Lady (22 page)

Sitting at the dressing table, her hair hidden with a hand towel, she was using a wide camel's-hair brush to paint her face with egg white, a beauty treatment, she explained, that she'd found in the
Delineator
. I leaned against the fourposter bed with its crocheted counterpane, and as she painted I saw how she examined her face microscopically in the large mirror, looking for flaws.

While the egg dried, she removed the towel, let down her hair, and, moving to the chaise, began brushing it with long, powerful strokes. She handed me her pins and I put them in the little pewter dish on the linen runner, with its curly, curvy A.H. monogram. The lid of the dish had a fake pearl for a handle, and held not only Lady's hairpins but sewing pins, as well as the small iron key to Edward's chifforobe. She made no mention of the incident in the attic but, glancing out the window, asked what Jesse was doing in the yard. When I repeated what he'd said about the brickwork, she rapped her ring on the pane and motioned for him to come in. "It's too cold out there, doesn't he know that?"

I can still see her as she was that afternoon, her gold wedding band flashing on her finger as she used the ivory-and-silver brush on her hair (she continued doing it up behind in a knot, the way Edward had liked it), and next she used the suede buffer on her nails. Again she paused to rap on the windowpane, and Jesse, who had paid no attention before, now shrugged his shoulders inside his sweater and, leaving his work, headed for the kitchen.

"All that snow and wet," Lady said dismally, "it will have rotted my bulbs."

"There sure was a lot of snow -- but we never got our sleigh ride. . . ."

"Sleigh ride? Was there to be a sleigh ride?"

She'd forgotten again. I was willing to let it go, but she put down her nail buffer and drew me to her. "Ah, my dear," she murmured, "you mustn't pay any attention to Lady. She doesn't mean to hurt you. She wasn't well this winter. She wasn't herself." No, I thought; and knew the reason. It lay behind the cakebox in the linen closet. She took in a shuddery little breath, and held it. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose, then felt the dried egg white. "Why do I let you see me like this -- I must look awful."

"You look funny."

"I'm sure I do. A very funny-looking, foolish lady." Her expression grew grave. "If -- if you should ever find Lady acting that way again, you just give her a little shake to wake her up, and tell her to remember that we're boom compenions, will you do that, Ignatz? And be a little forgiving of her? Just a little forgiving?"

"I'd forgive you anything!" I vowed fervently, and as I nestled closer and put my arms around her waist, I truly believed my words.

When I think of her now, I see her, most often, as she was that night: never lovelier, never more elegant or exquisite, never more shining or alive. I remember her, seated in her favorite wing chair by the fire, auburn-haired Honey at her side, the black velvet skirt of her dress spread around, her diamonds, one clipped to each ear, sparkling in the firelight Her hair was dressed simply, the curve of her white throat, catching glints of red and orange, was beautiful. She wore a necklace of garnets that had belonged to an aunt, and had been given to her by her father before his death.

And from the chair she greeted her guests and was hostess for her party, while we rubbed elbows with the 5:10-ers, the members of the Old Guard she had wanted to join us. The Harrelsons were there, and Eamon and Eva Harmon, of the seed family, and the undertaking Foleys, the banking Brickers, and Mr. and Mrs. Merriam -- Mrs. Merriam played the organ at church. No one could believe the buffet that had been laid out on the dining-room table -- the chairs moved elsewhere so everything was easily accessible -- the hors d'oeuvres, the hot dishes, the desserts, cheeses of all description, wines of both colors, beer, and, with dessert, champagne.

It was perfectly in order, and the first time I ever tasted champagne -- on Lady's birthday. She was fifty that night, but I heard Eva Harmon saying she looked more forty than fifty, and Eva, who had both wit and style, never said much that she didn't truly think. I agreed. Beyond accepting congratulations, Lady wanted no fuss made. Except for us, she had told no one because she didn't want presents, but wished only to give her friends and "family" a party. There wasn't even a cake; Elthea had had her orders.

