Moon Garden. V. J. Banis

me about the moon garden.”

      Aunt Minna was in the act of pouring tea from a little silver teapot. She paused ever so briefly when Ellen spoke those words, and turned her bold eyes on her niece. When she began to pour again, it was with a sort of gusto, as if she wanted to make up for the seconds she had paused.

      Ellen had arrived a short time before. She had said goodbye to her mother in Cincinnati, and ironically it had been she who’d had to be strong, to comfort her sobbing parent. She had boarded the plane, and as it lifted into the air, something within her seemed to soar as well. Since she came home from Lawndale, she and her mother had seemed to be walking on eggs in one another’s presence. They were a mutual strain, each upon the other, fondness notwithstanding. Ellen had felt at times as if she might have been happier at Lawndale where they did not look perpetually askance at her, or jumped a foot whenever she touched them.

      Now she was on her own, in a way. She had this time of flying, of hanging seemingly motionless among the clouds, and afterward...afterward she hoped things would work out with Aunt Minna.

      That horizon was not all rosy. She knew she was not wanted at Aunt Minna’s. She had been even more strongly not wanted with the various other relatives. Everyone had flatly refused, and then when it seemed that no one would take her in, Minna Miles had relented.

      Well, it was something, knowing you weren’t really wanted. But it had been important that she get away. Dr. Hanson had thought so too, and she had been willing to swallow a little pride. She had it in mind that she would quickly establish a working relationship with her aunt. She would be as little trouble as possible, as little in the way. When Aunt Minna saw that she wasn’t going to be a nuisance, that she was content to occupy herself and let her aunt do the same, everything would be all right. That, at any rate, was what she hoped for.

      They seemed hardly to have been moving at all through the sky, and yet in an astonishingly short time the plane was swooping downward and outside the window the blue had faded into gray, had been punctuated by roofs and utility poles, and finally became concrete, rushing by, slowing, stopping altogether. They were at the terminal. She unfastened the seatbelt she had kept tight across her lap throughout the flight, and let the stream of passengers carry her inside, until the stream had dwindled and vanished in a score of different directions.

      She looked about the waiting room, and saw no one that she thought might be looking for her. In fact, she had not been expecting her aunt. Minna had said she would be met. That suggested someone else would come for her, and she had simply taken for granted that they would somehow recognize and find her, but when she had waited for some time she began to wonder if there had been a mix-up.

      She stood primly to one side of the doorway that led through to the loading area, her hands clasping her purse in front of her. She tried to be visible without being conspicuous. She had little experience with airports, or with being alone.

      When she caught herself thinking wistfully of the sense of security she had known in Lawndale, she shook herself angrily and went to the doors that led outside. There were taxis there, and she got into one, giving the driver her aunt’s address. This, she thought as the cab sped away, was what she should have done anyway. This was what a young woman would ordinarily do, instead of waiting to be met like a helpless child.

      She watched the city go by the windows of the cab. It was a modern, busy looking city and yet despite that, there was something of the past about it. One went by an ugly, slab-like factory building, but just beyond it was a lovely old mansion that looked unchanged from a century before.

      There were blocks and blocks of row houses and then, almost magically, oak trees and magnolias, and hanging moss. Even more than the physical things, there was something in the air, something she couldn’t define exactly, as if the entire city had held up a fan and blushed behind it.

      The Terrace, which was where Aunt Minna lived, was no longer a fashionable part of town. It sat on what had once been the outskirts, but which had since been swallowed up by the spreading industrial section. There was a large bottling plant, and then an open park, not very well tended, and at last a street of once lovely houses, decorated with much ironwork. All occupied one side of the street, all faced the park, but they were not row houses. Each was large, so that six of them took up what would have been elsewhere the length of several city blocks. Most of them had walls or shrubs in front, with the houses peering discreetly out from their shelter.

      They were near the river, although Ellen was a little confused as to its exact location. She thought the Terrace looked quite romantically lovely. She ignored the obvious evidence of neglect...broken street lamps, untended lawns, dirty streets.

      Number fourteen was the end house with the thick columns. It was not the largest of the houses, but far from a cottage at that. She had no idea how old it was, but she guessed it had stood there well over a century, perhaps closer to two centuries. Sadly, it was showing its age now. Like a woman who has given up the battle, it no longer seemed to care about looking fresh or lovely. The paint was peeling. The steps up to the front door sagged. A shutter at a window hung lopsidedly from one hinge. The iron railing that led to the front door was rusted.

      She paid the driver, tipping him more than she should have because she was excited and nervous, and could not think in terms of a few cents. She stood where she was on the sidewalk while he drove away out of sight. She was putting off the moment of going up the wide steps to number fourteen.

      When the cab had completely vanished, she turned toward the house. A light glinted in her eyes although the sun was to her right and behind her. She looked down and saw a little sliver of light dancing on the pavement and knew at once what it was. She remembered as a little girl playing with a mirror and the sun. This was the same sort of light. She looked around, but there were no children in sight.

      Then she looked up. Above, protruding from a second floor window, was the end of a telescope. The sun had been reflecting from its lens. Someone had been watching her through it. As she looked up, it turned away, and a second or two later, it disappeared inside.

      She went up to the door and rang the bell. It was answered by a square jawed young woman who looked ill at ease. She did not appear to be accustomed to dealing with callers, and asked briskly, “What do you want?”

      “Miss Miles, to see Miss Miles,” Ellen said. The use of the same name seemed to confuse the girl, who only stood, studying her doubtfully. While she was trying to make up her mind what to say in reply, Ellen heard a sound within. She looked past the girl, into the cool, dark interior, and saw what might have been only a vision, although a magnificent one.

      A woman stood at the top of the stairs. Like the stairs, she was old, there was no question of that, but she was quite striking. She was tall and dignified, and she looked like all the Queens of England. At the precise moment she was adjusting on her head a preposterous feather hat. On her fingers gleamed a lavish display of rings.

      Satisfied that the hat was right, she descended the stairs majestically. The hallway, so vast a moment before, seemed actually to shrink in size as she came into it.

      “Why isn’t Mrs. Bondage answering the door?” she demanded of the servant, who seemed to have shrunk somewhat too.

      “She’s in the basement, ma’am,” the young woman said almost in a whisper, she was so frightened, “having her astrology read.”

      The lady of the house...and there could be no doubt that she was...said, “Really?” as if this were the most incredible piece of news she had ever been given. She took a moment to digest it, and then said, “That will do Bertha.”

      Bertha was glad to be dismissed. She threw a last, curious look at Ellen, and scurried away, leaving Ellen to the mercy of her wondrous hostess.

      The old woman threw the massive front door wider, and smiled at her visitor. It was all Ellen could do to keep from dropping a curtsy.

      “Good afternoon,” the older woman said, her voice thick and dark and pungently sweet, like sorghum. “What can I do for you?”

      Ellen took a deep breath and said, “I’m your niece, Ellen