Ice Cream Memories Ebook

The

Ice Cream Memories

of

Charlotte Rowe

Teresa Perrin

Published in 2009 by Stiltjack

Copyright © Teresa Perrin 2007

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs

and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition

being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Free to download in .pdf and .prc formats from stiltjack.co.uk.

Cover image © Teresa Perrin.

http://www.stiltjack.co.uk/

To Mrs. Jones, Sister John-Marie, Mrs. Cramer, and all my teachers.

Contents Prologue

Chapter 1: Family History

Chapter 2: Spiritism

Chapter 3: Nanette

Chapter 4: The Séance for Norma Parker

Chapter 5: The Reappearance of Charles Rowe

Chapter 6: The Move

Chapter 7: Anita, A Case Study

Chapter 8: Excerpt from Charlotte‟s Diary

Chapter 9: Montague & the Mirror

Chapter 10: Augustine Emory

Chapter 11: Ice Cream

Chapter 12: Nanette

Chapter 13: Melissa

Chapter 14: Excerpt from the Writings of

Professor Charles Rowe

Chapter 15: Paul Archer

Chapter 16: Prelude to a Wedding

Chapter 17: Dinner Conversation

Chapter 18: A Wedding

Chapter 19: The Baby

Chapter 20: Crib Death

Chapter 21: Lessons in Spiritism

Chapter 22: A Funeral

Chapter 23: Uninvited Guest

Chapter 24: The Séance for John Peacock

Chapter 25: A Ghost

Chapter 26: Recuperation

Chapter 27: Family History

Chapter 28: A Death

Chapter 29: Accusations

Chapter 30: Dream Analysis

Chapter 31: Murder

Chapter 32: Murder, Murder, Murder

Chapter 33: Montague Dreams

Chapter 34: Magdalene, Mother

Chapter 35: Professor Rowe Visits the Afterlife

Chapter 36: Melissa Peacock

Chapter 37: The Life and Times

of Charlotte Rowe

Epilogue

Contents

T HE small, old lady lay in the small, old

bed. She was sunken into the soft mattress,

surrounded by pillows and encompassed by a

thick, fluffy quilt. She looked thin and white, as

if she had already faded away, been completely

swallowed up by the soft whiteness that surrounded

her. She looked at Sid, and she blinked three

times.

“I am one hundred and eight years old,” she

said.

Sid nodded. It was a lie. Charlotte Rowe was

born in June of 1910, ninety-five years ago. Sid

paused, looked down at his notes. Before he

could choose his words, she told him:

“You are here to discuss my Gift.”

Prologue

2

THE ICE CREAM MEMORIES

“Yes.” Sid shifted. “I‟m writing a thesis, about

the history of Spiritualism in Redlands.”

“Spiritualism,” she said. “Spiritual, regarding

the connection with the inner soul. It‟s a name

that packages the mystic for mass consumption,

links the world of the Beyond with the personal

experience of Grace.” She shifted and turned her

head to the side. “We didn‟t call it Spiritualism.”

“Spiritism,” he said.

“It is not a subject to be taken lightly. It is… a

dangerous subject.”

“I don‟t take it lightly.”

“Spiritism. Delving with spirits.”

“I‟m hoping you‟ll let me record our conversation,”

Sid said, taking the tape recorder out of his

pocket.

She looked at the machine and smiled. “Not

at all. It‟s so important to be accurate, isn‟t it?”

“Could you tell me about when you first

discovered your gift?”

“I am very tired. I wanted to meet you, to get a

look at you.” She closed her eyes.

“Oh… you couldn‟t… just a few questions?”

She opened her eyes and asked suddenly, “Do

you go to church on Sundays?”

“Well, no,” Sid said, uncomfortably. “I——”

“Good,” she said. “Come to see me again on

Sunday.” She closed her eyes again.

3

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Sid sat for a moment in silence before gathering

his papers and shutting off the tape recorder. As

he turned to leave, he thought he saw something

— an impression of fluttering — out of the corner

of his eye. The movement came from the mirror,

but when he turned, there was nothing.

Sid stepped out into the heat. It was stifling,

arid. His car was ten degrees hotter, and he

rolled down the windows and blasted the air,

cringing against touching the steering wheel. As he

drove back through Redlands, his disappointment

amplified. Redlands: a normal, modern, suburban

town. Only a subtle decay marked the transition

to the urban jungle to the west. At the easternmost

edge of the massive metropolitan Southern

California sprawl, Redlands lay at the beginning

of the desert, and the transition to the east was

marked by a different sort of decay, a gradual

sloughing off of civilization and bounty, until all

that was left were the plants and animals adapted

to deprivation. Surrounded by impoverished city to

the west and impoverished desert to the east,

Redlands existed as a minor oasis. Today, the

oasis seemed a mirage, barren in the heat.

The great orange groves that marked Redlands‟

history were now shrunken, crammed into not-

as-yet-built patches of land. Likewise, the quaint

4


old buildings of downtown were cramped by a

dank, heavy, enclosed mall, by coldly utilitarian

strip malls, by poverty-symptomatic check cashing

businesses. The great old Victorian mansions

that were the peak of style in Redlands‟ early

years stood in hidden corners amid modern

growth. Bits of the past — “historic” Redlands —

were like discarded snake skins, husks that

carried the shape of the past but were now dead.

They were too intertwined in the Starbucks, fast

food drive-thrus, discount stores. The present

had sapped all of the life out of the past.

Sid had always imagined that the land of

orange groves would be lush, filled with orange

glistening balls under deep green leaves. But

under all the asphalt, Redlands was desert, or

near enough to desert. The orange groves, what

was left of them, seemed sparse and dry, unable

to counter the natural heat and barrenness.

Sid‟s room was at the top floor of an old house,

and instead of heading to the sweltering

room, he parked the car and walked into one

of Redlands‟ bars.

He ordered his first martini and sat staring at

the olive floating in the clear, cool liquid.

“Hey,” said a girl, sitting down next to him.

Sid drank down his martini in a gulp. “How‟s it

going?”

5

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Great, great.”

“Me, too. Bloody Mary, please.” She smiled at

him. “I used to be afraid to order them, you

know. I figured when I got too drunk, I‟d order

three in a row, and then, you know what.”

Sid laughed.

“So, what do you do?” she asked.

“I‟m a student,” he said.

“U of R?”

“No, I‟m in Redlands doing research. Spiritualism.”

“Spooky.”

“Not so far.”

“Don‟t underestimate Deadlands.”

Deadlands, dead of nightlife, dead because of

the lifeless desert underneath it, dead because of

the ghosts that wandered the relics of its past.

“Have you been to the graveyard? Plot 666.

I used to think it was a joke, until one night I

went out there with my friends. You know, we

were a little drunk, but not very. I mean, we‟d had

some beers. And we were out there, having like a

picnic. That‟s when I saw her, in the distance,

kind of hazy against one of the tombstones…”

“Mm-hmm.” Sid drank down his second

martini. Haunted Redlands, ghosts in the

mansions, ghosts on the roadways, ghosts

lurking in the cracks of the city as it sprouted

up to cover its past. Cold spots. Apparitions.

6


Unexplained noises. “Another martini, please.”

Sid awoke to the sound of his fan, burring in

the window, hoping to capture some of the

morning air before the hard heat descended. It

already smelled of heat, rising up from the

asphalt.

Somewhere in the middle of the evening, Sid

had lost track of himself and started dropping

memories around. He had them last night, but

this morning they seemed to have escaped him.

He knew there were some people he met: faces,

hands, and colors were impressed in his brain,

but no names.

He pulled himself out of bed and put on some

dark glasses. Sunday. One more day to try again.

He failed to escape the landlady‟s disapproving

glance as he grabbed a glass of orange juice on

his way out of the house.

Sid‟s head was throbbing, but he set off toward

the south side of town, where the roads became

meandering and confused as they moved up into

the hills. Orange Blossom Road was at the very

base of the hills, on the east end of town, and

although you needed to wind through a series of

small, curving drives to get to it, once you

reached Orange Blossom, it stretched out

straight to the east through an orange orchard.

7

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Once you passed the “no outlet” sign that

marked the beginning of the road, there was

nothing to see but orange trees, lined up with

geometric precision, so that there could be no

confusion between this manmade forest and a

wild one.

Until he first drove down this road, Sid hadn‟t

realized that there were still any orchards that

size. Another pocket of history, hidden away.

Driving through it was eerie and unsettling. The

orchard was neither natural, nor was it the

comfortable bustle of civilization. Isolated but

systematic, strange but familiar — in other

words, uncanny.

Sid followed Orange Blossom Road to its

conclusion. At the end of the road, he passed

through the open wrought iron gates that stood

freely on either side of the road. The road continued

on, narrower and less well-kept, up a slight hill

and through more trees. The orange orchard

ended and was replaced by oak trees, hiding the

house until Sid was almost on top of it.

The house itself was not Victorian in style,

breaking the tradition of most other old houses

in Redlands. It was actually older, constructed of

stone. Built in the 1800s, its origin somewhat

lost in history, Sid believed it was referred to in

obscure records from the Estancia of the Mission

8


San Gabriel‟s Rancho San Bernardino, dating

1823. The writer of the notes was unknown —

certainly not Carlos Garcia (the majordomo of

the time), and there was some doubt about the

authenticity of the records. But the text was

intriguing:

The stranger went off to the east, although we

warned him against that place. The natives know

the unclean territory there. He insisted to build his

blasphemous temple of stone, with a tower but

not to God, and hinted that followers would join

him.

The original, of course, was in Spanish, and

Sid could find no records of a cult or colony, and

no legends from the local Native American tribes

to account for the entry (neither the “stranger”

nor the “unclean territory”). It was just a scrap,

but he couldn‟t help identifying this

“blasphemous temple” with the old rough-hewn

stone structure that Miriam Rowe insisted had

an “aura of spiritual power, a stronger presence

than any other mystical place I have visited.”

The house was rambling and gray, peppered

with windows. The first story wound around the

hilltop, and sections of it had fallen to ruin, leaving

what looked like a low stone fence around areas

that once were rooms. The outlying edges were

decayed and falling down, but the central portion

9

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

stood. The tower was there, a three-story structure

topped by a belfry. There was no bell, just an

empty space where a bell was clearly intended

and may have once been. Possibly, the bell tower

was never finished, and no bell ever rung there.

The Rowes had kept a telescope in the tower,

where Professor and Madame Rowe looked up

into the stars for calculations both scientific and

metaphysical. There was no sign of a telescope

now, only birds‟ nests. On his first visit, Sid had

seen a flutter of activity there.

Now, he looked up and saw the outline of a

face, someone peeking over the railing. When he

took off his sunglasses and squinted against the

glaring sun, it was gone. But he was certain he‟d

seen it.

The door was opened for Sid by Nanette

Goddard, caretaker to the house and caregiver to

Charlotte Rowe. He had written to her, arranging

his visit, and he had built up a picture of her in

his mind, an older woman, but still good-looking,

thin and slightly weathered, with light hair and

darkened skin wrinkled by laughter and sun.

Someone who smoked cigarettes in a non-vulgar

way, who drank red wine. Perhaps it was just his

image of a Frenchwoman.

Nanette was younger than he had thought

and overweight — not obese, but round. Her face

10


was round to match her figure, and she looked

as if she would have a tendency to giggle, but

didn‟t. Her voice, though, was everything Sid

might imagine a Frenchwoman‟s voice to be,

surprisingly deep and soft and heavily accented.

Nanette‟s eyes brightened when she saw him.

“Miss Rowe has been very anxious to see you

again,” she said. “She doesn‟t get many visitors, of

course.” She brought Sid in to the sitting room with

the large fireplace. “Wait here while I check on her.”

The Rowes did extensive work on the interior

of the house, making it into a home that would

be acceptable to Miriam Rowe, née Silver, of the

wealthy Chicago Silver family. Though it wasn‟t

luxurious, even by the standards of the 1920s, it

certainly seemed comfortable enough. From the

outside, it looked cold, slightly prison-like.

Inside, the stone of the walls was plastered,

painted, and wallpapered, although a bit stained

and peeling. There were wood moldings and trim,

and the only hint of stone was the large fireplace

in the main sitting room. There were few pieces

of heirloom furniture, and the cheap utilitarian

substitutes looked out of place.

Sid wandered around the room while he waited,

absorbing the atmosphere. He felt unusually calm

in that room. He expected knick-knacks, antique

photographs, and strange objects, but the room

11

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

was oddly sparse. It had the air of a room whose

contents had been given up over time, in favor of

survival.

When Nanette returned, Sid was standing in

front of the empty fireplace, staring thoughtfully

at the black ashes.

“Come up,” she said simply, and she led Sid

up the curving staircase of the bell tower.

“Why would Miss Rowe want a bedroom up all

of these stairs?” Sid asked.

“The room was the nursery when she was a

child. It is sentimental.”

The narrow stone staircase ended in a crescent-

shaped entryway. Nanette and Sid passed

through a door into a round room directly below

the bell tower, and there was Charlotte Rowe,

lying in her childhood twin bed surrounded by

fluffy blankets and pillows. There were no real

furnishings in the room except the bed and,

across from it, the huge and elaborately framed

mirror. Sid caught himself staring at Charlotte‟s

image instead of looking at the woman herself,

and he turned his head toward the bed.

Nanette left, and Sid sat down, starting up his

tape recorder.

“Feeling better today, I hope,” he said, lamely.

“Better, I suppose,” she said. “I am never well.”

“I thought I saw you in the bell tower. It‟s

12

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

right above this room, isn‟t it?”

“The bell tower?” Charlotte paused. “Oh, that‟s

her.” She went silent, staring into the mirror. Sid

didn‟t like to ask who “her” was. He doubted

Nanette had come rushing down the stairs from the

top of the tower. Perhaps Charlotte was up to her

old mediumistic trickery, fashioning apparitions in

the tower. Sid shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Charlotte turned to him, and her eyes were

sharp and bright. “I suppose,” she said, “I‟ll have

to tell you everything.”

Sid didn‟t show up at school when the fall semester

started. Instead, his roommate Martin received a tape,

a manuscript, and a note. The tape was hours of

static, with what sounded like it could be muted,

murmured conversation in the background. Repeated,

in a lower register, like a drum beat, was what

sounded like a voice saying, “I scream.”

Then, there was the note:

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Marty,

Take this manuscript and guard it with

your life. Try to verify any aspects possible

and check authenticity.

Sid

D ARKNESS is what I see. In his eyes. I

mean, the Serpent. That is — in the

beginning. Which is as good a place to start as

any. The Serpent looks at me, and he is wrapped

around the tree branch, not tightly, just rather

devil-may-care almost flirtatiously wrapped

around the tree branch, his tongue darting at

the air. “Take the fruit,” he says. “The fruit of

knowledge.”

What am I thinking? About banishment,

damnation, the meaning and power of God? Or,

perhaps, about the loving nature of a forgiving,

all powerful God who has planned for the best in

the best of all possible worlds. Because beyond

Chapter One: Family History

14


the barrier in the world of souls, all is happiness

and light.

No. I am looking into the darkness of the

serpent‟s eyes, and I can smell the fruit, that

fresh, clean, sweet smell. And I feel hunger. Pure

hunger. The crispness, the coolness of the fruit

on a hot summer day. Nothing is more pure and

inescapable than that. When you‟re hungry, and

you‟re offered a piece of fruit, you take it. And it‟s

sweet, the first luscious bite, and the juice that

streams down your chin. There can‟t be any bad

consequences to that, can there? A simple,

unthinking, naive girl, just a babe, in a garden,

eating a fruit. After all, I have no fear of a kind

God. I have no knowledge of good and evil. Yet.

And it‟s delicious.

Then I wake up from the dream. But perhaps

that is a little too far back to start, after all.

Miriam Silver was an ardent believer. At nine,

she became an Adventist, and to her parents‟

horror, she refused to eat flesh. That is what she

called it: “flesh”. She earnestly plead with her

parents to give up tobacco, tea, coffee and meat,

so that they wouldn‟t ruin their health and die

and leave her an orphan.

After two months of this behavior, she had a

vision from God. He told her that He would

15

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

protect her and her family from the evils of eating

meat, but expressly forbade, for the faithful, the

eating of carrots except when baked with butter

and brown sugar. Though this divine intervention

was welcomed with relief by the Silver household,

the episode was an indicator of the things to

come.

Miriam took up popular movements as they

came across her notice: suffrage, temperance,

American Holiness evangelism, populism, self-

sufficiency. She also took up various and sundry

cures and patent medicines: Orange Wine

Stomach Bitters, Wonderful Little Liver Pills,

Laudanum, French Arsenic Complexion Wafers,

Cod Liver Oil, Castor Oil, Olive Oil. There were

Amazing Cures for All Your Ills, including — but

certainly not limited to — thinness of the blood,

nerves, weariness, diabetes, skin lacking in

firmness, dissatisfaction, asthma, insomnia and

exhaustion. Each cure seemed better than the

last, promising a bounty of health and wellness,

and Miriam begged her family to try these

miracle elixirs.

Increasingly, as time went on, Miriam developed

her own unique patchwork of beliefs, advice and

medicinal wisdom. Through visions from God,

experimentation with various concoctions and

the teachings of sundry fanatics, she cobbled

16


together Errant Mysticism, “a mystic journey

that travels outside the bounds of the limits of

our minds, that truly passes beyond human

understanding.”

In 1908, Miriam Silver met Charles Rowe, a

practitioner in the young field of psychoanalysis.

Miriam had left her family‟s Chicago home after

receiving a vision encouraging her to an evangelical

mission in New York. She lived on an allowance

from her father, acquiring a small shop with an

apartment above. From this shop, she distributed

pamphlets, peddled medicinal cures and meddled

in mysterious services which were not recorded.

Although mystic folk medicine has a long and

twisted history of spectacular success, Miriam

was never successful.

She fervently argued the dangers of cigarettes

and cigars, demonstrating the proper way to

smoke with a pipe to the glory and goodness of

God. Unfortunately, her pipe-smoking method,

which had come to her in a dream, was strange

looking, awkward and embarrassing in public.

She joyously advised on God‟s preferences for

baking special cakes, which were invariably flat

and rather soggy. She proselytized on the benefits

of her own patent elixir, which though high in

alcohol content, tasted strongly of garlic.

Miriam became, in equal measures, more

17

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

depressed and fanatical as she failed to gain a

following among the forlorn. She began exhibiting

hysterical symptoms, which she attributed to

God‟s visitations on her. She became unable to

turn her head to the left and was compelled to

touch the shop doorknob once every ten minutes.

When one morning she awoke with the impression

that her right hand was a great balloon, and was

thereafter unable to lift or carry anything with it,

she determined that this could not possibly be

construed as a gift from God and contacted a

psychoanalyst.

As a patient on Charles Rowe‟s sofa, she

struggled to untangle the complicated mesh of

her unconscious mind. Miriam Silver was, by far,

Professor Rowe‟s most fascinating patient, and

he became convinced that this earnest and

beautiful girl was indeed gifted with visions from

God.

“These visions,” he told her, “are interpreted

through the disguising mechanisms of the mind.

The Mind of God is so beyond the mind of man

that His Word is treated as an ill-repressed

memory, and dream-like, comes to you represented

symbolically, as messages about carrots or cigars.”

Professor Rowe disagreed fundamentally with

the Freudian emphasis on sexuality, and

particularly the formulating influence of infantile

18


sexuality, that oxymoronic concept. In Miriam

Silver, he saw the promise of a revelation in

understanding not only the human mind, but in

a greater scope, the fundamental nature of the

universe.

“Is it not true,” he wrote, “that the prophetic

nature of dreams is well-documented throughout

the world, and in ancient cultures? Dr. Freud

dismisses these prophetic qualities in favor of

degrading, animalistic explanations. There is no

doubt that in the heritage of man, the spiritual is

the essence that defines and controls all human

behavior. The metaphysical pervades every culture

and every aspect of life, but it defies human

explanation. Why is this? Because the metaphysical

comes to us garbled and distorted, in a code that

must be broken. We have so many competing

and various definitions of God and explanations

of the universe that the mind becomes boggled.

The ancient Greeks and Romans had their

pantheons of mythic characters. The native African

tribes have their strange masks depicting the

preternatural element. The far eastern cultures

have their own mythic traditions that defy western

understanding. Even our blessed Christianity is

broken and shattered into diverse sects.

“We cannot understand the nature of God

because it comes to us perverted through the

19

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

nature of our imperfect mind. Dr. Freud is

greater than he can allow himself to believe, in

that he has stumbled upon the keys that will

allow us to solve this great mystery through the

undeniable power of psychoanalysis.”

In 1909, Dr. Sigmund Freud gave a series of

five lectures on psychoanalysis at Clark University.

Charles Rowe attended these lectures, bringing

Miriam Silver with him. They registered at a

Worchester, Massachusetts inn as Professor and

Mrs. Charles Rowe, and explaining that she

suffered from blinding headaches, Miriam spent

the trip confined to their hotel room. Professor

Rowe attended only the lectures by Freud and

stood in the back of the lecture hall, with his

head lowered and eyes closed, so that those

around him thought he might be sleeping.

At the end of the first lecture, the quiet and

unobtrusive man was first to the exit, and

rushed away across town to his hotel. He arrived

and burst open the room door in a fervor.

“Miriam,” he said.

She lay on the bed in a silent posture, her

arms crossed on her chest. When Professor Rowe

burst in, she opened her eyes and languidly

turned to him.

“I can see,” she said. “I can see Dr. Freud in

20


my mind‟s eye. He glows with a spiritual aura

that he will never know!”

Charles rushed to the bedside.

“I can feel the power rushing through us, like

an ocean let loose upon our souls.”

“Yes, Charles, it is the power of God.”

“It is everywhere around us.”

“And in us.”

The two fell together on the bed in a passion

of ecstasy.

Three months later, Charles Rowe and Miriam

Silver were wed in New York by a justice of the

peace, and in 1910 Miriam Rowe gave birth to a

baby girl, six pounds and two ounces. She was

named Charlotte Abigail Silver Rowe, and her

overjoyed parents showered her with every

affection.

“We expect great things from you,” Miriam

whispered to her newborn girl, when the baby

was first laid in her arms. “Great things.”

Soon little Charlotte grew into a vibrant toddler

with silken blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes

and a winning, constant smile. The small family

was inseparable, and Professor Rowe saw his

psychoanalytic patients in an office on the

ground floor of their brownstone.

Professor Rowe‟s science of psychoanalytic

mysticism was the constant topic of conversation

21

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

in the household. Through his sessions with his

patients and consultation with his helpmeet,

he came to focus his practice on the aspect of

memory.

“What is this beautiful thing,” he would say,

patting his small daughter on the head, “but a

biological mechanism of memory: the memory of

a moment of love, the memory of my physical

and psychical person, the memory of your physical

and psychical person, my dear. So that the

memories in her mind are the memories of a

memory, another level in this complex recording

of the past on the present.”

Though his small practice grew, finding new

patients every month, he found no publisher

for his lengthy and convoluted semi-mystical

arguments. He spent long evenings composing

an ever-lengthening volume documenting his

case studies and extrapolating experiments in

the supernatural that would allow mankind to

converse with God.

On May 22, 1915, Charles Rowe burst excitedly

into the sitting room on the second floor of the

brownstone, where his wife sat reading to their

young child.

“Miriam,” he said, “I have done it.”

Charles had been spending long nights for the

last several weeks in the brownstone‟s basement,

22


which was set up as a workshop for both wood-

working and mechanical tinkering. Charles Rowe

had never been truly clever with his hands, but

his father and brothers were all accomplished in

these manly, mechanical skills, which were

valued in his family beyond the more bookish

qualities that Charles exuded. As a result,

Charles admired the making of things and aspired

to complement his intellectual exercises with

practical machinery.

When he pronounced his success in the sitting

room, his wife looked up from the fable she was

reading and smiled.

“Of course, dear,” she said, “you will succeed

at anything you put your mind to.”

“This is beyond anything I could have hoped

for!”

“What is it, darling?” she asked. Charles had

been incredibly secretive about his project, and

his wife had not pried into his work.

“It is what you and I have talked over,

dreamed over, for years. It is the mechanism for

talking with God.”

Miriam stood up, almost dropping her child

on its head.

“Charles! Truly?”

“Yes, yes. Come see it.”

Miriam held the child to her breast. “Dear

23

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Charlotte,” she said, “your father is the greatest

man in the history of knowledge.” Charlotte, a

quiet child by nature, smiled at her mother.

“Well, come on,” said Charles, “the proof is in

the pudding.”

He led the way down the two flights of stairs

to the basement workshop. Along the largest wall

there was constructed a large scaffolding, from

floor to ceiling and from end to end. It was three

feet deep and composed of thin wooden timbers

crisscrossing like an asymmetrical spider‟s web.

Complicating the structure was a secondary

crisscross of copper wire, moving along and

among the beams. Sometimes the wires would

follow the pattern of the wood, and then one wire

at a random spot would break the pattern and

streak off through its three-dimensional space

at its own random-seeming angle. Among and

between these two interweaving webs were small

pockets, bulges of machinery that formed nodules,

sometimes on wires, sometimes on wood. Some

nodules contained lights or dials, and others

seemed to be simply lumps of metal. Some were

spherical, some square, and some completely

irregular in shape.

“Charles, it‟s amazing,” said Miriam.

“Can you feel the energy emanating from it?”

he asked.

24


“Yes,” she said, holding Charlotte tightly. “A

holy energy.”

Charles walked over to the machinery and

caressed it with his hand. “This is the moment

that culminates my life work. Our life work.”

“How does it work?” Miriam asked.

“I will show you. No, wait. We need to document

this occasion well. Go to the kitchen and get

Mary and Bridgett.”

Miriam rushed upstairs again and summoned

the two maids, who were at work peeling potatoes.

“But the potatoes cannot sit, they must go

into the water,” said Bridgett, always a worried

girl.

“Damn the potatoes,” said Miriam. “Oh, forgive

my language, but this is important.”

The three women and one child descended

the stairs again, to find Charles adjusting dials

and buttons.

“What will happen, my dear?” said Miriam.

“I do not precisely know,” said Charles. “I

cannot precisely tell you that, but you will see a

dramatic result.”

He turned to them.

“On this day,” he said, “we make history.”

Then he turned back to his great machine

and flipped a switch on the wall within the

structure. A low humming filled the room.

25

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Charles stopped to secure his goggles on his

head and flipped a second switch. The humming

was joined by a flickering of lights and a quiet

click-click-click.

“Now, here we are,” he said, “the last switch.”

He glanced behind him and smiled at his

family.

Charlotte blinked at him.

Charles turned and flipped the final switch.

There was a crackle and a large clap, and the

room filled with smoke. The lights and sounds

stopped, and the three women began to cough.

When the smoke cleared, Charles was gone.

Miriam stepped forward wonderingly toward

the machine.

“Charles?” she said.

She touched lightly a board in the matrix, and

the whole thing came crashing down with a

thunderous roar.

Of course, I don‟t remember any of this. I

don‟t know any of this. I am completely in the

dark. My mother would tell me things about herself,

about my father, about his work, about my birth.

My birth was, she assured me, a miracle that

brought together man‟s scientific knowledge,

man‟s psychical powers, and God‟s love. From

these mystic beginnings come my great gifts.

26


I constructed in my mind a version of the

truth about myself and my family, based on what

I was told and what I observed. Much later, I

started seeing it in my mirror.

I saw my father working on his machine in

the mirror, and it seemed to resonate with some

childhood memory. The vision of my father‟s

machine completed itself in my mind when I saw

it in the mirror. That is what the mirror is like, a

completion, a bringing into being, of something I

already know in my own mind. It feels true.

Then, of course, several years later I ran into

Bridgett, the maid. I had only vague recollections

of her, but I felt a stir of recognition immediately.

She knew me.

I asked her about the night my father disappeared.

She said, “You are still young, but you are old

enough to understand. You know what men are.

Men leave, sometimes.”

“What about men? What about the basement?”

“The basement?” she asked. “Yes, the professor

was always tinkering in the basement.”

“Don‟t you remember going down to the

basement, to look at the machine?”

“I remember there was a great crash from

down there. We all rushed down, and there was

a heap of rubble.”

“But my father?”

27

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Yes, that was the day your father disappeared.

I remember now, we went down, and there was a

great heap of rubble, and your father wasn‟t

there.”

“You didn‟t see him disappear?”

“How could I see him disappear?”

I have two alternative explanations. To witness

the supernatural goes against everything our

brains are programmed to believe. Perhaps

Bridgett merely blocked out the events of that

night and constructed her own memory of what

happened.

Or, of course, it could all be a lie, invented by

my mother, and perpetuated by me.

C HARLOTTE Rowe‟s first memory was of

being shoved up against her mother‟s

breast in a cloud of smoke. She could recall the

odor in vivid detail when she closed her eyes.

Sometimes it came to her in the middle of the

day, for no reason, and for a moment she couldn‟t

place what the smell was.

She would be washing dishes, her hands up

to the elbows in warm, sudsy water, like the

most luxurious bath, and for a moment instead

of the smell of soap and the slight underlying

stink of spoiled food, her nostrils were filled with

this smell, so strange and yet so familiar.

She would breathe in automatically to gather

Chapter Two: Spiritism

30


more of the scent, not only to identify it, but

because compulsively, she wanted to drink it in.

Her nose would tickle and twitch with the feeling

of particles mixed with the odor — a strong,

sharp, metallic odor flavored with something

sweet on the one hand, and something bitter

underlying it. In these instances, the smell only

lasted for a second or two before it faded away,

leaving no trace in the ordinary air.

Recurrences of the smell persisted for

Charlotte throughout her lifetime, and as she lay

on her death bed, she would turn her head to the

left or to the right, hoping to capture a whiff of it.

It was the smell that started everything. Not

only that first child-like and hazy memory —

although that started things too. It was after that

first instance of the smell that the women began

to come.

In Charlotte‟s childhood memory, her mother

was the prominent and ubiquitous figure.

Charlotte‟s impression of her mother was of a

large woman — bustling and busy. Her mother

was the final repository of all knowledge. She

knew what to wear, what to eat, how to pray and

when to go to the bathroom.

“I‟m raising you,” her mother told her once,

“as a child of the Lord. Most people don‟t know

what it means to achieve Grace, because achieving

31

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Grace is a difficult thing and most people only

want to achieve what is easy. When things are

difficult, think to yourself, „I am working for the

Lord‟s Grace,‟ and that will give you strength.”

The women were always inferior to Charlotte‟s

mother. They were old or young, tall or short,

thin or fat, but all of them simpered and coddled

and flitted around Charlotte‟s mother. When a

woman came, they would all go down into the

basement, where the dust-ridden rubble had

been shoved aside to accommodate an elegant

table and amazingly soft and comfortable chairs.

That day, the woman was a tall one, tall and

thin with large front teeth that made her look a

bit like a horse. Charlotte held onto her mother‟s

skirts as Mrs. Rowe answered the door.

“Mrs. Rowe?” said the woman with the buck

teeth. “I‟m Beulah Bellwether, as I‟m sure you

can guess. A musical sounding name, my mother

used to say. Although I‟m sure yours is so much

more elegant. It‟s such a pleasure to meet you.

You can‟t know what your kind support means

to our community.”

“I do the work of God,” said Mrs. Rowe.

“Of course, of course.”

“Now, Miss Bellwether, shall we begin?”

Miss Bellwether nodded five times in rapid

succession and looked around the sitting room.

32


Before she could speak, Mrs. Rowe continued:

“Follow me.”

Mrs. Rowe turned and started toward the

basement stairs. Miss Bellwether‟s eye fell on Charlotte,

and she favored the girl with a toothy smile.

“Follow me,” said Charlotte, raising her

eyebrows and turning on her heels to follow her

mother.

The three proceeded single-file down the narrow

basement steps to the oasis of comfort erected

there. Mrs. Rowe stood by the table and turned

to face the others. Charlotte immediately sat in

her favorite chair, a large armless creature

upholstered in deep purple velvet.

“I presume this is suitable, Miss Bellwether.”

Beulah Bellwether looked around herself. On

the floor along the longest wall were the ruins,

mysteriously attractive rubble of metal, wire and

wood. The other side of the room was filled with

shelves and cabinets, disused and covered in

dust, but still filled with bottles, jars, instruments,

gadgets and tools of every description. A large

table was shoved up against the cabinets to clear

the center of the room for its newer furnishings.

Miss Bellwether made a clicking noise and

nodded very swiftly six times.

“The emanations here are very strong,” she

said, “very strong.”

33

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Sit,” said Mrs. Rowe. “Sit up straight,

Charlotte.”

Charlotte shot up rigid in her chair, and Miss

Bellwether sat down rather heavily with a small

sigh. She straightened her dress beneath her,

and looked first at Mrs. Rowe and then at

Charlotte.

“We have had,” said Miss Bellwether, “truly

amazing results with table turning.”

Mrs. Rowe raised her eyebrows. “I asked you

here because I heard praise of your mediumship.”

“Oh, I know. But mediumship does take many

forms, does it not? I mean, table turning is

indeed a mediumistic venture. Not that I insist

we try table turning in any way. But I do feel

that we must be open to many different types

of communication. I mean, the mediumistic

trance is quite wonderful, quite spectacular, but

also, you know, somewhat unreliable.”

There was a silence following this pronouncement,

as Miss Bellwether looked earnestly at Mrs.

Rowe.

Mrs. Rowe sighed a deep and dissatisfied

sigh, and spoke coldly.

“We may do table turning, if you feel it is

likely to be effective. But I would first like to at

least attempt contact in a trance, as I had heard

that you were able to do.”

34


“Well, of course, Mrs. Rowe,” said the medium.

“Of course, I never meant to imply that we could

not attempt a trance. And I have every hope that,

with the grace of God, we will be successful.”

There was another pause.

“We must all join hands around the table, if

you please, Mrs. Rowe.”

She set her hands on the table. Charlotte took

one, and Mrs. Rowe took the other.

“Please close your eyes,” said Miss Bellwether.

Charlotte closed her eyes. She could feel the

cool, smooth hand of her mother gripping her

right hand and the warm, doughy hand of Miss

Bellwether gripping her left. Small purple globes

floated across her eyelids, and the room, the

world, felt far off, way outside the boundaries of

her head.

The room was hot, and she relaxed into the

chair, now that her mother could no longer see

her posture. They had held many of these

séances. That was a French word, and it simply

meant to sit. Not precisely. “To sit” was seoir. A

séance was a sitting. Like sitting room. But they

did not hold their séances in the sitting room,

they held them in the basement. What was the

French term for basement? She was quite good

in French, and sure she could remember.

Miss Bellwether droned on, but Charlotte

35

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

disregarded her. “We ask any spirits,” she was

saying, “who dwell in this area, or in an adjacent

plane, any who have information for these souls

here gathered, to present themselves in our

presence.”

What a loud medium Miss Bellwether was.

Usually they were silent for a while, until they

fell into a trance. But this one went prattling on

about planes and energy and souls. That‟s what

it was! Sous-sol, basement. So these were not so

much séances as sous-sols. „Pardon me, my

dear, but I must be off — I am late for a sous-

sol.‟ „Yes, Mrs. Robinson, the séance is so passé

(present tense passer). You simply must attend

one of our sous-sols.‟

Miss Bellwether had finally fallen into silence.

She was now breathing rather heavily through

her nose. Adenoids, perhaps. Charlotte attempted

to read Miss Bellwether‟s thoughts by traveling,

with her mind, through Beulah‟s hand, up her

arm, and into her vibrating nose. Feeling nothing,

she determined to read her mother‟s thoughts.

She felt again the cool hand, so calm and detached

and perfect. She traveled up the well-draped

arm, through the veins that, if you pushed back

the silk fabric of the dress, were visible on the

surface of her arm as blue lines. She traveled

through the neck, where a pulse-pulse-pulse

36


beat strongly and regularly. She arrived inside

the head, where she could feel the presence of

the closed eyes in front of her. They were dark

eyes, shark‟s eyes.

There was complete and total silence, and a

cold emptiness. Here everything dropped away.

She was neither breathing nor suffocating. Her

heart was not beating. Her mind was a blank.

Everything around her was blank, empty,

impossible. The world dropped away and revealed

itself to be illusion.

Into this total and complete absence, came

the smell.

Mrs. Rowe and Miss Bellwether held hands in

silence, except for Miss Bellwether‟s notable

stentorian breathing. Miriam Rowe did not have

high hopes for this particular venture. Although

some of her trusted friends had given the highest

references for Miss Bellwether‟s mediumistic

capabilities, Mrs. Rowe felt certain that these

references were based on questionable séances

held in controlled circumstances. Certain rather

humiliating experiences had taught her to

maintain a level of caution with mediums.

At one point, Miss Bellwether‟s hand gripped

Mrs. Rowe‟s hand strongly, and the audible

breathing was interrupted by a gasp. It was

37

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

followed by nothing, however, so it must have

been merely a hiccup or nauseated twinge.

Mrs. Rowe was just beginning to feel that,

perhaps, her rather callous distrust of this

particular medium could be causing a lack of

results, when a violent gust of wind whipped

through the basement. Automatically, Miriam

Rowe‟s eyes flew open, and she saw that Miss

Bellwether‟s eyes had also flown open and were

looking at her with a clear and distinct fright.

How odd, thought Mrs. Rowe.

Then the voice came from an unexpected

quarter.

“Charles?” Mrs. Rowe asked, wonderingly.

It was Charlotte who was speaking, her eyes

still closed, her face expressionless. She repeated:

“The resistance of the mind to the Power of

God is strong.”

“Charles,” Mrs. Rowe said, “Charles,” and she

turned to the voice, breaking her handhold with

the now-forgotten Miss Bellwether.

“Life is an imperfect way of recording the past.

Everything we create is a hysterical symptom of

the past traumas of Earth.”

“Where are you, Charles? How can we get you

back?”

The girl continued to stare straight ahead and

spoke with the older, masculine voice of her father:

38


“Time is recorded on the brain, and living things

are time machines, traveling backwards in their

minds, as their flesh moves forward. Hysterical

symptoms are the infringement of the past on

the present, through our personal recording of

history. The child lives in the womb, and the

womb is a memory of the child. The amniotic sac

holds the knowledge of the child just as your

mind holds the knowledge of my self.”

Charlotte‟s head turned toward her mother,

who was staring at her with great horror.

“I know how to create eternal life.”

Then, all life and energy left her, and she fell

to the table as if the bones were gone from her

body.

Miss Bellwether screamed.

Mrs. Rowe rushed to Charlotte‟s side.

“Charlotte,” she said. “Charles.”

Things become confused. They are told and

retold. Recalled and remembered, and then

remembered again. The experience of traveling

into my mother‟s mind is so vivid that I can close

my eyes and be in that moment even now. I

think I remember speaking in my father‟s voice. I

have heard about it many times, and I have seen

it in my mirror. In my mirror, my face even

seems to take on the aspect of his face.

39

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Yet, even if I spoke in his voice, could it

merely have been a reflection of the memories of

him in my own mind? In my mother‟s mind?

„Time is recorded on the brain.‟ My father was

recorded on my brain. Could I not have been

merely playing him back, like a recording? Or

maybe it is just a story my mother believes.

Or maybe I was mad and bored and decided

to show off. I was sort of that kind of a child.

C HARLOTTE awoke in her bed with a

nasty headache. There was an icepack

on her forehead, but it was not helping in any way.

Her mother sat at the bedside, and when she

saw Charlotte‟s eyes fly open, she was ready

immediately with a spoon full of something that

smelled quite nasty.

“Charlotte? Here, take this. It will do you

good.”

“Did I faint?” Charlotte asked, after obediently

swallowing the stuff, which left an oily residue on

her tongue. “May I have some water?”

“Of course,” said her mother, and went across

the room to pour a glass from a pitcher, “and no.

Don‟t you remember?”

Chapter Three: Nanette

42


“We were in the sous-sol.”

Miriam Rowe looked critically at her daughter.

“It is not polite to speak French, except with

the French.” Her mother was never good at

languages.

“I‟m sorry, Mother. I don‟t know why, I just

had the word ready in my head.”

“You don‟t remember anything?”

Charlotte shook her head. “What happened?”

“The most wonderful and amazing thing,”

Mrs. Rowe said. She handed her daughter the

glass of water. “You are the most incredible

medium.”

“Medium?” Charlotte asked.

“I knew when you were born that you were

special. You were born of the ethereal plane. You

were a child of the highest spiritual power. Now,

your birthright is coming to fruition in light of

the Grace you have worked so hard to attain.”

“What happened?” asked Charlotte.

“It is so exciting. We must bring your talents

to the world. We must — but of course you need

your rest at the moment. So try and get some

sleep, and I will bring you some blood pills in a

moment.”

Charlotte looked away from her mother. “Que

s‟est produit? De que ma mère parle-t-elle?”

“Charlotte! What did I tell you?”

43

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Charlotte turned to her mother, and raised

her eyebrows. “You told me it was only polite to

speak French to the French.”

“And since when do you disobey your

mother?”

“I am not disobeying!”

“What language was that, if not French?”

“I did not say I was not speaking French!”

“Well? Is there a French person here? To what

French person were you speaking?”

Her mother was puffing up her chest and

turning red in the face.

Charlotte opened her eyes, with a surprised

expression.

