"I'm long overdue," Cinnamon said.
"You just saw your brother," Howard told Rose. "Why don't you join us in a game of Scrabble?"
"I have my mother to write, you know," she said with feigned inclination. "She doesn't live as close by as your parents do."
"What about you two?" he asked Ice and me, ignoring her.
"Scrabble?"' Ice said. "I think I'd rather twiddle my thumbs. It's more exciting."
"I'm just tired," I said. "I guess the emotional pressure was more than I realized."
"Jeez," Howard complained. "If this is the level of energy you people bring to the theater. I pity the audiences."
Steven sat there with a silly smile on his face, listening and observing. The way his eyes fixed on me made me nervous.
"I wouldn't worry about their level of energy, Howard," Steven said.
"Right."
"I don't know why you're complaining about us not joining you this evening. Howard," Cinnamon said as she rose. "'You've told us so many times what good company you are. You shouldn't be upset about spending time with yourself."
Steven laughed hard and slapped his knee.
'Go on, ridicule me all you like. Some day you'll wish you had spent more time with me. Cinnamon Carlson," Howard cried after her.
We followed her out, leaving him and Steven. When we were upstairs. Cinnamon turned and whispered. "Ten minutes, Honey's room. Put on sneakers and wear black."
"You're sure about this?" Ice asked one more time, "Absolutely," Cinnamon replied.
We broke up and went to change clothes. A little less than ten minutes later, they were all in my room, everyone whispering. Cinnamon went to the window, paused, and then opened it as quietly as she could.
It was a very cool night. It had rained on and off all day and the sky was still overcast. It wasn't until we were all out on the landing and Cinnamon started up the ladder that we realized the metal was wet and slippery. Ice's foot slid off a rung and she nearly fell onto Rose. She uttered a small scream, and we all froze.
"You all right?" Cinnamon called in a loud whisper. "Yes."
"Everyone take your time." Cinnamon ordered.
Once again, we started up. We moved like a dark snake, slowly climbing toward the landing above us, where the glow of the light from within spread a pool of pale white illumination over the iron, turning it into the color of faded bones. The cool air dropped a chill down my back. My teeth clicked and I
shuddered. Don't look down, I kept telling myself.
When we were all finally on the landing, we crouched and hovered close to each other, gazing into the bedroom. There was no one there, even though the lights were on, but like before, we could hear music-- the very same tune, in fact.
"What is that?" Rose asked.
"I've heard the tune before. but I can't place it," Ice said. "Anybody?"
We all shook our heads.
"It sounds like a children's song or something," Rose suggested.
"Okay," Cinnamon said. "This is it. If we don't do it now, we won't."
She opened the window and then started in. Rose put her hand on her shoulder, and she paused.
"There's no going back once we're in there. Cinnamon."
"Exactly," Cinnamon replied and entered the room.
Ice followed, and then Rose and I. The bed was a four-poster canopy. Against the pink and white pillows were two large teddy bears. They seemed to be watching us. We stood there for a moment, listening. The music continued, and then someone began to sing along.
We heard a very childlike voice.
'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements. You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's.' "
Cinnamon shook her head and scrunched her nose. Ice shrugged, and the four of us moved very slowly and quietly to the doorway of the bedroom.
The singing continued.
" 'When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey. When I
grove rich, say the bells of Shore ditch." "
We all peered through the door into a living room. At first we saw no one. The room had a sectional with its back toward us, two large cushion chairs facing it and a pretty burgundy and black oval rug. There was a standing lamp with a pale yellow shade on the right of the sectional, which provided the only light in the room at the moment.
The walls were quite different from the walls in the Test of the house. These walls were paneled in a dark maple wood. There was a fireplace to the right, but in it was a potted plant. Above the mantle was a rich oil painting of a much younger Madame Senetsky standing on a balcony, in what looked to me to be a scene from Romeo mid Juliet. She had her eyes turned upward and her hands outstretched, palms upward, as if she had just asked. 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' "
The window in this room had a heavy, dark brown velvet curtain with gold tassels drawn closed over it. On the opposite side of the room was a pedestal holding a small bronze statue of a cherub. Scattered over the floor beneath it were what looked like cutout dolls, found in children's games.
