My Heart Laid Bare (11 page)

Dr. Deerfield, the only Muirkirk resident to have ever set foot in the mysterious Licht household, disagreed with all these theories, insisting that Abraham was some sort of collector or dealer of antiques of all kinds: furniture, arts and crafts, clothing, costumes, aged books and maps. Though Deerfield had seen little of the Licht residence apart from the room in which Abraham's wife Sophie was bedridden, he'd had a distinct impression of a household crammed with odd, miscellaneous items—“Some of them fairly ugly, in my opinion. But then, what do I, a country doctor, know about ‘antiques' and ‘objects d'art'?”

But there was the opinion of Edgar Carr, president of Muirkirk's First Bank of Chautauqua, who, claiming to know firsthand of Abraham Licht's “wildly fluctuating” finances, believed that the man was either a professional gambler (his specialty Thoroughbred racing) or one of the notorious new breed of Wall Street speculators, capable of making, and losing, and again recouping, hundreds of thousands of dollars in a day's trading, by abstruse manipulations Carr himself could not fathom. Such gentlemen, Carr said, were spiritually descended from the “dark geniuses” of Jay Gould, Lord Gordon-Gordon and their brethren—individuals we can't help but admire yet would never wish to do business with.

“Depend upon it,” Carr would say, with a wink, “—Abraham Licht is first and foremost an American capitalist, whatever his self-definition, his product or his services! He worships one thing, and one thing only:
money.
”

T
he tragic history of the Church of the Nazarene, Risen (for such was the sect's full name), had much to do, all of Muirkirk agreed, with the unwholesomeness of its setting: for, unwisely tempted by the cheapness of land bordering the Muirkirk swamp, the sect's young minister decided to erect his church building on a dirt road a quarter mile off the Innisfail Pike, scarcely more than a rutted cattle trail at the time; and so very near the marsh, residents of the area joked that the church was
in
it.

The life span of the church was approximately nine years, counting the two years it took to complete the building, during which time the
minister and his family, and any number of his followers, were laid low by so many flus, fevers, bone-aches, malaises, and the like, that it seemed to some that God Himself was putting their faith to the test (as, indeed, He had put Job's, to Job's great glory); yet to others, that Satan dwelt near, and resented any incursion upon His domain. For, in late spring, and continuing well through October, a sickly sort of atmosphere pervaded the church buildings, a tropical, damp, lugubrious air that seemed very nearly visible, and tactile, a wild commingling of odors, rich, rank-smelling pollen, and animal decay, and brackish water, and gases of a feculent nature, all wafted sluggishly about, and weighed down, it seemed, by an unnatural heat that had the power to attach itself to human flesh.

“But God has set us down in the wilderness, to conquer, and to thrive”—so the impassioned young minister preached, in the very face of any number of afflictions.

Despite his faith, however, and that of his followers, God showed, it seemed, very little mercy for the Church of the Nazarene, Risen: for the building was beset by dry rot, and mildew, and beetles, and termites, and slugs, and leakage, and that sickly oppressive malaise of the air; wind-funnels tore at its roof, and floods destroyed its floors; poisonous snakes invaded the rectory; the well was contaminated by seepage from the cemetery; the congregation dwindled from sixty members, to forty-five, to thirty, to ten . . . .At last, in the summer of '90, the minister himself succumbed to a virulent strain of influenza, and died, it was said, an agèd man though not yet forty; deranged, and raving, and cursing God. For had not God betrayed His Covenant, in this accursed corner of the world?

THE CHURCH OF
the Nazarene, Risen, was therefore declared in bankruptcy; and given over to its numerous creditors, land, buildings, and fixtures, to be sold at public auction as quickly as possible.

At which time, on a warm October afternoon, a small crowd of less
than thirty men gathered, as much out of curiosity and idleness as interest; for it was thought unlikely that anyone in Muirkirk, knowing the church's history, should wish to make a bid on it. Lichen thickly encrusted the stone, the roof shone emerald-green with patches of mossy rot, puddles of brackish water lay on the floorboards; large white cocoons damp with spittle had been spun about the hickory cross, repulsive to see. On all sides the air was aqueous and unmoving, as if concentrated in thought: yet what might such a
thought
be!—and
who
, or
what,
empowered it!

