Y said: “I’ve been here for a long time. I don’t know how long. But every night there’s been a ball.”
I shivered. “He’s a lovely dancer,” I said.
“Isn’t he though,” Y agreed. “I know who he is,” she said after a few minutes. “He’s grandpop-in-law. He died in this house, crazy.”
“You might have told me before I came to visit you,” I said.
“I thought he’d stay dead,” Y said.
We sat there, not talking, until finally the room began to grow lighter, and the dusk in the house was brightened with sunlight. I ran to the window, but Y laughed. “Wait,” she said gloomily.
Outside the window I could see the trees that surrounded the old house, and the road down to the gates. Beyond the gates the trees prevented my seeing much, but I did manage to make out light, and color, and . . . the outlines of Y’s bed.
Y came over to the window and stood beside me. “Now do you know why I keep saying I’m dreaming?” she demanded.
“But . . .” I turned around and looked at her. “But you aren’t,” I said.
“No,” Y replied after a minute. “I’m not.”
We stood close together then, looking out over the trees and the gate, and beyond them, ridiculously, maddeningly, to the room that would mean freedom.
“Y,” I said finally, “this isn’t true. It’s—” I began to laugh, at last. “It’s outrageous!” I shouted. And Y began to laugh, too.
And for a time Y and I, hidden away among the trees around the house, planned an escape. “We’re completely helpless unless someone comes into the room,” Y said, “and we’re completely helpless as long as these two old wrecks wander around loose.”
“Remember how I thought you were waving me on when I couldn’t hear you through the glass,” I said.
“But if the old woman hadn’t been there . . .”
We looked at each other. “Why is she here?” I said finally. Y shook her head. “It’s not as though she wasn’t already dead,” I began, and finished weakly—“probably . . .”
And that night, while the old man prepared the room for the ball, Y asked him who the woman was. And, “One of your aunts, my dear,” he chuckled, pinching Y’s cheek, and, “And I never saw a prettier girl, at that.” He shook his head sadly. “She’s aged a good deal since we’ve lived here, though. Not so pretty nowadays, are you, old hag!” he screamed suddenly, and ran over to the old woman to give her a shove that sent her rocking back and forth, giggling wildly and nodding her head.
“Has she been here long?” Y asked timidly, but the old man skipped back and forth, pirouetting with exaggerated grace. “No questions, young ladies, no questions! Pretty heads should be empty, you know!”
That was what decided Y and me. The next day our plans were made, and it all had to be done fast. I do not like to remember what we did, and Y swears now that it is all gone from her mind, but I know as well as she does that we stuffed a pillow over the old man’s face while he slept, and hanged him to a tree afterward, in an ecstasy of hatred which spent itself on him, and left us little eagerness for the old woman. But we finished it, and never went back to the forest behind the castle, where the two bodies still hang, for all I know. It’s as Y said, then: “We don’t know if we can kill them, but we do know that if they’re not dead, they’re still tied up . . .”
And then, weak and happy and laughing, we lay all day in the sun near the gates, waiting for someone to come into the room.
“How long has it been, Y, that we’ve been held here?”
“A year, I guess—” This muffled, from Y’s face hidden in her arms. “Or maybe more.”
“It hasn’t been more than a week,” I said.
“It’s been years,” Y said again.
And how much longer was it that we waited? The room, which we could see from the gates, had been dismantled. How bitterly we repented of the time spent away from the view of the room, the time lost while someone had taken up the carpets in the room, had taken away the linen and the mattress from the bed, had taken down the curtains and stripped the room bare of everything but dust! Where had we been, and who would come now to an empty and forsaken room? But it was Y, as always, who thought of it first.
“Why didn’t they take the picture down, then?” she said. “They’ve emptied the room and left the picture still hanging!”
“They must know something! They must believe that the picture has something to do with us!”
“They’d know the room was haunted, since two of us disappeared from there . . .” Y began.
“And no one will ever come into it for that reason,” I finished.
We were there long enough for the ivy on the house to grow a quarter inch before someone came to rescue us.
