October

by Al Sarrantonio

  "Dragged me over here for nothing," Davey said. "There's nobody home."

  "He said he'd be here," Buddy protested.

  "Well—"

  A glare of light caught Davey's eye. There was a light in one of the basement windows set down into the foundation. As he watched, the light was eclipsed.

  "Somebody's in the cellar," Davey said.

  They went to the window. It was long and narrow, double paned, screened.

  "See anything?" Buddy said.

  "Be quiet."

  Davey got down on his knees, brought his face close to the window. Buddy crouched beside him.

  The light was once again blocked. As Davey watched, the figure blocking it stepped back. A long, white, naked body was revealed, ample breasts with standing nipples, long dark hair, the tight roundness of buttocks. Someone stepped forward, another naked female, to cup the left breast in her hand, guide it to her mouth while the girl with the long hair threw her head back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth.

  "Jesus, that's Andrea Carlson," Scalizi said. "And Brenda—"

  "Hello, boys."

  Davey and Buddy pushed themselves up from the window to see Nick Backman, hands in pockets, regarding them mildly from the edge of the porch. The sliding glass door was open behind him, the curtain billowing out. Backman wore a deep-gray crew-neck sweater over the collared, buttoned wings of a blue oxford-cloth shirt. His creased gabardine slacks were cuffed, bottomed by oxblood loafers.

  "We—" Buddy began.

  "No problem. Come on in."

  Backman turned, climbed through the sliding door.

  "Jesus," Buddy said. "I can't believe—"

  Davey took him by the arm and said, "Let's go."

  They followed Nick Backman into the house. The sliding glass door led into a playroom, large-screen television centering one wall, a couch, a couple of easy chairs, a leather recliner angled around a coffee table covered with copies of Vogue and Architectural Digest along with the current TV Guide. The room was dimly lit. Nick Backman stood between the kitchen and playroom, near an open doorway with a downward staircase, waiting for them.

  "Close the door, please," he said, and Buddy turned to slide the heavy glass frame closed.

  "Lock it," Backman added.

  After a moment's search, Buddy located the flip-switch and secured the door.

  Davey balled his fists, stood facing Nick Backman. "You think because you're a couple of years older you can fuck with Buddy? I told you last year in high school to leave him alone. I don't give a damn if you're a big man in college now. The same—"

  "Forget that," Nicky said, smiling. He turned to Buddy, and now Davey noticed the glassiness in Backman's eyes. "I'm sorry about that business. It won't happen again."

  "Well . . . okay," Buddy said defiantly. "But if it does—"

  Backman's smile widened. "It won't." He faced Davey. "I want to show you guys something."

  Nick turned and descended the cellar stairs.

  "This is weird," Buddy said. "I swear, Nick is high. That was Andrea Carlson down there. And Brenda Valachio.”

  “Want to check it out?" Davey asked.

  "If you want to. But I swear, Nick was high. Did you see—"

  "He was," Davey said.

  They descended the stairs into a well-paneled cellar, neons set into a dropped ceiling, wall-to-wall carpeting, sailing-ship prints in double-matted frames on the walls, furniture that might once have been in the playroom upstairs, a frayed couch against the stairwell wall, two slipcovered chairs huddling nearby. A billiard table squatted under a long Tiffany-style hanging lamp. Along the far wall, under the row of windows giving view to the backyard, was a long bar, curved edge at the right end, a real barroom rack behind it, filled with spout-topped bottles of scotch and liqueurs. Over it was a mirror etched with the Budweiser eagle, topped by a clock.

  On a wall mount at the end of the bar was another television.

  To the right, abutting the bar was a paneled wall with two doors, one of them ajar.

  Andrea Carlson and Brenda Valachio rose from the couch. They were dressed, New Polk preppie, sweaters, gray and blue, circled at the neck with pink flowers, white shirts, short button-collared beneath, washed jeans, white socks, penny loafers.

  "Hi, fellas." Andrea Carlson smiled. Brenda's smile quickly widened and she bent over, covering her mouth, tittering.

  "Hi," Buddy said. He flashed his white teeth, embarrassed.

  Andrea Carlson held Davey's even look for a moment, then turned to take Brenda by the arm and say, "Stop that!" before beginning to laugh herself. Davey noticed a glassy look in Andrea's eyes.

