Chapter 7

The whistle was shrieking as the train coursed into the suburbs late in the night. The cars slunk past small sharp-angled houses, massive factories belching fire, streets of lighted stores and cafes, slow-moving people and streetcars, trucks, wagons and horses or mules, buggies, automobiles. The coach cars were strung with yellow window links that curved on the track ahead into a tunnel. Ellen saw muffled groups of people under bright station lamps. Her journey was done. She reached the cold cement of a pillared runway, stood impotent, bewildered, jostled by passengers on their separate ways. She was clutching her bag in one hand, the other in her coat pocket held her handkerchief in which the money was knotted. A familiar voice spoke in her ear, “Well, here’s the little country wench.”

It was Garland, suave in a tight-fitting suit and spotted tie, a derby on his head. He carried a fur coat, his face seemed old and yellowed in the glare of the platform. He kissed her mouth and she felt the mustache, clung to him. “I thought I got lost, Uncle.”

“Porter.” Yellow taxicabs were waiting in a line. They got in one and drove a long time. She was asleep, her head limp against the hard leather. Garland was waking her. “This is it, sweet.”

She stumbled after him up granite stairs. He stooped over to unlock a door, pushed it open and they went into an unlighted hall where a staircase reared. “How about something to eat? Some hot milk?” He flashed on a light overhead.

“I reckon I’d better just sleep, Uncle. I’m beat.”

“Your room’s up here.” He was climbing ahead on the broad uncarpeted steps, carrying her valise. A musty odor lingered about them.

“My, you’ve got a big house, Uncle.” Her voice was loud in the echoing vestibule.

“It’s big all right.” He preceded her down the hall and opened a door, stepped in and snapped the button of a wall lamp. An orange bulb glowed faintly. “If you want more light, there’s one by the bed.” It was a high-ceilinged room with a dark red rug. The wide ornate bed was covered with a heavy magenta spread and on the wall was a round mirror in a gold-scrolled frame. Through the mesh curtains hanging in front of the windows Ellen saw lamps in the street underneath and tree branches twining still and soundless. The doorbell grated below. “Goodnight, hon. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He was gone.

Ellen attempted to draw the heavy drapes that hung at the sides of the windows, but discovered they were fastened there. She was fumbling at window shades, drawing them down. She heard voices raised below, stiffened to listen. Through the floor boards came a woman’s faint thin laughter. Then all was still. She pulled the chain of the bulb over the bed; in the sudden whiteness dust balls in the corners were exposed, and stained paper on the walls. She put the light out. Below all remained quiet. She folded her dress on an armchair. Cautious, she left the room, found the bathroom around an angle in the hallway. When she turned the spigot, water spurted and roared. Shy of disturbing the household, she washed meagerly, then hurried back and turned off the orange wall light. She crept into the cold foreign sheets. And when she slept it was as if her fears backed off. In dreaming Christian Ay was taking her hand in his. In his way he was laughing as if there was an old joke between the two of them.

When she came downstairs in the morning, her footsteps resounded in the vestibule, at the end of which was a door. It opened into a large green-carpeted room. Somber-colored chairs and sofas were flanked by trivial tables bearing bric-a-brac and crystal and cloisonné ash trays. On a corner table, in a ponderous silver frame, was a daguerreotype of Nell Gaddy, garbed in a ruffled shirtwaist and a wide straw hat tipped with an egret’s wing. Beyond she could see the dining room and her uncle at an oval table, his breakfast and a newspaper spread before him. He waved his hand, called out. He was shaking a little silver bell. She crossed the expanse of the green carpet to sit at the table by him. She sensed the odd odor of his house. It was the strangeness of another lair.

“Mrs. Quimby.” Garland was speaking to an aproned bulky woman at the swinging door. “This is my niece, Ellen. She’ll be visiting here.”

“Pleased, be sure,” said Ellen.

The woman turned away, grim, reappeared with a plate of bacon and eggs and a cup. Gray-black hair wisped about her face, a formless dress was belted on her full hips and buttoned down the front under the apron. Her eyes were colorless. She set the food before Ellen and withdrew.