“Why, to Nanette.”

Mrs. Rowe stared at her daughter.

“Nanette?”

“Yes, Mother, of course. Who else would I be

talking to?”

“Who,” asked her mother, “is Nanette?”

“Nanette. You know.” Charlotte searched for

words. “What is wrong with you, Mother?”

“Charlotte. Answer me carefully.” Mrs. Rowe

dropped down beside Charlotte‟s bed again,

kneeling by her daughter and caressing her forehead.

“Is Nanette here with us now, darling?”

“Of course, Mother. Nanette is always here.”

“And she is French?”

44


“Of course!”

“Where is she, exactly?”

Charlotte looked around the room. “Why she‟s

here. Around. Sometimes all around the room,

and sometimes right at my ear.”

“Why have you never told me about her?”

Charlotte looked puzzled. “Haven‟t I? She‟s

always been here.”

“This is wonderful, Charlotte. Simply wonderful.

Can you talk to her right now?”

“Of course I can.”

“Ask her... Ask her if she is in contact with

Charles.”

“Oh. Umm. Parlez-vous avec Charles?” She

turned to her mother. “Oui. Oh. I‟m sorry. I

mean, yes.”

Her mother was practically quivering now,

sitting on the very edge of the bed, and nervously

caressing Charlotte‟s head.

“Can she ask him where he is?”

“Okay, Mother. Nanette? Où est Charles?”

“Well?” asked her mother.

“She says...”

“Speak, child. What does she say?”

“Il est avec vous.”

“He is... What?”

“He is with you.”

“What does that mean?”

45

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“I don‟t know!”

“You must know!”

“I don‟t know, Mother. I really don‟t know.”

Mrs. Rowe realized that she was holding her

daughter‟s shoulders in a white grip. She let go

and looked around the room.

“The problem is that the language of the

spirits is translated through our own minds.

And, on top of that, your spirit guide speaks

French!”

“Spirit guide?”

“Yes, darling. Nanette is your guide, and she

will give you information from beyond the fabric

of our mortal universe.”

“Oh,” said Charlotte.

“This has all been quite trying,” said Miriam

Rowe. She rose and wiped her hands on her

skirt. “We must converse with Nanette at length,

and find out about her. Well. I will bring up

those blood pills. You will need your strength.”

“No,” said Charlotte.

“Do not disagree with me, child.”

“It‟s not me, Mother. Nanette warns me

strongly against blood pills.”

“She does?”

“Yes, she says that I must take them under

no circumstances.”

“Oh.”

46


“No man-made medicines must enter my

systems, for they stifle mediumship.”

“Oh. Of course, I should have recognized that.

You have passed beyond the efficacy of medicines.

Your body is now in a higher state. Yes. I see. I

will bring you orange juice.”

Well, you have to remember that I was just a

child. I was young, and my mother was a self-

centered woman. And blood pills tasted horrible.

She always had a medicine at her fingertips,

something syrupy or oily or bad tasting.

Something to pep me up that would give me

a stomach-ache. Something to cure my liver that

would make my head spin. It was all awful.

Damn my liver, damn my blood, I didn‟t want to

take any pills or elixirs.

On top of that, my mother was acting strange.

She was paying attention to me. I was a bit fuzzy

on the details, but she was hovering over me in a

protective, mother-like way. This was strange,

but good. It played with my mind.

And then, I was rather proud of my French.

I admit it, I made up Nanette on the spot.

Or, I think I did. That‟s the trouble with

things, they get confused. She‟s been with me so

long. I see her in the mirror, and her story is

always changing. Her life is one way, and then

47

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

another. And then, she comes to my bedside

with a cup of tea, and she seems to be a normal,

middle-aged French woman. “Nanette?” I ask. “Is

it really you?”

“Of course, it‟s me. Who else would be bringing

you your tea?”

“Do you remember when I was a child?”

She laughs. “Sure, my dear. Don‟t you?”

Perhaps I‟m mixing them up. I thought I just

imagined her.

After all, it got me some attention.

And I was always proud of my French.

N ORMA Parker was a mousey woman, not

old yet but certainly not young. She had

lived in her mother‟s house all of her life. Her

mother birthed eight children. The twins, John

and Jacob, were her first born and died in

infancy. Alan was the third born, oldest surviving,

who had moved to Utah with a young wife years

ago. Catharine, the fourth child, had felt a calling

and had become a Christian missionary in parts

unknown. Jeremy and Jason were another set of

twins, the fifth and sixth children. They had

quarreled irreconcilably, but both were lawyers

living in Manhattan who had married on the

same day women of the same age, hair color, and

eye color. Margaret, the seventh child, had died

Chapter Four: The Séance for Norma

Parker

50


moments out of the womb. Norma was the

youngest of all of them, born when Jeremy and

Jason were ten and her mother was already a

middle-aged woman.

Mrs. Mary Mae Parker was fond of saying that

after Norma‟s birth she was never the same

woman again. The labor of pregnancy, not to

mention childbirth, so late in life was a burden

to her, and she began complaining about it

before she even knew she was pregnant.

“Joe,” she said (Joe being her husband), “I

just don‟t seem to feel well anymore. I swear, I

am sick every day of my life these days!” She

swore that she could tell the date of conception

to a second, since for precisely 269 days, she felt

sick, as well as tired and swollen and generally

uncomfortable. The 270th and 271st days were

spent in a sweating agony of labor, during which

she openly cursed Joe and little Norman inside

her (for she was certain this much trouble must

be from a boy). When she lay back on her bed,

exhausted and relieved, and was handed a little

pink girl, Mary Mae did not feel sorrow for her

mistake, since she had not recovered from her

grudge against the small package.

“Well, I suppose we‟ll have to call her Norma,

then,” she said.

The grudge, though silent, was undying, and

51

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Norma spent most of her lifetime unconsciously

aware that she must somehow make everything

up to Mother. After recovering from her pregnancy,

Mary Mae‟s health generally began to decline.

She was confined to her bed, and from the age

Norma could toddle, the child took on a role of

caregiver and bedside attendant.

Despite Mary Mae‟s growing irritability, Norma

loved her mother with a deep and undying

devotion. In her girlhood, games and studies

could not distract her from Mary Mae‟s bedside.

In young womanhood, no puppy love swept her

off of her feet or out of her mother‟s house.

Norma lived to comfort her mother, reading at

her bedside, and fashioning needlework gifts for

her pleasure. Inevitably, Mary Mae died, and

Norma was left without occupation. She continued

to live with her father, Joe, and keep the house

in a mechanical way.

Six months after her mother‟s death, odd

things began to happen. It began with Norma

awaking in the morning on the cold kitchen floor.

“Sleepwalking,” said Joe.

“N—no,” said Norma, “I couldn‟t possibly!”

She began to lock her door at night, and

found that it made no difference. She would

awake on the kitchen floor. One morning, she

found herself there amid a barrage of broken

52


crockery. After that, the noises began. There

were cracking sounds, rumblings, and crashes

that Joe never seemed to hear. When Norma

rushed to see what happened, she would find

everything in place.

My mother was a natural storyteller. She

knew Norma through a friend of a friend, and

she learned all about her life and her problems.

Once she had obtained the invitation for us to

visit Norma as spiritual advisors, she excitedly

chattered about the Parkers for days on end. She

would insert descriptive detail whenever the

mood hit her, and run off on tangents of

speculation. My mother built up characters in

her own mind and colored a picture of Norma

Parker‟s life that was cobbled together from

everything she‟d heard, mortared with her

powerful imagination.

Resentfully, I listened to my mother‟s chatter. I did

not want, particularly, to be a spiritualistic medium. I

did not want to go to Norma‟s house. I figured that

Norma was a sap, a martyr, a stupid woman.

I was supposed to go sleep over at a girl‟s

house, but my mother cancelled my plan in

order to take me to Norma Parker‟s house. I

hated Norma Parker. I hated my own stupid

mother.

53

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

I didn‟t realize how emotionally purging the

visit to Norma Parker would be.

Charlotte and Miriam Rowe came at Norma‟s

request. Miriam made a great show of wandering

about the house, discussing emanations,

clairaudience and astral movement. Charlotte,

rather moody and restless, followed along with a

pouting expression on her face.

The three settled on a small sofa in the sitting

room.

“What do you think?” asked Norma, anxiously.

“Can you help me?”

“It is difficult to say,” said Miriam with much

consideration. “There are definitely presences

here.”

Charlotte kicked her heels strongly against

the sofa.

“Charlotte,” said Miriam, “do not kick the

sofa!”

“Go away, Mother!” Charlotte shouted.

“Charlotte!” said her mother, turning red.

Charlotte was staring blank-eyed in front of

her. “Mother — Mother — Mother,” she repeated.

Miriam registered Norma‟s intake of breath.

“Your mother — she has passed on,” said

Miriam. “It‟s your mother Charlotte must be

sensing.”

54


“Exorcise her! Get her out! Get rid of her!”

shouted Charlotte. She fell off the sofa in hysterics.

“Get her out! Get her out! Mother! Be gone

Mother! Get out Mother! Mother must go! Mother

must go!”

Miriam fell to Charlotte‟s side, and Norma

stood behind her, watching with wide eyes.

“Is she—?” asked Norma.

“Don‟t worry,” said Miriam. “It‟s the presence

of the spirits. The spirit of your mother is here

with you. She is hanging on, unable to let go.”

Charlotte let out an ear-piercing scream and

echoed, “Let go!”

Miriam said, “We will need to help your

mother pass on. This happens sometimes, when

spirits are too attached to the material plane.

She loves you so much.”

Norma smiled a very gratified smile.

Once Charlotte was calmed and settled in the

kitchen with a bowl of fresh strawberries and

cream, Miriam began unpacking her exorcism

equipment. She had potions and concoctions of

her own making, along with amulets, containers,

and figurines. She spent hours writing and revising

incantations, and worried over recipes for holy

oils and incense. Miriam‟s rites and rituals were

her special devotion, and working through them,

the sitter always felt a true accomplishment.

55

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Meanwhile, Charlotte sat at the kitchen table,

eating the strawberries and cream, feeling

particularly calm and happy. The temper

tantrum had purged her and soothed her. Her

own anger at her mother subsided. Instead, her

mind was taken with sweet strawberries.

When Miriam and Charlotte left, Norma was

drained, completely empty.

“Remember,” Miriam said as her mantra of

wisdom. “It is your duty to let your mother go.

You must deny your daughterly feelings and

force her away. Only this will allow her to pass

on to the next spiritual plane.”

The noises and somnambulism ceased, and

Norma Parker became a most verbal proponent

of Charlotte‟s amazing powers.

P ROFESSOR Charles Ambrose Rowe awoke

one day in strange and uncomfortable

circumstance. His head hurt, and he was aware

of being unshaven. His skin was sunburned, and

he had the feeling of having been outside for

quite a long time.

He was aware of these things before he was

aware of his surroundings. These, too, were

harsh and strange. He lay on cold cobblestone in

an alley that had a distinctly unpleasant smell.

When he felt about his person, he found that he

had no wallet, no money, and no pocket watch.

The sky above him was dim and brown and

the air was warm and humid.

When he picked himself up off of the hard

Chapter Five: The Reappearance of

Charles Rowe

58


stone, he had aches and pains throughout his

body. He felt like an old man. His hand traveled

to his head, and he felt the silken locks of his

hair sullied with something sticky. He wore no

hat. He had no cape. It began to rain.

He wandered out of the alley, to the main

street, looking for something familiar. The street

name was one he did not know. He attempted to

hail a cab, but no cab would stop for him. As he

stood at the edge of the street, the rain began to

come down more heavily, until it was pouring

and he stood, drenched and alone.

He began to walk.

I see this scene over and over in the mirror. I

don‟t know why. It seems to have little importance,

but it resonates. Don‟t you sometimes look

around your life and wonder how you got to such

a cold, hard place? When you do, isn‟t your first

instinct to just go home? The real tale of the

prodigal son is just that: when you have taken

the road less traveled and found yourself in a

dark alley in the rain with no wallet, you can just

give up and go home.

Charlotte and Miriam Rowe were sitting at

breakfast. It had been three years since Charlotte‟s

spiritual talents had been uncovered, and the

59

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

small family‟s circumstances had greatly improved.

Although she did not like to mention it, in the

first years of her husband‟s absence, Miriam had

appealed to her father for assistance. This was,

of course, no cause for shame. It was a family‟s

responsibility to care for their loved ones in times

of need. However, as time went on, her father

and mother began to press her to return to

Chicago. This would have been quite a sensible move.

It was not wholly fitting, Miriam felt, for a woman and

child to live alone, and keeping a separate

household was an unnecessary extra expense.

She was loath to leave the house, though.

Her discomfort grew over time, as she strove

(and usually failed) to reduce her household

expenses.

With the dramatic appearance of Charlotte‟s

spirit guide, prospects instantly improved.

Instead of being the sitter, she was elevated to

the status of — well, not precisely of a sensitive,

since her powers manifested only in visions and

revelations and never upon her command — but

of the Earthly equivalent of a control. While

Nanette managed the supernatural side of the

séance, Miriam managed the Earthly side.

Charlotte functioned as a conduit between the

two, their connecting link, often retaining no

memory of her mediumistic episodes.

60


Although the true purpose of these sittings

was, clearly, for the furtherance of the Grace of

God and for the peace and joy of those who

came, it was also, undeniably, a rather good

source of income for a wife and mother who

was unhappily left alone through awkward

circumstances.

Miriam spread jam thickly onto a piece of

toast. It was good jam, and real butter too.

Charlotte said, “We should have a roast beef

for dinner.”

Miriam looked up. “We have those good ducks

sent over from the butcher.”

“Father‟s favorite,” said Charlotte, “is roast

beef.”

This was not an entirely unique suggestion.

Charlotte would occasionally mention that her

father was quite fond of chocolates, or particularly

felt like peach ice cream that day. Whatever, in

fact, Charlotte happened to crave, she could

acquire simply by noting that it was a favorite of

father‟s. This had not happened in a while, though.

Charlotte‟s father, as a topic of conversation or

thought, had dwindled into the background in

recent months.

“Roast beef?” said Miriam. “I suppose that the

ducks can be kept for another day. I should,

perhaps, send Sheri down to the butcher‟s.”

61

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“That sounds good,” said Charlotte, toying

with her spoon in her three-minute egg. “Father

will be pleased.”

The doorbell rang, and Sheri bustled through

the room on her way to the door. Miriam stopped

her.

“Sheri, you will please go to the butcher‟s and

get a nice roast beef for tonight.”

“Ma‟am?”

“You understood me. A roast beef.”

“But Angie has already begun preparing the

ducks for tonight.”

“Well, the ducks will need to wait. We will

have roast beef tonight.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Well? Are you going to answer that? Remember,

we are at breakfast and unable to entertain a

visitor.”

“Yes, ma‟am.” Sheri scooted off toward the

door.

“Finish your egg, Charlotte,” said Miriam.

“You need your strength.”

Sheri re-entered the room and stood by the

table uncertainly.

“Yes, Sheri?” said Mrs. Rowe.

“There is a man at the door...”

“I thought I made it clear that we would not

be disturbed at our breakfast.”

62


“Yes, ma‟am,” said Sheri, still uncertainly.

“Well, what is it then?”

“He is rather an impoverished-looking

gentleman,” she said slowly.

“We do not have either work or subscriptions

for unemployed men,” Mrs. Rowe said sternly.

“I know, but...”

“But what? Let it out, Sheri. Don‟t just clamp

your tongue on it.”

“Well, he says he is Professor Rowe.”

Miriam Rowe shot up from the table, knocking

over a water glass. She rushed past Sheri and to

the doorway.

Charlotte said, “If I were you, I would get off

to the butcher‟s.”

Sheri blinked at the girl.

Miriam Rowe reappeared at the doorway to

the room, holding on her arm the tattered and

distressed-looking man. She helped him to a

chaise in the corner of the room, and kneeled at

his side as he lay back. Miriam ran her hand

gently over the man‟s drenched forehead, and

then spun around with vicious energy.

“Stupid girl,” she said to Sheri, “leaving him out

in the rain like that. Don‟t just stand there! Get a

towel. And run a bath. You can get Angie to go to

the butcher‟s, and have the roast prepared as soon

as possible. He will need good red meat!”

63

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Sheri started and mumbled and ran out of the

room. Miriam turned back to her bedraggled

husband.

“Darling,” she said.

He passed out on the chaise.

P ROFESSOR Rowe was not the same

after his return.

Miriam let him sleep all morning and early

afternoon on the chaise in the breakfast room.

She woke him to bathe and shave and change

into clean clothes (still neatly hung and folded in

the upstairs closets) before dinner.

He performed these rituals in near silence, going

through the familiar motions with the awkwardness

of a child learning each for the first time.

He devoured his roast beef and new potatoes

hungrily and silently.

After his plate was emptied, he retired upstairs

and was not seen again until tea time the next

day.

Chapter Six: The Move

66


As he came slowly down the stairs, Charlotte

was consuming warm jelly doughnuts, and

Miriam was picking at dry toast.

“Charles,” said Miriam, as he stood in the

doorway, staring at them. “How are you feeling?”

She rose from the table and went to him.

Almost simultaneously, Charles moved towards

the table. He sat on a chair and looked down at

the variety of breads and sweets. He set his

hands on the table and took a moment to stare

at them.

“May I get you some tea, darling?” Miriam

asked.

“No,” said Charles in a voice that came from

far away.

He stared down at his hands on the table

some more, and then raised his eye to stare at

the two females. Miriam was gazing at him eagerly.

Charlotte glanced at him as she took a bite of

doughnut. Warm raspberry jam dribbled down

her chin.

“We are going to travel across the country,” he

said. “We will travel on a train to California and

settle in a country that God has designated,

where it is warm and the sun shines. I will resume

my work there.”

“Yes,” said Miriam. “I see.”

It‟s strange how the truly momentous occasions

67

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

in your life seem unimportant at the time. My

clearest, most coherent memory of that day is

the sugary-sweet flavor of raspberry.

O NE night, as I lay under my bedcovers,

my head resting on pillows, my eyes

wide open, staring into space, my mind empty,

a blank, feeling too tired to go to sleep, too tired

to think about anything, I thought I saw a

motion in the large mirror hanging across from

my bed.

I stared at the mirror, in the darkness. I tried

to focus my sleepy eyes across the room at it.

The mirror, like the void, stared back at me.

This staring match lasted until I was sure I

would begin to see the glimmer of the sun nearing

the horizon. In fact, the mirror seemed to lighten

and brighten as I stared at it. My eyes were

nodding, and the mirror was winking at me.

Chapter Seven: Anita, A Case Study

70


Then, I began to see something in the mirror. I

began to see my father.

Professor Rowe sat on the leather wingback

chair, his pen hovering over a notebook.

Anita lay on the couch, her eyes closed. She

was shaking her head.

“I don‟t know, Doctor,” she said. “I just don‟t

know.”

“You do know,” he replied.

“No!”

“You must let go of your resistances. Your

conscious mind is blocking your unconscious

knowledge. You do know!” He stood up from his

chair, restless, and began pacing the room.

Anita put her fists in front of her eyes. “No!”

she said. “I know nothing about it.”

“You‟re making yourself sick!” shouted the

doctor. “You‟re hurting yourself!”

“I don‟t care!” she shouted.

He whipped toward her. “You don‟t care? You

don‟t care! Not you aren‟t, but you don‟t care!

That‟s wonderful, Anita. That‟s a breakthrough!”

Anita began to cry.

“You‟re horrible!”

Professor Rowe laughed.

“Go back to it, again,” said Professor Rowe.

“Go back to the beginning.”

71

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“We have been over it and over it.”

“Again. It‟s essential. Can‟t you see that we‟re

on the verge?”

Anita sat up on the couch. She removed her

fists from her eyes, and placed them in her lap.

Her hands did not unclench, and her fingernails

bit into her palms.

“I was walking down a long corridor,” she

said. “Long and dark. It was unbearably hot, hot

and humid, and I wanted to get out. It was

suffocating. The corridor was long — and I

rushed along it to get out.”

She looked up at Professor Rowe, who nodded

encouragingly.

“My feet seemed to stick to the floor, though,

and it was hard to make progress, hard to find

my way through. I was just turning a corner in

the corridor, when the— “

She paused.

“Don‟t pause,” he said. “Don‟t think. Don‟t

block the words from coming.”

“I don‟t know how to describe it,” she said.

“You do know how to describe it.”

“This thing was coming — pummeling down

the corridor toward me — I don‟t know, it was

like a monster, or a machine. It filled the whole

corridor, as if the corridor was its tunnel.”

“Was the corridor the thing‟s tunnel?”

72


“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, its lair, its cave. I

turned and ran from the thing, and it chased me

back through the caverns, into the depths of its

lair.” She let out a small sob.

“How did you feel?” asked the doctor.

“Afraid! Hopeless. I wanted out, wanted to

escape.”

“And it was keeping you in?”

“It chased me into the very heart of the place,

and then receded. Every time I started toward

the exit, it would reappear, merciless, barreling

down upon me, chasing me again into the depths.

What does it mean, doctor? It‟s so frightening.”

“There is no reason to be frightened, Anita,”

said the psychoanalyst. He came and kneeled by

her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“It is natural,” he said, “to be frightened. The

human mind fears those things that are beyond

it. You must try to step outside of the dream and

view your fear as merely another element of the

dream. And remember, everything in your dream

is a representation of God and God‟s message.

Step outside of your fear and think about the

dream objectively. Put your fear outside of

yourself. Your fear is part of the dream, nothing

more. It is part of a message from God. From

beyond the fear, from outside the dream, what

do you feel?”

73

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She looked up at him. “I don‟t know...”

He moved his hand from her shoulder,

cupping her chin in the palm of his hand.

“You do know,” he said, with incredible

certainty.

“Oh!” said Anita.

Her breathing was fast. Her heart was beating.

Her palms were sweating. Soon, she found

herself in the arms of the handsome doctor.

I thought that I hated my mother, but she is

nothing. She doesn‟t even deserve hate.

She doesn‟t even deserve pity. She is a woman of

the past, the worst kind of subservient swine.

She simpers. She actually simpers.

It is my father that I hate. That horrible man.

He comes sweeping back into our lives, and

begins by making ultimatums, uprooting us from

our home. Can you imagine? The sheer balls of

that man. Yes, balls! That is what Mr. George

says. “Balls!” I know what it means, too. It‟s a

private part that men have. And everything

about a man is a horrible swear word by default!

That‟s what I say.

All of my respect for my mother has gone with

Chapter Eight: Excerpt from Charlotte‟s

Diary

76


the return of my father. She is nothing and he is

Satan. We are to start for the Coast next Tuesday. I

believe with all my heart that he will burn in Hell

for this. I have no misconceptions. I know the

story that Mother tells about his disappearance,

but what is it, actually, except her story? I fully

expect that he simply ran off with another

woman, and she was too much of a fool to suffer

this kind of insult. I bet that in her secret heart,

she would be much happier if he had turned up

as a skeleton washed ashore on Long Island. A

dead father can have all sorts of great character

traits that a live father lacks. Here‟s another

word I learned: bastard! The man is a bastard if

anyone has the right to such a term.

I am not meant for men. Men are the ill that

plagues our world. All of the girls in my class are

busy planning their weddings. They are fools.

May they die in their wedding beds! That‟s what

a wedding bed is — death! And I want to live!

There is only one consolation for me: Nanette.

She is not interested in men or boys, weddings

or fashions. She does not care if the womanly

long skirt will be shortened for the season!

Nanette has been with me always, and she is

my savior. I truly believe that without her, I

would long ago have slit my wrists and watched,

grateful, as the red blood seared hot bathwater

77

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

in rivulets of fire. Even now, sometimes I wake in

the middle of the night and go down to the

kitchen. I sit there, with a glass of warm milk

that I do not intend to drink (but that is cover for

me if someone should wake and find me there). I

stare into the gas oven and imagine what it

would be like to turn on the gas and extinguish

the pilot light — so simple and such a womanly

endeavor, to extinguish the light on a stove —

and to stick my head inside that dark cavern,

encrusted with the food that women are entrusted

to prepare, the food that gives us life.

Women are the givers of life: those that create,

bear, and raise children; those that run the

household, prepare the food, and give comfort

and cure to the sick. What are men for? Doctors

merely make comment on the natural healing of

women. Politicians create problems to solve

them; businessmen create monies in order to

make them! They are one step removed from the

truths of life. If it weren‟t for the need of sperm

(yes, I know all kinds of medical terms that my

parents would blush at!) we would not need men

at all.

Nor do I need men! I have no use for sperm,

or pregnancy. I have Nanette and all of the truths

that she teaches me through her inspiration. And

particularly, I do not need my father, who asserts

78

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

his (unnecessary) masculinity through ordering

us out of our home and across the coast. I would

not be surprised to learn that this whole deter-

mination is created through his desire to escape

persecution for some ungodly crime committed

during his absence. After all, aren‟t men the par-

ticular criminals of society? Lizzy Borden is talked

of so often on the playgrounds that one becomes

sick of her name, but how many men have taken

an axe or knife or gun to their loved ones, and

yet escaped infamy?

I could so easily take an axe to my father, and

I bet that I would have the good sense not even

to be suspected. All men should die at the hands

of gentle womanhood, not even suspecting. The

fools.

I know what I shall really do, though. There is

not even a need for a bloody axe. I will be a rich

and famous medium, richer than any man, and

more powerful too! After all, don‟t presidents and

senators have loved ones who died? They will all

listen to me, and I will become the most powerful

person in the world.

P ERHAPS I had better explain about the

mirror. I don‟t know who I was when I was

young. I remember that girl, and yet she is so foreign

to me, so strange. She is wild and uncontained.

Sometimes I think that the mirror changed me.

Am I no longer me? Was she me? Was I invaded

by a spirit, a consciousness on another plane? Did

I look into the void of my own soul and somehow

change it? Or did I simply grow up, grow old?

The other member of the Rowe household was

a shorthaired gray cat named Montague. The day

of the family‟s arrival in their new home in

Redlands, California, Montague was already in

residence.

Chapter Nine: Montague and the

Mirror

80


The rough stone building situated in the

middle of a vast orange grove was not at all what

Charlotte had in mind regarding a place to live. It

was really nothing but rubble.

They rode out from the railway station in a

ridiculous open carriage which insistently

pointed out each rut and rock in the road. When

they pulled up in front of the structure, Professor

Rowe helped first Miriam and then Charlotte

down from the carriage.

Charlotte kicked a large stone.

“This place,” said Miriam, breathing the air in

deeply and glancing over at Charles Rowe. “This

place has an atmosphere,” she said.

Professor Rowe was gazing up at the stone

building with a self-satisfied look, as if he had

built the place himself.

“If you look at the design of the place,” he

said, “you can see the intricate knowledge in the

details of the design. This place was built with a

purpose.”

“It is glorious,” sighed Miriam.

“It‟s hot,” said Charlotte.

“Now, Charlotte,” said Miriam. “Don‟t be so

narrow-minded!”

“Well, it is hot. Can I have an orange?”

“No,” said Professor Rowe. “The oranges are

not technically ours.”

81

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Who will know?” asked Charlotte.

“Don‟t talk back to your father. Come, let us

go look inside.”

The family walked up to the front door of the

tumble-down structure and into a dark, dank

stone room.

They all paused at the entrance and looked

about in a bit of dismay. “Well,” said Miriam, “we

will soon make this place just like home.”

As Miriam strode into the room, the cat

rushed down the stairwell, screeching. It darted

under her feet. She screamed and jumped from

foot to foot, losing her balance and landing on

her bottom.

Professor Rowe stooped to help his wife up.

Her screeching had turned to a howl.

“That cat!” she said. “That demon! Where did

that creature come from?”

The cat was weaving in and out between

Charlotte‟s feet. Charlotte reached down and

caressed its head.

Miriam was pointing at the cat. “Get that cat

out of here!”

Charlotte looked at her mother. “This cat is

my familiar,” she said.

Miriam‟s arm fell down by degrees, until it

rested at her side.

“What?”

82


“He was sent to me by Nanette. His name is

Montague.”

“Oh.” Professor and Miriam Rowe stared at

the cat.

“He will not bother you, Mother,” said Charlotte

and picked up the cat.

Holding the cat in her arms, Charlotte looked

around the room.

“Yes, we will get along here quite well.” She

took the cat and went up the stairs to the top

room of the tower. That room became, with no

discussion, Charlotte‟s room.

The room was, surprisingly, furnished. It

contained a big, soft bed, a chest of drawers, and

an enormous mirror on the wall across from the

bed. Charlotte let go of the cat and flung herself

on the bed. She sunk into the deep, soft mattress.

Montague jumped up atop the dresser and began

carefully examining his own reflection in the

mirror.

“What are you doing over there?” asked

Charlotte. “Come over to me. I have a piece of

string.”

Because he was a feline and therefore

contrary by nature, Montague did not respond.

“Come here,” said Charlotte again, petulantly.

She sat up on the bed and slapped her palms

down noisily.

83

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

The cat in the mirror tilted its head to the side

and meowed at her. She heard it.

Charlotte blinked.

Montague continued to stare into the mirror

for a moment. Then he sat and commenced licking

his paw. Charlotte looked at Montague and his

mirror twin. Nothing odd happened.

She was just lying back down on the bed

when the cat in the mirror laid down two full

seconds before the cat on the dresser.

Charlotte walked over to the mirror and

looked into it. She saw herself.

Charlotte awoke the next morning crumpled

on the floor with a splitting headache.

O NE of the proudest moments of Miriam

Rowe‟s life was when Augustine Emory

came to observe.

Augustine was a tall woman with a commanding

presence. She walked into the house and sent an

arch, controlling stare around the room. Her

companion, a stout middle-aged woman, seemed

almost absent by comparison. Miriam warranted

only a glance from Augustine. Her gaze settled

on Charlotte.

“Well,” she said, standing over the child. “So

this is the girl we have heard so much about.

Stand up straight and look me in the eye.”

Charlotte put her shoulders back and arched

her eyebrows. Augustine put her hands on Charlotte‟s

Chapter Ten: Augustine Emory

86


cheeks and tilted the girl‟s head up. The older

woman‟s silver rings impressed themselves into

Charlotte‟s cheeks.

“Yes,” said Augustine. “Your aura is quite

strong. Hmmm.”

She turned the girl‟s head to the left and then

to the right.

“Oh!” she said, sounding quite surprised, and

removed her hands from the girl. She fluttered her

fingers in the air above Charlotte‟s right shoulder.

“Strong ectoplasmic emanations,” she said.

She turned around and, for the first time, faced

her companion. “Can you see?” she asked.

“I don‟t know,” said the other woman slowly.

“I sense something—”

“You are a sensitive, my dear, no matter how

you fight it,” said Augustine. “You just need to let

go and reach out.”

“Oh, I know,” said the woman. “I‟m certain I

saw something.”

“You are a sensitive, my dear,” said Augustine

again.

“Yes, Mrs. Carlisle,” said Miriam to the

woman. “That is Nanette. She is with Charlotte,

always.”

“Ah, the spirit guide,” said Augustine. “Well, if

I am to observe, we shall need something to

observe.”

87

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

The four females retired into a small parlor.

As they entered, Professor Charles Rowe

turned toward them. He stood in front of a fireplace,

idly poking the smoldering logs.

“Mrs. Carlisle,” he said, resting the poker

against the fireplace. “I am so glad to see you. I

truly believe that the path of the Lord is leading

you to this venture.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Carlisle, rather breathlessly.

Professor Rowe turned to Augustine. “And

you, of course, are Augustine Emory.”

“It‟s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Rowe,”

Augustine remarked. “It is seldom that we meet a

man of science who can truly keep an open

mind.”

“Science is nothing but an opening of the

mind.”

“Indeed,” said Augustine. “Will you participate

in the séance?”

“No,” he said. “I, like you, am an observer.

Will you have a seat with me?”

The two settled into a pair of wing-backed

chairs in the corner of the room. Miriam turned

off all lights but the low fire burning in the

fireplace and ushered Mrs. Carlisle and Charlotte

to seats at a small, round table.

“Place your hands on the table,” said Miriam,

and followed her own actions to her words.

88


“Mrs. Carlisle, if you will close your eyes. I

want you to concentrate on the problem that is

foremost in your mind. Just let your mind drift

through the problem, and visualize freely. You

will see in your mind‟s eye visions of people who

are important to you, visions of places and

things. Do not stop to think about these visions.

Just let them come to you, flow through you. Be

at peace, be silent, be content. This is a safe

place. This is a warm and comfortable place.”

There was a lengthy silence, and then Charlotte

let out a small groan, or perhaps it was a sigh.

Miriam opened her eyes, and looked critically

at her daughter.

“You may open your eyes, Mrs. Carlisle.”

Mrs. Carlisle opened her eyes and blinked in

the firelight.

“She is in a trance,” said Miriam.

The girl‟s mouth opened and a low moan,

more distinct, came out of it.

“What does it mean?” asked Mrs. Carlisle.

“Sometimes it takes her this way,” said

Miriam. “There is trouble communicating, trouble

coming through the barriers between the

planes.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Carlisle.

“We will try automatic writing,” said Miriam.

“She is deep in a trance state. The difficulty is

89

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

bringing the communications she is experiencing

into this world, for us to interpret.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Carlisle.

Miriam quietly transferred a nearby sheet of paper

to the table, and placed it under Charlotte‟s hand.

Charlotte was unresponsive, neither moving her head

nor her hands as the paper slid underneath them.

Miriam took her daughter‟s hand in her own,

and placed a planchette in it, cupping the limp

fingers around it. Charlotte allowed her hand to

be manipulated.

“Nanette,” said Miriam, “are you with us?”

There was no response from the girl.

“Nanette,” said Miriam again, “please let us

know if you are here.”

Slowly, achingly, Charlotte‟s hand began to

move across the paper. This movement was

accompanied by another low groan, as if her

hand were a swollen and creaking door sliding

with difficulty across the floor.

The planchette made a large and wobbling

circle on the paper.

“Good,” said Miriam. “Good. Nanette, is that

you?”

The planchette moved again, this time with

slightly more fluidity.

It gathered strength as it began moving in

circles, larger and larger, until they spiraled over

90


the whole paper. Miriam quietly slipped a new

sheet of paper underneath the moving pencil as

the paper became covered. The instrument made

two small loops and then stopped.

“Nanette,” Miriam repeated, “is that you?”

The planchette jumped, sputtered, and wrote:

“Yes.”

“Welcome, Nanette,” Miriam said. She turned

to Mrs. Carlisle. “Do you have any questions that

you wish to ask?”

Before Mrs. Carlisle could answer, the

planchette flew from Charlotte‟s hand and clattered

noisily across the room. Charlotte let out a piercing

scream.

“Nanette! Nanette!” she called. “Nan—” She

cut off and fell mute. When she spoke again, her

voice was changed. “The little people follow you

but you will never see them. How will you ever

know for sure, if they are there?”

“Who is that? Who are we speaking to?” asked

Miriam. The voice droned on, not answering or

responding.

“They mean you no harm, they carry no hate,

but they are not capable of love. They nip at your

brains while you sleep and cause you to dream.”

Mrs. Carlisle yelped.

“Hush, my dear,” said Miriam. “We are interrupted

by a confused spirit.”

91

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“They‟re jolly and funny, laughing little children,

with a mind toward pleasure and joy. They will

trick you and tease you, and bite off your toes.

They will trip you to watch you fall, and as you

lie there, your back broken, they will laugh their

deep and hearty laughter, rolling through their

fat, fleshy tummies, filled with live meat they ate

in their sleep. They never kill — but they feed off

of you just the same.”

“Nanette,” said Miriam. “Nanette, can you get

through?”

Mrs. Carlisle was pale and drawn.

“They love life and hate pain, and they live

forever — at least, so far. I don‟t know if they

have womenfolk and raise children, but I cannot

imagine them naked and making love. If they

did, it would be silly and blasphemous, no

passion, so depth. Perhaps only lust. I cannot

imagine, either, them caring for children with

their selfish ways.”

Charlotte‟s father had taken out a notebook

and was swiftly transcribing this message.

“The little people live in the green blooming

countryside, laughing their deep jolly laugh. You

will never see them. No one sees them. They are

spry and jolly and fast. They eat dreams and spit

them out like chewing gum, choking up nightmares

and morning dew. And they will eat you. But

92


they bear you no malice, nor love, and they own

no hate, nor souls.”

She stopped speaking.

“Nanette?” asked Miriam. “Are you with us?”

“Oui,” said Charlotte, in another voice. “I am

here.”

“What was that?” asked Mrs. Carlisle.

“I am sorry, it is a break. We are not here

anymore. It is good. Ask what you will.”

“I—,” began Mrs. Carlisle.

“There is someone here to speak with you,”

interrupted Charlotte. “Mary,” she said in

another voice, low and difficult to discern.

“Mary,” she repeated.

“Mother? Oh, Mother, is that you?” asked

Mrs. Carlisle.

After Mrs. Carlisle had left, Augustine Emory

asked to speak with Charlotte alone.

Miriam Rowe looked uncomfortably at the

woman and said, “I don‟t know.”

Charles Rowe said, “Leave them be alone

together, Miriam. What is going to happen?”

“You do see my daughter‟s talents?” asked Miriam.

“Oh, I do see her talents,” said Augustine.

“And I would like to discuss them with her.”

This calmed Miriam somewhat, and after a bit

of hemming, the two parents left the room.

93

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Well, sit down, Charlotte,” said Augustine.

“Thank you,” said Charlotte, politely.

The two sat for a moment without speaking.

“You are a fraud,” said Charlotte.

“Yes, dear, I know,” said Augustine, “That was

quite a little show you put on for Mrs. Carlisle

yourself.”

“A show?” asked Charlotte.

“Show?” mimicked Augustine. “Yes,” she said,

“you are not really very difficult to see through.

Today, it is me coming to see you. Tomorrow it

will be a scientist, a skeptic. They are out there,

more of them every day. The best thing I can say

about your technique, of course, is that it is difficult

to prove what you are doing. The worst is that it

can all be so easily explained, and not everyone

is as gullible as Mrs. Carlisle.”

Augustine examined Charlotte‟s face critically

as the girl absorbed this information.

“I perceive,” said Augustine slowly, “that your

parents — are true believers.”

Charlotte nodded. “They are true believers.”

“Good,” said Augustine. “That strengthens

you. It lends you an aura of believability, their

quality of sincerity. I see so many amateurs each

year. They are all over the place, a dime a dozen,

and most of them are strictly horrible. These

amateurs are desperate to create something that

94


cannot easily be explained away, so they spend

their time elaborately generating ghostly raps

and trumpets, in the most childish way possible.

You, my dear, are a breath of fresh air.”

“Thank you,” said Charlotte.

“You don‟t talk much, do you?” asked Augustine.

“Children should be seen and not heard.”

At this, Augustine laughed. “We may arrange,”

she said, “for you to be quite clearly heard. I do

have a proposition for you, Charlotte. I will

arrange to bring you under my tutelage. We will

work together every day, and I will teach you the

more sophisticated tricks of the trade.”

“Why?” asked Charlotte.

“Always astute,” said Augustine. “Always right

to the point. Your parents will pay me, and it is a

very safe and regular form of income. I am not a

young woman, and you are security.”

“I see,” said Charlotte.

They were silent for a moment.

“And I must admit,” said Augustine, “a certain

desire to pass along my knowledge — not to let it

die with me.”

“Yes,” said Charlotte, and her face broke into

a smile. “When can we begin?”

That night, as the family sat around the dinner

table, they discussed the situation.

95

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Miriam bubbled. “She was quite impressed.

She could not help but perceive your raw, natural

talents, Charlotte.”

Charlotte shoveled pork chops and mashed

potatoes into her mouth.

“We have arranged for you to begin your

training immediately. Augustine assures me that

this will bring your talents to the next level and

allow you to bridge the gap between our world

and the spirit plane.”

Professor Rowe spoke. “In addition to your

training with Augustine,” he said, “you will begin

studying with me.”

Charlotte dropped her fork, and it clattered

against her plate. She chewed and swallowed her

mouth full of food.

“Isn‟t that wonderful?” asked Miriam rhetorically.

“I have the utmost respect for Augustine,”

said Professor Rowe, “and what she can teach

you, but I do not want to narrow your mind.

Specialization is both a great boon and the greatest

danger to science. I want to assure that your

outlook is broad enough to help you cross over

into new ground, into areas that are as yet

unexplored, the new frontiers of the human

mind.”

Charlotte nodded slowly and picked up her

fork.

96


“Nanette,” she said, “thinks that is a good

idea.”

On some nights, the mirror was quiet, and on

some nights it was noisy. At first, Charlotte

thought that the things in the mirror were

dreams, that she would lie in bed at night, fall

asleep, and dream of things in the mirror. She

did not remember falling asleep, but dreams

could be that way. Sometimes she would remember

what she saw with great clarity, almost unreal

clarity, like something sharper than reality itself.

Sometimes what she saw would remain obscure,

mysterious, fleeting. Though in the beginning

she woke with headaches, these subsided slowly

over time. Slowly, the mirror came to be simply

part of the rhythm of her life.

