“I—I would have a team to help me. I would have advisers—”
“ ‘The buck stops here,’ Harry Truman famously said. And so with all of us, as moral individuals—the buck both ‘starts’ and ‘stops’ with us.”
“Then I—I think that I could not—I could not make any decision that would harm another person . . .”
“Yes, but in this case you would be saving the lives of others—of Americans.”
Meredith laughed nervously. It was like her father to befuddle her: one who had no clear answers himself to any question yet had many questions, and most of them paradoxical.
“I think that—I could not participate in any action that was related to war. I would declare myself a pacifist, and withdraw—”
“—and allow another to take your place, who might be less developed than you, spiritually? That isn’t a very well-thought-out idea, is it!”
“But, Daddy—you’re a pacifist, aren’t you? Isn’t that what a Quaker is?”
“Yes. But only in theory.”
“ ‘Only in theory’—?”
“If you or Agatha were threatened, I would hardly remain a pacifist, Meredith! I would wish to inflict sufficient bodily harm upon anyone who threatened my beloved family, to prevent this individual from harming either of you; and I would act instinctively, and not regret it.”
Konrad spoke vehemently. Meredith was both amused and touched by her father’s words—for it didn’t seem to occur to Mr. Neukirchen that in such a situation he himself might be threatened, and “harmed.”
They were approaching the downtown public library. Meredith would park the Oldsmobile at the rear of the dignified old building resembling a Greek temple—easing the cream-colored car into a space equidistant between two other vehicles as precisely as if she’d measured it.
Mudgirl is not a pacifist. Mudgirl will fight for her life!
It was that Saturday morning in November when Meredith saw a man who closely resembled Konrad Neukirchen slip away from the library less than a half hour after they’d arrived.
She’d been working in the reference room—on a term paper for her American history course—when by chance she happened to look out the second-floor window to see a man—lumbering-tall, broad-backed, in an overcoat that resembled Mr. Neukirchen’s overcoat and with Mr. Neukirchen’s thick-tufted graying-brown hair—leave by the rear entrance below and cross hurriedly into the parking lot.
Meredith stared in astonishment. Where was her father headed? And why without telling her? Their plan had been to meet in the library foyer at 1 P.M.; it was 11:25 A.M. now. Konrad was so seemingly open with his daughter—as he was with virtually everyone—it was a shock to Meredith that he hadn’t mentioned he would be away from the library, however briefly; and the way in which he was walking, with an air of purposefulness, was not at all characteristic of him.
Hurriedly Meredith put on her jacket, ran down the back stairs and followed Mr. Neukirchen.
She had never followed either of her parents before! She would never have thought of following them any more than she’d have thought of examining one of her old children’s books—Tales of Mother Goose, for instance—The Wind in the Willows—to see if there was a passage, or an illustration, or entire pages she’d somehow missed.
It was a relief, Konrad hadn’t returned to the Oldsmobile. It would have seemed to Meredith a double betrayal, if he’d driven away in the car so soon after Meredith had so carefully parked it.
The day was overcast, dull-cold, a gritty layer of snow on the ground like metal filings. Steam heat from clanging old radiators in the library had been making Meredith sleepy and so it felt good to be propelled outdoors so suddenly, and urgently. Mr. Neukirchen was almost out of sight moving with an agility surprising in one so stout–Meredith had to run to catch up with him—remaining then a little distance behind him taking care to keep something between her and him: a parked vehicle, a wall or a post, the corner of a building. It was like one of the strange rough “games” the older children had played at the Skedds’—you had to play without knowing the rules, or what might happen to you. You have no choice.
Along a narrow side street of small storefronts that ran parallel with Carthage’s Main Street Mr. Neukirchen made his way at this quickened pace. It could not be an ordinary errand he was going on—these he did with Meredith—dry cleaners, drugstore, Mohawk Meats & Poultry—Army-Navy Surplus Store (where Konrad bought underwear, socks, pajamas)—this had to be something special, and secret. By this time, he must have been breathing hard; his breath must have been steaming. At least forty pounds overweight, Konrad argued that he was “fat but fit”—(in fact Konrad was not really fat, but not really fit, either). That he was walking so quickly and with such an air of purpose was a surprise to Meredith, who had probably never seen her father walk at such a pace before; it was a family joke, promulgated by Konrad himself, that he walked so slowly most of the time, if he’d been a bicycle he would have been in danger of falling over.
