Shortest Day

by Jane Langton

  From then on Homer forgot his hostility and basked in this fanciful Cambridge version of the Middle Ages. It was nice, it was the Très Riches Heures come to life, enhanced by the mystic Victorian woodwork of Memorial Hall, with its thick varnish in which were magically embedded a few fragments of the Round Table. The playful enchantment of the Revels had taken hold.

  When Mary’s part of the rehearsal was over, she met Homer in the deathlike chill of the memorial corridor. “Oh, Homer, I was right. You didn’t like it, did you?”

  He was not yet ready to confess his transformation. “Well, I don’t know,” he said gruffly. “The Morris dancers were okay, I guess.”

  Mary introduced him to Sarah and Morgan Bailey. Sarah was enchanted with Homer. She gaped up at him. “So this is the famous Homer Kelly! Nobody told me you were ten feet tall.”

  “Only nine feet, actually,” murmured Homer, who was used to being stared at, and liked it.

  “No, no,” said Mary. “He’s only six feet six.”

  “Oh, Homer,” pleaded Sarah, taking his arm, “will you be our giant? We were going to do without one, but you’re just right. We’ve never had anybody so tall.”

  “Great idea,” said Tom Cobb, grinning at Homer. “How about it?”

  Homer demurred bashfully, and then, to Mary’s astonishment, he grinned and gave in. “Well, what the hell, I have to be in this building all the time anyway to teach our class.” He cleared his throat and roared, “FEE-FI-FO-FUM—is that the general idea?”

  Sarah threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Homer, that’s great.”

  Homer looked pleased with himself, his entire attitude toward childish playacting and Christmas frivolity and grown men and women making fools of themselves suddenly abandoned.

  Mary was amused. She glanced at Morgan, Sarah’s husband, and laughed. Morgan was smiling too, but his eyes were on Sarah.

  “Saint George,” cried Sarah. “Has anyone seen Saint George?”

  Homer looked at his wife and raised his eyebrows. “Saint George?”

  “Oh, you know, Homer, Saint George has to kill the dragon. And then he has to be killed himself, you see.”

  “No, I don’t see.”

  Before Mary could explain, an interpreter loomed up beside them, a gaunt woman in thick glasses. Her enormously magnified eyes gazed at Homer. She launched into a lecture. “Dying and reviving gods, you see. The hero combat. In remote times the kings of Babylon were put to death after reigning for a single year. It’s the sacrifice of the god-king, you see, to save the world. Among the Musurongo of the Congo the king is put to death after only a single day.”

  Mary was struck dumb. She repeated stupidly, “The Musurongo of the Congo?” Then she pulled herself together. “How do you do? I’m Mary Kelly, and this is my husband, Homer.”

  “Marguerite Box. Dr. Marguerite Box. Lecturer in mythology and folklore, the safeguarding of the life-spirit, the forms of taboo, the emblems of fertility, the worship of Adonis, the slaying of the god-king, et cetera.” Dr. Box wore a large purple hat. Briefcases hung from her shoulders like panniers on a beast of burden.

  Homer’s eyes glazed over. Dr. Box was a bore. She fixed him with her magnified eye. “The legend of Saint George is merely a winter-solstice festival to revive the light, a new incarnation of a dying and reviving God.” Then a blast of chill air smote Dr. Box, and she snatched at her purple hat.

  Parents were shepherding children out the north door. They were a wriggling crowd in puffy coats and woolly hats, screeching in the cold, blocking the entrance for someone on his way in. The newcomer was Arlo Field. He crushed himself against the doorjamb to let them go by.

  Sarah Bailey hugged him and dragged him inside. “Oh, Arlo, here you are. Saint George in person, come to save us from the dragon.”

  Mary and Homer Kelly followed the children out, while Sarah tucked one arm into Saint George’s and the other into Tom Cobb’s and hurried them into Sanders Theatre, trailed by Dr. Box.

  Morgan Bailey followed Dr. Box, asking himself, Who is the dragon?, answering grimly, I am. I am the dragon.

  CHAPTER 6

  Here come I, St George, I’ve many hazards run,

  And fought in every land that lies beneath the sun.

