Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Don’t twist like that,” he ordered. “You’ve got to stay perfectly still or the tests will be invalidated and we’ll have to repeat them.”

  I immediately returned my head to where Rusty had placed it. “Did, ah, did my therapist tell you I’m sort of claustrophobic?”

  “You’re not going to be inside the scanner for that long a period of time. Just lie still and it will be over soon.”

  I didn’t move a muscle. “Can I wiggle my toes?”

  “Yes.” His exasperation was obvious through the speakers “You can wiggle your toes, but that’s it. This will only take about twenty minutes—do you think you can handle that?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Good, then we’ll begin. We’re going to run four separate tests. You won’t feel anything; all you’ll notice is the clicking of the radio waves. Are you ready?”

  I started to nod, then stopped myself. “Ready,” I whispered. Suddenly I was assaulted by what sounded like a barrage of machine-gun fire. “Whoa!” I called out, jumping slightly.

  The noise immediately ceased and was replaced by Dr. Smith-Holt’s voice. “I thought I told you to remain still.”

  “Well, you told me to expect clicking, not gunfire!”

  “Gunfire it is, then; you can expect twenty minutes of gunfire. Now, please, let’s get on with this. Lie down and remain completely still.”

  I did as I was told. I lay completely still—except for my wiggling toes. The sweat ran along the underside of my knees and between my breasts, puddling at my stomach and dampening the cotton blankets.

  The oven got hotter and hotter and narrower and narrower; it pressed close to my eyes and then expanded again, like an accordion, always accompanied by the random explosions of machine guns. My skin prickled and I itched everywhere, but the itching was nothing compared to the horror of the expanding and contracting whiteness. I couldn’t breathe, but I forced myself. I told myself I could breathe, I could make myself breathe, that Rusty would never let me be crushed to death by his “baby.” Breathe, I commanded myself, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

  I wiggled my toes; I timed my breathing to the wiggling of my toes. I kept the rest of my body immobile; I didn’t move a muscle above my feet. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. I was in the closet, my father’s wool coat rubbing against my nose; it smelled of cigarettes and the inside of his car, but I didn’t care. It reminded me of him. And how he’d save me when he came home. How he’d let me out of the closet and punish Joel for locking me in. I pushed my nose into the scratchy wool. I lived through that, I can live through this. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

  The dirt was in my mouth and my hair, and I was afraid the worms would crawl into my shirt. There were spiders too. And other kinds of bugs. Joel laughed and laughed; he was perched on the edge of my grave, his mouth huge and red and repulsive. He leaned over the hole, and his evil laughter boomed down at me. He said if I didn’t stay put, he’d tell Mom what really happened to Grandma Clara’s hat. I lived through that, I can live through this.

  Clay stood behind Dennis’s chair, his ice blue eyes flashing with fury, his mouth set in a thin line. Dennis and I were just friends; it was an innocent lunch. Clay misunderstood. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

  Finally the gunfire stopped. I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the stretcher rolled toward open air. I had made it. I had survived. My muscles relaxed as I took a deep breath, the air filling my lungs already cleaner and fresher and better-tasting. I was halfway toward freedom when the air returned to stale and closed in on me once again. There, clearly illuminated on the inside of my eyelids, as if on a movie screen in a dark theater, was a woman—it was the tiny woman—and she was trapped too. She was huddled and crying and clutching a familiar-looking book to her breast. The book was butter-colored and gilt numerals were embossed on the binding: 1882.

  My eyes flew open and she disappeared as I was spit from the expanding and contracting whiteness. I ripped the belt from my hips and staggered to the door.

  7

  January 10, 1882

  Another storm has finally abated, and from where I sit, my little desk pushed snugly inside the bay, I watch the snow blow and swirl. It is quite lovely, and my fancy allows me to see graceful dancers, clothed entirely in white, performing cotillion figures, as if at an Assembly.

  Ah, such a silly notion! Now that I have the grave responsibilities of home and family, I must be on my guard against such girlish and capricious thoughts.