Years and years later — a lifetime later — so

much later that the world seemed like a different

world — Charlotte read a book that she had

picked up on a whim in a bookstore. She saw it

when she was looking for a copy of a biography

that someone had written about her. It was

strange and amusing that someone had pretended

to know about her life, would write a whole book

about it, a whole book that purported to say the

truth. Charlotte knew better than to write a book

about the truth.

97

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

When she got to the bookstore, though, she

was distracted. Somehow, this other book spoke

to her from the bookshelf, and she came away

with it instead of the one she thought she had

been searching for.

From the first page, she began nodding her

head to herself, saying “Yes,” and “Yes,” and

“Yes.” It talked about strange loops — infinite

loops that play back upon themselves, like a mirror

reflected in a mirror. Strange, foreign loops that

toy with themselves, interact with themselves,

change themselves, become something different

simply by being. “Yes,” she said, “yes, I know

what a strange loop is.”

O NE night, Charles I of England woke

from a deep sleep with the feeling that

someone was in his bed chambers. This feeling

proved untrue; he was alone. He lay in his bed,

as people do who wake in the night, and let his

mind wander where it wished.

He did not feel sleepy. He was wide awake. He

was craving crème ice. Once aware of the craving,

it grew. Trying to push it away was no use. In his

mind, he damned the French and damned his

own chef on top of them. There was something

villainous in the dessert, in its lush seduction.

Who would have thought that coldness was

so appealing, so desirable? Sometimes he

thought it was the cold he craved above the

Chapter Eleven: Ice Cream

100


sweetness and the creaminess. Simple, harsh

coldness that started in your mouth and attacked

the back of your head, that sent chills through

your throat and over your body. It was a pure

sensual pleasure.

There would be no crème ice. It took time to

prepare and it was so difficult to store. He would

request, and have, crème ice for his dessert —

for every day‟s meals if he desired — but now, in

the middle of the night, he would have none, not

if he were king of all the world. Damn the French.

One night, Charlotte woke from a deep sleep

with the feeling that someone was in her bedroom.

This was mostly untrue; only Montague was

there. The cat, sensing her wakefulness, jumped

up beside her and began to knead dough on her

arm with his sharp little claws.

Charlotte lay in bed, as people do who wake

in the night, and let her mind wander. She did

not feel sleepy. She was wide awake. She was

craving ice cream.

Unaware of the similarities of this experience

to those of an English king nearly three hundred

years previously, Charlotte lay in bed as the

desire for ice cream began rushing over her in

growing waves. There was no chef here to make

ice cream, and there would be no ice cream for

101

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

dinner tomorrow. Charlotte looked at her cat,

and the cat blinked his eyes with sheer bodily

pleasure.

“Get down,” said Charlotte and pushed the

cat off of the bed.

During the same night, Melissa Peacock woke.

The night was silent, like every night buried

in these orange groves. The night was empty and

silent and hot. Melissa‟s back was aching, and

the pressure of her distended stomach was a

constant source of pain. She could feel the child

moving around, kicking against the lining of her

skin from inside. It was an unnatural feeling,

this creature living and tossing inside her own

body.

She lay awake, wanting to turn on her side or

her stomach but knowing that these were even

more uncomfortable than her back. She missed

lying on her stomach. She missed feeling cool air

breathing over her back, her hair coiled at the

nape of her neck, leaving skin exposed to the

night breeze. The thought of the cool air sparked

a feeling in her gut. It was as if someone had

opened her up and inserted a rock into her, a

small cold stone — a rock of ice, emanating

coldness, sending veins of frozenness through

her body, into her arms and legs, into her throat.

102

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

A craving grew in her. The visceral feeling of

cold in her throat and mouth took on a sweet

flavor, a cream-like texture. She wanted ice

cream. She needed ice cream.

There was no ice cream.

I T‟S hard to put things in order, you know,

to get them straight. It was all rather

confused at first. Sometimes I think—

It was like dreams, how they‟re fluid and

changing. You look at one person and see their

face. It‟s not really their face, you realize that

later, but you know who they are in the dream.

Now, I‟m so old. It‟s hard to remember, to keep

straight what I saw and what I thought, and then

what I remembered later on.

The important thing is that everything I saw

in the mirror is true. That‟s what stood out the

whole time. Everything that I saw in the mirror

was true.

One day, I saw Nanette. I recognized her

Chapter Twelve: Nanette

104


immediately, even though I thought I had just

imagined her. There she was, her straggling

blond hair falling down in front of her face, filled

with stripes of gray-brown because it was so

unwashed. It was long hair, long down past her

waist, and she was covered with it as she sat in

the middle of the blades of grass. They grew up

past her shoulders, thick, strong, wild blades of

grass, not like a lawn. They grew up over her,

giving her cover. She blended in with the

wilderness, her long sheathes of blond and gray

hair among the gray-green and yellow-brown

grasses, long as swords.

She was eating something. She had something

on the ground, and she was eating it in handfuls

and fistfuls as she sat on the ground among the

blades of grass.

Nanette was born to a country family in

France. They had an apple orchard and dairy

farm in the region of Normandy. She was small,

just a baby, but her first memories were of apples

and cream, the tastes blending together, melding,

combining. Rich, sweet, full cream and sour-

sweet crisp apples. The flavor seemed inherent to

Nanette, like mother‟s milk.

Something happened, one day, when she was

small. Perhaps it was a war. It‟s difficult to say.

105

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Everything is lost in time. The farm burned to

the ground. All that was left of the house was

charred wood, standing there, lost. The apple

trees stood and grew, because they were apple

trees, and what else was there for them to do?

The cattle were taken away by other nearby

farmers, put into their herds.

Everyone supposed that Nanette was dead, like

her family. She was only a baby, barely a child.

There was a cow that wandered off into the

woods, though, one that the farmers didn‟t

catch. The dogs from the farm ran loose and

wild. Their pack survived. They didn‟t need the

farm or the people to make their way in the

world.

Nanette was used to being with the dogs. She

spent days playing with them in the tall, green

grass of the fields. She knew how to get milk out

of the cow. She was a baby, but babies know

how to eat. As she got older, she would bring

milk to the dogs. She would gather apples from

the trees. In turn, the dogs shared with her. She

was part of their culture, part of their world.

Nanette stayed out of the way of the people in

the surrounding areas. The dogs avoided them,

so she avoided them. She would stay in the

underbrush and in the woods, where she was

invisible. Nanette lived the life of a dog. She didn‟t

106


know she was a person, and she didn‟t know

that the other dogs thought differently from her.

They did think differently, though. In some

inherent way, she would never be quite like

those around her. She would never even know it.

She was sixteen when she first was seen by

the boy. The boy‟s father was the new farmer of

the apple orchard. He was building a new house

on the foundation of the old one, and he had

torn down the old barn, which had decayed.

They were clearing out the brush that had grown

up in the apple orchard and judging the viability

of the trees that remained.

The family was just a man, his wife, and the

boy. The boy was also about sixteen, really a

man already. He was a farmer, as his father was

a farmer. He expected to work the farm. He

would marry a wife, and she would come work

the farm, too, baking pies and tarts with the

apples that grew there with his mother. They

would have children, who would grow up on the

farm. The children would become farmers, or the

wives of farmers. That is how life went, like the

apple trees, which moved with calm regularity

through the springtime filled with heavily

perfumed blossoms; through the summer, when

apples grew from small hard knobs to burgeoning

balls; through the autumn, filled with succulence

107

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

as the apples grew full and fell to the ground,

surrounded by leaves turning color for the season;

through the winter when the apple branches

grew barren and dead; and finally into spring

again, as small buds turned to flower and leaf.

He was in the early summer of his life, young

and not yet ripe.

One day, he was out in the apple orchard

pruning off branches, when he saw her pass

through the edge of his vision. She was quick,

and he registered only a motion. He looked into

the brush at the edge of the woods to see what it

was. He didn‟t want anything coming around,

eating his apples. He didn‟t see it, but—

There was something there, he knew, just

outside of his field of vision.

Nanette hovered in the shadows. She was

secure in her hiding. She sniffed the air in front

of her. She could smell him, a scent of a human.

Somehow, today, this human smelled different,

familiar. It smelled similar to her own scent. Her

scent was different from the smell of the dogs.

She wore dog-scent on her every day, but it was

a disguise, a mask, a surface scent over her

natural scent. This smell, this smell of this boy,

bothered her somehow.

He walked over toward the line of the trees.

Nanette held perfectly still in the shadows.

108


He looked around, not seeing her at first. He

was just about to turn and go back to the orchard,

when he spotted her. Their eyes met. She knew

that he saw her. She did not know that she was

naked, her long hair not disguising her nakedness.

She stared at him.

“Salut,” he said.

Startled, she turned and ran off, quick on her

feet, graceful in her not-quite-human, not-quite-

canine movement off into the forest.

The next time he saw her, she did not hide.

She was standing at the edge of the woods,

watching him, moving gracefully to the left or to

the right as he moved through the apple orchard.

He watched her, but did not try to approach. She

watched him, maintaining her cover in the woods,

the feeling of security of the shadows and trees.

They gradually got used to each other, being

in the neighborhood of each other, being not too

far away from each other. The boy never mentioned

her to his father or his mother or anyone he knew.

He didn‟t quite believe in her. She was not quite

real, so far removed was she from his own reality.

One day, he walked up to her. He had a hunk

of bread his mother had baked fresh that day.

The smell from the bread wafted up to his nose.

He knew that she would covet the bread.

He walked up to her as he would walk up to a

109

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

horse. He tore a piece of the bread out of his

hand and held it out in front of him, held it up to

her. She sniffed at the air. They shared the scent

of fresh-baked, still-warm bread. Nanette was an

animal. She was a sensualist. She attacked the

bread with her mouth, not her hands, and

swallowed it almost whole, like a dog.

She brought out the animal nature in the boy.

The two of them shared a purely physical passion

there, in the woods, outside, where the wind and

the grasses and the trees united around them.

He was a man of the land, not far from nature.

She existed even closer to nature; she was nature.

Together, everything they did was natural.

This union, this oddity, this strange force, in

its complete animal naturalness was almost

supernatural to the boy. It was madness, apart

from and aside from the normalcy of everyday life

and the wholesomeness of apples and cream.

It stayed separate and uncanny. It stayed wild

and secret. It stayed in the woods.

I could always make things sound true, you

know. I could always tell people whatever they

wanted to hear, or whatever I wanted them to

believe at the moment. Perhaps it was just

because I believed it myself. Perhaps. I don‟t

know.

I saw Nanette in the mirror over and over. I

saw others — people that I knew, and

strangers. I saw random snippets of life, a girl

sitting on the stairs eating a sandwich, a man

walking through a doorway, a leaf floating to the

ground in slow motion. Out of the mess of

images, my private nickelodeon, I began to

discern someone — a woman, comely in a severe

way and medium fair, seen at different times, at

different places, at different ages, in different moods

and modes. Her name was Melissa, Melissa Archer

or Melissa Peacock, but always Melissa.

John Peacock adored Melissa Archer. His first

impression of her was of a pink girlish bow tied

Chapter Thirteen: Melissa

112


in her hair. She had a short figure, but not over

slim, and a face that only looked young when

you looked at it directly. But, out of the corner of

your eye or in profile, you saw age and wisdom in

that face. In the right clothes, with a little gray in

her hair, she could be old, but she was not. She

was young enough to wear a girlish bow.

Her father had died, and John attributed this

strange impression of age to sorrow. John went

to Paul Archer‟s funeral because the whole town

attended funerals. They gathered at Hillside and

listened with reverence to the eternal words

recited over the coffin.

At funerals, John was usually bored. Death

did not interest him. It was not poetic or even

sad. Death happened every day. Death happened

to everyone.

You stood around at the funeral and looked at

the people, the coffin, the headstones absorbing the

day‟s heat. The smell of cut grass permeated the

air. In the autumn, if the air was hot, the sickly

sweet sour smell of rotting leaves would join the

smell of the grass, one high sustained note

overpowering the more modest melody.

At Paul Archer‟s funeral, John Peacock

caught himself staring at that one girlish bow. It

stood in contrast to the muted clothes that made

each person look just like the next person.

113

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

The girl stood with her mother, a solid woman

with deep lines on her face who did not scream

or cry. The two women looked at each other, at

the ground, and occasionally at the dark box.

They were expressionless, but their lack of

expression said volumes.

After the ceremony — happily brief — was

over, John stood in the line to say a few words to

the family. He usually just left, but he felt the

need to take a closer look at the girl with the

bow. He could see it, bobbing in and out of the

crowd of heads in front of him, appearing and

disappearing, as he moved slowly closer.

When the tall man in front of him finally

moved off, John found himself face to face

with the girl. For a moment, he was

speechless.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi,” said John. “I just wanted to tell you I‟m

sorry about your father.”

“Thank you,” she said and took his hand.

Days later, John sat with Melissa on her

mother‟s back porch in the cooling night time.

Melissa wore no perfume, and no scents

overrode the smell of her body. John buried his

face in her throat.

“You smell wonderful,” he said.

114


He drank in the smell, musky and dull, of her

skin.

From the ages of one to seven, Melissa had a

sister named Wisteria. The wisteria, her mother

said, was a sign of happiness in love and family,

and she had dreamed of wisteria before discovering

her pregnancy.

Wisteria was a pale pink child with blonde

hair. Melissa‟s hair tried hard to be blonde but

failed, producing a muddled off-brown color.

Wisteria was a happy and laughing child that

their father liked to bounce on his knee. Melissa

was quiet and secluded, tending to disappear

from her parents‟ notice.

Melissa and Wisteria shared a bedroom.

When they were alone together, Melissa would

play a game where she would stick her arm

down the side of the bed and tell Wisteria that

she was stuck. She would beg her sister to

pull her out.

Wisteria had learned that Melissa was always

faking. Melissa was stronger, and by creating

resistance, she could easily prevent Wisteria

from pulling her away from the bed. Melissa

would beg and plead for Wisteria to help her,

insisting that she was really stuck. Wisteria

would always break down and try to help

115

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Melissa, futilely pulling and tugging against her

sister‟s arm until, bored, Melissa would let go

and send the younger child tumbling off the bed.

Then, Melissa would jump off the bed on top

of the younger girl, pinning her arms and sitting

on her chest. Wisteria would struggle helplessly

against the force of her sister, unable to move or

breathe, until finally, Melissa rolled off of her

with a huff.

“It‟s only a game!” she‟d say. “Stop being a

cry-baby.”

Wisteria was constantly reminded of her

status as baby.

One day when they were five and four,

Melissa and Wisteria were playing Ring-around-

the-Rosie with three neighbor children. Melissa

was on one side of Wisteria and a small boy with

messy brown hair was on the other.

“Ring around the Rosie,” the children chanted.

Decades later, it would be commonly but

erroneously claimed that this children‟s rhyme

dated from the 14th century and was a coded

reference to the Black Death. The actual

beginnings of the song are lost in the clouds of

history, but if we could clear those clouds away,

we would find that an anonymous fourteen-year-

old girl first created it in her head in 1862. At

least, that‟s what I saw in my mirror:

116


A ring and a rose, oh!

A basket and a posy, oh!

John, a Jack! James, a Jim!

Flowers for me, from him!

At the time, she had a very serious crush on a

boy named Jim Waters, and a less serious one

on Jack Dooley. Later, she would marry Jim

Waters and have twelve children.

At some point this rhyme was adapted, with

disguising variations, for use in the ring-

games that they played at parties due to the

religious bans on dancing. Children added the

part about falling down to create an excuse to

topple all over each other. Among dozens of

versions and variations of the rhyme that were

popular during the 1880s, one survived and

grew stronger.

“Pockets full of posies,” the children sang.

During this particular singing of it, Melissa

felt as black and ominous as a deadly plague.

She had grabbed Wisteria‟s arm the previous day

and twisted it in her hands, leaving her arm red

and swollen. The girl had screamed and cried,

and their father had come.

It was unusual for a parent to come so

quickly to these conflicts. Usually, Mother was in

the kitchen and Father was out in the fields.

117

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Father had broken his belt, though, and had

come in to his bedroom, next to the girls‟, to find

a new one.

He heard Wisteria‟s scream and came into the

room. Melissa did not have time for her usual

ploy, which was to pinch or twist her own arm,

so that each girl had the same red mark and

none could be punished.

No tears or begging could convince Father

this time. With his belt so handy, he took

Melissa in hand and pulled her into his room.

This was her first “whooping.” Her parents

had never had reason to beat her. It was entirely

Wisteria‟s fault, the cry-baby.

“Ashes! Ashes!”

There was a searing heat in Melissa‟s arm, the

one that held her young sister‟s, a searing heat

filled with malice. Disturbing images flashed

through the girl‟s mind: dead bodies lying dead

in the street, throwing off a stench of decay,

covered in dirt and ash.

A child named William Hunting did invent a

rhyme during the 1300s about the Black Death.

He and two playground cronies sang it daily, but

their mothers scolded them about it. It did not

survive the test of time. The rhyme was in Old

English, but a rough translation reveals it to be

straightforward: The dead are in the streets. The

118


dead are in the town. The dead are everywhere,

‟cept underneath the ground.

“All fall down!”

Melissa fell hard in the opposite direction

from her small sister. Instead of letting go of

Wisteria‟s arm, she jerked and pulled, feeling a

satisfying crack as the arm came toward her.

Wisteria screamed and began to cry. People

came running to the pile of children. Melissa was

forgotten, and all eyes centered on Wisteria. They

picked up the younger child in their arms,

lavishing comfort on her, spiriting her away from

the scene.

Wisteria‟s dislocated arm was quickly remedied,

but with a good deal of crying and fussing.

During the summer when Melissa was seven

and Wisteria was six, the sisters went swimming

in a local pond. Wisteria carefully and shyly

dipped her toes into the pool, wriggled them

around, and screeched.

“It‟s cold!”

Melissa dived into the water, contrarily.

“Come in!” said Melissa.

Wisteria continued a slow and painful process

of edging into the water. She wrapped her arms

around herself and shivered, as she delicately

slid her feet into the water‟s edge.

119

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Melissa swam to the far end of the pond and

back.

“Such a baby!” she said.

The younger girl waded in up to her knees

and bent down to touch the top of the water.

Melissa began to paddle around her in circles,

crouched on the bottom of the pond. “Come on

in,” she said. “Don‟t be such a baby.”

Wisteria closed her eyes and crouched down,

until the water was up to her neck. Then, she

pushed off into the deeper water and began to

dog paddle around the pond.

“Why don‟t you swim?” asked Melissa.

“I am swimming!”

“That‟s not swimming.”

“It is too swimming.”

“You have to get wet to swim,” said Melissa

and dived down under the water. She swam under

her sister‟s legs and tickled her feet as she went

by. Emerging in the water on the other side of

Wisteria, Melissa said: “What are you, a dog? Is

that why you can only dog paddle?” The water

dripped down her face, insinuating itself in her

lips and in her eyes. The water was smooth, velvet.

It made her feel mean.

“Stop it!” said Wisteria.

“What are you, afraid? Just afraid to get your

face wet? No wonder you never wash!”

120


Melissa dived under the water again. She

dived to the very bottom of the pond, and relaxing

her lungs, she imagined that she could breathe

underwater. She could stay down here, hovering

just above the rocky bottom, examining the pebbles

and weeds with delicate and loving care in a

world that was all her own, a world that was of

fishes and cold-blooded creatures.

When she looked up, Melissa saw her sister‟s

white legs dangling in the water, awkwardly

splashing, disrupting the surface of the water,

disrupting the smoothness of the world. Looking

at those graceless legs and splashing arms, she

suddenly needed to breathe. Melissa rose to the

surface, took a breath, and dived down.

This time she hovered just beneath her sister‟s

body. She existed in a middle world between the

disturbance at the surface of the water that was

Wisteria and the rough wild world that was the

bottom of the pond.

Wisteria annoyed her.

She reached up grabbed her sister‟s ankles

with a solid jerk, tugging on them under the water.

She swam toward the bottom of the pond, pulling

the disrupting factor down with her, down to the

bottom, down to the rocks and plants, down to

the foreign world where she belonged. Then,

Wisteria‟s smooth white legs slipped out of her

121

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

grasp and floated toward the top of the water

again.

When Melissa resurfaced, Wisteria was

screaming.

“Stop it! Do you want to get another whooping?”

“What did you say?” asked Melissa. “What are

you going to do, whoop me?”

“I‟ll tell Dad!”

“Cry-baby, tattle-tale, running to Papa because

you‟re too scared to swim!”

“I am not!” lied Wisteria.

“Then put your head in the water.”

“I don‟t want to.”

“Yes you do!” said Melissa, and she grabbed

her sister and pushed her head down into the

water, dunking her, holding her under. Wisteria

was struggling and squirming underneath the

water, struggling and kicking pointlessly against

nothing.

Melissa let her go.

Wisteria surfaced at the top of the water,

gasping.

Melissa laughed.

Wisteria sputtered, her face red.

“You will get whooped!” she said. “You‟ll get

whooped until you can‟t sit down for a week!”

Melissa laughed some more. “What are you

going to tell them? That you got wet from swimming?”

122


Wisteria paddled to the shore, coughing pond

water. “Oh, they‟ll believe me. They‟ll know what

you are,” she said.

Melissa followed her. “They‟ll believe that

you‟re a cry-baby, always coming to cry to them

about something. Melissa‟s bothering me!

Melissa‟s looking at me funny! Melissa‟s touching

me!”

Wisteria pulled herself out of the water at the

edge of the pond. Melissa crouched in the low

water, still submerged up to her neck.

“They‟ll believe me when I tell them how you

tried to kill me.”

Melissa laughed at her. “I did not try to kill

you!”

Wisteria stood shivering on the edge of the

pond. She was shaking with anger, and fear, and

cold, and righteousness, and everything else that

might make a little girl shake. She looked small

and white.

The little girl picked up a heavy stone from

the ground. “You did!” she said. “You tried to kill

me. You hit me in the head with a rock!”

Melissa was still laughing at her as Wisteria

raised the stone over her own head. With all of

her might, she smashed the rock against her

own temple and fell back with a squelching

sound into the muck at the edge of the pond.

123

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Melissa leapt out of the water to where Wisteria

was.

She stood over the girl, who was lying on her

back, the wind knocked out of her.

“They‟ll believe me now,” she said. “Aren‟t I

bleeding?”

She was bleeding, from a cut in her right temple. A

droplet of red slithered down her forehead and

onto her cheek. Wisteria pulled herself up on her

hands. “They‟ll believe me,” she said, “and you

won‟t be able to sit down for a week.”

Melissa‟s face turned red and her cheeks

burned.

“You will not tell them!” she said.

Now Wisteria laughed. “I will tell them. You‟ll

get what you deserve.”

Incredulous anger surged in Melissa. In her

heart, she knew that she did not deserve to be

punished. She did not deserve to have a horrible

little sister.

“You will not,” she said.

Wisteria was looking at her, her chin in the

air, mud in her hair, her eyes defiant, the small

trickle of blood dripping even further down

towards her chin.

With a lurch forward, Melissa grabbed her

sister. The world was black to her. There was no

thought in her. She was only acting, responding

124

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

viscerally. Afterwards, she would remember it

only as a kaleidoscope of color and the roaring

white noise of water.

Melissa grabbed Wisteria and propelled her

into the deep water. The elder sister used all her

strength to hold the younger.

“You will not tell them those lies,” Melissa

said, holding her sister‟s hair, holding her

sister‟s head beneath the water.

The next few minutes were filled with nothing

but rage. When Melissa remembered them, she

remembered only flashes of color and movement

in front of her eyes, not whole scenes or objects,

just dissociated colors and shapes and motions.

When she finally let go of Wisteria, the girl did

not move, but floated limply on the water.

I must tell you that the things in the mirror

were not always things that actually happened.

They were true — yes — but sometimes they

were dreams, or imaginings, or fantasies, or

memories — the versions of truth that fill up all

of the empty places in our own minds.

I N the continuum of all sizes of all things, an

ant is only slightly smaller than a giraffe. We

look at things underneath a microscope and see

the components that are a hundred times smaller

than anything we can see with our naked eyes.

The smallest things in the world we cannot see,

merely because we do not have a good enough

microscope. We look at the night sky, and we see

only the vast space that is visible to us from our

world. Thinking of the vastness of God, we see

that our vision is so limited in scope that we are

merely looking through a hole at the palm of the

universe. Its true shape, its exquisite vastness,

escapes us because we are the ants crawling —

not on a giraffe, but across a mountain range.

Chapter Fourteen: Excerpt from the

Writings of Professor Charles Rowe

126


I am convinced that the secrets to the

understanding that we seek lie in the difference

between the very vast and the very small, and

that in turn we are unable to see either because

of the limitations of our human form.

I have done several experiments with my

gifted daughter, utilizing both her trance-states

and hypnosis. In these states, I encourage her to

make herself small, smaller than an ant, smaller

than an atom. In her minute state, I ask her to

communicate with the beings that she finds

there and to bring back knowledge. Alternatively,

I ask her to make herself large, to become bigger

than the Earth and the sun, to become the size

of the universe, to speak to the beings that she

finds in this realm, and to bring back knowledge.

As expected, the fascinating revelations are

very difficult to interpret. I show you as an example

a transcript of one of her visions, under the

influence of being spiritually reduced in size to

her smallest possible point:

“I am on the edge of the void. The void is Not

Being. Not Being is a lack of existence, and yet

we exist in it. I am speaking to those in the Not

Being. Within the Not Being, there are no

boundaries, but one must cross the boundary to

enter it. The Not Being sways with purposeful

randomness. It is traveling. They are traveling.

127

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

They do not go toward, nor away, nor around.

They have no up or down or there or here, for

they are all at once. They are not in their own

minds, but occasionally they are in the minds of

others. When they are not within others, they are

nowhere. They have lost their selves, and they

seek desperately to find them. Yet they do not

know what they have lost, and they do not know

that they seek to find their selves. The Not Being

is vast, it is everywhere, it is everything. The Not

Being does not exist. It is here and gone. They

are all around me! They are nowhere! They can

cast off the imperfect cloak of human communication

and peer into the mind of another, all others,

they know that everything is real because they

are directly in the path of life. They break

through this body that imprisons me. They meld

with the mind. They are not alone. They are not.

They are not. They are not.”

For ten minutes, Charlotte would repeat only

“They are not, they are not.” This, then, is a key

concept. It is in the interpretation of this that

we will find the keys to natural and physical

understanding.

The world is fragile, and everything that we

think we know is false. We are terribly mistaken,

although the truth peeks out at us in odd

sentences and brief inspirations. One day we will

128

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

look back on this tragedy and see what fools we

have been! What is the answer? What is the

secret that lies waiting behind this curtain we

call reality?

T HE morning sky was dark and heavy with

clouds, but as the day wore on, the

clouds retreated before a hot noon wind. The

sky grew desolate. There was no sound but the

rustling of leaves and the tick-tick-tick of her

father‟s pocket watch. Tick-tick-tick. The tick-

tick-tick was loud, obdurately loud, attacking

her ear, echoing in her head as it pounded at her

temples. Melissa Archer could feel the closeness of

the desert and all of its harshness. Buzzards

might be circling overhead. She could almost

hear them calling to one another, gleefully.

“A death! A death!”

The second hand on the watch spiraled ever

downward, moving toward the pit of hell, the pit

Chapter Fifteen: Paul Archer

130


of her stomach, the pit of fear. She could feel the

moment coming nearer.

She concentrated on the second hand, its

damned steady movement. I can stop time,

reverse it, with the power of my mind.

She imagined it going slower, slower, stopping.

But no. It marched on with the dignity and

determination of a soldier marching again to battle.

In only a few more moments, she would need

to go inside and face a moment of truth.

Melissa was older now, just past the cusp of

womanhood.

Her father lay inside the house, in his bed. He

was a man of the outdoors, a man of action. He

was a farmer, and every day found him out

among the animals and the crops.

This day he was in his bed, his face pale and

drawn. He looked small and shriveled as he lay

there, much different from the powerful, towering

man that she knew. He looked, for the first time,

old.

Paul Archer was a man of few words. He left

the running of the household and the raising of

the children to his wife. He was a man. He did a

man‟s work. He filled a man‟s role. He knew the

secret of life: everything was perfectly simple and

straightforward. Everyone went around and tried

to make things complicated. This was a mistake.

131

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Complications were nothing but problems, and

problems were something you wanted to avoid.

You obeyed your parents. You went to school,

even though you didn‟t like it. You grew up. You

worked on your father‟s farm and learned your

father‟s business. You picked a girl. You got married.

You got your own farm. You had children. You

worked the farm every day. You ate your meals,

and gladly, even if your wife wasn‟t much of a

cook. The weather and the crops and the animals

were enough of a problem all by themselves. You

dealt with them as best you could. When you

came home at night, you sat in a chair, quietly,

and relaxed. You enjoyed the feeling of exerting

your muscles and strength. That‟s all a man

needed. That‟s all there was to life, just living

every day.

In a house full of women, he saw problems

being made. The children fought. His wife cried

and had hysterics and wanted fancy clothes from

catalogues. This was all extraneous to life. His

wife didn‟t understand what needed to be done,

that life was complicated enough with just cooking

and cleaning and dressing the children. They

made problems in him, as well, this woman and

these daughters — no, this daughter. That‟s

what women were. That‟s what girls were. They

stirred you up, unsettled you, unbalanced life,

132


caught you up in these things, these ideas, these

feelings, this world of the female. More trouble

than it was worth. Paul Archer bore this burden

with occasional outbursts of anger. He was not a

violent man, but he was a man of his body

instead of his mind. If a child needed to be

disciplined, a beating held more force than the

spoken word. If his wife was irrational, his hand

could quiet her sooner than his voice. These

outbursts were not frequent, but regular. They

were not excessive, but definite. He saw them as

just and necessary discipline. His wife endured

them as a matter of course, seeing her husband

as a man and all of his actions as the natural

actions of a man.

His daughter responded to a whooping as most

children. She cried. She accepted punishment.

She altered her behavior to avoid it. Paul Archer

believed that the punishment was effective and

that his daughter was a better person for it.

After a beating in her young girlhood, Melissa

Archer would often escape the house, after dark,

when her parents were asleep. She would let

herself out through a bedroom window and walk

calmly through the fields in the coolness of the

night.

She would picture herself, a vibrant blue image,

walking coolly and emotionlessly through a

133

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

tunnel of flame. This was the rage, the pain inside

of her. It burned her, but still she walked —

coolly, calmly, emotionlessly.

On these ramblings, Melissa was hypersensitive

to the world around her. The worms in the

ground were chewing on the dirt, and she could

feel this underneath her feet. The new leaves on

the orange trees were growing, and she could feel

them reaching upward in the darkness with their

light greenness, searching vainly for the coming

sunlight. Water from a distant stream gushed

and clattered over the ground and then was lost

at the bottom of the pool where her sister had

drowned. A leaf fluttered to the ground. Far

away, there was the sound of wheels turning, a

steady grating noise, like the sound of a passageway,

long closed, sliding open.

She would walk until near-dawn, when she

could hear the squabbling of birds rising and

falling as they woke, as a quarrel or the awareness

of a predator traveled through the ranks of their

flock. When she heard the birds rising, she knew

that her father would soon be in the fields, and

she took herself back to her room.

On one of these rambles, longer and farther

than usual, Melissa came across the tower. All of

the sounds of the night time seemed silent there,

and the rage inside of her came to a kind of

134


peace. She walked through the rubble and explored

the emptiness of the stone building. She climbed

the steps that led upward, and at the top room,

she climbed out of the window and pulled herself

up into the empty bell tower.

Sitting there, above the ground, she had an

urgent temptation to throw herself off the tower,

simply because no one would know why. They

would search for her all day, and when they

finally found her, her mother would go into

hysterics. Her father would look at her limp body

with the dumb, mouth-open expression that he

had on the day that Wisteria died. What had

happened? No one would ever know. Everyone

would talk. Was it an accident? Had she slipped?

Had she been playing? How had she gotten out

here in the middle of the night?

The only flaw in this irrational inspiration was

that she would not be around to hear their

chattering wonder. She sat in the bell tower for

hours before crawling down again and returning

to her bed.

This was the first point of tangency, the first

moment that my life was bound to Melissa‟s.

Before this moment, she could have been a

thousand miles away. We were bound by the

tower. We were both drawn to it. We are both in

135

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

and of the tower. Its phallic, Babylonian stone

edifice raises us up. Melissa, my sister, I‟m sorry.

When Paul Archer began to fall ill, there was

no explanation for it.

The doctor looked at him with a concerned

expression and asked after what he had eaten.

“He has never had any stomach troubles

before,” said his wife.

“I‟ve always eaten what I‟m given, and no

trouble about it,” said Paul.

“He sleepwalks, sometimes,” said his wife.

Paul looked at her, frowning. “I do not sleepwalk.”

“Well, I never liked to tell you about it,” she said.

“You wake me up when you bump into things.”

“I never sleepwalked before,” he said.

“How would you know? You don‟t wake up,

just bumble around the house. I turn you

around, and you come back to bed.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “sleepwalking wouldn‟t

have anything to do with this.” He gave them a

bottle of some medicine to calm the man‟s stomach.

“It‟s a gastric fever,” he said. “Don‟t give him any

fancy food. Plain potatoes and bread and milk

with his meals. Bed rest, and he should get better.

Give me a call if he takes a turn.”

Paul Archer did get better, with his wife and

daughter waiting on his bedside. Running the

136


farm was difficult, and money was tight. Magdalene

Archer took pains to hide these problems from

her daughter.

Melissa Archer sat by her father‟s bed daily

and gazed at her father with wide, amazed eyes.

Paul found her devotion touching.

In a week he was back in the fields.

Paul Archer had three more attacks of gastric

distress over the next six months. His doctor told

him that he was growing older and more sensitive

to foods and that we all had difficult crosses to

bear. Paul Archer was no stranger to bearing

crosses, and so he bore this one. His sleepwalking

became more severe, though, and one night he

found himself out on the front porch of his house,

banging on the unlocked door, begging to be let in.

Tick-tick-tick. Melissa‟s father‟s pocket watch

ticked away in her hand, pulsing with time as it

seeped away, drop by drop.

Tick-tick-tick.

This was Paul Archer‟s fifth attack of gastric

fever, and Melissa had to face the facts.

Each time he lay ill, she felt the pangs of guilt.

Each time, she sat at his bedside, wondering

at actions, how effects followed causes with eerie

regularity and ease.

137

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Each time, she no longer wished that he

would die.

Each time, she felt power. She felt her own

presence, stronger and larger than her father‟s

presence.

Each time, this same cycle happened. She

would nurse him at his bedside, and he would

recover.

Once he recovered, his presence would again

grow strong and overpowering. She would shrink

down in importance. Her existence was threatened

by his strength.

If her father recovered, he would grow strong

and large, and she would exist only in his

shadow.

It was a matter of learning from the past.

Here, in the present, she did not wish that he

would die. The present would not be true forever.

The present flows into the future, and she had

seen that future.

She had to make a decision: whether to

continue on with this never-ending cycle, or

whether to hold fast to her determination and

break away from the cycle today.

Listening to the tick-tick-tick of the pocket

watch, Melissa felt clear in her mind. Each time

her father got sick, work got behind on the farm.

Money stretched tighter and tighter. Her father‟s

138


sicknesses were a downward spiral. If he died,

though, there was the life insurance. The watch

moved in cycles, ever forward, never stopping.

The sun moved across the sky, in cycles, ever

forward, never stopping. The orange grew round

on the tree, and the ant crawled across it eternally,

never ceasing. This was the fabric of the universe,

this continuation. She was imbued with the

power to break the cycle. This was her gift.

She walked to the kitchen to get her father a

bowl of bread in milk, with something special

added. This dose would surely be enough, now

that he was already ill in bed. She thought that

she must look her best for his funeral.

There were trees outside Melissa‟s window.

Not orange trees, though those grew close to the

house. These were tall oak trees, and in the winter

they shed their leaves. The branches threw shadows

on her ceiling, shadows with jagged edges and

disconcerting, impossible patterns. The stark,

moonlit patterns moved with the wind outside.

Watching them, lying in bed, Melissa saw shapes

hidden by the trees, moving steadily forward,

toward the window.

The more she watched, the more hypnotized

she became by the changing patterns, an eerie

kaleidoscope. She did not dare to rise from the

139

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

bed, to walk to the window, to gaze out and see

that there was, in fact, nothing there.

Lying in bed, chills began to walk up the back

of her neck, on tip toe. Her head lay against the

pillow, her body firm against the mattress. But

she could feel something behind her, defying the

solidity of the bed. She could swear it was in the

room with her.

Patterns on the ceiling continued to move

methodically. If she closed her eyes, she could

still see them. It was late at night. Her mother

was asleep in her room. There was only the

constant light from the moon coming in through

the window, plastering the shadows on the ceiling.

Other than the motion of the wind in the trees,

she was alone.

Everything was still, except the motion of the

trees.

A doll sat on the dresser across from her,

staring at her, laughing at her. The chills continued

to creep down her spine.

She lay in bed, desperate for another human

figure, another human voice. She got up from

her bed, and walked through the room, finding

nothing. She searched the closet, finding nothing.

She turned all of the corners of her room with

the fear that there was someone there, always

behind her, always hovering over her ears. She

140


expected at each second to feel the ghost of a

breath on her neck.

She closed the curtains and was engulfed in

the mist of darkness, instead of the concrete

motion of shadows. Looking at the curtain, she

became convinced that behind it was a face,

staring in at her, hovering in her window, and

that any moment the curtains would be forced

forward — that she would see the outline of a

figure moving toward her underneath the curtain.

She yanked the curtains open.

There was nothing there.

Minutes ticked away. The night ticked away.

She could not bring herself to go wander through

the darkness. She could not bring herself to lie

in her bed. She could not stand still. She could

not move.

So the night passed with an agony.

She consented to marry John Peacock to escape

the agony of ever spending a night alone again.

Maybe I should tell you a little bit about

myself, about who I am. It‟s easier to talk about

Melissa. I understand her. At least, I understand

who I believe Melissa to be. I understand that

Melissa relates to me, at least on some underlying,

fundamental level. I, too, feel the burning of the

tower, its quiet agony.

141

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

I am so many things that I lose track of myself.

My own father was not a simple man. He was

a complicated man, a man who was never satisfied

with what was given to him. He was a man who

did not accept the common views of the world

around him. He was a man who believed in

things that were higher and better than our

world. He was a man who searched for ever more

complicated answers to ever more complicated

questions.

Yet, he was fundamentally a man who was

ruled by his passions. Aren‟t we all ruled by

passion? Passion is inherently human. It is the

causer of action, the causer of motion.

I can feel Melissa‟s passion, and Paul‟s

passion, and my father‟s passion. I can feel my

own passion, but I cannot forgive it.

M ELISSA‟S mother, whose husband‟s death

had sunk her into a deep depression,

was again filled with life. Magdalene Archer

spent three months planning a wedding.

She took her own wedding dress out of its

storage box and altered it to fit her daughter.

With great pains, she measured and pinned the

silk cloth. She repaired the slight damage of time

to the hem and the seam in the left sleeve.

Once she was done with the simple tailoring,

Magdalene became overcome with the desire to

improve upon the dress. She added beading to

the waistline, tapering it down to a point at the

back. Unsatisfied with the tapering point, she

began enhancing the back with embroidery. She

Chapter Sixteen: Prelude to a Wedding

144


developed a pattern of leaves and flowers, a

bouquet, that flowed from the back of the waist

down the skirt and out to the left and right in

exotic sprays at the hem of the train. To balance

the now intricate train, Magdalene embroidered

the high collar of the dress, which spouted

another bouquet, tapering to its resolution at the

beaded waistline.

Then, Magdalene began work on a new veil

that comprised layer upon layer of embroidered

lace bound by a beaded band that echoed the

new waist.

While she spent days and evenings sewing,

she found time to arrange many details of days

and times, flowers and horses, food and drink.

“Mama,” Melissa said, “you don‟t need to

make all this fuss.”

As the center of a fuss, though, Melissa

glowed. John Peacock came to see her every

evening. He stared at her with doe eyes and

sputtered his feelings at her in awkward,

adolescent spurts. They held hands, and Melissa

basked in John‟s admiration.

Awaking early on her wedding day, Melissa

could smell frying bacon from the kitchen. Her

mother was cooking a wedding breakfast. Family

and neighbors were waiting downstairs.

She took her time over her morning toilet,

145

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

adjusting her hair and carefully choosing a

morning dress to wear downstairs, knowing that

soon she would need to re-dress, rearrange her

hair, and prepare herself for a second stage of

the day.

When she appeared downstairs, her mother

wiped floured hands on an apron and came to

her. The guests had not arrived yet, but baked

goods, bacon, and eggs were prepared ready for

the morning.

“Melissa, you‟re glowing.”

Melissa smiled. “Mother!”

“You‟re not nervous, are you?”

“Not a bit!”

“My dear,” said her mother, “come sit down.”

Melissa sat in the best chair.

“I‟m glad you‟re up early,” her mother continued. “I

wanted to talk to you about your wedding night.”

“Oh!” Melissa said, and blushed.

“I know that it is truly impossible for a girl to

be prepared for her wedding night,” said her

mother, “but I wanted to know if… if you knew at

all what to expect… if you had any questions

that I can answer.”

