by Thomas Tryon
He beamed. “Then there’s lots of time.”
“For what, darling?”
“For the show!” he exclaimed gaily, an effort to perk her up. Each year, while the aunts were visiting, there would be a show in the barn, all proceeds to charity. Lantern slides and colored postcards projected on a sheet, Charlie Chaplin silents and Aunt Jo performing “Yes, We Have No Bananas” or “Don’t Bring Lulu”; afterward, her Betty Boop or Mae West. Then, pièce de résistance, magicking, with Holland got up in cape and top hat and Niles stooging for him in the audience.
“And Chan Yu’s coming again,” he added, recalling for her the Fourth of July Firemen’s Carnival and the magician who last year had performed an amazing trick: had seemingly hanged himself, but at the last minute the cloth covering him had dropped, the noose was revealed as empty, and presto! there was Chan Yu in the aisle, alive and smiling! Chan Yu the Disappearing Marvel. Viewing the remarkable performance, Holland and Niles had played their game, concentrating to discover the secret.
“And?” prompted Alexandra, who had forgotten, “what was it?” Niles described again the way it had been accomplished, how they had solved the mystery of the hanging.
“Yes. Yes, dear. That will be nice, I’m sure. Your tricks . . . always wonderful . . .”
She was drifting off. Placing her book in her hands, he rose. “There. Finish The Good Earth so you can start Anthony Adverse when it comes in.”
“Yes, dear. Thank you. Be sure to change your clothes.”
He pressed her hand and bent to lay a cheek against hers and exchange kisses. To forestall him, she pressed her handkerchief to her lips; turned her head away; shammed a cough.
Oh Mother, poor dear Mother, he thought. I know. What could he do for her? How could he help her? What could he say that would free those thoughts imprisoned inside her head, those unspoken things he knew she would never say. He looked down at her tiny slippers, pretty things Father had brought from Gibraltar, those and a tortoise-shell comb too, when he came back from overseas. And a monkey of carved coral—they ran wild in troops all over the Rock, he said—which she wore when she got dressed up. Such pains she took: never went farther than the corner without stockings. Always, before taking the trolley car upstreet, selecting her costume with care, gloves and bag to match, and a hat with some frivolous bit of veiling in front. When she passed, heads turned, all nods and smiles and friendly inclinings. “Oh that Alexandra Perry,” he would hear people say, “she’s got a gleam in her eye.” It was true. She had a rainbow laugh, and displayed it liberally for her family.
“Mother?” he said lightly. She made a garbled, half-sound in her throat, and shook her head.
“Nothing, dear.” She tried to laugh. Again her eyes skidded; in the afternoon light her face shone pale and incandescent. She fidgeted with her robe, started to get up, then, changing her mind, leaned back as though the effort were too much. Her look went unobserved by him as he kissed her again, feeling the veins in her wrists beat when he leaned to squeeze them a final time. “Bye, Mother. I’ll be back later.”
“Yes, darling, of course. Please do. And we must try to keep the house quiet, for Aunt Vee’s sake, please?” Languidly she kissed her fingertips away. When he had gone, she rose and drifted about the room at length, clasping and unclasping her hands, pressing them to her temples as if she would seal in certain broodings which lay hidden there. In time she returned to the dressing table where, from under the scarves in the left-hand drawer, she drew forth a bottle. Pouring some cool water from the carafe thoughtfully provided by Winnie, she added the whisky and, resuming her chair, once again let her eyes roam toward the lavender patch of clover by the well.
At the rear of the house the Perry roof had difficulty encompassing both a north and south wing as each rambled patchwork-like in its haphazard additions: dark passages, unexpected turnings, oddly located stairways, and eccentric, surprising spaces. One of these, over the kitchen with its own back stairway, was a pleasant and sunny bedroom. Once it had been the “invalid room” set aside from the rest of the house for a peculiar aunt (“mad as a hatter, Old Aunt Hattie”) whom the family had wished to care for themselves, rather than entrust her to an institution. Cheerful with yellow paint and white trim, the place was known now simply as “the boys’ room.” More sleeping porch than bedroom, it had two matching beds with spool-turned posts; at the foot of each, wooden chests, carpentered by Father, identical except for the “H” on one, the “N” on the other. Overhead, tissue-and-balsa airplane models; and spilling over shelves an array of boys’ miscellany: lead soldiers, rock crystals and schists, a stack of trolley transfers, a stamp collection, jumbled books, a world globe, a fold-down desk with picture scrolls—the kind known as a Chautauqua desk—hanging on the wall. Added touches both humorous and bizarre: a sun-bleached hawk’s head, a red bicycle reflector stuck in one eyesocket; a plaster bust with antlers attached; the mandible of a fox on whose teeth was latched a turkey wishbone. To the north the windows overlooked the other wing; south, out along the drive; west, past the barn, down to the icehouse at the river.