  I also must be on my guard against errors in judgment. Mother Davenport is quite harsh. She came into my rooms just this morning and was most dismayed over the arrangement of my few precious books.

  I had thought it lovely to display my books with the tallest on one end of the case and the shortest at the other. But alas, I had erred once again. I had thoughtlessly placed a volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry next to The Complete Works of Emerson.

  I now know it to be in distinctly bad taste for books by a man and woman who are not married to one another to be side by side. Mother Davenport says I must strengthen my resolve to act according to my position as wife of the eminent Montague Cabot Davenport, Sr., and as mother to his heir.

  I know I am not the wicked girl Mother Davenport tells me I am. But often she makes me wonder if perhaps I may be.

  January 11, 1882

  It was my hope that Nanny and I might give Baby Monty an airing this afternoon, that we take him to the pleasure-ground. But alas, it is far too windy, and prudence forbids it. My poor tiny babe has spent much of his little life within his nursery, for it has been a cold and snowy winter.

  Within those nursery walls I have spent hours most precious. When Mother Davenport is not about, I slip into his rooms and wave Nanny away. He is the light of my life.

  I write the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to my tiny Monty:

  I love thee …

  I love thee! …

  in thy sight

  I am transfigured,

  glorified aright.

  January 14, 1882

  Today I have been taken ill and shall not be able to partake of my lovely Friday activities. Woe is the poor, sickly girl who shall miss both uplift lecture and lunch at the Chilton Club as well as Symphony. Although Doctor has ordered me to remain abed, my determination is to spend some time with you, dear journal.

  January 17, 1882

  I am still not well. The tuberculosis that sickened me over ten years ago, when I was but a child of eight, has never quite relinquished its hold. Doctor tells me I must eat, but my cough keeps my desire quite low.

  I think of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She was an invalid for forty years, yet she did not allow her infirmities to come between herself and those whom she loved. I shall be strong and true and shall do the same.

  January 21, 1882

  Doctor is as cross as two sticks and tells me if I do not drink this broth, I shall not be allowed to see my sweet Monty. My determination is to finish every last drop.

  January 25, 1882

  I have not seen much of my dear Montague this winter. He has been most occupied at his bank and he has so many great and important responsibilities to which he must constantly attend. After a day east of Park Street, he must visit both his Porcellian Club and the Sommerset Club to discuss the news of the day with his business associates. Mother Davenport boasts of his great accomplishments, greater even than those of his father. Neither Montague nor I disagree.

  He is so handsome in his frock coat and so dashing twirling the great Davenport walking stick! I confess that when the stick twirls, my poor heart does flutter so. I am still in awe of the man whom it is my honor to call husband. Although, I confess, I should wish to be more a part of his life.

  January 28, 1882

  I was so pleased to be well enough to be at home for my Tuesday afternoon. In honor of the regaining of my health, and surely as a re
flection of the esteem with which the families hold my husband and Mother Davenport, there was quite a large gathering. Pollie was good enough to be pressed into service when the parlour maid had difficulty serving all of my guests.

  Cousin Josephine Cabot, Mrs. Lowell Ellerton Ames, Mrs. George Handasyd Winthrop, Mrs. Charles Homans Winslow, Cousin Amy Davenport, and Mrs. Archibald Clark Perkins III were all in attendance.

  I pulled the ropes and handled the ribbons, and I confess to pride that I did not err even once. I spilled nary a drop as I sat behind my table and poured with the proper slowness. I pleased Mrs. George Winthrop by promising to assist her at the charity bazaar next month. And I was most honored when Mrs. Lowell Ames complimented the English marmalade and Mother Davenport said, “One cannot cast aspersions on Davenport taste.” I fancy she is beginning to consider me worthy.

  February 8, 1882

  Once again I have erred! To my shame, it is my dear Montague whom I have offended by my ghastly behavior. He was in such hasty temper, I despair of ever regaining his esteem.

  I am unable to write of my transgression within these pages, but I vow to be true and strong and never commit such an impropriety again. I attempted to explain to my poor distraught husband, but he was unable to hear. In vain, I told him that all that occurred at Cousin Josephine’s was a misunderstanding, that I had never meant to bring shame. But he would have none of my “ladies’ excuses.”

