House of Windows

by John Langan

  For a week and a half, not a night went by without me waking up at three a.m.—it was always the same time—to Roger seated on the edge of the bed. Then he was up on his feet and away. His journeys—that was how I thought of them—had two parts. The first took him to some place in the house—and once outside it—related to Ted. Granted, that was pretty much the entire building, but there were spots where the associations were especially strong. Ted's childhood room, obviously, but the third floor, too, where he'd moved as a teenager—we climbed there a couple of times. The living room was a favorite, as well. I think because it was where they had watched baseball together. Wherever the first half of his sleepwalking led Roger, the second half concluded in the same place, his office, him standing in front of that map—to which he added fresh notes every day—gazing into Ted's old mirror. Some nights, he made his rounds in a little under forty minutes. Once, he didn't wander back to bed until the sun had risen and daylight was pouring through the windows. I rose with him every night, driven by the combination of concern and curiosity; although, as he successfully navigated the house, the concern pretty much dropped away, while the curiosity deepened with each new destination.

  A few hours later, I would spend breakfast narrating his previous night's perambulations to him. It got to the point he no longer waited for me to raise the subject. While I was pouring my coffee, he'd say, "So, where did my nocturnal odyssey lead last night?" You could hear the attempt at good humor in his voice—and I did my best to respond in kind—but immediately underneath it you heard the anxiety. However cavalier he wanted to appear, Roger was worried by his sleepwalking. Not worried enough to take my advice and ease up on his time in the office. (I didn't even bother suggesting he see a doctor.) Every other day or so, a new envelope or package would arrive. I swear, the things you can find on eBay. There were eight-by-ten photos of the square in Kabul that linked up side to side to form a panoramic view of it. Roger hung them right around the office so that, standing in the middle of the room, it was as if you were looking through a window in it out at the square. There was a packet of brown dirt that a man in Maine swore came from Kabul. Roger carefully scissored one end off and poured the dirt up and down the streets of the tabletop model in a fine stream, saving most of it for the square. There was a tiny box that held a fragment of scorched metal swaddled in a cotton cloth. I asked Roger what it was. He said, "A piece of a rocket-propelled grenade."

  "Like the one that killed Ted?"

  "As far as I've been able to ascertain," Roger said, examining the fragment, "yes, it's an exact match. The RPG-7."

  That was when I decided we were getting out of that house, if not for good, then at least for a week or two. Accompanying Roger on his sleepwalking tours had taken its toll. After three nights, I was exhausted; by a week, I was dead on my feet; at a week and a half, I was the living dead. Maybe that was why the sight of him holding that little piece of metal as if it were a relic—well, I didn't know whether to shriek with laughter or sob my eyes out.

  Something else had happened, earlier that same day. Along with Roger's latest package, the mailman had brought a letter for me. Roger left it, along with the bills and the circulars, on the kitchen table, where I found it when I went to see what I could scrounge for lunch. There was no return address; although the postmark was Provincetown, MA. The handwriting was frail and spiky, an old person's script. I thought I should recognize it, but it wasn't until I slid my thumb under the flap, eased the envelope open, and slid the folded sheets out that I learned why. The letter was from Viola Belvedere.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, seven sheets of fine paper that felt like onionskin in my hand, my heart started to pound. Viola's writing covered both sides of each sheet from top to bottom, running right out to the edges of the paper. The letter was dated four days ago. My head was throbbing. I put the pages down, and went to the fridge for a glass of iced-tea. I drank half of it staring out the kitchen window, flashing back to the afternoon the window had frosted over. I looked at the kitchen table, where the pages lay, one on top of the other, the envelope beneath them. My heart wouldn't stop pounding. I wasn't sure what I expected from Viola, but it wasn't idle chatter.

  Headache worse, I resumed my seat at the table. The room—it was as if the kitchen had shrunk two sizes around me, and the rest of the house with it, as if everything wanted to see what Viola had to say. I swore I could see more out of the corners of my eyes than I had five minutes ago; the kitchen's contents crowded my vision. I raised my head, and all was as it should be.

  I focused on the top sheet. "Dear Mrs. Croydon," I read. "You wrote to me some time past asking about the summer my late husband spent in what is now your house. At the time, I gave your inquiry a cursory glance. To be frank, I did not give it even that. I have grown tired of carrying the burden of my husband's fame. However much it has benefited me, I have more than repaid that debt through years of answering letter after letter from anyone with an interest in Thomas's work. Far too often, my diligence has been repaid by descriptions of myself, my motives, and my effect on my husband's work that border on slander. I read everything that is written about him, you understand. Those who have not slandered me have been like vampires, returning again and again to drain information from me. The long and short of it is, I now refer all questions about Thomas's life to Professor Rice. While her biography of him makes several errors of interpretation, it is faithful to the facts of his and our lives. The professor tells me it improves her standing if I pass along the queries that come to me, so I do.

