Maud felt a surge of terror and delight. Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her rosebud print. She kicked off her shoes, peeled off her stockings, and removed almost all of her underwear. Then she yanked the striped dress over her head. A moment later, she padded barefoot down the stairs.
The kitchen was empty. Maud peered through the kitchen curtains and saw Muffet kneeling in the garden. Her back was to the door, and she was weeding. With luck, she would not hear — Maud almost smiled. Muffet couldn’t hear the screen door slam. Maud opened the door and trotted down the porch steps. Once in the alley, she began to run.
It was months since she had been able to run and it felt good, in spite of the gravel that bruised her feet. She dashed past the neighbor’s yard, ducked behind a bush, and rounded a corner. All too soon, she was out of breath. She slowed to a skip and then to a saunter. Her bare legs felt deliciously naked, and the air was fresh. She was free. It was dangerous. In five minutes she would be at the ocean. She spread her arms wide and skimmed between the buildings like a swallow.
She remembered the way. She crossed the boardwalk, dodging its evening strollers, and ran over the rough grass. At last she stood on the strand, with the broad sky stretching around her in three directions. The ocean glistened and tumbled upon the shore. Maud stopped, breathing hard. She was hoping to see the child who had invited her to play the day she came to Cape Calypso. But it was seven o’clock, and most of the children had gone home.
No matter. It was joy enough to be out of doors, with a breeze making her skirt flutter and the ocean beckoning ahead. A ripple of foam seethed forward and receded within inches of her toes. With boldness and longing, Maud stepped into the water.
It was so cold it made her bones ache. Maud squealed, baring her teeth. Then the wave receded, and for the first time, she felt the pull of the ocean; the sand under her feet was being sucked away. She locked her knees and laughed. She loved the bubbles of the foam against her skin. She pinched her skirt daintily and waded in deeper.
The hour that followed was blissful. Maud jumped in rhythm with the cresting waves; she tried to outrun the foam as it breathed upon the shore. She hopped on one foot and kicked the ocean into spray. She screamed with joy as the water splashed upward and wetted her thighs. For once Hyacinth was forgotten. Maud was drunk with salt water. She felt that she could go on playing by the ocean for the rest of her life and never have enough of it.
Suddenly it was dark. The water was no longer greenish brown, but ink-colored; the white foam no longer glittered, but shone in the dimness. She was alone on the shore, and the crowds on the boardwalk had thinned. Reluctantly, Maud turned her back on the glory of the ocean. Every adult she had ever met, save Hyacinth, agreed that danger lay in wait for children who were out past bedtime. She turned back toward the boardwalk.
Once under the streetlamps, her wanderlust returned. It seemed a pity to return to the house after only an hour. Other people were still enjoying themselves; why shouldn’t she? Maud brushed the sand off her legs and surveyed the passersby. She eyed a crowd of older girls, who were sharing a bag of taffy. They were noisy and merry, and Maud found them attractive. She tagged after them.
Her instincts were good. The girls led her up the boardwalk, to lights even brighter than the streetlamps. Two white fences flanked an entrance with a sign shaped like a rainbow. The sign read ODYSSEY AMUSEMENT PARK. The girls strolled in.
Maud’s heart beat fast. They hadn’t stopped at the entrance. They hadn’t reached into their purses for money. Perhaps it was free; perhaps anyone could go inside. Maud flicked her fingers through her hair and straightened her wet skirt. Then nonchalantly, without looking right or left, she passed under the rainbow and into the park.
Once inside, her senses reeled. There were strings of electric lights between the trees, and their brilliance was dazzling. She could smell frankfurters and cotton candy and popcorn. Ahead of her were booths and pavilions with gaudily painted signs. And there was music — a hooting, languishing oom-pah-pah that made Maud want to dip and sway. Straight ahead of her — making the music — was the merry-go-round. Maud flew to it like a phoenix toward the sun.
