The Late Clara Beame

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  She found it harder and harder to breathe in the fetid city air. She could hear herself panting heavily in the darkness of the bedroom. A weight like a stone was on her chest. She was dreadfully thirsty and very, very sleepy. She shook herself. If she had heard voices she was not hearing them now. She turned the doorknob and found herself in the dimly lighted hall.

  The hall appeared strange and distorted. The walls leaned and came to a high point at the ceiling, gathered together like arches. And the light was odd; it had a faint glow, eerie and frightening. The doors along the hall bent inward towards her, flapping silently like leaves. The door tilted steeply. She stepped into the hall, trembling, struggling for breath, and she could hardly keep her footing on the sloping floor. She tried to cry out, but she could make no sound. She wanted Henry, who would explain to her why the walls leaned together and came to a pointed arch — far over her head, and why the floor was slippery and steep and almost impossible to walk on. And why she felt she was smothering.

  Henry was somewhere behind one of those doors sleeping. But which one? This one? Her hand reached for the doorknob. It was red and glittering, but it was cold to her touch. Where was Henry? She turned the knob and saw that the draperies in the room had not been drawn; the distant light from a street lamp filtered into the room. She saw the bed. It stood on a pitching floor, and here too the walls were pulled up high together to a four-cornered point. Henry was there, sleeping. She could see his form on the bed. She tried to run to him; he would warm her in his arms. I’ve never been this cold before, she thought, plaintively. Henry? Henry? Her foot struck sharply against something, which rolled on the rug, and then with a loud clatter, on the wooden floor beyond the rug. Then, as she reached down, fumbling, she saw that the street lamp was illuminating the head of the man on the bed. The hair was red, bright red. Sam’s thick, light red hair. The man in the bed was not Henry.

  She was deeply embarrassed. The thing in her hand was a glass, and she held to it tightly, unconsciously. She began to back away from the bed towards the leaning door, her heart beating loudly in her ears. She had just reached the door when she became aware of a solid dark shadow in a corner of the room. (Strange, she thought in her dream, I didn’t remember that before!) The shadow did not move. The hall light penetrated very faintly. (Had there been a hall light before?) She stared at the shadow as she slowly backed away.

  “Laura! Laura! Wake up! Wake up!” The voice was Aunt Clara’s voice, screaming loudly. But Aunt Clara had never been in this apartment, had never been in Chicago.

  “Yes, Aunt Clara,” Laura answered obediently. “I’m trying to wake up.” Aunt Clara was shaking her. But where was Aunt Clara? Laura still stared in confused terror at the silent shadow in the far corner of the room.

  Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the semidark, she saw a face in that shadow. I had forgotten! I hadn’t remembered! I was sleepy — I hadn’t remembered! But I remember now!

  The greatest terror she had ever known enveloped her. She couldn’t swallow. She was afraid for her life; she knew she was going to die.

  “Laura! Laura!” Aunt Clara shouted. “Wake up! Wake up!” Her hands gripped Laura’s shoulders. “Wake up, lovey! Wake up!”

  “Yes, yes,” Laura answered. “Oh, dear God! Dear God!”

  She had reached the threshold of the room now. “Dear God,” Laura prayed in her dream. “There must be some reason — why am I so afraid?”

  She awoke, suddenly, covered with perspiration. The night light was still on. But even while her blinking eyes saw that she was safe in her own bed in her own house, the room began to whirl. The whirling was filled with streaks and sparks of colored light, and the whirlpool in the center of the room had a dark and impenetrable center, like a vortex of death. With every fierce revolution it came closer to the bed. She couldn’t breathe. Her arms and legs were numb and cold, her breast paralyzed.

  I am dying, she thought. I must get help! But her body could not move; her lungs labored vainly. Soundless scream after soundless scream tore through her throat. “Laura!” Aunt Clara cried. And then Aunt Clara was at the foot of the bed. Aunt Clara with a stern face, gesturing wildly.

