by Thomas Tryon
“How are Granddaddy’s roses, darling?” she said, veering once more as she looked at the ramblers near the grape arbor at the edge of the property.
“Mr. Angelini sprayed again. I picked practically a whole jar of June bugs off them. But they’re really bad this year. I bet there’s a zillion.”
“Really. I hope you put them in the trash.” She sat musing. “Tomorrow’s Friday, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“We must remember to have Leno set out the ash cans.”
He was perplexed. “But it’s June, Mother. We haven’t had the ashes go out since April. June bugs, remember?”
“Oh. Of course. I’d forgotten. Somehow—March—how asinine.” Another vague gesture belittled her memory, describing some faulty conjunction there. “Your birthdays are in March, aren’t they?” Her fingers drifted across her brow, pushed nervously at her hair, arranged a pin, fell back in her lap exhausted, then swept across her knees, and the clover fell about her feet. He gathered the flowers up, reassembling for her the bouquet and laying it back in her hands. One bloom had escaped his eye and he leaned again to retrieve it, the tobacco tin slid from his shirt onto the platform of the swing. He looked down quickly to see the lid spring open and amid a shower of matches, behind the horse chestnut, the little blue packet popped out, with it the brief gleam of gold.
“What’s that?” she asked, with a too-bright smile as he scooped the things back into the can.
“Just a tin box. Prince Albert. It was Father’s. I keep some stuff in it.” Hello, Pilgrim Drugs? Do you have Prince Albert in a can? Well, let him out. Haw haw. “Mother—are you all right?”
“What? Yes, yes dear, certainly. Just for a moment I thought—” She shook her head, and the word her mouth had fashioned died stillborn on her lips. Again her eyes darted as though trapped; some dreadful thing . . . lurking . . .
“Hoo-oo, Ni-yuls? Are you thay-urr?” That was Aunt Valeria, Russell’s mother, calling from the basement hatchway. Quickly Alexandra pulled herself up, teetered for a moment on the swaying platform of the glider, at the same time rescuing her hand from Niles’s. “Mustn’t see me,” she murmured with a lost, pleading look to him. “Mustn’t tell, will you, you won’t tell that I came down.”
“No,” he said stolidly, helping her to the ground.
“That’s my darling. Let it be our secret,” she called back to him as, clasping the clover to her breast, dropping a trail of stems, she fled wraithlike away over the lawn, disappearing up the stairs, the lily hand trailing the banister, and with never a backward look.
The screen door slammed above while, below, here came Aunt Vee, out of the hatchway, lugging a large copper washtub by its wooden handles. Niles ran to help as she set down the tub and proceeded to flap out wet pieces of tightly wrung fabric, hanging out the squares and rectangles of tie-and-dye chiffon which she had bound in places and dipped into pans of color. But somehow, Niles observed as she pinned the muddy-hued pieces up, Aunt Vee didn’t quite seem to have the knack.
“Golly, isn’t it a scrumptious day? Makes one feel good just to be alive,” she sang. She wore rubber gloves and her housedress was protected by a tan plaid apron. “Seems like I’ve been down in that cellar just forever.” Batting aside a wet sheet, she stooped for another piece of fabric. “My, just smell those pies! Honestly, where does Ada find the time? And crullers, too, I’ll bet. The air is absolutely redolent! Honestly, Thursdays around here, it’s just like a bakery! Ohh dear-r-r. Why, will you look at the clover! No, there, hon, on the grass. Somebody must have dropped it.” Niles said not a word. “Can’t look at clover, hon, without thinking of your dear mother and father’s wedding and how I ran my stockings jumping over that fence into that pasture to get it. Stepped right in you-know-what, too. Why, they thought I must of been crazy. Ohh dear-r-r.” Niles had heard that Aunt Valeria’s Chicago friends called her “Chickie” and he could understand why: she never spoke, she cheeped, like young poultry.
“Niles, hon”—she was talking around a pair of clothespins in her mouth—“if you’re going down to the Center today, will you—”
“I already went, Aunt Vee.”
