Fallen Beauty (13 page)

•   •   •

D
r. Waters left me with a package of five aspirin, and a bill we both knew I could not pay.

I promised him half once I cashed the check from Millay, but I still needed to come up with the rest of the money, and to find a way to pay Millay back her so-called “down payment.” At moments like these, I thought how foolish I was never to ask Grace’s father for anything. He should be helping us—if not with his hands or his heart, then with his wallet. I allowed myself to imagine sending him blackmail notes, demanding financial support or I’d make our secret known, but my pride and principles recoiled at the thought.

I barely slept that night. I lay in Grace’s bed with her, waking up from her cries, feeling the draft coming in through the thin window in her room, agonizing over whether Marie would find out about Millay, worrying over Grace’s illness, remembering what Millay had said about my judgment of others. Somewhere deep inside, I knew she was right, at least a little bit. I was the definition of passion and sin in this town. If I had run away that night, early in my pregnancy, where would I be now? Had I made the wrong decision by staying?

But, no, it was impossible. I had no money for such a move. I had no child care. My only family was here, and Marie would need me once her own baby was born. And, like it or not, this town was a part of me. I could feel its dust on my feet, its rivers like blood in my veins, its street patterns etched on my skin; to leave would mean amputating a part of myself.

Marie’s words came back to me. I had changed, and not for the better. My determination had become stubbornness ruled by pride. I had withdrawn from the townspeople in as many ways as possible, thinking my isolation would be less painful if it came on my own terms. Maybe that had something to do with the silent bell on my door.

But, no, the bell went silent first. They had turned away from me first.

•   •   •

VINCENT

T
he seamstress vexes me.

She wears plain clothing in spite of her talent, and her shoes are so old, she must feel the ground on her toes. There are no ornaments in her shop or on her person, and she looks very much like one who would appreciate decoration. I can see her vanity in her soft, well-tended curls, her clean face and fingernails, the way she dresses her daughter, who is more fashionably outfitted than her mother. The girl would be happy in stained cotton, but she’s starched, pleated, and plaited. Is the seamstress punishing herself?

But then, my mother was just the same.

We send her on the train, this time in first class. When I watch her small, slouched form climb the steps with effort and disappear into the car, only to reappear in the window, smiling, eyes obscured beneath her thick glasses, I feel as if I’ll cry. Why does this one seem like the last good-bye?

I hear the whistle and how I wish to climb aboard with her. Instead, my large husband has his arm around me. Sometimes I feel he will crush me with his great weight. Everything he does is so big, every movement, every word. It is intolerable that someone as small and delicate as I must be pushed and steered by this bear of a man. How I long to extricate myself from Eugen and rush to George. If he could have me without my husband, he could fully surrender. Without Eugen’s shadow, we’d be free to partake of each other with chests full of air, speaking poet language, exploring our soft contours.

“Don’t be sad, Vincie,” says Eugen. “We’ll see her soon.”

I wrench myself away from him. Damn him for intruding on my longings. He will suffocate me. I storm to the Cadillac and sit in the backseat, wanting as much distance as I can have from him. He will serve me separately now. I can’t stand his closeness.

He lights a cigarette and walks around to close my door. When he turns from me, I see the tightness in his eyes and his pursed lips. He is controlling his temper. This infuriates me more. I want him to blow his top. Scream, argue, insist. Anything but this stubborn acquiescence.

He has the audacity to hum on the way home.

He motors us past the dress shop, and I see Laura standing at the doorway, wringing her hands and watching down the street. I don’t know why she is so troubled, but I wish I could stop and ask her. I wish I could go into her shop away from this man, from the men working at Steepletop, from all the damned men in the world. Even living in poverty with her would be better than the dullness on the mountain.

She doesn’t see me, but I have a sudden memory of my mother standing at the door casting out my father after he gambled away our money. It was the last time. She boldly dismissed and divorced him.

Can I cast out Eugen for no sin? Can I send him away from me for having done nothing but serve me? It seems a cruel act, but cruelty has its merits.

