House of Many Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  Like a flick of a switch, the image was gone. Pale sunlight dazzled Meg’s eyes, and she was aware of her aching fingers, squeezed by Andy’s hand.

  “Let go,” she gasped. “It’s over. You’re hurting me, Andy.”

  Andy obeyed. His upper lip was beaded with perspiration.

  “I need a drink,” he said.

  While he collected bottles and glasses, Meg found writing materials, and they sat down at the kitchen table to record their impressions. Andy emptied his glass as he wrote, and mixed a second drink while Meg read his description.

  It agreed with hers. She was used to that now, it no longer shocked her as it had done at first. He had seen one thing she had not seen—the face of the old woman bending over the fire. “The Witch of Endor in person,” he had written. “Wrinkled and toothless and a thousand years old.”

  She waited for Andy to read her paper before she spoke, although she was bursting with eagerness.

  “Andy, it is beginning to make sense. Everything in that room fits a date in the early eighteenth century—the architecture, the costumes, the objects in the room. The same room, Andy! I’ll bet if we tried it in the drawing room, we’d see the room with the sampler. That must have been their parlor. What is now the library was their kitchen.”

  Andy’s eyes flickered with reviving interest. “That makes some sense,” he admitted. “Another house, on the same site. We see it as it once looked, occupying the same space. Only it is askew; the ground level wasn’t quite the same a hundred years before this house was built.”

  “The house and the people who lived in it,” Meg said. “An old man, a girl—his daughter?—and a servant, an old woman. My gosh, Andy, if we can’t track them down, we flunk as historians. We even know the name.”

  “You’re assuming the girl is Anna Maria. We’ve no proof of that.”

  “But we have to make some assumptions,” Meg argued. “Didn’t you say scientists start out with a hypothesis and discard it only after it has been proved incorrect? What we need are some histories of the area back in Colonial times. Not general histories—books that tell about the old families and their names and all.”

  “The county Historical Association,” Andy said. He was as enthusiastic as Meg now. “Damn, I should have tried them instead of going to Philadelphia. It’s local trivia we need, not constitutional history.”

  “Where is the Historical Association?”

  “Reading, I think. I’ll find out for sure. We may need tax and land transfer records too. I don’t know whether they would have copies of those at the Historical Association. Maybe we’ll have to go to Harrisburg.”

  He looked like the old Andy—the freckles, the smile, and the wide hazel eyes reminded her of the boy she had known, in his more agreeable moods. Meg hadn’t realized how much his depression had affected her until she felt it lighten. When he reached for her glass she let him refill it, and they drank a toast to their mutual intelligence. Then Andy tore a sheet off the pad they had been using and started to make notes, mumbling to himself.

  “I’ll get something to eat,” Meg said, rising. “What would you like?”

  “Anything. Richard is himself again. Full of beans and champing at the bit.” Andy looked up at her. “I’m sorry I flipped this morning.”

  “That’s okay. I get moods myself.”

  “Wait a minute. This morning. What was it I—oh, I remember. You got some mail. I left it on the hall table. Forgot to tell you about it.”

  “Mail?” Meg paused, a package of frozen vegetables in her hand. “Isn’t that funny? I never thought about getting mail here, even though I did give the address to my friends. To me, this is Sylvia’s house. I walked right past that mailbox on the road the other day and didn’t even look in it.”

  “I could see you hadn’t. There was quite a stack of mail there today—most circulars, but I do have a few friends who can read and write. Apparently you do too. Go ahead and get the letters. I’ll get dinner. I’ve lost track, but it’s probably my turn.”

  Meg sat down at the table to inspect her mail while Andy fried chops. There were three letters, in addition to the inevitable junk addressed to “Occupant.” Two were from friends in New York. The third was from Sylvia.

  Holding the letter, she looked at Andy, who had given up all pretense of watching the chops.

  “I saw it,” he said. “What did you expect? Sylvia doesn’t make phone calls unless someone has died, but she isn’t about to let you off the hook. You’ll have to keep her informed of your hourly progress, or she’ll be on your back like a leopard.”

  “Your similes are so charming,” Meg grumbled.

  She opened the letter with a mixture of trepidation and guilt. Come to think of it, she had promised to write Sylvia at regular intervals.

  She had not intended to read the letter to Andy, although he was watching her hopefully; but the first paragraph was too much.

  “Listen to this! ”I have received a telephone call from Georgia Wilkes; where she gets the money to make long-distance calls I can’t imagine, but I suppose she thought she was doing both of us a favor by informing me that you feel at a loss with the job I gave you. Obviously I don’t expect you to perform the services of a trained decorator or antique dealer. You must learn to control these anxieties, Meg, they are symptoms of your illness and can be eliminated if you are firm.“

  “She underlined ‘firm,”“ Meg added.

