"Good-by!" Aunt Tildy slammed the door.
There, there. That was better. Gone. Darned fool men with their maggoty ideas. No never minds about the wicker. If they stole something, she didn't care, long as they let her alone.
"Look." Aunt Tildy smiled. "Here comes Emily, home from college. About time. Lovely girl. See how she walks. But, land, she looks pale and funny today, walkin' so slow. I wonder why. Looks worried, she does. Poor girl. I'll just fix some coffee and a tray of cakes."
Emily tapped up the front steps. Aunt Tildy, rustling around, could hear the slow, deliberate steps. What ailed the girl? Didn't sound like she had no more spunk than a fluelizard. The front door swung wide. Emily stood in the hall, holding to the brass doorknob.
"Emily?" called Aunt Tildy.
Emily shuffled into the parlor, head down.
"Emily! I been waitin' for you! There was the darndest fool men here with a wicker. Tryin' to sell me something I didn't want. Glad you're home. Makes it right cozy--"
Aunt Tildy realized that for a full minute Emily had been staring.
"Emily, what's wrong? Stop starin'. Here, I'll bring you a cup of coffee. There!
"Emily, why you backin' away from me?
"Emily, stop screamin', child. Don't scream, Emily! Don't! You keep screamin' that way, you go crazy. Emily, get up off the floor, get away from that wall! Emily! Stop cringin', child. I won't hurt you!
"Land, if it ain't one thing it's another.
"Emily, what's wrong, child . . ."
Emily groaned through her hands over her face.
"Child, child," whispered Aunt Tildy. "Here, sip this water. Sip it, Emily, that's it."
Emily widened her eyes, saw something, then shut them, quivering, pulling into herself. "Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Aunt--"
"Stop that!" Tildy slapped her. "What ails you?"
Emily forced herself to look up again.
She thrust her fingers out. They vanished inside Aunt Tildy.
"What fool notion!" cried Tildy. "Take your hand away! Take it, I say!"
Emily dropped aside, jerked her head, the golden hair shaking into shiny temblors. "You're not here, Aunt Tildy. I'm dreaming. You're dead!"
"Hush, baby."
"You can't be here."
"Land of Goshen, Emily "
She took Emily's hand. It passed clean through her. Instantly, Aunt Tildy raised straight up, stomping her foot.
"Why, why!" she cried angrily. "That--fibber! That sneakthief!" Her thin hands knotted to wiry, hard, pale fists. "That dark, dark fiend! He stole it! He toted it away, he did, oh he did, he did! Why, I--" Wrath steamed in her. Her pale blue eyes were fire. She sputtered into an indignant silence. Then she turned to Emily. "Child, get up! I need you!"
Emily lay, quivering.
"Part of me's here!" declared Aunt Tildy. "By the Lord Harry, what's left will have to do, for a bit. Fetch my bonnet!"
Emily confessed. "I'm scared."
"Certainly, oh, certainly not of me?"
"Yes."
"Why, I'm no spook! You known me most of your life! Now's no time to snivel-sop. Fetch up on your heels or I'll slap you crack across your nose!"
Emily rose, in sobs, stood like something cornered, trying to decide which direction to bolt in.
"Where's your car, Emily?"
"Down at the garage--ma'am."
"Good!" Aunt Tildy hustled her through the front door. "Now--" Her sharp eyes poked up and down the streets. "Which way's the mortuary?"
Emily held to the step rail, fumbling down. "What're you going to do, Aunt Tildy?"
"Do?" cried Aunt Tildy, tottering after her, jowls shaking in a thin, pale fury. "Why, get my body back, of course! Get my body back! Go on!"
The car roared, Emily clenched to the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the curved, rain-wet streets. Aunt Tildy shook her parasol.
"Hurry, child, hurry, before they squirt juices in my body and dice and cube it the way them persnickety morticians have a habit of doin'. They cut and sew it so it ain't no good to no one!"
"Oh, Auntie, Auntie, let me go, don't make me drive! It won't do any good, no good at all," sighed the girl.
"Here we are." Emily pulled to the curb, and collapsed over the wheel, but Aunt Tildy had already popped from the car and trotted with mincing skirt up the mortuary drive, around behind to where the shiny black hearse was unloading a wicker basket.