There was Konrad entering a store—a small florist’s—and soon afterward he emerged with a plant in a clay pot covered in paper wrapping and encircled with a red bow.
Meredith observed from behind a parked car. She’d become heedless that other pedestrians were observing her.
“A present! Daddy is bringing someone a present. . . .”
It had not been easy for Meredith to acquire the usage—Daddy. And the usage—Mom. It was good for her to practice them—alone, murmuring aloud.
Maybe Konrad was visiting someone in the hospital? Maybe—he’d wanted to spare Meredith?
Now with mounting dread Meredith followed her father along another street—in the direction of the river, it seemed—and not in the direction of the Carthage hospital; she was reminded of those men in movies or TV melodramas, seemingly devoted to their families, who had illicit liaisons with women, even second families; invariably it was said of these men But he would never do anything like that! Not our Dad.
Strangely, Mr. Neukirchen had not once glanced back over his shoulder. If he had, and if he’d sighted Meredith, how shocked—disapproving?—he’d have been. Meredith could not bear the possibility of being seen. Between her and Mr. Neukirchen—between her and Mrs. Neukirchen—was a bond of absolute trust, unsuspicion.
Cradling the large gaudily wrapped plant in his arms Mr. Neukirchen crossed through the asphalt parking lot of a Catholic grade school, and through the parking lot of an adjacent church; he entered Friendship Park, that ran along the Black River for several miles, where frequently in warm weather he’d driven his little family, on picnics and “outings”; Meredith had but to half-shut her eyes, to see poor fat Puddin’ waddling after a stick tossed by his master in the picnic-area of this park. But after only a few minutes Mr. Neukirchen left the park by a wood chip path leading to Friendship Cemetery which was a municipal non-denominational cemetery adjacent to the park. By this time he must have walked more than a mile and his pace was slowing.
“Into the cemetery! But why. . . .”
Now Konrad was walking with his head bowed. His jovial manner seemed to have left him totally, as if he were a partly deflated balloon.
In a newer and relatively empty part of Friendship Cemetery, Konrad left the graveled path and approached one of the graves. From where Meredith stood it appeared to be a small grave—the marker was small, hardly more than a horizontal plaque in stone. Somberly he unwrapped the plant—a poinsettia?—artificial?—bright, garish-red, with the conspicuous red bow—and placed it at the gravesite like an offering.
“Someone has died. But who . . .”
From behind the thick gnarled trunk of an old oak Meredith watched. Fortunately there was no one else in this part of Friendship Cemetery on this melancholy November day. Everywhere the gritty layering of metallic snow cast objects in a cold pure neutral light, shadowless. The kind of light that
pierces the heart, it is so very cold, pure, neutral, clinical—there is nothing human in it.
Meredith would recall this moment. Waking in the night twenty-five years later to the terrible realization that she had very likely ruined her career as a university president—in the way of a drunk stumbling and flailing about, smashing things, oblivious to the damage he has caused—she would recall this moment in Friendship Cemetery, Carthage, New York—her realization as a girl that she did not know Konrad Neukirchen, truly.
This sense of utter implacable ruin—the cold pure neutral light that is shadowless, soulless.
“Oh Daddy! Please come back.”
By now Meredith was shaken, frightened. This was not a game—was it? She could see that there were numerous objects placed about the little grave—ceramic animals and birds, clay pots, desiccated floral displays, plastic bouquets. Most of the neighboring graves were adorned with far fewer objects and some had none at all.
This was not Meredith’s first visit to a cemetery. But until now, there had been no connection between her and the cemetery, however oblique it was in this case.
It had not ever occurred to her until this moment—her sister must be buried, somewhere.
