Pish Posh (14 page)

Clara sat down on the couch and waited, watching Ms. Blurt frantically pawing through the bookshelf. The books were lying every which way, crammed across horizontally and stacked vertically, with still other books balanced precariously on the scant space along the edge of the shelf.

“Here it is!” Ms. Blurt exclaimed, pulling out a fat, hard-bound book that had many pages marked off with paper clips. She tucked the book beneath her arm and stepped nimbly through the clutter to sit beside Clara on the couch.

Clara caught the title of the book before Ms. Blurt opened it:
The Complete Collection of American Nineteenth Century
Paintings. After a few moments of leafing through the pages, Ms. Blurt stopped at a glossy reproduction of a painting. She smoothed out the page and carefully placed the book on Clara's lap.

Clara looked at the painting but failed to see anything extraordinary. The caption below the painting read
“St. Theresa and the Angel,
painted 1817,” and it showed an angel holding an arrow and bending over a swooning barefoot young woman dressed in a white robe.

Clara shrugged. “So?”

“Look at St. Theresa carefully. The one who's fainting,” Ms. Blurt urged.

Clara looked at her face. Then she frowned and dipped her head to look more closely.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

“Do you see it?” Ms. Blurt asked excitedly.

Well, really, how could you not? Clara thought. Yet it was impossible!

“Obviously, I could find no explanation for it,” Ms. Blurt said, “and I thought it best not to say anything until I could. But now that you've seen it, too, I admit I'm relieved. I was beginning to wonder if I'd been wrong ... ”

No, Ms. Blurt had not been wrong, Clara thought. St. Theresa looked
exactly
like Audrey Aster, right down to that odd check mark-shaped scar on her chin.

“And there are other paintings of her, too.” Ms. Blurt grabbed the book and flipped through it, showing Clara at least a dozen other paintings that featured the same model. In one she was posed as a peasant woman buying vegetables in a market, in another she was Eve sitting on a stone wall in the Garden of Eden, staring up at an apple dangling from a tree. And in yet another she was Juliet from
Romeo and
Juliet, standing on a terrace entwined with flowering vines, clad in a nightgown, her arms stretched up to the stars. There were different poses, different costumes, yet in each and every painting the woman was the spitting image of Audrey.

“But this makes no sense,” Clara said.

“None whatsoever!” agreed Ms. Blurt. Her voice sounded almost hysterical. “So I began to do a little research. Researching the people who modeled for painters is a little hobby of mine.” She flourished a hand around at the Post-it—covered walls, and the books and magazines on the floor. “Of course, it makes life a little messy at times.”

“A little,” Clara agreed.

“In any case, it was hard to find anything on Caleb Fizzelli's model. He isn't exactly well known, though if there were any justice in the world, he would be. ” Ms. Blurt closed her eyes and shook her head. “Such a gifted man! There's a portrait of him somewhere, in one of these magazines ... ”

She gazed around at the floor, and seemed in imminent danger of beginning another search until Clara reminded her: “The woman in the paintings, Ms. Blurt. Did you find out something about her?”

“Oh, yes, and it's a strange story, too. I discovered it in a letter that Fizzelli wrote to a friend. It seems that when he moved into his house in New York at the end of September, in 1812, he found a woman sitting by herself in one of the rooms. He asked her who she was and she said she didn't know, that she had simply awakened one day in a bedroom upstairs. The house was entirely empty and quiet, but the pantry was stocked—and she wondered by whom, since not another soul was around. She told Fizzelli that she had been living like this for days, all alone, wandering through the rooms, staring out the window and hoping for a clue to appear that would tell her who she was.

“He explained to her that he'd purchased the house and was to move in the following week, but the woman flatly refused to leave. I guess he took pity on her, and he decided to keep her on as a boarder. Instead of paying rent, he said she could pose for him, because he liked her face, despite the fact that she had a prominent scar on her chin.” Ms. Blurt took a long deep breath and stopped.

“And was that all he said about her?” Clara asked.

