A Garden of Earthly Delights

  “What's this, one of the kids' rooms?” Clara said, opening a door. She looked inside briefly, as if all rooms now were hers to look into. Revere walked along the hall just ahead of her. He tapped at another door and said that that was Clark's room. At the end of the hall he opened a door and Swan's legs worked fast to get him to the door before Revere forgot about him and closed it again, leaving Swan alone out in the hall. “Is that—where we're going to stay?” Clara said, pleased. She looked in and seemed to hesitate, her back very stiff. Revere was saying that all “her” things had been taken out and the room had been painted; it was all new, all clean. Clara nodded. Swan stood a few feet behind them, unable to see past them. He did not care. This was to be the room they would live in and the door would close on it, and he would not be able to run in if he was frightened. He did not care about it. As Revere talked, Swan saw behind this tall dark-haired man another man, vague and remote but somehow more vivid than Revere, whose presence seemed to be descending over this house like a bird circling slowly to the earth, its wings outstretched in a lazy threat. Revere talked, Clara talked. They spoke in quick, low voices, as if someone might still be in that room listening to them. Swan half shut his eyes and could almost hear the voice of that other man, that man who was a secret from Revere and who had gone away and had never come back.…

  A woman was waiting for them at the stairs. Swan had never seen her before. His eyes shied away from adults, as the eyes of animals sometimes refuse to focus upon human eyes, out of a strange uneasy fear; he felt that this woman's eyes also shied away from him and Clara both. She was introduced to Clara and the two women touched hands. She was an old woman, much older than Clara, so old that just looking at Clara must be awful for her. They talked fast. Both women nodded, and Revere nodded.

  “—your aunt Esther,” Revere was saying to him.

  Everyone smiled. Swan smiled too. He wanted to like this woman, this Esther, because she had the look of a woman nobody else liked. She was tall and gaunt with a face like Revere's, but older, narrowed, and her hair was white and thin so that Swan could see the stark white line of her scalp where her hair had been parted. This white line and the way her gaze dropped, nervously, made Swan understand that she had no power. She was an adult but she did not have any power.

  “—Judd should be here, and the boys—the boys are outside,” she said breathlessly.

  “Don't tire yourself out, Esther,” Revere said.

  The old woman's hands were like leaves stirred restlessly by the wind. You would think they were at last going to lie still, they were so limp, but then they would begin to move again in jerks and surges they could not control.

  “Let me go in the room for a minute,” Clara said. “Are they outside already? Are they here? I have to fix my hair—”

  “Clara, you look fine—”

  “No, I have to fix it,” she said nervously. She turned, and Swan was afraid for a second that she would forget and leave him here with these strangers. But she glanced back and said, “Come with me, kid. We'll both be downstairs in a minute.” She took his hand and they hurried down the hall together. They left Revere and the old woman behind, and outside a dog was barking, which meant someone was driving up, but when Clara pulled him away he was all alone with her and they were like conspirators together. “You got something on your face—what the hell is that?” she whispered. “Christ, what a dirty kid!”

  She opened the door to that room and went right inside. She went right in, pulling Swan with her, and closed the door behind her as if she had been doing this all her life. A big, sunny room. The walls had been covered with light green paper and there were silver streaks in it that dazzled Swan's eyes. “Silk wallpaper, what do you think of that,” Clara said. There were four great windows with filmy white curtains that distorted the land outside and made it dreamy and vague; the curtains moved gently in the wind. Clara stood for a moment in the middle of the room, breathing quickly.

  Then she said, “Where's that hairbrush? Goddamn it—” She picked up a little suitcase that had been set inside the door and let it fall onto the bed and opened it. Swan wandered around the room, staring. He went to the windows first. His own window, back home, looked out on the backyard and that was all—everything ran back to a scrawny field and ended. He could not see the horizon. Here, so high in the air, he could see the fields and a big woods far away. He was not high enough to see the borderline of mountains, but, in this house, he knew they were there and for the first time he felt pleasure in this knowledge. He leaned against the window and looked down. An automobile had driven up. People were getting out. Two dogs ran at them, barking with joy.

