The Siren's Tale (37 page)

“
Only for you to ask the pretty lady, cowboy. Soon as you ask her and she accepts, the deed will be done in a half hour, tops.”

I knew what Tony was up to. I
would be put on the spot, the stray soldier would be sent on his way, and that would be the end of the episode. Things would get back to normal. Impulsively, I decided to go in a different direction. The curse went out the window, and Widow Brown could not have been further from my mind at the moment when Mark Nelson flew through the door, went down on his knees, and proposed to me. 

I answered,
“Yes. Oh yes, I will marry you, Mark Nelson.”

There was a thump in the hallway. My agent had fainted.

Twenty-four hours later, tears wetting her alabaster cheeks, Cassandra pulled a
way from a long, passionate farewell embrace with her lovesick soldier at the front of the Ferry Building. She had to will him to depart so he would not miss his ship. 

They were just another couple saying their good
byes, but no woman looked more beautiful nor any serviceman happier than these two. Passersby stared at them; they were so obviously in lust and in love.

Private First Class Nelson wrote to Cassandra
every day as the ship plowed across the ocean. No one who passed Nelson's bunk could avoid staring at the picture of the beautiful woman who he proudly claimed was his wife. His buddies backed him up on his story. Aboard ship, he was regarded as the foremost authority on romance.  

All three soldiers from Alta came down with a
virulent shipboard fever, but only Mark died. His belongings and last letter were sent to Cassandra. She thought she was prepared for anything, but when she read the letter, her stiff upper lip melted, and the hollowness at the pit of her being felt like her own death.

“
My own darling Nevada,

“
I wonder if you know how very special you have made this ordinary soldier feel. Not since Romeo and Juliet has there been anyone like us two. If I die tomorrow, though I ain’t planning on it, I leave this world the happiest man in it.

“
Your loving husband,

“
Mark Nelson”

It was not until
Cassandra saw the locket with her hair among Mark's things and read the death certificate that she realized exactly who Mark was. The revelation astonished her so much she screamed aloud, until Jayne Anne came running. Then, throwing herself into her friend's arms, she began to laugh and cry at the same time. 

In blubbering exclamations, she told Jayne Ann that Mark Nelson was
Horatio from Alta, her former knight in shining armor! The horse he had tended to had been her horse! The woman who had left town and broken his heart was herself!

A
part of her, afterward, was amused by the irony of the situation, and then, of course, there was the curse to think about. Were the old men and their savage fascination with war to blame for the squandering of her young lover's life? Or was she responsible for the evil-spirited malevolence hovering over Mark's shoulder, aimed at destroying her siren kind? 

She decided the latter was true. Then, w
ithin a few days of receiving official notice of Mark’s burial at sea, she discovered she was pregnant.

She exulted at the news. Though losing the man, she had once again foiled the purpose of the curse. This time, her pregnancy would be only the beginning, not the end. She vowed she would follow through after the child's birth and raise a proper siren, one who would be a credit to the family line. 
 

In the following months, while still recovering from the shock of her lover's death, Cassandra
found herself doing sentimental things in Mark's memory. She went back to Jim’s and had apple pie. She went to see the old movie she had been coming away from when she met him; it was “The Mothering Heart,” a real tear-jerker from 1913 by D.W. Griffiths.  

Through the stages of grief, she regretted nothing,
including the mock wedding Tony had arranged for the pair. She was not, legally speaking, Private Nelson's wife. The license had never been filed. Cassandra was not so impetuous as to marry a man after a night of lovemaking, no matter how delightfully her voracious sexual appetite was slaked by him. But she grieved for Mark just as deeply as if they were man and wife. She fervently hoped there was not one soldier who ever died happier. That was a thought she could live with, but such happy thoughts were few.

Widow
Brown's curse had killed them all—Zelda Brighton, Curly Drake, Nicholas Brighton, and Mark Horatio Nelson. Of that Cassandra was convinced, and she grieved for them all. The four humans had been obsessed with her, and all four had suffered the consequences. She would attempt no more to outwit the supernatural in her dealing with humans, knowing the curse would surely deliver suffering to their world. However, she, Cassandra Vye, now had a second chance to multiply her kind and defeat the Widow Browns of the world. She was taking that chance and running with it.

“When I was very young,” Chloe says to Marlena, who is now physically struggling to stay awake, “my mother told me the story you are about to hear. She told me about my birth and how intensely I was wanted and loved. She told me the story over and over again. I am very fortunate. No child can be told too many times how much she or he is loved.”

“
That is beautiful,” says Marlena.

She sighs deeply. Being told she was unconditionally loved by her mother was not a feature of
Marlena's childhood. Discipline and a strong religious faith, not the life of the emotions, were Faith's strong suits.

If I have this child,
Marlena resolves silently, I will tell her every day of my life how much she was wanted and how much she is loved.

My friends rallied around and cheered when I proudly announced my pregnancy. Overall, I was more content during the term of my pregnancy than I had ever been in my life. I sang and played my zither for the baby in my womb. I applied my psychic powers and willed my baby to be a girl. Just in case, I prayed to the Gods, to the fates, and to whoever or whatever might be listening; my baby must be a girl.