  "Where's Nick?" Buddy said.

  "He's—" Brenda Valachio began, pointing toward the doorway by the bar, before collapsing into giggles again.

  "In here, fellas!" Nick called. He appeared, motioning them to follow him into the room. The girls went ahead, holding each other, laughing.

  Buddy leaned over, whispered to Davey, "This is fucked up."

  Davey paused at the doorway. It was almost dark within, musty smelling. He saw something flickering in a far corner. The light of a single basement window from the front of the house threw bare illumination. In the shadows, he saw the outline of an overhead bulb, unpulled, saw the boxy shape of what looked like an oil burner.

  "Come on in!" Nick called.

  Davey went in; Buddy followed.

  Davey's eyes adjusted. A tool bench sat against the far, unpainted cement wall, tools on Peg-Board above it, sloppily kept. No dropped ceiling. Bare support beams. Off to the left, canned goods on a bank of pine shelving; to the right, the oil burner; behind it, the source of the flickering light.

  Andrea's head suddenly appeared, looking around the oil burner at them. "Come on!" she said impatiently.

  "It's cold in here," Buddy complained.

  As they approached the oil burner; they heard a mewling sound. There was the flicker of a candle flame. Reflected in it was the curved side of a coffee can resting on the cement floor. Andrea bent over it, reading something from a paperback book.

  "Davey, I don't—" Buddy began.

  "Quiet."

  They moved around the oil burner into a cleared-out area. Boxes had been pushed aside; the disassembled skeleton of an old bed was jammed against the wall, nicked pine boards up under the rafters. Dust balls slept in the corners.

  The area in the center was cleared.

  A single candle, waxed onto a saucer; next to it, the empty blue coffee can; out of the can butted a wooden utensil handle.

  The oil burner suddenly flared.

  Davey felt Buddy jump beside him.

  "What the fu—"

  Nick, his back to them, turned. Something struggled in his hands, cupped at his middle; a small thing, brown, a tiny leg pushing out, trying to free itself from Backman's grip.

  "Whoa, there," Nick said, laughing, holding the thing up. He pushed his thumbs under its ears to make them stand out, its little legs dangling, running in air. A cocker spaniel.

  "Cute puppy, heh?" Nick said.

  "Let's do it, Nick," Andrea said impatiently. She threw the book down. On the cover were three witches, putting things into a caldron.

  "Okay," Nick said. "You ready, Davey? We needed five to make the coven complete."

  On the cellar floor, Brenda was sketching a pentagram, a five-pointed star, with a piece of chalk.

  "I don't think—" Davey said.

  But in a blur of motion, Nick Backman forced the puppy to the floor, pinned it on its belly as Andrea drew the wooden handle from the coffee can, revealing a steak knife tapering to a bright point. She jabbed the knife forward, blocking the dog from Davey's sight.

  "Do it!" Brenda said.

  There was a yelp and an explosion of red. Nick yelled, bringing his hands up. A wash of liquid rose from the cellar floor, bathing all of them.

  Davey stumbled back. Buddy said, "Shit!" throwing his hands to his face and then gasping. Frantically, he wiped hi
s hands at his eyes.

  "Oh, my God," Buddy cried. "Oh, my God."

  "All right!" Nick cried. He lifted up a small, bloody mass, suspending it above the candle.

  "And now—" he began solemnly, before blurting out a laugh.

  Andrea and Brenda dissolved into giggling as Nick dropped the red thing onto the floor.

  "Oh, Jesus, you should have seen your faces!" Backman screamed, pointing at Davey and Buddy. "You should have seen it!”

  Nick collapsed into laughter, holding his middle. The puppy, safe and whole, scooted out to sniff at the red, pulpy thing on the floor and then yelped and ran off to another part of the cellar.

  "Catsup and water!" Brenda laughed, tears filling her eyes. She reached down to squeeze the red-soaked sponge on the floor. "It was catsup and water!"

  "I can't stand it!" Andrea howled, turning away from them, rolling on the floor.

