The Transcendental Murder

three of them stood in the swirling mist looking at the blocky shadow that marked the resting place of Henry Thoreau, his father and mother, his beloved brother John and his two sisters. (The sisters had probably worn their hair long, like the others. They had parted it in the middle, and combed it flat and smooth each morning, and twisted it and braided it and lifted it up and interwoven it and pinned it together at the back of the head with long, long hairpins. Strong sharp hairpins firm enough to hold their heavy masses of hair...)

'Well, so long,' said Howard Swan. 'I'll go on home, I guess.' His footsteps went off, crunching along the path.

Mary and Homer followed slowly. Homer whistled quietly, the only tune he could think of to honor the man a hundred years dead. It was John Brown's Body. Henry had been a passionate defender of Brown.

Then Mary had another rush of insight, and she felt tears springing up in her eyes. How could she have been so blind! 'Homer, I know now what Teddy meant, when he said he had only one month more—he was born on the same day as Thoreau, remember? July 12, 1817. Only in 1917, of course, exactly one hundred years later. I told you about that, didn't I? And Thoreau died exactly one hundred years ago today. Teddy must have thought that he, too, was going to die on the same day! Don't you see?'

'My God, I think you're right. And Teddy had the same symptoms, too—the pulmonary consumption, the coughing, the legs going out from under him. And all completely induced by hysterical identification. You're a genius,' Homer clapped her on the back.

'Homer, Teddy's gone off somewhere to die, like a poor sick dog. Can you die of hysterical identification? I'll bet you can.'

'The question is, did he do in Goss first? If Teddy thought he was going to die anyway, what was there to stop him? And then where the heck did he go?'

But if he was dead anyway, what did it matter? Mary found herself remembering the words in Teddy's journal: Her light will be as raddiant as ever, when I am no more. She said nothing, and stared up at the mist. It had risen and it hung now in the treetops, like layers of spun glass shredded out into stringy banners, or long hair tangled in the treetops. Long, tangled, witch-white hair...

Homer could feel her shaking. 'What's the matter with you? Here, dearie, let's talk about something else. We'll be out of these meeting places for spirits pretty soon. Just hang on.' He put his arm around Mary's waist (it was easy) and began to talk amiably about Paul Revere, squeezing her tightly against his side. 'I was reading those three accounts of his today, that he wrote about his famous ride. That Prescott fellow of yours must have been a bold fellow. The British said, 'G-blank-D D-blank-N you, stop, or you're a dead man!' Or so goes Paul's story. Imagine his politeness, writing in those blanks. And then they herded Revere and Dawes and Prescott into a field, and then Prescott jumped his horse over a stone wall and got away to Concord. So he was a jumper, too...'

'But, you see, that doesn't matter,' said Mary. She shook her head and pulled away from Homer, rubbing her arm over her forehead. 'I keep getting the past and the present all mixed up. As though Henry Thoreau really took Teddy away with him, or as if the murderer was really Dr. Sam Prescott, and as if he shot Mr. Goss with a ghostly old flintlock and then vanished into thin air. And of course it's ridiculous to think that way.'

Homer chuckled. (Cheer the girl up.) 'I bet you don't know what Paul Revere said at the end of his famous ride?'

'No, I don't.'

''Whoa.''

And then suddenly there was a horseman, and the sound of a horse's hooves cantering along the gravel path behind them.

'G-blank-D,' said Homer, 'if it ain't old Dr. Sam himself come back as a ha'nt!'

Mary, too frightened to speak, stood rigid in the middle of the path, her head wrenched back over her shoulder, listening. The cantering sound changed to a gallop, and Homer at last had to snatch her roughly out of the way, as a great shape plunged heavily by, going like the wind down the hill. The horseman was leaning forward, his jacket flying behind him. They could see his hair in silhouette, caught by a ribbon in back, bobbing up and down. He called something to his horse, and leaned over farther. 'Hey,' shouted Homer, 'whoa up there!'

