John the Posthumous

by Schwartz, Jason

  Other insects are even less congenial, given the habits of the household.

  Such as: waiting at the window.

  The scars on the doors are a better measure, however, like hatpins, and like the disposition of copper pots at five o’clock.

  A calf’s head, divided, accounts for the gnats. The heart decays on a polite white plate.

  It is correct, I hope, to remove knives from left to right, and the glasses last. This one has cracked in my absence.

  The hallway offers its own disappointments, beginning here, in poor light, and following discreetly to the gash in the far wall.

  Deathwatch beetles will attack woodwork of this variety.

  And then: the joists and cripples.

  The ticking sound, once thought a final sign, is actually a fact of courtship.

  I imagine the jaw as a broken line or as a simple triangle, the points in gray. A circle replaces the cranium proper.

  Termites prefer timbers such as these. Fire sometimes traps rats in their galleries or behind an attic door.

  Cellar stairs attract the smaller daughters, not to mention spiders and rot.

  Or: toppled objects.

  The gap in the banister is dreadfully evident, at any rate, despite the embarrassment of the pattern, hornets and all.

  These examples are brown, with red banding and ordinary black claws. The veins are sickle-shaped.

  The weal resembles a weal, I expect, though it weeps rather than bleeds.

  Shadows appear at the furnace, given the hour, and given the matter of the housecoat and the ax.

  The floor darkens accordingly.

  NINE

  The bed recurs as a figure in certain burnings—the torches fixed to boards, for skeletons, and the boiling oil in pots, in urns, in bowls.

  But I am comporting myself poorly.

  To begin again.

  Camastro, a Spanish word, meant wretched bed in those days. As distinct from camastro, or wicked bed, given the facts of dialect. But then—the bodies lay east to west, did they not? And you can see how she clutched at her throat.

  The Gothic style, in most tragic accounts, dispenses with mischief of this variety. Though it retains a collection of birds, for what that is worth—crows and so forth. Its posts, especially, may remind you of tombs of the period. Or of, more remotely, those relations, the very sad ones, who once came for the day.

  The parable of the bed—I imagine the Bible contains no such item. What delicate phrases we must, therefore, do without. Tin knives and burnt blankets, a plague gate. Buried nightdresses, whether diseased or in pieces, find considerable favor in chronicles of a more Teutonic sort. While the parable of the gown ends, once again, without evidence of my wife.

  My mother’s will—it was innocent of various provisions. As distinct from common Colonial wills, for instance, whose clauses divide bed from body. So to say. Headboards, for the children, and linens, for the oven, and that canopy—which can only ruin your room, my dear. Some include codicils that explain the placement of mutes around the graves. And portraits of mourning scenes, the names—or a description of the illness, as the case may be—written out in place of the faces. I see, here, two girls who sit as my daughters do. And a fragment of glass that carries us entirely too far from our topic.

  Jewish beds, in the New World, were often stuffed with cloth. Though black straw, of the type you might find in an effigy, was the custom in a number of towns. Older practices required ash. The skinner marked the carcass. Slaughter boys, so-called, crossed the boards and burned the offal. The family tore the cord. The marriage bed, in this brown house, was a prettier affair—the latch adorned with short spikes, on the husband’s side, and short hooks, on the wife’s. The hinge was neither gold nor silver, alas. Whereas the pock—this was copper. Sometimes the posts and slats were mistaken for bones. As distinct from skeletons, which sometimes travel to the attic in these marital narratives. Early embalming tables, it turns out, had been modeled upon early cradles. In Northern cities, during the war—the base and legs adorned with dagger-and-dart forms. True, the jars of arsenic were always kept apart from the tunic. Be gracious, please, and leave a place for the grave goods. Rings, for instance—which soldiers often wore pinned to their skin. There were other formalities for a family in a house.

