Alexander sniffed the damaged book. The Brim Above the
Brow: Meditations on the Chapeau. His nose caught a
blend of must from the foxed pages and an unexpected sweetness.
He ran
a fingertip along the scalloped edges of the bite mark. Strong
jaws but the teeth had to be small. Perhaps a rat? The thought
disgusted him. He peered at the bookcase and moved aside
the 1902 edition of Lexicon of European Millinery and
The Proper Tip: Social Demands of the Bowler. No droppings, no
debris, only the usual dust that Ms. Penn attacked once a
week.
He crouched down on his knees. The titles on the lowest
shelf were novels and collections. Early editions rendered
near worthless by cracked spines and loose pages. Every
so often, a Trustee would present a plan to sell one. Had
the rats disliked Hawthorne? He pulled out his note pad
and scribbled a reminder to ask Mr. Cassey to bring his
poisons early this season.
For the next few hours, Alexander searched the rest of
the study for any other damage or misplaced objects. He
found the remains of a lollipop underneath Grueller’s
mahogany desk. Wine-colored sugar crystals clung to the
worn Persian rug.
“Children,” Alexander muttered to the empty
room.
He wore gardening gloves while removing the offending
stick. Alexander had heard somewhere that a dog’s
mouth was cleaner than a child’s. He imagined both
as drooling pits.
He had asked the Board on several occasions during his
years as caretaker that Grueller House not admit any person
under ten years of age, no matter how many adults were
present. How could a child appreciate the historical worth
of Pennsylvania’s—arguably the entire Eastern
seaboard’s—preeminent late 19th century hatter?
Bored tourists stumbled upon the sidewalk sign were bad
enough. Alexander shuddered whenever someone other than
the quiet graduate students or powdered, old women from
the Historical Society came through the front door.
After one last walk through the house, Alexander turned
off the lights and headed upstairs, his feet avoiding the
bald patches on the runner. He went through the second
floor hall, with its thirteen coat racks capped with russet
derbies, tan fedoras, and homburgs of dusty silver felt.
Past the master bedroom, Grueller’s changing area had been refurbished
for the caretaker’s stay. Crème-colored walls held the early summer’s
heat, and Alexander stripped down entirely before slipping into bed. He closed
his eyes and listened to the house groan.
Standing before the hallway mirror, Alexander adjusted
the hat, which resembled a pale thimble ornamented with
a white satin band and silver buckle. He hid the price
tag. The gift shop offered replicas of Grueller designs.
Boxes from China filled the basement.
He checked his watch: just shy of 10 a.m. and he still
had several chores and piles of paperwork unattended. When
Henry had been docent, there had been time for everything.
Alexander unlocked the front door.
In the late afternoon, the first visitor arrived: an
elderly woman in a bold floral dress smelling of rose water.
She
tilted her head back and forth while looking around the
foyer. “Did anyone die here? Someone important. I’m
a mystery writer, you know.” She took a gilded pen
and small memo pad from her canvas bag. “I’m
doing research. I just adore cozies.”
“The only cozies used at Grueller House are found
in the dining room.”
The woman nodded and began scribbling. Her bag toppled
the stack of slick brochures on the demilune table.
Alexander bent down to recover the brochures when the
children stampeded past him. An arm smacked the side of
his face, and fingers scratched his cheek. Wincing, he
checked his face in the mirror. His reflection scowled
as he touched the edges of the red marks underneath one
eye.
“You should keep those children on a leash.” He
did not see where they went but heard them running through
the house’s first floor.
“They aren’t my children.” She finished
whatever notes she’d been making and headed off,
not in the direction of the dining room, clearly marked,
but the parlor.
Alexander tracked the sounds of gaiety and stomping feet
to the front room. A boy in lederhosen and a girl in a
blouse and Bavarian skirt ran around a table set with Grueller’s
tools. They must have come straight from some school play.
The Heidi reached for the pair of calipers used to measure
the skull, not touched since a tipsy Henry had used them
as ice tongs.
“Stop that.” Alexander clapped his hands
to get their attention. “This is not a playroom.
Where are your parents?” He hated how shrill his
voice became around children.
The pair stopped on the other side of the table. Spittle
filled the edges of the boy’s toothy smile and dribbled
down to his dimpled chin. The little Heimlich fell to all
fours and bit at the 19th century mahogany. Wood crunched
and splinters clung to his lips.
