by T. M. Wright
Christine's lips moved nervously, trying to form a reply. Marilyn went on, as if in apology:
"That is in no way a judgment of you and your husband as individuals, Christine. I'm sure you are both very fine people, a real asset to the district, unlike some I can name. But that's another matter. No, when I say your relationship will mature, I mean only that it will grow solid, secure, if for no other reason than that it persists. Do you follow me?"
"I don't know. Maybe, in a way."
"I'll explain it all to you while I show you my house."
Christine looked quizzically at her.
"Would you like to see my house?" Marilyn said.
"We didn't have time for it the other day."
"Of course I'd like to see it, Marilyn, but—"
"Oh." Marilyn's gaze settled a moment on the wheelchair. "Yes. Well, that's certainly not going to stop you from seeing the first floor. And there's plenty to see. I've spent years, literally years, furnishing this house" (Christine fought back a grin; Marilyn had used nearly the same words two days ago), "and it is my pride and joy. I am, by design and by inclination, a homebody, Christine. Women's libbers can go off and burn their bras and work as pipe fitters, but I am very happy, thank you, to see to my house and to my family." (And those were exactly the same words Marilyn had used two days ago. Christine had always thought such repetition was a sign of senility. It was also a sign of obsession, she realized now.)
"Let me tell you about my house first," Marilyn said.
Christine nodded quickly. "Yes, please do."
"It's authentic mid-Victorian, built around eighteen seventy-four. The original owners were a banker and his family. Quite a large family, of course that's why the house is so large. His name was Sporrington"—she spelled it—"and he was a grotesque man. At the end of his life, he weighed all of three hundred and fifty-five pounds. He strangled to death at the dinner table. You'll see the table itself—a genuine Duncan Phyfe, inlaid mahogany. And while he was dying—while he was sitting there strangling to death on a chicken bone, or whatever it was—he stuck the table three times with his fork. In desperation, I'm sure. The marks are still there. You'll see them. And"—she beamed—"I have the fork, too."
Christine grimaced. "Marilyn, I really don't—"
"Duncan Phyfe," Marilyn cut in, "Eastlake, Haviland, Faience Manufacturing, Gillinder and Sons. Do these names mean anything to you, Christine?"
"Well," Christine began, "I have heard of Duncan Phyfe, but I always thought it was Duncan and Phyfe."
"No, no. He was only one man, a furniture maker, of course, and that was his name—Duncan Phyfe. I've spent literally years furnishing this house, Christine, making it into the showpiece that it is, making it comfortable for my family. We have few things in this life to cling to, Christine; the most important, of course, is the home we live in. . . and the people who live in it with us." She stood, crossed the room quickly, went around to the back of Christine's wheelchair, put her hands on the push bars.
"I really prefer maneuvering the chair myself, Marilyn, when it's possible."
Marilyn backed up a step. "Oh! I am sorry. I didn't know."
"But, if you'd like. . . ."
Marilyn stepped back to the chair, bent over slightly; Christine felt the woman's breasts against the back of her head.
"Thank you, Christine. It would really be a new experience for me."
"Fourteen rooms," Marilyn announced. They were once again in the living room, Marilyn on the velvet rococo couch, Christine near the cherrywood table; her cup of tea, now cold, was still on it. "You saw only five of them, and I do so wish you could see them all."
"It's a beautiful house, Marilyn. You must be very proud."
"I am proud of many things, Christine: my home, my family, my marriage. I am . . . a rock in this little community." She adjusted her dress over her knees. "Have you met my husband?"
"No, I'm afraid not, but I'd like to."
"He's a busy man, a very busy man. He's an insulating contractor, you know. He goes around and insulates houses—not personally, of course; he has a crew of ten men who do the work—and this is the very busiest time of the year for him." She stood, crossed the room to a tall walnut armoire, opened it, withdrew a photograph. She brought the photograph to Christine. "This is my Brett," she said.
Christine smiled as she studied the photograph: It showed Marilyn and a tanned, mustached; patrician-nosed man in his late thirties or early forties—a very good-looking man.
