by Thomas Tryon
“Oh!” she cried out, astonished to discover who it was. She stepped quickly back, then drew herself up before the intruder.
“For pity’s sake,” she said shortly, “what is it? What are you doing in there—in my rhodies?”
“Nothing.”
“Come out then, sit, where I can have a look at you. And be careful of my portulaca.”
Cautiously he stepped over a flowered border and stood on the lawn, head lowered, looking at her from under dark slanting brows.
“Well, have you come to call me more names?” she demanded starchily.
“No’m.” A cane slipped from his hand to the grass.
“What then? What are you doing in my garden? What do you want? Are you up to further mischief?” She pointed to the open garage door and the shelf beside the ball of twine. “Don’t you know that stuff’s poison? That’s why I have put it out of harm’s way.”
“Yes’m.”
“Then you march right along home. Boys who use such words are never welcome at my house.”
He turned and started away.
“And pick up your cane, for heaven’s sake. Don’t leave it around this place, I’ve enough clutter.”
He retrieved the stick and started off, an almost tragic figure, mournful-faced under the tall black hat, the hem of his cape trailing on the ground. He seemed to be encountering difficulty with something or other moving inside his pink shirt.
“Just a moment.” She seemed uncertain. “Now—see here, Holland—” she took a step toward him. “Perhaps—perhaps if you said you were sorry—perhaps if you could apologize, you wouldn’t have to go.”
“Yes’m.”
“Yes, what?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you, dear?” Her tone entreated his contrition. “Are you truly?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I called you names. It wasn’t very nice of me.” He shook his head most gravely. “Not nice at all.”
She beamed at him as he came back and reached up to kiss her. “Well, gracious me,” she said, taken aback. “Why—I don’t know what to say. Nobody’s kissed me in—what is it, do I have something there?” He had reached to wipe a smudge which had appeared on her cheek. “Now, we’ll just pretend that other business never happened. We’ll say no more about it, shall we?” She seemed so relieved to have it over and done with. “You’re Watson Perry’s grandson,” she said, marveling. “We went to school together, your grandfather and I, did you know that?” She bent to him, spry and tiny and white-haired. “You boys have grown so. Why, I can remember the last time I saw your brother. He came to tea one day, with some of the other children. I think it was he that came.” Pressing the broken piece of begonia between thumb and finger, she sounded not quite sure. “Or perhaps it was the little Talcott boy—”
“He’s dead, Mrs. Rowe.”
“Oh mercy, you don’t mean it! Why, he couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, could he?”
“No’m.” He explained about how Billy Talcott fell through the ice on Washington’s Birthday. She clucked and drew him along. “We mustn’t speak of such things. You have a sister too, don’t you? She’ll be quite grown up by now.”
“She’s nineteen, Mrs. Rowe.”
“Nineteen?”
“Yes. Torrie’s married.”
“Married? That little child? Who did she marry?”
“Rider Gannon. You know the Gannons—they live in the big brick house down on the green.”
“Gannon, Gannon.” She tried to place the name. “Not Charlotte and Everett Gannon’s boy? Why, wasn’t he killed?”
“That was Harvey, Rider’s older brother. He was killed in France.”
“Oh? Yes—that’s what I meant. Oh, that was Harvey, was it? Now I remember. It seems to me Gannon’s in the fire department, isn’t he? I saw him go by in the truck just the other day. I was putting up my flag for Memorial Day. There was a fire up at the old Wooldridge place on Packard Lane, they said.”
Smiling, he shook his head and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “No, that’s Al Gammond that drives the firetruck.” The Wooldridge house had burned to the ground a year ago Fourth of July.
“Oh,” she said, musing a moment, her face clouding briefly as some unspoken wisp of thought played hide-and-seek across the meadows of her memory. She brightened again. “Well, have you come to visit me, Holland?”
“If you want.” One hand was busy fiddling with something under the folds of his cape.
“Isn’t that nice. You should be off with your friends, not spending time with an old lady like me. But as long as you’re here, would you care to come in and have tea with me?” She inclined her head formally, awaiting his answer.
“Sure, I’ll come. I was hoping you’d ask me.”
