“Isn’t my daughter happy?”
“Damn straight she’s happy. But she’d be happy if she never had to go to school or take a bath. She’d be happy if she was the only one in the world who could say no.”
“You really think she’s that selfish?”
“No more selfish than any other little kid. But still, she’s just a little kid. We’re the ones who decide whether she should talk to ghosts.”
I almost announced that I was the one who decided that. But Joy had a point. I hadn’t hired her to be an automaton. It was her good judgment more than mine—and certainly more than Mrs. Abraham’s—that was making Joanne into a pleasant human being. An apology, instead of an attack, was in order. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess my problem is that I’m in love.”
“I’m in love, too,” Joy said. “I’m in love with Joanne. I don’t want her getting mixed up with small-town crazy people.”
“They’re not crazy, Joy. They’re devout Christians.”
“There’s nothing crazier than a crazy Christian.”
“You’re a Christian, aren’t you?”
“I’m a social Christian. The folks at my church get a little loud, but they don’t mess with snakes or have fits and fall down. And the reverend might like to give treats to some of the ladies in the congregation, but he doesn’t try to get children to talk to dead people.”
It sounded as if Joanne had told Joy about the séance. I didn’t see any point in discussing it—especially since Joanne still hadn’t told me what that was all about. Joy and I stopped talking for a while. I was thinking, oddly enough, about my first wife and her minister friend. I gathered from what I had just heard that Joy, too, was—or wanted to be—friendly with her minister. That would explain her tastelessly sexy churchgoing costumes. It seemed I tended to associate with women who found clergymen irresistible. I was glad when I recalled that Verity Palmer had told me that there were no preachers in Childgrave. So, if Sara was involved with someone else, it wasn’t necessarily a person who wore a reversed collar. In any case, there didn’t seem to be much doubt that being involved with Sara was going to mean being involved with God. I had heard often enough that God is love, but I wondered if it worked the other way. Love is God? It didn’t sound right.
But Harry had assured me earlier in the evening that nobody knows what’s right. At that moment, I envied Harry. He didn’t have to worry about God. And Harry had Lee, whose Higher Power was J. S. Bach and his deathbed chorale. Joanne had her ghosts. What did I have? I had my camera, but that had never seemed like anything more than a toy to me. Maybe it was time to put the toy in the attic.
I thought of the people I had met in Childgrave. I could go through my list of Manhattan acquaintances and come up with people who seemed to have the same kind of eccentricities that the Childgraveans had. But there was a difference. In Childgrave, everyone understood that God is God. What did I understand? I had devoted my years to the pleasures of not understanding. Did that mean that I couldn’t, if Sara wanted me to, believe in God? Under the influence of Harry’s cuisine, whiskey, wine, and calvados, I decided I could believe. It is probably easier to believe when you don’t understand. I hoped Sara would give me a chance to prove my belief in her and in the inexplicable.
I turned to Nanny Joy. She smiled at me. But it was the kind of smile you give someone whose name you don’t know.
“Are you going to leave us?” I asked.
“I don’t leave people,” she said. “They leave me.”
I was irritated—partly out of guilt and partly because Joy seemed to be showing an unusual amount of self-pity. “What makes you think we’re going to leave you?” I asked her.
“Joanne says you’re going to live in that town.”
“Where did she get that idea?”
“From God, she says.”
“Oh, fine. Well, God hasn’t mentioned anything to me about it, Joy. And even if we did go to live there, couldn’t you come along with us?”
“No, Jonathan. Uh-uh. Small towns make me think of plantations. You’d start calling me Mammy Joy.”
I was too tired to answer that. What the hell did Joy know about plantations? And what had I done to make her think I could treat her like some kind of caricature? Weren’t we just a couple of twentieth-century New Yorkers? I didn’t spend my time thinking about my ancestors and feeling any guilt or pride about what they had done. It didn’t matter whether they had been on the Mayflower. Now that I thought of it, hadn’t there been bond servants on the Mayflower? My ancestors might have been WASP slaves. But I wasn’t out to get revenge on Miles Standish.
