Quiet Dell: A Novel (32 page)

“Why, ma’am, it is just dinner time, seven
P.M
. What time would you like your reservation? And may I refresh the water in your server?”

“Of course. And, might I have dinner at seven-thirty?”

“For one, ma’am?”

“Yes. You could make up the bed as well, please. And would you wake me tomorrow at eight
A.M
.? A knock on the door will suffice.” She returned his assenting nod. “I’ll go to the observation deck now, I believe.”

“Oh yes, ma’am. We are climbing the Alleghenies and it’s not full dark.”

•   •   •

She was alone on the observation deck but for the small red signal lights to either side of the awning above her. The deck seemed the prow of a roaring ship, climbing an ocean of rushing air, racing forward as the heights of the mountains dropped below. She could barely keep her feet, the sight was so dizzying, and she sank onto one of the fixed benches, her valise upon her lap. Duty was in it; she leashed his collar and lifted him out. It was a walk of sorts, she supposed; he sniffed his way along the edge of the platform, safely, it seemed, as the rails were too tightly spaced to allow even a small dog to slip through. He lifted his leg at the corner and urinated into
the air like a sailor on a vessel, and then stood, ears blown back, eyes nearly shut, scenting the darkening air.

What a peculiar character, for he was certainly not a mere dog! Many, she supposed, entertained such notions about their pets. She’d grown terribly fond of him. She’d never had a pet, other than the dogs and cats on her grandparents’ farm, who never truly belonged to her. As though summoned, Duty came to her and nuzzled her hand, then lay at her feet. She watched lines of track disappearing into the dark, only to continue, back and back and back. The family was on the train, at last.

She thought suddenly of the muddy shoes lined up as evidence in Grimm’s office, of Dr. Goff, the coroner, coughing in the morgue, saying August was hot and dry and July was wet. Raining, yes, it was raining that night. Powers had made them walk through the mud, or he dragged them, feet sliding, for it was late and they were asleep, or he had drugged them. Why not drive the car into the garage? Some fact evaded her, some image.

She kept Annabel’s one bedraggled drawing, that Duty had rescued from the playhouse, at her
Tribune
office. Emily saw the sprite or fairy creature as an aspect of Annabel herself; the glow that extended around the figure, so insubstantial and delicately wrought, seemed the essence of the child.

Emily closed her eyes to hear the train, to feel the vibration, and saw, in the slanted rain of Annabel’s drawing, Powers’ tilted, empty car, and the left rear passenger door standing open.

Where, in fact, was Powers’ automobile? Grimm must have impounded it. Surely they had searched the car, but perhaps not deeply enough. Something was there, in the fold of the backseat. She would tell Grimm to pull out the seat and look properly; she knew he would do as she asked.

Duty was at her knees, and then in her lap, jumping up excitedly to lick her face. She felt a weight lift from her. The train raced forward. All was left behind, escaped. The dining car had seemed a narrow palace: the waiters in white jackets, the curves of the recessed ceiling set with faux medallions. She would have dinner, carry
a plate back for Duty, and sleep deeply for the first time in many nights. Tomorrow she would arrive in Chicago. Arrangements were made: a Park Ridge mortician would receive the caskets.

William would meet her. The train sped her closer and closer.

•   •   •

She disembarked at Union Station onto a crowded platform. The porter followed with her luggage. They proceeded to the baggage car, and a gentleman stepped forward.

“Park Ridge Mortuary Services. Are you Miss Thornhill?”

“I am.” The baggage car doors were not yet open, but the man seemed to have brought a small delegation. She saw the wheeled metal biers behind him.

“We shall handle all details from here, Miss Thornhill. Please meet your party outside at arrivals, front of the station. Town car number twelve.” He gave her a card.

Emily turned away. Of course William would not be here, on the platform. He was protecting her reputation. The porter, still beside her, took the card she offered, and her suitcases; they walked toward the station. She followed the porter blindly into the vast terminal, through its entrances and exits, onto the street. A long line of cars was drawn up. The porter turned to her, smiling, indicating car number twelve. She took his gratuity from her purse, balancing her valise and the dog in the carrier.

