Thomas Tryon by The Other

Author:The Other [Other, The]
Format: epub
Published: 2009-08-16T02:13:30+00:00

IV

The young fry of Pequot Landing often occupied themselves with a pastime, an amusing charade in which Old Lady Rowe played a central role, one which some might think churlish, but one that not only piqued their imaginations but intrigued Old Lady Rowe as well. While it was generally known that her mind was sometimes cloudy, she was in no way stupid, and when the more enterprising children would telephone her in an assortment of cleverly disguised (they thought) voices, she would listen patiently while the little mischiefs tried to pull the wool over her eyes.

"Is this Mrs. Rowe?" (Telephone operator's pinched voice, half-stifled giggles in the background.)

"Yes? Who is this, please?"

"This is the White House calling. One moment, pul-eeze."

"Haraw." (Deep, presidential-sounding tone; more giggles.) "Ah-Mrs. Rowe?"

"Yes? Yes, this is Mrs. Rowe speaking." A twinkle in the voice.

"This is-harum-the President." The mouthpiece quickly covered; impossible to stop the laughter.

Or, another variation: the operator informs Mrs. Rowe that Hollywood is on the line.

"Hollywood? California? Goodness!" With feigned surprise.

In a low voice, heavily accented: "Meeses Rowe? Thees ees Garrbo."

"Greta Garbo?"

"Yas. Dat's right. Grreta Garr-bo."

Thus would begin a lengthy conversation, mirthful on one end, eager, if confused, on the other, with either the President or Miss Garbo, sometimes both, invited to tea. And the parade would arrive, often all the way up Church Street from the Center, for instead of tea Mrs. Rowe always served hot dogs and never seemed to mind the fact that, at the last moment, the President's schedule had been changed or Garbo was delayed filming.

She was a gracious hostess, kind and thoughtful and remarkable in her tolerance of her guests. Nor were the hot dogs the only attraction: a wastebasket made from a hollowed-out elephant's foot, a Grecian wine jug, a Siamese temple dancer's headdress, the horn of a narwhal, wild animal skins, combs of mother-of-pearl, jade figures, even a real shrunken head which her small visitors might handle carefully.

Later that same afternoon, when the doctor had come to see Aunt Fania and left again, Mrs. Rowe had gone out to her garage for a bottle of rooting compound to start a stalk of begonia, shattered in her dash about the yard. Yes, there was the bottle, right where she remembered it-her memory wasn't so bad after all-on the shelf next to the bag of rat pellets; and over there the broken begonia plant. She picked up the injured stem and was returning to the house, passing the hen-and-chickens in the rock garden encircling the sundial, when something caught her eye, a figure just there behind the clump of rhododendrons at the foot of the lawn. Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered uncertainly at the shrubbery, wondering who it might be. The figure moved slightly and now she could make out a bizarre face staring back at her from under an old top hat.

"Oh!" she cried out, astonished to discover who it was. She stepped quickly back, then drew herself up before the intruder.

"For pity's sake," she said shortly, "what is it? What are you doing in there-in my rhodies?"

"Nothing.

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