Listen to the Shadows

by Joan Hall Hovey

  The New Yorker smelled faintly of Jonathan’s aftershave and of showroom newness. Katie let herself sink against the plush upholstery. Jonathan switched on the ignition, and the big car purred to life. The same yellow sedan they had crawled behind on the way here led them back the way they had come, down and through and finally out of the cemetery.

  Out on the highway, Jonathan felt a rush of relief like fresh air. After driving awhile, he switched on the radio, turning the dial until he found a station playing classical music—Chopin. He turned it low. Beside him, Katie appeared to be asleep. Her lashes shadowed her pale cheeks.

  The familiar stains of piano , together with the rolling wheels on pavement, had lulled Katie into the gray zone between sleep and consciousness. Never before in her life had she felt so completely drained, both in mind and body. She almost wished she would never have to wake up. She thought of Peter. Would he be all right? Maybe Jonathan would talk to him. That was foolish: he couldn’t very well go about solacing patients. It would be different if he knew Peter. And certainly Peter would resent such presumptuousness.

  Because she’d closed her eyes even before they’d left the cemetery, Katie had no way of knowing that once through the iron gates, Jonathan, rather than turning left, had taken a right turn, and that now they were heading in the direction opposite to Black Lake.

  Her beige leather purse clutched in her lap like some childhood security toy, Katie sank gradually deeper into sleep, oblivious to how, little by little, her head had dropped down and down until it now rested comfortably on Jonathan’s shoulder.

  It seemed to her she’d slept only minutes when the jostling over bumps and ruts in the road drew her partly awake. They must be getting close to home, she thought. Even so, with Jonathan’s car so much bigger and newer than her own, the ride was smoother than she could remember. Suddenly conscious of the feel of soft wool fabric pressed against her cheek, she eased herself with a small moan to a new position, pretending to be still asleep.

  At last the car slowed, and moments later came to a full stop. She was home. She heard the motor cut to silence, heard Jonathan’s door open, then shut with the softest click. Reluctantly, wishing the drive could have gone on and on into infinity, Katie willed herself fully awake and opened her eyes. And stared out the window. Expecting to be greeted by her own familiar surroundings—the blaze of maples, the lake, the brown house on the hill—it both startled and bewildered her to see that they were parked in front of a ranch-style house built entirely of logs, smack in the middle of the woods. Her gaze traveled to the side of the house where more logs had been cut and stacked for firewood. Beneath the huge picture window facing her, a red shiny wet wheelbarrow lay on its side.

  The passenger door opened, and Jonathan was standing with a tentative smile on his face, offering his hand. “Welcome to Stoneybrook,” he said with a note of self-conscious pride. “This is home. At least when I can manage to get out here. I thought you might like to see—my own haven from the world.”

  Awed by the beauty of her surroundings, and not yet recovered from the shock of finding herself here, in fact disoriented as though she were still asleep and dreaming, she stepped mutely from the car, her hand in Jonathan’s.

  Here and there on the forest floor, patches of snow sparkled in the sunlight slanting through the trees. Not as many maples here as at Black Lake, but instead a forest of fir and pine and cedar interspersed with bright ambers and golds among the evergreens, their branches still laden with clumps of newly fallen snow. The air was crisp and fragrant with woodsy smells, blending with that of newly-sawn lumber.

  “It’s a little rough underfoot,” he apologized, as Katie stepped carefully over sprawling tangled roots the size of arms, and fallen branches. “There’s still a lot of work to do. More trees to clear away, some landscaping. Maybe a bit of lawn, some flowers. There’s not too much more I can do until spring.” He slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

  “You built this place?” Katie said, the first words she’d spoken since they arrived.

  “Mmm hmm. Step into my humble abode, m’lady.” He bowed and gave a grand sweep of his hand.

  Inside, the first thing that struck Katie was the warmth that greeted them. She’d been unconsciously prepared for that same bone-chilling, damp cold of her own house when the fires had been out for awhile.

