A Drowned Maiden's Hair

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Maud warmed the shell in her hand. Her mind drew away from the dark room and the séance that was to come. All at once she seemed to see the sharp blueness of the sky and the white gulls over the water. She envisioned Caroline, lucky Caroline, dabbling her feet at the edge of the ocean, stooping to pick up shells. Maud felt a surge of envy. Caroline had been curly-haired and lovely and spoiled. She had played by the ocean and ridden on the merry-go-round. . . .

  “Maud,” Hyacinth said gently.

  Maud jerked her attention back to the room. She pulled out a chair and sat down so that her back was to Judith and Victoria. She folded her hands on top of the table and lifted her eyes to Hyacinth’s face. “Tell me what to do,” she said, and Hyacinth smiled her sweetest smile and began to instruct her in the art of the séance.

  “Now, Muffet,” said Maud in her bossiest voice, “pay attention.”

  It was a foolish thing to say. Muffet was already paying attention. The hired woman leaned forward, her palms flat against the kitchen table. Her eyes were fixed on Maud’s lips.

  “See, Muffet,” Maud continued, “this is the planchette, and it spells. Watch.” She moved the alphabet cards to spell out M-I-L-K and repeated the word with the planchette. “Milk. You know that one.” She went to the icebox, took out the bottle of milk, and hoisted it into the air. “Milk.”

  Muffet glowered. She crossed the room, snatched the bottle from Maud, and slammed it back in the icebox. Maud, who had grown familiar with Muffet’s language of gesture and expression, had no trouble understanding this: Put that back. It’ll go sour. Maud glanced around the kitchen, spied an empty jar, and carried it over to the Ouija board. “Jar, Muffet. J-A-R.”

  Muffet took the planchette and flipped it upside down, so that the three peg legs were up in the air. Then she smacked her palm against the cookery book.

  Maud sighed. The cookery book had become an obsession with Muffet. Every day she circled words that she wanted Maud to explain. Maud did her best and had managed to convey the meanings of slice, fry, and boil, of put in, take out, and sprinkle over — but now Muffet wanted to know what the meant. Maud feared that the would be her Waterloo. She was surprised to realize that she had no idea what the meant.

  “That’s not a real word, Muffet,” she said earnestly. “It’s a stupid word. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Muffet pushed the book closer to Maud and ruffled through the pages. Her forefinger jabbed the circled word. The. The. The.

  Maud shrugged, miming, I don’t know.

  Muffet’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “I can’t tell you,” Maud said. She threw out her arms and raised her eyes to the ceiling. I give up.

  Muffet shook her head, frustrated. She put the jar back on the shelf, took the towel off the bread bowl, and brought the bowl to the table. One hand slashed the air, and Maud read the gesture. Get that thing off the table. I need room to work.

  Maud removed the Ouija board and went to sit by the window. In the last week, she had come to spend more and more time in the kitchen. Summer had settled over Cape Calypso, and the temperature rose a little every day. By late afternoon, the attic was almost unbearable. Maud knew that if Hyacinth were to see her sitting by the window — where one of the neighbors might glimpse her shadow against the screen — she would be in trouble. Luckily, Hyacinth seldom descended to the kitchen. Maud thumbed through her copy of Andersen’s Fairy Tales, in search of “The Snow Queen.” The Snow Queen’s palace, with its corridors of glittering ice, sounded distinctly attractive.

  Muffet squealed, raised her fist, and buried it in the bread. The soft dough collapsed with a sigh of protest. For a moment, Maud watched as the hired woman folded and thumped the dough. The muscles in Muffet’s hirsute arms were impressive. During the past week, the hired woman had scrubbed every inch of the slovenly kitchen and patched the floor with squares of linoleum from the attic. She had whitewashed the walls and blacked the stove. In the backyard, she was digging a garden; every night, after the dishes were done, she disappeared into the dusk and came back with an apron full of young plants. Whether she hypnotized the neighbors into giving them to her or dug them up without permission, Maud had no way of knowing, but the garden was coming along nicely. Muffet had tried to entice her out of doors to admire it, but Maud refused, shaking her head until the hired woman gave up.

