"The call," Oliver said, almost sneering. "As if you didn't know." He moved off the hearth and stood in front of Harriet. "You couldn't wait to tell her, right?" Harriet denied it with a shake of her head. "Couldn't wait. Soon as I hung up you called her, right? Before we got here, and now . . ."He waved a disgusted hand toward Pat.
"What call?" Pat said.
Oliver opened his mouth, closed it, a fish gulping air. "The . . . call."
"Oliver, I don't know anything about any call. I was talking about your glove."
He slapped quickly at his pocket, pulled out his gloves and held them toward her. His bewilderment was comical as he showed them to his friends, and Pat took the moment to sag into an armchair that faced the front windows. She folded her hands loosely over her stomach and crossed her legs. Behind her, a fern tickled the back of her neck.
"You don't know about the call," Ben said.
Pat shook her head. "But as long as you're all talking about it and getting angry at me for it, you might as well tell me what it's all about, don't you think?"
"Oh . . . shit," Oliver said, his shoulders sagging as he skirted the coffee table and dropped to the cushion beside Harriet.
"Never mind," Pat said wearily. Her head tilted back until it rested against the chair and she was looking at the plaster ceiling. "I think I can guess."
"It's not that we doubted you," Ben began; but when she looked at him without moving her head he cut himself off and glared at his knees.
"But you do," she said quietly, knowing she sounded like a teacher about to scold, knowing how she sounded and not caring at all. "You doubted—and maybe you still do doubt my intentions—so one of you—Oliver, I'd say—called Mr. Curtis at the Spartan Gallery either yesterday or today. I imagine you thought your earnestness would goad him into a decision in your favor. Knowing Curtis as I do, though, he was probably very polite and gently enthusiastic and told you he would let you know his decision before very long. Then, as an afterthought, he suggested you get in touch with me and have me call him at my earliest convenience. Preferably on Monday, if it would be all right with me."
"Christ," Ben muttered, "you must have been standing right next to him."
Pat couldn't answer for a moment. She searched the ceiling and the hearth for strength, lowered her gaze to Harriet and asked her with a look why she had allowed Fallchurch to make such an ass of himself. Harriet, however, did not hear her; she had taken Oliver's hand and was patting it maternally. God save me, she thought, and reined in the anger that was too close to explosion.
"You may have blown it, you know," she said, looking down to her hands. "Curtis does not take pressure well. He doesn't take it at all."
"I didn't threaten him or anything," Oliver said sullenly. "I was polite."
"That and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee in the luncheonette," she told him.
"Great," he said. "I can't drink the damned stuff."
There was a pause during which Pat considered screaming and wringing the boy's neck; the contemplation wrested from Her when Ben began to laugh. A nervous, high-pitched laugh that infected his friends and caused her to smile. Incorrigible, she decided as she covered her mouth with a palm. I don't know why I bother to put up with them.
She waited until they were done, then pushed herself out of the chair and bunched her hands in her coat pockets. "Now listen to me, you three," she said, her stern tone only half mocking. "I can honest to god understand your impatience. I'm not that old that I don't remember, as someone reminded me only a couple of days ago. But you really are going to have to trust me. God knows what Curtis will do now, but I'll call him first thing Monday and mend any fences that might have been knocked down. Meanwhile, keep your minds on your work, okay? Leave the arrangements to me. All right? All right."
She left with an upward jerk of her head and walked slowly back home, enjoying the sharply fresh air and thinking of the harsh city odors she'd once thought were so wonderful, until she'd had something much better for contrast.
With her head down and taking short, less purposeful strides, it took her nearly five minutes before she was at the front walk, watching as Linc Goldsmith used a short-handled broom to knock snow off the porch railing. "Beautiful day," she said brightly as she headed for the door.
"Some say," Goldsmith muttered. He was bundled in a faded hunting jacket and heavy corduroy trousers, a pumpkin-covered hat jammed down over his head, ear-flaps untied and angled out from the sides. His long bony face was pinched red from the cold, his hawk's nose threatening to stab into a thick upper lip.