There was a door on the side that made me think this was the door I had seen when I had gone to the rear of the costume room and Ms. Fairchild had come in on me.
The music continued, and we quickly realized it was coming from the front of the sectional. The voice continued, ending with. 'Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.' "
The woman we had seen before rose. Her hair was in pigtails and she wore a light pink wool nightgown with a fringed collar and short sleeves. As she rose, she emphatically said. 'Chop, chop. chop. The last man's dead!' "
She clapped her hands and then turned and saw us all standing there. Her look of shock and surprise was almost instantly replaced by a broad smile. Now that we were standing only a few feet from her and looking directly at her, the resemblances we had found between her and Edmond Senetsky were not as pronounced. There were still. I thought, some similarities in their eyes and noses.
The recording of the song ended, but she was playing it on an old phonograph she had on the floor. The phonograph needle was caught and grinding.
"Oh, it's stuck!" she cried, and knelt down to fix it. We walked farther into the room and saw she had a small pile of old records there as well.
She stood up again. Her nightgown was hemmed just below her knees and she wore what looked like a man's pair of old, soft, leather slippers.
"Have you come to play oranges and lemons?" she asked, her face lighting up with expectation.
"No," Cinnamon said. "We've come to find out exactly what's going on."
Her smile went out like a blown bulb. She looked like she might burst into tears.
"We've come to find out who you are and why you've been spying on us through the windows,"' Cinnamon continued,
There was something in the woman's face that made me feel bad about Cinnamon's aggressive tone.
"I don't think she understands," I whispered. Cinnamon's eyes narrowed.
"Is this where you live?" Rose asked the woman.
Despite her childlike manner, the way she wore her hair, the little teddy bear figures on her nightgown and the teddy bears on her bed, I thought she was well into her twenties, if not her thirties.
"Yes, I do. I do live here. Yes," she said. She nodded and looked very thoughtful for a moment. "Once I lived there," she continued. "but now I live here."
"Where was there?" Ice asked, She laughed.
"There was not here. silly. Silly girl. Silly. Who wants to play first?"
"What is this?" Cinnamon muttered to us. I shook my head. I couldn't help but be both frightened and fascinated.
"What's your name?" Rose asked. She smiled at her. "My name is Rose. This is Cinnamon. and Ice, and this is Honey."
"Rose? Name?" She laughed. "Yes," she said with that thoughtful look again. Then she turned, gazed at Madame Senetsky's portrait and, raising her hand slowly, her fingers twitching as if she was imitating the first flight of a baby bird. cried
. " 'What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' "
She looked at us and laughed.
"Come on. Who's first? Who will play with me first? Who will be the lemon and who will be the orange? I'll be the orange," she said quickly. "You," she said, pointing at me. "You can be the lemon. Come on. Give me your hands. Come on," she urged, holding out her hands.
I looked at Cinnamon, who just shook her head. and then I put my hands out.
She seized them and raised them so we formed an arch.
"Not so close," she said to me. "Step back. Make room for them. Go on, you foolish. silly girls. Go on." She looked at Cinnamon. Rose. and Ice. "The rest of you go under as we sing along."
Then she began to sing.
" 'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements,' "
She paused and looked angrily at Ice, Cinnamon. and Rose.
"Are you going to go under or not? How are we to play if you don't go under?"
"What the hell is she talking about?" Cinnamon groaned, "Let's just do it," Ice said, and went under the arch.
She smiled.
"You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's.' "
With her head, she urged Cinnamon and Rose.
" 'When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey. When I grow rich, say the bells of Shore ditch.' "
She paused.
"Keep going under, silly girls. Come on." She wagged our arms. Ice did it again.
