Guinevere, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Lady Macbeth—but she’s not real, maybe we shouldn’t include her.”
“Let’s include her, why not?” Grace was herself again, and a conviction surged through me that her demons had been defeated. Relief made me feel light-headed. “History says there may have been a Lady Macbeth, and besides, Shakespeare tells her story so powerfully, she might as well be real.”
“That’s true,” Grace said excitedly. “I never thought about it that way. Did you know that we can make candles right here in the kitchen? Cook showed me how to do it. I’ll teach you. Come on.” She grasped my hand and began to run down the stairs, but I managed to stop her about halfway down.
“Let’s wait here for your father to finish his meeting, Grace. That’s more polite. So he won’t have to wonder where we are.”
“He won’t mind—”
“We’ll stay here, Grace.”
So we sat side by side on the stairs, and in the unwavering glow of electricity we enumerated our favorite characters from history and literature who had done quite well, thank you very much, without the lightbulb. This wasn’t the time for me to talk to her about conveyor belts or electric water pumps. My only job now was to love her.
Suddenly she said, “I remember Mama and I used to sit right here on the stairs and wait for you to come visit us, Aunt Louisa. So we could open the door the second you got here. Did you know we waited?”
I hadn’t known, but I did know that they were immediately at the door, always, to welcome me—drawing me in, showing me that I belonged. Even as a toddler, Grace on her chubby legs would open the big door for me, Margaret standing four steps behind her—Margaret in her exquisite dresses, with her porcelain skin and her openness to all the world, smiling with pride upon her little daughter.
“We had ‘stair games’ we used to play,” Grace continued. “You know, finger games, with string. Like cat’s cradle. I can do the cup and saucer. You know, that’s the one where you …” Grace began to show me the moves in the air before dissolving into laughter at the intricate confusion of doing the moves without a string. “Mama always kept the string in her pocket, so we’d never have to look for it.” Unexpectedly she knit her brows. “I wonder whatever happened to that string? I wonder if it’s still in her pocket. In the dress those men put on her when they came to—” Grace gasped. I reached to embrace her, but she shook me aside, tossing up her head. “We can make another cat’s cradle string! I’ll show you how!”
At that moment, Karl Speyer came out of the parlor. We could see him through the posts of the banister. He was a big man with a thick dark beard, broad-shouldered, dressed in a fur hat and a bulky coat with a fur collar. He never looked up at us, so I didn’t see his eyes. Maybe that’s why I had the impression of the type of man whom a woman would be frightened to notice behind her on the street after dark. He let himself out of the house, closing the door gently.
Many minutes passed before Tom left the parlor. Grace was caught up explaining other finger games to me and didn’t realize how long her father was alone. The telephone was in the parlor; most likely he was using it. When finally he opened the parlor door and walked toward the stairs, he looked weary and preoccupied. But when he saw Grace giggling on the steps, her elbow resting on my knee, he stopped and smiled. He and I exchanged a happy glance, as adults so often do when they’re caught in a moment’s realization of how extraordinary children are. He began to walk up the stairs toward us.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Oh, I suppose so. My employee Mr. Speyer has a flair for the dramatic. And he seems to think he can get the better of me if he just keeps repeating his point.” For an instant Tom paused, glancing aside at the scrollwork on the banister posts. “Well,
“Let’s include her, why not?” Grace was herself again, and a conviction surged through me that her demons had been defeated. Relief made me feel light-headed. “History says there may have been a Lady Macbeth, and besides, Shakespeare tells her story so powerfully, she might as well be real.”
“That’s true,” Grace said excitedly. “I never thought about it that way. Did you know that we can make candles right here in the kitchen? Cook showed me how to do it. I’ll teach you. Come on.” She grasped my hand and began to run down the stairs, but I managed to stop her about halfway down.
“Let’s wait here for your father to finish his meeting, Grace. That’s more polite. So he won’t have to wonder where we are.”
“He won’t mind—”
“We’ll stay here, Grace.”
So we sat side by side on the stairs, and in the unwavering glow of electricity we enumerated our favorite characters from history and literature who had done quite well, thank you very much, without the lightbulb. This wasn’t the time for me to talk to her about conveyor belts or electric water pumps. My only job now was to love her.
Suddenly she said, “I remember Mama and I used to sit right here on the stairs and wait for you to come visit us, Aunt Louisa. So we could open the door the second you got here. Did you know we waited?”
I hadn’t known, but I did know that they were immediately at the door, always, to welcome me—drawing me in, showing me that I belonged. Even as a toddler, Grace on her chubby legs would open the big door for me, Margaret standing four steps behind her—Margaret in her exquisite dresses, with her porcelain skin and her openness to all the world, smiling with pride upon her little daughter.
“We had ‘stair games’ we used to play,” Grace continued. “You know, finger games, with string. Like cat’s cradle. I can do the cup and saucer. You know, that’s the one where you …” Grace began to show me the moves in the air before dissolving into laughter at the intricate confusion of doing the moves without a string. “Mama always kept the string in her pocket, so we’d never have to look for it.” Unexpectedly she knit her brows. “I wonder whatever happened to that string? I wonder if it’s still in her pocket. In the dress those men put on her when they came to—” Grace gasped. I reached to embrace her, but she shook me aside, tossing up her head. “We can make another cat’s cradle string! I’ll show you how!”
At that moment, Karl Speyer came out of the parlor. We could see him through the posts of the banister. He was a big man with a thick dark beard, broad-shouldered, dressed in a fur hat and a bulky coat with a fur collar. He never looked up at us, so I didn’t see his eyes. Maybe that’s why I had the impression of the type of man whom a woman would be frightened to notice behind her on the street after dark. He let himself out of the house, closing the door gently.
Many minutes passed before Tom left the parlor. Grace was caught up explaining other finger games to me and didn’t realize how long her father was alone. The telephone was in the parlor; most likely he was using it. When finally he opened the parlor door and walked toward the stairs, he looked weary and preoccupied. But when he saw Grace giggling on the steps, her elbow resting on my knee, he stopped and smiled. He and I exchanged a happy glance, as adults so often do when they’re caught in a moment’s realization of how extraordinary children are. He began to walk up the stairs toward us.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Oh, I suppose so. My employee Mr. Speyer has a flair for the dramatic. And he seems to think he can get the better of me if he just keeps repeating his point.” For an instant Tom paused, glancing aside at the scrollwork on the banister posts. “Well,
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