To think of her state of mind at that time, a mere month ago! She’d placed her notice only weeks before Lavinia died. The second mortgage she’d taken on the house would see them through winter and satisfy some of the creditors. Snow fell at Thanksgiving just as now. Images of Heinrich’s death, recalled so intensely, haunted her. The snow seemed a visitation of the same snow that fell upon his end, five years ago, blanketing their home that fateful week, just as on the night Lavinia died. Asta nursed her, for she’d had to discharge Abernathy just as the crisis approached. Lavinia, as though she knew resources were gone, slipped quickly into a coma. The children, home from school before Thanksgiving, sat vigil by day. At night, her chair drawn close to Lavinia’s bed, Anna imagined the loud screech of a streetcar’s brakes and sudden, total oblivion. She could afford herself no such luxury, yet she wanted to go and stand amongst the crowds in the Loop, just at the crossing of the tracks.
Cornelius’ letters, first addressing “My Unknown Friend,” began arriving, telling of himself, his past, his hopes for a family, despite his age and widowhood. He, too, was cautious; they determined they would not meet for six months, nor would they speak on the telephone, but would write exclusively until such time as they might proceed decisively, based on trust, loving attraction, and abiding knowledge of their mutual beliefs. He deliberated with her on the children, extolling the wholesome influence of rural life in the gentle Appalachians, yet pointing out that Cedar Rapids, where they would also have a home, was a growing metropolis, and not so far from Chicago, where they could find a fine school for Hart, and a finishing school for Annabel, somewhere their youngest girl would meet sophisticated, quick people to her liking. Grethe, of course, would live at home.
Cornelius was a widower of long duration; Anna would compete with no ghost. His affections would be open to her. She was so young when she’d accepted Heinrich, so inexperienced, despite her knowledge of languages and careful education. Like him, she was an only child. He saw in her a pliable, well-bred girl whose talent he respected, who would give him the family he desired. Anna had believed herself in love with Heinrich; perhaps she loved him still, fearfully, anxiously, yet she could never reach him or satisfy him; he would not be her easy companion and approving friend, as Charles was; nor would he speak to her at length, deeply, as Cornelius did, in script now familiar to her as her own hand:
The great trouble is that men are so ignorant that they do not know that women must be gently caressed. . . . There are still some true marriages, dear. Two individualities come together, maintain their separate individuality, if they have the proper spirit, but their life streams merge, become one, and are never divisible again, even when death seems to strike them asunder. It was I believe this lovely and tender and mystical spirit that gave my mother the proud and beautiful strength she had when my father’s earthly presence passed away from her. She knew what she knew.
Anna opens her bedside drawer and places the small pink envelope among its fellows. How rare is the man who loves women, yet feels no need to control and dominate, who responds to worlds beyond this one, and practices fidelity as a basis of trust, as the demand of his own moral character. Cornelius’ mother had been his inspiration, not his compatriot; his parents’ marriage, a sacred ideal to which he aspires.
So thinking, she takes up Annabel’s play, which the child had placed beside her mother’s pillow. Yet Asta does not read the words; she gazes into the snow that falls so thickly past her windows. Charles and the children will soon return from sledding. She must build up the parlor fire. They will roast the last of the marshmallows and crisp the graham crackers. Asta will grate chocolate and nutmeg onto the ballooned, sticky sugar.
One moment more. She closes her eyes and tries to hear Cornelius’ voice in his words. She sees his lines on the page, thinks again of the phrase about his mother: She knew what she knew. What did it mean? Asta sits up, suddenly alert, wondering. Snow, icy and needling, tossed on some errant gust, whirls at the windows. She grips the pages of Annabel’s play and peers into the glittering maw of the storm, which seems to fly at itself, endlessly, furiously circling! She feels herself drawn within it and catches her breath, only to find herself gazing intently at the pages of her daughter’s earnest words.
* * *
A PLAY FOR CHRISTMAS
by ANNABEL EICHER
DECEMBER 25, 1930
In honor of Mrs. Heinrich Eicher
The Players
The Pilgrim .........................................................
Miss Grethe Eicher (voiced by Annabel Eicher)
The Stranger ......................................................
Master Hart Eicher
The Actuary .......................................................
Master Hart Eicher
Duty, Faithful Companion .................................
Duty (if he behaves)
The Grandmother ..............................................
Mrs. Pomeroy (voiced by Annabel Eicher)
Guests: Mrs. Heinrich Eicher, Mr. Charles O’Boyle
A Play for Christmas
The Setting: A Forest Glade
Narrator: It was cold and dark on the last night of the old year, and snow was falling. A poor pure Pilgrim walked through the forest glade, looking for sticks to sell. Her feet were bare and her hair was covered with snow. She looked up to see a Stranger before her.
Stranger: Young Pilgrim, where are your shoes?
Pilgrim: I left them, fine sir. Two small birds had fallen from their nest. I filled my shoes with straw and hid the baby birds inside, and my shoes in the crook of a tree, for the mother bird to find when the Fox has passed.
Stranger: What of the Fox now? Are you afraid?
