The Eighth Day (55 page)

Several times a year a newspaper reporter would enter “Buena Vista” as far as the front hall. “Is it true, Mrs. Ashley, that you are the mother of Madame Scolastica Ashley, and Berwyn Ashley?” “Thank you very much for your visit, but I'm very busy today.” “And Constance Ashley–Nishimura?” “Good morning. Thank you for calling.” “Have you had any message from your husband, Mrs. Ashley?” “We're cleaning the downstairs rooms this morning. I'm sorry. I'll have to ask you to leave.” “But, Mrs. Ashley, I have to get a story or I'll be fired.” “I'm sorry
—
good morning, good morning.
”

Grandmotherly she was, of a German patrician rather than of an American order. All her boarders were aware of her concern for them. The house was spotless and she exacted a large measure of decorum from those who lived in it. She had long talks with addicts of tobacco and alcohol, with the despairing and the light-minded. Behind an appearance of severity she truly “adopted” her boarders: she lent money, she made gifts of garments and dollar watches. Her days were full. Her golden hair turned the color of a dull straw; she long retained her erect carriage. She wore no colors. Like many German women she came in later years to dress with notable distinction. Passers-by on the street stopped short in admiration at the delicate white cuffs and the snowy fichu over the black silk or broadcloth, at the long gold chain and crystal pendant that held a lock of a grandson's hair. When Lily arrived in town to give a concert, or Roger and Constance to lecture, she let it be known that she wished to sit in the back of the hall. She refused to share a meal with them at a hotel; she invited them to have coffee with her in the sitting room at the “Buena Vista.” These visits would have been difficult but for the fact that she had considerable knowledge of the matters that interested them. But there was something else:

“Mama,” asked Constance one day, “you're happy, aren't you?”

“Do you remember Mrs. Wickersham's description of your father's life in Chile?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“All Ashleys are happy, because we work. I'd be ashamed if we weren't.”

Late in life she had acquired a measure of humor. One day Roger climbed the precarious steps to drink coffee with his mother. She told him she and his father had never been married.

They both laughed.

“Mama!” he said.

“I'm proud of that.”

Beata never mentioned to her children that she had joined a church
—
one of those independent congregations that abound in southern California, combining spiritism, Indian philosophy, and healing: it seemed to her to reflect many ideas, many affirmations, that she had acquired from her lifelong reading in Goethe.

At nine-thirty Roger gave the signal—the hoot of an owl—before Porky's store and went in. Porky resumed his work by the hot stove.

“Sophie's not well, Porky.”

Porky wasted no words when a glance could better convey his sense.

“You and she are coming up to Chicago to visit me at Easter.” Roger put down on the table some pamphlets illustrating braces for the feet and shins. “You stay four days; she'll stay a week. If Connie went back to school, would the children behave badly to her?”

“A few. Connie'd be all right.”

“Have you got all this work to do over Christmas?”

“Most of my work I do by mail now. Drummers send me their families' shoes. Sophie ought to go to the Bell Farm again—right now—day after Christmas.”

“If you say so, I'll do it. I'll take her there myself.”

Bang! Bang!

“I met Felicity Lansing on the train. I think she has an idea who killed her father. Could she have?”

Bang.
“Might have.”

“Do you have any idea, Porky?” Porky's glance conveyed nothing. “I'd rather know who rescued my father.”

It was restful to be with Porky and his hammer and his silence. “I feel I ought to be home and have a last word with Sophie. What's that drawing on the wall?”

“My cousin's building two more rooms to the store for me.”
Bang. Bang.
“I'm getting married in March.”

“Sure!” Roger suddenly remembered Porky's having told him in great confidence, that the young men of the Church of the Covenant on Herkomer's Knob married at the age of twenty-five. “Do I know your wife?”

“Christiana Rawley.”

Roger's face lit up. He remembered Christiana at school. “Fine!” he said. They shook hands solemnly.

“I'm teaching her brother Standfast; he'll help me here. Tell your mother that when I move out of ‘The Elms' he can take my room there and do the heavy work.”

