My Heart Laid Bare (24 page)

(BUT, AS THEY
are not precisely
lovers
, need they feel
guilt
?)

  Millicent, bold and reckless, pretty spoiled Millicent, would inform Father of their love at once, because it is so pure and noble a love; and beg his permission for them to be lawfully wed. Elisha, less certain of Abraham Licht's response, and made rather more subdued than elated by the discovery of his love for Millie, cautions her repeatedly to wait.

At least until Thurston is free, and safe in Canada.

At least until Father is himself again.

IN THIS PRECARIOUS
spring, as May rapidly flies past, they walk together a great deal, in secret, but rarely allow themselves to touch. Kisses are forbidden now, except in certain circumstances: chaste greetings, ceremonial farewells. If they are observed speaking together in low urgent whispers in the manner of plotting lovers they are not in fact speaking of
that
(which is to say, their alarming desire for each other) but, perhaps,
about Thurston and what will become of him in Canada . . . or what Elisha might recall of Millie's mother (“Tell me anything you remember,” Millie begs) . . . or what Millie might recall of her early childhood in Muirkirk, when Elisha was away . . . or the fortunes of Harwood, the prospects of the youngest children, the likelihood of Father's marrying again (“Though in actual fact I doubt that he has ever been married
at all
,” Elisha says).

Regarding Thurston—Elisha is confident, or seems so, that the plan will work: for Father has seen to every detail, and will even be present at the “execution,” as Lord Harburton Shaw. But Millie, drawing slightly away from him, will say only in a faint voice, “Oh Elisha, my darling—my dream has prepared me for the worst.”

CONDEMNED MURDERER STRUCK DEAD

BEFORE GALLOWS AT “THE WALL”

Witnesses Reported “Shocked”

T
his, the banner headline for the
New York Tribune
for 30 May 1910. Tall lurid black letters like a shout.

For it happened that, before a small crowd of witnesses including the distinguished English prison reformer Lord Harburton Shaw, the young
man convicted of having murdered Manhattan socialite Eloise Peck apparently fell into a swoon at the very sight of the tall ugly gallows at the State Correctional Facility, and died within minutes despite the attempt of an attending physician to revive him.

What a spectacle! What guilty horror passed through the gathering! The execution ritual was hastily aborted and all witnesses save prison authorities were ushered out of the yard and urged not to make further inquiries. It would subsequently be reported in a terse statement by the prison warden that the convicted murderer Schoenlicht had died of “severe cardiac arrest”; for the first time in the history of the notorious prison at Trenton, a man had cheated the gallows minutes before he was to be hanged. As an indignant Lord Shaw told New York reporters, “Witnesses were more shocked and shamed, it seemed, that the means of ‘punishment' was so cruel as to frighten a man to death, than they would have been had the poor lad been hanged.” For some weeks a controversy raged in the
Post
and other New York and New Jersey newspapers over the “cruelty” or “justice” of hanging, or of any form of capital punishment. Lord Shaw was a hero to some, an interfering foreigner to others; in his zealous wake, a campaign for execution reform was begun by several Christian organizations to which Lord Shaw was rumored to have contributed generous sums of money. He was said, too, out of pity for the young murderer who'd died of fright, to have arranged for a private burial for him, to spare him “the final ignominy” of a pauper's grave in the untended cemetery behind the Trenton prison.

Unfortunately, the idealistic Englishman departed the United States to return to England, unless to sail to Australia, in pursuit of his cause, in early June; and disappeared from the controversy.

“What? What do you mean—
vanished
?”

“Only, sir, that he—it—is
not here.
As you can see.”

“But he—it—
must be here.
A corpse cannot rise out of his coffin and walk away, surely. I insist that you and your assistants search the premises more thoroughly.”

“Sir, you can be sure that we've done so. More than once, from bottom to top, sir. But he—it—the remains of ‘Christopher Schoenlicht'—is
gone
; and good riddance, we say. And this was left behind, sir, pinned to the satin lining of the casket—”

An envelope upon which the name LORD SHAW was hastily scrawled in pencil.

With shaking fingers Lord Shaw took the envelope, strode out of Eakins Brothers Funeral Home on South Street, Trenton, and, in the street, where his valet Elijii awaited him behind the wheel of a small truck with an open, tarpaulin-covered rear, read aloud this enigmatic message:

        
“Thurston & Christopher—forgive.

I am neither now.

        
I renounce Satan & his ways.

Farewell.”

From out of the truck Elijii called anxiously, “Lord Shaw? What is it?” seeing the elder man stricken in the grimly pale metallic-smelling Trenton half-light. “Where is—Thurston?”