I started to stand up, but Joy took hold of my arm and pulled me back down. “Don’t be my enemy,” she said. “Just let me pull you into your old world once in a while. I don’t want to make it too easy for those people, that’s all. I won’t break your arm. Just let me twist it.”
I smiled and said: “Fair enough.”
Joy didn’t smile. She put both of her hands around my wrist and twisted. I resisted with all the strength I had, but my arm didn’t stop turning until it got to what must have been the breaking point. Joy took her hands away and kissed my cheek. “You’re a sweet man, Mr. B.,” she said. “But you’re not a strong man.”
“Blessed are the sweet,” I said.
“We’ll see.”
I stood up and tried hard to keep from rubbing my arm. “I’d say you’re stronger than they are, Joy.”
“I hope so, my friend.”
“Why don’t you play some music, my friend? I’m going to get into the bathtub and soak my arm. I’ll see you in the morning.”
As I was leaving the room Joy said: “Ask Joanne about the knife.”
That slowed me up a bit, but I kept walking. As I started to fill the bathtub I heard the voice of Billie Holiday in the distance. She was singing “God Bless the Child.”
God!
The next morning, Joanne decided to play Alarm Clock, which was one of her less endearing games. The rules were pretty simple: she just placed her mouth next to the ear of her sleeping father and did her imitation of an alarm bell. To make matters worse, when Father opened his eyes, he found that his daughter had no clothes on.
It always made me extremely uncomfortable to see Joanne nude, but I played the modern parent and pretended not to be embarrassed. As soon as I could manage it, though, I pulled Joanne onto the bed and wrapped her in the covers.
“Are we going to Childgrave today?” Joanne asked.
“You have to go to school.”
“When are we going?”
“Not for a while.”
“I want to go.”
“Why?”
“My best friend lives there.”
“Who is that?”
“Gwendolyn Hopkins.”
“I thought I was your best friend.”
“You’re my daddy. And you never tell me secrets.”
“Did Gwendolyn tell you secrets?”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
“It’s a secret.”
“What about that game you played at the table with Mrs. Coleridge and Gwendolyn? Is that a secret, too?”
“We talked to the dead little girls.”
“What did the dead girls say?”
“They’re happy with God. They said I could be happy, too.”
“Aren’t you happy now?”
“I could be happier with them.”
“Do you want to die?”
“They didn’t just die.”
“What does that mean?”
“That’s a secret.”
“What about the knife?” No answer. “Nanny Joy said you told her about a knife.” No answer. “I don’t think it’s nice
for you to have all those secrets. I don’t think you can go back to Childgrave until you tell me what the secrets are.”
I expected a tantrum to appear, but Joanne just smiled. “It’s a secret,” she said.
I decided I’d better ask Mrs. Coleridge about the secret. I delivered Joanne to Nanny Joy, and then I wrote a note to Mrs. Coleridge, saying I would see her next Saturday and that I would bring my camera but not my daughter. I had a cup of coffee, and after Joanne had left for school, I went back to bed, where I did more wondering than sleeping. I wondered whether I should mail the note I had just written. Maybe it would be better if I just forgot about the whole thing.
How had all this confusion started? It had started with Sara, of course. I remembered her at the performance of Orfeo; at the recording studio; in the restaurant. But I remembered her most clearly seated across from me on the bed that I was now lying in. It was a stimulating memory. Maybe my attraction to her was nothing more complicated than sexual stimulation. Well, that was complicated enough. I’ve never been able to understand why sexual obsession shouldn’t have the effect of simplifying a person’s life, giving it an organizing focus. But it doesn’t seem to work that way, as Don Juan demonstrated. It’s the preadolescents that have the simple life. Although there are always exceptions. I wasn’t sure that life was so uncomplicated for kiddies in Childgrave. I’d have to find out about that.
