“A ‘paradox’ is—what?—a ‘pair of docks’—”
“Don’t be silly, Konrad!”
“A ‘paradox’ is like a riddle—and the mistake is, people think they must solve riddles when the very essence of riddle is, the riddle cannot be solved.”
“Well, yes! Maybe.”
“Agatha, yes. This is so. You don’t have to solve the paradox, nor even understand what it is trying to tell you—you only have to live with the paradox. You live.”
In the Neukirchen household, it was possible to live with paradoxes.
In the Neukirchen household, it was only possible to live with paradoxes.
Because she did not love them! Because she was lonely in the dark-brick house on Mt. Laurel Street despite the efforts of Agatha, and Konrad, and Puddin’—despite the shelves of books beckoning to her like shut-up little souls, as in some kind of mausoleum, inviting her Open me! See what I am!
Because—maybe—the woman who’d been Momma—the woman who was still Momma—had burrowed into her heart like a mean little worm that could not so easily be extricated. Just when she believed that Momma was faded and left behind that very night a dream would come to her leaving her sweaty and shivering for it was clear to her—it was meant to be clear to her—that her new mother and her new father were not Christians but emissaries of Satan like all city-people and courthouse people who had stolen Marit Kraeck’s children from her forcing her to drastic measures to protect their souls. So very different from the Neukirchens who had not an idea what life is.
And Mrs. Skedd would sneer—the Neukirchens were fat homely—silly!—people. Maybe they lived in some fancy house—(Mrs. Skedd had never glimpsed the Neukirchens’ house)—and had fancy jobs—(Mrs. Skedd could only compare others’ jobs with her own—foster-mother to a household of losers, rejects, retards, and brats). And all that sentimental fuss about love, and kissing, and being God-damn polite—like silly TV people. Mr. Skedd was no dope either, saw through that corny crap:
Bull-shit!
At the same time, she loved them. Of course, she loved them.
That Agatha and Konrad were silly, and sentimental, and always kissing, and kissing her—she loved them for this. Or badly wished she might love them.
They were kind, and funny, and smart; you could not see immediately how smart, just looking at them; and they would never shout, or push, even pinch, or sneer.
Even, disciplining Puddin’, with his slovenly-dog manners tracking dirt into the house, and worse—they would not ever shout, push, pinch.
“Please! Try to call us ‘Dad’—‘Mommy’—if you can. Maybe not right now but—in time.”
“Yes! All things in time.”
And so she would try. Sometime soon.
For she had to know she was not Jewell really—she was Meredith Ruth. She was not Kraeck but Neukirchen. Soon, she would start school: first grade at the Convent Street School.
So very exciting, the prospect of starting school! The other Jewell had never gone to school because Momma did not trust any school as Momma did not trust anyone to do with the “government.”
But she did not any longer live with this mother in the falling-down shanty behind the Gulf station in Star Lake, nor did she live in the squat asphalt-sided house of the Skedds on Bear Mountain Road: she lived now on Mt. Laurel Street, Carthage. She did not share a room with anyone, not even another girl—she did not share a bed. She had her own bedroom with white bunnies frolicking in pale green wallpaper and her own little bed with a white headboard and a bedspread of the cheery hue of sunshine Mrs. Neukirchen had herself crocheted. Here were books from which, at bedtime, Mrs. Neukirchen or Mr. Neukirchen read to her, and which she was learning to read for herself—picture books, talking-animal books, the most magical books! She had several dolls of which none was so special as the blond doll in the satin dress but she had stuffed toys and she had her own little shiny-maple dresser and in the drawers she had her own clothes newly purchased for her, and in a closet she had other, hanging clothes—dresses, skirts. She had her own flannel nightgown decorated with kittens that would never be mixed in with the laundry and worn by another girl. She had a child-sized desk, and she had a child-sized chair. As Meredith Ruth she seemed to know that there had once been, in this room, perhaps in this very bed, another Meredith Ruth who had passed from the Neukirchen household but whose spirit remained.