Instantly a driver was beside her. “Miss Thornhill, let me assist you.” He led the way with her suitcases, then paused at the car to take the dog’s carrier and opened the passenger door of the Model A town car. It was dim and quiet within, for the tinted windows darkened the brilliant light. The driver put down a block for her to step up, onto the running board.

William was in the far corner, not to crowd her, she knew, and reached for her. She was in the car, his hand grasping her forearm, supporting her and pulling her gently toward him.

The driver put her valise and carrier inside and closed the door. She was beside William. They were enclosed; no one could see
them. “The cremation was done . . . with every consideration,” she said in a near whisper. She felt tears on her face, and was in his arms.

He held her tightly to him. “My love, I am so sorry I wasn’t there with you. Can you forgive me, ever—”

She pressed her brow to his lips to answer the words and offered him her mouth. Kissing him, she said, “Come home with me now.”

“Anywhere,” he said. “Home, if that is what you want.”

“Yes,” she said, weeping, “yes.”

“Tell me the address. Just say the address.”

She told him and he half stood, leaning forward to repeat the address and slide shut the small panel of the driver’s partition, closing the curtain. She had opened her jacket and blouse, and lifted her breasts free of her chemise and undergarments, for she wanted his hands on her, and his mouth. The drive from the station was twenty minutes, along the lake. She would have what she could of him now, and then they would be together in her bed. It was miraculous. She said his name in a kind of desperate happiness, again and again, as though asking something of him, but she was kneeling in front of him, stroking his thighs, unfastening his trousers.

•   •   •

Later they would have a routine, and safeguards; William would arrive in a cab and come up the back staircase to use his key, unless Reynolds, so protective of Emily, was at the desk. William would rent a room at the Drake, be seen checking in, and go to her place at once, calling the hotel for messages until he returned to check out. He stayed at weekends, and two nights or so a week. They did not go to restaurants, or the theater; they did not walk together through the lobby of her apartment building, but only in the park across the street, late at night. He kept clothes in a closet she cleared for him, and brought his books when they could read in one another’s presence, lying close together, and not feel so urgently the press of time.

That first day, William paid the driver while Emily took Duty inside to stay with Reynolds. She would be occupied, she said, the entire day; she was on deadline and must not be disturbed; she would ring down later for her suitcases; would he walk and care for Duty until this evening? She stood at the elevator then, holding her valise, with William. They rode the elevator to her fifth-floor corner apartment. Emily unlocked the door, shaking, and William bolted it; he picked her up and carried her in the direction she indicated, to her bed. And so they began, in the morning, with sunlight streaming through the windows, and the blinds half drawn. They could not have imagined the feel of being naked together so quickly, so easily. Their knowledge of each other was surely intuitive, for they were blindly inside one another and did not look, did not see, until some time later when he asked her to stand, slicked with sweat, beside the bed. She came to him but waited, breathing, holding herself above him, touching his eyes, shoulders, the swell of rib and pelvic bone, the dark thick hair of his sex, wet with her, before she drew him barely within her, looking at him, until he was fully inside and they were blind again, rocking one another to slow the race forward, inward, to prolong their union, for here was the meaning of that word, in their bodies and pounding hearts.

She slept for a moment in his arms and woke up afraid. “You must never die,” she said. “Or die without me.”

The light had changed; it was afternoon. They had opened the windows. Sounds drifted up from the street.

“You are strong and healthy,” she whispered. “Tell me if it isn’t true.”

“If what isn’t true, my girl.”

“There’s not some hidden weakness in your heart, in that broad chest, or in your head.”

“I have a very competent physician who wonders aloud at my constitution. I extol riding, but he says it’s genetic, that I descend from a strain of healthy, English, working animals that found their way to privilege, and so grew even stronger.”

“You will stay with me always.”

“I shall be here, as long as you allow me near you. I cannot be without you, ever again.”

