Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances
Page 93
“Yes, the kind Ed Corliss uses.”
He sat down, his face dark and forbidding, looked at her, finally slapped a palm on the table. “This here is what you are going to do,” he said. “Go away for a spell. Stay with Mr. Douglas. These telephone calls and me supposed to be calling you from downstairs…. There’s danger here, I can’t hardly believe it, but there is. Why, I’d like to — ”
He turned purple: she was really alarmed.
“I sleep like a log,” he shouted. “Calling from downstairs … me? I got nothing on my conscience, I can sleep, which is more than some people can say.”
“Some people?” she asked curiously. “About whom are you talking, Pompey?”
“Just never mind,” he said grimly. “I got something to think about. Some ideas, you just let me work them out. Now you eat your eggs and shut up. I don’t want to hear another word from you until you finish that there breakfast.”
He left her and came back a few minutes later. “Mr. Doug is stopping by in a half hour or so,” he said. “Here, drink some more coffee. Then get yourself dressed. I told him what happened.”
“You called Doug, you shouldn’t have done that,” she said edgily.
He answered, “I do what I’m called on to do. Now you scoot up and put some clothes on, you hear?”
They drove hither and yon, stopping off once for coffee and pie. Doug kept saying, “Tell me again, and don’t leave out anything.”
“I told you.”
“Tell me again.”
“I had the dream and when I woke up I heard someone calling out for help. It was Pompey, I thought. So I went to the stairs and then there was the rope, the twine.”
“And while you were still downstairs you heard a sound?”
“Yes, there was someone there.”
“You thought there was someone there.”
“No. There was someone there.”
“Are you in much pain?”
She was able to laugh now. “Let’s say I’ve felt better in my life.”
“I don’t want you staying in that house,” he said. “I’ll take you back and then you put some things in a bag and stay with me at the farm.”
“I’m not leaving,” she said quietly.
“Now you listen to me …”
“No. I’m not leaving. Only now I won’t take any chances, that much I’ve learned. And the telephone can ring forever, so far as I’m concerned.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked away. “I guess I didn’t tell you about that.”
Patiently, he put both arms on the table. “Tell me now,” he said. “And if there’s anything else, tell me that too.”
“There’s nothing else, just that.”
She explained. “The first night, though, I was too weary to really have it register. And then the second night, and the next night. So I started leaving the receiver off the hook, sometimes, anyway.”
“And you didn’t think to say anything about it before this?” he asked, snapping a muddler in two.
“There was one furtive moment when I thought it might be you,” she admitted, and he flushed.
“Me?”
“I thought of everything,” she said calmly. “And I thought of that too.”
There was a rather long silence.
“I won’t apologize,” she said. “From the minute I came here unpleasant things began to happen. As I said, I had to think of everything … and everyone.”
He finally turned back to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can see how you might have thought something like that. You never thought it again, did you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He reached over for her hand. She gave it willingly enough. He stroked it and kissed it and then gave it back. “More coffee?” he asked.
“Thanks, no.”
“All right, what would you like to do?”
“Something I haven’t done yet, it wasn’t the right time,” she said. “But now it is the right time. If it’s all right with you, Douglas, I’d like to visit her grave.”
“You’re sure you’re up to it?”
“Yes, quite sure.”
“Then, fine. We’ll stop for some flowers along the way. I usually patronize De Nyse; they know just about what I want.”
“Do you go often?”
“No rules and regulations about it. Whenever I can spare the time. I’m not a pious sort of guy, and she wouldn’t want it to be out of duty.”
He added, as they stood up, “She’d be glad, whenever someone had the chance, of a visit. That house was always open, you never had to schedule an appointment. I think it should be the same now. Drop over whenever the opportunity arises, not because it’s expected.”
