When Victoria awakened the day was dimming. It was late afternoon on March 14th and the snow continued to fall. And although the city and its inhabitants might be in the midst of a disaster she was deliciously peaceful and unaware in the snow-covered flatlands of Brooklyn. The past several hours were an epiphany. She had never been so carried away before, she thought. The sensual pleasure moved her into a numinous oblivion encompassing her mind, her soul and every cell in her body. She felt deeply relaxed and even a bit weak as though she had accomplished some athletic feat earlier in the day. She drew in a deep breath that filled her belly and her unborn child squirmed momentarily. She had reached a kind of nirvana and she knew in the deepest part of herself that the scare she had experienced the day before was just that. A fright tactic of her body and mind. She had to believe with every fiber of her being that she was in exceptional health and fully capable of delivering a healthy robust child with no harsh post-partum effects to her body. Two weeks rest the normal time for a pregnant woman to recover from birth would be just the right amount for her. She began planning her days and weeks in her mind from the approximate due date. They would have to hire a nanny, as Mrs. Hopkins could not possibly take on more responsibility. She sat up a moment and looked about the room. The fire had died down again. Richard would have to fetch more firewood from the stash buried under the snow. He looked so peaceful she could not bear to wake him. He was curled up under the quilts so that it seemed like only his black thick hair poked out. She quietly and gingerly got up so as not to disturb him. The room was chilly and she donned her clothing as quickly as she could and even reached for her wool cape. She wandered out into the kitchen and Michelangelo snorted a few times stamped her foot and then lazily let her eyes fall into a half closed daze. Victoria realized that Richard had found the Romanov stash as well as other wedding gifts of jam and preserved foods. She had completely forgotten about them. Certainly the servants packed them away carefully when they closed the house up for the winter. Now as she looked them over the gifts seemed like care packages sent from long lost relatives to the front lines. But the battle was being fought with nature. She was so hungry her stomach hurt. As she searched for a spoon or anything she might use as a utensil she could see the last bits of light fading from the overcast day. She lit a lantern and the warm amber flame chased away the cool touch of blue that invaded at every turn. She found the raspberry preserves and truly wished for a tea biscuit to cut the tartness of the fruit. Michelangelo eyed the fruit then turned away. Victoria realized the animal needed some water so she opened the back door and scooped up a pale of fresh snow. It would melt and be potable. After a few spoonfuls of jam that curbed her appetite momentarily she set the jar down and wandered into the parlor where Richard slept. She bent down close and noticed that he seemed to glisten. She put her hand on his forehead and he did not stir. He was burning up. Stunned, she could feel herself well up with emotion. He should not have been dancing around naked earlier in the day pretending to be an Indian. She was unsure what to do.
“Richard?” She shook him. But he did not wake up.
“Richard?! She said louder and tried again to jostle him from his slumber. To no avail. The universe was cruel. Only a few moments ago she felt as though she were truly in a state of heightened bliss. Everything was perfect. And now it felt as though the tide had gone out and all that was left was the scorched, cold earth. Dry, hard and vapid. Everything seemed to recede. The planets, the stars, the dark matter that surrounded them moved all objects farther apart with great speed and accuracy. She tried to recover that moment---that second before knowing, understanding what was actually happening. In that second she held her breath. That miniscule, elliptical moment in time where everything was utopian it seemed. Could she change it back? Could she reverse the linear path and remain stationary at the point of elation? The time is now, she thought. And so she made a list of things, actions that she could take to resolve the problem. She removed emotion, the best she could from her determined efforts to address the situation. Richard had a fever. Richard needs warmth, water, and care. ‘Richard will recover’ she kept saying to herself. My husband will recover from this infirmity and everything will be fine. Immediately she pulled his wool coat over her woolen cape. She took the lantern and tried to climb over the drift that almost sealed the back entrance. She realized he had walked to Brooklyn with makeshift snowshoes. If he could do it, so could she. She found the wicker chair seats and tied them to her feet. She had to dig her way out of the back door and find the side of the house. Once outside the entire house looked like several mounds of snow. A vanilla gingerbread house with rolling feminine curves. Nothing but a few windows on the second and third floors gave away the enormous structure. It truly was an amazing sight to see. No one would believe it and no one living through the blizzard would ever see anything like it again. She rounded the house and found the pit where the wood lay. It had been covered with almost a foot of snow since Richard had last been there. She dug down into the woodpile and began heaving pieces up to the surface. After about a half dozen she climbed out, loaded her arms and made her way back inside. She decided she would make five trips to ensure she had enough to burn through the night and into the next day. When she got to the back entrance she hurled the cut wood down the snowy incline until it hit the back door. Michelangelo was startled by the noise and her clacking hooves on the slate floor created a clamor of unsettling noise. As Victoria went back out to the woodpile through the wind and snow she conceived her next step. She would kindle the blaze into a roaring fire. Then she would commence to making tea and after that she would forage through the wedding gifts to find appropriate ingredients for a soup. He must wake up. He must, she thought. Back inside the house she was proud of herself. She had hauled in several armloads of wood and she would not stop her activity until she nursed him back to health. The fire took some tending but the slow burn would cook away the water. Once the wood caught the flame she stoked and stirred until it crackled and the conflagration licked at the stone hearth. She filled the kettle with snow and set it atop the iron grate over the fire. All she could do was wait. She bent down and tried to wake him once again.
