I don’t think ax murderers wear florals. (I mean, possibly Norman Bates from Psycho?)
The human is hunched over itself as if organizing something, and its words seem to pick themselves out in twos and threes up the staircase.
“Oh well . . . now that’s done . . . there it is . . . oh my head!”
There is a hat involved, a funny little orange thing with a chiffon flower, crumpled in a very purposeful way.
I should probably announce myself, say hello, or do whatever it is polite people are meant to do in this situation. But in moments of discomfort, my default mode is “overwhelming paralysis.”
I stand there, at the top of the staircase, hoping the floral mystery figure somehow detects my presence. Maybe if I clear my throat . . . ? Or I could drop something? I could drop something down below. On her head. Wait. Why did I think that?
“Hellooooo?”
It’s an English voice.
A Harry Potter voice.
It’s exactly the right voice to go with all those patterns and that rumpled hat. It’s the only kind of accent you can get away with while walking around the world as if you just fell out of a laundry basket.
“Is anyone there? Halllloooo?”
“Um. I’m here, I guess. At least, I think I am.”
The hat turns upward and beneath it there she is. A not-quite-so-elderly woman with a face the color of oatmeal and defiant red lipstick.
“Oh, indeed!” She sizes me up. “Well, whatever are you doing staring down at me like an owl atop its keep? Come down here, this minute!”
Geez. I guess she thinks she owns the place.
But the professor is the owner, right? Along with his mysterious wife?
As I descend the stairs, she sizes me up in the unsubtle way that only a woman raised with a very high opinion of herself ever would.
“My heavens. Aren’t you a slip of a girl? It’s as if you hardly exist!”
“That could be,” I reflect.
This puzzles her and she squints at me, suspicious. “Are you, indeed, the summer help? Why, you can’t even be twenty years old.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, how old are you, then?”
“I graduated high school last week.”
“So, eighteen?”
“Seventeen, actually.”
“Seventeen?” she tuts. “Graduated high school at seventeen . . . ? Well, aren’t you a clever one?”
“Not really, I just didn’t have anything else to do.”
She warms to this, somehow.
“Ah!” She takes a moment to contemplate me. “I see.”
As if by habit, she adjourns to the living room, taking a seat in a chinoiserie wingback chair. Blue and coral, with sparrows taking assorted positions on various branches.
“And your parents? How do they feel about this child labor?”
“There’s really just my grandma, actually. She’s fine with it. I think she’s probably relieved.”
She flattens the front of her skirt with her palms, crossing her legs at the ankles.
“And where are you from, then? Wait! Let me guess. A small but indistinct town somewhere out west but not too far out west. Illinois? Ohio? Iowa? Am I getting close?”
“I would say you’re getting warmer.”
She tilts her head, peering at me. “So, you’re a bit sassy as well. I detect a streak of antiauthoritarianism mixed in with a singular intelligence and practiced indifference. A regular Treplev.”
“Well, I’m not exactly used to being compared to male characters from Chekhov, but I’ll take it.”
“Ha! You do not disappoint. Alright, what state? I happen to know you can’t be from further than Idaho.”
“I’m from Nebraska.”
“Really? I never knew anyone was actually from Nebraska. So it does exist. And people really are from there. Fascinating.”
It’s a funny thing to have someone so casually diminish everything about you. It would be insulting, I bet, to someone who took pride in where they were from. Or, for that matter, took pride in anything about themselves. Luckily, no pride here.
“Um . . .” I take to looking at my nails. “I guess I’m actually wondering who you are and why you are, um, here.”
“Obviously, I’m a serial killer. Sent to add you to my collection of trophies. I concentrate on rare and exotic breeds from the middling states.”
How did she know I was thinking—
She winks.
This wink might delight someone who is not me.
“It’s just that I was told this would be kind of a solitary endeavor.”
“And one has to wonder why a spry little girl of seventeen would want to spend her precious, singular, post-senior-year summer in such a dreary, lonesome place,” she quips.
“I guess one would.”
“She holds her cards close to her chest, does she?” I take it the “she” in this statement is me. “Well, my name’s Penelope. Penelope Crisp. Penelope Persephone Crisp, if you’re curious.” She turns to me, suddenly. “And what about college?”
“What about it?” I ask.
“Are you, my dear, planning on attending a four-year institution wherein you might master the complexities of history, physics, or underwater basket-weaving? Or do you plan on forging a career of caretaking dreary estates for the rest of your life?”
Suddenly she remembers something and begins rummaging through her bag, gliding into the pantry. I follow her, confused. But as she is speaking, she keeps reaching in and out of her bag, piling up mason jars on the shelves.
She notices my questioning gaze and in response simply says, “Oh, jam, you see. I always have extra so I just give it to the professor. You will absolutely love it. Apricot preserves. Strawberry, of course. Blueberry. And even a kumquat one; I thought I’d try my hand.”
I quit counting jars at eight, but she certainly doesn’t stop retrieving them. I guess if there’s a zombie apocalypse, I can just survive on jam.
“And college? What are your plans?” she repeats.
I sidle into the hallway, not really wanting to tell her my entire life story, or even a fourth of it.
“Well? Have we given up already? No college?”
She really doesn’t mince words, does she?
“I’m expected to attend college in the fall,” I acquiesce.
“And which one, might I ask?”
“Bryn Mawr.”
At this she lights up like a birthday cake. “OOHHHH! Bryn Mawr! Well, why didn’t you say so?! You buried the lede, you silly girl!”
I have no idea what those words mean but am grateful she’s finally not looking quite so sternly down that long nose of hers. I was beginning to feel like I was on the witness stand. But now, now I am a member of some form of club. I guess I will not tarnish this newfound warmth by divulging my plan to run in front of a moving vehicle sometime between now and Thanksgiving break.
“Well, now that I’ve delivered the delicious and, might I say, exquisite jam, I must be going. I really just wanted to pop by and see that the new girl had arrived.” She quickly walks back through the hallway and begins collecting her things. “Bryn Mawr! What a funny little thing! You know my cousin went there and quickly became a lesbian! Absolutely stormed into it! Are you planning on becoming a lesbian?”