• • •
It was a simple enough headstone, in the old family plot. Generations of Brands were buried here in this green earth, and if she so wished, so would Margo be, perhaps next to her father, Thomas Brand, the grandson of James Brand, who had fathered Victoria and Edward and whose seed had led, irrevocably, to the birth of a girl named Margo. Cemeteries in the large cities might be crammed to the last foot of earth, but here there was room to spare for others to come, for eons, perhaps. She looked at the names: Benjamin, Nathaniel, James, Lavinia, Arria, Lucinda. It was a little city of the dead, with small children struck down in their infancy lying beneath tiny mounds like caterpillar tracks. They slept peacefully, all of them, giving their dust to enrich the earth, one with the ages.
VICTORIA BRAND, the headstone read. BORN 1890, DIED 1973. BELOVED DAUGHTER OF JAMES AND SOPHRONIA BRAND. INTEGER VITA, IN SEMPERTINA SAECULA.
They arranged the flowers, magenta and white peonies with a potent scent. Then they went to the font for water. “They’ll last for a day or two,” Douglas said. “They look nice, don’t they?”
“They look beautiful, perfectly beautiful.”
They sat for a while, listening to the quiet, and then got in the car again and drove off. “Home,” Margo said, when he questioned her. “You have things to do, and I guess I’d like to be alone.”
“But you won’t be morbid?”
“No,” she said earnestly. “Everything has to die, I quite understand that.” And as he headed the car toward Brand Manor, she was remembering.
Integer vita.
A life of integrity.
In sempertina saecula.
To Him be glory evermore.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They had their picnic, Norma arranging it in her efficient fashion, phoning Doug, a cocktail in her hand, the evening before. “You are not to be late,” she said concisely. “Be here at ten, and no excuses.”
“Men are so dilatory,” she claimed, hanging up the phone. “I don’t trust Doug, but then I don’t trust any man, and never have.”
Pompey packed a lunch, sandwiches with ham and cheese filling, roast beef and chicken. There were artichoke hearts and olives, plum tomatoes, potato salad. John made a pitcher of martinis, pouring it into a thermos.
They went in two cars, John with Norma and Margo with Douglas. It was a magnificent day, all gold and blue and balmy, with the lake rippling gently, the sun like fire. They swam and rested, talked idly. At one they sampled Pompey’s basket, eating with appetite, and then uncorked the thermos of martinis. They had brought along a deck of cards, played gin rummy and then Casino.
It brought back the long-distant past, their common childhood, and filled her with nostalgia. When they tired of the card games she fell asleep, sated with food, fresh air, and the drinks. She dozed off, lying on her tummy in the sun, and when she woke the day had turned to late afternoon, with violet tints and birds twittering before their night’s roosting.
How quiet it is, she thought, how immensely quiet. Like an island in the mind’s imagination, scarcely real at all.
She had an abrupt sensation of being all alone in the world. A strange, eerie feeling, not peaceful or cozy
, but somber, forlorn. She quickly turned over onto her back and raised her head.
She wasn’t alone.
John was there, in his swim trunks, with his head turned away from her as he gazed out at the peacock-blue lake. She didn’t say anything right away, just continued to watch him, with his tanned body and dark, rebellious hair. He seemed to be looking at something she was unable to see.
Where were the others, she wondered … why were she and John alone … and why did that fact disturb her, alert her? At that moment he turned, and their eyes met. There was a long, strange silence.
Then she collected herself. “Where are they?” she asked.
“Gathering driftwood for a fire,” he answered.
“Oh?”
For some reason her lips were dry. She didn’t like being alone with John. Reasoning with herself, she remembered that she and John had been children together; then why did she feel this profound distress at their proximity? This was John, John Michaels … what was wrong with her?
As if he sensed her unease, he bent and plucked a cattail from the moist ground. He held it for a moment and then, deliberately, and with malice aforethought, made a little loop in the stem and popped the head off.
The plumy, dry head went spinning.
It was a nihilistic act.
She thought of the guillotine and the garroe, looked away quickly as he plucked another cattail from the loamy ground. She heard the faint pop as the head spun off. The silence between them grew … and grew … and for the life of her she couldn’t think of one single thing to say. Befuddled, she slipped on her dark glasses and looked at her toes, pink-tipped with Elizabeth Arden Angel Blush, and another head popped off.
