That Haunting Melody - Chapter Two

Friday, October 10th, 1913

"What are you reading?"

Edith blinked and looked up, coming back to the present.

"Oh," she smiled faintly. "I wasn't really reading,"

She sat in her chair in her sunlit bedroom, Duchess curled up on her lap. Her mother, still wearing a black dress, came in and stood behind her, bending to see the title of the book Edith held.

"Treasure Island," she read. "That was one of my favorites when I was a girl. That's my copy, isn't it?"

Edith glanced up at her.

"Yes, is that all right?"

"Of course it is." Her mother came around and leaned against the tall foot of Edith's bed, facing her—then didn't say anything. Edith frowned.

"What is it?"

Her mother took a deep breath.

"I found these downstairs in the wastepaper basket." She pulled five envelopes out of her pocket, and began reading their faces as she shuffled them. "A letter from Pauline Jasper, bearing her new college address. A letter from Gladys Vanguard, another from Agnes Sheffield…And these two are invitations." Her mother held them up. "This one invites you to Molly Tidwell's baby shower, and this one is to Harriet Easter's twentieth birthday party picnic. They are both next week."

Edith lowered her head, closed her book, and slowly stroked Duchess' back. The sleepy cat stretched her paw and purred.

"I'll answer the letters," Edith said softly. "But I'd rather not go to the parties."

"Mm," her mother mused. "Any reason? Both Molly and Harriet have always been kind to you."

"Bert's sister will be at Molly's shower," Edith murmured. "And Bert will come to Harriet's picnic."

"You're sure he will?"

"Yes," Edith nodded. "Her brother is Bert's best friend."

"Oh, yes." Her mother glanced down at the letters. "What will you tell them when you decline?"

Edith's gaze unfocused, and she shook her head once.

"I don't know."

Her mother considered her for a moment, then stood away from the bed and took a deep breath.

"I came up to tell you that Florence Vallier is downstairs," she announced. "She seems extremely worried about you."

"I asked her to come," Edith said gravely. "I'm giving her the engagement ring."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Edith gently lifted Duchess down to the floor. "Since she only lives two houses down from Bert, I thought it would be better if she delivered it."

"I think that's a wise decision," her mother decided. Edith stood up and smoothed the skirt of her light-yellow dress, making certain none of the pale blue, vertical stripes looked wrinkled. She set the book on her bed and stepped around her mother, heading for the door.

"Shall I leave these on your dresser?" Her mother lifted the letters.

"Yes, thank you," Edith answered, and stepped into the hallway. She crossed to the staircase and started down, her hand gliding over the banister. She didn't lift her head until she achieved the bottom, and found her best friend Florence standing in the entryway.

Florence Vallier was tall and winsome, with dark hair, warmly quiet brown eyes, and elegant features. She wore a fashionable, pale blue dress and matching wide brimmed hat, and white gloves. She held her purse tightly in both hands, her brow furrowed delicately as she searched Edith's face.

"Edith?" she said, sharp and soft. "What has happened?"

"I'm all right," Edith answered—but she stepped up to her friend and embraced her, and Florence gripped her tightly. Edith shut her eyes, smiling just a little. Florence always smelled of lilac perfume…

"I don't understand what you mean," Florence said in a low voice, backing up to take hold of Edith's elbows. "What do you mean, you want me to give your engagement ring back to Bert?"

"I need you to do this for me, Florie," Edith said quietly, taking hold of her friend's arms in return. "Can you please do that for me?"

"But why?" Florence pressed. "You cannot mean that he's broken his engagement with you. Or that he's made you so angry that you don't want to marry him anymore."

"I do want to marry him," Edith said. "But…he doesn't want to marry me. Not…" She stopped, and took a deep breath. "Not after what's happened."

Florence stared at her.

"I thought…" she whispered. "I thought that was only a rumor."

Edith regarded her bleakly.

"What have you heard?"

Florence swallowed, tightening her hold.

