Things Invisible to See

by Nancy Willard

  “That’s how I felt,” said Clare, “so glad to be alive.”

  “You’re real lucky,” said Ginny. “If we get into the war, there won’t be any men left for us except the old and the married. Even if Ben is drafted, you’ll know you belong to somebody. You have somebody.”

  “I don’t want to belong to anybody,” said Clare quietly.

  “Honey, don’t you worry. You’ll be walking as good as new one of these days. You’ll be walking to the altar as good as anybody.”

  Ben was gone, and yet, Clare thought, he had never left the room. The chair he’d sat in praised him, the curtains he’d drawn still held the place where his hand touched them. And every fiber of Clare’s body carried the message, passing it from cell to cell, like a fire that warms but does not destroy: Ben was here. Ben was here. Here.

  The clock in the convent struck twelve. What are they doing over there now? thought Clare. She listened for the faint final stroke and heard a ping of glass shattered far away. The thirteenth stroke.

  The Ancestress hovered at the foot of the bed. Clare had not seen her for five nights.

  I’m ready, said Clare.

  She never asked where they were going. How much easier it was now, to slip like fog out of her flesh and gather her shadow self together, yet not a shadow either, but a flame, a lamp invisible to the eyes of the body.

  Tonight I shall follow you, said the Ancestress. I shall protect you, but you must be your own guide. Let the way choose you, and go where you are needed.

  Almost immediately they moved into the deep darkness of a long journey, a darkness filled with the gathering of waves into crested hills and their retreat into gleaming valleys, the net of green phosphorescence under the water’s skin, the cries of men going under, the bombs that sent them there, the moon that watched. Clare heard the gathering, the imperceptible tugs of the moon.

  Before I left my bone-house for good, said the Ancestress, I was surprised that I could hear the world’s hum long after my other senses winked out. All languages are open to you now, Clare.

  A deep chill caught them. They passed through a stone wall and came out through a tapestry on the other side into a large, badly lit room. Under a chandelier of carved beasts whose eyes hid candles, two men were studying the tapestry. The shorter of the two wore a white suit, and from his crown of golden antlers rose a swastika of pearls. The other might have been a diplomat, impeccable and unobtrusive in his three-piece suit. Black.

  Gobelin, Herr Goering? asked the gentleman in black.

  Of course, Herr Death, was the reply.

  Statues, tapestries, bishops’ staves, silver goblets, and Persian carpets lay heaped like an offering before a desk nearly eight yards long. Pale blond, inlaid with bronze swastikas. Two large golden candlesticks glittered at either end.

  Splendid desk, Herr Goering, observed the gentleman in black.

  Mahogany, said Goering. Notice my inkstand, Herr Death.

  Black marble?

  Onyx, replied Goering.

  And an exquisite yardstick, added the gentleman in black. Jade?

  Green ivory. With rubies to mark the centimeters.

  And what’s this? A painting of the Kaiser?

  It was used for packing, replied Goering.

  I must say, exclaimed the gentleman in black, I’ve done rather well by you.

  Reichsmarschall, whispered Goering. That’s all I want now. To be Reichsmarschall.

  And now, said the gentleman in black, if you’ll show me that coin.

  Stand under the lamp, said Goering.

  In the light cast by the eyes of the beasts, Goering drew out a black leather box and opened it.

  Just as you described, Herr Death. On one side, a man in a winged cap, holding a staff twisted with snakes. On the other, a skull.

  The gentleman in black turned the coin over in his hand, as if his palm were a balance and he were weighing it.

  This is not the lost coin, Herr Goering. This is a copy.

  Herr Death, I assure you—

  A copy. A poor trick, Herr Goering. You took the pattern from old tales about me. What power did you think I would give you in exchange? The power to meet your own death? He reached over and dropped the coin into the box and snapped it shut. Don’t you know that to those who serve me the power is already given?

  11

  Sunrise Jams, Childhood Preserves

  “DON’T LET THEM COME in yet,” said Clare. “I want to surprise them.”

  Mrs. Thatcher put her head out the door again.

