Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  Visitors took their seats with smiles and nods. It would be a fitting memorial to Lizzy, the passing on of her talent. Some spoke in hushed voices; it was almost like a séance—perhaps Lizzy would come back from the grave and infuse her daughter with her spirit.

  Tom knew what was coming and tried to spare his daughter what could only be a humiliating experience. “Charity,” he whispered, as she sat down at the piano, “perhaps instead we could sing one of her favorite songs. Perhaps that would be a fitting way to remember her?”

  His daughter looked wounded. “Please, Papa, it would mean so much to me,” she said.

  Tom nodded. Funerals are for the living, he reminded himself and took a seat, hoping for the best.

  From the first bars, however, her audience was wincing. Charity's leaden fingers set the punch bowl swaying and the candles tumbling. One by one, the little children began to stray and bleat; then a few elderly folk hobbled away.

  Margaret disappeared into the kitchen and closed the door.

  Shortly afterwards, Iris lurched out of the house and disappeared between the bougainvillea and hibiscus blossoms. She dug into her pocket and opened a tin box containing hand-rolled cigarettes and some matches. In the sunlight, Iris's hair was blond, though indoors it appeared brown. At all times it was limp and thin, and something of a disappointment. She rarely dwelled on such shortcomings, just as she had resisted wearing the wire-rimmed spectacles her parents bought for her, believing that she could fool anyone into thinking she had normal sight. She also lifted her heels during conversation, to appear taller, and memorized quotations to appear erudite. Now, however, it seemed the time to give up such pretenses. She put on the spectacles and noticed a bee circling the hibiscus—her mother's favorite flower—and realized that she would be motherless forever. Shortsighted forever. Small forever. Glancing warily at the house, she lit her cigarette and pondered her unhappi-ness as the smoke curled around the sweet peas and sunflowers.

  Arthur noticed his father slipping out of the room, but he remained in his seat. In spite of Charity's clumsy performance, he lapsed into a reverie; he recalled his mother playing this piece in the evenings, and remembered its longing, the sweet regret and consolation in its melody; he would never forget the way she had played it.

  Tom skirted the house, ducked beneath the washing line, and peered through a window to see how many visitors lingered. The music seemed to have driven most of them away.

  Suddenly Charity burst out of the kitchen door, eyes red.

  “Thank you, Charity,” he began, “for playing.”

  “Almost everybody's gone!” She frowned. “You'd think, for Mama's sake, they would listen. Did they leave because of my playing?”

  Tom put his arm around his daughter's shoulder. “It doesn't matter why they went.”

  She wasn't mollified. “Arthur is better, isn't he? I'm fifteen, Papa. You can tell me the truth.”

  “If you like to play you should play” he replied. “It's not a competitive sport.”

  The girl frowned again. “But I played for her. I tried so hard. I wanted to be good for her.” Her voice faltered. “Whatever shall I do now?” she said.

  Tom had no reply. The question might have been his own or, indeed, that of any of the Chapels.

  The Horvaths did not attend the wake. Though their house was fifty feet from the Chapels', they behaved as if such a distance was an unreachable chasm. It was a surprise to them when their bored parrot began to repeat Charity's words.

  “Whatever shall I do now?” it lamented, in the middle of their dinner. And later, in the early hours of the morning, its words echoed through the house in a weary existential cry: Whatever shall I do now?

  SEVERAL MORNINGS LATER, Tom found Margaret up early. She had rearranged the kitchen cupboards. “Papa,” she said, “I shall need more sugar and mealie meal, and to know what Mama did for you in the surgery.”

  “Margaret, I don't expect you to do everything your mother did.” His daughter was insulted. “Of course I shall,” she replied. “How will we manage if I do not?”

  Margaret sincerely wanted to fill her mother's shoes, and for the rest of the day, she performed with selfless dedication. She took Arthur to school, shopped, brought him home, and after assigning tasks to the other girls, discussed Lizzy's death with him.

  “You see, Arthur, although Mama has gone to heaven, she is still here. You will feel her presence watching over us. She will never desert you.”