"You!" she directed her attack at one of the four men with the wicker. "Put that down!"
The four men looked up.
One said, "Step aside, lady. We're doing our job."
"That's my body tucked in there!" She brandished the parasol.
"That I wouldn't know anything about," said a second man. "Please don't block traffic, madam. This thing is heavy."
"Sir!" she cried, wounded. "I'll have you know I weigh only one hundred and ten pounds."
He looked at her casually. "I'm not interested in your heft, lady. I'm due home for supper. My wife'll kill me if I'm late."
The four of them moved on, Aunt Tildy in pursuit, down a hall, into a preparations room.
A white-smocked man awaited the wicker's arrival with a rather pleased smile on his long, eager-looking face. Aunt Tildy didn't care for the avidity of that face, or the entire personality of the man. The basket was deposited, the four men wandered off.
The man in the white smock glanced at Auntie and said:
"Madam, this is no fit place for a gentlewoman."
"Well," she said, gratified, "glad you feel that way. It's exactly what I tried to tell that dark-clothed young man!"
The mortician puzzled. "What dark-clothed young man is that?"
"The one that came puddlin' around my house, that's who."
"No one of that description works for us."
"No matter. As you just so intelligently stated, this is no place for a lady. I don't want me here. I want me home cookin' ham for Sunday visitors, it's near Easter. I got Emily to feed, sweaters to knit, clocks to wind "
"You are quite philosophical, and philanthropical, no doubt of it, madam, but I have work. A body has arrived." This last, he said with apparent relish, and a winnowing of his knives, tubes, jars, and instruments.
Tildy bristled. "You put so much as a fingerprint on that body, and I'll--"
He laid her aside like a little old moth. "George," he called with a suave gentleness, "escort this lady out, please."
Aunt Tildy glared at the approaching George.
"Show me your backside, goin' the other way!"
George took her wrists. "This way, please."
Tildy extricated herself. Easily. Her flesh sort of--slipped. It even amazed Tildy. Such an unexpected talent to develop at this late day.
"See?" she said, pleased with her ability. "You can't budge me. I want my body back!"
The mortician opened the wicker lid casually. Then, in a recurrent series of scrutinies he realized the body inside was . . . it seemed . . . could it be? . . . maybe . . . yes . . . no . . . no . . . it just couldn't be, but . . . "Ah," he exhaled, abruptly. He turned. His eyes were wide, then they narrowed.
"Madam," he said, cautiously. "This lady here is--a--relative--of yours?"
"A very dear relation. Be careful of her."
"A sister, perhaps?" He grasped at a straw of dwindling logic, hopefully.
"No, you fool. Me, do you hear? Me!"
The mortician considered the idea. "No," he said. "Things like this don't happen." He fumbled with his tools. "George, get help from the others. I can't work with a crank present."
The four men returned. Aunt Tildy crossed her arms in defiance. "Won't budge!" she cried, as she was moved like a pawn on a chessboard, from preparations room to slumber room, to hall, to waiting chamber, to funeral parlor, where she threw herself down on a chair in the very center of the vestibule. There were pews going back into gray silence, and a smell of flowers.
"Please, ma'am," said one of the men. "That's where the
body rests for the service tomorrow."
"I'm sittin' right plumb here until I get what I want."
She sat, pale fingers fussing with the lace at her throat, jaw set, one high-buttoned shoe tapping with irritation. If a man got in whopping distance, she gave him a parasol whop. And when they touched her, now, she remembered to--slip away.
Mr. Carrington, Mortuary President, heard the disturbance in his office and came toddling down the aisle to investigate. "Here, here," he whispered to everyone, finger to mouth. "More respect, more respect. What is this? Oh, madam, may I help you?"
She looked him up and down. "You may."
"How may I be of service, please?"
"Go in that room back there," directed Aunt Tildy.
"Yee-ess."
"And tell that eager young investigator to quit fiddlin' with my body. I'm a maiden lady. My moles, birthmarks, scars, and other bric-a-brac, including the turn of my ankle, are my own secret. I don't want him pryin' and probin', cuttin', or hurtin' it any way."
