The Collected Stories of Hortense Calisher (45 page)

“
Ach,
when she came off the boat,
war sie hübsch!”
Tante had said, lapsing into German with unusual warmth, “Such a color! Pink and cream!”

“Yes, a real Bavarian
Mädchen
,” said her mother with a trace of contempt. “Too pink for the fashion here. I guess they thought it wasn’t real.”

Another time, her mother had said, in one of her rare bursts of anecdote, “When I came, I brought enough linen and underclothing to supply two brides. At the convent school where I was sent, the nuns didn’t teach you much besides embroidery, so I had plenty to bring, plenty. They were nice, though. Good, simple women. Kind. I remember I brought four dozen handkerchiefs, beautiful heavy linen that you don’t get in America. But they were large, bigger than the size of a man’s handkerchief over here, and the first time I unfolded one, everybody laughed, so I threw them away.” She had sighed, perhaps for the linen. “And underdrawers! Long red flannel, and I had spent months embroidering them with yards of white eyelet work on the ruffles. I remember Tante’s maid came in from the back yard quite angry and refused to hang them on the line any more. She said the other maids, from the houses around, teased her for belonging to a family who would wear things like that.”

Until Hester was in her teens, her mother had always employed young German or Czech girls fresh from “the other side”—Teenies and Josies of long braided hair, broad cotton ankles and queer, blunt shoes, who had clacked deferentially to her mother in German and had gone off to marry their waiter’s and baker’s apprentices at just about the time they learned to wear silk stockings and “just as soon as you’ve taught them how to serve a dinner,” returning regularly to show off their square, acrid babies. “Greenhorns!” her mother had always called them, a veil of something indefinable about her lips. But in the middle drawer there was a long rope of blond hair, sacrificed, like the handkerchiefs, but not wholly discarded.

There was no passport in the drawer. Perhaps it had been destroyed during the years of the first World War, when her mother, long since a citizen by virtue of her marriage, had felt the contemporary pressure to excise everything Teutonic. “If that nosy Mrs. Cahn asks you when I came over, just say I came over as a child,” she had said to Hester. And how easy it had been to nettle her by pretending that one could discern a trace of accent in her speech! Once, when the family had teased her by affecting to hear an echo of “public” in her pronunciation of “public,” Hester had come upon her, hours after, standing before a mirror, color and nose high, watching herself say, over and over again, “Public! Public!”

Was it this, thought Hester, her straining toward perfection, that made her so intolerant of me, almost as if she were castigating in her child the imperfections that were her own? “Big feet, big hands, like mine,” her mother had grumbled. “Why? Why? When every woman in your father’s family wears size one! But their nice, large ears—you must have
those
!” And dressing Hester for Sunday school she would withdraw a few feet to look at the finished product, saying slowly, with dreamy cruelty, “I don’t know why I let you wear those white gloves. They make your hands look clumsy, just like a policeman’s.”

It was over books that the rift between Hester and her mother had become complete. To her mother, marrying into a family whose bookish traditions she had never ceased trying to undermine with the sneer of the practical, it was as if the stigmata of that tradition, appearing upon the girl, had forever made them alien to one another.

“Your eyes don’t look like a girl’s, they look like an old woman’s! Reading! Forever reading!” she had stormed, chasing Hester from room to room, flushing her out of doors, and on one remote, terrible afternoon, whipping the book out of Hester’s hand, she had leaned over her, glaring, and had torn the book in two.

Hester shivered now, remembering the cold sense of triumph that had welled up in her as she had faced her mother, rejoicing in the enormity of what her mother had done.

Her mother had faltered before her. “Do you want to be a dreamer all your life?” she had muttered.

Hester had been unable to think of anything to say for a moment. Then she had stuttered, “All you think of in life is money!”, and had made her grand exit. But huddling miserably in her room afterward she had known even then that it was not as simple as that, that her mother, too, was whipped and driven by some ungovernable dream she could not express, which had left her, like the book, torn in two.

