by Thomas Tryon
“Ressell was the happiest child you ever saw,” Valeria offered. “Never a peep, not even when he got hungry. For heaven’s sake, Niles, all that sugar!”
He had broken slices of dried beef into his bowl of crackers and now was covering the whole with a heaping tablespoon of sugar. “That’s the way Father used to do,” he asserted, reaching for the milk pitcher.
“You’ll get diabetes, sure,” Aunt Vee said. “Isn’t the thermometer ever going to drop?” she fretted, fumbling her fork to her mouth.
“It’s going to rain tonight, then it’ll cool down,” Niles announced.
“No,” Aunt Vee said positively, “the weatherman predicted it’s going to last through Saturday. It’s just—”
“Tonight,” Niles insisted. “You’ll see.”
Her expression inquired, What can you do with the boy? “Say, isn’t this Friday?” she said suddenly. “Aren’t you going to church?”
“No choir practice tonight—the Pennyfeathers went to Cape Cod.”
“Lucky Pennyfeathers,” said Aunt Vee, fanning.
Niles nodded with a discouraged sigh. It seemed everyone had gone away, with the exception of themselves. Torrie and Rider, down at Indian Neck, where Rider’s mother and father, staying at an inn on the Sound, had invited the young couple for a long weekend. The inn did not appreciate infants, so the baby had been turned over to Ada and Aunt Vee to mind.
“Well,” said the latter dolefully, “I suppose we won’t be having the Memorial Dinner this year.”
“Why shouldn’t there be the dinner?” Ada asked.
Aunt Valeria looked surprised. “Why, what with—one thing and another, I supposed—”
“We shall have the dinner as planned,” Ada replied. “It is a tradition in the family and we shall not let our personal troubles interfere.”
“But do we want all those people in the house? With poor Zan—”
“Zan will not even know they are here. It is not a public demonstration, you know; it is a private ritual. For Granddaddy Perry. Besides, a party takes one’s mind off less pleasant things.”
“Very well,” Valeria said, mollified. “Is your jaw bothering you?” she asked, concerned, as Ada probed her face.
“I have a bit of the toothache tonight.” She winced, rising to salvage the leftovers.
“Oil of cloves is what you must have for toothache. I’ll bet the druggist has some. I remember once when Ressell was seven—that was the year we went to Wisconsin—he had this awful toothache. We were off on the lake, not a dentist in miles, but I remembered I’d put some oil of cloves in along with the medical things. Just the ticket. And do you know, Ressell never had another one, not in his whole life. Five after,” she observed as the seven o’clock trolley rattled by ding-ding-ding—toward Packard Lane.
“Late again,” Ada said.
Niles smiled. “Which is its wont.”
“Honestly, you and your big words,” Aunt Vee giggled. “Just like Holland used to be.”
The fan’s buzzing seemed louder in the quiet room. Nobody said anything for a time, then Niles spoke again. “What is at the end of the line, I wonder?”
“What do you mean, child?”
“The Shadow Hills Express. What’s at the end of the line, out there in Babylon?”
The women exchanged a look and Aunt Vee sprang suddenly to life. “Five after? Why, Amos ’n’ Andy is on! Niles dear, be an angel and put Uncle George’s golf sticks away in the hall closet, will you?”
Ada was putting dishes under waxed paper into the refrigerator. She scraped the remainder into the garbage, and got out the Oxydol from under the sink. Then she washed her hands and, drying them on her apron, started out.
“What—?” Niles was out of his chair.
“I must have my laudanum. Stay with the baby.”
Niles played the music box again, and while the melody continued he hitched his chair closer to the bassinet, laid the big book across his lap and opened the cover. It was bound in faded velvet, the corners frayed and eaten away.
