Quiet Dell: A Novel by Jayne Anne Phillips Read Free Book Online Page A

the opening to the street between the hedges and starts back, running the shovel before him, sliding and skidding.
    He’s in a quandary about the present he found for his mother—a silver ladle, tarnished nearly black, tossed on a tray of unsorted dinnerware at the Catholic rummage, but he’d picked it up and felt the raised A on the handle, then saw her mark on the back. He’d asked how much. Oh, have it, said the girl, and dropped it in the box with the doll furniture, the cuff links in their velvet ring box, the rosary in its hosiery pouch. Hart polished the cuff links and ladle, with rags and the strong-smelling salve in the garage, until they shone; he knew to wear gloves, and he liked how the dark lifted off in oily smears. His mother would love having the ladle she made come back to her, as she didn’t make anything anymore, but where would he say he’d gotten it? She can’t know that someone threw it out, or worse, died and lost it to a rummage sale. And she will know unless he lies, for she knows where he got the rosary. He has nothing else to give her.
    “God,” he says aloud, and “God!” again, in frustration.
    On his knees, he begins filling the luminaria sacks with sand. The wind gusts and he ducks his head, squinting, pulling the open bags closer to the front door. Halfway full, Charles said. Hartspades sand into one bag after another, using his mother’s garden trowel to throw sand, every other spadeful, over Duty’s head onto the icing steps. Duty rushes to and fro, chasing it.
    Snow swirls and the sun is a dull glow. Hart looks out and sees headlights, searching slowly along the unplowed street. A flower delivery van stops just at their walk; a red-faced man emerges, coatless, wearing a stocking cap and coveralls.
    The man comes inside the hedge, leaving the van running and the door open. “This the Eicher residence?” he shouts. “Asta Eicher?”
    “This is the forest glade and luminaria factory,” Hart calls back. “It is my glade and my factory.”
    “Are ye drunk, boy? Shall I ring the bell?”
    “No, it’s my house.” Hart stands, brushing the sand from his jacket. “I’m Hart Eicher.”
    The deliveryman produces a swathed object, stepping along the snowy walk in an odd, dancelike gait until he stands at the bottom of the steps. “Well, come here then, lad, and give these to your sister, that’s a good lad. I’ve miles to go. The devilish truck is full.”
    Hart breathes in the roar of the man’s breath. He’s the one who’s drunk, and thrusts the vase into Hart’s arms. Turning, he gains the van and slams the door. The van rumbles and lurches off into the middle of the drifted street.
    The flowers look to Hart like a bandaged head on a pedestal. He rips off the paper, pocketing the small sealed envelope that falls out. They’re red carnations, a slew of them, perfect for Annabel’s purposes. Charles has certainly sent them, and won’t mind if they’re delivered as part of the pageant. Hart is cheered, for he will put the flowers under the sofa and produce them at the end in a flourish.
    He hears a sound then, an immense groan overhead, and a crack like a rifle shot. A tall bent pine near the house breaks before his eyes, dropping a slide of snow, throwing off clouds of spray. The tree lands soundlessly across the drifts and the front walk. One long branch reaches up onto the porch like a finger.
    •   •   •
    The pageant was put off, for the goose was done and cooling before the children could ready themselves, and everyone was hungry. Charles carved the bird as they passed the plates, while Asta served vegetables: the garlic mashed and brandied sweets, the peas and green beans, the oyster dressing, cranberry relish, and onion chutney, and hot giblet gravy for every plate. The children sipped punch from their cups, water from their goblets, clear cream soda from their wineglasses, drinking toasts. Grethe and Annabel cleared and rinsed the Haviland dishes