The elder man's face was draining of blood; yet ruddy spots remained on his cheeks, as if in mockery of manly vigor and good spirits. For a long moment he did not speak, until the Indian servant climbed from the vehicle to stand before him; then he said, feebly, though with mounting anger, “He is ‘risen'—and he has, it seems, ‘ascended.' At any rate, it seems he is gone.”

“What? How?”

“Presumably, he walked away. He has, he says”—waving the scrawled message in Elijii's face—“‘renounced' us. And has
gone.
”

The young Indian, his showy white silk turban so tightly wound about his handsome head that his forehead appeared compressed, gaped at his master in astonishment. Lord Shaw's elegant British accent had abruptly disappeared and in its place was a harsh, choked American accent, the flat nasal vowels of upstate western New York colliding with the clipped consonants of New York City. Seeing that no one was near, Lord Shaw roundly cursed, “Hell! Damnation! Son of a bitch—
his
lineage!” swinging himself up into the passenger's seat of the truck, saying, “And we, too, will be
gone.
Elijii, don't stand there like an idiot. I've had enough of Trenton, New Jersey, and of the folly of ingrate sons, to last me a lifetime, and more.”

I
f you cry your tears will turn into fiery red ants and eat away your eyes.

If you cry your tears will burn rivulets into your cheeks.

If you cry poison thistles will spring up where your tears have fallen.

If you cry our enemies will hear and rejoice.

Never cry except in solitude.
But never cry if you can laugh instead.

NOW THAT HER
brother has been sent away to school, now there is no one except the girl who knows of the woman who comes in the night, the woman who smells wet and cold and sharp like night, the smiling woman stepping out of the hill of old bones, lifting her skeleton hand to touch . . . Lifting both her hands, her skeleton-hands, to take hold . . .

The girl is said to have caused the woman's death but no one blames her because she was only a baby at the time because she cannot remember the time. Nor does her mother blame her, smiling, whispering,
My baby? you are my baby! you love me!

The slanted crumbling lichen-covered grave markers, the burdocks and thistles and chicory, the dandelions that blossom bright yellow and turn to fluff in days, the smell of hot sunshine, the smell of patches of fog, running too fast in spongy soil you can turn your ankle and fall heavily and cut your silly forehead
but never cry if you can laugh instead.

Because that woman has no power to hurt! because her eyes are stuffed with dirt! the eye sockets empty and stuffed with dirt! any door or window can be locked against her, you can burrow to the foot of the bed to escape her, you can press the pillow hard, hard, over your head to escape her, you can press into Katrina's arms, Katrina will hide you, the woman is nothing but old bones ground down fine as dust, old bones that are gritty white powder, the eyes are not eyes but empty holes stuffed with dirt, they are not
staring
they are
empty
, and that is no voice, that whispering you hear, because she never had a voice.

MY BABY?

But she is no one's baby.

A tall gawky shy child, nine years old, ten years old, long-legged, clumsy, lank brown hair Katrina keeps thinned and cut short (otherwise it will snarl beneath and hurt, oh, how it will hurt bringing tears into her eyes), small puckered mouth, small deep-set somber eyes, a startled expression, a frightened smile behind the raised fingers, forehead just a little too wide, jaw too thick, feet too long,
and she is only eleven years old
, joining in the boys' laughter as they toss dried clumps of mud and cow manure in her direction, as the hard green pears from the Mackays' orchard fly past her ducked head, her secret is that she loves them all, her secret is that she makes her way by stealth along the back lanes and alleys of the town, at night, she is a red-winged hawk, she is a barn owl with glaring tawny eyes, she spies on them all, she hates and adores them all, how do people live?
how do people in other families live? what are the things they say to each other when no strangers can hear? at dusk, at night, behind their partly drawn blinds, behind their filmy gauzy lacy curtains, by lamplight, by the warmth of a wood-burning stove, how do they look at one another? how do they smile at one another? by the high thin tolling of the church bells, as the wind shreds the clouds overhead, what are their secrets we cannot hear?

She escapes them by flying above the marsh, turning away toward the mountains, where Mount Chattaroy catches the evening sun, she is dipping and circling, soaring, slow, lazy, perfectly in control, her wide wings scarcely need to move, only the sleek dark feathers ripple in the wind, her beak is made for jabbing, ripping, tearing, but she will do no injury . . . she will do no injury because she is good . . . because she wants only to be a slow gliding shadow, there in the water, to be
seen
, to be
feared
, to be
admired
, to be
known.

