— That's telling them, Elton, came down the hall to her from below, — Jew liberal press… and she was up to get the door closed, back to shy an uncovered breast from the abrupt gaze of Orson Welles enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared, and steel clasped, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted now demanding to know where she'd come from, just below? do you mean that house with the battlements? pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods, that, by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow, demanding Whose house is it? Mister Rochester's. Do you know Mister Rochester? No, I have never seen him. Can you tell me where he is? I cannot…
— Liz? She'd pulled up the sheet, working a fingertip along the ridge of her cheekbone from the jar of cream opened on the table as the music swelled lifting him to his saddle, where he reached down demanding his whip. The door slammed open — Liz! Now what in the hell! A touch of a spurred heel made the horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces: all three vanished. He'd turned down the sound, waving the newspaper there in the grey light, — look at it! How could… he came down on the bed, — you just did this? while we were sitting there?
She looked, no more help than the sound she made.
— It's it's, don't need a kid in the house it's like having a kid in the house! Like having a, sitting right there you were sitting right there in front of me with that God damn blue pen look what you did!
— Oh Paul, I didn't mean…
— How the hell could you do it! I've got to file these things Liz I've got to send a copy to Ude! How the hell can I send him a, look at it, shaggy blue feathers these little dots on his shirt make him look like a God damn bird?
— I was only trying to…
— To what, make him look like a, just because he's about four feet tall you had to put these shaggy feathers sticking out off the back of his bald head make him look like some squat little God damn duck?
— Paul I was only, I mean that's how I remembered where I wrote down that phone number because he looked like the, because he reminded me of that picture of a…
— What, of what, a duck? God damn good picture of him Liz I gave it to them myself, gave it to the newspapers myself look at it, turned it into a cartoon look at it. Give him some dignity whole God damn point of getting it in the paper this is serious Liz! Thirty forty million of them out there with a dollar in their pocket this is serious, can't you get that? Try to get him in the paper give him a little dignity? People drowning out there good honest believing people and you turn it into a cartoon?
She drew the sheet closer. He'd turned away, sitting hunched on the foot of the bed there, shoulders fallen, absorbed in the pantomime of a brand-wise woman ministering to a groggy victim of lower back pain through its smug conclusion before he was up again, crumpling Reverend Ude's sullied profile into a wad, — God damn it Liz. Try to get something going here I don't even know who's trying to call me, one call I get one call and you write it down in a bird book, can't find it can't find the mail at least you're bringing the mail in, you got over that didn't you? Told yourself you could open the mailbox and you finally did it, can't you do that with the rest of this? Tell yourself we're not up here running a cartoon show? He flung the paper wad at the shadow of the wastebasket, — I went to file this before I looked at it I can't even find the God damn file. Liz?
— Oh…?
— Last time I had it… he was down untying a shoe, — last thing I put in it was that McCandless clipping when was that, Sunday's paper? Can't find a God damn wait, I'll get it, might be… he reached the phone, — Who…? Never heard of her no, wrong number… He straightened up thrusting off his shoes, caught a hand on the dresser's corner tripping out of his trousers, finally bared feet planted wide fighting a shirt button, a hand down to scratch, dangling there silhouetted in tumid portent against the moon ascending in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the hill tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight dark, in its fathomless depth and measureless distance: and for those trembling stars that followed her course.
— Paul?
He got the phone again. — What…? Look I just told you, there's no Irene here you've got the wrong God damn number! He came down heavily beside her.
— That might be his wife, it might have been for his…
— Whose wife.
— Mister McCandless, maybe she's Irene Me…
— She's got a long wait.
— Oh I meant to tell you… she came up on an elbow, — this morn…
— Misprision of treason, he could get twenty years.
— Paul?
— Meant to tell you I talked to Grissom this morning, got my appeal set up for Monday… His arm came under her shoulders, — stop making my whole God damn VA check over every month for alimony we can see some daylight.
— Paul do you think I could, maybe I could go away for a few days?
His hand closed on her breast. — Where.
— Just, somewhere I…
— Too much going on here Liz, you know that… his hand laboured her breast, — just get things off the ground we can take a week someplace.
— No I meant, I meant just me.
— But, but what do you mean just you, look all this going on you've got to be here. Just get this Ude deal on the tracks and there's three or four calls that should come tomorrow, you've got to be here for the phone… He drew her back, drew her glance from the scar gone livid from ribs to groin with the flat fall of his legs toward the screen where a warm glow suffused the lower steps of the oak staircase, issuing from the great dining room, whose two leaved door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and brass fire irons, and revealing draperies and polished furniture in the most pleasant radiance, intruded upon by the tumescent rise in his hand. — Did you call that doctor Liz? that appointment for your insurance claim? His hand came down to smooth her knees apart, his leg came over. — Liz?
