Quiet Dell: A Novel (12 page)

—Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”

My dear Grethe,

You do not mind for me to address you by your given name? You see, your mother has told me so many lovely things about you that it would seem so distant for me to be calling you by the formal title of Miss Eicher—and then we are not strangers—Are we, dear?

Your mother always has so many lovely things to tell me about you . . . and I love you, dear, because I believe you are all that your mother tells me you are. I would be very proud to have you as my own girl. Tell me—would you like to have me as your daddy? You could then have ever so many lovely things and we would have lots of fun together—wouldn’t we, dear?

I know you are a great help there until I come for you. I am very anxious to see how well you are doing and to know exactly what you are doing at any time of the day—

Do write me today some time, dear,

with love, Cornelius

Annabel was awake first, and saw the black car parked below. She was sleeping in Grethe’s room, for the bed was large enough, and they both slept better so, with Mother away. They wore beach pajamas; the nights were stifling, and they did as they liked after Abernathy shut her door at 8:00
P.M
. It was Mr. Pierson’s car, Annabel was certain, as shiny and clean as though it had never moved. “Grethe! Get up. The week is over and Mother is here! And Mr. Pierson! I’m going down.”

Grethe was rubbing her eyes. “Should you? It’s quite early, isn’t it?”

“Mother is here! Abernathy will leave!” Annabel ran to wash her face. She must not say she was miserable. She quite liked Bible School, but Abernathy had them occupied all afternoon, polishing silverware, folding laundry, while Hart joined his friends at games and must be home by dinner. It was tiresome, for he took Duty with him, and the girls hadn’t even the diversion of going to the park. Duty returned parched, and napped all evening, then wandered disconsolate when the house was dark and he found Annabel’s bed empty. She would hear the click of his nails along the hallway, until she stood drowsily in Grethe’s doorway to announce herself. She would have to pick him up and lie down with her hand upon him, or he would stand, terrier-fierce, pulling at her clothes, intent she go to her place.

Her place was with Mother in Mr. Pierson’s automobile, gliding beside waterfalls and rivers, wearing Charles’ long silk scarf
perhaps, her hair blowing back. They would be every bit as jolly as Frog and Toad in their motorcar. Her mother read
Wind in the Willows
aloud to her every summer, with Annabel doing the voices. Rat, her favorite, was the smart one. Always conniving, Mother said, it’s what rats were, no matter how charming. Mother liked Badger, for he was the sage. And why were there no girl animals? Her mother sighed, for it was a question Annabel must always ask.

Grethe was calling her. “Annabel, shouldn’t we put something on, if Mr. Pierson is here?”

“I’ll choose you something. Only let’s hurry.” They opened Grethe’s closet, in which Mother stored the things she’d saved from Grandmother’s armoire. The dotted Swiss, the peach silk, the black lace. “This one,” Annabel said, and took the black.

“But that’s Grandmother’s mourning dress. It’s for funerals.”

“It’s ever so pretty though, with the cut-out lace for sleeves.” She tossed her head. “Wear it for a robe, or wear what you want. I’m going down!”

She raced for the stairs, skipping every other one, Duty at her heels. Rounding the landing, she slid a hand along the wide banister for balance and plummeted forward.

“Good morning, my dear. You’re awake early, and I’m so glad.” He was standing just below her, instantly, one foot on the stairs and his pocket watch open in his hand, like the rabbit in
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. Annabel thought to jump into his arms and surprise him, as she had many times surprised her father in thoughts that were not really dreams. But the watch gave her pause. She fancied she heard it ticking.

“Oh, Mr. Pierson! Where is Mother?”

“She’s waiting for you, dear, in our new home, and wants us to get on the road right away.”

“She’s not here?” Annabel stopped on the stairs.

Mr. Pierson stepped close to her, the banister between them. Bathed in the light from the landing window, his eyes were very blue. “Your mother misses you terribly and can’t wait for you to join us. I’ve come for you, you see.”