  "You are not interested in my relationship with Professor Rice, I understand; you are wondering why I have changed my mind and written to you, after all. It may be that, despite my protests to the contrary, I miss my work on behalf of Thomas. He was the center of attention for so long, it was nice to have people asking me what I thought, especially scholars. But I do not think this is the case. I have no plans to answer any of the four or five dozen other letters I have received in the last few months; I have been happy to forward all of them to the professor. Your letter has nagged at me. It has resisted my efforts to dismiss it, so I have picked up my pen in hopes that a reply will satisfy it.

  "I assume you have consulted Professor Rice's biography of Thomas. You know that the summer of 1953 was a difficult time for us. Thomas had not been easy in our marriage, and once our twins were born, his uneasiness increased. My cousin and her daughter moved in to help us with the babies, which made Thomas even more unhappy. His discontent was sharpened by the correspondence that had sprung up between him and an odd painter living in Greenwich Village. This man, Rudolph de Castries, contacted Thomas because he had seen one of Thomas's paintings hanging in a gallery in SoHo. I cannot recall which gallery it was. He wrote a long and admiring letter to Thomas. Thomas, who did not know de Castries's work, responded with a long letter of his own. Soon, Thomas was writing to de Castries and de Castries to him several times a week. They exchanged theories about painting, opinions of other artists, and gossip. I find men are much worse gossips than women, don't you?

  "As they grew closer, our relations grew steadily more strained. I do not know if you have any children yourself, Mrs. Croydon, but if you do, you know how all-consuming their demands on you can be. My cousin and her daughter were a great help in looking after the twins, but neither of them had a very high opinion of Thomas, and they were not shy in sharing their views. Rather than sitting in the attic all hours of the day and night painting paintings no one could understand, he should be out working a proper job to support us. They would not say anything directly to Thomas, but they were adept at delivering their assessments whenever he was within earshot. I cringed when they did; at the same time, I did not stop them, because they were giving voice to sentiments I shared, at least in part.

  "Thomas and I fought. Ours had always been a contentious love, but this was different. We argued fiercely and often. The last straw was a letter from de Castries I found on the dresser. This was stra
nge, since Thomas never left his correspondence lying around. It was all filed safely away. Only later did I realize I had been intended to find it. The long and short of the letter was de Castries urging Thomas to follow his inclinations and leave me and the twins. As they had agreed, an artist could not be shackled to a family. Great art demanded a creator who was absolutely free to give himself to it, without distractions. From everything Thomas had written him about me, I would forever stand in the way of his achievements. And so on. I was devastated, and wasted no time flying up the attic to give Thomas the confrontation he so desperately wanted. The end result was him taking the suitcase he already had packed out the front door with him. He took the train from our home in Princeton into Manhattan, changing there for a train to Huguenot. De Castries had secured a room for him at what is now your house. I believe its owner was an acquaintance of his. She may have bought one of his paintings.

  "Thomas stayed there for the entire summer. When I had seen him slide the suitcase out from under our bed, I had understood he intended to leave, but I had not realized for how long. I expected him back within a week, unable to stop missing me and the babies. After two weeks, I grew frantic. My cousin's declaration that another woman likely was involved did nothing to help. At last, a month after he'd left, Thomas sent a postcard informing me where he was and that he was well. I was relieved. I was also furious. I did not reply. Another postcard followed a week later. I did not answer that one, either. Next came a letter. A second arrived in four days, and a third three days after that. At first, the letters were angry, full of self-justification. Their tone quickly moderated. By summer's end, Thomas was writing me every other day or so, letters full of love and longing. He included little sketches of the house he was staying in, the views from its windows, the village he walked around in. I did not reply to any of it.

  "Finally, he wrote saying that he was coming home the next Thursday. I was not there to meet him, although I sent my cousin and her daughter home the weekend before. When he knocked on the door, I opened it. He looked thinner. I had one question for him: 'Was it worth it?'

  "'No,' he said.

  "Satisfied, I let him in. I will not say that was the end of our troubles. He had a terrible temper, and no patience with the children. But it was the only time he left. After that summer, there were no more letters from Rudolph de Castries. A year or two later, I read of his death in the Times. From alcohol poisoning, I believe. Thomas's fortunes had improved by then. The 'Dark Feast' series had sold for more money than we had hoped. There were articles about him in Time and Life. Enough commissions came in to keep us comfortable.

  "In the professor's biography, everything I have written so far is summarized in a few sentences. 'By June of 1953,' she writes, 'the stresses of Thomas and Viola's marriage had reached the point of crisis. After one fight too many, Thomas left, his destination the village of Huguenot in New York's Hudson Valley. A friend had arranged for him to stay at an old house there. During this time, the idea for the "Dark Feast" paintings came to him. When he returned to Princeton that September, he had already completed dozens of sketches, several studies in crayon and watercolor, and at least one canvas.' She makes no mention of Rudolph de Castries. I told her about his role in what happened, but as you may know, some of Thomas's papers were lost during the transit to Stanford. I suspect they are sitting in a collector's vault, accumulating value. Among the missing material were Thomas's letters from de Castries. Professor Rice contacted de Castries's biographer, but it appears he kept none of his correspondence. Since she was unable to substantiate my claim that Thomas had been in touch with de Castries with physical evidence, the professor chose to omit it. Apparently, memories are no good unless accompanied by documentation.