“Richard? Richard, I’m making tea. Wouldn’t you like some? Richard?!” She said growing more concerned. She wiped his brow. He was pale in the firelight and his hair had thickened with perspiration. It shined as if he had taken a bath. She backed away and thought the only thing she might do at the moment was pray. Slowly she moved to her stack of books and found the worn out Bible her mother had given to her at her confirmation. She moved to the hallway and sat on the bench that was reserved for the servants. She sat and gazed over the jumbled words that did not seem to make sense in the half-light of night. Then she felt the slow ache in the center of her chest and asked out loud, “We’ve come this far. Why? Why take him now? Why tear us apart? To what end?” And she wept furiously as the words slipped through her mouth and into the open air for all to hear.
Every spring it seemed the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce had created the annual garden tour. Various houses with back yards or even small quaint Japanese gardens ingeniously designed were opened to the public. It was a way for the neighborhood association to add to its yearly budget and beautify the common areas and small private parks. Interested neighbors and curious Manhattanites gathered on a small patch of green across from the Brooklyn Academy of Music, a historic fixture and grand theatre founded in 1861, although the existing opera house had been built in 1903. There they bought their ten-dollar ticket and a map of the participating houses and were sent on their way on a kind of experiential scavenger hunt. From 10AM to 6PM the homes with their gardens were open signified by birthday party balloons out front tied to the stoop. Several volunteers with the block association stood as sentinels at the entrance of each house making sure no one strayed beyond the hallways and allotted paths to the beautiful gardens hidden behind brownstones and fences. It was refreshing and inspiring to see what people could do with postage stamp sized parcels of land. It had been quite a long winter and Ashley was feeling restless. Her North Carolina roots emerged as she put down her paintbrushes and donned her gardening gloves. However, the small patch in her backyard was not enough to quell the desire to actually farm and grow edible produce. She yearned for her mother’s heirloom tomatoes so sweet and tangy you could eat ‘em off the vine. She longed for sweet corn and fresh spinach, sugar snap beans, cantaloupes, bright bell peppers and crisp robust lettuce. She had seen the posters hanging in the local market and businesses for about a week now and she thought she might do something spontaneous, give up her routine and venture out into the neighborhood she had called home for about six years now. She only lived a few blocks from the Brooklyn Academy of Music. She gulped the remnants of her coffee, washed her hands and face, dug out a baseball cap and sunglasses and made her way to the garden across from BAM. Map in hand she moved from one marked building to the next and from one street to the next. The entire day covered a few miles and Ashley was determined to see every house on the page. She walked from Fort Greene all the way down Flatbush stopping at the Brooklyn Botanical gardens and exiting at the furthest entrance onto Ocean Avenue. From there she hugged the perimeter of Prospect Park until she came to the Parade Grounds. She had seen plenty of people carrying their little maps and strolling about the area on a fine spring day. Now, the furthest point out the people thinned not wanting to hike so far and probably deciding to lunch rather than make the effort to see the last few houses. Beyond the parade grounds she found she had to cross the prospect expressway to get to Caton Place. She was well aware of the stables there on Caton Place. Horseback riders wanting a jaunt through Prospect Park could rent a trail ride and an hour in the saddle. She had never done it, as she was an experienced equestrian training as a small girl in dressage. Besides when she rode she wanted to ride fast. She wanted to gallop and feel the power of the animal she was on. She wanted to match that power with her own in skill and acumen. She made a turn down Caton Place past several run-down houses built closely together. The neighborhood was changing and she wondered if it was a good idea walking along the empty street by herself. It was late afternoon and the sun shone brightly and she only had one more house to go. She liked completing things. She did not like starting something and wimping out midway through. She was like that