I am thankful that now it is cooler and the lap robes and shawls with which I must drape myself are not nearly as cumbersome.
November 18, 1882
Oh joy! Oh joy! My sweet son, Lyman Adams Davenport V, was born three days ago. He is a loud and hungry babe, and I am especially honored to have given my dear Montague another son.
I had hoped to christen the boy Gideon, after my dear papa, but Mother Davenport went all through the Family Bible and could find not a single record of a Davenport or a Cabot or an Appleton with that Christian name.
It is my fond hope that although the child was forbidden to bear the name of my choice, my sweet babe shall grow to be as great a man as my dear departed papa. His name in my heart shall always be Gideon.
8
I carefully closed the journal and placed it on the coffee table, my hand lingering protectively around its binding. I touched the raised numbers; 1882 my fingers read, 1882 they read again.
I stared at the mirror over the fireplace; it was fogged and rippled with age, streaks of gray-brown branching from its bottom corner, growing and reaching toward the top. I walked to the bay window overlooking Beacon Street, to the spot where Isabel Davenport’s little desk must have been snugly pushed; I rested my forehead against the cool panes and watched the clash of cars and trucks and bicycles and tourists and street people and everyone else just trying to get through their Saturday afternoon. It was the same window, probably the very same panes, through which Isabel Davenport had watched the snow blow and swirl.
I recognized the top of Edgar’s pale head as he and Mirepoix came down the stairs and turned toward the Esplanade. Although Edgar’s steps were longer than Mirepoix’s, there was a fussiness about his stride that was reminiscent of his dog’s. He had said the extra parking space was for his girlfriend, but he didn’t look like a man with a girlfriend; I’d seen Madeline only twice, and her car less than that.
Edgar passed the friendly Beacon Street bag lady who sang Irish ballads and always stopped to chat; she smiled at him and bent down to pet Mirepoix. I noticed she had a new coat. She was wearing a full-length fur; it was a bit ratty and the hemline was hanging in the back, but it was beautiful and luxurious and obviously quite warm.
I went over and got the journal. I brought it back to the bay with me. “It’s so different now,” I said, holding the book up to the window. “You’d never recognize it.” My voice sounded odd in the empty room, even foolish. So I put the journal back on the coffee table.
What did it all mean? Did Isabel Davenport’s journal prove I wasn’t crazy? Or did it prove that I was? Was having my daymares verified by a hundred-year-old diary good news? Could a ghost give a person visions? I’d never heard of one who could—but then, did ghost lore have to match ghost reality? I touched the gilt numbers again. If Isabel Davenport could come back, did that mean that Clay could too? Maybe I’d be lucky and have a brain tumor.
I walked into my bedroom and ran my hand along the fireplace mantel. Everything looked different, slightly skewed by my awareness that this had been Isabel’s room. This very fireplace had warmed her on cold winter nights. This is where Pollie had laid out her clothes. And somewhere close by, her “dear Montague” had come to her full of misguided anger and fury. He had hurt her and humiliated her, and then he had tried to patch it all up with a gaudy ring he never noticed was all wrong for her tiny hand.
I sank into the bed. What did it all mean? Was it Isabel Davenport I had seen sitting in my bay, pouring tea on her Tuesday afternoon “at home”? Was it she, dancing with “the eminent Montague Cabot Davenport,” his white handkerchief pressed to her back? And the woman in rose velvet waving to me from the mimosa tree—who else could it have been? Isabel’s mother had taught her to stuff her pockets with lavender sachet!
I stood up. It couldn’t be. Ghosts didn’t exist—they were the stuff of tall tales and fables and scary stories around a campfire. Isabel Davenport and Clay were dead and buried, lifeless skeletons in their graves. A shiver ran up my back. But if they were dead, I was crazy.
I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face. I stared into the running water as if it were a crystal ball, but it gave me no answers. Not even a clue. Catching my pale reflection in the mirror, I looked away. The cold water felt good; I pressed a washcloth to my eyes and brushed my teeth. Then I went back into the living room.
