Fallen Beauty (11 page)

LAURA

Early love makes fools of even the most pragmatic of us, but to this day, I could not say that I’d take it back. The sweetness of that short time and the precious consequence of our love—now turning circles with her doll on the path before me—were things I would never undo.

I held Grace’s hand as we walked along the banks of the Stony Kill riverbed. I had a special sensitivity to the rush of the waterways running through and around town. Even when I knew it wasn’t possible, I heard their fickle noise, even more than I noticed the train whistles. When I needed peace, I felt the murmurs and plash of the water like a sweet balm. When I was troubled by my neighbors’ harsh words or gazes, the waters seemed to mock me, adding their whispers to the steady din of gossip.

Today the Stony Kill looked friendly, if a bit fierce. Recent strong rains had added inches to its banks and it moved with force toward whatever it was seeking. I much preferred its purposeful motion to its meanderings. Industry leaves less time for idle chatter.

Grace and I took the long path in the autumn woods that curved around the mill, the post office, and Crandell Movie Theater. We came out at a grassy meadow behind the small hospital, where acres of wildflowers collected birds and ladybugs, and where Grace liked to run, scaring off rabbits and chipmunks, until she reached the summer stage that had hosted
Romeo and Juliet
more than two years ago, when my lover first knew she grew within me. When we got to the meadow, she released my hand and skipped off into the grasses. I watched her passage part the dried brown stalks, little critters and insects rising from their tips. It felt good in the late October sun, and I turned my head up, forgetting for a moment everything but the golden beauty of the earth before its hibernation.

I heard Grace’s little feet pounding on the stage and watched her from afar. Vines climbed the wooden structure, and weeds had overrun the stands. Since the crash of ’twenty-nine, the stage had been vacant. Only the ghosts of past performances and meandering children on walks with their mothers used it. Our town hadn’t been affected right away—most of our residents, even the most wealthy, weren’t directly involved in stock market dealings. But little by little, the encroaching shadow of a dying economy had fallen over the country, closing stores, driving up rents and food prices. It was hard to tell if my failing business was a result of my sin or the economy, though I thought I knew the answer.

I had reached down to pull weeds in the first row when Grace bounded up to see what I was doing. She helped me for a bit but soon grew bored, and dragged me to the path, where she again darted away into the meadow. As I walked along, a cloud passed the sun, and the hair on my neck stood. I looked back on the path but saw no one. When I turned toward the hospital, however, I came upon Daniel and Darcy. They appeared to be arguing, but when they saw me, they fell silent.

Grace burst out of the meadow, breathless and smiling, and rolled down the hill at the edge of the path. Bits of grass were stuck in her hair and dirt stains soiled her dress. She ran over and hugged me. I loosened her arms from around my legs and crouched down to brush off her dress and hair while she adjusted her glasses.

Darcy’s catlike eyes were fixed on me. Her black hair was set in an elegant wave and she wore a dark green suit and matching hat. Daniel stared hard at Grace. Seeing his scrutiny of my child made anger rise in me. He could at least have the decency to disguise his gawking. He was as bad as the choir ladies.

I grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her past them, down the path from which they had come. She protested but must have sensed my urgency, and soon quieted. When I felt safe enough away, I couldn’t stop from turning back and looking over my shoulder. Darcy was also looking over her shoulder at me. I turned away first.

•   •   •

VINCENT

H
ere we are, at the end of our time together, and Mother is unusually distant. I thought that these weeks of staying with us would not only restore me, but also restore her good cheer and help me to reconnect to the idol of my youth. Yet she became stony. It reminds me of her behavior when she divorced my father, and my sisters and I began to raise ourselves in perfect freedom while she worked to support us.

After the day in my room when she helped me to arise like Lazarus by insulting the seamstress, and the fever of writing that resulted, I again became spent. Nothing she said could stir me to action. I simply didn’t have the concentration. Even now I sit with my horse books, the notebooks I keep for my recently acquired hobby in breeding, training, and racing inspired by a nearby neighbor. My new endeavor gives me pleasure, and allows me to live without isolating those around me.

Why does she so disapprove? Yes, it is true I spend an inordinate amount of time on my new hobby, time I could be writing. Never mind that she divorced my father for his compulsive gambling. I am nothing like him.

“I cannot access you,” I say over dinner, just nights before she plans to leave us.

