4

Night Voices

A ray of sunlight slid under the drawn shade of a dining room window and touched the bottom of the poster of Monet’s cliff with a burst of glimmering brightness. Aunt Bea must have moved during their absence, for she had changed her clothes. She was wearing a long beige linen skirt and the thick cotton sweater Emma had seen on the couch in the living room.

The skirt was wrinkled and the sweater was full of holes, but she looked what Emma was sure her mother would call dashing. It was a puzzling thought. The last thing Aunt Bea was likely to do was to dash off anywhere. She was winding a ball of wool from a skein on the table. The teapot was steaming. There must be rivers and brooks and still ponds of tea throughout Aunt Bea’s body, thought Emma.

“Here’s some divine blackberry jam I made last autumn,” Aunt Bea said, nodding toward a glass jar. “If you want to make yourself some toast …”

“What a treat,” Uncle Crispin said and went to the kitchen. Shortly he brought back a plate of toast. Aunt Bea wound the wool steadily, her head bent over her hands. Emma stood on the other side of the table from her, not sure whether she should pull out a chair and sit down or what she should do.

That was part of Aunt Bea’s being a terror. She forced Emma to think about every single movement she made. Uncle Crispin spread a piece of toast with jam and held it out to Emma. She took it, then before she could stop herself, she asked, “Do you know the joke about where the six-hundred pound gorilla sits down?” Uncle Crispin smiled encouragingly. Aunt Bea bent further over the wool.

“Where does he sit down?” asked Uncle Crispin.

“Wherever he wants to,” Emma said. She and Uncle Crispin laughed. Aunt Bea broke off the yarn and looked up unsmiling, straight at Emma.

“When young people have heart trouble, it’s more serious for them than for old people,” she said flatly. Emma felt as if she had been suddenly slapped hard on the back and had all the air knocked out of her.

“You ought not to say that, Bea,” Uncle Crispin said, the laughter gone from his face. He looked stern and distant. Emma stole a glance at Aunt Bea. She had begun winding another ball of yarn. Her face was as blank as a sheet of paper.

“The operation is supposed to make him well,” Emma said. Her voice sounded very small in the silent room.

“And it will,” Uncle Crispin said firmly.

“One hopes so,” murmured Aunt Bea. “Do eat your toast, Emma.”

“I must put the chicken in the oven,” Uncle Crispin said, going back to the kitchen.

Emma bit into the toast. The jam really was divine. She started to say so, but words of praise wouldn’t come to her lips. Instead, she said she wanted to go to her room and work on a puzzle. Aunt Bea looked up at the Monet poster, her hands still. She wants me to look at it, Emma thought, and I won’t. She felt thorny and sad. She finished up the toast quickly. She knew she would end up hating that poster.

Once in her room, she closed the door and went to the table where she opened the pad of newsprint. With a blue crayon, she drew a calendar for the days she was to be away from home. It filled an entire page. She had held the crayon so tightly that her hands were streaked with blue wax. She lay down on the bed and read The Secret Garden for a while but found she couldn’t concentrate. At last she gave up trying and went down the hall to the bathroom.

Aunt Bea must have taken a bath before she’d changed her clothes. There was still steam on the medicine chest mirror. Hanging from a hook on the door were four or five bedraggled cotton bathrobes. Two damp towels lay on the floor. Dozens of small jars of creams stood on the windowsill, their lids scattered amidst them. There were balls of dust everywhere. Peering at a large one beneath the sink, she saw a flash of white at its center. She knelt and plucked it out. It was a plastic deer not longer than an inch. A string was tied through a loop between its tiny antlers. Emma looked at it curiously, then put it in her pocket. She found a yellow towel she guessed was hers bunched up in a corner near the tub.

