by Kathy
The skies had darkened, though the rain still held off. She could, with a clear conscience, devote the rest of the afternoon—what was left of it—to the manuscript. She had gone to the stove to put the kettle on for coffee when she heard a sound at the front door. Surely it couldn't be Cameron with the papers he had promised to bring. He would work till rain or darkness forced him to stop. And surely this time he wouldn't poke a note under the door instead of knocking.
The note was there, rustling as it moved across the floor. Karen flung the door open.
Not Cameron—Mrs. Fowler in all her glory, violet-crowned and triple-chinned, like a Hogarthian caricature of a Greek goddess. She started back with a little scream. "Oh, dear, I've disturbed your work. I had no intention of doing that, I was just leaving you a little note."
"That's quite all right," Karen said untruthfully. What the devil did the woman want? Checking up to make sure her tenant wasn't entertaining a male visitor? "Won't you come in?"
"Oh, no, I've been nuisance enough already." But she continued to stand there, feet firmly planted, face beaming. "It's the Literary Society, you see. Our next meeting is Wednesday and I hoped you'd be able to give your little talk then. I know it's short notice, but I'm sure that won't be a problem for a scholar like you, and your nice friend assured me you'd be real hurt if we didn't ask you."
The series of bland, unfounded assumptions—that she had promised to speak, that extemporaneous lectures were no problem, and that she would be hurt if she were ignored by the Literary Society—left Karen momentarily speechless. Then she managed to focus her confused brain on the last part of Mrs. Fowler's speech.
"My nice friend," she repeated.
"Yes, that nice Professor Meyer. He certainly does admire you." Mrs. Fowler gave her a meaningful twinkle.
"When did ... I didn't realize you knew him."
"Why, I didn't, till he telephoned me yesterday evening. He was courteous enough to invite me to lunch today. Such a pleasure, talking to an intellectual gentleman like that. He said all sorts of sweet things about our little literary group; I didn't realize we were so well known." Her pause invited a corresponding compliment from Karen, but the latter was still too dumbfounded to produce it. With a deprecating chuckle Mrs. Fowler continued, "You can just blame him for encouraging me to ask you. I wouldn't have dared otherwise."
A sudden gust of wind set the violets on her hat to dancing madly. "Please do come in," Karen said. "I can't quite . . . I'll have to check my schedule."
"Certainly, my dear, I know how busy you are. That's why I was going to leave my little note, so you would have a chance to think about it."
Karen thought about it. She'd have to accept—or leave town for a few days. Bill had done his usual expert job of setting her up. As he was capable of doing when he chose, he had charmed the socks off Mrs. Fowler; she'd never believe he had acted out of malice, and she would be deeply offended if Karen turned her down without good and sufficient reason. Nothing less than a death in the family would suffice; despite her modest disclaimers, she obviously had a high opinion of her "little literary society."
"I guess I can manage it," Karen said. "Next Wednesday, you said?"
"How lovely! I'll notify the members right away; I'm sure such a famous speaker will attract a large group. Now as to your topic . . . Something along the lines of 'Lady Writers'? Or perhaps 'Lady Writers of the Nineteenth Century'? That's your specialty, I know."
Karen wondered whether the topic was Mrs. Fowler's idea, to make certain she wouldn't offend the audience by quoting from current "unladylike" writers. It was more likely that the topic had been Bill Meyer's idea of a joke. Oh, well, she thought resignedly, I can always talk about Jane Austen. She should be ladylike enough. The literary mavens of Blairsville wouldn't notice Jane's delicately barbed comments about male-female relationships unless someone pointed them out.
Mrs. Fowler retreated in triumph, holding tightly to the rail as she descended the steps. She had tiny feet; at least they looked small compared to the mass of the body they supported so dangerously. And of course she was wearing dainty high-heeled shoes. Karen closed the door and clumped, flat-footed, back to the kitchen.
When the rain began she hardly noticed it, except as a soothing background noise. She was fully absorbed in Ismene's story.