  “Electrically heated,” Jonathan said as though reading her thoughts. “We’re really not all that far from the main road—maybe half a mile. This place has all the conveniences of modern civilization.” He flashed a devilish grin. “You see, I’m only half Indian.”

  Despite her heavy mood, Katie smiled. “This is a beautiful room,

  Jonathan,” she said, taking in the warm honey-glow of natural wood walls and floor, the beamed ceiling, the rich earth tones of good but simple, comfortable furniture, all of it enhanced by splashes of colorful Indian artifacts and hanging green plants. “I can’t imagine anyone ever wanting to leave this place.”

  His face lit with pleasure and, she thought, relief. It surprised her that Jonathan would need anyone’s approval until she remembered that his confidence had been badly shaken recently. Her gaze moved to the mantel over the huge stone fireplace to her left, and to the photographs she saw there. Jonathan’s family? Lona? She resisted taking a closer look.

  “Oh, I hardly think a log cabin in the middle of the woods is every woman’s dream house,” Jonathan was saying, smiling at her.

  “Well, this is hardly just a log cabin, and you know it.” And then she thought of her mother and knew Jonathan was right. “Considering where I live,” she said, “it’s pretty safe to assume I like trees—and the privacy.”

  “And the quiet.”

  She grinned. “You know perfectly well the woods aren’t quiet. Not if you really listen.” Her attention was taken with the bookcase facing them, which took up most of one wall. “I see you like to read.”

  “When I can find the time.”

  He followed her to the bookshelves, standing so close that Katie caught the remembered, faint scent of his aftershave and of Jonathan himself. She had an almost overwhelming urge to turn around and let herself move into his arms, knowing how good it would feel just to have him hold her. She concentrated instead on the books. Those on the top shelves were devoted to psychiatry, and beneath them books on Indian culture—art, medicine, religion.

  From eye-level on down she noted the revered names of Shakespeare, Maugham, Poe, Twain, Fitzgerald, Hemingway…All the classics were there. Her fingers traced their spines like the features of old friends. “Have you read all these?”

  “Most of them over the years. I’m also a big whodunit buff.

  Agatha Christie is one of my favorites.”

  “Really? She was my Aunt Katherine’s favorite, too.”

  “What about you, Katherine? What do you like to read?” A casual question, but there was intensity in his eyes. He really wanted to know.

  It seemed so strange that they should be standing here so calmly discussing books when only an hour before they’d been attending Jason’s funeral. Katie gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Just about anything. But I suppose I’m partial to the biographies of great artists—and historical romances.”

  “The ones that end happily?” His eyes teased her. “Here, let me take your coat. You sit and relax, and I’ll make us a little supper.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t eat anything, Jonathan.”

  “Some tea, then.” He led her to the Boston rocker by the window, with its velvet, burnt orange cushions. “This was my mother’s chair,” he said, and touched the lace collar of Katie’s silk, ivory-colored blouse. “Very pretty,” he said. “Suits you.” And then he was gone.

  Closing her eyes, curling her stockinged feet up under her, Katie thought how peaceful it was here, how beautiful. The house smelled of varnish and something lemony. She could hear Jonathan moving about in the kitchen, and the sound was comforting. As Katie began to rock in
the chair, the house seemed slowly to wrap itself around her.

  Soon, she opened her eyes and looked about her, knowing that all along she’d been half-searching for some sign of Lona’s having been here. There was none visible. Lona must be neat, she thought, and the now familiar stab of jealousy made her impatient with herself.

  She was studying the wall-hanging to the right of the door when Jonathan entered with a tray, which he placed on the round coffee table inset with colored, polished stones.

  She trailed her fingers over the smooth surface. “Did you make this, too?”

  “Yes. I got the idea when I was hauling stones for the fireplace. Do you like it?”

  “Very much. I was also admiring your wall-hanging. It looks hand-woven.”

  He raised his eyes to the Indian version of Madonna and Child. “It is. My mother’s work.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She thought of her own rendering of Madonna and Child. It was one of the few paintings she’d been reluctant to sell.