Alexander shouted in astonishment and kicked at the kid.
Its belly felt oddly solid, enough to hurt his toes. The
Heimlich rolled and struck a chair. A plump hand reached
up to the chair’s seat.
“That’s priceless. Off, off!” Although
Alexander knew the chair wasn’t an authentic Chippendale
but a weak reproduction limited by the unimaginative splat.
The Heimlich nodded and started gnawing at a leg. Heidi
came over with a mouthful of feathers. She clutched a deflated
down pillow.
“Get out! Out, out, now.” He grabbed them
by their ears and pulled them towards the door. They snarled
in some Alpine tongue. “No unattended children at
Grueller House.” He hoped they did not belong to
one of the Trustees, the majority of whom were lawyers.
The pair stared at him from the sidewalk a moment. Then
the Heidi bent down to nibble on the step’s wrought-iron
railing. Heimlich scratched his pudgy head and yawned,
showing a mouthful of endless teeth leading to a very red
gullet.
He slammed the door shut and turned the deadbolt. He
leaned against the wood while he caught his breath. He’d
call for Mr. Cassey and demand he spray tomorrow. Then
he’d have to speak to someone at Winterthur about
restoration. And the Trustees would have to be involved.
Scrolling through the long list of contacts on his cell
phone, Alexander paused at Henry’s name.
They had not spoken in the weeks since the Trustees had
dismissed Henry. If not for a forthcoming article on Grueller
in the Journal of the History of
Ideas, Alexander might have also been let go. The gratitude at being given
a second chance turned to shame whenever he thought of calling Henry.
At night, Alexander found he couldn’t ignore the
house. The walls felt brittle, the rooms no longer had
a sense of refinement and seclusion but left him anxious.
He missed Henry’s soft voice, the way his snores
sounded more like repeated sighs.
In the kitchen he was horrified to find the large woman
who wanted cozies with her head in the Oberlin stove, one
of the few surviving in Pennsylvania. Murmurs of regret
over failing to bring a tape measure echoed in the oven.
Her dress had caught on the oven’s lower ledge to
expose a glossy lavender-shaded slip and legs covered with
ruddy blotches.
“Madam,” Alexander said with a gasp. He imagined
a swift kick to her posterior but that might wedge her
tight. “Remove yourself from the Oberlin.” He
was relieved that cast iron resisted scratching.
She scuttled back and blinked at him for a moment. “Just
as well. They’re all convection these days.” She
made further notations before rising to her feet.
After escorting her back to the foyer, he unlocked the
door for her. He took notice that she paused by the bronze
box for donations bolted to one wall. She even lifted the
swinging lid and peered inside.
He took a firm hold of her arm and guided her to the
door. “We
have no mysteries here.”
Caretakers were not permitted to cook their meals on the
Oberlin. Not that Alexander had known the urge to chop
wood. In the back utility room, he heated a can of Krimmel’s
Old Pepper Pot Stew over a portable electric burner. He
stabbed apart a congealed lump, suspected of being tripe.
Around him, Grueller House groaned. Alexander paused
in his stirring and listened. Strong winds would turn the
plaster walls into a bellows. He wondered if the house
found comfort in creaking. Then he heard laughter.
He went into the hallway. Most of the house was dark.
Something short dashed from one room to the next. Giggles
and grunts trailed behind it. Floorboards creaked beneath
Alexander’s argyles.
He could hear the sound of their chewing, a cacophony
of rippling cloth, breaking wood, and cracking glass. Their
lips smacked. Mastication. Gulps as they swallowed.
He turned on the parlor’s lights. Heimlich and
Heidi looked up from where they sat on the floor, the remnants
of the furniture on their wet cheeks and chins. Their wide
eyes had tiny blue dots in the center.
The pair retreated behind the curtain, their fat bellies
bulging the muslin. Thick fingers clutched the fabric’s
edge. Four shiny patent leather shoes gleamed at the bottom.
“I’m calling the cops,” Alexander said
as he walked over to them. “They’ll take you
to dank cells where rough men pee in corners!” He
pulled aside the curtains and found the shoes were empty.
Without arms, without hands, the fingers toppled to the
floor like weisswurst, sickly pale and wrinkled at the
knuckles. Alexander didn’t call the police. His hands
shook as he opened the bottle of Wasmund’s Single
Malt, he’d bought days ago as an apology to Henry.
The first sip of whiskey went straight to his sinuses.