  The edge of the whirling vortex had reached the bed. In that horrible moment of terror, Laura was able to lift her right hand. Still keeping her eyes on Aunt Clara, her hand closed numbly about the slender bed lamp. She heard Aunt Clara’s words: “Yes, lovey, yes, throw it. Throw it!” But she couldn’t. Her hand felt heavy and lifeless. She made a last supreme effort and toppled the lamp from the table. From far off, faintly, she heard the crash as it fell. Then the edge of the vortex filled the room with darkness.

  “Good heavens, it’s half-past three,” Alice said.

  “Merry Christmas.” John toasted her with a last drink.

  Their talk had left morbid subjects and had become general and pleasant. No one felt sleepy or tired. Henry played the genial host, adding another piece of wood to the fire. “I only wish that Laura were here,” he said. “Poor girl. This has been rugged for her.”

  “It’s my opinion, Henry,” David said, “that Laura suffers from allergies. She may have an occasional cold, but I bet that most of them are of allergic origin. Do you have any antihistamine in the house?”

  “No, I never thought of that,” Henry said, interested. His kind, strong face kept turning from one to the other of his guests. “I’m never sick, myself. When Laura says she has a cold, then I take it for granted it’s a cold.”

  “I’ll write you a prescription for some. Let’s see how she reacts to them. I’ll bet anything that after a couple of doses she’ll suddenly feel all right.”

  “Thanks,” Henry said. It was peaceful in the large room. The tree ornaments shimmered in the firelight. “How about the traditional?” he suggested. “I’ll put the poker in the fire and get it red-hot, then we’ll have mugs of spiced wine.” He stood up, eager to prolong their comfortable mood.

  “None for me,” David yawned, thinking back to Alice’s comments about Aunt Clara. He had seen the old woman less than half a dozen times in his life. Big, ponderous, fat, sullen, always in black like a widow though she had never been married. Hadn’t she always worn a white lace cap on her mounds of gray braids? Funny he hadn’t remembered that until now. He could almost see her again, alert, her shrewd gray eyes always bright.

  “I don’t mind,” Alice said. “Aunt Clara used to do that on Christmas Eve. You never saw her, Hank. She was what they call a ‘character’. Full of will power. Honestly! I can hear her roaming around! Don’t laugh, but I can. Just now I could — almost — see her in that arch leading to the hall, beckoning to me. The way she used to do. ‘Alice!’ — I can hear the way she used to say my name. She never spoke except rebukingly, sternly, and warningly. But sometimes she would speak to Laura like a sentimental mother. I suppose, now, it was because Laura was so frail.”

  “Nonsense,” David told her. “Laura is as frail as an iron bar. There’s stamina in that girl though none of you seems to know it. I remember, though.”

  “Laura? Stamina?” Henry laughed. “Why, she can’t stand anything.”

  “You’re wrong,” David said, and they all stared at his suddenly grim face, a little startled at the determination in his voice. “Laura can take anything. She, like dear old Aunt Clara, has ‘character’. It’s just that she was so browbeaten and frightened as a child that everyone treated her as if she were made of whipped cream. But that girl has character. Yes, indeed. And she’ll need it,” he added.

  “Why do you say that?” Henry asked, thrusting the poker deep into the heart of the fire.

  David shrugged. “I have a feeling — ”

  Somewhere, upstairs, something crashed. A faint, tinkling crash, barely heard through the thick walls.

  “What was that?” Alice was the first to speak. “It sounded as if something had fa
llen.”

  They listened. There was no other sound.

  “Did you hear it?” Alice turned to her brother.

  “Yes, I did.” He had gotten to his feet. “It sounded like smashing glass.”

  “I heard it, too,” John said, standing.

  “I didn’t,” Henry said, puzzled. “It could be an icicle falling from the roof. It thumps when it hits the ground or the side of the house. I’m used to that noise, so I don’t hear it.”

  “It was in the house, not outside,” John told him. His expression conveyed a message to David.

  “Then maybe Mrs. Daley or Edith dropped something,” Henry suggested. “Their rooms are far down at the end of the upper hall.”

  “I know this house,” Alice said sharply. “I can place sounds. That didn’t come from the servants’ section. It sounded as if it came from Laura’s room!”

