Pinkerton's Sister

by Peter Rushforth

  She’d feel safer if Alice was some considerable distance away, preferably locked up, even more preferably chained to the wall and wearing a straitjacket in a barred and well-guarded cell. “How is Alice?” she used to ask Alice’s mother, in her usual tone of mild distaste, like a fastidious doctor driven to make unenthusiastic inquiries about a bowel movement. (Lady Macbeth – with every reason to be a little wary of doctors – would have had no patience with such dainty Twemlowian twemulousness. “When all’s done,” she would have hissed witheringly, in her most contemptuously are-you-a-man? tone of voice, “You look but on a stool,” wiggling the chamber pot vigorously right under his averted nose as if agitating a frying pan in mid-omelet.)

  Miss Ericsson also tended to use “er” with great frequency, so frequently – in fact – that Alice sometimes thought of her as Miss Er-Ericsson. Miss Ericsson was fully aware of this.

  “I er. I’m human”: this was her summing-up.

  “Er was the name of Judah’s firstborn”: this was Alice’s reply. “He was wicked in the sight of the Lord.”

  Keats’s Top Tip to Shelley for poetry writing was to “load every rift” with “ore,” piling on the adjectives like a fireman frantically shoveling on the fuel in a coast-to-coast railroad race. Clearly a Keats lacking in confidence, Miss Ericsson hesitatingly loaded every rift with “er.” In Miss Ericsson’s case – it could hardly be more different from the Comstock Technique – it was her way of trying to avoid saying something unpleasant about someone, as she searched for an alternative word to use. “Mrs. Albert Comstock is – er – a very confident lady in the expression of her ideas” was the sort of thing she would say. Alice would not have used “er” in this sentence. Alice would not have used “confident” or “lady,” either. She sometimes thought Miss Ericsson was the most Christian person she knew. She would probably describe Jack the Ripper as “rather too – er – boisterous,” and Genghis Khan, in similar terms to those she had employed for Mrs. Albert Comstock, as “very – er – confident in his actions.” Here was Mrs. Albert Comstock: Genghis Khan with a Bosom instead of a Beard.

  Olivia was still urinating with undiminished vigor. It was as if he – that “he” with the unsuitable name – was there in the summer, hearing “The Fountain in the Park” and being inspired to ambitious emulation, though this little ritual had happened every day since the sign had been erected. Perhaps, as a woman, Alice should avert her eyes decorously, but she was waiting for the day – in a week or so’s time – when Mozart, by now quite rotted away at the ankles, crashed down upon G. G. Schiffendecken, as he tunefully informed Susanna that he came from Alabama wid his banjo on his knee, and was gwine to Lou’siana his true lub for to see. She quite looked forward to seeing him being squashed flat, to the thunderous chords of some appropriate climax from toward the end of the Requiem or Don Giovanni, as Mozart took his revenge, risen like another Commendatore.

  “And when I’m dead and buried, Susanna, don’t you cry.”

  She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  39

  As Harry Hollander drew toward him, G. G. Schiffendecken began to prepare The Grin, and she witnessed the miracle of its unveiling. Fortunately for Harry Hollander’s eyesight there was no bright sun to gleam dazzlingly across the acres of G. G. Schiffendecken’s Grin, one of the sights of Longfellow Park, up there with Mrs. Albert Comstock’s Bosom and Mabel Peartree’s Nose (three stars apiece in all the most reputable guidebooks). Schiffendecken’s Smile would have possessed a more euphonious alliteration, and would have sounded more genteel, but Grins were when teeth were involved, and few sights involved more teeth than this one. Alice could never decide whether a dentist with false teeth was a poor advertisement for his profession, or whether – in fact – he was embracing the world of advertising with a zeal worthy of commendation. The Grin was a blazoned paradigm of his dental artistry, and he carried his advertisement about with him like the sandwich-board man who advertised the bargains that could be obtained at Oldermann & Oldermann (Particularly To Be Recommended For Boys’ School Attire!).

