Failbetter.com | Dawn Raffel

Dawn Raffel is the author of a story collection,

In the Year of Long Division
(Alfred A. Knopf). "Once, Twice, Three Times" is taken from her novel, Carrying the Body, which will be published by Scribners in 2002.

Her stories have appeared in numerous literary journals, including Conjunctions.

She is the executive articles editor of O, The Oprah Magazine.

Of her first collection, Publisher's Weekly wrote:

"The stories in Raffel's first collection are like privet hedges: smooth and clipped, they fastidiously control what is revealed. The implication for the reader is double-edged; one can either be frustrated by the author's self- conscious, highly stylized prose or delighted that she trusts enough to leave so much detective work to the reader. . . More than anything else, though, it is the cold beauty of Raffel's writing that takes hold of the reader, allowing these brief stories, many of which were first published in The Quarterly, to transcend the limiting category of experimental fiction. Raffel has the ability to turn the tiniest details into poetry."

Once, Twice, Three Times

Dawn Raffel

"Morning," the aunt said.

"Morning?" Elise said.

"Morning," the aunt said.

"More?" said the child. (Or was it 'morn'? the aunt thought. Whichever it was--'more,' 'morn,'--sounded muffled, distorted, a hum to the aunt.)

"The child repeats," Elise said.

The child said, "Mama."

"You see?" Elise said.

"No," the aunt said. "Morning. I said 'morning.'"

Elise, who appeared to the aunt to be somehow engaged in appraising the place, said, "Is it, in fact? Is it morning again?" She raised herself, elbowed up only ever so slightly, damp at the breast, it seemed to the aunt, and fair, unwholseomely so at the neck as if sun had not touched her. And yet, the aunt knew better, did she not? The bedding had traveled.

"Sweet," Elise said. He, the child, seemed pressed to her. Flush to her.

"I trust you slept," the aunt said. She licked her sore lips. She was, although certainly loath to admit it, thirsty again. "Is that blood on the sheet?"

"Sheet?" said the child.

"Blood?" said Elise. She opened her mouth and covered her mouth. She yawned. "Oh?" she said. "Oh, this?" she said. "It's old."

The child said, "Mama."

The aunt said, "'Aunt'. Say 'aunt'. Can you say 'aunt?'" The aunt stayed put in her place at the threshold. How could she help it? Such parched lips! She licked again, maybe biting a little.

Elise said, "'Aunt.'"

The child scratched his rashy chest.

"Heavens," the aunt said, hand on hip. It was all of it old--unfixed, she saw--this too-warm room, all the objects of habit untended, rendered new in disuse. Neglect had remade things. She, the aunt, had done her best. Her level and utmost. But who did she look like? Was this house hers? This house was not hers.

The window was shut.

There were smudges on the curtains. To bring the child, the aunt thought, to such a place as this, and in such a condition--why, what with the upkeep, what with sheets! On the topic of which, "You say it's dried?" the aunt said. She saw the child's face, the way the cheek had been imprinted. "So I see," the aunt said. "You slept. I can see it. What with whatever. Racket or no. While I, on the other hand --"

"The light," Elise said.

"--not a wink," the aunt said. "What with all the commotion."

"Baby?" the mother, Elise said. "What?"

The child had moved to the edge of the bed. He was touching something fragile. Lace: skirt--or more rightly, a lampshade fashioned as such, the lamp in the shape of a lady, there on the nightstand abutting the bed, her porcelain face serene and wrecked, no bulb.

"The lamp," Elise said. She looked to the aunt as if, the aunt thought, to accuse her of something. "When did it happen?"

"Broken," the aunt said.

"When?" Elise said.

"Mama?' the child said. "Doll? Mine?"

Elise rolled over to stay the child. "No doll," she said. "No toy," she said. "Not yours. Mother, remember, treasured this." She asked the aunt, "When?"

The child looked ready to cry to the aunt. "Doll?" he said.

"Why in the world did you come here?" the aunt said. "Why? For this?"

"Not this," Elise said. "No."

The child's mouth puckered. His face seemed disturbed.

Elise, it appeared to the aunt, was preparing to sigh. "Must you excite him?" she said to the aunt.

The aunt drew back.

Elise reached upward to touch a ragged hem.

"Milk?" said the aunt. She was serving something.

The table wobbled.

"No," said the mother, Elise. "No milk. It might well make him worse."

"Milk?" the aunt said. "Milk? Drink?"

The father of the aunt and of the mother of the child did not answer.

"Very well, then," the aunt said "As you wish."

She poured herself a splash.

"Morning," the aunt said.

"Milk?" said the child. "Milk?"

He tugged at the cuff of the robe on the aunt.

The milk was dried.

"Morning," the aunt said. "Morning, I said."

"Yes," said the mother, Elise. "I heard you the first time. When did it break? And how, might I ask?"

"Might you?" the aunt said. "Where were you? All these years away from us." She touched the lamp's shade.

The child appeared to the aunt to be seeking something. "Here?" he said.

"I haven't the slightest idea," the aunt said. "Don't ask me. Don't look at me."

He let out a guttural, almost, the aunt thought, animal sound, the child did.

The sheet was crushed.

Her lips were split, the aunt thought. No balm in the house, at least none that she knew of.

"Look," Elise said. She had opened the nightstand and had in her hand a delicate thing for the child to sniff. "Lilac," Elise said. "Mother's sachet."

****

There were, as a matter of possible record, a number of fine things still the house:

1. Lace and porcelain lamp (broken)

2. Silk robe (frayed cuffs)

3. Dainty cameo ring (and one earring)

4. Assorted outerwear (fur and the like)

5. Lined purses (supposedly empty)

6. Silver gentleman's timepiece (slow)

7. Heavy cutlery (including the cake knife)

8. The ashtray

9. Sheets (all with excellent thread count)

10. Bed (iron headboard)

11. Slippers (peau de soie).

****

"More?" Elise said. "Tonic or something?"

Where, the aunt thought, had the child gone off to?

"Tonic?" Elise said. "Something to drink?"

The aunt said, "Milk."

"What of it?" Elise said.

The aunt said, "Soporific."

The child appeared from out of the pantry.

"Mama?" he said. He covered his face.

"What is it?" Elise said.

"Sopping," Elise said.

"Heavens," the aunt said. "Blood?"

****

"Father?" the aunt said. "Something refreshing?"

The father (the aunt could have surely attested) grunted.

The aunt smelled lavender.

"Sweet?" said the father. "Sweet? Sweet?"

"No," said the aunt. "Not her," said the aunt. "I'm sorry to say it, Mother's

dead."

****

The shade of the lamp, the lady's skirt was stained, the aunt conceded (to herself)--as if by heat or by light or by dampness--all three, the aunt thought: thoughtlessness.

"Fine," Elise said. "Wasn't it?"

The aunt looked up, unpleasantly startled. "What are you doing here?" she said.

****

The child appeared to have blood on his fingers.

"Look at him," the aunt said. "What kind of a mother?""

"No--" said the mother.

"No kind of mother," the aunt said. "That is what."

"No," said the mother. "Do not touch. Whatever you do," she said to the child, "no more."

****

One more somewhat fine thing:

12. Window curtains (gauze)

****