Was it this, perhaps, that had sent her across an ocean, that had impelled her to perfect her dress and manner, and to reject the humdrum suitors of her aunt’s circle for a Virginia bachelor twenty-two years older than herself? Had she, perhaps, married him not only for his money and his seasoned male charm but also for his standards and traditions, against which her railings had been a confession of envy and defeat?

So Hester and her mother had continued to pit their implacable difference against each other in a struggle that was complicated out of all reason by their undeniable likeness—each pursuing in her own orbit the warmth that had been denied. Gauche and surly as Hester was in her mother’s presence, away from it she had striven successfully for the very falsities of standard that she despised in her mother, and it was her misery that she was forever impelled to earn her mother’s approval at the expense of her own. Always, she knew now, there had been the lurking, buried wish that someday she would find the final barb, the homing shaft, that would maim her mother once and for all, as she felt herself to have been maimed.

A few months before, the barb had been placed in her hand. In answer to the telephone call, she had come to visit the family a short time after her mother’s sudden operation for cancer of the breast. She had found her father and brother in an anguish of helplessness, fear, and male distaste at the thought of the illness, and her mother a prima donna of fortitude, moving unbowed toward the unspoken idea of her death but with the signs on her face of a pitiful tension that went beyond the disease. She had taken to using separate utensils and to sleeping alone, although the medical opinion that cancer was not transferable by contact was well known to her. It was clear that she was suffering from a horror of what had been done to her and from a fear of the revulsion of others. It was clear to Hester, also, that her father and brother had such a revulsion and had not been wholly successful in concealing it.

One night she and her mother had been together in her mother’s bedroom. Hester, in a shabby housegown, stretched out on the bed luxuriously, thinking of how there was always a certain equivocal ease, a letting down of pretense, an illusory return to the irresponsibility of childhood, in the house of one’s birth. Her mother, back turned, had been standing unnecessarily long at the bureau, fumbling with the articles upon it. She turned slowly.

“They’ve been giving me X-ray twice a week,” she said, not looking at Hester, “to stop any involvement of the glands.”

“Oh,” said Hester, carefully smoothing down a wrinkle on the bedspread. “It’s very wise to have that done.”

Suddenly, her mother had put out her hand in a gesture almost of appeal. Half in a whisper, she asked, “Would you like to see it? No one has seen it since I left the hospital.”

“Yes,” Hester said, keeping her tone cool, even, full only of polite interest. “I’d like very much to see it.” Frozen there on the bed, she had reverted to childhood in reality, remembering, as if they had all been crammed into one slot in time, the thousands of incidents when she had been the one to stand before her mother, vulnerable and bare, helplessly awaiting the cruel exactitude of her displeasure. “I know how she feels as if I were standing there myself,” thought Hester. “How well she taught me to know!”

Slowly her mother undid her housegown and bared her breast. She stood there for a long moment, on her face the looming, pleading look of twenty years before, the look it had once shown under the theatre marquee.

Hester half rose from the bed. There was a hurt in her own breast that she did not recognize. She spoke with difficulty.

“Why … it’s a beautiful job, Mother,” she said, distilling the carefully natural tone of her voice. “Neat as can be. I had no idea … I thought it would be ugly.” With a step toward her mother, she looked, as if casually, at the dreadful neatness of the cicatrix, at the twisted, foreshortened tendon of the upper arm.

“I can’t raise my arm yet,” whispered her mother. “They had to cut deep. … Your father won’t look at it.”

In an eternity of slowness, Hester stretched out her hand. Trembling, she touched a tentative finger to her mother’s chest, where the breast had been. Then, with rising sureness, with infinite delicacy, she drew her fingertips along the length of the scar in a light, affirmative caress, and they stood eye to eye for an immeasurable second, on equal ground at last.

In the cold, darkening room, Hester unclenched herself from remembrance. She was always vulnerable, Hester thought. As we all are. What she bequeathed me unwittingly, ironically, was fortitude—the fortitude of those who have had to live under the blow. But pity—that I found for myself.

She knew now that the tangents of her mother and herself would never have fully met, even if her mother had lived. Holding her mother’s hand through the long night as she retreated over the border line of narcosis and coma into death, she had felt the giddy sense of conquering, the heady euphoria of being still alive, which comes to the watcher in the night. Nevertheless, she had known with sureness, even then, that she would go on all her life trying to “show” her mother, in an unsatisfied effort to earn her approval—and unconditional love.