  “Perhaps she was just moving around.” Henry stood up, looking in bewilderment at David and John. The two men seemed to be communicating silently. “Alice, watch the poker, will you?” Henry ordered. “I’ll go up and see. I hope Laura’s awake, so she can share the wine with us.”

  He went quickly towards the hall, and heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see that the others were at his heels. David said easily, “I thought that we’d go with you.”

  “Fine, but there’s no need.”

  “I’m her temporary doctor, remember? We’ll all pay her a visit.”

  “All right,” Henry said. “But let’s keep it quiet, eh? Mrs. Daley and Edith are asleep. After all, it’s almost four a.m.”

  They went up the stairs swiftly but silently. “There’s no light under the door,” Henry said. “I bet Laura’s fast asleep.” He switched on the hall light; the little chandelier glowed. Tapping softly on the bedroom door, he called: “Laura?” There was no answer. “The noise didn’t come from here,” he told the others. “There isn’t a sound. She’s asleep.”

  Then David said: “Open that door.”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “I said, open that door. Or, do you want me to open it, Hank?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Henry exclaimed. “What’s the matter with you?” He looked helplessly at Alice and John; then, shrugging, he turned the knob and the door opened silently. It was dark inside. The bathroom was also dark. The only sound was the groaning of the wind. “Laura?” Henry whispered.

  “She’s asleep. Why disturb her?” he asked, as he began to close the door.

  David fumbled for a switch near the door, found it. Instantly the room came alive with soft lamplight near a reading chair, and on a distant wall where there were old light brackets.

  Laura was lying across the bed. Her bare arms trailed to the floor; her head almost touching it. She didn’t stir. Her profile turned towards them was oddly still, her mouth half open. Suddenly Alice screamed uncontrollably. Hysterically she pointed to the shattered lamp on the floor. David ran to the bed, and lifted Laura back on her tumbled pillows, feeling for her pulse. John Carr stood quietly and silently by the door, Henry next to him. Then suddenly Henry staggered to the bed, groaning as he watched David examining his wife. Laura’s eyes, faintly glazed, stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Her blonde hair was stained dankly with perspiration. Hers was the majestic withdrawal of one close to death.

  “My bag!” David shouted.

  Alice had hurried from the room. John Carr did not move.

  “Oh, God!” Henry moaned. “Look at this!”

  He held his trembling hand out to David. In it was a small, cream-colored sheet of paper. David straightened up from the bed, his face distorted. “Read, read,” Henry demanded. “Oh, Laura, Laura, why did you do it?”

  David took the paper. Laura had written in her artistic hand: “ — Henry. I’ve never known what to do about you, dear. I’ve tried, all these years. You never did understand. I never could please you. You won’t even give me a chance to explain. You never listened. Will you listen, now? Love, Laura.”

  “Laura, Laura,” Henry whispered, his face twisted in agony. “Why, Laura? Why? Don’t go away, don’t go away.”

  “Where did you get this?” David asked him, his voice harsh.

  “Where did you get it?” he repeated.

  Henry pointed stupidly at the bedside table. He was trembling violently, as he reached for one of the posts of the bed. His knees bent under him as he knelt beside the bed and wept.

  Alice returned with David’s bag, and gave her brother a mute and anguished look. “We should have known,” she whispered. But David took the bag from her, then, seizing Henry by the back of his coat, he tried to lift him to his feet. When Henry, his eyes streaming, sagged again to his knees, David clenched his fist and hit him savagely in the stomach. Weakly, Henry bent over and retched.

  “Get out!” David yelled. “Get out, or I’ll kill you!”

  Henry stood dumbly by the bed, gasping and holding his stomach. Then he felt a hard object against his side, and he shrank away.

  “Let’s go,” John Carr told him softly. Henry swung his head to the other man. “I think,” John Carr said quietly, “that we’ll go downstairs.”

  Henry’s eyes focused on the gun John Carr was holding. “I think,” John went on, “that I might kill you. But not just yet. Let’s go. Downstairs.”

  Henry, his eyes reflecting shock, suddenly remembered the gun. “You,” he muttered. “You tried to kill me. You tried — ”

  “If I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have killed you,” John told him. “Now, downstairs.”