  Maud leaned toward the window, yearning for a breeze. In a little while, Muffet would light the oven and the kitchen would be as hot as the attic. Maud wished that Hyacinth would summon her upstairs to rehearse the séance. Rehearsal sessions were sometimes followed by a carton of ice cream from the corner store. The thought of ice cream, pure and cold and white, made her mouth water. She wished her part in the séance were more difficult; she would have been happy to rehearse for hours every day. Unfortunately, she had little to do. Hyacinth was taking no chances. Maud’s part in the séance was small, and — Hyacinth had used the word — foolproof.

  The map closet was stifling. Maud shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited for the séance to begin. She was wearing her white dress with the lace frills: dress, petticoat, drawers, stockings, and wig. “Why do I have to be all dressed up if nobody’s s’posed to see me?” Maud had protested, and Hyacinth had replied, “In case something goes wrong.” Maud saw no reason why anything should go wrong. She was well rehearsed. She was eager to begin and miserably hot.

  She heard a ripple of laughter from the dining room. What did people laugh about before a séance? She reached up and scratched at the edge of her wig. A trickle of sweat ran down her chest. She gulped air like a panting dog and shoved her hand into the ice bucket fastened to the inside of the cupboard.

  The ice bucket was Hyacinth’s idea. Maud was supposed to keep her right hand submersed, so that when she touched Eleanor Lambert her fingers would be eerily cold. Maud was grateful for this somewhat macabre inspiration. Without the little pail of ice, the closet would be even hotter. She dribbled a little water down her face and sucked her fingers. Through the clear flavor of water, she detected the salt of her sweat.

  The parlor door opened. Maud pricked up her ears at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Mrs. Lambert — it must be she — sounded like a foreigner. Her pronunciation was clear, but there was a queer tune to her sentences. Her accent reminded Maud of Marta, the Swedish laundress at the Asylum.

  “— Your servant has always been deaf?”

  “Since childhood, I believe,” Victoria answered. “I know very little about her. The pastor of St. Thomas’s church recommended her to us.”

  “I — wondered how you managed to talk to her.” Mrs. Lambert sounded flustered. “Nowadays, there are schools to teach such people — I myself have sponsored students at a school in Washington. . . .” Her voice trailed off, as if she was afraid the sisters might take offense.

  “Victoria manages to talk to her with signs,” Judith explained. “I don’t quite understand how she does it, but she’s very good with poor Muffet.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Mrs. Lambert paused. “I have an interest in such things. My dear mother was deaf the last years of her life. She suffered greatly from loneliness.”

  Maud could not catch Victoria’s answer, but Hyacinth’s voice was clear as a bell. “I think Muffet is a bit old to attend school. Old dogs and new tricks, you know. Poor thing, she’s rather simple.”

  Simple meant stupid. Maud stiffened with indignation. She opened her mouth to defend her pupil. Muffet’s not stupid, she wanted to cry out. She learns everything I teach her! But Hyacinth’s tone had changed, and the subject with it.

  “Dear Nell, you are not thinking of our hired girl.” There was a hint of steel in the bell-like voice. “You are thinking of Caroline and wondering how long we must talk of trivial things before we try to contact her.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. Then Mrs. Lambert said, “I suppose I am.”

  “Of course you are,” answered Hyacinth. “And you’re quite right.
There’s no need to delay. Let us begin.”

  Yes, let’s, thought Maud. The sooner the séance began, the sooner she would get out of the map closet. The bright edge around the door panel disappeared. Judith had switched off the electric lights. Now she would light the candles in the chandelier.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Mrs. Lambert said hesitantly, “I should like Miss Victoria to take the planchette.”

  There was a startled pause. Maud knew that Hyacinth, not Victoria, had planned to control the movement of the planchette.

  “I have heard your sister is a very powerful medium,” Mrs. Lambert explained. “Forgive me, Hyacinth, but you and I have tried so many times —”

  “Of course.” Maud heard the rustle of fabric; the women were sitting down. “Don’t look so downcast, Eleanor! I am not offended.” Hyacinth’s voice was tender. “Victoria, if you will —”

  Evidently Victoria complied. More rustling, the creak of a chair, and then silence. Maud knew that Victoria and Mrs. Lambert were sitting very still, gazing at the planchette. She envisioned them: Victoria facing the mantel, Judith by the window, and Hyacinth closest to the door. During the time when we wait for the planchette to move, you mustn’t budge, Hyacinth had warned her. She’ll be alert for the slightest sound. You must be absolutely still.

