The Fountain of St. James Court; Or, Portrait of the Artist as an Old Woman

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  “Bring a candle,” he says, “and let little Sharp-Eyes take a look.”

  It is a strange thing to look past his teeth and tongue. There are some bits of food, a sliver of carrot caught between two large back teeth (themselves like little hard, creased pillows), but even with the candle I cannot see far into his throat, which is a tunnel that disappears in a downward bend. Inside his mouth the color is faint pink, and then a redder pink, and the shape of the throat reminds me of a butterfly, but I see nothing of a fish bone.

  “Well then,” he says, “give me some more wine, and I’ll lie down for the night.”

  IN THE MORNING, Étienne wakes me up (for the party has exhausted me) and his face is very serious. He tells me that because our father has swallowed a fish bone, he is in great pain, and then I hear his groans.

  “He tried to reach in with a spoon,” Étienne explains, “to scrape it loose, but the spoon only made him gag.”

  “Perhaps the bone came up with vomiting?” I ask hopefully, but my small, white-faced brother only shakes his head.

  My mother appears at my room and tells me to come in my nightgown, that my father is calling for me. He wants me to look again in his throat. I am very frightened, but I go with good cheer and say, “I am here. I will try to help you, Papa.”

  My mother explains that he thinks with my slender, strong fingers I can reach right down his throat. Still in bed, he shifts his body into a beam of morning sunlight that is coming through a window. He nods encouragingly and opens his mouth again. He is wearing his white nightshirt.

  With the sunlight, I can see very well into his mouth, but it has greatly changed. “It’s very red,” I report, “and the throat is nearly swollen shut.” Even the root of his tongue is swollen, and the word infected comes into my mind, though when have I ever heard it?

  “Try, very gently,” my mother instructs, “to push the swollen tissue aside. Find the opening between the two sides and see if you can slip your two longest fingers between the flaps.”

  I nod. I understand that should I feel something sharp it is the point of the bone, and I must try hard to clamp my fingertips very much together and draw it out. My father’s teeth are around my wrist, but I know he would never bite me.

  Softly my mother expresses her astonishment that he does not gag. My fingertips feel nothing but hot, wet tissue. I hope for a pricking, like the prick of a needle, but I feel only a swollen softness. It is as though my fingers can see the red tissue. I am quick and thorough, and then I withdraw, for I know it must be difficult beyond nature not to gag.

  “I felt nothing,” I say, and I push down the feeling I know must be panic rising.

  My father is panting, and my mother asks me to try again. Twice more I reach inside. As she hands me a cloth to dry my hand, she wonders if my brother’s smaller hand might be better, but my father shakes his head no, and my mother says that the doctor will come soon.

  ALMOST IMMEDIATELY HE IS THERE with his black leather bag, and he takes shiny instruments like scissors from it, and I am sent from the room. I grasp Étienne’s little hand and lead him out with me. We go back into the kitchen, as far as possible from my father’s room. But sounds of his suffering still reach us. We sit on short stools, looking into each other’s eyes. I remember Jeanette and think that now I must be calm like Jeanette, for Étienne’s sake. We place our wrists on our knees and reach our hands toward each other. Very tightly we hold each other’s hands and wait. And wait. Our hands are moist. Étienne’s hands are smaller, and I think of the three years between us.

  “The bone has slipped beyond reaching now,” Maman reports, and Étienne and I squeeze each other’s slippery hands—“and the doctor must reach with his instrument as deeply as he can to cauterize the infection”—and now we leap up from our stools, Étienne and I, and fall into the circle of each other’s arms.

  Below Maman’s eyes, the flesh is dark and puffed. Her face is stunned. “We were so happy,” she begins, and then I put my arm around her waist and look up into her hurt face, and I say, “And we shall be again.” But I feel my own face going numb even as I whisper the words, knowing they may not be true. I who have never lied, and yet—and yet I feel wrapped in God’s forgiving love. That I have done right, uncertain as I am. God is inside me, saying Console, console.

  “The doctor knows best, and your father is willing, but—” Here she stumbles, and I see that Nurse is behind her, and she is wearing a shawl and holds our wraps in her hand.