  I hung my head in regret and humiliation, but Montague continued to pour pain upon my bowed head. I am wounded and deeply shamed.

  Now I understand the desires of a wife are her husband’s desires, and these are the desires upon which she ought act. His rage and his temper and his angry ways assure I shall not err again.

  February 10, 1882

  Oh, joy! Oh, joy! My dear Montague has seen his way clear to forgive me. He visited last evening and was in much better humor. He came bearing gift upon gift and warmed me with his attentions. The evening was such delight. As Shakespeare wrote:

  How silver-sweet sound

  lovers’ tongues by night,

  Like softest music to attending ears!

  He was most proud when he presented me with Great-Grandmother Appleton’s pearl ring. It is one of the largest and finest pearls in all of Boston and is set amidst circles and circles of spun gold. Her hand was much larger than mine, but I shall cherish the ring’s heaviness. Its weight upon my small finger shall always remind me of my dear Montague.

  I remember, when but a tiny child, I would see my dashing older cousin, dressed in white waistcoat, a gardenia in his buttonhole, pass through my father’s door. I was awed by his stature. That such a man would choose me is the fulfillment of all of my girlhood dreams.

  February 18, 1882

  I am filled with such excitement! Mother Davenport has relented and is allowing me visit Belle Gardner’s salon. I had despaired of ever going there after Mother Davenport forbade any family member from the new people’s soiree musicale.

  It is true that they are people from dear knows where, but Mrs. Thomas Preston Clark and Cousin Josephine Cabot were in attendance last week. Cousin Josephine confided in me that women played cards. She said that people were singing and that the new woman played the flute. It sounds deliciously wicked!

  And now I shall be allowed to enter the salon where Mr. Henry James has been known to go! I shall be allowed into the home of the woman who went barefoot on Beacon Street and walked a lion down Tremont! I fancy even Mother Davenport must nod to the family of John Lowell Gardner, Jr.

  February 20, 1882

  I awoke in high anticipation of my visit to the home of Isabella Stewart Gardner. It was the most surprisingly balmy weather, and Pollie and I spent the whole long day insuring every detail of my ensemble to be perfect. I wore my rose-colored velvet with the white piping.

  Mrs. John Lowell Gardner, Jr., makes a specialty of doing all things unusual, and she did not disappoint. Oh, whatever shall Mother Davenport say when she hears of the misbehaviors? To list the transgressions of Belle Gardner this one day would be to write upon every page of my journal!

  When Mother Davenport finds that Mrs. Gardner greeted us from the branches of a mimosa tree, I fear I shall never be able to step foot in her house again. And when she discovers Mrs. Gardner bid me to join her in her arbor seat—and that I did—I tremble to think of what she shall say.

  But I did have a most amusing time and did enjoy myself most thoroughly. Mrs. Gardner was so grand in a purple silk dress that was wickedly close to her skin. She is indeed a beautiful lady with a nature most warm. She is friendly and amusing and circled the room, making herself agreeable to everyone in attendance. I spoke with the author Mr. Henry James, and he told me of women of family who actually write books to be published.

  March 20, 1882

  I hardly think it safe to write it here, so happy am I! I confess that I believe Baby Monty shall soon have a little brother or sister with whom to share his childhood!

  March 29, 1882

  We have just had the most gloriously successful party! We had twenty for dinner, including some of Montague’s most eminent business associates and cousins. Cousin Lawrence Cabot Adams was in attendance, as were Mr. and Mrs. Chas. Thayer Perkins. Even Mother Davenport was pleased.

  In anticipation of the event, I had formed many schemes and presented them to Montague for approval. Happily, his selection of menu and guests was quite close to mine. To my delight, he had me instruct Cook to make the cold oysters and oyster pâtés which Cousin Josephine says are the best in all of Boston. My dear husband also made excellent choices of sherry wine, hock wine, and Roman punch to accompany the meal. I blush as I write that I fancy I turned the table quite well.