"Why, Mr. Goldsmith," she admonished. Futile, she knew, but she felt too good to resist. "I mean, how can you say that when the snow had stopped, the birds are out, the children are playing . . . it's almost like Christmas, wouldn't you say? A brisk walk for the blood, a cup of hot soup."
He stopped and turned his head slowly toward her, the beak of his hat shadowing his eyes. "Easy for you to say, Miss. You ain't got the damned kids tramping all over the place."
She looked down at the yard, at the foot-plus deep snow untouched except for a few bird tracks and a place near the hedge where a dog had floundered. "Hardly tramping all over, Mr. Goldsmith."
"Not now," he said, as if she should have known better. "Night. Have t'get my sleep and they come around banging at the walls, climbing to the porch." He spat over the side, dark tobacco juice. "Oughta all be home. Not like the old days. My old man'd switch my ass bloody if I ever came home with some neighbor complaining. Ain't right." He glared at her, his jaw working slowly. "You teachers oughta teach 'em better. Give 'em values. Soft is what they are. Soft in the heart, soft in the head."
She tried to remain solemn, to at least take him seriously. But with his faded straw hair jutting out from under the cap, his oversized coat, and his cuffed and uncreased trousers he reminded her too much of an overworked scarecrow. And dire grumblings from a scarecrow were not exactly a prophet's strength.
"I do my best," she told him, with a smile so wide she could feel her cheeks ache. "But none of us are perfect."
"Could work at it, though," he said, turning back to his work.
A snort meant for a laugh and his shoulder began to shake. Pat groaned loudly to show she'd heard him and stepped inside, closed the door. It was Homer's turn now, and his reflection she was making. But she hadn't taken two steps up when Kelly's door opened and Abbey beckoned her back down.
"What?" she said, slipping out of her coat. "Never mind, don't tell me." She put a finger to her chin and considered the front door. "Kelly has met this absolutely fabulous man in Harley. He's rich, owns a bank, and he has a twin brother. Naturally he's much too busy to come pick you guys up tonight, so you agreed to meet them in town. And naturally, Kelly is too chicken to ask me to borrow my car because King's still hasn't finished with whatever needs fixing." She looked back and grinned. Abbey was laughing.
The brakes, Abbey sighed, her expression doleful and resigned. The mechanic says if we don't have them repaired now we're going to end up in a ditch if we drive the car again.
"And the man with the bank?"
No man. We just want to go to the movies. Kelly thinks the manager is cute.
Pat couldn't help the laugh that bubbled in her throat. "Well, is he?"
Abbey shrugged, waggled her hand. He was so-so.
"Does he have a brother?"
Pat, that's not fair.
"You know," she said, "I really ought to start charging you guys rent or something. But sure, why not. I'm not going anywhere tonight. I'll get Goldsmith to let me in." She fished in her pockets. "Nope. I'll bring them down later, okay? Give me a couple of minutes and I'll let you have them."
Abbey beamed. I'll pay you back.
"You do and I'll cut your throat. Just tell Kelly I want an invitation to the wedding."
A spurt of laughing applause followed her up the stairs, continued until the door shut and her coat was on the rack. Then she sighed and decided she was
hungry again, made herself a sandwich for lunch and, thinking of her breakfast, forced down a small salad. Once done, she rolled up her sleeves and went into the workroom, lost almost an hour before she remembered the keys. Telling herself she needed a break anyway, she dusted off her hands and brought the keys down to Abbey's. When she knocked, however, there was no response; when she rang the bell (which would activate a series of bulbs throughout the apartment) Abbey didn't answer. She shrugged and ran upstairs again, grabbed an envelope from the secretary in the livingroom and stuffed the keys in, put Abbey's name on it and left it on the table by the front door. Tit for tat, she thought, and grinned when she imagined what her mother would say.
"Patrice, you mean to say you actually leave your car keys right there in the foyer? Right there where anybody can pick them up and steal your car? Honestly, I just don't know what you're thinking of."