  “Oh, here it is,” Clara said angrily.

  Swan did not turn to look at her. He touched the windowsill; it had warped a little from rain. When you looked closely at the room you saw things like that. There were a few brown water stains in the ceiling, like clouds—nothing anyone else would bother to look at, only Swan. And the big bureau that looked fine and polished, that had some scratches on it; he saw them too.

  “Come over here, will you? You want to fall out that window?” Clara said. That showed she hadn't been watching him—he could not fall out the window, Swan thought with disgust. “I got to fix you up. You want to look better than his kids, don't you?”

  She wet her finger and rubbed his forehead. Swan submitted without struggle. This room was fresh and sunny, not like the corridor outside and the parlor downstairs; and he had caught a glimpse of the big kitchen with its iron stove and wooden table— that had looked gloomy too. But up here, in this room that would belong to his mother and Revere, everything was fresh. There were even yellow flowers in a vase on the bureau.

  “Did somebody die in here?” Swan said.

  “His wife died in here a month ago,” Clara said. “So here we are.” She smiled a half-angry ironic smile at him. “Now, don't worry about anything. Do what I tell you. If they make trouble for you, tell me about it first, don't tell him—men don't like that. Tell me if your ‘brothers' bother you. I know what kids are like, I had brothers of my own.” Clara paused, her eyelids tremulous. For a moment Swan thought she might say more: but she did not. It was like an opaque window was opened at such times, and you could see through—almost!—and in that instant the window slammed shut again, and you saw only your own reflection. “I know, they'll make it hard on you. That's only natural. But someday—well, it will be different. Someday you will have everything—you will be the son he loves best.”

  “I don't want to be,” Swan said sullenly.

  “Hell you don't.” Clara laughed, yanking at his hair. In an instant she was playful, laughing. Making a game of it: “Do what I say, Swan. Why d'you think I'm here, this place I can hardly breathe, except for you.” It wasn't a question. Swan stared at his mother, fearful she would say something she wouldn't be able to take back. He felt panic for her, suddenly. How could she make her way among these people who knew so much more than she did? What if she lost everything, after coming so far? “Swan, what the hell are you looking at? Like some damn ol' retard, I swear. Sometimes.” Clara stood at the bureau mirror primping the back of her hair the way you'd pet a cat. The image in the mirror leaned toward her as if for a kiss. Ashy-blond hair, smooth healthy skin, a blur of pale blue eyes and parted lips about to whisper—what? Swan's heart began to beat in terror for his mother, and of her.

  “Well. We got here, hon. After all these years.” She paused, her eyes suddenly sharp through the mirror. “What's wrong? You look like you're going to be sick.…”

  “I … I don't like it here, I guess.”

  “Oh, yes! You'll like it here. You'll love it.”

  Clara threw the hairbrush down onto the floor. A nerve in Swan's eye twitched. Swan had seen his mother cry many times—she began to cry now. It wasn't a sad helpless crying like a child's crying but a hard angry baffled crying. It seemed to Swan that Clara must be crying because of what he'd said, for of course he'd said the wro
ng thing, but he knew it wasn't only just that; with Clara, it would be more. When she cried like this it wasn't for him. She cried only for herself.

  Someone knocked at the door, quietly. Clara called in her bright happy voice, “Come in!”

  He entered the room, almost shyly. His stooped shoulders, his uplifted hands, his stiff-legged walk and the expression on his face as if he were in the presence of something sacred—these made Swan love him and hate him at the same time.

  Clara cried, over Revere's shoulder, “Swan, go away. Outside!”

  Quickly, not looking back, he left.

  Walking fast and blind along the hall. Colliding with chairs, kicking at them. “Goddamn.” It was Clara's voice in him, frustrated yet laughing, too. “Goddamn goddamn damn damn.” He would not hear anything behind him in that room, they had shut him out of.

