Quiet Dell: A Novel (11 page)

“Death is a business,” Abernathy said, looking around her.

•   •   •

Downstairs, Asta sent Hart and Grethe off to the bank, and Annabel to the parlor, to await a frank talk, but considered Abernathy’s remark. How odd the woman was. Death was Abernathy’s business, one supposed, but what a strange, unaccountable statement. God save anyone from such a life, moving one desperate illness to another as someone lay wasting away. Abernathy was competent, never ruffled. Asta could trust that nothing would go wrong; all would remain in order, and for a week or a bit more, that was all she required.

“Annabel?” Asta found her in the dining room, surveying the table settings. They didn’t often have company. “Does it look nice, darling?”

“Oh yes. Mr. Pierson is sure to appreciate a lovely dinner after his long drive.” She fixed a hand to each high rounded point of one of the tall ladder-back chairs. “You can tell by his spectacles that he likes fine things.”

She’d wanted to see his photograph. Just this morning, Asta had obliged. “I’m sure he does, dear. And I’m certain he will appreciate you. You might recite something for him, I think. From your
Child’s Garden,
perhaps?”

“I know what I shall recite.”

“It must be short, Annabel.”

“Oh, yes. Grandmother told me, never try the patience of one’s audience.”

Asta concealed her irritation at the mention of Lavinia. “Annabel, I asked you to wait for me in the parlor.”

“I was just going there,” Annabel said.

Asta went to the kitchen to get the child a glass of milk and a few of the icebox cookies she’d baked fresh. She didn’t want to antagonize Annabel, who was her mother’s only supporter in this venture, for she didn’t remember a father, and loved the idea of a business adviser, a very close friend. Sometimes, she’d pointed out, friends became suitors, as happened in
Little Women,
between Laurie, the rich neighbor, and Amy, the youngest sister, who was Annabel’s favorite over Jo, the tomboy; Amy was a painter, and her suitor, like a prince. Mr. Pierson was not a prince, Asta had said, only a very nice man.

She fetched a cut-glass tray for their repast, for Annabel loved such things. Lavinia had certainly taught her to value “fine things,” and if reality was not so fine, to construct stories and fantasies.

But fantasy was of no use. Had Cornelius not offered his help, not grown to revere Asta as his heart’s desire, where would she have turned? She would surely have accepted Charles’ proposal and been another man’s disappointment. So, the milk and cookies. Annabel would be waiting as though for a visitor, pretending her behavior was not the issue. Asta took the tray into the parlor.

Annabel looked up with a brilliant smile and Asta felt herself lighten, as though some edge of happiness touched her. Was it so unbelievable that a good man existed? Mature people who had endured life’s struggles surely deserved happiness, and appreciated good fortune far more than the young.

•   •   •

The bank was open another half hour, despite their mother’s haste. She’d rushed them off in their clean clothes, insisting Hart wear a tie. They’d plenty of time, Hart assured Grethe, who walked quickly, regardless, exactly in the middle of the sidewalk. She wouldn’t cross streets until there were no cars in sight, even if the light was solidly red. He knew better than to argue.

He searched his mind for a remark of no consequence. “That’s a nice dress you’re wearing,” he told her.

“Do you know it was Grandmother’s? Mother did it up. She says I’m just Grandmother’s size.”

“You’re wearing Grandmother’s clothes?”

“I must wear them now because I might grow too tall soon. And this is Grandmother’s hat.” She touched her straw boater, and the navy ribbons that hung by her chin.

Hart was perplexed. What right had his mother to dress Grethe in these clothes? He remembered silks and taffetas and parasols, and tasseled shawls that shimmered at holidays. Was Grethe to go about in all that? Were they so poor that Grethe couldn’t have her own clothes? He couldn’t ask her if she minded; that would only make her think she should. “Well, you look very nice,” he said. They were opposite the bank, and he took her arm.

“Mother put my hair up,” she said. “A little girl doesn’t wear this sort of hat.”

“I suppose not,” Hart said. His mother said Grethe would always be a little girl, but here she was, dressed up like an older woman. “Look here,” he said, “take my arm, like so, because I’m your brother. But don’t take any other fellow’s arm. You know not to, don’t you, no matter what he says about your hat.”