This was vague to Mr. Carrington, who hadn't correlated bodies yet. He looked at her in blank helplessness.
"He's got me in there on his table, like a pigeon ready to be drawn and stuffed!" she told him.
Mr. Carrington hustled off to check. After fifteen minutes of waiting silence and horrified arguing, comparing notes with the mortician behind closed doors, Carrington returned, three shades whiter.
Carrington dropped his glasses, picked them up. "You're making it difficult for us."
"I am?" raged Aunt Tildy. "Saint Vitus in the mornin'! Looky here, Mister Blood and Bones or whatever, you tell that--"
"We're already draining the blood from the--"
"What!"
"Yes, yes, I assure you, yes. So, you just go away, now; there's nothing to be done." He laughed nervously. "Our mortician is also performing a brief autopsy to determine cause of death."
Auntie jumped to her feet, burning.
"He can't do that! Only coroners are allowed to do that!"
"Well, we sometimes allow a little--"
"March straight in and tell that Cut-'em-up to pump all that fine New England blue blood right back into that fines-kinned body, and if he's taken anything out, for him to attach it back in so it'll function proper, and then turn that body, fresh as paint, into my keepin'. You hear!"
"There's nothing I can do. Nothing."
"Tell you what. I'm settin' here for the next two hundred years. You listenin'? And every time any of your customers come by, I'll spit ectoplasm right squirt up their nostrils!"
Carrington groped that thought around his weakening mind and emitted a groan. "You'd ruin our business. You wouldn't do that."
Auntie smiled. "Wouldn't I?"
Carrington ran up the dark aisle. In the distance you could hear him dialing a phone over and over again. Half an hour later cars roared up in front of the mortuary. Three vice-presidents of the mortuary came down the aisle with their hysterical president.
"What seems to be the trouble?"
Auntie told them with a few well-chosen infernalities.
They held a conference, meanwhile notifying the mortician to discontinue his homework, at least until such time as an agreement was reached. . . . The mortician walked from his chamber and stood smiling amiably, smoking a big black cigar.
Auntie stared at the cigar.
"Where'd you put the ashes?" she cried, in horror.
The mortician only grinned imperturbably and puffed.
The conference broke up.
"Madam, in all fairness, you wouldn't force us out on the street to continue our services, would you?"
Auntie scanned the vultures. "Oh, I wouldn't mind at all."
Carrington wiped sweat from his jowls. "You can have your body back."
"Ha!" shouted Auntie. Then, with caution: "Intact?"
"Intact."
"No formaldehyde?"
"No formaldehyde."
"Blood in it?"
"Blood, my God, yes, blood, if only you'll take it and go!"
A prim nod. "Fair enough. Fix 'er up. It's a deal."
Carrington snapped his fingers at the mortician. "Don't stand there, you mental incompetent. Fix it up!"
"And be careful with that cigar!" said the old woman.
"Easy, easy," said Aunt Tildy. "Put the wicker on the floor where I can step in it."
She didn't look at the body much. Her only comment was, "Natural-lookin'." She let herself fall back into the wicker.
A biting sensation of arctic coldness gripped her, followed by an unlikely nausea and a giddy whorling. She was two drops of matter fusing, water trying to seep into concrete. Slow to do. Hard. Like a butterfly trying to squirm back into a discarded husk of flinty chrysalis!
The vice-presidents watched Aunt Tildy with apprehension. Mr. Carrington wrung his fingers and tried to assist with boosting and pushing moves of his hands and arms. The mortician, frankly skeptical, watched with idle, amused eyes.
Seeping into cold, long granite. Seeping into a frozen and ancient statue. Squeezing all the way.
"Come alive, damn ye!" shouted Aunt Tildy to herself. "Raise up a bit."
The body half-rose, rustling in the dry wicker.
"Fold your legs, woman!"
The body grabbled up, blindly groping.
"See!" shouted Aunt Tildy.
Light entered the webbed blind eyes.
"Feel!" urged Aunt Tildy.
The body felt the warmth of the room, the sudden reality of the preparations table on which to lean, panting.
"Move!"
The body took a creaking, slow step.
"Hear!" she snapped.
The noises of the place came into the dull ears. The harsh, expectant breath of the mortician, shaken; the whimpering Mr. Carrington; her own crackling voice.
