THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
Bernadette Miller
During her youth, Elizabeth’s lover had committed suicide, and she’d never recovered from the shock. She’d secluded herself with Yvette, a French-Canadian cousin, in her late father’s Victorian apartment, and struggled there for fourteen years on a meager trust fund and her craft work that Yvette sold to department stores.
One fall afternoon, Yvette set down groceries bought at supermarket sales, and opened a letter. Plump and cuddly with big blue eyes and gray plaits, she was over sixty, yet still retained from convent school a childlike innocence. She rushed to the parlor, waving the letter, and shouted over the electric drill, “Uncle Ralph invited us to Cindy’s wedding in upstate New York! Oh, how much fun it would be to go. It’s been such a long time...”
Elizabeth clicked off the drill and looked up from the wooden seagull she was carving. “Yvie, you know I won’t budge from here. Besides, we can’t afford it.”
“Beth, it happened so long ago. It’s time to forgive yourself. Uncle Ralph would gladly loan us money for the trip. His daughter will be terribly disappointed if we don’t make it.”
“Yvie, we’ve been over this time and again. I couldn’t stand a room full of strangers, let alone a wedding. Now I’ve got to finish this seagull.”
Yvette sighed and returned to the kitchenette.
Trembling, Elizabeth rose and walked to her china cabinet collection near the bay window, as she usually did when upset. It was twilight, the parlor bathed in pink. She gazed at the seashells, miniature alabaster animals, and coral. Removing the chambered nautilus Yvette had given her eight Christmases before, she held it up to the light. She admired the shell’s delicate coloring and stroked its pearly smoothness. How lovely it was, dainty and serene, unpressured by events... Starting to relax, she rehung it in the cabinet and returned to her work table near the fireplace.
At suppertime, she began storing her work materials in the sideboard drawer, and heard an ominous thump in the kitchenette. “Yvie!” She hurried through the book-lined hallway, darkened to save money, and found her cousin crumpled on the kitchenette floor.
“Yvie, what’s wrong?” Elizabeth said anxiously, lifting the older woman’s head onto her lap. “Are you okay?”
Yvette opened her blue eyes. “I don’t know, I must have passed out. I’m sure it’s nothing. Don’t worry.” She rose awkwardly, helped by Elizabeth, and reached for the paring knife on the butcher block counter. “I’ll finish the carrots for the salad. You set the work table. I’ll be okay.”
But apparently she wasn’t. The following week, as Elizabeth carved a dolphin, Yvette had another seizure.
“I’d better call an ambulance!” Elizabeth said in the kitchenette. She helped the older woman to rise.
“I feel better already,” Yvette said, straightening her house dress. She began scrubbing a pot with steel wool. “I’ll be all right.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Yvie, I want you to go to the hospital for tests right now. I’m calling a taxi!”
“We can’t afford taxis.”
“Well, we’ll have to spend the money. We must find out what’s wrong.”
When the taxi arrived, she hugged Yvette at the door.
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” Yvette said, smiling to reassure Elizabeth. She buttoned the cardigan and pulled on a feathered cloche hat that emphasized her still girlish face and big blue eyes.
“I should go with you, but...”
Yvette smiled. “Well, if you can’t face a wedding, you certainly couldn’t face a hospital! Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”
Elizabeth nodded and returned to her work. Unable to concentrate, she stared through the bay window at the East River far below. She should have gone with Yvette... She shook her head. Strangers would remind her of the past. “I’d better finish the dolphin,” she said, and worked for awhile until she realized she wouldn’t hear Yvette unlocking the foyer door. Sighing, she clicked off the drill, and thought she heard footsteps echoing in the outside hall. Their neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, might be returning from Europe, as her maid had told Yvette yesterday. Or, perhaps Yvette had dropped her key...
Slowly Elizabeth opened the door and peeked out, wary of Mrs. Whitman, their other neighbor, catching sight of her and starting a conversation. There was no one. Ravel’s “Daphnis and Chloe” suddenly flooded the hall from the Stevens’ apartment downstairs. She hurried inside and slammed shut the door, but it was too late. She suddenly remembered Michael’s Greenwich Village apartment, listening to that same piece of music while he lovingly stroked the silky hair cascading over her shoulders.
“I’ll change your father’s mind about me,” he’d murmured. “As long as I have you, I’ll never want another drink.”
They kissed, and she nestled contentedly against his shoulder, enveloped by Ravel’s haunting music.
Elizabeth reproached herself for breaking her vow never to dwell on the past, and returned to work. When Yvette’s key turned in the lock, she hurried to the hall.
“The doctor said it’s just old age,” Yvette said, hanging her sweater in the hall closet. “I’d better start cooking or we won’t have any dinner tonight.”
