Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  Ah, I must end here, for dinner is to be served within one hour and Pollie hastens me to dress.

  I was speechless. To think that this woman, so alive when she wrote these words and so long dead, had sat in my living room. To think she had looked out my window and seen a Beacon Street so different from the one I knew.

  “Could she really have believed that stuff about not being able to comprehend his work?” I asked.

  “Probably did.” Babs picked up the Genealogy. “She must have been really young—let’s see …” Babs ran her finger down a list written in a flowing, old-fashioned hand. “Yup, just as I thought, Isabel Davenport was seventeen when she got married, so she was nineteen when she was writing this. But a babe—a babe who probably didn’t have the experiences to believe anything else.” Babs flipped some pages and we read another entry.

  January 25, 1882

  I had despaired of ever regaining my health but am finally well again. It is a joy to spend moments with my sweet baby and to walk beyond my sitting room. When I entered the nursery my chubby little one raised his tiny fists and gurgled and cooed at his mama.

  I was also happy to be able to accompany Mother Davenport on her morning calls. It was my honor to be of assistance to the great lady, checking off the names as she entered the houses and binding her cards into packets for all the women of the next house. Mother Davenport is far too occupied to return every call, and hence correct card-turning is required to convey her message.

  Mama has taught me well and I erred not once in turning each card properly. Upper right corner turned down for Mrs. Ellerton Ames as she was a personal visit. Upper left corner turned down to congratulate the Sisters Norris on their brother’s impending wedding. Lower left for the George Handasyd Winthrops in consequence of the loss of Mrs. Herbert Handasyd Winthrop. Mother Davenport was quite pleased.

  Babs shook her head. “Can you believe that ladies spent their mornings making calls on ladies they would see for dinner, and leaving cards inviting these same ladies to visit the next day? Tough life, huh?”

  “Might have been harder than it sounds.” I flipped to another page.

  March 10, 1882

  Mother Davenport is deeply saddened in consequence of my desire to visit the Athenaeum. I had desired to borrow Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” I had only wished to read these beautiful love poems and to try my poor hand at the same. I had only wished to write to Montague as she wrote to Robert:

  I think of thee!—my thoughts do

  twine and bud

  About thee, as wild vines,

  about a tree.

  I had never wished to bring shame.

  But now I am aware of the source of my error. Now I know that every great book can be found within the Davenport library. It is true that the works of Horace, Shakespeare, and Moliére from which Papa taught me are among the collection. And as for new books, Mother Davenport assures me that those of value can be purchased from the Old Corner Bookstore.

  She must not think me too wicked, for I received a number of volumes this very morning. I am obliged to her for asking the proprietor to select only books about the kind of people she would entertain in her drawing room. Perhaps I shall find Cousin Josephine’s library to be broader than Mother Davenport’s.

  “What a world,” I said. “Where a woman—girl—smart enough to quote Browning and study Horace and Shakespeare had her reading material censored by her mother-in-law.”

  “Them’s were the times.” Babs stood up and started to put on her coat.

  I picked up the three diaries. “Can I take these?”

  Babs looked at me with a knowing smile and nodded. “They’re all yours.”

  5

  I was dying to read the Isabel Davenport diaries, but the Farnham proposal had to come first. It was days before I could think about anything but user manuals, technical-support manuals, labor-cost estimations, and multiyear staff projections. The night before the “best and final” presentation, I had done just about everything I could, and promised myself that after a quick hour of obsessive finishing touches, the rest of the evening belonged to Isabel Davenport.

  “Lindsey?” Peter bounded into my office like an excited puppy. “Look,” he said, waving a large loose-leaf notebook under my nose. “What do you think of how these guys handled the keyboard? It would be outstanding for us—the Farnham folks would really go for it, I know. What do you think?” Although he was almost completely bald, Peter possessed a youthful enthusiasm that was a dead giveaway to his true age. “What do you think?” he repeated before I had time to answer his first question.

