Any one of this cast of characters could be in trouble, I realized. Usually, when a lady comes to me in a desperate hope to solve her troubles, they spill out their tale in a flurry of tears and torment. I decided to press her further. After all, I needed all the information I could get before making such a decision.
“Miss Elizabeth, unfortunately, I can’t just dispense prussic acid at the drop of a coin. If you could tell me a little more about your situation, your true intent . . .”
Her eyebrows arched, then furrowed angrily. Miss Elizabeth was having none of my prying. She wanted prussic acid to clean a coat, and no further discussion was to take place. I studied her face for a moment, her clenched jaw ticking, and nodded. She was not going to leave until she got what she wanted.
Well, if she wasn’t going to be honest with me, I saw no need to be honest with her. I brushed past her to the back room and pulled out my glass measuring tubes. I would give her a potion, all right: a poison to upset the stomach, no more, and if she were so determined to do away with someone, she would have presented herself in much more of a distressed fashion. She was toying with me; for what purpose, I did not know, but I was not about to give her the satisfaction of finding out my own dark secret, my ability to dole out death where death was due. The bottle I wrapped up would not only cause stomach cramps, but in a pinch, would do a fine job of cleaning a wayward spot on a sealskin cloak. She could have that. No more.
She paid me with four cold copper coins and a nod, and left quickly, without a word. I locked the door behind her, and hurried home to serve Father his stew. Potatoes and a bit of ham, tonight; he’d be pleased.
Imagine my shock when I saw the headlines today! That Miss Elizabeth has been accused of doing away with both her father and stepmother with an axe! What behavior, what incident, could have put her in such a rage, the papers speculated? What madness lay beneath this proper, proud woman, to incite her to do such a deed? But I know. I know exactly why she was so enraged, and who, exactly, is to blame.
Yes, I am sure that Miss Elizabeth had been angry enough to hack away at both her father and stepmother until they bled to death, their features unrecognizable. She must have administered the poison, and watched, and waited; perhaps when her family complained of stomach upset, her hopes rose. It was working. The poison was taking effect, and soon her problems would be over. How frustrated she must have been when she saw them suffer, but not die; as the realization dawned on her that she was nursing these awful people through their sweats and aches, for naught. They would recover.
Yes, she must have been furious. With me.
As fortune would have it, our apothecary was closed yesterday, so I could accompany Father to the countryside to obtain some colt’s foot to combat the bout of bronchial congestion that had taken hold of half the town. Summer pneumonia is not to be trifled with, and demand for this herb has been high. Father and I drove out of town to a particularly rich field we often visit, and so our shop windows were dark when Miss Elizabeth stopped by for a second time with murder on her mind.
After I read the news, I confessed Miss Elizabeth’s visit to Father. I left out the details of the other women I’ve helped, but I told him of her desire to purchase prussic acid, and admitted that I’d sold her a solution of aloe vera mixed with saline. I told him that it seemed peculiar, the way she came in as I was closing, as if she was carrying out some murky deed. I asked him, wide-eyed, if we should inform the constable. Father agreed immediately, and congratulated me on my honesty, and my refusal to give her the poison. If he only knew!
I will admit my intentions are not particularly noble. Miss Elizabeth has clearly shown the extent of her rage and fury. I must do my part to put her behind bars.
I can well imagine on whom her black eyes will turn if she is acquitted.
The Space Between
The story of
William, the Pianist
John Palisano
Darkness sits between the notes. That is the secret to every sad piece ever composed. There is proof of this in the calliopes being so employed in Bridgeport and Hartford and even New Yorke, where they should have the monies available to hire true performers. A machine can never replicate a living thing playing music. The notes may be there, but not the space between. That is where there is magic––that is where there are other worlds to explore.
My fingers tremble as I write down the score. The New England winter is in full front, and I must warm my fingers by running them over the candles. To be honest, I was never great at playing, or at composing, but I have such sounds inside my head, playing always. I hear the great symphonies of Vienna I’ve read about in the papers others have left behind at the hat factory in Norwalke, where I must labour until my ship rolls in, and my works are discovered and lauded far and wide. With the twentieth century looming, I’m convinced the new Modernists will be those who appreciate my passion and laborious work in transcribing the wild sounds in my head.
One may ask who I am, and why I am writing this all down. William James Frank. This writing gives me hope and reason. My beautiful Margaret supports me, and says she loves falling asleep to my tinkering on the piano below her. For her, and for our small boy Landry, I’m grateful and blessed. In fact? Margaret pushes me to keep going when I become doubtful, which is more often than I’d care to admit. If there is anyone to thank for what becomes of my work, it most certainly will be her. Our house on Main street is one of life, of love, and of promise.
[illegible scratch drawings]
A knock on the door startled me tonight. It interrupted my composing time. When I rose from my bench and went to the door, there was no one there. When I went upstairs to see Margaret, there she was, sleeping soundly. I believe it must’ve been simply a stray wind that made something sound like it were knocking. I did feel a chill up my spine in a way I hadn’t earlier. Something, though, told me otherwise. There had to be something that’d come to visit, even if not her. Later that night, as we slept soundly, my dream filled with the oddest of things.