Annabel rushed past him, out the front door to the porch. The street was empty. Only the porch swing trembled on its chains, for it always swayed when someone opened the door too fast. She had smelled her mother’s scent, below her, then above and before her. It was very curious. She reflected that the scent had weight, as the wind has weight, or force, to blow here and there; it had moved past her unaware, as though in a great hurry, not knowing her. Suddenly her head hurt very much, and she sat down in the empty porch swing.

She felt him sit in the swing beside her.

“Your mother has found you a very pretty pony,” he said. “A pet for all of you, but yours to ride, I think, because he’s no taller at the shoulder than this.” And he touched the top of her head. “Would you like to know the color of the pretty pony?”

Annabel felt him turn her face toward him, and direct her gaze.

“It is a white pony, with white mane, and a black star just here.” His hand was heavy on her head, and now he touched her forehead with his thumb. “Here, a black star.” He pressed a warm circle on her flesh.

The headache eased. She forgot it and felt drowsy, as though lifted from a hot bath. “Mother has gone,” she said.

“Our secret. Let the others be surprised.” He stroked her brow. “About the pony.” His eyes widened on hers; he swung them gently in the swing.

Annabel felt a bit sleepy, smaller and younger. She looked down at her open hands, in her lap. Her palms looked very white, like a drawing she saw from far away.

“Now then,” he said, and clapped once. “It’s a lovely morning to travel.”

Annabel wished the neighbors might see her on the porch with Mr. Pierson. He looked very nice in his suit, and less formal without his bow tie, his spectacles in his jacket pocket. “We’re going soon then,” Annabel said.

“Yes indeed,” he said.

“Mr. Pierson, can I make a picnic?”

“Yes, my dear, why don’t you. What a good idea. Be quick about it though. We have a long drive and shall leave in the cool of the day. And you may call me Cornelius, as your dear mother does. After all, we are not strangers, are we, dear?” He stood from the swing and held the front door open for her as she flew through to the kitchen.

She passed Grethe, standing on the stairs in Grandmother’s black lace dress, and Mrs. Abernathy behind her, pulling tight the sash of her wrapper. “We’re going!” Annabel shouted. “I’m making a picnic!”

•   •   •

Grethe could feel Mrs. Abernathy behind her, bristling with irritation at the early hour, at Grethe’s attire, at Mr. Pierson, for he’d sent no word of his arrival.

“Good morning, Grethe,” he said warmly, as though she alone stood before him.

“Mr. Pierson, good morning.” She could not bring herself to call him Cornelius, as his letter bade her do.

Now he looked above her at Mrs. Abernathy, who never came downstairs in her wrapper. “Good morning, Mrs. Abernathy. How have you fared? No problems, I hope.”

“No,” Abernathy said, disapproving. “Not a one.”

“A reflection of your excellent supervision, I’m sure. Mrs. Eicher will be so pleased. But we must get an early start. Would you be so kind as to wake Buster, Hart, that is, and make a hot breakfast for the children? No need to dress, unless you insist, for we are all family here, and this is the start of our promised trip south.”

Abernathy went back upstairs without a word. Mr. Pierson smiled at Grethe. “She
will
dress, though, won’t she, Grethe?”

“Oh yes,” Grethe said.

“Yes, it will take her a moment. Come here, my dear.” He took her hand as she walked down the two or three stairs to where he stood, as if she alighted from a carriage and he received her.

She thought they might be going to sit alone in the living room
and discuss something important. But he put his hands lightly on her shoulders, and fixed his eyes on hers. “Grethe, your mother wishes you to go to the bank, right away, and withdraw funds that she requires. Her directions are written clearly in a note entrusted to me, which I will give you.”

“Shall I go then? Myself?”

“Of course you shall, my dear. This is private between us. Your mother trusts you to go to the bank. You’re the eldest, aren’t you, and so it’s most appropriate.”

“Now? I should go now?”

“Yes, of course. The bank is open and won’t be crowded this early. Don’t tarry, and speak to no one, as your mother has told you.”

