Raising Demons (14 page)

“Children,” I said, when we came in sight of the woods, and the roses, and the steps, “children, Aunt Gertrude is very old, you know.”

“Is she a witch?” Sally asked, peering through the car window. “Because if she's a witch can she eat little children?”

“I want you to behave quietly,” I said, deciding upon a tactful by-pass to Sally's question, “and there is to be no giggling, and no arguing, and no shoving.”

“Do I have to kiss her?” Laurie asked.

“I rather think not,” I said, remembering suddenly and vividly the soft and wrinkled old cheek which Aunt Gertrude had, so long ago, presented to me. “Just remember that Aunt Gertrude is
very
old.”

“Is she a hundred?” Sally asked.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” I said.

“Is she a thousand?”

“Well . . .” I said.

“A
million?
”

Laurie wriggled miserably. “I don't
want
to go,” he said.

I stopped the car in front of the high stone steps and turned to look at Laurie. “Look,” I said reasonably, “it's only this once.”

“But I'm going to
break
something,” Laurie said. “In that little house, I'll sit on the wrong thing or I'll step on something or I'll fall
over
or something.”

I laughed and told him, “I stepped on a cat once. Aunt Gertrude laughed, but my mother was embarrassed.”

“Did you get spanked?” Sally asked with interest. “Is she going to say abracadabra, Aunt Gertrude? Witches always say abracadabra. If she's a million, is that very old?”

We got out of the car, moving slowly, and stood below in the road, looking up at the steep steps and the pink roses above. “I'm scared,” Jannie said; she came over and slipped her hand into mine. “Is Aunt Gertrude big?”

“No,” I said. “Very small.”

“I'm scared,” Jannie said simply.

I took a deep breath. “Come along,” I said, and we went up the steps, me well in advance, and Sally coming far behind on her hands and feet. I found, with a kind of bewilderment, that I had to bend my head to come onto the porch, although Laurie and Jannie and Sally passed easily under the low archway framed in roses, and I knocked on the door with the conviction that it had been only a day or so since I last saw its glass panel, engraved with a floral design, and chipped in the lower right-hand corner. “Ooh,” said Jannie softly as the door opened, and I remembered the rich smells of fruit cake and marmalade and dried rose petals and cinnamon.

It was Cousin Maude who opened the door, and I stood breathless for a minute, the children pressed nervously close to me, while Cousin Maude told me that Aunt Gertrude was as well as might be expected, and, sighing, that Aunt Gertrude seemed as spry as ever, and I reported to Cousin Maude upon the health and prosperity of all the cousins she hadn't seen recently, and she told me about Uncle Frank and the horse, which I had already heard from my mother, expurgated.

“I brought my children to say hello to Aunt Gertrude,” I explained at last, trying unsuccessfully to step aside from the clinging creatures at my skirts. “They wanted to meet her.” This was a statement so patently false that even Cousin Maude forbore to comment. “Hello, darlings,” she said perfunctorily. “I'll see if the old bird's awake,” she said to me.

“I want to go home,” Jannie said, very audibly.

“Me, too,” Laurie said.

Cousin Maude went to the door of the bedroom and listened; the cottage had only two rooms, and I remembered clearly that sounds from one room were heard distinctly in the other; when Jannie began again, “I
want
to—” I took her hand tight and shook my head violently, and she was unwillingly quiet. Cousin Maude nodded and beckoned us to the bedroom doorway, and, dragging Jannie and followed without enthusiasm by Laurie and Sally, I went to the doorway.

“Aunt Gertrude,” said Cousin Maude in a loud and vivacious voice, “here are some
visitors
for you, and isn't that
lovely
?”

“Oh,
go
away,” said a voice from within, and I suddenly remembered Aunt Gertrude so vividly that it seemed like my mother pulling me instead of me pulling Jannie.

“Hello, Aunt Gertrude,” I said weakly.

She was lying in bed, with pillows propping her up, and she was wearing a pink satin bedjacket trimmed with lace. After one look at her I recognized clearly that Aunt Gertrude had remained the wickedest and liveliest old lady in the world and was going to stay wicked and lively, very probably, until she got bored and left her cottage for good. “How do you feel, Aunt Gertrude?” I asked from the doorway; it was involuntary. Asking it, I remembered my mother again and realized that she had felt as nervous as I did now, when I was as scared as Jannie.