I had never known a party like that before, and have known few since. It was lit by a kind of conviviality that comes only from an infusion of spirit into those gathered, and this radiated from Lady herself. Hers were not "hostess ways," but real, honest charm, and profound feelings of warmth and solicitude. It was as if she were thanking these people of the town for having let her live among them. Never was Colonel Blatchley so funny, never was Ma so gay, never were the 5:10-ers so ossified -- to use Mrs. de Sales-Sprague's word -- never had the brick house exuded so much good-heartedness or bonhomie. Even Jesse, in his best black coat, passing trays and fetching drinks, couldn't keep a smile off his face, while Elthea, bangled and braceleted at every visible appendage, laughed as loudly as any of the guests as back and forth she went from the kitchen.

When people had heaped their plates at the buffet, and were seated around the living room, Jesse filled the wineglasses with champagne, and Colonel Blatchley led the birthday toasts. Lady acknowledged them, and proposed one of her own.

"To present company," she offered, moving her glass in a semi-circle and taking in the gathering, "and absent friends. . . ." Her glance went to the gate-leg table where the champagne cooled in a large porcelain bucket filled with ice, beside a bouquet of hothouse flowers, these things replacing the familiar shrine to Edward Harleigh, the photographs, the war medal, and other mementos. Earlier I had realized this must have been what Lady and Elthea were discussing in the bedroom. Jesse, popping another cork, inclined his head and refilled the Colonel's glass.

The toasts honored, Lady sat again, the rugs came up, and there was dancing to the radio in the living room, card games in the back parlor, and the stairway was dotted with sitters and watchers, eaters and drinkers. Lady maintained her chair through most of the evening, and I kept close to her side, with Honey. Outside it was cold, but inside -- I could feel the warmth not only of the burning logs but of the whole room closing in around and enveloping me. Seeing how Lady was loved, I loved her more.

It was a time of friendliness and goodness and cheer, and I said, leaning to her while eating a small boiled potato stuffed with caviar and sour cream, "Can't we do this
every
year?"

She leaned down to me and wiped my mouth with her napkin. "But I won't be fifty every year."

"Then do it when you're fifty-one!" I had drunk wine and was rejoicing in its effects. Please, I cried, it would be like an anniversary, like weddings and birthdays and such things should be, and yes, she said, a party every year until she was white-haired like Barbara Fritchie and we would all be grown up and married, and would bring our children to see the old lady across the Green, and who touched a hair of yon gray head --

"'Dies like a dog -- '"

"'March on, he said.' And march, sir, please bring me some coffee." With sugar, the way she wanted it. Jesse was nowhere to be found, so I prepared the cup myself, and when I came back, I sat again beside her and Honey, as though to be in close proximity gave me status with my elders -- which seemingly it did.

"Well, sir, and who's this young fellow?" Eamon Harmon asked, knowing full well.

"This," said Lady Harleigh, "is the friend of my youth. He is my boom compenion."

It was the accolade, and I toasted myself with more champagne. But what about next year, I asked again; would she promise?

"We'll see," came the reply. And then, too soon, it was over. In spite of floods risen and abated, and we Ark-like in Lady's living room, there were banks to open and seeds to be sold, and funeral arrangements to be seen to, and group by group the guests departed, while I sat hugging Honey by the fire, praying Ma would not round us up, too.

But no, not a word was said about bedtime, and while Elthea saw to the cleaning up, our group, Lady's "family," drew together by the fireside, the rugs still rolled against the wall, and Ma played piano. Lew, Harry, and I rounded up every lighted candle we could find, ringing them around Lady in her chair, and we sang "Happy Birthday." Then there was "Home on the Range," and "Yes, We Have No Bananas," which always amused Lady, and "Don't Bring Lulu." Then Ma played "When I Grow Too Old to Dream," one of her favorites, and I knew from her misty eyes that she was thinking of Pa when she played it.

When Ma finished and took more champagne, we shouted for Lady, who replaced her at the piano bench. "What shall I play?" she asked around the room. "Anything, anything," we chorused, and then she provided the best part of the evening, a coda of her own devising to what had preceded. Fingers resting lightly on the keyboard, she thought for a moment as her gaze went to the cove molding at the ceiling where paintings hung on cords of gold tasseled silk. Reflecting, she used the fingers of her right hand to twist the ring on her left, a trace of a smile playing about her lips; then she redirected her gaze in front of her -- the music on the rack was something entirely different -- and began. Several bars, and then without pause she returned to the beginning, and with one or two introductory passages began again, her fingers spreading across the black and white keys to form the chords, a soft, economical accompaniment underlining rather than stating the music.

