Lady (35 page)

Legend had it that in searching for the site of the mill he had walked from Pequot Landing through the forest, until he became lost. He found a mountain, and climbed it to get his bearings. His friends, fearing for his safety during the night, had come in search, calling and sounding drums. Hearing this, Chester came down from his mountaintop, and the "lamentation" for his whereabouts ended, and to this day the place where we now sat was called Lamentation Mountain.

Lady took off her shoes and twiddled her toes while she scratched her left foot. She had been out of the plaster cast for some time still her ankle itched and she used a cane to walk with. Settling herself comfortably, she produced a pack of Pall Malls and gave me her lighter -- an old habit; she always enjoyed having her cigarettes lit for her. She inhaled and blew the smoke out through her nostrils, a trick I had lately been mastering at school. "Will you have one?" she asked casually. I managed mine fairly decently, and for a time we smoked in silence.

Presently the distant train whistle sounded, and we could see the engine as it panted along the tracks through the leafy countryside. Simultaneously, down at the station, a long black hearse pulled in. The driver got out, then a female passenger. They were Mr. Foley, the undertaker, and Estelle Ferguson, Blue's sister. She stood shielding her eyes against the light and straining anxiously to see as the train came down the tracks.

It slowed, stopped, and amid gusts of smoke and steam a lone passenger descended: Mrs. Ferguson, peering uncertainly about as her daughter came to embrace her. She shook hands formally with Mr. Foley, who had come rolling a wheeled trolley from the back of the hearse. The door of the freight car was slid open, and with a pang I saw the end of Blue Ferguson's coffin. The stationmaster helped manuever the coffin onto the trolley and together they rolled it down the platform. Estelle had brought a flag and some flowers. The flag was draped over the coffin lid, with the flowers on top; Mrs. Ferguson followed each of these actions closely, her head moving this way and that, overseeing each detail in its minutest particulars.

I thought I knew where the money had come from to allow her to make the long trip into ravaged Spain, aided through various Red Cross agencies, to discover where Blue had been buried with the others who fell in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.

The train pulled out, its whistle sounding a dirgelike wail, puffs swirling about the platform, partially obliterating the trolley and its burden. When it cleared, the small party had gone inside, and the solitary coffin was the only thing to look at. It stood out in all its starkness, while the breeze riffled the ends of the flag. It was a mournful sight. Lady said nothing. I tried to imagine Blue inside there but I couldn't. He was dead, that was all. He would have been twenty-one that summer.

The breeze continued tugging at the flag until it had dislodged it, dragging the flowers to the planking of the platform. No one came to fix it. Then the flag was blown into a sloppy bundle and became snagged against the wheels of the trolley. Mr. Foley came out with the Ferguson women, and he rolled the trolley toward the hearse while they fumbled up the flag and the flowers. The coffin was stowed, the rear door closed on it. Mrs. Ferguson stood back clutching the flag, smoothing her dress and patting her hair in several places as though trying to tidy herself for her son's homecoming.

"Why didn't anyone come besides Estelle?" I asked Lady, in a low voice, though there was no one to overhear. I distrusted the absence of pomp; Blue had died a hero and it was as if he were being sneaked into town by the back way.

"They didn't want it."

"Someone ought to have come for Blue."

"
We
did."

It had been planned, then, the little drive to this place. Her eyes were wet and her lips trembled as she gazed down on the empty platform. "He was a fine boy, Blue Ferguson. He'll be missed in our town." I thought again of Blue leaning over the banister without his pants, how he'd jumped into the snowdrift. Somehow it all seemed funny now, and long ago.

"You liked Blue, didn't you?" she asked.

"He was a good guy."

"'True Blue.' Poor Mrs. Ferguson, she'll never get over Blue." Suddenly she changed her position, pulling me closer and pressing the flat of her hand about my head, gently, firmly. "Oh, be careful -- do be careful. Promise me you will."

"Sure I will" was all I could think to say.

"It's going to be so -- so -- seeing you boys go."

"No, it won't. If there's a war, it won't last long. We won the last one."

"I'm not sure we did. If we had, Blue wouldn't have come home like this today."

