The Broken Hours

by Jacqueline Baker

  Ah, no. I work at home, actually.

  Do you?

  I thought I’d mentioned that.

  I don’t think so. I would have remembered. Anyway, I saw this, she said, brushing a hand against her own chin, and knew you couldn’t be going to work, anyway.

  This?

  Your beard. It’s growing quite thick.

  I lifted a hand to my own chin, felt the stubble there. It was hardly what one would call a beard, and, of course, I was aware it was there, but with the lack of a mirror in the upstairs apartment, I hadn’t noticed or cared.

  It looks rather dashing, I think, Flossie said. Some of my brother’s friends had them, back in Indiana, even though they’re not the fashion. But then nothing is, back there. I had crushes on them all. The friends, that is. How’s your aunt?

  My aunt?

  With the grippe.

  Grippe?

  Were you visiting her?

  I collected myself. Indeed. Yes. Improving. Thank you. For asking.

  Home soon?

  Home? Yes. I hope so.

  But then you’ll leave, won’t you.

  She leaned against the wall in the light from the window. Her face scrubbed and shining, eyelashes so pale they looked golden. At times, I thought, in the right light, she gave the impression of being so ethereal, so translucent, one could see right through her. So different from Jane’s solid, dark handsomeness.

  Anyway, that makes two of us, I guess, Flossie went on. Working at home. No auditions for me today. I suppose you guessed as much.

  Why’s that?

  I’m not exactly gussied up, am I.

  The Midwestern turn of phrase was charming. She misread my slight smile, looked embarrassed.

  Oh, you must find me awfully unsophisticated.

  On the contrary.

  Anyway, I’m hoping something will come up tomorrow, some hostessing work or something at least, maybe up in Boston, some stupid convention where they want girls to stand around with trays of business cards, smiling until their feet bleed or something.

  Not exactly acting.

  It’s acting, all right. Believe you me. Oh, there I go again. Anyway, if there’s anything going, I’ll take the train up, but this miserable spring is putting a damper on things everywhere, no pun intended. Or so my agent tells me. But then one never knows with agents. Sometimes I think they just tell you what you want to hear.

  You want to hear there are no auditions?

  Well, not that, of course. She looked solemn then. I’m glad you’re not angry.

  Why would I be angry?

  The other day. What the neighbour said. It was stupid of me.

  You’re hardly to blame for any nonsense some neighbourhood crank spouts.

  I’m glad you feel that way. You seemed so angry. I’ve been just a wreck about it all. I couldn’t bear to think you were upset with me. Say, do you have time for coffee? I just made a fresh pot. And there’s a lemon cake I picked up at that little Italian bakery. I swear the box weighs ten pounds. I broke a darn sweat carrying it home and I’ll just die if you make me eat it all myself. I’ll have to starve for a week. Unless you’re busy, working?

  The best answer, of course, would have been that in fact I was working and could not spare the time. Flossie stood staring at me, waiting. The bright room behind her looked so inviting. The day was still young and the aspirin was doing its work and with everything that had happened, and the conversation with my employer still heavily on my mind, a cup of coffee and a slice of cake with a pretty girl in a silk dressing gown seemed at that moment too pleasant to pass up. And then, too, I recalled, Helen was back. I was quite eager to meet her, as if she were a strange player come late to the stage.

  Just a quick one, then, I said. I do have a good deal to accomplish today.

  That sounds intriguing, she said, closing the door behind me. The locks rattled from their hooks.

  You know, I could remove those for you, I offered. They’re quite unnecessary, I assure you.

  Yes, she said, turning the music down, you said that already.

  Have I?

  Anyway, I don’t mind. It’s kind of pleasant, in a way. A poor girl’s door chime. And a good reminder, too.

  Really. Of what?

  Beats me, she said, but something. Independence? And she laughed again in that odd way she had, when a thing didn’t seem at all funny to me.