And with this spirit—this other, lost, cast-away child—she could live, too, as easily as she lived with herself. She would.
“Take my hand, Merry! Especially crossing the street.”
Soon she would be six years old: so it was believed. Less seemingly developed than other six-year-olds yet already she could read, to a degree; already, with Mr. Neukirchen’s tutoring, she’d learned to “do” arithmetic.
And so, with documents from the Beechum County Family Services and a “surrogate” birth certificate from the Beechum County Department of Records, Meredith began first grade at Convent Elementary School only four blocks from 18 Mt. Laurel Street, in fall 1968.
So conveniently, Agatha could walk with her on Agatha’s way to the cobblestone library just a block farther. It was not at this small branch library but at the downtown Carthage library that Agatha had begun work as a librarian, a girl of twenty-two in 1955.
How happily Agatha told Meredith about how she and Mr. Neukirchen had met. How frequently, with the air of one who never tires of recounting happiness.
Eight months after Agatha had started work at the beautiful “limestone temple” downtown library, in the reference department, young fiery Konrad Neukirchen appeared with a request to see all the library’s holdings in the special collections archives relating to the history of the Black Snake Valley from the 1600s to 1900—“Your father was just so dashing. And just so—as he is now—bossy and commanding.”
At their first meeting, something seemed to have leapt between them—“Like sparks. But of course, I was shy . . . I’d hardly ever gone out with any boy or man before.”
Three months, two weeks, and a single day afterward, Agatha and Konrad Neukirchen were married to the astonishment and (to a degree) disapproval of all who knew them.
Agatha had been a girl of twenty-three at this time! So inexperienced with men she’d had a notion she had to laugh—breathily, nervously—at virtually every remark the loquacious young man made, whether it was funny or forced; as Konrad had been so inexperienced with women, for all his pose of sophistication, he’d had a notion that he must not brush a hand against Agatha, however innocently, or accidentally, for fear of offending her. Of course, he would never have attempted to kiss her without asking her permission.
“How we ever managed to cast aside all that silliness, I don’t know. One day we just woke up—I mean, in our separate residences—and I realized, ‘Oh! I love him’—and Konrad realized, ‘Oh! I love her.’ It was that simple.”
Except there were things about Konrad Neukirchen that puzzled Agatha.
The way he described himself as a “friend”—by which he meant “Friend”—that is, a Quaker.
And the way he told her, mysteriously, laying a finger alongside his nose as if in imitation of some elder in his family, that the Neukirchens had a “secret weakness”—each and every one of them.
“What kind of ‘secret weakness,’ I asked him, and he said—‘What kind of a secret would it be, dear Agatha, if it was revealed?’ ”
Sometimes when she was alone with Meredith on these walks to Convent Elementary Agatha lowered her voice to speak tenderly and wistfully of the little girl who’d come into their lives who’d been premature—who’d failed to thrive.
“But Merry’s soul is dwelling in light—somewhere. We can’t know details of course but we can know this.”
Meredith’s mother squeezed her fingers, tight. Through parted lips she breathed damply.
Meredith did not look at the soft round woman beside her for fear of what she might see in the woman’s face.
Meredith saw a blur of light—lights—and shadow-figures amid the lights—like white bunnies frolicking in a field of pale-green grass. One of these figures was Merry but you could not know which one.
Even for a young child it was exasperatingly slow to walk with Agatha. Like a naughty little girl Meredith would have liked to pull her hand from the panting woman’s hand and run—run, and run—up one of the narrow paved driveways between the look-alike brick houses and through the backyards and into—where?—whatever was beyond. She was too nimble-footed to fall into a ravine and break her ankle or her damn neck—(this was Mrs. Skedd observing)—and if crows screamed at her, she wouldn’t have been afraid. But of course Meredith would never do such a rude wild thing like the children she’d once known in the Skedds’ house.
