“And do you pray?”
“Sometimes I forget.”
“And is that when the furry thing tries to come through?”
She wriggled in my arms and drew herself away. “I don’t know! Maybe it comes anyway—I can’t remember.”
“What you need to remember is that it’s not real. You will wake up—and it will disappear like all bad dreams. Say your prayer of protection—however you want to word it—and tell all the bad things to stay away. You are stronger than they are!”
The door from the hall opened softly and I looked around to see Meryl watching us. I thought again how curiously plain she sometimes seemed, and how it didn’t matter. Meryl had her own distinctive quality. The pink, woolly robe she wore didn’t suit her, but that was unimportant. I could feel her strength and vigor, her certainty of what she was about. If only I could be sure that whatever she was about was good and right.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Another bad dream, Jilly?”
Jilly pulled away from me—physically and emotionally—as though she feared that Meryl might laugh at her.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” her aunt said. She drew Jilly up, unresisting, and led her over to the bed. Jilly got under the covers and closed her eyes. Meryl turned out the light and beckoned me into the next room. When she’d closed the door she dropped into a chair and yawned widely.
“God! I hate to be waked up in the middle of the night like this. I could hear you chattering from down the hall. It’s a good thing Everett sleeps like a log.”
“Didn’t you hear Jilly moaning in her sleep?”
“That I can ignore. She does it most nights until she wakes herself up and gets rid of whatever’s bothering her.”
“Don’t you think we ought to find out what is bothering her?”
“That’s right—you’re the child expert! So maybe you can dig it out of her. She won’t talk to me, and I don’t think she’s even told Julian.”
Meryl’s behavior seemed callous, lacking in compassion. Now she went off at a tangent that didn’t really interest me.
“Lynn, I’ve been thinking about what happened out at the farm. Please don’t think there’s any serious involvement between Paul Woolf and me. That’s already over. He’s rather a stupid man, and he bores me. It’s just that I can never resist a hunk.”
“I haven’t been judging you,” I said mildly.
Her frankness made me uncomfortable. She had no reason to confide in me.
“Have you tried to get Everett to change his mind about making the Forsters leave?” I asked.
“I’m working on it. But don’t count on anything. Of course Vivian was bluffing. She wouldn’t dare say anything to Everett—he’d just blow her down. She’s no good at blackmail.”
There was a question I needed to ask—whether I would get a direct answer or not. “That day at White Moon,” I began, “when Stephen was hurt … were you there, Meryl?”
She watched me warily, as though trying to fathom my words. A look that might be innocent or not.
“Of course I wasn’t there. What makes you ask such a thing?”
“A suspicion has come up that a fourth person might have been present when Luther Kersten died and Stephen was hurt.” I didn’t mean to let her know where that suspicion came from.
She picked up on the point at once. “Whose suspicion?”
“That doesn’t matter. You’ve answered my question.”
She let it go and yawned, stretching. Then she got up to move toward the hall door. “I have to get some sleep. Thanks for helping with Jilly, Lynn.”
Her exit was elaborately lazy, as though she wanted to make it clear that nothing I’d said had upset her. Or perhaps she was only regretting the way she’d talked to me about Paul.
Somehow I’d never gotten around to discussing what had happened to Jilly and me today. Jilly had told her, but I’d never talked to Meryl about the boulder or the Singing Stones.
15
In the morning everything moved faster than I expected. While Jilly and I were having breakfast and carefully avoiding any reference to the night before, Meryl, who had eaten earlier with Everett before he left for the office, came breezing in to say that Julian had called. He and Vivian were coming in and were going directly to the Quest bookstore, where they would meet Jilly and me.
“It seems a little odd,” Meryl said. “I don’t know why he doesn’t come here first to pick you up. Something’s going on. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, since you have your car and you can go over there as soon as you like and wait for them. If you have a chance, do find out what’s happening with Oriana.”
I didn’t care much for any of this. “What do you think is going on?” I asked.
Meryl glanced at Jilly and let my question go. “How are you feeling this morning, Jilly?”
She shrugged and stared past her aunt, clearly unwilling to talk about how she felt or what had happened last night. Whatever closeness had existed for a little while between Jilly and me was gone, and she had returned to her protective shell.
We left as soon as the shop might be open, and at least Jilly seemed to look forward to seeing Julian. She knew the way and could direct me. The front windows of the Quest bordered on a wide Main Street sidewalk in an older part of town. I was able to park in front of the store, and we went inside together.
The big square room was brightly inviting, with book stacks and tables well spaced. A long couch invited browsing, and one could sit at small tables and drink espresso if so inclined. It was a personal shop, where the visitor could feel welcome and at home.
I wandered among the stacks, reading some of the titles. There were volumes on every possible subject that might come under the heading of psi. That the shop was popular pointed to a rising interest in such matters—perhaps a turning away from grubby reality and a reaching out for a sense of wonder that had been lost in this century of science and the pragmatic.
Jilly had found a display of crystals, stones and pendants that absorbed her attention. I noticed a sign: Everything is in its place, and everything is on time. I wished I could believe that was true in my own life.
