The Callender Papers (13 page)

“Joseph has studied some Greek,” Mr. Callender said, addressing me.

“Who teaches you?” I asked him.

“Father,” he told me.

“We have a schoolroom. I don't want my children to be disadvantaged by their years of seclusion here,” Mr. Callender told me. “So that I temporarily put on my Platonic garb, training up these young Alexanders.”

“You speak as if you will be moving away.”

“In time, inevitably,” Mr. Callender said.

“Where to?” I asked.

“That we are not sure of. The ladies prefer Newport, at least for the summers, and London or Paris for the other seasons. Joseph doesn't really care where we live as long as there will be stables. That's correct, isn't it?”

“And a hunting season,” Joseph added. “London would be the best choice, if you ask me. Benjamin would conduct his commercial life—whatever that was—and you would have a club, and Victoria would have the season there. The climate is unpleasant, I've heard, but the theater and opera would compensate.
The stores are fashionable, the houses pleasant, the society lively.”

When he spoke like that, he sounded interested in his topic. “You have thought it all out,” I observed.

“We have time to dream here,” Mr. Callender answered me. “We're great dreamers, aren't we? Even Benjamin. And yet I can't condemn us, because I don't think there's any great enterprise that didn't begin as somebody's dream. What do you dream of, Miss Wainwright?”

“I? Why nothing really,” I told him.

“Not even your studies? Your ambitions?”

“Those aren't dreams,” I said. “They're plans.”

“So are mine,” Benjamin declared.

Looking at it from a different angle, I could understand what he meant.

Mr. Callender voiced my objection. “Except yours have all to do with money.”

“What could be more practical?” Joseph asked. “That's true, isn't it, Miss Wainwright?”

“Money is certainly practical,” I agreed.

“You sound unsure,” Mr. Callender said.

“Perhaps because I can't imagine the riches you are thinking of,” I admitted.

“We must cultivate your imagination,” he said.
“And you will cultivate our common sense. It should prove an admirable exchange.”

“Perhaps little Miss Wainwright doesn't care to have her imagination cultivated,” Joseph said.

“Perhaps you do not care to be realistic,” his father answered sharply.

Victoria summoned us to the table then, and I was grateful for the interruption. Mr. Callender gave me his arm to enter the dining room and smiled down at me as we crossed the hallway, his whole face alight. I could not resist smiling back.

The long table was set with linens and silver. Glass goblets filled with chilled water stood at each place. Mrs. Callender had prepared a formal meal. We seated ourselves, and she hurried out from the kitchen bringing plates of muddy soup. Victoria helped her to clear the first course and bring in the main dishes. Mr. Callender carved the roast at a sideboard while Victoria passed china bowls of mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, a gravy boat and silver trays where rolls lay in white napkins. Mrs. Callender was apparently no cook. The soup was tasteless, the rolls yeasty, the meat tough and the potatoes lumpy. For dessert she brought out a lopsided cake. I cleaned my plate, as had been taught, but declined seconds.
Benjamin ate vigorously, I noticed, and Joseph had a good appetite. Mr. Callender ate little, less than his wife and daughter. Afterward, I asked if I could help with the washing-up. Mr. Callender protested, but I insisted.

“You have taken a great deal of trouble for me,” I said to my hostess as I tied an apron over my dress. The kitchen was crammed with dishes and pans. “Thank you so much for the dinner,” I said.

Mrs. Callender was carefully washing the goblets, as if afraid she might break one. She did not look up at me, so deep was her concentration on the task. I took a towel to dry them with. “It wasn't very good,” she said. “I never learned, you see. I wasn't taught. It wasn't expected that I would need actually to keep house. But Mr. Callender wanted everything at its best for you.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “I don't know where he got an idea like that.”

“He has his ideas,” she said. “There is so much he wants . . . and he was so disappointed in the meal.”

“Surely not,” I protested.

“You don't know him well. I do. He has such high standards.” It seemed to me that she might weep. “He is a disappointed man,” she said, and the tears began
to flow. Her hands continued with the washing. “I am a disappointment to him. The children too.”

“Don't cry, Mrs. Callender,” I said. I was embarrassed for her and for myself.