He only realized he’d left the burner on when he
wandered to the back of the house and smelled burnt stew
and pot, an acrid combination. He finished off the single
malt as his dinner.
Mr. Cassey arrived the next day as Alexander catalogued
the damage. The exterminator’s navy uniform had a
patch on the front (Francis) and a silhouette of people
standing around an immense, upturned beetle on the backside.
Mr. Cassey smelled like cigarette smoke; he had once told
Alexander that only the two packs a day habit protected
his lungs from the toxins he used.
“So, any more rat sightings? They’re a colony.
Not a swarm.”
“No, I think it’s German children.” Alexander
suspected that the house’s insurance policy might
not cover such damage.
“Oh, then it’s a hamlin of Kinder. Very dangerous.
Are they Weimar or Nazi?”
“They’re German, isn’t that bad enough?” Alexander
blinked. For a moment, Mr. Cassey’s name patch had
read Franz. “Um, they might be Alpine.”
Mr. Cassey nodded. Then he tore the cellophane off a
new pack, shoving the crackling wad into a pocket. He went
back into his van and came out with a lit cigarette and
a metal canister.
Alexander took several steps back. He didn’t know
how flammable Mr. Cassey might be. “Why are these
Kinder here?”
A puff of blue-gray smoke emerged from Mr. Cassey’s
mouth as he scratched an armpit. “Normally happens
in winter. They’re drawn by the smell of lonely folk.”
With the aid of his handkerchief, Alexander waved aside
the smoke. “I’m not lonely.”
“Witches. Bitches. Bachelors.” Mr. Cassey
smirked, which bent the cigarette. “Especially life-long
bachelors.”
Alexander felt his face flush. “My mother endeavored
for years to convey the lofty wisdom she gleaned from her
subscription to Redbook, Mr. Cassey. She failed to straighten
me out,” he said while stiffening his back.
Mr. Cassey dropped the cigarette on the street and slipped
on an old World War II-era gas mask. The round lenses reflected
the world askew; Alexander could not see the face beneath
the dark rubber. He had a strange feeling that Mr. Cassey
was choosing to reveal his true, insectile face. His voice
buzzed. Whatever he said to Alexander while entering the
house was incomprehensible.
Alexander remained on the sidewalk. It drizzled slightly,
possibly ruining the fez he wore. He wished he had a paperback
or sudoku or something to waste the time. He considered
heading over to browse the shop windows on Antique’s
Row.
When the front door opened again, wisps of vapor announced
Mr. Cassey’s exit. He doffed the mask. “That
should take care of them. I also sprayed for enfants.”
Once inside, Alexander found several Kinder laying on
their backs with limbs close and crooked to their torsos.
Each golden-haired Heimlich and Heidi looked exactly alike,
down to their rosy cheeks, fading to gray, and swollen
tongues poking through dark lips.
It took Alexander a long time to bag all the children.
He filled both trashcans and afterwards had legs poking
out beneath he lids. He was sure the garbage men would
give him grief over taking them.
“Being single is not a crime,” he muttered
as he dialed Henry’s number.
Alexander thanked Henry for holding the bag of takeout
so he could find his keys. Worry made him turn the front
door knob too hard. Would he find the foyer a disaster?
Gnawed ribs of the staircase banisters, wallpaper peeled
like the skin of some fruit, and Teutonic tittering in
the air?
He sighed and patted his chest in relief when greeted
by welcome tidiness.
He walked over to the nearest hat rack and lifted off
a Stetson. “Your fav—”
“I think I’ll stick with this,” Henry
said and nudged the brim of a garish crimson and white
baseball cap.
“Oh.” Alexander attempted a smile.
Henry shook his head. “I suppose knowing the Phillies
are one of the oldest baseball teams won’t help.” He
lifted off the cap. The sparse hair beneath was matted.
“It’s fine.” Alexander patted Henry’s
beefy forearm. “Let’s eat.” He had made
sure to spread a tablecloth over the small card table.
He took out from the bag a wedge of Saga Blue. The woman
at the cheese shop had promised it was Danish, thus safer
than Cambozola, but Alexander eyed its mottling warily.
He asked Henry to get a long knife from a drawer to cut
the bread, then looked around to see Henry was gone. A
staccato of clinks came from the old house.
Alexander rushed to the dining room. He expected Kinder,
not
Henry removing china from the breakfront. “We shouldn’t,” he
said.