"He doesn't have that awful mustache anymore," Marilyn said. "I told him to shave it off; it made him look so . . . so radical. Don't you think he looks radical?"
"I think he's quite handsome." She felt Marilyn stiffen suddenly, felt tension begin to rise between them. "I mean," she amended, "in a . . . a very distinguished way. A fatherly way."
Marilyn took the photograph from her, returned it to the armoire. She went silently to the rococo couch, sat primly, arranged her housedress. "We use all these rooms, you know. We have occasional visitors and so we need the space. It was quite a chore furnishing each room, but very much worth it." Her tone became low, secretive. "I even have a room of my own that no one knows about, because no one ever uses it. Not even me. Except, of course, when I clean it. I'm saving it."
"Saving it?"
"Don't ask me for what. It's just a big, airy room and it's mine. I guess I'm leaving it . . . uncorrupted." She stopped. Christine saw her focus on something in the archway, and turned her head. Marilyn said, "Come in, Gregory."
Greg Courtney hesitated a moment, then stepped slowly into the room. "I just wanted you to know I was home, Mommy."
Marilyn held her arms out. "Well, aren't you going to give me a kiss?"
Greg hurried across the room and into her arms. Christine saw the bandage around his right hand. "Did he hurt himself, Marilyn?"
"Don't boys always hurt themselves, Christine? He was playing with some of his rowdy friends—some friends I have forbidden him to play with—and he fell and sprained his hand. Thank God it's not a serious injury."
Greg straightened, turned—Christine saw that his face was blank—and left the room.
"And that," Marilyn said, "is my Gregory."
"He looks a lot like your husband."
"Yes, he does; everyone says so. He's my little sweetheart." She sighed. "All right, enough of that nonsense. How would you like some more tea, Christine?"
"No, thank you. I should be getting home."
Marilyn stood. "Yes. We've had a nice afternoon, haven't we? Let's do it again very soon."
"I was over to see Marilyn today," Christine said. "Who?" Tim asked.
"Marilyn Courtney"—she nodded in the direction of the Courtney house—"the woman next door."
"Oh, her."
"You don't like her very much, do you, Tim." "I really can't say. I don't know her that well, and frankly—"
"Frankly, you don't want to know her?"
Tim thought a moment. "I guess that's true. Yes."
"That's not at all like you, Tim." Her tone was one of question and criticism. "You could at least give her a chance."
"I gave her a chance."
"I mean a fair chance."
Tim sighed. "You sound like I decided out of the blue to dislike the woman, as if I didn't have reasons."
"You have reasons?"
"Of course I do." He paused to collect his thoughts. "They're pretty subtle. I mean, I can't say that I dislike her because of her political beliefs or because she's a snob or because . . . because she put that ugly fence up—"
"It's not that ugly, Tim."
"I think it is, but that's not the point. The point is . . . the point is. . . ."
"Yes?" Christine coaxed.
"The point is, she's a phony."
"That's not a revelation, Tim."
"I happen not to like phonies."
"Tim, we're all phonies in one way or another; Marilyn Courtney is just more obvious about it. It's almost a
s if she wants you to know she's a phony, as if she's saying, 'Look, there's a real person underneath all this.'"
Tim was puzzled. "I didn't see that, exactly."
"Because you didn't look." She grinned smugly. "You haven't cornered the market on sensitivity, Christine. Sure there's a real person underneath that mask of hers; a mask has to cover something, after all. I'm just saying that, in her case, what it covers is probably as lousy as the mask itself."
"That's unfair, Tim."
"Life's unfair."
"Are you ending the argument on that profound note?"
"I didn't know we were having an argument; I thought it was a discussion."
"No, it's an argument, and you've made your point. I guess I don't have the ability to choose my friends wisely. I guess you'll have to choose them for me."
"Don't be stupid."
"I can't help it, Tim. I don't see things the way you do, so I must be stupid."
Tim shook his head slowly, in frustration. "What in the hell are you becoming so defensive about?"