We had often speculated as to who would come. Both of us had believed that it would be a stranger, come to see for himself if he could solve the secret of the room, but when our rescuer finally arrived one evening, it was John. I saw him first, while Y slept, and when I woke her to tell her it was John, she cried for the first time since we had given up hope. We lay in the grass before the gates, waiting for the moon to rise so John could see us and let us out.
We watched him put down a blanket on the empty bed, and lie down to stare directly into the picture. In the half-darkness that meant the moon was rising, we saw him lying there, watching for us. And as the moon rose slowly, coming toward the picture, we stood by the gates, clinging to each other and trembling with excitement.
Even before the full light was upon us, we were racing down the road to him, to the glass that he must break. I remember falling once, and stumbling to my feet to run on, with blood on my face and hands, crying out to John, and I believe now that it was during that moment wasted in getting to my feet that I knew exactly, because I heard Y’s voice calling, “Come, John, come on, John, come on!” And I knew that I was screaming, too, and shrieking at the top of my lungs.
And John was sitting up in the bed, and screaming, too, and he put up his foot and kicked at the glass and broke it—at last.
*
And that is how we tell it, Y and I, in the quiet of the night, in the hours of the quiet of the night, with the moonlight moving close, while we wait in the secret of the night, and John runs constantly about the house, screaming and beating the walls. For I have no partner now, in the evenings, and Y and John do not like to dance alone.
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Miss Matt was at least partially conscious that she looked like the teacher everyone has had for English in first-year high school; she was small and pretty, in a rice-powder fashion, with a great mass of soft dark hair that tried to stay on top of her head and straggled instead down over her ears; her voice was low and turned pleading instead of sharp; any presentable fourteen-year-old bully could pass her course easily. She had read Silas Marner aloud almost daily for the past ten years, marked tests in a dainty blue pencil, and still blushed dreadfully at the age of thirty-four.
The year she was twenty-eight she had gone from New York to San Francisco through the Panama Canal with two other teachers from her high school (Gym and General Science), but none of them had found husbands. With her meekest expectations still unsatisfied, Miss Matt lived quietly alone in an inexpensive two-room apartment, with a tiny kitchenette and a Cézanne print over the sofa. She knew her landlady fairly well; they had a cup of tea together occasionally, two refined ladies, in the landlady’s first-floor apartment, but in the six years she had lived in her apartment, Miss Matt had not met any of her neighbors.
On Wednesday afternoons, freed early from the high school, Miss Matt came home and straightened her apartment and washed her hair, and then, her head wrapped in a towel, wearing a Chinese silk housecoat, Miss Matt sat down with a peaceful cup of tea and played Afternoon of a Faun and The Sorcerer’s Apprentice on her small portable phonograph. Sometim
es, when it had been a hard day at school and the future looked unusually dark, Miss Matt would permit herself to cry luxuriously for half an hour; afterward she would wash her face, and dress and go out to some nice restaurant for dinner.
Miss Matt was crying on the afternoon that Krishna came to see her. There was a sudden vigorous knock on the door, and while Miss Matt was still holding her handkerchief before her in surprise, the door opened a little and a small pretty head hooked curiously around the edge of the door and stayed, regarding Miss Matt.
After a minute Miss Matt walked over to the phonograph and turned off The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, averting her head so the tears were not completely visible. “Were you looking for me?” Miss Matt asked finally, then added “Dear?” as the visitor was undeniably a female child.
“Marian said I could come in here,” the child said.
Miss Matt collected herself and touched the handkerchief delicately to her eyes. “What did you want me for?” she asked. It was the first time in years Miss Matt had spoken to a child younger than the first year of high school, and she felt free to end a sentence with a preposition.
The child opened the door wider and slipped through, closing it behind her. She was carrying a large album of phonograph records, which she deposited carefully on Miss Matt’s maple end table.
“Are those your records?” Miss Matt asked hesitantly.
“Marian said I could come and ask you if it is all right for me to play them here on your phonograph,” the child said. “What’s that?” She pointed at the Cézanne.
