More Than You Know (5 page)

Maybe there were rules: maybe as long as I stood and listened whoever

was downstairs was frozen? But that was ridiculous. Far more likely

I’d heard the sound wrong. It was some other door opening and clos-

ing, the sound carried here on the wind across the water. I began to

dislike standing at the door in my bare feet and nightgown. I got

myself across the floor and back into bed, trying the old rule that it

can’t get you if you’re under the covers.

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At least my electric lamp burned steadily. The house had only

recently been wired and had insufficient outlets; Stephen’s room had

only one, far from the bed, and Edith was afraid of extension cords

so he had to use an oil lamp.

I stared at my book and succeeded in reading the same two lines

over and over.

“ ‘Jeeves—there’s something in there that grabs you by the

leg!’ ”

“ ‘That would be Rollo, sir.’ ”
A pause to listen, hard. To si-

lence. Read.

“ ‘Jeeves—there’s something in there that grabs you by the

leg!’ ”

“That would be Rollo, sir.’ ”

What was that? I strained to hear . . . had there been something

on the stairs? Read. Read.

“ ‘Jeeves—there’s something in there . . .’ ”

. . . and there
was
something. I don’t know what it was, but

Whitey, who slept on the foot of Stephen’s bed, began to growl. I

could hear him through the wall. He was making the sound of low

menace that comes right before he starts barking. The hair along my

arms was standing straight up. Was the room suddenly colder? I was

straining to hear something in the upstairs hall, waiting to hear a body

with human weight and heft try to make its way toward me. But I

heard nothing, except the sound of Stephen telling Whitey to hush.

Then, outside the door, I heard something that seemed like a

weapon aimed at my heart. Someone right outside my door began

weeping.

I was holding my book in front of me like a shield. I stared at the

iron doorknob, waiting for it to turn. It never did. Instead, horribly, I

suddenly knew that something had passed through the door and was in

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the room with me. I heard fabric rustle as it crossed the room. Then a

soft creak of wood. Then the rocking chair by the stove began to move.

It made a creaking squeaking noise on the floor as it started,

back and forth. It was facing me. Someone was in it, rocking and

watching me.

I tried to call out, but I had lost the power to use my voice. I

got off the bed, meaning to run for the door, but as I did, the chair

moved violently and was left rocking. There was a dry scrabbling

sound on the floor, like rats in dry leaves. At first I still couldn’t see

anyone, and then, I could. There was an old woman down on all fours,

dragging herself across the floor. She turned and looked at me hate-

fully, with burning colorless eyes that seemed to have no pupils.

I must have screamed loud enough to be heard up in the village

from the look on Stephen’s face as he banged into my room. Edith

was right behind him, and Whitey was barking and barking. I had

jumped back onto the bed, and I must have been gibbering. Stephen

jumped onto the bed with me, and I clutched him. Even Edith looked

frightened. I was all pulled into a ball, hugging my brother; I remem-

ber being afraid to touch the walls or floor.

“Hannah, what is it? What happened?”

I said, “Something was in here.” I could hardly make my throat

work to speak.

“What was?”

I said, “Rustling. Like rats.” I didn’t know how to say what I

had seen. “A woman, crawling across the floor.”

“Crawling?” was all Edith said. Her face had begun to change

from alarm to something else.

“Yes . . .” With her staring at me like that, it was hard to make

clear what had happened. “Something got into my room. It was in the

hall first, and Whitey growled.”

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Stephen was pale; he knew it was true, the dog had given warn-

ing, and he knew about the bookmark and the broken glass.

Edith was briefly stymied. “And then what happened?”

I told her. She looked at the rocking chair. Naturally, it was now

utterly still.

“A woman was crawling?” she asked again.

“Crawling! Do you want me to show you?”

We stared at each other.
Why
couldn’t she just believe me?
Why

couldn’t she for once in her life put her arms around me and say, “It’s

all right. It’ll be all right”?

“Do you want me to telephone someone to come search the

house? Your grandfather?” She asked it as if we were playing a chess

game and she had figured out her next move.

I certainly
did
want him, him or someone, but I didn’t want her

to be the one to call him. She’d make it sound as if I was crazy. I

said, “No.”

“Why not, if you’re frightened?”

“He won’t find anything.”

Edith stared at me, and I stared back, wondering what she would

say or do. Finally she said, “Oh for the love of Pete, Hannah. I know

you don’t like the house. I get the message. But I really have enough

to deal with without you trying to thwart me every step of the way.”

I was dumbfounded. What was this? A hateful thing that could

move through closed doors had rocked in that chair right there and

frightened me just about into the nuthatch, and suddenly we were

talking about whether I like her house? I
did
like the house. It was

the thing we were sharing it with I had problems with.

Edith was wearing a long quilted wrapper that made her look

upholstered. Her graying hair was down, a somewhat alarming sight

in itself. Her brown eyes looked tired, and the fingers of her right hand

were stained blue; her fountain pen leaked. The thing was, Edith was

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not a woman who liked ambiguities. She didn’t see what would be so

bad about having your own mother die when you were too young even

to remember her. If you didn’t remember your own mother, and you

had another mother, and enough food and a roof over your head, why

couldn’t you be happy with what you’d got? Why couldn’t I be, that

is. That was the Edith position on Hannah, and I didn’t know the

answer any more than anyone else did.

