Pinkerton's Sister

by Peter Rushforth

  “If we explain what it’s for he’ll insist on doing it himself,” Alice objected, “and I want to chop her head off. I’ve been practicing.”

  The pillars in the schoolroom had been quivering for days. The rooms beneath must be deep in shaken-down dust. They ought to send out a search party for Annie. She was – like Jane Eyre’s Alice Wood – such a small servant that she might be lying somewhere under a drift, completely vanished from view, praying for rescue.

  They caused considerable concern to their mothers – Charlotte’s mother had still been alive then – by, for several weeks, inexplicably speaking to Mrs. Albert Comstock’s reflection in the mirror on the rare occasions on which she addressed them, rather than facing her directly.

  “Little girl …”

  “Little girl …”

  Charlotte had spent one afternoon speaking to a large polished brooch on the left of Mrs. Goodchild’s bosom because it reflected – even more grotesquely misshapen than the real thing (and divided into three parts, like Gaul) – the Hunchfront of Hampshire Square.

  (Alice had been listening to the older brothers of some of her friends: smart young men with parted hair and vulgar imaginations, smoking cigarettes and laughing together as they exorcised their demons, their remembered afternoons of agony as small boys, desperately fighting their irresistible urge to give way to hilarity as Chinky-Winky’s foundations-threatening farts shook the music – music! – room around them. She tried not to giggle when she listened to them, because they’d make her go away.)

  “Little girl” had developed a positively icy resonance.

  Thoughts of the Medusa of Longfellow Park awakened thoughts of the Minotaur, the monster for which she had searched with Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster, so many years later.

  “You shall not go, to die horribly, as those youths and maidens die; for Minos thrusts them into a labyrinth, which Daidalos made for him among the rocks, – Daidalos, the renegade, the accursed, the pest of this his native land …”

  This was what Aegeus had said to his son Theseus.

  On the ledge outside the window of Grandpapa’s office, she imagined the statue of Aegeus staring out to sea, the one man amongst all the women, like a man turned to stone by years of waiting, his blind eyes straining to make the color of the shadowed sails discernible, the first glimpse of whiteness that meant his son was alive. Daidalos had also made statues for Minos, statues that could speak and move. He was like Prometheus in what he could do. He had also invented the plumb line, the auger, glue, woodworking tools, and masts for ships.

  When Alice was a little girl the highest things on the skyline of New York had been the masts of ships and the steeples of churches.

  It was so long ago, last century.

  Daidalos and Icaros – “Daidalos” and “Icaros” were further examples of Charles Kingsley’s creative, almost Mrs. Goodchildian, approach to spelling – fled from the anger of Minos, having made themselves wings of feathers, and fixed the feathers with wax. So they flew over the sea toward Sicily; but Icaros flew too near the sun; and the wax on his wings melted, and he fell into the Icarian Sea, the feathers falling like snow in summer.

  48

  She stared at the clouds, striving to see a tiny figure falling to earth, striving to see the first flakes of a fresh snowfall.

  Clouds …

  There was something she had to remember …

  She reached for the ring on her finger, and realized that it was not there. She ran the first two fingers of her right hand up and down in the place where the ring ought to have been, and then looked down.

  She had taken it off before she washed.

  The ring, however, had already been moved to her wedding finger. There was something else she had to remember …

  She had been standing where she was now, at the window, hearing a voice in her head – Tell me what you can see in those clouds, Miss Pinkerton – and looking at the sky …

  She found herself opening her right hand loosely and circling it round and round, rotating her wrist as far as it would go, in an attempt to grasp something that was just out of her reach, the memory something tangible, pushing it away with the tips of her fingers as she drew close …

  Clouds …

  It was something to do with clouds …

  She placed Annie’s ring back on her wedding finger, as if this would prompt her into remembering.

  She looked up at the clouds, attempting to read a meaning in them.

  Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster had made her believe that everything would change if meanings were found within those clouds, and in dreams. If the clouds were correctly interpreted, they would lift away to reveal limitless sun-filled landscapes. If the dreams were accurately read, there would be nothing to fear anymore; nothing but endless nights of soothing, dreamless sleep would lie before her.

  Every movement of the body, every emotion of the mind, is at certain times an omen …

  She would repeat the words from Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds to herself – what better place for this title than in the lair of the mad-doctor? – to shut out his voice, as she read the titles of the books beneath the glass, as she stared at the walls or from the window.

  Every form and object in nature, even the shape of the clouds …

  Even the shape of the clouds …

  Clouds …

  She touched the ring. The memory was there, something that could be touched.

  The Shape of the Clouds.

  That was it.

  The title for a novel.

  She should write it down, add it to her list.

  Two

  THE SHAPE OF THE CLOUDS

  Every form and object in nature, even the shape of the clouds and the changes of the weather; every colour, every sound, whether of men or animals, or birds or insects, or inanimate things, is an omen. Nothing is too trifling or inconsiderable to inspire a hope which is not worth cherishing, or a fear which is sufficient to embitter existence.

