The Gravedigger's Daughter Part 19

But no: she'd had enough of Milburn High. She'd had enough of the same faces year following year, the same staring impudent eyes. Imagining that they knew her, when they only knew of her. Imagining that they were superior to her, because of her family.

Her grades were only average, or poor. Often she cut cla.s.ses out of boredom. The course she disliked most was algebra. For what did equations have to do with actual things? In English cla.s.s they were forced to memorize poems by Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, ridiculous singsong rhymes, what did rhymes in poems have to do with things? She'd had enough of school, she would get a job in Milburn and support herself.

For days Miss Lutter pleaded with Rebecca. You would have thought that Rose Lutter's future itself was endangered. She told Rebecca that she should not let those ignorant barbarians ruin her life. She had to persevere, to graduate. Only if she had a high school degree could Rebecca hope to find a decent job and lead a decent life.

Rebecca laughed, this was ridiculous. Decent life! She had no hope of a decent life.

As if what Jacob Schwart had done surrounded her like a halo. Everywhere Rebecca went, this halo followed. It was invisible to her but very visible to others. It gave off an odor as of smoldering rubber at the town dump.

One day Rose Lutter confessed to Rebecca, she had retired early from teaching because she could not bear the ignorant, increasingly insolent children. She'd begun to be allergic to chalk dust, her sinus pa.s.sages were chronically inflamed. She'd been threatened by white-trash parents. The princ.i.p.al of her school had been too cowardly to defend her. Then a ten-year-old boy bit her hand when she'd tried to break up a fight between him and a smaller boy and her doctor had had to give her a prescription for nerves and heart palpitations and the school district granted her a medical leave and at the end of three months when she'd re-entered the school building she had had a tachycardia attack and had nearly collapsed and her doctor advised the school district to retire her with a medical disability and so she had conceded, it was probably for the best; and yet she wanted so very badly for Rebecca not to give up, for Rebecca was young and had all her life before her.

"You must not replicate the past, Rebecca. You must rise above the past. In your soul you are so superior to..."

Rebecca felt the insult, as if Rose Lutter had slapped her.

"Superior to who?"

Miss Lutter's voice quavered. She tried to take Rebecca's stiff cold hands, but Rebecca would not allow it.

Touch me not! Of the myriad remarks of Jesus Christ she had come to learn, since moving into Rose Lutter's house, touch me not! had most impressed her.

"...your background, dear. And those who are your enemies at the school. Throughout the world, barbarians who wish to pull the civilized down. They are enemies of Jesus Christ, too. Rebecca, you must know."

Rebecca ran abruptly from the room, to prevent herself from screaming at the nagging old woman Go to h.e.l.l! You and Jesus Christ go to h.e.l.l!

"But she has been so good to me. She loves me..."

Yet the end would come soon now, Rebecca knew. The break between them Rebecca halfway wished for, and dreaded.

For she would not return to that school, no matter how Miss Lutter pleaded. No matter how Miss Lutter scolded, threatened. Never!

More and more she began to stay away from the tidy beige-brick house on Rush Street, as once she'd stayed away from the old stone house in the cemetery. The potpourri fragrance seemed to her sickening. She stayed away from church services, too. After dark, sometimes as late as midnight, when every other house on Rush Street was darkened and utterly still, she returned guilty and defiant. "Why do you wait up for me, Miss Lutter? I wish you wouldn't. I hate it, seeing all these lights on."

I hate you, I hate you waiting. Leave me alone!

The tension between them grew tighter, ever tighter. For Rebecca refused to tell Miss Lutter where she went. With whom she spent her time. ( Now that she was out of school, she was making new acquaintances. Katy Greb had quit school the previous year, she and Katy were again close friends.) Since she'd been attacked at school, so viciously, so publicly, ugly welts and bruises lasting for weeks on her back, thighs, b.u.t.tocks, even her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly, she had come to see herself differently, and she liked what she saw. Her skin shone with a strange olive pallor. Her eyebrows were so fierce and dark, like a man's nearly touching above the bridge of her nose. A rich rank animal-smell accrued to her skin, when she sweated. With what sudden inspired strength she'd struck Gloria Meunzer and other of her a.s.sailants with her fists, she'd made them wince with surprise and pain, she'd drawn blood.

Smiling to think how like the outlaw Herschel she was, in her heart.

And there was Miss Lutter, persisting. "I am your court-appointed guardian, Rebecca. I have an official responsibility. Of course I want only what is best for you. I have been praying, I have been trying to think how I've failed you..."