Pilgrim: No, kind sir, for my Faithful Companion has chased the Fox to its den. Duty! Offer your greetings.
Stranger: (shakes Duty’s paw) I see that your dog is exceedingly brave. And what do you carry in your apron, young Pilgrim?
Pilgrim: Matches, sir. May I light a fire to warm us? For the wind howls and I must warm my Grandmother. I carry her with me, for she cannot walk any longer. (Grethe takes Mrs. Pomeroy from her cloak, and puts her in the doll chair between them.)
Stranger: Your Grandmother is quite small.
Grandmother: Yes, I am small, but my voice is in every breeze and leaf, just as I promised.
Pilgrim: Listen! What is that sound, by those trees?
Stranger: Come, Duty. We shall see.
(The Stranger and Duty exit.)
Grandmother: The true in heart walk abroad, for the last night of the year is a magic night.
(The Actuary enters, with Duty, dressed in the same white cloak but wearing a fedora hat and white silk neck scarf.)
Actuary: What is this place? Duty has brought me here.
Pilgrim (to Grandmother): Mother said that his name would serve to instruct.
Actuary: And so it has! He is a fine animal. Sit, Duty. (Actuary falls to his knees.) Grandmother, you remind me of my own mother, who taught me to advise on odds and probabilities.
Pilgrim: But, you speak with the voice of the Stranger. Who have you become?
Actuary: Child, I am your own dear father, waiting for you in the life after this one. And here is your loving Grandmother, who abides with me. We have found your shoes that saved the birds from the Fox (places the shoes before her). Here too is a pure white scarf to warm you (puts the scarf around her neck).
Pilgrim: It is soft and light as warm snow.
Grandmother: You must pull this charmed garment close around you, for there is much to see and know. Triumph belongs to the Pilgrim, and goodness is your measure and delight.
Pilgrim: But how will I hear from you again, or know that you await?
Grandmother: Listen to the rain and the wind, the snow and the sounds of bells. All of these speak for us, just as when you sing:
(End with “Carol of the Bells,” all sing.)
/> * * *
Asta lowers the pages to her chest. Of course she will compliment Annabel, but the play saddens her utterly, despite its ringing conclusion. Few pilgrims encountered triumph, Asta reflects; triumph was so seldom even a factor.
Well, Annabel must study literature, and read the classics, and board at a school for young ladies that offers rigorous instruction. She must be challenged intellectually, not encouraged to commune with spirits, and kept apart from men until she is of age. She is far too forward, trusting, inquisitive. Lavinia had nearly ruined Annabel, and Asta is far less sanguine about her influence than Charles. The problem of Annabel is the true cost of Lavinia’s help and support; Lavinia had claimed Annabel, in recompense, no doubt, for her own loneliness.
Asta well imagined elements of that loneliness. The same man had preoccupied them, but Lavinia’s close alignment with her son was not confusing, not demanding or exhausting. Her mourning did not leave shame and desire in its wake, long nights in which shame was desirous, and desire shameful. Heinrich had demanded Asta’s complicity, not merely her submission. She’d thought her shame necessary, central to his satisfaction, but no, it was simply an inconvenience. Dora had required no urging, no demands.
Today, in the wake of Charles’ generous proposal, the knowledge she’d denied had welled up inside her. She’d refused, in all these years, to see the truth. Heinrich had come back to her, yes; he had forsworn Dora, and the prospect of artistic support and success. But he stood in the snow that day in the Loop, next to the tracks, and saw the streetcar approach at full speed. It came on, sparking the wires like a dragon in the snowy air. He knew that no one would say it was suicide. All was resolved. Only strangers would attend him. His mother was healthy, vital; she would help raise his children and her money would see them educated.
Or perhaps he thought nothing. Perhaps he didn’t need to think. He stepped onto the tracks, his timing perfect. No witnesses claimed to see the moment of impact; his body was dragged some distance. Afterward a crowd gathered, surging forward against the implacable, motionless streetcar, whose passengers made haste to disembark.
Asta looks into her room, hers alone for nearly five years. She knows, she knows, and falls instantly asleep. The thin pages of Annabel’s “Play for Christmas” slip aside, and the rose Tiffany shade of the bedside lamp casts the only light. She moves through a passage of veils that opens onto the cold, crowded confusion of the rail station in Chicago’s Loop. The approaching trolley shrieks and the gleaming rails crackle with electric fire. There’s Heinrich, walking toward the streetcar in the snow. She reaches for him, but Lavinia comes between them, her words blazing up in the steam of the trolley’s burning, whining brakes . . . adore me . . . needs he could not deny . . . Asta screams at her in the gathering crowd: As I denied Heinrich! You knew he walked in front of that train! You knew and pretended not to know! But Lavinia has hold of her: No, Anna! That is your fear and suspicion. Heinrich would never leave his children fatherless and unprotected! Never! She is here beside Asta on the bed. Don’t think such faithless thoughts. We have been unlucky. That is all. The older woman’s delicate, lined face comes very near. We must think clearly now, and persevere, and raise these children as he would have wished. Asta opens her eyes then, for the words are billowing drafts of snowy air. A loose catch has given way and the window beside the bed is blown completely open. Annabel’s play is scattered across the floor as though drawn to the open window and the wind.
