the story continues...
Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets
by Bob Freeman
Chapter Two
“Somerset”
Aunt Astrid was three years younger than my mother. She had premature gray streaks running through her otherwise straight black hair that she allowed to grow to waist length, though no further she would say with a scowl. She avoided make-up, but didn’t really need it anyway. She was pretty, in an ‘old world’ sort of way, with a perchance for wearing plain black gowns that billowed about her, masking the shape of her body. Not that she had anything to hide. But I think she liked to discourage men from making advances toward her. My mother had told me that Astrid had been in love once with a boy from Mount Vernon but he died one night in a diving accident at a place called simply ‘the Cliffs’. It was a loss she never really recovered from.
The house was a nineteenth century Victorian that had fallen into disrepair shortly after the second World War and had been in a slow decline ever since. Its dark green paint was chipped and fading and the majority of the black shudders that framed the windows hung awkwardly. The grass was tall and unkempt with an ancient willow taking up the majority of the side yard.
I stepped out of the yellow cab and paid the driver with an envelope that my father had given me. Our parting was amicable, if emotionless. He told me he loved me and assured me that he would visit, but he needed time to adjust to mother’s passing. It was the single most selfish act I had ever witnessed. To this day, even though I have come to understand his motives, I harbor ill will toward the man I called my father. When I needed him the most he abandoned me. Admittedly it was into the loving arms of my dear Aunt, but it was abandonment just the same.
A stiff breeze, cooled by the nearby River, helped to add to the chill I felt when I first looked upon Severe House. My home in New Castle had been a modern Ranch-style smack dab in the middle of Hoosier Suburbia. This looked like something straight out of the Addam’s Family. I slipped through the crack of the broken wrought iron gate and walked slowly across the uneven sidewalk stopping before the steps up to the wide porch. A sign overhead hung by a single remaining piece of chain read, “Merry Meet, Merry Part, and Merry Meet Again.”
My aunt was busily sweeping with what looked to be a homemade broom, its handle all a twist and the bristles brown and stiff. A thick layer of dust formed a one inch border on the hem of her black dress. She looked up through her tussled hair and gave me a big smile and an even bigger hug.
“Oh, dear child, it is so good to have you here with us,” she said with a flourish. “Come, come, child, let me take your bag and I’ll show you to your room. I hope you like cats, I’ve quite a few, I’m afraid.”
We passed through the front door, which opened with a creak loud enough to wake the most restful dead. It was a combination of fingernails on a chalkboard and a cat with its tail caught under a rocking chair. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.
The foyer was dark and smelled of wet cat and stale smoke. A chandelier hung overhead with but a single bulb lit of a possible twelve. Aunt Astrid led me up a wide stairway, past tall oil paintings of men and women dressed in antique clothing. I paused before one near the top of the stair. I reached my hand out and brushed aside the dust that had masked a brass nameplate set into the frame. It read: Miss Pamela Angelica Severe. Age Twelve. Nineteen Hundred and Forty-Two. It was my mother.
She was dressed in a white gown, with a hood that sat atop pretty red curls. Her green eyes stared out from the painting with a thoughtfulness that belied her age. Her eyes were far older than her face, which was all rosy cheeks and crooked smile.
“She was real doll, wasn’t she,” Aunt Astrid said, placing her hand on my shoulder.
“She’s beautiful,” I said, choking back the welling tears.
“As are you child. As are you. Now come, you’ll have plenty of time to look upon these old paintings, not to mention the rest of the bric-a-brac in this house. I want you to see your new room.” Aunt Astrid moved the rest of the way up the stairs and down the long hall. “Come, come. Let’s not dawdle.”
I followed her across the worn hall runner with its twisting serpent or dragon or whatever until she stopped before a door at the end of the hall. She opened the door and it swung mercifully inward without a sound. The room had three narrow floor to ceiling windows along the north wall that allowed plentiful amounts of light to spill in onto a monstrous canopy bed. The bed was all white lace and linen, with frilly pillows and a stuffed panda bear acting as a sentry.
A dark wood vanity stood along the west wall, complete with a wide, circular mirror and a bench stool. The tabletop was overflowing with antique perfume bottles and other odds and ends of various make-up tools and applications. There was a heart drawn in red lipstick on the mirror with the initials PS+DM inside its border.
The east wall held a closet door, ajar and empty save for some boxes on a high shelf. Tucked into the northeast corner was a high backed reading chair, well worn with dark wood armrests and a velvet-like green upholstery, and a small octagonal end table with a much read hardcover edition of Alice through the Looking Glass upon it.
The windows were framed by long white shears, tied back with pink ribbon. The view overlooked the backyard of Severe House. It was as overgrown as the front and side yard had appeared, but with a worn path that led toward a small copse of towering pine trees and then to the river that cut lazily through the Somerset Valley. I could see Cairnwood Manor on the hilltop on the opposite bank of the Mississinewa, the graveyard spreading out beneath it and toward the river. It was comforting to think that my mother was so close.
“This room was Pamela’s and is just as she left it when she turned eighteen and ran off with your father. Our parents didn’t have the heart to change a thing,” Aunt Astrid said as she settled in next to me, staring across the Valley toward Cairnwood. “I think they’d be happy to know you would be staying in her room.”
“I’m sorry I never met them.”
“Well, you were a wee little thing when they passed on, but I know in my heart of hearts that they and your mother are watching you now and that they love you very much, as do I.”