  I am a famous champion,

  Likewise a worthy knight,

  And from Britain did I spring

  And will uphold her might.

  Traditional British Mummers’ Play

  Arlo’s part of the rehearsal was over. He had put on the tunic of the Red Cross Knight, he had killed the comic dragon and been killed in turn by the swords of the Morris dancers. Then he had been brought back to life by the funny Doctor, and Sarah Bailey had hugged him again, and told him to come back tomorrow.

  He was released. Opening the north door of the memorial corridor, he stepped out into the cold night air, looked up to see what the universe was doing, and set off for his office in the Science Center. As an assistant professor in the astronomy department, Arlo had the use of the laboratory on the eighth floor. That was his professional address—Room 804, Science Center, Oxford Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138. His home address was in Cambridge too—Apartment B, 329 Huron Avenue.

  It amused him sometimes to remember the way he had written his address as a twelve-year-old boy in Belmont, seventeen years ago—

  Arlo Thomas Field

  47 Orchard Street

  Town of Belmont

  County of Middlesex

  Commonwealth of Massachusetts

  New England

  Atlantic Seaboard

  United States of America

  Continent of North America

  Western Hemisphere

  The Earth

  The Solar System

  The Milky Way Galaxy

  The Universe

  Some of his friends, clever snotty little kids like himself, had written their addresses like that too. Later on, Arlo had run across the same thing in a play by Thornton Wilder, the cosmic address of one of the protagonists, beginning with Grovers Corners, New Hampshire, and ending with

  The Mind of God

  At twelve, Arlo had been a strict atheist, and he had left out the mind of God. Now, as an adult, he didn’t exactly believe in a Christian God, but he wasn’t an atheist either. How could an astronomer be an atheist? How could he look at his photographs of solar flares in the light of the alpha line of hydrogen—immense magnetic explosions one hundred thousand kilometers across—or see X-ray images of coronal holes blotching the face of the sun, how could he examine the faint spectra of star systems on the remote edges of the visible universe—and not be some kind of mystics?

  Most of the time Arlo didn’t bother to think about it. He lived and walked and breathed in a giant globe of stars and galaxies and dark matter and interstellar dust, he was penetrated by neutrinos from the sun’s core and cosmic rays from somewhere in deep space. It was the ground of his being.

  Now, as he crossed the mall over Cambridge Street under a sky emptied of stars by the glare of the city, Arlo’s upward gaze was rewarded by nothing but the starboard lights of a plane heading for Logan. The Science Center was a checkered pyramid of light. Beyond its glassy geometry the other buildings along Oxford Street were dark shapes, hard and crystalline, as if they might shatter in the cold. Arlo knew they housed a hundred branches of scientific study—in the Museum of Comparative Zoology, for example, there was an exhibit of blown-glass flowers and a spider collection and a stuffed pangolin with round glass eyes—but now the museum was only a chunk of frozen brick and stone.

  The night was really freezing. The cold was no surprise, because the days were growing shorter as the Northern Hemisphere leaned away from the sun and raced into the shadow. Arlo hunched his shoulders and thrust his gloved hands into his pockets and warmed himself by thinking about Sarah Bailey. Her embraces were worth remembering. Sarah was all warmth and red cheeks, frowsy red hair, uncoordinated pieces of clothing, and pillowed surfaces. In Sara
h a generous mother nature had created a messy masterpiece. Her affection was a congratulation from the center of the earth. Unfortunately, it didn’t mean anything in particular. Sarah hugged everybody. Her wholesome regard for the entire human race radiated in all directions, landing on tables and chairs.

  It was too bad. Arlo thought of the other women in his life, a couple of girlfriends with whom he had been violently in love at one time or another. They had been like fleshly gardens full of flowering promise, but just below the surface they had turned out to be rock, solid rock, like the granite ledges under his mother’s lawn.

  The first had been a pretty woman with the perfect features of her wealthy ancestors, people with their pick of eligible mates. Cindy had learned in prep school to rule nations and govern empires. Her voice was loud and commanding. Arlo guessed she would settle for running the Milton Academy phonathon and the capital drive for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

  The second was classic New Age. To try was all scented candles, aromatherapy, Tarot cards, and Birkenstocks. For his birthday she had given him a crystal to dangle over his arm. He couldn’t make it work. “Look,” Totty said, “see what happens when I do it.” Suspended over her own arm, the crystal began at once to swing gently, then faster and faster. “You’re making it do that,” said Arlo. “No, no, I swear, it’s my own subconscious energy. I’m not doing a thing.”

