It started simply. The house was virtually finished now, and they had taken a tour of the empty rooms. The work structures were being torn down. He could hear the splintering of wood, the steel scream of nails being withdrawn. All around the house the scenery loomed wet with the recent rains. In the empty living-room Christopher said: “I’m going to call it The Hawk’s Nest.”
Curt thought the name vulgar, but didn’t say so. All he wanted was permission to have the house photographed for an architectural magazine. Christopher refused.
“You’ll get your profit,” said Christopher. “I’ll get you work in Reno.”
“What makes you think I want to work for you?”
“Who else could you work for?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“I could use the photographs,” said Curt.
“I’m through with you,” said Christopher. “I don’t want anything else to do with you.” He turned on his heel and went into the living-room, and stood there, smiling out at the landscape. Curt left the house and Christopher alone in it, for what he was sure was the last time. He felt that he had been taken in, but he didn’t know how, which somehow only made matters that much the worse.
After he had gone it began to snow, the first real winter snow of November. It fell softly, majestically, noiselessly, except for that almost inaudible whirring which is the special sound of snow. Nor did it melt when it hit the ground. The outer world disappeared and the valley became abstract. It became a world of infinite distances, as the familiar landmarks disappeared. It was a time when even the birds were silent, and of people there was no trace. Winter had begun.
The house accepted the snow gratefully. It fell around the building like a silken shroud. So Christopher was alone, and the house was full of shadows which frightened him. It was a strange house, arranged so that from either end of it one could see what was going on in the rest of it. It was the house of a frightened man.
He moved nervously to and fro, frowning, biting his nails, and waiting. At last he heard another sound, the small cautious sounds of reality, tiptoeing but inevitable. Startled he turned his back on the windows and faced the door.
Sally stood in the doorway, bundled up in goloshes which flapped round her ankles, a trench coat too big for her, and a cellophane hood thrown over her head. She paused, shaking out her umbrella. And when she removed the hood, her face was unnaturally red with the cold.
“I thought I’d come,” she said. “And I can’t leave now. The storm’s too bad.”
“No. Of course not.”
“What are you doing up here?” she asked. He did not answer but put her umbrella by the fireplace, where it let fall a pool of black water. She watched him do so. “Curt’s gone,” she said. “You sent him away, didn’t you?”
“He wanted to be sent.”
“I don’t know why I came really,” she told him. She seemed to want to keep a good distance between them.
“Perhaps the snow disturbed you.”
She was startled. “What an unexpected thing to say. I suppose it did.” She looked at the windows. “It falls differently up here. Down there it shuts you in.”
“It shuts you in everywhere,” he said warily. In the study the phone began to ring. It stopped, and, uneasy, he turned to look at her.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.
“In a way. It doesn’t matter.”
She thought he sounded tired, as though he had with effort prepared himself for something, and was now impatient for it to happen. It was as though she could not see him too clearly. All day she had been aware of him. And now she was here. Yet she did not know what to do or say.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, staring at her. He looked a little mad, and his eyes seemed to look up from a narrow place.
“That’s not what I expected to hear.”
He shrugged. “It’s not what I expected to say.”
She thought that over, wondering why they were drawn to each other, and yet could never touch. “It was Curt who suggested I come,” she said. “I passed him on the road. I suppose I should like him, but I don’t.”
“But you’re glad I sent him away, aren’t you?” asked Christopher. Disappointed, and unwilling to answer, she turned aside.
“It looks barren without furniture,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
As she turned away, the phone rang more insistently. It rang several times, an almost alarming ring out of the silence of the next room. Christopher suddenly looked alert.
