Christmas in July

Speedwell Mercadante had ten children, pom! pom! pom! just like that, by way of his wife Carla, an uncomplaining vessel; he named them after the seven deadly sins and the three theological virtues. This was to remind the first seven of Man's sinful nature, thus keeping them on the path of righteousness; the last three kids he had no hopes for, being occupied by then with his Italian mistress, Bambina.

Carla said nothing about this mistress, though she knew – oh, she knew! because I told her – but after her last child she up and died, pom! like that.

No one attended her funeral but me.

Speedy corralled a valve inventor, stole his idea, then made a fortune on the puddler that squirts a blob of condiment on fast-food burgers, so he could stick his kids in private school and see them only at Christmastime.

I sired one of Carla's kids – I, the erstwhile valve-inventor. It was a one-shot deal; I have not squirted anything since then. I'm dry.

Last Fourth of July, I was on a picnic with my wife, Carla – not Speedy's wife, another Carla – and she sighed one of her big sighs.

"What's wrong, baby?" I asked.

"Oh, Domenic, I wish you'd climb up that water tower and get me a chicken."

A homeless guy lives up there and makes a pretty good living raising free-range birds.

"What do you want chicken for?" I said. "We got egg salad right here."

"Not to eat. I want it for a pet."

"No way! If you bring home one more stray, we're history."

I exploded, I admit it. But I regretted it forever.

Gluttony (Tony)

All my life I've been searching for my father. I know his name's Domenic Mercadante, and I know he was our next-door neighbor, my half-uncle, but that's all.

One day, I was on a picnic with my wife, Carla – the same name as my mom's and my half-aunt's – and she leaned back and sighed, "Tony, I couldn't eat another bite."

"So who's asking you?"

She burst into tears.

"I'm sorry, doll." I put my arms around her. "Don't cry."

Speedy, that rat, had foreclosed on our house – he owns all our houses – and we were living on top of a water tower with one other homeless guy. At least we had plenty of chickens.

"With your education," Carla said, wiping her eyes, "I would think you'd provide for us better than this."

"Private school doesn't mean what it used to. Why don't you get a job?"

That's when she left me. I hear she's a phone-sex operator now.

Me and Dan, the homeless guy, are working on a new breed of chicken. It's hard to tell how old he is, but he's a better father figure than my dad.

Carla I

I was walking down the street one day, minding my own business. Some creep with a feather in his cap came up to me and said, "Hey baby, would you like to be an elevator operator?" I didn't favor him with a reply, but turned smartly on my heel, heading back to the Cave of the Winds, where I live with my buddy Hans Christian Andersen.

"Whip me up some Danish butter cookies, will you, Chris?" I said.

"Right away, cherie."

I taught him French; he didn't have the gumption to do that on his own. But one thing about Chris: He cared for me tenderly throughout my many pregnancies, abortions and miscarriages.

Think of it: The mother provides food from her body. Should she be asked to provide meaning as well?

Pride (Perry)

When I came upon this manuscript, I was deeply troubled. I'd been trying to break through my ceiling to my neighbor's chimney, whence I hoped, crawling all the while, to emerge and see the sky.

I know someone will say, "Why didn't you just take the elevator?" and indeed, there is one in our building, a captivating affair resembling a birdcage, all cast-iron curls and ribbon-candy furbelows, white like a chaste girl's birthday cake, and bearing a costumed operator. "Floor, please?" sounds her voice when I get in, as I do, of a Sunday.

But some floors, reader, can't be reached with elevators; some ceilings can’t be broken through with meaning. Hence, this manuscript, which I found hidden between the two floors, along with a hockey stick. With its first words, it gripped me, like a chain letter from Fate. I threw back my head and howled to where I guessed the Moon would be. Then I sat at my dressing table (knocking over, in my extremity, my horn-handled shaving brush) and penned the following missive:

Dear Uncle Domenic,

It has come to my attention that you have been engaging in a campaign of family defamation, even of lies.

Perhaps "lies" is too harsh a word; perhaps I should call them "rank outgrowths of opinion."

Uncle, such an upbringing as ours – don't think me ungrateful, I am far from that –

I think we understand each other.

(Here a tear stained the parchment, and I was forced to drink a glass of Agrippa water to steady my nerves. A curse on my overheatable temperament! I could go no further; hastily, I appended my signature.)

I remain, sir, yr. affectionate nephew, most respectfully, etc. – PERRY.

