Shane had a thing about heights. Not a fear, necessarily, but a respect. An awe. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him, to tip him forward, toward that yawning, misty expanse beyond the railing. He looked, his eyes wide, his breath frozen in his chest. He touched the railing and leaned on it, gingerly, like a very old man leaning on a walker.
Beyond the railing was the end of the world.
Shane had heard tales of how people used to believe that the earth was flat, just a big Frisbee floating through space, with the sun going around it instead of the other way around. He’d been intrigued by the idea, entranced by the thought of how the world’s oceans might spill over its edges, forming a constant, enormous waterfall, spreading and turning to mist, evaporating after some incalculable distance.
For the first time, standing there with his hands on the railing overlooking the fog-filled Grand Canyon, it occurred to Shane that if the world had been flat, surely there would have been continents somewhere along its edge, not just oceans. If there were, if there were land masses that bordered the lip of a flat earth, and if you travelled along them, heading to where the horizon lowered and lowered, aiming for the place where the earth dropped away to nothing, this was what you would find when you got there.
Dizzying, craggy terraces of earth, like giant’s stair steps, dropped away before Shane, fading into white nothing. It was dreadful, apocalyptic, and intensely beautiful. It was one of those moments that etches immediately into the mind, becoming permanent and formative.
In the months and years following, Shane tried repeatedly to capture that scene on paper, to recreate it with his skilled fingers using any medium at his disposal. He tried pencils, crayons and markers. He even made a halting attempt with watercolors, which were still new to him at that point. Nothing worked, nothing got even close.
Eventually, he decided that the best picture of it was the one in his memory. Some things were simply too huge, too monumental and mysterious, to fit onto a piece of paper. If the scene had only been beautiful, he thought he could have done it. If it had been merely frightening, he suspected he could have captured that as well. But it had been both of those things, sublime and dreadful in equal parts, each in doses far greater than anything he’d ever experienced before. Such a thing could not be caged on paper, tamed with a pen or pencil or a paintbrush. It was a humbling realization, but it was also sort of nice. It was nice to know such places existed in the world, and that he could taste them, if only briefly, even if he couldn’t tame them. Maybe even because he couldn’t tame them.
Shane didn’t think consciously of these things in the weeks after Christiana washed the chalk drawing off the cellar floor, but they were there, running underneath his thoughts like a subterranean river. Being with Christiana at the cottage was like standing on the ledge of the Grand Canyon on that morning so long ago, when fog filled the depths, pretending to be the end of the world.
It was beautiful, because Shane loved being with her, loved the tapered grip of her hand when they walked together, and the casual delight of her weight across his lap as they lounged on the sunroom couch in the evenings, watching movies or just talking, comparing notes on life, on growing up, on family and dreams and the tentative soap bubble of the future. He wasn’t quite willing to admit yet that he loved these things because he loved Christiana herself, but the knowledge of it was there, unspoken and patient, unavoidable.
But there was Marlena, as well. If Christiana was the natural beauty of the scene, then Marlena was the fog, the part that made it mysterious, capricious, and quietly dreadful.
Shane couldn’t know why Christiana’s presence affected Marlena the way it did, but there was no mistaking it. Marlena hated Christiana, and wanted her gone. Thankfully, ever since his confrontation with the ghost on the stairs, when Marlena had shaken her hooked hand toward the sound of Christiana’s breathing, Shane had not seen Marlena at all. She no longer drifted on her nighttime haunts through the library and kitchen, no longer floated silently up the stairs to watch him paint.
Sometimes Shane thought this was a good thing. Maybe she’d gone completely. Part of him would be a little sad if that was the case, since he’d developed a sort of connection with her—a sympathy, if not an empathy. He thought he understood her, partly because they’d both lost their spouses and children, and partly because he’d painted her, shared that mysterious mind-meld of the artist and the subject.
But another part of him, the larger part that loved Christiana and worried for her, was secretly glad at the idea that Marlena might be gone for good. He hoped it was true, even if he had his doubts. Maybe Marlena wasn’t gone at all. Maybe she was merely hiding, biding her time, planning, simmering in her rage. She was the fog in the scene, secretive and erratic and potentially dangerous.
As the weeks progressed, Shane found himself frequently sitting in front of the painting of Marlena, the one he had begun to simply think of as “Dear M”. He’d stare at her image on the canvas, at the white delicacy of her fingers where they held the note, or the calm dread on her face, or the subtle sparkle of the tear trembling in the corner of one bright, brown eye.
He knew a lot more about Marlena now than he had when he’d first painted this picture. He knew the story of the candle in the mysterious, hidden window, knew the awful secret contained in the letter in her white hands. He’d heard her tale, and had begun to put all the pieces of her sad life together. Most of it had come from Earl Kirchenbauer’s story, but not all of it. His retelling of Marlena’s and Wilhelm’s unhappy tale had filled in the blanks, but Shane had understood the essential framework of their marriage from the moment he’d begun the Riverhouse painting, maybe even from that first line etched in the dirt in front of the demolished house.