Would she be siren or merely human? I tried to catch myself dreaming, to see if my second sight would give me a clue. No dice.
As I sang and played the zither, I favored baroque music, so as to attune her spirit in a classical direction.

I need not have worried. Ten months after she was conceived, the usual term for a siren birth, I had my baby girl. She was a perfect siren, with an overly large, rounded head and a jagged white birthmark on her upper thigh that clinched the identity.

I lay in a hospital bed at St. Francis Hospital for Women, surrounded by beautiful flowers. I was humming, eagerly awaiting my first interaction with my newborn daughter. My friends were crowded into the room, awaiting her curtain call.

Together we had
tackled the pregnancy as though it were a rehearsal for a royal birth. The cast of characters hovering on a daily basis included Ian, several gay friends, including my former landlord David, and also Mike and Steve, two dancers who lived next door, my long-time companion Jayne Anne, and the queen mother, Tony Barone.

Since my accursed fate had determined my second child would also be fatherless, to the cast
fell the responsibility of choosing a name. They voted unanimously in favor of Chloe Kate Vye for a girl, or Mark Horatio Nelson, Junior, for a boy. My aunt Chloe had been a force for good in my life. If only I had stayed in Saratoga, none of this would have happened! No curse, no deaths to regret. My poor mother’s memory was honored by “Kate,” and of course the last name of “Vye” was the family name I had chosen for myself at eighteen.

F
ortunately for the cast, my second pregnancy was a calm period in my life, and the sailing was smooth. Dance practice with Mike and Steve kept my body in youthful shape. I gave up smoking, drinking, and partying under the eagle-eyed supervision of Jayne Anne and Tony, who made sure I didn't go off the wagon. Jayne Anne got up early and accompanied me to the coaching sessions my doctor offered for new mothers. She helped me with the breathing regimen, constantly nagged me to practice, and produced a daunting number of special herbs and potions from Chinatown, all of which had to be reviewed first with Dr. Franks.

Dr. John Franks, my physician, would do the honors in delivering Chloe
into the world. Let me sing a few words of praise of this dear and good man. I had a deuce of a time resisting the temptation to draw him into my net.

He was the best male friend I have ever had. He had none of Nick's tortured saint characteristics nor
Curly's dandyism. John was a sweet, smart, practical man who did good deeds every day of his life.

He
was also a pioneer in his field. He promoted sanitary procedures in conjunction with the unnecessarily dangerous business of childbirth. Most women still had babies at home with the help of a midwife back then, and all too often ordinary complications like breech births resulted in deaths. Under his direction, a sterile but comfortable environment was created within the lying-in hospital.

As most of his patients
wanted to know nothing about the workings of their reproductive organs, Dr. Franks enjoyed my assertive approach to motherhood. I became well read on childbirth and was familiar with the new literature coming out of France on the topic of prenatal care, including a special program of exercise. I wanted to know everything there was to know about what was happening inside my body. He found my curiosity on these subjects to be refreshing.

At
our first meeting, I peppered Dr. Franks with questions, demanding to know what he was going to do for my safety and comfort as well as the baby's.  

“
My dear woman, my function is simply to preside over a natural event. You and the baby do all the work.”

Well, he wasn’t kidding about that part.
“Work” was an understatement.

Because of careful preparation,
when the pains began, there was no panic. With Jayne's coaching, I simply breathed over them. She tried pointing out that the pain was probably no different from when my feet went into spasm after hours of pounding them on the stage boards.

“
Oh, really? Then why don't you try passing a kettle through your vagina, Jayne?” 

Actually she was right.
Like other pains in life, these came and went, only with a little more intensity than most. The worst pain I suffered was the absence of my beloved Horatio, who had loved me for most of his life and whose loss was a personal tragedy I would never get over or forgive myself for.       

The la
bor was about four hours long. Tony and I played cards. I had a winning poker hand going when the first pain came. The delivery was quick and uneventful. I bore down with muscles trained in dance; then I pushed and pushed and pushed. Finally I heard a plaintive sound, a baby’s cry, at 2:30 p.m., March 14, 1918.

“
She is a big lug,” was Dr. Franks’ comment on Chloe's coming out party. She was eight pounds, eleven ounces, a robust baby for that era. She had amber eyes, not much hair, and the aforementioned perfectly round, enormous head. 

When I asked Dr. Franks whom
she looked like, he said, “Winston Churchill; they all do, Cassie.”

“
Would you please exit the stage, John? Your bedside manner is killing me.”    

The wait to
see her again seemed to go on for hours, but actually only a few minutes elapsed before she was ushered back in, cleaned up, swaddled in a pink blanket, and proudly presented to me by head nurse Ellen Gudleben, who laid her on my left breast as everyone gathered around, oohing and ahhing to beat the band.  

“
Look how ferocious she appears,” I said. Indeed, Chloe's little brows were furrowed and she seemed to be frowning at me. Her expression made me laugh, but also made me a bit nervous. Did I, of all people, have stage fright? You bet I did. 

