The flowers look to Hart like a bandaged head on a pedestal. He rips off the paper, pocketing the small sealed envelope that falls out. They’re red carnations, a slew of them, perfect for Annabel’s purposes. Charles has certainly sent them, and won’t mind if they’re delivered as part of the pageant. Hart is cheered, for he will put the flowers under the sofa and produce them at the end in a flourish.
He hears a sound then, an immense groan overhead, and a crack like a rifle shot. A tall bent pine near the house breaks before his eyes, dropping a slide of snow, throwing off clouds of spray. The tree lands soundlessly across the drifts and the front walk. One long branch reaches up onto the porch like a finger.
• • •
The pageant was put off, for the goose was done and cooling before the children could ready themselves, and everyone was hungry. Charles carved the bird as they passed the plates, while Asta served vegetables: the garlic mashed and brandied sweets, the peas and green beans, the oyster dressing, cranberry relish, and onion chutney, and hot giblet gravy for every plate. The children sipped punch from their cups, water from their goblets, clear cream soda from their wineglasses, drinking toasts. Grethe and Annabel cleared and rinsed the Haviland dishes while Hart was told which dessert plates to take from the good china. The Cambridge glass with the gold rims, yes, would look best with the bright tarts, while the bûche de Noël elicited sighs. No sooner had Charles sliced the chocolate, giving a meringue mushroom to each child, than he brought out the surprise: swans that were cream puff pastries, their flaky wings dusted in powdered sugar, their long regal necks and proud heads a perfect first bite. Everyone cheered. Only Annabel placed her swan before her like a prize and said she would keep it always. Her mother told her it would spoil, but she maintained she would freeze it in a block of ice and keep it in the snow.
• • •
Finally, all was in readiness.
Annabel insisted Charles draw the heavy drapes across the windows, for snow had ceased falling and the afternoon light had gone brighter. The candles were lit on the Christmas tree behind the players, and the luminaria arranged in front like half-circle footlights. The setting was a forest glade on the last night of the year.
Asta settled herself. Charles looked at her, raising an eyebrow as he and Annabel stood back-to-back, each holding an edge of red curtain. Presenting, a Play for Christmas, Annabel announced, as she and Charles revealed the scene. Scattered straw softened the bare floor, and the twilit space before the tree did look a bit like a glade. Hart stood in place, looking off to the right. He was barefoot and bare legged, though his cloak, white damask embroidered in metallic gold thread, hung nearly to the floor. Jingling bells sounded softly as Grethe entered from the left. She looked quite lovely in her white velvet chorister’s robe. Where had Lavinia gotten such a thing?
Annabel’s play had to do with cold and snow and a wandering pilgrim on New Year’s Eve. The angelic traveler had saved some unfortunate birds from a fox, thanks to her brave dog. Mrs. Pomeroy’s toy high chair sat midstage, heaped about with straw. Hart worked in a few tricks for Duty, who performed rather well, and Annabel intoned offstage as Grethe struck her poses. Asta followed her every movement and quiet expression; Grethe was so practiced and comfortable in Annabel’s tableaus.
Her sweet, quiet girl. Grethe puzzled at what her younger siblings understood so quickly. She didn’t laugh at jokes and avoided children her own age, for which Asta was grateful. Grethe had attained her willowy height by age eleven, and her open face and guileless eyes prompted the wrong interest. Asta remembered her relief when Charles came to them, replacing those young men who’d rented rooms before him. Asta had caught one of them, Grethe close beside him on the sofa, showing her an art book featuring Rodin’s marble sculptures.
Now Grethe produced Mrs. Pomeroy from beneath her cloak. Hart remarked on the Grandmother’s small stature; the swaddled doll, a white veil covering her yarn hair, sat attentively in her chair. Asta took Charles’ arm, aware that Annabel could see her, and laughed politely when Duty exceeded direction, knocking Mrs. Pomeroy on her face. She heard Lavinia’s expressions in the lines, and her thoughts drifted anxiously to Grethe.
“Don’t warn that child off men,” Lavinia had hissed, “don’t frighten her. How can we expect to find her a husband if you turn her from what she might enjoy?”