  “They’re still at the nurse’s station.”

  She leaned toward Clare, who put her arm around the other woman for support.

  “Up we go—crutches into place,” she said.

  Curtain going up, act one, thought Clare, and the doorway was filled with an audience: her mother and father and Nell and Grandma and Davy, all bundled in winter coats, shy as peasants brought into the glittering rooms of the rich.

  “Look, Hal!” exclaimed Helen. “She’s standing! She can stand all by herself!”

  They surged into the room, and Mrs. Thatcher stepped protectively toward Clare.

  “Give her a hug,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “You won’t fall, will you, Clare?” And she gripped Clare firmly around the waist.

  Helen leaned over and kissed Clare’s cheek, gingerly. Does she think I’m contagious? thought Clare. Only Davy did not seem to be afraid of her. He held up a little metal box painted like a cereal carton and danced around her. “Look at the bank I got at the gift shop. Read what it says, Clare. Read what it says.”

  “Mouse Crusties,” said Clare. “It says Mouse Crusties.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t stay,” said Grandma. “I have a meeting.”

  Nell rolled her eyes at Clare.

  “Grandma, we’re bringing Clare home today. You can skip your meeting.”

  “I got to go,” said Grandma. “I’m the main speaker.”

  “She drives you nuts,” whispered Nell into Clare’s ear. “Absolutely nuts.”

  “If you’ll take her suitcase”—Mrs. Thatcher handed Clare’s overnight bag to Hal—“I’ll bring her down in the wheelchair.”

  “Oh, we brought a wheelchair,” said Helen proudly.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Bishop. We can use one of the hospital chairs to move her.”

  “Here’s your new coat, Clare,” said Nell. “It’s the first time you’ve had a chance to wear it.”

  Fake fur, the color of dry sand. Everybody in school was wearing fake fur. How new it smelled! Drawing it around her, she felt light-headed and a little frightened.

  My God, her feet! thought Nell. Poor dead birds propped on the footrest.

  And she turned her gaze elsewhere.

  It’s like the day we brought Clare home from the hospital, thought Helen. All that new equipment, the sterilizer, the bottle warmer, the Bathinette. I was afraid I’d never learn to take care of her. Terrified of giving her a bath.

  Mrs. Thatcher wheeled Clare past the nurse’s station, and the nurse behind the desk smiled.

  “Isn’t it wonderful to be going home?” she said.

  At the elevator they waited respectfully for Mrs. Thatcher to push the button for down, and when the door opened and a crowd of other visitors surged out, Clare was grateful for her brisk manner.

  “Out of the way, please. Wheelchair here. Please make room.”

  She eased the chair in backwards, so that Clare would be facing the door and could watch the numbers light up. Fifth floor, fourth floor, third floor, falling like a temperature.

  “Is everyone going to the ground floor?” called a voice from the back.

  The elevator stopped with a small jolt that sent Davy rising on tiptoes. Helen found herself gripping the arm of the chair.

  They passed the gift shop, the outpatient waiting room; they passed through heavy glass doors into the parking lot. The thin dusting of snow, the cold sunlight, the crisp bones of the trees, left Clare speechless.
The leaves—when had they gone? Her breath steamed out of her mouth and vanished. From the hospital window, with its bland sky and distant city, she had known none of this.

  “Clare,” said Mrs. Thatcher, “you can ride in the front seat.”

  She opened the front door of the Buick and drew the wheelchair close.

  “Now, Mr. Bishop, if you’ll just go around to her left side, and lock your arm around her waist.”

  Carefully, Hal slid his arm around Clare.

  “You have to lock your arm,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “Clench your biceps.”

  “Uff,” said Hal.

  “The most important job you have right now is keeping your arm there. When you’re walking, watch her feet and walk right with her, stride for stride.”

  “Papa, your arm is quivering like jelly!”

  They all laughed, except Hal.

  “That’s no arm,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “That’s an iron bar.”

  Clare plumped down into the front seat, and Nell and Davy and Grandma and Helen, who had been watching helplessly, snapped to life and crowded into the back seat.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get out again,” said Clare. “I’ll have to live in the car.”