So, the next Saturday, my camera and I made the journey to Childgrave. I lied to Joanne and told her I was going to do some portraits of wealthy people on Long Island. I don’t think she believed me, but she didn’t make a scene. Nanny Joy was planning a little victory celebration and was taking Joanne to see a holiday puppet show that had become an annual event. I had seen it the previous year, and I wasn’t amused. It didn’t seem especially wholesome to depict Santa Claus as someone who wore a dress and engaged in a lot of falsetto badinage with the gnomes in his workshop. But the audience—which consisted primarily of jaded one-parent children and fastidious men who weren’t likely ever to have children—seemed to be enchanted.
I had my own variety of enchantment to deal with in Childgrave. As I turned off the highway and drove down into the valley I could see that Golightly Street was as deserted and murky as ever. But that didn’t depress or disturb me. Instead, I began to feel a kind of pleasant excitement that I hadn’t felt since childhood—the sort of excitement I used to feel when entering the secret clubhouse some friends and I had set up one autumn in the basement of an abandoned building in our neighborhood.
But although Childgrave’s darkness didn’t create any distress for me emotionally, it presented some practical problems. The skies were dark—not just overcast, but filled with black, wind-driven clouds. I wondered whether there would be enough light to allow me to do the portraits. I hadn’t brought any lighting equipment with me, although I should have realized that even on a sunny day there probably wasn’t a house in Childgrave that would allow much light to enter. But I had loaded my film holders with my most sensitive paper, and I would be able to get a decent image even by candlelight. The problem was that I would have to get little Gwendolyn to sit absolutely still for the long exposure times. It wasn’t an encouraging situation.
Chief Rudd’s car was parked in front of Mrs. Coleridge’s house. Evelyn greeted me with a fond handshake and led me into the sitting room, where I got the feeling I had interrupted a funeral service. Verity Palmer and Beth and Arthur Hopkins were sitting solemnly at the bare table. Delbert Rudd was standing tensely next to the fireplace. He was wearing a black uniform, and his right hand was resting on the upper slope of his impressive tummy. The hand was pale, and I noticed for the first time that the tip of its middle finger was missing. Gwendolyn Hopkins, my subject for the day, was the only person in the room who looked relaxed. She walked toward me, smiling, with her arms extended, inviting an embrace. I picked her up, and she said, “You didn’t bring Joanne.”
“No.”
“That was naughty.”
“I’ll bring her the next time.”
“Yes. Before I’m not here.”
Although I was getting used to cryptic remarks by five-year-olds, and although it didn’t seem like the time or place to conduct an inquiry, I couldn’t let Gwendolyn’s remark get past unchallenged, “What do you mean, ‘not here,’ Gwendolyn? Where are you going?”
Then two people spoke at once: Gwendolyn and her mother, Beth. Unfortunately, Beth was almost shouting and Gwendolyn was whispering confidentially, so what I heard for the most part was Beth changing the subject: “Where will you set up your camera, Mr. Brewster?”
I couldn’t swear to it, but I thought Gwendolyn’s overpowered reply included the word “dead.” But I didn’t get a chance to repeat my question. Beth Hopkins took her daughter out of my arms and carried her away. I finished saying my hellos, and then I turned my attention to the question Beth had asked: where I would set up my camera. Working in Mrs. Coleridge’s sitting room would be a little like working in an overpopulated closet. Then the chief came to my rescue. He apparently didn’t enjoy talking to me, so he said to Evelyn Coleridge, “Maybe Mr. Brewster would find it easier to work in Martin’s studio. I don’t suppose Martin would object.”
Everyone seemed to think that was a good idea. Mrs. Coleridge explained to me that “Martin” was Martin Golightly, the local artist, who had a studio with a skylight. Chief Rudd went off to investigate the situation, and five minutes later we all made a solemn procession to Martin’s studio—which turned out to be ideal for my purposes. The studio was a log cabin in a lean-to design, with a roof of frosted glass. There was plenty of space to work in, and the light seemed to be adequate. The big disadvantage was that the building was unheated. That wouldn’t make little Gwendolyn’s job of posing any easier.