'When will that be? say the bells of Stepney.' " Cinnamon and Rose went under again as she sang on. " 'I'm sure I don't know, says the great bell at Bow.' "
Just as Ice entered, she brought down our arms around her, trapping her between them.
" 'Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.' Well?" she asked Ice.
"What?"
"Decide. Are you a lemon or are you an orange? Come on. silly."
"I'm an orange."
"Good, get behind me. Quickly," she said, raising our arms so Ice could pass and go around behind her. "Next."
Rose went under, and again she brought our arms down, trapping her and singing the ending of the song. 'Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.' Well? What are you?"
"A lemon," Rose said.
"Get behind her," she said, nodding at me. "Next."
Cinnamon shook her head and entered and the arms came down. Now the girl sang, " 'Chop, chop. chop. The last man's dead!' Well?"
"Lemon," Cinnamon said. "I feel like one."
"Get behind her," she ordered, which she did. "Grab waists. Come on. Grab waists. Now, everyone pull. It's a tug of war. Who's stronger, the orange or the lemon? Pull," she cried.
She was pulling so hard, my arms felt like they would come out of their sockets. Cinnamon released Ice and Ice released me and I went falling forward onto her. She fell back against Rose, and the three of us toppled onto the sectional.
She laughed and laughed and clapped her hands. "That was wonderful. What a wonderful game."
She sat up and gazed at us and we realized she had been wearing a wig, which had fallen off. Her hair was cut very short-- chopped, was more like it.
"Who wants to do it again?"
"No," Cinnamon said. "'We're not here for that. We want to know your name. Tell us your name. Why are you living up here? Why do you look in our windows? Why did you take clothing and then put it back?"
She shook her head.
"I didn't put it back," she said.
"Well, why did you take it?"
"I liked it. Don't scowl at me like that. Go sit in the corner."'
She embraced herself, pursed her lips, and sat sternly. Then she saw her wig, looked at us, and quickly put it back on her head, adjusting it as comfortably as she could.
"I can choose any one I want." she said. "And I can wear anything I want, even the queen's crown. I just go in there and pick and pick when the door is unlocked."'
"You obviously aren't supposed to go into our rooms and pick and pick," Cinnamon muttered.
"Are you related to Madame Senetsky?" Rose asked softly. She didn't respond. She just stared. "I don't care if you took my clothes. It's all right." Rose added. The woman's eyes shifted to her, to search for truth in Rose's face. Contented, she relaxed.
"I don't have any new clothes anymore. Just the costumes. She doesn't take me shopping."
"Who doesn't?" Ice asked.
"Mommy, Mommy. Mommy, Can we go shopping tomorrow? Can we walk in the big stores? Can we see the animals in the park? Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow. When will tomorrow come?" She looked up at Madame Senetsky's portrait again.
" 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day.' "
We all looked at each other.
"Will you come back tomorrow? Will you take me shopping?" she asked us.
Rose smiled at her and nodded.
"Sure we can. If your mother says it's all right. Is your mother Madame Senetsky?"
"Yes, yes. yes."
"Your name is Gerta, isn't it?" Cinnamon said. "Of course,' she replied.
"Why did she tell me she was dead? And how could Evan have located her obituary?" I whispered. Rose nodded.
"Gerta Berta. I'm Daddy's little Greta Berta. Let's go shopping, and we'll have ice cream on a stick."
"How long have you been living here. Gerta?" Cinnamon asked, She scowled back at her.
"You're a lemon." she said, pointing her finger at her. "And you let go. You're not supposed to let go."
"I know. I got tired. You were too strong."
"Oranges are stronger. Today, oranges are stronger. Maybe not tomorrow. Who's coming back to play tomorrow?"
"We're all coming back. Gerta. We want to learn who you are and how you got here and why you don't come downstairs," Rose said smiling.