“Another one?” Aunt Gertrude said, and chuckled. “Come in, dear,” she said. “‘What's that you've got with you? Children?”

“This,” I said, pulling, “is my son Laurie. And my daughters Jannie and Sally.”

“H'lo,” said Sally, who seemed to be the only one still able to articulate.

Aunt Gertrude waved largely at a long sofa upholstered in apricot satin which stood parallel to her bed. “Sit down,” she said, and, wordlessly, my children obeyed. I stood behind them protectively. Beyond us, the roses touched the windowpane and the sky was blue; inside, Aunt Gertrude leaned forward and regarded us with her old eyes open wide. “Now,” she said. “Tell me what you learned in school today, my dears.” She pointed to Laurie. “You, boy,” she said. “What's your name?”

“Laurence,” said Laurie in a whisper.

“Named after your Uncle Clifford? Indeed. Good girl.” And she nodded approvingly at me. “And what did you learn in school?” she asked again.

“Fractions,” said Laurie, paralyzed.

“So did we,” said Aunt Gertrude, nodding profoundly. “Loved every minute of it,
I
did. Never got the footwork straight,” she said in an aside to me, “but no point letting on. Now,
you
, what's
your
name?”

“Joanne.”

“Pretty girl,” said Aunt Gertrude. “Your mother ever tell you about the time I danced with the Prince of Wales?” She laughed hugely. “Mercy!” she said.

“Did you?” Jannie asked, “did you honest, with a prince?”

Aunt Gertrude laughed again. “Let's see your hair, child,” she said. Jannie came, glancing at me, up to the bed, and Aunt Gertrude touched her hair lingeringly. “Can you sit on it?” she demanded.

Jannie giggled suddenly. “I never tried,” she said. She looked over her shoulder and backed up to the sofa and tried to sit down on her hair, and Aunt Gertrude said tolerantly, “Said I was the prettiest girl on the floor, he did. Wasn't true, you know,” she said, shaking an admonishing finger at Jannie, “at least three prettier than I was. Never get thinking you're prettier than you are, child.”

“Did he wear a sword?” Laurie asked, fascinated. “Aunt Gertrude?”

“Sort of thing one
had
to say,” Aunt Gertrude went on, nodding. “I had the prettiest hair, though.
I
,” she said sternly to Jannie, “could
sit
on
my
hair, don't forget
that
.”

“I'll try,” said Jannie obscurely.

“And
you
,” Aunt Gertrude said, turning to Sally, “what have
you
to say for yourself, girl?”

Sally thought. “What do you use for teeth?” she asked.

“
Sally
!
” I said.

“Good question.” Aunt Gertrude leaned back, thinking. “Play much baseball?” she asked Laurie unexpectedly.

Laurie, caught completely off base, faltered and said, “I guess so.”

“It was a million-dollar infield,” said Aunt Gertrude, and shook her head sadly. “That was before I met Mr. Corcoran, of course,” she told me. “My late dear husband.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“Mr. Corcoran,” she told Laurie, “was not an athletic type of man like yourself. Most refined, of course, but not altogether athletic. A little chess now and then, occasionally a game of bowls, or, on warm evenings, croquet. Sad for one so enthusiastic as I.”

“Did he have a sword?” asked Laurie tenaciously.

“No,” said Aunt Gertrude, “but he had good sound investments.
There
was a dance for you,” she went on dreamily, “and I was in yellow, most daring then, of course; taffeta. Alençon lace. And
very
daring,” she added archly to me. “You ask about teeth,” she continued. “It was a trip in those days, my dears. I remember we once had a rabbit in the carriage, but of course my mother spoke to the man at once. We never imagined that she was so fanciful.”

“—a sword?”

“It's all very long ago,” Aunt Gertrude said. She looked at the children. “You wouldn't remember,” she said.

“Where is that rabbit now?” Sally asked.

“Fine children,” said Aunt Gertrude, nodding sleepily. “Fine children. Married that young man, did you?”

“Nearly thirteen years ago,” I said.

Aunt Gertrude nodded again. “I liked that young man,” she said. “Nice young fellow. Green striped suit.”