  “Oh, you can’t live in the car,” said Helen earnestly. “I’ve got your room all fixed up for you.”

  “I hope your room is on the ground floor, Clare,” said Mrs. Thatcher.

  “Second floor,” said Hal.

  “There’s no bathroom on the first floor,” said Helen. “Isn’t that ridiculous? We have four bathrooms and none on the first floor.”

  “Clare will do fine,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “She’s got grit and then some, Mrs. Bishop. Not many of my patients meet a new boyfriend in the hospital.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” said Clare.

  “You wait,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “He’ll call. I can tell when they’re going to call. I can tell from the way they say good-bye.”

  Clare felt a pang of remorse. “I never said good-bye to Ginny.”

  “I’ll tell her good-bye for you,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “She’ll be so pleased you remembered her.”

  As they turned out of the parking lot into traffic, Helen leaned forward from the back seat.

  “Did your friend say he’d call?”

  “He said he might drop by sometime.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him,” said Nell.

  “How’s Bill?” asked Clare, changing the subject. “Are you still seeing much of him?”

  “Bill and Heidi,” Nell said. “Last week we went dancing at Whitmore Lake. First he danced with Heidi. Then he danced with me. Then he danced with Heidi. Then he danced with me. Then he danced with Heidi. Then he danced with me. The next morning Heidi called to say he couldn’t get out of bed, and she’d lost the medal she’d received at her First Communion, and she felt real bad about it because if you’re wearing your First Communion medal when you die, you go straight to heaven. You skip right over the other place.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Helen.

  They drove in silence for some time. At last Helen remarked, “Hal, this isn’t the way home.”

  “It’s the long way home. I thought Clare might like to see her old school,” said Hal, as if she had renounced it forever.

  “Well, slow down, Hal, so she can look,” said Helen.

  Clare turned, all unsuspecting, and saw that school, too, had gone on without her. Two boys were crossing the playfield, kicking a football across the patches of snow. Funny to pass the school at eleven o’clock on a weekday morning, to be outside the classroom when she should have been inside, listening to Miss Fairmont talk about irregular French verbs. Did the teachers miss her? She had always been a good student. Never came late to class, never fooled around in the halls. It wasn’t fair to keep her out just because she couldn’t walk up the stairs.

  “You should ask some of your friends over to visit you,” said Helen.

  Friends, thought Hal. She doesn’t have any friends. Always got her nose in a book.

  It took Clare nearly a quarter of an hour to walk up the front path and even longer to go upstairs to her own room, with everyone clenching and hugging and squeezing and pushing and hanging onto her, and Helen saying over and over, “Remember, Hal, your arm is an iron bar” and “Clench your biceps,” as if these phrases would protect Clare, so that when she finally arrived and was helped into her own bed, she never wanted to leave it again.

  And immediately thought: I must leave this room. Must know I can leave it.

  Already she could feel herself becoming a child in this undisturbed space which preserved the layers of her childhood intact, like the nine layers of Troy. But in reverse: the bottom layer was the most recent. The lowest shelves, within easy reach, were crammed with her books and her school papers and two jars that said Sunrise Strawberry Jam and held erasers. Just above the books could be found her India ink and her pens and sketchbooks and oils and the water paints she’d used as a child to make pictures and birthday cards for relatives.

  Above the paints, on a high shelf where the air was rare enough for cobwebs to grow undisturbed, lived her Storybook Dolls, all bisque and satin and taffeta, none taller than her hand; some still stood framed in their white boxes with pink polka dots, and two still clutched the tiny folder that listed the whole series of dolls a little girl could acquire if she were rich enough. Fairy Tales. Foreign Lands. Nursery Rhymes. Nobody Clare knew was rich enough to own them all.

  And above the dolls, just below the ceiling, hidden away in plain boxes were the oldest treasures: her christening dress and the silver cup and brush she’d been given when she was born and a glass baby bottle, streaked with amber from frequent sterilizing in hard water.