  This idea puzzled the boy. Although at ten he was old enough to grapple with its spiritual meaning, his heart compelled him to seek some literal embodiment of his mother.

  During his next piano lesson, Arthur gave his teacher a penetrating glance. He searched for his mother's fingers when Madame Wardour demonstrated a finger placement, sought his mother's breasts in the haughty gray figure, even peered at her hem in the hope of finding his mother's legs. Unnerved, Madame Wardour remarked, “Mon Dieu, Arthur, do not stare at me as if I were an apparition!”

  “She died,” he said. “My mother.”

  “When?”

  “Last week,” he replied.

  She looked at him—eyes cold and magnificent. “You must be strong, Arthur. You're a big boy now. Make me proud of you.”

  Though Margaret would still baby him, Madame Wardour's remark gave Arthur his direction. Just as his father had adopted Mrs. Limpkin, Arthur chose Madame Wardour to fill the maternal role. He worked hard for her, resisted his gift for mimicry, and learned to read music. As he proved himself a passionate pianist, he learned two languages—that of Bach, Chopin, Mozart, and Schubert, and Madame Wardour's, French, peppered as it was with Breton.

  The more pressing matter, as far as Tom was concerned, was what would become of the Chapel girls. He sat alone one evening realizing just how much he had depended on Lizzy for perspective on his children. Now he alone would have to console them, encourage them, and direct their futures. In the early hours of the morning, he wrote to Audrey, confessing his panic, his ignorance, and his loss. He ended his letter as follows:

  Audrey, perhaps my most prominent flaw is a failure to forgive. I still hold my father accountable for deserting me and, alas, you for rejecting my hand in marriage. Now I find myself accountable to four children—I can only hope they have more generosity of spirit than I. You once told me that we are not mayflies and that love endures. What a fool I was not to believe you.

  Tom

  FITTING IN

  WHEN CHARITY ACCOMPANIED THE ST. RUTH'S CHOIR, IT WAS THE first time the singers had to be instructed to drown out the accompanist. The music teacher, Mrs. Sweet, redirected Charity's musical aspirations by introducing her to the organ.

  “It will complement your gifts, Charity,” she said tactfully, “in the sense that you will be free to indulge in melody without the necessity of force or delicacy.”

  “But I've not played one before.”

  Mrs. Sweet had never been so desperate to get a girl out of her department. “Hardly an impediment, my dear. The organ is the piano's simpler cousin! The Presbyterians, my dear, have an excellent pipe organ. They could put your talents to good use.”

  As it happened, the organist at St. Andrew's was rather too fond of drink. One weekend when his wife asked Tom to treat the man's indisposition, Tom prescribed bed rest and offered his daughter's services to the minister.

  Perhaps she was seduced by the stops above the keyboard that could give any note the gravitas and splendor of a thousand angels, or perhaps it was the sheer volume that playing in such a space achieved, but Charity thought she had found her niche. She loved playing in a church, she loved the service, and her piety found release.

  To the minister's despair, however, she also demonstrated an alarming knack for interpreting even the most joyous psalm in a dark, foreboding manner. After the first Sunday, he offered plaintive comment. “Remember, this is a house of joy, Charity!”

  How could she feel joy? She had lost her mother, and pined for h
er. Furthermore, as she turned sixteen, her body betrayed her. Charity would have been happy to assume Iris's proportions, but instead she grew breasts almost as large as Margaret's while her height remained at five foot two. Then, one day, she found herself unable to read her music. Tom took her into town for spectacles—with fashionable tortoiseshell frames. But her improved vision only complicated her troubles, for when she saw herself clearly in the mirror—bespectacled, diminutive, with a high waist and cleavage, Charity was horrified. “Dear God,” she prayed, one morning, “why have you given me this body?”

  She became painfully shy. Unable to find clothes that flattered her, she used Lizzy's sewing machine to make dark dresses with lace collars that played down her bosom but gave her figure a curvaceous grace. One afternoon, Tom found her sewing furiously, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “I've been dismissed,” she explained.

