Superstition

by David Ambrose

  It crossed her mind that it would be an extraordinary coincidence if the tenth guest turned out to be Ralph Cazaubon. The thought had barely flashed through her consciousness before she dismissed it as absurd, and then reproached herself for entertaining the idea at all. Why had she thought of him? She didn't know him, and probably never would. And even if she did, there would almost certainly turn out to be something about him that she couldn't bear.

  She remembered with an uneasy sense of deja vu that she had thought the same way about Sam before getting involved-with him. Was it some kind of mental process she went through before admitting to herself that she found someone attractive? Had it always been like that? She thought back to previous affairs, and couldn't find a pattern.

  Anyway, why was she even thinking like this? In spite of all that had happened, she knew it wasn't over with Sam. The thought of him brought a fond smile to her lips. It had done her good to get away from everything, but she realized now how much she missed him and wanted to see him again.

  It was a relief when the doorbell rang and Ned showed the tenth guest into the room, a retired interior decorator called Algernon, a sweet gay man she had known for years.

  All the same, she found herself asking Isabel Carlisle if she had ever met a man called Ralph Cazaubon in the neighborhood. Ned and Isabel were very sociable and knew practically everyone. Isabel frowned.

  “Cazaubon? No, I'm sure I'd have remembered an unusual name like that. Are you sure he lives here?”

  “He rents a place. I don't know how much time he spends here.”

  Isabel thought a moment more, then shook her head. “I'm afraid it doesn't ring a bell at all.”

  36

  Sunday morning was as crisp and bright as the previous day, but with a few tufts of white cloud drifting high across the sky.

  Joanna called up her old friends Annie and Bruce Murdock, who ran the riding school, to see if they could fix her up with a horse for a couple of hours. It was no problem. She pulled on jeans and a couple of sweaters and drove over in her mother's car. Twenty minutes later, after cantering up through forest, she broke into a gallop on the long grassy ridge that led toward a dramatic outcrop of rock that seemed about to swoop out over the valley, and which was aptly named Eagle Rock.

  It was there, still at full gallop, that she became aware of another rider converging at an angle. It was obvious that they were both headed for the same spot. Then, as they drew closer together, he waved. She recognized Ralph Cazaubon. They slowed to a trot and rode side by side.

  “Fine horse,” she said, with a nod toward the impressive stallion he was riding. “Is he yours?”

  “Yep!” He patted the gleaming chestnut neck. “This is Duke.”

  “Where do you keep him?”

  “Oh, he's taken care of on a farm near me. Has a fine, easy life, don't you, Duke, old boy?”

  The horse tossed his head as though in acknowledgment.

  “What farm?” she said. “Maybe I know them.”

  “I doubt it. Family called Waterford?”

  She shook her head. “You know, you're something of a mystery man,” she said. “First of all you disappear yesterday morning just as I wanted to introduce you to my friend Clare Sexton-who'll find you all the yellow ocher you want, and more. Then last night I asked Isabel Carlisle if she knew you, and she didn't-and Isabel knows everybody within a twenty-mile radius of this place, and their family histories.”

  He laughed. “I told you I just rent a place. And when I'm here I'm not very sociable.”

  “What do you do? Lock yourself in your cabin and write poetry?”

  “Close. Actually I write music.”

  “You're a composer? How interesting. What kind of music do you write?”

  “Unperformed operas mostly.” He gave a wry grin and looked over at her. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  She was surprised by the question, but he pulled a thermos from his jacket like a conjuror producing a white rabbit. They dismounted in the lee of Eagle Rock, protected from the wind. The thermos had a double top and he filled them both. The coffee tasted good, and they sipped it enjoying the freshness of the air and the silence broken only by the wind and the chink of their horses’ harnesses as they grazed on the short, fibrous grass.

  “So,” she said, “I suppose these unperformed operas are subsidized by TV jingles, movie scores, and stuff like that.”

  He laughed apologetically. “Not exactly. To be honest, I'm kind of indulging myself. I inherited a little money, got lucky in the market, and now I do the one thing I really enjoy. But I'm hoping to make it pay some day. How about you?”

  She told him briefly about her job on the magazine, the kind of thing she wrote, although she didn't mention Camp Starburst or anything about the Adam story. He knew of Around Town, though he didn't read it, but he said he'd make a point of picking up a copy soon and looking for her byline.

  After that they were silent for a while, looking out over the valley as they finished their coffee. It was a desolate, dramatic spot, with few signs of civilization, just a scattering of farms, some isolated houses, and a small stone church on a hillside opposite.

  As they watched, a congregation of no more than twelve or fifteen people emerged and got into a handful of vehicles parked by the churchyard gates. The priest came out after them, tall and thin in his black cassock, and climbed onto an ancient motorbike that popped and sputtered down the track and out of sight.

  “That's a little unusual, isn't it?” Ralph said thoughtfully.

  “A priest on a motorbike? Not especially.”

  “No-I mean a church made of stone in this part of the world.”

  “You'll find them, not that many.”

  “Do you know that church?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I've ridden past it, never paid it much attention.”

