The Broken Hours

by Jacqueline Baker

  For heaven’s sake.

  Helen, she choked out.

  What about Helen?

  Oh, it’s too awful. I can’t.

  I stifled my growing irritation and poured her out a tumbler of water from the pitcher on the coffee table and had her sit in my place on the sofa and take a few sips and blow her nose.

  After a few moments, she said, I wasn’t truthful before. I wasn’t truthful at all. I don’t like to lie to my friends, but I just couldn’t tell you; I just didn’t even want to say it.

  Say what, for heaven’s sake?

  I wasn’t in Boston for any silly old convention. I was in Miami.

  Indiana.

  Yes, Indiana.

  All right—

  For a funeral. There. I’ve said it. And I hope you’re glad, because I certainly don’t feel any better. She began to sob again.

  Flossie … , I began, after a moment.

  It’s too terrible, she said through her tears. I didn’t even like her, really. But still, I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, and then me just sitting here like a fool and I didn’t even call her parents or, or the police, or anything, just sat here wondering where she’d gone like the idiot that I am. And you were no help, really, telling me not to worry. She’s on holiday, you said. She’ll be back soon. And all the time I knew, I just knew. Why are you all so stupid that way?

  She’s … , I began. But … is she dead, then?

  Yes, she’s dead, Flossie cried. For god’s sake. That’s just what I’ve been saying. It was … oh, Arthor … it was …

  What?

  Suicide.

  And she put her head in her lap and sobbed again.

  I sat down on the coffee table, astonished.

  My god, I said. She shot herself ?

  Flossie raised her reddened eyes and wiped a wrist across her nose. What? Shot herself ? No. Why would you think such a thing?

  I don’t know. I just assumed—

  I don’t see why you’d think that.

  Of course not. I don’t know why I said it.

  I poured her some more water and she pushed it away, and I handed her a dry tissue and pulled a throw blanket from one of the armchairs and covered her and coaxed her to lie down a bit on the sofa. But she began to cry again and I hardly knew what to do with myself. I turned on her radio, softly: that song that seemed to be always on—Is it true what they say about Dixie? Does the sun really shine all the time?—brought a renewed bout of sobs, so I turned it off again.

  When she had cried herself out and lay silently on the sofa, I said, But Flossie, why didn’t you tell me? In the first place?

  I don’t know, she said, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. After a while, she said, I know you think I’m silly, Arthor, and scatterbrained, but I’m not, you know. I feel things, too. I may not be a writer, I may not be so bohemian, like you, I may just be a silly old actress, and not even a very good one, but I have feelings, you know.

  Of course you do.

  You seem to think I don’t.

  Why would you say such a thing?

  You seem to have this wrong idea, of who I am, the kind of person, as if you’d already decided …

  She stared at me a long while, and finally turned her head away. You treat everyone, she said quietly, like a character in one of your stories.

  If only she knew how mistaken she was.

  Oh, I don’t know, she said then, turning back to me. Don’t pay any attention. I’m just upset about it all. I guess I just didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to hear myself saying it.

  Understandable.

  And I wasn’t very kind about her, was I? I said terrible things. Do you know what I remember about her most? I mean from when I was a girl?

  Yes?

  Well—she sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a tissue—I was friends with her sister, Harriet, like I told you. She and Harriet didn’t get on very well, and I thought her kind of strange even then, but in a mysterious sort of way, like you do when you’re a child. And there was something appealing about that. Do you know what I mean?

  Only too well.

  I can’t say I liked her, and certainly she wasn’t very kind to Harriet. I remember they had some argument once, something silly, about toast, and Helen went after her with a knife, chasing her around the kitchen. It was just a little butter knife and probably harmless, but it was terrifying at the time, and Harriet locked herself in the bathroom, screaming bloody murder, and me just standing there not knowing what on earth I should do. I thought Helen might go after me next, but she didn’t. She came back into the kitchen holding that knife and just asked would I like some toast, nice as you please. Of course I said no thank you.

