by Nancy Thayer
“John?” she called up from the bottom of the attic stairs. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’m painting, Willy,” was his only response.
Brazen now, Willy went uninvited up the attic stairs to see exactly what it was her husband was up to. And he was, in fact, painting, another dreary, dark, disturbing canvas. Willy stood at the top of the stairs, watching for a while. John was completely engrossed, sweeping the paint on in swirling motions, seemingly unaware of Willy’s presence.
Willy took advantage of this to look around the attic. No other person was there—had she really expected someone would be? Had she expected some gorgeous ghost to be hovering just over John’s left shoulder, inspiring him as he worked?
“I’m surprised the paint works in this cold,” Willy said. “I’m surprised you can work in this cold.”
He was silent so long she thought he was not going to answer, but finally he said, in a low voice, “The heaters are turned on. It just takes a while for the room to warm up.”
He kept on painting, absorbed, until at last Willy turned and went down the stairs.
She walked through the lovely old house, thinking. Already the light was fading from the sky, and the rooms were filled with shadows. It was almost six o’clock; she wished John would come down to eat. The food smelled heavenly—how could he resist?
By seven he still had not come down, but she would not give up. There were other ways to seduce him.
She went to the bedroom and took out her sexiest nightgown, the red satin one that clung and dipped in just the right places. She brushed her hair out so that it hung shimmering down her back and over her shoulders. She applied what little makeup she owned—some lipstick and blush—and perfume. Finally, after scrutinizing herself in the mirror—her breasts were so exposed in this gown!—she went slowly up the stairs to the attic.
John was in the process of cleaning his brushes. He did not turn when Willy came to his side. So she moved behind him and leaned up against his back. She wrapped her arms around his waist and began to nuzzle and lightly kiss the back of his neck, the back of his ears, while at the same time running her hands up and down the front of his body.
“Through with work for the day?” she purred.
John pulled away from her. “Willy,” he began.
She let him pull away. She stepped back so that he could get a good look at her. Then, because he only stood looking at her without speaking or moving, she took his hands and placed them on her breasts. She smiled at him and moved her head slowly so that her hair slid forward over his hand.
“Don’t, Willy,” John said, trying to pull his hands away.
“Don’t what?” she asked, smiling, moving closer to him. “Why not? I’m your wife.”
When he jerked his hands away in response, she moved even closer and put her arms up around his neck. “I think you’ve been working too hard,” she said. “I think you need a little … rest and relaxation.”
She kissed his neck, his face, his mouth, while moving her hands down his shoulders and over his body. It had been a long time since she had been so close to him physically, and she found herself becoming aroused by her actions. She wanted him. At some point she stopped operating, stopped manipulating, and let the instinctive need in her take over. She ground her body against his in little pushing movements.
And she felt him respond. Her breath came out in a jagged sigh, a mixture of relief and desire. When he began to kiss her back, to hold her to him, tears came into her eyes.
“Come,” she whispered, and pulled him to the bed that lay waiting, rumpled, in the corner of the attic.
“No, Willy,” John said, resisting, but at last he let himself be led to the bed, where they fell, husband and wife, together.
Willy was the assertive one. She rose above her husband, letting the strap of her gown fall down one shoulder so that most of one breast was exposed, and began to unbutton John’s shirt, kissing his chest as she worked. She unzipped his pants.
But although he had been erect when they were standing on the other side of the attic, his body now would display no sign of interest. No matter what she did with her hands and mouth, he stayed limp. Willy looked at her husband, who lay with his arms crossed over his face in an attitude of surrender.
“John?” she asked softly.
“It won’t work, Willy,” he said. “I can’t.”
“Lift up your hips so I can get your jeans off,” Willy said.
Without speaking, John did as she said. As Willy tugged, she felt a movement behind her and, turning to look, saw that Aimee had come up the stairs and, after sniffing at the edge, had jumped up onto the bed. The cat sat at the end of the bed, watching the humans, purring her approval.
