Mother takes child on a visit. Towns, you understand. Cottages. The evening meal.
February, yes? March?
Cornish hens or a stew. Bliss potatoes. Cabbage. Artichoke hearts.
There are parcels, as well?
Gifts. Gifts. Yes—it seems so. Spectacles, perhaps. Perhaps an article of clothing.
There is a muffler at the throat, is there not?
Merely the drizzle and the rail. Merely these puddles in the road.
Oh—March, indeed.
A lamb chop or a roast. Olives—green olives. Beets, actually. Swedish turnips. A Spanish onion for the trash.
She points heavenward?
Granted—there is red ribbon. Cuff links or a pocket watch, after all. The pears are overripe. The bread is burnt.
There is a fresh tablecloth, is there not?
Merely a view of the lake. Merely a view of the pikes and the dock. Towns, you understand.
Mother trims neatly the fat from the meat.
Daybook. Certain of the dates are incorrect. Surely they are. The month—the months. The maiden name is misspelled. These addresses are old. Squares and dashes, a column. Yes—a routine, I see. Oh, dear. The train fare and the cost of the meal. A raffle. The post office and the bank.
The inheritance was of little consequence.
There is a puncture—a hole, if you would prefer. “Decedent died without issue”? One of the daughters, I gather, had never married. The son had recovered. No—that is a bit misleading. The casket was cheap. They rarely visited the father’s family. Whereas the dahlias? The plot faces east.
Deed. Beating the bounds, I see. Beating away the moths. It was the view, after all. Or a rift of sorts. Such a quaint way to put it. “Beginning at this point in the northwest corner.” Well. The roofs were red, in any event. One and the next. We must do without a dark courtyard, must we not? All the roads, pell-mell. One chain, one link to a stake. And a staircase—to which they would repair.
Daybook. Certain initials, if you will abide this. An aunt’s address. The brother at a peculiar hour. Reft—is this the word? Or smote? Lunch was late. Yes—the butcher’s paper. A teapot, I expect. Now quite empty, indeed. Plaid skirts and black stockings. Or brick houses and a privet.
The itinerary was thought a separate matter.
The following week, the following month, the New Year. Simply a description of his loneliness, you could say. “Tilbury Fright”? Tilbury Fort on Tilbury Plain. On the date of a cessation. Of a dissolution, rather. Its anniversary, in any event. Oh, an outing, a walk, a tour. There was better weather in the end.
The gloves were given first. They were soft, yes, and small—but there was a tear. The worsted—one of his—and the houndstooth—a wound, here—were lost. Or set aside, if you will oblige me.
What of the buttoning, the buckling, the seam?
There was a feather duster for the far shelf. And pins—plain pins. The cribbage table had a false drawer. The box was diamond-shaped—with a cleft hinge. There was a note in a violet envelope.
This rescues the figure, does it not?
The handbag was blue—a plump, picturesque object, the clasp of which was scuffed. The muffler was red. The blouse—a birthday, perhaps—had an odd weave—or, anyway, a loop came up. There were clips in the sheet, hooks in the eyes, wax.
There was a padlock for the chest.
Inventory. In a small hand. Yes—objects of the father’s. Objects of the uncle’s—or of the wife’s, if you would prefer. Shall we consider the cellar? Omitting the unmentionables, then. Omitting the middle terms. Scissors and a basin, the faces of the plates. A bottle of witch hazel. The prettiness of the clothespress.
But to emend this a bit.
The brother lay here. Have I mentioned the handsome little shadows? There were squirrels in the walls. The aunts sat in these chairs. Coleworts, Silesia lettuce, wine. The rug was gray. The tablecloth was ragged, I am afraid. The teaspoons had been disarranged, given away.
Announcement. “The bride cries because she must go.” One of the daughters wept at the door. For hours? Perhaps not. Counting the pillars, if nothing else. Counting finials, newels. The sheet seemed a trifling thing. Yet the color, once again—or simply the crease. An attendant, a cousin of the groom, tripped on the steps. The maid of honor, a cousin of the bride, dropped a bouquet in the aisle.
Inventory. Ruined bloomers, dyed red. Cuff links. A Brussels-lace mantilla. Doubtless the new shoes and the new dress. There was, I suspect, a spot of turn and ruffle, a question concerning the stitch. Not to mention a hopeful glimpse of the lawn—or of, rather, the trees, the length of the path.
That is a touch melodramatic, however.
She was staring at her hands. The coat was pulled closed. The walk was dark? The aunts stood in the road. Silver buttons and a pendant, the dismal dots on the wall. A bottle of squill. The old linens. Certain of the names, I should add, are circled. The A is slender. The S breaks.
Let me apologize for the rain. Indeed—such cold, such great wind. The rotted portion of the pike, now—and the slip, the very shape of it. There was a hatbox in the lake.
Have I stated this adequately?
We must do without a gannet, without a thrush.
Let me attend, instead, to the road. The cottages, a few of them, had burned down. As had the bell tower. The gates had been razed. There were branches and tassels on the knoll.
