A RESCUE

How does a mother recover from such a loss, how pass one night without revisiting, awake or asleep, some detail of that gruesome scene and its aftermath – the crushed, mangled bodies, the bloodied stones, the shards of Melody’s sled found wedged between the rails of the park fence, Miss Jekyll’s kid glove clutched in Victor’s death‑frozen hand?

Virginia retired from the world. The window through which she had witnessed the destruction of all her joy was covered by a black drape. She couldn’t bear to leave the house where her children had been happy, yet every room reproached her with reminders of what was not there. She was silent, broken, a specter wandering through empty days in search of a door that would lead her out of her suffering. But there was no door.

“Inconsolable” was her husband’s diagnosis. He shared her grief, he felt it; his children had been infinitely dear to him, but he couldn’t stop living because they were gone. He grieved for the children and for his wife as well. He couldn’t reach her. She, who had been so generous, so loving, so admiring, now regarded him as if he were a stranger who couldn’t be entirely trusted. He longed to comfort her, but she shuddered at his touch.

Three years passed and Virginia showed only small signs of improvement. She went so far as to send brief messages to various well‑wishers, but she would neither leave the house nor receive visitors. She wasn’t unkind and she encouraged her husband to take up his ordinary life; she had no wish to enclose him in her personal version of hell. Jeremiah, a lively, impressionable man, thrived on society as a plant thrives on watering, and was much in demand. Once a suitable period of mourning had passed he began to appear, with his wife’s permission, at small social events around the town.

One evening in early spring, when the trees were swollen with buds and the ground squishy underfoot, an old family friend invited Jeremiah to a gathering at which a “remarkable clairvoyant” would be presented to the gathered company. The host, Mr. Harold Bakersmith, dabbled in Spiritualism, hypnotism, and telepathy, and fancied himself something of an investigator into psychic phenomena. “There’s a lot of fraud out there,” he confided to Jeremiah, “but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing in it.” He had visited the clairvoyant at a “sitting”–she didn’t like the word “séance”–and all present agreed the results had been simply staggering. “She’s as close to the real thing as can be found anywhere, in my opinion, and I am not easily persuaded.”

The company gathered, a group of fourteen, made up of lawyers, doctors, several fashionable ladies, and a few unfashionable dowagers, all lightly acquainted, agreeable and cultured personages. Mr. and Mrs. Bakersmith offered their guests refreshments and directed the servants in the arrangement of chairs so that everyone might have a comfortable view of their guest of honor. At length, Mrs. Bertha Bakersmith wandered to the makeshift stage, a small table and armchair facing the room, where, holding aloft a crystal glass and tapping it with her spoon, she urged her friends to take their seats, as Miss Petra was prepared to speak to them.

Violet came in at a side door, dressed all in white, her dark hair subdued in a thick braid wrapped over the crown of her head. Impractical golden slippers flashed beneath the loose pleats of her skirt as she crossed the carpet to the stage. She perched upon the armchair, sitting well forward so that her feet, in their golden slippers, could reach the floor. She adjusted her position, arranged her skirts, keeping her eyes down so that her audience could take in this pale, lovely, ephemeral presence, and only when every eye had settled firmly upon her did she look up. Her lips were lifted at the corners, her gaze as still and pellucid as a spring‑fed pool. Mrs. Bakersmith approached, turned to the company, and, resting her palm on the wing of the chair, announced, “We are so pleased to have Miss Violet Petra with us this evening, and to introduce her to our dear friends in our own home. Many of you have heard tell, I doubt not, of her extraordinary gifts. If you have not, prepare to be astounded and comforted, for she bears tidings of peace and joy for us all.” Then, touching her fingertips to her breastbone to indicate the tumult within, the proud hostess took her seat, leaving the stage, such as it was, to the medium.

Violet remained perfectly still, her eyes moving candidly from face to face, like a schoolteacher taking in a class of restless children, seeking out the eyes that met her own as well as those that looked askance. But they were not children, as she knew very well. They were grown men and women, prosperous, powerful, and educated – what could they want from this frail creature with her golden slippers and her penetrating gaze? She was so small, so friendless, in that room that her courage alone commended her to them. The sight of her animated maternal feeling in even the gloomiest dowager’s heart and aroused in the gentlemen their most chivalrous and indulgent sympathies. The air in the room was still, yet charged with beneficent energy.

“I sense great loss, deep sadness,” Violet observed. Her voice was low, but it carried to the farthest corners of the room. “Fear, disappointment.” She paused, leaned back, then smiling, added, “but there is cause for joy as well. A new baby, a girl – her name is Dora – will be with us by morning.”