Rebecca bit her lip to keep from screaming.

"You haven't. You haven't failed me, Miss Lutter."

The very name Miss Lutter made her smile, in derision. Rose Lutter, Miss Rose Lutter. She could not bear it.

"I haven't?" Miss Lutter spoke with mock wistfulness. Her thin faded hair had been crimped and wadded up somehow, flattened against her skull beneath a hairnet. Her soft skin that was lined terribly about her nearsighted eyes, and sagged at her chin, glistened with a medicinal-smelling night cream. She was in her nightgown, a royal blue rayon robe over it, tightly tied about her very narrow waist. Rebecca could not keep from staring at Miss Lutter's chest that was so flat, bony. "Of course I have, dear. Your life..."

Rebecca protested, "My life is my life! My own life! I haven't done anything wrong."

"But you must return to school, dear. I will see the princ.i.p.al, he's a man of integrity whom I know. I will make an appeal in writing. I'm sure that he's waiting for us to appeal. I can't allow you to be treated unjustly."

Rebecca would have pushed past Miss Lutter in the narrow hall, but the older woman blocked her way with surprising firmness. Though Rebecca was taller than Rose Lutter and heavier by perhaps fifteen pounds, she could not confront her.

"Your destiny, dear. It is bound up with my own. 'Sow not your seed in a stony place.'"

"Jesus didn't say that! Not those words, you made it up."

"Jesus did say that. Perhaps not those exact words, but yes He did."

"You can't make up what Jesus says, Miss Lutter! You can't!"

"It is the essence of what Jesus said. If He were here, you can be sure He would speak to you as I am. Jesus would try to talk some sense into you, my child."

In scrubby areas of Milburn you saw scrawled on walls and sidewalks and the sides of freight cars the words f.u.c.k f.u.c.k you f.u.k you which were not for girls to utter aloud. Boys uttered such words constantly, boys shouted them gleefully, but "good" girls were meant to look away, deeply embarra.s.sed. Now Rebecca bit her lower lip, to keep such words back. f.u.c.k f.u.c.k YOU ROSE LUTTER. f.u.k f.u.k f.u.k ROSE LUTTER. A spasm of hilarity overtook her, like a sneeze. Miss Lutter stared at her, wounded.

"Ah, what is so funny, now? At such a time, Rebecca, what is so very funny? I wish that I could share your mirth."

Now Rebecca did push past Miss Lutter, into her room slamming the door.

d.a.m.ned lucky and you know it. You! It was so, she knew. He was reproaching her. For a father had the right.

Always in that dim-lighted room where time pa.s.sed so swiftly she was missing something. Always she strained to see, and to hear. It was a strain that made her spine ache. Her eyes ached. Living again those confused fleeting seconds in the stone house that would mark the abrupt and irrevocable termination of her life in the stone house as a daughter of that house. The termination of what she would not have known to call her childhood let alone her girlhood.

The smell of potpourri confused her, mixed with the smells of that other bedroom. She struggled to wake breathing rapidly and sweating and her eyeb.a.l.l.s rolled in her head in the agitation of trying finally to see...what lay on the floor, obscured in shadow.

A wet glistening shadow beyond the bed. The soft fallen body that might have been (in the semi-darkness, in the confusion of the moment) simply discarded clothes, or bedclothes.

Ma? Ma No. She could not see. He was blocking her view. He would not allow it. When she was neither fully awake nor fully asleep she had the power to summon again the vision of her father Jacob Schwart smiling tightly at her and his eyes wet and fierce as he tried to maneuver the awkward weapon, trying to s.h.i.+ft the barrels un.o.btrusively in that tight s.p.a.ce, for he wanted to aim the gun at her and yet he did not want to touch her. For with his fatherly puritanical tact he would not wish to touch his daughter's b.r.e.a.s.t.s even by way of an intervening object. Rebecca had seen her father staring at her chest, frequently in the past year, not knowing how he stared and that Rebecca saw, instinctively she turned aside, and thought no more of it. Nor would he wish to touch her throat with the gun barrels, where an artery was beating wildly. Still she tried to see past him, to where her mother lay unmoving. Where the upper body of what had been her mother dissolved into a shapeless darkness. She would see, she must see!except not clearly. So long as her eyes did not open and she hovered in that twilight state between sleep and wakefulness she could see into that room and by an act of will she could see backward.