Ms. Blurt nodded, and the butterfly antennas in her hair wobbled crazily.

“Ms. Blurt, ” Clara said, “I need to borrow this book. ”

Clara reached out, took the book from Ms. Blurt's lap before she could say no, and started down the trail of green carpet toward the door.

“Oh, but you will be careful with it, won't you?” Ms. Blurt called nervously after her. “Don't remove any of the paper clips, and there are several Post-it notes on the pages, and the most important thing to remember is ...”

But Clara was out the door before she could find out what that might be.

“
A
nnabelle, tell me the truth. Can your father really hypnotize people?” Clara had called Annabelle's house as soon as she got home.

“He's a better thief than a hypnotist,” Annabelle said in such a strident voice that Clara knew her dad must be standing right there.

“Can I speak to him?” Clara said. Getting a straight answer from Annabelle on this matter was going to be difficult.

“What do you want to speak to him about?” Annabelle asked suspiciously.

“Just about ... a woman,” Clara said evasively.

“What woman?” Annabelle asked sharply. “Is she rich? Do you want him to steal something from her? ”

“Annabelle, can you just put him on?”

Thankfully, Mr. Arbutnot took the phone out of his daughter's hand and asked Clara what he could do for her.

“I can't hypnotize
all
people,” Mr. Arbutnot replied to her question. “They have to be willing, of course. And some people just seem to resist it naturally. But yes, I can hypnotize
most
people. ”

In the background, Clara heard Annabelle wail, “Don't encourage him, for cripes' sake!”

“Would you be able to hypnotize someone who doesn't remember who she is?” Clara asked.

“Someone with amnesia, you mean?” Mr. Arbutnot sounded intrigued. “Hmmm. I've never worked with an amnesia case before. I'd be willing to give it a whirl.”

“Do you think you can hypnotize her in her home?” Clara asked. “Today, maybe?”

“As a matter of fact, my afternoon's clear. Where does she live?”

Clara gave him Pish Posh's address, which he repeated. In the background she heard Annabelle yell, “I hate you, Clara!”

“She doesn't really,” Mr. Arbutnot said.

“I know,” Clara replied.

 

It was early afternoon and Pish Posh was empty—no staff, no customers. The tables were all covered with crisp white linen and set with gleaming silverware. Everything was still and quiet.

“So this is the famous Pish Posh restaurant?” Mr. Arbutnot said, looking around. He seemed a little disappointed. “It's not quite what I expected.”

“It looks different when the people get here,” Clara explained. Even to her eyes, though, she could see that the restaurant lacked its usual dazzle. She hated to admit it, but without the customers, the restaurant looked pretty ordinary, just like any other nice restaurant in New York City.

Clara led Mr. Arbutnot up the kitchen stairs and pounded hard on Audrey's door with the side of her fist.

“Take it easy there, sport,” Mr. Arbutnot said, looking at her askance.

“She won't hear otherwise. ”

The door opened and Audrey appeared with a sketchbook under her arm and clutching a stick of charcoal. She gazed at Clara, squinting a little through her glasses, then confusedly over at Mr. Arbutnot.

“If you're here to fire me again—” Audrey began.

“This is Dr. Arbutnot,” Clara hastened to reply. Well, it wasn't quite true that he was a doctor, but close enough, Clara reasoned. “I brought him here because I think he might be able to help you. ”

“Help me with what?” Audrey frowned, squinting from one to the other. “Anyway, I have a doctor. ”

Dr. Piff. Of course, Clara realized, Audrey didn't know. Clara lifted her glasses and propped them up on her head. It was the sort of news that you couldn't give behind a pair of large dark sunglasses.

“Dr. Piff died, Audrey,” Clara said. “A few days ago. He had a heart attack.”

Audrey's lower lip dropped a little. She turned and sat down in her rocking chair by the window. In silence she dropped her sketch pad and charcoal on the floor beside her—a quick, sad gesture. A gesture of defeat.