  Davey advanced on Nicky. Once again his fists were balled. "You bastard—"

  "No—" Nicky said, still laughing. "It was . . . just a joke. Just a joke." He picked up the paperback book. "We got it all from this. I've got to read it for a frosh English class at the university." He kept laughing. "Give me your clothes, I'll wash them in the machine. You can have a little snort while they're cleaning. I've got some coke somewhere . . ." He broke off in laughter. "The stains will come out. We've done it before." He looked at Andrea and Brenda. "Haven't we done it before? Taken off our clothes?"

  The three of them exploded in laughter.

  Davey clamped his hand on Nick's shoulder. "I'll break your goddamn head."

  Nicky's face sobered. "No, you won't." He looked at Andrea and Brenda, who were still howling, and gasped a laugh before looking evenly at Davey. "You won't do anything, because I'll call the fucking police if you do and report you broke and entered my parents' house. Maybe you used to be a big shot when your old man was mayor, but your old man's long dead and now you're just a delinquent punk. And Scalizi is a coward who needs a punk to do his fighting for him." He looked down at Davey's hand until Davey removed it from his shoulder. "Leave."

  Davey turned, walked out of the cellar.

  "You gonna let him get away with that, Davey?" Buddy whined. "You gonna let him treat you like that?"

  "Yeah, you gonna do that?" Backman taunted.

  Davey turned, walked back, threw a right at Nick's face, connecting on the cheek. Backman went down, landing on Brenda Valachio, who said, "Hey!" and pushed Nick aside. Andrea continued to laugh.

  "All right, Davey!" Buddy said. "You got him good." Nick sat up, rubbed his cheek. "You're screwed, Putnam."

  "Get him," Brenda urged, then laughed.

  "Get him good," Andrea said. "Let's call the cops. Maybe we can wash their clothes."

  Nick and Brenda broke into laughter. As Davey and Buddy left, Nick fumbled a small Baggie of white powder out of his pocket, letting the girls crawl their hands over him to try to get it.

  "Jesus, Davey, I'm sorry I got you into this. You're in big trouble now," Buddy said. They left by the back door and made their way to the street.

  It was getting dark. The streetlights were on, like sour lemon lamps lighting the falling leaves. Davey's beer buzz was gone. He turned up his collar, put his hands in his pockets; far off, he heard the tentative, dying wail of a police siren that abruptly died.

  "Yeah," he said, "so what?"

  6

  October 10th

  As Kevin feared, Lydia answered the door.

  "Oh," she said, almost a tiny gasp.

  "I should have called."

  "No," Lydia said. She looked at her hands. "Actually, I thought you were Dr. Carpenter."

  "I'm sorry."

  She was still looking at her hands. "Come in."

  She had not changed. She still wore the kind of clothes Kevin remembered as "Lydia clothes," white-laced necks, long skirts, heavy materials. She was a thin girl who covered herself from neck to foot, navy knee socks, black pumps. It was a uniform of sorts.

  She walked quickly in front of him, leading into the sitting room. "Would you like tea?" It was early afternoon. Kevin had eaten lunch only an hour before.

  "Yes, of course," he said.

  The house hadn't changed, either. It never would. In Kevin's mind it was a shrine, a museum. It reeked of lemon polish, dark rubbed wood, Queen Anne furniture, amber illumination, coolness. He had come here often just for the atmosphere, as if willing himself into this world. It was just before Lydia's father had left that he had first come into the house; but even then, it was obviously a place that Eileen Connel had created, a place she owned, fostered, tended like a garden. The house itself was as much a creation of her mind as her writing.

  Lydia, too: was as much a creation of her mother as the house; indeed, she was so much a product of her mother's dominating vision that she had remained, a fixture in a house apart from the world, when her two brothers were long gone. Her mother's domination had become as oxygen to Lydia; like a gnarled root, she had taken her place among the Victorian knickknacks, the ponderously tolling clocks with slow pendulums, the dark wood, the dusty confines of small rooms and dim, sour light.

  "Do you still take sugar?" Lydia asked.

  "Yes."

  They passed through the narrow hallway, through the mahogany-framed doorway, into the sitting room. The polished ebony baby grand piano was there on the right. Its white teeth grinned at Kevin, yellowing Mozart sheet music propped on its brow. He danced his fingers over the high keys, let the tone of the piano make him remember this room, this sound.

  "Do you still play?" he asked.