“You won't tell him I said so?” she asked suddenly, her eyes meeting mine then shying away. “We mustn't talk like this. You won't tell him?”

Thinking how much she must care for him, to care so deeply about his disappointments, to want to protect him from worry, I made the promise warmly.

At that she smiled timidly at me. “You seem like a nice child,” she said. “Maybe it will all turn out for the best.” All what? I wondered, as she went on. “Do you know what
my
dream is? I would hire a housekeeper and a staff of servants. He could live in New York, in a home that would be pleasant for him; he always preferred New York to any city. The children too. I might go there. Or I might go to be a missionary, somewhere. There is so much good that needs to be done. A quiet life. And I don't care what I wear, or what I eat. He does. They do.”

I could think of nothing to say. Quite suddenly her expression became sharp and her voice changed. “Someday it will all happen as we wish it, what do you think?” She laughed, a high, nervous sound.
“Until then, Mr. Callender says we must think of this as a life of charming rusticity. It's only a matter of time, only waiting.” She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “There was a French queen who played at being a shepherdess, Mr. Callender says. Do you think Joseph is a handsome boy?”

I answered as I knew she wanted me to: “Very.”

“He'll break hearts, won't he? Will he break your heart?”

“I hope not,” I said.

“You're too young to know yet. He's like his father at that age. He hasn't had much chance to socialize here. There is nobody here who is his equal, unfortunately. We must live in isolation for now. But if we can leave here before it is too late, Joseph will do well. I will pin my hopes on Joseph. He can be delightful, you know. He dances gracefully too; we have taught him the accomplishments of a gentleman. Benjamin is too young, I think. You will like Joseph.”

When at last we finished, we went through the dining room and back out to the parlor. There Victoria sat at the piano, her back straight, her wrists arched. Her father and brothers stood before her and they were singing a song from
HMS Pinafore,
“The Admiral Song.” Mr. Callender sang the part of the
admiral, comically, with exaggerated expression, strutting around the room. His children joined in on the harmony at the chorus. Mrs. Callender and I sat to listen, enjoying the performance. Led by Mr. Callender, his children were more lively and happy than I had thought they could be. After they finished that song, Mr. Callender asked Victoria to sing “Buttercup,” which she did in a sweet true voice, accompanying herself.

“Do you sing, Miss Wainwright?” Mr. Callender asked me.

His three children looked at me as if they had forgotten my presence. A silence awaited my answer. “No,” I said, which was the truth. I do not sing well. “Neither do I dance.”

“But almost anybody can learn to sing,” he said. “And everybody can learn to dance. Isn't that true? We'll have to take your education in hand, won't we, children? Would you let us do that, Miss Wainwright?”

“I think I would be grateful,” I told him.

“Your wonderful aunt is too busy for such frivolous endeavors?” he asked me.

“She is certainly fully occupied,” I said. “She has many responsibilities.” I did not want him to think I would speak slightingly of Aunt Constance.

“She must be an entirely admirable woman,” he answered quickly. “But now have we time for a game of croquet before I return you to Mr. Thiel's house?” He glanced at his pocket watch. “No, just to set up the game. I'll walk you to the ford, which will be quicker than going through the village, if that is all right with you?” His eyes glowed as if he were afraid I would forget that the bridge across the falls was a secret.

“That's half a mile beyond the falls,” Victoria said. She turned around on the piano stool to look at me. “You must be a strong walker,” she said sweetly, her voice hinting that there was something unladylike about that accomplishment.

“I am,” I said, and did not pretend to apologize for it.

“If we had a carriage, we could return you in proper style,” Victoria said, to no one in particular.

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Joseph said to her.

“Let's
play
,” Benjamin urged.

Mr. Callender led us outside to the green lawn and thus I became, temporarily, a part of that group of figures I had seen weeks earlier. Mrs. Callender sat in a lawn chair, her parasol shading her face. Mr.
Callender and I watched the start of the game. Benjamin led off with a quick stroke that put his ball too far into the center of the court. Victoria followed with a weaker shot that left her ball where Joseph could lazily just nudge it with his and then send it sideways off the court in a penalty shot. They paid no attention to Mr. Callender and me, and we walked away without farewells.