with relationships as well. Some of her significant others found her too intense and called it off without her ever really knowing why. Under the gaze of her probing eyes many found her depth intimidating. She was easygoing and had a wry sense of humor but it was not enough to balance out her deeply felt emotions. Their misunderstanding hurt and sometimes she thought perhaps it might be best to just go it alone. She did not paint halfway paintings and she did not want halfway people. She wanted the real thing. She wanted quality and depth and passion and so she created it on canvas to salve her soul and her innate desires. She passed an unmarked alleyway that had one balloon tied out front. She scoped out the area and decided to make her way between the buildings. The alley opened up to a great Victorian house on a lawn. It was evident that the neighboring buildings had been built on the surrounding grounds as lots had been sold off bit by bit. The great Greek columns were magnificent and newly whitewashed in the bright sunlight. She moved to the front entrance and wondered if the volunteer had momentarily taken leave to go to the bathroom or something. The door was unlocked, the foyer pristine.
“Heeey There?” She said loudly in her southern drawl. “Anybody home? Anybody here?” She was met with silence. And as she was about to turn around and leave she heard a woman in the other room. There was a soft murmur she could not quite make out.
“Heeey?” She repeated. She turned into a small hallway and saw a woman seated on the bench. She was in a long skirt with her hair pulled up. The woman turned and caught her eye.
“I’m so sorry---I, I think I might have the wrong house.” Ashley said as she backed away.
The woman smiled kindly and for a moment she thought it was Chelsea, the woman who had interviewed her over two months ago. She stopped and did a double take. Then she realized the woman had been crying. Overcome with compassion Ashley began to move to her. “Are you okay?” She asked quietly. The woman wiped here eyes and nodded. “I’m so glad you’re here.” The woman said and she had a look of relief on her face.
“Are you alone?” Ashley inquired. But the woman stood quickly took her hand and whisked her into a large parlor elaborately decorated in the Victorian style. It reminded her of the Morris Jumel Mansion in Manhattan but even more grand and filled to the brim with furniture, draperies, pictures and sconces in the gilded-age style. She stood there for sometime overcome with a feeling of familiarity. She knew she had been there before in that very room. Some of the decorations seemed out of place and unauthentic. She was aware that the room had been filled with reproductions just like historic houses and plantations that dotted the South. The original furnishings had long been sold off at estate sales and auctions or simply moved out when the inhabitants had passed away. It filled her with a vague melancholy. She turned and realized the woman had gone. Even though she felt safe she was strangely uncomfortable and decided since she was the only visitor so far that maybe it would be best if she left. She snaked her way back through the corridor to the front foyer and then out through the enormous wooden door. She passed no one which seemed very strange since every house on the garden tour had at least two or three volunteers to make sure strangers didn’t slip away to rip off the owners. As she stepped out onto the front porch she heard the pattering of footsteps behind her. She turned to find the woman at the far end of the great foyer standing on the threshold of the small hallway. “Don’t go.” The woman said softly.
“I’m sorry. I’d like to stay, but I have a long walk home.” Ashley replied.
“Come back?” The woman said hopefully.
“Sure. I’ll come back some time. What are the hours?” Ashley said and the woman looked confused and disappeared into the hallway. She thought for sure she had mistakenly wandered into a historic house slash museum like the Lefferts House in Prospect Park or the Dutch Old Stone House in Park Slope. She moved quickly through the alley as the sun was beginning to set only to find the balloons gone. She double-checked the address on her map and she had, indeed, wandered into the wrong residence. The house on the garden tour was two doors down and she watched as the volunteers made their way down the walk and bid the homeowners a thank-you and good-by. The tour was over but it was only just beginning for Ashley. She was intrigued by the great manor house and wanted to find out if it was indeed a historic landmark.
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