"Because . . . because you act as if my handicap isn't . . . isn't just physical." Tears were starting. "You act as if it's . . . as if I'm still a child, as if. . . ." Tears were flowing freely. Tim put his hands on her shoulders. She pushed him away. "But I'm not a child. I'm not a child!"
"Christine, please. . . ."
She abruptly wheeled the chair around so that her back was to him, put her hands over her face.
Tim went around, gently pried her hands away. "What is it, darling?"
After a long moment, she looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Tim." She grinned pathetically. "That was stupid, wasn't it? Forgive me."
He put his arms around her, felt her tears through his shirt. "It's okay. I understand."
Christine whispered, "I'm glad one of us does."
"We won't discuss Marilyn Courtney ever again. Agreed?"
She nodded against his shoulder.
He repeated, "Agreed?"
"Agreed, Tim." Still a whisper. "Agreed."
February 20, 1961
The child opened her door an inch. "Mith King?" she said.
The babysitter heard the child and reflected a moment on being called Mith King, liked how adult it made her feel, how truly more than just a teenager. She turned her head. "Yes, what is it?"
"It's cold, Mith King."
"Well, it's colder in here. Go back to bed."
The child became confused. She could feel that it was warmer outside her room. "Blanket, Mith King. Light on."
The babysitter did not reply.
"Blanket, Mith King. Light on."
The babysitter stayed quiet.
"Mith King, I cold!"
The babysitter jumped to her feet, turned, faced the child, pointed stiffly at the child's room. "Go to bed. Go to bed, you freakin' little brat!"
The child's jaw dropped, and trembled; she hesitated, as if in shock, turned, and fled to her room. The babysitter followed, flicked the light on, saw the child struggling to climb over the dropped side of the crib: From the crib's mattress it had been easy, but from the floor it was impossible.
"How in the hell—?" the babysitter started. Then she remembered: When she changed the child's diaper an hour ago, she'd forgotten to lock the side up.
She went to the child, lifted her by the armpits, plopped her into the crib. "Now, goddamnit, you had better go to freakin' sleep!"
The child stared at her, wide-eyed. "Yeth, Mith King. Thorry, Mith King."
The babysitter crossed to the door, turned the light out, and left the room.
Chapter 9
Christine wondered if she felt cramped in her little house, if it was really too small, too functional. She wasn't sure. Tim seemed happy in it, and that was important. The district—Cornhill: rich with the aura of another time—was good for his work. "Gets the old creative juices flowing," he had told her, looking a little embarrassed by the inanity. "Any time but the present." She thought it was untrue. His photography had everything to do with the present. In effect, his camera was his soapbox. Look, his pictures said, at what we're doing to ourselves, at what we're doing to our cities. Where is our future?
And what about her own future? Christine wondered. Her art? What had she been able to do since moving into this house? Only her painting of Jimmy Wheeler, and that was really for no one's eyes but hers—a Jimmy Wheeler she had created out of a quick chance meeting, grief, and wish fulfillment.
The doorbell rang. She felt a little annoyed by the intrusion. She considered not answering, and waiting for whoever it was to go away, but decided that her private thoughts weren't leading her anywhere, that, indeed, they were tending toward the depressive.
She wheeled herself to the door, turned the knob. "Stand back, please," she said, because Tim had installed the door so that it opened outward, toward the back of the small porch. She heard shuffling noises on the porch. She pushed the door open.
The woman was about Christine's age, maybe a year or two older, Christine thought, and quite tall. She had the kind of soft, fair prettiness that would endure well into old age.
"Hi," she said, and smiled warmly. "My name's Becky Foster. We're neighbors."
It was a proclamation obviously designed as an invitation to friendship. Christine's smile in return was spontaneous. She wheeled her chair backward a few feet. "Come in, please." And she was suddenly happy for the intrusion.
"We live in a haunted house," Becky Foster explained. They were in the living room, Becky in Tim's old recliner, Christine facing her from a few feet away. "But then," Becky continued matter-of-factly, "everyone in Cornhill lives in a haunted house."
