"But doesn't the rent on that place help to pay the bills?"
"I have investments elsewhere that pay my bills, and I don't need much. I own the land and houses mortgage-free and need no luxuries, just the basics of food and utilities."
"Can I think about this?"
"Of course. That's the answer I was hoping for. I didn't expect you to accept immediately."
Later, in bed, when it was evident that Carl was recharged, Megan jumped off the sheet-covered mattress and flipped on the ceiling light.
"Why the spotlight?"
"Seeing you turns me on," she said, standing at the foot of the bed, her eyes soaking up the vision before her.
"Couldn't you do that with smaller wattage?" His voice was hesitant. Megan found it intriguing that she could make this mature, worldly man uncomfortable. She felt intrigued and powerful.
"The light stays on," she breathed.
For the first time, Megan's hands searched a man's body. Instead of being the submissive partner, she was the superior force in the coupling.
33 - Disappointment
Beverly's hand shook as she disrobed. Bits of rotted skin and cartilage clung to the dark fabric. The rats had managed to steal chunks of her flesh before she was able to kill every last one of the bastards. Blood left fingerlike trails on the walls behind her. At the floorboard rested the carcass of one of the rats, its head smashed and its guts ripped out by Beverly's own fingernails.
When attacked, Beverly had moved back into the hall, her hands violently flailing about her body, trying to detach the hungry mouths from her blood-soaked garment. Somehow she had managed to close the door separating the bedroom from the hallway, preventing any further attacks. She had spent the night in the hall mauling the remains. Few of her fingernails remained intact. One or two had broken off when she first had started to decay. Most of the others fell into the gaping holes she had clawed out in the rats' stomachs.
Dragging the dark, spattered robe along the floor, she opened the door and returned to the bedroom. Sunlight sprayed the floor golden. In this room there was no trace of the struggle. Beverly opened the mirrored door of the armoire. Silks, velvets, nylon, and cotton of deep hues hung across the wooden bar. Beverly dropped the robe to the floor. She pulled out a flimsy, see-through nylon garment. Its taffeta underdress had fallen onto the shoes that lined the floor of the armoire.
Inappropriate, she thought, but smiled. Something for Goodwill. Opening her hand, she let the sheer material drop to the floor. She needed much heavier cloth to shield her distress from Megan.
She saw that the shawl had not been damaged. A little blood stiffened the corner, but this she could hide. Her boots, although scuffed, were presentable. At least they still hid her decaying toes. Her piggies wiggled in childlike delight.
"One little piggy went to market. One little piggy stayed home. One little piggy . . ." Beverly faltered. The rhyme wasn't coming. "One I know had roast beef, and wasn't one forced to do without? But there should be five little piggies." Should she take off her boots and make sure all her piggies were there? Suppose one of the rats had huffed and puffed and snatched one, she pondered. But she didn't care much about her little piggies anymore; she was more interested in . . . She wondered for a few seconds. Megan. Yes, she thought; she didn't want to frighten Miss Megan away.
Her glance returned to the armoire. What to wear? When she reached out to finger the garments before her, she noticed the leather glove had a gash spreading down from the web of her thumb. Were her fingers nimble enough to sew up the seam? She opened and closed her hand. No, they were not. Ah, but she did have a dressy pair of cotton gloves that she had forgotten. Not since childhood and parochial school had she worn white gloves.
Beneath the open door of the armoire there was a huge, sticky drawer that groaned and squeaked when pulled open. Stooping, she jerked open one side of the drawer an inch, then the other side an inch, and on and on until the drawer's contents lay exposed.
She pushed her fingers under a frilly girl's petticoat and found the white gloves. Slowly Beverly lowered herself down onto her knees. Under a clear plastic cover the gloves shimmered in a ray of sunlight. Beverly unwrapped them. Her head tilted onto her left shoulder. They didn't look quite right. They fit before, but now they looked small. Way too small. Daintily, she placed a white glove atop the leather that covered her left hand. The palm of the white glove covered only two-thirds of her palm. The digits didn't even reach up halfway. Would they stretch? she wondered. She laboriously skinned the leather and top layer of flesh from her left hand before trying to squeeze her fingers into an opening that was meant for a child's hand.
Disappointed, Beverly sat herself down on the floor. When had she worn them last? Was it fourth grade for the Queen of the May celebration? My God, it was! Shocked, Beverly dropped the gloves. This was many years later, wasn't it? Drawing on all her memories, she sorted, flipped through sheaves of acquaintances and lovers. And then there was Carl. She growled low like a hungry stray pretending strength.