“Why bless your heart. And look at us, will you. Goodness, I’ve never seen anything so fascinating.” Truly, she seemed to find his appearance astonishing and was unable to take her eyes off him. “What are you all got up for, a play?”
“We’re going to have a show in the barn. I’m Professor Rabbitwaters, the magician.”
“A magician!” She clapped her hands enthusiastically. “How grand.”
He gave her an odd look. “Yes. Would you like me to do a trick for you?”
“Well, wouldn’t that be nice!” she said. “Come along then. If you don’t mind, we’ll just go in through the kitchen. Company usually comes in by the front door, but we musn’t stand on ceremony.” She laughed gaily and, opening the back-porch screen door, followed him inside.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any frankfurters today, but there’s lemonade and ice cream, and I think some cake . . .” Stepping toward the kitchen she started and gave a cry of surprise. “Oh, there’s another one!” She pointed to a shadowy corner where a trap had been sprung by a large gray rat, its neck flattened under the heavy clamp. “Holland—” she said, “would you—” She gestured at the dead thing. “I simply can’t bring myself to go near one. Mrs. Cooney always took care of such things.”
He pulled out the trap, released the rat, and held it up by the tail. The coat of gray hair was stiff and matted, the eyes shut tight, the pink mouth forced open, exposing rows of tiny white teeth. “What should I do with it?”
“Take one of those paper bags, dear, then drop it in the garbage, would you?” White-lipped, biting the back of her hand, she watched him deposit the dead animal in a sack and roll up the top, pulling back in terror as he passed her and went to the garbage can at the garage door. Seeing that the rat was safely out of sight and the garbage lid replaced, she waited for him to join her and together they went through into the kitchen.
“Some more lemonade, dear?” Mrs. Rowe asked, holding out the pitcher for him.
“Yes, thank you,” he said politely. They were sitting in the parlor before the empty fireplace. Casement curtains obscured the view from the street, but the afternoon sun shed a diffused light through the side windows, between heavy velvet portières pulled back over ornate glass tiebacks. Opposite them an enormous mirror with twining leaves and fruit and cupids duplicated the room in all its particulars, making it appear that there were four people, two white-haired smiling ladies and their guests, two serious young men in opera clothes, taking tea together—tea for the ladies and lemonade and cake for the young men. Lamps of colored crystal dripped flashing prisms which tinkled faintly. Dried flower clusters and bright birds were everywhere imprisoned under transparent domes. A bowl of wax fruit collected dust. Beside a marble mantel stood a glass case, its shelves cluttered with a provocative collection of mementos and curios.
“Well,” said Mrs. Rowe, “isn’t this nice.” She had brought out her best cup and saucer, from which she sipped as she rocked in her chair. “An unexpected surprise, which is the best kind! And just such an afternoon. I must confess, I was longing for company—I miss Mary Cooney so. I always enjoy having visitors, though they do seem to come more rarely. I particularly like seeing children, like yourself, Holla
nd. I have always thought that having the young around keeps me young myself.”
“It’s nice to be here,” he offered agreeably. He could see what she said was true: her face had about it a certain little-girl quality. In a second his gaze had drifted again to the glass case, which had captured his interest. His eyes searching the shelves, he mechanically reached into a pocket, removed the harmonica, and began a song.
Nyang-gang-ga-dang-dang ding-ding ga-dang-dang-dang—
“Why, aren’t you clever,” said Mrs. Rowe. “I used to play the cello years ago; what is that ditty?”
“Oh, it’s just—nothing—a nursery rhyme.” He sang a few lines to her:
“How many miles to Babylon? Threescore miles and ten—
Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again.”
She clapped appreciatively. “I see you’re interested in my curio collection. That belonged to my husband”—pointing out a silver sword—“he brought it from Toledo; in Spain, you know. All the best sword steel comes from Toledo. You may take it out if you care to. I know how young boys enjoy things like that.”
He got up and, laying the harmonica on one of the glass shelves, removed the sword from the case, inspected it, then took up an ivory comb and held it to the light.