  “Yes,” he said, sliding the tray of assorted cheeses, cold meats and fruits toward her. “Have something. You’ll feel better.”

  “You always seem to be feeding me,” she said, selecting a small square of cheese, nibbling at it. “Lona must really love this place,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  He looked briefly surprised, then he laughed. “Lona? Lona wouldn’t be caught dead out here in ‘the sticks,’ as she calls it. No.

  I’m afraid my little Lona is thoroughly citified.”

  The cheese turned to chalk-dust in her mouth. “Oh, I just assumed when she called…” But Katie was remembering her own call, and how she’d hung up after hearing Lona ask Jon darling to bring her her drink.

  “She was calling from my apartment in town,” he said easily, plucking a blue grape from the bunch and popping it into his mouth. “I need a place close to the hospital—or I did. Lona stays with me whenever she’s between plays—or lovers.” He grinned and shook his head. “I expect they’re both one and the same.”

  Katie reached for a Ritz Cracker, stared at it and wished she could put it back. “She’s an actress, then?” she said, thoroughly confused. Between lovers? Jonathan hardly seemed the type to be so liberal-minded. But then, how well did she really know him? She ate the cracker. “Lona must really be something.”

  Jonathan looked amused. “Oh, yes, she is that, all right.”

  Yes, that’s what she’d heard in her voice—that phony theatrical way of speaking some actors took on, she thought, with enjoyed malice.

  “And I guess you and Lona have what they call in our modern society—an open relationship?” Why was she pursuing this? She couldn’t seem to stop herself. It didn’t help her mood when Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. She writhed inwardly, wondering what he found in her question that was so damned, hilariously funny.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked, seeing her shift around in the chair. “We could move to the sofa.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Her smile was strained.

  He brought her tea from the kitchen in a stone mug. “It’s made from a special blend of herbs. You might have to acquire a taste.”

  With a thatch of dark hair fallen across his forehead, his tie gone and his shirt sleeves rolled up, he looked disturbingly handsome, and

  Katie lowered her eyes to the sherry-colored tea. She sipped it, wondering if Jonathan knew she was in love with him. How often she had heard her mother say, “You can always tell when Katie’s lying; it’s written all over her face.” She hated being so obvious.

  The tea tasted bitter as balsam. “It’s good,” she lied.

  He was regarding her thoughtfully, seated across from her. “Drink it all, then. It’ll relax you.”

  “Have you been working on the house for a long time?” she asked, anxious to return to a safer topic, and sensing that he enjoyed talking about this special place he had carved out of the forest.

  “Over a year now. A couple of hours here—a few weekends there.”

  In some ways, like now when talking about his house, he reminded her of a small boy—vulnerable, anxious to please, shyly proud of his accomplishment. She decided there were many sides to Jonathan Shea, much like a prism, each depending on a certain angle of light. She also suspected a dark side to Jonathan, of which, up to now, she’d only glimpsed.

  She drank a little more of the tea. Oddly, it didn’t seem so bitter now. “You’ve never been married, have you?” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to pull them out of the air. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I didn’t mean to pry. I…”

  He waved off her apology. “No, it’s okay. Actually, I did come close once, but the lady had dreams of being the wife of a big name psychiatrist with a fabulous, as Constance termed it, practice in Boston. Not a bad dream, I suppose, but unfortunately, not one we shared.” He speared a triangle of ham and rolled it around his fork.

  “Or perhaps fortunately,” he added, before eating it.

  “Did you love her very much?” Boy, she was really on a roll. She might just as well have a spotlight glaring down on the poor man’s head. Why were her lips feeling so numb? Katie drained the few remaining drops of tea, then sat the mug, which had grown too heavy to hold, down on the table. She was having some difficulty keeping her eyes open.

  “I thought I did,” Jonathan said in answer to her question, seeming not to mind that she had asked it. “For a while.” He leaned forward in his chair, his face suddenly alight with enthusiasm. “Tell me,

  Katherine, do you like to fish?”