Megan was coming. She had to keep remembering Megan. Megan was coming. Megan would help her. Megan. She kept whispering the name. Megan gave her a focus. Holding on to the swinging door of the armoire, she managed to raise herself. "Megan," she whispered. Megan. She must dress for Megan's visit. Mustn't scare Miss Megan away. Megan. She droned Megan's name out as a chant, she sang Megan's name like a lullaby, she called to her goddess, Megan. All the while, she searched the armoire for something to wear. Finally, way in the side and back of the armoire, she found a ball of multicolor terry cloth. When she shook the material out, it drooped from her hands to the floor. It was an ugly old robe given her by a maiden aunt years ago. The aunt had died, but the vibrancy of her gift lived on within Beverly's grasp.
Beverly shut the mirrored door and pushed her arms through the sleeves of the bright robe. Tying the sash around her, she looked at her reflection. Orange balloons floated down across raspberry-colored shoulders. Stripes of primary colors across her bosom barricaded the descent of the balloons, which dangled hideously, not knowing where to go. The sash recovered the raspberry minus the balloons. "Thank God," she whispered. But the skirt shifted the stripes from horizontal to vertical.
Beverly thought about her aunt's sense of humor. Had she really believed that a grown woman would wear such a thing? she wondered. You are wearing it, she reminded herself, and be glad you have it.
Was her aunt coming? Is that why she wore this ugly thing? Someone was coming. Megan! Megan is coming, she happily remembered.
Quickly she adjusted the shawl so that it would shadow her face, preventing Megan from seeing the deteriorating effects of Carl's curse. The gloves. Could she remember to keep one hand in her pocket? Beverly looked down at the patches that acted as pockets and noticed the orange balloons covering them. Many of the balloons were embedded in the stitches bordering the pockets.
Beverly dragged the leather up over the rawness of her left hand, hoping the hole would be smaller than she remembered. No, it had widened.
When Beverly heard the squeak of the garden gate, she was pulling undies and bras from a dresser drawer in her quest for gloves.
"Too late," she mumbled. "Megan's here." Giddy, Beverly slammed shut the drawer and ran to the French doors, which had not been closed since the previous day.
"Megan," she gaily rasped out.
"Hi, Beverly."
Megan was dressed in a pair of denim cutoffs and a short-sleeved T-shirt with an advertisement for a sixties band lettered across two firm, full-size mounds. Beverly noticed how deeply the letters sagged in the middle. Carl must be satisfied, she thought. On her feet, Megan wore brown hiking boots over some thick, gray-speckled socks. Under her arm she carried a sketch pad.
Beverly quivered.
"Did you do the drawing? Did you? Is it complete? May I see it now?"
She knew the answer before Megan spoke. The girl's forehead furrowed; the light brows lowered over her brown eyes.
"It's not finished yet. I'm sorry, Beverly. I thought I could work on it some more today after I garden."
"Garden! The garden's fine. What's a weed or two? Draw, Megan. Draw my love for me."
The girl stared at her. Beverly reached down her hand self-consciously to help conceal the orange balloons on the pockets, but then, looking down, Beverly understood what was so appalling to Megan.
Beverly had forgotten the gash in the leather. Fluids and bits of raw, stale meat were protruding. Immediately the left hand dove inside the darkness of a balloon-covered pocket. She caught Megan's head bending, scooting low to see under the dark shawl shielding Beverly's face.
"Garden first, if it relaxes you, Megan. I have other things to do inside."
Casually Beverly glanced behind her and saw the hurricane of debris spewed across the floor and mattress.
"Cleaning, Megan. I'm cleaning up before the fall. I have a lot to do. Some things must go to charity. Perhaps you could see to it if I bundled a load of clothes?"
"Of course," Megan said softly with pity.
Dangerously close to the bright glare of the sun, Beverly faced Megan.
"Draw, Megan. You have to duplicate him for me." She watched the girl's head bob loosely. "It's for your own sake, too. We both need that drawing."
How could she impress the importance of this on the dippy girl? Frustrated, Beverly ran to her office, collected every pencil she could find, and rushed back to Megan with her hand extended, holding yellow sticks of offerings.
"Oh, I have plenty of pencils," Megan said as she settled her materials on the garden swing.
"Not only did I borrow, shall we say, two of the sketch pads, I also swiped quite a few pencils with good erasers. At least, they were good before I started to work."
"Erasers! Yes, I have erasers." Beverly dropped the pencils on the threshold of the door. Pencils rolled back into the house and away, out onto the grass.
A minute later she was back with two large, gray erasers.
Megan took the proffered gifts. Beverly caught sight of Megan's still chest as she approached. The girl was holding her breath to keep from smelling her. An incredible desire to reach out and grab Megan and hold her close was tempered by whatever reason Beverly had left. She needed Megan; mustn't frighten her away.
"Thank you, Beverly, I think I will try to draw for a while. Could I sketch you, perhaps as kind of a warm-up?"
Beverly gasped. "I've already been sketched, you stupid girl," Beverly shouted. Then her voice grew quiet as she said, "Probably you've already been sketched, too."
