Reliance, Illinois

by Mary Volmer

  Miss Rose placed me to the right of Mr. Clemens, who sat next to Miss Rose at the head. In hindsight, I recognize that many of the incredulous looks I received might not have been on account of my appearance but because of my position next to Clemens, whose nom de plume and growing fame must have been known to everyone but me. I also see the purpose the arrangement served, for it defused any envy that might have arisen if, say, Reverend Reynolds rather than Senator Biggs had enjoyed the position. And, of course, with only me to his right, Mr. Clemens’s attentions would be directed f irst and foremost to Miss Rose, herself.

  To my right, a musician of some kind—Mr. Girard by his tag—sat straight as a railroad tie, as the senator’s wife, on his other side, bombarded him with an unchallenged onslaught of her thoughts and opinions. Mrs. French waved Tom away with the wine. “I’ll have what she don’t,” Mr. Clemens declared. Tom f illed my glass. William laughed at something Violet said. Madame Molineaux caught me staring.

  No, her gaze rested, or seemed to rest, over my shoulder, but when I looked I found only the moon winking between clouds through the window. Molineaux swirled her glass and took a sip. I took a sip, almost spat the sour taste, and looked around to see if anyone noticed. No one seemed to, all caught in a giddy waiting stillness that had settled over the table, until Miss Rose stood up into it. She welcomed everyone, toasted the upcoming centennial, then made a funny speech about a preacher who’d denounced free love only to be caught with another man’s wife. To which Mr. Clemens responded, “I would rather go down in history as the claimant than as Mr. Beecher.” He elaborated to a chorus of laughter, which splintered into private conversation, linked and splintered again. The woman question, the greenback, the whiskey tax, the season at the Park, the superiority of Racine’s heroines to Corneille’s, back to the woman question.

  “If sainthood is required to run a household, Senator,” said Miss Rose. “Then no less should be demanded of those who run the country.”

  Tom f ills my glass, which isn’t quite empty. Mrs. French again says no, as does the Negro reverend. Oysters, then two kinds of soup, arrive from the butlery. Mr. Girard chooses the broth; Clemens, the cream, so I choose cream. Spoons sing on bone china. The chandelier sprinkles light. Voices. The chatter of rain. Moaning wind through the cupola. Goodbye, soup bowls. Tom f ills my glass, and I have decided that the other faces at the table look like living portraits framed against the red velvet cushions of their tall chairs. I drink. Mrs. French throws me a strange look, and William, William, William catches Tom by the sleeve, shakes his head, and they both look at me. Clemens casts his fork aside and picks up his lamb chop, so I do the same, resolving to tell Mrs. Nettle now. No, later. Tonight. That she must be the best cook in Reliance County, in the United States, in . . .

  The senator’s wife. Mrs. Biggs, the senator’s wife, is asking me something. “Mozart or Beethoven?”

  The musician, too, crosses his arms, waiting.

  “She won’t know,” says Violet. I feel eyes. I feel wine and oysters and soup sloshing in my tummy.

  “Neither?” I manage, and Mrs. Biggs claps her hands.

  “Oh, quite right, my dear! How is it that the history of great composition has been reduced to only two composers? What about Bach, Mendelssohn, Schumann? What about Chopin? True brilliance dies young, you know,” she informs the quiet musician, Mr. Girard. William smiles and I am smiling.

  “I have heard it said”—Senator Biggs’s wife continues as if the speaker might be lurking in shadows above the chandelier; she has a thick brow that spans both eyes, and she pronounces each word as if she means to taste it—“that Chopin is too energetic and disruptive to the gentler sex’s sensibilities. But surely one cannot lift one’s soul too high above the ground.”

  “Disruptive to the sensibilities!” says Miss Rose who has, with the rest of the table, joined the conversation. “Who on earth makes these ridiculous declarations? What is the purpose of art but to disrupt, to heighten, to excite the sensibilities?”

  “Within reason,” says the Negro reverend. Reynolds. Reynolds is his name. A breeze moans through the cupola.

  “Whose reason, Reverend? Yours? Mine? Mr. Stockwell’s? Did you know his Sin Society has drawn up a petition against my theater? A den of obscenity, he called it, without once inquiring what we plan to produce.”