  She disappeared into another room I supposed was the kitchenette and I stood looking around. The room was supremely untidy. On the coffee table, bottles of nail polish and wadded tissue like crumpled flowers amid several halfdrunk cups of milky coffee; the floor and sofa littered with women’s magazines and catalogues, torn-out pages on the carpet in some inexplicable feminine order. A saucer of hairpins. An opened jar of hand cream. A single, nibbled sugar biscuit. As if there had been quite a party.

  But there was more. On the sofa were several violet silk cushions that had not been there before. The heavy green draperies had been replaced with sheer ones in a similar shade of violet, and a thick white rug rolled out beneath the coffee table. The potted ferns were gone and in their place were several vases of white chrysanthemums. A crystal candelabra dripping with light stood on the mantel where the horse had been.

  Flossie returned with a silver urn of coffee and a cake on a tray.

  I mean, she said, setting the tray on the table and licking frosting from her finger, the lock could be done up. From the inside or from the outside, it doesn’t matter. Either way, they’d be locked. I’d be locked. See what I mean?

  That sounds very New Thought.

  And why not? I believe in the power of positive thinking. That you can create yourself, just by imagining yourself how you want to be. I suppose you think they’re a bunch of kooks or something.

  It’s not my cup of tea, I said, clearing a spot on the sofa.

  Well, I like to think I can change my destiny. Not just who I am, but who I will be. Who wants to be all locked up like that? I wasn’t very independent, back in Indiana. My family doesn’t encourage that sort of thing. And then I wasn’t very independent here, you know, at first. But now.

  Now, I said, thinking again about what she’d told me at the wharf, about Helen, and the implication. A gloominess passed across her face and I wondered if she was remembering it, too, and her tears afterward, and I said nothing.

  She handed me a slice of cake and a cup of coffee, which I doused liberally with milk and sugar. I caught her watching me, amused.

  Sweet tooth, is that right?

  Not really, I said distractedly, then followed her gaze to my cup, where I’d deposited several teaspoons of sugar. It was scattered all around the saucer and I brushed it into my palm. Then, not knowing what to do with it, I dumped that into my cup as well. Wasn’t paying attention.

  I stirred and sipped, thinking I’d surely ruined the coffee, but in fact it tasted quite pleasant.

  Flossie leaned back in her armchair, watching me with a curious amusement. Her white feet were bare, her toenails painted a bright Chinese red. I tapped my fingers on my coffee cup. Flossie smiled and wiggled her toes. I looked away.

  I see you’ve made some changes, I ventured.

  You noticed. The ferns were dying anyway. God only knows when they were watered last.

  And what does your friend think of the changes? Helen?

  Helen?

  Isn’t she back?

  Flossie frowned. Why would you think that?

  I paused and lowered my cup, looking at her carefully.

  I haven’t heard a word. She set her cup down with a clatter and bit at her thumbnail. I don’t know what to think. I tell you, I’m just about ready to write to her folks, in Indiana.

  Why don’t you?

  I don’t want to worry them. I mean, if she isn’t.

  Perhaps she’s on extended holiday, I offered.

  I thought of that.

  Or some other reasonable explanation. From what you told me, she seems
just the sort of girl who would leave an unfinished meal and disappear for a few days. Unpredictable and all that.

  It’s true, Flossie said, considering. She really is.

  Well, she does seem to be of a type. From what you’ve told me. Girls like her are not uncommon, I think. Seeking attention. Dramatic, I suppose.

  Oh, terribly. You seem to understand her perfectly. It’s as if you know her.

  She does seem to be a certain type, I said again.

  Difficult, yes. The stories I could tell. She did have, you know, problems.

  Problems?

  Oh, I don’t know. It’s just what my friend always said, her sister, Harriet. She looked at me carefully then. Arthor, what I said, the other day, about Helen. I … really don’t know for sure. It’s just, there was always talk. I wouldn’t want you to think badly of her.

  I understand.

  She nodded. And, anyway, would you really think it was so terrible?

  As you said, it’s not for me to judge.

  She seemed satisfied.

  Maybe it’s even best she’s not here. It’s been sort of good for me, to learn to be on my own. That independence, like I said. I think it’s starting to suit me rather well.

  Liar, I said.

  She looked up, shocked.

  You hate being alone.