  Merchants dealing in small luxury items – jewelry, for instance – were able to produce examples, apparently casually, from inner pockets of their suits. G. G. Schiffendecken went one better than this, and carried a sample of his wares around with him at all times, conveniently inserted into his mouth. Whenever he sensed a potential client, the lips – it was happening in front of her now – began to draw back like the curtains of a theatre, rising slowly to reveal a breathtaking interior: row upon row (so it appeared) of gleaming white teeth. This action combined an air of friendly informality with a practical demonstration, though it never looked much like a smile.

  Perhaps a tasteful badge, with a discreet arrow, could be affixed to the lapel of his jacket: These Teeth May Be Purchased at G. G. Schiffendecken, 43 Hudson Row, Longfellow Park, New York. Smiles Are Our Business! Need Grins? We Got ’Em! In his more informal moments he probably passed them around for people to insert into their own mouths for a while, to get the feel of them, in a spirit of free enterprise, rather in the way that Washington Thoroughgood urged free samples of cookies on his customers. A giant grin should swing above the entrance to his consulting room, to lure people into his domain of perpetual cheerfulness. Like William Cullen Bryant with beards, he appeared to be possessed of more than the usual number of teeth, as if he stored several sets, stacked one upon another, and his audience was mesmerized, seduced into envious longing for their gleaming magnificence, as they slid slowly into view. The full display took quite some time to appear. Just when it seemed that there could not possibly be any more teeth, the acreage expanded further and further, and even more emerged, “the sinecure of all eyes,” as Mrs. Goodchild described them, awestruck. It was like watching a magician producing endless strings of colored flags, though the only color here was a dazzling white, a white to send out rippling reflections across all the walls around, like sunlight on water. The Ichthyosaurus – with its measly one hundred and eighty-two teeth – was positively toothless when compared with G. G. Schiffendecken, whose grin was not like a part of the body at all. It was more like an article of clothing, a new design in well-polished decorative armor; or jewelry, a shiny oversized brooch pinned where it would most catch the light.

  40

  At the feet of Mozart, G. G. Schiffendecken – all teeth fully on view – descended upon his potential client. He had great hopes of Harry Hollander, ever since the success of “The Wheels on Betty’s Bicycle,” imagining vast riches pouring in because he had heard the band in the park play it several times. Here was the clincher: some of the audience sang the chorus, moving their arms around in unison when they came to the words “Go round and round and round.” Harry hadn’t the heart to tell him that the riches amounted to ten dollars (which would surely not purchase a smile worthy of the name of Schiffendecken). All that dental sweetness was being wasted on the desert air.

  The Teeth hovered seductively in the air like one of William Blake’s more puzzling visions, or the Cheshire Cat at the point when it had become a grin without a cat.

  (The Cheshire Cat had very long claws, and a great many teeth.

  (“I’m mad,” it said. “You’re mad.”)

  How on earth could G. G. Schiffendecken manage to grin so gigantically and speak at the same time? He must sound like a dummy, Dum-Dum the Dummy, wielded by an inadequately rehearsed ventriloquist, half his consonants slurred and swallowed. The dummy, dressed as a ringleted little girl in a party dress, its Schiffendecken Grin maniacally exposed, a Serenity Goodchild helpless on gin, sat on Harry Hollander’s lap, looked winsomely up into his eyes, and – in a strangulated accent – begged for a story.

  “… ‘Why are you single; why live alone?

  Have you no babies; have you no home?’ …”

  The music was in the air above them, and Harry Hollander sang his reply.

  “… ‘I had a sweetheart, years, years ago.

  Where she is now, pet,
you will soon know.

  List to the story, I’ll tell it all,

  I believed her faithless, after the ball’ …”

  Harry Hollander and G. G. Schiffendecken – the layers of pale, ruffled silk flaring becomingly, the beribboned hair bouncing vigorously – waltzed together in the snow.