A startled “Oh” escaped the lips of a stout matron near the stage. “My grandchild is expected this week,” she said. “If a girl, she will be named for me, Dora Louise.”

Violet nodded. “She is well. Mother and child will be well.”

A light rustle of silk moved like a whisper through the audience as the ladies leaned toward one another. The gentlemen straightened up in their chairs to catch the eyes of their fellows. They perused each other, gauging the level of receptivity or skepticism in the open faces of their neighbors. For a few moments no one looked at Miss Petra and she took in her fill of them all. In twos and threes they returned their attention to her. When she again held them in her sway, she perplexed them by closing her eyes. Again the attentive, breathing silence freighted the atmosphere of the room. Violet raised her hands just above the armrests of her chair, her eyes still closed. When she spoke, her clear, soft voice had the intonation of one reciting a creed. “Our suffering ends at death’s door,” she said. “Our loved ones are among us.”

A furtive movement of eyes greeted this curious announcement; some glanced up behind the medium’s slightly bowed head, others looked from side to side, lifting their chins, tilting their heads, as if to listen more closely to a barely audible sound. A few cast their eyes down, lips compressed, like children who hope to escape attention.

Violet kept her eyes closed, her hands raised, palms forward, her eyebrows lifted, lips slightly parted, breathing softly through her mouth. A few long moments passed before she spoke again. “Is there a spirit present who will speak to us?”

Another silence, during which a gentleman near the front cleared his throat.

“No? Are you timid? Oh, I see.” She dropped her hands, opened her eyes, gazing at the audience with an expression of affectionate amusement. “It seems there is a skeptic among us,” she said. “Perhaps more than one?” Leaning to one side of her chair, she met the chilly eyes of a mustached gentleman, who, bristling at her cheerful scrutiny, looked down at his waistcoat, where he found some bit of infuriating lint to brush away. Violet’s gaze moved to a frail dowager sunk in an armchair near the door, so deeply ensconced and muffled in shawls and veils that it was impossible to see her face. Having identified the sources of incredulity in the room, Violet resumed her posture, hands raised, eyes closed, in an attitude of intense listening.

“But it doesn’t matter,” she said. “There are many here who long for some message, some comfort.” She paused; nodding her head to some proposal only she could hear. “Of course. Yes. I will tell Abigail that you are content. This is a young man, very blond with such blue eyes. He is content. You are not to concern yourself with the will. The lawyer can be trusted.”

All attended the snuffle and gasp of a young lady, who murmured, “Oh, my darling,” as she applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

“This is a venerable gentleman,” Violet continued, “with a snow‑white beard. He wishes to say that he was never happy on this side; that he was sometimes cruel and thoughtless to his son, whose name is Fredrick – no – Hendrick? Henry, yes. He regrets his cruelty, he is happy now, he watches you with love and affection. He approves. Well …” She paused, frowning. “He’s becoming teary, I’m afraid. He says, ‘Forgive me.’ ”

A middle‑aged gentleman, known to all present as a prominent physician, leaned forward in his chair and covered his mouth with his hand.

“And here are two children. They are laughing, holding hands. Are they brother and sister? The boy has dark hair, the little girl is a pretty child, with such straight flaxen hair; she looks like a little Dutch girl. Tell Mama it is so lovely here. Tell her we miss her. We miss Papa too; the boy says that. Tell him there are many children here.”

Abruptly Violet dropped her hands and sank back in her chair. “They’ve gone,” she said, evidently speaking to herself. She raised her head, but kept her unfocused eyes lowered. After a moment she pressed her left fingertips over her left eye and sighed. “They’ve gone,” she said again. “I’m very tired.”

Mrs. Bakersmith rose from her chair, facing the audience as she advanced upon Violet, who appeared incapable of movement. “She’s exhausted herself,” she explained to the curious onlookers. “These sittings are so taxing to her faculty.” She bent over the clairvoyant, helping her to stand and to lean upon her arm. Then the hostess led her guest to a smaller parlor off the hall, where she eased her into a comfortable chaise, crooning sweet compliments and solicitous advice. “Let me bring you a glass of port to fortify you.”

“Port would be lovely,” Violet agreed.

Jeremiah Babin waited in the hall for twenty minutes before he was allowed into the parlor for his first interview with the woman he hoped might deliver his wife from the darkness of never‑ending despair.

* * *

For two weeks Virginia Babin resisted her husband’s entreaties to allow Violet Petra into her presence. Perhaps, as is sometimes the case with the bereaved, she had discovered in the intensity of her suffering a kind of strength. The loss of her children had alienated her from God, and she had no wish to be reconciled to anything resembling a faith.

