Crestmont

by Holly Weiss

  Marveling at what PT again reproduced he said, “What an ear. Like Hofmann.” Anchoring his thumb on PT’s first knuckle, he measured the finger span with his rough, reddened middle finger.

  “Have you heard Jozef Hofmann, the Polish-American pianist?” PT shook his head blankly.

  “He could play anything after hearing it once, but your hands are huge compared to his.” PT pulled his fingers away from the man’s grip.

  While he cleaned his glasses on the lining of his open suit jacket, Thaddeus P. Fassbinder introduced himself as a professor of piano from Temple University, gave a stern lecture about playing by ear, and arranged a lesson in his Philadelphia studio. “Up in the northern part of the city near Girard, that boarding school for orphans. The lesson would be gratis, of course. I just want to see what you can do under pressure.”

  Intrigued, PT agreed to play for the teacher after work on Friday night. “I’ll set you up with some shoes so you can get to your bowling, Professor Fassbinder.”

  “Don’t tell me you entertained the notion that I came in here to bowl. I was merely taking in some air and your playing lured me into this ludicrous facility of folly.” He pulled his business card out of the worn suit pocket, handed it to PT and shuffled out.

  Three months. Crossing the Delaware River on ferries, sloshing through snow drifts, slush and ice on the streets of Camden and Philadelphia, back and forth between Temple University and Sloan’s bowling alley. Professor Thaddeus P. Fassbinder guiding him through scales, finger exercises by some Austrian pianist named Czerny, compositions by Brahms, Bach and Mozart. Leaving each lesson smelling of pipe smoke with the sound of the professor’s pinched voice in his head saying this is what you were meant to do. Seeing the inside of a great concert hall for the first time when he went with Fassbinder to hear the great Jozef Hofmann at the Academy of Music. Staring at the music in front of him for hours, trying to master the technique. Sloan scratching his head with concern, asking PT if he was getting enough sleep. Listening to Fassbinder’s exhortations—any fool can improvise. You need the basics, you’re so musical, but your reading stinks. Fassbinder correcting PT’s finger position with his own eczema-covered hands. Fassbinder pushing him to forget the bowling alley and get a high school equivalency diploma at Temple’s night division. Fassbinder complaining—what a waste, you could play Liszt with those hands. Twenty years old. Practice, practice, practice. You’re way behind already.

  Enough. PT up and decided he couldn’t take it anymore one Sunday while he sat in his apartment paging through the newspaper. He didn’t have the heart to leave Sloan, but Fassbinder had him in a vise, so he answered an ad for a blowing alley attendant at some swanky summer place up in the northern Allegheny’s. Hell, at least the guy’s name was only one syllable: Woods.

  Eagles Mere, Pennsylvania

  1927

  Leaving the comforting smell of bean and ham soup, Gracie stood in the cold, pulling her navy wool coat tight around her. The newspaper boy had managed to get there, but not another soul had ventured out. Snow drifts covered the walk the boys from the Presbyterian Church had cleared just two hours ago. This was the fourth heavy snow in three weeks. Invigorated by the clean air, she wondered what Isaiah would have said about her idea to add onion to the soup. Onions, she had read, were good for colds, and she wanted Mrs. Cunningham’s to go away quickly. The wind died down and she heard an unfamiliar creaking sound. She moved over to the other side of the porch and listened. The noise was coming from above her head.

  Mrs. Cunningham was napping on the sofa so Gracie tiptoed up the stairs, careful to skip the one that squeaked. Her bedroom was unusually dark because the snow had piled up against the bottom pane of her window. She went back down to the pantry and returned with the push broom. When she opened her bedroom window, the wet snow settled down into a crusty frozen wall. She pushed hard against it with the broom, but nothing happened. Turning the broom end around, she poked holes in the snow with the end. The wall collapsed a bit. She worked like this for a while until she was able to push the snow away from the window. Sweating from the effort, she unbuttoned her coat and let it drop to the floor.