Alas for my name, which was Pride! – but so much Uncle put forth fell short of the truth – was seen through a clouded lens – more than that, I am not at liberty to say.

Anger (Annie)

Christ! My family has a big mouth. That's why I live in California.

Perry sent me the deal, and I thought, Man, another one of his weird re-enactments. But this picnic theme caught my eye, since when I read the letter, we were on a picnic – Carl and me and the kids.

Carl's a good listener, being a therapist, so I read the letter aloud.

"Do you think there are patterns in life?" I asked.

He laughed. "Baby, there's nothing but."

Sloth (Sal)

"To: Annie and Carl Mercadante, 1423 Hibiscus Drive, Parabola, California," I wrote on the brown-paper package. (I almost wrote "Perkins," since, after all, what kind of guy takes his wife's name?

I know, "Carl Perkins" wouldn't fit a New Age therapist, but still.)

Christmas is hard for me, since that's the only time we saw Dad.

Speaking of names, Dad sure earned "Speedy." As soon as the gift-wrap was off, he'd herd us all into the yard for a bonfire. I dug the pit, every time.

"OK, Sloth," he'd say, "hop to it!"

"Please, Dad," I'd say. "Call me Sal."

"Just dig," he'd say.

We'd roast weenies and marshmallows – this is the only kind of picnic I remember – and Mom would come out in her latest maternity dress. I remember one of them, orange, with yellow flowers.

"Hot cocoa for everyone!" she'd say, holding the tray, and we'd scatter like rats, leaving Dad, all alone, to curse at the pit.

I don't know where Uncle Dom gets off saying she died. I guess it's his weird sense of humor. As far as I know, she's alive, living in Vacaville; I send her a check every month.

I can't comment on the rest of the stuff; it's too way out for me. I don't know what you guys are doing, but if there's money in it, send me some and I'll give it to Mom. She deserves it.

Faith and Hope (Fadie and Hodie)

Hodie's sleeping, so I, Fadie, come to write this. The book light that you sent us, Uncle Dom, last Christmas, was very much appreciated.

There is nothing new to report – the Little Sisters of Heaven go on much the same, year to year, praising God, glorifying His name, watering the lilies of sanctity as best we can. We thought your notion, Domenic, of a family history, to send to Mother in her agony, most charming; it must be that God is testing her. I can see no other reason for her trials.

Hodie is stirring. She has asked what I am doing, and I now pass her the pen.

Domenic, you wicked man! You know that our six months are almost up here; did you time your letter just to frustrate me?

I have not let Fadie see this hodgepodge, only your overleaf explaining this rum project. Some things are just not suitable for a nun's eyes, as Sister Faith well knows; she's learned to turn, not just her head, but her whole soul aside, as I go about my work from January to June. In one week we start packing for the Pink Poodle Playhouse, and I can hardly wait.

She wouldn't agree, but this place is not so different from the Playhouse: You spend your time with mostly women; you shave your head, and wear a wig or a veil; and seekers come to shed their earthly burdens. It is a life of service, either way.

Fadie wants to add one more thing.

Uncle dear, we can't remember anything. Forgive us; we live in the eternal present. Give our love to all.

Lust (Lou)

You don't know me, my name's Ed. I knew Lou when he was in the joint before. He's back now, and he's in the hole; you don't get letters there. Don't worry, Lou's a stand-up guy; he'll make it. It's actually better for him there; the other guys have beefs with him, they don't like child molesters. His cellmate was pulling out his eyeballs when I came on the scene; I cooled them down, but Lou got the hole anyway.

I hope I'm not intruding in your family album, but you kind of make a second family, doing time.

Lou has a lover, Greenbacks; he's a skinny little weasel who sits around all day in his shorts, giving new arrivals the eye. You can tell I think Lou's too good for him. Sour grapes, maybe, because I –

Here comes the go-between. Merry Xmas, folks.

Envy (Vyvyan)

To Whom it May Concern:

As usual, I get stuck straightening out the mess. This family will be the death of me. I'd better go over it point by point; no one else is capable of that, I know. I'm darned if I'm going to let this stand as family history, after what I've been through to clear the Mercadante name. So here's my two cents:

First of all, Daddy never had a mistress, and you know it, Uncle Dom. He took us to see Bambi once; maybe that's where you get the name "Bambina."