She escapes them by turning into a shining copper-colored snake and disappearing into a hole in the ground! . . . she is one of the giant orange butterflies . . . and sometimes a horse, a young colt, silky black mane and tail, black stamping hooves, only the eyes gleaming white, only the teeth flashing white, as she gallops noiselessly along the road . . . in stealth, at dusk, by night, along the road . . . down the long dusty hill and across the narrow wooden bridge that rattles as if the planks are going to fly up into the air as if the rusted girders are going to break but she is not frightened
she
is not frightened, her powerful muscular legs driving hard, hard, her mane wild, her tail black and silky and wild, her enormous hooves pounding in the earth, she is no baby any longer, there is no need for her to be frightened any longer, the fresh wet smell of the night fills her nostrils, her lungs expand in joy, is that the taste, the acrid gritty taste, of last year's leaves? is that trickling the sound of the Muirkirk Creek, the shallow rivulets making their way around the great bleached boulders in the creek bed?

All that you need to know, Father once whispered, gripping her tight, tight, her tiny ribs aching in his embrace, is that I love you. You are Esther, my daughter, and I love you.

Father returns suddenly, Father is home again, after the terrible quarrel with Harwood when Harwood is sent away forever (to Canada? to Mexico? to South America?) he remains in Muirkirk for nearly six weeks, and sometimes he locks himself away in his bedroom and no one dares knock on the door and sometimes he leaves the house before dawn and is gone until midnight and sometimes he glances in Esther's direction without seeing her and sometimes he glances in her direction and
sees
her . . . and it is clear that he loves her, he adores her, too tender to scold if she blunders in her recitations, if she strikes the wrong notes on the piano, if she hasn't Darian's talent, or Millicent's beauty, or the trick of holding his rapt attention as 'Lisha does . . . .

Love is enough, Father murmurs aloud, why isn't love
enough
?

Come here, Esther, little one, Father whispers, his breath smelling of whiskey, oh, don't bother me, Esther, please don't hang on me like that, you aren't a baby any longer,
don't stare into my face.

To Darian he says suddenly, It may be
time
, mysteriously he says, It may be time now for
you
, and Esther is jealous for a week as Father plans (in defiance of Reverend Woodcock) a campaign to introduce Darian to the music-loving populace of the State . . . beginning, if all goes well, with his début in Carnegie Hall. Which pieces should he play? Which pieces best demonstrate his remarkable piano technique, his
virtuosity
, unparalleled in any child his age on this side of the Atlantic? (There is a Mozart rondo in which Darian's fingers flash, there is a “Minute Waltz” of Chopin's that dazzles the eye no less than the ear, and one or two of the boy's own compositions
are impressive if rather discordant . . . .It is so difficult to choose, perhaps they will require the services of a professional manager after all.)

If only Darian were younger, if only Father had not waited so long! . . . for it is difficult to bill the boy as a prodigy when, clearly, he is no longer a child, despite his slender frame and thin-cheeked face, he is twelve years old, is he? or nearly? but might well pass for a child of ten, if dressed appropriately. It might even be a possibility (so Father muses aloud, pulling at his chin as if it were bearded, and fixing Darian with a bright calculating eye) to present him as a
girl
, for the music-loving populace might well prefer a
girl
, up there onstage, seated at an enormous concert grand piano, playing those astonishingly difficult pieces, Chopin, Mozart, isn't there something of Czerny, and Liszt, and . . .

Darian sulks, Darian dares whisper No, all the household is in a turmoil because Darian has whispered No, and Millie and 'Lisha seem to have taken his side (though they do not risk Father's anger by saying so aloud), and Katrina adds to the upset by telling Father it is a very poor idea indeed, doesn't he know that Darian's heart isn't strong, he tires rapidly, in the winter months in particular he is susceptible to all sorts of colds and flus and congestions, can it be that he, Darian's father, has actually forgotten?

Boldly the old woman says, Do you want to lose your youngest son, as you have lost your eldest?

And Father has no reply.

And Father retreats, and says no more about Darian's debut at Carnegie Hall, and is gone from Muirkirk, taking Millie and 'Lisha with him, within a week.

And Father is gone, and within a few months Darian is gone, to boarding school in Vanderpoel; and Esther falls in love with Dr. Deerfield
who is so friendly to her when he sees her in town, no she falls in love with Dr. Deerfield's son Aaron, no she is in love with no one, she hates and adores them all, at dusk she prowls the lane behind the old mill, she cuts through the Mackays' cow pasture, makes her way in stealth in silence (as a red-winged hawk, as a barn owl, as a galloping black colt) along the unnamed dirt road that parallels Main Street, staring into windows, puzzling over lives, glimpses of lives, behind gauzy curtains, behind partly drawn blinds, How
do
people live in a family? the girl wonders, What are the things they say to one another, what are the things they don't need to say?

You cannot run wild like this, Katrina scolds.

Katrina grips her shoulders, Katrina scolds, You are a
Licht
—don't you know who you are?