  Good thinking.

  I know it sounds crazy, but I’d felt, well, almost drawn to her, because of her strangeness. Even though I was afraid of her. Does that make any sense?

  In fact, I said, it makes perfect sense. To me it does.

  Oh, I don’t know that I understand it myself. Not then, certainly not now. Back when we were children, Harriet and me, I remember Helen had this bottle, a plain old green glass bottle, a wine bottle or something, and she’d used it to hold candles, all different colours, I guess, so as the candles melted, the wax ran down the outsides of this bottle, making this pattern of all these colors, like … I don’t know, just layer after layer. I wanted that bottle so badly. And one day while I was alone in their house—I don’t know where Harriet had got to—but I was holding that bottle, just admiring it and prying a bit of the wax off with my thumbnail, when I dropped it. At first I thought it hadn’t broken and I was so relieved. But then I picked it up and saw that it was only the wax that held it together and it was cracked apart in three big chunks. And do you know what I did?

  What?

  Nothing. I just left their house and went home. I thought Helen would blame Harriet, which Harriet told me later was just exactly what happened. Harriet said Helen was so angry with her, so upset, and that Helen had wept and wept about that bottle—that’s what Harriet said—that Helen seemed herself so broken about it, and said terrible, hurtful things to Harriet, and Harriet said the ugly old thing had probably just toppled onto the floor on its own, but you could see Harriet was upset about it too, upset about whatever it was that Helen had said to her. She never did tell me just what, and I never did set Harriet straight about that. I never did set Helen straight. And then at the funeral, I’d been thinking about that silly old bottle, and do you know I still couldn’t tell Harriet the truth. After all this time, and such a, such a terrible tragedy. I still couldn’t even confess my own little deception, and I feel doubly horrible about it because now Helen never will know. It’s too late.

  I’m sure it feels important, I began, but it could hardly matter, given the circumstances. It probably means more to you than it ever did to either of them. Guilt works that way, you know. It is you who are haunted by it, and not them.

  She seemed comforted by that, and more collected, and certainly more herself. I rose to go, but felt her eyes on me as I opened her door.

  You’ll feel better about it all in the morning, I said, in the way of things. I felt suddenly weary, and immensely sad. But as I made my way up the stairs, I heard her come out and follow me up to the landing. I turned again to her.

  She was staring up at me, imploringly. The way the shadows fell across her face, I could not see her eyes, as if they were black holes there, empty. She rubbed her arms and I had an inkling, a premonition, of exactly what she was about to say next.

  Arthor, she began, I just, please. I don’t want to be alone down there. It’s just, it’s too …

  I did not know what to say.

  Oh, she said unhappily. She turned away. I’ve been a terrible bother.

  Of course not, I said, coming back down the stairs. I’m just tired. I need to go back upstairs and get some sleep. And work. I’m falling far behind. You must understand.

  Oh, please, she said suddenly, and grasped my slee
ve. Please don’t leave me in that horrible apartment … with all of her … things, just sitting there. I’ve nowhere to go. You could bring your work down, or whatever you have to do, and sit in the armchair, and I’ll just lie there quietly. I won’t bother you, I promise. Please.

  The streetlight from the window fell in a soft outline along her cheek.

  It could not possibly be prudent. I looked again at Flossie, so broken and so alone, the two of us, there on that grim landing while the darkness moved and moved around us.

  God help me, what else was I to do?

  I hadn’t intended to fall asleep there. When next I opened my eyes, my back ached and my neck was in knots, and the windows were all dark, though whether it was late evening or the middle of the night or just before dawn, I had no idea. All the lights in Flossie’s apartment blazed. But she was not there. I rose hastily and looked about the apartment, but all the rooms were empty and I felt a terrible, cold sinking, a memory creeping upon me.

  I went out to the foyer, dark, though a light shone out from the top of the staircase, where my apartment door stood open. I took the stairs two at a time.