  She flushed then, looked away, forced a laugh.

  It’s true, she said. I do hate it. You see right through me, Arthor. She poured out more coffee though her cup was almost full. Anyway. We’ll see. I hope she won’t mind, Helen, about the changes. When she’s back. It was just so awfully green.

  Easily remedied if she doesn’t. But if you decide to put in a new bathtub, you should probably wait till she returns. I laughed uneasily; it was a stupid, inappropriate thing to say, but she had not taken the remark so. It was pleasant, in Flossie’s company again. The awkwardness between us dissipating. But, still, there was the question of the girl I’d seen in the garden. I’d been sure it was Helen. If it had not been …

  Flossie, I began, leaning forward.

  Mm?

  I wonder if you wouldn’t mind my asking a personal question.

  Ooh, she said, my favourite kind. Ask anything.

  I set my coffee cup down with a sharp clack I had not intended.

  I thought I saw you out in the garden the other night.

  She looked up in surprise.

  Me? What was I doing there?

  I’m not sure.

  Well, you must be mistaken. I hate gardens, all dirt and earthworms and cat droppings. Reminds me only too well of my rural roots. Weeding—is there no worse hell?

  It was late. Perhaps you were sleepwalking.

  I sleep like the dead.

  She held my gaze steadily. A beat, perhaps, too long. Then she lifted the coffee pot and eyed me, suddenly coy.

  I do like that you thought you saw me there, she said. It’s kind of romantic. Was I wearing a flowing gown?

  In fact, I said, holding my cup out to her, you were.

  Flossie laughed, delighted at the idea. She refilled my cup and set the pot down.

  This is fun, she said, leaning back against the violet cushions and crossing her bare white ankles on the coffee table. Like playing hooky. Well. You are. Not me, I guess. What I wouldn’t do to have something to play hooky from. But all in good time, as they say. “They” being the ones currently working. Anyway. I’m keeping you from your work. And you haven’t even told me yet what it is you do.

  I took a long sip of my coffee and put it down on the table. I’m a writer.

  What else was I to say? And anyway it was out, and I could not take it back.

  Are you? she said, leaning forward. How exciting. What do you write?

  Oh, fiction, mostly.

  What kind?

  The usual.

  Romance?

  I considered my employer’s stories. Hardly.

  Oh. She pouted prettily. That’s too bad. I love romance novels. It’s the only kind I’ll read, when I have the patience to read at all. It’s not that I mind it so; it’s just I’d rather …

  Yes?

  Live. She looked at me brightly. I hope I haven’t offended you.

  Not at all.

  Good. We were just getting to be friends again. So, what do you write?

  I suppose it’s called …

  What?

  Horror? Or, what was the term he’d used in his letters, in the magazines. Weird fiction?

  She wrinkled her nose. What on earth is that?

  Like horror, I suppose.

  I see.

  I’m not sure how to describe it.

  That’s all right.

  We sat a few moments in silence, sipping our coffee.

  I could tell you, I said finally, about the story I’m working on now. If you like.

  Is it scary?

  I’m not sure. Maybe you could tell me.

  I don’t like to be scared.

  Then perhaps I shouldn’t tell you.

  Well, I suppose you have to tell me now, she said. She tucked her legs up beneath her on the armchair and cradled her cup in both hands. Okay, she said. Go on. But if I get too frightened, you must promise to stop.

  It’s about a hotel. Right here in Providence. Quite a popular one. On Benefit Street, beyond the university. I wonder if you know it?

  Oh, don’t tell me which, I might have to stay there sometime.

  And it’s about a girl.

  Young?

  Around your age, I would think.

  And is she pretty?

  Very.

  Good, she said, settling into her chair. Every scary story should have a pretty girl.

  2

  When I descended in the afternoon, I found Flossie’s door standing open, as if she had been waiting for me. I hesitated a moment on the lowest step, my hand on the balustrade, uncertain. I had been surprisingly untroubled, after our coffee, at my own growing lies, even though Flossie must surely, sooner or later, learn the truth. My employer would not be ill forever. And what was I to do then?