Oh, the falling, all the falling—this you must surely recall.
The dock was black. As was the pike. The rowboats were brown—which is for the best, or, in any event, not unpleasant—yes, quite fitting, quite apt, really, at such an hour.
The mist—the fog—puts the matter to rest.
Daybook. A grievous evening. This will do. A number and a phrase—certain items in this vein. There were souvenirs, I trust. Or mistakes of a sort. Think of it: he had not—he had never—known. “My dear Mesdames”? “My dear Mssrs.”? Mercy. I have forgotten other of the visits. I have neglected them, rather.
A woollen blanket was missing.
A silk handkerchief was soiled.
The tailor’s in the morning? In the afternoon, actually. Or the seamstress, the seamstress. And then the butcher shop. All the changes, in gray. Or once and for all. “The lines have fallen upon me.” Their meal, her departure, his return. The new linens had been stolen. The porch awning was white.
Deed. The house was brick—and had tall windows, black shutters, and, next to the front door, a lamp, the glass of which was cracked. The knocker was brass. The hallway—shall we pause here a moment? Parcel gilt, perhaps. Knuckle hinges and a tulip rail. The staircase was notable for its sadness. But there now—no, no. I will begin again. A view of the snow, we may suppose. Rabbits ran across the grass, east to west. The walk was dark. The knocker was brass. There was a second lock, a dead bolt.
Daybook. Saving the gloves. Saving the hats. Hanging the dresses. Visiting all the windows, I see. A bed of leaves—this does seem a pleasant thing to suggest. The dahlias died. Whereas the privet? The cellar door was of little distraction. The wives—if memory serves—did not wave.
Have I mentioned the bracelet? The pocket watch?
The ring was sold.
Certain of the names are crossed off. “Nothing sticks to the child’s ribs.” They sat together. Buzzard—this must be the word. Leaving the party for the pantry. And the other address, in due course. “Regards.” “Our love.” Just the odds and ends. She saw to the sugar, to the spill, to the bones.
She held the pin out in the light, I like to think—the door of the sitting room, this tiny room, shut—a garment slipping from her knees.
The chair, you understand, the chairs—simply the older ones.
There was an embroidered footstool. The cribbage table had oak spindles, an oak throat. The tea cart was thought delightful—or sufficient, in any event. There was a wooden paperweight for the far shelf.
I wish to be thorough.
A quilt—the child’s, perhaps—was folded like so. There was a joke concerning the color, the flesh of a plum. The prunella—wrung—and the cowl—with burl—had bled into the bend.
Inventory. A note and a deed, statements. Doubtless all the drawers. A good week, I believe. Oh, or a very bad one. Tea biscuits for dessert, at least. A bit of mildew here and about. Facts concerning a rosette and a napkin, the candlestick at her feet. It appears the ginger root had resembled a man. Or the wood had. The lamb collops, for their part, had been discarded neck and crop.
The aunts crossed the road.
I have neglected the rest of the family, I am embarrassed to say.
The nephew died first. All the suitors were poor. The sisters were not intimate. Well. There was something on a Sunday, as it happens. She had asked for an ash casket. Evidently the husband arrived, this time, in the afternoon, late in the afternoon. Early in the evening, really.
Itinerary. The chest was locked in the morning. They stayed the day. “State Street.” Hampshire Avenue. Quite a surprise. An address at the black house, as the expression has it. Consider, instead, the clouds, the spires, the signatures. “Milk Street Market.” The scenery, such as it is. Please stand here near the grass. Dripping awnings, wail, down. You can see the petunias are going well now. The bedroom did not face the lake. New Street is pretty in the snow? The other plans had been cancelled.
Inventory. The cellar shelves. A bottle of rose water. Linens on the lawn. Her mother’s, I gather, was another month. Granted—the rocks were not a pleasant prospect. Nor was the oak. Just a choice of sorts. Yes—this side or that. Something small was offered? The gesture struck them as antique.
She crossed her legs.
These shoes and a handbag. A lemon tart, on second thought. A baked apple. This was all. Pitted peaches, hulled strawberries, coffee. How foolish I am. The bracelet, at least, was saved. The basin was clean. The drapery hung thus. Doubtless the house was quiet at that hour.
Father departs. True enough. Here is the train depot.
In the rain?
Crabgrass and thorns, a thoroughfare. A field, now—a portion of a field.
There is a hat, is there not?
Why, fine breezes. A row of holes, you understand. Danes’ blood. Lady’s smock. Lady Sally’s demise.
He regards the birds?
Merely the flags—gray, white—and the lamps. These clouds. Merely the trestle—at length.
The moon at an odd moment.
Thistle and simmer. Fireweed, actually. Bark—a modest patch of it.
Have we, then, the wrong season?
Oh—the shape of the brim, the shape of the crown. The color of the band.
The flags fail?
Feverfew for yarrow, you understand. Or for fennel. A row of posts.
The train reaches the trees.