"But that was different -- that was just a war in Spain."

"No, my dear, it was not just a war in Spain. It was the beginning of it all. Europe will be a butcher shop. But you're right -- maybe if America does fight it will end sooner, and better. And maybe there won't be any more wars after that."

I said I would be careful, and she found her handkerchief, sniffed in it, and dried her tears. I had sat up, and to spare her further emotion I looked off toward the place we had come from. I saw the hearse again, winding its way along the road toward the steeple of our church in whose cemetery Blue would be buried.

"You were a good friend," Lady said.

Wondering what had prompted the remark, I looked at her. "Why?"

"Because it's your nature, darling, that's why. You were a friend to Blue, and you are a friend to me. I have been twice blessed in this life."

"Twice?"

"Once with Jesse, once with you. Oh, I'd forgotten -- I have a little present for you." She took from her pocketbook a small wrapped parcel and put it in my hand. I undid the string, and the carefully wrapped paper. It was a copy of
A Shropshire Lad
, the poems of A. E. Housman. I opened to the flyleaf, where she had written in her curly, curvy hand: "For Present Company from Absent Friend(s)," to which she had appended her initials, and the date. It was today, the day Blue Ferguson returned. I thumbed through the pages, stopping where I saw another bit of writing in the same hand, a marginal note indicating a particular poem,

"Read it," she said.

"No -- you." I handed her the open book.

"Yes, better I to a young man, than you to an old woman -- people might laugh." She took the book and read in her clear, crisp voice, without sentimentality:

"Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again."

And there it was; the perfect poem for the perfect time; "Flight and fitting, as Jesse would have said," I observed.

"As Jesse would have said. Yes, he would have," she replied. Together we looked down along the valley, our eyes tracing the "happy highways" where each of us, of different generations, had grown up; the valley which was the land, not of my lost content, for I was too young to know that then, but what seemed the land of my discontent, and I was more eager than ever to leave it, to be done with that church spire and those chimneys and roofs and all the people who lived there.

Once more I looked to the highway where the hearse had traveled; it had gone now, but still I thought of Blue, who had "come again." Well, there were ways and ways.

A plane flew overhead, low, one of the new commercial passenger planes, and we watched it become a speck, disappear. When its drone faded, Lady looked back at the river. Since the flood three years before, its course had settled in a new channel, and much of Hermitage Island had been eaten away. Where the river curved behind First Church, at River Road, had been the wharves and warehouses of the old trading ships, when the town was in its maritime glory. Now, beyond, there were two metal oil-storage tanks, and a dark, flat tanker was leaving its berth, chuffing up smoke. I knew from Lady's expression what she was thinking. I rotated my arms and made chooga-chooga sounds in imitation of one of the old paddle wheelers. She nodded.

"Yes, I much preferred them, the steamers. Well, they'll come again. . . ."

"When?"

"In another life, perhaps. Another lifetime."

"Reincarnation?"

"Oh, please. Cats, maybe, but not me. One life will have been sufficient, thank you." She plucked at a blade of grass and laughed, low, throaty, easily. When I inquired, she looked at me from under her brow, a particularly flirtatious way she had, and said, "I was just thinking of the
City of Springfield
, and that damn steamer ride Edward took me on."

"To Saybrook."

"Yes. Only the trouble began at --"

"Essex."

"Ye-es. How did you --"

"Miss Berry remembered."

"Did she indeed? I thought Mary Berry was as the tomb, both silent and final. What else did she tell you?"

"Nothing. Honest -- nothing."

"Very well." Again she gave signs of private amusement. "Then shall I tell you? Now? Shall I tell you about Edward -- and Jesse?" The names slid out so easily, so unexpectedly, so out of nowhere, that it took me unawares, and it was there, on Lamentation Mountain, on a summer afternoon, that she told me the story of herself, and of Edward Harleigh, her husband, and of Jesse Griffin, who had been her lover.

But the story began with Edward.