Elizabeth followed her to the kitchenette and watched her cousin grate cabbage. “Well, old age or not, something’s causing the problem!” Brow furrowed with worry, she returned to the parlor and spread a cloth over the work table. She distributed her mother’s Limoges plates, the remaining antiques after Yvette sold the rest to pay bills. Upset about memories of Michael after so many years, she stopped and removed the chambered nautilus. She stroked the coils, yearning to curl up inside, protected from pain.
During supper, Elizabeth shoved aside the half-filled bowls of vegetable soup and coleslaw.
Yvette, serving tea, flashed an encouraging smile.
“Maybe we should skip Pou Belle tonight?” It was her pet name for the basement garbage. “The Whitmans are away, but if we run into Mrs. Thompson, we might have to explain why we’re rummaging through other people’s discards.”
“No, we’ll go down after supper. We don’t want rich neighbors running our life.”
Yvette chuckled. “Last year, Mrs. Whitman threw out that faded velvet chair, and we got fifty dollars for it! Then, Mrs. Stevens had to redecorate, too, and discarded those hooked rugs--just before our carpet disintegrated. My, what a wonderful Christmas that was...”
Elizabeth smiled at her cousin’s wistfulness. “This year will be even better. Well, if you’ve finished eating, let’s go.”
They got the flashlight, and took the elevator to the basement. Hurrying down a corridor toward the large, unlit room at the rear, they deposited their garbage bags in the corner bin. Then, while Yvette kept a lookout for visitors, Elizabeth guided her flashlight about the dark, and spotted an open carton of spices.
“I can certainly use that!” Yvette said, pleased.
They lugged their loot upstairs, intending to sneak it into the apartment, but Mrs. Thompson stood at her open door, sandwiched between suitcases. They smiled sheepishly at the neighbor with her sleek blonde chignon.
“Someone left perfectly good spices in Pou Belle,” Yvette said, squashing her nervousness.
“Pou Belle?” Mrs. Thompson looked disdainfully at the carton. “Oh, you mean the garbage.”
“Exactly,” Yvette said, flashing her most charming smile. “That’s what my mother in Quebec called the discards.”
Elizabeth, deeply embarrassed, muttered, “We probably shouldn’t have taken it, but nobody wanted it, so--”
“It’s a good haul!” Yvette interrupted, and turned with a conspiratorial whisper toward Mrs. Thompson. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, dear?”
“No, of course not.”
The women hurried with the carton to the kitchenette where they unloaded the spices. While Yvette finished in the kitchenette, Elizabeth read a novel borrowed from the library by Yvette. Her heart leaped when she heard another thump. This time Yvette had bumped her head on the baseboard near the sink.
Elizabeth trembled with anxiety as she bent over the older woman. “Yvie, something’s wrong! I’ll have you stay at the hospital for complete tests.”
Yvette rose with Elizabeth’s help. “We can’t afford it.”
“I’ll ... find a way to pay for it.”
“How?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Well, my craft work won’t cover it. I’ll. . . get a job.”
“You mean regular work?”
“Yes, Yvie, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to make sure you’re okay.” She nodded, more to convince herself than Yvette. “As soon as the tests are paid for, I can quit.”
“We need the money, but if it’s too hard on you...”
“Well, let’s see how it works out.” Elizabeth patted Yvette’s arm. “I bet you forgot this is tv night. There’s a good movie--Dark Victory with Bette Davis.”
Yvette exclaimed, “I did forget!”
They hurried to the darkened parlor where Elizabeth plugged in the set opposite the sofa, and they settled down to watch. Elizabeth’s gaze shuttled from the movie to her cousin, who kept smiling to reassure her.
The next day, after brushing her teeth in the musty green bathroom near Yvette’s room, Elizabeth repinned her graying auburn hair behind her ears, and stared at her image. At fifty she had no wrinkles, just a sagging jaw, yet she felt much older. She tucked in her shirttail and
straightened the baggy slacks. She had managed to look as unattractive and unfeminine as possible--ever since Michael died.
She remembered coming home late, and her father storming from his room. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen that drunkard again after I forbade it?”
Fighting tears her father considered a weakness, she said, “Michael hasn’t had a drop for two years, not since meeting me.”
He’d nodded, his face softening. “But the problem’s always there, isn’t it?” he said gently. “Elizabeth, you deserve better in life than worrying about your husband taking another drink. How long do you think your love would last?”
She remained silent, torn by his logic. Week after week he’d urged that Michael was no good for her, until gradually, insidiously, he convinced her to change her mind. If only Mom had still been alive, maybe she wouldn’t have sent Michael that terrible letter...