“Hey there, we’ve got the makings of a roaring fire,” Norma’s voice cried, and she and Doug came around a dune, brandishing armloads of driftwood.
The uneasy, dark moment passed, and they took another swim, splashing, and when night finally fell, made the fire. The sparks flew and it was very pretty. A seagull glided down and picked at their leavings, giving them aggressive looks, and soon darkness was complete.
They sang softly, draining the pitcher of martinis. The “Wide Missouri,” “Galway Bay,” “Careless Love.” The lake water beat against the bank. The stars came out and the moon, three quarters full, was their only light as they gathered up their gear and made their way to the parked cars.
They drove back, John leaving Norma at her flat and Douglas dropping Margo off at Brand House. “Better use some Noxema on that sunburn,” he advised her, and tried to kiss her, but she evaded him. “It’s late, Douglas.”
“You can sleep, I can’t. I don’t care, however. Why do you shy away?”
“See you soon,” she said, climbing out of the car.
“Afraid of me or of yourself?”
She ran up the stone steps to the porticoed veranda. “Night night, Douglas; it was a heavenly day.”
She went on up, took the phone off the hook, brushed her teeth and crawled into bed. Today I was a child again, she thought, and then, dozing off, amended it. No, a grown woman with a child’s memories. Almost asleep, there was a sharp, disturbing recollection … something about the lake, when they were little … some ugly, distressing recall that bothered her, nagged at her … something horrid, and quickly put aside, but not quite buried.
I must try to dig it out of my subconscious, she told herself, and then drifted off into nothingness, remembering the lovely day that had just passed but also remembering — or trying to — another day, another not very nice day. Now, what was that, she thought, in an attempt to call into being what her mind had repressed once long ago. I must pin it down, she thought earnestly, and then, spinning into sleep, forgot it. After all, she had forgotten other things …
• • •
She woke early. The morning was bright and clear. Dew on the grass tipped the blades with brilliance. I love the sun, Margo thought, and dressed for church. “Just toast and coffee,” she told Pompey. “I’m going to Mass.”
“Mass?” he said wonderingly. “You was raised a Protestant, Miss Margo.”
“Yes, I know, but I’m going to noon Mass.”
“Heathen rites,” he muttered, but fed her, and then she went off to the little Anglican church with the lily window and the red door, and knelt when the others knelt, took the wafer and sipped the wine. The organ thundered out liturgical music. “Please come again,” the young, frocked priest said at the door, the sun slanting in and gilding his sandy hair. “I was so sorry to hear about your aunt’s death.”
“How kind of you,” she said.
She walked all the way home, as she had walked there, for the day was cool and dry, and the exercise was what she had been wanting. In her mind was the majesty of the organ, and the ancient rites of the service of Mother Church. Protestant or no, it had all begun with what Pompey called heathen rites. Reciting to herself:
Hail, oh hail true Body
Of the Virgin Mary born
On the Cross thy sacred Body
For us men with nails was torn.
Cleanse us by thy Blood and Water
Streaming from thy Pierced Side
Feed us with thy Body broken
Now and in death’s agony …
The walk back was quiet and peaceful. She thought, I’ll spend the day taking more pictures of the house and, reaching it, saw Norma’s car parked there, caught a glimpse of Ben Blough weeding round a fruit tree, and ran into John in the central hall, coming down the stairs in a bathrobe, shaved and immaculate and tossing back his dark hair. “I’m about to have brunch,” he said. “How about keeping me company?”
She said fine, and that Norma was somewhere about, and they could all sit down together. “Where’s Norma?” she asked, when Pompey came out of the kitchen.
“In the garden, picking flowers, of course.”
“Well, I’ll just get her in. John said something about brunch.”
“Everything’s ready; you got home just in time, my fair lady.”
He had made wheat cakes; there was “genuine Vermont maple syrup, ladies and gentlemen.” Also crisp bacon and buttermilk biscuits. The coffee was strong and piping hot.