“Don’t let her ways bother you, puss. You’ll get used to her. She’s a gem. Been with me years.” He was pouring her coffee. While Ellen ate he spoke rapidly, “Sleep well? You do what pleases you. The house is yours. I’ll tell Mrs. Quimby you’re mistress. Like that?” He was tapping the chair arm with his finger. “Want to go for a walk? That’s Redding Street out front. Pretty district here. Old. Want me to invite some friends for a party?” He drank the last of his coffee in haste, jingled the bell again. The housekeeper instantly opened the door, her mouth a penciled line. “Make my niece at home, Mrs. Quimby. Fix her a good lunch. Don’t know what time I’ll be back.” He hurried to the vestibule, returning in a raccoon coat and black spats. He was holding a cane and a black felt derby together in one hand. He looked down at her. “Not much to say, puss. You like my house?”

“I do, Uncle.” Ellen couched her words with care, “Be my speech queer like you told Pa my sister’s was?”

“Well, of course you talk the same as her, hon. But I don’t want you to change. Frankie’ll be living here in Chicago. So that’s different, see?”

“I’d fain live in Millville all my days.”

He kissed her and she smelled the perfumed lotion. He eyed her quizzically. “Such a little innocent. Don’t ever change, sweet.” The outer door was slamming after him.

The hours passed, the first ever spent away from home, away from the ritual of farm work. Ellen saw how mealtimes were varied to suit the whim of Mrs. Quimby, how Garland was blind to the management of his house. He was gone for many hours in a day, often returning after she was in bed. He had little time for her. She would wander through the house to sit in the sun-bright bay window in the dining room, to tune in the cumbersome radio set on the marble table in the other large shaded room. Her plight and its urgent solution lay untamed, twisting in the back of her mind. She went upstairs, past the closed doors of the hallway to the blue-and-white statuette she had placed on the highboy beside the bed. “Deliver me,” she prayed.

On her third day in the house she came to the kitchen, seeking companionship, and pushed the door. Sarah Quimby stared from where she sat reading a paper booklet. In her hands was a steaming mug that she set on the galvanized table top with a sharp click. Behind the dour-faced woman was a double-doored wood icebox trimmed in bronze, and above it swung three or four canary cages. The pale yellow birds were silent, heads cocked, alert. On the sink was a disarray of food and newspapers and opened cans. The hard-wood floor was littered with crumbs and dust. “There’s many a fine secret Sarah Quimby knows, miss.” The housekeeper’s voice was high-pitched and her finger wagged. Ellen let the door swing shut. “I know goings-on,” the woman was shrilling behind it.

Confused, Ellen went to sit in the bay window. “Old witch,” she murmured, laying her hand on her cheek. Frown lines were drawing across her forehead.

Don’t place your affections On the green sycamore tree For the leaves they will welter And the balls they will fall If you can’t love arightly Don’t love none at all

In the round mirror in her room, Ellen was deliberately examining her figure clad in a flannel chemise. It was evening, the wall lamp burned. She placed the strip of cloth about her waist, making it firm. Then she put on the dark dress she had made for this visit. To the figure in the glass she breathed, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mester Ay.” The hurt eyes looked back from the white oval face. The breasts even now were swelling so in five months’ time they would grow hard and full, the pink nipples brown. She touched her girdled waist, bitter. “I’ll bind it tighter and maybe it’ll strangle.”

There was a knock and Garland appeared in the doorway, remote in a severe black suit and bow tie. “You put me in mind of my mother there.” He looked at her heavily and turned, drawing the door shut with a dull sound. She stood a moment, then moved to the windows, pulling up a shade exposing the windy lean night. Yellow street lamps bloomed stark and shorn tree boughs swayed. She was weeping after a while, darkly.

Later she glided down the long staircase where the echoes lived, and into the big room. A score of people were milling in the blue mist of tobacco smoke and the vague sensuous odors of perfume. In their hands were stemmed glasses and morsels of food. The air stayed hot and unreal, the voices an undulating drone above the clicking and chinking of dishes. Garland came across the room, ruddy-faced, waving a glass at her, his breath strong. “This is my niece. The one I told you about. The little goat-girl from the Kentucky hills of home.” He took her arm. He was like somebody else; fine wrinkles were etched about his soft-skinned jaw and across his brow. He spoke loudly to a white-haired tall man. “This is Ellen.”