“Now, baby, do you want to look at the picture book with your uncle?” he said lightly, leafing to the opening pages. He paused at the frontispiece, his brown hands flattening the pages and bringing the book close to the baby’s head. “See? Selected from the Doré Bible, Milton, Dante’s Inferno, Dante’s Pur—” he stumbled over the word—“Purgatorio, I guess that is. I think that means hell, where bad people go, so on and so forth.” He stopped at an engraving of a dark figure with bat-like wings, hurtling through space toward a cloud-ridden sphere. “Satan approaching the confines of the earth,” he read, and thumbed some more. “Satan is the devil, and he’s very bad,” he pointed out. “He’s the baddest of everybody. He likes to do evil.” The next picture was one of a wild-haired, all-but-naked man poling a bark on the water. “This is Charon, the ferryman of hell, baby; he crosses the river, see? And the river’s called Acheron, the river of sorrow, and it flows on forever and ever, everlastingly.” He leafed some more: pictures of devils rioting in conclave, demons dancing, serpents coiling and uncoiling, dragons, beasts, humans in turmoil, suffering hellish agonies. These he described with relish, passing over serene and lovely pictures of Paradise between whose pages Ada had pressed leaves, oak, maple, sassafras, a flower or two, a rose, some sunflower petals.
He was gazing at a page, a long, silent stare, his eyes riveted to the engraving, lost in its design. The baby made a sound. “Yes,” Niles said, coming alert, “this is a good one.” He described in detail the awesome Biblical scene depicting Babylon Fallen: a nightmare creation, with immense piles of ruined masonry, towering monoliths topped by stone elephants, monstrous sphinxes, scavenging birds, the teeth of howling wolves gleaming in the moonlight. Then he read to the baby the lines from the Book of Revelation: “‘And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.’ Oh baby, hush, there, don’t cry, little baby,” he crooned softly to the crying child, putting the book aside and tickling the baby’s chin.
“You look like a baboon, grinning that way,” Holland said. He had appeared suddenly, a wide smirk on his face. “What’re you smiling at, anyway?”
“Because I’m an uncle. That’s what uncles are supposed to do, rock and tickle and smile. You’re an uncle too.”
“Like hell.”
“Don’t swear in front of the baby. Torrie’s your sister, her baby’s your niece, that makes you an uncle.”
Holland sniffed. “What d’you all pay so much attention to it for? What a fuss you make. Look at that stupid little face, how can you stand looking at it? How can anybody? Little baby, little changeling baby.” Niles saw him reach and pinch the baby’s tender flesh between his fingers. With a squall of pain the infant began crying anew as a red mark appeared.
“Cripes, Holland!” Niles swore in a whisper, pulling the diaper over the mark, trying to quiet the child.
In a moment Ada hurried in with Alexandra’s tray. “What is it? What is wrong?” she said in alarm. “I thought I heard Eugenia crying.” She looked, to find Niles soothing and lulling the little bundle in his arms while he paced the floor, the music box playing “Rockabye Baby.”
“It’s all right, she was just hot, that’s all. Yes, baby, that’s all it was, wasn’t it? The sweet baby,” he said, jouncing it lightly the way Winnie did.
Ada set the tray down. “Your mother wouldn’t eat a bite. I don’t know how we will ever get food into her. Doctor says she’ll lose what little strength she has left.” She touched her hand gingerly to her face again.
“Did the laudanum help?” he asked, returning the baby carefully to the bassinet.
She shook her head, exploring with the end of her tongue the sensitive tooth that was distressing her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Later, when he had helped her with the dishes, he picked up the Doré book an
d cradled it in his arms.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Well,” he replied with an engaging smile, starting for the door, “I thought I’d go up to Mother’s room and show some pictures to her before it gets too dark.”
A warm wind was blowing up across the meadow from the river and the grandfather clock striking nine when Niles came down the hallway after returning the book to Ada’s room. He met her climbing the front stairs, carrying the bassinet. “Wait.” He ran to help her, taking one end while she shifted hands and together they went along the corridor, the baby between them.
“Did your mother enjoy the reading?”
Yes, he assured her, Mother did. More or less. “Except she’s sort of nervous again,” he hastened to add. “Can’t seem to stop crying.”
In Torrie and Rider’s bedroom the wicker cradle hung suspended on its stand between the two windows. An ample square of white netting fell around it from the ceiling to screen out mosquitoes. Torrie had tied silk bows along the rim and the inside was a downy nest, cushioned with a soft pad, over it a sheet, and the coverlet Ada had sewn. Niles held the baby carefully as, lovingly, he laid it in the cradle on its stomach, the way Torrie had shown him.