  But the fact was, I was enjoying my little charade. Surely as much as Flossie was enjoying hers. Oh, I was not a complete fool. That late-night return from across the way, from the boarding house. I knew very well what she was. And I did not mind. It made it easier for me to do my own pretending. A kind of independence, as Flossie had said. An opportunity to be, however briefly, someone other than who I was. The man I might, with better fortune or wiser decisions, have been.

  It was then I heard the second voice, from within, lower than Flossie’s, but unmistakably female. I couldn’t help overhearing; it was hardly eavesdropping. And I thought, illogically, with something like panic: Jane has come.

  Arthor? Flossie called out. Is that you?

  Her yellow head peeped around the door. You must come in.

  I’m just on my way out, I lied.

  Oh, but you must, she insisted. You’ve a visitor.

  I confess my heart clenched. I could imagine only Jane seated there in Flossie’s sunny apartment, her hair drawn back starkly from her beautiful, unhappy face. How she would have aged. I knew without having to set eyes upon her. A visitor. It had to be Jane. There was no one else.

  But, of course, it was not Jane. Seated there on the green sofa amid the violet silk cushions, just as I had been mere hours ago, was a dark-haired woman quite unlike my wife. Her hair was pinned back rather untidily, her neck long and drooping into her shoulders. She wore a mannish cardigan and a gray skirt. I would not have called her ugly, but there was nothing of grace in her. And though she was not old, there was about her something distinctly crow-like. She rose when I entered. I almost expected wings.

  This, Flossie announced, is Mary. Then added, She’s a writer.

  The woman, Mary, looked embarrassed.

  I’d hardly say that, she said.

  Oh no, Flossie said, she’s written ever so many stories, and had some published in magazines. Magazines I�
�ve heard of, even. Poems too, isn’t that right, Mary?

  Mary agreed that it was.

  She’s a—what did you say again, Mary, what kind of writer?

  Literary. Though lately I’ve taken an interest in weird fiction.

  Hard to imagine, Flossie said. Anyway, she’s come all this way, all the way from Canada, can you believe it, just to meet you. She said she knows all your stories, isn’t that right, Mary?

  Again, the woman looked embarrassed.

  She didn’t know the one about the hotel, though, Flossie mused. Of course, that’s because you’ve not even finished it yet, have you. I’d just been telling her about it.

  Pleased to meet you, Mary, I said, finally stepping forward. Her handshake was cold and damp, but in that moment I could have clasped her in an embrace, so relieved was I.

  It’s such an honour, she said.

  From Canada, is it? I said.

  Flossie fluttered around us. Oh sit, everyone, sit. I’ll make coffee. You will stay for coffee, won’t you? Oh, I beg you, don’t go upstairs. Do stay and visit here. It’s sort of like a party, isn’t it. You know, I knocked for you, Arthor, some time ago. Didn’t you hear me? Poor Mary’s been waiting. All the way from Canada. Just imagine. Where was it you said, again?

  It was not until I was seated next to Mary on the sofa, listening to Flossie chatter on instead of making coffee, that I realized, with no small degree of shock, that I was not—of course I was not, what could I have been thinking—I was not the man she was seeking. How easy, how easy it was, to slip. Had the woman not mentioned my employer’s name to Flossie? Not made it clear the writer she sought?

  Isn’t that marvellous? Flossie was saying to me.

  The backs of my hands prickled with a cold sweat.

  I scarcely know—

  Mary is, what did you say your last name was?

  I didn’t, Mary began. But—

  And you, Flossie said, patting my knee, you sly fox. All this time, letting me call you Arthor.

  I laughed nervously.

  What have you got to say for yourself ? Flossie demanded.

  In fact—

  A pen name, of all things. Mary says you’ve got hundreds.

  Not hundreds, Mary corrected.

  Are you really so famous? Do you know, Flossie said, turning to Mary, I didn’t even know he was a writer until this morning? I even thought he might be making it all up, you know, trying to impress me or something. Yes, that’s right. You’ve been a very naughty boy, Arthor. Or should I call you, oh goodness, I’ve already forgotten. Mary, what did you say the name was?