I run my hands along the fox-fur collar on my dress and press the silken curls of my newly set hair.

“Vincie,” says Eugen as he adjusts his onyx cuff links, “no trouble at the dinner table.”

I stare at Mother a moment longer, and then direct my eyes at his. The dressed windows on either side of his chair frame him like an actor on a stage. The light falls earlier in the evenings, shadowing his form, though the flickering candles light his soft, seductive eyes. They crinkle in the corners, and I can’t help but return his smile.

“Your hair blends with that foxy stole,” he says. “You are a foxy one, Scuttlebutt. Don’t bring unpleasantries into the room. Obey the tapestry.”

He points over his left shoulder at the Oriental wall hanging of the gods that we picked up on our Asian travels. Four gods at the four corners of the world who would not allow evil to enter the room.

“Forgive my bad manners,” I say.

Mother belches without excusing herself and lights a cigarette. I try to hide my disgust at her table behavior, and feel my anger rise. At that moment the cook enters, carrying the tea tray. She places it on the sideboard and lifts the kettle and one teacup to bring to the table, where I smolder.

“Damn it!” I slam the table, causing the service to rattle. “How many times do I have to tell you to set out all of the teacups before bringing over the boiling-hot kettle?”

That loathsome woman has the nerve to glare at me without answering. Her face holds no trace of apology.

“Do you need me to type a list to hang on the wall? Number one: Place the teacups before the master and mistress. Number two: Distribute the tea bags. Number three: Carry the boiling goddamned water last with two hands so you may safely pour it into the waiting cups. Are you deliberately disobeying me, or are you genuinely stupid?”

Eugen sighs long and heavily. Mother continues to smoke. The cook will not take her eyes from mine. Her aggression and hatred are palpable, but I will
not
look away first. When training animals, everyone knows that the first party to break eye contact is the weaker of the two. I can’t let her dominate me in my own home. But the woman will not back down. If I had my riding crop, I’d strike her. Eugen intervenes before the situation escalates.

“You are to leave at once,” he says to the cook. “Put down the kettle and go. I’ll send your last week’s wages.”

That vulgar woman finally has the decency to look away, and begins begging Eugen. I can see him softening to her pleas, but I will not stand for such a person to soil the purity of my mountain air with her horrid thoughts, no matter what her miserable home situation.

I am tired of employing these stupid townspeople, only to have them fail at their simple tasks, get fired, and return to town spreading vicious lies and violating our privacy with their petty gossip.

“It is unbecoming to share your personal hardships with us,” I say. “Do you know that my mother had to work three jobs and stay away from me and my two sisters morning, noon, and night to keep a simple, leaking roof over our heads? We didn’t have two pieces of bread to rub together, but no one ever would have known. Sniveling is the lowest form of communication and will get you nowhere. Heeding my directives would have kept you here, but clearly you are unable to follow simple instructions, so you are no longer welcome.”

Mother stands from the table and walks out of the room. My eyes begin to blur from the outside edges, and black spots seep into my vision like spilled ink. It is another headache. It comes on so fast, it takes my breath away. I bury my face in my hands.

“Vincie,” says Eugen. I hear him instruct the cook to leave at once, and she finally obeys. He slides my chair backward and lifts me into his strong arms, as he’s done so many times before, to carry me up to my rooms. “My dear Eddie. You’ve said too much. Your headaches are fed on high emotion. You must quiet yourself.”

I am afraid to speak because of rising nausea. Instead, I cling to him like a child and bury my face in his chest, inhaling the spicy fragrance of his aftershave and the sweet smell of his cigarettes. He carries me up the stairs and places me on my bed. He then draws the curtains, blacking out the remaining light of evening, and undresses me.

“Oh, you sumptuous woman, I want to devour you,” he whispers as he tucks the covers up around my naked body. “How could you go and upset yourself like this? Now I won’t get my dessert.”

I try to apologize, but the pulsing in my head becomes so intense that I nearly cry out.

He runs his hands over my breasts and down the covers until they rest on my thighs. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” I whisper. “You are so good to me. I don’t deserve your goodness.”

He slides his hands back up my sides, and runs them through my hair.

“You do,” he says. “And I will always do your bidding. Call me if you need me tonight.”