  Miss Rose describes a few of what she considers Stockwell’s most notable physical attributes, and pretty soon everyone except Senator Biggs and the reverend is laughing. It takes me a long time to stop laughing. Then a lemon torte in the shape of a smile sets me giggling, and not even a look of warning from Mrs. French sobers me.

  “I wouldn’t underestimate Stockwell’s power in this town,” says Reverend Reynolds.

  “There is a Mr. Stockwell in every town these days, zealots all,” says Clemens, f inishing his drink. “Myself,”—he points to himself—“I believe it a far more strenuous exercise to remain a skeptic. There is never a time when the skeptic can lay down discernment and rest on the assumption that a position, which is neither logical nor reasonable, must nonetheless be true.”

  “I have heard his daughter, Georgiana, is quite an artist,” says the senator’s wife.

  “A painter,” says William, quickly. I look over at him. “That is, I have heard she wishes to be a painter.”

  Dinner is over. My face won’t stop smiling. I don’t remember what’s funny, but it’s okay, because suddenly the manor is full of people smiling: shopgirls and young men from town, doused in cologne, oiled hair damp and steaming. They are talking in clumps in the parlor and reciting poems on the gallery stage and playing cards in the conservatory and dancing to the music of the string quartet that seems to have blown in with the wind. I f ind William pinned beside the spiral staircase by Big Nora and Little Angela.

  “Easy, Maddy,” says William. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, William,” says Nora. “You are such a dear.”

  Miss Rose calls everyone to the parlor for a recital. I stumble along after Nora, clinging to William’s arm. And when I sink down beside him, cross-legged on the parlor carpet, I feel as though I’ve left part of myself, maybe the ugly part, behind. Nora and Angela whisper. Mr. Girard sits at the piano. And oh my, my! If this is Chopin, the senator’s wife is right. She is right about how the music lifts the soul!

  “No, Maddy, sit down.” William’s hand on my shoulder. People clap. People talk and laugh. Miss Rose recites a poem, then stands until applause rises enough to permit a bow. Tom at my side with coffee, but I don’t want coffee and say so.

  “I should ask the same of you, sir,” says Madame Molineaux to Reverend Reynolds. Everyone who has not returned to the gallery, quiets to listen. “You who prays to a god who once assumed corporeal form and then ascended.” Madame Molineaux glances around at her audience. “To where did he ascend, Reverend? Where lies the realm into which you send your prayers?”

  Her eyes circle not just the faces, but also the shadowed walls behind us. I think it very funny.

  “Shhh, now Maddy. Hush,” said William handing me his coffee, which I don’t want, but drink because it is William’s.

  “Who’s here? Is someone here?” whispers the reverend’s wife. “My dear baby? Harold!”

  The woman’s face gapes with grief, and the giddy joy I’d been feeling sinks.

  “I don’t know,” says Madame Molineaux, her eyebrows arched. “Shall we f ind out?”

  “What fun! A séance!” says Nora.

  A hand on my shoulder sets my hair on end. “Madelyn.” It’s only Mrs. Hardrow. Solid, indelible Mrs. Hardrow. “Mr. Stark, pardon. Miss Rose would like a word with both of you.”

  I do not, not believe in spirits. I used to hover in the doorway as Isaiah’s wife, Ruth, conjured Dot’s husband back in Susanville. But I’d never spoken with him, nor did I expect a reply when I addressed my worries to Dot after she had
passed. Should I have attended Dot’s soul more carefully? Maybe, I think, wobbling up the stair after William, maybe Dot is angry with me for neglecting her, and if Dot is angry, what about the dead girl, Aileen?

  One lamp lights the off ice. I see f irst a great looming shadow on the adjacent wall, and then its maker, Miss Rose, by the settee, arms crossed, foot tapping. Even so, I remain insensible to the peril of the situation until I see the smirk on Violet’s pretty face.

  Says Miss Rose, “I demand so little for my hospitality. A bit of gratitude!” She stomps, no doubt making manifest some disgruntled spirit conjured below in the parlor. “A bit of loyalty for my generosity and you, you repay me by . . .”

