Quiet Dell: A Novel (6 page)

She sees that her glade must be littered with straw, and the lights off but for the gaslit sconces, and reaches behind the crèche, where Grethe has heaped the extra straw. She sweeps it all into her arms. The players will be barefoot, of course. It would have been ridiculous otherwise. She will write in her final changes.

•   •   •

Outside, Hart is shoveling, clearing the walk. Be sure it’s clear to the street, his mother kept telling him, as though anyone would arrive in the middle of a storm, and on Christmas. The Verbergs and Breedloves have gone away to relatives and their porch lights glow eerily in the snowy whirl. Lit trees twinkle in the parlor windows of houses up and down Cedar Street. All is deserted. The snow is so deep that he will have to rescue Duty if the dog even walks into the yard.

“Stay there, Duty,” Hart calls. “Stay on the porch.”

Snow falls in pieces and great puffs, like a magic show. He still has to fill the luminarias, and put on the round tablecloth Annabel says is his costume. God, how they cater to Annabel, but she’s the closest he has to a brother and at least gets up to things, while Grethe is more and more quiet, as Mother presses her into more cleaning and arranging. Nothing must be moved or touched in the whole downstairs, or she puts it back again. Irritating how she has gotten so pious, and is a full head taller than he.

Girls made presents, it was easy for them, but what was he to make?

By accident, he’d gotten something nice for everyone.

Grethe will like her beads, strung on knotted string with a cross. Lutherans had no need of rosaries, his mother said when he
showed her, but these were Venetian beads, and a real gold cross; wherever did he find it? She insisted he say. He told her about the Catholic church rummage sale, on Saturday mornings. He didn’t tell her about the girls that ran it. The one with auburn hair said he must look her up when he was out of knickers. They were cheeky girls, and let him look through boxes in the back. He traded his jar of cat’s-eye marbles for a pair of tarnished cuff links—Charles always wore posh shirts with turned-back cuffs. And he gave his Tom Mix books for a doll’s celluloid vanity and chair. It was yellowish, like vanilla ice cream, and would fit Mrs. Pomeroy, Annabel’s daft rag doll. The girls prized the vanity and wrapped it carefully in layers of pink tissue from the hatboxes that toppled everywhere in leaning tiers.

Duty is barking, biting at snow blown on the wind. Hart rounds off the opening to the street between the hedges and starts back, running the shovel before him, sliding and skidding.

He’s in a quandary about the present he found for his mother—a silver ladle, tarnished nearly black, tossed on a tray of unsorted dinnerware at the Catholic rummage, but he’d picked it up and felt the raised
A
on the handle, then saw her mark on the back. He’d asked how much. Oh, have it, said the girl, and dropped it in the box with the doll furniture, the cuff links in their velvet ring box, the rosary in its hosiery pouch. Hart polished the cuff links and ladle, with rags and the strong-smelling salve in the garage, until they shone; he knew to wear gloves, and he liked how the dark lifted off in oily smears. His mother would love having the ladle she made come back to her, as she didn’t make anything anymore, but where would he say he’d gotten it? She can’t know that someone threw it out, or worse, died and lost it to a rummage sale. And she will know unless he lies, for she knows where he got the rosary. He has nothing else to give her.

“God,” he says aloud, and “God!” again, in frustration.

On his knees, he begins filling the luminaria sacks with sand. The wind gusts and he ducks his head, squinting, pulling the open bags closer to the front door. Halfway full, Charles said. Hart
spades sand into one bag after another, using his mother’s garden trowel to throw sand, every other spadeful, over Duty’s head onto the icing steps. Duty rushes to and fro, chasing it.

Snow swirls and the sun is a dull glow. Hart looks out and sees headlights, searching slowly along the unplowed street. A flower delivery van stops just at their walk; a red-faced man emerges, coatless, wearing a stocking cap and coveralls.

The man comes inside the hedge, leaving the van running and the door open. “This the Eicher residence?” he shouts. “Asta Eicher?”

“This is the forest glade and luminaria factory,” Hart calls back. “It is my glade and my factory.”

“Are ye drunk, boy? Shall I ring the bell?”

“No, it’s my house.” Hart stands, brushing the sand from his jacket. “I’m Hart Eicher.”

