys’ way.

  There are sprays of gladioli and a pair of Sheffield candelabra, one to a side, their smoking tapers lending the room an eerie feeling in the late morning light. Mr. Tuthill, a dull, eulogizing man, stands to one side, while seated to the left of the casket, in folding chairs from the undertaker’s, are the family; opposite, a few others: Dr. Brainard and wife, and Simon and Laurenza Pennyfeather, friends from farther up Valley Hill Road.

  While the minister speaks of how often they have gathered in the parlor for this same sad purpose, Niles stares at Holland, spruce in his blue suit and white collar, wearing one of his father’s ties, his hair neatly combed, shoes shined, standing just behind Ada’s left shoulder and looking straight ahead, inexpressive gray eyes fastened on nothing.

  Beyond him sits Winnie Koslowsky, behind her, Leno Angelini, the once-handsome immigrant, still hardy and manly, but bandy-legged and b
owed, with brooding eyes, complexion the color and texture of old leather, his columnar neck corded, his hands sinewy, the iron-gray mustache below his long, veined nose obscuring the expression of his mouth. He had been the first to reach Russell, with Winnie close behind, she having been cleaning radishes at the pump, he washing up and in a hurry to get home when the scream was heard. They found Russell still moving in the hay, writhing with pain, and trying to pull from his chest the pitchfork which had gone clean through him and out the back, and when Leno had yanked it free, the blood came pumping out with the boy’s heartbeat in a pulsing red tide. A shocking accident. With one curious sidelight: Mr. Angelini was always so careful about his tools. He was sure, swore, in fact, that he had hung the pitchfork back in its accustomed place in the tool shed right after he stabled the team.

  By stretching his neck slightly, Niles could see past his sister Torrie and her husband Rider Gannon to Uncle George and Aunt Valeria. Poor Aunt Vee—what a transformation—overnight from chipper chickie to sad sparrow. You had to feel sorry, all she could do was cry and blame herself for having let Russell play where it was unsafe, where children ought not to be allowed. Uncle George had given strict orders: no more jumping in the hay; had given Mr. Angelini a padlock to put on the Slave Door. But it was too late now.

  Niles looked at his grandmother. She was sitting in her black dress, the gold moon pin on her breast, hands folded quietly in her lap, her head making faint, almost imperceptible nods, and her eyes resting, not on the minister, nor even on the open coffin, but on the painting beyond. It was as though she were trying to solve some enigma hidden in the faces of the three subjects: her daughter Alexandra, striking-looking in a long black dress, her figure slim, elegant, against the gray stripes of a chairback, a large amethyst-colored flower held negligently in a hand. Hair piled like a smoky cloud on a finely shaped head, a long curving neck, a captivating smile, the eyes dark and arresting; Holland on one side of her, a boat in the crook of his arm, Niles on the other with a stuffed animal, their features uncannily similar, all three gazing out of the gilt frame, sharing some undisclosed but amusing secret. Mother and Her Boys, the family called the picture. It made her ache to look at it.

  Speaking of her sister-in-law, Valeria used to say, “Just a bit theatrical looking, don’t you think? Seems absolutely stalked by tragedy. Something about the eyes, I expect. Deep—terribly deep. Haunted, actually.” Aunt Vee always selected her words as she might fruit, squeezing each for ripeness and juiciness. But an apt description: Alexandra leading her secluded existence, remaining upstairs for many a mournful month, sitting up there in the chintz-covered chair, reading books brought her from the library; unwilling, unable, to come down.

  The minister’s monotone unabated, Niles’s mind wandered farther afield, in time abandoning altogether his cousin’s funeral while his thoughts strayed to earlier, happier times. It was like looking at the photographs in an album: the corners tidily stuck down, the images preserved and captioned, a bit of dust on one, another slightly faded. Mentally he thumbed the pages, pausing to review familiar scenes.

  At the Pump: Holland and Niles, naked, in the pool under the spout. The pool filled, their broken images doubled in the water, duplicated precisely as jacks on a playing card. In one moment of sheer delight, bursting with unreserved joy, their arms reach out to each other, hands clasp in a mirthful flash. Their connection seems not only physical, but spiritual as well. Each smiling, each expressing a deeper delight in his human reflection, there is evidence of a profound sort of union. Father records the moment with his Kodak.

  The Pony Cart: Holland and Niles, grinning crookedly from a wicker cart with skinny red wheels; the pony’s name is Donald. Father leads him along the drive. Father wears a crewing sweater and smokes a pipe—Prince Albert. He is a giant of a man, stronger than Atlas, wiser than Solomon (richer than Croesus, alas no), more virtuous than Galahad, his eyes alight with humor, a tolerant smile on his mouth. Father, A Man Much Admired. He can do everything—well, practically. Anyway, Niles thinks so.

  At the Pictures: An enormous movie cavern. Silvery giants leaping on the screen. Niles goes for a drink; returning he becomes lost; cries. Holland comes, takes his hand, leads him to his seat.