As I wandered about, I began to feel the “aura” of the shop reaching out to touch me. Perhaps all these millions of words on New Age thinking—that was really very old—sent their presence into the air. I wondered if some new road might open for me—some pathway to hope. Or enlightenment? Though I didn’t feel especially enlightened or hopeful. How could I entertain new thoughts when all the old ones possessed me and took up too much space with their density?
I helped myself to hot water and herb tea and sat down on the couch to dip into a book on “other lives.” The tea tasted pleasantly of apples and cloves.
A cheerful, knowledgeable young man behind the counter knew Jilly and they were talking easily about some interesting stones that had come in. So she would replenish her collection now, having left it at the feet of the “old men” yesterday.
The author of the book I’d chosen was a successful psychiatrist who treated his patients by regressing them into past lives to cure some of their present disturbances. One of the cases described a woman who suffered terrible pain in her neck. When the doctor took her back in time, it developed that she had been guillotined during the French Revolution. I wished the doctor’s patients well, but I stopped reading. One didn’t always return to being the Queen of Egypt, and there were clearly terrible dangers that might lie in the past. Whatever life one returned to, the person would have died—and not always pleasantly. I’d never want to go back. I didn’t want to know.
I was still trying to recover from reading about the lady with the pain in her neck when Julian and Vivian arrived. And I realized quickly why they’d wanted to come directly to the shop. While Vivian held the door open, Julian pushed Stephen’s wheelchair into the room. His sudden appearance left me feeling trapped and helpless—and as vulnerable as I knew Jilly to be. At least Oriana wasn’t with them.
>
Vivian left Stephen with a little pat on his shoulder and came to sit beside me. “Hello, Lynn. Believe me, this wasn’t Julian’s or my idea. He wouldn’t allow Paul or Emory to come along, and I don’t feel comfortable about this. Stephen’s planning something, but I don’t know what. I’m sorry, Lynn.”
I didn’t feel happy about this either. As I watched, Stephen wheeled himself over to Jilly.
“Where is my mother?” she asked.
“She has some things she wants to think about, and she thinks best when she’s dancing. So that’s what she’s doing now. Julian said you’d be here, so I decided to come along.”
Jilly continued to stare at her father doubtfully. He had probably let her down too often in the past year for her to feel trustful of his plans.
Stephen went on with more gentleness than I’d seen in him since I’d returned to Virginia. “There’s a place I’ve always wanted to show you, Jilly. But somehow I never got around to it. This morning is a good time—if you’d like to come.”
“Come where?”
“Let’s make it a surprise. You used to like surprises.”
Perhaps she’d had too many unpleasant ones lately, and she continued to look doubtful. “Can Lynn come too?”
“She’s going to drive us,” he said, calmly assured.
He hadn’t seemed aware of me, but now I was part of his plan, whatever it was. I didn’t want to go anywhere with Stephen, and I looked at Julian for help.
He betrayed me without turning a hair. “I’m sure Lynn will be glad to drive you, Stephen. Her car’s right out in front.”
No one waited for me to agree, and there seemed no way out of whatever tormenting web Stephen had begun to weave. His wheelchair was to be left behind, and he would use his crutches on this expedition. A bit belatedly, Julian spoke to me as Vivian held open the door and Stephen swung himself out to the sidewalk.
“Don’t worry, Lynn. This will be fine. The feeling I have is right, and it will be good for Stephen to do something that includes Jilly.”
I wondered how good it would be for me. I seemed to have lost my power of will. Perhaps because, basically, I didn’t want to oppose whatever was about to happen—thus leading with my chin again.
Stephen put himself into the front seat of my car, and Jilly, cheering up, got into the back. Once more Stephen directed me. I knew very quickly where we were going, and dreaded what might happen.
Stephen spoke to his daughter over his shoulder. “You’ve been to Monticello, Jilly, but I never got around to showing you the university Thomas Jefferson created. When I met Lynn—long before I met your mother—she was going to classes there, and I was taking a special architectural course. We met at some university function. I’ll show you where we used to walk together in those days.”
I had nothing to contribute to this conversation. I didn’t want to hear what he planned. I simply drove, turned the right corners, and found a parking place that would accommodate Stephen’s handicap. Then I sat waiting, not watching as he struggled out of the car, since he never wanted help. Jilly hovered anxiously to hand him his crutches. There was no way to stop what was going to happen, and I knew how filled with pain this experience would be for me.
The Rotunda seemed even more beautiful than I remembered, its great white dome, white columns, and wide white steps commanding attention from all who approached. The building had been patterned on a smaller scale after the Pantheon in Rome, and now it stood against a blue November sky on a day almost like the spring days I remembered in this place. There were trees everywhere, and I knew how glorious they would look in springtime blooming.
We made our approach from the side, so that Stephen needn’t mount the many steps to the entrance. Inside, we stood looking up into the domed vault of the Rotunda. A library ran around the inner dome, and there were lecture rooms circling below. From the round central room, graceful, curving stairways formed dividing wings above the entrance. A guided tour had gathered under the dome around Alexander Galt’s marble statue of Jefferson, so we stood a little apart, and I listened as Stephen talked to his daughter. Nothing must break this feeling between them, though all I wanted for myself was to feel nothing.