  “Papa would like us to take a walk,” I interpret, “Étienne and I, with Nurse.”

  Maman nods, and as she looks at me, two clear beads of tears form, cradled on the cusps of her eyelids, but the tears do not tilt over. She quickly nods affirmation and with her hands moves us into Nurse’s care. Quite tenderly, Nurse wraps us, and I am grateful, for my entire body has gone cold. I hear the sound of chattering, a sound made by little Étienne’s teeth, and I know he feels the same cold that I do, and we are alike. I clamp my teeth firmly together.

  Nurse is full of ideas about what we must see: a certain arch in the park, a bridge over the river Seine, the twin towers of Notre Dame, and then we must climb up to have a view of the city. Close to the gargoyle waterspouts, I wish I could take one home to guard our house from danger. After we come down, the vastness of the city and the shape of the river stay in my mind. On and on we walk through the Jardin des Tuileries till Étienne begins to whimper like a younger child, and really he seems to have shrunk. Then Nurse takes us to a café and insists that we eat. “We must keep up our strength,” she says, and even when we can eat no more, she orders a nut pie for herself and chews and chews.

  It is midafternoon before we return home, and Maman greets us at the door saying that we must be very quiet, for now Papa is resting. We are too frightened to speak, but Nurse asks, “How is M. Vigée?”

  Maman answers with barely moving lips, “He has suffered terribly.”

  Now I go to my own room, while Maman stays with Étienne. She knows I wish to be alone. I kneel beside my bed and pray that the Virgin will intercede for my father. I pray that his suffering will cease and then he will be comfortable, and then he will be well and happy again, and soon sit in his leather chair, and place the wreath of his words on my head, so lightly, his praise and his love. And his large, warm hand on my shoulder.

  I pray again and again, the same prayer, till my knees ache and it is growing dark. Then I crawl into my bed and lie on my back, but I hear my father groan, and now I pray more quickly and briefly only that he will live and someday be happy again and kiss the ladies on New Year’s and be happy and well with us by New Year’s Day.

  It is dark, and I hear Étienne saying that he wants to be with his papa, and then that he must be with our father, but I listen and hear no movement through the house, for if he is allowed, surely I will be, too. Still I understand, we are but children, and we can be of no use. When I hear the front door open, I imagine that the doctor has been admitted again, and later he leaves. And I wonder why my mother does not come and tell me anything, or even Nurse, but then I realize they must stay at his bedside and help him, that they know how best to care for him, and must not leave even for a moment. My whole body hurts, and my face has been made raw with tears.

  I look at the small painting in my room of Jesus wearing the crown of thorns; his chest is open showing his sacred heart, and he points at it with one finger. He looks calm but I know he is suffering, for there is blood on his forehead where the twisted thorn branches have pricked.

  Maman brings me soup to eat, but it smells of fish, and I cannot lift the spoon to taste it, but I warm my hands on the sides of the bowl. When I ask how he is, she answers only that he is resting. Then I bite my lips and make them ask, “But is he better?” She looks at Jesus and says, “Truthfully, Louise-Élisabeth, the outcome is uncertain.”

  The doctor returns, for now it is decided that the bone which was in the throat and causing pain has passed into the stomach
and punctured it. Now there is infection within the stomach, and the only desperate recourse is to operate on the stomach itself. Again we are sent from the house.

  I BARELY SEE MY FATHER during these weeks, he is so ill.

  Another operation is thought to be the very last recourse. It is awful to try to live our lives while our father suffers, but my mother says he has great trust in the good doctor, and that he wishes the operation to be performed, as it gives him a chance to live.

  THE NEXT MORNING IS HERALDED with a terrible cry. There is no doubt who it is who screams. I slide off my bed and kneel and pray, “Let him live, let him live, Mother Mary. Saint John, most beautiful, pure, and holy saint, remember my father and preserve his life!” But the screams continue, and the sound of great suffering fills the house.

  Suddenly the door opens. My mother says quietly, “Élisabeth, go to your brother and hold him close.”