Clara looked down at the sketch pad. All you could really make out were vague blobby figures and a long tubular shape, which Clara guessed was the old elm tree. For a while the only sound in the room was the uneven bumping of the rocking chair as Audrey rocked, staring blindly out the window.

“Did Dr. Piff tell you about me, then?” Audrey asked finally. There was a note of resentment in her voice.

“Dr. Piff never told me anything about you,” Clara said, which was true, after all. “But there's this. ” Clara opened Ms. Blurt's book to the painting of St. Theresa and put it on Audrey's lap. Audrey looked down at it, and then brought the book close to her face to see.

“Oh!” she exhaled softly. “I haven't seen this in so long ...” As she turned the pages, her face flushed and a smile touched her lips, stretching the scar on her chin upward a bit. It transformed her momentarily. She looked beautiful and unearthly, like a goddess who, much to her amusement, had been plunked down in a musty little room without knowing why. Clara could suddenly see why Caleb Fizzelli had been so quick to strike his deal with her all those years ago. Mr. Arbutnot, too, seemed struck by the woman in front of him. He stared at her, blinking quickly, as if the sun, which was now slowly creeping by the window, were toying with his vision.

Finally, Audrey closed the book and looked up at them. Her smile had vanished.

“I'm tired,” she confessed.

“We should leave you then,” said Mr. Arbutnot.

“No, that's not what I mean. I mean ... I'm tired of life. I know you can't imagine such a thing. My body is young, but my soul is old.” Her eyes flitted around the room, as if she were seeking something that her dimming vision could not find. “I suppose there must have been a time when things were different. When I took pleasure in the feel of the sun on my skin or the crunch of snow under my boots. When I laughed easily at silly things. But if I ever felt like that, I can't remember, so what good is it to me?”

Clara understood. She understood so well, in fact, that for the first time in her life—or at least the first time she could remember—her heart actually ached for another person. She looked over at Mr. Arbutnot anxiously.

“What do you think?” she asked him. “Can you help her? ”

“The sooner we get started,” he said, pulling up an armchair near Audrey's rocker, “the sooner we'll find out.”

 

“Ready?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

“Do I have to close my eyes?” Audrey asked uneasily.

“Only if you want to.”

She did, and then Mr. Arbutnot began.

“Imagine that you are floating on your back in the middle of a lake, on a warm sunny day . . . , ” he started. His voice was calm, soft. “Your body begins to sink beneath the water, slowly, peacefully. You have no trouble breathing. As you sink deeper and deeper, you are moving backward in time: yesterday, the week before, the year before, way back, year by year ... ” He went on like this for some time until Audrey's eyes opened abruptly.

“We've hit some turbulence,” Mr. Arbutnot said quietly to Clara.

“Is that bad?” she asked.

He shook his head. “On the contrary.” Then he said, “Tell me what you see, Audrey.”

“Don't call me Audrey,” Audrey said, with some annoyance.

“Isn't that your name?”

“No. I gave myself that name later, much later . . . ”

“What's your real name, then?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

“Theodosia. Theodosia Pender. You may call me Miss Fender.”

“Miss Pender, where are you?”

“Right here, of course. ”

“I mean, where do you live?”

“Right
here,”
she said impatiently. “In this house. Where else would I be? ”

“My apologies. What are you doing this evening?”

“I' m to have a party. ”

“And what will you wear?”

Audrey smiled. “The loveliest blue velvet gown trimmed with satin of a deeper blue. It was made in Paris. What do you think? Isn't it charming? ” She had not moved a muscle, but there was great animation in her face.

“It looks terrific on you,” Mr. Arbutnot said.

“I know it does. Do you think I'm conceited?” she asked archly.

“No, just honest,” Mr. Arbutnot replied.

“Exactly! Most people are horrible liars. Look how well the dress goes with my necklace. It makes the diamonds shine beautifully.” She touched her neck, which was bare. “My mother gave this necklace to me before she died. My father is dead, too, as I'm sure you know.”

“No, I didn't know. Please tell me about your party, Miss Pender. ”

“Dull, dull, dull! But I find most people stupid in general. ”