“Not
that
one,” I said, horrified, “no, no, Aunt Gertrude, not that one. I—”

“Strong resemblance,” Aunt Gertrude said, nodding at Laurie. “I always did like that fellow.”

“He's a radio announcer somewhere in Ohio now,” I said. “I married—”

“Reminded me of your Uncle Clifford,” Aunt Gertrude said. She brought her head up suddenly. “When's that fool girl going to put me to sleep?” she demanded.

We tiptoed out, the children and I, and Aunt Gertrude stirred, and smiled, and spoke softly to herself. I told Cousin Maude that Aunt Gertrude was asleep, and the children and I went precariously down the steep stone steps. Halfway down I stopped and said, “We ought to take some roses home with us; Aunt Gertrude always used to tell me.”

Solemnly, avoiding thorns, I picked a huge pink rose for each child and one for myself, and we got back into the car. Before I started the car I looked up once at Aunt Gertrude's house and wondered if I would ever come there again; in the mirror I could see the three children sitting quietly on the back seat, holding their roses. We had come out of the valley, and up the long green hill, and could see far behind only the great heap of roses that was Aunt Gertrude's cottage, before Jannie moved slightly, and spoke.

“Someday,
I
think,” she said, “that prince is coming back.”

“With his sword,” said Laurie.

There was another long silence, and then Sally said, “She wasn't a witch at all, and I don't know why Mommy said she
was
, Aunt Gertrude. I
liked
her.”

“I'm going to keep my rose forever,” Jannie said, and Sally said, “
I
'm going to keep mine, too.”

“She's sure pretty lucky,” Laurie said.

“Golly,” Jannie said, “and the prince coming back, and all.”

 • • • 

I was not yet done with nostalgia, as it happened. I wrote my mother about our visit to Aunt Gertrude and she wrote back that in hopes of the breakfront she had gone up into the attic to see if she could dig out some of that old china, and in the course of this exploratory journey she had “turned up a few things you will recognize, ha-ha. I thought you might like to have them, so am sending them on.”

Through a series of those coincidences which are sometimes regarded as progress I found that I had pretty much outgrown the contents of the carton which arrived a few days later, and after a quick look at the top layer I ought really to have put it right away in the farthest corner of
our
attic, but without really thinking I picked up one of the autograph albums (how could I have forgotten Violet Manning, who wrote on a purple page, “Oh, my friend, our days will soon end, don't forget, your friend Violet”?) and then of course I started taking out the little china dogs I used to keep on my dresser, and the battered feather fan someone sent me from Honolulu, and the tiny mother-of-pearl opera glasses which showed a tiny picture of Niagara Falls. Then at the bottom of the carton was one of my grandmother's corset boxes which I had not thought of for all these years, and when I saw it, all the agonies of the summer when I was fourteen came back like a cold wave over my head and the opera glasses and the feather fan and Violet Manning all fell into place abruptly and I could only say, “Gosh.”

During the long summer when I was fourteen years old, I made, with the collaboration of my friend Dorothy, four hundred and thirty-one clothespin dolls. I know that never before or since have I made so many of anything, or with so much enthusiasm, and I feel increasingly, now, that there is not enough time left in the world to make four hundred and thirty-one things; perhaps some quality of adolescent fervor has disappeared. I know that the summers these days are not so long or so warm as that summer when I was fourteen; perhaps if they would go back to the longer, warmer summers they used to have I would be less apt during the winter to require two martinis before dinner.

I cannot remember
why
Dorothy and I made so many clothespin dolls, any more than I can remember why we used to spend hours at a time sitting on the back porch at our house eating pomegranates and breaking occasionally into wild shrill giggling fits, and I cannot remember the exact day which separated the barren years without clothespin dolls from the days when we thought of nothing else. I do believe that it was probably my mother's suggestion, because she was always asking us if we couldn't find something to
do
, girls, and because I can remember the bright-eyed enthusiasm with which she approached us frequently, suggesting one or another occupation for growing girls, which she had read about in a magazine somewhere—that we should plan a bazaar to sell homemade cookies, for instance, or take long walks to gather sweet grass, or fern, or look for wild strawberries, or that we should learn shorthand. It seems only reasonable to suppose that the clothespin dolls were just another such suggestion, although I cannot understand why the idea held so much more immediate appeal than gathering wild strawberries.