Mrs. Muller

Strewn throughout the eccentric cottage were scuffed and smudged reading glasses with thinly embedded mother of pearl frames and petal of rose lenses. Some newer than others I counted no less than nine pair; some on the day bed, various on the couch and a number simply lying on the floor by the veranda and lounge chair. These definitely were not bought in Bingenville; a community of 1542 as the sign boasted to visitors and newcomers on the only road up to the township from the river highway near the Dulles Dam. They probably came from the big city about two hundred miles away or maybe even from England or Holland or Belgium where Mrs. Muller used to make and call her homeland. Or maybe they were from Germany as she told many stories of her childhood playing in the fields in a place called Bingen on the Rhine. As it turned out, this township in Washington State was named after her ancestors.

We had plenty of problems gaining access to the place and Jonah scraped his knee on the edge of the screen as he fell flat on his stern after negotiating the lower portion of the window we had plied open with brushwood. All the doors were dead-bolted. What was more entertaining than comical was that he inadvertently hurled an astonishing “break wind” (as my father used to call it) simultaneously with his splat on the floor.

The cottage was chock-full of beauty magazines but not the ones women seemed to hold on to these days. They were older and faded. I spotted the one she was almost always dazing at when we were invited guests. She seemed to be so impressed with one photograph and the page was always turned to that lone sultry pose of what the headline-visual proudly illustrated as "Poinsettia Greta". It was not unlike Mrs. Muller to stare at that pose for hours on end.

Save for the magazine and old theatrical reviews, each bureau, tabletop, headboard and lamp shade had not been dusted in months and was covered in a powdery fine grey soot. Anything we touched would be easily detected and it was implausible to think we could get out of there without leaving a gaggle of fingerprints or smear marks anyway.

Both Jonah and I knew Mrs. Muller would not have objected to our unannounced visit. But we did not wish to startle her in the least �" if she was home -- and she was almost all of the time. She used to send Jonah and me down to the old Red and White for food supplies and milk and sometimes sodas. We weren’t old enough to buy beer and wine. And she seldom left the confines of her home.

She proved herself to be so open and kind to the two of us; often having sufficient supplies of Oreos and milk and apricots for wandering interlopers like ourselves.

She liked cloth napkins and silver napkin holders and always gave us plenty to wipe the crumbs and cream from the sides of our mouths. Not knowing exactly what to do with the napkin holders, we slowly placed them between our legs. She smiled. “You mustn’t look slapdash” she used to tell us and taught us how to clean the creases in our lips after finishing her delectable offering. We learned a great deal about etiquette from old Mrs. Muller. And she marveled in telling us how she had crossed the Atlantic in ocean cruisers in her younger years; that she had dined with innumerable counts, couriers and even monarchs during her travels abroad. Jonah and I visited old Mrs. Muller whenever we got out of school - usually around 4 o’clock. She was impressive when she told us stories and was stately when she talked of her travels. We were captivated by her odd accent but we definitely could not understand every word she espoused. Sometimes we had to ask what a certain word meant. She was patient and took pleasure in outlining or sharing details. In fact, it appeared she disliked vagueness. She was painstaking in her descriptions. You could picture her sitting by a campfire, roasting wild boar or even squid in blue jeans and beat up Orvis jacket on a cool swept solitary bay. Sometimes she even sang to us. We could not understand a word as all of her songs were in some sort of fancy new-fangled language.

Jonah and I took a special liking to Mrs. Muller about three years ago. We were playing stick ball when we noticed she was stumbling though her front door one day in a nicely ironed gown struggling to replace cans of fruit that had fallen from her Red and White paper bag. Her elegant sun-hat had plopped to the ground and was lodged between the half open door and a can a peaches. It was not the first time I had heard the term “frick” but the term Kokoschka had us bemused.

A bit befuddled, Jonah and I offered a helping hand. She was somewhat startled at our approach. But she nervously accepted our offer and invited us in for some peaches and cream. She was older but strikingly pretty for her age. She thanked us profusely and was exceedingly gracious. But I could see that Jonah was uneasy. You see, we had been told to stay away from old Mrs. Muller. All of the kids in Bingenville had been told the same by their parents and their peers.

“She is a lonely and lonesome witch”… everyone grumbled. “She never comes out of that dirty old hutch and never has anything nice to say. “Don’t go near that “ole witch” with that funny accent”… the townspeople used to exclaim. Almost every soul in the township openly poked fun at her. So, in effect, for many years Mrs. Muller was the Boo Radley of Bingenville. Groups of children used to follow her around town calling out “ghoul” or “ghost” or “banshee”. Some even threw rocks at her door. Every small town has its specter -- and Mrs. Muller had become ours. Shameful but it is true.

But if it weren’t for our encounter during that stick ball game Jonah and I would not have become her converts. On the contrary, we both even had gained some padding “down there” embellishing our rears eating a little too much by her fruit with cream stories. We also had come to respect her dearly. The three of us had become fast friends.

The loathsome thing about it was that we were too shy, leery and uncomfortable to tell anyone about it without fear of ridicule, derision, mockery or scorn.

“Mrs. Muller?”... I whispered. “Mrs. Muller?”.. I spoke louder. She did not respond. Jonah ventured toward her sleeping quarters where neither of us had ever been invited. “Mrs. Muller?”… He raised his voice. There was a scent of bitter almonds in the sticky air. He noticed one high heel, light caramel in color, propped against the closet door. Then he saw her, lying face up on the throw rug, eyes closed, make up fully and masterfully placed. She was clothed in the most graceful of evening gowns. Her fingers and nails; both sleek and thin seemed to point toward her dressing table.

Both Jonah and I were fourteen at the time but never had we been close to death. And she looked so pristine. We were not frightened. We wondered if we should be. We reflected on all the good times we had spent together �" the learning, the laughter the fruit and the cream, the smiles and the odd sounding yet beautiful resonance of her voice. Yes, we were sad but still unafraid. She had brought joy to our lives and taught us patience and kindness. But most of all she taught us of beauty and joy. We felt a sensation of pride.

We picked up some of her old magazines left on her dresser. Along with Garbo we found a short note, hand-legible and addressed to us:

“Please help yourself to the peaches and cream in the cooler my dears, and thank you for being my true friends, - with sincere affection" - Greta

We both hoped her note would help explain why we were there in the first place, let alone just after her death.