Lavinia had no inkling. Her physical relations with Heinrich’s father had been genteel and infrequent, while he exercised his passions elsewhere; Heinrich had spoken of music tutors and tennis coaches, minor royalty and society men. The bedroom was truly a private chamber into which no mother gazed. Who would be kind to childlike Grethe, whose mind was that of the average eight-year-old? A religious vocation might be best; it would shelter and protect Grethe, allow her to be of service in some simple way. She loved ceremony, and knowing the order of events before they happened.
Confusingly, Annabel’s shoes were onstage and Hart was wearing Charles’ fedora and scarf. Oh yes, the actuary, who wrapped the white scarf about Grethe’s neck. Go onward now, for there is much to see and know. Well, Asta would read the pages later and praise the author. Annabel could be so optimistic and so morbid, by turns! She now appeared, flushed with pleasure, for the singing. She had the good sense to always end her Christmas pageants with a carol. Annabel struck her triangle, a pure, true tone; they sang of sweet silver bells and cares thrown away.
Grethe stepped out for her solo, her voice as clear as running water, while Hart sang his lyrics in an assumed baritone, racing to tell the tale dramatically and lifting his arms to raise the sound, which set Duty to running and barking. The children joined hands. All sing in jolly fashion, directed the program. And indeed, the singers leaned toward the audience, overenunciating every joyful note. Charles beamed, and Duty, unbidden, executed the circle trick, turning about completely on his short bandy legs.
The players paused and stepped back. Annabel struck the triangle; the tone reverberated like the strike of a clock. The notes were true, sustained one to the other, and unbearably sad, for each opened the heart a little deeper.
Ding
dong
ding
dong
A beat of silence reigned, as though holding all concerned. Asta felt her breath return and found herself on her feet, cheering and applauding with Charles, who hugged the children all together and opened his arms to her. “Stupendous, incredible,” Charles was shouting, and Duty ran wildly about, barking and jumping.
Hart reached under the sofa, drawing out dozens of brilliantly red carnations, which he plunged into Asta’s arms, nearly upsetting her. The girls sighed their admiration and reached to touch; the flowers were layered depths of red blossoms and fern. “For you, Mother!” Hart exclaimed, dropping to one knee and sweeping off Charles’ fedora like the plumed hat of a prince. “You don’t mind, do you, Charles?” He stood to shed his cloak and return Charles’ fedora.
“Mind? Certainly not,” Charles said. “My compliments on the perfect gesture. Need help with those, Anna?”
Asta looked at him in thanks and knew instantly he had not sent them. She smiled happily and asked Grethe to get the large vase from the china cabinet. She would question Hart in private. The children were calling out, “Presents, presents,” but Charles clapped his hands for order.
“You may open one present,” Charles said, “and we’ll do the rest later. No need to change costumes or disassemble the set. Now—which present?” He pretended surprise when they called enthusiastically for the very large one, and helped Hart move it from behind the tree.
Asta moved through the open pocket doors to the dining room table and put down the flowers, pouring the remains of the water goblets into the vase. There were fifty carnations at least. She’d not seen such a profusion of flowers in one arrangement since Heinrich’s funeral. Lavinia’s service had been small and private, but Heinrich’s death had occasioned such an outpouring of surprise and grief. Huge bouquets kept arriving unti
l she put a sign on the door asking that deliverymen take flowers directly to the church.
“Mother! Mother! Come along now, they’re waiting!”
Asta looked up, startled. Heinrich had often addressed her as Mother in the children’s presence, while he called his own mother by her given name, as though she were his contemporary, but today it was Charles, gesturing for Asta to join them. The children sat poised around the gift, which was wrapped in simple brown paper and a big red bow; she moved toward them as they tore the paper away in great ripping swaths.
• • •
She proceeded smoothly, by instinct almost, for she felt tremendous fatigue. She stopped Hart in the hallway, while the girls were upstairs changing and Charles outside, dragging the fallen pine tree from the walk. “Do you have something for me, Hart? The card, from the flowers?”
“Mother! A toboggan from Canada! I can take the fellows sledding!”
