"I used to write on a legal pad, in longhand," she told him, opening their conversation by noting his inspection of the typewriter. "That was when my husband was still here. Even though I had saved the money for a typewriter, he wouldn't allow me to have one. So I wrote on ruled yellow legal paper. For a time, I even used a fountain pen." Eileen smiled, a small blossom, coming, perhaps, from that secret little room where he had hoped to break the lock. "Don't look so shocked, Kevin," she added. "I never used a quill pen, for God's sake, or had to dip into a bottle of ink."
She turned her chair partway toward him, splitting her attention between him and her desk. As always, she refused to acknowledge the running tape recorder that lay at Kevin's feet. The chair was straight backed, severe, with a doilied blue pad on the seat. She wore a loose white sweater, what looked to be gardening pants—tan, large fitting—white socks, and loafers. So unlike Lydia. Her face was lined, full, the eyes tired, but when they concentrated on Kevin or on a question, filled with sharp focus. They were dark, slate-gray, speckled with green. When reading, she wore glasses, tortoiseshell, which magnified the tiredness in her eyes.
"What else do you want to know about my habits, Kevin?" She smiled, and for a moment he thought she was mocking him, but was, he realized, mocking herself. The walls were lined with books, carefully tended, dusted, green, blue, brown spines. Keeping her thoughts, Kevin imagined, from the outside world. Over her desk was a small, narrow shelf enameled white, supported by two cast-iron brackets sculpted in vines. The shelf held all six of her novels.
"How do you correct?" Kevin asked.
"With a pencil." She added almost petulantly, "I'm not a goddess."
"I'm sorry—"
She regarded him directly, and he felt now like a baby, uninitiated.
She said, quietly, turning in her chair to lean slightly toward him, both hands on her knees, "It's a mysterious process, Kevin. But it’s not magic. It's a craft, like learning to carve, or make cabinets. When I started, I scribbled, like a toddler. The words, the tools, I fumbled them, didn't know how to hold them or point the blades. I got better as I worked. I wanted to work, which was the important thing. After a while, I found the handles of the tools, held them fast, made nice cuts with them." She leaned back, her hands moving with her up her thighs. "That's all there is to it." She stared at him for a moment, then put a hand to her forehead. "I think you'd better go, Kevin."
"Please—"
She seemed distracted "I'm . . . sorry. I just think we should end this. I have nothing more to say to you."
A desperation, of which he was not even aware, rose in him.
"You have to—"
"No, Kevin."
"You have to tell me what you know!" The hand holding his microphone was shaking. He felt hysteria overtaking him, heard what sounded like another man's voice, frightened, obsessed, speak his words.
"Kevin—"
"You know! It's in your work, it overwhelms everyone around you, your children, it helped destroy your marriage—you know! It's like a secret knowledge, you're so sure of your- self so strong—tell me!"
He stood up, clutching his hands like fists at his sides. He felt on the verge of tears.
Eileen Connel rose and came to him. "Kevin," she said. She put her arms around him, held him, put his head to her breast. Remarkably, he felt her trembling against him.
"Oh, Kevin," she said. "If there's a secret, I don't know what it is. Something happened to me when I was a little girl that changed me. You already know the story." She hesitated, took a deep breath. "But I don't remember what happened to me. I remember the fire, I remember being helped from the cellar, I remember Jerry Martin's face. But I don't remember anything else." Her grip on Kevin tightened. "I can't help what I am. Believe me, Kevin, I'm still human."
Kevin was still shaking. "But you know yourself! Tell me how you know!"
"It's in me," she said gently, "it's in my writing, but I don't know how. Please stop, Kevin. Look what it did to your father—"
A spell broke between them. Kevin, suddenly mortified, drew away from Eileen Connel Her touch lingered, and then she stepped back, closed her eyes.
"Go now, Kevin."
The tiredness had returned to her face, her voice. She turned toward her desk, picked up a paperweight, a blue flower with wide petals imprisoned in clear, hard glass. She was an unreadable monument to him, the curve of her neck, her hard profile.
"Yes." He reached to switch off his tape recorder.