“It’s too hot for that,” he said as Ada drew the sheet over the baby, who immediately tried to kick it off. He bent and lifted it back, folding it neatly at the foot of the cradle. “There, that’s better.”
“She’ll be all right now until it gets cooler; she don’t need a cover, you’re right.” Rearranging some things on the bureau, Ada inspected her open mouth in the mirror, prodding the malignant tooth with a finger, a grimace on her face.
“Does it still hurt?” She nodded, and he said, “I think you should take one of your pain pills. The ones Dr. Brainard gave you.”
She hesitated. “I do not like to take those pills, they make me dizzy sometimes.”
“Then you must lie down. I’ll get you some root beer and bring the pill.”
Oh, the child was so thoughtful. She fanned her face with her hand. “I think for once you are wrong. I do not believe it will rain tonight.” She reached to draw the netting around the cradle.
“Yes. It’s going to. Here, I can do that—you go along.”
“Don’t forget to turn off the lights.”
Standing beside the cradle, he rocked it a moment, smiling down at the baby—the little angel face—and humming to it. Suddenly remembering the music box still looped on the bassinet, he changed it to the head of the cradle. He started it and, as the tinkling melody began, the infant stirred. Rockabye baby, on the treetop . . . Niles put his finger out; she clasped it contentedly and closed her eyes. Little peaceful personage. He watched it hovering on the verge of sleep, leaned close to brush the soft pink flesh with his nose, kiss the red mark on her tummy.
Oh-so-gently removing his finger from the little hand, he enclosed the cradle with the netting and, the music box running down, rewound it. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock . . . He switched off the light. A fretful cry stopped him in the doorway; he turned back. On the bureau sat the doll-lamp he had won for Torrie at the carnival. He switched it on: the bulb under the skirt shed a soft circle of peach-colored light over the cradle, melting away into the darkness beyond, the little imp-face grinning out into the dark.
Satisfied, he started to go, then paused, suddenly tense, like an animal which, sensing danger, strains to hear. There was nothing. Only his imagination again. That and the wind outside, and from downstairs the muffled sounds of Aunt Valeria’s radio. He stepped to the window. Overhead the sky was still clear, star-strewn; clouds were moving in from the west; the wind felt hot and damp against his face. Still he hesitated, listening. He looked over at the crack where he and Holland had watched from the other side of the wall in the storeroom. No light showed there. Yet he had the distinct sensation . . . uncanny . . . a sense of something impending. Silly; it was only the gathering storm. He tiptoed to the center of the room, then halted, just on the periphery of lamplight falling onto the cradle. Holland . . . ? Where was he? With an uneasy sigh, he left the room.
Passing the hall closet by the grandfather clock, he suddenly remembered Aunt Vee’s asking him to put Uncle George’s golf clubs away. Ever helpful, he ran down to the kitchen, carried the golf bag upstairs, and put it in its place in the closet. Phew, it was hot in there. Smelled funny too. Hanging on a hook was a leather coat, one Father had worn in the war; it gave off a pungent, leathery odor as he leaned the golf bag in the corner and tried to close the closet door. Cripes, it still wouldn’t shut; he pushed at it several times, then gave up, standing at the top of the stairs and looking down the Oriental carpet into the lower hall where a faint light showed. Outside, the wind continued to roll up around the house; inside, an uncommon number of noises: curtains flapped like annoyed white hands at the windows, somewhere crystal tinkled, a pane of glass vibrated, beams snapped behind the plaster. The closet door rattled as though some presence inside wished to escape. Tock-tick, said the grandfather clock, tock-tick.
It was as if the house itself were breathing, exerting some effort of its own, struggling to maintain a curious lifelike equilibrium, as a spoon balances on the rim of a glass. Suspense had magnetized the air. Poised at the head of the stairs, pinprickly with anticipation, Niles waited with the brooding house for the storm bunching blackly across the river. Then he decided he would go and tune in the cat’s whisker on his crystal set.