I sat down on the couch and picked up the journal, holding it tightly to my chest. What a life she had lived. So privileged and yet so deprived. She had servants and status and a “first family” name, but Isabel was imprisoned, sentenced for life to be Mrs. Montague Cabot Davenport. Had she never found freedom? Is that why she was still here? If Isabel Davenport could be here, did that mean that Clay could be too? No, it was better to be crazy than for Clay to return.
I threw my head back and stared at the dentil molding that circled the edge of the ceiling. For a moment the cornice looked just like a mouth—a huge, boxy mouth with very even and somehow sinister-looking teeth. I blinked and the ceiling returned to normal.
The phone rang; I jumped up and ran into the kitchen.
“Aunt Lindsey? Where are you?”
“Hilary?”
“I’ve been waiting at Bonwit’s for an hour! Where are you?”
“So sorry, honey. I’m on my way.”
“Come quick. I found the most awesome dress. It’s strapless.”
* * *
I rushed into Bonwit Teller. Two saleswomen eyed me, but neither offered assistance; they turned back to a woman in her mid-twenties who was pirouetting in front of a mirror. I scanned the room and headed up the stairs. “Aunt Lindsey!”
I turned. The woman in her mid-twenties was my fourteen-year-old niece. “Hilary.” I came slowly back down the stairs.
She twirled a full graceful circle, her face radiant. “Isn’t it awesome? Isn’t it just like the most wonderful dress you’ve ever seen in your whole life?” It was a wonderful dress; it was purple silk, fitted tightly across the bodice and flaring into a wide skirt. And it was strapless.
“Hilary.”
Her smile crumpled. “You don’t like it.”
I touched her cheek. “No, honey, it’s a beautiful dress. And you look beautiful in it.”
“But you’re not going to get it for me.” Her voice was dead.
I forced a grin. “The old fart will hate it.”
“But you’re buying it—not him!” Hilary yelled, stomping her foot. “It’s my birthday!” Suddenly she didn’t look twenty-five anymore. The saleswoman nodded to me and discreetly stepped away.
“He’ll still make you return it—and never let you go shopping with me again.”
She knew I was right, but she put up a fuss anyway. The saleswoman never returned.
It was late afternoon by the time we found a dress at Saks. It was black velvet and was high enough in front to please Joel and low enough in back to be “awesome.” I was exhausted.
“Want to stay in town for dinner?” I asked her. “I’m meeting that new friend I told you about. Then we’re going to a party.”
“Like that?” She made a face at my jeans and sweater. “Nah, I’ve got to get back. I’ll just catch the Green Line at Copley. Then you’ll have time to go home and change.”
“How about a quick soda?”
“If you promise me you won’t go to the party looking like that.”
I smiled and we went into the Harvard Bookstore Cafe.
“You’re never going to meet any guys if you don’t start wearing makeup and better clothes,” she told me in a very adult voice.
I laughed as we sat down. “You sound like your grandmother.”
“Grandma’s pretty smart, you know.”
I picked up the menu. “I wear makeup.”
“Not today.” She looked at me closely. “And you sure could use some.”
“Hey!” I tapped her on the head with my menu and laughed. “Show some respect for your old aunt.”
She wasn’t laughing. “Are you sick?”
“No, Mom,” I said. “I’m just fine.”
“Then how come your skin looks so yucky and your eyes are all puffy?”
“What is this? Are you sure you haven’t turned into your grandmother?”
“Daddy says it’s time you got over Clay.”
“Oh, he does, does he?”
The waitress came and took our order. When she left I tried to change the subject, but Hilary would have none of it.
“Dad says that Clay wasn’t so great anyway,” she continued. “That Grandma hated seeing you two together so much that she moved to California.”
“Your grandmother went to California to be with Paul and David—and your father knows it.”
Hilary shrugged. “I heard him telling Mom the other day that you’ve forgotten all the bad stuff—like you used to do when you were a kid. He said that you’ve blocked it off.”