It was as spectacular as the ocean. Maud knew that a merry-go-round was a circle of wooden horses, but she had not dreamed of horses like these: spirited, glossy creatures with manes that soared upward like tongues of fire. Nor were the horses all; they were partnered with creatures that Maud knew only through the rumors of geography. She saw a tiger, brazenly orange and baring his teeth; the haughtiest of camels; a bear with a dotingly friendly smile. The animals were richly caparisoned, and their saddles were adorned with sphinxes and gargoyles and jewels. There was a painted backdrop with mountains and castles; there were mirrors and lights and stars and rosettes. Maud was struck dumb. She did not even envy the children who rode. She was content to stand and watch.
The music was slowing. A coal-black horse passed her. Then a pig with the garland of flowers around his neck. An ostrich, a stag, a hare. The children slid off their mounts, and others came forward to ride.
Maud did not intend to steal a ride. She was simply unable to help herself. Before she knew it, she had ducked under the striped canopy and clambered up the side of the merry-go-round. She was weaving her way between the horses, choosing a mount, when a large man caught her by the shoulders. “Whoa, there!”
Maud looked up. She had known very few men in her life, and she was a little afraid of them. This man was peculiar-looking. He was red-bearded, and he had an enormous belly, which he followed as if it were a dog he was taking for a walk. His hands were huge, and she could smell his sweat, but he held her away from him respectfully. “You need a ticket,” he told her. “Do you have a ticket?”
“A ticket?” echoed Maud.
“You need a ticket,” the man said patiently. He pointed to a red-painted booth beside the carousel. “It costs a nickel. You stand in line and get a ticket.”
Maud looked down at her toes. They were still caked with sand — she had wanted to stop on the boardwalk and pick between them, but she was afraid this action would brand her as a vulgar child. “I haven’t got a nickel.”
“Well, then, you can’t ride.” The man spun her around and steered her off the carousel platform. “It’s crowded tonight, duckling. I need every horse for the customers.” He closed one eye. “When it’s rainy, now, that’s different. I can sometimes give away a ride on a rainy night.”
It took Maud a moment or two to take in the fact that he had made her a promise. By the time she had puzzled it out, he was gone. She took her place among the spectators and watched as the carousel began to spin. A waltz began, oom-pah-pah. If she had been alone, she would have held out her skirts and danced to it.
It was some time before Maud realized that her mood had changed. She kept her eyes on the carousel, but her enchantment was marred by the sense that there was something she ought to notice, something she didn’t especially want to see. Against her will, her attention shifted from the carousel to the face of a woman.
She was a tall and slender woman, dressed in half-mourning and the sort of hat that Maud instinctively classified as “good.” Under her hat, her hair was fair and windblown. Her face was freckled, and there was something wrong with her expression. Unlike the other spectators, she didn’t smile or wave; there was a fearful hunger in her face as she watched the carousel. All at once, and without a shadow of a doubt, Maud knew who she was.
Instinctively, Maud turned to hide, dodging behind a fat woman in a sailor hat. Once out of sight, she reasoned with herself. There was no chance that Mrs. Lambert would recognize her. Mrs. Lambert didn’t know she existed, let alone that Maud had impersonated her daughter during the séance. Maud risked a second glance. The woman’s gaze was fixed on one of the carousel animals, a jade-green creature with the foreparts of a lion and the tail of a fish. That must be Caroline’s sea monster, thought Maud. A little boy was riding it, lashing it monotonously with the reins.
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Maud studied Mrs. Lambert. The rich woman had taken off one glove and was twisting it between her fingers. Her shirtwaist was untucked and a long strand of flaxen hair had fallen to her shoulder. Maud pursed her lips disapprovingly. Grown-ups ought to be able to pull themselves together.
The carousel was slowing. Maud decided to go. At the same instant, Mrs. Lambert turned from the merry-go-round. For a split second, their eyes met. Mrs. Lambert fumbled at the handle of her purse.
Maud retreated, almost colliding with the fat lady. As the crowd changed shape, she made her escape. Once on the boardwalk, she broke into a run. She knew she would come again, in spite of Mrs. Lambert. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, and every night when Hyacinth was away, she would steal from the house. She would see the ocean and the carousel again.
