The Accursed. Joyce Carol Oates

in reply, as if the inane remark did not warrant a serious response.

      Surreptitiously Annabel poked her brother in the ribs. She cast a sidelong glance at him, as if to implore Please don’t be rude. Don’t ruin this happy day.

      Six weeks before her wedding, Annabel Slade had never looked more beautiful, with her skin slightly heated, and her violet-blue eyes moist, and her lower lip trembling with emotion. For this Sunday brunch at the “old Craven house”—soon to be the “honeymoon cottage” of the young people—she was wearing a new dress of cream-colored crepe de chine in the “Fluffy Ruffles” fashion of the day; her lavishly feathered “picture” hat, of a hue matching her dress, was perched atop the mass of her honey-brown pompadour, with a bandeau secured beneath the crown for more height. In her shimmering cascade of ruffles, that trembled with her every intake of breath, Annabel struck the eye as the very emblem of feminine loveliness—of feminine mystery. For why was it, so adored a young lady, so clearly blessed a young lady, stood between her fiancé and her brother, her gaze downcast, and her forehead lined with worry?

      It would have taken a more perceptive observer even than Josiah, to note that Annabel was distracted, and her thoughts elsewhere; it may have been, the warning hiss Annabel! Annabel! could just faintly be heard, from the winter-ravaged, as yet untended, flower beds at the rear of the house.

      And it may have been, Annabel’s thoughts were moving surreptitiously to the memory of a hand-sickle wickedly glinting in the sun—fresh-cut wildflowers and grasses fallen into a heap, soon to rot—the memory of a bold grasp of her hand, and a yet bolder kiss on the back of her hand—chère mademoiselle! How kind you are! A rare quality in ladies of your station . . .

      Annabel had many times examined the back of her hand, looking for the imprint of the stranger’s sharp incisor. But the skin was smooth, quite thin and creamy-pale, with only a fine filigree of bones beneath, and a translucent web of bluish veins.

      As Annabel was glancing, another time, at her hand, there came from the second floor sudden cries, and shouts; female screams; and, following almost immediately, a sound of struggle, or scuffling—as of persons grappling about on the floor directly overhead.

      Josiah ran unhesitatingly upstairs, bounding the steps two and three at a time; Annabel and Dabney came following after, though not running. In her fear, Annabel had grasped Dabney’s arm; and Dabney leaned to her, as if to protect her.

      “Oh, what is it? Is someone hurt? It sounds like President Cleveland—is that his voice?” Annabel cried.

      Upstairs, Josiah discovered, in a bedroom of the Craven house, one of the most astonishing sights of his young life: Grover Cleveland, our former President, a rotund gentleman of nearly seventy years, and three hundred pounds, badly flushed in his face, and loudly wheezing, had fallen to the plank floor in a convulsive thrashing, being held in place, clumsily, by several persons including Josiah’s father, Augustus, and the distraught Mrs. Cleveland. The corpulent old gentleman, yet panting, and wheezing, so that one feared he was on the brink of an apoplectic seizure, would not cease his struggling, and cried in a grieving voice:

      “Let me up—please let me up—O stand back, if you have any heart! Here’s Pappa! Here’s Pappa, I say! My dear daughter, do not abandon us again!”

      In the doorway Josiah stood transfixed. What was this? Had the world suddenly gone mad? It was like a scene out of a film—The Great Train Robbery which everyone had seen, two years before—calamitous excitement, jerky and uncoordinated movements, a rapid, headlong pace, sensational music to rouse the blood—yet, though you stared at the moving images, you could not make immediate sense of them; you could not slow them, to comprehend.

      Grover Cleveland, it seemed, had fallen to the floor, or had possibly been pushed to the floor, to save him from falling out a window that opened out onto a section of tile roof; it seemed that Josiah’s father was wrestling Cleveland down, and Mrs. Cleveland herself—ripely Junoesque, darkly handsome, and, ordinarily, complacent and composed in her every gesture—was trying to pin her husband to the floor by the rough application of a silken knee, to his immense midriff; which effort had bared the woman’s shapely leg, in a sheer white stocking, that drew Josiah’s astonished attention, like nothing he had ever seen in actual life, nor had even imagined.