No sooner had the spiritless bidding begun on one or another portable item, a three-legged stool, a water-stained hymnal, a canopied baby carriage, than a dashing young man, a stranger, appeared on horseback, at a gallop; astonishing the gathering by declaring, in a ringing, breathless voice, that he was making a bid for the entire property—“I offer you eighteen hundred dollars cash.”

Which sum was held to be in such excess of the damnèd property's worth, no one would have cared to challenge it.

And so, by a miracle, within the space of twenty minutes, the Church of the Nazarene, Risen, buildings, fixtures, land, was sold to the highest bidder: one “Abraham Licht,” resident at that time of Vanderpoel.

TRUE TO HIS
word, the gentleman paid in cash. One-hundred-dollar bills, that seemed to staring observers far larger in size than any American minted bills they had ever seen, yet were, as a banking official declared, wholly legitimate.

Abraham Licht smilingly described his profession as “land speculator.”

What an amiable, attractive young man, broad-shouldered and in excellent physical condition, like a soldier, or an athlete, or an actor; probably not more than thirty-one or -two years old, but with a mature, reassuring manner. Licht stood slightly above six feet in height, yet seemed taller; with thick wiry lustrous hair, a mahogany-brown threaded with blond or
silver; his shrewd, quick-darting, friendly eyes were described by some as brown, by others as black, by others as sky-blue. His cheeks were partly covered by precisely trimmed whiskers and moustache in the style of the late James G. Blaine, the “Plumed Knight” of Congress; what one could see of his jaws suggested strength, steeliness, resolution. His handshake was vigorous, if slightly cool; beneath his social poise, there was an air of excitement, or fevered strain; his fedora was cocked back on his head in a way that could be interpreted as casual, or careless; his dark gabardine “city clothes” were of a stylish cut but soiled from perspiration and the dusty effects of travel by horseback. Licht's horse was a deep-chested black gelding with a blade of white between his eyes, a beautiful specimen badly lathered from the run and no longer in the prime of life.

Why had Abraham Licht ridden out ninety miles from Vanderpoel to this unpublicized auction, why his particular interest in Muirkirk, a village at that time of less than two thousand inhabitants?—Licht answered all questions put to him frankly, with a guileless, friendly smile, yet afterward, everyone realized, he managed to answer none; and had only one urgent question to put to them:
Was the Church of the Nazarene, Risen, properly deconsecrated?

W
ho is he, with the almighty eye, the voice of a bugle!—why does he pursue them!

They have clambered to the highest peak of the roof to escape—they
are crouched behind the crumbling brick chimney where the starlings nest—now they will step off into space, now they must spread their wings and fly, fly to the top of the highest tree—

'Allo, 'allo, my little ones—'allo I say!

Who is he, has he only one eye, glassy and glaring, puckered in sunshine, and the other an empty socket (have the crows picked it out) hidden by a leathery black patch?—tramping after them, a giant, big booted feet, ivory-headed cane rapping rapping rapping,
'allo my little ones, 'allo my sweet little birdies,
bewhiskered and solemn, rubbery red lips, clenched white teeth, black riding coat bunched at the shoulders (is he a dwarf grown to the size of a giant, is he a troll dressed in a gentleman's costume), handsome black Western hat sloped low over his forehead,
'allo little birdies, where will ye fly, Old Sir Ebeneezer Snuff has y'r number, Old Sir Ebeneezer Snuff knows both y'r names, what-ho Master Darian, what-ho Mistress Esther, where will ye fly, my sweet little birdies, Old Ebeneezer Snuff sees all in Heaven, and Earth, and the Darksome Regions Beneath, with his one all-mighty eye!

Has
he only one eye, and the other picked clean by crows?

Is his voice, slicing the air, meant to hurt?