Then something miraculous happened. Chloe
looked directly into my eyes, and I felt something I had never felt before: deep, unconditional love for another living being. For once in my life, I was unreservedly in love with a creature other than myself. The empty, cold spot at my core melted, and into the void rushed overwhelming love and a brand new sense of responsibility. Truly, I felt complete when I looked into Chloe's eyes.

I still do
, daughter. I love you above all others. I would gladly give up all my powers in exchange for seeing you happy and safe until the end of your days.

Looking at my pink bundle, I was
also smugly thinking I had just given the best performance of my life. But little Chloe seemed concerned. She scowled at me as if to say, “Do you have any idea of what you are doing?”

I
n fact, I had no clue as to what to do next. When I had given birth two decades before, the baby was whisked away immediately.

Luckily
, there was an experienced professional in attendance who was closely watching the proceedings. Nurse Ellen parted the crowd and came so close to me I could smell the odor of rubbing alcohol on her fingertips. She then did something I will never forget. She reached over and cranked my left nipple, twisting it hard, just as though she were turning on a spigot.  

“
Ouch!” It was the first complaint I had uttered through the whole ordeal. Everyone laughed heartily.

“
That will get things moving along,” Nurse Ellen said with a confident smile. She was just lucky I didn't slap her.

As for my daughter, she knew immediately what to do
, now the stage was properly set. Her feathery brows knit in concentration, she clamped onto my left nipple with all her might and began to gulp down her mother’s milk just as fast as she could suck.

“
What do you think of her, Cassie?” asked Jayne Anne. “Will she do?”

I shook my head. N
o words could do justice to what I was feeling. 

Tony, who
knew a little of my family history, said, “Don't expect her to be a clone, darling. Chloe could turn out to be a shy woman, as you describe your mother and your aunt.” 

I
refused to rise to the bait.

Chloe
, slowly batting her amber eyes in contentment, suddenly grasped my finger with her fist. “Look at how she grabs me! There's nothing passive about her!”

“That is the Babinski reflex of the ulnar nerve in babies,” said Dr. Franks. “But I suppose there is no harm in attributing passion to your daughter.”

“
Babinski my foot. Mark my words, everyone. Chloe Kate Vye will have a professional degree after her name and a home of her own by the day she turns thirty. Or else I will eat my corset!” 

Chloe stretches her arms over her head, yawning and chuckling at the same time. She gets up and tucks Marlena in under the afghan. Her cousin has stuck it out to the end, but with Cassandra's final sentence, her eyes have closed. Now Marlena is sound asleep and lightly snoring. Chloe kisses her cheek. 

She whispers at the curtains,
“Great line about the corset, mother. Must remember to use it, if I ever write a book about us.”

Chloe lies
in her bed wide awake and thinks about how the seed planted at the beginning of the family reunion has been carefully watered. If her instincts have been right about the spellbinding power a good story holds for Marlena, the seed will bear fruit in the summer of 1978.  The Zanelli siren line will be continued on, and three women will rejoice, as one reunited clan.

Make that
four, daughter. Now I am back, I am not going anywhere.

Chloe holds a
closely guarded private opinion. She believes her thirty-year-old cousin is primed and ready for the role of parent. However, Marlena's long relationship with the baby's father, even if he could be lured into commitment, is built along a fault line.

Indeed, if her mother is right about the persistence of the family curse,
Harry's commitment to Marlena might lead to catastrophe. Anyway, the siren's tale has provided a compelling example of how the two great hallmarks, marriage and parenthood, need not co-exist where sirens are concerned. Chloe fervently hopes Marlena will come to the same conclusion. 

If
she herself, when faced with the same decision, had been brave enough to go it alone, her life would have been far different and perhaps more completely fulfilled. This is Chloe's saddest thought, and she endures it not for the first time on this long night. Chloe trusts to the forces for good that operate in the universe. She believes her beloved cousin, who is the only daughter she will ever have, will choose to continue this pregnancy and bring the Zanelli siren line into the next millennium.

At the sound of
plink, plink, plink
, she knows her mother's ghost is on the same page. 

As dawn approaches, Chloe feels
compelled to go into Marlena's bedroom one last time. Marlena is restless, possibly aware in her dreams of the invisible forces circulating. She has turned over onto her back. Her hand lies on her breastbone, where the jagged white birthmark is.

A
sign of extraordinary paranormal power, but of course you know that, Chloe
. 

“
Yes.”

Chloe goes
to the window where young Cassandra once looked out, so desperate to escape a narrow and desolate fate, so eager to meet her unfaithful lover once more.

The next few days will tell if our
good efforts tonight have been enough
.

She feels a swell of pride for what has been attempted here tonight. Her amber eyes fill
with tears of joy and hope for what might come of their hard work. Lingering regret for what might have been will never go away, but her regret is now mollified by a new confidence in the future of her kind.   

She blows good
night kisses to her parents, Cassandra Vye and Mark Horatio Nelson.

“
Wish us luck, darlings. We will need it.”

Sweet dreams
, daughter. Remember I love you.