“It’s a picture,” Miss Matt said.
“We have pictures too,” the child said. “We have pictures of my daddy.”
“Won’t you sit down?”
The child turned and looked at Miss Matt for a long minute. “All right,” she said finally. “What’s your name?”
“Miss Matt,” Miss Matt said. “You may call me Miss Matt.”
“Mine’s Krishna,” the child said.
“Krishna.” Miss Matt sat down and picked up her cup of tea. “Krishna?”
“Krishna Raleigh,” the child said. “I’m six years old and I live just downstairs and right underneath here.” Both she and Miss Matt looked down at the floor, and then Krishna went on, “Marian said I could come and play my records here.”
“Who is Marian?” Miss Matt asked, “and why should she give you permission to come up here?”
“That’s my mother, Marian,” Krishna said impatiently.
“I think it’s all right.” Miss Matt tried to make her voice sound a little doubtful, as though she felt enough authority to deny Krishna if she wanted to, but she realized almost immediately that all Krishna thought was that possibly Miss Matt did not own the phonograph either. “What records are they?” Miss Matt asked quickly.
“My daddy’s records,” Krishna said proudly. “My daddy made them for me and Marian, and you can listen to them if you want to.”
Miss Matt stood up and reached for the album, but Krishna said “I’ll do it” and ran across the room to put an arm protectingly over the album. “They’re my records,” she said.
“May I look at them?” Miss Matt asked coldly.
“No,” Krishna said. She opened the album lovingly and took out the first record. “This is my daddy playing the piano,” she said. “Take that other record off the phonograph.” Miss Matt went silently and removed The Sorcerer’s Apprentice and changed the needle while Krishna stood by, impatiently holding her record. “I play the phonograph all the time at home, but now it’s broken,” she said, “so Marian said I could come and ask you if you would let me hear my daddy’s records.”
The edge of Krishna’s chin came just to the level of the turntable; she was forced, reluctantly, to yield the record to Miss Matt to have it put on the phonograph, and Miss Matt inspected it carefully, turning it over and over, before she placed it onto the turntable. It was a private recording, labeled TOWN HALL, and then, in ink underneath, “James Raleigh, Shostakovich Polka, June, 1940.” The other side was smooth and ungrooved; Miss Matt ran her hand over it before she set it down.
“Come on,” Krishna said finally. “This record has where my daddy talks on it.” She waited, her face just at the edge of the phonograph, and when Miss Matt started to put the phonograph arm down on the record, Krishna giggled and said, “These records start from the inside, dopey.” Miss Matt put the arm down at the center of the record and waited. First there was the sound of applause, and then a short wait, and then a man’s voice said faintly “. . . by Shostakovich,” and then more applause. “That’s my daddy talking,” Krishna said. Miss Matt waited respectfully until the piano started and then said, “Is that your father playing?”
“He played all these records,” Krishna said. “He plays the piano in concerts.” Her voice rose defiantly. “He’s the best piano player who ever lived.”
Miss Matt sat down on the straight chair next to the phonograph. “Would you like to sit on the couch?” she asked Krishna.
Krishna went over solemnly and sat down on the edge of the couch, and Miss Matt, with the music loud beside her, watched the child curiously. She was a very pretty child, with blond curls and a sweet smile; Miss Matt wondered fleetingly if her father was blond. “Where is your father now?” she asked.
“Shhh,” Krishna said, pointing to the phonograph. “He’s in the Army.”
Miss Matt nodded sympathetically.
“He kills people,” Krishna said. “He’s over killing Nazis now.” She sighed theatrically. “He used to play the piano, and when he’s killed all the Nazis he’s going to come home and play the piano again.”
“He plays beautifully,” Miss Matt said softly.
“It’s all right,” Krishna said. Her eyes wandered around the room and came to rest finally. “What’s that thing?”
Miss Matt stood up and lifted the arm of the phonograph from the record. “I thought you wanted to hear your daddy playing,” she said.
“What’s that thing?” Krishna repeated.