LAURA

It took Grace four days to get over her fever. During that time I received a notice from the New York State Gas and Electric Company that I would lose power if I didn’t pay my delinquent bill, a request from the grocer to pay down my account, and not a single new customer. I also received a letter from the New York School of Fine and Applied Arts notifying me that my acceptance would expire at the end of the school year unless I made plans to attend classes. I held on to it for a day, and then crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room into the fireplace. The new day’s mail slipped in through the door slot. I picked up the pile and noticed a letter addressed to me in fine script. When I turned over the envelope, I saw that it was from Austerlitz, and when I opened it, I noted the Steepletop letterhead.

Millay had written in hurried, nearly illegible script to request that I reconsider my offer for her velvet gown. She noted that the nights were getting very cold on the mountain, and that she and Eugen dressed for dinner, and would appreciate a new frock to admire.

Dressed for dinner? In their secluded mountain estate? Was there no end to their pretense?

I dropped the letter in the cold fireplace to burn later with the art school notification, and decided that I needed to walk.

I bundled Grace into her wicker pram with a quilt I’d made for her out of fabric with nursery rhyme characters. She pointed to the picture of Humpty Dumpty, and I had to say the rhyme. Then she pointed to the cow jumping over the moon. We went on like this through the backstreets of town and along the river until I tired of reciting poems or she began commenting on our surroundings. We rarely stuck to the main roads to avoid running into her father, and because I hated when her waves or greetings were not returned.

Today I wanted to cross the Stony Kill Bridge, where the autumn views were particularly beautiful, so we had to walk up Main Street for quite a ways. I was in a reckless mood and thought I might not hold my tongue if provoked or cast down my eyes if they met disapproval. The firemen outside nodded to me, but most pedestrians avoided me. The choir ladies stood gathered on the church steps, and I had the audacity to wave at them. One or two of them reacted with a wave on instinct, but most simply gaped at me. I held Agnes’ gaze until she turned away.

Grace pointed to the stars on her quilt and I recited “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” to her until we approached the center of town, where my footsteps slowed. A massive, gleaming slab of marble rose from where the great tree had been removed, as if it had erupted from the earth. The stranger leaned his forehead and palms against it, as if in pain.

“Whassat?” asked Grace, as we passed. The man turned and glared at us. He seemed to soften when he saw Grace, but he did not smile. The darkness in his eyes reflected some mental agony, and I felt both sorry for him and worried that he might be a danger. He looked as angry as I felt. Maybe he harbored old war wounds or recollections of lost loves. Or maybe he was just out of jail, and I’d do well to stay far away from him. Recalling that he was Father Ash’s friend, however, put me at ease.

“Rock,” said Grace.

Before I could answer, Father Ash was at my side, and said in a low voice, “It will be a statue. Of Our Lady of Grace.”

“Grace?” said my Grace, pointing to herself.

He smiled. “No, dear child. Jesus’ mother.”

“Closer,” said Grace, and I pushed her to the circle.

I looked at the large lump of marble, fascinated that it could be transformed into a statue.

“My old friend Gabriel will carve her,” said Father Ash to Grace. “Mary’s hiding in the rock.”

Grace’s eyes widened and she moved to get out of the pram. I began to protest, but Father Ash said, “It’s all right.”

I stared hard at him for a moment, and then at Gabriel. He seemed to notice me for the first time. Grace had climbed out of her seat, and was already at the marble, running her hands over it, when I caught sight of Agnes and her fellow choir mate, Sissy, approaching where we stood. Agnes would, no doubt, be the first to spread the gossip.
That seamstress Jezebel was making eyes at the sculptor.
I stepped toward Grace and lifted her back into the buggy, covering her legs with the quilt in haste. Grace let out a wail in protest, and pushed back out of her seat. My face flamed with embarrassment.

“We have to go,” I said, trying to keep her seated.

“See Grace,” said Grace. “In rock.”

She broke out of my grip, and I felt all eyes on me as I lunged after her and shoved her back into the pram while she struggled to get away. I said a silent prayer for patience and placed her firmly in the seat, tucking the quilt around her legs, feeling sweat collect under my clothing.

