Stone Mattress: Nine Tales(32)

Touching little creature.

Tin consults his watch.

At last, the final musical number. It’s “Fare Thee Well,” a traditional folk song said to have been inspirational to Gavin Putnam when he was writing his now-famous first collection, Heavy Moonlight. A copper-haired young man who can’t be more than eighteen stands on the stage to sing it for them, backed up by two lads with guitars.

Fare thee well, my own true love,

And farewell for a while;

I’m going away, but I’ll be back

If I go ten thousand miles.



That will do it every time: the promise to return, coupled with the certain knowledge that no return is possible. The singer’s quavering tenor fades away, followed by a fusillade of sobbing and coughs. Tin feels a nuzzling against his jacket sleeve. “Oh, Tin,” says Jorrie.

He told her to bring a handkerchief, but of course she didn’t. He digs out his own handkerchief and hands it to her.



Now there’s a murmuring, a rustling, a rising, a mingling. There will be an open bar in the Salon and refreshments in the West Hall, they are informed. There’s a discreet stampede of footsteps.

“Where’s the washroom?” says Jorrie. She’s blotted her face, inexpertly: there’s mascara running down her cheeks. Tin recovers his handkerchief and dabs away the black smudges as best he can. “Will you wait outside for me?” she asks plaintively.

“I’m heading there myself,” says Tin. “I’ll meet you at the bar.”

“Just don’t take all day,” says Jorrie. “I need to get out of this henhouse.” She’s waxing querulous: her blood sugar must be down. In the fracas of preparation, they forgot to have lunch. He’ll funnel some alcohol into her for a quick lift and steer her over to the crustless sandwiches. Then, after a lemon square or two, for what is a funerary occasion without a lemon square, they’ll skedaddle out the door.

In the Men’s he runs into Seth MacDonald, Emeritus Professor of Ancient Languages at Princeton and the celebrated translator of the Orphic Hymns and, as it turns out, an old acquaintance of Gavin Putnam. Not professionally, no, but they’d been on a Mediterranean cruise together – “Hotspots of the Ancient World” – where they’d got on well and had followed up with a correspondence over the past few years. Commiserations are exchanged; Tin does some routine prevarication and invents a reason for his own presence.

“We were both interested in Hadrian,” he says.

“Ah, yes,” says Seth. “Yes. I noticed the allusion. Skilfully done.”

The unexpected delay means that Jorrie makes it out of the washroom before Tin does. He should never have let her out of his sight! She’s gone to town with the sparkly metallic bronzer, and on top of that she’s applied something else: a coating of large, glittering, golden flakes. She looks like a sequined leather handbag. She must have smuggled these supplies in her purse: payback for his redaction of the shocking-pink Chanel. Of course she hasn’t been able to take in the full effect of her applications in the washroom mirror: she wouldn’t have been wearing her reading glasses.

“What have you …” he begins. She shoots him a glare: Don’t you dare! She’s right: it’s too late now.

He grasps her elbow. “Forward the Light Brigade,” he says.

“What?”

“Let’s get a drink.”



Inexpensive but passable white wines in hand, they head for the refreshments table. As they near the crowd surrounding it, Jorrie stiffens. “With the third wife, look! There she is!” she says. She’s quivering all over.

“Who?” says Tin, knowing all too well. It’s the gorgon What’s-her-name – C. W. Starr in person, recognizable from her newspaper photos. A short, white-haired old lady in a frumpy quilted coat. No glitter powder on her; in fact, no hint of makeup at all.

“She doesn’t recognize me!” Jorrie whispers. Now she’s bubbling with merriment. Who would recognize you, thinks Tin, with that layer of stucco and dragon scales on your face? “She looked right at me! Come on, let’s eavesdrop!” Shades of their childhood snooping. She tugs him forward.

“No, Jorrie,” he says, as if to a poorly trained terrier. But it’s no use; onward she plunges, straining at the invisible leash he’s failing to tighten around her neck.



Constance W. Starr is clutching an egg salad sandwich in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She looks beleaguered and wary. To her right must be the bereaved widow, Reynolds Putnam, in chaste blue and pearls. She is indeed quite young. She doesn’t look overly afflicted, but then, time has passed since the actual death. To the right of Mrs. Putnam is Naveena, the fetching young devotee who’d broken down while delivering her funeral oration. She appears to have recovered completely, and is holding forth.

But not on the subject of Gavin Putnam and his deathless verbiage. As Tin attunes himself to her flattish Midwestern speech, he realizes that she’s effusing over the Alphinland series. Constance W. Starr takes a bite of her sandwich: she’s probably heard this kind of thing before.

“The Curse of Frenosia,” Naveena is saying. “Book Four. That was so … with the bees, and the Scarlet Sorceress of Ruptous walled up in the stone beehive! It’s such a …”