Jedina. Jewell?
Somewhere.
With care Konrad set the poinsettia at the center of the little grave—it was the care the man took, setting a heavy casserole dish onto a surface, having removed it from the oven for Agatha; the care he took in inserting and adjusting the ribbon in Meredith’s manual typewriter, that had been a gift to her for a recent birthday.
For a long time he stood above the grave, staring down. His broad shoulders were hunched and his arms hung down apelike in a posture that could not have been comfortable. So rare was it that Konrad Neukirchen wasn’t in a cheery ebullient mood, Meredith was incapable of imagining what his facial expression might be.
After what must have been ten minutes—(in a rising wind off the river, Meredith had begun to shiver)—her father went to sit on a stone bench nearby. His walk was slow now, shuffling. His head was bowed. In the stillness of absolute contemplation as if he had turned to stone he remained on the bench as snowflakes swirled and fell on his shoulders, his hands, his bare bowed head.
From behind the gnarled tree, Meredith stared with stark open eyes. Thinking how like figures in a movie, they were. One of those late-night mystery movies of the 1940s, in black and white. With mounting apprehension you watched, knowing that something would happen to one of the figures, or both—but what?
If Meredith had called to Konrad, and run to him—a distance of no more than thirty feet—how would he have reacted? Would his face have creased into its usual broad smile or would he have stared at her in a very different way, unsmiling, as if he didn’t recognize her?
She realized that she was frightened of doing this: of his seeing her.
It might end, then. The masquerade.
Meredith retreated, to wait out her father’s vigil, which lasted another twenty minutes. When finally he left, she came to the grave—saw the small stone marker:
MEREDITH RUTH NEUKIRCHEN
September 21, 1957–February 3, 1961
Beloved Daughter
Cherished Always
She saw that the poinsettia was large, lavish, beautiful—vivid-red—but not artificial: it was a living plant that would not long withstand the freezing November air.
At 1 P.M. they met as they’d planned in the library foyer.
Meredith saw that her father’s overcoat was still slightly damp from the light-falling snow in the cemetery but his thick-tufted graying-brown hair appeared to have dried.
Konrad, who’d been perusing the bulletin board, called Meredith’s attention to a flyer for free “Doberman-mix” puppies—“What d’you think your dear mother would say if we brought one or two of these home with us?”
Meredith laughed. He wasn’t serious of course.
“My daughter will come with us. She will drive!”
So sweetly—naïvely—Agatha boasted of her beloved gawky-goose daughter, not one friend could possibly take offense.
“She is not just a ‘passable’ driver—Mr. Nash at the high school praised Merry as the only girl he’d ever taught who ‘drives like a man.’ ”
And so to the unspeakably sad homes of the elderly, the reclusive, the mentally deranged in the ever-darkening days before Thanksgiving 1978.
For it had happened that an elderly woman who lived alone in Carthage had died and her body had gone undiscovered for a week in her trash-filled house hardly a mile from the proper brick houses of Mt. Laurel Street. In the Carthage newspaper there was a good deal of publicity—all of it lurid and recriminatory and upsetting. Agatha wept, seeing a photo of the deceased woman taken in 1934 when she’d been only just middle-aged, and had seemed healthy and happy; Konrad shook his head muttering—“Tragic! Very very sad”; Meredith stared in silence, feeling a thrill of something unnameable in her mouth—a taste as of cold oily muck.
And so Agatha gathered together several women friends, of whom one or two were Quakers, to visit the homes of individuals known to be solitary, reclusive, ailing, elderly—“at risk” in one way or another; and of course Meredith accompanied the women for Meredith too had been deeply moved by the news articles.