The condiment-machine part's closer to the truth – for gosh sakes, "Mercon" is practically a household word, no thanks to you, Uncle Dom, hounding him night and day to use that fool invention of yours, which when he finally consented to try it, practically ruined him. If you'd ever had an ounce of real family feeling, you'd never have put him through that in the first place.

We didn't go to private schools and you know it, only Perry. Daddy saw us all the time, not just at Christmas.

As for Tony being Uncle Domenic's son – well, that's just disgusting. You two do seem to have the same sense of sick humor, but that's all you have in common. You don't even look alike. Tony has Daddy's big, square, handsome jaw, and Uncle Dom – well, it's a good thing you wear a beard, that's all.

My sister-in-law Carla is not now, nor has she ever been, a phone-sex operator – I just took her aerobics class the other day, and she would have told me if she was doing anything like that. Tony, I don't know what you're really doing now, but you're way behind on alimony payments. Better get on the stick, little brother.

Now here comes where I'm really steamed. I don't know who wrote that "Carla" part, but if it's making fun of Mother's condition, all I can say is, you've gone too far. Schizophrenia is nothing to be ashamed of, it's a simple physical condition, and I for one have been through enough worry in my time. I don't need to be reminded of Mother's continued suffering by some heartless parody.

Perry, what can I say. You're lucky your brownstone is rent-controlled.

Annie's section kind of makes sense, except, Annie, our brother doesn't reenact the Civil War. He belongs to the East Coast Lepidopterists' Victoriana Society, which you'd know if you ever kept in touch with any of us. By the way, that husband of yours is one of the good ones. You'd better hold on to him. I'm sending you Carla's latest workout video, Buns of Adamant. Use it.

Good old Sal. I always smile when I think of you. You're the only one – besides me, of course – with any sense of responsibility in this family. There's just one thing, though: Mother never had an orange dress with yellow flowers, of that I'm sure. Unless you're thinking of the lime green Lilly Pulitzer with pink frogs and white jumbo rickrack edging. I still have that in a trunk somewhere, I think.

Taylor has just come in with some of his fishing buddies, so must dash. I hate to say this to Sister Faith, but feel I have to: Mother's not "in agony," Fadie, she's enjoying the best care money can buy. Save that sort of language for your worship of the saints. And Hodie, I don't know what the "Pink Poodle Playhouse" means, but I can only hope you're joking. Just because you two are conjoined, doesn't mean you have the right to tease poor Fadie. Honestly! You make your life sound like some kind of coin toss!

Of Lou's life, the less said the better. I'm just glad he's paying his debt to society. I shudder to think I touched this package with bare hands, though.

I had better sign this thing before I send it off to Coco. I warn you, Uncle Domenic, don't send this to Mother as it stands, or you'll be hearing from my lawyers.

Sincerely,

Vyvyan Mercadante Whitefield

Avarice (Ava)

Dear Mom:

I hope you like the robe I am sending. It's from Bendel's. Also some rice powder – apply sparingly, otherwise you'll end up looking like a Kabuki mask.

I hope you liked the pears. Next month is pomegranates. Do tell me if you'd prefer something else. I can't imagine they have much fresh fruit up there in the mountains.

We are all quite well – Sam has a new tooth, and Robert has finished his concerto. I hope you will come down to hear it performed.

I'm worried about Dad. He sent me the strangest – I don't know what to call it. You'll just have to see it for yourself. In it he describes some fantastic life-story that twists, turns and flops, as though he were trying to iron something out in his mind, some ill-fitting garment with a life of its own. I guess this is his way of processing your breakup.

I know you're not really in touch with him these days, but would you speak to him about this? Ask if he intends to publish it. I wouldn't mind, except he uses our last name, and some true facts – but so distorted you would hardly recognize them.

Remember when I told you about Robert Lowell using his ex-wife's letters to make art? The point is, they were real letters, with real feelings in them; they were from real life. And he exploited them. Well, Dad's no Robert Lowell; between you and me, he'll never be more than fifth-rate; he should stick to teaching. But I love him anyway; how could I not? He's my father.

Mom, one thing worries me the most: Did you and Daddy really want ten children? I mean, am I a disappointment to you? I haven't minded being an only child, and I think you're very brave to have practiced birth control in the '50s, when everyone was having tons of children.

When you read Dad's piece, you'll understand my question.

The other thing is how he harps on picnics. Did you guys decide to break up on a picnic? Did you "realize your essential rift," as Dad might say, over a red-and-white-checked tablecloth and a bottle of rosé? I hope not, because I loved that spot we used to go – remember, at the top of Briarcliff Park, at the foot of the old water tower?