  "I was sufficiently annoyed not to tell her that Thomas and I had spoken about that summer in 1970, the year before his death. I had no proof of that conversation, either, no tape recording or home movie, so what was the point? Really, it was pique. For the first few years after Thomas had left, I did not want to hear that summer referred to. He understood this from the start. Once or twice he let something slip out, but the look he received was enough to correct that error. As time passed, however, my curiosity grew. I could not credit that Thomas had left because he wanted to paint. He had been able to paint while he was with me. I assumed that my cousin had been correct and a woman had been involved. For a time, my suspicions fastened on the owner of the house in which he'd stayed. She was a good decade older than Thomas, but very attractive. I saw her picture in Life. In that same article, however, I learned that she had been in Europe that year, and my fears quieted. Later still, I decided there must have been someone else. I didn't know whom. It could have been someone who'd come to one of his shows. It could have been someone local he'd met pumping gas, or at the supermarket. There was a teachers' college in Huguenot; it could have been a student. Whoever she was, perhaps Thomas had planned to leave me for her and their affair had not worked out. Perhaps it had been intended to be only an affair.

  "After the doctors discovered the cancer in Thomas's large intestine, I decided to ask him. I was not sure how my worst fear's being confirmed would affect me. But I could not stand the prospect of not knowing. I did not want Thomas to carry the secret of that summer to the grave with him. I would like to believe in an afterlife, but I do not. That Christmas, the right moment presented itself. The twins had gone out to visit my sister and her children. Thomas and I had the house to ourselves. I made him a whiskey sour and poured myself a large sherry, then carried them through to where he was sitting in front of the fire in the living room. By then, he was always cold. He was surprised to see the drink, but not ungrateful. We toasted the holiday. We did not say it was our last. I said I had something I wanted to ask him. I cannot imagine he had any idea what it was. It was about the summer he'd left, I said. I wanted to know if there had been another woman.

  "He did not hesitate. 'No,' he said.

  "In that case, what had he been doing? He smiled and said that he had been painting. The moment he had walked out the front door, he had known he would be back, so he had thrown himself into his work. He had the run of a large house. He set up easels in several of the rooms. He left pads of paper in others. When he grew tired of one idea, he moved on to another. A lot of it was junk that he had thrown out, but it had allowed him to break through to a new style. I asked him if he was sure there hadn't been a woman in the picture, so to speak. Maybe some of the canvases he'd discarded had been of her. 'Absolutely not,' he said.

  "That should have been enough. It was such a relief to hear him say that there had been no one else. There was one more thing I wanted to know. 'What about Rudolph de Castries?' I asked. I had wondered why, after the two of them had been so close, Thomas had had no communication with him whatsoever once he'd returned from that summer. As you may guess, I had not been unhappy with this. Receiving a letter from him caused Thomas to withdraw from me and the babies. To be honest, after Thomas began living with us again, I had been determined to tear up any letter from Rudolph de Castries that might arrive. None had.

  "At the mention of de Castries's name, Thomas grew extremely agitated. 'I had rather you not mention that man,' he said. I asked him why not. He stared at the fire for so long I assumed he was refusing to answer. I was standing to carry our empty glasses to the sink when Thomas said, 'Rudolph de Castries had a lot of ideas.'

  "Yes, I said, I remembered his ideas.

  "'Not that,' Thomas said, 'that was the least of it. He was a geometrist.'

  "I thought this a strange word and said so. 'Do you mean he was a mathematician?' I asked.

  "'Of a kind,' Thomas said. 'He had ideas about painting, about art, that were not good. At first, they excited me, because I thought I saw in them a way towards achieving something new in my work. He made pronouncements that I took as metaphors, as maxims for the artist to live and work by. They were more than that.'

  "What did he mean? He shook his head. 'De
Castries thought painting could accomplish much more than any one realizes. For that reason, he did not like to refer to it as painting. Sometimes he called it, "the gateway," and other times, "the quickening." His favorite term for it was "the birth canal." His uncle,' he said, and stopped.

  "What about his uncle?

  "'Never mind his uncle,' Thomas said. 'His uncle had some bad ideas, and he passed them on to Rudolph, who improved on them in certain ways.'

  "'Did you meet him?' I asked.

  "'Rudolph?' Thomas said. 'No. He was supposed to come up and spend the weekend with me, but he didn't.'

  "'Did you write to him while you were at that house?'

  "'For a time. Then things happened that caused me to lose faith in his idea of painting. Or rather, things happened that gave me too much faith in his ideas. Either way, I decided I had had enough of Rudolph. I wrote and told him so. There was a brief, unpleasant exchange, and I did not hear from him again.' Thomas turned his eyes from the fire to me. 'Are you thinking of buying the house I stayed in?'

  "His question caught me by surprise. Although we were quite well-off by then, and no doubt could have afforded that house had we been so inclined, the thought had never crossed my mind. Why should I want to purchase the house my husband had spent his summer away from me and his children in? I said as much to Thomas, and he relaxed. 'Good, good,' he said.