"I'm fascinated," Christine said, grinning. "Do I live in a haunted house, too?"
"It can't be helped." She held her hands out to the side, palms up in a gesture of helplessness. "You buy the house, you buy the ghost. Now, let me see . . . ." She pretended to think a moment. "Oh, yes. Your ghost—this is all true—is the ghost of a woman who was killed here about thirty years ago, over thirty years ago: nineteen fifty. She was doing something in what was then the kitchen. I got all this from people like George Fox and Irene Norton. They've been here a long, long time, Christine. They're practically fixtures in Cornhill, like the streetlamps." She paused, then: "Where was I? Oh, yes, your ghost. As I was saying, she was doing something in the kitchen, something very domestic, I'm sure, and it was winter, and there was all this snow piled up on the roof—"
"Don't tell me, Becky. You'll scare me to death."
"No I won't; you look pretty tough." Christine liked that. Becky continued: "Lots of snow, must have been ten feet of it." She paused, put her hand up as if to stop herself. "No, that's a gross exaggeration, a gross exaggeration. There was no more than five feet of snow on the roof—that's what George told me. Anyway, however much it was, it was enough to cave the roof in, and there she was, this nice domestic woman doing her crude domestic thing in her tiny kitchen, and whoosh!—the roof fell right on top of her."
"That's horrible; the poor woman!"
"Oh, she was poor. Everyone in Cornhill was poor in nineteen fifty. But, tell me, have you . . . felt her around this place? You know, thought someone was watching you, felt her presence lurking in doorways, that sort of thing?"
"No, but I'm sure I will now."
"I don't think so. You see, when I moved in about six years ago, I was told all about my ghost—a Confederate soldier, George Fox said. A spy. He made it all the way to my house—no one knows what his mission was; he probably had a lover up here—then he died of pneumonia in what turned out to be my living room. I've never seen him, though God knows I've looked. So I wouldn't worry. There may be a hundred ghosts in Cornhill, a thousand, but no one has actually seen one in the flesh, so to speak." She paused to change the subject. "So, tell me, what do you do?"
"Do?"
"To keep yourself sane."
"Oh. I paint. At least I used to."
"Why used to? Don't tell me you've
given it up."
"I guess you could say I'm in a slump. From moving, I suppose."
"Am I prying?"
"Yes, but I don't mind."
"You're very honest. That's good—so am I. Maybe we'll get along." She glanced around. "I don't see any of your work up."
"You should have seen our other place. I doubt there was a square inch of free wall space. But here . . . I don't know. All my work is in storage. Maybe I'll get around to hanging it someday. I haven't really given it much thought."
"Maybe this is a new start—this house, I mean." Christine thought a moment. "Maybe. In a way it is. Tim says it is."
"Tim's your husband?"
"Uh-huh. Maybe you've seen him."
"Tall, lean, Kris Kristofferson type?"
Christine laughed. "That's the first time I've heard that comparison."
"I've seen him. All the women around here used to take turns gawking at him when he was working on this place." She broke into a playful smile. "Excuse me, Christine. One of my bad habits—at least as far as wives are concerned—is a genuine aesthetic appreciation of good-looking men."
Christine smiled back; this woman was no threat, merely candid. Tim was good-looking, after all.
"And," Becky continued, standing suddenly, "on that clumsy note, I must be off."
"So soon?" Christine's disappointment was genuine. "I told myself before I came over that I had only time enough for"—she put on a quick, passable Groucho Marx imitation—"'Hello, I must be going,' because I had a few minutes between one little darling and another. I babysit, you see, staggered shifts—if you're fond of pandemonium, I recommend it—and my next little darling is due"—she checked her watch—"five minutes ago. She's probably set the house on fire by now." She started for the door, stopped briefly. "May I come back sometime?" She grinned. "When your husband's home?"
"Definitely not when my husband's home, but any other time, please feel free."
"Good. I will."
Becky Foster left, and Christine thought she was the kind of person who was easy to talk to, and very easy to like.
Chapter 10