  “Me neither. I'd be curious to take a closer look. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  They remounted, and twenty minutes later, having descended steeply to a stream and climbed the far side, they cantered to the gate of the now empty churchyard, left their horses, and strolled to the tiny building's wooden doors. It was even smaller than it looked from a distance, hardly more than a chapel.

  “Mid-eighteenth-century by the looks of it,” Ralph said as they entered. “Yep, there we are-1770.” He pointed to a carving on the inside lintel.

  After a few moments Joanna wandered back outside, while Ralph remained interested by some of the interior details. She looked around at the graves, on the whole remarkably well kept, but with their headstones tilted to odd angles as the earth that they were planted in had settled over the years. The inscriptions were all well worn, some of them impossible to decipher. It struck her as odd that so few people seemed to have been buried there in recent years. Then she saw that there was another part on the far side of a dividing wall, empty but for a handful of new graves at one end. The part that she was in, the older part, was long since full.

  She became curious about just how far back the earliest graves went. The inscription in the church said 1770, but she had already noticed one headstone bearing the date of death as 1753, or 8; it was too worn by the elements to be sure, but suggested that there may have been a previous, even smaller church on the site before the present one.

  The oldest graves were all arranged along one side of the yard. At least a dozen of those headstones were totally illegible, but as she worked her way along she found the names and dates beginning to emerge as though from the mists of time. They were all carved from the same stone, and little prior to 1760 had survived two centuries of wind and rain.

  It was then that she saw a name that stopped her in her tracks and took her breath away. Faint but unmistakable beneath a gray-green mossy growth were five letters that spelled “Wyatt.”

  Without taking her eyes from the word, she approached cautiously, as though it might be some land of trap. She reached out and dusted some of
the encrusted deposit from the stone.

  JOSEPH WYATT

  1729–1794

  Beloved Husband of Clarissa

  Below that, obviously added later, she read:

  CLARISSA WYATT

  1733–1797

  Wife of Joseph Wyatt

  There was another line, obscured by dirt and grass in need of trimming. Her heart was in her mouth as she wiped it clean, and the words appeared:

  Mother of Adam

  The whinny of a horse a few yards away made her spin around. Both animals were suddenly restless and stamping their feet as though something had disturbed them-a rabbit or hare breaking cover, perhaps. There was nothing she could see.

  She turned back to the grave, but her gaze fell, as though by chance but with such certitude as made her feel it had been guided there, upon another. How she could have missed it before was inexplicable. It seemed, now that she saw it, to obliterate all else in her field of vision.

  It had a carved and beveled tombstone running the full length of the grave. The stone itself was darker than the others, a kind of slate gray, finer grained and more resistant to the weather. More than just a simple grave, it was a monument to its occupant.

  The inscription on the side was simple and plain to see.

  ADAM WYATT

  1761–1840

  “ Joie de Vivre ”

  She felt a sudden weakness in her legs and fell leadenly to her knees. Her hand reached out, unable to trust the evidence of her eyes until her fingers touched the lettering in the stone.

  As they did, something happened inside her. It was as though a void had opened up at the center of her being and she had disappeared into it. She lost all sense of who she was or why she was there, even of what had just happened. It was a kind of instant, but total and petrifying, amnesia.

  It was shock, of course. Just shock. The word pounded in her mind until she grabbed onto it and used it as a lifeline to haul herself back up from the abyss she had plunged into.

  Only then did she become aware of Ralph kneeling at her side, peering into her face, concerned at what he saw there. She had not heard him approach, and now she realized he was trying to ask her something, but his words made no sense. Slowly her eyes focused on him, and with an act of will she spoke.

  “I'm sorry…”

  The words came out suddenly, as though she was apologizing for something she'd done, though she wasn't sure what. She struggled to get up, and he helped her to her feet. She brushed her clothing automatically and pushed her hair back from her face.

  “Something's wrong,” he said. “Tell me.”

  She shook her head. It was less a refusal to answer than a plea that he not press the question. She was too confused, she couldn't think.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, “I have to go. I have to go now. I'm sorry.”

  “Look, if there's anything I can do…”

  But she was already striding swiftly from the graveyard. He watched as she mounted her horse, wheeled about, and rode off at a gallop. She didn't look back once.

  It was almost, he thought, as though she was afraid to.

  37

  She didn't have her mobile phone with her, so she stopped off at a pay phone on the way back from the stables. Sam wasn't home, but she left a message on his machine saying that she had to see him urgently. She told him which train she would be on and asked him to meet her at the station if he could.

  Fortunately she had told her parents that she would be returning to Manhattan on Sunday evening, so it wasn't a big problem explaining why she'd have to leave a little earlier than anticipated. She made up some story about having work to finish for an editorial meeting in the morning.

  Somehow she managed to keep the performance going through lunch, which was just herself and her parents. She talked a lot to avoid having them ask questions, any land of questions. She didn't refer to the morning except to say that she'd ridden well and “blown the cobwebs away.” She didn't mention her meeting with Ralph Cazaubon and only hoped that neither of her parents would run into him by some perverse chance and learn what had happened. She felt that her mother still suspected, as she had on the Friday night when Joanna arrived, that something was not quite as it should be, though she had chosen not to pry. But there was a special warmth and a kind of anxiety in her embrace when they parted later.