  It was then that Mrs. Daley and Edith, in bathrobes and with their hair in curlers, rushed from their rooms at the end of the hall. Mrs. Daley saw John Carr and Henry, and the gun. She stopped halfway down the hall, opened her mouth, and shrieked. Edith also saw the gun and cried out. Henry swung to them hopefully.

  “Get the police!” he cried. “Run, quickly! Call the police!”

  Mrs. Daley’s hands flew to her mouth in the ancient gesture of fear. Edith seemed unable to comprehend the panorama before her.

  “The police!” Henry cried.

  Mrs. Daley and Edith continued to stare.

  “My friends,” John Carr said to them gently, “I think he is asking you to call the police.”

  “The police,” Mrs. Daley whispered.

  “Mr. Frazier!” Edith whimpered.

  “Damn you!” Henry shouted. “Get the police!”

  “But Mr. Frazier!” Mrs. Daley cried, her eyes fascinated by the gun. “We can’t — The snow — ”

  “Idiots, idiots,” Henry groaned. “Get something on you, and go for the police!”

  “But the gun,” Edith whined. “I never seen a gun.” She glanced over her shoulder at the open door of Laura’s room. “It ain’t a real gun, is it?”

  “The gun’s real,” John said. “Now, if one of you wants to go for the police, do so.”

  “Telephone’s out,” Mrs. Daley told them. “You can’t do nothing without a telephone.”

  Prodded by the gun, Henry went slowly down the stairs in front of John Carr.

  Mrs. Daley, still standing fixed and frightened on the landing, became aware of Edith’s sobbing. She turned to her niece and slapped her face. “Wake Evelyn,” she ordered. “Hurry! Wake Evelyn!”

  Chapter 10

  It seemed incredible to Henry Frazier that the living room could still be warm and festive, and that the fire still burned brightly, and that in the corner their Christmas tree still sparkled. “Sit down.” John Carr’s voice was firm. “We have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “Laura,” Henry said, wringing his hands. “Laura. She’s — ”

  “Dead? No doubt,” John said. “I haven’t the slightest doubt in the world.”

  “Who are yo
u? What are you doing here? What do you want?” Henry cried.

  “I said sit down. You’ve asked questions, and I’ll answer them.”

  “Laura!”

  “May she rest in peace.”

  Henry moved a step or two closer. But the gun pointed towards him never wavered. “I don’t have the slightest objection to killing you,” John told him. “Sit down. This is the last time I’m going to tell you, Frazier.”

  “What do you want?” Henry asked in a faint voice. “You tried to kill me. Did someone try to kill Laura?”

  “I didn’t ‘try’ to kill you. I never intended to kill you when I fired on you. And someone indeed tried to kill Laura. You weren’t fooled by that note, were you? Or, were you?”

  Henry sank slowly onto a chair, his face drawn. He glanced towards the hall. Was there a furtive movement in the rear of the house, a soft opening of a distant door? Would there actually be help? Would one of the women go for the police?

  John Carr fished for a cigarette and lighted it as he contemplated the man across from him. “Let’s have a talk. First, though, let me introduce myself. I’m John Beame.”

  Henry regarded him in stunned silence.

  “That’s right. I’m Laura’s brother. Actually her half brother. We had the same father, if you want to dignify him by calling him a father. That’s why you both recognized me, or thought you did. I look like the old man. Laura dimly remembered him. And, in some ways, I seem to resemble Laura. Same coloring and features, except for the eyes. You both remembered me, or recognized me, for entirely different reasons.

  “Laura’s brother!”

  John shrugged. “A pretty poor specimen. I never thought to look her up. But then my mother hated him, hated poor Lucille, and, of course, hated Laura. The stories! Well, it doesn’t matter. Later I decided that if I came to see her she’d think I was after something. My father was a washout; after he died, my mother told me that dear little Laura was some sort of a vampire, and that the family would never get a cent out of old Clara. We did, though. She gave my mother fifty thousand dollars outright, for my sister and me, and then eight hundred dollars a month until she died. Not bad, would you say?”