Somehow, the art was a gateway. It connected him with the muse, and at least in this case, the muse had a very specific tale to tell. Earl had provided the fine points, but most of the story had come straight out of the canvas, from each individual brush stroke, even as Shane had painted them. It happened when he was fathoms deep in the creative process, in that strange limbo where the realities blended, where the canvas stopped being a flat surface and became a portal, a secret doorway. It was there that Shane had learned the story of the Riverhouse, and of Marlena.
And yet, even here, he had encountered closed doors, hidden secrets. There was more to the Riverhouse's story; Shane was sure of it. Marlena might be his muse, but she wasn’t telling him everything.
For one thing, there was the shadow in the corner of the Riverhouse painting, the approaching figure that Marlena was looking up at from her vantage point on the portico steps, shading her eyes and smiling enigmatically.
It was crazy, of course, but Shane had become certain that that shadow was becoming longer, growing on a daily basis, preceding the figure. Someday, he’d look at the picture and see that the second person had finally come into view. It’s all just a stage, Greenfeld had said on the day he’d first seen the Riverhouse painting. The first act is about to begin, and she’s going to be the main character… why’s she sitting there, watching, waiting? Who’s coming up the path, and what happens when they get there?
That was the question Shane kept returning to. Who is it? Whose shadow was spreading along the driveway, nearing the portico? And what would Marlena do when that person finally got there?
That was one of Marlena’s secrets. The other one was the upstairs window with its mysterious white candle, the one he so often saw when he was returning from the old footpath, The candle flame would tease and flicker beyond the limbs of the magnolia tree, begging him to paint, to come to the sordid embrace of the muse.
He still hadn’t gone into the attic to look for that window and its mysterious candle. He could lie to himself, pretending he simply hadn’t had time, or had forgotten about it, but those things weren’t the real truth. The real truth was that he was afraid of the answer. The shadow in the painting was a puzzle, but the mystery of the window and the beacon candl
e was a Pandora’s box. Someday he would open that box, but not yet, and certainly not while Christiana was around. He was curious, but not yet curious enough.
Marlena had her secrets, and Shane had an idea that her painting was part of the map to revealing them, whether she liked it or not.
Often, he’d tinker with the image on the canvas, dabbing at it with his brush, adding insignificant details, refining it, focusing it. One afternoon he added a vase of roses on the mantel behind Marlena, drooping in the darkness, leaving a small drift of petals in the shadow beneath the portrait of Woodrow Wilson. The next evening he added the upholstered arm of a sofa in the foreground, in the far right of the canvas, dark except for a fringe of light cast from the fireplace beyond. Finally, he added a small shape abandoned on the corner of the sofa, lost in its shadow.
When he finished the object on the sofa he looked at it, wondering why he’d painted it there. It wasn’t that it didn’t fit into the scene, exactly. On the contrary, it seemed perfectly essential, despite its position and apparent insignificance, lost in shadow. It was odd, but somehow exactly right. It hinted at meaning, like a keyhole, one that would unlock every mystery, if only Shane could find the right key. For the moment, however, the strange, inexplicable object on the painted sofa didn’t make any sense at all.
Shane stared at, puzzling over it, not quite obsessed with it but certainly distracted by it, and maybe even a little disturbed. After all, he knew that shape very well. The last time he’d seen it, it had been sitting on a conference table, scuffed and torn, like an exhibit in a museum.
It was Steph’s purse, propped there in the shadow of the sofa, almost lost in the corner of the painting. It was unmistakable. Why had he painted it there? More importantly, why did it seem to belong there? Why did it seem like the axle upon which the entire scene turned?
Eventually, he would find the answer to that question. After all, there was still one more painting to complete, one final addition to the Shane Bellamy Insanity Stairs series. He’d barely begun it, but he had a sense of it already. The anchor on the end of this long chain was going to be huge indeed; the final painting was going to be amazing. He knew almost nothing about it so far except for one thing, one small detail that had popped into his head the moment he’d painted that first curving brush stroke: the title.
“Sleepwalker,” he’d said aloud to himself, looking down at that first line, still wet on the canvas, glistening in the sunset light that streamed from the window over the stairs. That was going to be the title. It had just popped into his head. It didn’t mean anything, but it would. And when the meaning to that one word came, he had a sense that the answer to every other question would also fall into place.
After all, this last painting was his alone, even if it did come from the same mysterious well as the previous two. Marlena had opened the portal for him, but she couldn’t completely control it. Not anymore. Because Shane was good at going to the well all by himself, good at dipping out whatever he needed, without the help of the muse.
Perhaps even in spite of her.
Christiana was in much better shape than Shane was, and this was no more evident than when they went on their first bike ride together.
“Come on, Bellamy,” she called back over her shoulder, grinning. “Race you back home!”
He shook his head, breathing hard and coasting for a moment. She slowed as well, weaving gently side to side on the paved trail, standing on the pedals with her head thrown back, enjoying the stormlight. Leaves fell from the trees all around her like autumn snow, catching in the wind and fluttering across the path. Occasional gusts lifted whole rafts of them and swirled them like miniature cyclones. They crunched under Shane’s wheels as he caught up to Christiana.
“Not everything is a competition, sweetie-pie,” he panted, a little sourly.