Anyway, don't let me keep you from your meditation. I'm sure you have some yoga class to go to. I don't mean to sound sarcastic; I know it's really good for wrinkles and for keeping young. Just don't get too caught up in it; we need you here on Earth.

Sammy says hi. He can wave a little now; he kind of scrunches up his hand.

Love,

Ava

P.S. In reading over this letter, I notice I have said "true facts" – are there any other kind? Dad and I might spar on that.

Charity

Call me Caritas, Sweet Charity – a dime a dance. But more now, due to inflation and infomercials. And I've gotten fat with rue. It gives you a rash – rash youth, sweet bird. Have you heard? I'm making a movie, story of my life. It will star the four cardinal virtues. Admission price: my father's sins.

Prudence, Temperance, Justice and Fortitude: from the Latin cardo, hinge. A life story hinges on a squirt of fluid; God forbid the door should creak!

The sins of my father came to visit me; his four out-of-wedlock births. Mother never mentioned them, but oh! it drove her mad. And after she'd labored so hard!

Well, Godspeed, Speedwell; you are dead to me. Just send me Shakespeare's crucifix, that healing bomb, and remember: All Fourth-of-July picnics end with pyrotechnics. And then the cinders fall.

Afterword

Any examination of the works of Edward Pelman Celeste must begin, not with his youth and early manhood, which, following a difficult and unusual birth experience, were almost startlingly uneventful, but with the tragic accident which befell him at midlife, depriving him of wife, children-to-be and physical potency in one shattering blow; yet which, in its terrible illumination, brought with it the change of course which was to shape his future writing and ensure his place in literary history.

Within three months – the span of one calendar season – he turned out poems at a fantastic rate, which became his famous trilogy, Sacred Palm, Wet Needle; Mend Pale, Scarlet Weed; and Sweet Lamp, Reed Candle; penned a mystery, New Lace, Red Damp Steel, which some critics feel redefined the genre; and began his seminal work, the 5,000-page epic novel Manspell: A Wet Decreed.

The posthumous discovery of this story, Christmas in July, warrants a retelling of the incident, which cost him his peace of mind, and, of course, his family, their lives. Though Christmas in July was written several weeks before the incident – causing some biographers to suspect him of foul play – it is well to remember that his name was fully cleared in the inquest, and that, perhaps more importantly, any reasonable observer of Celeste's life up until that point would find him utterly devoid of motive for such an act, and, indeed, constitutionally incapable of implementing it. Still, July is eerily prophetic, with its emphasis on picnics and partings, sins and virtues, and its widely spread, blood-related characters.

Celeste was inordinately fond of anagrams, and wordplay in general; and July is no exception to this habit of mind. The name of the central character, Speedwell Mercadante – who, by the way, we never meet, which hints at the core concept of Manspell: the elusive and perhaps logically fruitless quest for self-identity – is an anagram of Celeste's full name, clearly a stand-in for himself. The name "Mercadante" can be interpreted by splitting it into its component parts: Mercans, "buyer" in Latin, refers to the character's alleged condiment-dispenser business, while "-dante," an allusion to the 13^th-century Italian poet, refers ironically to the later description of the character as a (fifth-rate) poet and teacher.

This split name, or double identity, may reflect Celeste's discomfort with his own real-life role as a professor of medieval literature, literally a "Dante merchant." It may also reflect his refusal, before the accident, to market any of his work; to "buy Dante" would have been to cheapen him, to diminish him as an artist.

The choice of the name "Domenic" for the main character's half-brother is also interesting. Its somewhat unusual spelling can be explained in that, with one reversal, it anagrams to "demonic." Two interpretations then become possible: one, that Celeste felt himself haunted by an inner, darker side of his own personality; and two, that this is a scarcely veiled reference to his twin brother, Everard, whose dying at birth nearly cost Celeste his own life, as they were marginally conjoined, and Everard preceding Edward into the world, stillborn, blocked Edward's passage out for several minutes. On learning of this fact in later life, Celeste began to conceive of his vanished brother as an evil doppelgänger who followed him through life, attempting to usurp his place as head of his own family, and, on an intrapsychic level, to "strangle at birth" any pleasure which might try to fight its way through the convulsively tightening finger trap of Celeste's recurring, ever-severer depressions.