  “Look after yourself, darling. Come back soon, won't you?”

  “Of course I will. It's been lovely. And I'm glad you had such a good time in Europe.”

  She picked up her bag and turned to go. Her father was waiting in the car to drive her to the station. She could see him through the open door, but she couldn't get to him because Skip was suddenly there, barring her way by jumping and circling and barking hysterically.

  “Skip, what is it, what's the matter?” She reached down to stroke him. He wagged his tail at the contact, but he wouldn't be consoled. Still he barked and jumped and blocked her path whenever she tried to pass through the door.

  “Stop that! Come here! Skip!”

  The dog ignored Elizabeth Cross's order.

  “Skippy,” Joanna laughed, setting down her bag and catching the prancing dog's paws in her hands, “what's wrong with you? I'll come back soon, I promise.”

  Her father was out of the car now, holding open the door. “Come on, Skip, you can come with us. Come on-in the back.”

  But the dog didn't want to get into the car-didn't want anything, apparently, except to prevent Joanna from leaving the house. Finally he had to be pushed back and forcibly shut in the hall. Even then he continued barking and scratching at the door.

  “Separation trauma,” Joanna suggested as she drove off with her father. “He's afraid we're all going to go away and leave him with the neighbors again.”

  “Nonsense,” Bob Cross snorted. “He had a better time with George and Naomi and the children than he does at home. I'm getting a Labrador next time, all terriers are nuts.”

  When they reached the station, her father got out of the car and walked her to the barrier, carrying her bag the way he always did. When they parted, he looked at her solemnly for a moment and said, “You take care now.” Then he kissed her.

  She hugged him, told him she loved him, thanked him for everything, and hurried to her train, which was already waiting at the platform.

  As soon as she got off at Grand Central, she saw Sam waiting for her at the barrier. They kissed, he took her bag, and they walked to where he'd parked his car, which he only ever used in Manhattan on weekends.

  “So,” he said, “what's the story?”

  She sighed, rested her head against the back of her seat, and told him what had happened.

  He listened in silence. By the time she'd finished he was pulling into Beekman Place, where he found a spot and parked. He switched off the engine and they sat in silence awhile.

  “Well…?” she said eventually, looking at him for some response.

  He stared straight ahead through the windshield. “You're going to accuse me of being in denial again.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, “I'll live with it.”

  “Let's go inside. I wouldn't turn down a large vodka on the rocks.”

  Five minutes later he clinked the ice in his glass and stood by the window, gazing out as he brought his thoughts into focus.

  “There's a couple of things that strike me. First, you say you've never been in that churchyard before. But you've lived around there all your life, or most of it. Who can say there wasn't some time in your childhood, an Easter service or a family picnic or whatever, something you've forgotten about-at least consciously?”

  “But that means I would have had to invent Adam on my own, whereas in fact it was a group thing.”

  She leaned back on the sofa and twirled a glass of tonic in her hands.

  “Well, maybe this hidden memory of yours was communicated telepathically or by some kind of suggestion to the rest of the group.”

  She lifted a skeptical
eyebrow. “Okay. Next idea?”

  “Maybe Adam Wyatt was a real historical figure that we'd all heard of but forgotten about, until he came up from our subconscious when we needed somebody.”

  “But we checked and rechecked in every possible reference book. There was no mention of an Adam Wyatt anywhere.”

  “Not in connection with Lafayette and the French Revolution. Maybe we made that connection.”

  “The French connection-because he went around saying ‘Joie de vivre’ all the time, I suppose!”

  Sam looked down into his drink, as though half hoping to find an answer there. Failing, he was gracious in defeat. “You're right-I'm in denial.”

  She smiled, and tipped her head toward the space on the sofa next to her. He sat down, then leaned over and kissed her.

  “I'm glad you're back,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  They kissed again. Then he leaned back alongside her, his head next to hers, both of them staring at the ceiling. After a while she said softly, “Sam…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What the fuck have we done?”

  “What we've done,” he said quietly, “is create something- someone — in the past who didn't exist until we thought of him.”

  There was a silence, as though he had thrown down a challenge and was awaiting her response.

  “You know something?” she said. “Even if it's true I don't believe it.”

  He gave a thin smile and pushed himself up from the sofa. “Don't take my word for it. ‘The existence of things consists of their being perceived.’ That's Bishop Berkeley, talking philosophy three hundred years ago. ‘The stuff of the world is mind stuff.’ That's Arthur Eddington, talking quantum physics this century. ‘The past has no existence except as it is recorded in the present.’ That's another physicist, John Wheeler, one of Roger's generation. ‘The universe is an inextricably linked loop.’ That's the astronomer Fred Hoyle. They're all saying the same thing-that there's a connection between consciousness and whatever it's conscious of. When we look at something, we're looking at something we've partly created.”