She stood waiting, wearing a benign expression, her open palm before her.
He reached into his pocket and thrust a small envelope into her hand. “I hate those hats though. Do I have to wear one? I have a winter cap.”
“Oh, indulge him,” Asta said, holding the card to her breast. “They’re from Quebec, and quite warm and smart. He wants to photograph you three on the sled.”
“They look like girls’ hats.”
“Well, look fierce. You heard Charles. They’re patterned on French naval caps, and they do have a military air. Now, put on your galoshes. And bring the girls’ boots to the front porch, as well.”
“What takes girls so long?” he said, rushing past her.
Charles was coming in the front door, stomping his feet on the tiles of the entry. “Perfect snow for sledding! I’ve got the toboggan set. Where are the girls?” He stepped to the staircase. “Annabel? Bring my camera as you come down? On the bed in the . . . guest room. That’s right. Don’t drop it.”
“Was it a large branch that fell, Charles?” Asta slipped the envelope into her shirtwaist.
“A small tree, I’d say. I’ll saw it up tomorrow. Now, then. Are we ready?”
The girls appeared in their winter gear, and Hart in his; they put on the blousy winter hats, which were tight across the forehead and bound with thin red bands. They filed outside and Charles arranged them according to height, which he said was the balanced way to sled in a Canadian racing toboggan.
Asta followed, onto the porch, and watched him snap their picture. The wind whipped snow into her eyes and the children shielded their faces. The sky was a dark, bruised blue. Snow fell slowly, almost haphazardly.
“You won’t stay too long, now, will you?” she called down.
“Everyone out till we get to the park,” Charles said. “Hart, you can pull the sled.” He was rushing up the steps to give Asta the camera. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly when he reached her. “They’re with me. Go and rest. And don’t touch a dish. They’re rinsed, and Grethe and I will wash them later.”
“You are dear, Charles. They’re so excited.”
“I’m excited.” He was clambering back down the steps, and waved to her as they set off. “Go and rest.”
“I will,” she said, and went in, shutting the door behind her.
Beautiful, Useful, Enduring
Each day, she gives herself this moment alone. Often the mail has just arrived. She lies on her neatly made bed, thinking of him, holding his words in her hands. She will read them once and again, and place them in the bureau drawer now emptied of all but the careful bundles tied in specific order, and the photographs laid out like solitaire, each in its place. This being Christmas, there will be no mail, but yesterday’s letter promised she would hear from him, that despite the snows or weather, his fondest wish will reach her, his deepest longing, his knowledge that the new year will bring great changes for them both, and generous love such as only mature and nurturing individuals might find in one another. She takes the small pink envelope from her clothes and draws the message from inside.
All cares cease! Joyful Noel!
I love thee.
(Your) C.
It is not his script, of course, for he phoned in the order to a Park Ridge florist, but the words are his, and the phrasing so clearly the written voice she’s come to know. He has taken time and trouble to reach her; perhaps he is alone in his rooms, watching the storm, or dining in the restaurant of the fine hotel where he lives. He travels frequently, seeing to his business dealings and holdings; the Fairmont Hotel, he writes, is a fine establishment but can never be home. She reads the card again. Yes, her cares will cease. “C.” In late spring, perhaps sooner, they will meet for the first time, though she knows his soul so deeply. She will look into his eyes and see his words within them.
She knows certain passages of his letters by heart. From the beginning, he has addressed the gulf between them, the loneliness that led them to correspond, his desire to marry, his standards and means.
My dear unknown friend: My wife can have anything within reason that money can buy, but above all I expect her to give that true love and devotion everyone of us craves.
She is not unattractive, but she is past her youth. She fears she looks careworn, drab, for she cannot afford the smart clothes and fine shoes, the appointments with hairdressers and manicurists, that might show her to better advantage. She’s not grown stout, at least; in fact, since Lavinia’s death, she’s lost weight. Such have been her worries and concerns, concerns she dares not confide, lest he think her a burden or question her motives. He must not know the depth of her exhaustion, for his words are the source of her renewal and stir in her the warmth of trust, and even, after so long, the anticipation of gentle touch.