      IT IS TRUE: my fellow historians have bungled this episode, having not a clue of what had happened in the old Craven house on Rosedale Road, at midday of 20 April 1905; their collective failure is to be attributed to the zeal of Frances Cleveland in suppressing the lurid facts, that she might protect her elderly husband from censure and ridicule; for the former First Lady was most sensitive to cruel remarks made behind her husband’s (massive) back, correctly assuming that such derision reflected upon her, as well. After Cleveland left the presidency, under a considerable cloud, in 1897, and sought to retire to the “sleepy village” of Princeton, New Jersey, it fell to his young wife to shield him from over-excitement, as from over-eating and –drinking, for it was said that Grover could “no more stop himself from gluttony, than a gold fish in a bowl, that eats all that is given to him, until his stomach bursts.” Despite her youth, Mrs. Cleveland soon cultivated an arch and imperial style in society, as in public; so it was, knowing her and her husband both sought-after, and shamelessly talked-of, Mrs. Cleveland was not one to suffer fools gladly. Not just Woodrow Wilson, as we have seen, but many a Princeton citizen, of a higher social rank than he, came to fear the woman’s flashing eye, sarcastic tongue, and her power to enhance, or damage, one’s social ranking, depending upon her whim.*

      Despite the confusion of this incident at the old Craven house, I have managed to piece together, like a skilled, if somewhat eccentric, maker of quilts, a more or less coherent narrative, as follows.

      After ascending to the second floor of the house, which was an exertion for one of his girth, Grover Cleveland idled at the rear of the excited little group making their way through the rooms, hoping to catch his breath; while others were elsewhere, marveling at one or another charming feature of the house, Cleveland wandered into an empty room, as it happened, a children’s nursery; he chanced to pass one of the tall windows in this room, that was part-shuttered, and overlooked a steep corner of the roof; there, he saw, or seemed to see, a terrifying sight, there at the very edge of the roof; imagining it at first to be a large, ungainly bird, a great blue heron perhaps, for such prehistoric-looking waterbirds were not uncommon in rural Princeton, the affrighted man literally rubbed his eyes to see a child, a young girl, perched at the edge of the roof; playfully, or prankishly?—the girl was tearing into pieces a handful of calla lilies, letting their torn petals fall to the ground below; her wavy dark hair tumbled loose down her back; her gown long, and white, and curiously soiled; her bare feet ghastly pale—all of her skin ghastly pale, with the unmistakable pallor of the grave. Oblivious to the astonished observer, the child managed to get to her feet, at the edge of the roof, laughing, and tossing the remainder of the calla lilies into the air, as if she were about to step off into space; and how should Cleveland save her?

      He shouted—“No! No! Stop! You must not!”

      Cleveland was at the window, grunting to raise it, and to push open the shutters, shouting wildly—with the result that, to his further astonishment, and horror, he saw the girl turn to him to reveal herself as his own beloved daughter Ruth—who had died but the previous year, of diphtheria, at the Clevelands’ summer home at Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts.

      Ah, what was this? How could it be? Cleveland’s beloved Ruth, of whom he so often dreamt, and for whom he continued to grieve in the privacy of his thoughts—why had she appeared to him here? And what must be done?

      It is a fact, though Grover Cleveland suffered from a battery of ailments, beyond even those of Woodrow Wilson, yet he had never suffered from any mental illness, or hallucinations.

      Priding himself on being the most commonsensical of men, with scarcely a thought of an “after-life” or a “realm of spirits,” yet Cleveland did not hesitate for a moment, convinced that his daughter had returned to him, in this mysterious way; attired in the very raiments of the grave, and peeking over her shoulder at him, with that look of coquettish mischief