Miss Matt turned. “It’s a doll,” she said with annoyance. “Do you want to hear the records or not?”
“I want that doll,” Krishna said. She slid off the couch and scampered across the room to the doll.
“I bought that doll in a place called Panama,” Miss Matt said. “I bought it from a little girl about your age whose mother made lots of dolls like that. I like that doll as well as almost anything I own.” She raised her voice slightly. “Shall I continue with the records?”
Krishna was trying to reach for the doll high in the bookcase where Miss Matt kept it; finally she put her foot on the lower shelf, pushing the books back, and reached up on her toes to seize the doll triumphantly. It was a limp thing, with a gourd for a head and a scrap of red silk for a dress. “I’m going to take this doll home,” Krishna said.
“That’s my doll.” Miss Matt forced herself to stand by the phonograph. “Your mother wouldn’t like to have you take someone else’s things.”
“She doesn’t care,” Krishna said.
“Krishna,” Miss Matt said, “You may not have that doll. Put it back, please.”
Krishna turned and looked at Miss Matt in surprise. “I want it,” she said.
“I won’t let you play your daddy’s records on the phonograph,” Miss Matt warned.
“All right.” Krishna was pulling interestedly at the doll’s head, twisting the red silk dress. “I heard them lots of times.”
Miss Matt walked over and put her hand firmly on the doll. “Give that to me,” she demanded.
Krishna began to laugh. She snatched the doll away from Miss Matt and retreated with it across the room. “You’re a crazy old woman,” she said. “You’re an old crazy old woman.”
“Go home,” Miss Matt said. She took a deep breath to calm herself, and lifted her head. “Go right
home. Go home immediately.”
“No,” Krishna said. “You’re a crazy old woman, crazy, crazy.” Deliberately holding the doll out in front of her, she ripped off the silk dress and let it fall onto the floor, then snapped off the head. Miss Matt watched Krishna for a minute, her chin trembling, and then she went over to the phonograph and lifted the record off and smashed it onto the floor. “You don’t deserve to have a father like that,” she said.
Krishna began to laugh again. “Wait till I tell Marian,” she said. “Wait till I tell Marian a crazy old woman broke my daddy’s best record where he was talking.”
“You can tell Marian anything you like,” Miss Matt said. For the first time in her life her voice was shrill. “Now you take the rest of these records and get out.” She seized Krishna quickly by the shoulder, pinching as hard as she could, and began to push her toward the door, slapping her hands to make her drop the pieces of the doll.
Krishna, still laughing, clung stubbornly to the door frame, bracing her feet against Miss Matt’s furious shoving. Miss Matt finally got her into the hall and slammed the door, then took the album of records and set them quickly outside, slamming the door again before Krishna could get back in. Krishna was still laughing when Miss Matt slammed the door for the second time and turned the key, but when the child realized that the door had shut for the last time, her laughter turned suddenly into howls of anger. Miss Matt, leaning against the door on the inside, distinguished the phrase, repeated over and over, “I want that doll!” Finally Miss Matt heard the crying fade away toward the stairs, and the child’s voice crying, “Mommy, make her give me that doll!”
I’ve got to hurry, Miss Matt thought. She stepped quickly around the broken record on the floor to the broken doll, scooped up the dress and then the other pieces, and hesitated, looking around. Finally she went into the kitchenette and opened the cupboard under the sink, and put the pieces of the doll behind the boxes of soap and the dusting cloths. I’ll tell them that awful child did it, she was thinking. If I hurry, I can say that child did it all. Still hurrying, she took a brush and a dustpan and went back to the broken record. It had shattered into small pieces, and it took Miss Matt a few precious seconds to gather them up into the dustpan. I’ll tell them I’ll sue, she was thinking. She emptied the dustpan into a paper bag and put the bag into the sink cupboard with the doll, and then, her house straightened, with no sign left of Krishna’s presence, she fluffed up the pillows of the couch and went into her little bedroom, where she dressed hurriedly and carelessly, repeating to herself incoherently: “I’ll tell them the child did it, I’ll say I’ll sue.”
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