“Ohh—I wanted some more dye. Perhaps Ressell could—” A dubious remark at best, and Niles caught her shaking her head to herself. You didn’t stand a chance of getting Russell to do anything, let alone leg it to the store, and no one realized it better than his own mother. “Perhaps he could borrow your bike,” she suggested hopefully, and Niles offered the use of his machine with all the good will in the world. “But it’s got a flat,” he felt bound to add.
“Oh. Well, perhaps it would be all right if he used Holland’s, then.”
“Sure, Aunt Vee. He can. It’s in the shed.” Holland wouldn’t mind. Much.
Her work hung out, she stripped off her rubber gloves with a wet snap and began turning them right side out. “Ohh well . . . never mind.” She sounded fatigued. “I don’t think I’ll do any more tie-and-dye today. Tomorrow, maybe—they’re just for Christmas presents. Your uncle can pick me up some Tintex while he has the car. I hate bothering Ressell.” She blew out the fingers of her gloves and went to upend the dye dregs behind the bed of lilies-of-the-valley in the laurel shade. “I’m sure he’s busy,” she cheeped, plucking two dishtowels from where they hung drying on the snowbush by the back entryway into the kitchen.
Niles contemplated his dirt-stained hands.
When the old well had dried up, water had been discovered nearby and a pump installed. It stood in the center of the circular gravel drive under the horse-chestnut tree. The long, gracefully curving iron handle fitted Niles’s palms comfortably and felt cool as he plunged it up and down. He filled and drank from a copper cup whose rim tasted sour-bitter, the way marigolds smelled.
Russell would sure find out what was what if he went tooting off down to the Center on Holland’s bike, Niles reflected, his head thrown back, the water dribbling down his chin, over his knuckles, along his bare arm. The cup empty, he set it down and plied the handle again, watching where the water spilled into the cement curb that formed a pool under the spout. He washed his hands, bits of earth breaking apart and filtering to the bottom. Gradually a mosaic of glassy fragments formed his own image in the shallow depth. He watched it shimmer, draw together like the pieces of a puzzle, yet not quite, never quite, forming an undistorted reflection. He put his hand out, thoughtfully, abstractedly, as though to touch that other, similar boy who peered back at him with such a longing expression. Did he seem hopeful, perhaps? A little wistful? Who was it, that figure there? Friend or foe? What did he think? If he, Niles, spoke, would the other answer? He watched silently and shortly pulled away the bleached leaves caught in the bronze drain at the bottom, saw the water disappear, with it his image, saddened now by the parting, the face so familiar, though not because he often sought its reflection in a glass; so pleasant to see, though not because of any personal conceit; so cherished, though not for any sake of its own, but because in each small particular it was the exact and perfect twin of Holland’s.
The sun was already drying in patches the cement under the spout when Niles scampered back to the shed to replace the trowel on its proper nail between the red-handled rose shears and Vining Perry’s old rubber fishing boots.
4
Half an hour later, Niles, feeling better, sits at the end of the landing, spine curved against a post, his line hanging in the back eddies, his eye following the lead sinker as it twinkles an instant, then drags the filament from sight. Along the river, among the willows, the afternoon is spread lavishly, like a picnic on a checkered cloth of light and shade. Overhead, faces in the clouds—that one there, look—two eyes, a nose . . . Phew, it was hot; Holland was right—fishing is a bore. Why wouldn’t he come pick cattails for the Winter Kingdom? Why get mad at Russell, do that to his pet? Now he was sulking, up there in the loft, independent Holland. Still and all, he’d flash that grin and you’d forgive him. By supper time, sure. At leas
t he, Niles, would. He couldn’t speak for Russell but Russell wasn’t susceptible to grins, however engaging.
The line yanked; he reeled it in. Breaking the stillness, shattering the mirror of water, a catfish leaped into the air. Niles jumped up and swept his rod back. The fish flopped onto a plank, its scaleless pewter body jerking in spasms. He put a foot on it, carefully avoiding the barbels on either side of its mouth as he extracted the hook. Again the fish jumped; he pulled his hand away and a drop of blood appeared on its tanned downy surface.