  I looked at the drawing; it was a very elegant solution to the often unwieldy keyboard graphic. “Yeah, this really would be great, but I don’t think we’ve got time to include it in tomorrow’s presentation. Maybe at some other point. Or, if things don’t work out, in some other project.”

  “I can do it—I know I can. I’ll put together something on the Mac right now. Won’t take more than an hour or two. I’ll take it to the all-night copier across the street to get the viewgraphs. I’ll have it done when you get in in the morning.”

  “You sure? It’s already six-thirty.”

  “I was planning on pulling an all-nighter anyway. You know, to cram on the system specs. Want to make sure I’m ready for the big meeting.”

  “Guess I’d be pretty stupid to turn down an offer like that.” I handed the notebook back to him. “Go for it, pal.”

  He grinned like a child at his own birthday party. “Thanks …” He hesitated and blushed slightly. “Thanks, boss.”

  “Think you’d be up to talking about the keyboard and perhaps some other design issues at the meeting?”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “It’s possible we’ll never get to any of the sexy stuff—I’ve got a feeling that they’re going to be a lot more interested in budget projections and PERT charts than design issues. But if they want some of it, you’re ready to take it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then you better start cramming.”

  I decided to finish up at home, and left work feeling optimistic about TWTTR’s chances: the proposal was strong, my overhead low, and then there were always old man Farnham’s hormones. Actually, I was feeling optimistic about a lot of things: all my new furniture had arrived and looked great, my nightmares had abated, my phone was fixed, and I hadn’t had a daymare since last Tuesday. Naomi Braverman was wrong. Joel was wrong. Babs and Edgar were wrong. It had all been stress.

  I stepped out onto Boylston Street. As I buttoned my coat, I took a moment to notice the interesting juxtaposition of the plate-glass Hancock tower and the rough-hewn masonry of Trinity Church, and I caught a hint of sea breeze underneath the stronger urban smells that scented the air. I smiled at two starry-eyed lovers who smiled back.

  “Hello there!” boomed the cheery voice of the kiosk man. “And how might we be feeling this lovely November evening?”

  “Just fine.” I pointed to a pile of Boston Globes at his feet. “I’m feeling just fine, thanks. And you?”

  “You’re a love for asking.” He raised the rock that kept the newspapers from blowing away. “You know—” he shook his head “—a pretty lass like yourself shouldn’t be working so hard that she can’t ever get to the morning paper till evening.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. Believe it or not, I’m having fun.”

  “So they all say. So they all say.” He flipped my quarter in the air, and it fell neatly into the apron pocket he held open. He winked. “Have yourself a lovely evening.”

  “I think I’ll do just that.” I stuffed the newspaper into my briefcase and turned down Dartmouth Street.

  Back Bay is a nosy person’s paradise: windows hug the sidewalks, and often shades are left up. Above a store at the corner of Newbury and Dartmouth streets, I spied the scraped metal edges of a bunk bed pushed to the windowsill. A pile of dirty laundry and a crumpled bag of potato chips
spewed all over the unmade lower bunk; a lanky girl, her long hair held neatly in a tortoiseshell comb, sat Indian-style on the upper, flipping impatiently through a magazine. I could imagine the door opening suddenly behind her, the wide shoulders of her lover filling the frame. They would look deeply into each other’s eyes, then she would jump from the bunk and run into his arms. They would kiss passionately, and hurriedly, for her roommate—the lover’s real girlfriend—would be back any moment.

  I smiled at my all-too-predictable fantasy and walked farther down Dartmouth Street in search of a better story. I passed a window framing two effeminate men, their heads pressed close together, reading a newspaper spread over a glass and chrome table. Obviously they were searching the want ads; they were planning on coming out of the closet the next day and were expecting to lose their jobs. “Don’t worry, Barry,” I could imagine one saying to the other. “At least we’ll have our integrity, and at least we’ll have each other.”