And if Pat mentioned friendship and trust and Oxrun Station, her mother would only scoff and triple-lock the penthouse door.
"Score one for Oxrun," she said as she returned to the workroom, and lost time again until the dark arms of the trees had snaked across the floor and set her eyes to blinking.
She stepped back and wiped the back of her hand over her face. It was nearly done at last. Tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow, if she could bring herself to work for another five or six hours. There were only the teeth left, and the way her eyes were stinging she knew she didn't dare attempt to do them now. One slip, one chipped tooth, and the whole thing would be ruined.
"Lucky boy, Homer," she said, returning the statuette to its place in the kitchen. "Only a few more hours and it'll be all done."
She yawned, and stretched. A nap on the sofa, she decided. An hour, and then I'll cook me some dinner.
But just as she lay down she sat up again, quickly. "Damn!" They'd done it to her again. Oliver and Ben and Harriet, by making that ill-timed telephone call and thinking that was what she'd gone over about, had sidetracked her from demanding an apology from Oliver.
And it was curious, very curious. As she recalled the confused conversation and saw Oliver standing next to the mantel, she could not bring to mind anything in his face that even hinted of guilt once the matter had been straightened out. Almost as if he'd not done it at all.
A mystery, she thought, a sudden great yawn making her jaw pop. God, I hate mysteries!
But her legs were already too relaxed to support her, her arms too heavy to do more than flop. The glove, then, was something she would have to face later. Right now she would rest. After all, it wasn't as if something had been taken, something that was hers.
And when the telephone rang, she muttered, "Go to hell," and slept.
12
THE knocking was light, and persistent. Pat didn't want to hear it, but it refused to leave, becoming louder, more frantic, adding to it the faint call of her name. She groaned and sat up, wincing at a sharp tug in the small of her back. The heels of her hands pressed hard against her eyes to drive off sleep, and what felt like a thin layer of cotton over her teeth made her want to spit. It was a stupid thing, taking a nap in the late afternoon; she never felt rested afterward, and though this was one of the few times she'd awakened without a headache she still felt as though a rubber hammer were working hard to rectify the error.
It was dark. And when she swung her legs to the floor and stood, a shin cracked against the coffee table. She swore and reached behind her, fumbling along the outline of the sofa until her hand found the brass pole of the floor lamp. A tug at the chain and both bulbs glared on, shutting her eyes against imagined pain while her free hand rubbed angrily at her leg.
"All right!" she called when the knocking started again.
She walked slowly to the door, massaging her back, her neck, shaking her head vigorously until she thought she could at least pretend successfully to be human again. She wondered at the time, certain that more than her allotted hour had passed and hoping it wasn't so late that she'd be awake until dawn because she'd slept so late now.
"All right, all right," as her hand reached for the knob and slipped off. She glowered at it, tried again, and pulled the door open. Harriet was in the hallway, coat open, hands ungloved, and her eyes puffed from hard weeping. Pat immediately reached out for her and took her into the room, closing the door softly and guiding her to the sofa. The girl slipped out of her coat awkwardly, her head stiff and her gaze steadily on the magazine pile while she swallowed several times and rubbed a trembling hand across her lips.
"Coffee," Pat said, and without giving Harriet an opportunity to protest she hurried into the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove. A choked-back sob drifted after her. She pinched hard at her cheek to bring herself more awake, drummed her fingers on the stove to hurry the boiling. There was, however, no real rush to get back; she could have guessed easily what had happened, that one of the boys had attempted something with Harriet that Harriet wasn't prepared for. For all the girl's outward worldliness in a campus situation far different from her own, she was still a small-town girl whose parents demanded values much of the rest of the student body had long since replaced with values of its own. It would come as no surprise to her to learn Harriet was still a virgin.
The water boiled, the kettle shrilled, and within minutes she had cups, sugar, and creamer on a tray.
Harriet was leafing through a magazine, looked up sheepishly and sniffed. A wadded tissue was buried in one palm.
"Drink," Pat said. "You look like you're freezing to death. My god, girl, how long have you been walking out there?"
