Quiet Dell: A Novel (10 page)

It was unseasonably warm for June. The table was set as though for a banquet: Cornelius must know of her taste and refinement, that she honored him and would provide a gracious home. Soon enough, he would know her financial straits. Grethe and Hart had savings accounts to which Charles made birthday deposits, and Hart made pocket money bagging groceries on weekends. Their savings exceeded her own funds, for she had none, and would have to borrow some small sum from Hart, for the trip. Cornelius had said he would see to her every need, just as he would going forward, but it wouldn’t do to have absolutely nothing, like a child.

Nothing. She sat at the kitchen table, and put her face in her hands.

She wouldn’t allow Charles to pay her bills or know the extent of her situation: that would be double betrayal, for he expected to return in July and discuss his suit again, on any terms she liked, he said, but she would not burden him with the well-being of her entire family, or allow him to embrace a life he would surely find incomplete. She’d arranged with Malone that the bank pay the mortgage going forward, adding to the debt to be settled when the house was sold.

Cornelius would see to everything. He was a businessman. Careful men like Cornelius, financially astute, steady, warmly polite, were the true Americans. Men like Malone, in his bank. She imagined, for a moment, Malone and Cornelius, settling her affairs congenially, in the very office in which Malone had advised her, most recently, to accept the bank as trustee until she could sell her home.

She opened the icebox to check that the aspic had taken the mold. She’d poured it a bit late, being occupied with the tea sandwiches, her own fresh dill and cucumbers, sliced paper thin, and the cold chicken, arranged in slices, with her own corn relish; she’d found the last of Lavinia’s canned green beans, her beets with mustard seed, in the pantry, and a jar of her bread and butter pickles, that Hart loved so. She’d made the noodle kugel, Lavinia’s recipe, early, before the heat; she could serve it hot or cold, depending on
Cornelius’ wish . . . depending on his wish. Was she a fool? She shut the icebox and latched the door.

She must continue to believe in him and not lose her nerve; she imagined herself in his fine new car, the road opening before them, the world speeding by as they conversed . . . he was on his way, ever closer, in this moment!

She prayed he would forgive her lack of candor. They would meet and she would explain. So many weeks and months, so much in common. Hope had silenced her, she would tell him, but she promised herself she would not leave with him until he knew part of the truth, lest he question her altogether.

Where was Hart? The bank closed at five. She would ask him for ten dollars, no small sum, and for him, poor boy, it was a third of his savings—

And where was Abernathy? She’d promised to arrive by three with her valise, and to serve dinner this once, from the kitchen, though
she was a nurse, not a servant
. How fortunate she’d no medical cases and was clearly hard-pressed; she’d accepted partial payment for a week’s work, and would stay over in the guest room. Grethe would do the shopping under Abernathy’s supervision, on credit, and help with the cooking. Hart would walk and feed Duty. Annabel and Hart were obliged to attend Bible School each morning at St. Luke’s Church down the block, which provided lunches for the children. Hart would be most annoyed; she would have to talk with him.

If he would understand! He must be educated and meet a station in life equal to his talents and abilities, and the girls must be protected. To depend solely on a man, with no recourse to family solvency, as she must, was an unacceptable risk, as surely for Annabel as for Grethe . . . but that was far off. Cornelius said that of course Grethe would remain with them for the foreseeable future, safe and happy—

When they were married. If they carried out their intentions, which despite their fond letters must wait on their meeting, on the chance to spend days alone together, in travel, for they were journeying from one life to another, were they not? He would experience
her home, and she his, observing proprieties, she’d no doubt, until they were wed. He seemed to view convention as a moral code to be observed with decorum and appreciation.

He needn’t know of Heinrich’s demands and needs. But he knew of Heinrich’s affair, his infidelity, his months and weeks of indecision while Asta suffered—this she’d confided in her letters, for she found that she could not give an account of herself, her sorrows and hopes, without speaking of it. In fact, Cornelius’ own mention of certain words, in his first letter, drew her, like balm to an open wound: his wife
must be strictly a one-man’s woman. I would not tolerate infidelity.
He’d not yet confided as much, but perhaps Cornelius too had found his heart stripped of comfort by a sudden, devastating revelation.

