Joy Williams - The Visiting Privilege - New and Collected Stories

“My second daughter is the traveler of the family even though she seldom rises from her bed. One need only show her the shell of a queen conch or a paperweight with its glass enclosing a Welsh thistle and she is swimming in the Bahamas or tramping the British Isles, though this only in her mind for she is far too excitable and shy to make the actual journey. She prepares for her adventures by anticipating the worst, and when this does not occur she delights in her good fortune. Some who know her find her pitiful but I believe she has saved herself by her ingenuity. The bruises she shows me on her thin arms and legs, even on her dear face, incurred in the course of these travels, evoke my every sympathy.”

“How preposterous,” Pauline whispered to me.

“My third daughter,” Starky continued, pausing to sip her drink, “is plain and compliant with great physical stamina. In fact it is by her strength that she attempts to atone for everything. She is sentimental and nostalgic, which is understandable for given her nature her future will be little different from her past. She is not lazy, on the contrary she labors hard and conscientiously, but her work is taken for granted. She is hopeful and trusts everyone, leaving herself open to betrayal. She pores over my trinkets, believing they have special import for her. She often cries out for me in the night. She fears death more than I do, more, perhaps, than any of us here.”

“Bless her heart,” Betty said.

“Does she?” Pauline asked. “But there’s no way of judging that, is there? I mean, how can you even presume—”

“I wish you’d continue,” Betty said to Starky.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Mustn’t get stalled on that one.”

“My fourth daughter is a singer, an exquisite mezzo-soprano. Her voice was a great gift, she hasn’t had a single lesson. Even when it became clear that she was extraordinary we decided against formal training, which would only have perverted her voice’s singularity and freshness. Sing, I urged her always. Sing! For your voice will desert you one day without warning.”

“Mommy,” Guinivere said — startling me, for I had forgotten her completely.

“Do sing for us, Guinivere,” Betty said. “We so love it when you sing.”

“Yes, go ahead,” her mother said.

The girl’s round mouth grew rounder still and after a moment in which, I suppose, she composed herself, she sang in the most thrilling voice:

If there had anywhere appeared in space

Another place of refuge, where to flee,

Our hearts had taken refuge in that place,

And not with Thee.

………………

And only when we found in earth and air,

In heaven or hell, that such might nowhere be—

That we could not flee from Thee anywhere,

We fled to Thee.

“How sweet,” Pauline allowed.

“Is that Trench?” Bruce asked. “I’m not as keen as I used to be in identifying those old English hymnists.”

Guinivere rose and said something urgently to Betty.

“Go behind the bushes, dear,” Betty said. “It’s quite all right.”

“Behind the bushes!” Pauline appeared scandalized. “She’s a grown woman!”

“Our house rather frightens Guinivere,” Betty said.

“Perhaps there are ghosts,” Pauline said. She giggled and whispered in my ear, “Don’t tell me the Vineyard wouldn’t be better than this.”

“I don’t know about ghosts,” Betty said, “but in any old house you can be sure things happened, cruel and desperate things.”

When Guinivere had disappeared behind the large lavender globes of the hydrangeas, her mother said quietly, “Her voice is in decline.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” I said, though of course I am no expert. “Her voice is splendid.”

Starky said calmly, “She is like a great tree in winter whose roots are cut, only mimicking what the other trees can promise — the life to come.”

Guinivere returned and took her place. She could not be persuaded to sing again. We were all sitting on old metal chairs, rusted from years of the island’s heavy, almost unremitting fog, but not so badly that they marked one’s clothes. I believe Bruce and Betty stored them in the cellar during the winter.

“My fifth daughter,” Starky resumed to my dismay, “is the one I personally taught about time. I did her no service for she is my most melancholy child. She is unable to give value to things and never surrenders herself to comforting distractions. Alternatives are meaningless to her. She is a hounded girl, desolate, a captive, seeking in silence some language that might serve her. Faith would allow her some relief but she resists the slavishness of spirit that faith would entail. No, for her faith is out of the question.”

Bruce gestured for me to make fresh drinks for all. I wanted further drink badly, indeed I had almost taken Pauline’s glass and drained it as my own. I made the drinks quickly, without the niceties of sugar or lime and with the last of the ice.

“My sixth daughter is dead,” Starky said. “She ran the brief race prescribed to her and now her race is done.”

“She has a lovely stone,” Betty said.

“She wanted a stone,” Starky said. “I had to assure her over and over that there would be a stone.”

“Well, it’s lovely,” Betty said.

“She found the peace which the world cannot give,” Starky said, quite unnecessarily, I thought.

Pauline stared at her, then turned to me and said, “What could she possibly mean? How could she know what the poor thing found?”

I wanted to calm her though I knew she was more angry than anxious. Only hours before this mad evening had begun we were sitting quite contentedly alone on the moors, or what on this island they refer to as moors. We had wasted the morning, we’d agreed then, but not the afternoon. We could not see the sea, though we were aware of it because of course it was all around us. Love’s bright mother from the ocean sprung, the Greeks believed.

“I can’t bear this another moment,” Pauline said, rising to her feet. “Why do you expect to be so indulged? Why did you have so many? Where is the father? Who is the father? The children are freakish, at least as you present them. Why do you put them on such cruel display? Why are their efforts so feeble and familiar? Why are you not more concerned? This is not how friends spend a sociable evening. Why didn’t you tell a real story, not even once? How could you believe we would even be interested? No, I can’t endure this any longer.”

And with this she hurried out, unerringly I must say, through the dark garden, across the uneven flagstone. It took me several minutes to deliver my apologies and good-byes, but even so I left in such haste that it was not until I was well down the street that I realized I was still wearing Bruce’s old sweater. I would mail it to him in the morning before we boarded the ferry. I wondered if Betty and Bruce would store the old chairs when the days grew bitter and if, assuming they did, the effort would be made to bring them out again in the spring.

It must have been quite late for the streets were deserted. I hoped that a walk, at my own pace in the light chill fog, would clear my head. Starky had seemed amused by Pauline’s outburst and Betty and Bruce unperturbed, while Guinivere had not raised her head, either then or at my own departure. Indeed, she appeared to be practically in a stupor. Her mother might have been correct. The effort she was making could not be sustained much longer.

I walked slowly down the cobblestoned main street, turning left at the museum where earlier in the day Pauline and I had spent less than an hour for it was a dispiriting place, cheerfully staffed by volunteer docents but displaying the most grotesque weapons and tools of eighteenth-century whaling — knives and spades and chisels, harpoons and lances and fluke chains. Antique drawings and prints accompanied by descriptive commentary filled the walls. One sentence concerning the end of the flensing process, which took place alongside the ships, remains with me: Finally the body was cast off and allowed to float away . Most disturbingly put, I felt, the word allowed bein g particularly horrible.