  She takes a great breath; the ostrich feather bobs with indignation. Still I remain more fascinated than afraid until her next words. “Let me see it.”

  “Miss Rose,” says William. “What’s this about?”

  “Thief,” Violet pipes. “I knew she was a thief. She wears it around her neck.”

  “Now, Madelyn!” says Miss Rose. “Let me see it.”

  What can I do but bring my precious charm from beneath my blouse?

  “You see!” says Violet. “You see, I told you. She’s a liar and a thief. She says William gave it to her.”

  “But I. I didn’t . . .” I take a wobbly step toward the door, but there again is Mrs. Hardrow, turning me back toward my accusers. William’s pale skin looks sickly blue.

  “Oh,” Miss Rose says. In the dim light, the mirrors are dark moving pictures and my tummy is a jostle with them. I close my eyes. “Well. That is not mine.”

  I open my eyes.

  “It was mine,” says William softly. “Madelyn is telling the truth.” The truth? “I gave it to her.” He what? “It was my mother’s. Old Mr. Werner gave it to her when she was new to this country and all alone in the world. And I . . . I gave it to Madelyn for the same reason.”

  He gives me a look and I stay silent, even as a baffled triumph flaps in my belly.

  “But she wasn’t!” declares Violet, a desperate edge to her voice. “She wasn’t all alone. She came here with her—”

  “Violet!” said Miss Rose. “I think you have said quite enough for one night.”

  On the strength of these revelations and the wine, the room begins to gyrate. The charm had been Willa Stark’s? Had been William’s. And William lied. William lied for me!

  But my belly must know there is more behind William’s lie than loyalty to me. At any rate, the rush of triumph I feel reveals itself in a curious way. I turn to Violet, intending only to give her my most belligerent smile, and vomit down the embroidered front of her lilac dress.

  And so we both make our exits from the festivities that night: Violet, weeping into the care of the chambermaid, Susan, while I, groggy and limp, am cleaned up, bullied out of my dress and into bed by loud-suffering Nurse Lipman.

  Oh, but night was not yet over. Another shock awaited me. Just past midnight, by the look of the moon, I woke to voices and a low, wailing moan rattling the shards of stained glass I saw when I opened my eyes. When the colors fell away to darkness, I knew I was alone in the bed. No offended spirits. No Lipman, either. A trickle of yellow light seeped beneath the sickroom door. A moan, more like the bleating of a lamb than a human sound, grabbed my heart and squeezed. It took me several minutes to f ind courage enough to push through.

  Old Man, mouth wide open, thrashed on the bed. Mrs. Hardrow in her nightdress, dark hair wild, had managed to wrap both arms around his legs. She held on while Nurse Lipman flattened herself across his chest, and still my poor turtlehead fought. “Wiaa!” he moaned.

  “Stop!” I heard myself cry. “Stop! What are you doing to him?”

  Lipman motioned with her head to the bottle and the rag on the nightstand. “Now, Maddy, before he hurts himself.” I did as I was told, doused the rag with ether, held it over Old Man’s nose and mouth until those terrible blind eyes rolled in his head; the hand holding my arm slackened; his body became a limp wire, and we three, still tense and battle worn, backed away from him, into an overarching silence much louder than his voice.

  Only then did I notice another presence in the room: an old woman in a nightdress, standing with her hand over her mouth as if to suppress a cry. A bald old woman with a fringe of gray hair on her white scalp. She slipped away through the hallway door.

  Said Lipman to Hardrow, “He’s been agitated all afternoon, and worse tonight, Missus; I was going to. I mean I should have doused him before bed, but . . .” Lipman gestured at me with her head.

  I hardly noticed. I was staring out the door after Miss Rose.

  22

  “Met the demon liquor last night, did you, Cinderella? Head hurt?”

  One gray incisor winked from a mouthful of strong yellow teeth. It took me a moment and a blast of stale breath to conf irm it was Nurse Lipman smiling down, rather than one of the haunting dreams that had passed for sleep that night. She dumped my bedpan into the wide-mouthed receptacle, wiped the pan with a towel, clanged it down. “Get up. It’s late.” Then she handed me a drink much the color of what she’d just discarded.