In new clothes that Mrs. Neukirchen had purchased for her, or sewed for her, in little white socks and black patent-leather shoes Meredith Ruth Neukirchen was not a rude child, not ever. Meredith Ruth was a quick smart child and very sweet if still somewhat over-quiet, chewing at her lower lip.
Nothing like any child she’d known in Star Lake. Nothing like any child in the foster home where sometimes suddenly one of them would run out of the house—run into the backyard, and along the ravine—could be anyone—a foster child, or one of the Skedd children who were noisy, profane, restless as cooped-up little animals.
Letting off steam for the hell of it. Can’t take it!
Lighting matches, at the ravine. The big boys started it and younger children copied them but never Jewell of course. Stealing Mrs. Skedd’s book of matches from behind the gas stove letting a lighted match fall twenty feet down into the ravine.
If flames took hold, in a panic Jewell ran. The others clambering about the ravine tossing rocks below, scarcely noticed her; nor did she tell Mrs. Skedd watching her TV programs sprawled on the living room sofa, a can of beer in her hand.
Who’s that? Jew-elle? C’mere, honey—c’mon cuddle.
Meredith never remembered those days, now. She would not remember. Except how she’d wished that Mrs. Skedd would be as nice to Lizbeth as she was to Jewell saying Damn bad you aren’t my own flesh-and-blood except shit, I spose if you were, you’d be bratty like Lizbeth.
Meredith was restless walking with Agatha but Meredith was worried, too. For she knew—she’d overheard—Konrad worried about his dear wife who was having trouble walking though still a young woman in her early thirties—needing sometimes to use a cane, there were such arthritic pains in her hips.
Meredith had seen: Agatha’s legs were thick with ropey veins. Her legs were encased in opaque stockings like bandages and on her small feet were lace-up shoes with crepe soles.
Though Agatha winced and moaned about arth-ri-tis these remarks were couched in a cheery tone, as one might complain about the weather. Nearly always Agatha was in a cheery mood. This was just her “nature”—as Puddin’ had his cheery-dog nature—(though Puddin’s legs were losing their strength, too—Puddin’ wasn’t a young dog, walked with a sort of sidelong lurch, and shed dog hairs everywhere he brushed against). Agatha loved her work at the Convent Street library. Though she was not very well-paid—so Konrad claimed—yet she loved the quiet of the old cobblestone library. She loved checking out the same books year after year and shelving these books and she loved the other librarians who were women of at least her age and girth and something of her temperament and she loved chatting with library patrons who were mostly women as well except for a little platoon of retired men, all of them gentlemen, who adored Agatha Neukirchen.
Sometimes at the library when things were slow Agatha knitted, or crocheted, or even tried to sew. She had a quick dazzling way with a needle. She liked to sew her own clothes, which were large-sized, with ample waists and long, voluminous skirts, for she was made to feel uncomfortable in women’s clothing stores. (“The fancier the store, the more they make you feel bad!”) In public places Agatha wore ankle-length skirts that gave her an air of dignity and self-possession: Konrad called her queenly. She wore blouses with frills and lace and adorned with funny old brooches and necklaces Konrad gave her as surprise gifts. Her hair was a lovely chestnut brown lustrous as a girl’s hair, she kept it in place back behind her ears and off her smooth clear forehead with tortoiseshell combs. In her daughter’s bedroom she would sit on the edge of the bed that creaked beneath her weight brushing and combing the child’s hair that seemed less lustrous than her own, a scrawny sort of hair susceptible to frizz and snarls.
“Oh! I’m sorry if I snagged your hair, Merry! I promise it won’t happen again.”
Afterward, she would read to the little girl. There was an endless supply of children’s books and many of them wonderful she’d bought for Merry or had taken out of the library—Merry’s favorites were the talking-animal books and books about little girls like Alice of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland whose straggly hair in the illustrations resembled Merry’s own hair.
Agatha did not read scary passages from the Alice book. Agatha did not like scary passages in any books, children’s or adults’.
“When you read a book you are inside it—and you are safe there.”