  “By the minister?”

  Charity nodded. “My playing is too angry or melancholy or something!”

  How could it be too melancholy for Presbyterians? Tom wondered. “What about the Lutherans?” he suggested.

  Charity's stint with the Lutherans lasted about a month before they too asked her to leave. It was the same with the Catholics, the Dutch Reformed, and the Methodists.

  “Charity,” Tom promised, “there is a place for you somewhere.”

  IF PEOPLE THOUGHT CHARITY strange, they found Iris downright shocking. One of Tom's lady patients had spotted her wearing her father's trousers on the veranda. Tom didn't mind this; he admired Iris's spirit, but he warned her that she couldn't wear his trousers any farther than the edge of his property.

  She continued to publish her poetry in St. Ruth's Weekender. It was satirical but carefully disguised. She mocked the school's music teacher, a bewhiskered gentleman who devoured his lunch while lecturing the class, with a poem titled “Ode to a Walrus”:

  The Walrus is a bulging beauty,

  His slothful greed is so acute, he

  Gobbles herring, mashes guppies,

  (Hardly noticing his puppies).

  Only a few parents and a couple of her teachers appreciated Iris's subversive ditties. Everyone else considered her eccentric, Bohemian, and feared her reckless spirit.

  Tom was encouraged by his patients to make plans for Iris. She was in her last year at St. Ruth's, a time when many girls entertained the prospect of marriage; but boys were afraid of Iris: her jokes were too bawdy, she was outspoken, and had opinions on too many subjects.

  Mrs. Gantry suggested that Iris would make a good teacher. “Teachers can be peculiar, and nobody minds,” she said. “It's a safe, reliable career for such an odd girl.”

  Tom discussed the idea with Iris.

  “I'd love to teach, Papa!” she replied.

  “Good. I'll make inquiries at St. Ruth's,” he said.

  “Unless you object, Papa,” Iris said, “I'd rather teach at St. Peter's. Boys are so much more fun than girls.”

  Tom made good use of his connections and secured his daughter a position in the English department at St. Peter's for the following year.

  In the meantime, Iris wanted one thing from her final month at St. Ruth's: to go to the leavers' dance. To be in Margaret's place, desired, resplendent, and happy—but no invitation arrived. Finally, Reggie Plimpton invited her; he was an athlete, charmless in character but a strong physical specimen. Strapping was the word Iris preferred. Margaret had introduced Reggie to Iris, and he would do anything to earn Margaret's favor. Iris was so thrilled to be going to the dance that she revised a poem she had written about Peter Carnahan as she raced home to tell her father the news.

  Reggie Plimpton You're my victor, Lips of Byron Strength of Hector!

  Might of Atlas Heart's desire, Reggie darling, I'm on fire!

  Like an oak tree, Strong and limber Oh, to touch your Sturdy timber!

  Carnahan, of course, had been smitten by Margaret ever since she provoked his cricket injury; he was her constant companion, though his Byronic lips and sturdy timber earned him little more than a peck on the cheek. Margaret wanted to feel love first, like the breath of angels, before she would indulge in any groping. Carnahan clung to her with earnest good humor, hopeful that one day she would surrender her affections to him. Because Margaret was going with Peter Carnahan as a chaperone for the St. Ruth's event, Iris assumed Reggie would appreciate her own attractions once they were alone together.

  The Chapel girls threw all their energies into preparing Iris for the dance: Margaret set curlers in her sister's limp blond hair; Charity sewed her a rustling pale pink frock. Iris practiced gliding in it for hours, determined to master this role just as she had once dressed to frighten Death from her door. She imagined herself as Juliet, Hero, and Titania.

  When Reggie arrived in a white jacket and black trousers, Tom took an instant dislike to him. The boy did not meet his eye and answered his questions by addressing the ceiling.

  “Iris,” whispered her father just before she got into Reggie's polished two-seater carriage, “what on earth do you see in the fellow?”

  “Oh, Papa,” she replied, “it's just for the evening.”

