The Other

by Thomas Tryon

  It is later.

  He is awake.

  Standing in a room; another room; dark and still, the curtains closed, the air stuffy; this room. A coffin. Shiny cords and tassels; sprays of gladioli, already slightly withered; Mother and Her Boys, smiling . . . the Sheffield candelabra shedding gloomy light.

  He reaches out a hand. Lifts the lid. Sees a face; that face. It is no dream. But why so silent, so cold, so unmoving? The candles illumine the pallor beneath the skin, the flesh cool and smooth; whoever could discern the claw marks now, the cleft bone, the flesh so bruised?

  “Holland?” No reply. Yet he is there—it is not a dream. For a long time he stands staring at the face on the pillow, the satin pillow. A vigil.

  Still the face sleeps.

  Forever, it seems.

  With patience the wait continues. He is looking, and looking, and looking. He gazes down at the closed eyelids; after a time the room begins to contract in upon him; the stillness gathers itself into one great hush, static and precise; the air is thinner; he has trouble breathing; feels faint; the floor threatens to tilt. Holland? Odd, a moment ago his mouth had seemed so expressionless, or, rather, a too-firm articulation, like that of a poorly made statue. Now its corners appear to have turned slightly up in an ambiguous smile. He bends nearer. Upon his own, those lips feel stiff, rubbery, unnatural. In his nostrils a peculiar odor, medicinal, like formaldehyde: he thinks of biology class.

  He leans closer, never once taking his gaze from the brown lashes so serenely curved against the pale cheek. Holland?

  He draws a breath; voices his thought: “Open your eyes.” A plea, willed with might and main. No; they remain closed. With a finger he lifts one eyelid, then the other. The gray irises shine silver in the light. “There, that’s better.” It was, too, somewhat better; ah, the bright shining eyes.

  “Better.” It seems he hears the word repeated, altogether clear and distinct, and, a second after, the echo. Better-better-better-better . . .

  Startled, he puts his hand to his mouth, not daring to move, to break the spell. He concentrates . . .

  “Holland—”

  Holland. Hollandhollandholland . . .

  Again his own intake of breath.

  “How is it?”

  Is it? comes the response, is it—isit—isitisit . . . ?

  It is well. He can make out the pulse of a little vein throbbing there, just under the left eye.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  Yes; quite comfortable. Niles breathes again; a satisfactory answer. He looks comfortable enough, head agreeably angled on the pillow, shoulders tilted slightly. “Good,” he says and then Holland says, “Good,” and after a while they smile at each other. In a moment he hears Holland’s whisper sounding quite plainly in the hushed room.

  “Come closer, little brother.” Eyes gleaming in the candlelight, the odor stronger, the heavy, persistent frog-smell.

  “Yes?”

  “Niles Alexander.” And the ardor in his voice touches his brother’s heart.

  “Yes,” he says breathlessly.

  “Come closer. Closer still. That’s better.”

  “Yes.”

  Holland gives him a long deep look and it says all that Niles desires it should. “You’re here, then. I’m glad.”

  “Are you sore, Holland? Does it hurt?”

  “Sure it hurts, what didja think?”

  Speaks of other things, inconsequential things. Niles waiting for them to get around to The Thing, the most important Thing.

  Finally he hears Holland say there is something he has for him; something special he wants him to have (for action above and beyond the call of duty), and Niles, hoping he would say this, is surprised by the surprise in his own voice. Really? Yes. Can he guess what? Welll. Niles doesn’t know, but he is hoping. He can’t see it (hidden as it is, one hand folded over the other) but he can imagine it, resting there, there where it has been left; he covets it—Midas gold, Peregrine for Perry.

  What’s that? A present? “Yes, a present, you fool. Behold, a gift!” Still, he feels obliged to protest: “Ada says you’re supposed to keep it—Mother wants you to, too.” “Jeeze, Niles, I told you—I want you to have it.” A halfhearted demurring: “I shouldn’t . . .” “ . . . head of the family,” Holland counters. “He who wears the ring, so on and so forth.” Sort of crafty, wily, very Achilles-like. Well, if that’s the way he wants it . . . And so, the pact, a bargain scaled to the satisfaction of both. Holland: (chuckling) “It’s okay, I won’t tell. If I don’t, and you don’t, nobody’ll know.” See? Crafty.

  Okay?

  Okay.

  And that was the Secret, of course.

  Niles is pleased.

  “So take it.” Now Holland’s voice sounds curiously flat and impersonal.