The day that followed was hot and overcast. Maud scanned the mournful sky with mounting hope. The red-haired man in charge of the merry-go-round had hinted that children sometimes rode free, if the weather was bad and the horses lacked riders. If the Hawthorne sisters went out and it rained — not too much, but a drizzle — Maud might ride the carousel. Maud realized that she was listening for the sound of Hyacinth’s leaving as eagerly as she had once awaited her return.
But the Hawthorne sisters stayed home. Evening came and supper was served. Hyacinth and Judith dined upstairs, in the dining room that overlooked the street. Maud ate in the kitchen with Muffet. She seethed through the meal and cleared the table with bad grace. As she stacked the plates from the dining room, a roll of thunder announced the arrival of a storm.
Maud could have wept with frustration. Outside the window, the trees were bending, and angry raindrops spattered the dust, leaving it pockmarked. A thread of lightning glittered against the clouds. Maud pressed her hot forehead to the window glass and closed her eyes. Judith and Hyacinth had no carriage. They would never go out in a storm.
The linoleum creaked faintly. Muffet had come to stand at the window. One calloused hand cupped Maud’s shoulder, turning her until they stood face-to-face. Muffet had noticed Maud watching the sky all day, and she knew something was up. Maud shrugged and pulled away. She crept upstairs to sulk, leaving Muffet to wash the dishes.
The attic windows were open. The rain splashed through the curtains, making a pool of water on the floor. Maud glared at it. She was in no mood to wipe up puddles. Another roll of thunder sounded, so much closer than the last that she scurried to the safety of her bed.
Lightning illumined the room. Maud dragged her pillow from under the bedclothes and hugged it to her chest. The wet curtains billowed inward, pulled taut by the wind. The air was dim — the storm clouds seemed to have invaded the attic. Maud wished she had thought to bring a lamp from the kitchen. Selfish old Mr. Llewellyn, who hadn’t bothered to put electric lights in the part of the house where the servants lived.
Muffet’s bedroom would be brighter. There were more windows at the front of the house. Maud slid off the bed and tripped through the box room to the hired woman’s bedchamber. Muffet’s windows, like her own, were open — Maud shut them and smeared the water across the floorboards with her foot. She wished Muffet would finish the dishes and come upstairs.
She settled down on the rug beside Muffet’s bed. She was not afraid of the storm — only little children were cowed by thunder, she reminded herself — it was just that Muffet’s room was nicer than her own. Besides being brighter, it was tidy. There were two bouquets of flowers from Muffet’s garden — marigolds and petunias — and their spicy fragrance offset the mustiness of the attic. Muffet had hung chromos on the wall: Gibson Girls and kittens and Jesus walking on the water. There was a crazy quilt on the bed, patched in red and violet and bottle green.
Two rectangular shapes caught Maud’s eye. Books. They lay on a footstool, under a workbasket: one plush covered, the other black. Maud stared at them, perplexed. Muffet had books? Automatically, she reached for them.
The black book was the Bible — a disappointment, but not a surprise. Big black books generally turned out to be Bibles. Muffet’s Bible, however, was a puzzle. It had thin paper and black numbers at the beginning of each section, but it was full of foreigners: Giovanni and Pietro and Giacomo. The name on the flyleaf was “Vicenzo Cerniglia.”
Maud tried to pronounce it. Then she turned to the other book, which was a photograph album. That, too, was a disappointment — Maud didn’t care much for pictures, particularly pictures of homely-looking people in old-fashioned clothes. Nevertheless, she leafed through them. There was a hollow-cheeked man with untidy whiskers and a woman whose hair was pulled back so tight that it made her ears stick out. There was also a child.
In Maud’s opinion, the child was the only person in the album who might lay claim to being pretty. She was doe-eyed, with a wide brow and curls that looked as round and dark as purple grapes. Maud pictured her in modern clothes and decided she would look nice. She turned over another page, and there was the child again: the woman was wearing the same dark, ill-fitting dress, but the child had grown taller. Her curls tumbled past her shoulders.