They have flown to the topmost branch of the oak tree to escape him—they have flown to the topmost branch of the tallest tree in the marsh—and now that ridge of cloud overhead, ribbed and shadowed, like steps, and they
are
steps, steps leading up—up and up into the sky—

But Old Ebeneezer is too quick, Old Ebeneezer scoops them up in his arms, snorting, clacking his teeth, did they think they might escape? did they think they might fly away into the sky? Old Ebeneezer gives them wet smacking whiskery kisses,
What-ho, Master Darian, what-ho, Mistress Esther
, squirming like eels, wild and frenzied and hot, shrieking with laughter, it isn't good for little Darian's jumpy heart (Katrina has warned), it isn't good for little Esther's delicate nerves (Katrina has warned, has warned), but this is Old Ebeneezer who loves them, Old Ebeneezer who adores them,
My
sweet ones, my darlings, O my darlings I am home!
—and today the honor falls to Esther to peel away, with trembling fingers, the silly scratchy beard, the Distinguished Silver Goatee, and, ah! what a fit of giggling just to see the sudden clean-shaven chin, the familiar chin, big strong snapping jaws and clackety-clackety teeth,
Where did you think you might fly, sweethearts, where were you headed, my darlings?
—the hot tender kisses, the heated love,
O my darlings, I am home!
—the hat whipped from his head to sail, to sail where it would—the thick-waved hair scented with powder, whitish-silver dust (to make them sneeze)—and now it is Darian's privilege to peek beneath the eye patch, the terrifying black eye patch, to see at last if the socket is empty (but it cannot be empty), if the socket is picked clean (but it cannot be picked clean), and, ah!—what relief, what heartstopping joy, for of course Father's eye is there as always—Father's eye has been there (
must
have been there) all along—winking out now slyly, brightly, blindingly—

The children bucking about on Father's strong shoulders, Father's high, high shoulders—so high!—their heads brushing against the ceiling, their heads brushing against the ceiling, their heads brushing against the sky,
My angels, my sweetest sweetest innocents, do you love your poor old Sir Snuff?
—the center of all the world, here. So long as Father is home.

        
(But will you go away again?—Oh, never.
And will you take me with you when you go?—Oh, never.)

And there are presents for all, of course there are presents, that is part of the reason, isn't it, for Father being away so long, so very long this time, March, April, May . . . well into June?

No matter. Father is home
now
and home is the center of all God's world
now.

For Esther a pretty French doll with blue paperweight eyes, wood and papier-mâché body (a doll of high degree, boasts Father, signed by one
“Jumeau, Paris 1883”); for Darian a shiny black-and-ivory harmonica which he can play within minutes; for Katrina, doubtful Katrina, a new coffee grinder, look here he'll unscrew the old and screw in the new, right here beside the sink, just at the height Katrina requires.

But there is more, of course there is more—

For Esther, sweet shy Esther, a pair of white eyelet gloves trimmed with embroidered violets; for Darian a glossy-covered songbook,
Gems from Erin, Book II
; for Katrina an enormous black silk umbrella with a carved ivory handle, look how it opens with an explosive
snap
—!

And, again for Darian, a “pocket sundial”; and for Esther a keepsake box (enamel, mother-of-pearl, chips of colored glass like demented winking eyes); and for Katrina a potpourri jar of wavy glass—which at last melts Katrina's mask of a face into a smile.

And we all applaud! Squeal, stamp our feet and applaud!

For Father is home
now
and it is time to be happy
now.

(IT'S PROPER CLOTHES
and provisions we need, it's mending the roof we need, Katrina says, and Father says in an undertone, But Katrina you know I will provide, haven't I always provided, O Katrina we're rich again, rich as kings, don't fuss! And Katrina says, We've been rich before haven't we?—which is why I know enough to fuss.)

WHERE IS MILLIE?
the children ask.

Coming home soon, darlings: tomorrow! Father says.

Where is Elisha? the children ask.

Coming home soon, darlings: day after tomorrow! Father says.

