Death’s Old Sweet Song

by Jonathan Stagge

  Dawn came downstairs as I put the receiver back on the stand.

  “That was Rebecca, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. She’s coming back this afternoon.”

  “In the middle of her vacation? Why?”

  “She’s bored with her vacation. Besides, Violet’s quit.”

  “She has? How wonderful.” My daughter was enthusiastic. “Now we can give Rebecca a real vacation. I’ll take her breakfast in bed. She can sit on the porch and rock all day. I’ll cook all the meals. I’ve always wanted to cook. Persian pudding, blueberry muffins, maybe an angel cake and …”

  Listing a succession of dishes, the carbohydrate content of which turned my stomach even in anticipation, she opened the front door and we moved out into the morning sunlight.

  Churchgoing was painless from Dr. Stokes’s house, for the church stood directly across the elm-shaded lane from us, an old, particularly beautiful clapboard church which had been Episcopal but which recently, through lack of patronage, had turned non-denominational. The bell had stopped ringing some moments before, and normally Skipton’s small flock of loyal worshipers would already have arrived.

  But this morning the road was animated with people hurrying toward the church steps. The air buzzed too with voices, half excited, half uneasy. Parading with two of the Heath farm hands I saw Violet and Irma, whose regular Sunday morning occupation was catching up with the movie magazines. I even saw old Carl Thorpe, Skipton’s avowedly atheistical storekeeper, scuttling unobtrusively into the church with his two mousy daughters.

  It took a maniac, real or imaginary, to put Skipton in mind of its Maker.

  Dawn and I found two of the last seats in the church’s cool, hushed interior, and I noticed that Lorie was at Ernesta’s Hammond organ. That meant Love had not felt up to performing her usual duties. Then I saw Love herself away up in front. She was sitting with a strange man and woman in black who must be the twins’ parents. Phoebe sat behind her, and, surprisingly, Renton Forbes was with her. He caught my eye and grinned sheepishly, a grin which implied he was there against his will, corraled by Phoebe to set a good example to the village.

  Caleb was not visible. Neither were the Raynors. But shortly after the rather rattled Bach chorale which Lorie offered for the first voluntary, Avril’s tiny figure came mincing down the aisle. She was dressed in the deepest black with a preposterous Quakerish bonnet reminiscent of Christina Rossetti or a pew opener in a Dickensian novel. I suspected that she was trying to be something pure and spiritual out of Hawthorne. She made a deep and rather clumsy genuflection before the unadorned altar, started toward Renton Forbes, and then, seeing Phoebe, veered away and squeezed into the pew next to my daughter.

  “You’ll have to help me find my place, Dawn,” she whispered. “I’m such a naughty girl. I haven’t been to church for ever so long.”

  “Hush … sh,” hissed Dawn with a look of intense disapproval.

  Avril’s smile moved ruefully to me. I was meant to appreciate the fact that she had sacrificed a morning from her current book to do her duty to her humble community. I wondered what poor George was doing. Cooking dinner, probably, or washing out her panties.

  Beneath the formal front of piety there was a strange, keyed-up tension in the congregation. I was infected with it myself. Almost all the village was present, and, as my eyes strayed from face to face during the singing of the first hymn, I found myself wondering. Unlike the less well-informed inhabitants of Skipton, I knew that no maniac had broken loose from Leabright. If there was a maniac, he might very well be in the next pew to me. But I could trace no stigmata of degeneration in any of the rugged, New England profiles, which seemed wholesome and unimaginative as fall apples.

  The Reverend Jessup’s sermon, instead of lulling the panicky excitement of his congregation, only added fuel to the flame. With what seemed to me most ill-advised sentimentality, he chose as his text: “Suffer the Little Children to Come Unto Me.” He got carried away by his own message, and his words were so moving that, when he painted a picture of innocent little boys playing marbles, with the Angel of Death hovering over them, Mrs. White collapsed, and her husband and I were obliged to help her out onto the porch, causing a minor commotion in doing so. Mr. White and I between us managed to guide the poor woman across the street to Love’s cottage, and I returned to my pew just in time for the last verses of the final hymn.

