House of Many Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  There was a good deal of cleaning to do. Andy’s idea of cleaning was typically masculine—perfunctory, in other words. Her own pretty room—she already thought of it as hers—was neat but very dusty, and the bathroom made her hands itch for scrubbing brushes and cleansing powder. Clearly Mrs. Culver hadn’t worn herself out cleaning house. Meg wasn’t a fanatical housekeeper herself, but as she went through the neglected, grimy rooms, her distaste for both Culvers increased. Maybe Mrs. Culver hadn’t felt she was obliged to clean the unused rooms, but how could she live in such a mess? A lawyer might claim that most of it was normal wear and tear—normal for an eccentric painter and a sluttish wife. Only once, in the master bedroom, had Culver’s malice gotten out of hand, when he scrawled his Anglo-Saxon expletives. The other damage was subtle but omnipresent—scarred floors, scratched tables, burns and scrapes and layers of greasy dirt.

  Meg went through the pantry into the kitchen, expecting the worst. It wasn’t as bad as she had feared. The room was a long way from the state of cleanliness she considered minimal, but someone had been at work here.

  Originally the kitchen had been one of those vast rooms dating from a period when nobody worried about the cook’s fallen arches. It had been subdivided and modernized in the not-too-distant past; as she looked at the attractive breakfast area, Meg wondered whether Andy’s mother had done the decorating. Like her bedroom, the breakfast room was delicate and pretty—almost too precious. Walls and appliances were butter yellow, and there were daisies everywhere—on the wallpaper, on the curtains, even on the plate around the light switch. Why not daisy-decorated dishes? Meg thought, smiling.

  A search of the kitchen cabinets produced a set of plastic dishes, so new that the labels were still on them. “Dishwasher proof…” Meg took the labels at their word and filled the dishwasher. Just like a man, she thought sanctimoniously, as the machine gurgled and wheezed into action. Andy wouldn’t think dishes needed to be washed when they were brand new. She was glad she didn’t have to use the ones the uncouth Culvers had eaten from. She wondered what had become of their dishes, pots and pans, and so on. Maybe they had belonged to the Culvers and had been removed with their other possessions.

  A gleaming new freezer occupied part of the floor space, and Meg investigated it, conscious of a growing emptiness in her interior. It was well stocked; Andy, at Sylvia’s request, no doubt. She thought kindly of both of them as she took out steak, worth its weight in silver, and left it to defrost. The refrigerator was just as well stocked. She wouldn’t have to shop for several days.

  But she had no intention of eating in this room until she had cleaned it thoroughly. She was inclined to give Andy the credit for what had been done; it had the hallmark of his technique. The stove had been wiped, but it was still greasy; the floor had been swept, but the soles of her sandals stuck as she walked. She looked for cleaning supplies, and found them—brand-new bottles and cans, unopened. Part of Sylvia’s supplies then, not items left by Mrs. Culver. Meg was not surprised. She peeled the label off the top of a can of cleansing powder and tackled the stove.

  Sometime later, while sweeping the floor preliminary to mopping it, she bent to see what she could get out from under the refrigerator: rolls of greasy black dust, a withered olive, peanut shells—and something that chinked musically as it slid across the floor.

  Meg picked it up. It was a piece of broken china, thin, with the genuine ring of good ware. She turned it over; and an odd little chill ran through her as she recognized the daisy pattern.

  There were more fragments under the refrigerator, and a few others in dark corners that Andy’s broom had not reached. All were from the same set—curved shapes that had been part of cups, the sunken well of a saucer, rims of plates. China—not as expensive as Haviland or Wedgwood, but good china.

  So Andy’s mother had had her daisy-patterned dishes. Sylvia must have left them for the use of her assorted tenants; they were old, no longer in style, not particularly valuable. And someone had smashed the entire set. There was not so much as a fugitive saucer left when Meg searched the shelves. It must have been broken recently or there would not be so many fragments left.

  Andy had mentioned cleaning up the house after the Culvers left. He had minimized the extent of the damage. Meg visualized the kitchen as Andy must have found it, with his mother’s favorite dishes smashed to bits on the floor. Somehow the wanton, deliberate destruction of the entire set bothered her more than anything the Culvers had done. Anyone might smash a few plates in a fit of anger, she had smashed a few herself, and had found the crash eminently satisfying. But to destroy all of them—every last cup and saucer and platter and bowl—that suggested a degree of malice which was decidedly unnerving.

  Meg scrubbed the floor on her hands and knees, using a stiff brush and the strongest disinfectant she could find. She unearthed a few more broken bits of china and deposited them in the trash bag. Then she went to the telephone and invited Andy over for dinner.

  II

  Andy’s appetite was another thing that hadn’t changed over the years. He devoured steak and scalloped potatoes, salad and vegetables and rolls as if he had not eaten for a week, and then leaned back in his chair and regarded Meg approvingly.