Edith said, “Stephen, honey, go to your room.”

Stephen looked up.

“There’s been enough excitement for one night. Go back to bed.

It’s late and you should be asleep.” Stephen looked at me briefly as

if to say, Sorry; he knew she was never as hard on me when he was

in the room as when she had me cornered. Then he climbed down and

went out without looking back at me. I was alone with the only mother

I had, with my heart pounding as if it would knock itself apart.

“Hannah,” Edith said. “You used to be such an attractive little

girl.”

I knew it was a preamble, not a compliment. Emphasis on the

“used to be.” She had liked me better when I was small and blond

and cute, and people said to her, “What a lovely child.” She never

said, “Yes, we’re proud of her,” as if she knew the compliment was

to me; instead she made the same reply she would have made if

someone said that she herself was looking pretty. “No, no, but thank

you.”

Now she said, “I don’t know what to make of you anymore. You

look as if you don’t own a comb. You should hear what people say

about your grooming.” (This was a favorite technique of hers. “Maybe

you don’t care what I say, but you should hear what people say behind

your back.” Try it sometime on someone you really dislike.)

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There was more. “Your room is a pigpen. Your schoolwork is

disgraceful. You could go to college if you’d
apply
yourself . . .”

“Except that you’re the one who wants to go, not me.” I said it

to be rude, not because it was true. I liked school; I just couldn’t stand

the way she bragged when I brought home good grades. I felt erased,

as if she were the one who had done it. She’d start dropping names

like Bryn Mawr to the neighbors.

Edith answered fairly quietly, for the circumstances. She said,

“I’ll tell you, Hannah. You seem determined to hurt me, if you have

to hurt yourself to do it. But I’m warning you. Do not try to make

your father choose between me and you, because you won’t like what

happens.”

I only stared at her. Finally she asked, “Do we understand each

other?”

I said, “Is that a serious question?”

Here’s how frightened I was; I was actually sorry when she went

back to her room. Left alone, I didn’t dare to turn out the light; instead

I sat in bed and elaborately wrote in my diary everything that had

happened. I think I was making notes to myself on how not to be a

mother. I underlined the crack about my father. (What could I have

made of it?) Even after all these years, I can’t bring myself to soften

much toward Edith, though I understand much better now what her

troubles were. There was something hard and selfish in her, and though

I could later feel for her, I couldn’t respect her. It was as if she saw

us, my father included, as hand puppets in a play in which she was

the only real person.

I waited the long hours for daylight, when I would dare again

to put my bare feet down on the floor.

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1856

Lateinthefalloftheyear,whenthenightswerecoldandthe

sun set at four o’clock, there was a day of bright open weather when

Claris Osgood decided to take some eggs and a bag of her mother’s

doughnuts up the hill to old Miss Clossy and see if she could help her

with any of her preparations for winter. Miss Clossy had been the village

schoolmistress when Claris was small, but her eyesight was weak and she

had been forced to retire. She lived in a tiny house, hardly more than a

cabin, in an apple orchard, and survived on what she could grow and on

what she was given. She had gradually fallen almost completely silent, and

there began to be rumors about her. People kept her in their prayers, but

many were so uncomfortable with the silence that surrounded her that it

was all they could do to stop and sit with her. Claris felt a little that way

herself, but she was in the midst of an argument with God about the

goodness of her own character, and she thought she would improve the

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day by demonstrating that she was not a “dog in the manger,” as a cousin

had crossly called her in anger, but as spontaneously lovable and kind as

her sister Mary.

The blueberry barrens had turned a deep crimson color as they

always did in fall, and the trees stood black against the high November

sky; it was a beautiful day of God’s Creation. Claris enjoyed her walk,

except for the wind that occasionally tore at her hat. She reached Miss

Clossy’s gate and went into the apple orchard. It was past picking time,

but there were still some windfalls, mainly Winesaps and Transparents,

which Claris particularly loved. She put down her bag and made a basket

of her apron in order to gather the good ones for the old lady.

A small apple, quite perfect, fell from a tree above her, landing just

within reach. She picked it up, rubbed it on her skirt, put it into her

apron, then took it out again and took a bite. She picked up a cull; it

was wormy on the underside. So was the next one. She hoped she wasn’t

eating the only good apple she was to find that day, when another one

fell about a foot from her. It was perfect, and it was followed by another

and another. Suddenly she straightened and looked at the tree. There was

an apple ladder leaning against the trunk, and just where it tapered and

disappeared among the upper branches, there was a pair of boots, with

legs in them.

“Who’s there?” she said, rather loudly. She was feeling foolish.

“Just us apples,” said a voice.

“Well, it’s very kind of you to persuade your little friends to jump

into my arms.”

There was a sawing noise, and then a gnarled branch fell to earth,

looking like a withered arm amputated at the shoulder. The branch was

followed by the owner of the voice backing down the ladder, so that

Claris saw legs, then hips, then a yellow flannel shirt, and finally the dark

head turning to her with deep brown eyes. It was Danial Haskell.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Apple,” said Claris. Danial made a little bow.

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He had a pruning saw in his hand, and now that she paid attention to

what was on the ground among the windfalls, she could see that he must

have been working in the orchard all morning. There were withered

boughs everywhere.

Danial seemed a little taller than he had when they met in the

summer; perhaps the difference was in his boots. He offered her the dark