And then the call from Yvette, hesitant and tearful, “Oh, Beth, I’m... so sorry to tell you this, but Michael... I just found out from his neighbor... poor Michael shot himself in the heart. Beth, dear, if there’s anything I can do...”
Now, Elizabeth felt a stab of anguish and shook her head. No, Yvette was right--it was over a long time ago! She must get a job, for Yvette’s sake. Maybe being among people wouldn’t be as painful as before...
To calm herself, she removed the chambered nautilus, and held it up to the light from the bay window; the colors shimmered with rainbow intensity. Turning the shell, she pictured the mollusk creating its lovely, hidden chambers, safely inhabiting one after another until it finally died.
The next morning, wrapped in an old robe, she walked through the sunny parlor; clinking noises emanated from the kitchenette where Yvette fried eggs.
“Feeling better?” Elizabeth said.
Yvette murmured, “I’m fine, dear.”
Nodding with relief, Elizabeth carried buttered toast and strawberry jam to the parlor table. Afterwards, she returned to work. She bent over the dolphin to attach a tiny brass ring so it could be worn as a pendant, and shivered when the mantel clock struck eleven. Time for Yvette to leave for her tests.
“Beth, I’m ready,” Yvette said, sticking her head in the door. It had grown colder outside. She wore a plaid winter coat, leather boots, a black fur hat, and carried an expensive purse: gifts from Pou Belle.
Elizabeth nodded and fought tears as they embraced.
“I’ll be all right,” Yvette said. “Probably just nerves, worrying about money, and you being so isolated in the apartment. I’ll bet there’s nothing wrong at all.”
Elizabeth daubed at her eyes. “I hope so. Please call as soon as you can.”
After Yvette left, Elizabeth played Mozart on the cassette player Yvette had given her several birthdays past, and again removed the chambered nautilus. “Don’t let Yvie die,” she whispered, holding up the shell. “Sixty-seven isn’t old. It can’t be time yet...” Turning the shell, she admired the delicate spiral architecture and felt strangely calm; somehow Yvie would be all right.
To occupy her mind, she dusted and vacuumed Yvette’s bedroom that had been her father’s, and then cleaned her small bedroom adjoining the parlor, trying not to glance at the bottom drawer containing Michael’s letter; she’d never replied to it. She wadded the dust cloth into a tight ball. She had obligations now, she couldn’t stay tied to the past.
The next day, after breakfast, she pondered job possibilities. Waitressing was impractical; she lacked experience. Nor could she sell anything. She walked to the bathroom, through the book-laden hallway, and returned to
the table to study The New York Times classified. A bookstore ad caught her eye. She could sell books-utilize her fine boarding-school education and her Smith College degree. She’d always loved to read, encouraged by her mother, a book editor for several years before she died of cancer. But what about appropriate clothes? Baggy trousers and a man’s shirt wouldn’t do.
She removed an old blue skirt from the bedroom closet, and stroked the soft wool. The hem sagged in places. She basted it from Yvette’s sewing kit, and then tugged on a pale blue Lady Arrow blouse with wide lace collar. A stain, probably catsup, appeared faintly near the bottom. She remembered wearing that skirt and blouse the day Michael died. Trembling, she closed her eyes, said aloud, “I’m not going to get upset!” and buttoned the front. She frowned at her mirror image. The clothes, though old, looked presentable; she couldn’t use the excuse that she had nothing to wear.
Reluctantly she donned Yvette’s cashmere coat, felt beret, and kidskin purse, also gifts of Pou Belle. Then, in the parlor, she gazed awhile at the chambered nautilus, and finally left.
Downstairs in the lobby, she was startled by the new uniformed doorman Yvette hadn’t mentioned, and wondered what happened to old Fred who’d been there since her father died.
“Hello, ma’am,” the young blond fellow said politely and held open the door.
“Uh...hello!” She felt awkward and stepped outside into the harsh bright sunshine flooding Beekman Place. Blinking in the glare, she fought the rising panic that boiled in her stomach, and walked slowly past canopied apartment buildings to the bookstore around the corner on First Avenue. Fur-clad women reeled their dogs on unwinding leashes instead of the old leather ones. And a new type of grocery had replaced the corner coffee shop. A glimpse inside revealed orientals tending hot and cold buffet stands between wall shelves of canned and baked goods; crates outside bulged with fresh tomatoes, melons, mangoes, and bananas, footed by cut flowers. She lingered over the roses perfuming the cold air.
Then, much too soon, she arrived at the small bookstore that had advertised for help. She hesitated and timidly entered, her gaze darting past stuffed shelves, overflowing tables, and piles on the carpet. Books were everywhere. She cringed at the chaos and yearned to flee but forced herself to stay for Yvette’s sake. Still, she’d never had a regular job. Why would anyone hire her?