  “Normally I subsist on hard-boiled eggs and canned soup,” he explained. “What other talents do you have besides cooking?”

  “Not many. I earn my living as a secretary—when I earn it.”

  “I thought you were an interior decorator or something. Sylvia said—”

  “I took a few courses. But this scheme of Sylvia’s, about fixing up the house, is make-work. If she wanted to do the place up properly she’d hire a professional.”

  “Ah,” said Andy, pouring coffee for both of them. “The operative word is ‘hire.” Sylvia doesn’t pay people to do things if she can help it. I hope you don’t mind my criticizing your relative.“

  “I criticize her myself,” Meg admitted. “But I’m ashamed to do it. I’d be in a bad spot if it weren’t for Sylvia’s help.”

  “I suppose you could say the same about me.”

  “I couldn’t; I don’t know enough about your situation.”

  Meg hesitated. Normal good manners forbade pointed inquiries into Andy’s problems, yet she wanted to indicate sympathy. As so often happens, her tongue rejected the tactful remarks she had considered, and blurted out the question in the bluntest possible form.

  “How does Sylvia happen to own this house? Shouldn’t it be yours?”

  Andy, who had been looking down at his plate, raised his head. Meg had never imagined that freckles and snub nose could shape themselves into so forbidding a mask.

  “My father had the right to dispose of his property as he chose,” he said coldly. “Let’s stay out of each other’s personal lives, okay?”

  “But you—”

  “I stuck my nose into your private affairs this afternoon. True; but only to the extent that your problems affect your present life and, by juxtaposition, mine.”

  “And none of your problems is going to affect my life?”

  Meg was a little surprise at the result of her question. Andy’s gaze shifted; the muscles of his face convulsed in a sudden spasm that might have been suppressed laughter— or fear.

  “I hope not,” he muttered; and then continued, in a voice that was meant to sound affable. “Look, let’s forget about this afternoon. There are some practical matters we need to discuss.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been a homeowner. All kinds of things go wrong with houses, from the plumbing to the roof. Any problem—call me. I fix leaky taps and nail on new shingles, among other things. There’s an extension phone in your room, in case you hear funny noises at night…”

  “I hear funny noises all the time,” Meg said wryly.

  “Call, if you feel the need. I don’t sleep much,” said Andy expressionlessly. “Next thing is transportation. You can drive, I suppose?”

  “I don’t have a driver’s lice
nse. I’ve lived in Manhattan for two years,” Meg added defensively. “I let my Illinois license lapse and never—”

  “Why do you have to apologize for everything?”

  “I’m not! I only meant—”

  “It doesn’t matter. My car is undrivable by anyone but me. It has quite a few eccentricities. You’ll have to depend on me for transportation,” Andy concluded, with obvious satisfaction.

  “What about shopping?”

  “The nearest town is Wasserburg, about three miles away. The grocer delivers if he feels like it. I can take you there when you want to go. We can go shopping tomorrow, if you like; you may as well see the town and what it has to offer.”

  “I do need a few things.”

  “Okay; about ten. I’d better warn you about Wasserburg. Like a lot of towns in the area, it’s become a tourist trap and a mecca for antique hunters. This is Pennsylvania Dutch country, in case you didn’t know, and Pennsylvania Dutch is in. There are souvenir joints along all the roads, with wrought-iron trivets and tiles with hex signs all over ‘em, not to mention gruesome goodies that purport to be shoofly pie and other genuine ethnic cooking.

  “The local merchants despise the city slickers who come up here and gush over the quaint Amish and the handicrafts; but no Dutchman ever turned down a chance to make a buck, so they milk the tourists for all they can get. Watch out for the antique shops in Wasserburg. Unless you know what you’re doing, you’ll come home in a barrel.”

  “I don’t plan to buy antiques—at least, not many, and not for a while. Sylvia said there was furniture in the attic—”

  “Furniture! Wait till you see the place. It hasn’t been cleaned out since the house was built, and people in these parts don’t throw anything away. I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a coffin up there, tucked away by a thrifty ancestor of mine.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Wait till you see it,” Andy repeated ominously. “That’s one project—a big one. We’ve also got to get the house cleaned up. I’m fairly handy with tools. I run a mean sander, for instance.”

  “But why should you—”

  “Run the sander? Because it would run away with you. Obviously you’ve never used one.”

  “I know all about sanders,” Meg said. “What I meant was, why should we sand the floors? I know, they are beautiful hardwood floors and they’ve taken a beating. But I had no idea Sylvia wanted anything as extensive as that done to the house. I was just going to arrange furniture and paint a few things—”

  “I don’t think Sylvia knows what she wants done,” Andy said cheerfully. “Which puts us in an enviable position; we can do pretty much what we like. It’s fun, redoing an old house. I helped a buddy of mine restore an eighteenth-century farmhouse in Virginia a couple of years ago; we had a great time.”