“Don’t say these were Grueller’s.” Henry
tipped the plate he held against his chest. The gilded
rim was worn in spot. “A Trustee’s wife donated
the set when she redecorated her Rittenhouse Square apartment.”
“I know.” Alexander sighed.
Henry set the plate down on the long table. “Did
we ever get caught?”
“When we came back from Giselle—”
“Your first ballet.” Alexander had begged
one of the Trustees to secure him excellent seats.
“My first.”
“And the first time I ever lit the fireplace.” Alexander
closed the breakfront.
“After two bottles of wine.” Henry laughed.
He touched Alexander’s cheek with his thick hand.
The callus on his thumb scratched at the tapered ends of
Alexander’s mustache. “Nothing happened. Not
to the andirons, not to the screen.”
“The chinoiserie screen,” Alexander whispered.
It had such a lovely image of white pebbles spaced along
a lonely path leading to a sweet cottage. His eyes closed
as he leaned into Henry’s palm. He was aware of the
slouch of his own spine, the feel of blood carrying the
warmth of
that touch throughout his cheek, then face, before descending
his neck to spread throughout torso and limbs. How could
such a simple gesture weaken him so? “But the Trustees…”
“Tell them you want me here.”
Alexander welcomed the onset of apprehension. “This
is about your job?” He stepped back from Henry.
“No. I just thought… if I was docent again…” Henry
brought up a finger to his mouth and worried the nail with
his teeth.
“And the Trustees’ disapproval for our… liaisons?” Alexander
drew out the last word, turning each syllable to lead.
Henry shook his head. “The Trustees must pay extra
for self-hating fags.” He headed for the door.
The fixtures worked in Grueller’s bathroom. Wearing
the Stetson, Alexander treated himself to a bubble bath
in the old claw foot tub, so massive it took nearly a half
hour to filll. The scent of lavender and chamomile did
not relieve the knots in his back or the hint of a migraine.
The Godiva truffles he’d bought for dessert that
night helped a little.
If only he understood the mystery of men as well as he
did antiques. He shouldn’t be lonely or ashamed of
an affair with fellow staff. It was all such a nuisance
compared to the task of having an entire house to worry
over.
The doorknob rattled. A piece of chocolate dropped from
Alexander’s hand into the suds with a deep plop.
The Stetson followed.
Sweet voices came from the other side of the door as
fingers scratched the wood.
“Hier stehen die Männer vorm Spiegel
stramm
Und schminken sich selig die Haut.
Hier hat man als Frau keinen Bräutigam.
Hier hat jede Frau eine Braut.”
Alexander heard chewing.
“Go away. I have a gun,” he said, clutching
the wet Stetson over his groin as he stood up in the tub.
The first Kinder, a Heidi, broke through the thin wood.
Half forced its way into the bathroom. One pigtail with
a pink ribbon tied at the end dangled to the tiled floor.
She gnashed the fragments left in her jaws. He felt her
hungry stare.
“Good Kinder.” He held up the box of gold-wrapped
chocolates. “Candy?”
The Heidi’s round nose twitched. A stream of clear
saliva dripped down its mouth.
“Delicious candy.” Alexander slowly stepped
out of the tub as the Heidi crawled through the hole in
the door. A grinning Heimlich peered through after it.
Alexander threw a truffle at the Heidi’s feet.
It picked up the chocolate and smashed it against its lips,
devouring the wrapper as well.
He let the hat fall and crushed it stepping back. He
tossed another piece near the tub. The Heidi waddled over.
The Heimlich had already begun eating the porcelain sink
when it heard the Heidi grunting a sound that Alexander
took for pleasure. The Heimlich fought to reach the next
piece in time.
Plop! Alexander threw a chocolate into the full tub.
Then the rest of the box. The Kinder groped and fumbled
up the slick slides before falling into the hot bath.
They didn’t seem to think about breathing as they
dived for the sunken treats.
He pulled on his bathrobe. Two fat bodies began floating
face down. The Heidi still clutched a melted truffle in
one fist, and the chocolate leaked through the tight grip.
Hanging the tin Closed for Renovations sign before noon
the next day on the front door pained Alexander. Sundays
brought the most visitors. But he could not permit even
one patron to see him taking a hammer to one of the imitation
Chippendale chairs, the one gnawed by Kinder. Several times
as he swung, the Stetson almost fell from his head.