Willy removed John’s jeans and undershorts. She took off her gown. Finally, they were naked together, after so many weeks apart. She lay down on top of him, nuzzling her head against his shoulder, subtly moving her hips against his.
“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re tired, you’re exhausted, you’ve been working so hard, and you’ve got to be hungry.” She began to kiss him softly as she spoke, licking here and there. “It’s good just to be together like this, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s been so long since we’ve been together; you’ve forgotten how it is for us, haven’t you? Oh, Johnny, I love you, sweet man,” she said, and she felt his body responding. She smiled, secretly triumphant.
She pushed herself up in order to move him inside her. He had moved his arms now so that his hands were on her breasts, and he lay looking at her with an expression she could not read. Just as she lifted her hips so that he could enter her, a sound tore the air next to them, startling Willy.
“Wrrrooow!”
The cat’s cry was piercing, high, and frightening.
Willy looked around and saw that Aimee, still on the foot of the bed, was standing now, her back arched, her fur ruffled and erect. The cat was slowly walking backward, snarling, her entire body bristling with fear.
“Aimee?” Willy said softly. She reached out her hand.
But the cat paid no attention to Willy. It continued to carefully back away from something, making hissing and snarling noises as it did.
Willy scanned the attic, but she could not see what the cat was frightened of. She became aware of intense cold in the air and then of the way John’s body shrunk away from hers.
“Johnny?” she asked, turning to look back at her husband.
“She’s my wife!” John shouted.
Willy whipped her head around to see the person John was addressing, but no one was there. And still Aimee slunk backward on the bed, her fur ruffled, her teeth bared.
Someone else was in the room with them. Willy could sense her presence now even though she could see nothing. She moved off John’s body and reached for her gown, wrapping it around her torso, towel fashion, to hide her nakedness.
“Who are you?” she called into the air. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
She looked around her for some sign, some movement, and was startled to find herself being grabbed by her husband. John sat up in bed and grasped Willy’s arms in his hands.
“Do you see her?” he asked, nearly shouting. “Do you see her?”
“No,” Willy replied, “but I feel her. I know she’s there, John.”
In response, John buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God,” he sobbed. “Don’t you see, now, Willy?” he asked. “It’s all over. It’s decided. I’m hers now. This house is hers, and I am hers.”
“No,” Willy protested. “No, Johnny. No.” She leaned over to comfort him, but he drew away from her touch.
“Please,” he said. “Please just leave me alone.”
Willy knelt on the bed next to her naked husband, who now had turned on his side, his back to her, his face hidden in his hands. Miserable and baffled, she just stayed like that awhile, holding her red satin gown around her body, wondering what to do. Aimee had calmed down now and came to sett
le next to John, her feet tucked under her and her fur settled but her eyes still wary. Willy was grateful for the cat’s company; she felt lonelier than she had ever felt in her life. She did not have any idea how she would comfort her husband. When she reached out to touch his shoulder, he flinched away from her as if her touch burned.
“I need to sleep, Willy,” John said. “I have to sleep.”
“My God, how can you sleep now?” Willy protested. “John, we have to talk. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
He did not respond. Frustrated, Willy sank down into a sitting position on the bed and pulled her gown over her head so that it was properly on her now. It did little to warm her against the cold of the attic. She could feel that the crisis had somehow passed: The cat was calm, the air was calm, John was relaxed. In fact, John was, she realized with surprise, sound asleep. Just like that, he had fallen into a deep sleep.
Willy looked at her sleeping husband, feeling exasperated, baffled, and deeply afraid. She didn’t know what to do. She sat there for almost an hour, watching John sleep, waiting for something else to happen, waiting to feel something in the air, wondering what on earth she should do. Her thoughts were racing, but gradually her pulse slowed, for the room remained silent except for John’s breathing and the cat’s little noises.
