the house,
tending Papa and me
like an angel.
I had no choice
but to quit
the vigil
I’ve been keeping
at his bedside;
sleep crushed me.
I wish so bad
she was really here.
South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club
Lake Conemaugh
Whitcomb
Making headway on a stack of contracts,
I notice
unease
tugging at my sleeve.
I neaten up the papers,
open my ledger,
close it again.
What is this irritation
at the edge of my thoughts?
Damn these intrusions!
Time wasters!
I have no choice
but to push my work away
for the moment
and clear my head.
It is Celestia.
She did not appear for breakfast—
not unusual—
a busy man such as myself
often begins his workday
before other members of the household
are even awake.
But now it is well past eleven
and I have not yet heard her stirring
or seen her traipsing
down the stairs with a book in hand.
Perhaps the trip exhausted her.
I head upstairs and knock on her door.
No answer.
A quick look in her room
reveals she must be up and about.
Not in the clubhouse.
I look out the windows
to see rain pelting the boardwalks
and whipping the lake.
She could not be out there …
could she?
I grab a mackintosh to hold over my head
and go out
toward the stables.
I am forced to yell over the sound of the rain:
“Has anybody seen my daughter today?”
Givens shakes his head. “Sorry, Mr. Whitcomb.”
“Off somewhere with her nose in a book, no doubt,” I say.
No need to raise suspicions
among the staff …
though I cannot help but glance toward the dam
and the valley below.
Nightfall.
No sign of Celestia.
I pace the bedroom floor
in my dressing gown,
chewing a cigar.
Oh, how Mildred would protest
if she were here.
I open the door to
look down the empty hall,
or stop to listen,
my ears perked up
like a deer in these woods
fearing us hunters,
but the only sound is rain.
“Where did I leave those matches?”
As I reach for them on the mantel
my sleeve brushes the hinged double frame:
portraits of the girls.
The first frame,
Estrella’s place,
is empty.
The second is Celestia,
all in white,
with flowers in her hair
instead of fancy jewels—
not like other girls.
Her mother’s eyes,
my set jaw—
she has a look of certainty,
as if she knows exactly who she is.
I find myself wishing
for the hundredth time that night
that I knew exactly who she was.
“Celestia?” I call in a normal voice
as if expecting her to answer,
as if it were any old night.
But the silence,
the finality,
gnaws around my edges,
until I am thoroughly frightened.
“Celestia!” I yell,
hating the trembling in my voice.
This time I know there will be no answer.
My legs give way
without permission
and I am on the floor.
All my money,
all my influence and connections
can provide no remedy.
Look at yourself, Bertram ,
reduced to this—
a heap on the floor,
a weeping man in his dressing gown
whispering to his daughter’s image,
“Celestia, my sensible girl,
I cannot lose another daughter
to romantic foolishness.”
Johnstown
Celestia
Peter sleeps peacefully now.
After mumbling and tossing at first,
he went still under the heaviness
of desperate sleep.
I rock myself in his mother’s chair.
When I open my eyes
to the early light,
Peter is staring at me.
I sit up, surprised.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask,
hoping his answer will prove him to be lucid.
His voice is unsteady: “This must be heaven, right?
I thought it would look different.
Clouds at least.
How else could you be here,
sleeping in my sitting room?”
“Railroads.
And one very large ship.”
He raises one arm,
sinewy,
veined.
I go to him,
hold his hand.
“I’m glad you’re here”—he looks around—
“I thought I was dreaming.”
“Your letters stopped. I just had to know …”
“Working double shifts to pay for doctors.
Up with him most of the night,
thinking every cough’ll kill him …
black lung,
the miner’s death.
And me, I’m just exhausted.”
“I understood as soon as I arrived.” I smooth the blankets.
“I’m sorry”—his
tending Papa and me
like an angel.
I had no choice
but to quit
the vigil
I’ve been keeping
at his bedside;
sleep crushed me.
I wish so bad
she was really here.
South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club
Lake Conemaugh
Whitcomb
Making headway on a stack of contracts,
I notice
unease
tugging at my sleeve.
I neaten up the papers,
open my ledger,
close it again.
What is this irritation
at the edge of my thoughts?
Damn these intrusions!
Time wasters!
I have no choice
but to push my work away
for the moment
and clear my head.
It is Celestia.
She did not appear for breakfast—
not unusual—
a busy man such as myself
often begins his workday
before other members of the household
are even awake.
But now it is well past eleven
and I have not yet heard her stirring
or seen her traipsing
down the stairs with a book in hand.
Perhaps the trip exhausted her.
I head upstairs and knock on her door.
No answer.
A quick look in her room
reveals she must be up and about.
Not in the clubhouse.
I look out the windows
to see rain pelting the boardwalks
and whipping the lake.
She could not be out there …
could she?
I grab a mackintosh to hold over my head
and go out
toward the stables.
I am forced to yell over the sound of the rain:
“Has anybody seen my daughter today?”
Givens shakes his head. “Sorry, Mr. Whitcomb.”
“Off somewhere with her nose in a book, no doubt,” I say.
No need to raise suspicions
among the staff …
though I cannot help but glance toward the dam
and the valley below.
Nightfall.
No sign of Celestia.
I pace the bedroom floor
in my dressing gown,
chewing a cigar.
Oh, how Mildred would protest
if she were here.
I open the door to
look down the empty hall,
or stop to listen,
my ears perked up
like a deer in these woods
fearing us hunters,
but the only sound is rain.
“Where did I leave those matches?”
As I reach for them on the mantel
my sleeve brushes the hinged double frame:
portraits of the girls.
The first frame,
Estrella’s place,
is empty.
The second is Celestia,
all in white,
with flowers in her hair
instead of fancy jewels—
not like other girls.
Her mother’s eyes,
my set jaw—
she has a look of certainty,
as if she knows exactly who she is.
I find myself wishing
for the hundredth time that night
that I knew exactly who she was.
“Celestia?” I call in a normal voice
as if expecting her to answer,
as if it were any old night.
But the silence,
the finality,
gnaws around my edges,
until I am thoroughly frightened.
“Celestia!” I yell,
hating the trembling in my voice.
This time I know there will be no answer.
My legs give way
without permission
and I am on the floor.
All my money,
all my influence and connections
can provide no remedy.
Look at yourself, Bertram ,
reduced to this—
a heap on the floor,
a weeping man in his dressing gown
whispering to his daughter’s image,
“Celestia, my sensible girl,
I cannot lose another daughter
to romantic foolishness.”
Johnstown
Celestia
Peter sleeps peacefully now.
After mumbling and tossing at first,
he went still under the heaviness
of desperate sleep.
I rock myself in his mother’s chair.
When I open my eyes
to the early light,
Peter is staring at me.
I sit up, surprised.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask,
hoping his answer will prove him to be lucid.
His voice is unsteady: “This must be heaven, right?
I thought it would look different.
Clouds at least.
How else could you be here,
sleeping in my sitting room?”
“Railroads.
And one very large ship.”
He raises one arm,
sinewy,
veined.
I go to him,
hold his hand.
“I’m glad you’re here”—he looks around—
“I thought I was dreaming.”
“Your letters stopped. I just had to know …”
“Working double shifts to pay for doctors.
Up with him most of the night,
thinking every cough’ll kill him …
black lung,
the miner’s death.
And me, I’m just exhausted.”
“I understood as soon as I arrived.” I smooth the blankets.
“I’m sorry”—his
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