"That your father has left his wife for another woman," she said tightly. "And he's gone to San Francisco."

"San Diego," Edith said.

Florence's lips parted.

"Then it's true."

Edith nodded.

"Yes. He left Friday night." Her brow furrowed. "Who told you?"

"Nobody told me," Florence confessed. "I overheard my mother talking to Bert's mother on the back porch yesterday. I thought for sure Mrs. Walker was mistaken."

"I wish she were," Edith murmured.

Florence was silent for a moment, her gaze sharpening.

"Is that why you haven't come to work?" she pressed. "Mr. Gibson keeps asking me when you're coming in—he's had to ask Mrs. Jennings to substitute for you, but she doesn't know the music, she cannot improvise well, and is almost always ten or fifteen beats behind what is happening on the screen."

"I don't feel like playing anything, Florie," Edith confessed, turning around and looping her arm through Florence's, guiding her down the long corridor toward the back door. "I don't feel like playing, I don't feel like seeing anyone, and I don't feel like even looking at a movie." Her voice quieted. "I don't think I ever will."

She let go of Florence, pushed open the back door, and stepped out into the backyard. It was a wide, grassy space of land, fenced-in and shaded by trees, with a hammock swaying between two of them. Roses and a profusion of other red and orange flowers bloomed in several beds, and the leaves of an apple tree flickered in the sunlight. A warm breeze touched Edith's hair and skirts. She sensed Florence follow her and shut the door.

"I'm sure it feels like that right now," Florence said gently, coming up beside her and taking her arm again. "And that's quite all right. I understand. Everyone will."

"I don't know about that," Edith muttered.

"They will," Florence insisted. "And eventually, things will perk up. It might take some time, but they will." She drew Edith closer. "There are so many things you enjoy, Edie—like tennis and golf, and cooking and dancing and singing, and of course playing the piano for the movies. You can't let anything rob you of that."

"I don't want to see him," Edith stated, her chest clenching as she gazed up at the apple tree. "I don't want to see him, I don't want anyone asking questions. I don't want anyone even to know."

"I wouldn't either," Florence agreed quietly.

The young women fell silent, slowly pacing arm-in-arm around the perimeter of the yard, listening to the chatter of the starlings. Edith stared down at the grass as they walked, a deep pain swelling inside her chest.

Florence pulled her tight against her side, and leaned close to her ear.

"You are the best and kindest girl I know, Edith Ambrose," she whispered. "And you are as beautiful as a queen. I've always said so." She reached down and squeezed Edith's hand. "Bert is a fool if he lets you get away."

"He said it could be my fault," Edith murmured.

Florence frowned.

"What could be your fault?"

"Dad's leaving," Edith said, glancing at her. "He said it could be my fault, and Mother's."

"How could it be your fault?" Florence wondered.

Edith lifted her eyes to the empty, swaying hammock—the place where her father had always stretched out to read the Sunday paper.

And she said nothing.

As the clock struck ten, Edith knelt on the floor in the pink glow of her night light. As always, she faced her window, through which she could just glimpse the twinkle of two stars.

She had knelt for prayers here on the rug every night since before she could speak. Both her father and mother had knelt beside her in the beginning, repeating in unison the simple one they had both learned as children, until Edith knew it by heart:

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

His love to guard me through the night,

And wake me with the morning's light.

As she had gotten older, they taught her the Lord's Prayer, and then showed her how this prayer ought to be used as a structure to create her own conversations with God. Thus, she had begun expressing thanks for the blessings she had—like grandmas and grandpas, lemonade in summertime, her dog Dolly, her best friend Florence, and of course, Mama and Daddy. She would also ask for help if she had been stung by a bee, or insulted by a playmate, or was frightened by an upcoming spelling test.