  Worried that the weight of the snow was putting a strain on the porch roof, she kept working until she could push some off onto the ground. Random thoughts came as she worked. How much she missed Dorothy. Eleanor’s leaf scrapbook. Wishing she could get over her fear of the water. How unappetizing the creamed hard-boiled eggs on toast she had made Monday looked until she put the paprika and parsley on the top. PT’s Christmas card apologizing for not saying goodbye and how angry she was for caring. Feeling cozy under the covers as she read Robert Frost poems in her tiny bedroom at night. Mrs. Cunningham talking about trading loss for happiness.

  Before she knew it, she was kneeling on the porch roof on a path she had cleared. She climbed back down into her room and grabbed a blanket so her knees wouldn’t freeze. She worried about her added weight on the roof. Kneeling on the blanket, she worked until she pushed some snow over the edge onto the ground.

  “Whoa, there, girl. Just stay put. I’ll get my roof rake,” Mr. Glaubner from the Eagles Mere Inn next door shouted to her. He had on fishing boots and a fur-stuffed leather hat with ear flaps. Gracie kept pushing while she waited.

  “I saw you up there on the roof from my kitchen window. Go back inside. I’ll pull it down from out here,” he said, hoisting the rake up from the side of the house.

  Gracie went back down and kicked snow drifts aside so she could watch from the front walk. Big hunks of wet snow thudded on the ground as Mr. Glaubner pulled with the rake. “Seems like every year we get a doozy like this. It was February last year, as I recall.” He stopped working, huffing hard. “Smart girl. The weight on that flat roof. Who knows how long it would have held.”

  She asked him to come in for some soup, but he said his wife needed help cleaning out the cellar. “Just being neighborly,” he said, grinning, and headed back to his inn.

  ****

  The second week in January, Peg and Zeke showed up at the front door. Raving about the bracing cold, they begged Gracie to go tobogganing with them. Zeke and his brothers had cut ice from the lake for a week and then used their horses to haul the ice blocks up Lake Street. Twelve other men from town worked with them, grooving and fitting the blocks, to make a solid ice slide down the steep hill.

  “The ice has to be a at least foot thick and we cleared so much snow the toboggan might even make it all the way over to the far side of the lake. Skaters beware!” Zeke said, urging Gracie to get her coat.

  A nasty purple egg with a line of dried blood bulged out of his cap. “How’d you get that gash on your forehead?” Gracie asked, lifting up his hat. “Let me put something on it.”

  “Aw, one of our Clydesdales kicked me. It’s nothing.” Pulling down his cap, he checked his reflection in the hall mirror. “It’d better heal up before my pretty Mae comes in March.”

  “Yakkety-yak, Zeke,” Peg said. “I’ve heard about her visit three times already. Let’s get to the snowball fight. Remember, whoever wins gets the first seat on the toboggan.”

  “Oh, you kids go have fun.” Mrs. Cunningham, who had evidently been standing there listening, held onto the mahogany arch that separated the parlor from the reception hall.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Cunningham. My mother said she’ll be down later this week for a visit.” Peg was out the door before the woman could reply.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind? I have a pork loin in the oven, but it should be fine until I get back.” Gracie wound the long green scarf her elderly companion had knitted for a Christmas present around her neck.

  “I won’t mind if you wear your red knitted hat that covers your ears, Madeleine. You know, the one I made for your seventeenth birthday.”

  Peg and Zeke hooted and threw snowballs on the front lawn while Gracie stood there, dumbstruck.

  “Listen to your mother, Madeleine. The cold will make you ill if you don’t bundle u
p.”

  Not wanting to add to Mrs. Cunningham’s confusion, Gracie merely patted her coat and said, “The hat’s right here in my pocket.”

  “That’s a good girl. Now go play. Your friends are waiting.” Gracie hurried out into the snow.

  Peg and Zeke were too busy with their fun to notice the pained expression on Gracie’s face. Zeke bragged about how well he and his brothers had rolled the roads, while they all walked over packed snow toward the toboggan slide. The screams and laughter of those already enjoying a ride ameliorated the cold. Peg and Zeke ran ahead, impatient to get on the next toboggan.

  Mr. Rose huddled over a card table set up on the side of the slide near the warm up shed. He sipped from his thermos cup and scratched a name off his clipboard. “What’d you say?” he asked, pulling an earmuff away from his left ear when Gracie approached. “Signing up for a ride, Miss Antes? Fastest ice slide in the country, right here in Eagles Mere.” Stamping her feet to stay warm, Gracie waited her turn.