  As soon as the congregation started streaming out to Lorie’s shy Bach, Avril darted, batting her eyes, to Renton Forbes and dragged him away. Presumably he had a lunch date with the Raynors. Phoebe Stone and I met on the porch.

  She said: “I hear Violet’s left you. You’d better come to lunch with us.”

  I accepted with pleasure, while Phoebe nodded to all and sundry, most of whom were glancing furtively at me, the discoverer of the bodies, as if I were the star exhibit in a freak show.

  “Really,” murmured Phoebe, “things are getting terrible. Did that inspector have to tell everyone in the village? And Hilary—I can’t imagine what got into him. Such a sermon!” She put her hand on my arm. “Here, he’s coming with Love. Let’s get away. I can’t imagine what I could possibly say.”

  Soon Lorie joined us. Phoebe sent her on ahead with Dawn, and I told her what little there was to tell about the White twins.

  “It’s the song that frightens me,” she said. “That it should be tied up with the song.”

  The Stones’ house, at the foot of Ernesta’s pretentious drive, was unambitious, but it was the nicest house in Skipton. The furniture was old and shabby, and no one ever seemed to dust anything, but it was friendly. It seemed pleased to see you.

  We found Caleb in the cluttered living room, his blond head bent over a large-scale map of Skipton on which he had been working for weeks. Map draftsmanship was a hobby he’d picked up in the hospital, and it still seemed one of the few things that could hold his attention for any length of time. He glanced up when we entered, and his face darkened as he saw Lorie.

  “You coming to lunch?” he asked.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Lorie stared back at him, her thin face faintly flushed. The tension between them which I had noticed the night before was even more marked.

  “Why on earth should I mind? Hello, Doctor. Hi, Dawn.” Caleb grinned, the quick, sweet grin he kept for Dawn. “How’s about eating, Ma? I’m starved.”

  “It should be ready—unless Marie’s walked out on us.”

  Phoebe left the room and came back to announce that lunch was ready. As we took our seats, she said:

  “Those poor Whites. Love weakened last night and called them after all. They came up on the milk train.”

  “For God’s sake,” cut in Caleb roughly, “do we have to talk about the Whites all the time? Can’t you let those two poor little kids rest in peace in the morgue or wherever they are?”

  It struck me that he was being unnecessarily rude, but Phoebe took the rebuke meekly and murmured: “Yes, you’re right, Caleb. Let’s forget them for a while.”

  Lunch without mention of the White twins and with the inexplicable antagonism between Lorie and Caleb wasn’t any too comfortable, and after lunch conversation, which usually flowed easily in Phoebe’s house, remained dammed up. Caleb, frankly sulky, picked up a book and leafed through it. Both Lorie and Phoebe had knitting. A portrait which I had always admired hung on the wall above the old faded davenport. It was the likeness of a beautiful, rather sad-looking girl with gray eyes and an Edwardian elegance.

  Just to say something rather than nothing, I remarked: “She’s very lovely, Phoebe. Is she your mother?”

  Phoebe glanced up quickly. “Yes. Ernesta’s and mine. She is lovely, isn’t she? Everyone adored her.”

  “She’s been dead for long?”

  Lorie looked up. Phoebe, her voice rather hurried, said: “Oh, she’s not dead. She lives up in New York State.”

  “I’d like to meet her. Will she be visiting you this summer?”

  C
aleb threw his book down on a table.

  Phoebe said: “I don’t think so. She’s not in very good health. And, of course, she’s quite old.” As if I had introduced a topic of conversation that had to be changed at all costs, she reached for the book Caleb had dropped and held it out to me, remarking rather wildly: “Have you read this? It’s a biography of Charles and Mary Lamb. Lorie was crazy about it.”

  Feeling awkward and not quite knowing why, I took the book and said inanely: “I’d like to read it. I used to be nuts about the Essays of Elia, and when Dawn was a kid I used to read her Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare. You liked them, didn’t you, Dawn?”

  “Not particularly,” said my daughter in her adult voice. “I prefer to read Shakespeare in the original. But, as a matter of fact, I’ve always been interested in Mary Lamb.”

  “Why Mary rather than Charles, dear?” asked Phoebe.

  Dawn shrugged. “Oh, Charles, he didn’t do anything exciting. But Mary was wonderful. She murdered her mother.”