  On the ceiling itself her father had pasted paper stars the month before she was born, hoping perhaps for a son who would be interested in astronomy. They glowed in the dark. Lying in her crib, lulled by the murmur of adult voices downstairs, she had watched the stars before she knew how to call anything by its name, had heard the clatter of dishes in the kitchen below mark mealtimes, and the deep silence of afternoons stretching across the long days before she started going to school.

  The doctors had sent her home, had done all they could for her, and she was no better. Grass covered the roads she had traveled to other lives, other places. The Ancestress, the journey over the water, Death himself, were snapshots from a voyage vaguely remembered, and soon these, too, would be lost. What day was it? What time? She dropped on all fours and crawled, dragging her legs after her, pulling herself forward with her arms. Sliding downstairs on her stomach was as easy as coasting down a hill. It was so much easier to crawl than to use the crutches.

  That evening when her father sat reading the newspaper in the living room after supper, she curled up at his feet on the hearth beside Cinnamon Monkeyshines, who kept watch over the fire, and Davy brought her the Sears catalogue. Dibs on that doll. Dibs on that icebox. Now he let her have the best things on each page, as she used to do for him.

  It was to this preserve of childhood that Ben came.

  12

  Did Jesus Charge a Dollar for Raising the Dead?

  THE EAST PART OF Ann Arbor once belonged to trees, Indians, and Englishmen. The Englishmen and the Indians went the way of all flesh, leaving nothing but their names—Iroquois Drive, Devonshire Place. The trees were luckier. Here, an orchard. There, a stand of hickory. What the realtors call “stately old homes” have taken root under their branches. Stately: large rooms, window seats, French doors, a third-floor room for the maid. Old: a bathtub on legs, and behind the electric icebox, a door for the iceman, who no longer comes. Lilacs, spirea, forsythia in season; a rusty rose arbor, tottering; a goldfish pond in the backyard. Elm. Maple. Mountain ash.

  Number 201 Orchard Drive was so different from Ben’s house on the north side of Main as to make him think he had crossed the frontier of a different nation. Pear trees lined both sides of the walk and roofed his pass
age with bent wands bearing light burdens of snow. The pears were long gone. Two months earlier a Negro man and his wife had come over from the west side and begged Helen for the windfall. Helen said yes, and the windfall was collected and canned. Row upon row of the Bishops’ pears shone in the kitchen of a frame house on Catherine Street.

  Ben crunched up the front walk; the snow underfoot felt clean and unused, as if it had been stored in mothballs. He rang the bell twice.

  When the door opened, he was facing a woman who looked very much like Clare, only older.

  “Come right in,” she said. “I’m Clare’s mother. I’ll tell Clare you’re here.”

  He stepped into the hallway, and Helen went to the foot of the stairs and hollered, “CLA-YER! He’s HERE!”

  A little boy clumped down the stairs, almost hidden behind the pungent swag of evergreen that wreathed the banister.

  “Aunt Helen—”

  “This is Davy, my sister’s boy.”

  “Aunt Helen, Clare says to give her ten minutes. She wants to come down for lunch.”

  “You may as well come in and wait by the fire,” said Helen and motioned for Ben to follow her.

  The living room was as crammed as a shop. There was a grand piano in one corner and a low black jade pedestal, intricately carved with leaves and blossoms; nothing heavier than a handkerchief could have sat on it. Massive gold frames held a pair of landscapes, all shade and twilight and cows drinking at a dark river and cottages under willows that trailed their boughs like feathers of lead.

  There was a large cream brocade sofa against one wall, and two overstuffed chairs of wine plush on either side of the fireplace, and a glass-topped coffee table between them, under which a tiger cat slept like an exhibit, offering its belly to the fire.

  There was a black sofa with wooden dividers in the back, and a whatnot shelf supported by columns of polished spools—how many years of making and mending had used so much thread?—whose surfaces held ashtrays from China enameled with egrets and a wooden box from Persia which showed an emperor hunting a gazelle and two china heads that belonged to dolls whose bodies had long gone.