Reading aloud to her daughter Agatha would run her forefinger along the large-type print just slow enough so that without quite knowing what she was doing, her daughter began reading with her, recognizing the familiar words because Agatha had read them before, or remembering them.
So easy to read, if you didn’t try! If you just let the words come into your head.
Bedtime reading had to end at a certain time. In the first year she’d come to live with the Neukirchens, at 8:30 P.M.
In the downstairs hall beneath the child’s room with the bunny-wallpaper and the bed with the white headboard was the tall beautiful old grandfather clock which Mr. Neukirchen described as a Stickley clock.
When she couldn’t sleep Meredith lay listening to the calm ticking of this clock and to its chimes which were sweet and clear and soothing—the clock struck not just the hour but the quarter hour—(with a single chime)—which was beautiful to hear but scary too—sometimes—for the chimes came so often, and could not be stopped.
Here was a test: you heard the clock begin its chimes and counted with it—one, two, three, four—trying to guess when the chimes would stop—and often the chimes would continue—five, six—seven, eight—in rebuke.
In fascination Meredith examined the clock: the long brass pendulum swung slowly and languidly and once in a while slowed and ceased of its own volition. Mr. Neukirchen knew how to fix the clock, Mrs. Neukirchen professed utter ignorance of it, and would never touch it.
At the Skedds’, such a big beautiful clock would have been broken within days. The workings so visible, almost taunting—you would naturally be drawn to jam your fingers into them. You would naturally be drawn to stopping the God-damn ticking/chiming.
But the Neukirchens loved the old grandfather clock—“It’s like the ticktocking heart of this house,” Agatha said, and Konrad said, with a wink to Meredith, “This clock is a genuine antique. It has come down through our family. And it makes me remember—even if I’d like to forget—that we Neukirchens have a secret weakness, that not a one of us has been spared.”
Meredith smiled uneasily. Meredith clenched her hands together out of sight of her father’s sharp eyes and smiled uneasily but did not ask what the secret weakness was; which seemed to surprise Konrad for he said, with the hint of a frown, “Hmm? Aren’t you going to ask your dad, what the ‘secret weakness’ of the Neukirchens is?”
Meredith shook her head, no.
Meredith laughed at the look in Konrad’s face.
“Really? You aren’t going to ask?”
Again Meredith shook her head, no.
“My dear daughte
r is the only person, ever, to whom I’ve mentioned this secret, who hasn’t asked about it! Amazing.”
But Konrad would not let the subject go, and returned to it a short while later: “But why aren’t you going to ask, Meredith? Aren’t you the least bit curious about the secret weakness of the Neukirchens?”
Meredith shook her head, no.
“But”—Konrad was pretending to be exasperated now, plucking at his whiskery jaws—“why aren’t you curious?”
“Because—it wouldn’t be a secret, if it was told.”
Konrad stared at the child. For a moment he was struck speechless.
“Why, then—of course—my dear daughter—you are correct.”
Never again did Konrad bring up the subject to Meredith.
It was the morning after one of these nights—when Meredith was in third grade, and eight years old (if you counted her birthday as September 21, 1961)—spent listening to the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall wondering if her mother was alive and where if alive her mother was and if her mother could find her in this new place—that the terrible news was revealed, which Meredith was never to be told.
There are two kinds of news in a child’s life: the news that is told, and the news that is not-told.
Yet somehow, Meredith would come to know.
It was the week of the Convent Elementary School spelling bee, June 1969. Though she was three years younger than a number of the “star spellers” competing in the spelling bee, Meredith Ruth Neukirchen became champion speller of the school with a correct spelling of unicorn. During this very week, news came of what newspapers and TV called a grisly discovery—the wizened and mummified corpse of a small child, a very young girl discovered in a junked refrigerator at the edge of a landfill, eleven miles west of Star Lake.
On local TV news came this ugly bulletin. In the Carthage newspaper.
Of course, the Neukirchens shielded their daughter from such an ugly story.