— Yes I, I'll call them tomorrow…
— Look you've got to call him, get in there for this examination so I can get my companion suit going… His fingers drew tight, separated, fretted in systematic search and seizure as her knee fell away, — get these disability benefits back I'll have a little cash, Grissom wants a thousand dollars retainer plus disbursements against sixty percent of the settlement to handle it… he eased over her, eased down where his hand intervened, — asking half a million all depends on your airline suit… his hand withdrew to close on her knee — show the, show the shape you've been in since the crash I've, how I've been deprived of, does that hurt?
— No my, my knee not so… she breathed sharply, — how it, bruises… His head dropped there, left her face ashen over his shoulder in the light playing up the glistening strain of his back from the screen where a demoniac laugh, low, suppressed, and deep, came uttered it seemed at the very keyhole of the chamber door. As she gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated, and she knew it came from behind the panels. As though her first impulse was to rise, and her next to cry out, something gurgled and moaned, and steps retreated up the gallery toward the third story staircase. The door came open under her trembling hand and there was a candle burning just outside, left on the matting in the gallery where the air was quite dim, as if filled with smoke. Something creaked: it was a door ajar and the smoke rushed from it in a cloud. Within the chamber tongues of flame darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire: the very sheets were kindling. In the midst of blaze and vapour Orson Welles lay stretched motionless, in a deep sleep.
— I, I have to breathe she whispered, freed an arm to reach the box of tissues and he was up, bumping furniture, tripping over a shoe, gone down the dark hall, and she listened for some noise, but heard nothing. It seemed a very long time elapsed, and then she heard his unshod feet tread the
matting, and he snapped the screen into darkness.
— Oh honestly, please I've asked you not to smoke in the bedroom.
— Just, fine just looking for something to put it out in… He found a saucer, drew heavily there at the window where branches caught on the rising wind outside dashed the streetlight's gleams on the pane before him. He rubbed a thumb there. — Liz…? as though he could see his smudged thumb clear, — did she wash the windows? Woman who came in to clean, did you tell her…
— There wasn't time. Now will you please put that out!
— What did she do all day? He drew again quickly before he crushed it in the saucer, — twenty five dollars what did she…
— It was thirty dollars and she was here for a half day. She cleaned.
— Thought they said twenty five look, when she comes next week tell her to do the windows, start right off with the windows… He came down heavily out of reach, — thirty dollars, start looking for somebody who speaks English can answer the God damn phone, Haitians you don't know what the hell you're in for. We used to get their blood over there, medical corps got it cheap they were so God damn poor they're selling their blood never knew what you were getting. God damn medic I told him you better be good and God damn sure where that bottle of plasma up on that hook came from before you get that God damn needle any closer.
She half rose, snapping the sheet square, pulling up the cover. — You'll have to remember to leave me thirty dollars for her next week.
— Most of the time didn't make any God damn difference… he turned, taking blanket and sheet with him. — Casualties coming in from the combat zones, they were mainly spades anyhow.
— And a dollar carfare… she snapped back a share of the cover. — It's fifty cents each way.
Lids closed against the streetlight's gleams scattered on the wall, the empty mirror, it scarcely mattered: the chase continued on what passed for sleep taking with it what passed for time till finally, eyes fallen wide again crowded with movement still as the breathing beside her, she came off the edge of the bed and brought the room and her own face back to ashen life down a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant horse chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, leading down to the fence. She drew the blanket close against a sudden burst of rain at the window spattering the streetlight out there over its panes and her eyes dimmed, to come wide again with the lashing rain: what had befallen the night? Everything was in shadow; and what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned, while wind roared in the laurel walk, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed striking the great horse chestnut at the bottom of the garden and splitting half of it away.
3
The river lay obscured by mist that had hung heavy since morning, casting the slow climb of the mailman up the black tributary of the road as the drift of a figure being poled on water, drawn on a steady current along the leaf sodden bank toward the step standing forth there like a landing where she'd burst out earlier, as though by chance, to intercept him before he reached the box; where now, back to working the damp wads of paper towel on the glass in the alcove, her frown reduced to a distant shade the halt measure of the old man out there on the corner with his flattened dustpan. Rain, two days of it, had brought leaves down everywhere, even a torn branch afloat on the dark current rising under the window where her motions abruptly stopped, her frown broken wide on the raincoat wilted figure looming so close he was looking right up into her face. She caught breath and her balance, barely down from the stool when the knock came at the door. Opened to a hand's breadth, she saw the frayed cuffs of the raincoat, stayed the door with her foot. — Yes? what…
— Mrs Booth?
— Is, are you Mister Stumpp?
He just looked at her. His face appeared drained, so did the hand he held out to her, drained of colour that might once have been a heavy tan. — My name is McCandless, he said, his tone dull as his eyes on her, — you're Mrs Booth?
— Oh! Oh yes come in… but her foot held the door till it pushed gently against her, — I didn't…
— I won't disturb you, he came in looking past her, looking over the room and the things in the room the way he'd just looked at her, looked her over getting her in place, getting things located. — I just came for some papers, I won't disturb you.