Jeremiah pointed out that Miss Petra required neither a profession of belief nor excessive ritual. In his conversation with her after the Bakersmith demonstration, he had found her to be without artifice or guile. She didn’t know how she was able to do what she did, but she was willing to assist anyone who believed she might be of use. “She told me she could try,” Jeremiah explained, “but it wasn’t so unlikely that she would fail.”

“No,” said Virginia. “I refuse to sit in the dark while some strange person goes into a trance at my dining table.”

“But the room isn’t dark and there’s no table,” Jeremiah protested. “There’s no tapping or writing on slates and she doesn’t speak in any voice but her own. She doesn’t accept money, she doesn’t go about to halls or put on shows, she gets no advantage from it. Honestly, my love, I do believe this young woman is genuinely gifted.”

“No,” replied Virginia. “Please don’t ask me again. I can’t bear it.”

In the end Virginia agreed that she would bear it, and Violet Petra was invited to tea. “And nothing but tea,” Virginia insisted. In this introductory meeting it was her intention to judge for herself the level of the clairvoyant’s guilelessness and artificiality.

Violet was delivered to the house by Mr. Bakersmith, who handed her off to Jeremiah with the hushed enthusiasm of an art dealer presenting a truly exceptional little picture to a possible buyer. “I’ll be back for her at four thirty,” he promised, doffing his hat to Virginia, who stood at the parlor door, obscured by the impenetrable gloom that seeped from the dark carpets and walls of the still and joyless house. Violet, dressed in a cream cashmere tea gown with a pleated lettuce‑green silk underskirt, her hair braided tightly across her forehead and looped up at the back, resembled a slender column of light beamed into the foyer from some mysterious chink in the edifice. She had noticed Virginia on entering the hall and leaned out past Jeremiah to keep her in sight, as distracted and tense as a child who must endure formalities before opening a present. Murmuring the appropriate pleasantries, she offered her hand to Jeremiah, but her eyes remained on her hostess.

This eagerness of manner alarmed Virginia, and she took a step back from the door, feeling much put upon by the two wealthy and powerful men who had obviously been taken in by the fragile beauty of this clever, brazen impostor. She wanted to bolt up the stairs and hide in her room, but in the next moment Violet advanced upon her, confidently outstretching her gloved hand. “Dear Mrs. Babin,” she began. “Bertha sends you her warmest regards and she has asked me specifically to say that she is in great hopes that you will come to visit her in the nearest possible future.”

Virginia took the hand, ignoring the busy scrutiny of the unabashed eyes. “I don’t go out, Miss Petra,” she said. “As Bertha well knows. Will you sit down?”

Jeremiah followed, filling the doorway with his impressive bulk. His wife cast him a reproachful glance as he stepped inside and occupied himself by examining the tea service. It had been so long out of use that it was badly tarnished, and the maid, enthusiastically embracing the challenge, had polished it to mirror brightness. The pink iced cakes artfully arranged on a tray next to it were reflected in its round belly.

“I believe,” Violet replied as she took the chair her hostess indicated near the comforting warmth of the fire, “that Bertha hopes your kind invitation to me might be an …” She paused, searching for the word. Both Virginia and Jeremiah unconsciously lifted their chins in anticipation. “An indication,” she continued, “of your willingness to rejoin the many friends who so sorely miss the pleasure of your company.”

“Is that what Bertha hopes?” Virginia replied. Her tone betrayed little interest in any response to this rhetorical question. She seated herself before the tray, turning her attention to the duty of pouring out.

Jeremiah took up a glass plate and helped himself to the cakes. “Three years is a long time to stay indoors,” he remarked.

The cup in Virginia’s raised hand rattled lightly against the saucer. As she righted it, setting it on the table next to the pot, Violet studied her. The pressure of her guest’s close inspection disturbed in Virginia a myriad of conflicting emotions, the strongest of which was a determination to suppress any expression of genuine feeling. She expected Violet to echo her husband’s callous observation: Oh, yes, three years was too long. It was time to return to the larger world of her eager and sympathetic friends. Three years was an eternity. She steeled herself for some such effrontery, but when after a thoughtful pause Violet spoke, she said exactly what Virginia wanted to say. “Oh, I don’t think three years is such a very long time at all.”