She startled as the front door slammed open, bouncing against the doorstop, and the screen door squealed on its spring. Duty ran full tilt through to the kitchen and buried his muzzle in his water bowl. Hart came after, whistling as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

•   •   •

His mother wore her lace collar, her cameo brooch and earrings, and her kitchen apron; she looked not herself, her hair falling down in strands on one side. He couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Why can’t I bag groceries every day, like I do on Saturdays, and make more money?”

“Hart—” she began.

“I know we need money.” He glared at her. “We can’t buy on credit forever, like you bought all this.” Still holding his catcher’s mitt, he swept his arm out wildly to indicate the long table, with its place settings and glassware. It looked set for a party, all for this Cornelius.

“Hart, I regret that you must even think about credit, or the fact we need it.” She put her hands on his shoulders.

He could feel her steady herself, and that scared him. He squared his stance, and tried to remember his anger.

“But don’t talk of credit,” she said, “and most certainly not today. It’s common to discuss money, and soon the bills will be paid.” She met his eyes. “I have made decisions that affect us all and I ask for your patience and help. Son, with your grandmother gone, I depend on you more than anyone.”

“I don’t mind,” he said quietly. She was barely taller than he. The whites of her gray eyes were faintly reddened, and her mouth had a sort of pinch. She seemed always to be thinking of something that worried or distracted her. “Is Charles coming for lunch as well?” he asked.

“No, they’ll meet another time. You know Charles is traveling all month.” She took his arm in hers. “Now, I’ve told you that Cornelius is coming quite a distance to be with us, to meet you children. He wants only to be your friend and adviser, to ease the way for all of us.”

Hart only nodded.

“We’ll be gone a week or so. Then we’ll be back for you, and we’ll all take a lovely trip together, to see his home. We’ve not gone on a trip for ever so long, have we?”

Gravely, Hart looked at her, and wished himself back at the ball field in the park, amongst his friends who would hoot and cheer as he struck out another batter. It was only teams chosen by lot, neighborhood boys, but he was fiercely desired for his pitching arm. The pounded grass smelled wet in the early mornings, when they began. He thought of the smell and how good it was.

“I need you to watch over Annabel. She’s so distractible and imaginative. You must take responsibility until I return. Can you do that?” She paused. “You know I can’t ask Grethe.”

“Abernathy will be here,” he said.

“But Annabel doesn’t much like her. And you know how your sister looks up to you, and listens to you.” Her gaze softened. “And well she should, my fine, grown-up boy.”

Her hand brushed his hair, light as a leaf, and he was about to tell her that he would take care of them all before long, that all must stay as it was, but the doorbell rang and his mother stepped
past him. “There’s Abernathy. I must speak to her.” She turned. “I nearly forgot. I know you’re hot and thirsty—have some lemonade. Then wash up and go down to the bank, will you, and withdraw ten dollars for me. I haven’t asked you often, and this is the last time, I promise.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

“Thank you, Hart. Don’t tarry, it’s nearly three. And Grethe wants to go, for the walk. Take her with you?” Then she was gone.

Miserable, Hart walked through the kitchen to the small back porch, and hung his mitt on a nail in the eave of the roof. Duty’s mangled tennis ball lay abandoned on the top step and Hart sat down beside it, seeing the backyard as he supposed a stranger would. Inside, the house was tended like a museum, but their mother took no interest in the back, which was littered with Annabel’s toys. The small rock mound of the graveyard, as she called it, where last week she’d managed the neighborhood children in a funeral for a baby barn swallow, had fallen aside. The homemade sign looked woebegone.

They weren’t allowed inside the long studio barn anymore. Boards had dropped along the front and it was too dangerous, his mother said, but Hart went in alone now and then, to stand quietly. There were still massive workbenches to either side, and a great open expanse down the middle. The floor was covered in sawdust. Swallows nested along the roof beams. He didn’t quite remember the workshop, when it was full of people in long aprons and protective glasses, and there was heat and glow and noise. He tried to feel his father standing close in front of him, but the emptiness stayed empty.