  There was a ghastly hush—a ghastlier hush, I felt, than was necessary. Dawn, apparently unconscious of it, ran to Lorie and, perching herself on the arm of her chair, said:

  “Please, Lorie, sing ‘Green Grow the Rushes-O.’”

  That didn’t improve matters either. Slipping the book under my arm, I rose to leave, and, as I did so, I noticed an ancient automobile, crammed with what seemed like an army of colored people, wheezing along the road. In the back seat I caught a fleeting glimpse of Rebecca’s plump, maternal profile.

  “Oh, Dawn, Rebecca’s arriving,” I said.

  “And we won’t be there to meet her!” Dawn’s face dropped in horror at this social solecism. “Mrs. Stone, do you mind if I simply dash? It would be awful not to be there when she comes.”

  “Of course, dear,” said Phoebe. “Run along.”

  Dawn ran out of the room. But, as she left the house, we could hear her voice distinctly. She was singing:

  “Three, three the rivals.

  Two, two the lily-white boys,

  Clothed all in green-O.”

  I happened to look at Lorie. She had dropped her knitting and was sitting very still, her body quivering. Suddenly she threw her hands up to cover her eyes.

  “Lorie!” His voice unexpectedly soft, Caleb started toward her. “Lorie, what is it, baby?”

  “The song,” she whispered. “I sang the song. I made it happen. I know I made it happen—with the song. …”

  CHAPTER VI

  I had to pass the Raynors’ house on my way home from Phoebe’s. It was large and rambling and rather dilapidated, for Avril’s literary genius, though cherished by a sensitive few, had not yet won a wide audience. And George, of course, had given up his job after the marriage in order to devote himself entirely, as secretary, cook, and general amanuensis, to his wife’s comfort. Avril was in the habit of explaining that she had bought the house because she had just simply fallen in love with its quaint old charm. Phoebe claimed that she had bought it because Skipton’s activities were reported in the social pages of the New York papers and that there had been no other house available at the price she was prepared to pay.

  I was apt to believe Phoebe.

  That afternoon, as I strolled past the sagging picket fence that bounded the lawn, I saw a small hand wave from the porch where Dawn claimed to have caught Avril “flirting” with Renton Forbes, and Avril’s silvery voice called:

  “Oh, Dr. Westlake, do come in. Just for a moment. We’re having coffee.”

  I had no desire to cope with Avril, but, remembering my promise to Cobb, I turned through the gate and up the “quaintly” weed-infested drive to the house. On the porch I found Avril and Renton Forbes seated together on a glider with a tray of coffee in front of them. Avril had changed her Hawthorne creation for black slacks and a white blouse with a black, Byronic cravat. I’d seen this outfit before. She laughingly referred to it as her George Sand work costume.

  “Oh, Doctor, do tell us.” She crinkled her little forehead pathetically. “The poor, poor mites. Any news?”

  “Nothing to amount to anything.”

  “And that tragic Hecuba of a Mrs. White! I felt so concerned for her in church this morning.”

  I told her Mrs. White had recovered from her spell.

  “Damn silly of her to go to church at all in the circumstances,” drawled Forbes. “Damn silly.”

  “Oh, Renton, you naughtiness!” Avril, girlish again, tapped him lightly on the wrist and put her hands playfully over her ears.

  George Raynor came in then. His husky body, which was that of an athlete just starting to go to seed, was ludicrously draped in a frilly pink apron. He held a dish in one hand and a tea towel in the other. My guess had been right. George had obviously stayed home from church to cook lunch and was now cleaning up the kitchen while his wife disported with Renton on the porch.

  George glanced rather sulkily at Avril and Renton and turned to me. His face showed genuine concern.

  “I saw you come up the drive, Doctor. Any news?”

  “Nothing much, I’m afraid.”

  “Those kids. I guess I’ll never get over it.” His dark eyes showed a flicker of remembered horror. “There they were playing marbles up by the sawdust pile without a care in the world. And then—”

  “Oh, George, you old silliness!” broke in Avril with the inevitable giggle. “I’ve told you a hundred times not to come in wearing that silly old apron of mine.”