  Maud tried to obey. Another drop of sweat crawled down her back. She could smell herself — a musky, sweetish smell, like a sweating horse. She wrinkled her nose fastidiously.

  Rap!

  Maud heard a gasp, and then Judith’s voice: “Is there a spirit present?”

  Rap!

  Mrs. Lambert cried out. “Caroline?”

  There was a pause. Maud listened for the tinkle of the prisms of the chandelier. She heard Mrs. Lambert repeat, “Caroline?”

  “The chandelier’s moving,” said Hyacinth in a low voice. “The candles are going out.”

  “The planchette!” Mrs. Lambert sounded as if she were about to cry. “The planchette is moving — but I can’t read! It’s too dark!”

  “Caroline Lambert!” Judith’s voice rang out authoritatively. “Caroline Lambert, are you here?”

  Rap!

  “Caroline, please —” Mrs. Lambert’s voice was infinitely pleading. “Please — if you are here, speak to me! Don’t leave — oh, don’t —” Her breath caught. “I can’t read in the dark! Oh, God! My dear one, wait, only wait —”

  “Light another candle,” Judith commanded, and Maud heard a chair scrape back.

  “It began with an L, I think,” Victoria said breathlessly. “Perhaps she means to spell out love —”

  “Do you think so?” Mrs. Lambert said. Her voice rose hysterically. “Do you think it could possibly be?”

  Maud heard the scritch of a match, followed by the thud of a candlestick on the table. “Now,” whispered Mrs. Lambert. “Caroline, come back!”

  Silence. Maud waited. People don’t believe when things happen too fast, Hyacinth had said. Maud understood that to give Mrs. Lambert only a taste of her daughter’s presence was excellent technique: it increased the rich woman’s faith in Hyacinth and fed her longing for her child. What Maud hadn’t understood was that the technique was harrowing. She could hear the woman sobbing, and she felt a prickle of discomfort that had nothing to do with the heat of the cupboard. Maud knew what it felt like to cry that hard, so that every muscle seemed to jerk and her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed.

  “Caroline,” begged Mrs. Lambert, “are you there? Please!”

  “The planchette is moving,” Victoria assured her. “L-O-”

  “Ssssh,” Hyacinth cautioned her sister. Maud caught the resentment in her hiss. It wasn’t part of Hyacinth’s plan that Caroline should spell out love. Victoria was improvising.

  There was another loud rap!

  “The table —” Judith gasped. “The table —”

  The table was rising into the air, and Maud knew how. Judith had wedged one foot under the lion-claw legs and was hoisting it up, steadying it with her palms. There was a loud clomp as she let it fall. Candle, candlestick, and planchette were supposed to hit the floor. Hyacinth gasped, “The planchette!” and “The candle’s out!”

  Judith raised her voice to a shout. “Caroline Lambert, are you here, in this room? If you are here, rap once for yes and twice for no.”

  Those words were her cue. Maud fished the seashell from the bottom of the ice bucket. Cautiously, she pushed open the door and stepped out of the cupboard. The freshness of the air made her smile in spite of herself. After the map cupboard, the parlor seemed spacious, cool, and bright. She could see the pale rectangles of the two stained-glass windows and the bulky shapes of the women near the table.

  Maud glided forward, her stocking feet noiseless against the carpet. She took a brief moment to get her bearings. Mrs. Lambert was where Hyacinth had assured Maud she would be. Hyacinth was ransacking the room for another candle in the chest by the window, and making as much noise as she could over it. Victoria was reciting the Our Father. “And lead us not into temptation —” Now, thought Maud, and headed for Mrs. Lambert. She placed her hand against the woman’s cheek. In a soft, piteous voice, she whispered, “Mama?”

  Mrs. Lambert gasped. Blindly she reached for that small, chill hand — but Maud was quick, as Hyacinth had told her she must be. She pushed the shell across the table and stepped straight back. Mrs. Lambert groped wildly at the air. Maud retreated toward the cupboard and pivoted to dart inside.

  Ouch. She had left the panel ajar and collided with it in the dark. Maud ducked into the map cupboard and pulled the door shut. Once inside, her hands went to her face. A warm wetness coated her fingers, running down her chin and into her mouth. She reached down to wipe her hands and stopped, fingers flexed. Her good dress, with the lace . . . ! But already the blood was soaking through the bodice of her dress. Grief for lost finery gave way to panic. Maud whimpered, close-mouthed.

