by Bud Crawford
"You're scaring me, now, but lay it on," Geoff said.
"The first edition is an unnecessary indulgence, not central. You already have the book. The possibility of discovering and bringing out a major talent is at the core of your work. Dwight's fee-for-service issue is a red herring. Read the manuscript and decide where to take it, but forget about the Pound."
"Wow," Ellen said, "you're the nicest grandmother ever!"
"Meanest!" Geoff said.
"That's enough, kids," Jerry said. "I think she's successfully deconstructed the moral structure. Ave, Honoria."
"I love that you surprise me, so many times in a day, pal-o-mine," Dwight said. "But you're correct: she's right on both."
"I'd been anticipating a couple more hours of greedy glee, and you-all have wrecked that," Geoff said. "But I'll concede the argument and lay on another one: reversed proportionality. The less the value of the new work, the more out-of-whack the reward is here; the better the work, the smaller the reward becomes. James has inverted it." He raised his glass. "Veritas in vino."
The food came and was good. The prices and descriptions ran a little ahead of the dishes, Ellen thought, but it was all pleasant, well-prepared, and tasty. Her notes were individually brief, but with so many dishes tried, ranged over the entire menu. They drank three bottles of wine, none from the estate, and talked about Biltmore.
"There's something horrible here" Dwight said, "it's such a rottenly distorted allocation. Like our current economy, everything is sucked up and concentrated into fewer and fewer hands. Bad enough such a condition exists, why build such a shameless show of it? We're so rich and helpless we need a hundred servants apiece, me and my family of three. It's awful."
"Does it matter that those servants all had jobs?" Honoria asked. "They were paid well, by the standards of the day, extremely well, by the range of local options. They could walk away, any minute they chose, and do something else."
Jerry said, "That's one of the places our politics always cross, Dwight and me. He'll measure everything by a standard of perfect fairness. I think you have to start where the world was then, what was thought to be possible, and reckon from there."
"You can also measure back from the eventual outcome," Geoff said "As it turned out, the house was built for us, the original owners having died and their descendents become our tour guides. Quite a gracious gesture, really."
Jerry said, "Something everybody's missing, there's a Popular-Mechanics-in-pinstripes aspect to this place. George was just crazy for the latest development, whether in refrigeration or laundry or forestry. He had to do everything at the absolute cutting edge. I see a gleeful little kid."
"From some of the documents we saw on this afternoon's tour," Honoria said, "a great deal of his time was spent fixing things. Those new mechanical systems were constantly being repaired, upgraded and replaced."
"Yes," Geoff said. "That's the idea I was trying to drag from my brain. The guy was reaching two opposite directions: back to the middle ages, king in his castle, and forward towards airplanes and air-conditioning."
"But," Dwight said, "all for his own comfort, not for civilization's sake."
"Somewhat for civilization," Geoff said, "so long as it kept being a civilization where he could be royally rich. A lot of science was done here."
"Remember fun," Stephanie said. "I bet even the lowest of the servants, the very bottom rung, they all had fun traipsing around the castle. It's cool here, everything else aside, it is a super-cool place."
~
Alistair leaned against the headboard and played the day back in his mind, hands clasped on his belly, a glass of Irish whiskey on the table beside him. Toni was breathing slow and regular, curled up facing away. Besides his reading lamp, only the nightlights on the stairs and entrances were lit. There was always creaking, but Juniper House was as quiet and dark as it ever was.
Some show, teatime today, Mr. James Richter and his amazing bag of tricks. Can't really call him a conman, he delivered more than he promised, unless he's just setting a hook. Pounds of truffles, not grams, pounds! Means a complete menu redo, the next several weeks. How to get the word out? Neon sign flashing over the door? Radio spots?