  “Hey, blondie, wouldn’t a nice hot restaurant meal taste good after this?” Otto asked, appearing out of nowhere. “Geez, Gracie, we had it good that first summer you were here. Let’s give it another go.” When he moved in for a kiss, Gracie turned aside and fell into a snow drift. Otto twirled his moustache mischievously before deciding to help her up.

  When Gracie scanned the crowd for rescue, Peg and Zeke were already on the next toboggan with Shadow perched between them, eagerly awaiting their slide onto the lake. Gracie made excuses that she had to cook dinner for someone. She hurried back home trying to understand what had happened with Mrs. Cunningham.

  ****

  Mrs. Cunningham’s cough worsened three weeks after Gracie’s aborted toboggan ride. She lay listlessly in bed, complaining that her ears were blocked. Gracie’s suggestion to move her bed to the dining room so she could look out at the snow prompted a caustic response.

  “It’s my bedroom and I’ll keep it where I want. Maybe you are just tired of running up and down stairs to wait on me, Madeleine.”

  Dr. Webber was on his way to deliver a baby when Gracie telephoned, but said to keep Mrs. Cunningham warm in bed and give her fluids until he could get there. Mrs. Sturdy sounded alarmed over the telephone and promised to be over right after church. By the end of Sunday service she had all the church women organized to send food.

  “Stay with her,” Mrs. Woods said, trying to calm her down when Gracie phoned her on Monday. “Tell me what you need and I’ll bring the shopping to you at noon.” She was putting away groceries and heating up a casserole that had been sent over when Dr. Webber arrived.

  “Ah, Mrs. Woods,” he said, setting down his doctor bag, then handing her his coat, hat and gloves at the front door. “I see you have full use of your arm now. How long has it been, over a year now?”

  “My arm is fine, thank you.” She handed him his black doctor’s bag. “Mrs. Cunningham is upstairs.”

  “I’d like to examine the patient alone, please,” he said. Mrs. Sturdy and Gracie went downstairs to join Mrs. Woods.

  “She had a little cold at Christmas, that’s all.” Gracie rubbed the heel of her hand back and forth over her forehead, her head bent over a teacup.

  “Eric said she seemed fine when he came here for dinner. It’s just a catarrh. Older folks need a little more time to recuperate.” Mrs. Sturdy said.

  “How wonderful of you to arrange for people to send over dinners, Mrs. Sturdy,” said Margaret. “I’d like to help too. How ironic that I was resentful when the people from my church did this for me. Pride is so silly.”

  The doctor came into the kitchen, sighed, and set his doctor bag on the table. “Well, she certainly is cranky.”

  “Never mind about that. How is she?” Gracie insisted. Dr. Webber said she had a slight fever. The catarrh had progressed into Mrs. Cunningham’s ears and chest. He prescribed aspirin, fluids, and said he would send over a vaporizer to help her breathe. “Check her temperature regularly and if it goes up, telephone me.”

  ****

  She started refusing solid food. Within a week her temperature was up and her cough relentless. Dr. Webber let Gracie stay in the room when he examined Mrs. Cunningham this time. Shaking his head, he eased the stethoscope out of his ears. “We can keep her comfortable, but I hear a lot of crackling in her lungs and she’s very weak. There’s a vaccine I could give her, but it might make her worse. I don’t want to chance it. Broth and barley water, as much as she’ll take. Keep her warm. Call me if there is any change.” He packed up his doctor bag and left.

  By the end of February Gracie, Mrs. Sturdy, and Mrs. Woods alternated shifts. One cared for Mrs. Cunningham; one did household chores while the third slept. They left the front door unlocked so the doorbell would not disturb. Anonymous angels left chicken soup, beef broth, and Mr. Glaubner’s famous healing ginger soup. Peg telephoned every day, held the Woods’ household together and sent a pineapple upside down cake for the caretakers. Rev. Sturdy came over often to read the Bible and pray at the woman’s bedside. Eleanor braved the relentless cold to walk down every day after school with her reading books.