  The Riverboat: Holland and Niles are standing on a sandbar in the middle of the river. The last of the paddlewheelers goes by. The pilot waves. He smokes a corncob pipe. As the boat passes, a marvelous thing happens: Niles discovers money! He finds, half-sunken in the sand, a silver dollar.

  Niles Discovers Money—Part Two: Leafing through Granddaddy Perry’s Bible, he comes across a large green bill. Civil War currency, Father explains. Sure, finders keepers. Looks from Father to Holland. Later, conniving. Money ends up in Holland’s pocket, thence to a hiding place, thence, discovered, to the bank account. Niles—rooked again.

  The Poverty Party: Saturday night, a baked-bean supper on trestle tables set up in the barn. Holland and Niles hidden overhead in the loft, watching the country club crowd getting drunk on the gin Father stirred up in the set-tubs. Everyone costumed and dancing on the threshing floor. Great fun until Niles laughs too loud at Father’s outrageous garb and they are banished to bed.

  Then, The Apple Cellar: Saturday morning, last November. Holland is above on the threshing floor, steadying the baskets for Mr. Angelini and Father, who carry them down the stairladder where Niles waits with the lamp. Mr. Angelini goes up the ladder, Father starts down through the trapdoor with another basket. Holland’s legs may be glimpsed through the opening. With Father halfway down, the door starts falling . . . falling . . . The cry . . . the blood. “Father!” The door raised, Holland rushing down. Taking his twin out through the Slave Door into the wagon room . . . When Niles sees Father again, he is lying there, where Russell lies now . . . before the fireplace . . . a casket . . . a quilted bed of silk . . . drawn shades . . . flowers and candles . . . the lower body hidden by the closed part of the lid. Niles looks down at the face on the pillow, hears the same minister, repeating those same words . . .

  “—forever and ever, Amen.” In unison the mourners, led by Mr. Tuthill, were finishing the Lord’s Prayer; in another moment Russell Perry’s service was concluded. Next, the drive to the cemetery behind the church, where Mr. Tuthill would read—inevitably—the Twenty-third Psalm and commend Russell’s spirit to Life Everlasting. Then would come the last part, the burial, the sexton’s shovel tossing back the dirt into the hole. But for this people seldom lingered. Niles glanced again at his twin—noted Holland’s expression, dreamy and far away, that same moonstruck look, his eyes obscured by a filmy glaze. Beads of perspiration lay across his upper lip, moist and slightly parted from the lower. What was he thinking? Certainly it was not a worried or perplexed expression: now his thoughts were not on the ring in the tobacco tin—or the blue tissue packet. No, clearly, he was not worrying. His face, both dim and vacant, was inscrutable, with that curiously Asiatic cast to it.

  To jolt him from his reverie, Niles found it required a vigorous nod on his part, and he jerked a hand up in an abrupt flashing gesture to indicate the way past the casket, while Ada, clasping her pocketbook in her black-gloved fingers, caught the movement over her shoulder and revealed her disquiet as the last of the mourners filed from the parlor.

  Upstairs in her room, Alexandra’s slippered feet nervously paced the flower-patterned rug, gliding to the door, to a window, past a bedpost, the dressing table, pausing before a mahogany pier glass, then continuing back and forth across the rug until, at the sound of an approaching motor in the driveway, they returned to the door, where they contrived to linger. In time she opened the door a crack. A step sounded along the hall. She threw her arms wide and drew Niles into the room.

  “Hello, Mother.” She was quite tall and he had to stretch to reach her mouth.

  “Is it all over?” She dropped into the chintz-covered chair, while he, taking the dressing table stool, watched her wan face, easily detecting the strain. She was wearing her c
ologne, a fresh, flowery fragrance he liked, but one that failed to mask the other smell, though she kept her scented handkerchief close to her mouth.

  Over. Yes, it was over. Russell was buried and Aunt Valeria was shut in her room, unable to stop crying. Niles was struck by the clarity with which he could identify his own reflection in the dark center of his mother’s eye; how easily he recognized the pain there. Like the lens of a camera, stopped down to a single vivid image, this gleaming iris doggedly focused for him the picture of Russell Perry’s round body tumbling out of the loft, down onto the cold steel jutting in the haymow.

  Her eye was flitting again, coming to rest periodically on the drawer of her dressing table, while he toyed with the silver handles of her vanity set. Arranged around the brushes, nail buffer, and button hook were silver-framed photographs: Niles and Holland under the pump; the family bathing at the seashore; Ada wearing moiré and a fashionable string of pearls; Holland and Niles again, sailor-suited in the pony cart; Torrie in her wedding gown; the poverty partygoers with Mother wearing Father’s tuxedo and Father in Mother’s red dress and his old rubber fishing boots.

  “I guess the aunts won’t be coming now.” He had picked up a snapshot of two ladies in navy bloomers, smiling shyly on either side of a tennis net: Ada’s sisters, the great-aunts, Josie and Fama.

  “Yes they will. They thought they might not come because of the—situation—but I insist, I insist, we’re not going to have any more long faces around here, and they are to arrive as planned. Though I think they want to postpone until after the middle of next month. A suitable waiting period, they feel.”