  If the morning is cold: begin with the scars at the bottom. Rot might follow the stains. For cubits, consider measuring endwise, pulling smartly at the hem. Subtract the width of one digit for every flaw. An insect might well be our culprit, after all. When facing south: the house appears to drown. Now the hour is happier but dim. For shaftments, measure the posts only, halving the rust at the bolt. Indicate the span with both hands, as though to signify fright or defeat. In the dark: the nail speaks ill of the glass. For inches, count seams by threes, board to board, quietly. Exclude the shadows at the near side. The wool will shift above you.

  Camastro, or wretched bed, described a wooden contraption. Though the pikes were overtaken, in their way, by chains. The cell merits fuller treatment in this respect, despite the steel collar. And despite the harrow sticks, which, like the bodies, lay east to west. Seize was preferred, in those days, to grasp or hold. But now we think of our brother’s hands, do we not? The cushions contained bees on these occasions, wasps on others. In plague cases, the hair turned first.

  Wedding beds, in Pennsylvania, were stuffed with horsehair and pig bristle. Or, under the oddest of circumstances, girls’ hair and poisoned soil. Bridal beds, in Maryland, used plain straw. Of the madder family—like Quaker-ladies or this bit of blue in the distance. Or like dying nightdress with a very low throat. Early weeds were evidently better than late ones, whose forms, anyway, sometimes recalled split tongues. Fur, for its part, was shorn according to rather primitive rules—peculiar knives, in the course of things—and piled with the skins. These burned especially well. Matrimonial beds, in New York, were cut open and emptied of feathers. Or they were wheeled to a gate and taken away in the rain.

  The Colonial fourposter style—notice how poorly it conforms to the walls, to the crude themes of my room. One morning in a childhood home—with Mother and all, for what that is worth. The frame, painted gray, and the body, face down, and the bedsheet—whose seam is a shame, prominent as it is. Now fold the blanket like so. Find the scorch mark at the neck, as you always do. Watch the child show sorrow. Does one confess to the inheritance of bedclothes? Bed, in any case, once meant flay, as in a burr mattock or a beggar’s cup, its handle a long nail. The hornbook—found north of the slaughter, or south of it—displays a drawing of boys. They stagger elaborately—or so it seems to me—outside a burning house. A diagram explains the demolition of a bed.

  Beds of the dead, in Biblical custom, were buried, yes—usually at night, by the father. Though my father, perhaps like yours, died first. The garment is rent, in Jewish funeral law, which also requires that the eldest son fall to his knees. Well, if not this, quite, then certainly that the shomer, or watcher, exhibit the holes. The family cleaned the bones with lye. They scratched the ground. The reeds were brought to a wall. Morgue drawers, or stalls, were named and then dismantled. Rings were excised from the soldiers’ skin—in the square, before the mourners. Mauled horses were sometimes found on the lawn. Is it true that little girls once had rooms like these? Let us try, next time, to save the nuns and lanterns on the staircase, and to describe the tombs with more aplomb. Oak coffins, in some traditions, were used in the event of contagion. The folded hands may remind you of knives—of the period or otherwise. Or of rats atop the bedsheets. Blankets, in many Colonial towns, were detailed with figures of husband and wife, the limbs spotted red or cut off—as the case may be—and the faces stuck with pins. Crying-houses, so-called, killed blind children in the night.

  When fire arrives in those old towns: it is mistaken for flower carts or hospital wagons. And then the flames have their way with the drapery. An object ignites, it was thought, according to the form of its name. A rail—granted�
��before a rope, and paper—such as this—before a person. The way a body burns: this will embarrass us somewhat less. Brass makes little claim upon the seams. Batting travels about the room. The sound of light, it was thought, recalls the breathing of priests. The manner of the embers: this attracts horseflies and black ants. Burnt sackcloth appears to prefer hornets. All the mornings now are cold enough for wool.

  Camastro, by some accounts, was pronounced with rocks in the mouth. It took the shape of a cage. In Spain, a bit later—the hinge, like the skin, painted yellow or white. As distinct from camastro, or wicked bed, which faced west and was composed of bones.

  Jewish beds, in the New World, often faced east. The patterns of blood were understood in several ways. Spots a hand’s-breadth apart, for instance, meant hatchets. Crosses meant wolves, just as you would guess. Or the throats, I suppose, of bride and groom—as logic might oblige some mention of a son.