When we were well out of earshot Mr. Callender spoke. “How did you like us?” he asked. “And my Joseph, how did you like him? You see now why I think he needs someone like yourself, with purpose and direction. Someone like yourself would bring out the best in him, and we all need that, don't we? Someone to bring out the best in us. You were kind to help Mrs. Callender with the washing-up. I'm afraid Victoria isn't the most willing assistant—she prefers more decorative poses. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

I didn't say anything. I was wondering why both Mr. and Mrs. Callender kept talking to me about Joseph, as if I were of marrying age. I walked ahead of Mr. Callender, up a narrow path through the trees that crowded up this side of the little river. His voice came from behind me, “People say that silence is
golden. I quarrel with that. Silence is secretive and you wonder what the other person is thinking. I see the curve of your neck and hear your footsteps, but I ask myself—what is she thinking? Her one braid gives no clue. If only the braid could speak. Braid, speak to me.”

I smiled back at him over my shoulder, amused.

“My children have taken quite a liking to you.”

“They have?” I asked, betraying surprise.

His hand on my shoulder stopped me, and he moved up to stand beside me. “We don't have the graces you are accustomed to, Miss Jean Wainwright. My children are more awkward than they might be, they lack polish, they lack learning. I thought you would have the perception to see that. There is little gaiety in their lives—you will have realized that—little occasion for them to learn proper behavior.”

“You do seem isolated.” More isolated, in fact, than Mr. Thiel. “I spoke thoughtlessly,” I apologized, and I was sincere in that. The severity left his face as quickly as it had arrived there. It was right, I thought, that he should speak shortly to me for my failure to think carefully about his children, about the difficulties of their life.

“I do like your lack of pride,” he said as we
walked side by side. “May I pay you a compliment? It always seems to me that such open-mindedness is a sign of a truly rational character. And you lead me to be more open-minded too, because I have to own that my children's behavior was not perfect. I can excuse them if you can, but I will remember that they could have been more welcoming. After all, good manners don't depend entirely on gracious living, do they? Maybe even, I excuse them more than I should because they are the victims of the adult world. It is for no fault of their own that they live here, live so; yet because they are children, they are helpless.”

I had often thought just that about the girls at the Wainwright Academy, when I had seen how they were molded by the errors and even the vices of their parents. I agreed with Mr. Callender. “It's my fault,” he acknowledged. “You've met my wife now, you see how she is, so the responsibility rests on my shoulders.” He looked at his shoulders, as if measuring them. “You'll be a good influence on me, young as you are. A man should always seek out good influences on himself, don't you think? Gather them to him. It would be better if we could leave here.”

“Why can't you?”

“The Callender fortune is here,” Mr. Callender said. “Inaccessible at this time, except for enough”—he pinched his fingers together—“just enough to live on. There is”—he hesitated—“a will. A huge, labyrinthine will, cased in iron and silent as the grave that holds its maker. Like a mausoleum, I sometimes think, with wrought iron gates and a key so heavy it breaks the neck of whoever carries it, just by its weight.”

“Surely it can't be so intricate,” I said, trying to disguise my amusement at his way of overstatement, at the extravagant picture his imagination drew. If I was going to be a good influence, I knew I ought not to encourage this extravagance.

“No, of course not, but it is less depressing to think of it so. I try to avoid depression, in all things. There is so much sorrow and worry in me—it's not even the children or Priscilla's quiet unhappiness.” He looked at me, and I was glad to see that he understood his wife. “Not even that hydraheaded will. You see, when my sister was lost to me”—he held my eye—“her child was also lost.” I wondered how the loss of the young child could matter so much, even to an uncle, after so long a time. But I did not wonder aloud, because the sincerity
of his feeling was evident in his face. “The worst of it is that in the child's disappearance there is an unsolved mystery.
That
is what is so hard to bear. You're wise enough to have noticed that about life I think. My sister is dead, there is no mystery in that. I saw her buried. That is grief to me, but it is a fact. For her child, there is no such surety. The child's own father will not speak of the matter. Almost as if . . .” his voice trailed off, but I understood what he did not say. He went on quickly, as if to distract me, as if he had just recalled in whose house I was living. “If I knew my sister's child were dead, it would be easier for me to bear, much easier than this insoluble mystery. Does that sound selfish?”