In the dream, the shores of Whistleville beach were covered in snow, and even more drifted down. I felt the cold wetness on my feet, and found I wore no shoes. The waters were rough, but there were no winds. I spotted several places where this seemed to be happening. I inched closer, the curiosity getting to me. From back of me, I heard a single violin play. I wanted to turn to see who else would be out in such unforgiving weather, but could not, for I was transfixed by the motions in the water. Something would be surfacing, and if I blinked, I was sure I’d miss it, whatever it might be.
The melody of the violin? I recognized it as one of my own, only expounded upon and branched off in such a brilliant way. I did my best to pay attention, to hear what the musician had done so that I might transcribe it later. Some notes...played through some unfamiliar scale...bent and slid in a way that sounded like longing. The things in the water responded, danced, called by the tune...my tune. What magic could it be?
Continuing the dream-like state, my eyes seemed to see farther, my reach extended longer, my skin felt the chill deeper. All impossible to logic, but all as real as life to me in that moment.
Something wrapped around my ankles. I couldn’t look down, only at the splashing mounds. Long, dark tendrils stretched from the shore toward me, and I knew instantly they were what’d collected around my legs. Strong and sure, the tendrils locked. The violinist played. The thing in the water hungered for me, tugged, and instantly pulled me toward the water as easy as if I were a kite on a string.
Closer, I saw the thing underwater possessed the shell of a crustacean. Dark, bumpy, and impenetrable, its yellowed eyes followed me, each the size of a derby hat.
What did it want from me? My music? Had that called it? It must have wanted to absorb me...take in my mind...learn from it...know what made it work. Surely I was more than a meal. That is what I thought when, finally, I lowered into the frigid waters, and the thing pulled me toward its four-beaked mouth. Inside, t
here was red as my blood was released, then there was black, and then, white light as Margaret woke me with a kiss and a rub on the noggin.
“You’ll need to rush this morning,” she said. “Slept a bit later. Must have caught something.”
The entire day, the dream colored my thoughts. As I formed the hats, I pictured the eyes of the thing in the water. The world around me seemed to echo bits of the melodies running through my head. The day couldn’t end fast enough. I spent the night doing my best to pick out the notes I’d heard from the violinist, using my humble piano, noting where each phrase slid between the notes. An exhausting task, but necessary. I went to bed without a word to Margaret, and without any dinner. The work... my life’s work... blinded me to my base needs. So be it.
I’d have no other dreams for quite some time. I took the chance to work on further transcribing the work I’d heard interpreted. A part of me initially felt as though I were stealing, but then I concluded my dream had come from my own head, so that it most only have been mine all along.
[Drawing of William’s family, done in his own hand. They stand side by side.]
[There are other entries, but all are perfunctory. He lists dates of pay. Deposits at Hall Bankers. What he had for meals. Nothing interesting for several weeks.]
Several of us made it to the shore today to see if the thaw had come. It has not, unfortunately. Winter still grips us. We travelled by way of a carriage our landboss had arranged from work. None of were quite sure why until we were upon the shore house owned by the company. He’d told us he had a special lunch prepared for us; however, when we arrived, we were confronted with several large piles of wood he asked us to move onto a pair of large wagons, each arriving an hour afterward. Indeed, there was a lunch, divine by all means, of rice and meat and beer. Some of the other men complained, but not I. Any break from the routine is welcome, no matter how cold and unpleasant. I did not, in addition, find the work unpleasant. There was also an hour of off time before the last wagon could move out of the way to let ours start us back to the factory. It was near our quitting time, and the whole shebang amounted to us all getting home later. I took advantage, and surveyed the waters from my dream, of which had repeated itself several times already in the intervening.
The water was disturbed several times, but by gulls. No sign of the water beast that haunted my dreams. Still I believed it watched me, knowing others were there, hoping I’d return alone, or be left behind, so that it might devour me once more. I was sure it would not. I knew it was watching, and so, would not give it purchase. We left. For the day I was gone. And for the night when I returned home there were notes and phrases playing inside my head.
I rushed to my keys and figured them out, only this time they came faster. I had them down and was able to spend the night with Margaret and our boy, forgetting about the thing in the water for once.
[four indistinct pages later]
As summer faded and the first chills of autumn came, my hearing on the left side dampened. For a few days Margaret believed that it was due to a common ailment-- a cold. We tried several tinctures and remedies, however, none fixed the problem. I report this because I found it a challenge to continue my work transcribing the music inside my head as if heard it. I kept loyal, and soon was able to finish. Hard won, I collapsed for a weekend. Margaret nursed me beautifully, as she has been known for. The ear clogged completely. Sound reminded me of being underwater. A doctor visited and offered a cotton swab and a mixture with vinegar. It relieved the pressure, and a worrisome lump of reddish brown residue came forth, but my actual hearing did not improve. He was and is afraid I'd somehow lost my hearing permanently.