  Arlo the scientist had said, “What exactly do you mean by energy?” and Totty had talked about vibrations and auras and forces and pretty soon they were shouting at each other.

  From these two, Arlo had learned to be wary of hockey trophies and loud voices, bangles, spacey music, and Indian sitars. Therefore he was cautious, perhaps too cautious. Probably he just didn’t know how to talk to women.

  But with Sarah Bailey you wouldn’t have to figure out how to talk. You could just be yourself. Well, it didn’t matter. Sarah was unavailable, she was married. Naturally she was married. All the good ones were attached to somebody else. Arlo wondered what her husband was like when he wasn’t committing manslaughter. Did he deserve a wife like Sarah?

  Cautiously Arlo pushed open the door of the Science Center, hoping to avoid the old man who usually occupied the corner of the entry on cold nights. But Guthrie was there. Arlo flinched, and tried to hurry past him, but the old man stretched out his hand. “Hey, guy, I wanta tell you something, I wanta tell you something.”

  Arlo stopped and turned back. “What is it, Guthrie?” he said warily, remembering all the times he had been bored to death by Guthrie.

  “Didn’t you know? They run me off. I tell you, for what? For what? What did I do? Nothin’! They run me off! I didn’t do nothin’, and they run me off. For WHAT? Listen, I wanta tell you something.” The old man beckoned to Arlo, then reached out with unexpected strength and pulled Arlo’s face down to his own. “See, I just wanta tell you something.”

  “Well, what is it?” said Arlo. “What do you want to tell me?”

  The old man smiled. His smile was saintly. “Listen, I mean, I like you, I respect you. I just wanta tell you they run me off! For WHAT? I ask you, for WHAT?”

  Arlo gave him a dollar, and made a rush for the elevator, while behind him the old man tried to catch a couple of students bursting in from outside. As the elevator door closed, Arlo could see them ignoring him, hurrying past, staring straight ahead.

  Arlo forgot Guthrie as the elevator rose to the eighth floor. He was eager to check on his camera. Time was growing short. The last exposures would have to be just right.

  He found his graduate assistant in the astronomy lab, Chickie Pickett. “Hey, man,” Arlo’s colleague had said, after getting his first eyeful of Chickie, “how about sharing the goodies?” Because Chickie didn’t look like the other women graduate assistants, who went around in athletic pants and heavy sneakers. Chickie wore bows in her hair and went in for four-inch heels and plunging necklines. She was upholstered in pearly gobbets of flesh. Chickie was writing a dissertation on the convection layer under the solar photosphere, but she looked like Betty Boop.

  “Is everything okay?” said Arlo, tenderly inspecting his camera. It looked all right. It was still taped to the floor next to the big glass window, its lens pointing east to the sky above the roof of Memorial Hall.

  “I was here this morning at eight-thirty,” said Chickie, “and it opened and went click, right on the button. Only two more exposures, one a week from today and the last one on the shortest day.” Chickie fluttered her eyelashes at Arlo. “Then you can take a look at your whole year’s work. I can hardly wait. The analemma on film! Forty-four suns in one picture!”

  “I hope to God nothing goes wrong. If the power goes down, the timing will be off. It could ruin everything.”

  “Or what if somebody joggles the camera? That Professor Finch, he’s so clumsy.” Chickie was a squealer, and her high-pitched giggle pierced Arlo’s right ear. “He blunders around in here, keeps bumping into me.”

  Arlo could think of a good reason for bumping into Chickie, but he said nothing. Chickie could take care of herself.

  They left together to have a beer in the Square. Old man Guthrie was no longer crouched beside the door waiting to snatch at Arlo as he went by. But as they crossed the overpass they ran into him. He was one of a group of people moving around in the dark, legs and arms appearing in the light of a gasoline lantern, disappearing again. They were working on something, putting up a tent beside a ramshackle structure made of boards.