Sucking the injured flesh, he cast his line again, and saw the stream draw it toward a half-submerged rowboat; a strip of red along the curving gunnel wavering in the water resembled a wound. His line drifted through a rusted oarlock, a thread through the eye of a needle. He sighed, made himself more comfortable, dug out the ring from the tobacco tin, and, crossing one leg over his knee, slid it onto a toe. He raised his foot against the sky and watched the gold sparkling against the blue above. Peregrine for Perry. Nibelung gold.
He daydreamed for a time, then put the ring away. His eyelids felt heavy; he could not keep them from drooping . . . closing. The hour itself was drowsy, the air hushed, an atmosphere of quiet thrills . . . in his ear he heard the maidens splashing . . . enticing Rhine maidens with flowing hair and lovely sinuous bodies . . . romantic creatures, hoarding their river gold . . . he dozed . . .
“Douschka?”
He jerked his head up, his eyes blinking in the sunlight. She was standing a short distance away, on the planks of the landing, observing him quizzically, a flower-laden basket on her arm, her face shadowed by the parasol. Ada; weathered and lined face, grizzled hair pinned in a careful, old-fashioned knot at her neck, baked-apple skin still drawn taut across high cheekbones, in places almost translucent, with the effect of a fine teacup held to the light. Spare but strong, she held herself erect, the still-supple core of her body springy, like her step—she never walked but moved with long strides—her shoulders set and determined. Keen brown eyes, amused, lively, authoritative, heavy-lidded like a hawk’s, with edges that held the colors of certain seashells—bluish, with a tinge of purple, even silver in them. Hands large, gnarled, brown, capable-looking, and an air of magic about them. Like everything about her, an air of magic.
She came closer, her chin outthrust, and in her smile was a soft, childlike innocence, which is sometimes the way with grandmothers. Her dress, a modest bouquet of printed flowers, whispered around bare tanned legs; at her breast a pin, crescent-shaped like a new moon, catching the sun’s rays between golden horns.
Niles reeled in his line and ran to meet her. “Dobryĭ den', Madame.”
“Dobryĭ den', grazhdahnin.” She smiled at his greeting and hid her nose at the catfish he waved, trophy-like.
“Think it’ll bite you?”
“I do not care for fish,” she laughed. “Here all the fish have bones. The shad—nothing but bones.”
“But the roe—you like shad roe. With bacon?”
“The roe I like, yes. Fish eggs—”
“Ick!” He wrinkled his nose and dropped his catch. “They look like pollywog eggs. You eat them and they’ll grow into frogs and jump around inside you like Mexican Jumping beans. Like this.” Letting go his pole, tongue lolling, he hopped up and down, hugging himself and making ludicrous faces.
She pressed her hand below her heart as though to be mirthful hurt her. “Oh, douschka, such nonsense.”
“It’s true! And cherries—you swallow cherry seeds and they’ll sprout out your ears. Or your—”
“Niles.”
“Ass me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” He gave her his innocent look. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Niles,” she said, humoring his superb glee, “Niles, you are a clown. A clown in a circus. Ringling Brothers will come and get you and put you in their show.”
He giggled. “Like Mr. La Fever?” Mr. La Fever, Arnie La Fever’s father, worked in the circus sideshow.
“Hush, do not say such things. You have an imp sitting right there”—she touched his shoulder—“who provokes you.”
He shifted his gaze upwards. “See that cloud? Doesn’t that look like Holland’s face, a little?”
She peered up under her parasol, cocking her head one way and another, scrutinizing. “Why yes, perhaps it does,” she said, indulging his whim. “The nose, however, is wrong. Do you see—it is too long. More Cyrano than Holland.”
“But see how tilty the eyes are—almond-shaped, like a Chink, aren’t they?”
“We say ‘Chinaman,’ not Chink,” she gently chided. “Chinks are found in walls and usually get plastered.”
“Like Uncle George,” he said, capering.
“Niles.”
“Well, I heard Aunt Vee say that’s what he was last—”
“Child, don’t be impertinent.” She tried to sound severe, but he could tell she didn’t mean it, which is also the way with grandmothers.