  As obediently and quickly as I can I run to his bed. He is curled into a little ball, sobbing. I lie down beside him, and he uncoils and I guide his head to my chest, and I cradle him close. He shudders with sobs. “Shhh, shhh,” I croon, and gradually he becomes quiet, but I feel more sad than ever.

  Silently, I only pray this: Let him suffer no more. No more. I would hold my father across my lap, if I could, as Mary held her crucified son. I would spread my knees to balance his man body. My tears would fall into his closed eyes, carved or painted, and give him peace.

  My father’s shrieks of pain grow quieter, then cease. I fear he has died. My mother is at the door. “He has asked for the drug to make him sleep. He wants to gather his strength by sleeping. Perhaps the fever will abate now.” Then she adds that we, too, should nap, if we can.

  Strangely, we do, Étienne and I together, as though our mere obedience will intercede in heaven and benefit my father.

  WHEN I AWAKEN, the house is completely quiet. I hear only our breathing, Étienne’s and mine, in the room. Without moving my body, I open my eyelids, and I see the wall is glowing with reflected sunset. The colors are very beautiful, rosy pink and tones of purple; there is a yellow the color of a healing bruise. Very carefully I turn my body so as not to awaken Étienne. I want to look out the window and see the real colors rather than their reflection on the white wall. The sunset is gorgeous, rich and blended. I do not know if paints or a painter could ever duplicate the subtlety of gradations as one color becomes another. And do we, too, when our life is over make a transition like that of one color to another? Do we change by degrees from our corporeal being purely to our spiritual being, just as pink can blend to gold? Purple is the royal color of resurrection, the triumph of Christ over death when even his body ascended into heaven. And he shall come again to judge the quick and the dead. I think of beautiful holy words and holy promises. In my father’s house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you. Perhaps it is not so terrible to die.

  Something changes, and I slowly turn my head toward the door. Yes, a change in the light, for the door has opened. My mother is standing there; I see her gaze is also drawn to the window, and all the sky colors, and I turn my head to see it again because my father has said every sunset is unique, and really it is changing moment by moment. That is true. Now we have less of the rose and more of the purple and lavender, and I do not like these colors as well. Before it was perfect.

  My mother calls our names, and I shake Étienne just a little so he will wake up. She looks peaceful and strong. She waits patiently, and we move slowly. I do not know what I dare not ask. All the words have fallen to the floor. I stand beside the bed and hold my hand out to Étienne; with his other fist he rubs his eyes the way he has since he was very young. First the knuckles into one eye, then the bent wrist moves across both sleepy eyes. I lead Étienne to the door. We are as quiet as our mother, and we both hug her, one from each side.

  “Papa is awake,” she says. “He wishes to see you again. And to say adieu.”

  The three of us walk together, touching each other as we move like candles carried flickering through the house to his door, which is open. Nurse sits in one corner, and there he is: very large in bed, looking much as he always has. He opens his eyes and smiles at us with puffy lips. His eyes are the same as always in the way he looks at us. When he speaks it is a croak and a whisper; his tongue seems too large and he is flushed red. He motions with his hand, and I know, or perhaps Maman tells us, that he wants us to kiss him. Silently but very fast—we will not be too late!—we rush to him, I to the closest side and Étienne quick as a wink and with a scramble up on the bed at the other side. I kiss him first on the cheek, again and again. I cannot stop kissing him. His skin is burning to my lips. He says Adieu, and we both say Adieu over and over, and he calls us each by name separately: Je t’aime, Élisabeth. Je t’aime, Étienne. And then he asks God to bless us and our mother, and then he closes his eyes. We wait. Once again he speaks: Be happy, my children. Together, we are very still.

  Suddenly, our mother shrieks with grief and gathers us both to her heaving bosom and holds us close, and I sense something of the magnitude of what it is to be a wife. I know her bosom is rent! I think of the sacred heart, exposed, of Jesus and his halo of thorns! I sob for the loss of my father. When I try to embrace my mother, she seems very large. Her arms are very long and she folds us into her powerful passion, and we are shaken with her, to the base of our beings.

  FOUNTAIN

  AS KATHRYN HURRIED to meet Peter in the park, the waters of the fountain suddenly ceased to move.