Niles undid his tie, removed his jacket and pants, and hung them up. He took his shoes off, undoing the laces thoughtfully, some unintelligible dismay jarring his consciousness. What was it? A picture had formed in his mind; at the center it remained blank, a space he was unable to fill. Something to do with Russell. It bothered him. He threw the lid of his chest back: neatly folded underwear, socks, all with name tapes Ada had sewn on; belts and moccasins, a sweater, some shirts freshly laundered by Winnie. He put one on—his favorite—buttoned it and tucked it in. Seated on the chest at the foot of Holland’s bed, he emptied out the Prince Albert can into his lap and one by one returned the items inside, the carved horse chestnut, the matches, the ring, Peregrine for Perry, the blue tissue paper packet, this last—The Thing—of an intriguing shape, approximately two inches long, narrow, only slightly thicker than a pencil, and the paper, well worn by frequent undoings, a bright robin’s egg blue. He dropped the can with its contents inside his shirt, went to stab his finger at a word in the dictionary, and left the room.
The shocked gloomy aftermath of death pressed a heavy hand upon the house. In the hallways the shades were pulled, the darkened staircase sprawled into a shadowy limbo. Lugubrious crying came from behind Aunt Valeria’s door. Downstairs the bell rang; Niles, pausing on the top landing, glimpsed a face beyond the screen: Mrs. Rowe from next door. Ada would go to answer; she would be there to see to all the formalities. A man in black, a flower in his lapel, tiptoed across the hall carrying folding chairs to a second, similarly dressed man: Mr. Foley the undertaker, and an assistant; and there went the trestles, the funeral draperies. It was all so forlorn, so sad, so empty; such a feeling of finality to these events. A termination. The End. Born 1921—Died 1935. Poor Russell.
Mr. Foley, speaking to his assistant. What was that he was saying? What? Holland—? Niles’s ears buzzed; he could feel his face flush; was forced to restrain himself from running downstairs, shutting up Mr. Foley—big-mouthed Mr. Foley, like the Fish Footman in Alice in Wonderland. Shut up, Mr. Foley . . .
The grandfather clock at the head of the stairs was a perverse timepiece: tock-tick, it insisted upon, tock-tick. Today it sounded pervasive and excessively loud, making the silent house seem more dolorous than ever. Standing stock-still, Niles listened and watched, measuring the silence.
From the hall closet beside the clock he took a wooden milking stool and opened the door of the clockcase: the weights were unwound almost to the floor. Strange; never had the clock been allowed to run down. It had accompanied Ada and Grandpapa Vedrenya to America and for years had stood in the hall of their house in Baltimore. When Ada came to Pequot Landing the clock came too.
Niles drew down the chains, pulling the brass weights upward, still thinking of Russell in the hayloft. He touched the weights to stop their swaying, set the pendulum in motion, and closed the door. He stood on the stool and
, using a rigidly extended finger, moved forward the minute hand to coincide with the one on his watch. It had been an accident. In his rush to get home that afternoon, Mr. Angelini had left his pitchfork in the hay. And Russell must have taken off his glasses and—wait a minute—there it was, the missing blank: Russell’s glasses. That was why he hadn’t seen the pitchfork; he had taken his glasses off. And, strangely, no one had been able to discover what had become of them. He’d had them on in the hatch; Ada had noticed them shining; but they weren’t in the loft and they weren’t in the hay. Afterward, the mow being thoroughly searched, the hunt failed to turn them up, and Mr. Blessing, the town constable, investigating the accident, had declared it a puzzling thing.
It was.