III.
Personal Ad: Civil Engineer. College Education. Worth $150,000 or more. Has income from $400 to $3000 per month. He writes: My business enterprises prevent me from making many social contacts. I am, therefore, unable to make the acquaintances of the right kind of women. As my properties are located through the Middle West, I believe I will settle there when married. Am an Elk and a Mason. Own a beautiful 10-room home, completely furnished. My wife would have her own car and plenty of spending money. Would have nothing to do but enjoy herself, but she must be strictly a one-man’s woman.
—Cornelius O. Pierson, P.O. Box 227, Clarksburg, W.Va.
June 24, 1931
Park Ridge, Illinois
A Visitation
Everything was prepared. Cornelius was motoring from the South in his new automobile and should arrive for a late supper.
Asta Darling:
Just a few lines, dearest, as I expect to leave here next Sunday and arrive Monday.
When I come I want to see you alone—tell the children anything you like. I will come at night.
Do not let the neighbors know I am coming. Leave all business transactions to me.
Your faithful Cornelius
Of course she wouldn’t start talk among the neighbors, but she’d warned him the children were excited to meet him. She explained that she couldn’t leave on “business” without introducing him, for she’d never left the children, even overnight. She hadn’t the opportunity, since that first long journey to America, to travel. And to enjoy, Cornelius reminded her gently. Of course he would meet the children, and they would leave quite early the next day, without good-byes, for it was not good-bye. A quick departure would lessen any anxiety. She’d engaged Mrs. Abernathy, Lavinia’s medical nurse, to stay the week. The children would be busy; she would write them daily, and be back for them, with Cornelius, as soon as affairs were settled. They would begin their family life, a prospect so dear to his heart; she could not know how dear.
It was unseasonably warm for June. The table was set as though for a banquet: Cornelius must know of her taste and refinement, that she honored him and would provide a gracious home. Soon enough, he would know her financial straits. Grethe and Hart had savings accounts to which Charles made birthday deposits, and Hart made pocket money bagging groceries on weekends. Their savings exceeded her own funds, for she had none, and would have to borrow some small sum from Hart, for the trip. Cornelius had said he would see to her every need, just as he would going forward, but it wouldn’t do to have absolutely nothing, like a child.
Nothing. She sat at the kitchen table, and put her face in her hands.
She wouldn’t allow Charles to pay her bills or know the extent of her situation: that would be double betrayal, for he expected to return in July and discuss his suit again, on any terms she liked, he said, but she would not burden him with the well-being of her entire family, or allow him to embrace a life he would surely find incomplete. She’d arranged with Malone that the bank pay the mortgage going forward, adding to the debt to be settled when the house was sold.
Cornelius would see to everything. He was a businessman. Careful men like Cornelius, financially astute, steady, warmly polite, were the true Americans. Men like Malone, in his bank. She imagined, for a moment, Malone and Cornelius, settling her affairs congenially, in the very office in which Malone had advised her, most recently, to accept the bank as trustee until she could sell her home.
She opened the icebox to check that the aspic had taken the mold. She’d poured it a bit late, being occupied with the tea sandwiches, her own fresh dill and cucumbers, sliced paper thin, and the cold chicken, arranged in slices, with her own corn relish; she’d found the last of Lavinia’s canned green beans, her beets with mustard seed, in the pantry, and a jar of her bread and butter pickles, that Hart loved so. She’d made the noodle kugel, Lavinia’s recipe, early, before the heat; she could serve it hot or cold, depending on Cornelius’ wish . . . depending on his wish. Was she a fool? She shut the icebox and latched the door.
She must continue to believe in him and not lose her nerve; she imagined herself in his fine new car, the road opening before them, the world speeding by as they conversed . . . he was on his way, ever closer, in this moment!
She prayed he would forgive her lack of candor. They would meet and she would explain. So many weeks and months, so much in common. Hope had silenced her, she would tell him, but she promised herself she would not leave with him until he knew part of the truth, lest he question h
er altogether.
Where was Hart? The bank closed at five. She would ask him for ten dollars, no small sum, and for him, poor boy, it was a third of his savings—
And where was Abernathy? She’d promised to arrive by three with her valise, and to serve dinner this once, from the kitchen, though she was a nurse, not a servant. How fortunate she’d no medical cases and was clearly hard-pressed; she’d accepted partial payment for a week’s work, and would stay over in the guest room. Grethe would do the shopping under Abernathy’s supervision, on credit, and help with the cooking. Hart would walk and feed Duty. Annabel and Hart were obliged to attend Bible School each morning at St. Luke’s Church down the block, which provided lunches for the children. Hart would be most annoyed; she would have to talk with him.
If he would understand! He must be educated and meet a station in life equal to his talents and abilities, and the girls must be protected. To depend solely on a man, with no recourse to family solvency, as she must, was an unacceptable risk, as surely for Annabel as for Grethe . . . but that was far off. Cornelius said that of course Grethe would remain with them for the foreseeable future, safe and happy—
Quiet Dell: A Novel Page 7