  “Hey, guy, listen, I told you. Hey, guy, come here.”

  Arlo did not come. “Good night, Guthrie,” he said, setting off with Chickie in the direction of the Wursthaus on the other side of the Yard. Let Guthrie find another Saint George to fight his battles.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mary had a baby, oh, Lord,

  Mary had a baby, oh, Lord!

  Mary had a baby,

  Mary had a baby,

  Mary had a baby, oh, Lord!

  Black American tradition

  The production of the Christmas Revels was an enormous undertaking requiring a permanent office in Kendall Square, the year-round attention of a salaried staff, and continuous efforts to raise money. Hundreds of talented people were involved, year after year, paid and unpaid—writers and artists, a music director and a couple of stage directors, a sound engineer, a properties manager, a technical director, a stage manager, a lighting designer, a set designer, a volunteer coordinator, and an organizer of the annual flock of children.

  Principal among the talented people was Walter Shattuck, the Old Master, who had begun the Revels years ago, whose singing voice still lent them its haunting mystery. Walt’s celebrity was one of the reasons why throngs of people crowded into Memorial Hall to fill Sanders Theatre sixteen times over during every Christmas season. It explained why hordes of volunteers came forward every year to help backstage, to work on costumes and sets, and arrange for tryouts and rehearsal halls, and raise money, and send out mailings.

  The volunteers would have explained their loyalty by saying, “Well, I don’t know. It’s magic. It just, you know, like it casts a spell.” Perhaps they were underscoring the researches of Dr. Box, who saw the Revels as a continuation of ancient midwinter rituals and incantations to drive away the fearful darkness. Perhaps, like the mummers and dancers of old, they were whistling to keep up their spirits.

  But part of the attraction was surely the magnetism of Sarah Bailey. In the solar system of the Christmas Revels, Sarah was the central sun, sending out her benevolent warmth in all directions. The others circled around her like planets around a star. Her husband, Morgan, was a satellite too, but in a different way. While the others rotated on their own axes, turning away from Sarah and then toward her again and away once more, following their own routines, Morgan was like Mercury—a small and arid planet with one face perpetually facing the sun, his dark side turned to the rest of them, to whatever was not-Sarah.

  Morgan’s story was complicated, but
Sarah’s was simple. She had spent a happy childhood climbing into laps, she had grown up easygoing and in love with stories. She had moved comfortably from high school to college to marriage with Morgan, to writing scripts for the Christmas Revels, to becoming one of its stage directors.

  Sarah was an optimist. If something wasn’t right, she would make it better. If her marriage was troubled, she would fix it. She would cherish Morgan until he trusted her, until he was no longer threatened by the world in which she moved so easily like a fish poising in clear water.

  The Revels were wonderful to Sarah. She had no cynicism about them, no doubts. She loved the old songs and tales, she loved the stamping feet of the Morris dancers and the dark spaces of Memorial Hall. In Sanders Theatre the troubles of the world seemed remote and far away. If Sarah had been put in charge of the earth she might have improved it, but that was not her task. This was her job, and she carried it out with grace and confidence in those who worked with her. She mastered the rehearsals without pride or tyranny. With Sarah Bailey in charge, everything seemed simple and straightforward.

  But even with Sarah, all was not transparent and truthful. Sarah had an overwhelming secret. She was nearly five months pregnant, but she had told no one. She hadn’t even told her husband, Morgan. So far it hadn’t been necessary, because she had a lucky shape. Without being fat, she was a thick column of a woman, like those monumental stone goddesses holding up a temple on the Acropolis. Her superb breasts shelved out above her waist. She was large, but she did not look pregnant.

  Why hadn’t she told Morgan? She would have to tell him soon, because surely she would begin to bulge before long. After all, her husband knew her not only with her clothes on, he knew her naked. How long could she keep her secret? A few weeks? A month?

  The trouble was, they had agreed not to have children right away. Morgan needed time, he said, time without distraction. He had work to do. He was making a name for himself as an ornithologist, a comparative anatomist who had written a popular book on bird migration. For a few more years he wanted to be on his own, without depending on teaching, without working for some environmental outfit. He needed to pursue his own researches, wherever they led him. He wanted to write a serious scholarly work.