Marti's with him now, is that what he was paying for? I want to fuck your daughter, here's some mushrooms? Use of the parlor, is what he said, plus an occasional visit for dessert or tea. Marti's an adult, it's not my job to run her sex life. Anything takes her away from that creep Seth, even for a night, is a good thing. Hope she makes it back for breakfast tomorrow. She'll have to jump out of bed around four-thirty, not so easy when your romantic evening starts at midnight. I can manage, Toni will help, long as nobody sees her. The orchid seeds, for Toni, what were they supposed to buy him?
Don't know why that book was so special. Rare and worth a lot of money, I guess. Geoffrey can keep it if he gets some other book published? Something like that. The presents for the ladies, just laying groundwork? He wants Ellen to do something she doesn't want to, I think, in order to get something that she does want. The invention of money was supposed to end all this. Lots easier to keep up with, lots easier to count. He had Harold's coins in the safe, along with Geoff's book. The coins were a money deal if his eavesdropping, between intervals of serving, had picked up correctly. So he does do money, sometimes.
He hurts Marti, I hurt him more. I hope he understands a little fungus doesn't change that. I'll feed those truffles down his throat, piece by piece, and grind pate from his liver. He smiled at the image, finished his whiskey, killed the light, and snuggled down against his lover's rump.
~
"Really?" Ellen asked. They were alone in their room, almost in bed.
"Really," Geoff said. "I'm fine. If I truly have to have that book, I can buy it, but it isn't important. I have three letters from Pound, addressed to precocious little-boy-me, from Rapallo. Actual personal letters from the crazy rotten bastard saint himself. Here and there, in spots, they're even vaguely responsive to things I'd asked. Those represent, for me, a real treasure. The other is an artificial treasure based on a large number of bidders for a small number of objects. It would be cool, it's a genuine temptation. But declining it frees me to help the girl get her book printed, or not, based just on her book."
"How fine are you with me getting my interview?"
"More fine. Meachum is yours by right, honestly earned. The book is not mine. A life well-lived must be rich with regrets. Maybe if you weren't sitting way over there, my regrets would sting less. Perhaps you could bring across a little solace?"
"Will underwear help?" Ellen asked.
"Not especially."
~
Fresh wild flowers smiled from a soup can on the kitchen table; candles fluttered on either side; soft music swirled from a little CD player. James hugged her, gently but thoroughly, then pulled out a chair, set a dish of manicotti on the table, and poured red wine into two glasses.
He lifted his glass to hers. "How was your drive, pretty lady?"
I figured he'd already be on top of me, Marti thought, clinking glasses and sipping the wine, I was ready for it. But this is much nicer, classier. I hadn't realized I was hungry. He is good. "Easy," she said, "your directions made it easy." She took a bite. "This stuff is delicious."
chapter sixteenth — thursday
Thursday's breakfast, Ellen thought, was just as sumptuous and just as scrumptious as the day before. You will never utter or write that phrase, she promised herself. But for a fruit course of roasted peach halves, dusted with flakes of ginger; an egg course, scrambled with smoked salmon, enoki mushrooms and fresh mozzarella; and a sweet finale of honey/pumpkin/banana bread with fresh cream cheese — what would the adult phrase be? Later, it will come to me later; first let's have one more slice.
"You know, Alistair really knows how to kill conversation." Ellen tried to make the swipe of napkin as ladylike as possible.
"But in such a lovely way." Honoria was sitting with Ellen and Geoff and Ha
rold and Andy Ross. The Herberts had grabbed bagels and fruit from the sideboard and driven off early to go spelunking in Madison County. Dwight and Jerry were by themselves. Stephanie had sat down with the Farley sisters. Harold did not look pleased. Ellen remembered he'd said last night, that they still creeped him out, the way they sat so close, always touching, always plotting, always so quiet. It was even worse that they were sisters. Ellen tried to think of something about them that she found offensive.