When her grandfather, Jack Ambrose, had died when she was eight years old, she had lain on her face on this very carpet, sobbing with her hands folded, asking God to bring him back to life because she missed him so much. It was only after her mother had taken her into her lap, and assured her about all the beauties and warmth of heaven where grandpa would be young forever, and they would all see him again when they died, that Edith had been comforted—and every night for years afterward, she prayed that God would send little messages to her dear grandpa, and even to his wife, Grandma Nadine, who had died before Edith was born.

But now…

Now, Edith simply gazed out into the night, her hands gently folded in her lap. She felt hollow. Talking to Florence for a brief hour, only skimming the surface of her deep suffering, had drained her of words. She didn't think she could even cry anymore.

And, at this point, what could she ask of God?

The damage was done.

She hung her head, saying nothing. She sat there for half an hour, motionless. At last, she stiffly got to her feet, turned down the night light, and climbed into bed.

The days rolled onward. The few times Edith ventured onto Main Street with her mother to visit the butcher, the vegetable market or the library, she glimpsed rotund pumpkins upon porches and stoops, and large baskets of various nuts for sale. In the children's section of the library, the librarians hung orange-and-black paper chains in long, draping loops, as well as paper black cats, witches, jack-o-lanterns and ghosts. Prolific posters announced that the elementary school would be putting on a play based on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Usually in the autumn season, the Ambrose house—with its romantic gothic tower, dark green paint and sweeping wrap-around porch—transformed with a profusion of Hallowe'en ornament: dozens of pumpkins brightening the steps, cheesecloth ghosts swaying from the rails and the front tree branches, scarecrows grinning at the posts, paper witches silhouetted in the windows, and candles glowing in the upper rooms. Her family had always celebrated this holiday with special gusto, because, for one thing, her father was Irish on his mother's side, and he always enjoyed telling everyone that the Irish had invented this celebration.

And for another, it was his birthday.

Every year, without fail, they had carved pumpkins on Hallowe'en as a family, and prepared a special feast with several desserts. After dinner, they had always played traditional fortune-telling games, cracked and eaten dozens of nuts, and told scary stories around the fireplace. To their excitement, the past few years had brought a new custom to the town of Mulligan: children "guising," or dressing up in bizarre or frightening costumes, carrying little jack-o-lanterns, ringing doorbells and asking for treats. The whole Ambrose family had happily piled apples, nuts and little cakes into the children's waiting bags.

This year, neither Edith nor her mother opened their box of Hallowe'en decorations. And Mrs. Ambrose bought no pumpkins.

Edith did, however, purchase two bags of nuts to hand out to any children who might come guising, so as not to disappoint them. And on Hallowe'en evening itself, Florence and Harriet—a pale, athletic little blonde with a ready smile—appeared at the door by surprise, bearing a chocolate bunt cake, three little pumpkins, and determined smiles. Amiably arguing away Edith's protests, the two young ladies pulled Edith into the kitchen and insisted she carve a pumpkin with them, and eat the cake.

Edith felt numb, and sick with sorrow. Everywhere she turned, she could almost hear the echo of her father's laugh, or the resonance of his voice as he recited the story of the phantom stagecoach…

But she forced herself to do as her friends asked, no matter how she felt. She obediently ate a small slice of cake, and she carved a simple face into her pumpkin. An effervescent Harriet put tiny candles in each one, lit them, and set them on the windowsills, remarking how spooky and splendid they looked from the porch. Florence even answered the door when groups of guisers rang the bell, and merrily disbursed the nuts to each child. However, as no decorations adorned the house, very few children even came. Edith's mother only appeared once, at the end of the evening, to thank Florence and Harriet for coming.

That night, instead of praying, Edith bent forward in silent sobs, her fists clenched helplessly. And thus, October turned over into November.

Temperatures cooled, and sometimes, the winds grew fierce. But the chilliest it ever became was about forty-five degrees. The grass faded as it went dormant for the winter. The leaves on the maple tree fell. Edith and her mother spent a great deal of time out in the yard, raking leaves into piles and carting them around to the compost heap. Often, Edith stood still, holding the rake in both hands, watching the golden leaves tumble in rustling showers from the tallest heights of the tree, all the way to the lawn…

She and her mother went out into society very little, except to attend church on Sundays. Edith used to enjoy church very much—the service itself, the beautiful singing, and saying hello to all her friends.