Stephen’s voice, soft now and private, ran on. “The university that Jefferson planned so beautifully in all its buildings opened its doors in 1825, Jilly. Just a year before Jefferson died. He considered it his proudest achievement. On the stone he arranged to have set at his grave at Monticello, he mentions his design of the university buildings, but not that he was President of the United States.”
“There was a fire in the Rotunda, wasn’t there?” Jilly asked. “Uncle Julian said it all burned down.”
“Yes—that was a tragic loss. It happened in 1885, and there was nothing left of the building except its charred, circular walls.”
“But they rebuilt, didn’t they?”
“Unfortunately, Stanford White, who was a famous architect of his time, was brought in, and he reconstructed the Rotunda after the fire. But not the way Jefferson had designed it. A lot of people were unhappy about that, but it wasn’t until recent years that money enough was raised so that the interior could be restored to the original plan—and that’s the way we can see it now.”
Jilly hung on her father’s words as she looked about, and it was good to see them together. Stephen moved himself along on his crutches, pretending that the effort caused him no struggle, and I followed, trying to keep myself empty of memory.
We went through to where we could look out upon the formal buildings that connected with the Rotunda at the south end. This was what Jefferson had named the Academical Village. Here, reaching down each side of the rectangle he’d called the Lawn, were the Pavilions that bordered it.
Now I had no shield against memory. How many times I had walked with Stephen across this great expanse of grass! I could almost smell the scent of blossoming trees. They’d been fully in bloom the last time I’d walked here before we were married.
Stephen propped himself on his crutches, explaining to Jilly.
“The five Pavilions on each side of the rectangle are connected by a colonnaded walk, and each was built in a different design of classic American architecture. The university professors used to live upstairs, with their classrooms and offices below. Each building has its own garden at the rear, running through to the Ranges that house dormitory rooms. Six buildings on this outer rim were known as ‘hotels,’ and they were used by students as dining rooms. Now these too are dormitories, since they aren’t large enough for the present population of the university.”
Trees abounded in all the small gardens—weeping willow, red oak, magnolia, chinaberry, tulip, crape myrtle, and many others. Towering above were English yew and Norway spruce. The individual gardens were separated by another inventive design of Thomas Jefferson’s—red brick “serpentine” walls that curved in beautiful symmetry.
Now, except for the evergreens, the trees were shedding their leaves, and I didn’t want to remember spring.
As we followed the sheltered brick walk behind columns on one side, Stephen made a suggestion to Jilly.
“The Edgar Allan Poe room is on ahead. Have you read any Poe stories, Jilly?”
Jilly had. She was a great reader and devoured every book that came her way. “Is his room as spooky as he was?” she asked her father.
“I don’t know how spooky he was—except in his imagination,” Stephen said. “He wasn’t here at the university very long. In fact, I believe he couldn’t pay what he owed and had to leave. Though now, of course, everyone’s proud of the fact that he attended the university at all. He even wrote some stories about that time in Virginia. If you go on ahead and watch for the sign, you can look through the door into his room. It’s been furnished as it might have been in Poe’s time, and once a year the room is opened to the public.”
The walk past the Pavilions on this side was long, and when Jilly ran ahead, Stephen stopped to lean against a wall. He�
��d hardly spoken to me since we’d left the bookshop, but now he was watching me.
“Do you remember, Lynn?”
“I don’t want to remember,” I told him stiffly. “That’s all lost in the years, and it has nothing to do with me anymore.”
He seemed to be musing aloud. “I haven’t been here for years. I wondered how I would feel coming back.”
I didn’t care how he felt, I told myself. I had enough to do to hold on to myself and keep my own feelings in check. It was cruel of him to bring me here, and I couldn’t bear to think of that young woman I had been—so foolishly hopeful, so ready to believe in “forever after.”
“I didn’t expect to feel this way.” He spoke quietly. “Those were good times, Lynn. Lately I’ve begun to think about them. And about how young we were.”
“That’s pretty pointless,” I said.
“I suppose you’re right. Though I had this urge to go back and find something out today.”
Again, I didn’t want to know what he wanted to find out.
“What do you remember, Lynn, when you look around this place?”
I remembered everything. Memories choked me, silenced me.
“Do you know what I remember?” he said. “I remember us together crossing the Lawn—running.”
There was nothing I could say. Certainly not something false like of course you’ll run again.
“The doctors didn’t think I could manage on crutches,” he said. “I guess I’ve worked harder at it since you arrived. Yesterday I had to make myself do what they said couldn’t be done.”
“What difference could my coming make?”
“You aren’t sorry for me. You’re mostly angry and ready to accuse me—about neglecting Jilly. So maybe I had to show you. You acted as though my being in a wheelchair didn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. I’m sorry if I’ve been inconsiderate. I was only thinking about Jilly. Stephen, I don’t blame you anymore for what happened to us. I was too young to know how to hold a marriage together. And I was too wrapped up in my own hurt feelings.”
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