A Drowned Maiden's Hair (20 page)

The black book was the Bible — a disappointment, but not a surprise. Big black books generally turned out to be Bibles. Muffet’s Bible, however, was a puzzle. It had thin paper and black numbers at the beginning of each section, but it was full of foreigners: Giovanni and Pietro and Giacomo. The name on the flyleaf was “Vicenzo Cerniglia.”

Maud tried to pronounce it. Then she turned to the other book, which was a photograph album. That, too, was a disappointment — Maud didn’t care much for pictures, particularly pictures of homely-looking people in old-fashioned clothes. Nevertheless, she leafed through them. There was a hollow-cheeked man with untidy whiskers and a woman whose hair was pulled back so tight that it made her ears stick out. There was also a child.

In Maud’s opinion, the child was the only person in the album who might lay claim to being pretty. She was doe-eyed, with a wide brow and curls that looked as round and dark as purple grapes. Maud pictured her in modern clothes and decided she would look nice. She turned over another page, and there was the child again: the woman was wearing the same dark, ill-fitting dress, but the child had grown taller. Her curls tumbled past her shoulders.

Maud turned another leaf, but there were no more pictures. The album was less than half filled. Between the last two pages was a piece of paper, much yellowed and folded in thirds. Maud unfolded it and read:

The Statement of Anzoletta Cerniglia,
wife of the late Vicenzo Cerniglia
November 12, 1871

I have asked Father Domenico to write these words for me because I cannot write English. The doctor says my heart is not strong. It is about my daughter Anna that I wish to speak, because she cannot speak for herself.

My husband and I came to America in 1850. Six years after, our only child was born. We called her Anna Maddalena. She was as beautiful as an angel and as good as gold. When she was almost four years old, she caught the whooping cough. She almost died. Afterward, she was deaf. When I first understood that she would never hear or speak, I was angry with God and I wept.

But I was wrong, because Anna was always a blessing. God gave her a good heart and she was intelligent. As she grew older, we made up our own language and we spoke to her with our hands. She understood everything. She learned quickly. I taught her to work hard.

I have taught her everything I know. She can sew and knit and do fine needlework. She can cook and keep house. Our neighbors let her work in their homes, and they showed her the sewing machine and the gas stove. She can cook with gas or coal. My husband taught her a little carpentry and how to count money.

I have tried to make sure she knows every useful thing, as I think no man will marry her. I write this letter to say that she is a good and useful girl. She is honest and will work very hard. I beg you who read this letter to treat her well, and I pray that God will reward you.

Maud refolded the letter and placed it between the pages. Her mind was so busy with what she had read that a sudden roar of thunder caught her unawares. She leaped to her feet, and the two books fell to the floor.

She gazed at them in consternation. The Bible had fallen open, and the thin pages were wrinkled; the cover to the photograph album, loose before, had ripped and hung crookedly. Maud knelt to repair the damage. She smoothed out the pages of the Bible, reversing the creases. It was unlikely that Muffet would open a book she could not read. Maud turned back to the child in the picture. That sweet-faced girl was Muffet —
Muffet
— whose mother had thought her beautiful.

Maud shut the book and set it back on the footstool.
I beg you who read this letter to treat her well.
She felt a twinge of discomfort. She had left Muffet with the supper dishes and damaged her books.

Someone was coming up the stairs. Not Muffet — her clumping, uneven footsteps were unmistakable — but light, staccato steps. Maud froze. Then she jumped up and rushed back to her room. She had left her striped dress by the washstand. There was sand in the pockets — Hyacinth must not find it — Maud grangled the dress into a knot and shoved it under the bed.

Maud heard Hyacinth’s whisper. “Maud! Maud! Maud!”

Hyacinth was carrying a lamp and a clock. She placed both on the dresser and came to clasp Maud’s hands.

“What is it?”

“Mrs. Lambert’s here.” Hyacinth’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Do you remember how to play the glockenspiel?”