As she had expected, there were more visits to the grim cellars. They formed a dark counterpoint to the descriptions of sunny spring days and cheerful social engagements, and symbolized Ismene's unhappiness as she watched her sister's increasing fondness for Isabella. It was not an attachment Ismene could approve; Isabella seemed to her frivolous and heartless, and under her influence Clara's corresponding faults of character (reluctant as her sister was to admit them) were encouraged, to such an extent that she came to resent openly Ismene's gentle remonstrances. Increasingly isolated, by her own temperament as well as by Clara's coldness, Ismene wandered the wild acres of the estate, seeking solace, as she put it, in the immutable charms of nature. It was while she was engaged in one of these rambles that she came upon the little stone house.
A knock at the door interrupted Karen at this thrilling point in the narrative, and she came back to reality with a start, realizing that the sound she had scarcely noticed was that of rain beating on the roof and that the room was filled with a cavelike gloom, except for the single lamp that illumined her work. She hurried to open the door.
Cameron looked as if he had gone swimming in his clothes. Rain had darkened his hair and plastered it to his head. The box he carried had been covered with a tarpaulin, but water had collected in its folds and ran down onto the sagging floor of the porch, from which a miniature waterfall poured down the steps.
"Good God," Karen gasped. "Come in—hurry up, don't just stand there. Is this a flood or what?"
"Just a good old spring rain," Cameron said, depositing the carton on the floor and removing the tarpaulin. "It's all right—the box isn't wet. The same can't be said for your rug, I'm afraid."
"It's not my rug," Karen said callously. "Stand still; I'll get a towel, or ... or two."
He brushed the wet hair back from his face and grinned. He looked unreasonably cheerful for a man whose clothes clung wetly to his body and around whose soaked shoes a puddle was forming. "Your entire supply would be inadequate for the job. I got pretty wet out at the house, so I decided I might as well deliver the carton before I changed clothes. Sorry about the mess."
"Wait, I'll write you a check," Karen began.
"The sooner I get out of here the less damage I'll do to your—Miz Fowler's—carpet. You can pay me later. I trust you."
He was out the door before Karen could reply. She shrugged. If he was that determined to avoid even the appearance of a social relationship, that was okay with her. Had there been a suggestion of sarcasm in his final comment? She decided there had been, and went in search of a cloth to wipe up the puddle. He'd been right about the towel situation. The ones Mrs. Fowler had supplied her tenant were extremely threadbare.
There was something rather soothing about rain if you didn't have to go out in it. And if it didn't come in. A smaller puddle on the kitchen floor told her that Mrs. Fowler needed to have the roof repaired. Karen put a saucepan under it and went in search of additional leaks. She found two more, one in the bedroom—not over the bed, fortunately—and another in the corner of the living room.
She only had three saucepans. Rummaging under the sink, she found a couple of empty coffee cans, rust-stained from, she suspected, similar usage in the past. The plink of raindrops onto metal made a particularly pervasive, annoying sound.
The rain wasn't as soothing as she had thought. She roamed restlessly through the apartment, unable to settle down. There were a number of things she could turn to: the manuscript, with its evocative, exciting reference to a house of stone; the genealogy, which she hadn't examined in detail; her notes on the discovery she had made in the cellar. They ought to be copied and expanded while the inci
dent was still fresh in her memory.
She wasn't in the mood for any of those things. Instead she set to work preparing supper, hoping the mechanical, domestic chore would settle her nerves. A good healthy supper—broiled fish fillets, salad, brown rice with herbs, and chopped vegetables. She had finished this repast and was feeling more cheerful when the phone rang.
Hoping it wasn't Peggy announcing she would be delayed, she was pleased to hear Joan's voice.
"I'm bored," the latter announced flatly.
"You, the party animal?"
"No party tonight. I'm alone, I'm slightly hung over, and it's pouring down rain. Dreary."
"Ditto."
"Is it raining there too?"
"Yes, it is. This is long distance," Karen reminded her. "Did you call to talk about the weather? Have you heard anything more from Joe Cropsey?"