“My hat,” she repeated. She looked at the light fixedly. The sun was glaring, and the color was hard to make out.

He drew her across Main Street, into the bank. The marble floor and walls were markedly cool and the big clock glowered down. He saw the minute hand jerk. There was a long queue, but only two tellers serving customers. Hart indicated three chairs to the left, by the wall. “Sit just there and wait for me, Grethe. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“What are you mad about?”

“I’m not mad. Only just wait for me.” He stood in line and looked back as she settled herself, like a bird lit on a cushion, sitting forward as though she might rise any minute, knees together, feet flat on the floor, as their mother had taught her. So many rules made Grethe anxious, for she had to remember them all. She was born normal but she was special now. Their mother had said this so long ago that Hart couldn’t remember not knowing. It couldn’t
happen to Hart, she’d explained, or to Annabel, because these fevers only afflicted small babies, and changed how the brain might grow. Grethe would always need their protection.

He made sure no one teased her at school, and helped her with her homework. She couldn’t memorize the Gettysburg Address for graduation to fourth grade, no matter how many times he repeated each phrase, and so she hadn’t gone to fifth grade, and was schooled at home. She walked about with a book on her head, and went with their mother now, to stores, the post office, the bank. This bank.

He looked back at her; a tall gentleman was talking to her.

The man, dressed in a fine suit, leaned over her. “Excuse me, are you Miss Eicher?”

He could hear what they were saying, for the bank was like a church. Hushed voices carried. Hart was two from the front; she’d be waiting far longer if he left the line now. He looked directly at her, trying to get her attention.

“Yes,” she was saying in her practiced way, “I’m Grethe Eicher.”

“I thought so. I’m William Malone, president of this bank and a friend of your mother’s. She speaks so highly of you.” He was nodding at Grethe, pleased. At least he wasn’t trying to shake her hand.

Grethe looked at him, and never once looked at Hart.

“How old are you now, Grethe?” the man asked her.

“I’m fourteen.” She gave her serious, studious smile. “I have an account at this bank.”

There she was, giving out personal information, just because some man spoke to her. Hart cleared his throat and looked over at the teller, who was taking an uncommonly long time with the old lady in front.

“Charles opens a savings account for us when we are ten,” Grethe was saying, “for our gift money and pocket money. He makes our first deposit. Twenty dollars.”

“Does he?” Malone said. “A young person should have a savings to look after. Charles must be a very good man.” Now he sat in the chair next to Grethe, as though to have a proper conversation.

Grethe was obliging, attentive, concentrating, no doubt. “Oh yes, he was our roomer, and comes to see us quite often.”

“Excellent.” Now Malone looked over at Hart. Grethe followed his gaze as though coming out of a spell. “Would you children like to come to the office, have some lemonade or cold water? Very warm today, isn’t it?”

Hart was finally at the cashier’s window, but turned to look hard at Grethe and said, perhaps too loudly, “No thank you, sir. We must be getting home.” He gave Malone a clipped nod and turned his back, leaning on the teller’s counter, hunching his shoulders as though to protect some privacy. He slid his bankbook forward and heard Malone take his leave. He knew Grethe had never moved, or shifted her feet, only turned her head and smiled at the nice gentleman. He knew she wondered what she’d done wrong, to make Hart mad at her again.

•   •   •

“Now, Annabel,” Asta began. “You know I count on you, this coming week, to do exactly as I asked, just as if I were here with you.”

She sat with her knees together, on the sofa, very prim. “I know, Mama.”

“I was very disappointed to see you defy my instructions. What would Mr. Pierson think, if he saw you behaving so?”

“I . . . don’t know, Mama.”

“Why were you in the playhouse, when I forbade it?”

“I had to go inside today, just for one time.”

“What do you mean? And did I see you in Charles’ white scarf? Have you had it since Christmas? Why ever didn’t you give it back to him?”

Annabel widened her eyes and spoke in a rush of pleasure. “Because he said it was the loveliest silk and should stay with me, because it was in my Christmas play, the best play, he said, ever, of all my pageants.”

“Well do bring it in. It can’t hang out there in the heat and damp.”