Willy’s back began to ache. She stretched, and the cat, in response, looked up at her and mewed.
“I know, I know, you’re hungry,” Willy said to the cat. “And the stew has probably burned on the bottom of the pot by now. And I’m freezing. I could use a nice stiff drink.” She picked the cat up and held it in her arms. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go downstairs.”
She bent over and pulled the soiled comforter up over her husband’s naked body. He looked so frail to her, he had lost so much weight; and in his nakedness he seemed vulnerable. Willy stood a moment looking around the attic. If anything was there, she could not sense it.
At any rate, she reminded herself wryly, the ghost would not hurt John. John had said he belonged to her. Surely she would not hurt him while he slept.
At the top of the stairs, she stopped, turned, and looked around her again. The attic was bright with fluorescent lights, cold, and quiet except for the even sounds of John’s deep breathing as he slept.
“It’s not true, you know,” Willy said aloud, speaking to whoever might be there. “This is not your house. This is our house, Johnny’s and mine. And he is my husband.”
She waited, half expecting a response, but nothing moved, all was still. Cradling the cat against her breast, Willy went down the stairs.
But she could not relax. She could not calm down. The thought that something, someone, whatever or whoever she was, was up there now with John, was in their house, filled her with tension. No matter how she replayed in her mind the events of the past few hours, she could make no sense out of it. She felt hysteria rising in her like a filling well.
In her bedroom, she pulled off the satin gown, letting it drop to the floor, and stepped into her favorite old robe, a thick satin-lined heavy green wool. She felt protected in it. She yanked her hair back into a long ponytail and roughly fastened it with a band, then turned and went down into the kitchen. Aimee followed her, rubbing against her legs.
While Aimee ate the dinner Willy set out for her, Willy leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking a vodka and tonic and eating beef stew. She ate so fast she burned her tongue and could not taste the food, but her eating was only a frantic way of fortifying herself. In the midst of a bite she gagged and spit the mouthful back into the bowl. She put the bowl in the sink.
“This is horrible, horrible!” she cried out, pressing her hands to her temples. “What are we going to do?”
“Be calm, Willy, be calm,” she answered herself, but that was of little help.
She took up the kitchen phone and dialed the Hunters’ number. Mark answered.
“God, Willy, you left just in time,” he said. “We’ve all come down with a monster flu today.”
“Mark,” Willy said, taking deep breaths so that she would not sound hysterical, “listen to me. I need your help desperately. You’ve got to come here. You’ve got to see John. He’s in trouble. We’re in trouble.”
“What’s wrong?” Mark asked.
“It’s the ghost—” Willy began, but Mark interrupted.
“Willy,” he said, chiding. “Come on.”
“Listen to me!” Willy exclaimed. “I know you don’t believe it. I didn’t, either, but it’s true. Oh, Mark, you’ve got to come here. You’ve got to help us. Please.”
“Willy, I just told you. I can’t come. Anne and I are both flat on our backs with this damned flu. Actually, it would be better if we were flat on our backs. Most of the time we’re bent over the toilet, puking. We can hardly take care of Peter.”
In response, Willy began to sob into the telephone. “I’m so afraid,” she said. “Mark, I’m so afraid.”
“Now calm down, Willy,” Mark said, alarm in his voice. “Look, tell me what’s been going on. Explain it to me.”
Willy took a deep breath. “When I got home,” she said, “I found the attic in a horrid mess. And John was filthy. He hadn’t shaved or bathed or—”
“Had he been painting?” Mark asked.
“Yes. Yes, horrid, bleak stuff.”
“Well, then,” Mark replied. “Maybe you don’t care for it, but the fact is he was working while you were gone. Probably got so involved in his work he didn’t care about shaving or bathing. That’s hardly anything to get worried about, Willy. You know we men need you females around to keep us up to mark in the cleanliness department. Not to seem sexist—”
“It’s more than that!” Willy said. “John’s lost so much weight. He looks terrible. He looks skinny and weak and pale and awful!”