"I did not want to marry Edward. I was in love with him, or thought I was, but I was afraid of him. That is to say, I wasn't sure I liked him -- there's a difference between being in love with someone and liking him. I knew his reputation with the girls, his drinking and running around. The marriage was arranged by old Mr. Harleigh, who's been glowering down on our dinners for so long. He was old and ailing, and more than anything before he died he wanted to see Edward married and with children -- an heir to the Harleigh name. I couldn't imagine why he picked me, except that he decided I was a realistic and sensible girl, and that if Edward found me attractive I could change him. And I thought I could, too. I thought that in his weakness I would be his strength. Mr. Harleigh felt that a bit of good German blood wouldn't hurt the family strain, either -- he even checked up to find out what kind of housekeeper I was. Then Mama was at me and at me to accept Edward, who'd already indicated his intentions. He really gave me the rush. He'd come with Daddy Harleigh's sleigh --
your
sleigh, darling -- and we'd ride all through the town, the rich part of town -- remember we lived on Knobb Street -- and he'd tell me what it would be like when we were married.

"Christmas came, and there was a big party at the Harleighs'; they always had open house on Christmas Eve -- Mother Harleigh loved playing the
grande dame
. Everyone was there, Talcotts and Welleses and Standishes, and two Strassers from Knobb Street. Mother was impressed. Edward took me into the conservatory, and it was like something out of a play; there were palms in pots, and orchids; an orchestra -- five pieces, imagine -- had been brought down from a hotel in Hartford, they were playing in the bay, and Edward produced the Harleigh sapphire. He put it on my finger and it stayed there; then the carolers arrived and the musicians went to the kitchen while everyone came into the conservatory, and after they'd sung 'Silent Night, Holy Night,' Edward rapped on the pane, and they sang 'Good Night, Lady.' I cried, Edward (kissed me, everyone applauded Daddy Harleigh's announcement, and we were engaged.

"I would have preferred a long engagement, but Mama was all haste for the wedding. Everyone seemed to be. Then I had no choice. Edward took me off on an excursion -- on the
City of Springfield
. We'd only gotten to Essex when he was suggesting things I knew he oughtn't to be suggesting, and when we stopped at Saybrook for passengers he coaxed me off the boat. I never saw New York at all, and arriving home, I was a confused young woman. I agreed that we must marry quickly. I'd wanted to go to Europe for our honeymoon, but the Harleighs thought otherwise and so we went to Mexico instead. I was very surprised --"

"Why?"

"By the way things were arranged, and the way Edward behaved. It's not important, really. Anyway, it turned out I was going to have a baby, but -- I didn't. We came quickly home again; it was hardly a honeymoon at all. Daddy Harleigh was very angry. But when we got back, there was the house -- Mother Harleigh had picked it out, and had chosen the furnishings and the wallpapers, everything heavy, heavy, heavy. The only good things really were the dining-room Sheraton and Edward's chifforobe."

I couldn't meet her look as she said the word, remembering that awful day I had opened it. She went on.

"I became a good housewife. But it -- just didn't work. Edward did some terrible things, went back to all of his old ways. He drank a lot. I was very unhappy. I thought if I could have a baby, it might change things. Certainly it would have made Daddy Harleigh happy. Then it turned out I
was
pregnant again and I was determined to keep the child this time. Miss Berry came over and looked after me, and I was glad to have her there." She gave an odd little laugh before continuing.

"At any rate, it looked as if there were going to be an heir at last, and Mother Harleigh was always having me over for tea, showing me off, and telling all her friends how wonderful it was going to be. Edward thought so also. Extraordinary how much he wanted that child, even though I knew he hated me.

"By this time I hated him, too -- at least, I realized the mistake I'd made. There were terrible scenes. I offered to go away after the baby was born, and he said I could go, providing I left the child. I could nex'er have done that. Daddy Harleigh tried to get Miss Berry to keep me locked up. But they didn't reckon on Miss Berry.

"There was a dreadful business about a dog she'd given me. After that I hated Edward more, and I never ever wanted to have another dog again. Edward had become terrifying by then. There was an awful row; Miss Berry tried to save the baby, but couldn't. It died. After that there wasn't any point in trying anymore. Edward said he'd go away and get himself killed in France, and I really believe he meant it. At least I don't think it was his intention to come back a hero.