“I don‟t know,” said Melissa. “I… don‟t know

what to ask.”

“Do not worry about it at all,” said her

mother. “The wedding is your day, and it is

146


something that you will have forever. The

wedding night is for the man, it is his time to

fulfill his wishes. Let him lead you, succumb to

him. Remember that he is giving you a life, that

he is giving you children, a home, food, clothes

— everything. This is your duty. Men know what

to do, it is in their nature, and it is your nature

to follow where he leads you.”

“Will it be painful?” asked Melissa.

“Only a little,” her mother said, “only at first.

There is really no reason to worry or be concerned.

It is natural. This is how God blesses us with

children.”

“Oh,” said Melissa.

“I must see to the bacon,” said her mother,

since smoke was beginning to rise off the stove.

Melissa sat quietly. The conversation was,

unintentionally perhaps, a lie. Melissa knew

what men wanted, what men did on their wedding

night. She knew about the secret violent places

in men‟s souls. It was painful, always. Her

mother was lying. She sat quietly. She hadn‟t

made the connection between that thing and

John Peacock‟s fumbling caresses. He was so

like a child, so needy and gentle, that she could

not quite associate him with that thing.

She wanted to go up to bed, to feign illness, to

put off this wedding day.

147

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She thought of the tower.

The door opened, and a neighbor came in.

Taking Melissa by both hands, she said: “My

dear, you are so radiant. You are glowing. You

are amazing!”

Melissa stood and smiled and thanked her and

was again drawn into the glory of the wedding day.

O NE evening, sitting around the dining room table, Miriam Rowe set her fork

down and patted her mouth with her napkin.

She said: “I have put up with this silence from

you, Charles, for too long. I know that you do not

want it spoken of, otherwise you would have

spoken of it. But for all of our sakes, for Charlotte‟s

education, for the continuation of your work, I

beg you to tell us what happened and where did

you go?”

Charles Rowe also put down his fork. He lay

his hands, palms down, flat on the table. He

closed his eyes.

“Miriam,” he began. “Miriam, I cannot tell

you.”

“Why?”

Chapter Seventeen: Dinner Conversation

150


“I am not sure that I know where I was, how I

came there, and how I came back.”

“You are not sure?”

“How can I be sure? My brain is merely a

human mind! It interprets and generates. It

believes that it sees, but it is so easily tricked!”

“Tell us, then, what your brain records for you.”

Professor Rowe paused. It was a long and

pregnant pause.

Charlotte continued gobbling her food. Her

eyes, though, were riveted on her father.

Montague chose this moment to let out a

plaintive howl, and the three people looked

sharply at the cat. Professor and Miriam Rowe

transferred their gazes, questioningly, to Charlotte.

Charlotte shrugged.

Professor Rowe wiped his mouth on his napkin

and cleared his throat.

“It is awkward,” he said. “It is awkward.”

He paused again.

Then he spoke: “I remember very little of what

happened, at first. I recall a feeling of vague

uneasiness coursing through my body. My mind

— my constant companion — was silent. I have

no recollection of anything around me or outside

of me or near me. There was a great feeling of

nervousness, a well of vibration in my body, but

no body, no mind, no reason. I became aware of

151

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

a deep connect with my ancestors — with my

father, and his father. I say „I,‟ but there was no

conception of a self. This feeling seemed to last

interminably. I was not aware of its beginning,

and I was not aware of its ending. When I think

of it, it seems to be still happening. It seems to

be a lifetime, coexisting with this fragile existence.”

He paused, and sat motionless for a full minute

before gathering himself together.

“I awoke here,” he said, looking around the

room. “In the bell tower. This place was empty,

as it was when we first came here, but all of the

structures were standing and new. I do not

expect that this was real, you understand.” He

gazed seriously into his wife‟s eyes. “I expect that

this was a vision. The mind travels in an astral

plane, but the body does not. I cannot understand

what my body was or where it was. I seemed to

be here, in this place, when it was new.”

Miriam was nodding with rapt seriousness.

“There was a man on the ground, planting

seeds in the ground. He looked up into the bell

tower, seeming to sense me.

“„Ah, there you are,‟ he said. „I was wondering

what was keeping you.‟

“„Yes,‟ I replied. „I am here.‟

“„Let‟s get you down from the tower,‟ he said.

He brought a tall ladder and leaned it against the

152


wall. „I built this ladder for this,‟ he said.

“The man brought me inside, and introduced

me to a younger man. „This is my son,‟ he said.

„My son is eternally a child.‟

“I greeted the young man, and found that his

mentality was not developed. He spoke and

walked awkwardly, and his smile seemed sly and

unnatural.

“„My son,‟ said the man, „is not dangerous,

but he is wrongly accused. Here is what happened.

I had left the boy in the care of a man and a

woman. This man was a man of your profession

and had promised to cure my boy of his affliction,

his mental weakness. He worked with children,

along with this woman, his wife. They had a

home where children stayed, and they were

attempting to cure these children. Naturally,

they had toys of all kinds, which the children

would play with. These people had become

reclusive, and they never left their institution.

They spent every day among these children who

were not normal, who had different types of mental

disturbances, and instead of curing the children,

this man and woman slowly began to be men-

tally disturbed themselves. They began to think

of themselves as children and act as children.

One day, the man was mad at his wife for playing

with some dolls. In a fit of anger, he took the

153

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

dolls from his wife. He lit them on fire and threw

them into the children‟s rooms. The place was

soon full of flames, and all of the children died,

but my son. This man put the unburned dolls in

my son‟s room and accused my son of starting

the fire. No one believed my son, but I know that

this story is true. We are hidden here in the

desert, so that my son can be free. Meanwhile, I

carry on work that would interest you.‟

“„Why am I here?‟ I asked.

“„You are here because I brought you here.

Your work is good, you‟re on the right path, but

it is flawed. Come, let me show you what I have

done.‟

“He brought me outside and led me through

the empty landscape. These orange groves were

not here then. He brought me to a small shack

that had a cellar door in the floor. He opened the

door, and we descended into a tunnel. The

tunnel was long and wound through the ground.

It was dank and moist, almost living, underneath

the ground. We walked for an eternity, until we

reached a red door. It was freshly painted with

bright red paint. We walked through the door,

and it opened into a room that was entirely filled

with lights. They seemed disembodied, not electrical,

not gas-lit. They inhabited the walls and air.

“„What is this place?‟ I asked.

154


“„This is the brain,‟ he said.

“After this, my memories become hazy and

disconnected. I remember the color blue, and the

words: „blue is the ink of the soul.‟ I remember

that there was a storm that came out of nowhere,

and there was a flash of lightning that hit an old

oak tree, setting it on fire. It burned all night,

sending up inky clouds of smoke. Then there are

phrases that I remember: „a spatial isolation, an

orbit through the soil,‟ and „a thousand rules of

shape and form and time.‟ And the face of the

mentally afflicted boy, looking at me. Then I was

in the tower room, Charlotte‟s room, looking at

myself in the mirror.”

Professor Rowe‟s narration came to a halt.

“And then what happened?” asked Miriam.

“How did you get back? How did you get home?”

“I don‟t know,” said the Professor. He looked

at Montague. “I woke up one morning in a street

in New York.” Montague blinked his eyes in a cat

smile. “You see, don‟t you,” said Professor Rowe,

“that my experiments were entirely worthless. I

was pulled away by some other power, that

much is clear. I brought back no cognitively

knowable truths. I am here even poorer in

knowledge than before.” He looked down at the

table. “Excuse me,” he said, and rose from the

dinner table.

155

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Hmm,” said Charlotte, and took another

bread roll from the table. “What are we having

for dessert?”

I N a room behind the chapel, Melissa

gazed at herself in a long glass. Her

mother, in attendance, tucked, pinned and

did last-minute adjustments. Three giggling girls

were present as bridesmaids, and they gossiped

among themselves.

A knock came on the door, and Magdalene

called for the visitor to enter. It was a boy sent by

the minister. “We are ready,” he said.

“Oh, it is time,” said Magdalene. “You look

beautiful.”

Melissa pulled herself away from the mirror

with an attitude of grace.

“I am ready,” she said.

In the church, an organist played. The ceremony

Chapter Eighteen: A Wedding

158


was small but tasteful. The pews were filled with

neighbors and family. The church was decorated

with ribbons and flowers.

Melissa walked to the rhythm of the organist,

slowly down the church aisle. She was an ethereal

figure, hidden behind the swaths of lace of her

veil. She seemed to float under the smooth

movement of the dress and train. No piece of

skin, no hint of body appeared, only whites of

varying textures moving together, flowing

draperies that generated the form of a woman.

Hidden from view, Melissa was the presence that

commanded the attention of the congregation.

She reached the front of the church and stood

in front of the minister.

From the pews, all that was visible was the

back of her veil and the length of her train, her

mother‟s careful embroidery lending richness

and strength.

John Peacock stood beside her. His head

ached and his mouth felt sour because his

friends had all come to his house the night

before and brought liquor of every description.

He shifted from one foot to another with nervous

anticipation and guilt for being in church with

the remnants of liquor still in his head.

He resolved before God to never touch a drop

again, so that he could be a good and sober

159

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

husband. He looked at the vision in white next to

him. He looked at the preacher reciting words to

him. He shifted from foot to foot.

He placed the ring on his betrothed‟s gloved

finger. He consented to his vows. She added her

whisper of consent. Through this ceremony, she

was now his for a lifetime. His path was set, his

destiny charged, and he could see clearly

through time to the rest of his life. Perhaps it

was the effects of the liquor, but his head was

swimming. The preacher gave his final words, his

final blessings. John Peacock turned to the white

veil, and the impossible figure turned to him.

He pulled back the veil, and the ethereal

became earthly.

He kissed his bride.

About ten months later, Melissa woke up in

the night with severe pains in her stomach. The

newborn child was silent, and her husband lay

sleeping. She crawled out of her bed and made

her way to the bathroom, and lying on the floor

she discovered the curse that had been gone

from her for nine months.

She gathered towels and cleaned herself the

best she could. Then, she lay on the floor

wracked with pain. The red of blood was on the

towels, bright and undeniable. Pain and anger

160


mixed in her heart. She drifted in and out of

sleep, kept awake by the pain, nauseated with

pain, but half dreaming.

Look there, the blood. Dirty, dirty. Ugly, slimy.

Bottle it up inside of you. Flush it out, clean it

away, wash it away. The pain comes from inside.

Bottled up inside. Throttled to death, dirty,

always dirty. They look inside you and they want

to puke, with their cold, hard hands, icy, metal,

cold. Blood is hot. They are cold. They hate the

heat, the heat will melt them, the heat will kill

them. Vomit, go on, vomit. They will never vomit

because vomit is warm and disgusting and weak

and human, like blood. Blood is the mark of Eve,

blood is the mark of the woman. The ring around

the bath is a stain on mankind. God there is so

much blood. It will back up, it will drown me. The

bath is filled with blood. Bloody Mary. Say the

name three times in the mirror and she will come.

Don‟t use up all of the towels, don‟t dirty them,

but wipe it all away, wipe away the ocean.

Revolting. Revolt. Revolution. Revolve. Come back

around. It will come back around to you. Does it

really come from inside of you? All of it is inside of

you. That small, crying, red, wrinkled thing, grew

inside of you, hidden away in folds of skin, in

dead meat. Punishment for making Adam eat the

apple. Red, rosy red, to remind you of the shiny

161

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

apple skin. The apple is knowledge. Knowledge is

red. Knowledge is blood. The gleaming eyes and

flitting tongue of the serpent. Are you sorry? I am

not sorry. I ate the apple, I ate the apple. Just

repent and the pain will go away. God, at least I

can feel something. Double over. You‟re beautiful.

You‟re beautiful. Just think that you‟re beautiful.

A small stain. Don‟t look at it. You have to wash it

away. Why? It‟s dirty. Why? Okay, God, I‟ll

repent. Too late. Look, stop, just a moment. It‟s

red, beautiful, bright, glowing, shining red. Next to

the whitewashed wood. Whitewash. Wash it

away. Wash it white. Clean out the dirt. Smut.

Slut. Beautiful red, never looked at it, the shiny

red. I am crazy, I am insane. Red power, red pain,

red passion. Red, red, red. Wipe it away. It‟s

dirty. Want to vomit. Father‟s vomit, coming up,

spilling onto the bed. What a mess. Salt water,

salt blood. White-wash prissy clean water washes

the red primary dirty painful real beautiful blood.

There‟s a stain. I don‟t think I can wash it away.

I came to my senses. I lay on the floor in front

of the mirror, and my mind was still streaming

with these thoughts, dead thoughts, thoughts

like streams of automatic writing. My voice was

saying them inside of my head, echoing the fever

of red blood. More, my stomach was cramped

162

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

and wracked with pain. I looked down and saw

that my nightdress was stained red with blood.

There was so much of it, as if I were murdered.

I screamed, but I don‟t remember screaming.

My mother and father came rushing into the

room. When she saw me, though, she ushered

him out hurriedly.

“It‟s woman trouble,” she said. “Don‟t worry.

No, go. Go back to bed.”

She came to me and told me that everything

was all right.

Everything was not all right. My mind was

spewing words of pain, words of anger, words of

horror. They were red words, spurred by the

sight of a bloodstain growing, expanding on the

white of my nightdress.

She raised me from the floor, cleaned me and

gave me rags to absorb the blood.

There was nothing to absorb the words from

my mind.

My temple was pounding. The truth was in

my heart. Blood, bloody murder.

P ROFESSOR Rowe was conducting an

experiment on Charlotte under hypnosis.

In this instance, he asked her to expand her soul

to fill, not merely the universe, but all possible

space and non-space. Once she was relaxed, he

asked her to speak.

“In the end, there is darkness, and the

darkness is good. You would not recognize this

darkness. In what you know of dark, there is

always the threat of light. It is there in minute

presence. It is throughout the universe. The

darkness that you know is not pure, it is not

true. It has none of the coolness, the cleanness,

the stresslessness of the darkness of the end. In

the end, there is no conflict, no fear, no change.

Chapter Nineteen:

The Baby

164


The push and pull of light and dark as it tears

you apart is over. The battle is finished, the

useless, senseless attack of light against

overwhelming darkness has exhausted itself,

and in the end there is only darkness, and the

darkness is good. Perhaps the truth shall be

difficult to ascertain. Perhaps it will be

impossible. But somewhere is the truth,

amorphous and immaterial. It slides from your

grasp. It slips around inside your subconscious

mind, tingling, tantalizing, teasing you with its

nearness. Then it flies away, as quick as a

dream. And it is gone.”

Charlotte stopped speaking. During these

sessions, she would sometimes lie speechless

for hours. This time, it was merely minutes.

“To kill and to die are one and the same. To

be with one on his deathbed, to empathically,

vicariously, experience death, is to die. To

bring death is the power of death and life. In

death there is life. Life is coming, a bright life.

There will be a child born, near, very near.

This child is fraught with meaning. This child

has a gift. This gift is a gift of interpretation.

The great interpreter will give meaning to all

things, all things have meaning. Truth and lies

are inseparable. Truth is meaning. Lies are

meaning. You have already foreseen this child.

165

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

You know of its coming, but you did not

understand that you knew. In this child is

what you seek. Seek this child.”

Melissa became pregnant almost immediately

after her wedding. John was overjoyed at the

thought of impending fatherhood. He fussed over

her and catered to her and stressed that she

should not work too hard. He wanted her to rest,

to eat well, to stay healthy for the sake of the child.

Her mother, also, fussed over the pregnant

woman. The expectation of a grandchild filled her

woman‟s heart. She knitted presents for the

coming child and kept house for the young

couple, assuring that Melissa would not

overstrain herself.

Melissa enjoyed the first six months of

pregnancy. She slept late in the mornings, which

her mother thought was a good idea. “I never felt

myself in the mornings when I was pregnant,”

she said. “Let me bring you breakfast up here.

You must keep your strength up. It is so important

that you eat properly.”

Unlike her mother, Melissa never experienced

morning sickness. The changes in her body

seemed subtle and unimportant. She did whatever

she wanted, and her husband and mother waited

on her each day.

166


Then, the growing child began to intrude itself

upon her life. She began having difficulty lifting

the weight strapped to her waist. She would lie

in bed, not because she wanted to rest, but

because her back ached when she stood.

This made Melissa irritable.

She became impatient and restless.

She became trapped, weighed down by this

squirming, wriggling creature in her stomach. It

made its presence felt.

For three months, her annoyance grew.

On the day of the child‟s birth, Melissa woke

in the early morning. She felt as if two hands

were pushing down on her abdomen, powerful,

ghostly muscles seeking to crush her. She cried

out in her bed, and her husband woke.

“What is it? What is it?” she was shouting.

“What‟s wrong? What‟s wrong?” her husband

joined in chorus.

She screamed and then settled. The pain was

easing, the hands moving away from her stomach.

“Hands, invisible hands,” she said.

“What hands?”

“Pressing against me, pushing against me.”

The door to their bedroom opened, and

Melissa‟s mother came in, also awakened by the

commotion. “What‟s happened?” she asked.

167

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“There were hands, pressing on my, pressing

on my stomach, ghostly hands, invisible hands.”

“Relax, my darling,” her mother said, and sat on

the bed beside her. “It‟s come, the baby is coming.”

John took his wife‟s hand, which was white

and shaking, and pressed it between his palms.

“Our baby,” he said. “I must get the doctor.

Stay with her, Mama Magdalene, you‟ll know

how to care for her.”

“We don‟t need the doctor, yet,” said Magdalene.

“It‟s liable to be quite a while, you know.”

“We don‟t need a doctor?” shouted Melissa.

“What about the pain?”

“Lie quietly, Melissa, we will see you through it.”

“Of course,” said John. “I don‟t know why I‟m

such an idiot. I‟ve birthed hundreds of animals.”

“I‟m not an animal!” Melissa interjected. “I‟m

your wife!”

“Hush, darling,” said Magdalene. “She‟s

frightened.”

“Of course I‟m frightened.”

“You‟re okay. You will be okay. Get some water,

John, and some towels. Can you take some water,

dear?”

“I don‟t want water.”

“Okay, darling. When it gets to a more reasonable

time of the morning, we‟ll go for the doctor. You‟ll

keep just fine until then.”

168


Melissa lay back on the bed, her stomach

weighing against her, the throbbing of pain still a

residue in her memory.

”My God! The hands! Get them off of me! Get

them off!”

“Is she delirious?”

“No, she is fine. How long has it been?”

“Half an hour? Maybe more.”

“Get it out of me! Out! Out!”

“Hush, darling.”

“We still have a wait, quite a wait. Don‟t

worry, everything is fine.”

“Get it out!”

”My God! Won‟t it stop!”

“It‟s only been a few minutes.”

“We‟re close now.”

“I can‟t stand this room anymore!”

“Go wait outside. Go care for the horses. A

man needs to be busy at a time like this.”

“Okay. I love you, darling.”

“Get out! Go, why don‟t you! Get out!”

She felt as if she would break. She felt as if the

thing inside her was pushing out of her, right through

her skin, distending her, breaking her. She could see

herself bursting open, red and wet, raw beef.

169

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She screamed, sighed, panted. A wet towel was

on her forehead. There was something in her hand,

and Melissa squeezed it, crushed it. She had no

strength, no effort, no resistance. Her body was

moving without her, changing, reforming.

The thing inside of her was shaping her to

its will. She would soon lose all consciousness,

all self. This was transformation.

She fought, alternating between wanting to

stop it completely and to push it out of herself,

but she had no breath and no life left in her. It

wore her out. It tore through her.

“Push,” the doctor said. “Push.”

She had nothing to push with. She had no control

of her muscles. She ached as if she had run for days.

Her body pushed without her will. The doctor

praised her. Her mother said comforting nonsensical

things. Parts of her were breaking, inside. Parts

of her were sloughing off, leaving her. Parts of

her were crushed and gasping, dying while still

attached to her living body.

This lasted forever. This lasted for eternity.

Then, there was the sound of a baby crying.

“Congratulations,” said the doctor. “You have

a baby girl.”

Her mother had left her side. Her mother had

something in her arms. They were all hovering

over it, washing it, tending it.

170


It cried.

They brought it to her, as an offering for

her pain. It was small and wrinkled, and its

face was distorted into an unpleasant grimace.

She held it in her arms with a distaste that

instinctively she hid.

“I‟m exhausted,” she said. “Take it, mother.”

The doctor left the room. Melissa handed the

infant to a doting grandmother.

“She is beautiful,” said the grandmother.

The door opened, and John came in.

“A girl!” he said. “Can I see her? Can I hold her?”

He went to the baby, and again there was a

small gathering around the child, all attention on

the child, all attention on the infant.

Melissa passed out.

The day that the child was born, Charlotte

was in her father‟s study, waiting on him to

begin one of his many “experiments.” She was

sitting on the soft, warm sofa, staring blankly

at nothing in particular. Charlotte was tired

and cranky. Her head was hurting her.

Everything about her body and her existence

seemed to ache unmanageably. As she stared,

she tried to imagine Nanette in some other

place on the other side of the world. She tried

to put herself there, so far away. She tried to be

171

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

there, in a field, in a place with apples instead of

oranges.

And, mistily at a midway point to the wood

paneled wall, she saw the wild girl sitting on the

ground eating an apple. As Charlotte sat, waiting,

waiting, Montague walked into the room.

The cat walked across to where Nanette sat,

munching on the apple, only a translucent

projection. He looked up at her and meowed.

Nanette stopped biting at the apple and

looked down at where the cat stood, among the

weeds. These cats, there were many of them on

the farm. They were not usually friendly. One

could bark at them to scare them off. They were

liable to scratch one‟s nose.

But this cat was not acting like most cats.

This cat looked at her and half-closed its eyes.

Then it spoke again.

Nanette sniffed the air, to catch the scent of

the cat, but it was elusive. She put her hand out

to the cat‟s face, and the cat sniffed her hand

delicately. It was not like a dog. It was much

smaller, much less rough, much less excited.

The cat rubbed up against her hand, and she

stroked its fur. It was soft. There was something

thrilling about the cat. She had never realized

this before.

Charlotte‟s father walked into the room, and

172

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

the vision disappeared. Charlotte continued to

stare into space.

“Charlotte,” he said. Then he said it again, more

sharply, “Charlotte.” The cat ran out of the room.

Slowly, Charlotte turned her head, looking at

her father.

“You were off in wild places for the moment,”

he said. He brought out his dangling, glowing

pendulum that would move her off into an

alternative existence.

”What is your name?” asked the doctor.

“What is your favorite name?” the voice

countered. It was a soft voice, southern, that

always seemed to be laughing at you.

“It doesn‟t matter. I want your real name.”

“I don‟t have a real name,” said the voice.

“I have never met you before,” the doctor said.

“This body,” the voice said, “this body was the

body of a little girl. Now it is a woman‟s body. I

am a woman — I can‟t exist in the body of a little

girl. And you, my dear sir, are a man. It takes a

man to see a woman. Am I right?”

As he talked, she demonstrated the womanliness

of the body, young still, youthful still, but the

body now of a woman.

T HE sun was high in the sky when John

Peacock awoke. He did not realize at first

how late it was. He lay in bed with the feeling

that he was somewhere else. He hadn‟t been

getting enough sleep lately, with the newborn.

She was quiet during the day, but she did not

like the night time. She would cry, restless, and

she could not be comforted except by walking

her up and down, up and down. It was a trial to

get her to sleep, and moments of slumber were

few and far between for the parents.

His thoughts drifted to his little angel as he

lay, trying to identify what was so different and

strange. They had not yet named the child. He

called her his angel. Melissa toyed with one

Chapter Twenty: Crib Death

174


name and another, trying them on like gloves,

feeling and exploring them on her tongue, and

rejecting each in turn.

He turned his head to watch his wife sleeping.

She was perfectly still and relaxed, and her face

looked like a child‟s face. She was just a babe

herself, a delicate flower. The sun was falling on

her cheek, creating an appealing shadow.

He sat up and looked at the window. The sun

was high in the sky. He picked up his pocket

watch from the nightstand. Ten o‟clock.

“Wake up,” his voice sounded hoarse and

quiet. He shook his wife‟s shoulder. “Wake up.”

His wife stirred and yawned and looked at

him and smiled.

“Hello,” she said.

“It‟s ten o‟clock,” he said.

“Ten o‟clock?” She sat up. “She‟s missed her

feeding.”

“She‟s so quiet,” he said.

His wife swung her feet out of the bed.

“I‟m scared,” she said. “Come with me. Come

check on her.”

John was also scared.

The two got out of the bed and walked across

the room to the open doorway. The floor was

cold. The hallway opened up from their room,

running the length of the house. On the right

175

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

side of the hall was a curtain that closed off the

nursery. John was going to build a nursery door,

but he had not gotten around to it yet. He felt a

pang of remorse, having had nine months to

build that door. The room was a converted storage

cupboard, small, but big enough for a child‟s

room.

Melissa looked at John as they stood before

the curtain.

He reached out his hand. His fingers touched

the soft, cool cloth. He tugged gently. The cloth

moved with his hand, bending to his will, pulling

aside.

The cubby was still and quiet.

“Angel?” said John. “Baby?”

He stepped forward to the carved wooden

crib, and for a relieved moment he thought that

she was sleeping. She lay so quiet and so still.

“No,” Melissa said, breaking the illusion.

“No — my baby.”

He turned from the motionless infant to his

wife and saw the look of abject horror on her face

for a split second before she collapsed into his

arms in a dead faint.

C HARLOTTE Rowe enjoyed her lessons

with Augustine. She loved spending

hours sitting in front of a mirror, staring at herself,

watching for the slightest indication of movement

or disruption of calm as she cracked a mechanism

between her legs to make wooden raps or generated

the sounds of chains rattling and dragging from

the afterlife. This was real and actual. She was

learning a skill, a set of abilities that were of her

own doing, her own talent.

Her twin in the mirror, as she watched herself,

was a fascination for her. She was a magical being,

a person who seemed older and wiser. She

seemed, not a girl, but a grown woman, sitting

regally, who could pull wires or make snaps

Chapter Twenty-One: Lessons in Spiritism

178


without a visible twitch. She had acquired the

poise and power of womanhood. The mirror at

Augustine‟s looked only on Charlotte. It saw only

Charlotte, as the center of everything. Her mirror-

self could make a voice call from across the room

without a motion of the lips or tongue or throat.

She could generate spirit writing within a closed

and hidden chalkboard in six different hands,

masculine and feminine. She was a perfect being

who controlled incontrovertible, understandable,

explainable phenomena from an astral plane. Here,

the mirror-Charlotte was master of all.

Augustine also schooled her on the theories of

Spiritism. Miriam Rowe had never had much

patience for other people‟s theories, in that they

formed settled schools of thought. She much

preferred generating her own pearls of wisdom

around whatever grain of sand happened to

irritate her at the moment. People, Augustine

explained, wanted your views to agree with those

they read about in books and newspapers. Any

disruption to the generally accepted schools of

thought created doubts and discrepancies.

Doubt was not the friend of the spirit medium.

“It is important to understand,” said

Augustine, “that spiritism combines religion and

science. In doing so, it provides the ultimate

truth. Science by itself is unsatisfying because it

179

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

is self-contained and not all-inclusive. It does not

address the human soul, the ethics of human

existence, the pulls of human desires, the

human experience of the sublime. Religion is

unsatisfying because it is unscientific. It defies

the rational and therefore it is, at the core,

unbelievable. We want to believe in religion, but

we can‟t. We can believe in science, but we don‟t

want to. Spiritism provides the ultimate compromise:

a promise of life after death that is scientifically

verifiable, that you can see and hear and experience

in a concrete way.”

Charlotte read books about the spirit and its

progressive journey. She read about God, the

universe, matter, time, energy, life, the soul and

the limitations of the understanding of man. “We

have answers for every question,” said

Augustine. “There is no need for research into

unknowns. The answers are all here, ready-made.

You just need to accept them.”

In this way, Charlotte‟s abilities advanced.

One day, Augustine sat with Charlotte, working

with a spirit cabinet to create spirit hands, faces,

and luminous ectoplasm.

“You know,” said Augustine in a reminiscent

manner, “I want to tell you a story, to illuminate

the workings of our profession.”

She paused, but Charlotte in her normal

180


manner did not respond or encourage. “I was

young at the time,” Augustine continued, “not as

young as you, but just beginning in life. I had

begun giving séances to women in Omaha, where

I had run away to as a girl. There was a woman

who came to me one day. She wanted to speak

with her dead father, who had passed away six

months ago, leaving her with a great deal of

money. She had fought bitterly with her father as

a young girl, and the two had never been reconciled.

She felt guilty at enjoying the father‟s wealth

now, and she wanted to make peace with him.

“So she came to see me. We worked together

initially with table-turning. This is useful, because

the people ask questions. You can tell a lot from

the questions a person asks, and often the desired

answers are quite clear. And there is always the

danger of unfriendly or prankster spirits interfering,

so that any time we go off track, the correction is

easy to make.

“In the table-turning sessions, I learned a bit

about her troubles with her father. He was a

controlling, domineering man, and she was

willful. This is not an unusual circumstance. She

wanted to marry an unsuitable young man, and

in the end she ran off to marry him. The man

turned out to be a fool and dishonest on top of it.

She was now trapped in an unhappy marriage,

181

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

and she had lived in poverty due to her husband‟s

unsavory habits. The inheritance from her father,

which she had never expected to see, practically

saved her. She was afraid, though, that her

husband would squander it and that she would

be back in the same situation.

“This woman was looking for salvation in our

sessions. You will find this quite often. Unhappy

people come seeking happiness. She said that

she wanted to reconcile with her father. The

truth is that she was filled with regret for her

choices in life. If she had stayed at home, in all

likelihood she would have been miserable under

her father‟s critical rule, and she would have

always regretted the loss of her young love.

“We moved on to trances, and I invoked spirit

writings of several types and the appearance of

her father‟s face and hands in a darkened room.

Working on her, we brought forth a clear vision

of her father‟s spirit, or rather the spirit that she

hoped her father would be.

“He had found peace and love in the afterlife.

Instead of criticizing his daughter‟s choices, he

could look down on the world from a new place

and see that her path had been the only possible

one. He assured her that, through her current

path, with its sorrows and tribulations, she was

achieving greater spiritual understanding,

182


moving forward on a path. Her ultimate journey

was beyond her current understanding.

“Her father began giving her messages of hope

from the other side, and he told her of the great

revelations he‟d had about his own life and his

own destiny. He apologized to her for any sorrow

that he had caused her during his lifetime. He

could see clearly that his vision had been

clouded by a human veil. He also assured her

that, although he regretted his treatment of her,

he knew that her trials had made her a better,

stronger soul, and that she was destined for a

greater journey than his in the afterlife because

of her spiritual preparation.

“Even her pursuit of the spiritual through

spiritism showed her great progress in a spiritual

journey. As you can see, all spirits sound similar

when they have passed over to the other side.

Even the harshest, meanest soul, speaking from

the afterworld, speaks of peace, love, and forgiveness.

All messages are messages of hope and happiness.

Any intrusive or disruptive spirit is not anyone

that the sitter knows or could have known.”

She paused and looked at Charlotte to assure

that this lesson was received. Augustine nodded

her head and continued:

“Anyway, one evening we gathered together

for a reading. We were working with automatic

183

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

writing, which is an excellent tool when you

know a lot about your subject and want to speak

at length from the afterlife, especially if you have

specific information. You, of course, are very

gifted at voices, and this allows you a lot of

leeway in a mediumistic trance. Still, a voice is a

tricky thing, and you never know how well a

subject might remember someone‟s voice. You

know well, of course, the signs of recognition a

subject gives when you hit upon a good imitation,

but in any case, I‟m not nearly as gifted at vocal

impressions as you. Automatic writing can

scrawl, and a scrawl can hide all kinds of problems.

“Remember, when determining ways and

means that there are two stages of the sitter. The

first stage is an interested skepticism. This is the

stage at which the person is interested in the

phenomena but is still skeptical about it and

needs to be convinced. These people are afraid of

being tricked! They want proofs to show them

that spirit communication is real. It is important,

in dealing with these types of people, to use only

the best, most convincing, types of spirit

communication. Once a person has passed

through this initial phase, they become a believer.

A believer will never be unconvinced! Few people

first come to a medium as believers, but my sitter

was one of these.

184


“I was sunken deep into a trance state, and

my sitter, who I will call Mary Jones for the sake

of this discussion, Mrs. Jones was watching me

eagerly and reciting prayers under her breath. I

always encourage sitters to pray, because it

removes any fear of dealing with the supernatural.

There will always be a contingent that feels that

delving into a spirit world is dangerous, that it

opens you up to demonic and even satanic

occurrences. Any impression of the hazards of

spirit communication must be quelled, and the

best way is through prayer. God watches over all

of our sittings and sees that we are safe. Prayer

also reinforces the Christianity of what we do.

Never ask anyone to deny their religion. Only

reinforce their own religion with new additions to

it. They don‟t really know anything about their

religion to begin with, you know, but they will

hold dearly to the trappings of it.

“Well, as I said, I was deep in a trance, with a

pencil ready in my hand and papers in front of

me awaiting the words of the spirits. Mrs. Jones

watched and prayed, and we sat there in the

dark for quite a while. A long wait does not

inspire impatience, my dear, it sets a mood of

anticipation. Never be overanxious to begin.

“When the time felt right, my hand began to

move across the paper. Message for my darling

185

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

daughter, it wrote. So happy to talk with you

again today. Hoping to talk with you.

“„Oh, Papa,‟ said Mrs. Jones. „Is everything

well?‟

“It is always well here. There is only peace

and joy and love, the greater as we move forward

in our journeys. It surprises me always that there

is a higher level of love, but I find one each day.

“„I am so glad,‟ Mrs. Jones said, „that you are

so happy.‟

“You are not so happy.

“„No, that‟s true. I can‟t hide anything from

you.‟

“All truths on your plane are opened to me.

“„I wish, I wish I had listened to you when I

was a girl!‟

“That is not for you to wish. You have gained

great spiritual riches, the goodness of your spirit

shines through to this plane. I can see you as a

vision of light and I can watch over you, as your

spirit reveals itself to me through the curtain that

divides us. Your true self is the most beautiful of

all, shines brighter, I watch you with such pride

and am always with you. It is not just fatherly

pride, but all here can see how advanced you are.

The peace and love you will feel when you join us

here will far exceed any of us here now. You have

a special gift.

186


“„If only I could be there with you now!‟

“Soon, my dear, very soon, that is why I am so

happy to speak with you today, because I know

that we will soon join together in a more meaningful

way than is possible in life or in this communication

between places.

“„What do you mean?‟

“You will know, you already know in your

heart. I am only here to say that I look forward to

your presence here with a glad heart. I offer my

blessings, know that I am always at your side to

give you strength.

“„Am I to die?‟

“We all die, do we not? We enlightened know

that death is merely a passageway that we pass

through. I only tell you my joy in you, my daughter,

and my pleasure in anticipating being with you

again, seeing you leave earthly care behind and

join me in a greater happiness than you know. My

only message is, do not fear. Release all fear and

understand that your journey is a journey of light.

“Well, Mrs. Jones was greatly affected by

these messages. We discussed at length what her

father‟s meanings could be, and I pointed out to

her that time on the spiritual plane and time on

an earthly plane were very different, and that

messages from the spirit world that depended on

the word „soon‟ were very likely to mean

187

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

„sometime in the next fifty years.‟ Always leave

yourself an out. That‟s the point. However clear

your message might be, leave yourself an alternative

interpretation in case your client is unreceptive.

Besides, being yourself dubious of the message

only makes the client more eager to believe in it,

nine times out of ten.

“„Yes,‟ Mrs. Jones said slowly. „I understand

that time is a very different thing for those that

have passed, and of course my dear father is

anxious for us to be together again, as am I.‟ She

paused and looked puzzled. „I wonder, perhaps...‟

She paused again, and I let her sit, turning

things over in her mind. „Perhaps he had a specific

thought in mind,‟ she said vaguely. She seemed

rather distracted and paid me generously before

leaving.

“That was the last time I saw Mrs. Jones,

since I saw a notice in the papers the next week

that she had died from an overdose of sleeping

medicines. The death was put down to accident,

as Mrs. Jones had used this medicine for some

time, and she was liable to forget whether she

had taken it yet or not, particularly if worried.

“I received, though, in the mail a letter Mrs.

Jones had written me prior to her death. She

said: My dear Augustine, I do want to thank you

for all of your kindness and help in bringing me

188


into communication with my dear departed father

and helping me, through him, to understand so

much about this world of ours and about my own

self. I cannot begin to express my gratitude for

your friendship and wisdom, and I am including a

final gift to you, which although it is worldly, is I

am sure the very least I can do to repay you for

everything you have done for me.

“I know that you believed that my father‟s

message when last we spoke was a general one,

and not truly indicating that death was near at

hand for me, but I must tell you that it had a personal

meaning far beyond what you could possibly know,

for I have not intruded upon you much of my

intimate thoughts and feelings and troubles.

“I feel though, that I must make clear to you

the value of your good work. The truth is that my

husband has been growing worse and worse, and

I cannot even divulge to you the depravity of his

vices. Strong drink, which I know more than most

deprives the soul as well as the body of its

strength, is only the beginning for him, and I am

afraid to say that he is truly beyond hope in this

life. I can only pray that he will find a path

toward wholesomeness of spirit that will lead him

ultimately to peace!

“But I am done with him. As you know, my

dear, the concept of divorce or separation is

189

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

wholly unnatural to me, and your empathy with

me on that topic is greatly appreciated. However,

my patience has been stretched to beyond its limits,

and I even sunk to the depths of considering such

drastic action as breaking my marital vows by

leaving him. Though he has hardly honored his

own vows, this concept was still quite painful and

undesirable to me. Having had several frightful

rows with Mr. Jones in the past few weeks, I had

rather without even thinking about it burst out to

him that I would end it all through self-

destruction and then I could be with my father,

who was the only one who truly cared about me.

Not, of course, including you, my dear.

“Well, Mr. Jones is not only a scoffer, but he

makes terrible aspersions about you and about

my father, in his lifetime as well as his soul that

has passed beyond! I‟m sure that the reason it is

taboo to speak ill of the dead is that, once beyond

this mortal plane, the dead can see their misdeeds,

and repent, and move forward to higher causes —

therefore who are we to speak ill of the repentant

and forgiven? Well! He said some very cruel

things, and I am afraid my tongue got away from

me, and it was quite an unpleasant scene ending

in my again saying that I would end my life, this

time with more of my heart in it. To which Mr.

Jones replied: „Why don‟t you, then, and get out of

190


my hair.‟ His language is always coarse, even

when he is sober.

“This scene was rather sobering to me, as

I had always firmly held that suicide was no

recourse for dealing with life. My own instinct

toward that unpleasant act surprised me, but as I

considered it, I found that I had a deep compulsion

to seriously fulfill that threat. I spoke to Mr. Jones

of this, when he was sober and better mannered,

but he failed to take my dilemma seriously, and

his point of view seemed to be „good riddance‟

which tells you, I suppose, just what type of man I

had the misfortune to marry.

“It was not long after these events that father

spoke so strangely in our sitting. He, who

watches over me with such love, confirmed to me

what I have been loath to recognize and admit to

myself: that our conventional view of suicide is

futile and unnatural, although I am sure it is

necessary for those of us who have not achieved

yet an enlightenment of spirit. However, I am

assured that my spirit is ready to move forward

from these planes and that the simple action of

transferring myself to the location of those that

love me cannot be wrong. If my loved ones were in

Africa, and it took an unpleasant ocean voyage to

transport me to them in a strange land, I would

surely not cringe at this temporary inconvenience,

191

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

but look forward with joy to the end of my voyage.

Such is it with my own plans: an unpleasant

journey, perhaps, but gratefully shorter than a

cross-Atlantic trip. I do hope that you understand

and take my word that this is indeed the glorious

work of God.

“Bless you and your unearthly work,

“Mary Jones.”

Augustine paused again. Charlotte sat listening

at attention.

“You see that an interpretation is an interesting

thing, and you never really know. I was not in

any way sure that it would work, although I had

heard of people taking that viewpoint about

crossing over.

“It was only a day before our session when

Mr. Jones had come to my parlor, and introducing

himself had put forward a rather extraordinary

proposition. A divorce would rob him of his wife‟s

money, you see, which was kept in trust for her,

since her father did not approve of the marriage.

However, if she were to die, he would inherit the

trust and have access to the principal. He was,

as she said, quite a cynical man, and his opinion

of spiritism, quite an unfair opinion, gave him a

level of comfort allowing him to approach me.

“Although he was quite untrustworthy and

terms were difficult to come to, we made an

192


arrangement that was very satisfactory, including a

certain quantity of money he was able to get his

hands on up front. This was important since, not

only was the man not at all trustworthy, but I

was not at all sure that Mrs. Jones could indeed

be persuaded to take her own life, no matter how

vividly she trusted her poor deceased father.

However, he must have known her inner workings

better than I, having been privy to spontaneous

outbursts in the heat of anger.” She gazed into

the air, thoughtfully.