The Latin root word dominus, lord or master, suggests that Celeste felt this dark self "dominated" his life. (Herbert Gingko, in his fine book Celestial Images: Some Aspects of the Shorter Fiction of Edward Pelman Celeste, feels that the root meaning of the word "domino" is meant as well, as suggested by the title of Celeste's prose chapbook, A Priest in Winter. It is not, however, within the scope of this afterword to tackle the, as it were, powerful running back of Celeste's muscular imagery, in order to wrest from it the precious pigskin of his meaning. Readers wishing for a fuller explication of Christmas in July may find it in the above-mentioned Gingko book, as well as in Chapter 5 of my upcoming biographical work, Heaven's Gate, Hell's Kitchen: A Life of Edward Pelman Celeste.)

I had the great good fortune to meet Celeste, a few short weeks before the unsuspected aneurysm claimed his life. It was to have been the first in a series of interviews which was to have formed the basis of his only authorized biography; he had finally granted me permission after four long years of being importuned in almost-daily phone calls, which, he grudgingly admitted to me in this, the penultimate month of his life, had kept him going during the writing of the five-volume Manspell at one thousand pages per year.

We met in his tiny office at Parabola University. Throughout the interview, Celeste lay stretched out full length on a black horsehair analyst's couch, which he claimed came from Vienna and "helped him think"; this couch, recently auctioned at Sotheby's for several million dollars, did not then strike me as exceptional in any way. A damp cloth covered his forehead and eyes, revealing the extreme photosensitivity which had plagued him since the explosion five years prior, a sensitivity which his doctors believed to be largely psychosomatic, but which caused Celeste such extreme suffering that he regularly kept all overhead fluorescents switched off in his classrooms, even at night, generously providing his students instead with book lights, which they fastened to their notebooks if needed, the increasing use of computer notepads obviating this need for many.

The portion of the interview dealing with the explosion is here transcribed in full.

Interviewer: … which brings us to the subject of your wife.

Celeste: Aie! (Winces) She was an angel. (Pauses) And must be now.

I: (Gently) If you don't want to talk about her, I understand.

C: No, no; it's just … Whenever I think of her, I grow terribly thirsty … (Sits up suddenly) Would you like a glass of water?

I: (Startled) I'm fine just at present, thank you.

C: (Grows animated) It's Agrippa water, though. (Gets up; goes to desk; removes squat, oddly shaped bottle from desk drawer and sets it on blotter with a flourish) Very hard to obtain nowadays. I simply dote on it. (Peers at me) Sure you won't have a glass? I hate to drink alone. (Laughs hollow laugh)

I: I'm fine, I assure you. I had quite a large breakfast this morning.

C: Oh really? What did you have? (Pours himself a large glass from the bottle marked "Agrippa water")

I: Eggs, bacon, whole wheat toast and grits.

C: Grits? Are you of Southern extraction? (Takes large gulp of water)

I: No, I'm from New York originally.

C: Really. And you like grits. That's interesting. One would have thought a bagel, a croissant …

I: Or perhaps simply a cup of black coffee. But I like grits.

C: How do you prepare them?

I: With butter and syrup.

C: Karo syrup?

I: Maple.

C: (Leans back in chair; fingers beard) Maple syrup? Maple syrup … (Stares at me) An interesting combination of North and South. North on top of South, so to speak … North mingling with South, each enhancing the other.

I: The combination is delicious, I assure you.

C: I suppose honey would have the same effect.

I: I suppose so.

C: (Abruptly) My in-laws are in the honey business, you know.

I: (Carefully) Really?

C: Yes. My wife's maiden name, Apcrest … (It seems that he can now speak of his wife without difficulty, leading me to wonder whether there is not some sedative or hypnotic property in the aforementioned "Agrippa water.") The "Ap-" refers to apiaries, bee farmers, as you know. (I incline my head) And the "-crest," of course, the hill on which they stand … (Falls into reverie) Ah, that was a sight to see! The Apcrest mansions, of honey-colored stone, patterned after the English country houses of the 18^th century; surrounded by the fields of golden melilot, alive with bees …

I: It sounds an ideal spot for a picnic. Unless, of course, the bees would tend to sting?

C: Oh no, these were very mild bees … (Sighs) You want me to tell about the explosion, I suppose.

I: If you don't mind.

C: (Sighs deeply; lies down on couch; replaces damp cloth over eyes) We were on a hill crest, but not the Apcrest hill … Do you know Briarcliff Park?

I: Near the tennis courts? With the iris gardens?