He opened the door, his notes and tape recorder cradled awkwardly in his arms. When he looked back, Eileen Connel was facing away from him, head bowed, one arm draped over her typewriter. She let the paperweight drop. It hit the desk, fell to the floor, rounded side down. Kevin saw a tiny chip of glass reflect light as it broke off
As Kevin closed the door, she whispered, "I wish I could tell you."
Lydia was waiting for him, sitting on the landing nearby. She stood, holding the wide, oiled banister for balance. She wore a robe, buttoned to her throat. Her feet were in thin, quilted, pink slippers.
Kevin walked toward her. Instead of letting him pass, she stood in his way. Her hand reached out, haltingly, to brush the hair away from his forehead.
"I don't—" he said.
"Come with me."
With his arms still cradling his notes, his tape recorder, Kevin followed her to her room. An oak door, large, which swung back easily on its hinges. Inside, her bed, a huge four-poster, a canopy on top, printed in dark flowers, long stems, thorns jutting beneath their petals. A comforter, red and white and dark green, was pulled back. The sheets were crisp white. There was wallpaper, pale vertical stripes, mustard yellow and cream, a small bookcase, a dollhouse on a low table by the window. White curtains, billowy. The day outside blue-white, cold.
She took the things from his arms, put them on a chair by the door. There was a long key in her side of the door. She turned it. There was a deep click. She removed the key, put it also on the chair. She turned, stared at him with earnest resolution.
Continuing to look at him, unsmiling, she removed her slippers. She carefully undid the buttons of her robe, beginning at the neck. The buttons were tiny pink shells. Her body, thin, pale, revealed itself to him. Her breasts were small, the isosceles patch of hair below her belly thin, pale blond. The curve of her thighs was slight.
She dropped the robe to the floor and approached him. "I love you, Kevin."
She undressed him, moved him to the bed, brought him beneath the sheets. Her skin was like paper moving against him. Her eyes swam up over him, seemed to search him.
Her fingers stroked his face, long, thin, moving over him like brittle branches. He smelled lemon polish, wanted suddenly to vomit--
"Damn you!" she cried, pushing him away from her. She curled away from him, moving under the sheets to the far side. She hid her face in her pillow. Her hair was long, straw colored, like overripe corn. He saw the procession of knobs, her spine, down her back.
He held his tongue. She was weeping, her thin body shivering under the quilt. He left the bed and dressed.
"She can't take you from me!" she sobbed at him as he was turning the key in the door. He was cradling his things. He turned to look at her. She had pushed herself up in the bed. Her face was streaked with tears. She looked very small, like a little girl, hugging herself. "I love you," she said, and now she turned away from him, sobbing into her pillow.
“I'm sorry," he said, and this time when he left, no one stopped him.
Lydia had finished her tea. The afternoon was darkening, mottled light through the windows dimming toward evening as the sun lowered. She held her saucer on her lap.
"I would still leave with you, Kevin," she said.
Holding her saucer, she seemed again to be hugging herself once more, distant.
"It's been six years," he said.
"Yes," she said.
"I don't know what to say."
"If you hadn't come here, I would
n't have told you. When you were away, I wrote you letters, but I tore them up. They were foolish. When I opened the door, and saw you there, I . . . thought you had come for me."
He said nothing.
"You're the only one I've ever met strong enough to pull me away from her. You're the only one who's ever been around her that she didn't destroy, or absorb. That's why I love you. That's why she . . ."
Silence lengthened between them. Before he asked, she said, "Would you like to see her now?"
"Yes."
She put the teacup down, stood, brought him to the back bedroom.
It was dark, shadowed in the room. Lydia called out softly, "Mother?" and then turned the light switch on.
The room appeared empty. A made bed, white candlewick bedspread, two pillows. Flower prints hung on the walls. No books, no typewriter. There was a writing desk to the left of the door, two envelopes, a single pen. A footstool next to the bed, embroidered red and blue. A wing chair faced the window, away from them.
"Mother?" Lydia called, more forcefully.
A thin, veined hand appeared at the arm of the chair, waved feebly.