“In any case, the point of my rather

long-winded narrative is that you can never

know where your best fortunes lie, and wherever

there is money and an interested party,

you can find ways and means to better

your circumstances. I can tell you that, although

one does not want to slaughter the goose that

lays the golden eggs, I came out of the affair with

far more cold, hard cash than I ever would have

made in years of sittings with Mrs. Jones.”

What is death? Is it a solution, an answer? Is

it a blank nothingness? Is it easier than life?

Could it possibly be harder? Yet, I cling to life,

even in my old age. I cling to every last breath,

every last painful breath, full of hurtful memories,

full of the ghosts of all those who are dead.

193

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

So many are dead. They are all dead and

gone. Dead, but not gone. Their life after death is

not a torture to their immortal souls. It is a torture

to mine.

T HE mourning parents stood by the

gravesite. John Peacock had an uncomfortable

feeling of repeating the past. His wife, in mourning

clothes, stood next to him, looking so much the

same as the day he had first fallen in love with

her. She was so strong to bear this tragedy so

bravely. It tore his heart to think that they had

come full circle to this place of sorrow. This was

the place where they were all bound, after all.

He watched his mother-in-law‟s strained face,

the wrinkles now more severe, crevices drawn

into her face. He felt a bond with this woman,

whose husband had been taken from her and

whose hopes for joy had rested with a new

grandchild. His wife must feel even greater loss

Chapter Twenty-Two: A Funeral

196


than either of them, the loss of a child of the

flesh. The sheer strength of feeling caused her to

be so silent in her tragedy.

Melissa greeted the guests who came to

commiserate with her. She spoke with each in

turn, taking in their statements of how her

young girl had gone to a better place. Angel, the

tombstone would say, and everyone commented

on how apt that pet name was. This innocent

was surely now an angel in heaven with the

Lord.

Throughout the ceremony, Melissa held her

head up high, her chin almost defiant, fighting

the effects of sorrow. John fought to keep a

solemn, wooden expression. He felt no real inner

control, but somehow he muddled through.

Magdalene was the only one who shed tears.

She, an old woman, much older today than a few

weeks ago, could not help but succumb to her

misery. In his heart, John envied her.

Friends told him that he was young, that his

wife was young, that many more children would

bless them. Friends said that the Lord takes His

own unto Himself and that this death showed

the goodness of his offspring. Friends said that

he should be grateful the child was spared the

misery of this world and that Angel would never

herself mourn for a loved one. He took these

197

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

sentiments as kindnesses, but none of them

could pierce the dismay he felt at his loss.

She was so small, so fragile, and so wonderful.

After the ceremony, a woman came up to the

young couple.

“You are the parents, are you not?” she said,

holding her hands out to them. “I am so sorry for

your loss, so sorry to need to intrude on your

loss.”

She greeted both husband and wife, but her

focus shifted immediately to Melissa. She held

Melissa‟s hand as she spoke.

“I must introduce myself. I am Augustine

Emory. I have a message for you, which I know

will be a comfort. Perhaps, if it is not too much

trouble, we can go somewhere to speak privately?

Perhaps I can offer you tea.”

“I don‟t think my wife feels up to tea with

strangers,” said John. “We should get home. You

should rest, honey.”

“Don‟t worry about me, darling,” said Melissa.

“I can manage.”

“I really must speak with you, although I

know that it is an intrusion. Perhaps in a week

or so? I do want to assure you now, though, that

your daughter is in a place of peace and love,

and that she sends her love to you.”

The woman pressed a business card into

198

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

Melissa‟s hand and went off.

Melissa looked down at her palm and blinked.

John took the card and held it up to read it.

Augustine. Clairvoyant and Medium.

As he turned it over in his hand, Magdalene

Archer approached the couple.

“Was that Augustine Emory?” she asked.

“You‟ve heard of her?” John said.

“Why, yes. She is a very eminent spiritualist.”

“I suppose all of that is nonsense,” said John,

unconvincingly.

“She is very highly thought of,” said Magdalene.

“What was she saying to you?”

“She said that our Angel was happy and at

peace,” said Melissa. “Do you suppose that she

can really communicate with the dead?”

“I believe that they have done much scientific

work in the field. It‟s all a little above my head,

but certainly so many eminent people cannot be

mistaken.”

John looked at the card. “Perhaps we should

go see her,” he said. “Just to see what she wants.

Just to see.”

E VERYTHING seemed to revolve around

food for Miriam. Her family was always

busy, always working. When Charlotte was

studying with Augustine, Professor Rowe was

conducting experiments, writing his journals, or

psychoanalyzing patients. When Charlotte was

home, she was either studying with her father or

sitting. This left Miriam with little role in the

family. More and more, Augustine conducted all

sittings, leaving Miriam in the background as

an observer and hostess, if that. She had no

responsibilities but the running of the household.

Between meals, there was little to occupy her

body or mind. Meals were the only time they all

gathered together, Miriam, her husband, and

Chapter Twenty-Three: Uninvited Guest

200


their daughter. Sometimes Charles would be self-

absorbed and occupied with some train of

thought. Other times, he would become ebullient,

and they would discuss philosophy, religion, and

science. Miriam, in her old way, would interject

beliefs and opinions culled from her experience

and imagination. These were the best times.

Miriam began spending more time in the

kitchen, preparing for these meals. She canned

fruits and vegetables, made jams and sauces,

baked breads and pastries. The magical bubbling of

yeast, the mixing of fats and oils, the transformation of

a salt into a solution, all of the chemical properties of

cooking appealed to her. This was an alchemy

that yielded results: flour and milk and sugar

and oil became cakes. Her natural creativity was

let loose, and each meal was an experiment.

Some failed miserably, and Charlotte pouted and

picked at her plate. Professor Rowe, stoically, ate

whatever was placed in front of him. Occasional

meals were wildly successful, lifting food above

its normal element to aesthetic heights.

As her husband worked away at volumes of

his lore of the soul, Miriam began her own journal

of the palate. This cookery book was more than a

collection of recipes. It was a philosophy of food,

a treatise on the metaphors of eating. It was

founded in a deep belief that while the body was

201

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

physical and, by extension, eating was a physical

act, both body and food were inhabited by a

spiritual power. In the body, this spiritual power

was the soul. Food, which came from living creatures

(both plant and animal) carried the residual

power of the lower forms of life, which fed the

soul. Each plant or animal had its own spiritual

quality, and the cooking and mixing of food was

a process of manipulating the psychical powers

of the organic elements in such a way as to best

align the vibrations of a soul‟s psychic elements

to an ethereal plane. In short, the correct foods,

prepared in the proper way, brought man closer

to God.

Our natural palate, Miriam propounded,

would instruct us in this spiritual journey.

Throughout history, man has not been content to

merely eat. Man has brought the basic elements of

fire and water and salt to his foods. Man chooses

foods with care, combines them in complex ways,

and manipulates them into unrecognizable

creations. This behavior, occurring only in man,

is not biologically necessary. Therefore, Miriam

reasoned, it was not of the corporeal but of the

spiritual.

An entire chapter of Miriam‟s cookery book

was dedicated to the study of ice cream. This

delicacy was a culinary anomaly, and so it must

202


have significant meaning. While most preparation

of food used heat, bringing to bear the mystic

element of fire, ice cream used water (ice) and

salt, generating cold, which processed and

combined. The palate clearly showed that this

unique process was superior in the preparation

of milk. Why was milk unique among foods in its

ultimate preparation? Milk was neither plant nor

flesh, and the natural food of the newborn. It

had, then, a unique spiritual place, fitting it to

this unique preparation.

Miriam recommended improving the soul with

ice cream as often as once a day, if feasible.

The family was sitting in the parlor eating ice

cream when someone knocked at the door. They

no longer had servants in this new, western life,

so Miriam arose and went to the door.

The woman standing on the doorstep was

young, perhaps nineteen. She held her hands

together in front of her waist.

“Yes?” asked Miriam.

“Is Professor Charles Rowe at home?” inquired

the woman.

“He is indisposed,” Miriam answered. “If you

wish to see him professionally, I can arrange an

appointment.”

“My business,” said the woman, “is private.

And urgent.”

203

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Miriam raised her eyebrows. “I am afraid that

you will need to come back at another time. Can

I take a message?”

“I must insist,” said the woman, wrinkling her

brow.

“What private business could you possibly

have with my husband?”

The worried look on the woman‟s face grew

deeper. “I must talk to him. He is here, isn‟t he?”

“He is here,” said Miriam. “But he cannot see

you.”

The woman looked at her hands and at the

ground and then back at Miriam.

“This is unpleasant,” the woman said.

“Yes,” Miriam agreed, with frustration. She

attempted to close the door, but the woman

blocked it with her foot.

“I‟ve come a long way,” said the woman. “Just

let me see him.”

“What,” repeated Miriam, “is your business?”

“Mrs. Rowe,” said the woman, “I am sorry to

have to tell you this, but your husband has

sorely deceived us both.”

“I don‟t know what you can possibly mean.”

“I,” said the woman, “am Mrs. Winifred Rowe,

your husband‟s other wife.”

This rather startling revelation gained the

204


woman access to the house. Miriam was certain

that the woman was mistaken. Her husband

could not possibly be Professor Charles Rowe.

Either the man had given her a false name,

which was likely considering his obvious lack of

moral character, or he had coincidentally had

the same name.

She lead the woman into the house, intending

to clear up, for certain, that Professor Rowe was

not, by any means, the man this woman had

married.

As they walked into the room, Winifred stared

at Charles Rowe.

“Charlie,” she said. She went up to him.

“Charlie.”

He stared at her, blinking, holding an ice

cream spoon in his hand.

“Yes? Er. I‟m sorry. Have we met?”

“Charlie. It‟s me. Don‟t pretend you don‟t

know me.”

Charles Rowe looked up at his wife.

“Who is this young woman?”

“She claims, Charles,” said Miriam Rowe, “to

be your wife.”

The young woman fainted to the floor.

They seated Winifred in a lounge and administered

a wet towel for her forehead. Charles brought

205

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

brandy and forced a small amount into her

mouth. Charlotte watched with interest as the

woman coughed delicately and sat up.

“Charlie,” she said, “Charlie.”

“Lie quietly, rest yourself,” Charles Rowe said.

“This is quite interesting,” he told his wife.

“Young woman,” he said, “you insist that you

know me?”

“Know you? How can you deny it?”

“I think we had better hear your story,” said

Charles Rowe.

“Certainly,” said Miriam, with her eyebrows

raised.

The woman closed her eyes and lay quietly for

a moment. When she opened them, she looked at

Miriam Rowe. “Your husband is denying me, but

you must believe me,” she said.

“Well, as he said, let‟s hear your story.”

This is the story that Winifred Rowe told:

On May 23, 1915, near midnight, a man —

Charlie — walked into my father‟s inn. But

maybe that‟s not really the start. You see, nearly

two weeks earlier, I had gone to see this woman,

this woman who is supposed to be a witch.

Honestly, I would never normally go to see a

witch. She didn‟t look like a witch. She didn‟t look

mystical at all. In fact, she was the exact

206


opposite. She looked like a little doll, porcelain

and harmless. Her red-brown hair bounced each

time she moved her head. Big green eyes, not

heavily lashed but wide and lined so that they

seemed wider, a pug nose, and freckles didn‟t

help her look any more mysterious. This woman,

this witch, looked clearly Irish, and none is

less mystical than the Irish. She had an almost

constantly puzzled expression, and the look in

her eyes was that of a dog, trying desperately to

grasp the meaning of what was going on around

him. This woman seemed sub-normal, but I

comforted myself that perhaps it was the

woman‟s lack of mental proficiency that gave her

a supernatural understanding, opening her to

something mystical.

You see, I was in an unhappy situation at the

inn. I lived there with my father. I had nine

sisters, each older than me. One by one, they

had been married off and left the inn. They all

lived nearby, in farms or towns, but it was just

me and my father at the inn. I had my own suitors,

if you will call them that, but they were all coarse

men, they did not know anything of love. They

were sorely unsuitable as husbands, not the

kind of man that you can respect. They were all

the same, simple, rough working men, not the

type of man to inspire the glow of passion.

207

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

I knew that there was love in the world. I had

read books, and I knew that there were others

out there who understood these feelings of the

heart. They wrote of love and passion. I wanted

to be swept away by an undeniable, impossible,

dreamlike feeling. I needed to be wholly a woman.

The men who courted me were more than

disappointing. There was nothing under their

rough exterior but a drive for sex. Excuse my

language, if I am blunt, I have learned to be

blunt, but it is the truth! These men worked in

nearby mines, and their life was a hard one, full

of physical labor. They did not read, or write.

Instead, they drank at the inn‟s bar and made

crude jokes at my expense, or the other barmaids.

I worked as a barmaid in my father‟s establishment,

and the atmosphere of men was smothering to

me. These were the types of men my sisters had

married, and they all had normal, working lives.

My sisters took coarse behavior in stride, as the

folly of men, but I could not. I had to believe that

there was something higher and better for me.

One man, Nick Parker, had been persistent in

his attentions toward me. After hours, he would

approach me, and speak to me kindly, throwing

off his hard language and rough manner. He

was, though, essentially a rough man, and he

knew nothing of true, pure love.

208


In any case, my frustrations had increased,

and in desperation, I had gone to this rumored

witch for advice and help. The witch‟s name was

Patricia Marley. She opened the door to me

pleasantly, seated me in a small parlor, and

offered me lemonade. Her attitude was detached

and far-off, in a dazed and dreamy kind of way.

People called her a gypsy and a witch, but I had

begun to doubt the woman‟s abilities, either

natural or preternatural.

“Stay away from her,” my father had told me.

“That gypsy in her worn-out clothes. She cavorts

with the devil. She‟ll curse you, just like she

cursed old man Mason last winter, when he shot

that no-good dog of hers. It was always on his

property, always interfering with his sheep. She

didn‟t care none for that, though, because once

he shot that dog, his fate was sealed.”

I didn‟t put much stock in my father. This

woman had acquired a reputation for witchcraft,

that was for sure. There were all kinds of rumors

that flew around about her. Not that I believed in

that sort of thing. If I had believed in it, I never

would have gone, and that‟s a fact, since if it‟s

true then it‟s the work of the devil, as my father

said. The truth is, I went.

I would hardly need to tell you about it at all,

except that it was so strange. I went to the

209

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

woman and asked to have my fortune read.

“Pay me first,” she said, “because you don‟t

need to see the future to know that nine of ten

people would like to cheat me.”

“And the tenth?” I asked, taking some coins

out of my purse.

“The tenth will be offended at what I tell them,

and not want to pay.”

I laughed. “Well, I‟m none of the ten and

happy to pay you.”

She sat me at a table and asked me, “What do

you want to know? The past or the future?”

“The future, of course,” I said, since I already

knew the past.

She took out a funny deck of cards and asked

me to cut them, which I did. She lay them out on

the table.

She said: “My dear, you are looking for love. You‟re

looking for something better than can be got in this

town. If you stay here, you will be an old maid.”

“What?” I said. “I can‟t leave my father, and

all of my family is here. Where would I go?”

“You would go to the city. You would go to the

east.”

“I can‟t!”

“Then you will be an old maid.”

“What about Nick Parker?” I asked. “I could

marry Nick Parker tomorrow.”

210


The woman shook her head. “No, you couldn‟t.”

This was very upsetting to me, and I could

hardly contain myself. I vowed that I would

marry Nick Parker and settle down to a normal

life like my sisters. I left convinced that I should

never have gone to the woman in the first place.

The next evening, though, as I was just getting

set to look around for Nick in the bar, a group of

miners came in. They were all full of sad news.

There had been a cave-in at the mines, and six

miners were killed. Nick Parker was among

them. So, what the witch had said was true, I

couldn‟t marry Nick that day, nor any day.

The witch was right. I could not marry any

man from the town. I could not stand either

possible fate, though: leaving the home of my

family or growing old alone.

Finding myself with no recourse, I went back

to the witch.

“What can I do?” I asked. “There has to be a

way.”

“I can help you,” she said, “for the right

price.”

“Anything,” I told her. “Whatever I have.” I

didn‟t have a lot of money, but the inn did well. I

had enough.

“Since there is no husband here for you, and

you don‟t want to leave, I will call you a husband.”

211

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Call him?”

“Yes. I must work in private. Go now. Wait

patiently. Within a fortnight, a stranger will come

to stay at the inn who will be your husband.”

I spent a week and a half waiting patiently, rushing

to see each person who entered the inn. There were

always travelers coming to stay, and though I talked to

each at length, and was as friendly as could be, none

of them were my future husband.

Then, one night, nearing midnight, as I said,

Charlie came to the inn. He was so polished and

elegant, though of course he was quite tired and

worn out with traveling that night.

Here, Charles Rowe interrupted.

“Was I at all disoriented? Confused?”

“No, just tired. You said you‟d had a long

journey.”

“Where did I say I was from?”

“Well, you didn‟t say.”

“Did I tell you anything about myself?”

“No, not really. We didn‟t talk about you, or

me, in the sense of things that had happened to

us.”

“What did we talk about?”

“Why — love.”

We talked about love, and you opened my

212


eyes to a greater and greater world. Our love is a

metaphysical love, a communion of the spirit.

Our love, itself, is a higher power. The physical

act of love is a ritual that elevates us beyond this

life. It is the only truly important thing that we

ever do. We were married the following day,

consummating our love. I continued working as

a barmaid so that Charlie could devote himself to

writing. He was writing a book of poetry that

unlocked all of the secrets of love. Poetry is the

only true way to explore love with words. We

lived a life of passion, where our actions were

ruled only by our intuitive understanding of the

body‟s higher purpose in service to the soul.

We lived happily, in total union. Then, one day, the

witch came to see me at my work. I had not seen her

for quite a while. She was visibly pregnant.

“That man,” she said, “is not any husband

that I called for you. I cheated you out of your

money, you little fool. And now, look what he‟s

done to me and left me to fend for myself in this

condition.”

“You‟re lying,” I told her. “He showed up, just

as you said he would.”

“Of course he did,” she said, “of course if you

were looking for a husband among each and

every man who walked into your father‟s inn in a

fortnight, you would find one.”

213

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

We argued, and when I got home, I confronted

Charlie. We had always been happy, and we had

proven in our happiness his theories of love. I

told him the whole story of the witch, and he —

you — denied ever having bedded her. But that

night, you just disappeared.

I‟ve searched for you for so long. I‟ve come so

far. How can you deny me? Is it just as you

denied her? After all of the talk of higher being,

of being closer to God… Is it a lie? It can‟t be a

lie. How can you deny me like this?

Charles Rowe frowned and paced the floor.

“It‟s incredible,” he said. “It‟s just incredible.”

“Well, what have you to say to it?” asked

Miriam.

“I can‟t ask you — either of you — to believe

me. I‟m sure this young woman is sincere. As

you know, my absence is mysterious to me, and

I‟ve told you what I know of it. I can‟t say that

while, in my mind, I remember one truth, in my

body, I was behaving in some completely inexplicable

manner. I can‟t deny this young lady‟s story, but

I cannot accept responsibility for it.”

“ R e s p o n s i b i l i t y ! ” s a i d W i n i f r e d .

“Responsibility! You took on my responsibility

when you married me. You took on responsibility

when you fathered our child.”

214


“You have a child?”

“Charlene. After her father.”

Charlotte‟s eyes opened wide. Charlotte‟s

head fell backward, and she let out a low moan.

“She‟s going into a trance,” said Miriam.

“Not more of this witchcraft!” said Winifred.

“Quiet, quiet,” said Miriam.

Charlotte‟s head shot up. Her voice came,

deep, strong, and masculine. “I must explain.

This is difficult for your human minds to understand.”

A rapping noise was heard that seemed to fill the

air around them. “Silence!” said Charlotte, and

the noise stopped. “The power is strong, the time

is limited. Your husband,” she turned to Winifred,

“is not a being of body, but a visitor from another

plane. Do not blame this man, whose form was

imitated. This being is an embodiment of the

abstract, not a full human, but only a construction

of the mind, a being of only love, whose only

thought was love, whose only essence was love.

Feeding on your desires, she brought him to

being, and in her wrath she unstrung his fabric.

I cannot explain, you have not words. Here. You

must return to your home and your child. As

kind hosts, these people will give you money. Tell

your loved ones that your husband is dead. It is

as much truth as they will understand. Have

naught to do with this witch. She meddles where

215

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

she does not belong. Time is short. I have not

time. We all have no time. There is no time. No

time.”

Charlotte collapsed on her chair.

“There,” said Charles Rowe. “I knew there

must be an explanation.”

Miriam was hovering over her daughter, feeling

her temples and her wrists.

“But it‟s impossible,” said Winifred. “It‟s

nonsense.”

“Nonetheless, you must know,” said Miriam,

“that spirit messages through my daughter are

never false.”

After a good deal of discussion, Winifred Rowe

was sent home with a gift of money and the belief

that whatever else, her husband was dead to

her.

I hate that girl, Charlotte, that child, that liar.

She is completely foreign to me. She has

been overcome, replaced, changed, maneuvered,

reconciled, expunged, revamped, completed and

discoursed out of existence. I have no fond

memories of that person who I was. I can see

now that these were the last vestiges of the child

that was before she looked into the mirror, that

selfish, angry, insecure, and human child. She

was a fake, a fraud. She recognized one of her

216


own quite easily, though. She recognized in the

visitor a kindred spirit. All the woman really

wanted was money, and all that Charlotte did

was speed up the negotiations.

Perhaps she did. I know, Charles Rowe was a

libidinous man. I have seen his sins with women.

In him, I never recognized the fake, the fraud

who takes advantage of fear and desire for financial

gain. He was, though, a fake and a fraud for

other reasons. He wanted something so badly. I

don‟t think he ever knew what it was. Do you

trust the stranger who comes to your house with

a plausible tale? Do you trust the man you see

every day, the father? Do you trust the images

you see in the mirror?

I saw in the mirror an image of blood.

Nanette was in the middle of the field. She

was full of child, round and bursting, round and

huge. The boy on the farm had made her that

way, in the natural course of all things. He had

stopped coming when she started to get large. He

had disappeared from his father‟s farm, gone off

to pursue some other life in some other place.

His leaving was a quiet change in Nanette‟s life,

as his presence had been. Her growing stomach

and swelling breasts, she took in stride. She had

some rudimentary realization that what was

happening was not disease, not death. The

217

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

changes, she absorbed into her existence.

The pain, however, when it came, took her by

surprise. The water came rushing down her leg

and spread out against the ground, and she fell

to the earth. She yowled, letting out a screeching,

animal noise. She pounded the ground with her

fist. The dogs came to her when they heard her

cries. They gathered around her, sniffing and licking

her hands. There was nothing they could do.

Then, a man nearby with a cart and an ox

heard the noise.

He came over to the field and saw an unwashed

and abandoned young girl, in the midst of labor

and surrounded by wild dogs. The dogs growled

at him and snapped when he approached, but

they were driven off by a stick.

He took the girl to his cart and drove her to

his home.

This man was a doctor. He knew what to do

in labor and successfully brought the girl

through the pangs of birth. She gave birth to a

baby girl, and by a coincidence, the mother being

unable to speak, the doctor named the child

Nanette.

J OHN Peacock was not a complicated

person. He was a romantic person, which he

kept to himself. He had moved through life without

much difficulty, taking each step in stride as it

appeared before him.

He loved his wife. He loved his daughter. He

did not know the extent of this love until his

daughter‟s death.

She was such a small being, foreign to him.

She cried and spit up. She caused all kinds of

disruption and trouble. Yet, somehow all of his

hopes had been bound up in this small package.

His daughter was dead.

It was usually the wife who called. Women

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Séance for John

Peacock

220


became attached to the children of their wombs.

The umbilical cord may be severed, but mothers

kept a nurturing attachment to their offspring.

When a child died, it was usually the mother

who wanted to contact it.

Augustine was rather surprised to see this

average-looking young man at her doorstep.

“You said,” he told her, “that you had a

message from my daughter.”

“Come in,” she said. “You didn‟t bring your

wife?”

He looked uncomfortable, but he passed in

the doorway and took the seat that was offered to

him.

“No,” he said. “I thought I had better come by

and check this out, without troubling my wife.

You see, she is hard hit by this tragedy. I wouldn‟t

want anything to upset her.”

“I see,” said Augustine. “I understand perfectly.

The last thing I would like to do is upset your

wife, Mr. Peacock.”

“This is quite a blow to her.”

“Yes, I can see that. It must be.”

Gently, she led the discussion of his wife and

daughter. He told her more than he was aware.

Of course, an infant was the optimum subject for

messages from the other side, since the child

had not yet developed a personality and unique

221

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

experiences that could be held as tests of the

communication. Basically, an infant was a blank

slate.

They made an appointment for a sitting the

next week.

Melissa Peacock was not happy when she

found that her husband had gone to the spiritualist.

“Why? Why do you want to torture me?”

“I‟m just going to see if it‟s true. If she really

can talk to our Angel—”

“Of course she can‟t. These people are all

frauds. I‟ve read it in the paper. I can‟t stand the

thought of that woman saying she‟s talking to

my baby—”

“Okay, honey, don‟t cry. Sit down. Can I get you

something? Some water or something? Don‟t worry

yourself. I won‟t go if you don‟t want me to.”

John Peacock showed up for the séance

twenty minutes early. He was twice as nervous

as his last visit, practically jumping out of his

boots when Augustine greeted him.

“This is Charlotte Rowe,” she said. “Perhaps

you have heard of her great gifts.”

“No,” said John. “I‟m afraid I haven‟t. I don‟t

get around much.”

“How do you do?” said Charlotte.

222


He smiled awkwardly at the young girl.

“Charlotte will sit with us. She is a gifted

medium,” said Augustine.

The séance began quite normally. After sitting

in the darkness for twenty minutes, small

ghostly hands appeared behind Augustine. John

Peacock saw them, cried out, and jumped from

his chair. The hands disappeared into the darkness.

“I saw them,” he said. “Hands. Baby‟s hands.”

“I believe you,” said Augustine. “I know. It is a

common form for spirit apparition.”

“Was it — my baby?”

“Yes,” said Augustine. “She is trying to come

through to you.”

“What is wrong with her?” asked John.

Charlotte did not move or speak, and seemed

engrossed in her own world.

“She‟s in a trance,” said Augustine.

A wind blew through the room. The candles

on the table flickered, sending weird shadows

across the wall, and then were extinguished.

“What is this?” said John.

“Be calm. Is there a spirit here? Is there a

spirit coming through to us?”

A groan came from the room. In the darkness,

it was hard to trace its origins. It was a slow,

small groan, a creak. Perhaps it was a door

grinding against its frame instead of a voice.

223

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

The sound grew louder and more complex. It

took on shades and subtleties, as if it were multiple

sounds, layered on each other, competing with

each other. The layers dissolved and extended,

coming together into a loud wail, a baby‟s cry.

“Angel?” John Peacock said.

The cry drifted off into the darkness.

They waited in silence for a moment.

“Do you have a message for us?” asked Augustine.

“Do you have a message for your father?”

“Yes.” It was a hiss, barely a word, traveling

on the wind.

“Tell us.”

They waited in silence for a while, too long.

Augustine relit the candles.

“I‟m sorry, Mr. Peacock,” she told John. “It is

difficult for the spirits to come through.” She looked at

Charlotte, who still seemed unresponsive, trancelike.

“Perhaps,” she said, “we should try another method.”

She sat in her chair and stared at Charlotte,

but there was no response from the girl.

“Charlotte?” she said.

John, too, stared at the girl.

“She‟s still in a trance,” said John. “Does that

mean my little girl is still here?”

“She is here,” said Augustine. “She is always

with you.” She stared hard at Charlotte. “I will

get a chalkboard, and we will try another method

224


to reach her. She is trying to reach out to you. I

can feel her.”

Augustine rose from her chair, and Charlotte‟s

eyelids whipped wide open, her head and body

seized in a momentary fit. “No!”

Augustine sat.

“Charlotte?”

“No!”

John looked at the girl. “Angel? Are you

here?”

Charlotte‟s head cocked back at an unnatural

angle. She lifted her arm, but her forearm and hand

dangled off of it, as if she had no muscles there.

“Fa—ther.” This was rusty and quiet, and

though it came from Charlotte‟s vicinity, her

mouth did not move.

“Angel?” said John.

“So unclear.”

“Angel?”

“Help. Strange. Nothing.”

“I think we have an interference,” said

Augustine.

Charlotte rose from her chair. Her eyeballs

rolled back into her head, until all that was visible

were eerie, blind whites. The wind rose in the room

again, whipping her hair back. She reached toward

John with her hands, and vomit suddenly spewed

out of her mouth.

225

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Augustine and John shot back from the table.

Charlotte‟s arms seemed to be bending backward

from the elbow. Gurgling noises came from her.

“Charlotte!” said Augustine. She went to the

girl and tried to shake her.

“What is wrong?”

“Go, now,” said Augustine. “Go in the other

room to wait. I will be there shortly. Go!”

John left, and Augustine turned her attention

on the girl.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?”

she muttered under her breath.

Charlotte collapsed on the floor, insensible.

Augustine struggled to lift the girl, cleaning

her up the best that she could, as quickly as she

could, and depositing her on a sofa. “Charlotte?”

she said. The girl did not answer her.

When Augustine came into the room where

John sat, she had made herself relatively

presentable.

“Mr. Peacock?” she said.

“Yes? What is it? What happened?”

“I‟m afraid we cannot complete the sitting

today.”

“My daughter — I saw her.”

“I know. She is trying to come through to you. She

wants to speak with you. She has given us a message,

and I want to assure you that she is at peace.”

226


“But that — what was that?”

“I must explain to you that sometimes there

are forces from another plane, forces that interfere

with our communication. I‟m afraid that Charlotte

is ill, and that this has allowed an ill-wishing being

to break off communication with your daughter.”

“That was not my daughter?”

“No, of course not. You must come back, per-

haps tomorrow? We will have a sitting without

Charlotte, since she is unwell. I will sit with you,

and you will be able to communicate with your

Angel. I feel her force around you. She is with

you very strongly.”

“I see,” said John.

“I must see to Charlotte. She is really unwell.

But you will come back tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” John left the house, upset

and unsatisfied.

There was a bright light and the feeling of

sorrow. I was floating through the blank

emptiness, just floating. I didn‟t see the baby,

Angel, at that time.

I only saw Nanette.

She was cleaned. Her hair was washed, and

she was holding her own baby to her breast. She

lacked any feeling of self-consciousness, breast-

feeding in front of the doctor. He, clinically,

227

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

accepted this as natural. He was speaking words

to her, showing her objects.

The doctor held up a fork. “Fourchette,” he

said. “Fourchette.”

“Four—chette,” stumbled Nanette, sounding

unnatural and foreign.

“Bon,” said the doctor. He gave her a piece of

candy from the table. She giggled like a child,

holding her own baby to her breast. Then, he

picked up a spoon. “Cuillère,” he said. “Cuillère.”

The baby made a gurgling noise, and Nanette

looked down. She rocked back and forth in her chair.

“Nanette,” she said. “Nanette.”

The doctor sighed. He lifted the spoon.

“Cuillère.”

“Nanette, Nanette,” she said, then quietly she

began to sing. “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,

Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines,

Sonnez les matines, Ding, dang, dong! Ding,

dang, dong!”

She paused and looked up at the doctor, be-

seechingly. “Frère Jacques,” she said.

“Cuillère,” said the doctor.

“Frère Jacques,” said Nanette, again, petulantly.

“Cuillère,” said the doctor, shaking the spoon.

Nanette sighed. “Cuillrr,” she spit out. Then,

“Frère Jacques.”

The doctor shrugged and dropped the spoon.

228


Nanette smiled and began again to sing.

The doctor joined in round, following her singing

with his own, to Nanette‟s delight. His deep and

grumbling voice joined in with her young and

elevated tones. The simple tune took on a new

depth, a new meaning, as it turned in upon itself,

combining with itself in new and strange ways,

creating a möbius strip of music, running

around and around onto itself.

In Charlotte‟s head, the music ran around

and around onto itself. A baby, at its mother‟s

breast. A baby, in its mother‟s care. A baby,

protected and loved through the deep-seated

animal instinct of motherhood. A puppy, to be

fed from the breast, to grow and live and create

more babies; who will be fed from the breast to

grow and live and create more babies; who will

Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous?

Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines, Sonnez les

matines, Ding, dang, dong! Ding, dang, dong!

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? Baby

mine, baby mine. Morning bells are ringing.

Morning bells are ringing. Ding, dong, ding.

Ding, dong, ding. Wake up. Wake. What is

wrong? Why don‟t you wake? Why won‟t you

wake up? Wake up, wake up!

Charlotte lay ill for three weeks. She was

229

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

unresponsive most of the time, but they were

able to feed her water and soup. The doctor

looked at her and was unable to find the cause of

her suffering.

“A nervous attack,” he said. “I know that she

works with that woman, and it can‟t be good for

her.”

“This is not a nervous attack,” said Professor

Rowe. “These are physical symptoms.”

“Perhaps it is a spiritual illness,” said Miriam,

and both men frowned at her.

They cared for her the best they could.

During the time of Charlotte‟s illness, John

Peacock went to four séances with Augustine.

The first of these was much less troubled than

the previous sitting. To John‟s joy, his daughter

was able to communicate with them, in ghostly

form, through both spirit writing and table turning.

The baby, Angel, assured him that she was at

peace, and that, in the afterlife, she had gained a

great spiritual understanding.

“Such a short time, short time, on that plane

for me, a child, since my soul was ready, born in

a state of advanced light, not long for the world,

but bound for better things.”

He did not tell his wife about these meetings,

but at the last of them a message came through

230

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

from Melissa‟s father.

“He is proud, very proud, wants to speak to

her, wants to give her his blessing.”

J OHN Peacock kept his séances a secret

from his wife. Melissa Peacock had her

own hoard of secrets.

She came into the kitchen one morning and

found the cupboard where she had stored all the

baby clothes opened. The box of clothing was

sitting in the center of the floor. She was staring

at the box when her mother came into the room.

“Oh,” said Magdalene. “Why did you bring

these clothes out?”

“I—” Melissa stuttered, “I just wanted to look

through them.”

“Melissa, don‟t torture yourself.” Magdalene

replaced the box of clothes in the cupboard. “You

shouldn‟t dwell on it, honey. You know how sick

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Ghost

232


you‟ve been. Why don‟t you sit down? Can I get

you something?”

After that, the crying in the night started.

It was two forty-eight, and Melissa woke to

the familiar sound of a baby crying. At first, she

did not remember that the baby was gone, that

there should not be any sound of crying. She

pulled herself out of the bed and into the hall

before the realization struck her.

She stood in front of the curtain to the baby‟s

nursery and stared at it.

When John came up behind her and touched

her on the shoulder, she realized that the crying

had stopped some time ago. She was just

standing there.

“Come back to bed,” he said gently. “Come

back to bed.”

When the crying awoke her the next night,

she lay in bed, her legs curled up to her stomach,

and waited for it to stop. During these times, she

wanted to go see. She wanted to open the curtains

and look in the nursery.

She might find an empty nook, or she might

find something else.

There were small occurrences during the

daytime. Every once in a while, she felt a pulling,

sucking pain in her nipple, the illusion of being

suckled. The scent of a dirty diaper would waft to

233

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

her from nowhere, as she did nothing in particular.

Odds and ends that she left around the house

were found in unlikely places.

No one else witnessed these things. The cries

never awoke John. The smells never assailed

Magdalene.

The day after John received a spirit message

from Melissa‟s father, he and Melissa and

Magdalene sat around the dinner table, eating a

quiet meal. John turned over in his mind

whether and how he should approach the subject

of Melissa‟s father. Melissa picked at her plate.

“You look tired, sweetheart,” said John.

“I haven‟t been sleeping well.”

“I know. It worries me.”

“I‟m sorry to inconvenience you! What can I

do?”

“I didn‟t mean to upset you.”

“I‟m not upset.”

They ate in silence.

“This is very good,” said John.

“Thank you,” said Magdalene, who did most of

the cooking. “Of course, it‟s Melissa‟s sauce.”

“Yes, it‟s the sauce that‟s so good.”

“Oh, yes. Your sauce is always so good.”

Melissa was not paying attention to them. She

was staring beyond them at the wall. Taking her

234


silence to mean that praise was not welcome,

John quietly resumed eating. Melissa stopped

making a pretence of eating her meal. There was

something unusual about the wall. It was not

exactly moving, but it was also not exactly still.

There was an area just to the left over John‟s

shoulder that was hard to look at. It wasn‟t

motion, or color, or shape, but there was

something different about it, something not quite

right about it.

As she gazed at it, the area of not-quite-

rightness gained a form. She knew what the form

would be before she saw it. She told her mind to

stop, because like in a dream, knowing what it

was would cause it to become that. The thought

had already come to her, though. There was no

stopping it.

The shape of a baby formed out of some

distilled property of the air. It was like a blind

spot in her eyes, that baby-shape. She couldn‟t

see it, but she could see around it. The edges

told unmistakably, undeniably what it was.

Melissa jumped up and her dishes clattered

on the table. She ran over to the wall, and once

she was in front of it, she could see clearly.

There were little marks of baby hands, marking a

path up the wall, dragged up the wall.

“The hands! The hands!”

235

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Magdalene and John came to her. She was

pounding on the wall. “The hands! You see

them,” she said. She looked pleadingly at the

other two. “You see them, don‟t you?” She looked

herself at her own hands on the wall and saw

that the marks were gone. “I saw them,” Melissa

said, “marks of hands, baby‟s hands.”

Charlotte would mumble in her semiconscious

state. Her ravings were garbled and unintelligible,

and no one made much sense of them.

Wish, wish, wisteria. Pockets of posies. Tick-

tick-tick. You will not. All fall down.

The mirror was inside my head. The mirror

was looking at me.

Melissa, Melissa, she is your baby. Melissa,

Melissa, she is your child. She is angry. I am

angry. The sins of the father are visited on the

child. Nothing ever stops. Once it is set in motion

it keeps going on, forever. It never ends. It ripples

outward into the world and inward into our

minds. It goes on and on.

The baby is angry. It has inherited everything.

It has inherited the blood curse.

T HE doctor gave no helpful advice for

Melissa. He prescribed her a tonic and

mentioned rather against his better judgment

that there was a local resident who practiced

psychoanalysis.

John, a rather direct-minded man, did not

think of approaching Augustine with his wife‟s

symptoms. The doctor had recommended

psychoanalysis, and he took this recommendation.

Melissa went to see this specialist out of

desperation.

“I don‟t know that you can help me,” she said.

Professor Rowe gave Melissa his most professional,

medical stare. “I can help you. You must put

yourself in my hands, though, and open yourself

Chapter Twenty-Six: Recuperation

238


up to the correct interpretation of these phenomena.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Imagine this room as a bubble, far away from

the world and all its social values. Discard all

shame and guilt when you are here. You must

not bring those things with you into this room.

Nothing shocks a psychoanalyst. We must look

objectively, without any judgment, on all human

things. Believe me, the deepest secrets in your

psyche are no different than the deepest secrets

of any other person. You may be unwilling to

recognize your own wishes and desires and want

to shove them into your unconscious, but they

do not upset me.”

But there were parts of Melissa that she could

not open up. Her inner censor was very strong.

The patient refused absolutely to use hypnosis.

Though this annoyed Professor Rowe, he accepted

it as a prejudice and determined to move forward

with more standard methods.

“Let us start,” he said, “with the very first of

these phenomena that you experienced.”

Melissa told him, with starts and stops, about

finding the box of clothing in the middle of the

kitchen floor. He questioned her closely about

the incident.

“Your mother actually saw the clothing in the

middle of the floor?”

239

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Yes.”

“So we know that it was actually moved.”

“Yes, it was,” she said.

“Your husband did not move it?”

“I never asked him. I didn‟t think so.”

“Well,” said the professor, rationally, “before

we begin studying this instance, I think we had

better make sure your husband didn‟t move the

box for some reason.”

“Oh,” said Melissa, a little surprised at a solution

of such simplicity.

Under the psychoanalyst‟s orders, she spoke

to her husband about the moved box of clothes.

He confirmed, wide-eyed, that he had never

moved it. Her heart sank.

During her next session, Professor Rowe took

up this topic.

“You did not deny moving it at the time?”

“No, I told my mother I‟d moved it.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I was afraid.”

“Of what were you afraid?”

“I don‟t know.” This was always the telling

phrase for the psychoanalyst. Anything the patient

claimed not to know was a key to their repressions.

“You do know. You must tell me.”

“I just wanted her to think that everything

was all right.”

240


“But it was not all right?”

“No.”

“Because there was a box of clothes on the

floor.”

“Yes! It sounds crazy when you say it like

that.”

“No, nothing sounds crazy. This is all the

perfectly rational messages of your mind. We

need to explore what they represent. What does

the box of clothes mean to you?”

“It is my baby‟s clothes.”

“What does it represent?”

“My baby.”

“That is the obvious meaning. But that is merely

your conscious mind putting a logical interpretation

on it. What exactly was in that box?”

“Just clothes. Sleeping shirts. Booties. Diapers.”

“What else? Just those things?”

“I don‟t know. Just things. Just baby things.”

“I think there was something else. Think

about it. Picture the box. Picture yourself packing

the box. Folding items. What are you folding?”

“Baby clothes, baby things.”

“What things that are not clothes?”

“I don‟t know.”