“Stay here,” he told her, so roughly that she stopped where she was, her hand on her umbrella. He went into the library closing the doors behind him, and the phone stopped ringing. She waited, hearing his exasperated voice. She heard him stop talking, but he did not come out of the room. Perturbed, she pulled in her coat. Then the doors to the study opened, and he stood in darkness, for the room beyond was not lit. She had a feeling that he had turned out the lights deliberately, so that she should not see him too clearly.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
He would not tell her. He drove her home, furiously through the snow, the car slipping on the road. His hands shook on the wheel, and he cursed under his breath, as curtain after curtain of snow appeared before the car and turned acid in the yellow glare of the headlights. When they reached the Carson place he almost pushed her from the car, slamming the door behind her, and starting off again into the snow. She stood where he had pushed her, afraid to go back to her own shrouded prison of a farm. Putting her hands in the pockets of her raincoat, she turned and trudged through the snow, puzzled and somehow shaken by she knew not what. She had not been in the house half an hour when she heard his plane, flying crazy in the snow.
*
He was flying down to see to Antoinette, but it had not occurred to him that others would also be there. The drive was clogged with automobiles, for now she was dying the whole family had closed in. And Dr. Harben and the priest were there, too.
Because the priest had precedence, Dr. Harben waited in the garden. He did not like it there. He had learned that Antoinette believed, though she never said so, that she had death trapped in her garden, and was afraid that it might get into the house. Sometimes he thought maybe she was right.
The garden seemed unusually restless, the great leaved plants, with their jagged edges, the spidery flowers turning and twisting. He found himself staring at an Hawaiian plant like a scaly phallus, livid pink and red, and oozing with white ichor, over which huge ants scurried busily, and which was eaten by the bore-holes of worms. He turned away revolted. The whole garden was like that, lush, decayed, and rank with vegetable rut. It was a garden like a sexual parody. He pushed his way through the foul shrubs, and found himself, to his shock, standing on the edge of a place cleared like a fire break, with across it the restored window of the room in which Antoinette had tried not to die.
Though there was no light in the room, he saw he was watching a puppet show. He could not turn away. Even at this distance he could watch Father MacCrone, with his heavy syrup that embalmed the soul. The priest seemed very tall, like a ghost, and his movements were sinuous and expert, like those of a hypnotist. A little table had been set up beside the chaise-longue. On it were two silver candlesticks and a dish, and standing between the candles a heavy crucifix. On the floor was a box with a red velvet lining, a box the size of a doctor’s bag, from which the vessels had been taken.
Father MacCrone bent over the old woman, made a swift movement, and backed away. Dr. Harben now saw Antoinette. On her face was a look of scorn, malice and contempt, mixed with fear. Lately she had been having trouble with her eyes, a hardening of the eyeballs that made her insolent stare all the more unnerving. On her forehead glistened a drop of yellowish oil.
Then the priest left. Dr. Harben rushed round to the front door, and they collided there, the one going out, the other coming in, to no purpose. Dr. Harben let himsel
f into Antoinette’s room, which smelled horrible. He was very aware of himself, a tidy, affable, very nervous dark-haired Jew. She screwed herself round to look at him, the show of strength being important to her.
“So now you’re here with your black bag,” she said. “No doctor likes to see a priest come before him. It’s a matter of precedence.”
“How’s that heart of yours?” he said, busying himself in his bag.
“It’s still beating,” she snapped bitterly. “Even Angelica wants to see me dead, I guess.”
“Now then,” said Dr. Harben. He pushed her dress aside, and very much aware of her, listened to the slow, uncertain heart.
“Do you really think this hocus-pocus accomplishes anything?” she asked.
“I’ve sent for a nurse.”
“I’m not going to die yet,” she said, but apart from that she did not complain. “All those people out there,” she told him. “They’re not my children. They’re their father’s children. When I die, they’ll collapse, and serve them right. But I’m not ready to die yet.” She sat forward. “You’ve got to keep me alive a while longer, you and that nurse of yours. There must be some way you can do it. You have to do it.”
“You’re not going to die yet,” he said.