  George swung round with uncharacteristic belligerence which hinted that over lunch she must have been goading him more than usual.

  “I come in wearing the apron,” he snapped, “because someone around here’s got to wear it.”

  “A hit, my dear Avril. A palpable hit.” Renton laughed his deep, amused laugh. “Personally, I think George wears his aprons with great distinction. Also, he cooks better than any man or woman in the Berkshires. That Newburg sauce! That was as genuine a piece of art as any of your books.”

  Avril, trying to conceal the pique engendered by this praise of her husband, gave a little pursed grimace and made shooing gestures at George.

  “Darling, please run along and finish the dishes. Then I’m going to bustle both these sweet men off and scurry away to my little ivory tower and my typewriter.”

  Suddenly and savagely George hurled the tea towel on the floor.

  “I’m darned if I’m washing any more dishes today. If you want them done, do them yourself before you scurry away to your ivory tower.”

  For the first time since I had known them, the worm had turned. George dropped into a chair and sat there stubbornly. Avril’s face was momentarily blank with surprise and shock. Then, making the best of an obvious defeat, she tossed her auburn hair and let her laughter, a little tinnier than usual, ring out. “Why, you old sulkiness, you! A pill, dear, that’s what you need. Some of those teeny-weeny white pills for the liver. Come on, Renton. We’ll put him to shame and finish the dishes together in a trice.”

  She jumped up gaily, holding out her hand to Renton. He took it in his large, smoothly manicured fingers.

  “I don’t mind doing the dishes.” He threw a sardonic glance at George. “But, let the suds fall where they may—no frilly apron!”

  As they went out together, George scowled after them. Then he slumped back in his chair, looking suddenly insecure and crestfallen.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said with a feeble grin. “I guess I made pretty much of a fool out of myself, didn’t I?”

  “You think so?”

  “I haven’t any right to lose my temper like that. So petty. Avril’s not like other women. I know that. I can’t expect her to be—not with her genius. She must be shielded from all the little mundane things, allowed to expand.” He was staring at me earnestly. “But sometimes … I mean, sometimes when I see her with other men … Oh, I guess it’s only human in me, but it’s weak, selfish. I should learn to control myself. Of course she has to have other men friends;
she has to study other types, understand their psychology.”

  He glanced down at the frilly apron which still decorated his large lap and half rose.

  “Excuse me, Doctor. I guess I’d better get back to the kitchen and finish those dishes. I can’t have Avril wasting her precious time.”

  I was tempted to suggest that he should go back to the kitchen and beat his wife with a rawhide whip. But it was not my function to stir up domestic strife. I merely said:

  “Let her finish them. It won’t kill her. Sit down and have a rest.”

  “You think she won’t mind?”

  “Of course not. She’s got Renton out there anyway. She can be understanding his psychology at the same time.”

  Soon Avril and Renton returned from the kitchen. Avril looked none the worse for a little manual labor. In fact, I suspected she’d had a high time with the dishes. She giggled as she entered and dropped me a mock curtsy, saying:

  “Dinner is served, sir.”

  Then, flashing a smile around, she announced: “Time’s up, gentlemen. Little Avril has to get back to her dreadful, demanding typewriter and’s going to throw all you men right out. But—wait!” She twisted around to me. “You’ve never seen my little snuggery, have you, Doctor—the little nook where I create my dream children? You simply must come up and take a peek.”

  This, I knew, was intended to be a signal honor, almost a royal command. Feeling vaguely nauseated, I let her loop her arm through mine and guide me up two flights of rickety—“so sweet”—stairs to an attic which stretched the entire length of the house. It had been made over into a huge studio which was much more luxuriously and attractively furnished than the rest of the house. It was obvious that the snuggery had priority on the family budget and that Avril believed in good solid comfort when she gave birth to her dream children.

  Pirouetting around me, she exclaimed: “Isn’t this a big room for such a little person?” She pointed to a huge mahogany desk by the window. “That’s the old workbench, Doctor. That’s where I wrote ’Tis Fairy Gold. … And, you know? While I’m lost in my writings, airplanes could come and drop bombs and wipe out the whole village of Skipton and I’d never hear them. So absorbed I get, the silliness.”