Maud turned another leaf, but there were no more pictures. The album was less than half filled. Between the last two pages was a piece of paper, much yellowed and folded in thirds. Maud unfolded it and read:
The Statement of Anzoletta Cerniglia,
wife of the late Vicenzo Cerniglia
November 12, 1871
I have asked Father Domenico to write these words for me because I cannot write English. The doctor says my heart is not strong. It is about my daughter Anna that I wish to speak, because she cannot speak for herself.
My husband and I came to America in 1850. Six years after, our only child was born. We called her Anna Maddalena. She was as beautiful as an angel and as good as gold. When she was almost four years old, she caught the whooping cough. She almost died. Afterward, she was deaf. When I first understood that she would never hear or speak, I was angry with God and I wept.
But I was wrong, because Anna was always a blessing. God gave her a good heart and she was intelligent. As she grew older, we made up our own language and we spoke to her with our hands. She understood everything. She learned quickly. I taught her to work hard.
I have taught her everything I know. She can sew and knit and do fine needlework. She can cook and keep house. Our neighbors let her work in their homes, and they showed her the sewing machine and the gas stove. She can cook with gas or coal. My husband taught her a little carpentry and how to count money.
I have tried to make sure she knows every useful thing, as I think no man will marry her. I write this letter to say that she is a good and useful girl. She is honest and will work very hard. I beg you who read this letter to treat her well, and I pray that God will reward you.
Maud refolded the letter and placed it between the pages. Her mind was so busy with what she had read that a sudden roar of thunder caught her unawares. She leaped to her feet, and the two books fell to the floor.
She gazed at them in consternation. The Bible had fallen open, and the thin pages were wrinkled; the cover to the photograph album, loose before, had ripped and hung crookedly. Maud knelt to repair the damage. She smoothed out the pages of the Bible, reversing the creases. It was unlikely that Muffet would open a book she could not read. Maud turned back to the child in the picture. That sweet-faced girl was Muffet — Muffet — whose mother had thought her beautiful.
Maud shut the book and set it back on the footstool. I beg you who read this letter to treat her well. She felt a twinge of discomfort. She had left Muffet with the supper dishes and damaged her books.
Someone was coming up the stairs. Not Muffet — her clumping, uneven footsteps were unmistakable — but light, staccato steps. Maud froze. Then she jumped up and rushed back to her room. She had left her striped dress by the washstand. There was sand in the pockets — Hyacinth must not find it — Maud grangled the dress into a knot and shoved it under the bed.
Maud he
ard Hyacinth’s whisper. “Maud! Maud! Maud!”
Hyacinth was carrying a lamp and a clock. She placed both on the dresser and came to clasp Maud’s hands.
“What is it?”
“Mrs. Lambert’s here.” Hyacinth’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Do you remember how to play the glockenspiel?”
Maud goggled at her. “You told me not to practice here,” she reminded Hyacinth. “You said the neighbors might —”
“Hush! Never mind.” Hyacinth dropped Maud’s hands and went to the dresser. From the top drawer, she took the golden wig. “You can sing — it will do just as well. Quickly, get dressed! Mrs. Lambert’s here, and I mustn’t leave her long.”
“Are we having a séance?” There had been no preparation. “How will I get in the map cupboard if she’s already here?”
“We won’t use the map cupboard,” Hyacinth said briskly. “Now, Maud, don’t make difficulties.”
“I’m not making difficulties,” Maud said, stung. “I’ll do anything you want, but you have to tell me what it is.”
Hyacinth held up her palms, silencing her. “Do stop arguing! Mrs. Lambert was out calling and was caught in the rain. She came here because she was nearby — that’s what she says, but that’s not the real reason. She wants a séance — that’s what fetched her. Judith’s helping her into dry things — it’s a perfect night, with the storm — but we must move quickly, quickly.” Hyacinth reached behind the curtain where Maud kept her dresses. “You’ll wear the white dress and the wig. It’s not likely any of the neighbors will see you out the window, but if anyone sees, you must look like Caroline.”
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