But now, two empty spaces hollowed out their pew: the place where her father had sat, and the place where Bert had sat. Now, Bert sat several rows up, with his parents and sister. And he never looked at her.

Everyone else did, though.

She and her mother took to sitting at the very back of the sanctuary. And they slipped out the rear doors during the final hymn, avoiding the small talk after the service, and escaping the occasional potluck.

Days shortened, and the nights drew in. Edith found a strange emptiness swallowing her during these long evenings, especially on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays—and it didn't take her long to realize that it was because she no longer left for the movie house at six o'clock, to play piano for all the showings.

She used to eagerly redo her makeup and hair, change into a different dress, and ride her bicycle down to the Majestic, a relatively new theatre built by the mayor's brother, John Gibson, who owned a series of lumber mills. He had donated money to the town to build an opera house, a library and a state-of-the-art movie house. The face of the Majestic would be lit bright as daylight, its glowing marquee boasting the two or three pictures it was playing that fortnight. Edith would park her bicycle, and linger for a few minutes at the ticket booth where Florence stood within a pristine glass box, always dressed to the nines, ready at the cash register with her reel of tickets. After a quick chat, Edith would stride through the front door, into the darkened lobby and past the rattling, delicious-smelling popcorn booth, then through the double doors into the theatre itself: a vast, dreamy room filled with scarlet chairs, reigned over by a colorful chandelier straight above. Of course, the silvery screen dominated the far wall, darkened then, and waiting. Edith would proceed down the sloping aisle to the gleaming grand piano that stood before the screen. She would open its lid and the cover of the keys, sit down at the bench, and run through scales and exercises, until the house lights came up, the doors opened, and the audience came pouring in, toting their popcorn and bubbling with anticipation. No matter how often she had played the music for any of the pictures, Edith's fingers always tingled with excitement as the clock ticked down the minutes, the lights dimmed, and the noisy projector started rolling…

Now, during these evenings, she and her mother haunted an empty house. Mrs. Ambrose had eventually restarted the clocks, so they ticked steadily to fill the silence. Sometimes, Mrs. Ambrose put records on the phonograph, and the quiet tunes hummed through the parlor. Often, she would play one record in particular, over and over again.

I am dreaming, Dear, of you, day by day,

Dreaming when the skies are blue, when they're gray,

When the silv'ry moonlight gleams, still I wander on in dreams,

In a land of love, it seems, just with you.

Let me call you Sweetheart, I'm in love with you

Let me hear you whisper that you love me, too!

Keep the love light glowing in your eyes so blue

Let me call you Sweetheart—I'm in love with you!

Edith answered the letters her mother had rescued, and also mailed a packaged present to Molly for her baby shower, and a gift to Harriet for her birthday. In the letters, she feigned good cheer and kept her updates short and superficial, choosing instead to ask her friends several questions about their own doings.

However, her efforts proved all in vain. Within the first few weeks of November, her mailbox burst with at least twenty letters from various friends living in neighboring towns or off at college, plying her with questions about the "awful rumor" going around about her father, and her broken engagement to Bert. To her horror, even a friend all the way in Boston wrote to her about it in great detail.

"Mulligan is a small town, Edith," her mother reminded her wearily one evening by the fire as she steadily darned a sock. "And most everyone has relatives in other towns or on the east coast. If your father chose to make his intentions public, and then everyone who heard him in turn told the people they know, there is nothing we can do about it."

Edith did not answer those letters.

Thanksgiving approached, and Edith watched her mother carefully. Every week, her mother gave orders to Sarah, the maid, and Mrs. Smith, their cook. Mrs. Smith was a thickset, smiling widow who had worked for them for ten years now, and she made the best meats in the county. Usually, the week before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Ambrose and Mrs. Smith would sit down together, meticulously plan the meal, and divvy up the dishes each woman would cook—as Mrs. Ambrose enjoyed making pumpkin pie, hot dressing, and potatoes, while Mrs. Smith always took the turkey, cranberry sauce, and vegetables.

