When they were married. If they carried out their intentions, which despite their fond letters must wait on their meeting, on the chance to spend days alone together, in travel, for they were journeying from one life to another, were they not? He would experience her home, and she his, observing proprieties, she’d no doubt, until they were wed. He seemed to view convention as a moral code to be observed with decorum and appreciation.
He needn’t know of Heinrich’s demands and needs. But he knew of Heinrich’s affair, his infidelity, his months and weeks of indecision while Asta suffered—this she’d confided in her letters, for she found that she could not give an account of herself, her sorrows and hopes, without speaking of it. In fact, Cornelius’ own mention of certain words, in his first letter, drew her, like balm to an open wound: his wife must be strictly a one-man’s woman. I would not tolerate infidelity. He’d not yet confided as much, but perhaps Cornelius too had found his heart stripped of comfort by a sudden, devastating revelation.
She startled as the front door slammed open, bouncing against the doorstop, and the screen door squealed on its spring. Duty ran full tilt through to the kitchen and buried his muzzle in his water bowl. Hart came after, whistling as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
• • •
His mother wore her lace collar, her cameo brooch and earrings, and her kitchen apron; she looked not herself, her hair falling down in strands on one side. He couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Why can’t I bag groceries every day, like I do on Saturdays, and make more money?”
“Hart—” she began.
“I know we need money.” He glared at her. “We can’t buy on credit forever, like you bought all this.” Still holding his catcher’s mitt, he swept his arm out wildly to indicate the long table, with its place settings and glassware. It looked set for a party, all for this Cornelius.
“Hart, I regret that you must even think about credit, or the fact we need it.” She put her hands on his shoulders.
He could feel her steady herself, and that scared him. He squared his stance, and tried to remember his anger.
“But don’t talk of credit,” she said, “and most certainly not today. It’s common to discuss money, and soon the bills will be paid.” She met his eyes. “I have made decisions that affect us all and I ask for your patience and help. Son, with your grandmother gone, I depend on you more than anyone.”
“I don’t mind,” he said quietly. She was barely taller than he. The whites of her gray eyes were faintly reddened, and her mouth had a sort of pinch. She seemed always to be thinking of something that worried or distracted her. “Is Charles coming for lunch as well?” he asked.
“No, they’ll meet another time. You know Charles is traveling all month.” She took his arm in hers. “Now, I’ve told you that Cornelius is coming quite a distance to be with us, to meet you children. He wants only to be your friend and adviser, to ease the way for all of us.”
Hart only nodded.
“We’ll be gone a week or so. Then we’ll be back for you, and we’ll all take a lovely trip together, to see his home. We’ve not gone on a trip for ever so long, have we?”
Gravely, Hart looked at her, and wished himself back at the ball field in the park, amongst his friends who would hoot and cheer as he struck out another batter. It was only teams chosen by lot, neighborhood boys, but he was fiercely desired for his pitching arm. The pounded grass smelled wet in the early mornings, when they began. He thought of the smell and how good it was.
“I need you to watch over Annabel. She’s so distractible and imaginative. You must take responsibility until I return. Can you do that?” She paused. “You know I can’t ask Grethe.”
“Abernathy will be here,” he said.
“But Annabel doesn’t much like her. And you know how your sister looks up to you, and listens to you.” Her gaze softened. “And well she should, my fine, grown-up boy.”
Her hand brushed his hair, light as a leaf, and he was about to tell her that he would take care of them all before long, that all must stay as it was, but the doorbell rang and his mother stepped past him. “There’s Abernathy. I must speak to her.” She turned. “I nearly forgot. I know you’re hot and thirsty—have some lemonade. Then wash up and go down to the bank, will you, and withdraw ten dollars for me. I haven’t asked you often, and this is the last time, I promise.”
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Thank you, Hart. Don’t tarry, it’s nearly three. And Grethe wants to go, for the walk. Take her with you?” Then she was gone.