She glared beyond him, out at the garden. “Yes, I’m going to die,” she said. “But not before I’ve seen Christopher. You’ve got to keep me alive for that. You’ll help me. If you don’t, I’ll live anyway.” She clenched her hands but there was not much strength in them. “Does that nurse know her business?”
“She works for me all the time.” Not knowing what else to say he glanced down at his ineffectual bag. There was a knock on the door and Angelica came in.
“Is he here?” demanded Antoinette.
“Yes.”
“Good. Good,” she said, and told Dr. Harben he had better go. On the way out he passed Christopher, but did not get a good look at him. It occurred to him that he would be wise to wait. By any normal standard Antoinette was three days dead, and yet there she sat, refusing to be stopped.
In her room Christopher was thinking much the same thing.
“Yes, I’m alive,” said Antoinette. “Come here.” Her voice was a strangled voice that was all she had left now. “Or are you afraid to?”
Reluctantly he came forward and stood in front of her, with his back to the window, so that she was in his shadow. She was literally falling away from life, except for those twisted hands and the bright, determined eyes.
“One day you’ll be like this,” she said. “And will want to hang on, even though you are trapped and weak, just as I do. But you had to see me die, didn’t you?”
Still he said nothing, but made a movement, as though to turn and leave.
“You’re going to take me up to your house,” she said. “You don’t dare deny me that now.” He just turned around and left the room, and she laughed at him a little. “I’ll pull you down with me,” she said. “And that’s the way to do it.” The door slammed behind him, but she did not mind. She sat waiting, vigilant for the small advances of death.
That was the end of it for the time being.
But that night, when Dr. Harben was coming back to the house for the late visit he thought he should make, he had a feeling that something was wrong. Even so he was not prepared for the shock when, turning a bend in the road, he saw the sky above the garden lit up with bright light. Every searchlight in the garden was going full blast. Always this had been a house of darkness and shadow, and now the lights seemed to explode as though under water. Hastily he pulled up before the terrace and rushed up the steps. He found the nurse, Miss Tydings, just inside the hall.
“My God,” she said. She was a heavy-set woman of forty, and usually phlegmatic. “I couldn’t think where you were. I’ve been trying to get you.”
“I was at the Fosters!” He stripped off his coat, still hearing a confused babble of voices somewhere in the house. “What’s happened?”
“She’s mad. She’s gone completely mad. She’s locked me out of her room, or that woman of hers has. And look at them.” She gestured towards one of the living-rooms, where the relatives were crowded together. “They know something’s up. I’ve done everything I could. I’ve beaten on the door. But she’s locked up there with that woman, Angelica, and a telephone. She called for a telephone at about five. I thought she was unconscious, and then she demanded the telephone. And bolted herself in. It’s a heavy door, and she’s a demon.”
“You should have smashed the window.” They stood staring at each other and heard a car drive up and stop and the babble of more voices. Striding to the door Dr. Harben flung it open. “What the devil,” he said.
Standing outside was a large dark brown ambulance. The two attendants were coming up the steps. Dr. Harben rushed down the corridor to the door of Antoinette’s room.
“It’s Dr. Harben,” he shouted. “What the hell is that ambulance doing here?” He beat on the door. “Open this at once.”
There was a flurry of voices, and then the bolt of the door shot back, Angelica stood there, opening the door only a crack. Seeing Dr. Harben she flung it wide and brushed by him out into the hall.
Antoinette stood facing them, leaning on a cane. She was fully clothed. She swayed slightly and sat down. Behind her the garden blazed with light. Her dress was loose and black on her narrow body. She had bracelets on her arms, and her hair had been arranged with swatches into a neat coiffure. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
The nurse stepped forward.
“Get that girl out of here,” said Antoinette. “She’s a nuisance.”
“How did you get out of bed?” asked Dr. Harben. Her face was pouring with sweat and she rolled her head as though her neck were broken. Picking up her wrist, he felt her pulse. It was not so good.
“You can’t do this,” he said. “It will kill you.”