The hall was utterly silent. She pretended for a moment that Aunt Bea and Uncle Crispin had gone away. She would be able to manage by herself—though maybe it would be spooky at night. Her mother had given her ten dollars in case she needed something. There was probably a store not far away where she could buy a few groceries. She began to love the idea, and the pleasure of it set her running down the hall to the narrow window. But the thump of her own feet on the floor broke into her dream. Uncle Crispin, she knew, would not leave her alone. She wasn’t so sure about Aunt Bea.

Looking out over the tops of the pine trees, she spotted the roof of a house, the place where the girl and her grandmother spent the summer, a two- or three-minute walk through the little wood, she guessed. A phone rang from below. A moment or two later, Uncle Crispin called up from the living room, “Emma, it’s for you.”

The phone sat on the end of the long table next to a closed violin case. Uncle Crispin, wearing a blue canvas apron, held out the receiver to Emma. She took it eagerly, noticing at the same time how gently his other hand rested on the case. For an instant, it seemed to her he was petting it as if it were a beloved creature. “Your mother,” he whispered.

“Oh, Mom!” Emma breathed.

“Daddy is settled in,” her mother told her. “He has a lovely nurse named Lucy Biggs and his window looks out on the East River.”

Emma’s eyes filled with tears. She could not speak.

“Emma?” Her mother’s voice was alarmed. “Uncle Crispin says you’ve settled in, too—that you had a walk on the beach with him.…”

“I’m okay,” Emma managed to say. She could see Aunt Bea’s back, her moving elbows.

“You don’t sound okay,” her mother said.

Uncle Crispin had gone back to the dining room. Emma pressed the phone against her mouth. “Is it true what Aunt Bea said?” she said, almost whispering. “That when you’re young, heart trouble is more serious?”

“The same old Bea,” her mother said grimly. “Listen, Emma. Heart trouble is always serious. But everything is looking hopeful for your father. I want you to be hopeful, too.” She was speaking slowly, trying to be patient. Emma longed for the weight of her mother’s arm around her shoulders, the way she would run one finger across her forehead and around her face as though she were tracing it.

“I’ll be hopeful,” Emma said, wondering how you could feel hope when fear, like a thick fog, hid everything but itself. “Are you going to call me tomorrow?” she asked.

“Of course I am,” her mother said. “I’m going to call you all the time.” Emma pressed the receiver closer to her ear. “But Uncle Crispin—he is nice, isn’t he?” her mother said. “A patient, kind person.”

“Yes … he’s cooking our supper right now,” Emma answered.

“I have to go back to Daddy, Emma.”

Emma thought she could actually hear the miles between them as though each one of them was a small bell, sixty-five of them all striking, the sounds growing ever fainter. Her mother was only half there on the other end of the wire; the rest of her was walking back down the hospital corridor to her father.

“When will you call?” asked Emma.

“As soon as I can,” said her mother. Then the phone went silent; her mother was entirely gone.

She went to the window that looked out on the bay. The water was as red as blood in the sunset. The far islands bloomed like blood-red roses. She turned away to the dining room. Aunt Bea was playing a hand of solitaire. Her fingers tapped the back of each card before she put it down. Tap, tap, tap, her fingers clicked like fast heartbeats.

“Supper,” announced Uncle Crispin. Emma went in. The table reminded her of something she’d read in a story long ago. There were balls of wool, playing cards laid out for solitaire, the brown teapot, empty cups, the newspaper with the filled-in crossword puzzle, Aunt Bea’s silver pen, and three plates and flatware. She remembered. It was a bit like the Mad Hatter’s tea party in Alice in Wonderland. Aunt Bea looked as sleepy as the dormouse but her hands were moving, touching the plate in front of her, the pen, the wool, with restless fingers.

The roast chicken and baked yams were good. Uncle Crispin told Emma about one of his students, an elderly woman whose arthritis had nearly disappeared because of the exertion of playing the violin.

“What the violin requires is talent,” Aunt Bea interrupted shrilly.

“It needs physical strength, too,” Uncle Crispin said. For a little while, Aunt Bea ate and was silent. Still, Emma found herself waiting as though for a loud alarm clock to ring. She wasn’t as startled as she might have been, earlier in the day, when Aunt Bea exclaimed loudly and scornfully, “Canned peas!”