It was a sad song, I could tell, not only from the title she had given, but from her facial expression and the register of her voice. She did not try to make it sound sad; it was simply so, a sad song. The German words, all unintelligible to me, sounded husky in her throat. (Mother had said once, "I don't care for German, it sounds so harsh"; but from Lady's mouth it didn't -- sounded soft and fluid, romantic, and spoke of the lost-in-love.)

As the lines continued, it was almost as if we were not there at all and she were singing them for herself, or for someone who was not there in the room. Edward, perhaps? There was a play of emotion on her features, something sweet and at the same time painful, that which is sentimentally called "bittersweet," I suppose, and I, too, became lost in the German words whose meaning I did not understand.

It ended. She paused, her fingers still on the keys.

"What's it called?" Ag asked.

"In German, it is '
Das Lied ist aus
,' which means 'The song is over' -- '
Frag' nicht warum ich gehe
,' 'Don't ask me why I'm going.'"

"It's pretty."

Lady nodded, more to herself than to Ma's remark. "
Ja, das ist schon
. That is a good thing, the music is the German soul."

She turned her head away and used her handkerchief, asking over her shoulder for Jesse to bring more coffee in. He came, with his tray and cups, and I could feel the cold on his coat as he bent to serve Lady. I wondered what he'd been doing outdoors, and decided he must have been to the woodpile, for he was wearing overshoes, hastily wiped on the kitchen mat.

Then it was really and absolutely time to go to bed, and Ma began her usual refrain about upstairs, Now, children. And up we went. Lady, still in her jewelry and gown, came and kissed each of us good night. Before she went out, I said again what a wonderful party it had been.

"I'm glad you liked it, l'il Ignatz."

"Boy, if you'd invited PJ. and Spouse -- would they have been surprised."

"Not half so much as I, darling. I did invite them. They turned me down cold."

The next night found us returned to our own house: damp, musty, and all too common in its familiarity. It bred contempt within me; I longed to be back at Lady's again. But, as Ma said, "All good times must end," and morosely I conceded the truth of it. The flood was over, our stay at Lady's likewise, and what lay ahead except more school, with the dullest of prospects at every turn? March went out baaing, sure enough, though April resembled February in its cold and blustery particulars, and the remaining snow froze fast again.

It was then that I suddenly remembered the Pilgrim Market basket I had buried in the drift behind the Piersons' garage on that fateful day. I took a hatchet, sneaked across the Green, and found the basket, upended in the half-melted drift. I freed it, chopped it up for kindling, and no one was the wiser as it fed our late Sunday-afternoon fire, and I sat on the living-room davenport, watching Blue Ferguson's shame go up the flue in smoke and ashes. It made a cheerful light.

To me, it had been an awesome fall from grace, Blue Ferguson's. Many things had become clear to me -- low, deceitful things. I knew now why the Pilgrim Market truck had so often been parked at the Piersons' kitchen door, hidden behind the screen of fir trees from Mrs. Sparrow's prying eyes. I knew now why Mrs. Pierson had been in the woods the day we'd gone hunting with Jesse, and had found Blue there also. I knew now the precise reason for his trips to the back of Mr. Keller's drugstore. He was no different from anybody else, just one more of the common mold, a god with feet of clay. True gods must be at pains to disguise their frailties; True Blue had revealed his, naked to the eye, in Mrs. Pierson's upper hallway, and what hope did he have of disguise? For if I had thought that the secret lay buried with the market basket I was mistaken. In some way the news had leaked out, and the next thing we heard was that Blue had left town. But who, besides myself, had known? I thought immediately of Dora Hornaday, and the scene at the railroad tracks, when she had done her pantomime about the parrot lady. I was right -- she'd been spying. The talk that subsequently went around was that Mrs. Pierson, in a fit of remorse, had confessed her sins to Mr. Pierson, and had sought his forgiveness, which had been withheld until the culprit had been dealt with. Mr. Pierson made all sorts of threats against Blue, even to declaring he'd sue the Pilgrim Market, though on what grounds no one could imagine. Then we learned that Blue had run off, nobody knew where, and his mother was sick with worry.