— No I'm glad you, to finally meet you, we've wondered…
— Came up last week I couldn't get in there, he was past her for the kitchen, — new lock on the door I couldn't get in.
— Yes I know it yes, we had to have the plumber in to…
— I heard about it.
— I mean if we'd known where to reach you, if you'd just called before you…
— Never mind, just a damned nuisance.
— Yes well it's, I mean it's been rather a nuisance for us too Mister McCandless, if you'd left an address, a phone number some way to reach you, she came on behind him. — That card you sent about the furnace we didn't even know what country you were in, how could we send you a new key. I can't even let you in now, the plumber…
— I've got one… had it out in fact, rattling the padlock.
— Yes well, well good you must have called the agent, if we'd known where to reach you, things like this happen people call you we don't know where to…
— Who.
— Called you? I don't know. The IRS. I don't know who else. People call and hang up. I start to say they can leave a message if we hear from you and they hang up. You have some awfully rude friends.
— They may not all be friends, Mrs Booth… he'd slid the door open, paused there looking in. — You're welcome to have the phone taken out you know, came over his shoulder, — the agent said you wanted it left in till you could make your own arrangements, it hardly matters to me. I can call now and have it discon…
— Oh no that's not what I, I mean you're welcome to leave it yes I really don't mind answering it at all, if we just knew where to reach you, where to tell them to reach you these rude calls and people coming to the door just so rude I couldn't… she broke off, talking to his back hunched there in the doorway lighting a cigarette cupped as though in a wind, as though ducked away from some bleak promontory, from the deck of a ship. What people at the door, he wanted to know.
— Just, well there was just one but he wasn't nice at all, he wouldn't even tell me his whole name I mean, just his first one I can't remember it. Just these hard little round eyes he had on a speckled jacket and kind of yellow…
— What did he want? came back through the open door.
— To talk to you, he just said he wanted to talk to you, she said into the room where books rose from the floor heaped against a fluted column to a whorl of walnut, the leg of something, a buffet, a sideboard, she stood still looking round her as though for something to do, to explain her presence here in the kitchen, her own kitchen, her own house, stood there emptyhanded looking at the telephone until it rang. — Yes? Yes it is… Oh… her voice fell, she turned her back on the empty doorway, — for an appointment with Doctor Terranova, yes… No it's in connection with, with my… she got by the end of the table, got as far as the cord would reach — with the plane crash yes but not, I mean not my lawsuit my husband's… her voice gone still lower, — his companion suit for loss of, of my services due to my injur… what? No, no of my, of marital services due to my… What, now? or when it happened… and near a whisper — my age now is, I'm thirty three, I… no I said thir… No I can't now, I can't give you a whole history now you'll have to… no you'll have to call later.
Smoke settling in still layers barred the doorway. A light had gone on in there, and the sound of movement, a chair, or a drawer pulled open. She found her morning's coffee cup and rinsed it at the sink. Out over the terrace the mist lay featureless as the day itself come into being and left adrift with no better than the clock to dispense its passage, to turn her abrupt as her glance to it back for the front door streaking the glass panels wi
th her damp towel wads against the shade out there poling along with his broom paused every third step, every second one, gazing ahead, getting his bearings.
When finally she heard it again she started at the loudness of her own voice, — Hello…? rising with conviction at each word, — no I'm terribly sorry Senator, Paul's not here… talking at the phone, past it to the open doorway — I think he plans to be in Washington very soon, he's had to make a trip south something suddenly came up in connection with, pardon…? gathering aplomb and even cordial condescension, — that's terribly kind but I honestly can't say, we do want to get down to Montego Bay for a few days with friends if Paul can possibly take the time but you know how busy he's been with the… and abruptly the open doorway was gone, the door pushed closed, slammed in fact, — it's nothing no, I can't talk to you now, I'll be… her voice fallen, — well call later then, call later…
Silenced, the vexation in her voice surfaced in her hands back streaking While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old, on the glass of the sampler; culling the morning's mail for Doctor Yount, Doctor Kissinger, Dan-Ray Adjusters, Inc. crumpled and tossed; B & G Storage, The American Cancer Society and The National Rifle Association aside unopened; a flood of glossy pages from Christian Recovery for America's People, the community college flyer's offerings unfurled in mini-courses on Stress Management, Success Through Assertiveness, Reflexology, Shiatsu, Hypnocybernetics and The Creative You; Gold Coast Florists torn open: Floral arrangement $260? Mounting to her eyes, her vexation seized wherever she turned them to be seized in turn by the unwavering leer of the Masai warrior on the magazine cover displayed, along with Town & Country and a National Geographic, on the coffee table, and she picked up the bird book for refuge in godwits and curlews, sandpipers, snipe, the repose they conjured as quickly gone with another turn of the page and she was up and through the kitchen, tapping on the white door — Mister McCandless?
Carpenter's Gothic Page 6