  Faint as the noise was, it frightened her. Mrs. Lambert would hear. The séance would be ruined and Hyacinth would be furious. Maud pressed her bloody fists against her lips. The blood tasted like pennies.

  It’s only a nosebleed. The words floated into her mind, and all at once she was back in the Asylum. Irma had tripped on the ice and bloodied her nose. Maud had watched, repelled and fascinated, while Irma shrieked and Miss Clarke fished two dirty handkerchiefs from the bosom of her shirtwaist. “It’s only a nosebleed,” Miss Clarke had said. “People don’t die of nosebleeds.” Maud seized upon the memory gratefully. With it, came another, less comforting: “People can die from loss of blood, though, can’t they, Miss Clarke?” She couldn’t recall the answer. Her fingers fluttered toward her nose — the blood was still gushing forth. She wondered how much she had lost.

  Outside the door, the lights were on. Victoria and Hyacinth were trying to comfort their client.

  “— if she was here, why wouldn’t she stay? I felt her — I felt her hand. But why wouldn’t she speak to me? And why did she leave the seashell? What does it mean?”

  “Hush.” Victoria sounded close to tears herself. “Now that she has come, she will surely come again.”

  “She didn’t sound like herself.” Maud tensed at the criticism. “She sounded frightened. Oh God, what have I done, that she should be afraid of me?”

  “Eleanor, take comfort,” Hyacinth said tenderly. “The important thing is that she was here tonight. All of us sensed her presence.”

  “Her little hand was like ice,” wailed Mrs. Lambert. “It even felt wet. Dear God! She is buried; the salt water should be dry by now —”

  Ice! Maud stopped listening. She fumbled for the lump of ice in the pail. She lifted it, dripping, and pressed it against her injured nose. Cold water joined the river of blood and tears. She wondered if she was going to faint. She imagined herself falling down in a pool of blood. Perhaps Hyacinth would see the blood oozing from under the mantel and come to her aid. Maud imagined Hyacinth flinging open the door and catchi
ng her up in her arms.

  But Hyacinth did not come. Maud sagged against the wall of the map cupboard in a stupor of pain and stickiness and heat. Outside the door, the Hawthorne sisters continued to soothe their wealthy client. Mrs. Lambert must have a glass of sherry or a cup of tea. Mrs. Lambert must not go home by herself — Victoria must accompany her. Hyacinth would call the next day to make sure that she was well. . . . The leave-taking seemed to go on for hours. When at last Victoria and Mrs. Lambert had departed and the door of the map cupboard opened, Maud stumbled out so eagerly that she almost fell.

  The light in the room was dazzling. The room looked bright and tidy and civilized. Hyacinth and Judith were staring at her.

  “Goodness gracious!” cried Hyacinth. “What on earth —?”

  “Had a dosebleed,” mumbled Maud, clasping the ever-diminishing block of ice to her face. “I wocked indo de door —”

  “Great heavens!” Even Judith’s sangfroid was ruffled. The look on her face told Maud just how grotesque she must look.

  “For heaven’s sake! The poor child will bleed all over the carpet,” said Judith, while Hyacinth sympathized, “Oh, poor Maud!” But there was something wrong with the way she said it, and she didn’t rush forward to clasp Maud in her arms. Maud understood why — no sensible woman would want bloodstains on her best tussore silk — but Hyacinth’s aloofness was the last straw. Maud opened her mouth and wailed as if she were three years old.

  “Take that wig off her and help her into the kitchen,” ordered Judith. “She’s better off bleeding on the linoleum. It’s a mercy she didn’t black her eye, walking into that door. Gracious, child, don’t cry!” The last three words were more command than comfort, but they were spoken with unwonted kindness. “It’s only a nosebleed, after all. Do calm down.”

  “I am calm,” sobbed Maud. She felt that under the circumstances, she had been heroically calm. She hadn’t ruined the séance; she hadn’t cried out when she hurt herself; she had waited patiently while the Hawthorne sisters cosseted Mrs. Lambert. Now she was through with being calm. She wanted to cry until she felt like stopping, and she wanted Hyacinth to take care of her.