Things Invisible to See (13 page)

What color
was
her dress? Had Ben told him? He could not remember.

“Oh, lots of colors,” he said. “No one color in particular.”

He pressed his nose to the glass and gazed at the enchanted sleepers: irises, daisies, carnations, roses out of season.

“Which flowers are the least expensive?” he asked.

“Daisies are the cheapest,” she replied.

He ordered a corsage of three daisies but did not remember to say that it would be worn on the wrist till after the girl had written out the sales slip, and when she told him the extra ribbon would cost a nickel, he asked for a pin instead, which was free. Three daisies on the strap of her formal—if it had straps—would also look nice.

“Does the price include delivery?” asked Willie.

“No delivery,” said the girl. “Our driver has already gone home.”

Afterward, he remembered he should have asked for a gardenia.

He had reached home again before it occurred to him that he would need a tux. Ben’s tux would hang on him. His heart sank at the thought of wearing his black suit.

His mother was putting supper on the table. Maybe she could find him a tux at the drycleaner’s.

“Mr. Goldberg doesn’t rent tuxes,” said Wanda.

“But there must be one my size on the racks.”

“You mean one of the customers’?” she asked, incredulous.

“A tux is a tux, Mother. I’ll be very careful.”

“I know you’ll be careful,” said Wanda, uncertain why borrowing a customer’s tux for the evening made her feel as if she were stealing it.

“I never spill,” he added. “Never.”

“I know you never spill. Even when you were a baby you never spilled. Ben threw his food all over the kitchen. But you always ate very carefully.”

Of course, the front desk would be closed, she told him. Willie said he did not believe in closed doors.

“Bring a bag,” he said.

The janitor saw them through the window and unlocked the front door, regarding them both with a questioning expression.

“I forgot my sweater, Joe,” said Wanda. “I think I left it on one of the racks.”

“Well, have a look around.”

Queer to have the place so dark and quiet, she thought. The stillness and the feeble light—Joe was sweeping by the light of a single bulb—made the place feel strange to her. In long paper bags, the finished garments hung on the racks, aisle after aisle of ghosts.

“We’re getting warm,” said Wanda. “Here’s the bridals.”

Neither the tuxedos nor the bridal gowns were hidden under wraps. The tuxedos in particular kept a human shape, as if inhabited by the souls of their owners. Tall, fat, thin; butlers of the night. And the brides: a cotillion of headless angels.

Willie yanked one tuxedo out of line. “How about this one?”

“Whose is it?” asked Wanda. She lit a match and peered at the tag. “B. Nesbitt. He owns that restaurant way out on Washtenaw—the fancy one with the organ. He brings his shirts in every Friday. Won’t let his wife iron a thing.” She sighed. “Just imagine that. He won’t let her.”

“It looks about my size.”

“Yes, he’s short like you.” In the dark she did not see him wince. Hearing the janitor shuffle toward them, Willie stuffed the tuxedo into his bag.

“Did you find your sweater, Mrs. Harkissian?”

“Thanks, Joe, I did. We can let ourselves out the back door.”

At home Willie appraised himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. To his surprise, he looked older and taller—distinguished, even. A pity he couldn’t appear in a tux more often. What did tall, old, distinguished men say to rich, attractive girls? What did rich, attractive girls say to tall, old, distinguished men? He’d never taken a girl to any of the dances at school. He did not enjoy dancing, and girls always expected you to buy them a meal afterward.

From his bookshelf he pulled the
Little Blue Book of Useful Phrases
and turned to the chapter titled “Exclamations and Comments (Complimentary).”

A most extraordinary idea!

How delightful!

I like the plan very much.

It is glorious to contemplate.

You have never looked better.

He has a jolly handshake.

She possesses the highest ideals.

Such noble ideals!

It is superb!

I never flatter, on my honor.

There is no resisting you.

A most unexpected pleasure!

An excellent performance.

He turned to the section on apt quotations for all occasions, and the first example spoke directly to him:

When as in silks my Julia goes

Then, then (me thinks) how sweetly flows

That liquefaction of her clothes.

That described Marsha to a T. How could somebody who had never seen Marsha describe her so well? Oh, he never could remember so many phrases; he should have started learning them weeks ago. He flipped back to section one: “Introductory Remarks.” These, at least, were shorter.