I nod, though he probably doesn’t see, and he leaves me in the dark. As I hear him cross the hall to his room and shut the door, I imagine him removing his dinner jacket, lighting a cigarette, and pouring himself a digestif. I try to think only of him, but the pain in my head throbs in time with the pain in my broken heart. My splintered mind turns to George and how he refuses to come to me, and to Mother, who allows me to run wild and unchecked, but whose disapproval feels like rubbing alcohol poured in my wounded heart.

How can I be expected to control these tempers when nothing is in my control any longer? Only Eugen obeys me completely, but even that is unsatisfying. Damn the irony of wanting the thing that eludes and not that which obeys.

At least Mother has obeyed. Her quiet marks her disdain, but she has done her part in luring the seamstress to Steepletop. Laura is like a wild filly waiting to be broken. I know of her daughter, who stands as a physical manifestation of her passions, but the experience must have hardened her. I know she turns the pain of the town’s judgment on me, because we all need something lower than ourselves to hate. Otherwise we would be left to absorb all of the bad energy and it would destroy us. No, best to pass it on.

I know that if I can tame that woman, I can use that power to tame George—my true desire. If I can tame her, I can acquire some of her youth and vitality to reinvigorate my body, which has begun to betray me.

Oh, Sappho, let me rise again.

LAURA

Sweet mother of God, the old woman lived with the poet.

I stopped my bike as I approached the street leading to Steepletop. The old woman had written only her name, CORA, in all capital letters below my measurements, with an arrow pointing to the next page, where she gave me directions to the house:
Turn left out of your shop, go to the Methodist church, take the country road over the bridge
, and so on. She had left no street names, only crude drawings and landmarks, and I hadn’t paid close enough attention to see that she was leading me back to the poet.

My mind catalogued through Marie’s descriptions of the party, and I now recalled that she had spoken of the poet’s mother, who had sat like an impassive shadow in the corner, watching her half-naked daughter throwing herself at her guests. Marie had been shocked that the old woman seemed to have no judgment of her daughter’s behavior.

I considered turning back. My base need for money, however, urged me forward to get the deed over with as soon as possible. On the remainder of the ride, I wondered if Cora knew of my connection to her daughter. Had she seen me ride to Steepletop that day? Did Millay actually share her infidelities with her parent? I found it unlikely, though I knew of the eccentricities of the family. Perhaps her mother was the cause.

The day was unseasonably warm, and I’d worked up a sweat by the time I pedaled the final stretch of the drive and arrived at the house. There was no denying that it was a pretty place. A large white barn faced a handsome white farmhouse. The structures stood on either side of the drive like two wives talking over a fence. Sheep bleated on the hill, and birds flew from the barn to the color-rich trees and bushes.

I took a deep breath and propped the bicycle against the fence. I’d folded and bagged the dresses and placed them in the large basket at the front of my bike, so I took a moment to shake them out. When I looked up, Millay was creeping toward a massive rhododendron bush, holding out her hand to an eastern bluebird. When I coughed, she turned and met my gaze. After a moment, she broke into a smile of the most genuine pleasure.

“You’re back,” she said.

I cleared my throat. “I have Cora’s dresses.”

“Put them on the dining table inside the house,” she said. “Mother is on a walk, but she’ll be back shortly. Make yourself comfortable.”

So this is how it’s going to be,
I thought.

Millay was playing with the wrong woman. She could not push me around like my sister, so she would have to respect my terms. I would get my payment—of that, I had no doubt—so I carried the dresses into the house and placed them on the dining table. I stepped into the parlor and looked around for a piece of paper, which I knew I’d have no trouble finding in the house of a poet. Sure enough, a notebook lay on a table next to a plush chair in the corner. A pencil lay across the tablet, and a half-empty tumbler of some spirit rested next to it.

The entire room seemed staged for visitors. It was strangely formal for a farmhouse, with ornate drapes, heavy antique paintings in decorative frames, and two large pianos taking up most of the space. It smelled of cigarettes, dying violet-blue harebells in mismatched vases, and the books lining shelves and stacked in piles. A large stand holding a black marble bust of some goddess read
SAFFO.
Her potent, empty gaze watching over the room chilled me.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the room where Everette had taken her. Or was it upstairs in her bedroom? Was it in one of the gardens? Were there others nearby? And where was Marie at the time? Was she so drunk that she didn’t know what was happening, or were her inhibitions down and she’d allowed it to go on? I felt sick at the thought of it all, especially of Everette with Millay. The image of them together seared into my musings and left me feeling dirty and, more darkly, jealous. I had had only one experience of such intimacy and it had left its long and lasting memory. I could see how someone with less control or care might become addicted to it.