  The door at the end of the hall—the door into my employer’s study—stood open also and I moved toward it as in a dream. Flossie was there, standing in the middle of the room, her arms at her sides, looking vaguely disappointed.

  She turned to me as I came in behind her. I looked around, but there was no one else. My employer was gone.

  Forgive me, Flossie said, looking genuinely sorry. I thought you’d been hiding something.

  I left her in her apartment. She did not try to stop me, try to make me stay. She thought I was angry; I could see that. I wasn’t.

  All I could think: Where had he gone?

  On the landing I was met again by that oppressive cloud, as if it had been waiting for me. And I wondered if it had been there all along, that presence, what I had come to think of as the child, that it had never left at all. I felt it move with me up the stairs. It is amazing what we can allow ourselves to become used to, if necessary. It makes me think we must be able to withstand anything, if we only set our minds to it.

  No, I do not mean that. I do not mean anything.

  2

  We went out together, heavily, late the next afternoon, Flossie and I. I could not be angry with her, was not. She did not want to be alone. Neither did I. I had spent the night awake, wondering. Twice, I had begun wording a telegram to Jane, warning her not to come, and twice I had thrown it away. There was something inevitable in her arrival, as there was something inevitable in my employer’s absence. I could not make sense of it, and yet there was something fitting. Something right.

  And then, if I were to rein my imagination in, it was not impossible he was simply feeling better, had gone out. Not impossible at all.

  I caught Flossie looking at me sadly. She noticed and slipped an arm through mine as we walked. I was at once defensive against the gesture and grateful. It is ever thus in matters of intimacy.

  We stopped in a little café on Prospect, where Flossie puzzled over the menu a long while, then picked at an egg salad, claiming she wasn’t all that hungry after all. I looked out the café window. It was the magic hour, when shadows began to lengthen and the light took on a gilded, antique quality. The edges of buildings, trees, pedestrians sharpened, colors saturated, as if the ordinary and real had intensified into the extraordinary through a simple angle of light.

  We stepped out into it, back on the street, where, coming toward us from the direction of Sixty-Six, was the man Baxter. He had his boy with him, James.

  Good evening, I said.

  The man looked up. He seemed surprised to see us there.

  Evening, he agreed.

  Good evening, James, I said.

  The boy looked pleased that I’d remembered him. He wore no scarf but shouldered the heavy old overcoat nevertheless, unbuttoned a little at the neck. An odd look crossed the man Baxter’s face and I recalled our last meeting. What the boy had said.

  Bit of a hurry, Baxter said. Good evening to you.

  And he propelled the boy along down the street. But the child looked back at me over his shoulder, with that pale, disconcerting gaze.

  Well, that was rude, Flossie said.

  He isn’t the friendliest sort.

  Still, a little common courtesy.

  Country people, I said, by way of explanation.

  I am country people, Flossie said, rather heatedly, and I can tell you we aren’t like that.

  Hard times, then. It tends to take the shine out of people.

  I suppose. Still.

  You pretty women are all the same, I said. You don’t like to be ignored. You needn’t take it so personally.

  You think I’m pretty?

  You know you are.

  Is that so wrong? To know you’re pretty?

  But I was no longer listening. We had stopped in the shadow of the Van Wickle Gates, closed and locked, and I pulled away from Flossie and stepped up to the gleaming brass plate there, astonished at my reflection, warped and gilded. I would not have known myself. I was aware, of course, that I’d lost a good deal of weight, but I had not imagined my face so drawn and gaunt. My beard had grown in and there was a strained look about the mouth I did not recognize. I rubbed a sleeve against the brass to sharpen my reflection, but it merely wavered there, liquid, shimmering.

  Well, Arthor? Flossie said softly, coming up behind me. She laid a hand on my shoulder. Where are we going?

  The elms in the evening light had taken on a fuzzy, ghostly look.