  Charles Mackay, Extraordinary Popular Delusions

  and the Madness of Crowds

  “Listen to my voice …”

  “Be still …”

  “Empty your mind of all thought …”

  “Sleep …”

  She listened to Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster’s voice.

  She was still.

  She emptied her mind of all thought.

  She slept.

  (She spent the years in sleeping and dreaming, the fairy tale seven years, with no sign of a happy ever after.)

  Always she heard his voice, and those were the words she heard him speaking, even when they were not the words he spoke.

  When the moon was full, she thought – though she tried not to – of her father.

  When the sky was full of clouds, when she’d dreamed, she thought of Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster, and every day the sky was cloud-crowded, and every night there were dreams. The clouds massed oppressively around her like Bleak House fog, blurring the outlines of all that she could see.

  Come in, or the fog will get into the house.

  (Which novel was it that contained those words? It wasn’t Bleak House, she knew that. Was it The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Case. That was the word used. It made it sound like something that Sherlock Holmes ought to have investigated, Holmes accompanying Utterson into Jekyll’s cabinet, Holmes looking into the depth of the cheval glass, Holmes – another Pinkerton – searching for clues.)

  The fog will get into the house.

  All morning she had been thinking of Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster.

  Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster was always with Alice.

  She didn’t see her skirt or her shirtwaist as she drew them on.

  She didn’t see her omelet and cutlets as she ate her breakfast, or her coffee as she drank.

  It was Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster she drew upon her with her skirt and shirtwaist, as if to hug him close about her, patting him smooth, adjusting him into pla
ce; she pulled him across the surface of her skin with her stockings; she assumed him with her shoes, buttoning him close across her ankle-bones; she fastened him upon her left breast with her watch, his small weight, the vibration of his ticking; she swallowed him down as she nibbled her breakfast; she drank him down with her coffee, his heat down her throat and deep inside her.

  (I can smell coffee. Who has been drinking coffee?

  (Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.)

  I have, Papa. I have.

  I’ve been sitting on your stool.

  I’ve been eating off your plate.

  I’ve been picking your bread.

  I’ve been meddling with your spoon.

  I’ve been handling your fork.

  I’ve been cutting with your knife.

  It’s a very sharp knife.

  It can cut through most things.

  It can …

  – Stab! Stab! –

  … it can stab.

  Alice Pinkerton took a knife …

  It was time to walk out with Papa.

  It is morning.

  There is no moon.

  I cannot see you.

  I cannot hear you.

  She sounded strong.

  She sounded confident.

  She’d be drinking his wine next.

  Wine with breakfast, decadence completely out of control. She’d be woozy all morning, wandering and forgetful throughout the service, barely hearing a word spoken by Dr. Vaniah Odom and the Reverend Goodchild, giggling helplessly during the carefully calculated moving moments, hurling hymnbooks, and swinging from the pulpit. It was definitely tempting. Three bottles should just about guarantee a sensation …

  Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster sat down beside her – rather too close, mingling breaths, as if about to hypnotize her yet again – as she waited for Charlotte to call in order to walk to All Saints’ with her and Ben for the final service there. She was sitting and thinking for a while, musing away the time in between, and he was there all the time, cozily beside her like a fervent wooer.

  She didn’t see her surroundings as she sat in the back parlor, shivering slightly, surrounded by glass – she avoided the front parlor – waiting, half sensing that there was something missing now that the deep-set eyes of Louis Moreau Gottschalk were no longer there to watch her from the music rack. She didn’t see the words of the hymnbook that she’d taken into the room with her, and opened, as if believing that she really was going to read it like a novel to pass the time. She should be browsing through some of the more aggressive cross-rattling heathen-smiting hymns, the sort of hymns favored by Dr. Vaniah Odom and the Reverend Goodchild, great smiters both, tuning herself up into the right mood for what was going to happen in All Saints’. She should be raising her voice, launching herself into song. She should be rhyming “might” with “smite,” “Lord” with “horde,” donning her armor and flourishing her banner, setting all the glass panels vibrating, and awakening discordant notes in the sleeping strings of the piano. She was reflected in the glass in front of her, and on both sides, the windows turned to looking-glasses by the dark morning. In the old, warped glass she was blurred and featureless, rising like a strange bloom out of plant-pots that were filled with shriveled-looking, unpromising plants.

  “Alice,” Mama had tried to say to her over the breakfast tray she had taken into her bedroom, and Alice looked up, as if surprised to see her there.

  “Alice,” Ben called across the breakfast table, and she looked at her brother, as if wondering who he was.

  “Miss Pinkerton,” Rosobell had signed to her in the manual alphabet, and she had stared at her fingers, puzzled, as if unable to read them anymore, seeing the silence that Rosobell heard all the time.

  She had let the fog get into the house, blurring the lineaments of everything that was around her.

  “Tell me what you can see in those clouds, Miss Pinkerton.”

  Every movement of the body, every emotion of the mind, is at certain times an omen.

  She heard Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster’s voice, sounding quite eager, as if inviting sinful revelations. With his name, the importance of having three names, and not just a parsimonious two, was clearly being emphasized again.

  (Wolcott.