A noise on the stair called my attention to the foyer, where Millay’s husband descended, buttoning his shirt, humming through lips pursed around a cigarette. Catching the flash of his bare skin and his full mouth turned up with pleasure at the sight of me sent me across the room. I reached Millay’s notebook, turned to the next clean page, and tore a piece of paper from it, leaving a jagged half sheet behind. I picked up the pencil and wrote:
Send Cora to the shop for payment and alterations. L. Kelley
.

I left the paper on the table and pushed past Millay’s husband. When I stepped out the door, I nearly ran over her. Her fingers seemed to sear my skin as she brushed my arm.

•   •   •

VINCENT

I
knew Laura would come, and seeing my prophecy confirmed brings me the greatest delight.

Laura, as flushed as she was at her first appearance but less impassioned, approached me the way one would a wild animal: one step at a time, carefully, full of apprehension. I could see it in the quiver of material she held in her hands like an offering. It was her offering to me to tame me, keep me occupied, turn my intention from devouring her to something else.

Silly girl.

I looked back at the wild birds in the rhododendron and held up my arm to them with my own offering. Within moments, a bluebird landed on my hand and began eating from it.

See, Laura,
I thought.
Like this.

When I told her to go into my house, I could tell that Laura had debated if she should because of how long she remained still. She finally turned on the drive and began making her way to the front door. Once she was inside, I committed to memory the warm rush of emotion I felt watching her walk inside my house for the first time, but I was quickly hit in the face with a cold wind as she walked back out without acknowledging me. She stormed to her bike, and left me quivering in the wake of her tempest.

Rejection. Again. Like a dagger in my breast.

I find myself thinking strange, unreasonable thoughts, but I cannot quiet them. It’s as if she and George are cut from the same cloth, a stiff, unwieldy material that refuses to take my shape. My vision shifts a little, and I clutch the porch railing for support until the world again rights itself. I turn my eyes to my hand. It is with shock that I register the gnarled appearance of my fingers, the dry, wrinkled backs, the jagged nails. Are these the hands that used to rest so gorgeously on the piano keyboard, the hands that brought forth such powerful music, the hands that shaped the words like potter’s clay? When has time played its cruel jokes on them, and why didn’t I notice until now? No wonder George won’t have me anymore. Surely he is repulsed.

I stagger into the house, push past Eugen, up the stairs to my boudoir and into my bathroom, where I run to the sink and splash cold water on my face to tighten my skin. I drown my face and hands over and over again in icy sheets until I shake and my skin has turned white and pure, the coldness contracting it, tightening my features, bringing back the young face.

Daylight gleams cruelly through the window, showing the lines around my eyes, crow’s-feet, dark black rook trails that would gouge my eyes if they could. I run to the vanity at the window and plunge my hands into the creams and potions, rubbing layers of lotion over my face and fingers. Pushing the oils into my skin, turning it red and waxy, but not erasing the lines, the years.

Then I see it: a line of silver through my foxy hair. Oh, my crown, my red crown. I can’t lose it. Not yet. Dyes, I must get dyes to color it. But how can I ever find a dye the color of my hair?

I weep in my arms, but then I smack my cheeks. No! I mustn’t cry. It will puff up my eyes and make me look more like the hag I am becoming. I stand tall and erect and walk into my sitting room, pull the curtains closed, and pour myself a glass of gin from the bottle on the fireplace mantel. I drain it in one long gulp. I pour another and drain that. Inhaling and exhaling in a rhythmic pattern, I feel my heart calming, my breath steadying. I look at my hand that grasps the glass, and it looks softer, blurred, younger.

There. That will do for now.

But as soon as I recover, I see the edge of an envelope from George, another letter in which he refuses to come to me, and I am back in a state.

I begin to scribble a letter full of venom.

“I am at my crest and you will drag me to the trough with your small-minded jealousy, cruelty, and youth that make you think you know more than a man decades older and a woman older by ten years, when you know nothing.”

Nothing,
I spit at you.

I want to take it back and undo the night we ever met. I want to throw the flask at the mirror and uninvite you from my bed and my heart so I can start living again. Start to reclaim my youth instead of being forced forward in time.

You and time: You are relentless.