  He considers. Could he? Should he? Why does his head feel so feverish, so light? He is sweating. His hand trembles as he lifts the one cold hand from the other. Pries the fingers open. Ah, there it is, flashing on the fourth finger.

  The finger. The one with the bluish-black dot where Russell stabbed it with the pencil.

  Gingerly he touches it with a forefinger. The heavy seal winks, throws light into his eye. Ah—he longs for it. He pauses, uncertain; at last he lifts the cold hand and tries to turn the ring; it refuses to budge. He wants it.

  Take it.

  Now it slides as far as the bruised knuckle, where it sticks.

  “It won’t come off.” He sounds disappointed.

  Take it! Impatient to be rid of it.

  He turns it again, gently forcing the gold against the joint; but the red and swollen flesh refuses to surrender the ring. “I can’t. It won’t—”

  It will. Will—will-willwill. Take it! Do you want it or not? Nobody’s here—now’s your chance!

  With his spit Niles wets the knuckle; the ring is stubborn, will not come off.

  Take it! Angrily.

  “How? How can I? I’m trying, but it won’t come off!”

  Shall I tell you?

  He nods eagerly, bends his ear to the proposal.

  “No!” he gasps, horrified. He straightens up; turns away; will hear no more; the suggestion is disgusting.

  Look at me, Niles Alexander. Most coaxing. Look at me. Slowly he turns his head back and looks. “Now. Go get them, Niles. Yes. Do it now, Niles Alexander.” The voice honey-smooth, faintly mocking. “Do it.” He can feel the gray eyes holding his, unfaltering, sure, irresistible.

  What can he do but give in? Leaving the room, going down the hall and out through the kitchen, passing the frozen vegetable garden blanketed with frost rime and winter leaves, the garbage pails sparkling in the moonlight, beneath the falcon weathervane up on the cupola, he enters the barn. And when he returns he does as he has been bidden. Holland smiles when it is done and seems pleased.

  Niles closes the lid, secures the little latch, and goes away again, feeling quite certain he has replaced Mr. Angelini’s red-handled rose shears on their proper nail in the tool shed.

  Peregrine for Perry.

  He was screaming, shaking his fist at the bird, hideous, hateful bird . . . he felt cold . . . hot and cold . . . people were crying . . . he was being carried . . .

  When he awoke, he was in his own bed.

  And across the night table, in his own bed, was Holland.

  By April he was well again. The forsythia bloomed, and the pussy willow, then the laurel, the lilac. By May, when the orchard was in bloom, it had become quite natural to see Holland in all manner of places, upstairs, downstairs—though not in my lady’s chamber (Mother was crying; wouldn’t come out)—at school; in the barn, the pigeon loft, and, best of all, the apple cellar.

  Niles was content . . .

  At the sound of a knob turning, Niles’s thoughts evaporated. Ada came in, closing the parlor door behind her. He started, then froze; dreaming away, he’d forgotten what lay on the piano, the finger in the blue tissue paper; with difficulty he kept himself from reachin
g for it, that blue paper rose beside the vase, half covered with dahlia petals. Forcing himself to look at her, he waited for her to speak, hoping she would leave quickly, not daring to move, to drop his eyes to the telltale finger.

  She stood in the center of the rug and looked at him, a queer, puzzled expression on her face, her heart clearly agitated, her usually serene mouth working, doubt faintly flitting across her brow, hovering, disappearing, reappearing; her head, usually quiet, moving in a series of little nods, watching as he once more struck the keys, hard, trying desperately to camouflage, to bury the finger under the last of the dahlia petals, fingertips against ivory keys, keys against hammers, hammers against strings, vibrating; still the blue tissue paper showed, the blue rose amid the pale petals.

  “Niles, can you stop that pounding for a moment, please?”

  “Yes.”

  “Niles, I have been asking myself something. Do you know what it is?”

  “No.” Questions questions questions. And the Look.

  “How do you suppose Mrs. Rowe died?”

  He thought about it. “She had a heart attack—you said.”

  “I did, didn’t I? But what brought it on, I am thinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And something else comes to mind. After Mr. Foley took Mrs. Rowe away—you knew Mr. Foley had done that—?”

  “Yes.” He held his breath; she remained where she was, had not noticed the finger lying on top of the piano.

  “After Mrs. Rowe was gone, I stayed to try to put things in order. And do you know—?”

  “What?”

  “I believe Mrs. Rowe had a guest. A guest, for tea. She had brought out her good cup and saucer. And—”

  Waiting.