  She could still remember the peculiar way Mrs. Albert Comstock had been speaking on the night of The Unveiling of her new Schiffendecken false teeth, concentrating more on displaying the smile than on shaping her words, the teeth demonstrably an inconvenience in the course of conversation, a blockage in the mouth. You were more aware of her pronunciation than of what it was she was actually trying to say. If she had been so anxious for everyone to see The Teeth to their best advantage, Alice couldn’t understand why she hadn’t placed them on top of her head like a vivaciously smiling tiara, leaving her able to relax and enjoy a gummy grin-free gossip. This could be an attractive permanent feature of Mrs. Albert Comstock’s coiffure, the hard bright smile beaming out its cold radiance from amongst the dead birds which lined her frightening hats, as she went on uninterruptedly talking, talking, talking. There had not been such a massacre of the birds since the tree fell on the aviary in the park during the winter storms, if – that is – it had been the tree that wrought destruction. It may very well have been Mrs. Albert Comstock herself, avid for new materials for her hats, seeking out fresh supplies. The teeth would lie amongst the birds like a clutch of giant eggs, a promise of life to come for the feathered denizens of the air slaughtered upon the nests they guarded.

  The exchange of words between G. G. Schiffendecken and Harry Hollander was brief: it was scarcely the weather for long outdoor conversations. There were nods, a few words, then hats were raised. Harry continued on his way, moving across to her left. Olivia, looking refreshed, made after him, and trotted beside him adoringly, like a Shetland pony awaiting a rider. He (rather like Mrs. Schiffendecken) always seemed to find other people more fascinating than his master, and usually had to be forcibly restrained from wandering off with them.

  “Olivia! Olivia!”

  That cry rose upon the air again.

  “What are the long waves singing so mournfully evermore?

  What are they singing so mournfully as they weep on the sandy shore?

  ‘Olivia, oh Olivia!’ – what else can it seem to be?

  ‘Olivia, lost Olivia, will never return to thee!’

  ‘Olivia, lost Olivia!’ – what else can the sad song be?

  ‘Weep and mourn, she will not return, – she cannot return, to thee!’ …”

  There were eight verses of this, and every one of them weighed upon G. G. Schiffendecken’s bowed back. Mozart gazed down, a god above the petty foibles of the world, serene in the heights of his art, advertising elegant and commodious homes for those with taste and refinement.

  41

  There would usually be Mr. Chip, the Carpenter sounds of hammering and sawing from Megoran Road by now, but a Sunday morning silence spread over everything. The only sound was the moaning of the wind. The men who worked indoors had been working all hours since the bad weather had set in, as if eager to make up for lost time. If this bad weather continued – who knows? – they might start working on Sundays, also. Sharpen those umbrellas, Mrs. Albert Comstock and Mrs. Goodchild. Prepare for prodding. You may be required for duty, and you know you enjoy it. Alice rather missed the workmen’s whistling, just out on the edge of consciousness. Would they be whistling hymn tunes if they controversially labored on the Sabbath? Dear, dear. What was the world coming to?

  There was something she must remember to tell Harry the next time she saw him …

  She remembered.

  She had heard a line from one of his songs the previous day. She had been looking out of her window at the front of the house, and had heard one of the carpenters – walking past on his way to work – calling across the street to Miss Iandoli’s maid Katherine as she returned from Thoroughgood’s with some bread. His friendly overtures were studiously ignored.

  “You know how to hurtie, Gertie!” he shouted, sounding wounded, spotting a good opportunity to quote from the second verse of “Why Are You So Flirty, Gertie? (Why Are You Such a Tease?).”

  “The name’s Katherine!” Katherine had called back to him as she went down the steps to the basement, and the young man grinned, delightedly. It had worked again. He’d be calling her by her name tomorrow. Alice felt that Katherine had rather counted on this.

  She had heard the young carpenter – in the lulls in the wind – whistling as he worked. They were not Harry Hollander songs, though the whistler had shown that he knew at least one of them. No – here was culture conveniently positioned not far from Mozart – he always whistled music from opera as he worked. Saturday had been a Wagner day, and she had heard selections from Die Meistersinger, Der fliegende Holländer and Das Rheingold all morning, his hammering in time with his whistling. Siegfried hammered away as he shaped his sword.

  “Hoho! hahei! hoho!

  Schmiede, mein Hammer

  ein hartes Schwert!

  Hoho! hahei!

  hahei! hoho!

  Hahei! hoho! hahei!”