Each day is vividly alive with keen interest and it is you, Dear, who has given me the inspiration. Before you, life was prosaic and commonplace. No longer!
Cornelius plans a future based upon her and she will not disappoint. The photographs, seated portraits taken in professional studios, show a man of no great height, well fleshed, immaculately dressed. His round gold spectacles and bow tie imply discernment. He is not handsome, but his gaze is direct, his eyes kind; perhaps he is shy, and less eloquent in person than on paper. It does not matter. She requires only his fidelity and support, his consideration, for he seems a gentleman, and takes such time and care. An ardent and faithful correspondent, he writes two letters for every one of hers, yet never reproaches her.
I am trying in this manner to find my only One. . . . I have no financial worries, but, dear, it does not satisfy the heart. I need a good, true, affectionate wife; one who will love me and make home a paradise.
The children, he knows, require her time and attention. Their grandmother’s recent passing has surely grieved them, reminding them anew of their father’s early death, but children are resilient. She has tried to make them known to him; she tells him that they are deserving and good, and not just because she loves them; adults who know them admire them, and they are well liked by the neighborhood children. Cornelius, a widower, is childless, and a man longs for a son. She believes he feels a special sympathy for her boy, who is twelve, nearly a young man. She’s written Hart’s name on the backs of photographs enclosed in her letters, and Cornelius responded so warmly, supplying a pet name for a boy he has yet to meet.
I am indeed very proud of Buster. He looks like a splendid young chap, and the two girls, too, they look like fine children. They will have the opportunities that they deserve and they will be able to develop into whatever their inclinations may call for.
Whose children will inhabit the dilapidated playhouse when they have gone, and hide their treasures in the broken-down workshop? Perhaps both will be razed, and a garden grown on the open land. All will be open. She will take her husband’s arm as they cross streets in the South, in the gentle mountain clime Cornelius describes, and in Cedar Rapids, where he owns a city home and a farm, hundreds of acres of Iowa land, lying flat beneath the sun. She imagines the land, ar
able and plowed as far as the eye can see, with a great cloud passing over it.
The cloud is an image of her evasion and lack of candor. This she knows. Someday she will tell Cornelius all, the secrets she holds close, the shame, how the shock of Heinrich’s death was preceded by the trial of his betrayal, the long wrangling arguments, discussions, pleading, for he believed he had the right to betray her, to respond to his heart’s call, to end, he said, the dishonesty that undermined them both. He would say yes to Dora Hulck, née Dora Scholes, a divorcée who had ended her childless ten-year marriage and left the coal merchant whose funds had established her business. The Hallo Shop, a thriving enterprise, produced hand-wrought silver flatware, hollowware, and jewelry, just two blocks from their own barn workshop on Cedar Street, and employed many of the same artisans who designed for the Eicher enterprise. Now Dora would move her shop to Chicago. She wanted Heinrich to manage the expanding business and be her partner in all things, for she had taken him to her bed; they were lovers truly matched and would create Hallo’s Norse Line, a collection of Scandinavian-influenced silver. “Beautiful, Useful, Enduring,” the Hallo motto, would set an industry standard; they would make permanent impress on silver design in America, their adopted country; they would do important work.
Yes? Work?
Anna imagined Heinrich leaving her, and his mother with him, taking the children, for Lavinia believed herself as much a mother to them as Anna, and believed in her only son absolutely. Anna would be destitute. She’d no sense of how to run a business, how to plead a case through the courts, no means to hire lawyers, no presence of mind but to beg him not to think of this, to beg Lavinia to counsel him, demand of him . . . but Lavinia prided herself on her disregard for bourgeois convention. She saw her son’s gifts unrealized, his talent wasted. His streetcar commute and his work in the city, actuary for Metropolitan Insurance and Casualty Co., were beneath him; he excelled of course, for his mind was precise and sharp and he inspired confidence, but business was not Art. He was finer than commerce, meant for better things, meant to foreman the major studio they’d all envisioned and could not support. Dora Scholes had offered him the opportunity he deserved. Lavinia refused Asta counsel and retired to her room at the first sound of marital argument.
Quiet Dell: A Novel Page 5