  At a high window oddly shaped like an egg, the sun was blazing. Seen from Revere's windows even the sun looked different. This should have surprised Swan, yet did not. From now on. Someday. You will have everything. He felt the excitement, yet the weight of it. He was jamming fingers into his ears, not just to blot out sound but to hurt. Now he wouldn't be able to come to Clara in the night, she wouldn't be alone ever again. That man, his “father,” would be with her. They would shut the door behind them as they'd shut it at the other house but now it would never really open again. His “brothers” would be waiting for him.…

  It was true, Swan thought. All that Clara predicted. For he had no choice, if Clara had so predicted. The son he loves best. It would happen because he, Swan, knew; and his “brothers” did not know. And Revere did not know. He would wait, and he would grow up. Already in his heart he was grown: he was not a child. He was older than Clark, even.

  He smiled, thinking this. Removed his fingers from his throbbing ears: had Clara called Swan? But there was nothing.

  And he knew the adult he would grow into: not Revere, that kindly man, but someone else. Someone else not kind, but sharp-eyed as Clara. That other man had a face Swan could almost see and in his dreams maybe he would see it. There was no haste, it would happen as it must. He would grow into what he would be, without choosing. Revere was his father, and he would love his father yet his real father was someone else. That was his and Clara's secret: he would die with that secret. Now he understood something of the blind dazzling sun. No words, no logic. Only the heat, the terrible blinding light.

  2

  The morning of the funeral.

  Swan had awakened before dawn. His sleep was feathery-light, never strong enough to hold him for long. And then he lay in bed listening to the crows in the tall elms outside the windows. Their cries that were harsh, jubilant; cries of early morning, predators having gotten through the night, and hungry now for their prey. Swan thought We are going to a funeral today. All the way to the city.

  In the two years he and Clara had lived in this house there had been funerals in the Revere family, but Swan had not needed to attend. “You're spared, sweetie. This time.” Clara kissed him, as if they were conspirators. Taut-faced, cinching a shiny black belt around her waist to make her bust and hips more shapely in a black dress of some brocaded fabric purchased for just this occasion: death. Clark had had to go to these funerals: he was seventeen now, a big boy. Jonathan had gone to one funeral. Robert and Swan had stayed home with the housekeeper and had become allies and friends, almost; but when the family returned, Robert had immediately forgotten him. Tagging after his bigger brothers, whom he adored.

  Today, Swan would be taken with the others. He'd nudged his head against Clara hoping to be absolved, but no.

  “It won't kill you, sweetie. It has to be done.”

  Almost Swan didn't mind so much, being allowed to sit up front in the car between Clara and Revere. He could stare out the wind-shield at the landscape, that never ceased to fascinate. His three brothers would ride in the roomy backseat, close-faced, sullen.

  Aunt Esther asked to be “forgiven,” another time. Couldn't ride in the car because the motion made her heart flutter.

  The crows had wakened him, and he carried their shrillness in his head, downstairs to breakfast. There was no escape: every morning they ate breakfast together in the big kitchen. (Revere rose very early, before dawn. But he drank only coffee at that time. He did not “sit down to eat” until seven A.M. with his family and this was a principle of his.) At one end of the table Revere sat leaning forward onto his elbows and at the other end Clara sat and when Aunt Esther was feeling strong enough to join them she sat between them. Clark, Jonathan, and Robert had their places at the table, that could not be varied. This morning the brothers were edgy, silent. Yet their silence had the look of dogs that had been snarling and yipping at one another a minute before.

  When Swan sat quietly at his place, he glanced nervously at Revere, who was mournful-eyed and distracted, and did not return Swan's glance. Often the two smiled at each other, when Swan took his place; but this morning Revere's eyes were glazed over like a scrim of ice on water.

  Clark was rubbing his shaved jaws ruefully. He'd cut himself more than once: he was the only one of the brothers who had to shave. Robert was mumbling something to Jonathan about a missing muskrat trap of his, and Jonathan laughed behind his hand, disguising the sound as a cough. Jonathan was fourteen now, narrow-faced, with dark pinched-together features and a blemished skin and not enough flesh on his arms and legs. Seated across from Swan, he never looked at Swan; his eyes were hooded, secretive. Clark, closest to the stove, was watching Clara with a small smile. She was looking sleepily pretty this morning with her hair loose on her shoulders, in a pink quilted robe Revere had bought for his sons to give her on Christmas morning. In all that household, Swan thought, there was nowhere to look so shining as Clara.