“I will.”

They exchanged a glance. Friendship is great. It thinks of everything. Imagination.

“My grandfather wants to see you.”

“Yes. Where?”

“At his house.”

No one in Coaltown was ever invited to call on Herkomer's Knob.

There was something weighty in the air.

“Yes, of course, Porky. When?”

“Could you meet me here tomorrow at four? I'll have horses.” Porky's lameness. An able young man could ascend the hill in forty minutes.

“I'll be here. What's your grandfather's name?”

“O'Hara. Call him ‘Deacon.' And if he says anything about me, do you know my name?”

“Harry O'Hara.”

“My name is Aristides.”

“He's in Plutarch's
Lives!
”

“In school the teacher called me Harry. They thought the children would laugh at Aristides.”

“Tomorrow at four.—I'd better get back to the house and see Sophie.”

They didn't say goodnight. Just the glance, arrowlike, keener by three and a half years.

Roger entered the gate at “The Elms” and went around the house to the back. Through the window he saw his mother seated at the kitchen table, her cup of
Milchkaffee
before her, lost in thought. He returned to the front of the house and stole silently upstairs. Sophia's door was open a few inches. He stood still and listened. He whispered, “Sophie!”

“Yes! Yes, Roger?”

“Do you want to go to church with me on Christmas morning?”

“Yes.”

“Like we used to do when Papa was here? You and Connie. I'll tell you a secret: Lily's sent you both some beautiful dresses to wear. Mama sent her your measurements. Then the next day we're going to the Bell Farm to see everybody there.—Now will you sleep nine hours for me tonight?”

“Yes, I will.”

“I'm going to leave my door open a few inches, like Papa used to do. Remember?”

“Yes.”

In the morning a copper can of hot water stood before his door. As Roger finished shaving he gazed insistently into the mirror that had so often reflected his father's face. Mirrors “hold” nothing. They don't know we're here. “T.G.” used to say that the universe was like a mirror. Vacant. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. He heard his sisters stirring. He went out into the hall and shouted: “Bathroom's free! Last one down to breakfast is a buffalo!”

Constance came rushing toward him screaming: “Papa's home—I mean, Roger's home.”

Sophia hid behind her door.

His mother had eaten breakfast. She brought a cup of coffee to the table and sat down beside him. She hesitated to speak. She knew that her hoarseness had returned. Besides, she could think of nothing to say. She was filled with pride in this visitor, this strange young man.

“I want to see some people today,” he said. “Lily's sent down some presents for Miss Doubkov and the Gillieses.”

“I've asked them to supper with us.”

“That's fine. I may be a little bit late. I'm going up to Herkomer's Knob this afternoon. Porky's grandfather asked to see me.—After supper I'm going over to call on Mrs. Lansing. Have you got something to eat that I could take over for a present?”

“Yes, I have. I'll wrap up some marzipan and ginger cookies.”

The girls joined them. Constance had plenty to say.

By ten-thirty Félicité had lighted the stove in Miss Doubkov's store. Roger knocked and entered. She was sitting behind the counter straight, severe, contained, like a schoolteacher—no, like a nun. She had brought Anne with her. (It was not necessary to explain that nothing escaped the eyes of Coaltown except the truth.) By previous arrangement Anne put cotton in her ears and sat down by the stove with a book.

Roger and Félicité gazed into each other's eyes a moment over something increasingly weighty; whatever it was, they were in it together. She began speaking in a low voice:

“I have two things to tell you.” She told him about the money her mother had received from his father's inventions. “It's made her very unhappy. She doesn't want to keep it one day longer. She hasn't even put it in the bank. She cashed the cheque and keeps the money hidden in her room. She wanted to go to your house and give it to your mother, but she felt sure that your mother wouldn't take it. She was sure that your mother would be very angry.” She paused and looked at him with a faint inquiry.

“Yes. I think she was right.”