"By whom?"
"Moron, who would need to sketch you? The big, bad wolf, of course."
"I'm bright enough to know that wolves may eat people, but they certainly don't have the skill to draw."
"The warm, seductive ones do." Beverly giggled. ''Do you know any charming wolves with sizable equipment?"
Beverly saw Megan's cheeks flush. The girl turned away and collected her materials from the swing.
"I'm sorry, Megan. Please don't go."
"I thought I could help you, but now I see you wanted to make a fool of me the whole time."
"No. No. I'm only warning you."
"To stay away from your son."
"No. I speak too freely sometimes, but I don't mean to hurt anyone." Beverly attempted a sniffle. Damn, she thought, not even a hankie in these stupid pockets. Beverly bowed her head and gently drew the sleeve of one arm across her hidden nose, careful not to lop anything off that might drive Megan away. "I'm so lonely here. Please, Megan, don't go away."
There was a low huff from the girl.
"Go and do whatever needs doing in the house. I'm going to garden before the sun gets too strong. After lunch I'll try sketching. Okay?"
Beverly gave a subtle, sad nod, turned, and walked with halting steps across the bedroom. From the doorjamb she called back to Megan. "Bring a shovel the next time you come. I can't find my own." Under her breath Beverly seethed that Carl had probably taken it the last time he was there. "I need to dig a hole for a new plant," she assured Megan. Once in the hallway and out of Megan's view, she began gleefully humming. Then she went to the kitchen to search for matches.
34 - Found
"Aren't you going to visit the yellow house?"
Carl raised his head from the book he was reading.
"What for?"
Megan placed her cereal spoon into the bowl, manipulating the soggy flakes.
"Didn't you have work to do on the place?"
"Not yet." He returned to the book.
"You really should visit."
Keeping his head bowed, Carl crinkled his brow so that he could glance up at Megan, who was sitting across from him at the kitchen table.
"Why?"
Megan scooped up a brimming spoonful of milk and flakes, but before slipping the spoon into her widening mouth, she spoke.
"To check on the place." Megan stretched out her neck so that her mouth could clamp onto the spoon.
"Nothing's going to happen to the place, Megan." He raised his head. "Have you decided to stay?"
Dropping the spoon back into the bowl, Megan splashed her hand and white, long-sleeved sweatshirt. Quickly she dabbed the material with a napkin. She wriggled her rear in the chair, trying to get comfy in an extremely uncomfortable situation.
"Not exactly."
"You're leaning in that direction."
"I'm exploring the idea."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, but don't get your hopes up. Why don't you go there today and check out the place? Make sure someone can safely spend the winter there. For instance, when was the last time the furnace was used?"
"Last winter."
"Who was staying there?"
"A renter, of course."
"Do you have any family nearby?"
"No. I have no family, period. I was orphaned by both parents at the ripe old age of thirty-six; no siblings and no relatives with whom my parents were on speaking terms. A simple life history."
Megan watched Carl closely. He lied without flinching. His eyes were clear, blue, and innocent. Why wouldn't he admit that his mother was still at the yellow house? She recalled how sincere Beverly's plea was that she shouldn't tell Carl about their meeting. Megan wished she could yell it out and demand that he visit that poor woman before her mind went completely.
Carl reached across the table and took Megan's hand. His hand was large and warm. The wounds splitting the calluses were healing, but she could still feel the veil they left across his skin.
"Do I seem mysterious?"
Megan shrugged.
"You had parents; they died. You were a photojournalist, now retired. You loved a woman once; she's gone. What's missing?"
"Certainly you've learned things about me from reading the journals."
"You write objectively about everything, from a description of an exotic bird to a wound you received while cleaning a knife. Did it even hurt?"
"What?"
"Cutting yourself. You never bothered to recall the pain, only the location and depth of the wound."
"Many things have hurt me, Megan, but I have conscious amnesia when it comes to pain, either physical or psychological."
"Is that why the hyacinth woman left you?"
"I told you she left with one of her models."
"Maybe it was because you didn't share your feelings with her. Did you tell her how much it hurt to lose her?"
"She knows, Megan. I don't think she understands completely, but she knows."
"Where is she now?"
Carl's smoky eyes were looking beyond Megan.
"Not far away."
"Will you go to her someday?"
He turned back to Megan's face and squeezed her hand between his roughened palms.
"She's no one for you to think about, since you'll take her place."
Megan's body tingled. Did she want to replace such a woman? An awesome task, she pondered, recalling th
e delicate sketches she had reviewed. Nonetheless, he was presuming. She never said she would stay. Never said she loved him. Never heard him say he loved her.
Megan tried to pull away from his hold, but his hands grew hotter as they held on tighter, a slick film of sweat covering her young skin.
Carl's eyes searched her face. What did he want? Confused, she declared her love. Carl released her and smiled drolly.
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