  “—I also found this, lying on a shelf in Mrs. Rowe’s curio cabinet.” She opened her hand. In it lay the harmonica.

  “Oh,” he said, surprised, and reaching to pocket it hastily, “Holland missed it. I’ll give it to him.”

  She gave him another worried look. “Was Holland over at Mrs. Rowe’s that day?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. He goes everywhere.”

  Her eyes had narrowed, giving this reply special consideration. “He does, doesn’t he.”

  Niles shifted on the bench. “I’ll ask him.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will be sure to tell me what he says?”

  “Yes.” He struck the keyboard again to break the tension, hoping she would go away. Still she had not seen what lay among the petals. The sharps and flats from the piano seemed briefly to instill a forced life into the room; for a moment he thought he could smell his father’s pipe tobacco, could hear the crisp snap of his evening paper, the rustle of Mother’s dress, Holland’s mischievous laughter as together they wrestled on the davenport. He looked up at the painting over the mantel. A sphinx-like trio, the three figures with their faintly smiling mouths guarding their secret: Mother and Her Boys . . .

  “Yes,” he repeated emphatically. He played a little more of the melody, a few bars only, then stifled a sound in his throat. She was looking directly at the fallen petals. Had she seen it? He could not tell; she made no sign, remained where she stood, looking, thinking, analyzing . . .

  The door opened again.

  “Oh!” White-faced and irresolute, Aunt Valeria paused on the threshold. “—Niles. I was—I was looking for you.” She laughed. “I thought for a moment—that song, do you remember Ressell used to play it? Isn’t that the one? Schubert’s Serenade?”

  “No, Aunt Vee,” he said, “It’s the ‘Berceuse’ from Jocelyn.”

  She looked blank and Ada turned with a forced smile. “It’s a lullaby,” she explained, with a lift of a shoulder that questioned, not only his choice of selection, but why a lullaby should be played so fortissimo. She had come right up to the bow of the piano and was peering down at the broken flowers, the fallen petals not quite covering the betraying bit of blue tissue.

  Yet she had not discovered it.

  With brow wrinkled, Aunt Vee said, “Niles—I wonder—would you mind just taking your mother’s tray up and trying to feed her. You’re so good at it, and honestly I’m so nervous today, I just seem to upset her more. Winnie’s canning tomatoes and”—she glanced at his grandmother, her expression saying Poor Ada, seems so distrait, can’t imagine what the trouble is, don’t like to bother her. “Would you mind, dear?”

  “Sure, Aunt Vee, I will. In just a minute.” He studied the keys. Would they never go? What? What was it Ada was saying?

  “—certainly these flowers have seen their day; what a mess they’ve made.” Niles, fingers of ice curved about the keyboard, did not blink. From where he sat he could see clearly in the dark surface of the piano the reflection of bright blue crinkled paper. She had cupped a hand at the edge of the piano top and was about to sweep the litter into it, packet and all, when, outside, tires spun on the gravel; doors slammed, footsteps sounded along the veranda, voices traveling ahead.

  “There’s Torrie,” Ada said, wheeling, leaving the debris where it lay, hurrying from the room.

  “Yes, here’s the baby,” said Aunt Vee gaily, floating away across the rug. “I could have sworn I heard Schubert . . . ”

  “See what’s for lunch!” Niles said just as gaily, carrying the tray into the room, a book tucked under his elbow. He kicked the door shut and set the tray on the dressing table. He pulled an electric fan nearer, tilting it up to the ceiling to circulate the air; the blades whirred like the wings of some giant insect, the hum of the motor rising in a flapping crescendo as the machine turned in a 18o-degree arc. Somewhere a small clock ticked with tooth-and-tongue disapproval. As he rolled the wheelchair from the corner the wire wheels protested the disturbance. He stared down at the ruin that was his mother.

  Through eyes dark and dead like the empty windows of an abandoned house, she returned his look, vacantly, almost inanely. Her skin had the shiny blue-white pallor of the invalid. Her reddened mouth hung slack like a wound; two rouged spots on her cheeks were like those on the painted face of a toy soldier. A trickle escaped her lips to run down her chin, dribbling onto the front of her robe where it left a damp stain.

  “Mother?” he said softly, and with a cloth gently wiped her mouth, then bent to kiss her. He shook and plumped the pillow and replaced it behind her back. He went into the bathroom, rinsed out the cloth under the tap, returned, and patted it around her neck. When he had smoothed her hair and further adjusted the pillow, he drew up the stool and took the tray in his hands.