  One afternoon Mrs. Sturdy sang hymns to their patient in her soft alto voice. Some of the words trickled down to the kitchen where Gracie strained the barley water into a cup. How there could be any nutrition left in three quarts of water after boiling one cup of barley for three hours was mystifying to her, but she did what Dr. Webber said. When it was cool, she took it upstairs to relieve Mrs. Sturdy.

  When she saw Mrs. Cunningham’s ashen face, Gracie crumbled. “I should have done more when she first got sick.”

  Mrs. Sturdy put her arms around her and said into her ear, “People get sick, Gracie. There’s nothing else you could have done.” Then she went home to sleep.

  “Grace, is that you?” Mrs. Cunningham whispered after she sipped barley water from the spoon Gracie touched to her lips. She sat on the bed and held a cool cloth on the old woman’s forehead.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She shifted in bed, winced, and fell asleep.

  ****

  “I’m not sure she can hear you when you read, Eleanor, but go ahead and try.” Her mother kissed the top of her head.

  “I’m going to read you some of the Bobbsey Twins stories today, Mrs. Cunningham. They are a funny, mischievous pair. This will cheer you right up.”

  Margaret sat listening, proud of her daughter for being so attentive and nurturing. Eleanor’s voice eventually lulled her to sleep. The child crept over to sit on Mrs. Cunningham’s bed so she could read without disturbing her mother. The old woman’s eyes were closed, but Eleanor read anyway.

  Eleanor shook her mother awake from a dream. “Mama, wake up. She looks funny.”

  Margaret got up and put her ear to the old woman’s chest as she had done with her father so many years ago. “Go wake Gracie, Eleanor, and then do your homework in the living room.”

  Gracie asked Mrs. Woods to pull the sheet over Mrs. Cunningham’s face. They stood at the foot of the bed with their arms intertwined for a long time. Then Gracie broke the silence. “I’ll wire Madeleine in the morning.”

  The response came quickly. “Postpone funeral until I return in May. STOP. May stay in house until then. STOP.”

  ****

  Mrs. Woods was uncomfortable with Gracie staying alone in Mrs. Cunningham’s house and insisted that Peg move down with her or that she move back into the Woodshed. Gracie declined, saying she needed time to sort things out. She walked the house idly for days, watching the last snowfall of the season and listening to the radio without hearing the broadcasts. One day, she went upstairs to Madeleine’s room. Removing her clothes from the closet, she carried them to Mrs. Cunningham’s, made a small pocket between her dear friend’s clothes and hung her own in the middle so they would touch.

  Woodshed on Crestmont Hill

  May 1927

  Margaret Woods sat at the kitchen table with four pairs of shoes, polish
and brush laid out before her on yesterday’s newspaper.

  “It’s my turn, my dear.” William said, pushing the shoe-shining paraphernalia to the other side of the table.

  “But you did it last time.”

  “Why keep track? It makes me happy to do little labors of love for you when I can. Besides,” William dramatically unfolded the brochure he had toiled over for a month. “I’ve been dying to show this to you. Here is our first aerial photo, Margaret.”

  His finger sprang off the page after pointing to the caption. “See how the inn embraces Crestmont Hill from its commanding location 2200 feet above sea level with a view of twelve counties. A vast and inspiring panorama spreads before you from our cool guest rooms and breezy porches, rivaling the scenery found elsewhere in our country.”

  He tapped the photo of the new tennis courts. “I took this shot as soon as they painted the lines in.” He placed the brochure in her hands as if it were an old document of inestimable worth. Attempting to entertain her, he flung out his arms ostentatiously and quoted, “State-of-the-art red clay tennis courts invite not only each guest, but also professional players from all over the country. Spectators can enjoy the game from conveniently placed bleachers. Join us for the 1st Annual Crestmont Tennis Tournament in August 1927.”

  Margaret gave the brochure a perfunctory look and set it down, stopping him flat.

  Here it was again. She was always in another world on the anniversary of her father’s death despite any attempts he made to alleviate her yearly brooding. Boat rides, motoring to the Sonestown Hotel for dinner, taking the family for a picnic at World’s End State Park—nothing helped. He felt incapable of consoling her, but he never stopped trying. Frustrated, William continued with the brochure, hoping to cheer her up.