But not before he had gotten Ada her pill.
It held off till shortly before eleven. The first-appearing lightning was no more than a snap. Clouds like blue-black ink had spilled out of the west, spreading before the hot wind, now doing violence to the orchard. It hurled apples to the ground like bombs, cracked limbs, scattered leaves in a panic, bowed the long grass as it swept up through the meadow past the barn, shook the tops of the firs, rattled the horse-chestnut tree in a frenzy, punished the grapes in the arbor.
Another flash. Lying in bed, staring at the waterstain directly overhead, making a face of it, Niles adjusted his earphones. More flashes. Removing the phones he went to the south window and looked out over the drive. The sky went silver, he counted fast: 1-2-3-4-5. With five, thunder. The sound of a shingle splitting, ending with an enormous crack, followed by a low booming roll. Now a lurid light washed the black shapes outside; they glowed eerily. Niles shut his eyes, waiting for the clap to follow. Before it died, the rain came: long shafts like arrows arching down the sky, stinging wet and cold in his face. He leaned on the window sash and slammed it down. Hair drenched, knuckling water from his eyes, he hurried to close the others. As the last window hit the sill he peered through the rain slanting at the squares of glass: in Torrie’s room he glimpsed a light glowing from two open windows, their shutters cracking frantically against the house. He could feel the hair on his arms start to lift. In the tumult, faintly he heard the twang of the harmonica: Nyang-nayang-a-dang . . . How many miles to Babylon?—Threescore miles and ten . . .
He flung open the door and dashed along the corridor. At the head of the stairs he stopped dead. Below, the front door swung wide, banging rhythmically with metallic shocks against the radiator. In the parlor the Atwater-Kent blared. Gusts of wind spilled wet leaves across the floor, cartwheeling along on thin edges, sliding into corners, flying partway up the stairs.
Niles spun, rushed down the hall into the north wing, along the passageway, through the door. Thunder cracked around the chimneys, over the eaves, rain shot through the open windows. Puddles glistened on the floor under the sills, trembling as a shutter slammed against the clapboards. A current of damp air streamed steadily through the room, carrying the lace curtains inward, flapping them wetly against the casements. It rang the tassels on the bedtester like cotton bells and flourished the mosquito netting, wafting gauzy billows above the wind-tossed cradle. From inside came a light: grotesque, eerie, unnatural. He approached. The wicker basket rapped hollowly at the wall. The netting brushed
across his eyes. He grabbed at it, brushed the fabric away to stare down at the place where the little doll-lamp lay, with its fat brown face and its impish leer, the bulb under its skirt-shade casting a dim, peach-colored light over the coverlet Ada had made, and up onto the sides of the forlorn and empty cradle.
3
One thing he could tell: she was following him, you bet. Had been right along, wouldn’t let him out of her sight. Grim-faced and pained and fearful, he thought. A puzzled fear, like she didn’t quite know what to do about it. Though he could have told her, if only she’d asked. But she didn’t—like she was afraid of the answer. So she just dogged him, limping a little, watching, watching . . .
Well, he had a trick or two up his sleeve. Ducked quick as a wink into a shop doorway. Bells jingled.
“Well m’dear, see who we have here. Hello, Niles,” said Miss Josceline-Marie, determined to be forgiving of the boy, in spite of her justly righteous indignation.
“We’re all praying, Niles,” said another lady.
“We certainly are,” said a third, fervently.
“Hello,” he said softly and, giving them the benefit of his eyes, went to read the magazines at the rack. Behind his back, he could tell, significant looks were being exchanged.
“There you are, m’dear,” Miss Josceline-Marie loudly proclaimed to Mrs. Fenstermacher—he had certainly recognized her—“Lovely cards, ent they? Don’t get too much of a call for Yom Kippurs in these parts.” She was craning her neck as far as her fat neck permitted to peer across the green to the church. “Funeral still going, ayuh. Sad, when they die so young, ent it? Such a tragedy.”
“Whose funeral?” one of the ladies asked.
“Why, it’s the La Fever boy—meningitis. Went like that.” Miss Josceline-Marie snapped her fingers.