“Blocked it out.” So Joel and Nora were still psychoanalyzing me. And he was still down on Clay. The prick.
“Anyways, that’s what he said.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “All of a sudden the old fart has all the answers?”
She grinned. “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of weird for me to be talking like he knows what he’s talking about.” She took a sip of her soda. “But you still should wear more makeup.”
“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
“And change your clothes before the party.”
I tapped her on the head with the menu again. “Whatever you say, Mom.”
I didn’t do what she said, and Babs was no more pleased with my face and my attire than Hilary. But she took me to the party anyway.
I was leaning against the wall, wallflowerlike, watching the party. The house—if a palace of these proportions could be called a house—was magnificent. I recognized segmental archways and Queen Anne influences and a chair designed by Arthur Rotch. Hanging out with a Putnam sure led to some incredible places.
The ballroom glittered and scrolled and reflected in every direction. Everyone was laughing and dancing; and everyone was elegantly dressed. I felt like Cinderella without a fairy godmother. If only I had listened to Hilary and gone home and changed. If only I hadn’t come.
“When I saw you enter the room, I knew something very important was about to happen.” A portly man in a perfectly fitted tuxedo leered at me.
I was eye level with his hairline, which seemed to recede as I watched. “I entered the room an hour ago,” I said.
“Yes, so I noticed. You have such a sense of, of personal theater, that I knew I must make your acquaintance at some time during the evening.”
“And after you made my acquaintance, something very important would happen?” I scanned the room for Babs.
“Yes, if I found you as irresistible at close range as you are at a distance, I was prepared to propose that we ‘split this joint’”—his leer now rested on my chest—“and find a more suitable environment to pursue our friendship.”
I smiled. “I doubt that you’ll want to pursue our friendship—”
“I think I ought be the best judge of that fact,” he interrupted.
“—once I tell you my husband is a professional wrestler.” I smiled sadly and headed over toward Babs, leaving him standing alone and openmouthed.
Babs waved when she saw me. “This means you want to leave?”
“You don’t have to, but I think I will.”
“Want company?”
“Sure. You can even sleep over if you’d like.”
We got our coats and stepped out into the cold night. Babs put her arm through mine. “Why would I want to sleep at your house? I only live a few blocks away.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Or I could sleep at yours?”
She looked at me strangely and we walked in silence until we reached the corner of Dartmouth Street, where a left turn would take us to my place, straight on to hers. “Are you really serious about this sleep-over stuff, kiddo?”
“Why not?” I kicked some pebbles into the gutter. “It’ll be fun.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘Why?’ Weren’t you ever a teenager?”
“This isn’t about hairdos and confidences—this is about something else, isn’t it? Tell me the truth, Lindsey, what’s this about?” She grabbed my shoulder. “It’s ghosts again, isn’t it?” she demanded. “Something else happened!”
“Nothing happened. I just thought some girl-talk would be fun.” I continued to play with the pebbles, pushing a few into a crack in the sidewalk.
“If you don’t want to tell me what’s been going on—” Babs shrugged “—don’t tell me. But you’re not coming to my place—we’re going to yours. I’ll keep you company—protect you from ghosts, if necessary. But only on the condition I get a shot at seeing some real ghostly antics myself.” She steered me to the left.
When we got to the apartment, Babs looked around, frowning. “No ghostly antics?”
“Don’t appear to be any. Sorry to disappoint.”
“It’s a long night.”
“Don’t hold your breath; I just have the feeling that—shit!” I ran to the skater painting. “Look at this!”
“What, what?” Babs clasped her hands together. “What?”
“The painting’s been repaired!” I reached out and touched the picture. “Remember I showed it to you? Told you I broke it when I was trying to hang it? Look—now it’s all fixed. And it’s been hung up!”
“Fabulous! This is fabulous—the ghost fixed it! The ghost fixed it! I love it!”
I stood motionless. “At least she appears to be the helpful sort,” I said softly.
