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Genevieve Smith The knock came at the door like three butter beans-the dried variety with that hollow sound they make after falling to the tiles of the pantry floor. Each beat was as carefully measured as the rap of a conductor's baton and in trio had an effect of quieting those on the other side of the door. Caelia turned her head to the sound. She wondered just how Jack the Ripper might have knocked on her door (if this were 1888 and she were in a much different line of business, that is). Lizzie Borden would have just beat it down with her ax in a fitful rage, naturally. But Wesley Hollcopple's arrival was of a different breed-three knocks as tender as the hiccoughs of kittens. The occupants in the living room must have been entertaining similar questions, or questions nonetheless, because a good interval passed before anyone contended with the quietude.
The invitation still lay on the table from the week before, its scalloped edges and creamy cotton paper smattered with the crumbs of many breakfasts, its wax seal now decorated with coffee cup borders due to its employment as a coaster. Despite its appearance, the message remained intact, and her father's volition was inert: she was going. He didn't give one damn whether or not the town rumors that this silk-stocking recluse might prove his notoriety as some sort or murderer. All that mattered to him was that Wesley Hollcopple was as rich as Viennese Sachertorte while they, the Ludwins, were not. Wesley Hollcopple was also most unattached and very much alive, and thus these three items fulfilled her father's criteria for an eligible young bachelor. "That the door?" Thackeray's cavalier lilt popped up, a wanton toadstool in the silence. He was probably still lounging on the davenport digestin' his vittles, as he had put it when Caelia excused herself to her room, and was perhaps still scratching that exposed part of his stomach as he said so. "Thackeray James, I thought I told you to drop that ridiculous accent and talk like the New Englander you are," said an exasperated Hildegarde, her stepmother. She and Caelia seemed much more than a step apart; most days, it seemed like an entire staircase stood between them. Hildegarde had invested her morning (that day, and the day before.) exacting an image of the household to impress upon Mr. Hollcopple. The house had been cleaned, the dishes done, clothes mended (socks so far gone they no longer required "darning" but "damning"), and a pineapple upside down cake baked. She herself looked dowdy as a pin cushion all wrapped up in prints and patterns, with buttons straining to contain her denial of her middle-aged figure. A momentary crescendo of mutterances bandied between those in the living room, a group which included all but Caelia, who was down the hall preparing herself for the day. "You sound like some randy dandy rounder who's all milk and no Wheaties!" In her continued exasperation, Hildegarde rended the mute of propriety from her more brassy default. "Well, I ain't never gonna get me no lady friend if all I've got to my name is your nose and dad's reputation. Practiced Southern charm's all I got. 'Sides, 'ain't no different than that mop of hair you're always bleachin-" "Oohh-" "Not the broom, Ma!" There was then a small clatter on this side of the door-the sound of a randy dandy rounder receiving a sound maternal whomp from a broom. "Now. I want all of you to be on your best behavior," Hildegarde directed. "Thackeray James-that means make yourself scarce." A pause. A moment taken to collect, reflect, rehearse, and rephrase herself into a complete thought, and then, like a clapperboard closed dubiously on a scene allowed but a single take, the door was flung open. "Well-hello-Mr.Hollcopple-right-on-time-aren't-we?" The whole affair was a sticky saccharine mess. Hildegarde's words poured out of her the same way she lived life itself-a hyphenated hodgepodge always going and going nowhere. Always in a terrible hurry. Like a yard of lace, she was dainty and decorative but in practice just a skillful organization of holes and blank space. "Timeliness-is-such-an-admirable-quality-in-a-man-Punctual-as-dawn-my-mother-would-say-Won't-you-please-come-in-And-might-I-add-it's-a-real-pleasure-to-meet-you-CAELIA!?-You-must-excuse-the-girl-she's-been-all-aflutter-prettifying-herself-the-whole-morning through." These words were different from her usual parlance, even Caelia down the hall could tell. These were the ones she'd labored with, toiled over, preserved in heavy syrup, and put on hold for company. One would've thought she was a freshly-tapped maple tree with a wintry reserve of sap and this visitor had biffed her with a mallet and tap. Caelia scoffed at the malarkey of it all and wished she were diabetic so she might be relieved of her misery once and for all. "Please-have-yourself-a seat-anywhere-you-would-like-May-I-take-your-coat-My-heavens-is-this-vicuña?" Caelia only deciphered odd clippings of conversation from the kitchen as she powdered her face. All that was truly clear of the conversations were the interjections of Hildegarde. Wesley's voice went unheard and in its place were (from Caelia's room) eerie intervals of silence. Back in the other room, the presence of the newly-arrived Mr. Hollcopple had caused Thackeray to yank the ripcord on his pseudo-Southern charm as he extracted himself from the sofa. "The name's Thackeray James. Age 19." A pause. One filled presumably, although not positively, by some Hollcopplian pleasantry. Thackeray continued, his obliviousness as apt as ever. "It's a mighty pleasure to meet a strange bird like you, and I'd stay to chat real proper if Mother hadn't just told me skedaddle." Caelia stared at her reflection in the vanity, its frame entirely bereft of its bulbs. The face in the mirror likewise regarded her with a lunar paleness that wasn't the result of the make-up. Before her lay her mostly-used reserve of rouge, lipstick, and mascara-most of it French, and most of it souvenirs from Phin's ready trips abroad. She had been able to powder away most of the mauve which remained around her eye from a few nights before, when she returned home late from the poker club. Hank didn't care for when others in his household returned home late, especially when they returned more sober than he did. Had she told her brother Charles of all these recent developments? No, of course not. His letters were becoming so sparse and intermittent, and she knew the long pauses accounted for days spent in the Oxford infirmary. She couldn't bear to add more weights to his load, especially weights as ponderous and pressing and insuperable as these. What would she do? Send a telegraph? At so many cents per word it seemed unlikely she could convey the message in full:
As the hospitality in the kitchen ensued-and all matter of libation offered and respectfully declined-Caelia remained in her room, drawing out the moments like a record played on a laggard Victrola. She had concluded that the date of a non-negotiable luncheon with an apt stranger, certain hermit, and off-kilter curio would be a fine time indeed to finish what remained of her Chanel No. 5. It didn't escape her thinking that the next fragrance to touch upon her skin, considering the nature of this particular dining companion, might very well be her own embalming fluids, but she didn't dwell upon this for very long. Mortality has such a way of sullying any mood, especially when it portends to quickly impose upon the present. So instead she occupied herself with the application of the perfume and the memories that were fossilized in its scent like artifacts preserved in amber. It had been a gift from Phin on her 16th birthday, this particular bottle, mailed from Paris in conjunction with three new books and a letter of apology for his absence. It was, aside from the red dress she had also selected for the day's discomfort, one of the few vestiges of her past life which transferred itself so neatly into the present. "CAELIA!?" Hildegarde called again. "Mr. Hollcopple's here for you." "Coming." With a sigh, she got up, grabbed her coat and her cloche from the bed, and headed down the hall towards the kitchen where Hildegarde was acting as a one-woman fusillade of questions about this and that and every sort of frivolous whatnot she could muster. Caelia crept down the hall with the carefully-combined stealth and grace of both a ballerina and a hatchet man-an uncanny pairing-slowly, deftly, until she made her way to the end. She leaned forward and peered around the wall's edge, far enough to disclose only half a peep and a single lock of her chocolate-stained hair. Yes, there he was. Wesley Hollcopple: center stage in the Ludwin kitchen, in the pinstripes of a charcoal gray suit, nodding accommodatingly as Hildegarde prattled on in the style of a wind-up toy about her vague relations in New England. "From-New-England-did-you-say-Well-Mr.-Hollcopple-I'm-from-Massachusetts-myself-I'm-from-Howes-Do-you-know-of them-by-chance-They're-rather-famous-you-know-It-was-my-great-great-Uncle Elias-who-received-the-first-patent-of-the-modern-zipper." Wesley was listening obligingly, giving reserved nods and taking in stride the unblinking assemblage of young ones who'd gathered at his feet like a collection of inquisitive hearthstones with little regard for the ententes of personal space. "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure to have met the Howes but." His eyes made a momentary jaunt to the side where they met with Caelia's. Damn! Like a marionette under the direction of sheer horror itself, Caelia was yanked back around the corner by invisible strings. Damn, damn, damn. Wesley, it would seem, was unfazed by this display of espionage. ". I-I am familiar with their work." "Well-that's-nice-Now-where-is-that-girl-CAELIA LAURA LUD-" "I'm here." She emerged. "And the name's Caelia Cora Ludwin." Despite living with the Ludwins for nearly two months, Hildegarde struggled with her new role as stepmother, particularly when it came to recollection of the humble syllables that made up Caelia's name. Wesley rose immediately, an eerie cue as though he'd lived this moment before, or at least had practiced it extensively. The young ones who had been at his feet scattered like pigeons. "There you are, you silly girl, detaining Mr. Hollcopple." Hildegard turned to Wesley and ignored Caelia's corrigendum. "I always say she's pretty enough as she is. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Hollcopple?" "Yes," he stammered. "She . well," he made fleeting eye contact with Caelia. She couldn't tell if he was blushing or not. As pale as he was, his take on blushing would have manifested itself as a simple healthy glow. "You." he continued. "You make me wish I had a hat to remove in your presence." "Caelia has made a pineapple upside down cake," proffered Hildegarde grabbing the dish from the stove and placing it in Caelia's hands. "Beautiful and industrious, our girl." "That's wonderful," said Wesley. "Yes," said Caelia. She looked at Hildegarde, who returned the look with a smile of Cheshire proportions. She then looked at Mr. Hollcopple, fiddling with his cane in visual discomfort, and then took it upon herself to get on with her doom. "Well, Hollcopple," she said. "Let's blouse." "Yes," he said, a bit startled. "L-let's go to lunch." He turned to Hildegarde, stumbling a tad on an anonymous cat that had laced around his feet. "It was a great pleasure to meet you. Uh-all of you. And I thank you for allowing me Caelia's presence for lunch." "My pleasure, Mr. Hollcopple," cooed Hildegarde. "And please, don't be a stranger. You will always be welcome here to Wallstadt 10." "Do you mind if I don't talk?" Caelia asked. They sat there in the car, a sleek and hardly-used Isotta Fraschini, steeping in a consommé of Chanel and brilliantine and a silence lymphatic like a starfish washed beyond its water's reach, left to bake in the beachy heat of a sweltering 12 o'clock sun. Caelia's mental search for a topic of conversation-a minute observance, a meager teeming sigh-seemed to be as effective as if she were consulting a Hungarian dictionary for her own English words. Slowly, the bedraggled Wallstadt Boarding House and all of Pointe Abbaye melted away into the horizon like an impressionist painting framed in the rearview mirror. "Do you like music?" Mr. Hollcopple asked after a great while. "Music?" He nodded. "I like jazz." "An excellent taxonomy." A further lull. |
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ISSN 2150-6795 |