  Reggie drove her to the dance at breakneck speed, offering barely a nod when Iris tried to make conversation. Then, as they entered the dance hall, he took her aside in the foyer, where a forest of coats and jackets muted their voices. “Look here, Iris,” he murmured, “understand that I will do the talking. You're to nod when I speak to you. You need not be funny or clever, because that's not what I expect from a girl. You're to be pretty, which you should be able to do with your mouth closed. Is that clear?”

  “In other words,” she replied, “I must hang from your arm like a trained monkey.”

  “Now, Iris, don't insult yourself. You're quite a good-looking girl— when you aren't talking.”

  Iris's spectacles fogged. “Thank you,” she said. “And you're better looking than a monkey too.”

  “We want to have fun, don't we?” Reggie frowned. “So be a good girl.”

  Iris had looked forward to the dance for weeks. It was the first time she had ever been with a boy to a social event. So she agreed to Reggie's terms and clung to his arm as he led her into the hall. A small orchestra played popular tunes at the edge of a freshly polished floor. The girls looked pretty and happy, and the boys were handsome in their white jackets. While Reggie greeted his friends, Iris was mute, doing her best to smile as her soul collapsed. She observed the glowing faces of the other girls and chided herself for failing to enjoy the evening.

  When she saw Margaret and Peter Carnahan standing at the buffet table talking to friends, Iris realized her predicament: clutching Reggie's arm, having agreed not to speak, she had relinquished her wit and intelligence, the very qualities that distinguished her from her sister. And for what? She felt tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Reggie presented her with a glass of punch. “Iris,” he said, “I'm going to dance. Stay here, and I'll collect you in a few moments.”

  “I'd like to dance,” said Iris.

  Reggie gave her a warning glance and told her to wait. Iris felt her cheeks burning. This couldn't be happening. She'd never anticipated such humiliation. It was to have been a romantic evening. Was it possible that other girls felt as she did? She surveyed the dancers, the smiling couples, and the chatting clusters of her classmates. But the weight of her own disappointment isolated her. The first moment of her joyous adulthood had been stolen. Her cheeks were sticky with tears, her spectacles hopelessly fogged.

  Iris rose slowly wiped her spectacles, dabbed her cheeks with a napkin, and edged her way timidly along the periphery until she arrived beside Margaret.

  “Iris, you look flushed!”

  “I'm— No, I've—twisted my ankle. Could I borrow Peter? I want to go home.”

  “Will Reggie not take you?”

  “He told me to sit down and keep quiet.”

  Margaret apologized on Reggie's behalf, but Iris saw
a hint of amusement in her sister's face. It was clear that Margaret was to blame for her suffering.

  Margaret dispatched Peter Carnahan, and within moments, he and Iris were bumping along together in his open carriage through the tree-lined streets of Gantrytown.

  CARNAHAN WORE HIS FATHER'S tie and white jacket and looked very smart. He drove his horse at a confident clip as Iris clung to him, silently comparing his bronzed face and sweeping blond hair with Reggie's weak chin and bulbous eyes.

  “What's that wonderful smell?” Iris asked softly. “Is it your hair, Peter?”

  Carnahan smiled. “Lily of the valley,” he explained. “It's Truefitt and Hill, the best, I think,” he said, neglecting to mention that it was his father's, and the only hair cream he'd ever used.

  Iris leaned against his shoulder. “It's delicious.” As they rounded the incline to her street, she clutched his arm a little more tightly than was necessary. Carnahan didn't resist, which surprised her.

  “I'm sorry to have dragged you away from the fun,” she said.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “How is your ankle?”

  “Better,” she said. “Margaret's so lucky to have a friend like you.”

  “I wish you'd tell her that.” Carnahan grinned. “Lately she's hardly noticed me.”

  “I'm sure she adores you,” Iris replied.

  “Really?” Carnahan checked his surprise. “She's a wonderful girl, Iris, no doubt about it.”

  They turned along a bumpy road draped with willows. The carriage tilted, and Iris tightened her grip on her escort's arm. “Poor Peter,” she murmured. “Margaret should pay you more attention.”