Marti looked a little the worse for wear this morning. Ellen watched her collect dishes from the tables. Rode hard, put away wet: hair clumped and stringy, dark circles not made up. She still managed to make Harold jump when she reached across for his plate. It was a lot of freckled cleavage to have a couple inches from your nose, she had to agree with Harold on that. Did she really know the girl well enough to know about the studs sideways through her nipples? And that they weren't there yesterday? Why was Alistair so indulgent? Marti seemed a train-wreck in waiting, certainly for herself, possibly for Juniper House. Must be family, his, not Antonia's.
"When I stare at a girl's chest like that, you usually say something derogatory." Geoff startled her. Not only her — Honoria snorted and Ross choked a little on his coffee.
"I'm a professional observer. It's my job is to review all aspects of service and presentation." Ellen smiled at her tablemates.
Ross said, "That's a line to remember. I bet I find a use for it before the week is out." He stood up. "But I was supposed to be working half-an-hour ago and I don't think I can blame it on traffic, when my boss knows it's a six-block walk. Till tea time, if I can get loose. Ladies, gents." Ellen watched him cross the room, speak briefly to Alistair, and leave. I don't believe him, she thought, as the door closed behind him, wondering what she meant.
Harold stood, excused himself, and said something to Stephanie before he went upstairs. He still seemed a little nonplussed, Ellen thought.
Honoria said, "So, Ellen, what are you up to today? Back to Biltmore, more city tours?"
"Nothing organized this morning, I'm going to be in the library. A bunch of things came up yesterday that I need to dig into a little. I don't want to be wrong about simple facts. Might go to the newspaper — remember we drove by? — if the library doesn't have complete archives. And there's a bookstore just up the street from the Library, Malaprops, supposed to have a good regional section. It's notebook-filling time. Do you have plans?"
"Indeed, yes. I'm spending the day sitting down, after all the tramping about downtown we did on Monday and yesterday at Biltmore. It's my correspondence catch-up day. I have notes to write, pen and paper notes, and some emails. Most of the younger acquaintances are uncomfortable deciphering my inky spider-webs, especially when they take several days in transit. They don't understand how waiting heightens things. I have to address them in a manner they can accept." She brushed her lips with her napkin, set it on the table, smoothed her dress, and folded her hands in her lap.
Now, that's what I had in mind with the napkin, Ellen thought, ladylike. Lost it years ago, probably training for the discus.
Honoria looked at Geoff, "More papers to mark, for you?"
"Mark up, I call it. I like to think my comments are more important than the grade, but I know that's not how my students see it. Today's story day: short stories, sixteen of them, from undergrads, juniors, all girl."
Ellen said, "Scary."
"What's scary?" Stephanie sat with her coffee cup in Andy Ross's seat.
"Entering the imaginary universes of multiple young women," Ellen said. "Geoff will not be the same person, come teatime, he'll be darker, strangely moody, and he won't have to shave for a week. I've seen it so many times."
"I'll be counting the hours till tea," Stephanie said. "Meanwhile I'm off to shop. We passed twenty-two dress shops, the other day. I mean that I counted twenty-two, I'm sure there are more."
"Is Harold going along to admire your good taste?" Ellen asked.
"No, he said he needs a few more hours to work out the James stuff, the fees thing." Stephanie finished her coffee and set the cup down.
"We all better get going, then." Geoff stood up, stiffened. "Platoon, 'tention! Platoon, dismissed! Go, soldiers, go!"
Alistair stepped back into the dining room. "That takes a body back. Army man eh? I was a marine. Well, as we say, semper is semper, I am a marine, even thirty years on."
"Walk you across the bridge, Stef?" Ellen stood. "The room's suddenly awash with hormonal overcompensation."
Stephanie got up, smiling, and shook out her skirt. "I've always been fond of those hormones, I grew up with three brothers. But, twenty boutiques to hit before lunch, I'd better get in gear."
"I'll get my stuff, see you here?' Ellen said to Stephanie.
"Yeah, five minutes? I want to make sure Harold's okay."