In all, the women visited a half-dozen homes: facades with peeling paint like psoriasis, cracked and carelessly mended windows, broken porches, broken roofs, broken steps, even broken floorboards. There were mangy dogs that barked hysterically; there were hissing cats that scrambled away underfoot; in one house, several filth-encrusted cages of bright-feathered canaries, too dispirited to sing. In each residence there lived a solitary woman, the eldest eighty-seven and the youngest just sixty-eight but clearly mentally impaired; it had to be just accidental—didn’t it?—that these solitary individuals were women, in varying stages of distraction, melancholia, and dementia. “God doesn’t want us to live alone!” Agatha said, shuddering. “It is just so cruel, these poor women have been abandoned. . . .”
In the midst of the nervous chattery visitors Meredith was a tall straight-backed girl with a quick sunny smile, quiet, unfailingly courteous, and strong—she could be depended upon to force open doors that had rotted into their frames, and she could be depended upon to pack trash and raw garbage festering in kitchens, to be hauled out to the curb; she did not shrink from scouring sinks, tubs, even toilets with steel wool, in filthy water, wearing rubber gloves that soon tore; there were mattresses so terribly stained, you could not have determined what color they’d originally been—these, to be uprighted, and turned over onto sagging bedsprings, revealing now the “clean” side; wielding a rake she cleared pathways in rooms heaped with trash as Agatha and her women friends followed timorously in her wake. When the women were at a loss for words, having gained entry into what were clearly hovels of madness, that no amount of well-intentioned Christian charity could exorcise, it was Meredith who spoke to the resident, or tried to speak—“Hello! We are your neighbors and we’ve come to say hello and to see if you would like us to—to help out a bit.”
It was not exactly true that they were neighbors. But they were fellow residents of Carthage, New York.
The women were Carrie, Phyllis, Irene, and Agatha. The girls were Meredith and Diane.
That is, Diane came on the “good-neighbor” excursion just once. Diane was Irene’s twelve-year-old daughter of whom Irene said with grim cheerfulness that she was “strong as a baby ox”—a thick-set girl with a low, broad forehead and glowering eyebrows whom Meredith tried, in her tentative smiling way, to befriend, but was rudely rebuffed as if with a wayward elbow.
Diane was sulky, resentful; she showed little enthusiasm for the “errand of mercy” on which her mother had brought her, to the home of the sixty-eight-year-old woman who opened the door to her ramshackle house only after Agatha bravely rang
the doorbell repeatedly and who lived—it was shortly revealed—in a hovel reeking of raw garbage, cat excrement, and a miscellany of dead, decomposed creatures beneath detritus that had accumulated to a height of several inches. “Jesus! I’m going to puke!” Diane whimpered, as her mother reprimanded her with a hiss.
This visit did not go well from the start. The elderly recluse—who refused to give her name—seemed to have no idea what her visitors wanted of her, or from her, and clearly resented their presence. Her skull was covered in wan wisps of hair like withered mosses on a rock and her face had a puckish corkscrew twist out of which small suspicious eyes peered. She was small, as if shrunken—a housecoat stiff with dirt hung on her skeletal body and on her feet were demented house-slippers with a spangle of beads. “Who? What? What’re you saying?”—her voice was low, guttural. Only begrudgingly did she accept bags of groceries from her visitors, setting them on a filthy countertop; these were mostly canned goods, but also a selection of fresh vegetables—carrots with their long lacy-green leaves still attached, red-skin potatoes smooth as stones—and, appropriately for the season, a single frozen turkey-breast in a cellophane wrapper, and a box of turkey-stuffing mix. When Phyllis opened the refrigerator door, thinking to put away the perishable things, it was to such filth, and such stench, that she quickly shut it again.
“Oh. Oh, dear. I think that—maybe—a little housecleaning might be—something we could do. If . . .”
“ . . . should be a caseworker assigned to this poor woman! From the county.”
“ . . . we can report these conditions. The county must not know how serious this is.”
Meredith was stunned by all that she could see, and smell. And it was obvious, the shrunken little woman wanted her uninvited visitors gone—though deranged, she was not a passive victim of circumstances; her life in this squalor had its logic, however oblique and inaccessible to a stranger. “How long have you lived like this? How long—have you lived alone?”—earnestly Agatha tried to engage the woman in conversation but the woman replied only in grunts and shrugs.