There was a pause. There was silence. The

doctor let it go on.

”A blanket?” Melissa said.

241

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Ah, there was a blanket in the box?”

“Yes, the things from the crib, a blanket, a pillow.”

“You did not mention them before.”

“They are just baby things.”

“No, these things have significance. What does

a blanket mean to you? A blanket and a pillow.”

“Sleeping things.”

“Yes, go on.”

“The things from her bed, from where she died.”

“Ah.”

“What does that mean?”

“So, these things mean death?”

“So many people die in bed.”

“Do they?”

“They do. Sick people die in their beds.”

“But your baby was not sick.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Who are you thinking of, who was sick and

died in bed?”

“I guess... I suppose my father.”

“Your father was sick and died?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” said the psychoanalyst. “Tell me about

your father.”

“I never,” said Melissa, “liked my father.”

Melissa approached these sessions with a

mixture of relief and trepidation. They discussed

242


her father at great length. Professor Rowe

seemed to feel that her relationship with her

father was the key to many of her symptoms.

“The father is the creator of the daughter,” he

said, “and the daughter is the creator of the

baby. The link from generation to generation is

the ever-moving recorder of the mind of God.

Your link has been severed from your parent,

and in turn your link was severed from your

child. The phenomena in your mind are all

imprints of the past, as you are an imprint of

your father that carries on into the future, and

your daughter is an imprint of you to carry on

into the future. There is a message from God

through these recurring phenomena. They are

not psychoses, but misread telegrams from

another plane. It is a terrible shame that my own

daughter is ill. She is very gifted, and I believe

that she would be a great help in your case.”

This perspective seemed slightly skewed,

slightly not right, or perhaps simply beyond

understanding, but Melissa enjoyed the attention

of this intimate one-on-one relationship centered

only on her own thoughts and feelings. She

naturally played to Professor Rowe‟s hints and

leading questions, at the same time purging

herself of her own feelings and emotions.

This did not make the baby‟s crying stop, and

243

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Melissa grew paler and thinner as she accumulated

sleepless nights.

The first time Charlotte woke to coherence,

she spoke only in French. She did not seem to

know that she was speaking French. Her parents

would speak to her in English, and she would

reply in French as if there were no difference at

all. When they asked her why she was speaking

French, she replied, “Que? Français?”

Otherwise, she seemed perfectly normal and

began developing a healthy appetite. English

words began appearing sporadically in her

French, and the balance of languages eventually

began to turn, until she was speaking pure English

and always recognized that French was French.

“We should not send her back to Augustine,”

said her father. “I don‟t want anything like this

happening again.”

“I agree with you,” said her mother. “I don‟t

know what that woman was doing, but this

episode cannot be repeated.”

The parents, in agreement, did not mention

the matter to their daughter. They merely

stopped communication with Augustine, having

already severed their financial arrangement due

to their daughter‟s illness. For her part,

Augustine had grown wary of this girl who

244


randomly lapsed unconscious during an important

sitting, nearly scaring the mark out of his wits.

She was willing to let her pupil fade into the

background of her life.

Once Charlotte was more herself, Professor

Rowe broached the topic of bringing her in to consult

with a patient of his.

Melissa was sitting on the couch in Professor

Rowe‟s office when Charlotte walked into the

room. Charlotte immediately fell to her knees

and began to speak in a monotone voice:

“Tick-tick-tick. Time is ticking by. Time is passing

away. Time to die, the time is coming, it must not

be allowed to pass. The time winds around in a

circle, the circle is continuous motion, the motion is

eminent, the motion of the hand, the motion of the

food. Spoon to mouth, life to death. Death is coming,

death comes again, death comes. Tick-tick-tick,

time is passing. Passing away, he must pass

away, tonight, tonight, don‟t let it pass away

again, don‟t let the opportunity pass away

again...”

Melissa responded hysterically. She jumped

up from the couch and began screeching.

“Liar! Liar!” She jumped toward Charlotte and

was only held off from her by the quick action of

Professor Rowe, who caught and held her.

245

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Charlotte collapsed on the floor, and Professor

Rowe called for Miriam. From the floor, Charlotte

continued to speak: “I release you, I release you, I

release you.” She was still muttering it when her

mother came to take her to bed.

The presence that was there in the room, the

thing without body, Charlotte took into herself. It

had been fighting to get in, but she only had

touched the part of it that was John Peacock.

Now, the part of it that was Melissa came to her.

It rushed into her, a full force, with a feeling of

self-knowledge. Cousin, child, sister, self. I crave

you, and I cringe at your presence.

"I blame myself,” said Professor Rowe. “She

was not strong enough.”

Melissa calmed herself. “I don‟t know what

came over me.”

“It is interesting,” said Professor Rowe. “Your

reaction was a very strong one. It shows that

Charlotte was channeling the message from God

that has been so torturing you.”

“If it is a message from God,” said Melissa

slowly, “then why do I fight against it?”

“It is the nature of humanity,” the Professor

recited happily. “It is the nature of the human

mind to repress that which it does not

246


understand, to twist and misinterpret. The spiritual

intruding on the physical is anathema to the

human condition. The spiritual is the nemesis of

the physical, and therefore the body interprets

the intrusion of the spiritual as an intrusion of

death. This is the basis of Freud‟s writings

regarding the death wish, and this is why your

neurotic episodes are fixated on death and the

dead. When do we go to God? At death. This is

essential.”

Melissa blinked at him. “I feel different,” she

said, and realized that it was true. “Something is

different.”

“The release of psychic energy through my

daughter,” he said. “I wish I had notes of what

she said. Do you recall exactly what she said?”

“No,” Melissa said. “I don‟t.”

“Time. She was speaking of time. Time and

death, passing time, passing away. You see, the

recurring theme. Death is a theme to us all.”

“I see, Professor.”

That night Melissa slept uninterrupted

through the night.

Charlotte was not supposed to remember

anything that happened in hypnotic states.

These times were supposedly hidden from her

conscious mind. They were intended to live in

247

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

the darkness at the back of the mind, where all

memories fled to once they were forgotten.

Hypnosis, though, was a tricky thing. There

certainly were times and ways in which

Charlotte‟s consciousness changed. There

certainly were times and things that she didn‟t

remember.

There were also times that she exercised the

skills that Augustine had taught her, skills of

pliably giving to an audience what that audience

wanted. Her father was a rich audience. His

wants were so broad, so conditional, so ill-

defined.

Then, there were other times.

Y EARS can pass so quickly. Adam and Eve

beget Cain and Abel, and soon there is

the first murder. The world burgeons with human

beings, and human beings burgeon with sin.

Women birth children, suffer their curses, die

alone. Men work the fields, take their solace in

ownership of their wives and children. Each

generation begets its sins onto the next. One

man contracts syphilis. His wife goes blind, and

his child is born doomed to die. Are we not all,

though? Born doomed with death already inside

of us, the seeds of it planted. In birth, we are in

death. So, Nanette gave death to a daughter,

Nanette, and she passed death down with her

through generation upon generation. Melissa

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Family History

250


gave death to a daughter, an Angel, who flew

with speed to her home.

Sometime in the future, another Charlotte will

be born. Perhaps a child of a child of a child of

Charlene, the fictional other daughter of Charles

Rose. She will be born a priestess, and at the age

of three, she will decide that she must build a

church on a hill. Like Solomon, she has a vision

of a temple. Her doting parents provide supplies,

and she builds her temple, dressing it in pink

ribbons and lily flowers. She dances every day on

the temple floor, because there she has her

visions of God.

The visions are from a tumor in her brain.

They give her an ecstasy that is indescribable.

Sometimes she falls on the floor of the temple,

and groans with the power and weight of the

sublime that is within her, within her temple.

Her parents find her there one day, groaning

on the floor, writhing in the cool smell of pine

dust. They bring her to a doctor, who looks

inside of her brain with machines. She sits

willingly through the tests. She is in the glory of

God and has nothing to fear.

They find that she has a tumor in her brain.

She smiles and nods. The tumor is a gift from

God, she believes. Her parents cry. They think

251

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

that their little girl is too young to understand,

and they schedule her for a surgery to remove

the tumor. A tumor is never a gift, they believe.

Surgeons operate and remove the tumor, and

then it is gone. The little girl wakes from the

operation with a pale and frightened face. She

has changed. God has been taken from her. She

is never the same after that. She wanders the

empty chapel, knowing that once something was

here, something that she can never get back. She

wanders it in desperation, looking in all the

cracks and seeing no light, only darkness.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Charlotte decorates her church in black

ribbons and spends her days crying in the pews.

M IRIAM Rowe was in the kitchen, making

ice cream. She had a large number of

ice cream recipes that she experimented with,

creating flavors from anything that happened to

enter her mind.

After failed experiments with meat and poultry,

Miriam had concluded that flesh was not a viable

ingredient for ice cream, since heat was necessary

for the proper psychical processing of flesh. Heat

was diametrically opposed to cold, and since cold

was used to process ice cream, flesh was an

inappropriate ingredient. She failed to explain

(and felt no desire to explain) why some of her

other ingredients for ice cream were melted or

cooked before adding, such as cinnamon apples.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Death

254


Her experiments with fruits and vegetables

were far more successful, and she created a

surprisingly delicious carrot ice cream sweetened with

honey. Not so surprising, but certainly successful,

were berry, orange, and lemon ice creams.

On this particular day, Miriam was conducting

an experiment with radishes. Her reasoning was

that carrots were a root, and since her carrot ice

cream was successful, roots were appropriate to

ice cream. Radishes were roots, and moreover

they were red. Red was close in color to orange

(like carrots) and was also a successful color in

ice cream (see strawberry, raspberry, rutabaga,

and watermelon).

The trick lay in discovering how to prepare the

radishes and what flavorings to add to them.

Miriam had been testing radish ice creams all

week, somewhat to her daughter‟s dismay, but the

flavor balances seemed to be improving. Miriam

was not discouraged. Sometimes the most difficult

combinations were among the most fulfilling.

She had settled on the combination of ingredients

for tonight‟s ice cream, and she had the radishes

completely prepared. She reached for the milk

and to her annoyance found that it was not

where she left it on the counter. Looking around,

she saw that it was pushed all the way back into

the corner.

255

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She reached to recover it and began measuring

the milk into a bowl. As she was pouring it,

something seemed to jog her arm, and she

spilled milk all over the counter. Miriam looked

around the room. She was completely alone.

“Nanette?” she asked, although in the past Nanette

had never communicated except through Charlotte.

There was no response. The kitchen was still

and silent.

Miriam cleaned up the spilled milk and measured

the necessary quantity. Then, she took up the

cream and began pouring it into a measuring

cup. Again, her arm jogged. Cream spilled on the

counter. Miriam banged the cream down on the

counter in agitation and swung around to face

an empty, silent kitchen. She frowned.

Again, she cleaned up the spill, and she

measured out the cream. There was no disturbance.

She successfully completed her concoctions. She

loaded the ice cream maker with ice and salt,

and pouring in her ingredients, she began to

churn the ice cream.

The churning of ice cream was an occupation

that Miriam Rowe found soothing. For a length of

time, one sat on a fairly comfortable chair and

moved one‟s arm in a repetitive motion. While

churning ice cream, one was clearly doing

productive work. On the other hand, one did not

256


need to think or exert any strong effort. After a

while, the muscles in Miriam‟s arm had grown so

that churning an ice cream maker was no work

at all. She would relax into a daze and let her

mind wander over random thoughts.

Once she began to churn the ice cream,

Miriam was pleasantly undisturbed. The sudden

unorthodox behavior of her dairy products did

not disturb her. It had passed out of her mind

completely due to her unique ability to process only

those things she felt were of importance to her.

In fact, Miriam‟s mind was completely occupied

with the radish, that crisp and brilliant red root

with a snow-white center, like an apple. Radish

and apple ice cream? Radish with cinnamon and

brown sugar? She attempted to envision the psychic

impression of a radish. Each plant or animal had

its own psychic impression. Miriam had been

quite impressed with some of the psychical

research that had been done using photography,

and she felt that preparing photographs of food

so as to capture the auras of different dishes

would be a worthwhile pursuit. Photography

equipment was not inexpensive, though, and this

idea did not seem to be practicable at the

moment. She imagined the aura of a radish to be

yellow, which was the color she most often

attributed to vegetables for some obscure reason.

257

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Visions of a yellow, globular, aural being were

parading in her imagination when suddenly the

ice cream churn came to a halt. It felt as if

something was lodged in the mechanism,

something that was blocking the handle. Since

her radishes were boiled and mashed, she could

not imagine what could be blocking it.

She gave an extra push to the handle, and the

ice cream maker began to churn again. Just as

she was settling down to her own thoughts, the

handle began to turn faster and faster. It twisted

out of her hand, and as she looked on in

amazement, the ice cream maker continued to

churn by itself, faster and faster.

While the previous interruptions in her ice

cream making had been annoyances, this

surprising occurrence seemed beneficial. Was

this, then, the hand of God stepping in to help

churn ice cream?

This thought had barely crossed her mind

when the ice cream maker lurched off of its

purchase and hurled itself across the room,

spilling unfinished ice cream, ice, and salt across

the floor. Miriam‟s face grew red with anger, and

her throat constricted. The wind was knocked

out of her, as if she had been hit in the chest

with a ball. She was thrown against the back wall

of the kitchen with a crash. The feeling in her chest

258


persisted, like an arm thrust right through her

heart. She felt it pulling on her as her body rushed

upward and crashed against the ceiling. Then it

released, and Miriam crashed to the floor.

Blood seeped out of her mouth as she lay on

the floor in a puddle of ice cream, red blood, the

color of radishes, or strawberries, or rutabagas,

or raw unprocessed flesh.

Miriam expired.

It was at this moment that Charlotte came

running into the kitchen. She was pursuing a

sweet of some sort, perhaps cake or bread and

honey. She stopped dead in the doorway. She

saw her mother sprawled on the floor, sticky

with cream, blood flowing out of her mouth.

“Mother?” she said, but she already knew that

her mother was dead.

Charlotte looked around the room, left and

right, and her face became stern and hard.

“You,” she said to the empty room. “You vile

beast. Go off wherever you go to, and leave us all

alone. I said go! Go, go, go, go, go!”

In seeming response to this, the ice cream

maker again flung itself into motion, crashed

against the opposite wall, and dissolved into splinters.

Churning ice cream was a solitary occupation.

Miriam Rowe spent hours and hours churning

259

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

ice cream, separated from her family. The

separateness had grown up over time, but in the

end it was a definite fracture, a division that set

her apart, alone.

While Miriam Rowe churned ice cream, her

daughter was in study with her husband. Under

hypnosis, he attempted to draw out some sort of

ecstatic, ultimate truth.

That was Professor Rowe‟s only desire —

truth. Truth was equal to God.

The pathway to truth was guided by intuition.

As human beings, each of us already knew the

truth. That was the ultimate irony of the search.

The truth was in each of us and around all of us

but hidden behind the curtain of the unconscious

mind.

Charlotte‟s gift was to touch on those things

that felt right, that seemed fraught with meaning

and therefore must be fraught with meaning.

The nearness of such power, such truth

would excite Professor Rowe almost beyond

human capacity. The answer was so close, so

tantalizingly close — the truth — God. He could

feel it. He quivered in its presence, brought by

this beautiful, burgeoning child. She was no

longer really a child, but a young woman.

Miriam Rowe churned ice cream.

I T is strange,” said the police detective, “that

you heard nothing.”

Professor Rowe shook his head sadly.

“Our home is solidly built. I would have

thought I would hear — but I was very absorbed

in my work.”

“You were with a patient?”

“No. I am not only an analyst, or even primarily

one. You see, the science of the mind is also a

science of the soul. One cannot study the mind

while denying the soul.”

“So you‟re a preacher?”

“No, no. I don‟t preach. I study and write. I

am, if you will, a philosopher.”

“Hmmm.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Accusations

262


Professor Rowe was pale and drawn. His

usual enthusiasm when he talked about science,

the mind, and the soul was lackluster.

“At least,” Professor Rowe said, “I have the

certainty, denied to so many, that my wife now

thrives on another plane. She was an enlightened

woman.”

Whatever he said, Charles Rowe certainly

sounded like a preacher, and the stolid policeman

couldn‟t see any preacher throwing a woman

around like that. It certainly couldn‟t have been

the girl, that slight thing who had been in bed

with an illness so recently. She didn‟t look like

she could throw a doll around a room.

“Your work,” the Professor was saying,

“interests me greatly. You look into the past to

see what was written there. It is a matter, I

gather, of taking the remnants of the past as

they are written on the present and correctly

interpreting them. As in Sir Conan Doyle‟s work.”

“Sure,” said the policeman uncertainly.

“That‟s about it.”

“If we could gather the key to that interpretation

into a formula, could it be applied to the

interpretation of dreams, remnants of the life of

the soul?”

The policeman stared at him.

“Never mind,” said Professor Rowe, “just a

263

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

rhetorical question, just a musing speculation.”

“All right,” said the policeman. “You can go.”

The policeman was wondering whether

Charles Rowe could have murdered his wife just

to prove some incomprehensible theory when two

men came in holding a woman between them.

“Who is this?”

“We picked this treasure up in a bar, out by

where Carlson lives. He was on his game, since when

he heard her talking what seemed like nonsense,

he connected it up with this murder here.”

“I don‟t think I can stand to hear any more

nonsense.”

“Then you‟d better not hear her tell it. What it

looks like to us, plain and simple, is she was

taking up a hobby of blackmail.”

“Blackmail, eh?”

“She went ‟round to the house with some

story about Mr. Rowe being married to her out

somewhere or other and came away with a

pocketful of cash.”

“What call would she have to kill the wife

then? Unless the story was true.”

“Not likely, or else what‟s she doing hanging

out around here in a bar spending off the cash

she got?”

“Maybe that Professor killed his wife, anyway,

to keep her from leaving him.”

264


“No, we think it‟s this girl. See, Carlson put it

together with some other story — maybe you

should tell it, Carlson.”

“Right. It was like this, a man came to the

station one day with a complaint. This woman

had come to him, telling him that she was his

daughter and offering to tell his wife all about it.

Her story was that the man had gone on a business

trip and taken up with a lady, and that lady was

the girl‟s mother. He gives her some money, and

she goes away, and that‟s that, but then he

starts thinking the better of things. It was true

enough that he‟d been off on a trip about the

time she says, and that he slipped, as they say,

from his marriage vows a bit. But he didn‟t see

how anyone could have tracked him down after

all these years, as he hadn‟t given the woman his

name nor any information about himself. So he

begins to suspect that he‟s been taken. Well, he

thinks that‟s the end of it, and he‟s just been

swindled out of some cash, when he comes home

one day and finds that this woman is there with

his wife, and the two are at blows. In fact, this

little hellcat is beating on the poor wife and

shouting how she let herself be sadly fooled by

this man. The wife, you see, didn‟t believe the

girl, who had it in mind to break up the marriage

on top of taking the man‟s money. So there‟s the

265

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

pattern, as she‟s gotten money from this second

poor man, and then his wife came to violence.”

“Well, what do you have to say to that, miss?

What‟s her name by the way?”

“Winifred, plus whatever last name suits her

at the time.”

“What do you have to say for yourself, Winnie?”

“None of it‟s lies, if that‟s what you think.”

“So you‟re this one man‟s daughter and this

other man‟s wife?”

“No,” she said. “I mean they both did those

crimes to their wives, just as I said.”

“And you found out about it and decided to

get some money out of it for yourself.”

“They deserved anything they got, for what

they did to those women. I hear them in my

head, every day, begging me to put a stop to

these evil men. You‟re just like them, mister. An

upstanding citizen, upholding the law here. Isn‟t

there a woman you left with a baby inside her to

fend for herself, when you were just a kid? What

do you think became of her?”

The policeman stared at the woman.

“Crazy,” said Carlson, “completely off her

rocker, or trying to make out like she‟s crazy so

that she‟s not hanged. Although, judging from

her talk at that bar before she was caught, I vote

for true, blue nuts.”

266

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

“Well, lock her up. Whether she‟s nuts or not

isn‟t for us to decide.”

They put the girl in a jail cell, and she never

saw a free day in her life again, although she was

not hanged. She was not even tried. Instead, she

got a hold of a man‟s shaving razor somehow

that never was explained and killed herself. They

speculated that she had it on her the whole time,

and Carlson was reprimanded for not searching

her thoroughly. Her being a woman, though, and

him having shown great presence of mind in

connecting her with both crimes (blackmail and

murder), his reprimand was only a formality.

A young guard found her in the cell the next

morning, and there was blood all over the walls

and all over the floor. It seeped out of the cell

doors, at least part of the girl escaping, not able

to be held by metal bars. The boy who found her

was sick to his stomach at the sight. He had to

quit his job, because he couldn‟t stand looking at

a jail cell from that moment forward, and he

went on to become a carpenter of great local

reputation (as his father had been before him,

and always wanted him to be), whose cabinets

and chairs were in great demand.

This was one thing I saw in my mirror.

C HARLOTTE had a recurring dream after

her mother‟s death.

In the dream, she was walking on the sand by

a large lake, so large that the far shores were

invisible in the distance. The sand was white and

silky smooth, and her bare feet sunk into it with

a purely physical sensation of pleasure. The

sensual sand encompassed her foot as she

exerted the pressure of her body on it. As she

lifted her foot, the sand closed around the

footprint, erasing any memory of its passing. The

feeling of the sand sent a tingling shiver up her

leg as each of her feet in turn sank into it,

engulfed in its center, and then rose from it into

the open air.

Chapter Thirty: Dream Analysis

268


As she walked along the beach, her eyes were

focused downward, at the sand and her feet, and

their interminable motion of pleasure: sinking

into the sand, rising from the sand, sinking into

the sand, rising from the sand.

This perpetual motion of walking hypnotized

her, put her into a trance. She left her mind, and

so she never realized the transition between sand

and water. The comfortable feeling of the sand

was replaced by the sucking liquid of water,

parting freely against her foot and yet pushing

up with its own passive pressure as her weight

fell upon it.

She walked, now on liquid. At first, her foot

would reach the solidity of sand, still smooth and

flawless, below the shallow reach of water.

Gradually the sand receded, but her foot continued

to fall to the same depth. The water was

somehow thicker than water. As her foot made

its recurring journey into the depths, the water

condensed to honey and then to something

more, something solid beneath her, concocted for

the sole purpose of upholding her, levitating her

at the top layer of water. The water was dark and

deep. Perhaps there was motion barely visible

underneath the rising and falling of her feet, but

perhaps it was merely the reflection of Charlotte

herself on the water.

269

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Foot following foot, in her erotic dream state,

she walked out onto the water. She stopped, not

by her own will, but by the dictates of her body,

which moved in its own prescribed pattern. Now,

both feet planted beneath her in the water, the

liquid lapping at her ankles with a lush sensitivity,

she looked up from the ground for the first time.

The shores were distant around her. Her tracks

were invisible in this transient medium. Her

sight moved effortlessly in a full circle around

her, encompassing the fullness of the lake,

regardless of the constrictions of eyes or faces.

Beyond her in every direction, the lake

stretched effortlessly, motionlessly, smoothly,

serenely.

As she was lulled into a state of eternal calm,

a figure constructed itself at the farthest point of

the horizon.

Her gaze fixed in its direction. It existed

merely as a play of light and shadow above the

water in the ambiguous region of mist between

surf and sky. If the surroundings had been full of

movement, created of streets and shop windows,

horses and automobiles, the subtle form would

have been invisible. Only among the calm and

peace of the cold lake did this vision present

itself to the eye, to the attention of the mind.

Charlotte waited and watched as it drew

270


nearer. It gained form and figure from the mists

that surrounded it. Still one with the sky and

water, the apparition gained bulk and dimensionality.

As it grew in presence, moving ever towards

Charlotte over the smooth waters, it gained

detail. It became nameable.

After a wait of the interminability of dreams,

the figure hovered ethereally before Charlotte.

“Baby,” Charlotte named it, “I told you to go.”

“I can‟t go,” the figure said and didn‟t say.

“You can go. Just know that you can go.”

The figure hovered in silence.

“Go!” said Charlotte. The serenity of the lake

was shattered.

“No,” said the baby.

“You are unnatural here.”

“It does not matter.”

“Get on your way. You have nothing to do

with me.”

“I‟ve everything to do with you.”

“What do you want?”

“Want? Want? We all want.”

“Want what?”

“Anything that you can‟t give us.”

“Us?”

“I am I, and I am us.”

“I don‟t understand.”

“Why should you understand?”

271

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Who are you?”

“I am pain.”

Then the figure would move closer and closer

to Charlotte, as she stood unmoving in the dead

center of the lake. It was a natural change, the

figure engulfing and overtaking her, until the two

were joined and unified.

Then Charlotte awoke.

During the daylight hours, Charlotte‟s house

was filled with odd occurrences. The kitchen was

a particularly belabored room. Cabinet doors

would open and shut at their own whims. No one

could prepare a meal or pour a glass of milk

without being jostled mercilessly. Food that

should have been perfectly good was spoiled.

Flames on the stove were a dangerous thing, as

they exhibited a tendency to suddenly erupt into

blazes.

The rest of the house was not immune.

Montague was found chasing invisible entities

through doorways and down halls, until his

pursuit would dead-end in an empty room,

where he would moan and cry at the ceiling for

hours upon end. Stones that had laid unmoved

for years took it upon themselves to hurl across

the drive. Professor Rowe‟s books, which had

calmly behaved themselves in the normal manner

in the past, could not manage to stay on the

272


shelves. Although the professor found that the

random pages they opened to, as they fell to the

floor, were intriguingly useful, this habitual

untidiness was less than desirable.

Professor Rowe related these occurrences to

his daughter and felt that the best way to

combat them was through psychoanalysis.

“My dear,” he said, “you know quite a bit

about this process. I ask you to open yourself up

to it fully and not be constrained by any

preconceived notions.”

Charlotte told him of her recurring dream.

“Dreams,” he said, “are always important.”

They worked for many weeks on this particular

dream. Its unchanging nature and constant

recurrences were encouraging to Charles.

“Let us begin,” he would say, “at the beginning.

Describe again the shore.”

“It is an untouched beach,” she said.

“Yes?”

“A virgin shore.”

“Why is that?”

“No one has been there. No one has traveled there.”

“It is new ground.”

“Yes.”

“And you lay footprints upon it?”

“Not exactly. My footprints are swallowed up

by the sand.”

273

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Yes?”

“The sand won‟t accept my prints, it won‟t be

trampled on.”

“In fact, it resists the knowledge of mankind.”

“I suppose so.”

“You see that this is the mind of God, the

message of God, that refuses to be imprinted on

the mind of man.”

“Yes, I see.”

The analysis went on in this vein for some

time. Still, the dream remained the same, and

the house continued to be tormented.

And then, one night, the dream changed.

“Now,” it said, “you will know.”

“How will I know?”

“You and I, we are joined. You can feel it

already.”

“Yes.”

“Be still and listen.”

What I remember is vague and strange. I

came from a place where there was no real

understanding of those things that surrounded

me. There were colors, but I did not know the

word „color.‟ There were shapes, but I had no

concept of „shape.‟

What loomed large in my mind was a circular

thing. It was a face, or a breast, or both, or

274


neither. I only know that it attracted me, and

that when it was gone from me, I created an

uproar. My only recourse to the world, whenever

I needed or wanted, was noise. Only when I had

this circular shape near me, with me, was I

peaceful. Sometimes this shape seemed to be a

thing in the world. Sometimes it seemed to be

merely an extension of my own mind.

But everything in this time is confused. The

external world, the world of actual things that

existed around me, and the internal world,

that only existed within me, were inseparable.

I had no conception of myself as separate

from any physical reality, just as now I am

joined with all things. Now, I have a greater

understanding. During this time, all was

confusion. I cannot really tell you what it was

like. My hand did not seem to belong to my

body. My surroundings did not seem separated

from myself.

I never had time to untangle this jumble of

unimaginable issues. Before I could resolve my

situation, understand my self and others and the

space that we occupied, a time of agony came

upon me. I was unaware of anything, in one of

the frequent periods of oblivion that characterized

my state, when suddenly a feeling of pressure

and pain enveloped me. I remember a sweet

275

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

smell and an unrelenting darkness. A feeling of

panic developed in me. For the first time, I recall

feeling separated from my surroundings. “It” was

upon me, something separate from me, outside

of me, in the vast unknown was attacking me. I

was not ready for this separation of self from

other. Only the most rudimentary instinct of

preservation allowed me to realize the something

outside myself was my enemy. I have an impression

of darkness, darkness and a deep, red light. Red

from underneath, molten red that comes from an

angry, burning fire. The red that would forge

something hateful.

This struggle and anguish did not last long. I

sank into oblivion again, unaware that I had

undergone a deep and irreversible change.

If this oblivious, non-being state was like

sleep, then I dreamt. There were lights and colors

and shapes, incomprehensible things that even

now I don‟t have words for, things that cannot be

represented in three dimensions. Ideas, knowledge

flashed through me and within me. All of these

things were one with me. I can‟t really explain. I

was greater than myself, and there was peace in

the knowledge of the eternal cycle of all things. I

had no thought, only being.

As brutally as I was pulled into this state, I

was pulled out of it. I was dragged separate from

276


the universe, a drop of water falling from an

ocean. In a moment, I existed and I was

transformed.

Not only was I incorporeal, I found, but my

mind was fully grown, fully sensate. I understood

who I was, what I was, and what had happened.

Yet, my knowledge was useless to me. I was not

bound by a body, but I was confined behind a

screen. My ability to perceive the physical world

around me was limited. I could not communicate. I

was bound to my mother, tied to her and yet

separated from her.

I had gone from total connectedness to total

isolation in a single blow. I tried to make myself

known, but no conscious action of mine had any

effect. I did create changes in the world, waves

upon reality, but this was entirely unconscious. I

could not control it. These were the things,

though, that I perceived most clearly. I heard the

cries in the night, my own cries played back to

me. I smelled the scents of my former self. Each

of these effects was an echo, originating within

me and emanating back to me.

It was you who ripped me into this world, who

made me what I am. You reached into that other

place and pulled me out. I cannot return.

Now you‟ve separated me from the mother to

whom I was bound, but you have not freed me. I

277

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

am bound to you with a different bond. I am

your pain.

In 2005, it was reported that a scientist

conducted a memory experiment. This scientist

convinced a number of people, through suggestion,

that they had as children felt sick after eating

strawberry ice cream. This supposed memory

caused the people to be less inclined to eat

strawberry ice cream, at least at the moment.

I know this because I read about it. At least, I

believe I read about it. I have a memory of reading

about it. Not that false kind of memory like the

strawberry ice cream. This memory is real, and I

can prove it by finding the same article again.

Then I will have a second memory, a real memory

that reinforces the first one, not a strawberry ice

cream memory.

The journalists who wrote stories about the

strawberry ice cream memories wrote down things

that they remembered they saw and remembered they

were told. The scientist, assistants, and subjects

remember the experiment. They remember writing

descriptions of the experiment, generating

recordings of the experiment. All of their notes,

their collective recollections, their recordings, all

of these things are reinforcements for their

minds that what they remember is true. Truth

278


lies in reinforcing your memory with new

memories, driving home that this memory is

concrete and actual. The scientist and assistants

remember reading their own records, watching

their own recordings. They reinforce their brains,

create an impenetrable wall of interlocking

memories that indicate the truth.

Perhaps God is a student of memory, and all of

our neatly docketed and filed records of the past

are doctored in a complex conspiracy to make us

believe that we can create results by our actions.

When I remember a dream, it is a memory of

something that I know is false. It has no physical

reality. It is only in my mind: a shadow in a

mirror. Yet, the shadows in my mirror are truth.

As the great Professor says, all dreams are true.

The truth is just disguised.

My dream is all about me, the most important

(and only sure) thing in the universe, with no

intrusions from pesky reality. There are no

“objective” things in my dream, no things outside

of myself. There is no strawberry ice cream in my

dream. When I awake, the dream is only a

memory, but that does not matter. As I relate it, I

am aware of its inadequacies.

I did dream of the spirit of a baby, incessantly

and repetitively, in the weeks following my

mother‟s death.

279

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

My memories of these dreams are in bits and

pieces. I know that over the passage of time, I

have filled them in with things from my imagination,

logical deductions from no evidence. It doesn‟t

matter. The dream came from my mind. My mind

reconstructs it. The same source, the same

result. You always know the truth about your

dreams.

I remember an impression of red, like a light,

so bright that it hurts my eyes. Even when I

closed my eyes and turned away, the aching red

light persisted in piercing my eyelids. It imbedded

itself in my mind, in my cornea. Red is an angry

color, an energetic, moving, electric color. Red is

a violent color. That red was the most vivid color

I have ever seen. All other reds pale in comparison.

One snatch of conversation:

“What could I say? What could I do?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“She murdered me. Murder, murder, murder.”

That word. It echoed and rummaged around

in my subconscious. “Murder.” I can still hear it

now, when I close my eyes.

I had a dream that Montague was sitting on

my chest. He was moving his tail slowly and

steadily, hypnotically, like a snake. His eyes were

wide and bright as he stared at my face.

He opened his mouth and said, “Murder.”

280


“What?” I asked.

“Murder. Murder. Murder.”

He blinked his eyes at me, and began clawing

into my chest, making muffins with his paws.

Then I was awake, lying in bed, and Montague

was on my chest, making muffins with his paws.

“What?” I said again.

He cried at me, his cat cry. Mew.

I was standing alone in my room, looking at

myself in the mirror, brushing my hair. Behind

my shoulder in my ear, as clear as day I heard it:

Murder. I looked over my shoulder. The room

was empty. There was nothing in the air. I was

awake. I remember that was not a dream, not an

ice cream memory.

I was walking up a spiral staircase, surrounded

by walls. At the bottom of the wall, where it met

the stair, there was a crack. My eye followed the

crack as I wound my way up the staircase. In

some places, the crack was almost nonexistent.

In other places, it was wider, much wider, wide

enough to fall through. As much as I wanted to

look forward up the stairs, my eyes were drawn to

the crack at the bottom of the wall.

People were calling to me from above. I was in

a line of people who were moving up the stairs.

These were my ancestors. I was the last in the line.

I looked up from the crack.

281

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

In front of me, there was a thin old woman

with white hair. She turned around, casually,

and extended a bony hand toward me. I could

see the sinews in her arm, exaggerated through

the translucent white of her skin, which was

marred by the blue of her veins. Her fingers were

wedged together and distorted into a claw from

arthritis, but her fingernails had grown long and

razor-sharp. There was no concern on her face,

and she smiled at me. Her teeth were also

razor-sharp. They were small biting implements,

waiting only to get a grasp on something soft and

meaty.

“Murder,” she said.

The floor seemed to disappear from beneath

me. A vacuum grabbed me in its eternal arms. I

was falling. The woman, her arm still outstretched

to hold me, disappeared into the distance. The

staircase was swept away into some impossible

sky. The world appeared around me in a flood of

daylight. I was on a hill, outside, tumbling down

among weeds and grasses and dirt.

This is a dream. This is true.

I would wake up in the middle of the night,

with a panic in my chest, knowing that I had just

barely escaped death. On waking, I had no memory

of what I had seen or heard in my private

bedtime world. Flashes of a dream would come

282


to me during the day: a red and dripping wall, a

descending cloud becoming thick and hot and

hostile as it engulfs me, the smell of milk becoming

intensified hundreds of times over (as Montague

must smell milk) and creating a needful desire, the

taste of milk mixed with the iron taste of blood.

I found a piece of paper one day that I had

written on as a child: I hate you so much, can‟t

you understand that I needed to talk to you,

otherwise I wouldn‟t have been so horrible? I can

feel myself going insane. I feel enclosed, trapped.

I have been crying for no reason. I can‟t sleep, I

can‟t eat. I‟m not myself. I think there is something

wrong with me. Why can‟t I talk to you? You didn‟t

even hear me, God damn you. I want to set this

entire place on fire. A match to the papers, and sit

and watch it burn. Or jump out of the window and

leave it all behind me. I hate life. It is too

complicated, too heavy. I have become confused.

The sad part is that the world never ends. A

point of light at the end of the tunnel is another

soul. Fear is loneliness and loneliness is death.

Kill me, send your sword

Through my heart, pumping

Red blood and let me

Finally slip away and die,

Denying insignificance.

283

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

I love you, and I don‟t mean to hurt you, but I

hurt inside. Would you forgive me if I died? I am

wracked with guilt, the past haunts me, ghostly

chemicals in my brain, tearing away at my sanity.

The pen is mightier than the sword. I raise my

sword to the paper and stab myself. The blood

spurts on the page in gasps, and drowns. Leeches

carry away my illness by carrying away my

blood.

Are these my thoughts? Who are they to?

What do they mean?

Weeks stretched into months. Over time, I

came to believe in a story that I made up in my

head. It was not something that I dreamed. It

was not something that I remembered. It was not

something that I was told. It was something that

I saw in my mirror.

I T began with a young married man who

had two daughters. He was not a man with

great intellect or great talent. He was not a man

of any particular kind of greatness. He was

basically a normal man. He was a farmer by

profession. He worked with his hands. He was a

Christian man, and he went to church with his wife

and daughters every Sunday, as a family before

God. He had lived his life in the way he was

supposed to, and his neighbors would call him an

upright man. He would call himself an upright man.

He didn‟t think about things much. The land

was his livelihood. It gave him power. As a man,

by the will of God, he controlled the animals and

the growth of the plants. He generated food from

Chapter Thirty-One: Murder

286


the waste of soil.

When he was a boy, his father had power. His

father ran the farm and controlled the food. His

father owned the family and the land. Still, with

a little boy‟s memory, he could picture his father:

a big man, a towering shadow with the strength

to move mountains. His father‟s face was lost to

his memory. Somehow, he could never bring it to

mind. The image that floated in front of his

mind‟s eye was his father‟s hands.

They were rough and callused hands. Their

massive redness made them seem to pulse with

blood flowing through them. The father had a

habit of standing with his hands held out in

front of him when he talked. These hands would

hang in the air at the level of the father‟s thighs.

The fingers were broad and puffy. The wrists

were lean and insubstantial in comparison to the

hands, mere strings that held them. The square

palms protruded outward, angularly, bulging.

The calluses added a dimension of white

hardness to the hands, and a texture of constantly

peeling skin.

The fingers would slowly clench in upon these

hands, like a deep inhalation of breath, hold

their pose, and then release. In this relaxed

position, his father‟s fingers would tremble.

When watching his father‟s hands go through

287

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

this repetitive motion, the boy (now a man)

would be fascinated. In his memory, this action

was always accompanied by a vivid roar, a lion‟s

roar. Then, inevitably, it would end with a

snake‟s hiss, as his father disengaged the belt

from his waist.

Hsss. It flew out like a whip.

“What kind of a boy are you?”

Crack.

“You‟re not a man. You‟re not even a boy.”

Crack!

“I‟ve got cows with more guts than you, boy.”

CRACK!

“I‟ve got cats that work harder on this farm.”

Crack, crack, crack.

That was the world of a boy. He learned his lessons

this way. Discipline is what made you a man.

Once in a while, now that he was grown, the

man would look down while he was talking. He

would see his own hands hovering in front of his

thighs, clenching and unclenching. A strange

dislocation in time would happen to him then. It

wasn‟t that he was reminded of his father. There

was just a wave of dizzy unreality that would

come over him.

With a hiss, his own belt would fly out of its

place.

This man had no son, but he saw to it that

288


his wife and daughters lacked no discipline.

He was a good man. He loved his family. He

did what he thought was best for them. He was a

good provider. He was a moral man. He taught

his family to be upright before God.

His eldest daughter was still very young when

the odd thing happened.

It had been a bad day. There was some sort of

sickness affecting the livestock. It was not

something he had seen before. Six cows had

died, and three more were sick. He had to keep

them separate from the other animals. His time

with the cows was interfering with the crops, and

there was an early frost. Under the circumstances,

his wife was understandably irritating to him.

The potatoes at dinner were cold, and the roast

was dried out with overcooking. He wished the

woman would learn how to cook. Wasn‟t that the

point of a wife? All day, a headache was troubling

him. Even when it seemed to go away, he could

tell it was just waiting, back behind his temples,

waiting to come out.

His wife could tell that the man‟s temper was

boiling over this evening. She plead that she

needed to churn butter. Churning butter was a

never-ending task that conveniently took her

away for long periods of time. She disappeared

out the back of the house, taking the baby along

289

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

with her, as was her habit.

The man did not mind being left alone with

his oldest daughter. He loved his daughters. The

small one wasn‟t much yet, but the elder one

was big enough to be a miniature person. She

was like a magical wind-up toy, a miniaturized

woman to dance and smile for him. She was full

of life and vitality.

He loved to watch his daughters sleep. They

had the smoothest skin, the roundest faces. They

were completely lacking in self-consciousness.

This was true beauty, something that he did not

see in his wife anymore. She was getting wrinkles

in her skin, around the corners of her mouth, at

the corners of her eyes.

His daughters were tiny and delicate and

innocent and perfect.

His eldest daughter smiled at him, coyly

touching the waist of her dress with her hands,

wringing her skirt, as she told him something

incomprehensible about her experience of the day.

He felt an immediate and overwhelming desire

for her.

