The Monsters of Templeton (14 page)

...tonight, that man from my childhood has returned to me, that man's voice in my head again, bassy, barrel-chested, archaic. He silences the shrill little girl. He speaks in thees and thous, like a one-man Bible. Thou must save Templeton, he says. How? I shout back in my head. Thou must save Templeton, he only repeats. Thou must save Templeton. Thou must save Templeton. Thou must. Thou must. Thou must.

...spent all morning at Council Rock, peering down, trying to see the Indian again...someone else began to appear...wild gray hair in the lake-lap, bulbous, screaming face, ancient clothing, a book--Bible?--in hand...Just as this frightening person appeared, there was a claxon. I turned around and saw a golden Cadillac, an impossibly beautiful car, sliding around the bend...who would honk a horn at a young woman? So improper! And who in Templeton would buy such an ostentatious car? Someone I knew, perhaps? Dr. Finch? The Falconers, with their residual beery fortune? Nobody I know could be so vulgar.

Oh, joy! My father's feet beating a tattoo of happiness on the floorboards below...old man sprightly...here's what happened: I can no longer sleep (much too energetic for sleep), and this morning set off to do the shopping with my little basket, in an old silk dress, much too tight across my bust...down Main Street, I walked. Then I saw The Car. The golden Cadillac from the day before, sitting in front of Augur's Books, a man inside, reading the paper. I was...furious. I have never before been so furious, it rose in me, suddenly..."Your mother would be ashamed of you, blaring your horn at a young woman you don't know," I said...one corner of the newspaper down, two, revealing blue eyes, a grinning face, rocky jaw, lips like a woman's...handsome, I suppose...he said, "I'm so sorry! You looked so lovely my hand slipped! Forgive me!"...only speaks in expostulation, like a race-track announcer...loud!...just as sudden, my fury turned to embarrassment. I hurried away, but soon found the car idling--on the wrong side of the road--beside me.

I stopped. "What do you want?"...but he leapt out of the car, came to me, put his lips on my hand. My stomach almost overturned then...paid me so many compliments, my head spun...in the compliments, I heard him say, "I am so sorry Templeton won't do for our purposes, and that I must leave in an hour or so. Else, I would have been glad to have the opportunity to know you much, much better."...I ignored the insolence, asked why Templeton wouldn't do..."Oh! It's too small and isolated for our initiative. I'm the vice president of the American National Baseball League, you see. We have a major project in mind, and I am driving about the Northeast in my car to see if I can find a proper locale"...Initiative! I thought...something like hallelujas in my head, the deep bassoon voice of the Thou must save Templeton man, shouting Huzzah! Huzzah?...I looked at the Cadillac man. "What is your name?" I said..."Asterisk Upton, but ladies as beautiful as you may call me Sy. And your name is, Miss?..." the early morning twinkling in his eyes. Asterisk Upton is a strange name for such an everyday man. I decided I would call him Sy...realized he was looking at me curiously...he smelled of good tobacco...

"Temple," I said...he flushed, as if with pleasure, saying, "As in Jacob Franklin Temple?"..."Yes. I am his great-granddaughter."..."I owe your ancestor my life. I almost dropped out of school at twelve to work, then found a ratty copy of one of your great-grandfather's novels..." He nattered on as I led him back to Edgewater...Left Sy in the hall, went into my father's office, told him everything...Sy surely wondering why he was in this house, looking at me quizzically as I came out. Those blue eyes on my face like a burn...

...two hours, they were in there, two...I saw my father escort him down the drive, shake his hand...Father ran back in, fleet as a young boy, burst into my room...Sy had to explore more towns for the baseball museum the league wanted to build--to help build the Myth of Baseball--but my father convinced him to keep Templeton in the running...to come back at the end of July, and we'll have for him an offer he'd find most attractive..."Sarah, darling, it looks as if you've quite bewitched the man. He kept asking questions about you"...my father grinning..."Sarah, darling, I am sure that if you wished, you could have an offer from Mr. Upton soon. He is a good man, growing rich, and it seems that if he fulfills his duties on this visit, he will soon be Baseball Commissioner..."..."But he is vulgar," I cried, "that terrible booming laugh, those exclamatory statements!"..."Ah, my darling, it will be difficult for you to find a husband who is good enough for you"...laughing, my father ran out to the bank...I ran to the water closet, and heaved up the small breakfast I managed before dawn. And, now, as I write, that golden Cadillac has circled our block eight times: Fair to Main, Main to River, River to Lake, Lake to Fair, around and around and around. Now it is gone.