  “Mother, wouldn’t you like some of this lunch? Winnie’s got cold soup for you”—he looked the tray over—“and chicken salad. Looks pretty good. And tapioca for dessert. With peaches—Holland’s favorite,” he added, trying to make it sound appetizing. He reached for the soup and a spoon, holding the bowl in front of her. “Don’t you want to try a little?” he urged.

  Her face was a mask as she blinked twice, a woeful signal, “no.” “Please, Mother,” he attempted again, “have just a little. So Winnie won’t think you don’t like her cooking.” Filling the spoon, he held it to her mouth and waited. She looked at him, then emptied it with a loud sucking noise. “There. That’s good.” Another spoonful. Her eyes, crookedly outlined in black, were watering. It pained him to think of the prodigious effort required each morning to make up her face. She looked like an apparition. “Another?” Little by little he coaxed her to finish the soup, wiping her mouth with a napkin after each spoonful. “Now, how about some chicken salad,” he suggested, picking up the plate. She closed her eyelids twice, slowly, almost painfully. “All right, Mother.” He sighed and returned the plate to the tray and covered it with the napkin. “That’s good; you ate a little anyway. I wish it wasn’t so hot. It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, that’s what Mr. Crofut always says.” He laughed at the cliché and continued. “Holland and I are going swimming this afternoon, so we’ll have a chance to cool off. The river’s
dropping. Shall I bring you some sherbet later, when the ice cream man comes by? I’ll be sure to listen for his whistle . . . Mother?”

  Still she stared, the dead eyes fixed on some spot just to the left of his head. He leaned, trying to ensnare her vision, to produce some flicker of recognition, but she seemed to be looking right past him as if he weren’t there at all. The atmosphere in the room was unutterably silent, a vacuum in which nothing stirred, as though the life had been drained from it, as for an exhibition to be privately viewed, an authentic reconstruction of some particular time and place that had even at that precise moment passed, an almost-real, life-like room with its almost-real, life-like figure, but one of wax, imprisoned forever in a wheelchair.

  “I took Anthony Adverse back. I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted to read it. But Miss Shedd says she can’t let you renew, there’s so many others waiting for it. Perhaps later. But I’ve brought you something else I thought I could read to you, if you like.” Another trickle from her mouth. He put the book down again and wiped it. “Oh, cripes, what’s the matter with me, I almost forgot. I bought something for you.” He quickly turned away, then turned back holding closed fists behind him. “A surprise. Go ahead—pick one. Which? Left or right? Ah ha, the right? No. Try again. Left?” She blinked once and he produced the silver box. “It’s for you. I picked it out myself. Want to open it?” He placed it in her hands; she fumbled at the ribbon, fingers trembling as they pulled the bow and parted the wrapping. The cover stuck and he knelt before her to help; he lifted it off, watching closely as she opened the tissue paper and looked at the glass piece. “It’s a clown, Mother. His name’s Sig-nor Palacchi. And he has a wife—” She stared dully, and when he had further removed the tissue, he discovered that the figure was neatly cracked at the waist and lay in two sections in the box. “Oh gee, it broke. I guess I dropped it. Well,” he said, picking out the pieces and putting them into the waste basket, “I can get Mrs. Palacchi some time—if she’s still there. You’ll have to wait, though, until I save my allowance again. Gosh, I couldn’t even afford to get the Chinese mustache Holland wanted.” He prattled on, saying how Holland had crooked it, and Holland was going to have the show anyway. “I told him it wouldn’t be any fun with Aunt Josie gone, but he’s insisting. One problem, though, about how to get out of the apple cellar, but he’s got that worked out. And I know how. But it keeps him out of trouble, anyway. We’re going to send the money this time to the newspaper Camp Fund, so some more unfortunate child can go to camp. Oh—and the best news. We have a new baby,” he continued with a smile. “Torrie’s baby has come home from the hospital. It can be out of the incubator now, and she’s so beautiful, so strong and healthy. It was a girl, just like I said—you were right, I am a wizard. Perhaps they’ll bring the baby to see you. Do you know what they’ve decided to name it? Another empress. I told Torrie, since you were named after the Empress of All the Russias, and Aunt Josie after the Empress of the French, and herself after the Empress of India, the baby should be Eugenia, after Eugénie, the Second Empress of the French. And that’s what she and Rider decided on. Isn’t that neat?” He chuckled appreciatively, then broke off to see tears running down her face, long, grotesque streaks of black, her shoulders pitifully shaking, mouth pulled askew in silent anguish.