  “She would. It’s just about what I’d expect Sylvia to write. Georgia has a hell of a nerve, calling her.”

  “Oh, I think she was trying to help me. Let me read you the rest. The worst is yet to come. ”In order to relieve your anxieties I told Georgia to look over the things in the attic. She’s as honest as these people ever are, and I hope the many favors she has received from me will make her treat me with the gratitude I deserve. Write down her evaluations and estimates, but don’t sell her anything. You haven’t the legal right to do so, of course, but I repeat the obvious so you won’t let Georgia bully or pressure you. You have a weak and yielding character, Meg. I may pay a quick visit toward the end of the month and will then settle any matters that demand my attention. I haven’t heard from you, as I expected to do long before this. I must insist that you keep me informed as to your progress. I refer to your state of health as well as the condition of my property…‘“

  “And on and on and on,” Andy said, as Meg’s voice died away. “Hell, I’d say that was a pretty affable letter, for Sylvia. Just a couple of cracks about your feeble character.”

  “Yes, she sounds positively mellow, doesn’t she? I’m surprised she warned us she might be coming; I’d expect her to drop in to see what we’re up to. Blast it. I don’t want Georgia around here all the time.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Why don’t you like her? I think she’s funny and kind of nice.”

  “She’s entertaining, in small doses. But that hearty manner wears thin pretty quick. I don’t like her because she has no use for me. I suppose she told you what a rat I was—and am?”

  “She didn’t say much. Just a crack about how popular you are around town, and how that surprises her. And she said the whole town thinks we—”

  Meg stopped. The statement she had been about to make could be considered provocative. She was too late; Andy’s lips curved in an unamused smile.

  “I know what they think. Leers and winks and nudges follow me as I progress innocently down Main Street. They don’t think anything of it; bundling is an old Pennsylvania custom. It doesn’t bother you, does it?

  “Except, of course, for wondering what’s wrong with you, or with me, that I haven’t tried to lay you.”

  “Talk about male ego,” Meg said angrily. “I never—”

  “Sure you did. Sometimes I wonder myself… Hell and damnation, the beans are burning.”

  They were not only burning, they were charred. Meg dumped the vegetables into the sink, pan and all, and turned on the water. The hiss of ris
ing steam echoed her sentiments admirably.

  “Actually, we’ve got the worst of it, the way we’re living,” Andy said pensively. “All the irritations of a permanent relationship without any of the compensations. Look at the way we snipe at each other. Do you suppose that’s an inevitable consequence of the failure or absence of sexual activity?”

  Meg couldn’t help being amused. “I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive. You’re crazy, Andy, and you’re not a very good cook, either. Put on another pot of beans.”

  III

  Georgia came by next morning. She had called to announce her imminent arrival; and Meg, watching from the window in the drawing room, was delighted to see that she was riding a bicycle, which she handled with the panache that characterized her personality. She flung the battered bike on the ground and climbed the porch stairs. Meg went to the door and admitted her.

  She was wearing the same jeans she had worn before, with a turtleneck sweater of a bilious green. Her hair, blown about by the wind, looked like a rusty kitchen scraper. But Meg’s welcome was genuine; she was glad to see Georgia after all. She didn’t even mind the darting inquisitive glances Georgia cast around the house.

  Georgia accepted the offer of a cup of coffee before they started work.

  “I drink coffee all day,” she said. “Up to two in the afternoon, when I begin drinking seriously. Hey, you really have cleaned the place up. It looked absolute hell while the Culvers were here. I came out with Sylvia when she called on them to deliver her eviction notice. Figured she might need some moral support.”

  “Did she?”

  “Hell, no, not Sylvia. She had that little louse cowering by the time she got through. And she never raised her voice or used a dirty word. I don’t know how she does it. It’s more effective than my cussing, though. I tell you, she can flay a victim and make him bleed. I’m surprised Culver didn’t set fire to the house when he left. If I ever saw hate and frustrated malice in a man’s face…”

  “He did considerable damage,” Meg said. “I found scraps of broken dishes in the kitchen, and that was after Andy had cleaned most of them up. He’s stripping the wallpaper in the master bedroom now; Culver had covered it with comments in acrylic paint.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Georgia put down her empty cup. “I’d better have a look. You kids shouldn’t mess around with stuff like that, you might destroy something valuable.”

  Meg led the way upstairs. Andy was ostentatiously hard at work; he was on the last wall now, and the floor was ankle-deep in scraps. He glanced up as they entered and greeted Georgia correctly, if unenthusiastically.

  “First time I ever saw you working,” she said rudely. “Hold it, pal; let’s see what you’re ripping off that wall.”

  Lips tight, Andy stepped back.