Miserable, Hart walked through the kitchen to the small back porch, and hung his mitt on a nail in the eave of the roof. Duty’s mangled tennis ball lay abandoned on the top step and Hart sat down beside it, seeing the backyard as he supposed a stranger would. Inside, the house was tended like a museum, but their mother took no interest in the back, which was littered with Annabel’s toys. The small rock mound of the graveyard, as she called it, where last week she’d managed the neighborhood children in a funeral for a baby barn swallow, had fallen aside. The homemade sign looked woebegone.
They weren’t allowed inside the long studio barn anymore. Boards had dropped along the front and it was too dangerous, his mother said, but Hart went in alone now and then, to stand quietly. There were still massive workbenches to either side, and a great open expanse down the middle. The floor was covered in sawdust. Swallows nested along the roof beams. He didn’t quite remember the workshop, when it was full of people in long aprons and protective glasses, and there was heat and glow and noise. He tried to feel his father standing close in front of him, but the emptiness stayed empty.
He heard Annabel then before he saw her, in the playhouse. It was off-limits as well, and needed repair. Annabel had swung the front window fully open, also forbidden, because the six mullioned panes were pocked and cracked, and bits of glass had popped out onto the grass. She was wearing Charles’ long white scarf, pretending she was a lady or a geisha, carrying Duty here and there like a potentate, for she made a fuss over the paintings on the walls, which showed a Japanese scene. Their mother had painted the mural long ago, when Grethe was a baby. The small square houses were submerged in greenery, and the uneven dirt road, smaller and then larger, opened toward the viewer. Ladies walked there in Japanese kimonos with wide sleeves and sashes; one man in a wide hat pulled a cart. There were tall palm trees and faraway snowcapped mountains. It was noplace and nowhere, for none of them had ever been to Japan, but Hart had always imagined that the cart was full of ice from the mountains. The man in the hat had drawn it down a long, long road, and he was still pulling it.
Hart picked up the muzzy tennis ball and threw it hard. Duty jumped from Annabel’s arms and ran joyously after it, barking wildly, his short legs a blur of motion.
• • •
Asta remembered to lay her apron aside, and smooth her hair. “Mrs. Abernathy, how good of you to come. Was the streetcar delayed? On hot days, the cars get so full—”
“Oh, Mrs., I got to the station and needed a cab, the valise, you see, I couldn’t manage, I’ll have to charge you transport, Mrs., I’m sorry.”
“Yes, of course. Let me take your bag.” Asta led the way up the carpeted stairs, pleased the valise was, indeed, a substantial weight, and promised commitment, for they had not stipulated a specific end date. “Up this way to your room, the guest room, the front one, with its own bath.” Asta looked behind her to see Abernathy, a tall thin woman with a rather gray pallor, following, removing her hat. But Abernathy knew the room, of course. Lavinia’s marble-topped dresser was cleared and empty. “Next week it will be seven months. We’ve gotten through the winter.”
Abernathy nodded curtly, as though there were any choice in the matter. “I was sorry to be discharged before she passed. Thanksgiving, it was.”
“Yes, I was sorry as well.”
Abernathy stood, hat and hatpins in hand. “Fine. I’ll just unpack then, Mrs. I know you want me to s
erve dinner. Six on the dot, I remember it used to be. When is the guest expected?”
Asta had moved a small writing table and two comfortable chairs to one wall. She indicated the chairs now. “I’m not certain. He’s driving a long distance. I know you want to freshen up, but could we talk for just a moment?”
“If you like.” She sat, her hat on her lap.
Asta composed herself and began. “I trust you’ll keep the terms of our arrangement private, Mrs. Abernathy, and any knowledge of my finances, confidential. Most especially this evening. Mr. Pierson is an old friend whom I don’t want to trouble with any sense of my difficulties, and the children, of course, must feel secure as I see to our affairs.” She paused, aware of Abernathy’s expressionless gaze. Asta had paid her the last of Lavinia’s savings as an advance, half the fee.
Abernathy remained motionless. Finally, as though considering a verbal response unnecessary, she nodded.