“Slow, huh?” Unmistakably Holland, the throaty timbre, the slightly mocking tone. Leaning indolently against the newel post, twirling Father’s necktie in one hand, still wearing his Sunday suit. To Niles’s “You forgot to wind it,” he replied, “No, little brother, your turn last week.”
Niles returned the stool to the closet; closed the door. Warped, it refused to shut all the way and he pressed his back against it, trying to get the latch to click. “You forget sometimes; it’s not good to let the clock run down,” he told Holland, “it’s very old. Old things should be treated with care.”
Holland put on a prissy face and, miming an aged person with a cane, recited, “‘Who touches a hair of yon gray head dies like a dog—march on, he said.’ Okay, Barbara Fritchie.” He laughed and blew on his harmonica.
“Cripes—cut that out!” Niles looked askance at the breach of decorum; quickly Holland adopted a sober expression.
“Jeeze,” he whispered, “I’m sorry—I forgot.” His contrition was unavailing, for in a second George Perry’s red face appeared at the door, crew-cut hair, gray and spiky like a sea urchin, eyes pale and haggard. “Hey, pipe down out here, can’t you?” he whispered urgently; Niles thought Holland looked (and properly so) sheepish as he shoved his instrument behind his back and, chastened, scuffed a toe at the carpet.
Appropriate apologies were made, the door closed again and, over Uncle George’s helpless pleading came the louder sobs of Aunt Valeria.
“Please, Vee, don’t. Chickie? Please don’t cry any more. Try, can you—for me—for Russell? Please?”
“Who touches a hair of that yon gray head,” Holland breathed, joking as he stole along the gallery and listened at the door. “Aunt Vee’s going away.”
“She is? To a hospital?” Niles came to stand beside him.
“No, she’s going on a trip. I heard Mr. Tuthill say the change would ease her.”
“I guess it would. She’s very unhappy.” He wondered what might be done to cheer her up. Not much, he supposed, when people died, people cried a lot; but that’s what death seemed to be, always crying, hurting, remembering . . .
Niles went to the hall window and raised the shade, feeling the sun stream through the lace curtain. “I’ve got a word for you,” he said; saw Holland prick up his ears.
“What?”
“‘Asinine.’”
“Ass-inine.” Holland chortled. “Sounds dirty.”
Niles’s look was superior. “Means ‘stupid’ or ‘silly.’ Like a jackass.”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“Mother.”
Holland remained pointedly silent, and Niles, looking across the street, thought how much the leaves on the Joacums’ sassafras tree resembled mittens, his eye somehow unable to avoid the shed at the back of the house where Holland had bundled up the oily rags and started the fire. The clapboarding was still burned black. Sassafras mittens, three-, four-, five-fingered leaves. Sassafras alhidum, according to the Chautauqua roll.
Up in the topmost branches, the arrow—his arrow; no, Holland’s, really. But what matter? The bows were gone. Under the tree—not that one, the horse-chestnut tree behind the house, Father had daubed a target. Their birthdays, three years ago; bow-and-arrow presents. Holland’s lot with one particular beauty, its shaft banded in bright stripes, the feathers hawk, not hen. His lucky arrow, he declares. A volley at the target. “Wait, guys, let me show you.” Father helps them gather up the scattered arrows, patiently shows them proper stance and how to knuckle the shaft with one hand, guide it with the other.
“I hit it—I hit it!” Niles pulls his arrow from a ring; Holland scowling blackly at his own wild shots. Mother from the kitchen: “Dear, telephone—the insurance office.” Father goes in while fresh fusillades pepper the target.
“Jeeze!” Holland’s arrows continue to miss. Nocking the last to his string, the color-banded one, he watches while Niles, on tiptoe at the tree, reaches to pull out his shafts.
Thwang!
From Holland’s bow flies the arrow, wobbling through the air; turning, Niles catches it in the throat.
“Accident!” Holland swears after Dr. Brainard has gone. “Give the arrow to your brother,” Father orders. Enraged, Holland dashes out, sends the arrow flying across the street into the topmost tip of the sassafras tree. And there it is, still, three years later.
And since then? Since the arrow, Holland has somehow ceased caring. Now, more and more, the mocking smile, the Mother Goose rhyme . . . Holland had a Secret, Niles was sure.
Er-roo-aroo-a-roo-o-o!
