The Effigy

A Short Story

It began not with the death, or even with the funeral, but with an act of shocking, profligate grief. My family were plain people, you must understand. We didn’t have a mausoleum, even though that would be natural for a family of our wealth and standing. When my mother died five years ago, Papa chose a simple design for her headstone, adorned with nothing but her name, dates, and “beloved wife and mother”. When Edwin joined her in death several years later, there was originally only a small plaque with his name on it. Papa told me he placed an order for something nicer, so I expected another headstone, or maybe an obelisk. Then one day, almost two years later, he received a telegram from a shipping company in New York. The sarcophagus had arrived.

He arranged for it to be transported to Indianapolis by train, and then the rest of the way by sledge like some monument to an ancient pharaoh. The tomb itself was carved simply, the better to show off the flowing fabric of stone draped over both it and the small form curled up in its center. There was something so incongruous about fine Italian marble glinting in the Midwestern sun. Whoever had sculpted it had done so with a malign sort of realism. It so resembled my younger brother that if not for the lack of color, you might expect him to awaken from his eternal rest at any moment. Beautiful to be sure, but even then there was something about that face that troubled me. The eyes were closed and the sculptor had given him a smile that was probably meant to be beatific. It didn’t look angelic to me, though. It looked as if he had a secret he enjoyed keeping to himself.

We were the last to leave after the reinterment. Papa wanted to spend a few minutes alone before the short walk home. I wondered if there’d ever be a time when it was just the two of us. Just Papa and me, without the dead interceding. There had always been someone between us. First my mother and now Edwin, whose influence lingered like an unwanted houseguest.

I found myself looking back at the sarcophagus as I made my meandering way through the cemetery grounds, trying not to notice how my father knelt before it as if expecting some pearl of wisdom to drop from those motionless lips. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw his head cock as he strained to hear it. He must have noticed me at last though, for he quickly rose to his feet and dusted the grass off his suit.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said once he’d gotten within speaking distance. “Papa?”

He had stopped a few yards away, regarding me intently. It was strange to have his full attention, and now that I had it I almost shrank away. It made me feel exposed, as if he could see my innermost thoughts but didn’t particularly care for them.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said finally.

He turned and started back down the path towards the cemetery gates. I murmured some polite response, which he accepted, and it seemed for a time that we would walk the whole way home in silence.

“It turned out perfectly, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very fine,” I agreed, hoping that would be enough to avoid a lengthier conversation.

“Such a sensitivity to his expression in particular,” he went on. “It’s almost like seeing our Edwin in the flesh again.”

I did my best to quash my annoyance, but I could feel it rising; crystalizing into something darker. It was a fine, crisp day in early November, and the bright sky stretched above us in unbroken blue. Why couldn’t we simply enjoy that without my brother interceding?

“It certainly wasn’t what I expected,” I said at last.

“Really? What did you expect?”

“Something more like Mama’s, I suppose.”

“Your mother asked for something simple. I followed her wishes. But it didn’t seem right for Edwin. I wanted to do something so we could remember him as he was. He was so young. So terribly young.”

“Is Italian marble so much better?” I asked, the annoyance creeping into my voice despite myself.

He stared at me, surprised.

“Well, yes. Carrara marble is famous for its beauty and quality. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if it was worth the added cost. That’s all.” I said with a shrug.

“It didn’t bankrupt me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, no, no, I’m sure you know how best to spend your money, Papa. It does seem rather out of place though, don’t you think?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what’s this all about? You’re such a sweet girl most of the time, Constance, but—”

“But?”

He looked away, gathering his thoughts.

“I don’t blame you for what happened, you know,” he said in a lower voice. “You did what you thought was best. But still, sometimes—No. That’s unfair of me. After all, you were little more than a child yourself.”

Something shifted between us. Subtle but unmistakable, like the heaviness in the air just before a storm. He had never doubted me before; I flattered myself that he had no reason to. My panic that day had been genuine. More than I could have possibly hoped for. I’d imagined the scene a thousand times, planning for every contingency I could think of. However, all the planning in the world didn’t prepare me for my brother’s terror as the ice gave way. It was what I had wanted. How I had treasured that hatred, nurturing it in my heart like a noxious plant. And yet when the moment came, some animal instinct acted for me. I screamed. I ran for help. I did what I should have done. It wasn’t enough to save my brother, but it put me beyond reproach. Or at least it had.

“There’s one thing I’ve never understood,” Papa said. “Why did he run out onto the ice at all? Did he say anything first?”

Give that back! Mama gave it to me! It’s mine!

I shook my head. In all the confusion, no one had thought to look for the battered tintype Edwin kept in a cigar box under his bed. No doubt the lake had swallowed it up once the ice melted.

“Are… you certain of that?”

Why was he asking me this now, after so long? My mind flashed at once to that likeness of stone, and my father kneeling down beside it to listen.

To listen?