  “I'll take something up to Esther,” Clara told Revere. She was waiting for the eggs to fry; a cautious cook, since her instinct was to be hurried and slapdash. “I feel sorry for her.…”

  Clark said quickly, “Aunt Esther wasn't ever well. Even … a long time ago.” Conscious of having said something wrong, as Clark often did, he continued, clumsily flirting with Clara, “How come you aren't like that, Clara? Sick-like, I mean.”

  Clara laughed, as if she'd been complimented.

  “That's not my nature, I guess. I'm healthy as a horse.”

  Revere said to Clark, “That's enough, now. This isn't a happy occasion.”

  Clark's face reddened. He was a big thick-shouldered boy, almost his father's size. There was something heavy and swerving in him yet good-natured, the same idle lumbering gait you see in bulls that have been castrated, safe inside their pens. “I didn't mean anything disrespectful, Pa.” The word disrespectful hung conspicuously in the kitchen air amid a sound of sizzling bacon and sausage.

  Revere seemed not to hear, however. He was sitting with his elbows on the table in a way he forbade his sons. Already he was dressed for the drive, in a starched white shirt and dark necktie and darker coat that fitted him tight across the chest. Swan had heard Clara complain to him half-seriously that his expensive clothes never fit him exactly, so they didn't look like what they cost: that, to Clara, was a shame.

  Clara spoke in her light glimmering way about the upcoming drive: she was looking forward to meeting her kinfolk, as she called them. “And Swan. I mean, Steven. It will be good for him, too.”

  Revere murmured a vague assent. Clark, Jonathan, Robert stared moodily at Clara. Was she saying something wrong? Swan guessed that she was, without knowing it. In this household, so much was unsaid; it was like running in a marshy place, where you could sink your foot in quicksand and fall flat on your stomach. Swan understood that the boys were thinking of their mother who was dead. Whoever the woman was, we didn't know her. We don't have to miss her. Only just respect her memory. Clara had advised Swan, as if instucting herself.

  Swan knew that Revere and the boys went to visit the cemetery every other week or so. They made their plans quietly, may
be secretly. The boys' mother had been dead now for two years, Swan knew. In his and Clara's presence they never spoke of her.

  Clara served them breakfast—“My men. All of you so handsome.” She made a playful ceremony of it, placing strips of bacon and tiny sausages on napkins to soak up the excess grease. The fried eggs were slightly scorched at the edges, and some of the yolks were cooked hard, but otherwise delicious. Swan liked it that Clara served Revere first, acknowledging how special he was; then she served the others, beginning with Clark. But, serving Swan, she touched the back of his head lightly to signal Hey! I love you best.

  In this Revere household, they had such small secret signals between them. Sometimes only just a glance was enough.

  Now Clara smiled at them all. Urging them to eat while they could. “We're going on a long trip, remember!”

  It was a happy time, Swan thought. Or would have been except for the funeral. The wake. He had no idea what these words meant except he wished he could stay home.

  Sunlight flooded the kitchen and lit up the shining copper pans Clara had bought from a mail-order catalogue. Also Clara had ordered fluffy yellow curtains with tiny red flowers on them for the kitchen windows. For the parlor that was so dark and somber even by day she'd ordered similar curtains, of a gauzy white material with tiny red dots in it, curtains that came to only the windowsills, and seeing these in the parlor Aunt Esther had protested, “Clara, no. I'm afraid, dear—no.”

  Clara had torn the curtains down, her face flushed and angry.

  Goddamn old bitch. Why doesn't she die, the old bag.

  Swan couldn't understand what was wrong with the curtains, he'd thought they were pretty. Like Clara he felt pushed and herded around by the old woman, you could feel Aunt Esther's power in the house, that Clara had to back down. Still, Clara had the boys carry most of the old furniture upstairs to the attic. By mail order from a Port Oriskany furniture store she'd purchased a handsome living room “suite”—oversized leather sofa and chairs, brass floor lamps, sunburst-framed mirrors and a shaggy wine-colored carpet.