“Yes. She tells me that. And to wear my hat.”

He nodded in agreement. “Wear what is usual for you.”

She’d slipped on her Sunday shoes, respecting Grandmother’s dress, with no socks, which felt quite odd. “Oh, then I must change—”

“No, you look quite nice as you are. Only, where’s your hat?”

Her hat hung on the tall Victorian hat rack. She liked its many pegs and diamond-shape mirror, and the glove drawer below. “Just there,” she said, pointing behind him, “beside Duty’s leash.”

He swept her hat from the rack, and the leash clanked to the floor. Somewhere upstairs, Duty began barking, for he thought it was time for his walk. Cornelius, or Mr. Pierson, put her hat gently on her head.

She remembered that her hair was down, not up, and that she wore her bathing pajamas under Grandmother’s dress. They were short trouser pajamas, to her knees; no one could see them, or her camisole, on top. But she felt quite strange, without her undergarments. She couldn’t possibly go out of the house this way, yet she must.

Cornelius seemed pleased. “It’s true what your mother says. You are a young lady now, and very capable.”

Grethe, despite her dilemma, tried to smile, for Cornelius was smiling. He stood very near; his blue gaze warmed her inside her throat.

“All set, dear?” he said encouragingly. “Fasten your hat—”

“It . . . doesn’t fasten, you see. The ribbons only hang, like so, they’re navy ribbons—”

“Of course, very nice. And here is the note for the bank.” Her name was written across in flowing script. “It’s private, addressed to the bank, and you must not show it to anyone, or speak of it. Simply hand it to the teller at the window. You have your purse? They will give you an envelope, which you must bring straight back to me.”

She took her purse from the banister, where it hung by its strap, and held it open before him.

He put the note snugly inside the zippered pocket. “Do you have your glasses?” he asked. “Will you need them at the bank? Or on the walk?”

“I keep them in my purse, in their case.” She hung her purse across her chest, which she should have done before putting on the hat, but the strap was long and only grazed the brim. “I never wear them walking, no.” The thick lenses had caused her much distress, until Mother let her study at home, and children no longer called her names.

He straightened her hat, and tapped the thin gold rims of his spectacles. “Glasses give one an intelligent air. Those who do nothing have no need of them!” He beamed at her. “Isn’t that so? I shall take you to my optometrist and order you fine, light, gold frames like my own, with lenses ground to special order. Would you like that, Grethe dear?”

“Oh yes,” she said, and was thinking of it as he steered her out the door. She was down the steps. “Quickly now,” she heard behind her, but the door was shut when she looked back, and no one was watching through the curtain, as Mother watched when Grethe had gone to the downtown shops with Grandmother, or Hart.

She’d not gone to the bank alone, or anywhere, alone, that she remembered, except for the corner grocery.

Cornelius was ever so kind. He treated her as the others should treat her. She walked briskly, as usual. Her black dress was a mourning
dress, she knew, but it was silky against her, and cool in the early morning, with the lace sleeves. She faltered, remembering:
navy with navy and gray, black with all but navy
. The ribbons of her hat were not right. Her hair was down, not up. She hadn’t gloves, which one should wear with such a dress. Shapes approached on the sidewalk, took clearer form, and passed by her; she counted corners, listening to the traffic, and was on the third corner, which had no traffic light.

Here she must wait longest, looking side to side.

The cars passing in the street were dark colors, one after another. A woman brushed past her, heels clicking, stepping into the street. She followed the woman and was in the street; a horn blared at her. Grethe stopped in the middle; cars passed before and behind her. She looked for the woman, walking away, but she was not there. Then suddenly the woman appeared, smiling, and raised an arm for Grethe to follow. Looking neither right nor left, Grethe crossed, nearly running until she felt the safety of the curb under her shoe, and the broad sidewalk. The woman was gone, very quickly it seemed, and Grethe walked quickly as well, for she was only one stoplight and a crossing from the bank.