Nonsense. Utter nonsense. We were alone on that day. I made absolutely sure of it. We were well beyond the sight of the house, and I would have seen anyone else out there against the brightness of the snow. There was no one else who could prove me wrong. No one alive, at least.

No. He was trying to scare me, to make me believe he knew more than he did. Was this the true reason for all this expense? A tomb so lavish that I was sure to despise it? If so, more the fool I was for allowing myself to be played. I needed to wrest control of this conversation back from him, and quickly.

“Why are you asking me this? Don’t you believe me?”

He hesitated, clearly unwilling to call me a liar outright. Tears of anger and fear had already begun to form in my eyes, and I did nothing to stop them. They pled my case more eloquently than any words could. He put a hand on my shoulder; gingerly, as if handling something dangerous.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear. However, the question has preyed on me for almost two years now. God knows, I’ve tried not to think about it. I’ve told myself it doesn’t matter anymore, and sometimes I almost believed it. But it does. I need to know. And there’s no one else I can ask.”

Except him.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I wish I knew.”

“Then tell me exactly how it happened. What if there’s something we both missed? Please?”

I stared at him, trying to think of some way to deny such a request. I’d told him before, but that was when we were both distraught and any discrepancy could be explained away by grief. This was different. He was asking for a full, clear-eyed account to examine as closely as the contract for one of his inventions.

“Here?”

My eyes flicked involuntarily to the cemetery in the distance, where I could just make out the shining white of the effigy at the top of a gentle rise. He glanced that way as well, as if looking for reassurance.

“It’s a strange request, and I know it’s asking a lot from you. But there are too many eyes and ears at home, even with such a small household. Some things are best kept in the family.”

“Then send them away first.”

I already regretted the tone of my voice. Too much desperation, too much fear.

“That would make too many people talk.”

I wiped my eyes with a handkerchief. No doubt I was quite red and ugly by this point, but I didn’t care. Let people see he was the sort of person who made his daughter cry. It would go better for me than for him.

“Can we not wait until Sunday, then, when we have the house to ourselves?”

He shook his head.

“I understand this is difficult. Believe me. But it will be no easier on Sunday than it is today.”

He wanted to keep me here, to force a confession out of me while we were alone. Our servants were a mere pretense. My father was a man of implacable patience, and the advantage was all on his side.  As I willed myself to think of something, anything, that would save me from my fate, a lie sprang into my mind, malignant yet brilliant in its way.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I’m so sorry. I should have told you, but—”

He softened slightly, and I pressed my advantage.

“What Edwin told me was—I thought you shouldn’t have to know. I wanted to spare you from that. I’m sorry I lied.”

“What did he say?” he asked. “Please, for God’s sake, tell me.”

I took a deep breath, praying to whatever would hear me that the lie would take.

“He told me he saw Mama.”

—

To this day, I don’t know what made him believe me. Perhaps my lie was especially convincing. Or perhaps I told him what he wanted to hear. I imagine it was easier to believe a ghost story than face the awful truth of what I had done. Back then, I didn’t much concern myself with the reason. But my father was never the same after that. The change was slow but inexorable, like a stone worn down by wind and time. When the cancer finally caught up with him, it was almost a relief to have something to blame other than myself. If ever this cold and blackened heart of mine could love another, it loved him.

Many years have passed since my brother was laid to rest in his marble tomb. Farm fields have given way to new buildings of glass and steel, and the nights are littered with the harsh glare of electric lights. I’ve outlived parents, husband, and children in their turn. And yet I remain, my body frail but unconquered. Sometimes I ask my nurse to drive me so I can see my family. It’s a short drive, for I still live in the house I grew up in. Despite my father’s and then my husband’s fortunes, at heart I’m a woman of simple tastes. My nurse—Debra, I think this one’s called—drives me down the gravel path as close as she can get, but I always get out and walk the rest of the way alone. It’s good to get fresh air, and as Papa once said, sometimes it’s best to keep things within the family.

There are far more of them here than I ever expected there to be; three neat rows of blessed dead, sleeping the sleep of the just. I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever be allowed to join them, or if I’ll continue on indefinitely until nothing of this stooped and gnarled body remains. I think I’ll ask him this time. Perhaps he’ll show me the mercy I never did. Step by step, I make my way up the gentle incline. Past my children, their headstones still fresh and unstained by time. Past uncles and aunts and cousins mostly forgotten. Past my husband’s obelisk of polished black stone. Past my mother and father, who rest side by side. Until finally I’m face to face with the once hated effigy, now stained a sober gray. As always, he greets me with a beatific smile.

---

Thanks for sticking with me on this one! I hope it was worth the wait.

For those of you who are true crime nerds, you might be interested to know that this story was partly inspired by a real case. Constance Kent, my main character’s namesake, was a teenage girl in the 1860s who confessed to murdering her three year old brother. My story diverges significantly from the real life version.