“At least, they’re French canned peas,” Uncle Crispin observed with a smile.

“At least …” Aunt Bea mocked. But she smiled, too.

When the saucers of chocolate ice cream were set down on the table, Aunt Bea looked at Emma. “Have you seen the Connecticut estate?” she asked.

Emma looked at her blankly.

“The house my father built for your grandmother?” she asked more loudly, as though Emma were deaf.

Emma shook her head. “They both died before I was born,” she said.

“Well, of course, I knew that,” Aunt Bea declared. “You’re grandmother made him build that place—using my poor, dead mother’s wealth. Everybody knew that! I admit it was a beautiful house. My father had style and your grandmother had push. I was at Smith College then. They never invited me—not once—to visit there.”

“That isn’t quite true, Bea,” Uncle Crispin reproached her. “You’ve often told me about spending Christmases there.”

“Those are fairy tales,” Aunt Bea said self-righteously. “I was just a lonely girl. Can you blame me for making up stories? It’s too pathetic! I thought Philip might have taken you, Emma, to see the place where he grew up. God knows what sort of people own it now. I’m sure it’s worth a fortune.” She swallowed a spoonful of ice cream and scraped the saucer fiercely. “All I inherited was this nightmare of a cabin.”

“This is a fine house,” Uncle Crispin disagreed. “We’re lucky to have it, and the bay and the countryside are splendid.”

“It’s a nightmare,” Aunt Bea said insistently, “and the countryside is nothing but a tired suburb.”

Emma helped to clear the table. Aunt Bea grabbed up her cards and spread them out in another hand of solitaire, slapping the table with them.

In the kitchen, Uncle Crispin washed and Emma dried. She heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor. A moment later, television voices murmured from the living room.

Emma had never heard of any Connecticut estate. Those grandparents had always seemed far away from her, buried in time, like people she might read about in a history book. The way Aunt Bea had spoken made her feel she was to blame for some mysterious trouble that had occurred years before she was born.

“You’re a helpful girl,” commented Uncle Crispin.

She wanted to ask him about that trouble. Aunt Bea had been smoldering so, banging her plate, slapping down the cards. “I don’t think Mom and Daddy have a lot of money,” she said. “I never heard about the estate.”

Uncle Crispin sighed. “It’s all ancient history,” he said. “I think the place was sold for taxes years ago. I know your father had to work hard to stay in music school. I’m afraid your Aunt Bea broods about the past too much.”

Emma leaned against the counter, watching him scour out the sink. She felt a hard lump in he jeans’ pocket. She reached in and took out the plastic deer.

“Look what I found in the bathroom,” she said, holding it up to him. “It’s only plastic but it’s pretty, isn’t it?”

Uncle Crispin dropped the sponge he had been using and snatched the deer from her hand to look at it closely.

“Where was it?” he demanded. He stared at the deer as though it were a biting insect.

“Under the sink, in a dust ball,” she answered uneasily.

He dropped it in his shirt pocket. Without another word, he put away the scouring powder and sponge.

Emma went to the living room and stood uncertainly for a moment next to the fireplace.

Aunt Bea patted a cushion on the little sofa. “Come sit with me and watch this movie,” she said, smiling at Emma. “It’s a good one. I’ve seen it three times. You see that little boy? You can tell he’s lower class by his cheap suit. Look at that ridiculous suit! But he’s adorable, isn’t he? And he’s going to get into all kinds of trouble, carrying messages between that man and woman who are in love.”

Emma, astonished by this outburst, sat down. Aunt Bea suddenly put her arm around her and giggled. “We’ll be all cozy here and watch together, shall we? Now … ssh!”

Uncle Crispin came into the room and went to the long table where he sat down and began to look through a sheaf of music. He sat stiffly as though he were balancing an object on his head. When Aunt Bea withdrew her arm, Emma was relieved. It had begun to feel like a log on her back.