  “Fish?” The question caught her so by surprise, she laughed. “I really don’t know. I haven’t done any fishing.”

  “Oh, but you must. It keeps one out of analysis. There’s a lovely little brook not ten minutes from here where the trout practically jump up on your hook.” Then softly, “I’d really like to take you sometime.”

  For a moment Katie could think of no reply, and then she wanted to ask him if Lona liked to fish, but guessed that if she wouldn’t be caught dead “in the sticks,” it wasn’t likely she did.

  “It sounds like it might be fun,” she said, blinking as Jonathan’s face swam out of focus, became two Jonathan faces, both of them smiling at her. She shook her head as if to clear it of the gauzy fog. “I can’t seem to…” A thought rose dully. “What did you put in my tea, Jonathan?” Her tongue felt thick, her words far away and strange sounding.

  “It’s a secret potion,” he said, feigning mystery. “If I tell you, it’ll rain.”

  “You’re making that up. It only rained when your people danced.”

  “And only then when there was heavy cloud cover,” he said, laughing. When had he stood up? When had he taken her hand in his?

  “Come and lie down, Katherine. You need to rest. You’re going on nothing but nerves.”

  “Oh, I can’t do that. Really, Jonathan, I must go home and work on Hattie Holloway’s portrait.” Even as she spoke she saw that they were no longer in Jonathan’s living room, but in a spacious, sparsely furnished bedroom where she was being led to a big brass bed set against the far wall. While holding one arm firmly about her waist to support her, Jonathan turned down the blankets. “Hattie Holloway can damn well wait,” he said, beginning to undo her clothes.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” she muttered, but was far too weak and groggy to offer any real resistance. And then she was limp and naked sitting on the edge of the bed and wondering why she felt no embarrassment or self-consciousness as Jonathan helped her into the too-big flannel striped pajamas. Instead, she felt like a little girl being taken care of, and it was a good, safe feeling.

  When she was tucked in, Jonathan kissed her lightly on the forehead. His big, gentle hand smoothed her hair, and she smiled

  sleepily. “I have a few phone calls to make,” she heard him say.

  “You’re safe here. I’ll be only a few steps away if you should need me.”

  Katie nodded, already
drifting off on a soft cloud of sleep. When she heard him whisper, “Sleep well, my sweet Katherine,” she imagined she was dreaming.

  Chapter 24

  Katie woke from a heavy sleep sometime in the night thinking she’d heard someone cry out. She listened. Her mouth tasted woolly, the way her mind felt. Had she really heard it or had she been dreaming? She sat up, momentarily bewildered by her unfamiliar surroundings.

  When she saw the figure outlined in the chair across the room, she almost screamed, sure it was the strawman. But then she saw that it was Jonathan and remembered where she was.

  Outside the window, the moon bathed the land and trees in a silvery white. Katie glanced at the clock on the night table. The date and the time glowed green. Nov. 5, 4:30 a.m.

  “No—no,” Jonathan cried out, and Katie’s heart jumped. She switched on the lamp. Again, he cried out, oddly like the cry of a child, filled with pain and terror. Katie quickly slipped out of bed and went to him.

  It alarmed her when his body began to jerk spasmodically, his head toss wildly from side to side, yet she was afraid to startle him awake.

  She touched his shoulder tentatively and barely had time to get out of the way when his arm shot out. His hair was damp on his forehead, his shirt wet, clinging to his body.

  “Jonathan,” she said softly. “Wake up, Jonathan. It’s a dream—only a dream.”

  His eyes flew open so suddenly, so hard did he stare at her, a small thrill of fear went through her. Then gradual recognition relaxed his features. She could almost feel the tension leaving his body. Suddenly he was on his feet, and she was in his arms, and the words broke from him like sobs. “Katherine, you’re here. Oh, thank God, you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” she said reassuringly, feeling his heart beating hard and too fast against her breasts. “You had a bad dream, Jonathan, that’s all. Just a dream.”

  After a moment he drew himself away, a heavy sigh escaping him.