“Mester,” she whispered, and she said, “Lady,” when it was a woman as he took her around the room. Her head throbbed, she wished the night done. Garland left her and she stood apart, waiting. Then he found her again, urging her to sing. “This niece of mine can do the old-time songs up so prettily. Go ahead, puss. Any tune.”

Her voice was high and steady while the women’s gems glistened and the men turned murmuring to each other, puffing long black cigars.

E’er a night when the sun goes in I hang down my head and mournful cry True love, don’t weep nor mourn for me I’m going away to Marble Town

“Say, that’s good. You know any faster ones like ‘Bam, Bam, Bamy Shore,’ Miss Gaddy?” cried a modish blond young woman. “We could dance to that.”

“No.” Ellen’s voice was small. “Reckon not, lady.”

“Well, how about ‘Alabamy Bound’?” called another female voice. “That’s from the South.”

“I don’t know it,” Ellen said.

“It’s got rhythm.” The blond girl tapped her feet. “Come on, Nadine, let’s dance.”

“Vo-do-dee-o! Whoopee!” They raised their hands as though to pat-a-cake, swayed and juggled their feet, short skirts exposing slim legs.

Five feet two, eyes of blue Can she hug And can she woo

Garland was setting his glass down. He began to wail too. He shuffled, linked arm in arm with one of the bejeweled women.

She says that She’s my little baby My little jazztime baby

There was dancing, noise, laughter, squeals. Ellen, afraid of the strange faces, the clever women, conscious of her unfashionable attire, had retreated to a chair in a dim-lit corner. Mrs. Quimby opened the dining room door. The woman was austere in a white starched apron, a ruffled cap askew on her hair. “The dinner is served, sir.”

When the last guest had gone, Ellen turned to the broad staircase and put her hand on the balustrade. Her skin was transparent, a blue vein beat in the temple. She was holding herself tense. Garland looked at her a moment, his little eyes flickering. “I should have made you rest, hon.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“You sang so pretty.”

“No, Uncle. It’s no song for city folk.” She flushed, near tears. “It sounded queer, for a fact.”

He glanced, curious, at her. “Where did you pick up those songs?”

“Well, Talithie Gentry of the grammar school used to sing to us. But I learned the most from Penny Dougherty. Pa hired her two summers back when Ma took sick.” She sighed, aware of her plainness.

Garland was laughing, “Did you like the party?”

“Pa still calls Penny that roaring woman. He couldn’t abide her. Thought I’d die when she first went. It was so lonely.” And she added, “I remember ary tale Penny sung.”

“Not homesick are you?”

She went up a stair, avoiding his sharp look. “No. It’s the late hour makes me gossipy. Home we’re ne’er up this late.”

“Oh yes, want to ask you about church tomorrow. Guess you’d say I’m a pretty bad Catholic. Manage to make Christmas mass and send a big check to the cathedral and that’s about it.” He wagged his head, looking up at her. “But I know Anton brought you girls up strict. Bet he used a switch like our folks taught us.”

“He did.”

“Want to go to mass?”

“I’d liefer not.” She rubbed her forehead, reflecting. “If you think it’s not wrong to cross his will?”

“You mean Anton’s will? Chrissake, I’m all for it. I wouldn’t tell him. Now, sleep in the morning. Get a good rest. I’ve got some business so I’ll likely be gone.”

“I ne’er knew you to be such a rich man, Uncle. When you came to the farm.”

“Good night.”

As she entered her room, she heard the rasp of the doorbell and a woman’s voice that cut off when the door shut between the vestibule and the living room.

The next day large flakes were floating soundless beyond the cold bay window. Ellen heard a crash in the kitchen, knew another dish had slipped. Over the trill of the canaries came a loud grumbling. The swinging door was opening. “I can tell you a secret, miss.”

“I’ve ne’er a wish to hear it.” Ellen stood up from her chair.

“Don’t put on airs, miss. Your family’s not much account.”

“I reckon I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mr. Gaddy’s the one amounted to something in your family. You’re a poor relation.” Mrs. Quimby smiled slyly. “You know Mr. Gaddy keeps a woman? A bad woman. On the east side. You know what they are, miss? He keeps her for his pleasure.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Ain’t you the fool. Where you think he goes nights, looking like Douglas Fairbanks? Think that’s on business?”