  George peered nearsightedly at the wall and examined some of the scraps. Finally she said gruffly, “Right. No use trying to save this. You planning to repaper yourself or get someone to do it?”

  “That’s up to Sylvia. I can do it, but I don’t know if she’s willing to trust me with the job.”

  During me tour of the house mat followed, Andy and Georgia did most of the talking. Meg listened meekly while they discussed the treatment of the floors and the patching of stair rails and mantelpieces. Georgia seemed to be impressed by Andy’s knowledge; she became quite affable as the morning wore on, and once, when Meg returned from making fresh coffee, she found the two of them doubled up over a joke Georgia had told. Georgia refused to tell it to her.

  “You’re too nice a girl,” she said, grinning, while Andy continued to whoop with rude laughter. “What—lunch? Is it that late already? No, thanks, honey, I’ve got my own work to do, and I’m not going to heckle you kids all the time. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?” She winked at Andy, who grinned back at her. “Forget it, buster. I’ve got better tilings to do than spy on you two. I do want to look over the stuff in the attic. Monday be okay? I’m closed that day.”

  Meg and Andy stood in the doorway watching as she rode away. Midway along the drive she took both hands off the handlebars and wrung them over her head in the old victory gesture. The bike wobbled but remained upright, and Georgia vanished around the curve in the driveway, still riding “no hands.”

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Meg demanded, as they went back into the house. “I thought you two got along fine.”

  “Listen, I was on my best behavior. If we hadn’t gotten along, it would have been Georgia’s fault.”

  “You were nice,” Meg said soothingly. “You even laughed at her jokes.”

  Andy grinned reminiscently. “It was pretty funny.”

  “Tell me.”

  Andy looked her over, from the top of her head to her scuffed sneakers. “Some other day. Today you don’t look old enough. I’ll tell you what, I’ll take you on a picnic. It’s too nice to work.”

  It was an idyllic afternoon—the last they were to have, although neither of them knew it. Yet perhaps a premonition of coming trouble gave the day its special quality. They ate their lunch in a glade in the woods, where sunlight sifted down through the leaves and a heap of rocks provided a rough dining table and chairs. There was a constant rustle of shy movement in the leaves beyond the clearing; Andy scattered crumbs and they both sat motionless until, after an interval, a squirrel gained courage enough to creep up to the food. Before they left there were several squirrels and a flock of scolding sparrows snapping up their leftovers.

  “If you sit long enough you can see rabbits and foxes and raccoons,” Andy said. “Not to mention birds; it’s a paradise for bird watchers. One thing I’ll say for Sylvia; she never would allow hunting, not even the ritzy red-coated kind.”

  They wandered on, finding little streams and butternut and black-walnut trees, and multitudes of brambles. Meg began to realize the extent of the place. What a pity it would be if it were sacrificed to subdivisions and shopping centers! Glancing at Andy, who was stalking along in silence beside her, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. He looked grim.

  They returned homeward at last as the sun was setting, tired and scratched and muddy, but enjoying the most amicable feelings toward each other and the world in general. As they crossed the lawn toward the house, Andy came to a sudden stop.

  “What… oh. Is this where it hit you, the other night?”

  “About here. Don’t look so worried, I didn’t feel anything just now. I was—remembering. Let’s go in.”

  They spent the evening in the library. Meg was inspired by Georgia’s visit, and determined to learn as much as possible about antiques before she came back Monday. She sat with her head braced on her hands, determinedly absorbing names and details from a book on Victorian furniture. Spool beds, finger moldings, spandrels and skirts swam around in her brain and, one by one, were nailed down in some sort of order. When she looked up to rest her eyes she saw that Andy was making no pretense at doing anything useful. He had a pile of bright-jacketed paperbacks at his elbow and was deep in a volume whose cover displayed a bloody ax and a dripping knife.

  Once, when she glanced up, she found him looking at her.

  “You don’t want to try anything, do you?” he asked, with the air of a man performing an unpleasant duty.

  Meg started to laugh.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Andy, and returned to his book.

  “Maybe ‘funny’ is not quite the word,” Meg admitted.

  Chapter 7

  They had planned to investigate the Historical Association collection in Reading next day, but when Andy went out to start the car, that monstrosity refused to respond. Returning, grease-smeared and infuriated, to the front hall where Meg waited, Andy called his vehicle bad names.

  “It’s the damned battery,” he grumbled. “I knew the thing was just about to go.”

  “Can’t you call the garage in town and get it recharged?”

  “That thing has been recharged so many times it can find its way
to the garage alone. I’ll have to get a new battery. Might as well walk into town right now and get the job over with. I can bum a lift back. And don’t suggest calling the garage. That’s for rich people and incompetent females. If I install the battery myself I’ll save enough money to take us out to dinner some fine night. Sorry about Reading, Meg; it’ll be too late to go by the time I get through.”