And it was already afternoon, past lunch time. They’d probably gotten someone by now.
She’d nearly surrendered to the impulse to leave when the middle-aged lady at the cash register, called out, “May I help you? If you don’t see the book you want I’m sure it’s here somewhere. We have an extensive selection.”
Elizabeth, swiveling, flushed with embarrassment. “Uh, I’m here to apply...for...uh...the job.”
The lady, smiling, stepped from behind the register and introduced herself as the owner. With her feathery gray upsweep she peered at Elizabeth through large spectacles. “You could read here if you’ve done your work and there’s no business. I can’t pay much. We don’t get lots of customers like the big chains.”
Elizabeth, still fighting the urge to run out, mentally calculated how much she’d need to pay the hospital charges. They discussed wages, which would suffice. “Well..I love books,” she said, her awkwardness remaining. “I’ll...do my best, Miss--”
“Call me Bev. I’ll be delighted to have a knowledgeable helper-finally.”
She mentioned hours and lunch period, and it was settled. Elizabeth would start the next morning.
Relieved the ordeal was over, she returned to the apartment in time to get Yvette’s call from the hospital.
“Beth, that’s wonderful! If I’m okay, I’ll try to get work, too.”
“No, if you’re not ill, there’s no sense making yourself sick by working. It’s better if I do it.”
“Yes, dear,” Yvette said.
The next day, Elizabeth nervously reported to the book store, and was pleased at how pleasant Bev was and how the time flew by. She felt useful when the customers, such as elderly Mrs. Steinberg, relied on her judgement, as if Elizabeth were a final authority on literature.
“Darling, my granddaughter is studying acting, and I want some funny Shakespeare plays to give her,” Mrs. Steinberg said. “I want to read them first, but sad stories always make me cry. What can you suggest?”
Elizabeth climbed the wall ladder and selected As You Like It, Twelfth Night, and Measure for Measure. “I think you’ll enjoy these, and so will your granddaughter.” She slipped the books into a paper bag.
Mrs. Steinberg watched her ring up the cash register. “I never read Shakespeare but I figure maybe it’s time to start.” She smiled. “Thank God that Bev hired you. The last person helping her couldn’t tell anybody anything about nothing ! “
Elizabeth grinned.
When Yvette was ready to leave the hospital the next day, Elizabeth took time off that afternoon to meet her on the front steps. On the way home, she described Bev and the interesting customers to Yvette, who nodded and smiled. They walked slowly along leaf-strewn streets, Elizabeth enjoying the cool fall fragrance.
At home, she began carving a miniature seahorse. She felt content, listening to chamber music while sweet aromas wafted through the parlor. Yvette baked an orange cake for the special occasion of her return home and Elizabeth’s job.
Elizabeth bent greedily over the steak and vegetables, paid for with her new paycheck, and said, “I’ll give Bev the seahorse I carved. She might like that.”
“Oh, I’m sure she would.”
Several days later, during dinner, Yvette watched her cousin eat for awhile, then put down her fork. “I have a confession to make...” She hesitated.
Elizabeth waited, her lips pinching together with worry.
“I...lied about being sick,” Yvette said finally.
“What do you mean?”
“Well...there’s nothing wrong with me. I...did it to get you out of the apartment. I wanted you to realize the past is finished. Please don’t be mad...”
Elizabeth stared at her, an anger rising from the pit of her stomach, but then she felt relieved that Yvette was all right. She said softly, “I’m just glad there’s nothing wrong with you.”
After supper, she tugged on Mrs. Whitman’s discarded suede jacket. “I’m going up to the roof for some air.”
Yvette looked up anxiously. “You won’t quit your job now?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “No, we can use the money. And I like working there.”
Yvette smiled and returned to The Daily News, her head snapping back and forth as she sought the money-saving coupons.
In the outside hall, Elizabeth climbed the few steps, ducked under the doorway, and crossed the asphalt roof. The weather was refreshing: the air clean and crisp. Elbows propped on the rail, she gazed at the distant bridge twinkling with car lights, and at the silvered water below, where a barge floated eerily by. What a lovely scene, she thought. If only she were seeing it with Michael...
She trembled, and reproached herself again. Then, she pictured the beautiful chambered nautilus, that fragile, empty shell, and quoted Oliver Wendell Holmes’ poem...
“Let each new temple, nobler than the last, shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast...”
Pausing, she scanned the stars dotting the night sky, and suddenly felt that Michael had long since forgiven her. She smiled at her new calmness, as if her soul, outgrowing the nautilus’s protective chambers, were finally free.