...days pass, days pass, dark then light, Templeton glowing in the fog, the brilliance of noon...the little shrill girl is back, makes me want to bludgeon my head with a carpet beater until she's out...so many ghosts in the water I see now, every day I go down, press my ear close to the water until I drench the small hairs on the lobe...beseeching, mournful. The men have bloated skin, and the women's hair has come loose and floats cloudlike behind them, sunnies and pumpkinseed-fish scattered in it...a man with my father's face, wrists blooming roses of blood...two brothers with frosted lashes and lips, ice skates on their feet, pounding at the surface as if it were glass...small Indian girl who looks at me with serene and unforgiving eyes as she floats, naked, bruises like plums on her thighs...soldier in olive drab, the stumps of his legs looking tender as a baby's skin...young men in boater-hats, young women in tight waists and bellish skirts from before the Civil War...summer-camp children with crude leather bracelets on their wrists...fat old ice fisherman...parachutist from my childhood, the man who leapt from the plane at the County Fair, but hit water, not land, whose chute settled on the lake like a flower, filled with the water, dragged him under before the boats could reach him. Yes: every day I see more of them, the drowned ones. It is perhaps not madness: they are so clear, and I am not terrified by them. Is it? I don't know...

...families up at the station, with their filthy children! A few days ago, I took all the girls to Standish's for new undergarments and dresses and socks and shoes...they pouted when I refused to buy them the pretty patent leather shoes with bows on them, opting for the sensible loafers...but the boys...little gentlemanly marvels, and I couldn't resist buying them baseballs...now the girls think I am their enemy. Their mothers, too...all in a clump today, with their bags and hats...assuming I was about to take them into town and buy them clothing...how angry I was. Such presumption!...I dropped off the food I'd brought, nodded, made small-talk for a moment with Mrs. Burgess...very pointedly, she said, "I'm sorry I'm sniffling so, Miss Temple. I have a terrible cold, and I find I've run entirely out of handkerchiefs."..."Well, I shall bring you a packet tomorrow." And I went straight home. I do fear returning, for the anger of women is a frightful thing. The little girl mocks and mocks me; my private people have begun moving into the shadows of the house. I escape them in the conservatory, though half the glass is broken out...they daren't go to a place so bright...

...Kingfisher Tower was finished yesterday...a brass band, watermelons...another postcard from Mr. Upton today, a queer photo of a man and woman dancing, he dipping her low. First, Springfield (a cow with a "Welcome to Springfield" sign), then Concord (a terrible drawing of "The Shot Heard Around the World"), now Boston (and the dancers). All so cheery and without return address, hinting rather crudely that the only charm he has seen on his trip has been in Templeton...Father puts them by my plate...I read every letter twice through, before I pick up the postcard and skim it then fling it away...

Father solidified the deal with the bank and not a moment too soon...This is our deal: We rent the land for the museum to the league and build it on our own dime...we pay over three hundred thousand dollars to the league for the honor (a bribe--my word!)...Now Sy is back, Sy drove back directly into Edgewater's drive, his golden car all caked with dirt...seersucker suit wet with sweat...apologetic...didn't explain why he didn't take time to wash or deliver his things to the hotel, but the way he looked at me, it was clear. My mother nudged me forward to take his hand, cold like ice in his hot hand...sick, sick, I could barely control my stomach...Father delicately scheduling a lunchtime conference, giving Sy time to bathe...Now, Sy has returned. Holding such a tremendous bouquet of flowers from the florist's that he hid his head behind the roses and trailed a group of urchins...I scolded them for not wearing shoes..."Boys, where are those shoes I bought for you? Don't you know walking barefoot can give you diseases?"...Aw-shucks shufflings, "Oh, Miss Temple, we was saving them for school"...broke my heart...and all the time, Sy waiting behind his flowers, his face beet-red, until I took the vulgar display from him, trying to smile.

Such an awkward lunch! Roses huge in the middle of the table. Orphan Sally serving sullenly. Sy's booming voice telling stories about the towns he was in, my mother captivated. So captivated she didn't speed off to the Orphanage at the end of lunch, as has been her wont to do since I returned home...Sy barely touched a thing...neither did I...every time I went to take a bite, I felt those *asterisk* eyes boring into the part in my hair.

The men disappeared into the study at the end, and here I am, writing. Waiting to see if my town will be saved. The voices in my skull are silent, thank goodness. The ghosts and others have hidden themselves...Oh, my! Just now I can see my father walking Sy down the end of the drive. Is that a slump in my father's shoulders? It is, I fear. Sy is shaking his hand, speaking earnestly. My father is smiling, but tightly and nods now, and clasps Sy's shoulder. They are parting. I must run downstairs to see what is the matter.

