American Beauty by Edna Ferber

Author:Edna Ferber [Ferber, Edna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-80577-5
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2014-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

Temmie glanced at Big Bella. The eyes were closed. She stole toward the door. The glazed eyes flew open.

Oh, dear, thought Temmie. Oh, dear, oh dear. Gibbon’s Roman Empire. The Last Days of Pompeii. The London Encyclopedia in tattered yellow leather dated 1845, printed by Thomas Tegg, 73 Cheapside.

“Don’t you want to lie down, Cousin Bella, and be comfortable?”

“No, child.” Whereupon Cousin Bella leaned back and toppled, a mountainous heap, onto the dusty brown cushions. Temmie waited yet another moment. The innocent gray eyes remained closed. The pink cheeks glowed like those of a child, dewy in sleep.

The attic. She was up there as though wafted by the winds. It was stifling, but Temmie did not mind. She lifted pieces of furniture as though they were light as eggshells. She scrambled over dusty heaps of piled-up rubbish. She opened chests and cupboards in dim corners to which she had never yet penetrated. Out came caps and cloaks and bits of silk and cloth stuff, old boots, yellowed gloves, bustles, hoops. Bluebeard’s wife never poked and pryed with greater surge of forbidden joy.

It will be at the very bottom, she told herself. At the very bottom, somewhere, because it was so long ago. And in a small box, alone, because that is the way Judith amiable consort would want it. And led thus by her intuitive feeling for that other Tamar Oakes, she came upon it just as she had thought, in a cherry-wood box that was like a little exquisite coffin. Perhaps Judith Oakes, cheated of the comfort of a coffin for her beloved daughter, had ordered it made thus for the repose of Tamar’s earthly garments, for that her earthly body, reduced to ashes, reposed in the white jade box beneath the sandstone slab in front of the fireplace.

Tamar opened it with fingers that shook. The stiff little gown with its satin hooped petticoat, the rosy overskirt faded now almost to buff, elbow sleeves, low-cut neck, little silken slippers, the fan—where was the fan?—this bit of yellowed ivory and tattered lace. Yes. Temmie rolled it all into a bundle, but gently, and sped down the attic stairs to the front chamber, closed, dark, breathless. She placed her precious bundle on the bed, sped to the windows, opened one, then another, in a series of superhuman tugs, unfastened the shutters, threw them wide. The hot sweet July day streamed into the musty room.

Off came the calico workday dress. Her comb. She flew, in petticoat and shirt, to her own bedroom for her comb wherewith to make ringlets over each shoulder. Back again, her cheeks scarlet, she tossed the dress, a great balloon of dusty silk, over her head, let it settle on her shoulders. She thrust her feet into the stiff frayed high-heeled silken slippers, never heeding the discomfort they gave. Now, then, the fan. The rose. Oh, my gracious sakes alive, she had forgotten the rose. She was down into the desolate garden in a moment. She plucked a pink rose from the old rose tree and was up again, breathless.

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