  Angell Street, I said abruptly. I said it without thinking. I did not turn around, and only after I had said it did I realize that was exactly where I did not want to go, and where I had been meaning to go all along.

  We walked the long, wearying length of Angell Street as if in a dream, without speaking, without touching, the narrow street leading us farther out, until the city began to creep into farmland. I clenched the chunk of gravestone in my overcoat pocket, turning and turning it in my hand. At last we came in sight of the house. I knew it at once, without having to check the address. It could have been none other, looming up over the street, mythical and grand. Something in me lurched painfully and turned over.

  Goodness, Flossie breathed.

  It was a gray, impassive clapboard, set just back from the street on a high green terrace, handsomely shuttered, three stories, with dormers and cupolas just beginning to sag with the weight of its history. I did not like the look of it, though I could not say why. Something about it was unsettling, though it was not extraordinary in any other way. The gabled front veranda was flanked by witch hazel, bare and spidering upward, where a handful of last autumn’s leaves still clung, withered and rattling drily. From the low rise where we stood, I could see, behind the house, a sprawling carriage house or horse barn, and sheds and a garden, a marble fountain dead at the yard’s heart. There was a lonely quality to the place, surrounded by willows and lawns and, away off to the edge, thick woods darkened already by the coming evening. It seemed the sort of place stumbled upon in a dream; there was a stillness about it, as if long abandoned. It occurred to me, then, I could hear no birds. Angell Street itself was silent. No automobile passed. Dogs did not bark.

  It’s so quiet, Flossie said.

  I turned back to the house. The windows were all dark, as if they held already the coming night. The curtains were pulled open to the evening, and I thought I saw, just for an instant, someone stir there at an upper window.

  Flossie said, There’s something kind of … lost about it, isn’t there. Her voice sounded strange, too, in the empty street, as if she were speaking from far away.

  I imagine these lots used to be much bigger. You can see those newer houses now between the old mansions. I bet they were all parceled off some time ago.

  A breeze stirred in the witch hazel; a rasping sound, as of a voice long out of use.

  Finally Flossie said, Aren’t w
e going inside?

  Just then, we heard the slow creak of a screen door opening, and a teenage boy in a neat collared shirt stepped out onto the verandah. He paused there, back under the eaves, watching us.

  Wait here, I said. And before Flossie could object, I approached the wrought iron gate and laid my hands upon the cold metal. It creaked under my hands and I steadied it.

  We’ve got no work, the boy called.

  Forgive me, I called back, and looked down the empty street. I wonder if I might have a word?

  The boy looked uncomfortable. He came forward a bit, out of the shadows.

  I take it you live here, I said, that your family does.

  The boy looked back at the house over his shoulder, then came reluctantly down off the verandah. He hesitated on the cracked sidewalk, as if he would go back.

  I’m awfully sorry to trouble you. It’s a matter of some importance.

  He came forward, down the walk, and met me at the gate. His Adam’s apple bobbed above his shirt collar.

  Honestly, I wish you folks wouldn’t keep coming around here. My father’s about fed up, I don’t mind telling you, and it makes Mother awfully nervous.

  I’m not begging for work, I said. I’m here—

  Oh, I know what you’re here for, then. Same as all the rest. It’s only ever one of two reasons. Like I said, my folks are about fed up with all of you.

  There’ve been others?

  Gosh, all the time.

  But what do they want?

  Same as you, I guess. One gal even took pictures.

  Of what?

  Why, the house, I suppose. I don’t understand it. I’ve never even heard of the fellow.

  The fellow?

  The one who used to live here, or his mother did, or his family, or I don’t even know. Some writer. I don’t go in for any of that stuff.

  What stuff ?

  He shrugged. Ghost stories, or whatever. My sister’s crazy for it. She gets this magazine, with these terrible stories. She’s read some of them to me. I don’t much care for them myself. Covers are all right. But if Mother catches her with them, I tell you.