It bothered me enough, the lack of sound, that I took to resting on bed with my good ear upward. I caught up on reading.
Work was simple. Come Mondays, I didn't need to hear in order to shape and form hats. Friends tapped me on the shoulder if I missed the calls for breaks.
The only pain was not working on my music any longer.
I had no inspiration. It was as though is used all my creative powers already.
This changed during the holidays.
We'd been invited to the Anderson's for Christmas. The town of Norwalke was done up so elegantly. Victorian decorations consumed the streets and windows. Snow treated us to the whitest Christmas we'd ever seen. It was pure magic. Our carriage made its way from West Avenue toward east, where the Andersons had their gala.
As we arrived, a gust of snow added a perfect grace note to our dispatch. The horses seemed to trot and whinny in glee. Even they knew the night was magical beyond the normal.
Inside, we had brandy and we caught up with friends as we made new ones. People laughed heavily. I cannot recall a better time before in my life.
Then, Russell, he of the red hair and rosy cheeks, my childhood friend, stopped the function cold by standing on a chair and clicking his glass with a spoon. "We have something extraordinary, "a premiere, if you will, of the works of one of our own." He looked to me. "By arrangement of your beautiful wife, Margaret, we will be listening to a preeminent work of Mister William Frank."
Everyone applauded.
"But how?" I turned to Margaret, stunned. I must have looked like a fish on a hook.
"I've hired musicians to play your piece," she said. "Here. For everybody. Your music will be heard." She kissed my face in a most outrageously gregarious way. "Happy Christmas, my dear love."
The chamber doors opened, revealing a cellist, pianist, viola and violinist.
I immediately recognized the first few notes. They never sounded lovelier.
My heart raced and I felt sweat beading on my forehead. How could such a thing of beauty be happening?
I looked to Margaret. She radiated perfection.
The music?
They'd placed each note perfectly. They'd certainly rehearsed. For certain they were anything but amateur.
My music filled the room. I found it hard to follow at first because I was so overjoyed that my head wasn’t keeping straight. I looked around to see what people were doing. Everyone’s attention was rapt, even Margaret’s, so I told myself it’d be a good idea if I did the same.
Plunking things down with the piano, a few notes at a time, a measure here and there, with the harmonies and melodies and bass all done separately, did not prepare me for hearing my piece fully realized. I’d hoped the moment would last forever. It was magical having the music in my head finally performed. Few other things in my life before had been as pertinent to my happiness.
They'd played the space between. Where the sheet music noted a rest, there lurked an ominous gap where something lingered. Not a traditional note, but rather, a low timbre sound that was reminiscent of a harmony or even a triadic chord. It being nearly indistinguishable, most may not have immediately hear it, but all certainly felt its being there.
Having to tilt my head slightly so that my right ear was pointed toward them, doing so revealed a man with a cough a few people ahead of us. Damn him. Couldn’t he keep himself together for several minutes? Why was he ruining my moment?
The coughing continued. The musicians looked to Russell, who nodded. Keep going. Don’t stop. Good. Good.
The musicians kept pace. Thy reached a moment is thought of as an impasse, where discordant and apparent out of tune notes need to slide up and all arrive at a beautiful diminished D chord. The moment before is crucial, as it needed to reflect confusion and grief. They found a striking melancholy cacophony that was somehow also quite musical and rich.
The entire moment steered the performance off course for me. The man’s wife tended to him. His coughs became more and more violent. I grew agitated. The music changed. The notes were not being played correctly. They seemed off. Or was I off? I coughed myself, trying to voice my displeasure at my work being interrupted.
The stout, coughing man fell to the floor. Blood sprayed outward with each hack, and I immediately thought he must have consumption, even though it’d
been ages since a case had been observed or recorded.
My music slid and untangled. The notes cut free and ran wild around one another, like children let loose for recess, only that recess happened to give them each a pointed blade with which to take one another out in the most gruesome way possible.
The wife of the stout man gagged; she was soon coughing equally as horrifically. Margaret nudged me. “What is happening?” Her eyes were as big as teacups. “This is horrible.”
“I wish they would leave.”
The wife fell to the floor. It was as though they’d breathed in some noxious cloud and were dying in front of us. Others gathered around them and attempted to comfort them. There was chatter, but I couldn’t decipher any of it.
Our musicians played louder, as though trying to counter the commotion, masking everything with a strung and plucked cacophony that hurt to listen to. “What is this?” I put my hands over my ears, despite one being nearly useless. “This is not my music?”
Margaret copied me, her hands on her ears, her face scowling in repulsion. Several others had fallen to the floor, coughing bloody spittle. Some had their eyes rolling in their heads.
The painful sounds felt like they were ripping my very chest, and trying to leech their way inside my mind.
I looked up to see Russell trying to get them to stop, but the musician’s hands were working feverishly, their faces contorted in shock and terror. Something had taken them over––an unseen entity had possessed them.
My music had unleashed some sort of terrible curse on most people in the room.
My Peculiar Family Page 3