“It belongs there. It’s listening.”

“Annabel, listening to what?”

“To the ladies, walking about, the Japanese ladies and what they say about us.”

“What they say?”

“About everything spread out in the yard, like a marketplace, and everyone milling around.”

“Milling around? What do you mean?”

“A party or a social in the yard, while we’re gone. Ever so many people, in and out.”

“Annabel! Stop this nonsense. You are not to be in the playhouse, and you know it. And why did you encourage Grethe to disobey?”

“I . . . I shouldn’t have. But she is one of the ladies in the painting and should wear the scarf before them, where they see her in
their
world, not
our
world, because
their
world—”

“Hush! You are very, very selfish to ask Grethe to do what I expressly forbid! Don’t talk to me of this and that world! The painting is just an illustration, a picture; I painted it myself! The glass in the playhouse window is broken and could cut someone. Someone could be very badly hurt—” She stopped herself, for Annabel was leaning forward, hanging on her every word.

“Yes,” she breathed. “But the light of the world shall quell all hurt and lift away the fortress of the dark.”

Quickly, Asta rose and touched the back of her hand to Annabel’s forehead. The child was flushed, her cheeks bright red, as though she’d stood before a fire. Asta pulled her close, and lifted the cold milk to her mouth. “Here, drink this.” Annabel was parroting words she’d heard at church. The big painting of Jesus and the children at St. Luke’s said something about the light of the world, and the homage to Martin Luther was emblazoned with a legend about a mighty fortress. “Better?” Asta put a cookie in her hand. “Eat this. There are raisins and nuts in it.”

Annabel nodded, and took the second cookie her mother offered.

“As for the light and the world, you can bring all that up tomorrow at Bible School. That’s just what Bible School is about. And you’ll make stained-glass windows with wax paper and crayons, and the teacher will iron them to melt the colors.”

Annabel leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder and clasped her hand.

“Now, you’ll stay out of the playhouse, absolutely, while I’m gone.” She felt Annabel nod her assent. “I want you to go to your room, where it’s cool, and have a nap. Then wash up and put on the dress I left on your chair. The heat has tired you out. And Duty too.” Asta had to move the dog; Duty lay like a dead weight across Annabel’s feet. Asta walked her daughter to the stairs and set her moving up them, Duty trailing behind. Annabel would allow him on the bed and he would put his snub-nosed head on the pillow beside hers. Abernathy would forbid it, but Asta knew that Duty, while she was away, would wait until Abernathy shut her door at night to choose which child to guard.

•   •   •

Asta went to the living room to compose herself. Lavinia’s ornate, inlaid desk still radiated her presence. To think that the desk, and the tall highboy with its carved garlands and original glass, had crossed safely from Copenhagen in the hold of that tossing ship and were here still, unmarked, with Lavinia and Heinrich gone and she herself so changed. She could not look too closely at this house just now! In her heart, she wished Cornelius would fall in love with it, decide to purchase it, even as a rental property, for the children’s sake . . . the walls, the floors, the Palladian windows in their frames, the ceilings with their moldings and stenciled borders, were haven and anchor, and all fallen to her. It was after five. The drapes and sheers and needlepoint shades of the tall windows blocked the worst of the heat. Asta turned on the gaslights and sank into one of the embroidered, overstuffed chairs. The sconces, subtle as candlelight, cast a pure vanilla glow. Stunned with fatigue, she leaned back to wait.

•   •   •

It was six; it was seven, and eight, just dark of a warm summer evening. It had rained hard, only briefly, enough to wet the streets and refresh the gardens. The long curved sides of the black Chevrolet coupe looked shiny and freshly washed. He cut the engine and pulled silently to the front of the house. It was a good neighborhood, a fine house, undoubtedly full of fine possessions. A welcoming light shone above the door.

He took from his pocket a white linen handkerchief and removed his round gold spectacles. He cleaned the lenses carefully and folded the handkerchief, replacing it in his front suit pocket so that one corner crisply protruded. He regarded himself in the driver’s rearview mirror and smoothed his bow tie. Then he got out of the automobile and walked quickly to the front porch.

Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose. . . . She sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take home even a penny of money.