Maud goggled at her. “You told me not to practice here,” she reminded Hyacinth. “You said the neighbors might —”

“Hush! Never mind.” Hyacinth dropped Maud’s hands and went to the dresser. From the top drawer, she took the golden wig. “You can sing — it will do just as well. Quickly, get dressed! Mrs. Lambert’s here, and I mustn’t leave her long.”

“Are we having a séance?” There had been no preparation. “How will I get in the map cupboard if she’s already here?”

“We won’t use the map cupboard,” Hyacinth said briskly. “Now, Maud, don’t make difficulties.”

“I’m not making difficulties,” Maud said, stung. “I’ll do anything you want, but you have to tell me what it is.”

Hyacinth held up her palms, silencing her. “Do stop arguing! Mrs. Lambert was out calling and was caught in the rain. She came here because she was nearby — that’s what she says, but that’s not the real reason. She wants a séance — that’s what fetched her. Judith’s helping her into dry things — it’s a perfect night, with the storm — but we must move quickly, quickly.” Hyacinth reached behind the curtain where Maud kept her dresses. “You’ll wear the white dress and the wig. It’s not likely any of the neighbors will see you out the window, but if anyone sees, you must look like Caroline.”

Maud wrinkled her nose at the white dress. The bloodstains had been bleached to a dingy beige color. They wouldn’t show up in the dark, but Maud’s pleasure in the dress was much diminished. “Where will I be?”

“Outside the window. Wait ten — no, fifteen minutes.” Hyacinth turned Maud away from her and began to unbutton her dress. “Five minutes of useless chatter — what a dreadful storm, et cetera — another five to bring up the idea of a séance and talk her into it — two to dim the lights and set the chairs . . . another three or four before you begin to sing. . . . Yes. Fifteen minutes should do nicely. Go downstairs, through the kitchen, out the back door — climb up the side porch and crouch under the stained-glass windows. The parlor lights will be off. If for some reason the lights are still on, don’t sing. And when you do sing, take care you keep down — if the lightning strikes, I don’t want to see your shadow against the glass. Do you know what to sing?”

“‘Shall We Gather at the River,’” Maud answered promptly. It was Caroline’s favorite hymn. She also knew Caroline’s favorite color (green), her favorite food (cinnamon toast), and the name of her favorite toy elephant (Turrible).

“Yes, that’ll do. Two verses, I think. It’s possible Mrs. Lambert will rush out in the storm once she hears Caroline’s voice, so you must be ready to flee if you hear the front door opening. Luckily it sticks — that’ll give you an extra few seconds. Two verses at the most — then off the porch, in the back door, and back to the attic. It couldn’t be simpler.”

Maud thought it could. “It’s thundering and lightning,” she pointed out. She knew quite well she would do what Hyacinth commanded, but she wanted full credit for going out into the storm.

“Pooh!” Hyacinth swooped down and kissed Maud’s cheek. “You’re not afraid of a little rain, are you? You’ll be on the porch almost the whole time — people are
never
struck by lightning when they’re on a porch.”

Maud gave her a skeptical glance.

“Fifteen minutes.” Hyacinth nodded toward the clock. “Mind you open the kitchen door softly — and shut it — and don’t run into it, for goodness’ sake! You’ll be perfect — I count on you.” Hyacinth kissed her fingertips and blew her a kiss that smelled of violets.

It was a stroke of good luck, Maud thought as she passed through the kitchen, that Muffet was in the water closet. Muffet understood that for some reason Maud was not allowed to leave the house, and she had never seen Maud in her golden wig. Maud knew that the hired woman was quite capable of blocking the doorway and questioning her as best she could. Maud lifted the hook that latched the screen door, took a firm hold on the glockenspiel, and stepped out onto the porch.

The rain fell in gleaming sheets. Maud clutched the glockenspiel to her chest. The glockenspiel was a surprise for Hyacinth; during the fifteen minutes before Maud came downstairs, she had practiced the hymn, hammering the air above the bars. She remembered it well — she was sure that she could play it without mistakes. For a moment she stood poised on the back porch, gathering her nerve. Then she squinted, hunched her shoulders, and plunged out into the rain.