"No to both. I called to find out what thrilling new discoveries you made today. My life is so dull I derive vicarious excitement from listening to the adventures of my friends."
"I'm sorry about the beach house," Karen said. "If you had to pay a cancellation fee—"
"You've got to stop being so defensive. I wasn't even thinking about that."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. I didn't have to pay anything, they had a waiting list a mile long. In case your conscience is still bothering you, I'm going to spend a glorious week in the mountains instead. With Sharon."
"Doing what?"
"I said, with Sharon. You know what her idea of a vacation is. It's some kind of spa. Riding, hiking, tennis, golf. And when we tire of those amusements there's a completely equipped exercise room."
Karen laughed. "Is Sharon bullying you? You don't have to go, you know."
"It won't be so bad, I guess," Joan said gloomily. "I could stand to lose a few pounds. Now tell me about your unhealthy, dangerous—dare I hope fattening?—life."
Karen described her supper. Joan groaned. "It sounds disgusting. Not even a glass of wine? A chocolate-chip cookie? You're inhuman. What did you do today?"
"I explored a dark, muddy, odorous basement with a guy who went out of his way to show me rats, snakes and spiders."
"You lucky devil. Who was the guy? Bill Meyer?"
"If you ever catch me in a dark basement with Bill Meyer, I'll agree to let Sharon psychoanalyze me." She gave Joan a lurid description, including one of the snake, but did not mention the carved stone face.
That information and other confirmatory evidence of her theory were best kept to herself until she was ready to spring the finished work on an admiring world.
"If you won't let me distract Bill, how about this other guy? You can't handle both of them."
"I have no intention of handling either one of them." Hearing a ribald chuckle from the other end of the line, she added, "Don't say it. Thanks for calling, Joan. I was in a rotten mood and you've cheered me up."
"Is that a hint I should hang up?"
"This is costing you a fortune."
"Too true. Okay, I'll say nighty-night. Take care of yourself."
Her frame of mind considerably improved, Karen was able to get some work done. She forced herself to type up her notes on the exploration of the cellar, so she could present Peggy with a neat workmanlike report, before she went back to the manuscript. It proved to be disappointing; after her first description of the stone house ("windowless and squat, like an extrusion from the rocky skin of the earth, held fast by giant vines that crawled across roof and walls") Ismene went into a long digression about the rights of man and Rousseau's theories of the noble savage. Pious moral soliloquies were common in novels of that type, and it wasn't the first time Ismene had succumbed to the pleasure of preaching to the reader, but Karen had to fight to keep from skipping ahead—reading the narrative instead of transcribing it, line by slow line. She knew the futility of that, however. The writing was too cramped and faded, the text too obscure. It had to be deciphered rather than read.
Sheer boredom finally forced her to call it a night. Tucking the manuscript and her notes into the briefcase, she stowed it away and got ready for bed. The drip of water into the coffee can had slowed, which made it even more annoying; she found she was waiting for the next plink and counting the seconds that elapsed between them. Muttering irritably she wadded up a few paper towels and put them in the coffee can. It seemed to work.
The rain had slackened. It fell slow and steady on the water-soaked ground, glistening on the leaves of the shrubs under Mrs. Fowler's window, dimming the glow of the streetlight. No other lights were visible. With moon and stars hidden by clouds, the night was very dark. Nothing moved in the blackness, not even a prowling cat. Cats had better sense than to go out in the rain.
So do I, Karen thought. Joan's mention of wine and chocolate had made her wish she had stocked up on both, but she hadn't wanted them badly enough to go looking for them. Tomorrow she'd get a bottle of Scotch for Peggy, and pick up something for supper. Peggy probably wouldn't arrive until late afternoon. Rather than go out for dinner they could settle in for a prolonged Show and Tell session. They had a lot to catch up on.
Mrs. Fowler's bedroom window shone steadily through the rainy night. Rather late for the old lady, Karen mused. Perhaps she was refreshing her memory of "lady authors of the nineteenth century."