Whenever his mother would end a whine with “Desperate
times calling for desperate measures,” Alexander
would wince. Now, he found himself muttering the same as
he struck that dreadful splat. It splintered with satisfaction.
Sacrifices, not measures, he told himself as he carried
the kindling into the kitchen. One proved love through
sacrifices. He had left Henry a message, begging him to
come to the house for lunch. He had even admitted he’d
be cooking for Henry on the Oberlin. After he’d hung
up, he regretted leaving a recording of his crime.
Men must demand more than an understanding of historical
significance. He fretted over so quickly abandoning his
firm beliefs that any single individual paled in comparison
to the worth of a hat on a rack or a rare cast-iron stove.
He felt cooking this meal to be a bit of sedition, an impious
act.
The Oberlin’s hinges moaned when he opened the
oven door. Alexander felt it appropriate to murmur gentle
words to coax the oven back to life. “Such craftsmanship” and “Cold
pans, warm hearth.” Deep in the back was the reservoir
for wood. The gullet had been empty for decades. He hoped
the chimney worked and the smoke would rise.
In the back room, he took from the small refrigerator
the makings for lunch. Alexander glanced at the cuckoo
clock he’d moved from the kitchen after the first
signs of Kinder infestation. He kept meaning to check the
old records to see if Grueller really did own a Bahnhäusle
from the Black Forest. Now, he was more troubled that Henry
was late by more than a half hour. He checked his cell
phone, then the house phone, for messages but there were
none.
The kitchen grew warm as the wood burned.
He conceded that Henry would not come. Perhaps Henry
despised him now. He expected a rush of sadness but could
only summon up a mild measure of disappointment that threatened
to become annoyance. He reasoned, as he laid the veal cutlets
on a skillet, that Henry had only earned his heartache
after being a constant at the Grueller House. When he had
arrived wearing that… cap, he had been almost a different
person.
As he lifted one lid from the stove with tongs, the oven
trembled like a hound shedding water. That and a clattering
sound from behind him made Alexander jump, dropping the
skillet and lid with an even louder crash.
Flushed, he turned around. A Heimlich brought one glossy,
patent leather shoe down hard on what remained of the tin
sign—for Ren. It smacked its lips and advanced. Behind
it, Heidis dashed from room to room.
With his back against the Oberlin—and he felt the
heat through his trousers—Alexander stabbed with
the tongs. The Heimlich caught the curved ends in its pudgy
fingers and wrenched the tool from his hands. The Kinder
began teething on the tongs. The Stetson dropped back and
landed on the stovetop. The reek of charred felt filled
the small kitchen.
“No,” Alexander shouted. “I’m
not lonely.”
Something shoved him aside and he looked up from the
floorboards to see the Oberlin stepping forward on its
iron feet. The stump of chimney pipe had broke loose at
the angle reminiscent a shark’s fin. Its door and
drawers slammed open and close like so many jaws with flickering
tongues of fire.
The slightly burnt Stetson rolled off to land back on
Alexander’s
scalp. The pan of veal landed at his feet.
The Heimlich tried to run but the Oberlin scooped the
Kinder inside it. Cries of German lasted only a moment.
A new smell, sweet and rich like baked marzipan chased
away the stink of singed felt. Despite his shock, Alexander
found saliva filling his mouth. The Oberlin kept shuffling,
leaving the kitchen and entering the hallway. Alexander
soon heard more Teutonic cries.
Alexander began retiring to Grueller’s bed at night.
An indulgence. He’d rise early and make sure to change
the bedding with fresh sheets and lay the quilt just right.
Then, before opening, he’d let the Oberlin roam the
house, on guard for Kinder, before leading it back to the
kitchen.
Enough lamp oil remained for him to proof his letter
to the Trustees asking for an increase to the funds allocated
to maintenance. He also adjusted his wording for the new
docent ad he’d post tomorrow.
He leaned over the side of the high bed and patted the
slumbering Oberlin’s chimney stump. It wheezed from
every crevice and the house echoed the sound, which Alexander
decided must be contentment. Then he lifted off the cotton
nightcap warming over the tea kettle atop the stove and
went to sleep.
© 2008 Steve Berman
Steve Berman lives in New Jersey, the only state with
an official Devil. No wonder he tends to write strange
and sinful stories. He has been a finalist for the Andre
Norton, Gaylatic Spectrum, Golden Crown, and Lambda Literary
Awards. He does like candy.
Wanna
know more about Steve? www.steveberman.com