Again approaching the stone house from the gravel drive. And there was the crudely painted front door. And there, in the backyard of the house, the clothesline, and on the clothesline laundry stirring in the wind for it was a windy May afternoon, the sky overhead was splotched with swollen rain clouds. Towels, a sheet, his s.h.i.+rts. His underwear. So long as the laundry flapped on the line it was an ordinary washday, always there is something comical and rea.s.suring about laundry, there could be no danger waiting inside the house. Even as a stranger's voice came urgent and jarring Don't go in there!stop her! A woman's voice, distracting. And yet already it was too late. For in history there are actions that no act of history can undo.

She was missing something! Always she was missing something, she'd failed to see sufficiently, or to hear. She must begin again.

Running along the Quarry Road, panting. And into the cemetery on the gravel lane that had become shabby in recent months, pebbles scattered in the gra.s.s at the sides of the lane, and weeds emerging. Dandelions everywhere! For the caretaker of the Milburn cemetery was not so fastidious as he'd once been. For the caretaker of the Milburn cemetery was not so courteous and deferential as he'd once been. There was a vehicle or vehicles in the interior of the cemetery. And something was wrong, there was some upset there. And a woman calling to Rebecca, who gave no sign of hearing. Calling Ma? in a voice so absurdly weak, how could Anna Schwart have heard it! Rebecca was inside the house when the explosion erupted. The very air shook, vibrated. She would believe that she had witnessed the shooting, the impact of the buckshot at a distance of approximately six inches from its soft, defenseless target, yet she had not witnessed it, she had only heard it. In fact the explosion was so deafening she had not heard it. Her ears had not the capacity to hear it. Her brain had not the capacity to absorb it. She might have fled in panic as an animal would have fled but she did not. A recklessness born of the stubborn inviolable vanity of the young, that cannot believe that they might die, might have carried her inside the bedroom where virtually in the doorway, for the room was so small, Jacob Schwart was standing blocking Rebecca's way. She was pleading with him. He was smiling his familiar smile. It was a mocking smile of stained and rotted teeth like a crudely carved jack-o'-lantern smile yet it was (she would see it so, she who was his only daughter and the only child remaining to him now) a mordantly tender smile. A reproachful smile and yet a forgiving smile. You! Born here. They will not hurt you. His words were senseless like so much of what he said and yet she, his daughter, understood. Always she would understand him though she could not have articulated what it was she understood in his despairing and jocular face as, grunting, he managed to turn the shotgun against himself and there came a second explosion far louder than the first, far more ma.s.sive, obliterating; and something wet, fleshy and sticky flew at her, onto her face, into her hair where it would coagulate and have to be carefully scissored out by a stranger.

Yet: Rebecca had missed something, again. G.o.d d.a.m.n it all pa.s.sed so fast, she could not see.

The crucifixion of Christ, that was a mystery.

The crucifixion of Christ, she came to detest.

Listening stony-hearted and unmoved as Reverend Deegan preached his Good Friday sermon. That Rebecca had heard before, and more than once. The man's bulldog face and whiny, bl.u.s.tering voice. Betrayal of Judas, hypocrisy of the Jews. Pontius Pilate was.h.i.+ng his hands of guilt with the excuse What is truth? And afterward at the house she'd wanted to escape yet could not for Miss Lutter must read aloud from the Book of St. John as if Rebecca were not capable of reading for herself. And Miss Lutter shook her head, sighing. Cruelly Rebecca thought It's for yourself you feel sorry, not for Him. And Rebecca heard herself ask, with childlike logic, "Why did Jesus let them crucify Him, Miss Lutter? He didn't have to, did He? If He was the Son of G.o.d?"

Warily Rose Lutter glanced up from her Bible, frowning at Rebecca through silver-rimmed bifocals as if, one more time, to Rose Lutter's disgust, Rebecca had muttered a profanity under her breath.

"Well, why? I'm just asking, Miss Lutter."

Hating the way the older woman was always looking so hurt, lately. When it wasn't true hurt but anger she felt. A schoolteacher's anger at her authority being challenged.

Rebecca persisted, "If Jesus really was G.o.d, He could do whatever He wanted. So if He didn't, how could He be G.o.d?"

It was supreme adolescent logic. It was an una.s.sailable logic, Rebecca thought.

Rose Lutter gave a moist, pained cry. With dignity the older woman rose, shut up her precious soft-leather Bible, and walked out of the room murmuring, for Rebecca to overhear, "Forgive her, Father. She knows not what she says."