“We’ll see her later,” I said, brushing my hair out of my eyes.

Grace stood again, but I pushed the pram with enough power to force her into the seat, and hurried away, mortified that they’d all seen that I was unable to control my child.

I could hear Agnes’ cool, proper voice as we left them. “My goodness, how anyone could think to take a walk in this late-fall weather is beyond me. No wonder the child is so unruly.” Her provoking appraisal of my walk and parenting felt like a dare, but I would not take it. My shame had overridden my courage.

I put space between us as quickly as possible, forcing all of them out of my head. Gradually the colored leaves drifting off their sleeping branches cooled my embarrassment.

“I’m upset with you, Grace,” I said as we neared the bridge. “When Mama says we have to go, you must listen.”

She turned her head to look at me. “But I like rock.”

“I do too. But I don’t like that lady, Mrs. Dwyer.”

Grace raised her eyebrows, and turned away. I regretted saying such a thing to her, but I couldn’t help myself. I hoped my words would never come back to haunt me on the tongue of my impish girl.

When we reached Stony Kill Bridge, there were no cars, so we stopped for Grace to drop a couple of leaves over the side and into the current. She waved at them until they disappeared from sight. When she tired of this, we continued on, mingling the recitation of nursery rhymes with natural observations. I enjoyed the calm, and became more relaxed the farther we traveled from town.

About a mile beyond the bridge, I realized I’d gone too far. Grace was hungry, and the air had grown uncomfortably chilly. Grace coughed, and her hot breath came out in a puff in the cold air. I was angry with myself for keeping her out so long immediately after her illness, and cursed my own recklessness, especially as the first icy drops of rain landed on my shoulders.

I turned and saw at our heels a great cloud bank moving swiftly on the increasing winds. It seemed to have chased us from town. We would have to walk back toward it to get home. The pram did not have a visor, so I wrapped Grace’s blanket over her head and around her face to keep out the rain, which began to fall harder. Grace started to cry.

“Oh, Gracie, I’m sorry,” I said, as I quickened my pace. I hated to run because it seemed to make us colder and wetter, but I had to get my little one out of the elements. The rush of the river down the embankment signaled to me that the rain was increasing, but this lonely stretch of road had no house where we could stop. Half of the forest trees above us had already lost their foliage, leaving us little covering over our heads.

Water wilted the brim of my hat and dripped over my coat. Grace cried harder. I too wanted to cry, thinking of the danger in which I’d put my poor child’s health in the name of calming my heated nerves. Agnes would really think I was a terrible mother if she saw me, and I feared she was right.

An old farm truck came puffing up the road, but the driver either did not see us or did not care, because he came uncomfortably close and splashed us as he passed. I vowed revenge, though I’d never seen him before, and had a thought that I might enlist the witch, Millay, to put a curse on him.

The rain had become a relentless downpour, and I knew I had to find shelter, or Grace would surely catch pneumonia. The bridge was in sight, and I thought I could lift her out of the pram and carry her underneath to hide from the storm. I quickened my pace, and as I neared it, I heard a car approaching me from behind. I stopped and pulled as far off the road as possible to avoid being struck or soaked further, but the car slowed until it was at my side. I was shocked to see Eugen and Millay staring out at me.

“Miss Kelley, please allow us to help you,” said Eugen.

I looked at the sky and then at the bridge, thinking I would rather wait out the storm than accept charity from these people. I began to walk again when Grace sneezed.

Damn it!

Millay surprised me by opening her door and walking around the front of the car, where she promptly lifted my daughter and hurried to the passenger side. Eugen also got out, picked up my pram, and slid it into the backseat, dragging muddy wheels over the Cadillac’s spotless interior. I came to my senses, horrified that they had rescued me and messed up their car, but I wedged myself into the backseat next to the stroller, and allowed Eugen to close the door.

The warm, comfortable car smelled of cigarettes and chamomile. Grace seemed mesmerized by the beguiling woman with red hair and green eyes, who was holding her and gently rocking her in the front seat, as was I. I’d made a very clear judgment of this woman in my head. Kindness to children did not fit in with what I thought I knew.