“This is the life,” John said lazily, and went back upstairs to get dressed. “What are you up to?” Norma asked.
“I’ll do some photographing. Homework, you understand.”
“Busy little bees, aren’t we,” Norma commented. “I have the whole house to do, flower-wise, Sunday’s the day I can really get at it.”
“And I’ll wash up these here dishes,” Pompey said, starting to clear the table. “I’ll help,” Margo said, and then the doorbell rang and Pompey made a resigned face. “Callers,” he said. “I got to start making a new pot of coffee, looks that way to me.”
“Never mind, I’ll handle it,” Norma said, looking over her shoulder at Margo. “I was told you went to All Souls. They’ll have found out and I’m afraid you’re in for it, my pet. As Pompey said, heathen rites …”
Her voice trailed off.
But it wasn’t the Ladies Aid.
“Mr. Zeiss is here,” Norma announced, coming back with a funny little grin.
“Mr. Who?”
“Mr. Zeiss.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s from Manhattan and wants to take a look at the house.”
“Oh, I see. John warned me about the sensation-seekers. Does he have credentials? John said — ”
“As to that,” Norma said, “I wouldn’t know. He certainly does have a build like an ox. How he ties his shoelaces is more than I can fathom. He couldn’t bend to find a lost collar button if it meant his very life. It’s a mystery to me how he sees his feet at all. He looks pregnant, if you know what I mean.” She waved a hand airily. “He’s all yours, my dear, go and talk to him. Ask him to show you his credentials. All I know is he has a belly that would fill Proctor Hall, where we have our yearly concerts.”
There was no way to sign
al Norma that the person in question had ambled into the room and was now standing, leaning against a doorframe, listening with interest. At Norma’s last phrase he smiled amicably, patted the belly just mentioned, and nodded.
“Furthermore,” he said, while Norma turned sharply, a hand over her mouth, “I do have credentials, as you shall soon see.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Norma said, scarlet, and fled.
“I’m Abner Zeiss,” the stranger said, holding out a beefy hand. “You’re Miss Brand?”
“Yes … my friend didn’t mean anything …”
“I’ll forgive a beautiful woman anything,” he said cheerfully. “Two beautiful women in a single day is almost more than a man can bear. Sit down and I’ll show you my credentials. I’d rather show you my etchings, but it’s neither the time nor the place. I see you’ve been feeding on something. Is there anything left for a hungry man?”
“Yes, I’m sure … Pompey?”
“Just coffee,” Mr. Zeiss said genially, seating himself. “And some pie or whatever, blueberry muffins? Of course I’m very partial to rhubarb pie; you wouldn’t have any of that, would you?”
“Gotta settle for wheat cakes,” Pompey said, not a bit put out. “Set down and make yourself at home. Give him some coffee, Miss Margo, I be right back.” His glance was respectful. “You got a lot there to feed,” he said, surveying the stranger’s bulk. “Seems to me I better make a second batch.”
Afterwards Margo thought, I took to Abner Zeiss right away, and so did Pompey. “That’s a gentleman and a scholar,” he told her, when Mr. Zeiss had left at about four in the afternoon. “You tell him to come around any time, he fits in here just fine.”
• • •
But before Abner Zeiss left in midafternoon, he had done several things. Number one, shown his credentials, bringing out a great mass of impressive-looking cards from a shabby traveling wallet. In no time at all Margo learned that he was an M.D. (OB-Gyn).
“But that’s only to pay the rent,” he said hastily. He was also an authority on pre-Columbian art, on Chinese dynasty culture, a writer, lecturer, professor, philosopher, psychologist, philatelist.
“A Renaissance man,” Margo said, dazzled. He was in his sixties, and when he stood up, after thanking Pompey for the food, he reminded Margo of Moses, with his spiky white hair like something sculpted out of stone, his heavy-lidded statue eyes, and his enormous frame with the protuberant belly. Moses holding up the tablets … THOU SHALT NOT KILL …