I do, though. I know exactly what I say.

That night Rebecca slept poorly, waking often. Smelling the d.a.m.ned potpourri on her bureau. At last, barefoot and stealthy, she carried it out of her room to hide in a hall closet, beneath the lowest shelf where, to her chagrin, Rose Lutter would discover it only after Rebecca was gone.

29.

She was free! She would support herself, she would live in downtown Milburn after all. Not at Mrs. Schmidt's disreputable rooming house but just around the corner on Ferry Street, in a ramshackle brownstone part.i.tioned into a warren of rooms and small apartments. Here, Katy Greb and Katy's older cousin LaVerne were living, and invited Rebecca to move in with them. Her share of the rent was only a few dollars a week?"Whatever you can afford, Rebecca." For the first several weeks Rebecca slept on a pile of blankets on the floor, such exhausted sleep it scarcely mattered where she slept! She worked as a waitress, she worked as a merchandise clerk, finally she became a chambermaid at the General Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel.

It was Leora Greb, now Rebecca's friend again, who helped to get her the job at the hotel. "Say you're eighteen," Leora advised. "n.o.body will know."

Rebecca was paid in cash, counted out into the palm of her hand. The hotel would not report her earnings to Internal Revenue, and so she would not be taxed. Nor would the hotel pay into her Social Security fund. "Off the books, eh? Makes things easier." Amos Hrube, in charge of the cleaning and kitchen staff, winked at Rebecca as if there was a fond joke between them. Before Rebecca could draw back, Hrube pinched her cheek between the second and third fingers of his right hand.

"Don't! That hurts."

Hrube's expression was pouting, playful. As an adult might pretend to sympathize with a child who has hurt herself in some silly inconsequential way.

"Well! Sor-ry."

Hrube had an ugly flat face, a mashed-looking mouth. He might have been any age between thirty-five and fifty-five. On a wall behind his desk was a framed photo of a young man in a U.S. Army dress uniform, dark-haired, lean, yet bearing the unmistakable features of the elder Hrube. His office was a windowless cubbyhole at the rear of the hotel. Leora said not to mind Hrube for he tried such behavior with all the female help and some of them liked fooling around, and some did not. "He's basically good-hearted. He's done me some favors. He'll respect you if that's what you want and if you work hard. See," Leora said, as if this was good news, "they can't fire us all."

Rebecca laughed. In fact this was good news. Her previous jobs had brought her into an unwanted proximity with men-who-hired. Always they'd been aware of her, eyeing and judging her. They had known who she was, too: the daughter of Jacob Schwart. At the General Was.h.i.+ngton there were many employees. Chambermaids were mostly invisible. And Leora had promised not to tell Hrube, or anyone, who she was, whose daughter. "Anyway that's old news in Milburn. Like the war, people start to forget. Most people, anyway."

Was this true? Rebecca wanted to think so.

Always she'd been aware of the General Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel on a hilly block of Main Street, but until Leora took her there to apply for a job, Rebecca had never entered it. The busy front lobby with its gleaming black tile floor, its leather furnis.h.i.+ngs and bra.s.s fixtures, potted ferns, ornamental chandeliers and mirrors, had to be one of the largest interior s.p.a.ces Rebecca had ever been in, and certainly the most impressive. She asked Leora what the price of a room for one night was and when Leora told her, Rebecca said, shocked, "So much money just to sleep? And you have nothing to show for it, afterward?"

Leora laughed at this. She was steering Rebecca through the lobby, toward a door marked employees only at the rear. She said, "Rebecca, people who stay in a hotel like this have money, and people who have money leave tips. And you meet a better cla.s.s of men?sometimes."

She was hired off the books, and in her naivete she thought this was a very good thing. No taxes!

She liked it that there were so many employees at the General Was.h.i.+ngton. Most of these wore uniforms that indicated their work, and their rank. The most striking uniforms were men's: head doorman, doorman's a.s.sistants, bellboys. ( Not all the bellboys were "boys": some were quite mature men.) Managerial staff wore business suits and ties. There were only waiters in the better of the hotel's two restaurants, and these were elegantly attired. Female staff were switchboard operators, secretaries, waitresses in the lesser of the restaurants and in the boisterous Tap Room; kitchen workers, chambermaids. A small army of chambermaids. The oldest of these was a stout, white-haired woman in her sixties who proudly claimed to have worked at the General Was.h.i.+ngton since the hotel had opened its doors in 1922. Rebecca was the youngest.