  "Yes." Her pale eyes came up to meet his briefly; the brief, sad smile. "She likes to hear it in the evenings." A catch of laugh. "She knows the sound of the phonograph, I can't fool her."

  "You're expecting the doctor?"

  Again her eyes met his, pale, flat blue. Her gaze lingered, perhaps with the thought in front of her. Mother. "She . . . had a very bad night. Her mind . . ."

  "May I see her?"

  "I'll get tea."

  Lydia left him to the room. The furniture, damask, photos in gilded frames on the tables, Lydia, Eddie, and Bobby, the father absent. There had never been domestication in the house, Kevin knew; only living, and waiting for Danny Sullivan to leave for good. Eileen Connel had not hid her rejection of her husband; it had bled, with a kind of surety Kevin longed to understand, into the corners of the foundation and turned in on itself.

  In the end, Eileen Connel had not only forced Danny Sullivan out of her house but out of her life, renouncing his name.

  Another picture, on the mantel over the fireplace. Lydia only, gazing into the camera lens with detached concentration. It is time to take a picture, someone, probably her mother, had told her. Stand and have your picture taken. And she had, as she did everything else in its appointed time.

  "Have you thought of leaving?" Kevin had asked her soon after meeting her, when her bland despair had become evident to him.

  "No," Lydia had answered; and though Kevin had laughed, thinking it appropriate, it had occurred to him that probably, up until then, she never had.

  "I'm back," Lydia announced with a touch of brightness. She set the tray down on the wide coffee table. Smooth dark wood. Tea scent overwhelmed the tinge of lemon polish.

  She sat beside Kevin on the damask sofa, poured tea, handed it to him. Her fingers, he remembered, smelled like lemon polish.

  He took the tea from her. "Thank you."

  "You're in New Polk to teach," she said matter-of-factly. She sat on the sofa so that she would not have to look into his eyes. "I read about it in the paper."

  "Yes."

  "You're going to teach Mother's work."

  Kevin sipped tea, put the cup and saucer down. "Yes.”

  “I knew you would."

  He didn't know what to say. He put his hand out for his teacup, felt her eyes on him. He turned, his mouth ready to speak, but no words formed. She was looking at him. The
wan, blond, straight frame of her hair made her thin face, with her thin, long nose, the scatter of dry freckles like tears under the bridge, her paper-dry lips, the pale line of her chin, so close to the bone beneath, appear even thinner. Her fingers were long, slim. The nails were sensibly short, unpainted. When they played the piano, they struck the keys like twigs, did not caress them. Her music-making was sad but not accomplished—remote, perhaps meaningful to herself. He had always told himself that love for her had not grown in him because it was not meant to be. But it had been the image of her fingers on the white keys of the piano, playing Mozart or Brahms, the tiny pads of her fingers en-rubbed with lemon polish, the brittle, lonely sounds that had come out, that had kept him from loving her. . . .

  "I would have left with you that day," she said.

  "I know," he said, and suddenly the memory of the day that was the crux of his relationship with Lydia, with her mother, when he had first come face-to-face with himself, came back to him as if he had been immersed whole in it.

  He came a final time to research his Ph.D. thesis, to talk with Eileen Connel. She let him record her spoken words as notes. She did not like to talk about her work, but she had warmed to him, had opened a tiny lock to a tiny room out of all the large locks and rooms within her. His father had just died.

  She was forty-six years old, then. She was often forgetful, the Alzheimer's disease, unrecognized, just beginning to inhabit her. She let him into her bedroom-study on the second floor, a final secret unfolded for him. It was a room much as he had imagined it; she had spoken of it often; and in his mind, he had been able to construct its dimensions. It was different from what he had imagined, but later, he made a note that perhaps this was her writer's mind at work again, her genius for metaphor. There was one large window with a tree nearby; swimming sunlight washed over the walls. It was a cold day outside, February, but the sky was bright, high, cold, and blue, like many February skies in New York.

  She sat at her desk. The desk was populated with writing equipment. In the center an old Remington typewriter, almost laughable with age, but perfectly maintained. She had told him, elsewhere in his recorded notes, that there was a man in New Polk who had originally sold it to her and who repaired it when necessary. He cleaned it every two months. She had learned, after many years, to change the ribbons herself.