I smiled up at my aunt and I took her hand. I was not happy about being sent away. I was not sure what lie ahead. I was in a strange house, in a strange town, and sent to live with an aunt who I barely knew. I was taken away from my home, from my father, my school, and my friends. All I had was memories of a mother who had loved me with all her heart and all I could think was that she had loved me too much.
by Bob Freeman
Chapter Two
“Somerset”
Aunt Astrid was three years younger than my mother. She had premature gray streaks running through her otherwise straight black hair that she allowed to grow to waist length, though no further she would say with a scowl. She avoided make-up, but didn’t really need it anyway. She was pretty, in an ‘old world’ sort of way, with a perchance for wearing plain black gowns that billowed about her, masking the shape of her body. Not that she had anything to hide. But I think she liked to discourage men from making advances toward her. My mother had told me that Astrid had been in love once with a boy from Mount Vernon but he died one night in a diving accident at a place called simply ‘the Cliffs’. It was a loss she never really recovered from.
The house was a nineteenth century Victorian that had fallen into disrepair shortly after the second World War and had been in a slow decline ever since. Its dark green paint was chipped and fading and the majority of the black shudders that framed the windows hung awkwardly. The grass was tall and unkempt with an ancient willow taking up the majority of the side yard.
I stepped out of the yellow cab and paid the driver with an envelope that my father had given me. Our parting was amicable, if emotionless. He told me he loved me and assured me that he would visit, but he needed time to adjust to mother’s passing. It was the single most selfish act I had ever witnessed. To this day, even though I have come to understand his motives, I harbor ill will toward the man I called my father. When I needed him the most he abandoned me. Admittedly it was into the loving arms of my dear Aunt, but it was abandonment just the same.
A stiff breeze, cooled by the nearby River, helped to add to the chill I felt when I first looked upon Severe House. My home in New Castle had been a modern Ranch-style smack dab in the middle of Hoosier Suburbia. This looked like something straight out of the Addam’s Family. I slipped through the crack of the broken wrought iron gate and walked slowly across the uneven sidewalk stopping before the steps up to the wide porch. A sign overhead hung by a single remaining piece of chain read, “Merry Meet, Merry Part, and Merry Meet Again.”
My aunt was busily sweeping with what looked to be a homemade broom, its handle all a twist and the bristles brown and stiff. A thick layer of dust formed a one inch border on the hem of her black dress. She looked up through her tussled hair and gave me a big smile and an even bigger hug.
“Oh, dear child, it is so good to have you here with us,” she said with a flourish. “Come, come, child, let me take your bag and I’ll show you to your room. I hope you like cats, I’ve quite a few, I’m afraid.”
We passed through the front door, which opened with a creak loud enough to wake the most restful dead. It was a combination of fingernails on a chalkboard and a cat with its tail caught under a rocking chair. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.
The foyer was dark and smelled of wet cat and stale smoke. A chandelier hung overhead with but a single bulb lit of a possible twelve. Aunt Astrid led me up a wide stairway, past tall oil paintings of men and women dressed in antique clothing. I paused before one near the top of the stair. I reached my hand out and brushed aside the dust that had masked a brass nameplate set into the frame. It read: Miss Pamela Angelica Severe. Age Twelve. Nineteen Hundred and Forty-Two. It was my mother.
She was dressed in a white gown, with a hood that sat atop pretty red curls. Her green eyes stared out from the painting with a thoughtfulness that belied her age. Her eyes were far older than her face, which was all rosy cheeks and crooked smile.
“She was real doll, wasn’t she,” Aunt Astrid said, placing her hand on my shoulder.
“She’s beautiful,” I said, choking back the welling tears.
“As are you child. As are you. Now come, you’ll have plenty of time to look upon these old paintings, not to mention the rest of the bric-a-brac in this house. I want you to see your new room.” Aunt Astrid moved the rest of the way up the stairs and down the long hall. “Come, come. Let’s not dawdle.”
I followed her across the worn hall runner with its twisting serpent or dragon or whatever until she stopped before a door at the end of the hall. She opened the door and it swung mercifully inward without a sound. The room had three narrow floor to ceiling windows along the north wall that allowed plentiful amounts of light to spill in onto a monstrous canopy bed. The bed was all white lace and linen, with frilly pillows and a stuffed panda bear acting as a sentry.
A dark wood vanity stood along the west wall, complete with a wide, circular mirror and a bench stool. The tabletop was overflowing with antique perfume bottles and other odds and ends of various make-up tools and applications. There was a heart drawn in red lipstick on the mirror with the initials PS+DM inside its border.
The east wall held a closet door, ajar and empty save for some boxes on a high shelf. Tucked into the northeast corner was a high backed reading chair, well worn with dark wood armrests and a velvet-like green upholstery, and a small octagonal end table with a much read hardcover edition of Alice through the Looking Glass upon it.
The windows were framed by long white shears, tied back with pink ribbon. The view overlooked the backyard of Severe House. It was as overgrown as the front and side yard had appeared, but with a worn path that led toward a small copse of towering pine trees and then to the river that cut lazily through the Somerset Valley. I could see Cairnwood Manor on the hilltop on the opposite bank of the Mississinewa, the graveyard spreading out beneath it and toward the river. It was comforting to think that my mother was so close.
“This room was Pamela’s and is just as she left it when she turned eighteen and ran off with your father. Our parents didn’t have the heart to change a thing,” Aunt Astrid said as she settled in next to me, staring across the Valley toward Cairnwood. “I think they’d be happy to know you would be staying in her room.”
“I’m sorry I never met them.”
“Well, you were a wee little thing when they passed on, but I know in my heart of hearts that they and your mother are watching you now and that they love you very much, as do I.”
I smiled up at my aunt and I took her hand. I was not happy about being sent away. I was not sure what lie ahead. I was in a strange house, in a strange town, and sent to live with an aunt who I barely knew. I was taken away from my home, from my father, my school, and my friends. All I had was memories of a mother who had loved me with all her heart and all I could think was that she had loved me too much.
posted by Bob Freeman at 7:16 AM
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