Chambermaids wore white rayon uniforms with skirts that fell to mid-calf, and short boxy sleeves. The uniform issued to Rebecca was too large in the bust and too tight in the shoulders and beneath the arms and Rebecca hated the slithery sensation of the fabric against her skin; especially she hated the requirement that, as an employee of the General Was.h.i.+ngton, she must wear stockings at all times.

G.o.d d.a.m.n she could not, would not. In the humid Chautauqua Valley summer, dragging a vacuum cleaner, mopping floors. It was too much to ask!

Leora said, "There's where you want Amos Hrube on your side, hon. He likes you, it makes a difference. He don't like you, he can be a stickler for the rules. A real sonuvab.i.t.c.h."

Just surfaces. I can do this.

She liked it, pus.h.i.+ng her maid's cart along the corridor. Her cart was stocked with bed linens, towels, cleaning supplies, small fragrant bars of soap. In her dowdy white-rayon costume she was invisible to most hotel guests and she never met their eyes even when some of them (male, invariably) spoke to her.

"Good morning!"

"Nice day, eh?"

"If you want to make up my room now, miss, I can wait."

But she never cleaned any room with a guest inside, watching.

Never remained in any room with a guest, and the door closed.

It was the solitude of such work she loved. Stripping beds, removing soiled towels from bathrooms, vacuuming carpets she could lapse into a shallow hypnotic dream. An empty hotel room, and no one to observe her. She liked best the moment of unlocking the door and stepping inside. For as a maid she had a pa.s.skey to all the guest rooms. She, Rebecca Schwart who was no one. Yet she could pa.s.s through the rooms of the General Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel, invisible.

One-of-many. "Chambermaids!"

It was a word she'd never known before. She saw his mouth twisting in derision as he p.r.o.nounced it.

Chamber-maid! Cleaning up after swine.

My daughter.

But even Jacob Schwart would have been impressed by the guest rooms at the General Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel. Such tall windows, reaching nearly to the ten-foot ceilings! Brocade draw-drapes, and filmy white curtain panels inside. It was true that, in some of the smaller rooms, the wine-dark carpet was worn in places; yet clearly it was of high quality, made of wool. Gleaming mirrors flashed Rebecca's lithe white-rayon figure, her face olive-pale, blurred. Very rarely did Rebecca glance at herself in these mirrors for the point of the hotel was anonymity.

In Miss Lutter's tidy little house everything had been too personal. Everything had meant too much. In the General Was.h.i.+ngton, nothing was personal and nothing meant anything except what you saw. Except for the top, seventh-floor suites (which Rebecca had never seen) rooms were identically furnished. There were identical bedspreads, lampshades, sheets of stationery and memo pads gilt-embossed with the hotel's name on identical desks. Even, on the walls, identical reproductions of nineteenth-century paintings depicting scenes on the Erie Barge Ca.n.a.l in the late 1800s.

Maybe, in the identical beds, there were identical dreams?

No one would know. For no one would wish to acknowledge, his dreams were identical with the dreams of others.

Here was the solace of the impersonal! Guests checked into the hotel, and guests checked out. Rooms were occupied, then abruptly vacated. Very often Rebecca didn't even glimpse these strangers. Pa.s.sing them in the corridor, she lowered her eyes. She knew never to unlock any door without rapping sharply on it and identifying herself, even when she was certain the room was empty. Most of the guests at the General Was.h.i.+ngton were men, businessmen traveling by car or train; weekends there were likely to be more women, and couples. It was the custom for these strangers to leave tips for the chambermaid, on a bureau, but Rebecca soon learned not to expect anything. She might discover as much as two dollars, she might discover a few nickels and dimes. And sometimes nothing. Men were likely to tip, Leora said, except if there was a wife along, sometimes the wife pocketed the tip without the man knowing.

(And how did Leora know this? Rebecca wondered.) Older men tended to tip more generously than younger. And if you'd exchanged a few words with a guest, if you'd smiled at him, almost certainly he would leave a tip.

Katy and LaVerne teased Leora about certain "hotel friends" of hers who traveled frequently through Milburn.

Leora said, with an angry laugh, "They're gentlemen, at least. Not like some b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

It was no secret that the Tap Room bartender was a friend of Leora's who'd introduced her to some of these "hotel friends" over the years.

He had approached Rebecca, too. But Rebecca had told him no.

Not even for a fifty-dollar tip, honey?