Quiet Dell: A Novel by Jayne Anne Phillips

Annabel’s shoes were onstage and Hart was wearing Charles’ fedora and scarf. Oh yes, the actuary, who wrapped the white scarf about Grethe’s neck. Go onward now, for there is much to see and know. Well, Asta would read the pages later and praise the author. Annabel could be so optimistic and so morbid, by turns! She now appeared, flushed with pleasure, for the singing. She had the good sense to always end her Christmas pageants with a carol. Annabel struck her triangle, a pure, true tone; they sang of sweet silver bells and cares thrown away.
    Grethe stepped out for her solo, her voice as clear as running water, while Hart sang his lyrics in an assumed baritone, racing to tell the tale dramatically and lifting his arms to raise the sound, which set Duty to running and barking. The children joined hands. All sing in jolly fashion, directed the program. And indeed, the singers leaned toward the audience, overenunciating every joyful note. Charles beamed, and Duty, unbidden, executed the circle trick, turning about completely on his short bandy legs.
    The players paused and stepped back. Annabel struck the triangle; the tone reverberated like the strike of a clock. The notes were true, sustained one to the other, and unbearably sad, for each opened the heart a little deeper.
    Ding
    dong
    ding
    dong
    A beat of silence reigned, as though holding all concerned. Asta felt her breath return and found herself on her feet, cheering and applauding with Charles, who hugged the children all together and opened his arms to her. “Stupendous, incredible,” Charles was shouting, and Duty ran wildly about, barking and jumping.
    Hart reached under the sofa, drawing out dozens of brilliantly red carnations, which he plunged into Asta’s arms, nearly upsetting her. The girls sighed their admiration and reached to touch; the flowers were layered depths of red blossoms and fern. “For you, Mother!” Hart exclaimed, dropping to one knee and sweeping off Charles’ fedora like the plumed hat of a prince. “You don’t mind, do you, Charles?” He stood to shed his cloak and return Charles’ fedora.
    “Mind? Certainly not,” Charles said. “My compliments on the perfect gesture. Need help with those, Anna?”
    Asta looked at him in thanks and knew instantly he had not sent them. She smiled happily and asked Grethe to get the large vase from the china cabinet. She would question Hart in private. The children were calling out, “Presents, presents,” but Charles clapped his hands for order.
    “You may open one present,” Charles said, “and we’ll do the rest later. No need to change costumes or disassemble the set. Now—which present?” He pretended surprise when they called enthusiastically for the very large one, and helped Hart move it from behind the tree.
    Asta moved through the open pocket doors to the dining room table and put down the flowers, pouring the remains of the water goblets into the vase. There were fifty carnations at least. She’d not seen such a profusion of flowers in one arrangement since Heinrich’s funeral. Lavinia’s service had been small and private, but Heinrich’s death had occasioned such an outpouring of surprise and grief. Huge bouquets kept arriving until she put a sign on the door asking that deliverymen take flowers directly to the church.
    “Mother! Mother! Come along now, they’re waiting!”
    Asta looked up, startled. Heinrich had often addressed her asMother in the children’s presence, while he called his own mother by her given name, as though she were his contemporary, but today it was Charles, gesturing for Asta to join them. The children sat poised around the gift, which was wrapped in simple brown paper and a big red bow; she moved toward them as they tore the paper away in great ripping swaths.
    •   •   •
    She proceeded smoothly, by instinct almost, for she felt tremendous fatigue. She stopped Hart in the hallway, while the girls were upstairs changing and Charles