  On the corner of Commonwealth, a portly, mustached man watched the evening news amidst a carved-wooden grandeur reminiscent of Mrs. Putnam’s upstairs drawing room. The Brahman gentleman would soon stand up and walk to his desk. He would push a hidden button, and the false bottom of the top drawer would be revealed. He would slowly lift a handgun from the drawer and place it to his temple. He had just seen footage of a man being arrested for insider trading flash across the television screen; that man was his business partner.

  As I turned and walked down Beacon Street, my overactive imagination switched from strangers to Isabel Davenport—who I somehow felt was not a stranger at all—and it was easy to envision how she might have come to be so misunderstood and maligned. Perhaps she was the victim of an evil mother-in-law who had spread vicious lies about her relationship with her second cousin Phillip, and forced her to live out her life as a social outcast in the basement dungeon. Or perhaps she had lost her mind under the attic eaves, where her husband had placed her when she refused his drunken attentions. The fact that the house had neither attic nor actual basement affected my stories not one bit.

  “Lindsey, Lindsey, my dear,” Edgar interrupted my nineteenth-century musing. “Lindsey, I have some things for you.” Mirepoix bounded out of the apartment and ran in frantic little circles, slobbering wet, wheezy breath all over my ankles. “Some things our well-intentioned, but oft forgetful friend promised you quite a while ago.” He disappeared behind the door and returned almost instantly with a small stack of books. The word “occult” or “supernatural” was in every title. He held them out. “Babs told me that you are now coming around to our way of thinking.”

  I smiled but didn’t reach for the books. “Our little practical joker is pulling your leg again.”

  “Oh?” Edgar nodded his head knowingly. “I daresay it’s your prerogative to deny or accept as you see fit. But why don’t you take these anyway?” He thrust the books into my hands. “You never know when you might develop a sudden thirst for information. Please, please take them as my gift.”

  “Gift? Oh no, I couldn’t accept a gift—”

  “Please, they’re all duplicate copies—as I’m sure you are aware, the scourge and the joy of the profession of literary criticism is a constant influx of unsolicited books. You’d actually be doing me a favor.”

  “Oh, all right. Thanks.”

  “Before you go, may I make a suggestion? I would suggest that you first read Cohen.” He reached out and touched my sleeve with a thin, white finger. “As I’m sure you are aware, there have been many unexplained supernatural phenomena, and I think that Cohen’s explanations and descriptions provide very interesting food for thought.”

  I grinned. “Oay, Edgar, sure. When I’m hungry for thought, I’ll read Cohen.”

  “Very good, my dear,” he said with a laugh. “Humor is an excellent defense against fear.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Well, I am,” he said seriously. “And I daresay, anyone who has experienced what you and I have experienced must face the possibility—nay, probability—that our ol’ 240 is haunted.”

  “Oh, Edgar …”

  Edgar nodded. “And that’s why I suggest Cohen. Holzer is fun, although his tone might be a mite frivolous for you. But his books are an excellent source from which to gain understanding of the ghost’s point of view.”

  “Thanks again.” I started up the steps, but his spindly fingers encircled my wrist and forced me to turn toward him.

  “Lindsey, you must take this more seriously. We have a real problem on our hands. It is imperative that you understand exactly what is going on here!”

  “Not now, Edgar, please. I’ve still got a lot of work to do tonight.” I pulled my arm away and started up the stairs again.

  “She’s here, Lindsey,” Edgar called. “She’s here and you know it. Tell me, my dear, exactly how many forks do you have left?”

  I turned slowly. “All right, Edgar, all right. So Babs told you about the forks. What else do you know?”

  “I know about the supernatural and I know about ghosts,” Edgar said, smiling. “And I know that there’s a ghost in this house.”

  “And you really believe that?”

  “The primary thing to understand, my dear, is that ghosts are most unhappy creatures; they are imprisoned in a netherworld between life and death. They are entangled and ensnared! They cannot find their way to freedom!”

  “Listen to yourself—I mean, really, an intelligent man like you ranting on about ghosts entangled and ensnared in a netherworld? You must be joking.”

  “If only I were, my dear.” Edgar nodded sadly. “If only I were. No, I’m completely serious. And you should be too.”