They approached the chair. Eileen Connel looked like a ghost. She inhabited the chair as if pressed into it, embroidered into the weave of its fabric. Her hair was pure white, thinning, uncombed. Her eyes had flattened to pale gray, the skin around them veined and weak. Her lips quivered, as if she were perpetually going to say something. The hand that rested on the arm of the chair looked like a dead thing, flat and wan; her other hand, in her lap, trembled spastically. She wore pajamas, a robe, open at the neck. There were white socks on her feet; a pair of blue slippers lay nearby.
"Mother, do you need anything?" Lydia said.
Eileen Connel turned her head toward her daughter. The eyes filled in a bit, the mouth quivered open.
"Get the shovel, Lydia," she said. The arm on the chair lifted, the hand clutched at Lydia's sleeve. "And the pails. You know Bobby and Eddie like the pails and shovels at the beach. How could you leave them in the car?"
She let go of Lydia's arm, pointed to the window. "Stop that, Eddie! Stop hitting that girl! That toy is hers, don't you have any sense at all? Where is your brother? Did he go with Lydia? I forgot to tell her to get the sandwiches. Are you hungry, Eddie? Thirsty?"
Her hand dropped to her lap. The face turned to Lydia, to Kevin. She studied Kevin. "Eddie?" she said.
"Sit there, Mother," Lydia said. "Sit and be quiet."
"You're not Eddie! Where is he! Why won't you tell me what they said!" The voice filled with indignation and fear. "Were you there with him? Did you see it? Damn you all, I don't care about any note! You police are all the same! You pry, and infer, but you never look! Did you see him do it with your own eyes? How do you know it wasn't murder?" She grabbed Kevin's hand, held it hard, a claw. Her face collapsed into grief. "Please, tell me it isn't true! Oh, please, not because of me. My Eddie wouldn't do that to himself . . ."
She covered her face with her hands. Tiny, gasping sobs came out.
It was darker outside. The oaks stood outlined against a cold twilight. There was a breeze; leaves pirouetted as they fell. The trees were multihued, lit glowingly by the failing sun. Kevin thought of Brahms.
A click sounded somewhere deep in the house. Outside, a light over the back porch came on. It was constricted, gave a spotlight of cold illumination for leaves to fall in.
In her chair, Eileen Connel moaned.
"My God!" She half rose out of her chair, pushed herself up weakly.
Lydia tried to coax her down. "Mother, sit—"
"Let me go, girl!" Eileen shouted. She lifted one weak arm to beat her daughter off. "Let go!" Her face was transfixed on the window.
"Is it me?" Kevin said, stepping back.
"No," Lydia replied. "She's been like this since yesterday."
Eileen Connel began a sound deep in her throat, a grief deeper than she had yet shown.
"No! My arm is so cold!" She reached out half blindly, took Kevin by the arm, tried to stand. "Oh, sweet Jesus, I almost remember!"
Sudden elation coursed through Kevin. He took Eileen Connel gently but firmly by the arm.
"What do you remember?" he coaxed.
"No! Oh, dear God, no!"
"Make her sit," Lydia said. "Where is that damned doctor!" She glanced out into the hallway.
"Tell me what you remember, Eileen," Kevin said.
"Oh, God!" Eileen clutched at Kevin's arm harder.
"Get her to sit down!" Lydia begged.
Kevin held on. Eileen brought her other hand up slowly. One trembling finger pointed toward the window. "There," she said, breathing rapidly. Then, unexpectedly, her breathing steadied. A smile traced her lips.
"Chicken Little," she said.
"What does that mean?" Kevin said.
Eileen Connel's body relaxed. She sank back into her chair.
Then, once more, her body stiffened. Her hold on Kevin was viselike.
"I almost remember!" she cried.
"What is it?" Kevin said sharply.
"For heaven's sake, Kevin!" Lydia shouted, reaching for her mother's shoulder.
"Dammit, be quiet!" Kevin hissed.
"Ohhhhh," Eileen wailed.
"What is it?" Kevin whispered. "Tell me what you know!"