“Where is Christopher?” She spoke sharply, finding it difficult to breathe. But Christopher was already in the door.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, glancing from the nurse to Harben. Then he saw Antoinette. “Christ,” he said.
“I’m going to see your house,” she said, smiling tightly.
He stared at her, and Antoinette glared back. It seemed to Dr. Harben that she could see through her blindness.
“Very well,” said Christopher at last, and his voice was hard. “I’ll fly you in.”
She shook her head. “No, you won’t kill me that way, I’ve made my own arrangements.”
Dr. Harben blinked. “It’s your own responsibility,” he said.
Antoinette snorted. “You’ll keep me alive,” she said. “Or the nurse will.” Christopher left the room and Angelica reappeared. “Call the ambulance men,” said Antoinette.
And so, somehow, she was loaded on a stretcher and carried out through the house. She was grotesquely weightless. She was so light that she was difficult to carry. She lay inert, under a blanket, with her face turned aside, so that she could not see the relatives in the living-room, who started up in alarm, seeing the stretcher go past, and who set up a wailing, thinking she was getting away from them.
It was cold outside. Then they slid her into the ambulance.
Dr. Harben stood on the terrace steps, watching. The nurse was standing by the ambulance, and then Christopher appeared. On the tilt of the stairs the old woman slipped and gave a little scream. Then her jaw clamped shut again.
The nurse hesitated. Christopher grasped her arm. “Get in,” he ordered, and shoved her in so hard his fingers left a blue mark on her arm. With a swift look around him, he got in himself and banged the door behind him. Through its windows Dr. Harben could see his face. Dr. Harben nodded to the drivers, and the ambulance rolled down the drive. Angelica stood behind him, at the top of the steps. He realized that she, too, realized that Antoinette would die in the ambulance and that she was glad. He caught her eye, and she marched back into the house.
&nb
sp; He saw figures moving, as the relatives, brothers and sisters and children, swarmed out of the house, down the stairs, and into their cars. Surprised, for he had forgotten them, he watched, unbelieving, while they turned down the drive in pursuit of the ambulance.
After a while he got into his own car. Looking back he saw the lights in the house go out one by one, as Angelica moved from room to room. But the lights in the garden burned on.
*
The other cars soon dropped behind. As for the ambulance, a little after midnight they stopped for gasoline at a deserted gas station and lunch wagon. Christopher bought some cigarettes and had a thermos of coffee put up. All around them lay the desert, cold as a tomb. Reluctantly, holding the thermos bottle under his arm, he got back into the ambulance.
He had only to wait to win, but it was difficult to wait hour after hour. Miss Tydings lit a cigarette, taking puff after rapid puff. The ambulance, gathering speed, rushed forward into the night. He sensed that Miss Tydings knew what he was up to. She looked like a watchful cat.
The hours passed slowly, containing hours within them, that opened out of one another and revolved within each other like Chinese balls. Antoinette was breathing more heavily now. The weather turned colder, and he was aware that the mountains were closer to him. It was two o’clock when the ambulance stopped again.
He was jerked wide awake, got out, and saw one of the drivers standing by the road, urinating into a ditch. He saw the jagged mountains rearing up, not twenty miles away, crowned with snow. He knew she must not live, for he was safe in these mountains, and she must not touch them. He had to be strong enough to destroy Antoinette before she could destroy him. He got back into the ambulance, and saw that in her coma she was gathering herself together for one last onslaught against him. She stirred, and a light sigh dribbled from her mouth. He idly watched her struggle to come back, her fingers moving slightly on the sheet. Keeping an eye on her, he reached for the thermos and uncorked it. The strong smell of bad coffee swirled into the close air. She seemed to clutch at the smell, and he looked at his watch. It was three o’clock, that hour when the body ebbs, life flowing out of it as water recedes from a beach. Whatever she intended to do, she would have to do it soon. They were only a hundred and fifty miles away from the valley.
The Self-Enchanted Page 8