  “But I never did—”

  “You’re not too old to learn. You know one thing that’s wrong with you? You’ve been sitting around too much, brooding and worrying. Stick with me, kid, and I guarantee you won’t have time for hallucinations.”

  “You sound like one of those popular mental-health books,” Meg said coldly. “How to cure yourself of homicidal mania in ten easy lessons.”

  Andy’s smile broadened. “How did you know, darling?”

  Meg stared at him as enlightenment dawned.

  “I should have known, from the way you talk,” she said rudely. “Words like ‘subsist’… so that’s your gimmick. You’re writing a book.”

  “A novel,” Andy said, unruffled. “I did think of a do-it-yourself psychology book; they sell like hot cakes. But feelthy novels sell even better.”

  “Naturally. Sylvia likes struggling young writers almost as much as she likes struggling young painters. How much have you written? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “I’m revising at the moment,” Andy said seriously.

  “I’ll bet you are.”

  “You are a cynic, aren’t you? I’m not accustomed to that sneering response; ordinarily, when I announce I’m working on a novel, all the sweet young things fall into poses of respectful admiration.”

  “I worked for a publishing house once.”

  “Oh.”

  “Everybody is writing a novel,” Meg said cruelly. “Or thinking about writing a novel. About one writer in ten thousand finishes a book. I guess it’s more fun to talk about writing than it is to write.”

  “Much more fun.”

  “And, of course, if you never finish a book, you never have to submit it for criticism.”

  “Which could be very bad for one’s ego,” Andy agreed. “I gather you aren’t going to ask me what my book is about?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that ends that conversation.”

  “You ought to be able to wangle at least a year’s lodging out of Sylvia. Even she knows you can’t write a book in six months.”

  “You overestimate Sylvia. Like most people, she thinks you can write a book in six days if you work at it. No, dear, Sylvia lets me stay on because I do twice as much as a paid caretaker for half the pay. It’s not a bad relationship— honest, direct, unclouded by sticky emotions like gratitude.”

  Meg could think of nothing to say. The bitterness with which Andy spoke of Sylvia was not pleasant to hear; it was an ugly reflection of her own feelings.

  “Damn,” Andy said, after a moment. “Why do we always talk about Sylvia? I think I’ll go home and work on the masterpiece. I now have an incentive—to prove I’m not one of the nine hundred thousand odd. Thanks for the meal, Meg.”

  Meg went to the door with him. The sun had set; twilight dimmed the wide lawns and turned shrubs and trees into amorphous huddled shapes. As Meg glanced around she realized there was not a light visible anywhere. If isolation was what she wanted, she had it here.

  “Leave the porch light on all night,” Andy said. “And be sure you put the chain up on the door.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “I’m trying to reassure the poor little city girl on her first night in the country. See you tomorrow.”

  He crossed the porch and descended the steps; darkness closed over him. As Meg watched she had a curious impression that he was not alone. Another shadow seemed to walk with him, step for step, until he vanished into the night.

  Chapter 3

  In an earlier and simpler era, Wasserburg had been a pretty country town whose main street—called Main Street— lined with big old houses, summoned images of turn-of-the-century domesticity—home-baked bread, lilacs in the spring, rows of snowy laundry on Monday morning. The houses were still there, but the air of domesticity was gone. A town of eight thousand, Wasserburg possessed a grocery store, a drugstore-post office combined, and forty-three antique shops.

  The antique shops varied considerably. A few, housed in the handsome old mansions, specialized in European imports and contained not a single object that cost less than fifty dollars. Some sold books, others reproductions of Early American furniture, and some were no more than souvenir shops. The Pennsylvania Dutch atmosphere was thick; even the shopkeepers who came from Idaho or Florida tried to speak with an appropriate accent.

  To Meg’s city-dulled eyes, the town seemed delightful.

  She was aware of the artificiality, but was impressed by the neatness and orderliness. Even the pavements looked as if they had been swept that morning by a brigade of industrious housewives.

  In the scene of cleanly charm Andy’s old car was a profane intrusion. He had not been exaggerating when he said it had its eccentricities. It progressed in a series of jerks, accompanied by frequent backfires and harsh squeals. One door did not open, and the other stayed open unless it was secured by a loop of wire. The color had once been a demure gray, but the vehicle had passed through many vicissitudes since it had emerged from the German factory, and Andy’s attempts to remove the appliqued flowers and slogans had not been completely successful. The car looked leprous. However, as Andy pointed out, it moved. What mor
e could anyone ask of a means of transportation?

  Apparently the car was a familiar sight in Wasserburg. Pedestrians looked up and waved as it chugged along. Andy maneuvered the vehicle into a space next to a fireplug and helped Meg slide out under the wheel. The door on the passenger side was the one that didn’t open.