Virginia allowed her hand to rest on the handle of the pot, raising her eyes to meet the penetrating gaze of this pert young woman whose intrusion into her solitude she had so dreaded. Violet sat stiffly, her eyebrows lifted, her lips compressed, her hands folded in her lap. Her expression was neither sympathetic nor solicitous, but rather disinterested and uncomplicated. No one had looked at Virginia without some internal shrinking from the magnitude of her loss since that day, three years, three months, and seventeen days ago. It was as if someone had thrown open a window and a gush of fresh, warm air had rushed in, dispersing the chilly, stale atmosphere of the long‑closed room. Virginia took a long breath, experiencing as she did a pleasant release at the inner corners of her eyes, across her forehead, and in her jaw.

Jeremiah, munching one of the cakes and wondering why Miss Petra had contradicted his effort to bring Virginia into a more receptive frame of mind, considered the best method of encouraging his wife to speak of what he believed was always nearest her heart. Virginia poured out, added a dash of cream, and offered the filled teacup to her guest, who rose lightly from her chair to receive it. As Violet settled back, she looked up at him and he thought she would speak, but she didn’t. Instead Virginia, who had her back to him, addressed him. It gave him the odd sensation that Miss Petra was somehow speaking through his wife. But her voice was her own, calm, agreeable, and firm: the voice, he recalled, she had used when advising the children’s governess. “I wonder, my dear,” she said, “if you would be so very kind as to leave Miss Petra alone with me for half an hour.”

Jeremiah swallowed his cake. After all, this was exactly what he wanted. That his wife should actually express a desire to talk to someone, really anyone, was a much longed for event. Yet as he looked down upon Virginia’s unmoving head, a tinge of resentment at this cool dismissal pulled the corners of his mouth down – an unconscious reflex Violet was quick to notice. In the next moment he recovered his good humor, wiped his fingers against a napkin, and replied cheerfully, “Of course, of course. I’ll be off. You ladies have much to discuss.”

Turning hard on his heel, he crossed the carpet and let himself out at the hall door, closing it with exaggerated care behind him. Then he stood there, gazing mournfully up at the staircase. What was he to do for half an hour? He hadn’t even gotten his tea.

* * *

Virginia Babin and Miss Petra both knew why they had been brought together, but for several minutes neither of them alluded to it. The time‑honored niceties of tea occupied them. Violet admired the painting of a dour ancestor over the mantel, correctly guessing the artist’s name, a name that had been fashionable during his life, but had languished in obscurity since his death, some half‑century ago. Virginia asked a few polite questions about Bertha Bakersmith and her family. Neither woman mentioned what both knew: that Bertha’s oldest daughter, Margaret, had died from complications attendant on childbirth scarcely a year earlier. They spoke instead of Bertha’s son, who was studying at Harvard Divinity School, having turned his back, to his father’s chagrin and his mother’s delight, on the Law School.

Violet appeared so content to gossip that Virginia began to wonder if her guest might not be relieved to have no immediate demand for an exhibition of her celebrated powers. She chattered pleasantly, she was respectful but slyly amusing. She observed that Bertha wrote long and frequent letters to her son and received short and infrequent responses, whereas the epistolary exchange between Mr. Bakersmith and said son was exactly the reverse; the son wrote at length and often to his father, but received only brief and scarce replies. “It may seem odd that I know this,” Violet concluded, “but I am much entrusted with the mails at the Bakersmiths’. It’s a small service to offer when they have been so generous to me.”

“I’m sure having you there is a great comfort to Bertha,” Virginia said only to say something. She wasn’t sure of anything about Miss Petra, and she was out of practice at conversation. The young woman appealed to her, but there was something disturbing about her presence.

“I believe she has formed an attachment to me,” Violet confessed. She sipped her tea; her eyes, engaging Virginia over the edge of the cup, were as affable as a dog’s. Guileless, Jeremiah had said. Was it possible? When Violet had drained the cup and set it down on the side table, she dabbed her napkin against her lips. Was she preparing some polite formula for parting?

“May I pour you more tea?” Virginia asked, turning her attention to the pot.

“No, thank you,” Violet replied. She pressed her palms against the edge of her chair, lifting herself slightly and shifting forward on the cushion. “Perhaps a little later.”

Virginia took up the glass plate. “You haven’t tried these cakes. I believe they are excellent.”

But her guest made no answer, so she eased the plate back onto the table. When she looked back, Violet was leaning toward her, her back straight, her hands resting on her knees; her head, lifted on the slender, pale stalk of her neck, rotated oddly from right to left. She took no notice of Virginia. Her eyes were lowered, almost closed, her lips slightly parted. She was listening. A log fracturing in the fire gave a sharp pop, which startled Virginia, but Violet, who had now reversed her head’s trajectory from left to right, only fluttered her eyelids.

