Quiet Dell: A Novel (20 page)

He looked at her, incredulous. “You have Duty? I assumed he’d gone with the children. I telephoned Abernathy to ask for the key. She never mentioned —” He shook his head. “I couldn’t have taken him, so I’m glad I didn’t know. Well. Duty.”

“Why the odd name?” Emily asked.

“There is a story about Duty.” O’Boyle lit a cigarette. “He arrived a month or so after Heinrich died, a present for Hart from a nursemaid, back when they still employed one. The Eichers were Duty’s second family. The first was killed by a tornado, west of Chicago, in the plains. Now he’s an only survivor, again.”

Eric shot Emily an unreadable glance. “I think I’ll have a cigarette, Mr. O’Boyle, if you don’t mind.”

“Charles,” O’Boyle said, extending the open cigarette case. “That’s it, then. If they didn’t try to reclaim the dog, in all those weeks—” He’d gone pale and spoke with clipped, painful effort. “The monster has killed them.”

“Probably right away,” Eric said.

O’Boyle stared before him, stunned. “Sorry, I used my last match.”

Eric stood and leaned over the table, touching the cigarette in his mouth to O’Boyle’s, drawing in the flame. It was easily accomplished, nonchalant, intimate.

Nicely done, Emily thought. “Charles,” she said carefully. “Could we start at the beginning? You roomed with the Eichers, for how long?”

“I moved in just after my mother’s death, nearly five years ago. She was my only relative, and maintained a household, where I
stayed when I wasn’t traveling. Her illness imposed . . . financial burdens. Dunnegan transferred me to Park Ridge. Rooming was the obvious solution.”

Emily was writing. “You answered an ad?”

“Yes, in the Park Ridge paper. Heinrich had died, perhaps six months before. They wanted local gentlemen, with references.”

“Which you provided.”

“Certainly.” He looked at Eric, and back at Emily. “I spoke first with Lavinia, Heinrich’s mother, the children’s grandmother.”

“Mr. Malone mentioned her. Was Lavinia . . . difficult? Controlling, perhaps?”

“Difficult? No, she was quite wonderful. Wonderful to me, from the moment she opened the door. The children adored her.”

“Had they rented rooms previously?”

“There had been roomers before me, gentlemen, supposedly, who didn’t work out to Anna’s satisfaction.”

“Anna?”

“Asta’s pet name was Anna, but that’s personal, not for publication. The letter is for publication. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Emily said. “You are speaking off the record. You need only say so, and I will hold that part of our conversation in confidence.”

“Yes, just so,” he said, and then added, “I can’t believe she was so rash. It isn’t like her, not at all. Anna was my very good friend.”

“More than a landlady, you mean. Can you elaborate, Mr. O’Boyle?”

O’Boyle stood up suddenly, explosively, and shouted, “Good god! Is this really relevant? What do you think I mean?”

“I, don’t know, Mr. O’Boyle.” Emily looked at Eric, who raised his brows subtly, then looked down at his notebook, writing. “I’m just trying to get a sense of the family,” Emily went on, “to understand—”

O’Boyle faced her. “They were like family, to me. I was, for three years, the only lodger; I paid to have both rooms, and moved out two years ago. I was working in Chicago and my circumstances
had much improved. Still, I spent holidays with them, visited every few weeks. I was there when Lavinia died, and a week afterward. I was there Christmas past, and stayed on into the new year. All this might never have happened, if she had listened to me. If I had convinced her—” He looked away, shaken.

“Of what, Mr. O’Boyle?”

“She told me she was going to sell the house, mentioned changes about to happen. I was alarmed and completely surprised. I’d assumed Lavinia’s death would result in an inheritance, but realized my mistake. I determined to take the situation in hand.”

Emily fixed her gaze, patiently, on O’Boyle. He wanted to say more, but required her assistance. “In hand,” she repeated quietly.

“You didn’t know her!” he said abruptly. “You’ve no idea who she was, nor does Malone, nor, most certainly, does Abernathy—” He walked quickly to the dining room, and took, from the center of the table, a silver tray and tea service, which he placed before Emily. “She was an artist. This is her work.”

