Moon Garden. V. J. Banis

patrician austerity.

      “Oh no,” she said, “no indeed, that’s quite impossible. My niece is to arrive tomorrow, by airplane. I’ve made arrangements to have her met.”

      Ellen looked a little disconcerted in the face of this. “But I am here,” she said almost apologetically. “And I am your niece.”

      Minna took a step closer, and leaned forward a little. She had not worn her glasses down, and could not see very well. What she saw was a pretty face, young, frightened looking, but with a nice upward tilt to the chin.

      “Yes,” she said after a minute, sounding oddly disappointed. “You look like your mother. Our side of the family was better looking. You said in your letter you would be arriving tomorrow.”

      “I said today. The eighteenth. This is the eighteenth.”

      “I know the date. I’m not a fool. You said the nineteenth. Never mind, you’re here. You may as well know, I didn’t want you to come.”

      Ellen looked embarrassed. “I got that impression.” She had her hands clasped in front of her again. She looked like a little girl being scolded.

      “I suggested your mother write her family.” Aunt Minna regarded her niece as she might some tropical bird or a peculiar flower that had just been delivered to her door. Although her conversation was rude, however, there was something else that caught Ellen’s attention. Her eyes sparkled with an unmistakable gleam of maliciousness, and something like a toss of the head had set the feathers of her hat dancing in the sunlight.

      “I believe my mother did write them. I don’t know exactly what was said, but since I am here, and not there, it must be a bit obvious, don’t you think?”

      The grin came back to the old face. Minna knew that the others had refused to take child in. When she had learned of this she had changed her mind, and had extended her own somewhat reluctant invitation. She loathed that other branch of the family, so much so that she had an automatic inclination toward anyone they had rejected. It had been as simple as that.

      She was happy now to see that her niece had spunk. She liked that, and warmed to her at once as a result.

      “Your mother’s people are Yankees. They made glue out of fish,” she said, in those two remarks judging them, and condemning them for eternity. She extended her hand in a hospitable gesture. “Come in, come in. We’ll have tea. You must be exhausted after your journey. I traveled to Cincinnati once. I’ve forgotten how many days it took. I couldn’t get grits anywhere.”

      Ellen was not in the habit of tea in the afternoon and in fact, she much preferred coffee to tea, but one was reluctant to decline this woman’s suggestions. She allowed herself to be wafted by sheer force of character up the stairs and into a sitting room, where she was stationed on a gilt settee.

      She was tired, in fact. The trip, the flying, to which she was unaccustomed, the crowds of people...it had all been fun but wearying. She would have liked to sink into a comfortable deep chair, or better still, to lie down somewhere, but she kept her shoulders back and sat solidly on the hard settee. Something about her aunt demanded that she keep her shoulders back. What a contrast to her mother’s softness, sometimes so hard to get hold of.

      Tea was already laid on a lace cloth atop a highly polished table, but it was clear that Aunt Minna had already had hers. She put a finger to the little silver teapot, found it cold, and with a gesture of indignation, yanked at a velvet rope by the door.

      A maid, not Bertha, but another, middle -aged one, appeared quickly. She was sent off with orders to bring a fresh pot of tea. This, Ellen decided, was Mrs. Bondage. She looked flustered and Ellen hoped that her astrologer had foretold a fortune that was good enough to console her for the berating she was certainly going to receive.

      While the tea was being ordered, Ellen had a moment to look about. The room into which she had been ushered was enormous, paneled in dark old wood, and furnished with elaborate period pieces. The wood of the furniture had been polished to a mirror like sheen, but it was crumbling with age. Ellen had an impression of generations of moths rearing their young through childhood, love, and successful parenthood in the threadbare folds of the gold damask draperies at the windows.

      The ceiling was embossed and from it hung a huge cut crystal chandelier. There were countless rosewood writing desks and occasional tables, and upon them stood great leather-bound books and boxes, many of them monogrammed and clasped with brass. The walls were thick with gilt-framed ancestry. Ellen thought she recognized her father in one painting, but she could not be certain.

      While they waited for the tea, Aunt Minna moved about the room. She unlocked a cupboard to remove a silver biscuit box. She was not in fact so tall as she had seemed at Ellen’s first glance, not much taller than her niece. The hat, with its feathers, and her bearing, gave her an extra foot or so. She stopped fussing with the tea table to observe her guest. She might have been looking over some piece of furniture that she was thinking of buying. Her only comment when she had concluded the inspection was, “You have good bones.”

      The fresh tea arrived. Aunt Minna poured it with graceful ease, and offered some surprisingly fresh chocolate cookies from the silver box.

      “Now,” she said, “tell me about your mother. “She seemed most anxious to have you away somewhere. I don’t suppose she is conducting a romance?” She smiled to show Ellen this was meant to be preposterous, and Ellen smiled in return.

      “I think she was frightened to have me in the house.”

      “You don’t look particularly frightening.” Aunt Minna studied her niece again. “You were in an insane asylum?”

      “I was in a private hospital.”

      “For the insane.”

      “For the mentally disturbed.”

      Aunt Minna looked at her sharply. She wondered if her niece we’re trying to quarrel with her. She decided it was quite possible.

      “Is that what you were, mentally disturbed?”

      “No, I was insane.” Ellen smiled to show this was meant to be preposterous.

      Aunt Minna gave a deep appreciative chuckle and took a bite out of a chocolate cookie. “How do you know you’re sane now?”

      Ellen shrugged. She was enjoying herself. She liked this peculiar old woman who, from some chance of birth, was her aunt. “How do you know you are?”

      “You’ve got a point there. A great many people would say I’m not. You may say that yourself when you have been here a time.” She reached for the tea to pour some more. Which was when Ellen said, “Tell me about the moon garden.”

      “So you remember that, do you?”

      “Only that there was something called that. Mother said it was haunted, but she declined to tell me much more than that.”

      “She would.” Aunt Minna made a little sniffing sound. “Your mother has always been timid.” She made of that word a scornful dismissal. Ellen could not imagine anything more removed from Aunt Minna’s own character than timidity.

      There was a discreet clearing of a throat from the door. Ellen’s back was to it, so that she could not see who had come into the room. Whoever it was had apparently paused just inside the door, uncertain whether to come in or to go away. Perhaps they were surprised by her presence.

      Since they did not come forward, and she could hardly turn on her seat to see who it was, she went on with her conversation as if they were not there.

      “How did it get such an odd name? The moon garden. Surely it’s pre-astronaut, isn’t it?”

      A man’s voice said, “No one uses the moon garden now, it’s been shut up for ages.”

      Aunt Minna rose, saying, “Come in, Dawson, come in, don’t hover. I want you to meet my niece, Ellen Miles. Ellen, this is Dawson Elliott.”

      Ellen