“When she heard that you were coming to Coaltown she felt a great relief. She changed in one day. She's going to put it all in your hands when you come to see her tonight. I thought I ought to tell you first so that you'd be ready. You
will
take it?”

“Surely your father did some work on the inventions?”

“Mother says she knows it wasn't very much.” Félicité smiled faintly. “She says she'll ask for ten percent and give it to orphans.”

Roger was unable to sit still longer. He rose and took a few steps around the room. “Papa's inventions! They've made money! . . . ? He always knew there was money in them, but he wouldn't do anything about it.”

“Will you take it from
Maman
tonight?”

“I'll put it in the bank. You and I will be the treasurers of it. We'll use it for our sisters' education. If Papa were here, he'd want it divided equally. That's what I'll tell your mother. . . . ? What else did you want to talk to me about?”

Félicité's expression changed. She pressed her lips together. She looked at him imploringly. She clasped her hands tightly on the counter. “Roger, I have something terrible to tell you. I wasn't sure of it when I saw you on the train. I'm sure of it now.—Roger, what did your father do every time he fired his gun?”

“What? What do you mean, Felicity?”

“Try to remember! What did he teach you to do because he said it made you concentrate better?”

“He counted.”

“And he pressed with the tip of his left shoe on the ground. Always at the same speed.” Roger waited. “He said four words: ‘One, two, three,
crack!'”

“Yes?”

Félicité was silent. The blood had left her face. She looked at him with urgent appeal. “Help me,” she whispered.

Suddenly he saw what she meant. “Someone else could shoot at exactly the same second!”

“From the house. From a window upstairs in the house.”

“But who? Who, Felicity?”

“Someone who would know about that counting.”

“
Me? You?
We were all at the picnic in Memorial Park. George had left town the night before.”

She began talking very rapidly, but distinctly. “Father had been very ill for weeks and weeks. Mother sat up beside his bed every night. Sometimes he was in pain and he'd shout and throw things off his table. George thought he was striking Mother. George would wander around the house all night like an animal—like an animal going crazy. My father would never have hurt
Maman.
But he was in pain. Sometimes he called her cruel names.
Maman
understood, but George didn't. Then my father got the idea that he would shoot your father. George told me so. George said he heard him say so. My father didn't mean it. He was just suffering. Do you see? George shot my father to protect
Maman
and to save your father's life.”

Roger rose slowly. He said. “That must be the way it was.”

“Wait! Wait! George wouldn't have let your father go through that trial. He didn't know about the trial. He rode all night on one of those freight trains. He fell off and hurt his head. He was in an insane asylum for months. Oh, Roger, Roger! Help me!”

Roger crossed to the stove quickly and tapped Anne on the shoulder. She pulled the cotton from her ears. “Get a glass of water.”

Roger and Anne stood in silence while Félicité sipped the water. Anne had never seen her sister's hands tremble. Finally Roger whispered, “Put the cotton back in your ears, Anne.”

Finally he said, “Where's George now?”

“He came back four nights ago. He got into his room by the window. We didn't know he was there until the morning. Nobody's ever seen anyone so unhappy. Even my father wasn't as unhappy as that. We've always been afraid that George would become insane. And now . . . ?
I
can see now that he's trying to tell us something; but he can't tell it.”

“Does your mother . . . ??”

Félicité had shed no tears. She put her hand over her mouth and a great sob broke beneath it. “Last night . . . ? George doesn't want to go to bed. He wants us to sit up all night with him. We read scenes from Shakespeare and French plays. And we talk. George talks. He talks strange things, a sort of nonsense. And I saw that
Maman
was trying to help him tell the thing, whatever it was. Because if he told
her
. . . ? do you see?”

She waited. “No, I don't, Felicity.”

“He'd go to a priest. She could persuade him to go to a priest.”

“Yes.”

“I don't think he can
ever
tell
Maman!
He wants to tell me, but so far he arranges it that we're never alone together. Now that I've told you, Roger, I see what I can do: I can tell him that I know, that I understand. Yes. Yes.” She whispered, “
Maman
knows too—I'm sure now.”