“He’s probably had the flu,” Mark said. “Really, Willy, if you could see us, you’d say the same thing about us. Right after you left, we started throwing up, and we’ve been doing it every hour on the hour. We’re both dehydrated and drawn looking and have black circles under our eyes—”
“He won’t sleep with me!” Willy interrupted, nearly shouting. “I can’t get him interested in me sexually.”
Mark was quiet a minute, surprised at this intimate detail. “Well, Willy,” he said, “if he’s been sick, the way we’ve been sick, I wouldn’t worry. The last thing we’re interested in now is sex, believe me. We couldn’t find the energy for it to save our lives.”
“But he doesn’t have the flu,” Willy protested. “He’s involved with a ghost. Don’t laugh, Mark, listen to me, I know it’s true. She was up in the attic with us.”
“Did you see her?”
“No,” Willy replied. “But—but I sensed her. And the cat walked backwards with her fur ruffled up, hissing and snarling. The cat saw her.”
Mark was quiet again. “You think there was a ghost in the attic because your cat walked backwards?” he said, his voice even.
“Oh, damn you,” Willy cried. “Why won’t you believe me? Why would I want to make up something like this? Mark, you know me. I’m not the type to go around seeing things. Why can’t you believe me?”
“What’s John doing now?” Mark asked.
“He’s asleep. In the attic. On that soiled bed. He’s naked. That’s another thing—he sleeps all the time. And I can’t get him to eat. He just sleeps. He falls asleep so easily and sleeps so much!”
Mark took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Willy,” he said, “I hate to say this, but I feel like shit. I’m going to have to hang up and get to the bathroom in a minute; I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. Listen, honey, it sounds to me like John has got the same creeping crud we’ve got here. You’re bound to get it yourself. Then you’ll understand. When you’re this sick, you can’t eat, you don’t want to eat, because you only upchuck everything, and all you want to do is sleep. You have to sleep. Now I’m sure that John has this flu. It’s everywhere.
Watch the evening news; they’re talking about how many schoolchildren are absent these days because of it. It’s a new strain, a new virus. I’m sure that’s all that’s wrong with John. Just give him a few days to recover, then he’ll be your old John again. Come on, Willy, be sensible. There’s no ghost in your attic, I don’t care what your cat did. Cats get spooked easily, especially in new places. Just relax and let poor John sleep and I promise you in a few days he’ll be eating and screwing like the old John again. All right?”
“All right,” Willy said, giving up. What else could she say? Mark did not believe her; and she couldn’t blame him. It was all preposterous.
She hung up the phone and leaned against the kitchen wall, feeling defeated.
It was not even nine o’clock yet. Willy climbed to the attic and looked at John; he was still in a deep sleep. She sat on the end of the bed awhile, thinking. She went back downstairs and fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, then stopped by their bedroom to pull on wool socks and a wool sweater over her robe. It was so cold in the attic she didn’t know how John could stand it. But when she went back upstairs, he was asleep, oblivious to the cold.
What could she do? It seemed there was nothing she could do. Her husband had told her that he belonged to a ghost and would not make love to her, and she felt she had experienced a ghost—and yet there was nothing she could do. She could not understand how, after all that had happened this evening, John could so easily fall asleep, how he could stay asleep. Willy looked at him, feeling nearly insane with emotions. And John slept. She was wildly frustrated.
But she was not defeated. Not so easily defeated. She didn’t know what was going on, she didn’t know the rules, she didn’t even know all the players of this game, but she had always been a good sport; she didn’t give up easily. She wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t give up her husband.
Willy made one more trip back down the stairs, Aimee accompanying her as she walked. She got a heavy comforter and a pillow and a thick book she had been wanting to read. Back in the attic, she made herself as comfortable as she could next to her sleeping husband. Then she opened her book and read, only half seeing the words on the pages. She was waiting for something to happen.