“Don’t you want to see the wonderful English countryside in the movie, Crispin?” Aunt Bea called out gaily.

“I have seen it,” Uncle Crispin replied curtly.

Emma glanced at her aunt, who had made a little moaning sound like a puppy. She was staring at her husband’s stiff back, looking as baffled as Emma felt. She doesn’t get her way all the time, Emma thought to herself.

She turned her attention to the movie. The little boy who carried messages for the man and woman who loved each other didn’t understand what was going on between them, any more than Emma understood why Uncle Crispin had grown so distant since he had taken the deer from her hands, or why Aunt Bea was acting so fondly toward her.

“Don’t you hate commercial ads?” Aunt Bea asked during a break in the movie. “Everybody seems so stupid—talking in those horribly cheery voices!”

Emma hadn’t given much thought to the people who tried to sell you things during commercials. You waited until they were over. But her aunt’s friendliness encouraged her to ask a question. “You said there was a girl next door? The one who’s so good at watercolors? Is she here yet?”

“Oh—that girl. The grandmother is an old busybody; she used to drop in, uninvited, but I put a stop to that. What is that girl’s name, Crispin? Ontario? Quebec?”

“Alberta,” stated Uncle Crispin, not turning around.

“Why, yes,” said Aunt Bea. “Imagine naming a child after a Canadian province! She’ll be someone for you to play with. Of course, some children play wonderfully by themselves. I always did. But then I was imaginative.” She gave Emma a sunny smile as though she’d complimented her.

Two weeks isn’t long enough to get used to such a person, Emma thought.

“I think I’ll go to bed now,” Emma said.

“But the movie isn’t nearly over—don’t you want to watch it with me?” Aunt Bea asked her plaintively.

“I’m pretty tired,” Emma said. She was never too tired at home to stay up on those special occasions when Daddy would say, Oh, let her stay up just this time, even when she could hardly keep her eyes open.

“Tired!” exclaimed Aunt Bea. “A young girl like you! How truly boring!” She turned from Emma and leaned forward intently, her eyes on the television screen.

“Of course you must be tired, Emma,” Uncle Crispin said. His voice was gentle and light again, not the way it had been in the kitchen when he questioned her about the deer. Emma looked at her aunt. “Good night,” she said softly. There was no reply.

At the foot of the stairs, Uncle Crispin asked, “Do you think you have enough blankets? It can be quite chilly even at this time of year.”

“I don’t need any more,” Emma answered, wanting only to be alone in her room.

“Good night, my dear,” he said.

As soon as Emma closed her door, she turned on the small lamp on the bedside table and went quickly to the calendar she had drawn. She took a red crayon and drew a thick X in the first box. The first day was over.

She woke up and for a moment had no idea of where she was. The full yellow moon looked pasted to the pane like a little kid’s drawing on a school window. She heard voices. For a while she lay there listening to the distant sounds of them. They grew louder. Emma got up and opened her door a crack.

“I didn’t,” Aunt Bea was saying over and over again.

“Where did you hide the brandy bottle?” Uncle Crispin cried. “Where did you hide it, Bea! Don’t you think I know where that plastic deer comes from? Didn’t I find those deer all over the house where you used to drop them on the floor after you’d yanked them from the bottles?”

“It’s an old one.” Aunt Bea’s voice rose to a wail. “I swear it. You know I’ve stopped drinking, Crispin.”

“Have you, Bea? Have you? I want to believe it.”

“You know how I save everything,” her aunt went on in a calmer way. “You know I’ve stopped all that.”

There was a long pause. Then Uncle Crispin said, “I do want to believe that. But you act as if you’re still drinking. As if in your mind—all right, then, now hush.”

“If you don’t believe me, who will?” Aunt Bea asked sadly.

Their voices dropped to a murmur. Then there was utter silence. Emma crept back into her bed, pulling the cover over her head. “Daddy,” she whispered into the dark.