Geoff followed Ellen and Stephanie up the stairs. Alistair trying to speak softly, Geoff realized, could be more audible than his normal boom, vehemence more compelling than volume.
"Marti," Alistair said, "come in the office a minute."
chapter seventeenth
"Dear child," Alistair said, "you know you have to take some measure of responsibility for the reactions other people have to you?" He held Marti by her shoulder, facing him, reached his other hand to lift her chin. "And don't say you don't know what I'm talking about."
"It's that little prig, isn't it?" Marti shook her shoulder free and stepped back, but continued looking up at Alistair.
"Yeah, but not only him. You're a beautiful young woman. It's never a bad thing to share your youth and beauty with an always aging and not always pretty world. Someday you'll be glad somebody shares with you. But, here at the inn, we're trying to give people a pleasant couple of days. Feed them, be nice, pamper a little. UPS takes boxes across the country, podiatrists fix bunions, we give breakfast, tea, and pretty bedrooms."
"I'm not stupid, you know." Marti untied and pulled off her apron. "I try to be polite and friendly and I change bed sheets and wash dishes and serve the food and most people who come here like me."
"They do. It's the difficult ones I'm talking about."
"But this is me." Marti ran her hands down from her armpits, in at the waist, out at the hips. "You know? I can't hide it."
"Not hiding. Not denying. But, also not thrusting into faces. You know what I mean?"
"More fabric, looser fit, less style." Marti scowled, then she smiled.
"Bingo," Alistair smiled back.
"Only for work, right?"
"Of course, only. I don't stop caring what happens when you're not here, but you're a grownup, in a nineteen-year-old way, and you gotta live your life. I understand. Come to me, kid, anytime you need an old man's help. Like advice about dumping that brainless boyfriend, for instance. Or being real careful with handsome strangers." He held up his hand. "But I won't say a word unless asked."
"Yessir, stepper-daddy. I call you first. Now, how about I clean some rooms before all our guests get back?" She stepped in and hugged Alistair, her arms about the level of his waist.
Toni had just come into the kitchen from the workshop. "Aw, ain't you sweet. You-all remember whatever you did to get to this."
"Hi, Toni, I'm going to go snag some sheets." She turned, walked through the parlor, and climbed the left stairs, two at a time.
chapter eighteenth
Harold had just settled at the desk and logged on to his laptop when a quick knock at the room door was followed almost immediately by the door opening. He jumped up as Marti pulled her cart through the door. The folder that had been perched on his lap fell, scattering pages on the floor. "Don't you know enough to knock?" Marti was as startled as he was, he realized, and relaxed slightly.
"Sorry, sir, I thought you had gone out. I did knock, but I should have waited, sorry I barged in. I can come back later."
She may actually be blushing, Harold thought, though it's hard to tell, her skin is so dark. "No, go ahead, I'll be i
n here all morning. You may as well get it done." He knelt to pick up the pages he'd dropped. Marti stepped forward and squatted down to help.
"No, I'm fine. I've got it." He looked at her as he spoke, and blushed hot as he found himself staring one more time into the deep freckled valley between her breasts. "I've got it."
Marti stood and stepped past him to the bed. She pulled off the blanket, stripped the sheets, and took a fresh set from her cart. She crossed between Harold and the bed, he was sitting again, facing his computer. They changed bedding every three days, unless the guests asked: Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday, Thursday was the day in here. She crossed back and forth, tugged and tucked things straight, fluffed the pillows and set them on top of the cover. She crossed a final time behind Harold and set pillows on the other side. Down the short hall, into the bathroom, she put the wet towels into her hamper and fresh ones on the rack. She wiped the sink and the counter top, sprayed Lysol on the rim and seat of the toilet, checked the complimentary cosmetics, tissues, toilet paper, quick-mopped the floor with the damp bathmat and set out a fresh one. I need to tell Toni about that toilet, it isn't shutting off. Constant little hissy whine, kind of like mister sad-sack there in the other room. She stifled a giggle.
