Laura Schlitz - A Drowned Maiden's Hair

Maud was startled into saying, “No!” in her own emphatic voice. She made haste to correct herself, assuming the ethereal tones she had learned from Hyacinth. “Of course not, dear Mama.”

“Stop calling me that!” Mrs. Lambert almost shrieked. “God forgive you, Caroline Mary, if you torment me now!”

Maud quailed. The grieving mother had become a fury; her voice coiled and struck like a cobra.

“How could you, Caroline? How dare you disobey and go into the water? You promised me — that very morning you promised — that you wouldn’t bathe alone. And for spite — for very spite! — you lost your life and broke my heart, so that I will never mend, never love —”

Maud’s reaction was instinctive. An adult had lost self-control and was castigating her. She forgot she was not Caroline and cried out desperately, “I didn’t!”

“You drowned yourself —”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Maud pleaded.

Improbably, Mrs. Lambert laughed. Her laugh was a weird blend of hysteria and genuine mirth. “Oh, Caroline! What am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Maud apologized. “But I didn’t. I didn’t drown myself. It was an accident.”

“But they found your shoes and stockings on the shore,” argued Mrs. Lambert. “You meant to break your promise to me. You took off your shoes and stockings.”

Shoes and stockings. Those were the words that Caroline had spoken. Maud felt herself grow cold. Her mind went back to the dreams: Caroline, barefoot, on the shore, Caroline stretching out her hand toward the jetty . . . All at once the words came easily, as if they were words Maud had learned by heart.

“I didn’t take off my shoes to go in the water. I took them off to walk on the jetty.”

Silence. The silence was so protracted that Maud wondered if the room outside the map cupboard was empty. At last Mrs. Lambert echoed, “The jetty?”

“I wanted to walk on the jetty,” said Maud. “But it was slippery, so I took off my shoes and stockings.” She remembered Caroline’s boldness and added provocatively, “You never said I couldn’t walk on the jetty.”

“The jetty!” repeated Mrs. Lambert. “Oh! Caroline, you foolish girl! Didn’t you know how dangerous that was?”

“I slipped,” admitted Maud. “But I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Mrs. Lambert was weeping again. Her sobs were less violent. They sounded like sobs of relief. “Oh, my dear!”

“I’m sorry,” Maud said meekly.

A rap from the table distracted her. Rap, rap, rap! Judith cried out, “Hyacinth! Eleanor — Hyacinth’s stopped breathing!”

Maud pricked up her ears. They were about to begin the second part of the séance: her materialization.

“No, she’s breathing,” Mrs. Lambert contradicted. “I can feel her breath against my fingers.”

“Yes, but she breathes so faintly!” Judith said. “There is danger in this. Her trance is so deep! We must stop. Hyacinth, wake up! My sister — wake up, wake up!”

Three cries of “wake up” meant that Mrs. Lambert had her back to the map closet. Maud pressed against the door and stepped out. Over by the table was a dark triangle — the two women bending over the collapsed Hyacinth. Maud took an extra moment to push the door panel back in place. She left it open by an inch. Then she whispered, “Mama?”

Mrs. Lambert turned. She glimpsed the white-clad figure in the dark. Almost imperceptibly the room brightened; Judith had raised the wick of the kerosene lamp, allowing a little more light. Mrs. Lambert lunged forward, arms outstretched.

Maud fell into them. “Mama,” she whispered as Mrs. Lambert clutched her. Maud could feel the woman trembling; her heart thrummed in Maud’s ear. “Oh, my dear girl,” murmured Mrs. Lambert, and then, as if it were a miracle, “you’re warm. ”

Maud had no idea why she was crying. She felt Mrs. Lambert’s buttons dig into her cheek. She breathed in the scent of starched linen and lavender water. She wrapped her arms around the rich woman’s waist and hugged back. “I love you, Mama.” The words that had sounded false in rehearsal came easily now. “I love you!”

“Oh, Caroline, I love you, too,” Mrs. Lambert whispered. “I love you, I love you — and oh, my dearest, forgive me those ugly words! I didn’t mean them —”

“I know, Mama.” Maud felt her wig lurch as Mrs. Lambert caressed her curls. She removed one arm from the woman’s waist so that she could hang on to it. “I understand.”

“Help me!” Judith’s voice was a shock. She was almost screaming. “My sister! My sister! Help me!”

Maud felt Mrs. Lambert’s arms loosen. Reluctantly she turned back toward the two spiritualists.

“She’s dying! Help me!”

Slowly, Mrs. Lambert released her phantom daughter. Maud stepped to one side. As soon as she saw Mrs. Lambert lean over Hyacinth, she backed up, step by step, reached for door of the map closet, found it, and hid herself within. She pulled at her skirt, taking care that none of the cloth was caught in the door —

There was a tinkle of broken glass. Someone was screaming. Maud blinked in the darkness. Something was happening on the other side of the panel, something that had not been rehearsed. Hyacinth, who was supposed to be emerging from her trance, was shouting, and Judith, who never lost self-control, was shrieking like a banshee. The din was so terrible that Maud could not distinguish the words. The light outside the door increased — Hyacinth must have turned up the lamp — and the screaming went on. There was a sound like cloth tearing, a heavy thud, and several sharp cracks, different in timbre from Judith’s rappings. “Quickly!” “No time!” “Look there!” “She’s hurt!” and — from Mrs. Lambert — “Your servant —?” and from Hyacinth, sharply, “Out!”

The door slammed. Someone had come in, or gone out, the front door. Maud strained to hear. She heard a queer trickling noise, like a stream with a strong current — the sound of people shouting outside the house — was that Hyacinth? — and then a man, shouting about fire. There must be a fire, Maud thought, and they’ve gone outside to look at it, but why? It didn’t make sense.

The light outside the door grew brighter. Maud’s nostrils twitched. Something was burning — but supper was over and Muffet never . . . Smoke. Still disbelieving, Maud opened the door of the map cupboard.

The room was bright with fire. The kerosene lamp had fallen, and flames sprouted from the broken glass. The tablecloth lay rumpled on the carpet, cradling a lapful of fire. Fire danced on the threshold of the doorway, making the velvet curtains shrink and twitch. The women had left the house just in time.

Maud retreated. She had a crazy desire to rush back inside the map closet, squeeze shut her eyes, and hide until the fire went away. Then Hyacinth’s words came back to her, as clearly as if she stood at Maud’s side. The wood’s cracked. Too many holes and it’ll splinter into bits.

Maud whirled. Using her body as a battering ram, she flung herself at the back wall of the map cupboard. The wood panel creaked, but it didn’t splinter. Maud cast a frantic look around the room. There was a bronze sailing ship on the mantel — heavy, with a sharp-pointed bow — and she seized it with both hands. Her arms sagged with its weight — it was heavier than it looked — but she gripped it tightly and beat it against the back wall.

At the first blow, the panel splintered. With the second and third, she smashed a hole big enough to crawl through. She forced herself into the breach, wiggling like an animal trapped in a hedge. Her arms toppled the books on the other side of the wall and pushed open the glass doors of the bookcase. She kicked forward until her arms caught hold of the shelf’s front edge. Then she began to pull through.