And where is Thurston, where is Harwood—?

Soon, soon! A victory banquet, soon!

MY DARLINGS, MY
dear ones, what have I missed?

Father's white shirt open at the throat, Father's shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, Father's cigar and the laughing expulsion of Father's smoky breath, now it is time, it is time, it is time to explore the property, now it is time to examine everything anew, the garden that belongs to Katrina, the damage done by porcupines, the damage done in a windstorm last month, spiky thistles everywhere amid the graves, briars grown so high, so high, snails, slugs, the crumbling stone wall, the blue heron and his mate at the edge of the pond, the owl's nest in the dead tree, a wasp's nest under the eaves, the lichen encrusting the gravestones, Father is tall, a giant, his hat tilted back on his head, they cannot see where his restless eyes shift, they cannot hear his every word, amid the graves, the old churchyard, Mother's grave, pausing to brush a cobweb from the granite, pausing with cigar clenched between his teeth, head bowed, eyes narrowed, Ah how he loved her! and promised her never never to take
her
children away with him into the world!—as Darian squats to pluck nervously at tiny weeds, as Esther burrows trembling against his trousered leg (knowing it is her fault, as cruel Katrina has hinted, that Mother died and is buried here in the churchyard, she must be blamed, all the world will one day blame her), the sudden expulsion of tobacco smoke, the angry sob, the abrupt alteration of mood, Father hauling Darian to his feet, Father seizing Esther's frightened little hand, stepping high in the grass, marching, singing, swinging their arms in their old noisy song—

        
“Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
The boys are marching!”

Father lays a finger alongside his nose, winks and confides in these, his youngest children, his angel-children, certain secrets he would not wish Katrina to overhear.
Children, the earth is owned by the dead! There are many more dead than living, children! Count 'em up, children, should you doubt your father!—count
'em up!—the earth is theirs, dear children and, ah! the world is ours.
A vast breath, his chest deepening, swelling, eyes grown bright, hard-muscled jaws relaxing finally in a smile.

The world, dear children, is ours—so long as we claim it.

So long as we have the courage, dear children, to claim it.

LATER, FATHER'S MOOD
changes abruptly and he wants to be alone.

Wants to wander in the marsh, alone.

As always, alone.

(He has been quizzing them playfully yet seriously on their studies, posing little mathematical problems; listening with interest to Esther's singing, her thin wavering sweet little voice; listening to Darian playing a Mozart rondo on the organ, but more severely, snapping his fingers to scold when Darian's small hand fails to stretch an octave and a wrong key is struck—“Shame on you, son. When Amadeus Mozart was your age, he wasn't just playing music like that perfectly,
he was composing it.
” Disgusted now suddenly he's had enough of children, even angel-children, Sophie's darlings, he wants to be alone, to wander in the marsh alone, to vanish from their sight, to elude even Katrina's sharp possessive eye, to have no one trailing after him and adoring him calling him
Father.
)

It is forbidden to follow so of course heartsick Darian does not follow.