This week, one week before Thanksgiving, Edith and her mother sat at the white-draped breakfast table, just finishing their meal of oatmeal and tea, when Mrs. Smith came in to take away the dishes.

"Mrs. Smith," Mrs. Ambrose suddenly said, smiling up at the cook. "I should like to talk with you about the Thanksgiving meal sometime today, at your convenience."

Both Mrs. Smith and Edith looked at her in surprise.

"Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Smith stammered, wide-eyed. "After I finish the breakfast dishes, I'm at your disposal."

"Of course," Mrs. Ambrose nodded. "I think this year, we'll have it in this room rather than the big dining room, what do you think? And if we—"

The doorbell rang. Edith sat up, peering past her mother through the breakfast room door, to see Sarah hurry down the hall to answer the front door. In a matter of moments, Sarah came back, and entered the room with a large, rectangular parcel in both hands.

"A package for you, ma'am," she said, bringing it to Mrs. Ambrose.

"I wonder what this could be…" Mrs. Ambrose mused, taking it. She abruptly went still, staring at the return address.

Edith went cold.

"What is it?"

Mrs. Ambrose didn't answer. She took a knife from the table and cut the twine, then unwrapped the parcel…

Drawing out a cardboard document box. Sarah took the crackling papers away while Mrs. Ambrose set the box on the table and lifted the lid.

A stack of gleaming white paper waited within, bearing lines from a typewriter. Mrs. Ambrose gazed down at it for an entire minute, saying nothing.

"What is it?" Edith said again, hushed.

"It appears…" her mother finally murmured. She stopped, and cleared her throat. "It appears these are…the divorce papers."

Edith's hands sank down onto her lap, and she felt the blood drain out of her head.

Mrs. Ambrose took a deep breath, and delicately put the lid back on the box.

"I need to read this carefully," she stated, and stood up, taking the box with her—gripping it tightly. "I will be in my room. Sarah, please tell anyone who comes to the door or calls on the telephone that I am occupied. Just take a message." With that, she turned and strode through the door, heading up the stairs to her bedroom.

Mrs. Ambrose made no more mention of Thanksgiving. And for the first time in Edith's life, that momentous day came and went without a single sign of its passing.

November became December. The autumn decorations vanished from store windows and housefronts, and began gradually to be replaced by artificial garlands and pine wreaths. Not that Edith saw much of this. She avoided public places, shunning community gatherings like the Christmas parade, and politely declining her Sunday school class' invitation to go caroling. She also turned down invitations to three Christmas parties, including Florence's.

Mrs. Ambrose spent most of her time pouring over the divorce papers. In the afternoons, she sat at the dining room table, frowning through her reading glasses, studiously making notes in the margins with a pencil. In the evenings, she sat motionless in her husband's abandoned chair, the first page of the document simply resting in her lap. She still wore mourning attire.

Edith busied herself with writing and mailing Christmas cards to faraway family and friends, as well as their favorite people here in Mulligan. In years past, her mother had happily taken on the bulk of this task, leaving Edith to send cards to only her intimate friends. Now, with her mother otherwise occupied, Edith did not mind doing it all. At the very least, it gave her something to do during the long, empty evenings.

Christmas clearly would not be the same. There would be no treks through the chill night air with her friends, to bellow carols at their neighbors' doors. No parties around bonfires, no exchange of gifts with her chums from high school. No glittering Christmas dance on the third floor of the opera house.

No sparkling tree here at home, no holly garlands, no stockings by the fire. Perhaps not even any presents or dinner.

Edith had only one thing to look forward to this year.

For this year, the coming of Christmas also meant the coming of her mother's older sister: Aunt Josephine Gillespie.