His train of thought was broken by an aged banty rooster who came pecking hopefully at the gravel down the drive, lifting his legs high off the ground as he strutted along. Holland stuck his head out the window and softly called, “Chanticleer.” Ignoring the voice, the bird made husky half-crowing noises in its throat and continued on its way. “Chanticleer!” Holland leaned out, lightly repeating the name and Niles distinctly caught his oblique look, at once quizzical and amused, making a critical study of him, looking from boy to bird and back to boy, his mouth open as though to speak; but in the end he only smiled his lazy crooked smile and shook his head, implying his thoughts were of small consequence. For an instant their looks fused, then Holland shrugged and, his expression unfathomable, left him, went away to change his clothes.
And, holding his breath for the longest time, Niles, his eye again on the rooster, remarked to himself how the stale, faintly scorched odor of Winnie’s last ironing still clung about the yellowing folds of the lace curtain.
6
To Niles, the storeroom was the most glamorous room in the house. Tucked away in the north wing, adjoining Torrie and Rider’s bedroom, it was a dusty and cobwebbed museum crammed to overflowing with sheet-draped trunks, boxes of clothing, oddments of costumes and uniforms. Near the door was the twins’ wicker cradle, beyond it a dress dummy, a wheelchair, a gilt and painted rocking horse, a tangled marionette dangling on the mirror door of a wardrobe; old friends, all.
Straddling the horse, Niles rested his head and arms along its neck, rocking while the Victrola—Granddaddy Perry’s antique machine with the morning glory horn—sounded the crashing chords of Siegfried’s Rhine Journey.
From the corner of his eye he caught a shadow as it fell across the floor. Quickly he sat up to discover a figure standing in the half-open doorway, watching him.
“I have been everywhere looking for you,” Ada said. She had changed her black things for a house dress and tidied her hair. “I might have known you come in here. Are you having a Rainy Day?”
“No. Yes. Sort of. I was listening.”
“Ah—Götterdämmerung.” She came and looked down at him, her brow furrowed. “Are you all right, douschka?”
“Sure.”
“Uncle George is going to drive your Aunt Valeria up to the station and wonders if you would like to ride along.”
“No thanks.” Sliding off the horse, he went to take the needle from the record and select another.
“But maybe he don’t want to be alone today. Maybe it would be nice for you to ride with him. Besides, you like to see the trains, don’t you?”
“Yes. Sometimes. But not just now.” He looked steadily at the gouged flo
oring under his feet. “If Holland comes back, maybe he could go.”
He could feel her eye intent upon him. “Has Holland gone away then?”
He sighed. Supposed so. Didn’t know where, though. Had he sneaked down to the cave he frequented at Talcotts Ferry? Or down to the freight station to watch the trains? Up to Knobb Street where the tough gang lived? Was he hanging around at the Pilgrim Drugstore? Or had he gone off riding the trolley cars on the Shadow Hills route, a trip out to Babylon, the end of the line?
He went to roll up the wheelchair for her to sit in, a sturdy, ugly thing whose rubber-rimmed wire wheels were cracked and hard as rock. Guiding it to a spot opposite the rocking horse, ignoring her set expression, he gently took her hands and tried to press her into the chair (why did she resist him?), where she might sit comfortably.
“Guess what? The clock was slow. I wound it. It was practically run down.”
“Indeed. Someone forgot, did they?”
“Well, you know how he gets mixed up.”
“Who?”
“Holland. It was his turn.”
She put his hands from her, lightly and in no way reprovingly, and in another moment went to lift the window curtain. He came to stand beside her, looking down at the lawn, the pump, the well close by the grove of firs at the edge of the drive. The way she held the curtain aside, it was as though she exhibited for his perusal a landscape: sky, grass, river, trees, a cow or two. Her hooded eyes gazed out across the meadow, the river, and up along the fields on the farthest side, up to the Avalon ridge, beyond, even, across some vast untraveled space, and he could tell she had gone farther yet, even to that farthest point, that faraway place where no one might accompany her, beyond the ridge, beyond the Shadow Hills, to a place where she was alone, aloof, a solitary, pondering—what? witch, perhaps? no, something grander, a goddess, he thought—Minerva, all serene, imperturbable, benign, sprung full-blown from Jove’s brow.