  “I’m sorry, Edgar, but I just can’t get serious about this stuff.” I shook my head. “I just can’t buy it. I mean, why would it happen? Where is this horrid ‘netherworld’? And how does someone go about becoming ‘ensnared’ in it?”

  “Usually by guilt,” Edgar said gravely. “Guilt over something they did in their lives. Or sometimes by loss. Sometimes they search the present world for an object lost in the past: a friend, a treasure, a love, often—especially, if they were murdered or otherwise met an unseemly or untimely end—their own life.”

  “To avenge their murder?” I rubbed my coat sleeves, suddenly cold.

  “Sometimes,” Edgar replied, “but I don’t think that’s the reason here. In our case, I think it’s guilt. I daresay, if it were revenge, there would be an accompanying feeling of anger and fury. But instead, I sense an aura of …” He pressed his fingers together and gazed up the stairs. “An aura of, of hovering transgression.” He bobbed his pale head up and down. “Yes, yes … a sense of hovering transgression! And that wouldn’t be the pervading spirit if the issue were revenge.”

  I dropped my arms and started laughing. “You had me going there for a second, Edgar—but hovering transgression? Hovering transgression? I mean, really!” I touched his elbow. “I know you mean well, and I think I know that you really believe this—but I don’t. I can’t and I just don’t.” I turned and climbed the stairs.

  “Just read Cohen, my dear,” he called up after me.

  Looney tunes—the man was clearly looney tunes.

  After a quick dinner, I got right down to work. I was disappointed, but not surprised, when my obsessive finishing touches took three hours instead of one. It was midnight when I finally closed the budget file and threw my pen on the desk. I absentmindedly played with the files and then stood up and wandered through the apartment, my mind spinning with thoughts of G & A rates, keyboard layouts, and the kinds of things someone might do to avenge his or her own murder.

  I shivered as I rested my head against the cool panes of the living room bay, and thought about my promise to myself to read the diaries. No, I was too tired. Isabel Davenport was just going to have to wait one more day.

  I forgot to set my alarm clock, and it was nine the next morning when I opened my eyes. The big meeting was in one hour. In Cam
bridge.

  I raced through my shower, dried my hair, and quickly brushed on a minimum of makeup. Tying the bow of my best silk blouse, I practiced my presentation in the mirror. I was describing Farnham’s overhead savings when, instead of my reflection, I thought I saw two elegant ladies, their backs toward me, standing arm in arm in my front bay. The mirror was foggy from the shower, but the scene through their windows appeared wintery, and the younger woman’s thin shoulders seemed stiffly set as her tiny hands played nervously with the lace cuffs of her dress.

  I blinked and my face reappeared. I threw-on the jacket of my “presentation” pinstripe suit and headed to the study to get my things.

  “Peter!” I yelled into the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. “Listen, I’m running late and I’m not going to make it in before the meeting.” I stuffed handfuls of files in my briefcase. “You get the keyboard graphic done?”

  “Yup, got it right here. It looks really great. Wait until you—”

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful. Please get the other view-graphs from Pam. Tell her they’re the Farnham ones she did on Tuesday. She’ll know what we need.” I stopped talking and began to frantically rummage through the desktop. “Damn it!”

  “What? What is it?” Peter’s voice was scared.

  “I can’t find my budget file! I know I left it here last night. When I finished the projections I just threw them in the file.” I fanned the manila folders once again. “I know I left it right here with the others!”

  “Are you sure?” Peter asked.

  “Forget it—just meet me there at ten with the viewgraphs. The file is here somewhere.”

  But it wasn’t. I wasted another ten minutes going through the entire contents of my desk and briefcase. The file had disappeared; it had simply vanished. I was in major-league trouble.

  Suddenly the room was filled with the thick odor of lavender. I was afraid to look up from the desk; but I didn’t have to. Somehow, without raising my eyes, my senses “saw” a shadow, a presence, a being. My stomach twisted in a knot. I knew without looking: the tiny woman had returned.