  “Ugh. Pickle juice?”

  “You’ll feel better. My da used to swear by it, and I got enough to do”—she nodded to Old Man’s door—“without playing nursemaid to the likes o’ you.”

  A thorn of guilt gouged me through the relief I felt. “He’s okay, then?”

  “Still kicking.” I liked to think she cared for Old Man (that someone did), but wasn’t sure and wasn’t sure I could blame her either way. There wasn’t much left to love. Indispensable—so long as Old Man lived, we were both indispensable. She stared into the wardrobe mirror, pulled at the sagging skin around her eyes.

  “I tell you, though. Never seen him rage so bad as that. Drink, now. All of it.”

  I took a sip. She poured fresh water into the basin.

  “Nurse Lipman?”

  “Huh?” She scrubbed her face as if to take the top layer off, swished water through her teeth, spat.

  “That was her. Miss Rose, last night in the sickroom. Wasn’t it? That was Miss Rose?”

  “No.” She dried her face.

  “No?”

  “Nope. Didn’t see nothing but a raging old man last night.”

  “But . . .”

  “And neither did you. Nothing worth gabbing about to your loudmouthed friends in the kitchen. Understand?”

  I chewed on this. “Well, what happened to her, then?”

  “Happened, she says. Nothing happened. She’s old, that’s all.” She turned to the mirror. “Happens to everyone.”

  I confess I hadn’t been much aware of Miss Rose’s age. Her splendid dresses, her hats—her wigs too, apparently—and the regal way she wore them, deflected such impressions. I had known she was older, but bald? I’d sooner believe I’d seen a spirit, and wasn’t sure what I felt about it, except that the conf irmation allowed me to separate another fact from the haze of wine and dreams.

  William had lied about the charm. William had lied for me. Which meant he cared for me. Mama had taught me this equation. To lie for me is to love me. I gave it to her when she was far from home and all alone in the world.

  But wait. The her must have been Aileen. He must have given Aileen the necklace. Then something else occurred to me. He lied for Aileen, too.

  Not just lied. Cut her throat, then lied. The thought was a cold f inger down my spine. Cut her throat to give her family a truth they could live with. So that she could be buried next to her brother.

  Lipman was staring down at me as if looking for leak holes in a boat. “Swear it. Not a word.”

  “Who else knows besides Hardrow?”

  Nurse Lipman could not keep the pride from her voice. “Nobody.”

  “Not even Mrs. French? Violet?”

  “Nobod
y. And you gonna tell nobody. Right? Or it’s both our asses.”

  The sickroom door closed behind her. The great clock in the entrance hall, then a chorus of mantle clocks, chimed six times into the silence. Late? Early enough. But there was little sense in crawling back into bed only to be roused again. Anything past f ive was late to Lipman, and if she couldn’t sleep, then by God neither would I (never mind that she napped most of her day with Old Man). I dressed, tended my matted hair, and followed the smell of baking bread to the kitchen where Nettle and Alby sat with cups of coffee between them, for once companionable.

  “Go on, then, what happened next?” asked Nettle. I picked up the cat and slumped into a chair. They were talking about the séance. Lizzette and Susan, uniforms crisp and faces weary, joined us with cups of coffee. “I didn’t think Miss Rose believed in haunts,” said Susan.

  “Believes in celebrity, don’t she?” said Nettle. “Go on, then.”

  Apparently Alby had sneaked upstairs to watch the séance, at great peril to her job, and had seen Madame Molineaux summon not only Mrs. Biggs’s baby son and the musician’s late mother, but also Benjamin Franklin, Joan of Arc, and several other departed luminaries. The performance, a great success. “Can’t believe you missed it,” she said to me.

  Susan pulled her shawl tight around sturdy, narrow shoulders. “She didn’t miss Violet.”

  “Vile Violet,” said Alby.

  “Best stay clear of her for a time,” Nettle said. “Imagine she got naught but misery in mind for you.”

  “But why?”

  “You really don’t know? It’s territorial. You’re encroaching on Violet’s territory.”