Virginia could feel her own brows knitting together and her mouth went dry. Oh, no! she thought, but she could not have said what she meant by this mental exclamation, only that she was suddenly swarming with fear. Violet completed her circuit and came to attention, resting her wide, calm eyes, like caressing fingers, upon the furrowed brow of her hostess.

“Miss Petra,” Virginia began. She felt a headache coming on rather fiercely – that would be the import of her remark. But she never got to deliver this bit of personal information. Violet lifted her hands, opening them before her, as if she were lightly pressing on an obstruction. A door. Or a window, Virginia thought. A wave of nausea rose so insistently at this image, which had triggered an intolerable recollection – a woman pressing at a window – that she laid her palm across her waist and sank back in her chair, conscious only of the need to escape. Yet she was also certain that she wouldn’t escape, that she was captured there, every nerve in her body arrested and strained, fixed and fascinated by the silent woman leaning toward her.

When Violet spoke, her voice was low and intimate, as if she were sharing a naughty secret with a trusted confidante. “There is no death,” she said. “Our loved ones are among us.”

A moment passed, than another. “Are there …?” she said, then, with a laugh, “Oh, I see. I’m not going to have to ask. This room is crowded with spirits. I wonder how you sleep in this house. Here is that gentleman in the painting. It’s a fine likeness, I see.”

The clairvoyant’s eyes were closed and Virginia had the opportunity to recover a little of her habitual skepticism. Her terror abated, but she had the eerie sensation that the room was, as Violet suggested, crowded, that the air had taken on substance.

“Here is a young woman,” Violet continued. “Very attractive. She says she regrets, that she tried, that she hopes you forgive her.”

What young woman? Virginia thought. Was she expected to believe this was Miss Jekyll?

“Ah, there they are. I knew they would come when I came in the front door. What pretty children. The little girl says, Tell Mama we are happy here, and the boy, he’s a serious boy, he says, There are many children here. They all long to send messages to their parents. He says that he is well, he misses Papa very much, and Mama very much …” She paused, appearing to listen to something she didn’t quite understand.

Virginia was coming to herself. Everyone knew how her children had died. There was nothing in these silly messages that distinguished these “spirits” from any other children, of which there were, evidently, so many. She drew herself up, recomposing and resisting the pull of what she now recognized as a frantic and irrational desire to believe that her children might somehow be restored to her. She frowned upon Miss Petra. Guileless, indeed, she thought.

“The little girl is anxious about someone,” Violet continued. “Is it a friend? No. Oh, bunny. Yes, it must be a pet. She wants you to be sure to take care of Bunny. No. She’s frowning. She’s not a pet. And her name is not Bunny.” She paused, stretching her chin forward, turning her ear as if to identify a sound at the limit of her hearing range. “Not bunny,” she repeated. “It’s Bunchie.”

Virginia came out of her chair with such force that her hips, colliding with the tea table, sent the cakes and cups flying onto the carpet. In three steps she had crossed the room and flung open the door. Jeremiah, slumped in an uncomfortable armchair in the hall, looked toward her with the dim hope that he might now have his tea. But when he rose to meet his wife, that expectation was dashed. Virginia rushed upon him, one hand outstretched, the other clapped across her mouth, her eyes overflowing with tears, her breath coming in tortured gasps, like a fish suffocating upon air. He opened his arms to her and she collapsed against him, her chilly hands encircling his neck, clinging to him. She was trying to speak; he was trying to understand. She brought her lips close to his ear. “My God,” she croaked in a voice he didn’t recognize. “They are here.” Then her knees gave out and Jeremiah bent over her, clasping her waist as he eased her unconscious body to the floor.

* * *

Bunchie, Jeremiah Babin informed me during a long walk around the placid lake, was his daughter’s doll, which she had so named for her own childish and mysterious reasons. “No one who didn’t know Melody could have known that,” he said. “It was prodigious.”

I couldn’t deny the prodigiousness of this incident. But what, I wondered, had Violet herself had to say about it?

“She remembers nothing,” he explained. “When she’s in contact with the spirits she is entirely a medium. They speak through her, without her knowledge.”

“So she didn’t know what she had told your wife.”

“Not a word,” he said. “It was …” He chuckled, pausing in the path to call up his sensation at the time. “Well, it was almost comical. Virginia came out of her swoon in such a state that I rang for the maid and we got her up to her bed, where I administered a sedative. I completely forgot that Violet was still in the parlor. When my wife was calm, I went downstairs and found her sitting by the fire. The dishes were all over the floor, but she’d poured herself another cup of tea and was eating one of the cakes, perfectly composed, as if she were at home. I went in, quite agitated, as you can imagine, and she looked up with that odd little smile she has, and she said, “Have I been helpful? I do hope so.”

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 562