"I'm not allowed downstairs. If I go downstairs, I'll be put somewhere ugly again. A place where they touch you all over," she said, running her hands over her breasts and down to her thighs, "and make you cry out and then keep doing it until you promise to laugh and never tell.
"Swear," she said. "swear never to tell. Swear."
She paused and fell into what looked like a deep melancholy.
"So much for worrying that we would be turned in," Cinnamon said.
"This is very sad," I said. "She's, like, trapped up here." She opened her eyes and looked at me.
" 'Yankie pokie. Yankie fun, how do you like your tattles done?'
" 'First in brandy, then in rum, that's how I like my taffies done.' "
She clapped her hands and laughed.
We heard some footsteps on a stairway and a door slam. "We'd better get out of here," Cinnamon said.
"We have to go," I told Gerta. "Maybe we'll come back to see you."'
"Come back, come back, oh come back," she sang.
We walked into the bedroom and to the window. She followed and watched us 20 out and onto the landing.
"Be careful." Cinnamon whispered to me as I started down the ladder.
They all began to follow.
"Good night," we heard from the window. "'Good night, sweet prince.' "
"She's very confused. She's liable to follow us," Rose cautioned.
"Go back inside," Cinnamon called up to her. ''Go on. Close the window."
We waited to see what she would do.
"Lemon," she cried, and slammed the window shut.
I was down the ladder in seconds and moments later in my room, the others right behind.
"I have a little experience around mental patients," Cinnamon said when we settled down. "That's a case and a half up there."
"What's wrong with her? She looks like someone about thirty, doesn't she?" Rose asked.
"Yes, but she's a child. mentally."
"And yet, she comes out with the most amazing things," I said. "Those were lines from Shakespearean plays she quoted, weren't they?"
"Yes," Cinnamon said.
It's lik
e something's trapped her in her mind as well as up in that apartment," Ice mused.
"What should we do?" Rose asked.
"Forget about her," Ice said quickly. She looked at Cinnamon. "Right?"
"I can't help feeling sorry for her," I said.
Cinnamon's eyes widened when she looked at me. She nodded.
"When my mother was trapped in her mental dungeon, locked up by all her unhappiness. I felt so helpless, so ineffective. I had to humor her when all I wanted to do was shout. 'Mommy. You lost the baby. There is no baby. You've got to stop this ridiculous pretending and come back to us.' I knew, however, she wouldn't have heard me. She would have just smiled at me as if I was the one who was disturbed."
"Why doesn't Madame Senetsky try to get her help instead of keeping her lacked in up there?" Rose wondered, gazing toward the ceiling. "And why tell Honey that her daughter died long ago?"
"Apparently, she's not only telling Honey. Don't forget about the obituary," Ice reminded her.
"But why?"
"My guess," Cinnamon said with a deep sigh, "is that she is embarrassed by her. Madame Senetsky can't have a daughter like that. Not our Madame Senetsky. the Queen of Theatrical Perfection. She'd die if there was a picture of Gerta and the story in a newspaper. I remember how embarrassed my grandmother was when my mother went loony. And that was just my grandmother worrying about people who knew us and would gossip! And we weren't celebrities. remember."
"It's not fair," I said. "She's a very lonely person. Did you see how happy she was when we appeared-- and how trusting, just like a child would be."
Everyone was quiet.
"We could just march downstairs and tell Ms. Fairchild we want to meet with Madame Senetsky and demand she let her out," Rose suggested.
Ice smirked.
"Oh, she would just say 'Sure thing, girls. I'm so happy you pointed out my mistake.' "
"Ice is right," Cinnamon said. "Forget that." "Then what, forget about her?"
No one spoke for a moment.
"I've got to call Evan and let him know what we've discovered. Maybe there was a mistake in his information or he got something confused." Rose said.
"I doubt it," Cinnamon said. "When Madame Senetsky wants to forget something, she definitely has a funeral and buries it. Who knows what else she's buried?"
"Maybe we could go back up there and try to help her." I suggested.