“That came from Peking, China,” she explained. “See how fragile it is. And that glass ball is from Prague, in Czechoslovakia. Aren’t you warm with that cape? Why don’t you just slip it off—that’s better. My, spats and all, I declare. Such a pretty shirt. I love pink, it’s so—Are you quite comfortable, Holland?” He seemed to have a problem keeping himself still, as though something inside his shirt were tickling him. “Do you need to use the facilities—”
A blush stole over his face. “No’m—I’m fine,” he said, still fiddling at his side. “Say,” he continued, as though the thought had just struck him, “would you like to see me do my trick now?” Though the blush had faded, his expression was alight with expectation.
“A trick? Ah, you want to sing for your supper, is that it?”
“No, not sing. Do a trick. I want to do a trick for you.” He looked at her anxiously.
“Why, that would be very nice.” She sat forward in her chair as he slid into his cape again and made a circuit of the room, lifting in turn each of the portières from their glass tiebacks and letting them fall across the windows.
“Oh my,” she said with the slightest trepidation as the room grew dim, “is that necessary?”
“It’s a better light for the trick,” he said matter-of-factly, and returned to take up a position before her.
“Oh, very mysterious, is it? All magicians are misterioso, aren’t they? Would this be a card trick?”
“Oh no. Card tricks are for kids. This is a grown-up trick.” Turning his back to her, he made certain arrangements which, though she failed to grasp their import, did not fail to pique her curiosity. At length he faced her again. Her eyes bright with anticipation, her hands folded comfortably in her lap, she observed as he removed his silk hat and held it in front of him, tipping it upside down and tapping it in the tradition of all magicians, to prove its bonafide emptiness. “Professor Rabbitwaters,” he announced dramatically, “will now pull something from his hat!”
“Heavens,” she said, leaning forward still further from her chair, “something from his hat! Will it be a rabbit?”
“Not exactly,” he said cryptically, a naughty grin on his red mouth, and though she laughed, a tinkling crescendo ending in a little grace note of disbelief, he made no other reply but went straightaway about his business, performing abracadabra and hocus-pocus, using his eyes strangely to divert her attention from his hands, moving adroitly beneath the cape, and then, his grin ever-widening, answering her eager smile, he stepped briskly forward one more step and, without further ado, performed his trick.
5
Hot. Getting hotter.
By day and by night, summer bloomed, blazed. The horse chestnut tree became a darker green, its leaves broadening, glistening with a leathery, waxy sheen, its branches sprouting small prickly balls. The lawns, however, sprouted only dandelions, crabgrass, and witchweed. Awnings were useful. While certain people returned, sorrowfully, to the city, others arrived to enjoy the blandishments of the country. Some loved the weather, some endured it, some suffered from it. My, wasn’t it muggy, sticky, damp, humid? And in an age before air conditioning, too.
But complain about the weather as you might, you couldn’t do anything about it. So saith Mr. Crofut, the mailman, blowing his whistle every half-block along the Valley Hill Road to announce his coming. “T’ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity.” That was another of Mr. Crofut’s sagacious, oft-repeated observations. And folks all over Pequot Landing were feeling it.
Mr. Pretty, the vegetable man, wiped his red face with a bandana and rang his cowbell from the cab of his truck and waved at Mr. Klepper the seafood man, who shouted “Fish!” at the top of his lungs and wished he had more ice. Mr. Swate, the Congregational church sexton, rake in one hand, a watering can in the other, paused at his labors over a grave and cursed the thermometer, softly, not to shame those underfoot. Mrs. Jewett, her husband being in Providence or Fall River or Bangor, was having the sunporch painted, and her house smelled of turpentine; she retreated to her hammock under the backyard beeches and put a newspaper over her head. Rose Halligan, whose day off from the Ten Cent Store it was, boarded the Center Street trolley uptown to take in an air-cooled double feature. Mr. Pennyfeather, being taken for a walk by Mrs. Pennyfeather, he in seersucker, she in a pongee dress and a barrette to keep her hair out of her face, strolled along the sidewalk and said hello to Mrs. Joacum, digging worms from her front grass. Mr. Angelini pushed the lawnmower—cleckeleckcleckcleck—around a square of lawn behind the Perry house while—snip . . . snip . . . snip—in the rose garden beside the carriage-house, Niles was clipping Granddaddy’s Emperor roses.