He heard Annabel then before he saw her, in the playhouse. It was off-limits as well, and needed repair. Annabel had swung the front window fully open, also forbidden, because the six mullioned panes were pocked and cracked, and bits of glass had popped out onto the grass. She was wearing Charles’ long white scarf, pretending she was a lady or a geisha, carrying Duty here and there like a potentate, for she made a fuss over the paintings on the walls,
which showed a Japanese scene. Their mother had painted the mural long ago, when Grethe was a baby. The small square houses were submerged in greenery, and the uneven dirt road, smaller and then larger, opened toward the viewer. Ladies walked there in Japanese kimonos with wide sleeves and sashes; one man in a wide hat pulled a cart. There were tall palm trees and faraway snowcapped mountains. It was noplace and nowhere, for none of them had ever been to Japan, but Hart had always imagined that the cart was full of ice from the mountains. The man in the hat had drawn it down a long, long road, and he was still pulling it.

Hart picked up the muzzy tennis ball and threw it hard. Duty jumped from Annabel’s arms and ran joyously after it, barking wildly, his short legs a blur of motion.

•   •   •

Asta remembered to lay her apron aside, and smooth her hair. “Mrs. Abernathy, how good of you to come. Was the streetcar delayed? On hot days, the cars get so full—”

“Oh, Mrs., I got to the station and needed a cab, the valise, you see, I couldn’t manage, I’ll have to charge you transport, Mrs., I’m sorry.”

“Yes, of course. Let me take your bag.” Asta led the way up the carpeted stairs, pleased the valise was, indeed, a substantial weight, and promised commitment, for they had not stipulated a specific end date. “Up this way to your room, the guest room, the front one, with its own bath.” Asta looked behind her to see Abernathy, a tall thin woman with a rather gray pallor, following, removing her hat. But Abernathy knew the room, of course. Lavinia’s marble-topped dresser was cleared and empty. “Next week it will be seven months. We’ve gotten through the winter.”

Abernathy nodded curtly, as though there were any choice in the matter. “I was sorry to be discharged before she passed. Thanksgiving, it was.”

“Yes, I was sorry as well.”

Abernathy stood, hat and hatpins in hand. “Fine. I’ll just unpack
then, Mrs. I know you want me to serve dinner. Six on the dot, I remember it used to be. When is the guest expected?”

Asta had moved a small writing table and two comfortable chairs to one wall. She indicated the chairs now. “I’m not certain. He’s driving a long distance. I know you want to freshen up, but could we talk for just a moment?”

“If you like.” She sat, her hat on her lap.

Asta composed herself and began. “I trust you’ll keep the terms of our arrangement private, Mrs. Abernathy, and any knowledge of my finances, confidential. Most especially this evening. Mr. Pierson is an old friend whom I don’t want to trouble with any sense of my difficulties, and the children, of course, must feel secure as I see to our affairs.” She paused, aware of Abernathy’s expressionless gaze. Asta had paid her the last of Lavinia’s savings as an advance, half the fee.

Abernathy remained motionless. Finally, as though considering a verbal response unnecessary, she nodded.

Asta dropped her voice. “You know, I’ve never left the children, but I must see to important matters.” She wanted to reach for Abernathy’s hand, to seal some bargain. Surely Abernathy knew, having nursed Lavinia for weeks, how completely Asta lived for her children. “Things, unexpected, thrust upon us—the financial reversals and difficult choices brought on by illness, by widowhood. You’re a widow yourself, I believe.”

“Certainly, Mrs., for twenty years. And forced to make a living, a better living than my husband ever earned, driving a streetcar and drinking half he made.”

A streetcar? Drinking, Asta thought. Irish. But twenty years ago. She looked out Lavinia’s window to see Annabel in the playhouse, and Duty launching himself from her arms through the window, which was swung fully open. Grethe, then, came into view beside her. Grethe disobeyed very rarely, and today of all times! Annabel was far too persuasive for a child her age. She knew better. Asta would go over all the rules, everything, again, in no uncertain terms. But she turned first to Abernathy, not to seem abrupt. “I
thank you for your discretion, Mrs. Abernathy. Come down when you’re settled.”

Abernathy nodded, and gazed into the room. “You’ve made quite a change here, Mrs.”

“Yes, I thought it best, for the children . . . that they not, see it as a shrine, or continue to . . .”