Karen made a face and closed the curtains. Why hadn't she refused that invitation? It would kill an entire day. What a wimp she was! At least I won't have to worry about fire tonight, she consoled herself, as she got into bed. Everything is too waterlogged to burn.
Fire and water and earth were three of the basic elements of Greek science. The fourth was air. Earth, in the form of the primeval cave, was a recurrent motif in Gothic novels. How would the other elements apply? Fire was not so common. There was the horrific blaze in Jane Eyre, of course—the terrible but cleansing force that had removed the barrier to Jane's happiness with Rochester and destroyed the house that symbolized enclosure and imprisonment. And the blast of supernatural lightning that had burned the elder Wieland to a nasty crisp. There must be other examples, as well as examples of the other pair of elements. Hadn't she read somewhere that two were considered masculine and the other two feminine? Fire would be masculine, of course. It was aggressive, active, destructive. And by the standards of those super-male chauvinists, the Greek philosophers, earth could only be considered feminine— passive, acted upon instead of active. It would make an interesting article: "The Aristotelian Elements in the Gothic Novel." Happily distracted by useless speculation, Karen drifted off to sleep.
She woke after another dreamless night to find sunlight filling the room. Mrs. Fowler's curtains were as thin as her towels, and they didn't quite cover the window.
Glancing out the uncurtained bathroom window as she brushed her teeth, she saw that the ground was steaming. It was going to be a hot, sticky day. Poor old Cameron, she thought contemptuously; he's probably out there right now, wading through soggy leaves and trying to find something dry enough to paint or bum. The man seemed absolutely driven. He must need money very badly to work so hard, but if he was expecting to recoup the family fortunes by selling the family mansion he was unduly optimistic.
After a hasty breakfast she made a mental list of errands. Liquor store, grocery store, Laundromat. She hadn't brought many clothes, and the ones she had worn the day before retained a faint but disgusting smell. There was a huge puddle outside her door; the floor of the landing wasn't just uneven, it was absolutely caving in. Larger elongated puddles filled the ruts in the graveled driveway. It must have rained hard. The cellars at Amberley would be flooded again. Lucky she had examined them already. She'd never have had the courage to wade through several feet of filthy water.
Locking her briefcase in the trunk of the car, she backed out of the garage and headed for the shopping center. The Laundromat first, she decided. The windows of the car were open, but it seemed to her that a faint unpleasant odor emanated from the bundle of clothes in the bac
k seat.
The place was doing a brisk business. She had to wait for a machine. As she stood tapping her foot impatiently, she saw a familiar face. It was bent over a book, but she recognized the tight-clustered black curls and heavy horn-rimmed glasses, despite the fact that the body to which it belonged was clad in jeans and an enveloping loose shirt instead of a tailored dress. The librarian—what was her name? Tanya something. The glasses must be an affectation, an attempt to look older and more authoritative. Most women of that age wore contacts. Karen edged closer, trying to see the title of the book and failing, since it was covered with brown paper. She ought to have brought something to read. She hadn't used a Laundromat for a long time; she had forgotten she'd probably have to wait.
The book was obviously absorbing. Tanya didn't look up until her machine had stopped spinning. She started to remove the contents and then saw Karen.
"Good morning. I hope you weren't waiting for this washer. I have another load to do."
"I'm waiting for my turn, as is proper," Karen said with a smile. "To be honest, I was trying to see what you're reading. I'm one of those compulsive people who is driven to read book titles."
Tanya peeled back the brown paper and displayed the book—the new Toni Morrison. "Have you read it?"
"I admire her work a great deal, but I haven't read that one. I usually wait till they come out in paperback," Karen admitted. "I can't afford to buy hardcovers."
"Neither can I. This is from the library. It's one of the few perks of the job, getting first crack at the best-sellers."
Karen's number came up then. She tossed her armload of clothes into the machine the woman had indicated and sat down on the bench next to Tanya.
"I hear you're addressing the lit'rary society next week," the other woman said, giving the word a sardonic accent.
"I got railroaded into it. How did you know? I only agreed yesterday."