Asta dropped her voice. “You know, I’ve never left the children, but I must see to important matters.” She wanted to reach for Abernathy’s hand, to seal some bargain. Surely Abernathy knew, having nursed Lavinia for weeks, how completely Asta lived for her children. “Things, unexpected, thrust upon us—the financial reversals and difficult choices brought on by illness, by widowhood. You’re a widow yourself, I believe.”
“Certainly, Mrs., for twenty years. And forced to make a living, a better living than my husband ever earned, driving a streetcar and drinking half he made.”
A streetcar? Drinking, Asta thought. Irish. But twenty years ago. She looked out Lavinia’s window to see Annabel in the playhouse, and Duty launching himself from her arms through the window, which was swung fully open. Grethe, then, came into view beside her. Grethe disobeyed very rarely, and today of all times! Annabel was far too persuasive for a child her age. She knew better. Asta would go over all the rules, everything, again, in no uncertain terms. But she turned first to Abernathy, not to seem abrupt. “I thank you for your discretion, Mrs. Abernathy. Come down when you’re settled.”
Abernathy nodded, and gazed into the room. “You’ve made quite a change here, Mrs.”
“Yes, I thought it best, for the children . . . that they not, see it as a shrine, or continue to . . .”
“Death is a business,” Abernathy said, looking around her.
• • •
Downstairs, Asta sent Hart and Grethe off to the bank, and Annabel to the parlor, to await a frank talk, but considered Abernathy’s remark. How odd the woman was. Death was Abernathy’s business, one supposed, but what a strange, unaccountable statement. God save anyone from such a life, moving one desperate illness to another as someone lay wasting away. Abernathy was competent, never ruffled. Asta could trust that nothing would go wrong; all would remain in order, and for a week or a bit more, that was all she required.
“Annabel?” Asta found her in the dining room, surveying the table settings. They didn’t often have company. “Does it look nice, darling?”
“Oh yes. Mr. Pierson is sure to appreciate a lovely dinner after his long drive.” She fixed a hand to each high rounded point of one of the tall ladder-back chairs. “You can tell by his spectacles that he likes fine things.”
She’d wanted to see his photograph. Just this morning, Asta had obliged. “I’m sure he does, dear. And I’m certain he will appreciate you. You might recite something for him, I think. From your Child’s Garden, perhaps?”
“I know what I shall recite.”
“It must be short, Annabel.”
“Oh, yes. Grandmother told me, never try the patience of one’s audience.”
Asta concealed her irritation at the mention of Lavinia. “Annabel, I asked you to wait for me in the parlor.”
“I was just going there,” Annabel said.
Asta went to the kitchen to get the child a glass of milk and a few of the icebox cookies she’d baked fresh. She didn’t want to antagonize Annabel, who was her mother’s only supporter in this venture, for she didn’t remember a father, and loved the idea of a business adviser, a very close friend. Sometimes, she’d pointed out, friends became suitors, as happened in Little Women, between Laurie, the rich neighbor, and Amy, the youngest sister, who was Annabel’s favorite over Jo, the tomboy; Amy was a painter, and her suitor, like a prince. Mr. Pierson was not a prince, Asta had said, only a very nice man.
She fetched a cut-glass tray for their repast, for Annabel loved such things. Lavinia had certainly taught her to value “fine things,” and if reality was not so fine, to construct stories and fantasies.
But fantasy was of no use. Had Cornelius not offered his help, not grown to revere Asta as his heart’s desire, where would she have turned? She would surely have accepted Charles’ proposal and been another man’s disappointment. So, the milk and cookies. Annabel would be waiting as though for a visitor, pretending her behavior was not the issue. Asta took the tray into the parlor.
Annabel looked up with a brilliant smile and Asta felt herself lighten, as though some edge of happiness touched her. Was it so unbelievable that a good man existed? Mature people who had endured life’s struggles surely deserved happiness, and appreciated good fortune far more than the young.
• • •
The bank was open another half hour, despite their mother’s haste. She’d rushed them off in their clean clothes, insisting Hart wear a tie. They’d plenty of time, Hart assured Grethe, who walked quickly, regardless, exactly in the middle of the sidewalk. She wouldn’t cross streets until there were no cars in sight, even if the light was solidly red. He knew better than to argue.