As a child, she had slapped at her mother once in a frenzy of rebellion, and her mother, in reproof, had told her the tale of the peasant girl who had struck her mother and had later fallen ill and died and been buried in the village cemetery. When the mourners came to tend the mound, they found that the corpse’s offending hand had grown out of the grave. They cut it off and reburied it, but when they came again in the morning, the hand had grown again. So, too, thought Hester, even though I might learn—have learned in some ways—to escape my mother’s hand, all my life I will have to push it down; all my life my mother’s hand will grow again out of the unquiet grave of the past.

It was her own life that was in the middle drawer. She was the person she was not only because of her mother but because, fifty-eight years before, in the little town of Oberelsbach, another woman, whose qualities she would never know, had died too soon. Death, she thought, absolves equally the bungler, the evildoer, the unloving, and the unloved—but never the living. In the end, the cicatrix that she had, in the smallest of ways, helped her mother to bear had eaten its way in and killed. The living carry, she thought, perhaps not one tangible wound but the burden of the innumerable small cicatrices imposed on us by our beginnings; we carry them with us always, and from these, from this agony, we are not absolved.

She turned the key and opened the drawer.

T
HE SINISTER THING ABOUT
Hillsborough, since I come back, is that the soda parlors are gone. You have to know the place why. Since I
came
back—O.K. I could talk that way even before I left for the Agricultural; why else did my Aunt Mary bring me up to read every old book in the shop, and hang my junior excellence medal in the parlor—though she never hung the one for sharpshooting—and sell off, to the summer people to build a house of, that last old cypress-colored barn we had at the edge of where the acreage once was? They were going to use it to build a house. But if I like to talk that way at my convenience, it’s like putting on jeans again after Sunday dinner and church—or it used to be. The whole trouble must have begun, I think, when the summer people started wearing our jeans. But that was way back; I don’t go that far back personally. Our family goes eight generations in Hillsborough, but I only go as far back as when it began for us, when those two come to buy the barn. That’s as far back as I like to go.

“Cedar,” says the man, and the woman whispers
Did you ever see such weathering!,
and I’m standing by, about fourteen years old, and I start to say, “Why, that ain’t cedar, it’s bir—,” when my aunt’s fingers, steelhard from sanding old trestle tables to the pine again and emerying off the chipped places on flint glass, grabs me at the neck. “Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Johnny One—you know how to talk right!” So I do; isn’t she always jabbing at me “Talk like the summer people—you don’t have to pay any attention to what they
say
!”

She’s still holding me. “This boy has got hisself a medal,” she says. She can say “himself” just as well, too. But this way, the pair will think the old shack—which isn’t birch but isn’t cedar either—is just what they want for front trim.

“Why do you call him Johnny One?” the woman says, curious.

This is the first time I date too that my aunt speaks the way she then does—vague—even for all that energy she’s putting out, getting rid of all our junk first and then all she can find in the neighborhood. And how she looks; I notice that too. Faded. “Why do I call him Johnny One?” she says, the way people do, bidding for time, and when they’ve never noticed themselves before. “Why, my sister—what was her name?—she only left one.” She smartened then—why she used to be so smart, smarter than me! “Why, I guess I call him Johnny One cause I haven’t got two!” And then she and I, my neck free now, looked back triumphantly; from our ways lately, that explanation seemed clear enough.

They bought the barn—which wasn’t a barn. But on their way off, I snaked through the woods alongside of the path they took back to their car—I used to like to watch summer people the way any boy, all of us children liked to watch the doings of ghosts who never intended or did anything mean to us except bring gifts and then in the fall fade away again—and I heard them talking, different than they talk to us, the way they talk to each other. “‘My sister, what was her name?’” said the woman. “Can you imagine!” When I went off to the A., I found out of course what she meant. Our town sure had been dragging its feet—though it wasn’t the only hill town in New Hampshire to do it, not by a longshot, I found.