In a matter of seconds, she was drenched. Wig, dress, and skin ran with water; her bare toes squeaked against the wet grass. With one leap, she was up on the porch. She hunkered down under the window ledge.

As Hyacinth had promised, the windows were dark. Maud took in her breath. This time she would not hurry. It was important to get everything exactly right. Methodically, she wiped her face on her sleeve and shoved back the sodden wig. She experimented with crouching positions until she found one that was comfortable — half squatting, half kneeling. From this position, she could get to her feet in an instant.

She listened. She thought she could hear Judith’s voice intoning a prayer. The words were blurred by the tumult of rain. Maud grasped the little hammer and began to play the glockenspiel. The chimes rang out sweetly, unevenly, and Maud began to sing —

“Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God —”

She waited a split second, listening. Judith’s voice had stopped. Maud could sense the excitement on the other side of the wall. She struck a single wrong note and made haste to cover her error:

“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river —
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.”

The glockenspiel jangled along with her voice, not quite in time. Maud’s fingers tingled with cold and nervousness. Better to stop playing now, before she made another mistake. She gathered the instrument to her chest and shifted position, squatting on tiptoe.

“Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.

Soon we’ll —”

She heard the forceful sound of the front door sticking — a sound not unlike a sneeze. She leaped to her feet. Without looking back, she jumped from the porch and rushed to the back lawn. Once around the corner of the house, she flew to the door and opened it. At the last moment, she remembered not to slam the door — her muddy foot lashed out and caught it before it banged shut.

For a marvel, Muffet was not in the kitchen. Maud tore off her wig, seized a dishtowel, and wiped her feet. Then she trotted upstairs, quick and self-possessed as a little goat.

She had done it! She half heard, half fancied, the sound of female voices raised in wonder and distress. The sound reminded her to step lightly. In fits and starts, she climbed the stairs, arriving at last in the attic.

Caroline was taking off her boots. She perched on a promontory made of huge dark stones, which stretched from the ocean to the shore. Maud knelt on the sand and watched her. Caroline’s dress was sandy and damp. It was a deliciously pretty dress: pale blue batiste embroidered with forget-me-nots. Maud would have cherished a dress like that, but Caroline was reckless. Caroline didn’t mind if she mussed her dress or whether the wind whipped her hair into disorder.

Maud spoke. “You have a green smear on your skirt.”

Caroline didn’t answer. She rolled her stockings up in a ball and threw them into the air. She had a good arm: the balled-up stockings landed in the mouth of the boot she had just discarded.

“Maud,” whispered Hyacinth, “are you asleep?”

Maud dragged herself out of her dream. The memory faded as she sat up in bed. For the second time that night Hyacinth stood before her. This time she carried a candle and a bowl of ice cream. A whole pint of ice cream, with two spoons stuck in it. Maud blinked in astonishment. “I’m not asleep,” she assured Hyacinth.

“Good!” Hyacinth set the candle before the mirror. The faint light doubled. By the light of glass and candle, Hyacinth appeared supernaturally young. She was wearing what Maud thought of as a “negleyjay,” lavishly embroidered and foamy with lace. Maud feasted her eyes upon it. Someday, perhaps, she would have a “negleyjay.”

Hyacinth held out the ice cream. “The shop was out of vanilla, so I bought peach.”

Maud cupped her hands around the bowl. The china was beaded with cold water, and the ice cream was pure and sugary, with shreds of peach that rasped against her tongue. “Mmmn.”

Hyacinth sat down on the bed. “The rain’s stopped.”

“What time is it?”

“About nine thirty.” Hyacinth leaned forward, skimming her spoon over the mountain of cream. “The shop was closed, but I hammered on the window — I was determined you should have a treat. Maud, you were perfect! The glockenspiel was a masterstroke. You should have heard it — the chimes against the rain — the effect was beyond everything! I felt my own skin prickle, and
I
knew it was you. You couldn’t have done better if we’d rehearsed for hours.”