“It is if you keep on calling me sweetie-pie,” she said happily, still looking up, watching the steely sky and the low clouds. “How else are you going to work off that piece of cherry cobbler?”
Shane had treated Christiana to lunch at the diner in Bastion Falls after riding their bikes there. He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Men don’t think about working off their desserts. At least not straight men.”
“Straight men don’t worry about having clean finger nails or wearing clothes that match either,” Christiana chided mildly.
“I guess it’s a good thing gay men are gay,” Shane replied, pedaling alongside her. “Otherwise us straight guys would never get a date.”
“Damn right,” she agreed, and sighed.
Shane squinted up at the low sky, following her gaze. After a moment, he asked, “So, is this a date?”
“Do you see any fabulous non-gay gay guys around?” she replied, pretending to peer around the woods as they coasted by.
“They’re a little scarce around Bastion Falls, I guess.”
“Hmm…” She glanced aside at Shane, smiling a little. The gray daylight was soft on her face, flickering dully in the shadow of the trees. “Then I guess I’m stuck with you.”
“I could clean my finger nails, if you really want me to.”
“Nah. Don’t raise my expectations like that. Let me fall in love with you just as you are.”
She was joking, but a mild thrill trickled down Shane’s back. There was still a strange, almost deliberate ambiguity to their relationship. She came over to the cottage nearly every day now, and there was certainly a not-quite-platonic affection in the way they touched, the way they snuggled up on the couch sometimes, or even the way she looked at him across the patio when they sat outside and watched the twilight over the river.
And yet, they had never kissed. They had talked about a lot of things, but never about the relationship that seemed to be growing up around them, like summer vines climbing a trellis. More than once, it had reminded Shane of Earl Kirchenbauer and his story, about how he’d come to work at the Riverhouse back in the spring of nineteen-forty. I was never officially hired, he’d recalled ruefully; they just never told me to go home. Shane smiled and shook his head as he pedaled, picking up speed.
“Hey,” Christiana said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I thought you said this was a race?”
“You bastard,” she called delightedly, standing on her own pedals.
Shane grinned and pumped as hard as he could, driving his Trek forward, leaning over the handlebars. She caught up to him but didn’t pass him. Together, they leaned into the curve as the path angled toward the Valley Road. She began to overtake him on the inside of the curve, but he pushed as hard as he could, grinning into the wind, and began to pull ahead of her again. She laughed with delight, her voice almost lost in the cool, rippling air.
“Last one back is a Stinky Pete!” she called.
Shane glanced back at her, glimpsed the corona of her black hair whipping around her face as she smiled grimly, her dark eyes twinkling. She was behind now, but she’d beat him in the end, and she knew it. Shane didn’t mind. A very male part of him knew that coming in second behind Christiana, at least on a bike ride, was not such an unattractive prospect.
Something popped suddenly. It sounded like a pellet gun, or an inflated paper bag. Immediately, Christiana began to lose ground, and her bike began to wobble uncertainly beneath her.
“Damn!” she called, looking down at the flat tire on her rear wheel. “Damn, damn!”
Shane was amused to realize that she was mostly angry about losing the race, rather than about blowing her bike tire. He braked his Trek gently, then swooped around on the path, heading back toward her. She hopped off her bike and held it by one handlebar, looking critically down at the rear tire.
“Must have hit a sharp stone on the path,” Shane said, stopping his own bike next to her.
“I guess that makes me a Stinky Pete,” she frowned.
“I guess it does,” Shane agreed solemnly. “But there’s always next time.”
She sighed—her charact
eristic brisk exhale—and looked up at Shane. “So what should we do? You want to ride back while I walk?”
Shane was a little put off. “Of course not. I’ll walk with you. We’ll leave both bikes and I’ll come back with the truck later and throw them in the bed.”
“I’m a big girl, you know,” she said, but Shane could tell she didn’t mean it. She pushed her bike off the path and lay it in the tall grass on the side away from the Valley Road. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but it would do until Shane came back with the pickup.
“You could just ride on my handlebars, of course,” Shane said.
“Just like when we were kids, right? I think my bum’s a little too big for that nowadays.”
“Shut your mouth,” Shane said, scowling.
He ditched his own bike in the tall grass behind Christiana’s and they began to walk along the path. After a minute, Christiana touched Shane’s hand with her fingers. They held hands and walked together, following the path as it curved back toward the woods and the river beyond.
Neither spoke. The silent snowfall of autumn leaves drifted down around them, making a sort of magical tableaux. Soon enough, Shane recognized the curve of the path ahead of them, saw the brightness of the clearing beyond the trees.
“So that’s where it used to stand?” Christiana said, slowing, looking out over the weedy grass and concrete bunkers.
Shane nodded, stopping alongside but not letting go of her hand.
She shaded her eyes with her free hand. “Is there anything left of it?”
“Just a bunch of dirt where they filled in the cellar. And the front porch. I guess it was too heavy to carry away and too much work to break up. You can’t see it from here. It’s behind that big pile of mulch down there at the end.”
“I want to see,” Christiana said, and before Shane could respond she’d pulled her hand away from his and walked into the watery light of the yard.
The Riverhouse Page 31