“Miss Kelley,” said the amiable Dutchman, “why ever did you decide to take a stroll in the cold rain?”

“She was certainly caught unawares, Eugen,” said Millay as though I was not there.

“You are lucky we were just returning from Pittsfield,” he continued.

My stomach clenched, and flashes of memory from the night at the Follies tormented me. I thought of the poor woman for whom I’d bought the ticket. I looked down at my worn dress and coat, feeling the weight of the damp hat on my head, thinking of my loneliness and poverty. I must appear to Millay as that woman had to me years ago, and I hated being the recipient of her pity.

We crossed the bridge and the car moved slowly down Main Street, back toward my shop. When we passed the marble slab, I saw that it had been covered with a tarp, and a small canvas tent had been erected over it. Gabriel stood inside, tying the canvas to the poles. He did not look up as we motored around the circle.

“A beautiful stranger,” said Millay. “I wonder if he likes parties.” She seemed to say this out of the side of her mouth, directing the comment at me as if to provoke me, which it did.

“I’m quite sure he does not,” I said, surprised at my own vehemence and presumption. I felt my temperature rise further when I saw Millay smile.

“There she is,” she said.

“Lady in rock,” said Grace.

“Is she, now?” said Millay. “That is something I’d like to see. My work is a little like that, but I work with paper and pencils.”

Grace sat up, unafraid and at ease in the car. “Mama sews clothes.”

“I know,” said Millay. “Do you think your mommy would make me a pretty gown?”

“Yes,” said Grace.

“And what color should it be?”

“Purple.”

Eugen laughed. “Yes, my little one, purple for the Royal Duchess.”

Millay laughed, and Grace joined them.

I couldn’t abide their familiarity with my daughter or the way she had taken to them, but thankfully, we had arrived at the shop. When Eugen stopped, I opened the door and pulled the pram out, no longer caring about the mess it had left, only wishing to get away from them. Millay carried Grace under the awning at the front of the shop. She stood maddeningly close to me as I fumbled with the key, and then walked in ahead of me once I opened the door. I flipped on the light switch next to the door, but nothing happened. The electric company must have turned off my utilities. I wiggled the switch back and forth to confirm my suspicions.

Millay placed Grace on her feet and patted her head.

“She is a beautiful child,” she said. “The very image of you: soft blond curls, an aura of vulnerability. Although she seems as light as a firefly, while you carry the burden of your past.”

I suddenly felt very tired, cold, and unable to defend myself. I just wanted her to leave.

“Laura.” My name seemed to echo in the room. Millay’s voice held such weight, such layers. In her address of me, she’d conjured kindness, sympathy, sweetness. I raised my eyes to hers. “Please. Make me a gown. This is not charity. It is the wish of one businesswoman with the means to afford a high-quality service to the businesswoman who may provide that service. Nothing more.”

“Miss Millay,” I began.

“Please, call me Vincent. Or Edna—most of my new friends call me Edna.”

“Edna,” I said. “You must understand that it is my loyalty to my sister that prevents my service to you.”

“Your loyalty is admirable,” she said, “but I’m quite sure your sister wishes you to have working lights. A business. Rooms of your own. I don’t want to coerce you. I want you to want to make me beautiful things because that is what you love to do. I know you love to do it because I’ve seen your work and your attention to detail. I saw that costume you made for your sister at the hospital ball, the frocks you made for my mother. They are the nicest she’s ever worn. I just want you to think about it. Will you do that? And you don’t have to tell your sister. Does she require an accounting of every one of your customers?”

“No.”

“Good. Please think about it.”

She smiled at Grace, met my gaze once more, and left us standing in the dark.

•   •   •

VINCENT

K
eeping Eugen in his own rooms at night has given me new life. I can tolerate him more if his hand isn’t on my breast or my arm all night long. I know he used to sleep that way with his own mother until he was a grotesquely advanced age, and I do not wish to be his mother. If anything, I am his child, but I won’t stand for such incessant closeness. Conjugal activities, which I still enjoy with him, are separate from sleep and may take place anywhere and anytime, but I must enforce my insistence on separate sleeping places.