Martin Golightly joined the gathering. He was a slight, handsome, long-haired young man—about twenty-five—who seemed to find the world either puzzling, hostile, or both. Evelyn Coleridge performed the introductions. “Jonathan,” she said, “this is Martin Golightly, my daughter Sara’s ex-husband.”
I’m not sure about what happened next. My response to the introduction might have been “Oh, shit.” If I didn’t say it, I certainly thought it. I remember everyone looking embarrassed. Or everyone but Chief Rudd, who seemed to be enjoying himself. My confusion began to clear when the door to the studio opened and another young man walked in. He was about Martin’s age and from an exotic racial background (Mohegan Indian, it turned out). His name was Roger Sayqueg, and when he went to stand next to Martin, it was obvious that they were more than just buddies. I had enough gay acquaintances in the city to know that it was unwise to make snap decisions about who was and who wasn’t gay. I also thought it didn’t make much difference anyway. But it’s easy to recognize lovers, whatever their sexual persuasion. Then I remembered Mrs. Coleridge had previously made a polite reference to Martin’s “proclivities.” I felt much better thinking that Martin hadn’t had sex with Sara. It was an idiotic, macho reaction on my part—but I was grateful to it for allowing me to function again.
Martin and all the other spectators stood silently back in the corners of the studio and allowed me to work without interference. I set up my camera and put a stool in position for Gwendolyn. Before I made any exposures, I sat on the stool and took Gwendolyn on my lap. She was a remarkably attractive little person. I hadn’t paid too much attention to her on my previous visit, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have felt the full effect of her beauty, because she had been wearing a drab sort of snowsuit and a tight wool cap that concealed her hair and made her face look skull-like.
But now, when she took off her coat and hat, she was transformed. Her long, disheveled hair had the color of sun-scorched grass. Her eyebrows were pale, but her skin was even paler, and her chestnut eyes looked black in contrast. What was most striking, though, was her body. She was wearing an und
ecorated, short-sleeved white dress. The skirt of the dress stopped about halfway down her thighs, which would have seemed acceptable for most girls her age. But most girls her age had legs that seemed to be arrangements of sticks or balloons. Gwendolyn’s legs were curiously adult. She accented the effect by wearing white shoes with moderately high heels and by not wearing any stockings.
I thought of moving the camera closer so that it viewed her only from the waist up, but I decided instead to rely on being able to get her to strike demure poses. As she sat on my lap she was not exactly concerning herself with modesty, and I rearranged her skirt so that it furnished at least some basic cover.
Gwen hooked her hands around the back of my neck and stared a little disapprovingly into my eyes. “I wish Joanne was here,” she said.
“I know, dear. I’ll bring her next time.”
“Before Christmas,” Gwendolyn said. It was more a command than a request.
“Yes. Before you’re not here.” I lowered my voice. “You didn’t tell me where you’re going.”
“I’m going to be with the dead little girls.”
“Are you sick?” I whispered.
Gwendolyn shook her head and smiled.
From the background came the voice of Gwendolyn’s subject-changing mother: “Will you have enough light, Mr. Brewster?”
“I think so,” I answered. Then I turned again to Gwendolyn. “But you’ll have to be very still,” I said.
“They’ll be good pictures, Mr. Brewster. Wait and see.”
Gwendolyn jumped down off my lap and announced that she was ready to have her picture taken. I went to the camera and started what I assumed was going to be a futile session. Gwendolyn ignored my attempts to pose her. Actually, she did extremely well on her own, giving me a variety of poses and expressions without resorting to mugging. But she ignored me when I asked her to hold her poses. “It’s all right,” she said. “You’ll see. Just take pictures.”
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