The gleaming tray was octagonal, and the subtly matching pieces, sugar bowl, creamer, a tall, generous carafe, were sleek, forceful, with squarish handles. The work was eminently formal, each piece finely etched with a monogram, a large
A,
or
E,
in graceful double lines.

“Beautiful,” Emily said.

Eric stood to look more closely, the three of them gathered together as though over a cool, reflective fire. “Exceptional Danish design,” he said. “Timeless.”

“The Eichers were Danish. This is her mark.” O’Boyle turned the creamer over to reveal the circular, raised EAE, touched it, replaced the creamer on the tray.

“Do you have other work of Anna’s?” Eric asked.

He said her name very naturally. Emily reflected that she could not have done so. Asta Eicher’s mark, glimpsed quickly, disturbed her: the bold
A
completely encircled by the linked, facing
E
s, with their sharp feet, and the pronged midline joining all. The
A
was pinioned, encased. Emily had helped her grandfather brand horses and cattle. He maintained there was an art to burning the hide just enough; it was not a wound, but a mark. This woman was marked, bound. She had said as much in this emblematic symbol of the work that so defined her. How much did O’Boyle know?

“I’m trying to find other pieces,” he was telling Eric. “Not easily done. She stopped designing or producing soon after she was widowed. I bought this from her, one of the few pieces she’d kept. I wish now I’d bought more, but I wasn’t in a position to do so then. Later, she concealed her circumstances, until last December.” He bent to remove the tray.

Emily stayed his arm. “Please, leave it. It’s beautiful. May I?” She acknowledged his nod of assent and pushed the tray to the center of the table. It’s as though she’s here with us, Emily wanted to say, but refrained. “It snowed a great deal last Christmas,” she said.

“Yes, a huge storm, several feet of snow. I arrived early on Christmas Eve, before it started, and I’d bought the children a Canadian toboggan, big enough to fit us all. We went sledding on Christmas, after dinner and Annabel’s play, and the children had opened their presents. I have a snapshot.” He brought out a small envelope. “I took these photos. I’m having the negatives enlarged.”

The snapshot showed the three children, arranged on the sled youngest to oldest, bundled in coats, scarves, matching blouson hats, in heavily falling snow. None looked at the camera. Annabel looked forward and to the side, snow on her hat and shoulders; Hart looked down; only Grethe looked up, squinting into the storm.

“Those hats are quite smart,” Emily said.

“Canadian, as well. I was there some weeks, for Dunnegan.” O’Boyle offered another small photo. “I took this on the front
porch, a week after Thanksgiving and Lavinia’s funeral, just before I left. It’s probably the last photo of the four of them, together.”

Asta Eicher stood behind the children, a half-smile, somewhat wistful, on her face, her dark hair waved at the front and pulled back. Grethe, nearly her mother’s height, very thin, looked girlish, her long hair tucked behind her ears. Hart and Annabel stood with their shoulders back, as though poised for some adversity, Hart very sober, in shirt and tie, sweater, short trousers, hands at his sides. Annabel wore a dark dress with white cuffs and collar, like a pilgrim; she looked wary and devastated, Emily thought, quite different from the child in the sledding photo, only a month later.

“Was Annabel close with the grandmother?”

“Very, and very like her,” O’Boyle said. “Lavinia encouraged her tableaus and plays and dioramas, made up fanciful games with her.”

“Fanciful,” Emily said. That word again.

“It was a source of tension, a bit, between Anna and Lavinia. Annabel was so imaginative. Anna was concerned that she . . . accept her grandmother’s death, not idealize her or pretend to communicate with her.”

“She pretended that kind of thing?” Emily was writing.

O’Boyle made a dismissive gesture. “Lavinia was the sort who would have said, I’m always with you, or something similar, to comfort the child. I don’t know that, but I surmise it. The Christmas play—Annabel wrote pageants for every occasion, starring Hart and Grethe, and even the dog—had a Grandmother character, in the person of Annabel’s very old rag doll, Mrs. Pomeroy. She took that doll with her everywhere.” He laughed, and for a moment his face relaxed.