  Three extra footmen and two extra Negroes were needed to aid our servants. The roast mutton, veal, sweetbreads, woodcocks, potatoes with peas, salad, and apple pie were all well served.

  There was one moment when I thought surely the party would falter. My dear Montague acted quickly, and to my relief, no embarrassment ensued. It happened when Mr. and Mrs. Lowell Ellerton Ames arrived a few moments late, and Mr. Mason Grant, who is not of Boston, rose and offered his seat to Mrs. Lowell Ames. She stood, dismayed, for surely she could never sit upon plush which might still hold the warmth of his body. To my great relief, Montague witnessed Mr. Grant’s breach of manner and quickly offered a fresh chair to Mrs. Ames.

  April 2, 1882

  Doctor has confirmed my dearest hopes. Another child shall be born before Christmas! Montague and Mother Davenport are almost as pleased as I.

  I am also especially pleased that an Assembly is to be held tomorrow night. For it shall be my last time in society before I retire to await the joyous event.

  April 4, 1882

  The Assembly last evening was the grandest ball I have ever attended! I thank my dear Montague for the honor. My mama is a Lyman and told me of the elegant Assemblies she attended before marrying Papa, but as I was born a Jessel, an invitation was always beyond my reach. Now, as Mrs. Montague Cabot Davenport, Sr., I am, of course, included in every First Family event.

  All the men were so dashing in full dress, but none more so than my dear handsome Montague with his white gardenia and gold-tipped walking stick. When he placed his handkerchief between my back and his glove and waltzed me along the floor, I bowed my head in gratitude that this man would be my husband.

  When S. Hooper Hooper led the first cotillion, Montague suggested we ought chandellier, but I blushed and refused. My dear husband is so very romantic! He told me I ought always wear black velvet and that the tulle shirt became me. He was so naughty as to whisper that he cherished the sweet smell of lavender that billowed about me. I blushed once again and must remember to thank Mama for teaching me to fill my dress pockets with lavender sachet. Then he said I was a great beauty and that my tiny teeth were like pearls. I pray to give him another son.

  My only sadness was in the absence of my dear friend Katherine Lee Adams. S
he has been divorced this past year, and of course, could not attend.

  To my great honor, Mother Davenport chose me to wear the Davenport tiara.

  July 15, 1882

  I fancy there has never been a summer so hot. The curtains hardly flutter as I write these words, and the sun is most exceedingly strong.

  It would be ungenerous of me not to express gratitude that I am able to spend my retirement by the sea. I am unable to imagine how I would bear it away from Nahant and away from the ocean breezes. My poor dear Montague has been forced to remain in the stifling city most weeks, but Baby Monty and Nanny have been enjoying the beach.

  Pollie has been most helpful to me with fans and tins of cool water.

  July 30, 1882

  This afternoon I was grateful to Mother Davenport for reading to me from the privately printed letters of Lyman Adams Davenport, Sr. He was indeed a great man, always seeking to further God’s kingdom on earth.

  It is to Mother Davenport’s sorrow that my heart is without the great man’s godliness. She suggests I read more of his words in the hope that they bear fruit within my poor soul. I suppose I shall do as she asks, but it amuses me to wonder if perhaps Browning and Shakespeare would have far greater consequence upon my poor soul.

  August 2, 1882

  I confess I am fast wearying of this long summer of idleness. Cousin Josephine tells me she, too,. is anxious to return to the city, that the summer parties have been quite dull, the dinners short. I fancy she is just being kind.

  Last summer I was also of delicate condition, but the breezes seemed stronger and cooler, the days not quite so long.

  All is not in vain, for I have been reading Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Cymbeline. Cousin Josephine brought me Browning’s Bianca Among the Nightingales just this afternoon.

  October 10, 1882

  I am most glad to be back in Boston in my own pretty rooms. The summer in Nahant was most especially warm, and Doctor tells me I am responding poorly to the heat.

  It is to my shame that I am not as cheerful as I ought be. It is ungenerous of me to wear such a gloomy aspect, and I am sure my happy disposition shall return when my dear sweet tiny babe is finally born.