He searched his mind for a remark of no consequence. “That’s a nice dress you’re wearing,” he told her.
“Do you know it was Grandmother’s? Mother did it up. She says I’m just Grandmother’s size.”
“You’re wearing Grandmother’s clothes?”
“I must wear them now because I might grow too tall soon. And this is Grandmother’s hat.” She touched her straw boater, and the navy ribbons that hung by her chin.
Hart was perplexed. What right had his mother to dress Grethe in these clothes? He remembered silks and taffetas and parasols, and tasseled shawls that shimmered at holidays. Was Grethe to go about in all that? Were they so poor that Grethe couldn’t have her own clothes? He couldn’t ask her if she minded; that would only make her think she should. “Well, you look very nice,” he said. They were opposite the bank, and he took her arm.
“Mother put my hair up,” she said. “A little girl doesn’t wear this sort of hat.”
“I suppose not,” Hart said. His mother said Grethe would always be a little girl, but here she was, dressed up like an older woman. “Look here,” he said, “take my arm, like so, because I’m your brother. But don’t take any other fellow’s arm. You know not to, don’t you, no matter what he says about your hat.”
“My hat,” she repeated. She looked at the light fixedly. The sun was glaring, and the color was hard to make out.
He drew her across Main Street, into the bank. The marble floor and walls were markedly cool and the big clock glowered down. He saw the minute hand jerk. There was a long queue, but only two tellers serving customers. Hart indicated three chairs to the left, by the wall. “Sit just there and wait for me, Grethe. Don’t talk to anyone.”
“What are you mad about?”
“I’m not mad. Only just wait for me.” He stood in line and looked back as she settled herself, like a bird lit on a cushion, sitting forward as though she might rise any minute, knees together, feet flat on the floor, as their mother had taught her. So many rules made Grethe anxious, for she had to remember them all. She was born normal but she was special now. Their mother had said this so long ago that Hart couldn’t remember not knowing. It couldn’t happen to Hart, she’d explained, or to Annabel, because these fevers only afflicted small babies, and changed how the brain might grow. Grethe would always need their protection.
He made sure no one teased her a
t school, and helped her with her homework. She couldn’t memorize the Gettysburg Address for graduation to fourth grade, no matter how many times he repeated each phrase, and so she hadn’t gone to fifth grade, and was schooled at home. She walked about with a book on her head, and went with their mother now, to stores, the post office, the bank. This bank.
He looked back at her; a tall gentleman was talking to her.
The man, dressed in a fine suit, leaned over her. “Excuse me, are you Miss Eicher?”
He could hear what they were saying, for the bank was like a church. Hushed voices carried. Hart was two from the front; she’d be waiting far longer if he left the line now. He looked directly at her, trying to get her attention.
“Yes,” she was saying in her practiced way, “I’m Grethe Eicher.”
“I thought so. I’m William Malone, president of this bank and a friend of your mother’s. She speaks so highly of you.” He was nodding at Grethe, pleased. At least he wasn’t trying to shake her hand.
Grethe looked at him, and never once looked at Hart.
“How old are you now, Grethe?” the man asked her.
“I’m fourteen.” She gave her serious, studious smile. “I have an account at this bank.”
There she was, giving out personal information, just because some man spoke to her. Hart cleared his throat and looked over at the teller, who was taking an uncommonly long time with the old lady in front.
“Charles opens a savings account for us when we are ten,” Grethe was saying, “for our gift money and pocket money. He makes our first deposit. Twenty dollars.”
“Does he?” Malone said. “A young person should have a savings to look after. Charles must be a very good man.” Now he sat in the chair next to Grethe, as though to have a proper conversation.
Grethe was obliging, attentive, concentrating, no doubt. “Oh yes, he was our roomer, and comes to see us quite often.”
“Excellent.” Now Malone looked over at Hart. Grethe followed his gaze as though coming out of a spell. “Would you children like to come to the office, have some lemonade or cold water? Very warm today, isn’t it?”
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