“She? She? You sound like Edgar. You’ve seen her!” Babs crowed. “Haven’t you? Haven’t you?”
“I haven’t seen ‘her’—I haven’t seen anybody, or anything. I guess I’m just becoming as demented as the rest of you.”
Babs’s eyes narrowed and she looked closely at me. “Can the evasive routine—you have so seen something!”
“I told you I haven’t seen anyone—anything.” I stared at the painting. “All I know is, I’m tired. More than tired, I’m exhausted. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Forget that, kiddo. Let’s stay up and see if anything else happens.”
“You can if you want. I’m going to bed.”
“What about setting my hair?” she whined, putting her hands on her hips. “What about smoking cigarettes and telling me how Johnny made you go to second base? Or was it really third?”
“I’m not in the mood, Babs.”
She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay, kiddo, I guess an early night wouldn’t kill me. Where are your linens? I’ll make up the couch in the study.”
“Come on—we’ll do it together.”
When Babs was settled, I walked slowly toward my own room, but pulled up short in the doorway—it was not as I had left it. The bedroom was cleaner than it had ever been. It was more than clean—it was immaculate. All my clothes were hung up, the bed made, my books and magazines neatly arranged on the bureau. The bedspread looked quite nice—pulled up tightly with the throw pillows flung artistically across the top—very different from my usual hurried attempts.
Had I made the bed? Hung up my clothes? Repaired the picture? Was I doing things that I was completely unaware of? Maybe I was a multiple personality. Or maybe there was a ghost. I didn’t know what to think. Too tired to think, I stumbled into the bathroom.
When I returned, the spread was neatly folded at the bottom of the bed, the blanket and sheet turned down at a welcoming angle. Once again I stood frozen in the doorway, my hand gripping the knob. Had I folded the bedspread? Had I forgotten something I did just five minutes ago? Or had Isabel Davenport turned down my bed? Tears filled my eyes, but weariness—a deep-down inside-the-bone kind of weariness—overwhelmed any other emotions.
I grabbed th
e spread from the bed and carried it into the living room. I lay down on the couch and rolled myself into a fetal position. Then I pulled the spread over my head.
I dreamt of Clay. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and I was in the house in Lexington, reading the Times Book Review and watching the Red Sox. I could see Clay’s muscular back gleaming through the window as he bent over his prize geraniums; the curve of his buttocks peaked out from the torn trim of his red running shorts. It was hot; my soda glass was sweating, leaving interlocking rings on the coffee table. I took a sip of Coke and growled at the pitcher.
Then a blast of cold air pushed through the room and a huge shadow darkened my paper. I looked up. Clay towered above me, twice his normal size. His arm belonged to Popeye; it was blown up like a balloon, his elbow lost amidst the swelling skin. “Bee … bee …” he croaked. Then he swung his arm down hard on my shoulder; I felt no pain, but I was propelled into action.
I jumped up like a jack-in-the box. The Syringe. The Adrenaline. It was my job to find them. But where were they? I ran to the bedroom. To his bureau. A postcard from California, a ten-dollar bill, and pictures of his softball team flew by my face as I frantically searched his dresser drawer. I had to find the syringe. I had to find the adrenaline. His checkbook, an unused Celtics ticket, and a matchbook from Bel Canto joined the debris buzzing around my head.
Finally I grasped the syringe. But when I reached for the adrenaline, two pieces came back in my hand; the ampule was broken and empty, the liquid dried-up and caked along the jagged edges. I pulled his night table drawer from its housing and flung it to the carpet. There lay the backup ampule—just as broken and just as empty.
I tried to run. I tried to call. But my legs were useless. They were dead. Just like Clay.
* * *
“Were you home Monday night?” Babs asked the next morning as we ate breakfast; she sipped herbal tea and munched an apple while I had my dose of caffeine and a buttery croissant.
“Monday? This past Monday? Yeah, I think so. No, no, I worked late. I guess I got home around ten. Why?”
Shattered Echoes Page 10