BY DAY THE
men and women of Muirkirk who have occasion to know Esther Licht know her as a sweet child, a friendly child, despite her strange ways, her painful shyness, that high startled laughter, she is a well-mannered child too despite her clumsiness, and intelligent if you can get her to talk, if you can get her to look you in the eye, attractive too though not pretty, the poor thing will never be pretty, not as her sister Millicent is pretty, but does it matter? The Woodcocks are fond of Esther Licht, the Ewings, the Mackays, Mrs. Oakes, Mrs. Kincaid, her tutor Mr. Ryan, Dr. Deerfield speaks of her with surprised pleasure, her interest in doctoring, nursing, medicine, “making hurt things well . . . .” Esther is so plain-featured and graceless, there
is
something appealing about her, she hasn't the charm of her sister Millicent, the older Thurston and Elisha, certainly she doesn't strike the eye or the ear as Abraham Licht's
daughter
, which is why they like her.

(Not that Abraham Licht isn't liked, or anyway admired. Not that Muirkirk isn't grateful for his intermittent interest in the town—he has donated money to several of the churches, to the library, even to the temperance organization in which, as he has said, he doesn't
altogether
believe. Not that many of the Muirkirk gentlemen don't envy him, indeed, and speculate on the sort of life he leads elsewhere, the financial coups, the beautiful women, the excitement . . . .The problem is simply this: no one trusts him. Even as he speaks warmly, and graciously, and
convincingly
, even then, by some mysterious sort of magic, he fails to
convince
!)

HOW SAD, THAT
lonely child! Motherless since birth; and fatherless much of the time as well; glimpsed wandering by herself in the fields and woods and marshy pastures outside town . . . or, in town, along Main Street, in the square, in the vicinity of the public school, or Dr. Deerfield's white-shingled house on Bay Street . . . observed in the high-ceilinged reading room of the new library (a gift of Mr. Carnegie's, the pride of Muirkirk: a magnificent limestone building three stories high, turreted, with an oak-walled gymnasium, nickel baths in the basement, even a tile pool open to all residents of Muirkirk). She has few friends her own age . . . she seems to know few boys and girls her own age . . . but she has recently joined Mrs. Clay's Temperance Choir, which meets twice weekly in the Methodist Church Hall, and heartily sings such temperance favorites as “King Alcohol”—

        
King Alcohol has many forms
By which he catches men.
He is a beast of many horns
And ever thus has been!

and “Ten Nights in a Barroom” with its heartrending chorus, which never fails to bring tears to all eyes:

        
Hear the sweet voice of the child,

Which the nightwinds repeat as they roam!

        
Oh, who could resist this most pleading of prayers?

“Please, father, dear father,
come home!”

On snowy or rain-lashed days Katrina can be prevailed upon to tell her old tales . . . of Robin the miller's son, and Mina the governor's daughter . . . and the great white “King of the Wolves” who dwells on Mount Chattaroy . . . and the little girl who disobeyed her grandmother and turned into a turtle . . . and the little boy who disobeyed
his
grandmother and turned into an ugly giant bullfrog, condemned to croak in protest for the remainder of his life: and a hideous long life it was!

But most disturbing of all the tales, Esther thinks, is that of the king's son and the king's daughter which (so Katrina says crossly) Esther isn't old enough to understand.

Yes I am, says Esther, shivering—yes I
am.

No you're not, says Katrina, because the king's son and the king's daughter fell in
love
, and you don't know what
love
is, and you don't know the kind of
love
that is forbidden between brother and sister, don't pretend you do!—Anyway the story took place long ago, a very long time ago, though the marsh was as it is today, the marsh never changes, and the flowers and plants and trees and animals that grow in it, none of them ever changes, they were there at the beginning of the world and will be there at the end, and long ago, when this story took place, there was a certain black fruit, a sweet juicy black fruit, like peaches, like apples, like black currants, and it was known to be a poison fruit, but an elixir might be made of it, a medicine, a potion, to be used to make people fall in love, for instance if a man loves a woman and she doesn't love him, or a woman loves a man and he doesn't love
her
, do you understand? well no I don't suppose you do, how can a child your age understand? but anyway the king's son fell in love with his own sister who was the most beautiful princess in the world, and he
was bitterly jealous of her many suitors, and vowed no one would marry her but he, and one day he went into the marsh and met an old woman, a very old white-haired woman, and he asked her for a special medicine to give to his sister, that she would love no one but
him
, and the old woman gave him a juice made of the black fruit, and warned him of its terrible power, and told him it could not be undone except by death, and he snatched it from her without thanking her, he laughed to think that he might ever wish the potion undone, he was wild with love for the princess and cared not at all for the rest of the world, not for her, or their father the king, still less for her suitors, in truth he wished her suitors all dead, for his
hatred
was as great as his
love
, so wicked a young man was he.