"What time is it?" Harriet asked, holding her cup in both hands and sipping. Then she glanced at the watch on her own wrist. "Eight. About two hours, I guess. Give or take."
Pat dropped into the far corner and pulled one leg to the cushion. Watched silently, wondering if perhaps she should have added some brandy to the coffee. Harriet's face, she could see now, was less ravaged by her weeping than it was by the brutal dry cold—her cheeks were flushed as if burned, her lips cracked and chapped, her red hair tossed and tangled by too many encounters with corner-winds she hadn't bothered to duck. A glance up to the windows. Beyond, the air was black and brittle, cold just looking at it, without need of a wind to bring the temperature home.
Harriet set her cup back on the tray. "Thanks," she said.
"No problem. What's the trouble?"
The girl hunched over her legs, hands gripping her knees tightly, leaving them to clasp into a single large fist. "After you left today."
"Oh."
Harriet suddenly gestured angrily at the air. "It isn't fair! They think you owe them something. They think it's your job to make them rich and famous. All they've talked about for the past four months is that dumbass show in New York." She turned to her, and her eyes had narrowed in rage, in sorrow. "I wish you'd never brought it up, Doc, I really do. It's not that I'm ungrateful or anything, but ..." She gestured again, helplessly. "You know how they are."
Pat inhaled slowly and puffed her cheeks, blew out the breath loudly and rapidly. "I know how they used to be, yes. Assuming, of course, we're talking about the cowboy and Ben. I know they used to be eager, and enthusiastic, and they used to listen to advice even if they didn't like what they were hearing. I know they used to have a grip on the stage of their development, and they used to believe that they had a definite large slice of raw talent that needed to be directed. It goes without saying this all applies to you, too."
Harriet lifted a shoulder in an apathetic shrug. "Yeah, well, they're not that way anymore."
"Are you blaming me?"
There was no need for an answer.
"Oliver said he wouldn't have felt so stupid talking to that Mr. Curtis if you'd've taught him how to deal with people like that. He said the guy was pretty close to being rude to him, and Oliver almost hung up on him."
"Oh my god, he didn't, did he?"
Harriet shook her head. "But he said he felt like it. And he says ..." Her hands twisted in h
er lap, her head bowed.
Pat watched the display for only a moment before lifting her gaze to the windows. The lamp behind her cast little light beyond the sofa and the table, and the panes were gauzed rectangles set in winter-dark ice. It occurred to her rather incongruously that she ought to take the curtains down at least and have them cleaned before they yellowed, maybe even take the draperies to the cleaners. She couldn't remember the last time she'd done it.
Harriet was saying something, looked at her reproachfully when she realized Pat wasn't listening. Pat smiled weakly, nodded for her to continue.
"We've been arguing almost since you left, you know."
"I hope," Pat said, "someone took my side."
"I did." The pain, then, the effort it had cost her to say those two words, and Pat wanted to embrace her, to rock her, but did nothing.
"Well? I guess you're here either to warn me or ask me a favor. A little of both, right? Would you rather have some wine instead of all that caffeine?"
Harriet, startled into a brief smile, shook her head. "Ben said he was beginning to think we were getting a raw deal, that we should stop listening to everything you say and get things like shows and stuff done on our own. He said we were good enough, we must be or you wouldn't have started all this. I told him he wouldn't know the first place to start and he said he could always ask Mr. Billings. He said you weren't the only one in the world who knows how to do this stuff."
"He's right," Pat told her. "He's absolutely right. There's no reason at all why any of you should take my word as gospel, ever. As an expert, yes, but not as law." She waited, but there was no reaction. "There's more."
"Oliver wants to quit school and live in New York."
Pat opened her mouth, but the sound that broke out was more like a croak than the oath she wanted. She stood and paced out of the lamp's glow, back again and stood in front of Harriet, the table between them. "Oliver Fallchurch, if I may use my professorial rights here, is an addlepated adolescent whose grasp of the realities of the field he thinks he's chosen is virtually nonexistent in any context whatsoever.''
[Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind Page 11