Only his child could bring him joy.

“Come, sit on Daddy‟s lap, honey,” he said.

It was just a thing that happened, something

that came over him. It was an oddity, an unusual

blending of circumstances.

290


He swore to himself afterward that it was just

that once.

It wouldn‟t happen again, not with his daughter.

After a while, his memory of remorse faded,

but his feelings and desires did not fade. Something

that you want cannot seem wrong. He loved his

daughter. He would never do anything to hurt

her. Just look at her. She‟s perfectly fine. She‟s

beautiful. There‟s nothing wrong with her. Nothing

has hurt her.

It didn‟t happen just that once.

The little girl repressed the memories of her

childhood experiences deep inside her unconscious

mind, where they settled uncomfortably just

below the surface, hiding out in a corner of her

brain that she wasn‟t using at the moment.

She was bright and cheerful and always

looking for her father‟s good attention. She

wanted to please him.

She was always looking for love.

Melissa had a doll. It had blue eyes and

blonde curled hair, and it wore a bright pink

checkered dress. Its lips were pink, and its

cheeks were pink.

She named this doll Nanette.

Nanette lived a happy and imaginary life in

291

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Melissa‟s room. Each day, Melissa would take

out the doll and play quietly on the bed, mouthing

to herself the words of another adventure. Each

day, another chapter of Nanette‟s story was told.

Nanette was an orphaned French girl. Her

parents had died in a tragic accident. They were

both drowned in the ocean on a boat, trying to

cross the Atlantic to bring Nanette to America.

Nanette survived but was left orphaned and

penniless in the big city of New York.

Poor Nanette was different from all of the

other girls in the orphanage. She had trouble

learning English, and her French accent made

her a laughing-stock for the other girls.

“You‟re so dumb you can‟t even speak,” they

told her. “Say „She sells sea shells by the sea

shore.‟ Say it!” They would roll with laughter at

her accent.

Young Nanette was beaten by unforgiving

nuns at the Catholic orphanage until her knuckles

were raw and bruised and bloody from the mark

of a ruler. When Nanette was sixteen, her fortune

changed.

Nanette was walking back to the orphanage

alone after being abandoned at a shop by her

fellow orphans. They were on an outing in the

city, and the other girls decided that Nanette was

disturbing their fun. They snuck out of a shop

292


while Nanette was looking at a dress she could

not possibly afford.

As she walked down the dark and dirty

streets, a violent criminal cornered and attacked

her. Luckily for Nanette, the son of a millionaire

industrialist was walking by at the time. He

witnessed the attack and valiantly fought off the

attacker. After saving Nanette, the boy instantly

fell in love with her.

He took the nearly starved girl to a restaurant,

where he bought her the best foods and the most

sumptuous desserts. He heard her sad story and

vowed that she would never go back to the

orphanage again. He swept her off of her feet and

brought her to live in his huge mansion. He gave

her love, devotion, clothes, food, and maids.

Nanette rose beyond all of her hardships

through the power of love.

Melissa thought that the power of love would

save her also.

But she knew the story about Nanette was a

lie.

Melissa married a man who loved her. He was

a farmer, like her father.

Melissa believed that she loved her husband

and that they would live happily ever after

together.

293

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She got pregnant.

She had a child.

The child was a girl.

The girl had no name.

It was two forty-eight in the morning.

Melissa‟s eyes popped open, and she was very

awake. She thought that she had heard the baby

crying, but she hadn‟t. It was only a dream. The

sound still echoed in her memory.

She got up out of the bed. The floor was cold

beneath her feet. John was sound asleep in the

bed. He was snoring gently.

Melissa shuffled along the cold floor to the

bedroom door and walked into the hallway.

In a way, she savored the feeling of the floor

on the balls of her feet and her toes.

She pulled back the curtain where the nursery

door was supposed to go.

There, lying asleep in her crib, was Melissa‟s

daughter.

The mother stood there, looking at the peaceful,

sleeping child. She would need to wake the baby

for her feeding, but she did not want to.

Instead, Melissa pondered baby names in her

head.

Mary? It made her think of Christmas, not a

real name for a real person.

294


Agatha? No, people would call her “Aggie.”

Sylvia? It sounded too smooth on the tongue,

like oil.

Angela? Her father called her “Angel,” but

Melissa just didn‟t like the name.

Dorothy? The first syllable was too hard, like

“door.”

The name Nanette popped into her head, and

all at once Melissa remembered the story of

Nanette from her girlhood.

“Nanette?” she asked the baby. “Are you

Nanette?”

The thought was followed by a burst of anger.

Nanette was an orphan. Her parents were dead.

Melissa was overcome with the idea that the

baby wanted her to die, to be out of its life

forever, even if that meant poverty and cruel

companions in an orphanage.

“Children hate their parents,” she thought,

and this thought opened up another floodgate of

memory.

She remembered her father in every small

detail, a very big father from when she was very

small.

She remembered the metal clink as his belt

unbuckled with the finality of a jail cell clanging

shut.

She remembered thinking: This is not my

295

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

father. This is not a human being.

The belt slithered slowly out of its place, not

zooming out in anger for a whipping but sensually,

quietly, uncertainly, tentatively sneaking out for

a different kind of attack.

“Come sit on Daddy‟s lap, honey.”

His massive, red, callused hands sat on her

tiny, smooth arms.

She imagined that a hunter came with a great

knife and stabbed her father over and over and

over. Blood spewed over the walls and seeped out

onto the ground, making it a red room. She

could see it. She would concentrate all of her

mental powers on the slowly spreading pool of

red, staining and coloring everything in crimson

tones.

No hunter came.

She loved her father.

Her father loved her.

She stood over the crib and looked down at

her baby. It was tiny and soft and defenseless. It

was a mirror. She was looking back in time. She

grew a tumor in her belly, and when they

extracted it, they found that the tumor was her.

There was her soul, lying unaware in its crib.

For the first time, Melissa saw the similarities

between her husband and her father. They both

had large, callused hands. They both had sturdy,

296


weathered faces and square jaws. They both gave

her the same feeling when they touched her, a

mixture of nausea and pleasure and guilt.

Time had rewound. Tick-tick-tick. It was

reenacting itself, reinventing itself.

Melissa looked down on herself with pity and

remorse.

Better never born.

Better dead inside the womb, a black womb

feeding only poison.

Here was this child, nestled comfortably in a

blanket. The blanket was a surrogate parent,

providing warmth and softness. How easily it

could turn on such a vulnerable creature. Even

the blanket could be an enemy.

Melissa took up the blanket and placed it over

the small face. Her hand covered the other side

of the blanket, completely engulfing the small

face, holding the small head in place, stifling any

cries.

This was the end.

She seemed to stand there forever, with the

small being under her palm.

Then, she realized that everything had been

still and silent for a long time.

Melissa released her hand. All continued still

and silent. She tucked the blanket gently around

the baby, lying so peaceful.

297

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Sleep well, honey,” she said.

She went back to bed.

In the morning, she did not remember what

had happened.

Sometimes the memory would come back to

her, and she would think that it might be a

dream. At other times, she would remember it

differently, like this:

Melissa woke up at two forty-eight in the

morning. The baby was crying. It was loud and

obnoxious and demanding.

She picked the baby up in order to silence it.

It wanted to eat, with its greedy mouth. She held

it to her breast, allowing it to feed, and its

screeching stopped.

This ugly, needing, desiring baby. A baby was

nothing more than a leech. It lived in your stomach

and sucked its life out of you from the inside. It

tried to kill you as it worked its way out of you. It

pulled you open, like cracking a nut, to escape

from you. Then, out in the world, it continued to

feed off of you. It drank from your breast, and it

expected you to be its slave. It took and took and

continued to take.

There was a tiny crack in the wooden railing

of the crib. She had never noticed it before. It ran

almost the full length of the rail, but its width

298


was less than the width of a hair. If she pulled it,

Melissa thought that she could crack the rail in

two halves with her bare hands.

Melissa was strong. She had always been

strong. She was the center of the universe, and

yet this infant was sapping her power. It was the

baby that her husband would run to comfort. It

was the baby her mother fussed over. The two of

them would talk about it over their dinners. This

thing, that did nothing but cry and vomit and eat

and piss itself. It was stealing all of her love from

her. All love centered around Melissa. All love

must be for Melissa. The infant had no name. It

deserved no name.

It was quiet now. It was satiated for the

moment, but its appetites would only grow as

time went on. It would feed off of her until she

dried up. It would take away her husband‟s love.

It would expect everything in return for being.

She lay the thing down in its crib. She pulled

the blanket up on top of the small squirming

form. She pulled the blanket up over its head, up

over its eyes and nose and mouth. With this

blanket, she could cover it, blot it out, make it go

away. She pressed with her own hand, covering

its misshapen head, its tedious crying mouth, its

running nose. She pushed it down so that it

sank into the cushions beneath it. The baby

299

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

sank and settled, nestled between the soft

cushion and the soft blanket.

“Shut up,” she whispered. “Shut up, shut up,

shut up.”

Sometimes Melissa thought that, while this

was happening, John woke from his deep sleep

and came into the hallway. Sometimes she

believed that he had stood there and watched

her, her palm cupped over the baby‟s face until it

stopped moving, until it stopped breathing, and

long afterwards as it lay dead beneath her

weight. He couldn‟t have been there, though.

When she turned to the room, it was empty.

I saw it all in my mirror, so it all is true.

Charlotte didn‟t have an instance of blood in

the month after her mother‟s death. She was

grateful to skip it. She was feeling sick, nauseated

and aching. Everyone was kind to her, because

her mother had died and because she was still

recovering from her illness. Her head was fuzzy,

and she felt like sleeping all the time.

On the day of blood, Charlotte woke. It was

the middle of the afternoon, but time had ceased

to have real meaning for her. The sun came in

through the window, and a sharp pain cracked

her temple.

There was a pain in her abdomen, too, a deep

300

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

red pain. This was stronger and worse than any

she remembered. She tried to get up from the

bed, but she couldn‟t.

Across the room, Charlotte saw a girl in the

mirror.

“Help me,” said Charlotte.

The girl in the mirror shook her head and

walked away. The mirror turned red.

Charlotte looked down at the blanket. A red

stain was spreading out from her middle. She lay

in a haze, as the stain expanded outward, too

slowly to be seen by the naked eye. Charlotte‟s

eye was not naked. It saw the past and the present.

It saw the seeping of the blood, starting from

nothing, and gradually, incessantly pooling

across the sheets, weeping.

In the blood, there was a clump of something.

It was a slimy, red, angry, unknowable something.

In the blood, there was something soft and

squalid, something that should have been,

something that shouldn‟t have been. It was

trapped between being and non-being. It was not

liquid. It was not solid. It was not alive. It was

not dead.

Everything was red.

A FTER the day of blood, visions came to

me almost continuously. My mirror was

filled with overlapping stories and conjoined

threads of others‟ lives. I saw the pattern that is

the world, a complex but circular pattern that

moves through time and through space. I saw…

It was two years after his daughter‟s death

before John Peacock saw her face again. It was

beautiful, angelic, and glowing, a face that

showed the peace and understanding that his

Angel had achieved in the next world. In the

pitch-black room, her face jumped out from the

darkness with a burst of light so bright that it

hurt his eyes. It seemed that the darker the room

was, the more willing the spirits were to appear.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Murder, Murder,

Murder

302


In the darkness, he had seen hands and trumpets.

In the nothingness, he had witnessed disconcerting

ectoplasm rise from Augustine‟s lips and hair, or

from a table, or from some supernatural apparition.

He had seen amazing things in the past two

years. The world of the spirits gave meaning to

the material plane in a way the uninitiated could

not understand. The communications with his

daughter were an addiction. His Angel was his

personal, private daughter. He did not need to

share her with anyone, not Magdalene or

Melissa. He did not want Melissa to come to the

sittings. He knew, uneasily, that his behavior

was selfish, but he told himself that Melissa

would object, would not believe, would interfere

with the open line of spirit communication.

John savored every word from his daughter.

Sometimes her words were written on a chalkboard

or paper. Sometimes they were spoken in a

trance. Usually they were spelled out with the

table. Though sometimes slow and frustrating,

the table was the surest way to connect with his

dear daughter.

The table was like corresponding with a friend

in some far away country by telegraph. All

thoughts passed through a machine in an awkward

code, from a remote location. It emphasized the

distance that separated them.

303

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

John Peacock sat opposite Augustine. It was a

familiar feeling, a comfortable and hopeful feeling.

They sat in the dark at the table. John waited for

the inevitable lurch that would signal the beginning

of contact.

It always began the same way: first there was

a dramatic lurch. Then, there was silence for a

minute or two. After that, the table would begin

rocking steadily, rhythmically.

Finally, it began. The table pitched.

Augustine‟s eyes opened, and her glance flew

to John.

“What is it?” asked John.

“There‟s something — different,” Augustine

said.

Almost immediately, the table began rocking

uncontrollably.

“What‟s happening?” The movement stopped.

“John,” said Augustine sharply, “are you —

interfering in any way with our communication?”

“Me?” asked John.

“Sometimes, unconsciously, there is interference

from a sitter. John — has anything happened to

you in the last week? Anything that has made

you wonder or doubt about our work?”

John looked at her, dumbfounded. “No,” he

said.

Augustine blinked.

304


“Perhaps we should put off our sitting until

another time.”

“No,” said John. “Why? Can‟t we try another way?”

Augustine had risen from the table and was

lighting an oil lamp that sat on a dresser. John

rose also and went over to her.

She looked at him critically.

“I don‟t know,” she said.

“Please,” he said. “I need to talk with her.”

Augustine paused, considering.

Then the table began to move, smoothly,

rhythmically.

Augustine‟s eyes opened wide. “My God.”

John sat down in a chair. “Angel? Is that you,

Angel?”

A clear yes.

“Don‟t listen,” said Augustine. “It‟s a trick.”

“No,” said John. “It‟s my baby. It‟s spelling

something.”

Slowly but smoothly and unmistakably, the

table spelled out its message: M-U-R-D-E-R.

Augustine gasped and lowered herself in a

chair.

“What does it mean?” asked John. “What does

it mean?”

The table continued to move.

M-U-R-D-E-R. M-U-R-D-E-R.

“It‟s an unclean spirit,” said Augustine. “We

305

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

have attracted an unfriendly spirit. It is blocking

communication. It would say anything. It only

lies.”

She got up again and was moving to the door.

The table flew up off of the floor and smashed

into the chair behind her. The furniture fell to

ruins with a crash.

Augustine screamed.

“We need to get out of here.” Augustine

reached for the door and pulled on the knob, but

it didn‟t open.

John jumped up and joined her at the door.

The curtain in the corner of the room flew

open, and a great stream of smoke spewed from

it. The mirror on the far wall began to crack.

John applied his muscle to the door, steadying

himself against the jamb with his foot and

pulling at the knob.

“Is it locked?”

“There is no lock.”

The mirror crackled and crushed itself, making

a spider web pattern that spelled out:

M-U-R-D-E-R.

John took out his knife and began to pry the

hinges off of the door. The nails were easily

pulled out of the wood. The hinges popped out of

their seats. The door stood fast. John pulled at it

and shoved against it with his shoulder. The

306


door groaned against his weight but did not

budge.

“Augustine,” he said, “call on the spirit guides

for help.”

Augustine was shaking her head. She was sitting

on the floor by the door.

“This isn‟t happening,” she chanted. “It isn‟t

true.”

“Augustine.” He grabbed her by the shoulder

and shook her. “Come to. Augustine.” She didn‟t

respond. She shook her head.

“This isn‟t happening. It isn‟t true.”

John walked to the center of the room.

“Angel,” he said. “My baby. Help us. I know

that you‟re here. I know you can hear me. It‟s

Papa. It‟s Papa.”

The objects in the room were beginning to

dance and move. A vase flew by his head and

crashed on the wall behind him.

“Angel,” he said. “Baby.”

Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

Augustine seemed to recover herself. She got

up from the ground and came over to him.

“We have to get out,” she said.

“Angel,” he called to the air.

She went to the door and pulled at the latch

again. She walked through the ravaging curtains. A

swift wind was blowing through the room. Her

307

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

hair whipped around wildly, stinging her eyes.

She banged blindly on the windowpane.

Her hands were icy.

The wind was cold.

A frost was forming on the windowpane.

The tips of her fingers were blue.

“No,” she said, and her breath came out in a

puff of frost that was whisked away by the roaring

wind.

She went back to John. He was sitting on the

floor now, murmuring: “Angel, Angel, Angel.”

There was a cut on his temple, and a little

porcelain figurine of a child on a swing lay broken

in his hands. He was turning it over and over in

his fingers. “Angel, Angel.”

“John,” Augustine said. “You have to help me.

Help me break the window.”

He looked up at her, lost.

“Listen,” she said. “Listen. I know this is

crazy. Just ignore it. Don‟t think about it. Just

break the window. Just think about breaking the

window.”

“Angel, Angel.”

“Okay,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”

Her hand was on his shoulder. Her hand was

cold. His shoulder was cold. The air in the room

was getting colder.

“It‟s all a trick,” she said. “It‟s all a show,” she

308


said. “Every time we used the table,” she said, “I

was moving it. Until tonight.”

“Get up,” she said. “I can‟t deal with this,” she

said. “The face was molded from wax,” she said.

“The hands were molded from wax.”

“Help me break the window,” she said. “I‟m

sorry,” she said. “I‟m sorry, but it doesn‟t matter

now,” she said. “I used wires to move the curtains. I

used wires. I used my feet. I used my legs. I have

an assistant who comes sometimes. I am never

really in a trance,” she said. “I‟m sorry,” she said.

“Put it all behind you now,” she said. “Angel cannot

help us,” she said.

Her explanations and her pleas were coming

to John in bits and pieces, breaking through the

ice that had formed on his brain.

“You,” he said, looking up at her.

The wind was beginning to die down.

The room was beginning to settle.

The air was beginning to get warmer.

He stood up from the floor and stared at her.

“You,” he said. “What did you do? What did

you do?”

“John,” she said. “We have to get out of here.

We have to think about getting out of here.”

When he stood, he towered over her. The

temperature of the room rose. The frost on the

window dripped to the floor in warm droplets.

309

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

John stepped toward her, and Augustine

stepped back.

She stumbled over the broken furniture that

lay on the floor.

“I‟m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry?” his voice was unnaturally high, oddly

shrill. “Sorry?”

He stepped forward, and she stepped back. In

this dance, they covered the few feet to the edge

of the room. Her back stopped against the broken

mirror on the wall.

M-U-R-D-E-R it said, in jagged edges.

The glass was hot against her skin. The glass

was burning.

Sweat was pouring down his forehead.

The wind began again, a hot wind.

“You,” he said.

His hands were around her throat. His fingers

burned into her neck. She could not scream. She

scratched against his fingers with her long, polished

nails. She tried to pry his fingers off of her neck.

A lamp smashed into the wall by her head.

The window cracked and burst in a spray of glass.

She looked at the open exit desperately. She

could not loosen his grip. She could not move.

She could not breathe.

The oil lamp that she had lit tipped over. The

curtains burst into flame.

310


The air was thick and sizzling. Her eyes

burned. Her throat burned.

John Peacock‟s eyes were black and blank as

a shark‟s.

“I‟m sorry,” Augustine thought, “sorry, sorry,

sorry.”

She passed out.

When the roaring in his ears finally stopped,

John stood in front of the mirror. On the floor at

his feet, all crumpled in a pile, was Augustine‟s

body. Her eyes were open and staring and blank.

He looked in the mirror, and his eyes were like

hers. He looked dead, wasted, spent, abandoned.

The room seemed still and motionless.

Everything seemed silent.

Clouds of smoke licked his hair and neck. He

could not feel them entering his lungs, depositing

soot in his nose and eyes. He could not feel

anything. He was completely numb.

He stared at the mirror. He did not move. He

did not try to leave.

In the glass, he saw behind him in the smoke

and flame a small, glowing figure.

It was hard to see, vague and uneasy, but there

was something. There was a small, red glow.

“Angel?” he asked. The glow grew bigger,

expanding. He was afraid to look away from the

311

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

reflection. He was afraid that he would turn, and

the light would be gone.

“My Angel,” he said.

In the light, he saw a glowing face. He knew

when he saw it that the other face had been

false, a deception.

This face was not static. It was moving and

changing. He saw in it the aspect of his own face.

He saw in it Melissa‟s face, her eyes, her brow,

the little twist of the mouth. It was a real face, a

face with energy and passion and pain.

“Angel,” he said again.

The figure came toward him, until it was

hovering inside him, occupying his face and

hands. In the mirror, his image shifted and

changed and reformed.

There were no words.

There was an overwhelming hurt and pain

and anger. Everything in the room changed,

glowing a deep, bright red.

Something broke in his head.

A drop of blood came spilling from his nostril.

His body toppled to the floor.

When they found him, he was burned past

recognition.

Two weeks before her death, Augustine had

agreed to host a séance for a visitor from the

312


East Coast. He had purported to be writing a

book about “the wonderful work that mediums

are doing across the country.” He had, he told

her, a friend in Los Angeles who was hoping to

contact his wife. Could she see them? He would

be documenting the case for his book.

Augustine was quite pleased. She met with

the two men, and they seemed completely

genuine and anxious for a successful sitting.

She should have been on her guard,

Augustine saw later. She should have gone into a

trance, used sprawled automatic writing to

generate non-substantiatable messages. She

had wanted to make a good show for the book,

though. She had classed these two as believers.

She had been mistaken.

The whole event was a fiasco. At the worst

possible moment, the sitters filled the room with

light, exposing strings and revealing the material

nature of a rather complex apparition she had

devised.

She ordered the two out of the house, but

they snapped a photograph of her contraption

before they left. They got an article into the local

newspaper: MEDIUM EXPOSED AS FRAUD. The

photograph was not very good, but it was damaging.

How well she knew how many would believe in

any fuzzy photograph.

313

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Half of her clients had stopped coming, and

although she had convinced the remaining ones

that these two men (called “investigators” by the

local journalists) were con men and cheats looking

to make some money by ruining her, she had

temporarily stopped using any elements open to

potential exposure.

After the fire, after Augustine‟s death,

authorities reconstructed the events.

John Peacock, who had been deceived by this

false medium, had read about her exposure in

the paper. This was highly likely. The whole town

was talking about it. They couldn‟t discover that

he had said anything to anyone, but he might

not want to look a fool. His wife didn‟t know he

had been to the medium.

John had attended a séance to see for himself

whether he had been tricked, they surmised. He

caught her in some stunt and became enraged. A

struggle followed. He shattered the mirror and

threw furniture around the room. It ended in

him strangling the fake psychic. The doctor said

she was dead before the fire got to her.

“Can‟t blame him for that,” said the police

detective at the inquest. “Her taking advantage

of this grief the way she did.”

“I‟ll warn you to keep your opinions to yourself,”

said the coroner, who agreed with him.

314

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

“Yes, sir,” said the detective.

In the struggle, the police said, a kerosene

lamp was knocked over.

“Weren‟t these séances typically conducted in

the dark?” asked the coroner.

“We think maybe he lit the lamp to expose the

tricks,” said the detective.

“Ah. Go ahead,” said the coroner.

The kerosene lamp had lit the place on fire,

and John Peacock had died in that fire. It was

simple and straightforward, and there was nothing

known to the contrary. That must have been

what happened.

The official ruling was that John Peacock had

died by accident in the commission of felony

murder in the second degree, with extenuating

circumstances. Since everyone involved was

dead, there was nothing more to say.

Melissa Peacock received a large life insurance

settlement on her husband.

Supporters of Augustine protested the bias

and pigheadedness of the inquest and the

authorities generally.

C HARLOTTE lay awake in her bed. She

tried to let her thoughts drift off and

take her away to sleep, but they would not. She

hadn‟t slept well since her mother‟s death. It had

been five years, but she still did not sleep well.

There was a presence with her all the time.

Montague was sleeping. He always slept in

her bedroom.

Charlotte petted him. He did not wake up, but

he began to dream. His soft little paws began to

jitter and dance. His whiskers and mouth began

to twitch. His tail swatted the air.

“What are you dreaming, Montague?” Charlotte

asked.

Chapter Thirty-Three:

Montague Dreams

316


There was the smell of milk. This smell was

strange. You or I would not recognize it as milk,

but it was milk. It had no sweetness. The brain

that smelled it did not understand sweetness,

but it understood milk. It was a cat‟s brain.

The cat followed the smell of milk. There were

two smells that could excite the cat above all

others: milk and blood.

It chased the smell of milk and found that it

was running through a huge field. Large grasses

rose over its head, up into the sky, providing

cover. Dewdrops formed on the blades of grass,

but the cat did not mind the water. It was a

hunter in the field. It could smell milk. It saw

movement through the grass, half-hidden,

disappearing. This excited the cat. Its tail

twitched. It crouched on the ground. Its bottom

rose into the air. Its fur became a sensory organ.

Its body tensed, finding its perfect balance. It

eyed the greenery in front of it, watching for the

movement — watching for the prey.

The cat hovered there for a long moment. All

of its senses were at their height, waiting for the

perfect moment to spring.

The cat was a machine that was designed to

hunt. This was its purpose. It was a vicious animal,

a noble hunter.

It purred, unaware that it was purring.

317

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Its eyes caught the swift movement. Its nose

caught the strong whiff of the scent it had followed.

Its ears rotated toward the sound of grasses

moving, of feet shuffling. Its mouth watered.

It pounced. The grasses parted in front of the

cat, and its sleek body flew through the air. Its

claws were extended. Its teeth were white

flashes.

When the cat landed, it hit its mark.

The thing it fell upon, its unnamed prey, was

strange and thrilling. It was cold and soft. It

parted before the cat‟s claws and insinuated

itself in between the cat‟s toes. The prey did not

squeal or squeak. It was large. It was all around

the cat. It made the cat excitedly jump in the air

and then land again, in the cold, soft, slippery

prey.

In the way of dreams, the prey became the

cat‟s environment. The grass, the field, and the

dew were gone. Everything was cold and white

and creamy.

The cat bit at the stuff. The taste made the

cat wild with excitement. This stuff was like milk

and yet unlike milk. It was cold and smooth and

soft. The cat licked its paws, but soon they

became wet and sticky. The cat extended its

claws. It yowled. It dug into the slippery coldness

that surrounded it.

318


Within the cold, frothy, milky stuff, the cat

dug into a solid meaty thing. All of its cat

instincts were aroused. This new prey, a meaty

prey, was hiding in the other stuff. The cat‟s

claws dug into the meaty thing, tearing skin and

releasing blood. The cat‟s nose twitched. Its

mouth was open to absorb the scents that

assaulted it. Here was milk. Here was blood. The

cat dissolved into a frenzy.

Then, there was a light. It was a small, round,

wispy light that appeared in the air. It danced

around the cat, teasing it, tantalizing it. The cat

chased after the light, jumping into the air with

amazing feats of acrobatics.

The surroundings were changing again. The

cat was on flat, barren ground. The light moved

quickly and randomly through the air above. The

cat jumped higher and higher. Its fur was sticky

and matted with a mixture of blood and cream.

“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.” The noise seemed to

come from the light, further enthralling the cat.

“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”

Everything was stimulating. Everything was

exciting.

The cat jumped and twirled.

The light flashed in the sky above.

The light twirled and giggled.

“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”

319

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

With one unearthly effort, the cat jumped

with deadly accuracy. At last, its paw hit a solid

mass. The light fell to the ground. It stopped. It

lay on the ground. It was still.

The cat stopped. It looked at the light, the

silent red light that lay on the ground.

Tentatively, the cat reached out with its paw.

It gave the light a gentle little tap.

The light expanded and opened out. The light

opened its mouth. The light was giant and angry.

The light had teeth. The light swallowed the cat

and ate it.

The cat screamed.

Beyond the mouth of the light, there was pain

and fear, but then all of that cleared away.

The cat experienced a moment of clarity.

It knew that it was a cat. It lived in a gray

stone house that was built by a madman to

attract the energy of madness. It was a predator

and was meant to hunt. It had been domesticated

to live with men. Instead of being preyed upon, it

was petted and fed. Instead of preying, it played

with a string.

The cat, understanding all of this, was filled

with anger.

It woke.

Charlotte was petting the sleeping cat.

320


Montague jumped up from the bed and began

dancing around.

“Montague,” said Charlotte, “are you okay?”

The cat did not seem to hear her or know that

she was there. He ran around the room. He

bounded up the walls. He rushed out the door.

Charlotte followed. Montague raced down the

stairs and went to the kitchen. He danced

around the kitchen floor and finally stopped still

in front of the icebox.

Charlotte stood at the kitchen door and

watched.

Montague clawed at the air in front of the

icebox door.

Charlotte walked up and opened the door.

The cat jumped up and knocked down a

container of ice cream. Montague jumped into it,

ripping and tearing. He got ice cream on his

head, on his fur, on his paws. He yowled and

screeched. Ice cream droplets sprayed all over

the kitchen.

Suddenly, the cat stopped. He stood, bedraggled

in the middle of the container of ice cream. His

tail twitched. He looked at the air. Then, he began

to jump. He jumped higher and higher. He fell in

the ice cream, skidded across the kitchen floor,

and stopped.

“Montague?” asked Charlotte.

321

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She walked to where the cat lay, in one corner

of the room. She kneeled down to look at him. He

was on his side, breathing peacefully. His paws

were twitching. It seemed as though he had

never woken up, as if he were still dreaming.

Charlotte reached out and petted him. Her hand

came away sticky with ice cream and loose fur.

As she tried to wipe the sticky residue away,

she clearly heard a voice behind her.

“I am murdered.”

The cat jumped up. Charlotte turned around.

There was no one in the kitchen.

Montague ran out of the room and out of the

house.

Charlotte never saw the cat again.

M AGDELENE felt old. She had settled

into a life alone with Melissa. They had

sold off most of their land. They lived off of the

money they had saved and the insurance money.

Melissa handled all of the finances. Magdalene

took care of the house and fixed the meals. She

was Melissa‟s mother.

John had died years ago. Since then, they had

been two women alone, mother and daughter.

Melissa was as full of life and fire as she had

ever been. Somehow, as time went by, Magdalene

ceased to be herself and faded into the backdrop

of Melissa‟s life. Magdalene wasn‟t sure where

her life had gone. Her husband had died. Her

younger daughter had died. Her parents had

Chapter Thirty-Four:

Magdalene, Mother

324


died. Her granddaughter had died. Her son-in-

law had died. She and Melissa were an island in

time, disconnected from the past and from the

future. Somewhere in all of that death, Magdalene

had died. She went through the motions, but her

life was reduced to its minimum possibilities.

Magdalene was fast asleep at two forty-seven

in the morning. Dead to the world, she was not

even dreaming.

A cry awoke her at two forty-eight, a baby‟s cry.

Magdalene opened her eyes and lay in the bed.

A baby was crying.

She felt her body in the bed. She felt her toes

under the weight of the blanket. She felt her own

breath, in and out, in and out. She felt her heart

beating, regularly, rhythmically. Her body was

repetitively performing the necessities of life, the

realities of living.

Magdalene thought that she was dreaming,

but it did not feel like a dream. She did not

dream much anymore, and her dreams were not

vivid. They had faded away with everything else.

The longer that she lay in bed, listening to the

crying, the more she realized that she was not

asleep.

She rose out of the bed and wrapped a robe

around her shoulders. Once she was standing,

shivering in her nightclothes, Magdalene‟s eyes

325

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

did not seem to want to stay open. Her lids were

heavy. Her body seemed slow to react to her

mind‟s whims. She realized that she had been

standing in her bedroom for too long. She didn‟t

know how much time had passed, but the crying

had stopped.

“How long has it been quiet?” she thought.

Then she wondered, “Was there really a

sound? Did I really hear crying? Or was I just

dreaming after all?”

She stood for another moment, wondering

why she didn‟t just go back to bed.

Then her feet started shuffling forward. She

walked out of the room and down the hallway.

The curtain still hung there, in front of the

baby‟s room, now a closet. It seemed that the

curtain had hung there forever.

“Why did we never take down this curtain?”

she said to herself.

She stood in front of it. The house was silent,

except for the rhythmic, perpetual beating of her

heart.

Magdalene reached out and touched the fabric

of the curtain. It felt soft and worn between her

fingers. This cubby stored linens now.

She whisked the curtain aside.

There was Melissa bending over the crib that

was no longer there.

326


At first, Magdalene thought: “Oh, it‟s just

Melissa.” The sight was so familiar, so recognizable.

But time had passed. There was no crib here

anymore. There was no baby here anymore.

Melissa was not this young woman anymore.

The young Melissa was holding something,

pressing down in the crib. She was pushing her

hands down on a baby, wrapped in blankets.

She was smothering it. She was murdering it.

“Melissa,” said her mother, suddenly frightened.

“I‟m dreaming,” she thought to herself at the

same time. “Wake up.”

The Melissa who bent over the crib turned

around. She held the infant in her arms. It was

swathed in its blanket, a miniature wraith, and

Melissa‟s hand covered the baby‟s face.

“You!” said Melissa. “You, Mother? You,

Mother? What are you doing here?”

“The baby—” Magdalene gurgled.

“Are you trying to interfere? Are you here to

help save my baby? You have no right to interfere.

Where were you when I was a baby, Mother?

Where were you when I needed someone to protect

me? Churning butter? Churning butter on the

back porch? Turn the handle on the butter

churn, Mother! Turn the handle! You should

have held a pillow over my face. Why didn‟t you?

Why didn‟t you?”

327

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“But — Melissa —”

“B-b-b-but, sh-sh-she st-st-stuttered.”

“M-m-m-melissa,” Magdalene said.

She had forgotten that she had stuttered as a

girl. She hadn‟t stuttered since she was twelve.

“P-p-p-please,” she said. “Wake up,” she

thought to herself.

“You knew what was going on,” shouted

Melissa. “You saw what was going on. You went

and ch-ch-ch-churned b-b-b-butter.”

“What is it? Wh-what did I d-d-d-do?” her own

voice sounded slurred and far away, but as the

words rolled out of her mouth, she knew what

Melissa was saying.

“I protected my daughter,” shouted Melissa,

gesturing with the immobile form she held in her

hand. “I protected her! You never protected me.

You killed me. I‟m not the killer! You‟re the killer,

Mother.”

“N-n-no,” said Magdalene. She tried to step

backward, but her right leg wasn‟t working. Her

right arm wouldn‟t move.

She fell on the floor. Melissa stood over her,

shouting.

“Come sit on Daddy‟s lap, honey! Come sit on

Daddy‟s lap, baby!” The baby blanket dangled in

Magdalene‟s hair. It tickled the right side of her

face. She felt numb.

328


“N-n-no,” she repeated.

She leaned over and vomited on the floor.

Her head hit the cold, hard wood of the floor.

She saw the dangling baby blanket passing in

front of her eyes. The world was blue and fuzzy.

She smelled the rich smell of new butter, milk

changing, milk fat turning into butter.

She heard the baby crying again.

“Angel?” she said. “Angel?”

The blue blanket lifted from Magdalene‟s face,

and there were Melissa‟s feet in front of her on

the floor.

“Mother, how could you?”

Magdalene stared at the feet, unable to move

or speak.

“Mother! Mother! Mother!” she heard.

“Mother? Mother? Mother, are you okay?”

Melissa was bending down over her. Melissa

was picking her up.

When Melissa woke in the morning, she rose

from her bed and walked into the hall. Her

mother was sprawled on the floor in a pool of

vomit. Her eyes were staring blankly, and at first,

Melissa thought her mother was dead.

Melissa kneeled down beside the prostrate

woman and saw that Magdalene was breathing

roughly and shivering on the floor.

329

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“Mother?” she asked. “Mother? Mother, are

you okay?”

“N-n-no,” her mother said.

Melissa picked the older woman up off of the

floor. Magdalene felt surprisingly light in

Melissa‟s arms, just a bag of bones. The older

woman was shivering uncontrollably.

“S-s-s—” she tried to speak but could not.

“Don‟t worry, Mom. Don‟t try to speak.”

Melissa took off her mother‟s robe and

cleaned her face and hair. The daughter lay her

mother in the bed and tucked the blanket

around her.

Magdalene‟s face was distorted. Her right eye

had a permanently surprised look. The right side

of her mouth frowned downward, grimly. “S-s-s—”

she tried again to speak, but she could only

sputter and gurgle.

Melissa went to the hallway with a bucket,

brush, and towels. She wiped up the vomit and

scrubbed the floor. She threw away the wash water

and rinsed and cleaned the brush and bucket.

She rinsed and wrung out the towels and set

them with the wash.

She went back to the hallway and stood looking

at the wet spot on the floor. The water made a

dark stain across the floorboards. It crept to the

curtain.

330


Melissa walked the width of the hallway. She

skirted the edge of the dark stain, keeping her

feet to the dry, sallow wood.

She placed her hand on the edge of the curtain

and pulled it back.

She saw neatly stacked sheets and blankets,

spare pillows, a threadbare quilt, and a box of

her old dolls and toys.

Melissa stood in the hallway and began to cry.

The doctor came the next day. He was a

pleasant, happy man. His patients‟ illnesses did

not bother him. Women gave birth. Their babies

had colic and running noses. These babies grew.

They broke their arms and legs. They got the

measles and chicken pox. They had asthma and

adenoids. They got colds and flu. They got older.

They had problems with their nerves or livers.

The women had female difficulties. The men had

work injuries. They all had headaches. Their

vision failed. They got pregnant. They grew old.

They grew senile. They broke their hips. They

had heart attacks. They died, but by that time,

there were more children with measles and

mumps and chicken pox.

He tracked the progress of life through its

diseases. They came in waves and cycles. They

were constant and, on the whole, predictable.

331

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

His visit to the mother and daughter was no

different. The disease was just marking the

passage of time.

“She‟s had a stroke,” he said after a brief

examination. “She is okay for now, but she will

need help eating and getting around.” He spoke

to Melissa out in the hall, away from the patient.

“Your mother is getting old,” he said. “She could

live for years and years, but she will need to have

constant care. The stroke has hit her hard, and

she‟s pretty depressed. It‟s going to be frustrating

for her that she can‟t speak. If she gets to feeling

better, she‟ll be fine. If she continues to be

depressed, she might not eat, she might get

weaker. She may have another stroke. She may

not. If she has another stroke, it may kill her. Or,

she may just be more debilitated.”

“What can I do for her?” asked Melissa.

The doctor shook his head a little bit. “Make

her comfortable. Get her to eat. Try to keep her

spirits up. Anything that she enjoys — if she can

still do it, get her to do it.”

When the doctor left, the two women were

alone in the house.

They lived alone there for sixteen days.

On the sixteenth day, Magdalene had another

stroke.

Melissa found her on the floor in the hallway

332

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

again. Melissa brought her mother back to her

bed again.

Melissa took a pillow this time and pressed it

down over her mother‟s face. Magdalene was

weak, partially paralyzed, and helpless. She

gasped into the warm, soft fabric. Her breath

made it warmer.

Magdalene tried to remain calm, to pass

smoothly into the next life, but in the end, she

gasped and struggled.

Melissa Peacock collected her mother‟s life

insurance.

C HARLES Rowe stopped seeing patients.

He was getting old. He could feel his

passions waning. His appetites were diminished.

In a corner of his study, Professor Rowe had

accumulated box after box of papers. These

comprised his manuscript. He did not re-read.

He did not revise. He just continued to produce

page after page, thought after thought, dissertation

after dissertation.

His works were not published. He referred to

them as “my book,” but he had approached no

publisher. His writings were not divided into

sections or chapters. They were not typed. These

days, he spent eight or ten hours each day in the

study, writing.

Chapter Thirty-Five:

Professor Rowe

Visits the Afterlife

334


He wrote about God. He wrote about the soul.

He wrote about death. He wrote about birth. He

wrote about life. He chronicled the many gifts of

his daughter, Charlotte, detailing her spirit

communications and séances. He commented in

infinite detail on these.

“The messages we receive through Charlotte

are anything but simple. They form a complex

and interweaving pattern representing layers

upon layers of meaning and reality.”

Through Charlotte, Professor Rowe attempted

repeatedly to contact his wife, but this was never

successful.

“I believe,” he wrote, “that Charlotte‟s personal

and biological connection with her mother prevents

or inhibits the flow of communication from the

next plane. The spirit of the parent is in some

way continuous with the spirit of the child. This

spiritual connection should indicate a closeness

of the deceased to their offspring after death. We

see this happen all the time. Spirits of departed

ancestors hover over the shoulders of surviving

children. Close relatives who die appear in

dreams to their survivors. So why would a close

relative be inhibited from appearing to a

mediumistic child?”

Professor Rowe wrote pages detailing such

inconsistencies, looking here for the explanations

335

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

that would bring everything into focus. Throughout

a six-month period, he searched transcripts of

Charlotte‟s trances and copies of her automatic

writings for hidden messages. He tried significant

numbers as code keys, setting letters in rows

three, six, seven, nine, and thirteen across. By

taking a particular transcript, arranging the letters

in thirteen-letter rows, and reading the columns

from bottom to top and right to left, using only

every thirteenth letter, he found the message:

“Only you forget.”

This code or pattern did not reveal any other

message in any other transcripts. He tried similar

codes with no result. He began using random-

numbered patterns to arrange letters and found

that, by subtle manipulations, he could spell any

message he wanted to.