  THANK GOODNESS, SHIRLEY THOUGHT, a little peace and quiet.

  TOO SOON, LESLIE THOUGHT. Why had the fountain been silenced? She had been reading Ryn’s manuscript to the water music. The sound had helped her focus her mind. She stirred in her chair and regarded her Chinese cabinet. She looked at its multiple drawers and could not remember what had been stored where. And what was it, Leslie tried to remember, that she herself most wanted to write about, either in a suite of stories or in a novel? She had counted on the clatter of water to drown out other claims on her attention.

  Again she returned to her balcony to survey the scene: ah, workmen had turned off the electric pump for some reason. On the sidewalk, a man nicely dressed in a suit was watching the workmen. He was a neighbor, Leslie believed, who lived on Belgravia. She would go back inside, to read.

  AS DANIEL SHEPARD STOOD beside the pool of greeny water, gently rocking, he conjured up a larger shallow pool in the Luxembourg Garden of Paris. Toy sailboats navigated its surface. It was after Vietnam, coming home by way of Europe, that he had felt an impulse to visit the ancient cemetery Père-Lachaise. But it had given him no peace. The antidote to all the so-recent deaths in Vietnam had been little boys with their sailboats in the Luxembourg Garden.

  After he returned to the States, he and Daisy had gotten married; they had gone sailing for their honeymoon in the Caribbean. Now it occurred to Daniel to buy a toy sailboat for his grandson—the perfect gift. Next week, when he and Daisy had the family over to Belgravia to celebrate Danny’s birthday, he would hand him a blue sailboat with a white sail, cloth not plastic. Maybe they’d try to sail it here.

  As he walked on toward home, Daniel watched a man wearing a blue cap pull on waders, then kick his foot up onto the wrought-iron railing.

  ALMOST FORGOT THE NET, Jimmy Nettles thought. He dutifully collected his gear. A man in a suit stopped to watch. Then Jimmy threw his leg once more over the pipe bounding the top of the wrought iron. Holding his pole and net basket, he stepped onto the cement curbing that encircled the fountain, then down into the water. A lot of fall leaves in the pond, Jimmy thought. He swept the net through the water, collecting leaves before they could gum up the works.

  NEAR THE NORTH END of the Court, Kathryn passed two towering hemlocks that flanked the sidewalk of another house the same way magnolias flanked her own walkway. The hemlock trunks were straight, with a somewhat hairy texture.

  Time to cross Magnolia Avenue and enter the
park. To wallow in the glory of autumn foliage. To spend a few moments with ex-husband #2, Humphrey’s father, while he walked his dog. Like her, he was a lover of language and of story.

  Peter was an actor. He had deserved to be a well-known actor, Kathryn believed; he was that good, that original. When he spoke, every word was shaped beyond mere meaning by intonation and emphasis. His modulation of pitch could nuance feelings for which there were no single words.

  When an up-and-coming director, a woman who had her own sense of presence, came into his life, Peter had said good-bye to Kathryn and Humphrey to look for the fulfillment that should have been his fate already. He had broken both their hearts, but that was years ago. And he was sorry. His new wife had stayed with Peter a few years, then moved on to someone more cheerful, and Peter had been left to struggle with depression, nervousness, and addictions to cigarettes and booze that damaged his heart and lungs.

  Over time, Kathryn had come to see him as a friend, a particular friend with whom she had had her only child, their beloved son so much a mixture of them both. And she felt Peter had suffered too much. It had been more than twenty years ago that despite their tears and pleas, Peter had left them. Never mind.

  She sympathized with him; Peter had wanted so much to bring his own potential as an actor and artist to fruition. And who didn’t want to do that? She knew she was boring sometimes—certainly not an exciting, dramatic person. In her conversation, unlike Peter, she had no sense of performance. She was excited about her writing, but that was between her and it. She adored her son and gave everything to him she could: unwanted shepherding, unflagging attention, and financial assistance. She sighed. For decades she had treated her students with similar generosity, in terms of time and effort. Tired, that was how she felt. Exhausted.