C: No, no, that's Rosecliff Park. (Testily) It doesn't sound as though you've done your homework very well.

I: Perhaps I have them reversed in my mind. That sometimes happens to me, under stress … Is it the one by the old water tower, with the disused koi pond?

C: Yes, yes, that's it … (Hollowly) Medea always said that she liked ruins. I guess that's why she married me …

I: Oh, come now.

C: No, really. Did you know that we could not have children? And that the fault lay with me?

I: No children? But I thought …

C: You read the article, which described … the children. Six girls, four boys … Perhaps they would not have survived, in any case. Not all of them. But some would have …

I: You can't know that.

C: I blame myself. She would have been perfectly happy to go on as we were, but I, in my unbridled hubris, had to opt for the use of fertility drugs, and she followed along. She was younger, you know. The disparity in our ages … led her to regard me as a sort of –

I: Father figure?

C: Yes, yes. Or grandfather, even.

I: Surely not grandfather. Twenty years …

C: Is a considerable gap.

I: But not impassable.

C: No, no. When there are mutual interests …

I: (Gently) Tell me about your wife. What was she like?

C: Like? Like a dancing stream … She brought back my youth at a time when I thought all was lost … and see how I rewarded her.

I: You mustn't blame yourself. It was an accident, which could have happened to anyone.

C: I wanted to make her laugh. She was so beautiful when she laughed. Like a child. (In a rush) You see, you could buy fireworks then. Rockets and such … They came from China. And the names! "Emperor's Train" … "White Rat with Jeweled Lantern" … "Slide of Milky Way." How she wanted to see "Slide of Milky Way"! The charm, you see, of imperfect translations – a taste we shared … (In low tones) We were leaning together, over the paper sack. A child ran by with a sparkler; a child who couldn't wait for night … I think you know the rest. (Shudders) Her dress caught fire … The shock caused her to lose the children; she died soon after, in the hospital. A weak heart, which had gone undetected, plus the shock …

I: You must have suffered from shock as well.

C: I escaped the worst of the explosion; I was trying to catch the child with the sparkler. (Muses) I never found out if it was a boy or a girl …

I: It was all Fate. Pure chance. You couldn't have known.

C: (Angrily) What sort of idiot brings fireworks in a paper sack to a picnic with his pregnant wife?

I: You couldn't have known.

Following the interview, I drove twenty miles east to see the grave of Celeste's late wife. It was set back a considerable distance from the road, and I had to walk a long way through the city of the dead to get there.

Her grave was set amidst a grove of weeping birch, through which sifted the last few golden coins of the late-autumn sun. A white marble monument, Victorian in style, of a child-size weeping angel, surmounted a rectangular pedestal with a weathered bronze plaque, which stated simply: IN LOVING MEMORY OF MEDEA WENDELL APCREST AND HER CHILDREN. There were no dates. Perhaps Celeste's way of entering timelessness, I thought, to be with his lost family.

I sat for a long time on that grassy bank, musing on what might have been. It was with some reluctance, as night fell, that I got up, brushed off my knees, and went to rejoin the city of the living.

Darnell Aesep McTweed

Apcrest Manor

Parabola, California

April 1986

A Note from the Editors

One almost hates to strip the final layer of illusion from this strange little piece, but in the interests of historical accuracy, it must be done.

Edward Pelman Celeste (1908-1977) lived alone all his life. He never married; he produced no children. He had a morbid fear of heights, bees, falling water and standing stones; and, in later years, suffered from an agoraphobia so severe that he seldom ventured beyond his garden gate. Nevertheless, he managed to produce an astonishing volume of literary work, none of which was published during his lifetime. He died alone and destitute. However, in 1986, renovations begun on his cottage in order to turn it into a hilltop retreat for corporate executives revealed his writing cache, hidden between the ceiling and the ceramic roof tiles. Unfortunately, mice had eaten most of his personal papers, but his fiction survived intact, and was sent to us at Stanford as a curiosity.

Past achieving cult status today, Celeste's works are full of anagrams, acrostics, puns, riddles and the like, and Christmas in July is no exception. Alert readers will notice that the names "Speedwell Mercadante," "Medea Wendell Apcrest" and "Darnell Aesep McTweed" are all anagrams of "Edward Pelman Celeste" – poignant symbols of a lonely man spinning imaginary friends from the burr-laden fleece of a difficult existence, using only the age-old spindle of metaphor.

Ardent DeClew Malpese

Steward Edelmen Place