  Here was a challenge for the serious whistler. Hammer, Schmidt! Hammer, Schmidt! He’d have to be carried out – scarlet in the face, a hammer still convulsively clutched in his hand – if he overambitiously launched himself into Tristan und Isolde. For something so lacking in humor, there was a surprising amount of ho-hoing going on in Wagner. It had been like listening to the “Anvil Chorus” translated into German.

  She’d rather have stayed and listened to this than gone to Mrs. Albert Comstock’s “At Home.” It made far more sense than most of what she’d heard there. There hadn’t been much ho-ho at Hampshire Square, though the humorless ha-ha-ha-ha had been sporadically activated.

  When she returned home, the carpenter had left for the day, Siegfried’s sword shaped, and all the hammering stilled. The day before it had been the turn of Carmen, and her lips had moved as automatically as those of the church congregation listening to the music for “The Camptown Races” had.

  “Sur la place

  Chacun passe,

  Chacun vient, chacun va;

  Drôles de gens que ces gens-là …”

  42

  G. G. Schiffendecken was walking with Olivia – the occasional regretful doggy glance behind him at Harry’s retreating back – past the Susanna sign, heading up toward the base of the bluff which arose beyond where Heneacher Woods had been, picking his way carefully through the snow. He was returning to his large house with its fabulous views from Hudson Heights, the spoils of his toothy triumphs. It was strange to have a rear view of him. She had never thought of him as existing without his massive molars being visible. He was somewhat diminished, shrunk by the lack of teeth, and the size of the clouds massing above Hudson Heights. They were huge, architectural, like a many-towered city floating there, dissolving and re-forming, transient as human shapes.

  He stood still for a moment, his back whitened by the blown snow, in a curious hieratic posture – positively Goodchildian – as if he were contemplating his pose when the time came (and the time would surely come) for him to be captured forever in polished stone for a statue. When he grinned, a large proportion of him (it seemed the greater part) was, indeed, already statue. The very sight of him should send Carlo Fiorelli hastening for a freshly sharpened chisel. G. G. Schiffendecken, the Reverend Goodchild, and Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster were undoubtedly eagerly awaiting the fully deserved public recognition which would reward their labors, when the day came when they – too – should have statues of themselves erected in the park alongside the other local notables. All three would be immortalized in marble for posterity, and achieve an apotheosis far more public and numinous than that afforded the saints crowded together with such unpleasantly democratic closeness in the gloom of All Saints’.

  She could visualize the gleaming new statues: Herbert
Goodchild next to Albert Comstock – the two Big-Buttocked Berties companionably side by side, like a matching set of grotesquely misproportioned titanic Toby jugs – and G. G. Schiffendecken and Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster in the space between Herbert Goodchild and Reynolds Templeton Seabright. There they would be – as was only right – captured in characteristic poses at the scene of their greatest triumphs, the place where they had saved so many souls, bound so many lunatics, inserted so many teeth. All three of them would grin, grin, grin in triumph, free of all false modesty, free of modesty of any kind whatsoever.

  (“My Herbert has been immoralized!” That would probably be the expression employed by Mrs. Goodchild. Mrs. Goodchild would be so right.)

  The neoclassical statues were arranged in a large circle around The Forum, like a rather more sophisticated version of Stonehenge. Perhaps – she had never checked, she must ask Kate – on Midsummer’s morning the sun rose to throw its beams directly on to the base (generally a word one preferred not to utilize in this context) of the Bebuttocked Behemoth, and another Tess of the d’Urbervilles would be discovered curled up like a sacrificial victim at the feet of Albert Comstock. Chanting Druids (did Druids, in fact, chant?) and uniformed police officers (humming appropriate airs from The Pirates of Penzance, to continue the musical motif) would advance toward her as the new day dawned.

  Shortly after Albert Comstock had been hoisted into position – it had been like a scene from the erection of the Great Pyramid, the crack of whips, the groans of slaves – she had almost been floored by an appalling rancid smell as she walked past it. She thought that Carlo Fiorelli was carrying realism to startling new heights until she realized that the figure had been coated in yogurt (from Comstock’s Comestibles, naturally) in the belief that this would encourage the growth of lichen, and add a patina of age and antiquity to the too-bright newness.