Eileen Connel's eyes widened in stark terror. Once again, her hand pointed straight out.
"Ohhh . . .”
"Tell me!"
She turned her eyes on Kevin, as if he were the window.
Kevin shook her. "What!"
She wailed, pushed herself out of Kevin's grip. Lydia supported her as she fell into her chair. Eileen wept in little hiccups, shivering like a child.
Lydia quickly covered her with a quilted comforter. She whispered into her ear, "Would you like some tea, Mother? Can I get you some tea?"
Eileen Connel relaxed. She turned her head to her daughter's breast and closed her eyes.
"Yes, Lydia, some tea . . ."
Lydia's eyes met Kevin's, with a fire in them he had never seen before.
"You son of a bitch."
"I'm sorry," Kevin said.
"All these years, that's all you wanted."
"Lydia—"
"You bastard. Didn't you know she was in love with you?"
The doorbell rang. Lydia rose, stepped toward him. She raised her hand and slapped his cheek. "Get out," she said, and turned to answer the door.
The smell of lemon polish.
There was darkness in the corners of the house. Kevin heard the deep tocking of the grandfather clock, the high, insect-like ticking of the other clocks fighting to be heard.
Eileen Connel was asleep, her head nestled into the high winged corner of her chair. The comforter was snugged up below her face. She looked as peaceful as a child.
He walked to the sitting room, put on his coat. For a moment, he regarded the empty teacups side by side on the serving platter. A single light illumined the room. The piano gave him its wide, white smile by the doorway.
He didn't touch the keys. In the hallway, on the way out, he passed Dr. Carpenter, wrapped in a comforter, carrying his black bag, bending his head in whispered conversation with Lydia as they passed him without acknowledgment.
7
October 22nd
Three weeks.
Tired in his long bones, tired in his mind, James Weston could only think of happiness. It was like being a child again, after a day of running, playing ball, with the wide blue sky above him like a warming bowl, mown green grass underfoot, the smell of life itself in the air. Not a worry in the world; worries, indeed, unknown. He had forgotten what that felt like, a sensation that the universe was at your feet. There was a time in childhood, between cognition and the true age of reason, when nothing could hurt him. The world was a womb, and when that time was gone, some-thing was gone forever.
But miraculously, James Weston had found it again these three weeks, picking apples under the warm autum
n sun, with rolled flannel sleeves by noon, no shirt at all in the afternoon. Himself and the trees, which seemed to sing to him, breathe life into him, with their tired petals and red fruit, trunks that would soon sleep but not die. He had begun to see himself in the movie of his own mind again, and the movie was the healing of his own self. He had become as an apple tree, and it was time for his spring again. He was waking up into the daylight of his life again.
Only the nights had been troubled.
The first night in Ben Meyer's big guest bed was strange because he had not slept in a bed for so long. His back had grown accustomed to hard ground. He tossed all night, Rusty whimpering sympathy beside him, but his bones refused to sink into the soft beauty of the bed beneath. His dreams were chaotic, colorful bits of his journey from Vancouver to New York taped together, a spliced movie.
The second night, his body gave in to the softness of the bed, and he slept, but the dreams did not go away. They were with him all night, longer stretches of his trip, a home movie unreeling at high speed, endless hitchhiked rides, long, hot stretches of highway, dusty side roads, evenings under stars grown unnaturally bright. He slept fitfully. But between the work, and his body's sudden liking for the bed, he gained a useful if not full night's sleep.
Each night, though, the dreams grew worse, more vivid. It was as if he were a captive audience of an inner film over which he had no control. The twelfth night he dreamed of a snake he had seen in Wyoming, grown to monstrous proportions, lashing its rattled tail at the desert floor, throwing up mushrooms of dust as it sped toward him from the distance. There were black clouds under a sickly copper sky, raining dark-red blood. He tried to escape across a highway that dropped to a chasm under him, its centerline continuing forward, painted on air. As he fell, he awoke, clutching his sheets, searching frantically for purchase, not knowing where he was until Rusty jumped onto the bed, nuzzling him until his hands unclenched the sheets.
October Page 7