  The Gothic style, at tragic moments, stands on ceremony. I regret this. Sometimes it omits the box ornament and singe holes, however, as well as more ungainly traits. This example suggests a pile of knives. The legs, from the orphanage, and the slats, from the hospital, and the canopy—which is not the color, quite, of the wallpaper in my daughters’ room.

  My mother’s will—it was silent on the subject. Rather like—you might indulge me—my father’s will. If not the column, lying on its side, here outside the house. Decorum asks that I ignore the grass, burning gracefully from back to front. Or from door to gate, as across other American lawns. True, widows’ wills a century ago—these may seem more amply despairing. This one includes a preamble that explains the frame as the form of a man. And portraits of the sickroom, a gas lamp—or just a hat and a rope—evident in the mirror.

  The parable of the bed—were we to have it, that is. A carcass, in this case, would be a great success for us. Much in the manner of tongues nailed to a town. To corrupt an old phrase. The parable of the gown—a nightdress, in point of fact—presents various tales of failure. The wife dyed the garment. She wound a cord around the stick. A length of wool, rent, covered the floor. The litters—sometimes called scrolls—used mule hides in those days. Some funerary discourse favors kidskin, which may deprive the narratives of decapitation, among other insults. Bed etiquette, in such documents, forbids the kind of cloth I hold before you now. Whereas blankets and quilts sewn of limbs—these seem commonplace figures in folklore. Were your sister’s things quiet and fine? Well, perhaps not, but the carts were—far from the towns, rolling over the hill. The spires always found the family behind the trees, tiny as they were. But what a pity about the soldiers’ rings. Bits of their skin, charred, or imprinted with round marks, were pinned to the walls. The burning bed, in this blue house, was a simpler affair—the cross-stitch lost, on the husband’s side, and the cuff at the rail, on the wife’s. The bodies lay east to west. The latch was black, at last.

  TEN

  The hunt commences in a hollow or copse. A parlor, a yard, a lawn—these are for other occasions. Grave, given the hidden children, seems the most common variation. It requires five bones, paint or lye, and a figure in the distance. It is akin to church windows, despite the gate, and to wolf, despite the bats. In the former, the killer blinds at a barn wall. In the latter, a barn burns down.

  Now there is ample view of the animals.

  Branks, in which the partners quarrel—this is for the parlor. Hatpins—especially those foreign in design—have something of a ceremonial function here. This is less true of ruined broomsticks. The draw spoils, at length. The windows lose the blue roofs in the afternoon.

  Poor Eleanor falls from favor by the end of the century. A later variation requires a hedgerow—and poison for the vermin. The forms, from above, may suggest graves, though daughters will also do. Orphans on the lawn—not to mention pitchforks—invite greater complications, especially at night.

  Other animals die behind a schoolhouse.

  The hunt commences in a hollow or copse. Cuts are drawn from wooden boxes—red or brown, as per local practice. The shapes in the dirt may suggest a different game, with rocks in place of the faces. Grave seems better suited to a hayfield. It is akin to church windows, despite the carriage tracks, and to wolf, despite the rows of claws on the wall. In the former, the girl waits at a door. In the latter, she closes her eyes and dies.

  HOUSEPOST, MALE FIGURE

  I.

  The Tudor has a hidden room, or two hidden rooms, or three, through a crawlspace or a trapdoor, or behind the pantry wall—where the youngest son was found eight days later. The Georgian is a girls’ school, with rifles on the lawn, or an orphanage, its upper stories destroyed during the war, the flesh of the attendant evident on the walk. The Cape is painted gray, and is famous for ladies in distress, carrying themselves down the stairs, and from window to window, facing Bird Road or Lion Drive or Red Lane, or facing the Cape next door, painted gray.

  In Daniel and Susanna, the house is said to resemble a person—though you may find such comparisons embarrassing. And the city is a town, in fact. Shall we recall that the strangers—beyond the garden, at the wall—are enamored of the woman? That they wait—that is to say—for the man’s wife?