The deliveryman produces a swathed object, stepping along the snowy walk in an odd, dancelike gait until he stands at the bottom of the steps. “Well, come here then, lad, and give these to your sister, that’s a good lad. I’ve miles to go. The devilish truck is full.”

Hart breathes in the roar of the man’s breath. He’s the one who’s drunk, and thrusts the vase into Hart’s arms. Turning, he gains the van and slams the door. The van rumbles and lurches off into the middle of the drifted street.

The flowers look to Hart like a bandaged head on a pedestal. He rips off the paper, pocketing the small sealed envelope that falls out. They’re red carnations, a slew of them, perfect for Annabel’s purposes. Charles has certainly sent them, and won’t mind if they’re delivered as part of the pageant. Hart is cheered, for he will put the flowers under the sofa and produce them at the end in a flourish.

He hears a sound then, an immense groan overhead, and a crack like a rifle shot. A tall bent pine near the house breaks before his eyes, dropping a slide of snow, throwing off clouds of spray. The tree lands soundlessly across the drifts and the front walk. One long branch reaches up onto the porch like a finger.

•   •   •

The pageant was put off, for the goose was done and cooling before the children could ready themselves, and everyone was hungry. Charles carved the bird as they passed the plates, while Asta served vegetables: the garlic mashed and brandied sweets, the peas and green beans, the oyster dressing, cranberry relish, and onion chutney, and hot giblet gravy for every plate. The children sipped punch from their cups, water from their goblets, clear cream soda from their wineglasses, drinking toasts. Grethe and Annabel cleared and rinsed the Haviland dishes while Hart was told which dessert plates to take from the good china. The Cambridge glass with the gold rims, yes, would look best with the bright tarts, while the
bûche de Noël
elicited sighs. No sooner had Charles sliced the chocolate, giving a meringue mushroom to each child, than he brought out the surprise: swans that were cream puff pastries, their flaky wings dusted in powdered sugar, their long regal necks and proud heads a perfect first bite. Everyone cheered. Only Annabel placed her swan before her like a prize and said she would keep it always. Her mother told her it would spoil, but she maintained she would freeze it in a block of ice and keep it in the snow.

•   •   •

Finally, all was in readiness.

Annabel insisted Charles draw the heavy drapes across the windows, for snow had ceased falling and the afternoon light had gone brighter. The candles were lit on the Christmas tree behind the players, and the luminaria arranged in front like half-circle footlights. The setting was a forest glade on the last night of the year.

Asta settled herself. Charles looked at her, raising an eyebrow as he and Annabel stood back-to-back, each holding an edge of red curtain.
Presenting, a Play for Christmas,
Annabel announced, as she and Charles revealed the scene. Scattered straw softened the bare floor, and the twilit space before the tree did look a bit
like a glade. Hart stood in place, looking off to the right. He was barefoot and bare legged, though his cloak, white damask embroidered in metallic gold thread, hung nearly to the floor. Jingling bells sounded softly as Grethe entered from the left. She looked quite lovely in her white velvet chorister’s robe. Where had Lavinia gotten such a thing?

Annabel’s play had to do with cold and snow and a wandering pilgrim on New Year’s Eve. The angelic traveler had saved some unfortunate birds from a fox, thanks to her brave dog. Mrs. Pomeroy’s toy high chair sat midstage, heaped about with straw. Hart worked in a few tricks for Duty, who performed rather well, and Annabel intoned offstage as Grethe struck her poses. Asta followed her every movement and quiet expression; Grethe was so practiced and comfortable in Annabel’s tableaus.

Her sweet, quiet girl. Grethe puzzled at what her younger siblings understood so quickly. She didn’t laugh at jokes and avoided children her own age, for which Asta was grateful. Grethe had attained her willowy height by age eleven, and her open face and guileless eyes prompted the wrong interest. Asta remembered her relief when Charles came to them, replacing those young men who’d rented rooms before him. Asta had caught one of them, Grethe close beside him on the sofa, showing her an art book featuring Rodin’s marble sculptures.

Now Grethe produced Mrs. Pomeroy from beneath her cloak. Hart remarked on the Grandmother’s small stature; the swaddled doll, a white veil covering her yarn hair, sat attentively in her chair. Asta took Charles’ arm, aware that Annabel could see her, and laughed politely when Duty exceeded direction, knocking Mrs. Pomeroy on her face. She heard Lavinia’s expressions in the lines, and her thoughts drifted anxiously to Grethe.