“Which is the correct message?” he wrote.

“There are hidden meanings in the very letters,

the minutest details of Charlotte‟s trances. Without

the key, I can‟t tell the real messages from the

false. Maybe they are all real messages. They all

belong. Maybe they all form a code, and that

code will unearth the true, final message.”

For the last ten weeks of his life, Professor

Rowe did not leave his study.

“I am getting close,” he wrote. “I can feel it in

every bone of my body. I see now that the

336


strength of my earthly passions interfered with

my attempts to break through the mysteries of

the universe. We are so attached to this plane!

We can‟t let it go. We can‟t deny it. Everything we

do brings us back to the material. As I get older,

I find that my material desires are waning. My

material existence is becoming more tenuous. I

have lost much of my interest in sex. I have lost

my desire for food. The pleasure of wine is not

such a pleasure for me anymore. When I was

young, I believed that the pleasures of the flesh

were ethereal in components. Now, I come to

realize that these pleasures are deceptive. Their

attraction is the attraction of the material. As I

age, I come nearer to death. Death is the gateway

to those mysteries of the spiritual that I explore.

Therefore, I am becoming more spiritual. I am

coming closer to the answers. I am coming closer

to you, Miriam. It has been so long that we have

been separated, so long that we have been apart,

I am just waiting to be with you again. I am just

waiting to see you, to feel your hair. There, that

is my madness. I only think of you in terms of

the material. I see! I hear! I feel! In the spiritual

world, I will be blind and deaf. My senses fade on

this plane as I grow old. I wait for them to be

replaced by something new. I cannot imagine my

new senses. Sometimes I believe that the only

337

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

thing that prevents me from crossing over is my

inability to imagine my other senses. My material

senses must all drop away first. My material

senses must cease to be real for me before my

new senses will take over.”

Seven months before his death, Professor

Rowe began to build a sensory deprivation

chamber. He did not have that name for it, but

that is what it was. He placed a great tank in the

middle of his study, filled halfway with water. It

latched closed in total darkness. His difficulty

was that he needed to allow air into the tank

without letting in light. After some consideration,

he created a triple-layered top for the tank. The

inside layer had openings at the sides for air to

pass through. The middle layer had openings in

the top. The outer layer had openings in the

sides again. This provided a maze that air passed

through easily, but that stymied light.

Once the tank was constructed, Professor

Rowe inscribed it with symbols and coded

messages in an intricate design. This, he painted

over with black paint. Again, he decorated the

tank with loops and whorls of letters and symbols.

Again, he obliterated his work with black paint.

He added yet a third layer of transcription, this

one more overt, describing his intentions and,

most of all, his questions. He had many questions.

338


Why does every answer I discover open ten new

questions?

The Professor‟s first experience in the tank

was fourteen weeks before his death.

He stripped all of his clothes and sat in the

water with the lid open until his body was

accustomed to the temperature of the water.

After a while, he could barely feel it against his

skin. He lay back and waited again, letting his

mind go, letting his ears adjust, letting his hair

soak. He closed his eyes, and he could feel that

he was getting close to the truth. He hated to

disturb himself in order to close the lid, but he

roused himself, pulled the lid shut, and

latched it.

At first, he was aware of lying there in the

darkness. He could not stop thinking about being

inside the tank. There he was, in the tank. The

tank was around him. The water was lapping

against him. Everything was dark, but his eyes

strained to see what he knew was there, the

metal lid, the latch, the air opening on the sides

of the innermost lid. If he stretched his hand out,

he would touch it. The metal would be cold. The

desire became nearly irresistible, to stretch his

hand out, to touch something. He restrained

himself. Unconsciously, his arm twitched. The

motion sent waves rippling through the water.

339

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Waves lapped up against his skin, giving him a

feeling of chill.

He concentrated on remaining perfectly still.

He tried to let his mind drift. He recited to himself

the questions that he wanted to answer.

Where are you, God? What do you want from

us?

He could not afterward pinpoint the moment

when his train of thought stopped. His mind

went blank. The blankness around him was an

extension of his mind. His mind extended

outward to the nothingness. The nothingness

extended inward to his mind.

From far away, he perceived a force, an

energy. It was moving slowly towards him. It

wanted to join him. It had a message for him. It

wanted to tell him. — It wanted to tell him. — The

message was almost within his grasp. If he could

only strain a little harder, he would know what it

was. If the figure could only be a little closer.

“Daddy?” The lid of the tank rose, and light

streamed in on him. The figure was gone. The

message was gone.

Professor Rowe blinked his eyes.

Charlotte looked down at him.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Three hours,” she said. “You told me to get

you after three hours.”

340


He sighed. “It seemed like only minutes,” he

said, lifting himself out of the water and wrapping a

towel around his body. He was cold.

Charlotte had brought him a robe, and he

slipped into it. “I thought that three hours would

be enough.”

He extended his stays in the chamber and

chronicled all of his experiences there. He never

again encountered the being who came so near

to him during his first trial, and he never

recaptured the feeling that the answers to his

questions were so close.

His accounts were most typically like this:

“I was in a garden, a vast and beautiful garden,

filled with the smell of soil, of grass, of leaves, of

blossoms. There were no lights, so I could see

nothing, but I swear that I could sense every

blade of grass. Miriam was there, and she gave

me an apple. The apple was full of light. It

glowed. It was the only light in the garden.

“I took a bite of the apple. It had no taste, but

inside there was a worm. I dug the worm out of

the apple and put it on a piece of paper. The

worm was white and smooth, about two inches

long. I gave it a piece of the apple to eat.

“The worm created a second worm, a fuzzy

white worm of about the same length and thickness.

Then, these two worms created a third worm. I

341

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

became afraid that the worms would crawl onto

me, and I dropped the piece of paper onto the

grass. The worms began to multiply. They

created smaller and smaller worms. The grass

was infused with them; these little white strands

of creeping flesh were everywhere.

“This is interpreted through my mind.

“Is it any more clear or meaningful than a

dream?

“Have I only discovered another way to

dream?”

Professor Rowe became frustrated with his

experiments, as he had with many more

experiments before. He felt that only his first

attempt had shown true promise.

“Why? What condition or factor opened a door

that is now closed to me?”

Ten weeks before his death, Professor Rowe

confined himself to his study. Charlotte brought

trays of food every mealtime. He refused to open

the door to her, waiting until she left to slip the

sustenance inside. He wrote incessantly.

One day at lunchtime, Charlotte came downstairs

and found the breakfast tray still lying on the

floor. There were ants crawling over it, retreating

in a thin black line to a chink in the wall.

She knocked on her father‟s door.

“Father?”

342


There was no response. She knocked again.

“I‟ve brought your lunch.”

Charlotte turned the knob on the study door

and found it unlocked. She pushed the door

open, calling again:

“Father?”

Inside, she found him. He was sitting in his

large desk chair, his arms resting casually on the

desk. In his hand, he held a pistol. The bullet

had gone straight through his skull, and gore

was splattered across the back of the chair and

onto the wall.

On the desk below Professor Rowe‟s hand was

a stack of papers. Charlotte looked at her father‟s

face. It looked thin and worn and drawn, but

peaceful. His eyes stared at her, but they were

empty.

Charlotte pulled the stack of papers gently

from beneath the corpse‟s hand. She read

through these papers. They chronicled in detail

the last ten weeks of Professor Rowe‟s life. They

ended with the question: Why?

Charlotte gathered kindling and firewood. She

arranged these in the hearth and lit them. The

study was cold, and she stood in front of the fire

for a moment, warming herself. Then, she took

Professor Rowe‟s papers and began to burn

them. She burned the papers he had worked on

343

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

at his desk, and then she pulled out the boxes of

manuscript that sat in the corner.

Hour upon hour, with the heat of the fire

assaulting her face and hands, Charlotte burned

every remnant of her father‟s work.

When Charlotte walked into her father‟s

study, the urge to read his manuscript was

irresistible. It was like something outside herself

goading her on. It was the voice of Nanette. It

was the voice of the baby. It told her: here is the

answer. He has done it. He has found the

answer. Read it. You have to know.

She took the pages. They were stiff and

yellowed. They made slight sighing noises as she

gently moved them off the desk. Charlotte began

to read.

There were notes about Melissa‟s therapy.

She read about Melissa. She read about

Melissa‟s dreams. She read about Melissa‟s

father. Charlotte read between the lines in a way

her father had never been able to.

Then, Charlotte read about herself.

Charlotte read about her own dreams. She

read things that had poured out of her mouth in

thoughtless monologue, things that she had told

her father just so that he could hear what he

wanted to hear. She read about her own therapy

344


sessions, and her own retellings of retellings of

remembrances.

Charlotte read about the hypnosis sessions.

She read about the ones she remembered and

the ones she didn‟t remember.

As she read, she remembered.

On the day that Miriam Rowe died, she was

churning ice cream in the kitchen. She spent

hours each day alone in the kitchen, separated

somehow from her family.

Charlotte never knew why her mother left the

kitchen that day. Charlotte never knew for what

reason Miriam Rowe came into to study that day.

The study door opened, and Miriam Rowe

burst in, some question or excited comment on

her lips. Whatever she planned to say never was

said.

Professor Rowe was having a hypnosis

session with Charlotte.

But he wasn‟t having a hypnosis session with

Charlotte.

The scene that Miriam Rowe saw shocking

and unimaginable. Something in her mind and

heart suddenly broke. Miriam Rowe began to

scream.

Miriam screamed at Charlotte.

“It would be better if you were dead! It would

345

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

have been better if you had never been born! It

would have been better if I had ripped you out of

my womb and killed you before you ever suffered

this!”

Miriam screamed at Charles.

“You monster! I thought you were more than

a man. I thought you were higher than a man.

You are a monster! You are a base, earthly being!

Why did I marry you? Why did I birth a child

with you? What have you done? What have you

done? There is no God, Charles! There is no God,

not if you can do this.”

Miriam ran out of the study. Charlotte could

hear her, still screaming at them as she went

down the hall. Charles went after her, down the

hallway.

Suddenly, the study was quiet.

Charlotte sat in the quiet study, unsure for

the moment who she was or what was happening.

She was not sure if she had been hypnotized.

She was not sure whether something real had

happened or not. She was sitting on the couch.

She felt strange. She looked at the study. Was it

a real place? Were those real books on real

shelves on a real wall?

She rose quietly from where she sat. She

adjusted her dress, feeling disassociated from

her body, feeling far away and not herself at all.

346


Charlotte walked out of the study, with the

feeling that she wasn‟t walking at all. She

seemed to be floating. Her body was moving, but

it seemed to be out of her own control. Her head

was light. Her head was so light that it was holding

her up off of the floor, as she floated along towards

something. Where was she going? She waited to

find out.

Charlotte drifted through the house. It was

quiet now. Everything was very quiet. Something

had happened. What had happened? She looked

down. Her feet were moving, one foot in front of

the other, propelling her forward.

She expected, for some reason, to hear the

sound of crying, but there was no sound.

Charlotte drifted into the kitchen.

There, in the kitchen, was a still and silent

moment, frozen in time. There was no movement.

On the floor, there was her mother. She lay,

distended and distorted in an artistic way, in a

pool of ice cream, strawberry ice cream. No, it

wasn‟t strawberry ice cream. It was just pink. It

was pink with blood.

Swirls of blood wrapped into the ice cream,

mingled with it, changing it.

Blood and ice cream mixed and pooled, flowed

and splattered.

Charlotte‟s father stood over this picture, also

347

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

frozen, also unmoving. He stared at his hands,

which were raised in front of his eyes. His hands

were covered in blood. His hands were covered in

ice cream.

Charles Rowe‟s hair was matted. His face was

frozen in a moment of terror. His eyes were

opened, and Charlotte thought, momentarily,

that he had finally discovered the truth that he

was looking for.

She seemed to stand and watch this tableau

for an infinite amount of time. As she watched,

the silence was broken by the tick-tick-tick of

her father‟s pocket watch.

The watch was in Charles Rowe‟s pocket, and

it imposed itself into the silent scene. Tick-tick-

tick.

Charles Rowe seemed to hear the watch, as

well. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it.

Tick-tick-tick. Time was passing. Time was always

passing.

Charlotte‟s father took the watch out of his

pocket. He looked at it, and then he turned to his

daughter.

“Charlotte,” he said. He held the gold pocket

watch in his hand. He held it by its chain. He

held it out to Charlotte as if it were an offering.

“Come, Charlotte,” he said. He removed her from

the kitchen, removed her to the next room,

348


where there wasn‟t the sight of her mother‟s body

or the smell of bloody ice cream.

Charlotte‟s father held the pocket watch up in

front of Charlotte‟s face. He began to twirl it in

his fingers, so that the gold surface turned round

and round in front of Charlotte‟s eyes. The gold

chain and the gold watch reflected light, in small

sparkles that dazzled the eyes.

“Charlotte,” her father said. “Charlotte,

listen to my voice. Charlotte, don‟t think of

anything but the sound of my voice. Don‟t look

at anything but the pocket watch. See how it

turns in the light? See how it casts reflections,

rhythmically, with the rhythm of time passing.

Each second as it passes is the same amount

of time. The seconds passing create a rhythm.

The light on the watch creates a rhythm. The

rhythm is the passing of time. The rhythm is

life. It is the rhythm of the soul. Listen to my

voice, Charlotte. Listen to the sound of my

voice.

“You are very relaxed, Charlotte. There is

nothing in your memory. There is nothing in the

past. There is only the sound of my voice. You

are very relaxed. The relaxation starts at your

toes. It moves up your legs, up to your neck and

out to your hands. Your fingers and toes are

relaxed. Your head and neck are relaxed. There

349

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

is nothing around you. There is nothing in the

world. There is only you; there is only the

present; there is only my voice.

“Your eyelids are feeling heavy, Charlotte.

Your eyes feel full and strange. You feel like closing

your eyes. You feel like going into a deep and

relaxing sleep. Your sleep will help you relax.

Your sleep will help you forget. You will go into a

deep and relaxing sleep, a sleep with no dreams.

When you are asleep, you will forget. You want to

forget, and the sleep will help you forget. Listen

to the sound of my voice.

“Charlotte, you will forget everything you have

seen here. You will put it away from your mind.

Charlotte, you will forget everything about this

day. You want to forget, and you will forget. You

will only know that you came running into the

kitchen to get something to eat, and you found

your mother on the floor, dead. You don‟t know

what happened to her. You don‟t know what

could possibly have happened to her. You want

to forget, and you will forget. Listen to the sound

of my voice.

“This will be your deepest, most suppressed

memory. When you go to sleep, everything will

change. When you go to sleep, everything you

want to forget will cease to be. Everything will

stop. Listen to the sound of my voice.

350


“You will never know what happened. You

want to forget. Go to sleep, now, Charlotte.”

I don‟t think it is true, when I went into my

father‟s study that day, that he had shot himself

in the head. I think the gun was there, on a table

maybe, just sitting somewhere.

I think my father had been performing

experiments in sleep deprivation on himself. I

remember something about it in his notes. I

think I remember. I can‟t check my memory, or

reinforce it, because I burned his notes, didn‟t I?

I think that my father had fallen asleep, fallen

into a deep sleep, a deep and heavy and forgetful

sleep. To sleep, all you have to do is close your

eyes. All you have to do is let your eyes close, let

your heavy lids fall closed. If you want to sleep,

all you have to do is close your eyes.

I think he was asleep on his desk, passed out

in front of his writing. I saw the piles of papers

on his desk, and I picked them up to read. I

picked them up to read the truth.

When I put the papers down, things were

different.

When I put the papers down, my eyes were

wide open.

I don‟t think he was dead, yet. I think that I

took the gun that was lying there. I didn‟t even

351

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

wake him up. I took the gun and held it to his

head.

I think I shot him. I killed him, and the blood

spattered all over the room. That‟s when the

blood spattered all over the room.

Then, I burned all of the papers, all of the

evidence, all of the ice cream memories.

A FTER Magdalene‟s death, the crying in

the night began again. Every night, at two

forty-eight, a baby cried. It howled and sobbed

through the hours until dawn.

When dawn broke through the windows,

Melissa would realize that the crying had stopped,

but she didn‟t know when. She would lay in bed,

looking up at the ceiling, feeling as if time had

stopped and was just circling, waiting to burst into

motion. Perhaps it would reverse this time and

start playing backwards, pushing through all of the

events of the past. A pillow held over someone‟s

head would bring her to life. A stroke would restore

speech, vision and motor function. A sudden tug

on her sister‟s arm would put it back into place.

Chapter Thirty-Six:

Melissa Peacock

354


Wisteria. She often thought about Wisteria

now. Sometimes she saw her, a little girl playing

with a doll. The girl was unaware of anything

around her except for the doll. Melissa tried to

talk with her, but the child did not respond.

After watching her for several days, Melissa

realized that the girl set her doll through the

same motions repetitively. Sometimes the doll

danced: the girl held it by the tips of its hands

and moved it one-two-three steps towards herself

across the floor. Then, she dropped one hand.

Holding the doll by the other hand, she spun it

one-two-three-four-five times. The doll stopped,

facing away from the girl. The girl took the doll‟s

other hand. Then, the doll jumped into the air,

landed, and jumped again, higher. The doll

landed on the floor, its legs splayed. The girl let

its hands down slowly, and the doll sprawled on the

floor in a bow, with its head touching the ground.

After a pause, the girl would snatch up the

doll and either begin a monologue about her date

with the man she knew that she would marry, or

begin brushing the doll‟s hair and plaiting it into

a complex system of braids.

Melissa counted twenty-nine games that

Wisteria would play with the doll. Three of them

had variations. The third had sixteen different

variants. Melissa watched and memorized them all.

355

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She also took all of the towels and linens out

of the cupboard in the hall, like this:

One morning, Melissa awoke to the sound of

crying at two forty-eight in the morning. She

went to the hallway and flung open the curtain.

She emptied the towels and sheets and blankets

and pillows and miscellaneous artifacts into the

hallway. When the room was emptied, she was

still not satisfied. Melissa found the old crib, rotting

out in back of the house and put it together back

in its place. She filled it with a soft pad and baby

blankets, soft toys, and a set of baby‟s clothes,

placed cozily under the blanket.

When she first saw the room recreated, the

crib seemed weather-worn. The clothes and blankets

were frayed and moth-eaten. Over time, though,

the wood regained its luster. The cloth became

less worn and more soft. The clothes gained bulk

and substance.

At night, when she would hear the baby crying,

Melissa would go to the crib and pick up the

swaddling clothes in her arms. She would walk

the hallway, back and forth. She would offer her

milkless breast to feed the unreal infant. In this

way, she would quiet the babe.

Even the crack in the railing of the crib slowly

healed itself. It was flawless, smooth, glossy, perfect.

The grain danced and sang through the varnish.

356


The heights of color were the tawny beige of a

new fawn. The depths of grain were the blackest

pitch of the richest soil. The sheen reflected every

motion from the hallway.

One morning, when Melissa was feeding the

baby, her mother shuffled into the kitchen.

Magdalene went to the stove and began making

breakfast.

Melissa assumed that if she spoke to this

apparition, she would be unheard. The mother

cracked eggs and sliced bread for toast. She

began frying bacon in a solid iron pan. She put

coffee in a pot on the stove.

When she finished preparing the breakfast,

the apparition dolled it out onto two plates and

set them on the table. Sitting in front of her food,

she began to eat.

Melissa picked up her fork and found that the

food had form and substance. They ate in silence

that day and the next and the next. On the

following day, when Magdalene sat down to eat,

she said, “How is the baby doing?”

Melissa looked up.

“Fine.”

“She‟s so beautiful, isn‟t she?”

“So beautiful.”

“Have you thought about a name for her?”

“I think about it all the time.”

357

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

After this, Melissa had a conversation with

her mother every morning at breakfast time. Her

mother only appeared in the mornings, only in

the kitchen. She always prepared food, and she

never spoke until the food was made and laid on

the table.

When they sat over their meals, they had

conversations that they could never have had in life.

Melissa lived alone, but her life was crowded

with family. Her nights were taken with her

daughter. Her mornings were occupied in

conversation with her mother. During her days,

she watched the child Wisteria as she played

eternally with her doll.

Melissa woke one morning at two forty-eight

to the familiar sound of crying.

She rose from her bed, walked to the hall, and

pulled back the curtain. She picked up the baby

clothes, wrapped in a blanket, and held them to

her chest. She walked in a small circle around

the center of the hallway to quiet the cries.

The sobs were just descending when Melissa

heard the sound of a disruption from the front of

the house. There was a crashing noise, a sound

like furniture overturning. Melissa pulled the

baby clothes to herself and backed away from

the stairs.

It was John who struggled up the stairs. He

358


was badly burned, and the skin was pulling off of

him in black-red sheets.

“Melissa,” he said as he stumbled up the

stairs.

Melissa screamed, backing away.

“Get away,” she said. Her voice was a hoarse

whisper.

“Melissa,” he said. He fell to the ground and

pulled himself up again. “I want my baby. Give

me my baby.”

“No! No! You can‟t have her. Get away.” She

held the baby clothes to her chest.

She backed into her bedroom, to the wall. He

came slowly toward her, dragging one leg, leaving

bloody footprints alongside the dragging smear

from his other leg.

Melissa slid down the wall until she was

crouching on the floor in the corner.

“No, no, no,” she said.

She cringed in the corner, holding the clothes

to her, until she looked down and realized that

they were only clothes. She looked up and saw

that she was alone. There were no bloody footprints

on the floor. There was no one moving toward

her.

That was the only time that she saw John.

Weeks or maybe months later, her father

came.

359

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

He was sitting in the big chair in the living

room where he always sat. She walked into the

room, and he was just there.

“Come here,” he said. “Come sit on Daddy‟s

lap, Melissa.”

She backed out of the room she had just

entered, slamming the door behind her.

She stopped going into that room.

He was always sitting there.

Sometimes he called to her: “Melissa! Get in

here. Don‟t disobey your father. You‟ll see the

back end of my belt before the day is over.”

He did not seem to be able to get up out of the

chair.

Sometimes she heard him in there, crying.

“Melissa,” he would say. “I love you, Melissa.

Why are you treating me like this? Why won‟t

you let me go?”

He never moved from the chair.

Melissa began venturing into the room, standing

against the opposite wall from her father.

“Come here, Melissa,” he would say. “You‟re

such a beautiful girl. Come sit on Daddy‟s lap.”

Sometimes he looked old. She would walk

into the room and find him vomiting on himself.

“I don‟t feel so well,” he would say.

Most of the time, he looked young.

“Why?” she would ask him. “Why?”

360


“Melissa, is that you?” he would say. “Come

here. Come sit on Daddy‟s lap.”

One day, she got so angry with him that she

heated up a pot of oil on the stove. She took the

pot and walked into the living room.

“Why are you here?” she said. “No one wants

you here. Go away.”

“Melissa, is that you?” he said. “Come here.

Come sit on Daddy‟s lap.”

“I hate you!” she said. “I hate you!”

“Come on, honey. Be a good girl.”

She screamed and threw the pot of oil in his

face. She could see his skin bubbling and

scorching under the heat.

“Yes,” he said. “That‟s Daddy‟s good girl. Yes,

oh yes, such a good girl.”

It was not long after this incident that the

people came.

First they knocked on the door. Melissa came

to answer it, but she could not seem to get a grip

on the handle. She could hear them talking

through the door, a far away mumble.

“Not seen her for days—” she heard.

“—gone away?” she heard.

After she had struggled with the door handle

for a while, it swung open.

“Hello!” Melissa said.

The people were an older woman and a

361

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

younger man. They looked familiar, but she

could not remember where she knew them from.

They did not answer her but looked around

the room.

“Maybe she‟s just out.”

“Nonsense. Let‟s look around.”

They came in the door, and Melissa stood

back to let them pass.

“It was nice of you to call,” Melissa said.

“It‟s cold in here,” said the woman.

“Melissa?” called the man. “Are you here? Is

anyone at home?”

“I‟m right here,” said Melissa.

The man and woman looked in the living

room and the kitchen and then mounted the

stairs. Melissa followed.

“Melissa? Are you here? Is everything okay?”

They paused in the hallway and then went

into the bedroom.

“Melissa?” the man said again. He rushed to a

pile of something on the bed.

“What is it?” asked Melissa. “What‟s wrong?”

“You better not come in,” said the man. “You

don‟t want to see this.”

The woman stood by the door. “Is it bad?”

Melissa walked over to the bed slowly.

“It‟s pretty bad. She‟s been dead for a while.”

Looking over the man‟s shoulder, Melissa saw

362

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

that the figure on the bed was herself, and her

eyes were opened in a vacant stare.

The man reached forward and closed her

eyes.

Everything went blank.

C HARLOTTE Rowe became more and

more reclusive over the years. She

retreated from the world, retired from human

contact. In 1968, Charlotte stopped giving

séances permanently. She retired from the

public eye, and from all eyes. She spent all of her

time in her home, going through the motions of life.

In 1972, a biography of Charlotte Rowe was

published. It was entitled Charlotte Rowe:

Ghostly Revelations and contained much that

was patently untrue. This sensationalistic work

contained a bizarre mixture of fact, speculation,

and myth. It caused a stir of interest in Charlotte,

but she retained her seclusion. Journalists were

turned away at the door. Eventually, they lost

Chapter Thirty-Seven:

The Life and Times of

Charlotte Rowe

364


interest. Other stories came along. No one

thought about Charlotte. No one speculated

about what happened in that strange, archaic

stone house.

Most of the time, Charlotte led a quiet existence.

She cooked simple meals. She ate alone at a

small table in front of a radio, and later a

television. The world outside the house was

changing. Her black and white television was

replaced by a color television. There were wars

and war protests. There was odd music. There

were odd clothes. There were odd hairstyles.

There were new beliefs and new religions.

Charlotte saw the changes from her retreat.

She did not belong in the new world. She was

comfortable in her own pocket of the past.

The spirit of the baby had never left her. It

lived in the house, in the highest room —

Charlotte‟s room.

It was not the only thing in the house.

One day, Charlotte was out in the front of the

house, planting flowers. This was a new whim, to

plant a garden all around the house. She looked

up from the ground, wiping dirt off of her gloved

hands. She sat on her heels and glanced at the

tower. Something about the tower always drew

her glance.

A man hung there by the neck.

365

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

She never knew who this man was, but he

appeared every so often, slowly swinging in the

breeze.

The air was filled with voices. She could never

make out what they were saying. Every once in a

while, a word or phrase would jump audibly out

of the air.

There was a cold spot in what had been her

father‟s study. He had left something behind him

there. It was seventeen degrees colder than the

surrounding air.

Though her life was one of solitude, Charlotte

was not alone.

She had things around her.

She had things in her head.

She decided, one day, to begin to write them

down. A literary gift had been inherited from her

father — the gift of writing whatever she thought,

whether it was true or not. Once she began, all

kinds of things came out on the page, all kinds of

truths and lies. This exercise of writing seemed

to settle her, and it also seemed to settle the

infant who hovered around her constantly. There

were fewer dreams. There was less crying in the night.

Charlotte began to get older. She began to

forget. The memories were mixed up with

dreams, and the dreams were mixed up with

imagination.

366

ICE CREAM MEMORIES

When it was quiet, she would talk things over

with Nanette.

Are you really here, Nanette? Or did I just

imagine you? Don‟t leave me. I don‟t want to be

alone.

The baby‟s crying.

I‟m tired.

I must go to sleep.

I am the most powerful person in the world.

I am its narrator.

M ARTY was not just Sid‟s roommate,

though they did share an apartment

together. In the past, Sid hadn‟t done too well on

his own. Marty‟s role was broadly defined.

Friend. Practical nurse. Errand boy. Sounding

board. Calming presence. Only Marty didn‟t feel

needed as much more than a friend and errand

boy, ever since Sid started the graduate

program. It was a positive outlet for Sid‟s

sense of mystique and high, sometimes manic,

intelligence.

When Sid proposed a research trip, Marty

wanted to go along, but after all, Sid was his

employer, not his ward. And it seemed like a

positive step, towards independence. In the end,

Epilogue

368


Marty encouraged Sid to go. They talked on the

phone every day, and Sid seemed to be doing

okay. Then came the manuscript, with its

scrawled note. Then nothing. Marty started to

feel a sickening worry.

He followed Sid to Redlands. He couldn‟t find

Charlotte Rowe‟s address or phone number anywhere,

so he started at the room Sid had rented.

“I thought I‟d got me a nice young boarder,”

said the landlady, mournfully. Her house was

stuffy and close, with a crocheted blanket on the

old couch. “I never expected Sidney to just

disappear like that, no notice. The room was

paid up for the month, but you understand I

can‟t hold a room. No forwarding address, never

heard from Sidney again. If you‟re a relative,

there‟s a lot of stuff left behind.”

Marty looked through the things that were left

there. There was nothing helpful, still no address.

Marty only knew the name “Orange Blossom

Road.”

When he couldn‟t find Orange Blossom Road

on any map of Redlands, he began to be

concerned. If there was no Orange Blossom

Road, then had Sidney made up the name? What

else was untrue? Still, it seemed unlikely that

Sidney would have or could have written a

lengthy manuscript. Redlands wasn‟t very large,

369

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

and Marty decided to drive around the southeastern

area of town, where this road supposedly was.

Just as he‟d decided the attempt was pointless,

Marty realized that he‟d gotten turned around.

He was lost. After taking a couple of turns that

he thought would get him back to familiar territory

or a main road, Marty saw it. “Orange Blossom

Road.” It was an old, wooden sign, different from

most of the street signs in the area. On private

land, probably, not owned by the city. Marty

turned onto it and was driving through an orchard

of oranges. It was an early spring, and the scent

of orange blossoms was so powerful that it was

almost poisonous. The orchard was close,

impinging on the narrow road.

When Marty arrived at the end of the road,

the house appeared much as Sid had described

it. There were tumble-down stone walls, a stone

tower, and stone structures still standing. It did

not look like someone‟s house, just an old building.

Marty got out of the car and went to the door.

The day was warm and silent, and the heavy

fumes of orange blossoms made it stifling. He

knocked and waited. He was just turning to go

when he heard a noise from inside.

A plump woman opened the door. She said,

“Yes?” The French accent was very slight, but it

was discernable.

370


“Nanette Goddard?” Marty asked.

“Yes,” she said again.

“Hi. My name is Marty Ackerman. I wonder if

I could speak to you, and, er, Miss Rowe if that‟s

possible.”

“Oh!” said the woman.

“I know that you don‟t usually receive visitors,

but I‟m looking for Sidney Hayes. I had hoped—”

She opened the door.

“Come in, come in.”

Marty stepped inside, and she led him to a

room with a stone fireplace and asked him to sit.

“Perhaps,” said Nanette, “I should explain to

you. It will not be possible to speak to Miss

Rowe. Miss Rowe has passed away in sleep last

night.”

“Oh,” Marty said. “I‟m very sorry.”

“She was old,” said Nanette, “and it was her

time to pass on.”

“Perhaps I can ask you about Sidney Hayes?”

“Ah, yes. Sidney has been here a number of

times. I think Miss Rowe enjoyed talking about

herself, enjoyed the visits.”

“I‟m trying to locate Sid.”

“That, I‟m afraid, I cannot help you with. It‟s

been a while since Sidney‟s been here.”

“Perhaps you can help me by telling me about

this,” Marty said. He took out the manuscript

371

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

from his bag and put it on the coffee table.

Nanette looked surprised.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Sid sent it to me.”

“Sidney had this?” she asked, turning over a

page of the paper.

“Did Charlotte Rowe write it?”

“I think so,” said Nanette, with a dreamy tone

in her voice. “She wrote many things, you know.”

Nanette looked up. “Or perhaps you didn‟t

know.”

“No,” Marty said.

“Charlotte worked for many years as a writer

of stories. She wrote them for magazines, after

she gave up her work as a medium, you know.

She wrote under another name, a disguised

name, a nom de plume, what do you call it, a

pseudonym. She always planned to write a

novel.” Nanette looked down at the manuscript

again. “She had been working on this for several

years, but her health diminished as she got

older. She was able to write less and less as time

went on. It was very hard for her.”

“This is her novel?” Marty asked.

“It must be,” said Nanette.

“She gave it to Sid?”

“I suppose she must have, but I don‟t know

why. Perhaps just to read.”

372


“Perhaps,” Marty echoed.

“Have you read it?” Nanette asked.

“Yes,” Marty replied. “Sid asked me to read it.”

There was a pause. Nanette broke the silence.

“Sidney was looking ill, I think, the last few

visits.”

“Oh?” Marty asked. “Like a cold?”

“No,” said Nanette. “Pale and drawn. Perhaps

not sleeping well. Perhaps a stomach flu or fever?”

This did not raise Marty‟s hopes or spirits.

“Well, thank you for your time,” he said,

rising from the seat.

“I hope that Sidney is all right,” Nanette said.

“I‟m sure everything is just fine,” Marty

replied. “I‟m sure there‟s nothing wrong.”

There was another pause as they stood in the

room.

“Would you like, perhaps,” asked Nanette, “to

see her? Charlotte, I mean. Since you have heard

so much about her, perhaps you would like to

see her.”

Marty was about to decline, but he found

himself saying, “Yes, I would.”

Nanette turned and started toward the stairs,

as the mantel clock above the fireplace began to

chime twelve noon.

Marty followed her out of the room and up the

winding stairs, with a strange feeling of fulfilling

373

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

an ancient ritual. In the crescent-shaped hall at the

top of the stairwell, Nanette opened the single door.

They entered. Charlotte lay in the bed, looking

small and sunken. Her hair was snow white and

wispy, like cotton candy. Though lined and

wrinkled, her face was relaxed and had an air of

smoothness. Her eyes, closed, were sunken into

her face, underscored by great dark, bruised circles.

Marty looked over at the mirror, a natural and

human reaction. It was just a mirror, large and

ornate. It reflected the room around it, his own

haggard and disheveled appearance, and nothing

else. He turned back to the figure on the bed.

They stood there for a moment, looking at

Charlotte Rowe in death.

“I thought maybe you were coming to pick her

up when you came to the door,” said Nanette.

“Now that she‟s gone, I don‟t know exactly what

will happen next. You know, I haven‟t really

anywhere to go. I‟m alone in the world. So was

she. None of her family left, alone here for years.

I don‟t even know who owns the house now, or

what will happen to it. I don‟t even know who

might own that manuscript you have.”

“Did she never try to publish it?”

“She never seemed to think it was finished.

She was always adding onto it, adding new

things and then taking things away. She would

374


be sitting up by her mirror and brushing her

hair. And then, she‟d sit up straight and say,

„Oh!‟ surprised like. I guess it meant she‟d just

thought of something, because then she‟d want

to write something down. It‟s a wonder where she

got all her ideas from.”

“Was any of it based on her life?”

Nanette shook her head. “I don‟t know. I don‟t

really know. She took some of it, I know, from

stories she‟d heard, people she‟d known and met.

Things that happened.” Nanette smiled briefly

and suddenly. “She liked to listen to stories.

There‟s a legend in my family, you know, in my

mother‟s family about a girl found wild in the

hills, with child. My mother used to say,

„Nannie,‟ they called me Nannie when I was

young, „Nannie, your wild-child is showing! Our

family curse, we all are wild from the woods.

When will you ever be civilized?‟ Charlotte used

to love to hear stories about it, stories about

France and about my family.”

“But you said you were all alone in the world?”

“I am now, yes. I am an orphan. My mother

was an orphan, too.”

There was yet another pause.

“Women,” said Nanette, “who are alone in the

world spend a lot of time inside their own

minds.”

375

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

Marty didn‟t seem to have a reply to that.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for talking to

me.”

“I wish you luck in your search,” she said.

They left the room, an empty room with an

empty shell in it. As Nanette closed the door of

the house behind him, Marty paused again.

Somehow, he could not shake the feeling that he

was not quite ready to leave yet.

He stood in the driveway, meandering. The

scent of the orange blossoms had paled,

overshadowed by the sounds of bees buzzing

among the orange trees. Marty looked up to the

bell tower. It was completely quiet and still.

There was nothing, nothing but the smell of

orange blossoms and the sound of bees, nothing

but ghost stories around the campfire.

Turning to get into his car, Marty saw a

movement out of the corner of his eye, not in the

bell tower, but in the orange grove. He walked

over towards the trees, but he didn‟t see

anything.

Marty moved into the shade of the trees. It

was cool there, and he remembered Sid‟s

comments about the heat of the summer. The

sound of the bees was louder, and the smell of

the orange blossoms came over him again. He

moved further into the orchard, and the trees

376


obscured his view of the car and the house. The

orange trees encompassed him, and he felt the

timelessness of an orchard like that.

Marty looked around and realized that he

could not see the house, the car, or the road. In

the middle of the symmetry of the orange trees,

he was not sure which direction he had come

from.

Marty saw a figure dressed in black coming

towards him through the orange trees, a smooth

and quick black shape moving in and out among

the orange trees. It was coming towards him. For

some reason he would never know, Marty

panicked. He fled.

Marty ran through the orange trees, and the

figure in black pursued him. Orange blossoms

fell in his face, and he stumbled over the uneven

ground, grasping at tree trunks to hold him up.

He ran for what seemed an interminable time.

Why didn‟t he find the road? Why didn‟t he find

the edge of the orchard? Marty went deeper and

deeper into the sweet smelling oranges, the

sound of bees buzzing filling his ears. The world

inside of that orange grove was a strange world,

an old world that smelled of soil. The trees as he

moved deeper into the grove seemed older,

larger, more gnarled. The ground seemed to grow

spongy with the decayed rinds of oranges

377

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

dropped, over decades. His feet seemed to be

sinking into the mire of old oranges.

Abruptly, Marty stopped. Something clicked

inside his head, a failsafe. He turned around and

faced the figure that was coming towards him

through the trees.

The figure in black saw that Marty was no

longer running and stopped at the edge of a tree,

in the shadows.

“What do you want?” Marty asked. His voice

seemed high and unnatural.

The figure stepped forward.

“Sid?” Marty practically shouted. “Sid! What

are you doing here? Where have you been? I‟ve

been worried about you.”

“The thing that is inside won‟t go away.”

“Oh.”

“The thing that is inside won‟t go away. The

thing that is inside won‟t go away.”

“It‟s okay, Sid. Calm down.”

“It is a red thing. A red thing. The red thing is

inside. It‟s crying, all the time, it‟s crying, an

angry crying. The red thing inside won‟t go away.”

“Come here, Sid.”

“The blood was everywhere. The blood was all

around. It was the baby‟s blood. The baby owned

it, and now it is inside, the red thing, and it

won‟t go away. Marty, is that you?”

378


“Yes, Sid, it‟s me, and everything is going to

be okay.”

“I won‟t have to go back in the room, will I? I

don‟t want to be in the room again.”

“Let‟s get you home and safe, Sid, and calm.

You didn‟t try to hurt yourself did you?”

“No, no, I didn‟t hurt anyone! I didn‟t kill

anyone! I didn‟t, I didn‟t. I‟m not a murderer like

they are.”

“Don‟t worry about that now, Sid.”

“It‟s the baby. It‟s angry. The baby is angry,

and it won‟t leave me alone.”

Marty calmed Sid as best he could. This

seemed like a mental break. It seemed the

problems were deeper, worse than Marty had

thought. Sid had always shown symptoms of

magical thinking, but they had been mild and

countered by a strange rationality, a desire to

explain them away that led to intellectual study.

“You are fine. Don‟t worry about the baby,”

Marty said.

Suddenly, Sid was calm, looking around,

looking at Marty.

“You think that this is all in my mind, but it‟s

not. I‟ve been waiting here, talking to it, trying to

find a solution. I don‟t think that there is a

solution.”

“Maybe you‟d better come home.”

379

OF CHARLOTTE ROWE

“I guess I‟d better. There are more things in

heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in

your philosophy.”

“Don‟t think about it right now. Don‟t worry,”

Marty said as he led Sidney out of the orange

orchard, back in the direction from which he‟d

come, towards the road, towards his car, towards

home. “All of the things in heaven and earth are

dreamt of in the human mind.”

Also from Stiltjack...

January 2010

Simon Coltraine is a professional songwriter and musician. His brother Giles - trader, rogue and amiable bully - is a crook. When Giles is killed in a car accident Simon returns to their childhood home to confront his memories and his own complicity in his brother’s schemes. The Devil has all the best tunes.


Cold Hillside a novel by

Martin Cooper

Giles, my sibling , my Mephistophilis. You lie whenever it suits you, but when you lie to me, surely you can take the trouble to make it convincing?

Free to download in .pdf and .prc formats from stiltjack.co.uk.




The Memory House

“I’ll leave you my fantasy,” he said. “It’s all I have to leave you

in any case."

Ip Dip

Ip dip, sky blue, who’s it…?

Fulcrum

Fulcrum, n. (pl. –ra). (Mech.) point against which lever is

placed to get purchase.

Snow

Doesn’t anyone die for love nowadays?

That Celeb. Smile

Trouble is, any photograph worth taking, costs.

Five Stories a slim volume by

Martin Cooper

Free to download in .pdf and .prc

formats

from stiltjack.co.uk.



Ice Cream Memories Ebook

Sports

Transcript of Ice Cream Memories Ebook