Assuredly, but

To be quite frank, I

If you’ll excuse my being abrupt, I

Further than that, I might add

Of course, but you see

If I may speak freely, I

Frankly, I don’t see

I strongly suspect that

A knock at the bedroom door.

“Willie—did you call Marsha and tell her that Ben isn’t coming?”

“I forgot.”

As he dialed, Willie hoped he wouldn’t have to speak to Marsha. Not now, not when she couldn’t see him, tall and distinguished, in B. Nesbitt’s tuxedo.

A woman’s voice answered. Not Marsha’s. He realized he was holding his breath, and now he exhaled deeply.

“Is Marsha there?”

“Marsha’s in the shower. Can I take a message?”

“This is Willie Harkissian. Could you tell her that I’ll come by in half an hour to pick her up for the dance? Ben can’t make it.”

Silence.

“I’ll tell her,” said the woman. “Will you hold the line, please?”

She was gone a very long time, and when she returned, she sounded out of breath.

“I’m awfully sorry, but Marsha isn’t feeling well.”

“You mean she doesn’t want to go?”

“She has a headache. Is there any place she can reach Ben?”

“I expect there is, but he didn’t leave me the number.”

“I’ll give her that message,” said the woman and hung up.

“Hell!” said Willie, slamming down the receiver. He opened the refrigerator and threw the box, with its three daisies in green tissue, into the garbage pail. “A dollar down the drain for this corsage. I can’t take it back.”

His mother retrieved the box.

“I haven’t had a corsage in twenty-five years. I’ll buy it from you,” she said and went to fetch her purse.

H
ELEN AND NELL DRAGGED
the bridge table from under the piano, and something crashed and tinkled in response.

“There goes the movie projector,” said Helen. “We’ll get it later.”

“Can I help?” Ben asked, eager to make himself useful.

Though she knew perfectly well how to set up the table, Helen turned to him and said, “Can you figure out how to unfold these legs?”

The two sisters watched approvingly as one by one the legs snapped to attention. Clare, her chair drawn up to the fireplace, exchanged smiles with Ben.

“Mother, are Aunt Vicky and Uncle Fred coming? You’ve brought out the Harvey’s Bristol Cream.”

“It’s for Debbie Lieberman,” said Helen.

“Debbie doesn’t like sherry,” Nell reminded her.

“I know,” said Helen. “But she always looks to see if it’s there.”

“I used to work for Mrs. Lieberman,” said Ben.

“What kind of work?” inquired Helen.

“I fixed her vacuum cleaner.”

“Marie Clackett is coming with her,” Helen went on. “Do you know the Clacketts?”

“I know Mrs. Clackett. And my brother works in Mr. Clackett’s store.”

“Debbie will be bringing Marie and Mr. Knochen,” said Nell. “They say Mr. Knochen knows everybody. They say he can even recognize people he’s never met.”

Then Davy, who wanted everyone gathered together in one place, ran into the room carrying Cinnamon Monkeyshines. He set the cat down in front of the fire but could not persuade it to stay.

“Where’s Uncle Hal?” he asked.

“He’s napping,” answered Helen.

“I’ll go and wake him,” said Davy.

“No, don’t,” said Helen. “You know he hates for people to wake him up.
This
is the way to call him.”

She seated herself at the piano, opened her tattered copy of
Michigan’s Favorite College Songs,
and launched into “Hail to the Victors.”

“You’ll wake Grandma,” said Nell.

“No, I won’t,” answered Helen. “She’s real tired. I got her up early so we could have some peace tonight.”

She turned the page and began to sing:

“I’ll never forget my college days,

I’ll ne’er forget my Michigan.”

Suddenly she broke off. “Do you hear voices at the door?” she asked.

“I don’t hear anybody,” said Ben.

“The guests will arrive in five minutes,” she announced. “Davy, bring me the decanter from the sideboard. We’ll put the Harvey’s Bristol Cream in it. A decanter,” she added, noticing his bewilderment, “is a very fancy bottle.”

When the doorbell rang at last, Helen hurried to answer it, and everyone followed her.

The porch light cut through the snow, which unrolled like bandages from heaven. It wrapped the identical fur coats of Mrs. Lieberman and Mrs. Clackett. It whitened their eyebrows and dusted the veils on their hats. Between them stood Mr. Knochen, his black overcoat free of snow and disorder. Why, he might have blown in from another planet, thought Helen. Pale, thin face and white hair combed straight back, his grey fedora in one hand, as if asking for alms.