  (One!

  (Ascharm.

  (Two!

  (Webster.

  (Three!

  (Count ’em!

  (Count ’em!)

  He was, of course, another of The Bearded Ones. This particular beard faltered a little in the middle, as though some central portion had been destroyed in unwisely leaning too close to a candle to ignite a cigar, but gigantic sweeping sidewhiskers more than compensated for this tragic loss, this catastrophic forest fire.

  He was …

  He was …

  He was her …

  (Mad-doctor!)

  … alienist physician.

  The Reverend Goodchild, in the tasteful way that was his special gift, made it perfectly clear that he preferred to refer to him as “the mad-doctor.” The word “mad” here was intended – not with entire accuracy, Alice felt – to refer to the doctor’s patients (the inserted hyphen was important), rather than to describe the good doctor himself.

  “Tell me what you can see in those clouds, Miss Pinkerton.”

  Every form and object in nature, even the shape of the clouds …

  It was as if reading meaning into the shapes of clouds would reveal some mysteries from within the mind. He was a Madame Etoile with a beard, there to shed light on the tenebrous. His consultation fee was considerably more than fifty cents to one dollar. He held the firm opinion that he was born with a genuine gift, and was capable of guiding you in all aspects of life with his professional skill (and could – no doubt whatsoever about this – see the past, the present, and the future) but he understandably failed to bring together those long separated, show you an accurate likeness of your future husband, and give you his name. (Who’d want to marry you? That would be the unspoken – possibly, if he were in the right mood – spoken question from Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster.) Neither did he give you lucky numbers. You were lucky enough to have him treating you, so don’t push your luck, don’t be greedy. Alice was sometimes tempted to ask him what hers was, just to see his reaction. “Is my lucky number five?” she’d ask coquettishly. “Is it seven? Is it ten?” She would tell him that he needn’t speak the number, but could nod his head as a sign when she spoke it, like the educated goat she’d seen as a small girl that had shown an astonishing ability to calculate in arithmetic, nodding its head the correct number of times for an answer. Its beard had had a remarkable resemblance to Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster’s. “Is it eleven?” she should ask, roguishly, apparently seized by sudden insight, as if unexpectedly remembering that eleven was his house number, and she was lucky – my word, she was lucky! – to be there, to be treated by this god-like being. Surely that should stir his beard into confirmatory rustlings?

  “Tell me what you can see in those clouds, Miss Pinkerton.”

  … and the changes of the weather; every colour, every sound, whether of men or animals, or birds or insects, or inanimate things, is an omen.

  Time after time, she gazed, deep into the depths of the fathomless clouds, telling him what she could see.

  (To dream of clouds with the stars shining, denotes fleeting joys and small advancements.)

  “Tell me what you can see in those clouds, Miss Pinkerton.”

  Nothing is too trifling or inconsiderable to inspire a hope which is not worth cherishing …

  He was most insistent. Days without clouds were not days for rejoicing to Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster.

  Something about her mood of languor, her feeling of exhaustion, listlessness, brought his voice to mind. It was the same tone of voice with which he said – he almost whispered, intimate, confiding, as if he were making a naughty request he ought not to make – “Tell me your dreams, Miss Pinkerton.” It was the same tone of voice he would use if he were s
aying, “Take off your clothes, Miss Pinkerton.” She found herself thinking this with no sensation of surprise. It was always, thank goodness, “Miss Pinkerton,” never “Alice”: she could not have borne it if he had wanted to call her by her first name.

  “I c-c-can see …”

  (Damn!)

  “I c-c-can see …”

  Pause.

  “I can see …” she would begin again.

  “Yes?”

  “I can see …”

  “Tell me what you can see …”

  “I can see … I can see a c-c-cloud almost in shape of a c-c-camel …”

  That’s what she nearly said.

  She’d actually heard herself saying it.

  C-c-cloud and c-c-camel.

  Her stutters sometimes seemed to cluster uneconomically around the consonants she used the most in a sentence. Why on earth had she thought of speaking to him in a qu-qu-quotation from Hamlet, c-c-crammed as it was with c-c-c sounds?

  Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster would not have recognized it as a quotation if she had started to use Hamlet’s words as her reply, the scene in which Hamlet was pointing out the shape of a cloud to Polonius. He wouldn’t have recognized Hamlet if she’d recited “To be, or not to be” and bounced Yorick’s skull off his head with a tinkly little laugh. She was tempted to try this the next time she saw him.

  “It is like a w-w-weasel … Or like a w-w-whale.”

  (You could guarantee that the stutters would have shifted to the “w” sound at this point.)

  “Very like a whale.”

  This was the expression that Oliver Comstock used when he was expressing disbelief in something someone had just said. “Very like a whale!” he would snort skeptically. But there would be no disbelief from Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster. Unlike Hamlet, he was not a man ever likely to wax desperate with imagination, and whatever she said to him he swallowed whole, his gold-weighted teeth slamming shut like a mantrap from Tiffany’s. He’d have swallowed a camel. A weasel or a whale would have gone down with a gulp, scarcely shifting his Adam’s apple.