For a while they amused themselves making out interesting faces and shapes from the procession of puffy clouds overhead: an elephant, a ship with sails, a buffalo, three fat ladies “with hu-u-uge behinds!” Niles described arcs in the air with his arms.
“What have you done to your hand now?” She took it and inspected the injury. “We must put some Listerine on that.” Listerine was her panacea for all the maladies of life.
“No, it’s okay, honest.” Resisting her ministrations, he sucked again, then spat.
“Is that the only shirt belonging to you?”
“No.”
“And you have tennis shoes of your own. Why do you persist in wearing the old ones of Holland?” Ach, she thought with amused dismay, how far apart were children and old ladies. How could she think to try to bridge the gap? While she squeezed his finger to make the blood flow, he looked past her bent head where, up in the meadow, he saw Mr. Angelini under his straw hat, working along the windrows, saw a flash of red as he paused to wipe his face with a bandana. At the barn there were other glimpses of bright color: at the pigeon loft up in the cupola a bit of pink at the west window where Holland was lingering, mouthing his harmonica; lower down, at the hayloft hatch, Russell Perry in blue, pausing in his solitary pastime to hang again on the pulley rope.
“And what have you been up to, this day of days?” she asked.
“Me?”
“Yah, you.”
“Nothing.”
“I see. God gives us a glory of a day and you do nothing with it. Since school is out shall you dawdle away the summer? I have sewed name tapes in all of your things and Winnie has bought you that nice celluloid soap box and soap—”
“Lifebuoy, ick.”
“—yet you will not go to camp. And you know it takes money to send boys to camp.”
“Yes.” But no, he meant, no camp. There was one on a nearby lake and Mother had said there would be money enough, but no, Holland didn’t want to go, didn’t like the games, the groups, didn’t care much for playmates. Holland liked staying home, liked playing in the apple cellar, in the pigeon loft. There was going to be a show—“And the proceeds will go toward sending another child to camp,” he explained, “some more unfortunate child.”
“Sometimes,” she laughed, “I do not think such a child exists.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean children who can go to camp but don’t choose to may spend some of their vacation time in the hands of Mrs. Jewett.”
Horror struck! Mrs. Jewett tutored arithmetic, in which subject Niles had been floundering ever since long division. “Oh cripes—”
“Must you use such expressions, dear?” Ada said sweetly, her face adamant behind her smile. Ada meant business; Mrs. Jewett loomed. “Now tell, what have you been doing today?”
“Well, I did lots of things. I went down to the Center and got your corn plasters—”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome. And your pills are over the sink in the kitchen. You have one more refill o
n the prescription.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome. And I practiced.”
“Your piano?”
“No, my magic. For the show. With Holland.”
“Ah? Yes, Holland’s tricks.” She pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth and spoke behind them, her tone a little wistful. “What sort of tricks, then?”
“A card trick. It’s called a Royal Marriage—you do it with all the picture cards.”
“Court cards, yes.”
“And then there was a funeral. Another funeral. I had it. I did the digging. Remember last month when the bird died? Well, today—”
“Child.” She urged him to calm himself, for excitement had crept into his voice and she saw that his face was flushed.
“Yes, another funeral. It was sad. A rat died.”
“Died? How?”
“It just—died. Holland told me to get rid of it, so I did.”
She interrupted him with a look. “Holland did?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And so I did. Buried it. That was the funeral—I found this cracker box and I put the rat in it and took Mr. Angelini’s trowel and buried the box in the aspergrass. Then I wanted to put flowers on the grave, only I gave them to Mother instead.”
“To Zan?”
“Yes. Clover. It was clover, the kind she likes, so I gave it to her. She—”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.” He had started to confide Alexandra’s secret. He sat down on the landing and patted a plank beside him. Disdaining the hand he offered, she removed her canvas shoes—the fabric over the little toes was cut with X’s to ease her corns—and sat beside him, feet dangling, one toe making ripples. Careful that the moon pin shouldn’t prick, she brought his head close to her breast and took fistfuls of his hair and commenced gently tugging it. To keep the scalp limber, she insisted; no bald heads among the Vedrenya menfolk. He remembered how she had practiced this exercise on their scalps ever since he and Holland were youngsters.