“Hit’s proper to have a lady friend.”

“And not make her his missus? Keep rooms for her. Pay her to wait for him. Give her gold. All these years he’s kept one. Different ones. I tell you he’s lucky to find a respectable woman like me to run his house.”

“I won’t listen. I won’t listen,” Ellen was repeating to herself, running through the house, over the green carpet, away from the voice. She turned the key in her door, threw herself on the magenta coverlet, her hands over her ears. “He doesn’t want me or need me any more than Pa. I’m like some contrary varmint that no one’ll have any truck with.” Her self-pity was like wind to a fire. She got up, sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs, trembling in wrath.

“I put a curse on Christian Ay who did this to me. Forever, take away his joy, Mary Virgin. For what’s been wreaked on me. Make him suffer.”

Suddenly she was rising. She had seen it in an instant. “It just came o’er me. I’ll go there.” She was lifting down the traveling bag, opening it on the bed. She packed her few possessions. “I lay a curse on him. Virgin my witness.” She counted her money, folded it in the handkerchief. The feverish tenor of the past days was sliding away and she was cooled again. She rested, and in the night as she was going out, she stood a letter on the highboy.

Uncle, I’m beholden for all your kindness. I am going to St. Louis to see someone. If Pa asks after me will you tell him I will try to be home in summer. Please don’t try to find me.

niece Ellen

At the station she purchased a ticket, sat for a few tired hours on a bench, her shoes and satin hat wet from the falling snow. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Her hand rested on the valise. She boarded the train and found a seat. Through the window she watched the red coal of sun lift itself. The landscape was evolving into farm lands, far-stretched, and sleeping villages. The snow began to melt as they rumbled southward into Illinois.

She was dozing. Out of memory sprang an incident involving Anton. It stirred no warring of anger in her, only the same wonderment she had experienced at the time. The way of women had come on Frankie, catching her unaware one night when she was eleven, frightening her, so she whimpered to Ellen, “I’m dying. Ellie, don’t let me die.” Maria had kept a pristine silence on all matters pertaining to the body, as her own mam had done with her. It was a secret, never articulated. Ellen had whispered to Frankie and they planned. All the while in their whispers lay a thrill of dread, for it was a field of unknowns. The morning was Sunday and the girls were dressing for mass. Anton opened the loft door upon them. “What’s going on here? We’ll be late again. Now move, you two.” Frankie was nude and gazed, naive, at him. Ellen plucked a garment from the bed and laid it before her sister. The man ripped it from Frankie’s hands, threw it at her feet. He turned on Ellen, “Not so froward, girl,” and stalked out while the two stared. They had dressed swiftly, mute. But nightly, for many years, Frankie would have an urgent compulsion to look under her bed before she went to sleep. And Ellen developed a fear of something skulking and concealed when she was sent to the cellar on an errand.

She was unburying this, mulling it, half asleep. By noon she became wakeful and light-headed, bought a sandwich from a vendor who came shouting through the stuffy car. The train was halting before a gray clapboard station house bearing the flecked inscription WEEMS CROSSROADS. Bag in hand she walked the deserted streets. The air was less chill, the sky a high blue. She was questioning a storekeeper, then turning down a muddy road leading into the country. She passed farms and came to woods where black trees dripped. Brash crows were cawing somewhere out of sight and neglected clouds floated in fresh winds. By a fenced-in burial ground, melting snow outlined gravestones. A Mason jar full of sticks tipped on its side and a withered wreath lay on a plot enclosed with a black iron paling. Gray granite markers were graven with dead names and dates. A cow leaned over the cemetery fence in the distance to crop grass inside; it was bearing heavily with its soft neck on the sagging wire.

Ellen came to a dilapidated mailbox set on a stake under a bare-branched catalpa. She read, Luke Dougherty. She went up the mire of the lane. A flock of speckled guineas were trotting in the wet meadow. She knocked at the door to a narrow weather-washed house set beside a shed where bearded goats were lolling. A hen began to cry in the way they have when they have just laid an egg, and somewhere back of Ellen the guineas screamed. A small pretty-featured woman with clear eyes was there in the doorway.

“I came to you, Penny. Will you have me in?”