“Don’t warn that child off men,” Lavinia had hissed, “don’t frighten her. How can we expect to find her a husband if you turn her from what she might enjoy?”

Lavinia had no inkling. Her physical relations with Heinrich’s father had been genteel and infrequent, while he exercised his passions
elsewhere; Heinrich had spoken of music tutors and tennis coaches, minor royalty and society men. The bedroom was truly a private chamber into which no mother gazed. Who would be kind to childlike Grethe, whose mind was that of the average eight-year-old? A religious vocation might be best; it would shelter and protect Grethe, allow her to be of service in some simple way. She loved ceremony, and knowing the order of events before they happened.

Confusingly, Annabel’s shoes were onstage and Hart was wearing Charles’ fedora and scarf. Oh yes, the actuary, who wrapped the white scarf about Grethe’s neck.
Go onward now, for there is much to see and know.
Well, Asta would read the pages later and praise the author. Annabel could be so optimistic and so morbid, by turns! She now appeared, flushed with pleasure, for the singing. She had the good sense to always end her Christmas pageants with a carol. Annabel struck her triangle, a pure, true tone; they sang of sweet silver bells and cares thrown away.

Grethe stepped out for her solo, her voice as clear as running water, while Hart sang his lyrics in an assumed baritone, racing to tell the tale dramatically and lifting his arms to raise the sound, which set Duty to running and barking. The children joined hands.
All sing in jolly fashion,
directed the program. And indeed, the singers leaned toward the audience, overenunciating every joyful note. Charles beamed, and Duty, unbidden, executed the circle trick, turning about completely on his short bandy legs.

The players paused and stepped back. Annabel struck the triangle; the tone reverberated like the strike of a clock. The notes were true, sustained one to the other, and unbearably sad, for each opened the heart a little deeper.

Ding

dong

ding

dong

A beat of silence reigned, as though holding all concerned. Asta felt her breath return and found herself on her feet, cheering and applauding with Charles, who hugged the children all together and opened his arms to her. “Stupendous, incredible,” Charles was shouting, and Duty ran wildly about, barking and jumping.

Hart reached under the sofa, drawing out dozens of brilliantly red carnations, which he plunged into Asta’s arms, nearly upsetting her. The girls sighed their admiration and reached to touch; the flowers were layered depths of red blossoms and fern. “For you, Mother!” Hart exclaimed, dropping to one knee and sweeping off Charles’ fedora like the plumed hat of a prince. “You don’t mind, do you, Charles?” He stood to shed his cloak and return Charles’ fedora.

“Mind? Certainly not,” Charles said. “My compliments on the perfect gesture. Need help with those, Anna?”

Asta looked at him in thanks and knew instantly he had not sent them. She smiled happily and asked Grethe to get the large vase from the china cabinet. She would question Hart in private. The children were calling out, “Presents, presents,” but Charles clapped his hands for order.

“You may open one present,” Charles said, “and we’ll do the rest later. No need to change costumes or disassemble the set. Now—which present?” He pretended surprise when they called enthusiastically for the very large one, and helped Hart move it from behind the tree.

Asta moved through the open pocket doors to the dining room table and put down the flowers, pouring the remains of the water goblets into the vase. There were fifty carnations at least. She’d not seen such a profusion of flowers in one arrangement since Heinrich’s funeral. Lavinia’s service had been small and private, but Heinrich’s death had occasioned such an outpouring of surprise and grief. Huge bouquets kept arriving until she put a sign on the door asking that deliverymen take flowers directly to the church.

“Mother! Mother! Come along now, they’re waiting!”

Asta looked up, startled. Heinrich had often addressed her as
Mother in the children’s presence, while he called his own mother by her given name, as though she were his contemporary, but today it was Charles, gesturing for Asta to join them. The children sat poised around the gift, which was wrapped in simple brown paper and a big red bow; she moved toward them as they tore the paper away in great ripping swaths.

•   •   •

She proceeded smoothly, by instinct almost, for she felt tremendous fatigue. She stopped Hart in the hallway, while the girls were upstairs changing and Charles outside, dragging the fallen pine tree from the walk. “Do you have something for me, Hart? The card, from the flowers?”