They could see the rider pull at the reins with a sort of convulsion, and half turn his horse to glance back at them. Then he wheeled his mount around and, kicking with his heels, started downhill again at top speed.

Mary could feel hysterical laughter welling up inside her. She found a grave that was a lichen-covered marble bench and sat down on it, covering her mouth with her hands. It had been Prescott, the real Dr. Samuel Prescott.

'Now, don't get excited, you idiot,' said Homer. 'You know who that was? I heard the voice. There was no mistaking that flat monotone. That was Edith Goss.'

*38*

Lidian says that when she gives any new direction in the kitchen she feels like a boy who throws a stone and runs. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

The melting.snow and the rains of March and April had swollen the river that flowed at the foot of the sprouting fields. But the weather of May and June, normally an occasion for irritation, abuse, misery, tears, pain, distress and withered hopes, had turned out so long and golden a succession of days that one almost forgot to take note any more or thank God or rejoice. It was like a king's grant, signed and sealed, or a special dispensation of Providence. The greenish-white blossoming of Tom's trees was over now. It had been a spring when one walked carefully, afraid to tear or crush something incredible. But the most fragile time was past, and now there was strong ugly plantain in the grass.

Mary woke up on a Tuesday morning that was like the rest, clear and bright. Outside her bedroom window the fully-globed maple trees stood glittering like jeweler's work. In the elm tree a hoarse-throated bird had sprung a leak in his kettle and was dripping rusty splashes of song on the lawn. Mary got out of bed and pulled on her clothes, reflecting. It was the combination of things, perhaps, that had made it inevitable. Given a crop of young men with classical educations and given a succession of nurturing springtimes, how could New England not have produced a rash of transcendentalists? Or even so rare a flower as a Thoreau? Perhaps you shouldn't wonder at genius. Sometimes, maybe, it grew as naturally as weeds.

Gwen put her head in the door. 'Mary, I don't suppose you have any white elephants for the church bazaar?'

'Oh, I don't know. Let me think.'

'Anything will do, you know, absolutely anything. Old worn-out pieces of electrical equipment, toasters and irons. Remember the hair-dryer that John bought once? The heating unit didn't work, but he used it for a fan and gave himself chilblains all summer.'

'I'll look around. Isn't that Mrs. Bewley vacuuming? Why don't you ask her? You know, she's got a whole houseful of white elephants.'

'Oh, you bet I'm going to. She's our old reliable.'

Gwen had graduated to little maternity jackets. She was keeping her weight down with difficulty, and already found the stairs hard going. Mrs. Bewley, who loved babies and motherhood, had offered to come in on her day off and help out. Now she stood in John's room, pushing the vacuum cleaner back and forth. Gwen came up behind her and turned off the switch. Mrs. Bewley didn't realize it was turned off, and she continued to push it back and forth dreamily. Gwen had to pull on the paw of her squirrel neckpiece. 'MRS. BEWLEY,' shouted Gwen, 'I HOPE YOU'LL HAVE SOMETHING FOR ME AGAIN THIS YEAR FOR THE WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE?'

'TABLE?' bawled Mrs. Bewley. She patted her neckpiece. 'NO, DEAR, IT'S SQUIRREL.'

'TABLE, TABLE,' bellowed Gwen. 'DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING FOR THE WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE?'

'WHAT SAY?'

Gwen took a deep breath and tried again. 'WHITE ELEPHANT,' she shrieked. 'WHITE ELEPHANT.'

At last Mrs. Bewley understood. She vaulted with her scrawny old legs over a small chair and stuck her head out the window. 'WHERE? WHERE?'

Gwen thought it over. If she screamed any louder she would have a miscarriage on the spot. She picked up a piece of John's drawing paper and a crayon and beckoned to Mrs. Bewley. It was no good writing, because Mrs. Bewley couldn't read. So Gwen drew a rough picture of the First Parish church. Then she outlined a table with some