  The Victorian hides a bent hat and fourteen knives—come watch Mother cutting—and is set afire by Father, whom you can see between the trees. The Greek Revival appears in a county almanac, absent the holiday objects, and the gentleman’s name, and the suitcase in the nursery. The Colonial has a room for mutes, off the entrance hall and through the study, or through the sitting room and down one hallway and then another, the latter terribly black, with a window giving onto a courtyard—where the thief, having fallen from the roof, dies during the night.

  In our house: there are ten windows on the ground floor.

  I would prefer to exclude the two in the front room, however, as they are pine-framed, unlike the others, with drapery in an unpleasant shade of blue. I would prefer to exclude, as well, the foyer window, from which I once saw my wife embrace a rival of mine. And I would prefer to exclude the powder room altogether—simply as a demonstration of decorum.

  The storm windows and the screens: these are rather in disrepair.

  The lake window, as we would refer to it—though the house, of course, faces neither a lake nor a pond, nor even a creek, a fork, a stream—had been governed, for a time, by a curious assemblage of hinges, several of which suggested claws.

  The objects on the windowsill: I suppose they were carried off—once and for all—by the wind.

  It is more satisfactory in this corner of the house, at the bow window—especially in the morning, in spring, notwithstanding those occasions when the light makes grave shapes on the tabletop.

  The panes in the middle row, left and center: they cracked last January and shattered in March.

  The low windows along the dining room wall, three of them, each roughly one foot square, resemble leper windows, or so I used to think, having seen renderings of these in this book or that—likely something of my father’s.

  Transom windows and fanlights: these you will see in other houses.

  The pantry window—dark glass, after the fashion of so-called blood windows, the field red and the details green, animals and houses, or houses and animals—was eventually painted shut.

  The judas, I should probably add, was strangely placed—off-center, in any case, and a bit too high. It had been hidden, in the beginning, behind a grim little contraption, rather box-like in design, with six ordinary rivets, perhaps seven, perhaps eight, some smaller than others—a hook and a wire at the top, and a broken lever at the bottom.

  The deadbolt was poor. It failed, shall we say, one February afternoon. The door was removed the following summer, incidentally—beetles of some species having taken to the frame.

  A typical Colonial door has six panels, four rails, and two stiles.

  Exterior: the letterbox, vertical or horizontal. The former appears in the hanging, or hinge, stile. The latt
er appears in the cross rail. Interior: the muntin, center and upper. This is for a name, in some houses. One abandons a nail there—or perhaps one’s daughter does.

  The rattling of a door, at this hour, may recall a certain boyhood story.

  The floor plan of the Jackson house, on New Street, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania—built 1838; restored 1914; destroyed, by fire, 1979—indicates, among other things, a narrow staircase, a narrow hallway, and four bedrooms, one drawn without windows or a door.

  Some Colonial doors have four panels, three rails, and a long gash in the shutting stile.

  Interior: the doorknob, enamel or wood. The former is usually white. The latter is blue, as per custom, on the occasion of a great disgrace. Exterior: thumb latch, pull, and plate. One expects cast-iron or brass. Rust, in this instance, finds its way to the numbers, top rail.

  The dowels will warp by next fall.

  The door was painted red one year, to match the back door, and brown another—some months after a storm. The hinges were nickel-plated. The copper doorstop was more unfortunate, I thought, than the little silver hook.

  And I suppose that, after all, spyhole might have sufficed. It measured less than a quarter-inch across—more a puncture, as it were, than a proper hole. Or, at this distance, a simple yellow spot, on account of the porch light. And then a simple black spot, when the porch light went out.

  In the foyer: a walnut floor. The cracks near the door create a triangular pattern. There are water scars at the foot of the stairs.

  I scrape cobwebs from the baseboards with a dull knife.

  Church oak, in folklore, bleeds every evening. And red oak, I notice, creaks quite modestly—at least in the rear hallway, early in the afternoon.

  The object discovered beneath the floorboards, often something of the mother’s, is a separate affair, a ghastlier matter for later on.