"Walk!" she said.
The body walked.
"Think!" she said.
The old brain thought.
"Speak!" she said.
The body spoke, bowing to the morticians:
"Much obliged. Thank you."
"Now," she said, finally, "cry!"
And she began to cry tears of utter happiness.
And now, any afternoon about four, if you want to visit Aunt Tildy, you just walk around to her antique shop and rap. There's a big, black funeral wreath on the door. Don't mind that! Aunt Tildy left it there; that's how her humor runs. You rap on the door. It's double-barred and triple-locked, and when you rap her voice shrills out at you.
"Is that the man in black?"
And you laugh and say no, no, it's only me, Aunt Tildy.
And she laughs and says, "Come on in, quick!" and she whips the door open and slams it shut behind, so no man in black can ever slip in with you. Then she sets you down and pours your coffee and shows you her latest knitted sweater. She's not as fast as she used to be, and can't see as good, but she gets on.
"And if you're 'specially good," Aunt Tildy declares, setting her coffee cup to one side, "I'll give you a little treat."
"What's that?" visitors will ask.
"This," says Auntie, pleased with her little uniqueness, her little joke.
Then with modest moves of her fingers she will unfasten the white lace at her neck and chest and for a brief moment show what lies beneath.
The long blue scar where the autopsy was neatly sewn together.
"Not bad sewin' for a man," she allows. "Oh, some more coffee? There!"
THE CISTERN
It was an afternoon of rain, and lamps lighted against the gray. For a long while the two sisters had been in the dining-room. One of them, Juliet, embroidered tablecloths; the younger, Anna, sat quietly on the window seat, staring out at the dark street and the dark sky.
Anna kept her brow pressed against the pane, but her lips moved and after reflecting a long moment, she said, "I never thought of that before."
"Of what?" asked Juliet.
"It just came to me. There's actually a city u
nder a city. A dead city, right here, right under our feet."
Juliet poked her needle in and out the white cloth. "Come away from the window. That rain's done something to you."
"No, really. Didn't you ever think of the cisterns before? They're all through the town, there's one for every street, and you can walk in them without bumping your head, and they go everywhere and finally go down to the sea," said Anna, fascinated with the rain on the asphalt pavement out there and the rain falling from the sky and vanishing down the gratings at each corner of the distant intersection. "Wouldn't you like to live in a cistern?"
"I would not!"
"But wouldn't it be fun--I mean, very secret? To live in the cistern and peek up at people through the slots and see them and them not see you? Like when you were a child and played hide-and-seek and nobody found you, and there you were in their midst all the time, all sheltered and hidden and warm and excited. I'd like that. That's what it must be like to live in the cistern."
Juliet looked slowly up from her work. "You are my sister, aren't you, Anna? You were born, weren't you? Sometimes, the way you talk, I think Mother found you under a tree one day and brought you home and planted you in a pot and grew you to this size and there you are, and you'll never change."
Anna didn't reply, so Juliet went back to her needle. There was no color in the room; neither of the two sisters added any color to it. Anna held her head to the window for five minutes. Then she looked way off into the distance and said, "I guess you'd call it a dream. While I've been here, the last hour, I mean. Thinking. Yes, Juliet, it was a dream."
Now it was Juliet's turn not to answer.
Anna whispered. "All this water put me to sleep a while, I guess, and then I began to think about the rain and where it came from and where it went and how it went down those little slots in the curb, and then I thought about deep under, and suddenly there they were. A man . . . and a woman. Down in that cistern, under the road."
"What would they be doing there?" asked Juliet.
Anna said, "Must they have a reason?"
"No, not if they're insane, no," said Juliet. "In that case no reasons are necessary. There they are in their cistern, and let them stay."
"But they aren't just in the cistern," said Anna, knowingly, her head to one side, her eyes moving under the half-down lids. "No, they're in love, these two."
"For heaven's sake," said Juliet, "did love make them crawl down there?"
"No, they've been there for years and years," said Anna.
"You can't tell me they've been in that cistern for years, living together," protested Juliet.
"Did I say they were alive?" asked Anna, surprised. "Oh, but no. They're dead."