Disaster: Manhattan has far outbid us...more than a million dollars, and an entire city block dedicated to the museum. It is The Center of the World, says Sy. We are A Very Tiny Village in the Middle of Nowhere. This will Make Sy's Career. Hateful common, vulgar man. I fear my father is weeping behind his door, but I daren't go in. My mother's face has grown pale, and she has stalked off to the Orphanage. Little Sally is beheading daisies on the drive...couldn't be more eloquent if she could speak...I will go for a walk to calm myself, to see if I can chase these shrieking voices from my head...

...more disaster!...I stood on Council Rock, trying to summon one of my friends from the water, and felt a gaze at my back. I turned around, and there he was, Mr. Upton, watching me...such fury--I have never felt this before--seems to have come from someone else, greater and much more angry than I ever have been...I leapt from the rock and crashed through the water, staining my skirts dark, weeds clinging to my legs...I ran at him, but I think he thought it was in a different passion than the one I felt, because he caught me in his arms and kissed me...those womanly lips on mine...all the while I was flailing, I was trying to kick him, I was a wild thing...he pushed me down, he pushed up my skirts, I do think something terrible would have happened, but I was so maddened I broke away...ran home, he running behind me..."Sarah, goddamnit, stop it, I have to talk to you! Sarah, stop, your father has already agreed!"...I ran into the house. I saw from behind my curtain in my room as he stood in the lawn, cradling my shoes in his hands like birds. He put them down carefully in the rose-bed, stalked away...my stomach, sour...my head filled with so many voices, the little girl, the biblical man...my heart broken, for Templeton, my dying town...

My father's manners are made of iron--he had invited Mr. Upton to dinner...not a pleasant affair. My mother and I were barely civil: I never looked at him. I just wanted the bastard whoreson gone. My father, the old gentleman, chatted amiably, though Mr. Upton had aged him ten years this day. I had dressed for the occasion, in my best emerald dress, raw silk, the color of my eyes. I was as beautiful as I could be...a petty thing to do, to be sure, to show him what he's losing by choosing Manhattan over our small and lovely Templeton...Mr. Upton seeming to plead with me via the claketing of his knife and fork...again, neither of us ate a thing...At the end of dessert, I steamed out, and Mr. Upton--sucha tasteless man--ran after me, took my arm in the hallway...hissing, "All's not lost, Sarah, don't be a fool. You can still save your town if you like," turning around, leaving me there, in the hallway, as he went back into the dining room. My knees were knocked from me. I sat hard in a chair. And I listened, there, as my father, bound by good taste...not understanding...was kind to this terrible man...my mother, won by what she saw as a romantic display for her beloved, beautiful, insane (thus unmarriageable) daughter...even my common-sensical, pure-hearted mother...had begun to talk pleasantly with him again.

It is growing late. It is eleven o'clock. I have been pacing, in my room. Over all the voices, the stentorian man booms and booms. Thou must, thou must, thou must. Booms and booms. The Methodist Church bell rings, as does the Presbyterian. I have not taken off my dress. I have vomited time and again until my stomach is squeezed raw and my throat burns. I have brushed my teeth until my gums bleed. I have put my hair into a severe knot at my neck, but the curls insist on coming out. Yes, I will go.

It is over...it is all over. That is all I can write for now.

...I did it, but I don't understand it...not that night two weeks ago. Not I who slipped my shoes on, and crept down the curved stairs of Edgewater. Not I who came out into the fresh, green-smelling night, and stole to the end of the drive, and ran, fleet as my legs could carry me, down Fair, Lake, past Lakefront Park, Averell Cottage, up Chestnut Street. I wasn't the one who stole into the Motor Inn so quietly the snoozing desk clerk didn't awaken, or scanned the keys behind his head for the one that was missing, number nine, or stole up the stairs and stood before the door, stalwart, brave. No knocking before I went in...Mr. Upton, though he had freshly shaven for me, must not have believed his luck, because he dropped the cigarette, and the ashes skittered across the carpet...we stood before one another like this for a long time...he moved forward, grinning...but I stopped him, hand against his shirt, feeling the heart beat hard in my hand..."Not yet. You will choose Templeton, yes?"..."Yes, oh, yes. Yes, Sarah, yes." I put my face up to his, to be kissed, but he put his hand on my lips..."Not yet...you will marry me, yes?" Grinning, a dimple in his cheek. A slow overturning inside me...the man in my head said Yes, thou shalt marry this man, my sparrow...the me who wasn't me said, "Yes."