AT THE KEYBOARD,
left behind. Abandoned. A nine-year-old with a peaked narrow face, large glistening-brown eyes, a fluttery rheumatic heart. Slender fingers trailing over the yellowed ivory keys. The distinctly flat C above high C. The F-sharp that grates on the ear. Keys that stick in the humidity, keys that no longer sound, the crude pumping of the pedal, flies buzzing high overhead, trapped against the windows, the airless heat
of the church interior, jammed with old furniture amid the pews, rolled-up carpets secured with baling wire, piles of aged leatherbound books with gilt titles . . . Music is Darian's solace, music is Darian's companion, the foot-pedal organ like the spinet piano is but a vehicle to render music audible; music which would otherwise exist solely in his head, yet how beautifully there, with what purity, precision; his small clumsy hands can't violate such music, such music can't be betrayed by any mortal failing.
I who have never lived will outlive you
the simple notes of the Mozart rondo promise,
in such is the highest happiness.
Though Darian is only nine years old, and small for his age, a “runt of an angel” Father has sometimes teased, he knows that this is so; and he is happy. As treble notes, bass notes, inverted scales, powerful chords range up and down the creaking keyboard. His hands moving with their own antic life. Their own volition, desire. The woman at the bottom of the marsh is singing, the woman at the bottom of the marsh is calling, the woman at the bottom of the marsh commands
Come to me! come to me! come to me!
he hears, he does not hear, his fluttery heart beats panicked as a bird trapped inside his ribs like those occasional birds trapped inside the church flinging themselves against the windows, but he hears nothing, he is responsible for nothing, he is not even responsible for his little sister whom he adores, like magic his fingers move where they will, as in one of Katrina's tales something will happen as it will, no one can stop it, no one can guide it, no one can predict it, how Darian's small aching hands leap and strike and frolic where they will, he hears the woman singing in the marsh and knows that Father has gone to her but it is forbidden for Darian to go to her, it is forbidden for him even to know of her, to have such intimacy of her, hunched as he is at the keyboard of the old organ in the Church of the Nazarene, Risen, in Darian Licht's long dream of childhood.

The cruelest dream is not Darian's alone. It is a dream of the household. A dream shared by all the children, in turn—that
Father has children elsewhere.

And there will be a time (if they disappoint him, if they are clumsy, or slow, or cowardly) when he will not return to Muirkirk.

For hasn't Father hinted of such, himself?

For there is evidence: daguerreotypes, cameos and drawings of other children they have discovered . . . children like themselves, and children near-grown, and mere infants, swaddled in white, on their mothers' and nursemaids' knees . . . .Millicent once declared in her bright angry voice that it didn't matter who these children were,
they weren't Lichts.
Yet another time, on another day, examining a faded cameo she had discovered in a trunk of old clothes, the likeness of a child with eyes wistful and lovely as her own, curly blond ringlets as charming as her own, she said, sighing, “Oh, but suppose she
is
my sister, somewhere! And one day Father allows us to meet . . . .”

Elisha snatched the cameo from Millie's fingers and regarded it with a queer little smile, not quite derision and not quite sympathy. He said, “
This
girl is most likely dead and gone by now, how old do you think she'd
be
in real time—!”

(Elisha has said that nothing of Father's—nothing that is stored in the church, at least—belongs to “real time.”)

But he is mistaken, isn't he?—for one of the oil portraits, the most beautiful portrait of all, is of Darian's and Esther's mother Sophie.

FATHER KEEPS THE
portrait hidden in a locked room at the very rear of the church, his “vault” as he calls it. He allows Darian and Esther to look at it only in his presence, perhaps he fears they will ruin its delicate cracking surface with their fingers, their furtive caresses . . . .When it is time, and only Father knows the correct time, he takes them into the secret room, he draws off the dusty velvet cloth with reverent fingers, crouching solemn and transfixed before the painting, Darian in the crook of his left arm, Esther in the crook of his right, Why,
is
this their mother!
Is
this poor Sophie,
who lies buried now in the churchyard! Their eyes mist over with tears and at first they cannot see clearly. In the painting Sophie is alive again, as they cannot remember her, a girl again, no more than twenty years old; younger than Thurston and Harwood are now. As the artist has rendered her she is extremely handsome, with fair creamy skin, lustrous dark eyes, gleaming black hair pulled smartly away from her forehead; a small pensive smile playing about her lips; yet a mature, composed tilt to her head, an air of startling self-assurance. How easy to imagine that this woman, their mother, is gazing at
them
; she sees and recognizes
them
; that glisten of interest in her beautiful eyes is her love of
them.
Darian and Esther marvel that their mother has scorned to costume herself in the stiff, fussy clothes worn by other women portrayed in other paintings stacked carelessly about the church; Sophie wears a smart riding habit, dove-gray, with pert, mannish, raised shoulders, black velvet trim at the collar, a ruffled white blouse. Beneath her left arm she carries a riding crop as if, only a moment before, she'd strolled casually into the room . . . and has turned her head, casually, to glance in their direction.