He peeled off his gloves, black leather, like the skin of an expensive fruit, exposing the pale meat below. Across Clare’s mind flashed a drowning she had seen years ago at Island Park. The coroner’s black-gloved hands held a mirror to the mouth of the dead boy, then drew from his pocket two silver coins and closed his eyes.
What power did you think I would give you? The power to meet your own death?

Now she recognized him. It was Herr Death, he whom the Ancestress had taken her to see, he who had rebuked Goering for his greed.
Don’t you know that to those who serve me the power is already given?
When she visited him—how long ago the Ancestress had traveled beside her, over the water!—he had seemed as dangerous and remote as an iceberg viewed through binoculars. Now the space between them was gone. He had sought her out. Had he come for her?

Too terrified to speak, she felt her body draw back from him of its own will, as if his very breath could kill her.

“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Bishop,” he was saying, “and your sister. And Davy, and Clare. And—”

“Ben Harkissian.”

“Of course.”

“He recognized us,” whispered Nell to Helen. “What did I tell you?”

That was evidence of intuition but not of great powers, thought Helen. She took Mr. Knochen’s black umbrella, which he had not opened, and his coat and his fedora, soft and flexible as a cat, and hung them on the coat rack beside Hal’s hat, while he stood first on one foot, then on the other, and pulled off his thin overshoes.

He’s done well for himself, thought Helen, appraising his three-piece suit. Black serge. Aloud she said, “Your overshoes are just like Hal’s. I’ve never met anyone who had overshoes like Hal’s, Mr. Knochen.”

“They’re Brazilian rubbers,” observed Mr. Knochen. “Hard to come by, with the shortages.”

Davy admired his shoes, so highly polished they shone like silver.

The fire crackling in the hearth drew the three guests, who held their hands out to warm them. Cinnamon Monkeyshines stretched himself out to his full length, and Mr. Knochen leaned down and stroked his ears.

Why, he’s nearly bald, thought Nell. The way he combs those white strands over the bald spot. Making the most of what he has.

“You have nice shoes,” said Davy, and knelt and patted them.

“Now you’ve seen him,” said Nell, taking Davy’s hand. “And now it’s your bedtime. Say good-night to the company.”

“I’m not sleepy,” said Davy.

“Da
-vy
,” warned Nell.

“G’night, company,” said Davy and allowed himself to be bundled off to bed.

Mr. Knochen surveyed the room as if he intended to buy it.

“I see you have a table all ready, Mrs. Bishop. Splendid table. Leather?”

“I don’t know,” said Helen. “It was a wedding present.”

“And an exquisite decanter. Crystal?”

Helen shrugged. “It’s been in the family for years. I don’t even remember where it came from.” She recollected its purpose and added, “May I give you some Harvey’s Bristol Cream?”

An amused smile crossed Mr. Knochen’s face.

“No, thank you. Perhaps the ladies—”

“None for me, thanks,” said Mrs. Lieberman.

“None for me, either,” said Mrs. Clackett.

Hal came into the room.

“Mr. Bishop, delighted to meet you,” said Mr. Knochen. He shook Hal’s hand warmly, as if they were old friends.

Everyone sat down.

“I’m very interested in what happens tonight,” said Hal. “I’ve never had any experiences along this line myself, but my sister had several of them.”

“You never told me that,” said Helen.

“You never asked,” said Hal.

“Would you care to tell us about your sister’s experiences?” asked Mr. Knochen.

“When our father died, my sister saw him in a sort of—vision. He was a thousand miles away from her when he died, and yet he appeared to her at the exact moment of his death.”

“Did she know he was dead?” asked Mrs. Clackett.

“Not at the time. She was working in her garden. She stood up to brush the dirt off her hands and saw him walking backwards down the path, away from her, waving. Ten minutes later she got the call saying he was dead.”

“Dead,” mused Mr. Knochen. “I’m told they do not like to be called so. It’s we who are dead to them. We cut ourselves off from them.”

Why,
why
, thought Clare, has he come?

“I wish we could find a good doctor in the next world,” said Helen. “The doctors in this one haven’t done much for Clare.”