“She sounds delightful,” Emily said.

“Yes,” said O’Boyle, and fell silent.

Emily glanced quickly at Eric, who prompted her with a back-to-the-point expression.

But O’Boyle came to the point. He offered Emily a third photo, a copy of a studio photograph, it seemed. “I didn’t take this, of course: Anna, as a young woman, before her marriage. Lovely gray
eyes and though you don’t see it here, a smile of such warmth and welcome.”

Emily, silent, reflected that yes, she might have been lovely, but looked almost fearful, or too knowing. The times, perhaps, in Europe; the shadow of the Great War. She seemed happier in the later photograph, despite her age and struggles, and Lavinia’s recent death—pleased with her children, protective, fondly at ease with the photographer. “Charles,” Emily said, placing the photographs on the table between them, “you mentioned her situation, that Christmas, and a determination, on your part . . .”

“She was dear to me. We were very close. I could not let her lose her home, for it was my home, in my heart, as Anna was—” He spoke to Emily alone now, his eyes naked. “I asked her to marry me, I begged her to accept—” he looked away—“my fidelity, my means, my life.”

There it was. Emily realized she was holding her breath.

“She promised to consider my proposal, not to come to any decision, about her finances, the house, without consulting me. She was under enormous stress. Emotional issues, self-blame about her husband’s sudden death, came to light.”

“Self-blame?” Emily tried to breathe the words so lightly that O’Boyle might hear them as his own questioning thought.

“Completely unwarranted, arising somehow from the history of the marriage—they were both artists, supported by family money to a point, but he was the breadwinner. All that was years past. I told her I awaited her answer; I looked forward to a future together. I would be patient, and stay in frequent touch. I knew nothing about any letters, or Pierson, until I phoned in late June. Abernathy said she was away. Had they heard from her? Only postcards. I had to phone a neighbor, Mrs. Verberg, to get his name.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said. “This has been much, much more difficult for you than I could have realized.”

“She deceived herself,” said O’Boyle in a dead tone. “That man used her every disappointment and hope against her.”

Emily took the rolled drawing from her bag. “Mr. O’Boyle,
Charles—perhaps you’d like to have this, as a keepsake.” She smoothed the paper before him.

“One of Annabel’s drawings,” he said, “from her room.”

“Duty found it in the playhouse, actually, on the floor. It’s a bit bedraggled—”

O’Boyle touched the textured surface. “It’s so like Annabel. No, you keep it, Miss Thornhill. She made me several presents of her drawings. And keep the snapshots, as well, for publication. The family should be seen as I saw them, in happy times. I can do that for them, at least.” He stood then. “I’m afraid I must ask you to go. My cab will be here quite soon.”

“Of course,” Emily said. “We thank you. You mentioned leaving; we didn’t mean to keep you. Work can be diverting at difficult times; I hope you find it so.”

“I suppose,” he said absently, “but I am going to Mexico. I don’t want to be here, as all of this comes out in the newspapers. It’s another world there.”

“It is,” Eric said. “Where do you go?”

They were moving to the door.

“A small village.” O’Boyle didn’t look at him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know it.”

•   •   •

Eric offered Emily his arm, as before. It was dusk. They were in the car before they spoke

“My god,” Eric said. “And this is only the preamble.”

“I have coffee at my place,” Emily said. “And food packed for the car.”

“Black coffee,” he said, “lots of it.”

•   •   •

Duty, fed, watered, walked in Chicago, was asleep in his basket; the rest of the backseat was taken up with their typewriters, briefcases, bags of food, a thermos, suitcases. It was full dark, two hours into the trip, and raining lightly. The wipers kept time:
swik, swak
.

Swak, thought Emily, was a legend people wrote on valentines. She had fallen asleep, almost. “Eric?” she murmured.

“Emily?”

“What do you make of him?”

Eric only looked, dejectedly, into the windscreen of the coupe, the wipers crossing in tandem, the wash of rain flowing off.