Snip.
The steel nippers of the rose shears were shining and sharp; they parted a stem neatly and Niles made a deft catch before the flower hit the ground. But today his mind was elsewhere. On magicking, to be precise. There was this trick—snip—the one he had envisioned for the show in the barn. A difficult one to bring off, particularly with Aunt Josie being gone, and he mulled over in his mind how this feat might best be accomplished. Snip.
Carrying a sizable bouquet, he went to replace the red-handled rose shears on their nail next to Father’s hip boots hanging on the wall of the tool shed. All of Mr. Angelini’s tools had blue-crayoned outlines around them, indicating their proper spaces.
At a sound, he looked through the door to the breezeway, where he saw the hired man, standing back in the shadows, regarding him silently.
“Hi, Mr. Angelini.”
Under the battered straw hat, there was a strange look in the dark, red-rimmed eyes. Then, tentatively, the man raised his arm in salute and let it fall to his side.
“It’s all right, Mr. Angelini,” Niles said, stepping across the threshold with his flowers, reaching to touch the old man’s sleeve. “It wasn’t your fault. It’ll be all right.” He waited while Mr. Angelini, who said only, “’Scusa me,” heaved a sack of fertilizer into a wheelbarrow and stumbled away.
Wonderful odors wafted forth from the kitchen: Winnie was baking one of her marble cakes.
“Wipe yore feet!” Her familiar chant ended in a rising inflection warning of dire consequences.
“I did,” Niles hastened to assure her, the screen door clattering behind him as he stepped over a basketful of root beer bottles and left a trail of grass cuttings across the linoleum to the sink. At her ironing board, Winnie shook a woeful head. For how many years had she tried to train Perry kids not to track up her floor? Fall, leaves; winter, snow; spring, mud; summer, half the lawn, natcherly.
“Where you been?” she asked amiably, over the bleat of her radio program.
“Oh, around,” he informed her.
Enormously edifie
d, she watched him lay the roses on the drainboard, pull out a cabinet drawer, and step up on it to reach a high cupboard. “What’re you doin’—yore grandmother’s good vase! If you put them roses onto the piano, put a saucer under. Honest.”
“They’re not for the piano, they’re for Mother.” Dragging a chair to the sink, he busied himself with the faucet.
“Niles, what’re you doin’ there?”
“Washing off the bugs.”
“Bugs?”
“There’s lots of June bugs this year and—”
She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “Oh God, in my sink.”
“When’s lunch?”
“When’s it ever?”
“Noon.”
“All right, sir. ’S’not eleven, yet.”
“What’s to eat?”
“Croquettes.”
“Cro-quettes? Wow!”
She marveled at the amount of water he managed to spatter over the vicinity. “What’s for supper?”
“How can you be thinkin’ about supper when you ain’t had yore lunch yet?”
“Just asking.”
“What’s today?
“Friday.”
“Then what’s for supper?”
“Oh. Fish. Shad?”
“Shad’s ’bout gone by.”
“Swordfish?”
“’S’early fer swordfish, lest you want salted. Tonight’s haddock—if Sam Klepper ever gets here.”
“Fish—ick.”
“If anybody’s around to eat it, that is.”
“Why?”
“’Cause it’s Friday, that’s why—yore uncle’s got American Legion, I got Jennie to visit, you got choir practice, and yore mother’s got no appetite, so that leaves Missus to eat the haddock.”
“It’s okay—a full stomach makes me burp. And if I burp I can’t sing so good and Professor Lapineaux makes cracks.” He had gone to produce a box of Sunshine biscuits from the drawer of the Hoosier cabinet, and was munching. Winnie carefully folded a shirt and, to keep it from harm’s way, put it on top of the refrigerator, where a Gothic-shaped radio sat, at all hours rivaling the Atwater-Kent in the parlor, the larger one most regularly broadcasting Amos ’n’ Andy weekdays at seven on the Red Network, the smaller competing with Easy Aces on the Blue.