She touched his face. “How can it be that we’ve found one another, in this sadness? Am I wrong to rejoice in you so?”

“We feel guilty because we have our lives and hopes. But we are not guilty.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“I will live with you, here, in these rooms, or anywhere I can find you. I will allow you whatever separation you need; I will never compromise your reputation, but I must have you, and know I can have you.”

“You will stay with me, William. And I shall stay with you.”

They kissed one another, several times, lightly on the lips, like children.

“The service is tomorrow. William, tell me what is planned. Will you speak?”

“Only briefly, to say why there are two caskets. It begins at eleven; there is lunch for the neighborhood children afterward, in the courtyard of St. Luke’s, while many of the adults walk to the cemetery, a block away, for the graveside rites.”

“It will be crowded, I suppose, but I must bring Duty. Will the press be allowed in, or must they wait outside?”

“Press may attend, but not with cameras or notebooks, or to question anyone present. St. Luke’s has organized ushers, to seat everyone. Those from Chicago or elsewhere will be on one side of the church, and those from Park Ridge on the other, with the neighborhood children together in the choir. They will sing three songs. It will be short. I will speak, then the pastor, with the songs between, and it will end.”

“I will not be near you.”

“No, my darling. I shall be on one side of the church, and you on the other, as at a wedding. I begin with a quote from St. Augustine. Shall I tell it to you?”

“Yes, tell me.”

“St. Augustine said, ‘The law detects; grace alone conquers sin.’ ”

“My grandfather used to say that grace is God’s mystery, and the mystery of grace is that it can never come too late.” She rested her head on his chest, for something dark had dropped within her. “But what is grace, William? How is sin conquered, when it has tortured and killed?”

“Grace is an element of the divine, within the realm of the natural world, in which time passes. Or that is what I believe.” He gathered her hair in his hands. “You are grace, or we approach grace, for this is surely goodness between us, and this gift, so unexpected, does not end, for if I never touched you again or saw you near me, you are with me. That is what we have, possibly all we have. It is so much. I have no conception of a god or gods, but we have this.”

She pressed her ear close against his chest. “I hear your heart, William.”

“Emily, don’t be afraid.” He kissed her eyes. “You are strong on their behalf. There have been, and will be, men like Powers. The difference is only details.”

“Evil does not consider,” Emily said. “Surely Powers is evil.”

“He is a man who bent things to his will, to have what he wanted, to feel arousal and climax in the only way possible for him.”

“Yes, it’s that simple, on that level.”

“It comforts us to think that those who commit horrors are a species apart. Men and women sin, while animals act on instinct.” He pulled her close and laced her fingers in his. “Yes, humans are animals, thank god. But we are aware of time. We contemplate sin and goodness. What is most horrifying and reasonless, we must simply accept and mourn. I think this is the truth.”

“Will you say so, at the service?”

“No. I will try to say how Anna Eicher fought to keep her children in their home, that Annabel was, in a sense, the celebrant, with her plays and drawings. And I must speak of Grethe and Hart, together at the bank. That will be difficult.”

“You could not have saved them, William.”

“You have said that, in trying to comfort me. But I could have
saved them. Many in the town might have saved them, and I must say so, for everyone must acknowledge it. We cannot blame Anna Eicher for her hopefulness, for to find such a creature as she found is surely as rare a catastrophe as being struck by lightning.”

They lay together, listening, for rain had begun, gently, in the sunlight.

Advertisements in cheap, pornographic (“love” and “art”) magazines . . . are packed with announcements of “red hot” photographs, vigor tablets (“Glow of Life”), bust developers, sex secrets, aphrodisiacs (“Essence of Ecstasy”), contraceptives. Plentiful also are the advertisements of so-called matrimonial bureaus. . . . Stressed in the advertisements, prominent on the lists are Wealthy Widows:

“
LONELY HEARTS
—Join the world’s greatest social extension club, meet nice people who, like yourself, are lonely (many wealthy). . . . We have made thousands happy. Why not you?”

—“We Make Thousands Happy,”
Time
magazine, September 14, 1931