“I should stay here,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
It was one of those moments that change everything. Whatever he said next would alter her life, one way or another.
“Please come,” he said.
Exactly the right words.
He added, “There’s something I have to find out, and I want you to be there.”
Then they were a man and woman with a secret, and they behaved accordingly, speaking so that a spy, listening from a distance with a shotgun microphone, would hear only polite chat.
“It’ll be cool in the City,” she said.
“Yes, it usually is this time of year,” he said, hopefully.
“I’ll bring a sweater.” Nonchalant, as though her knees were not weak.
“I thought lunch in the City would be nice. And then there are a few places we should visit.”
“You mystify me.”
They were inside, and the hush of the house made them feel the need to say as little as possible. They were lovers, now, not only because they had shared a bed and pleasure last night. They understood something about each other.
Clara must have sensed it. She wished them a good morning, and then said that she had made muffins especially for the two of them. “Corn muffins, with some more of that blackberry bush,” she said. “From out by the Indian rocks.”
Then Clara, a woman who had long ago accomplished the most unobtrusive manner of any human being alive, turned back at the doorway. “Maria waited for you,” she said.
She did not speak again for a moment, as though listening for a distant footstep. “Out by the flowers,” she added.
This information was hardly a surprise, Sarah thought, and yet she was grateful to Clara. She and Bell sat and shook out their napkins. Sarah had that feeling that troubled her from time to time. She did not know Clara well, after all these years. She was one of those quiet people who change a room deeply by entering it, or by leaving it.
The room shrank, just slightly. Clara had left it, and, like someone who drifted on the air, Maria entered beaming, carrying a large white rose, a great fleshy blossom at the end of a black wire.
22
Speke stood over the grave.
Go ahead, he ordered himself.
Start digging.
The day was already hot. The scent of the air was dry and clean, like fresh bedding, both sterile and promising life. He cringed from what he was going to ask himself to do. And yet, there was a thread of determination, a dry, hard iron within him. He had no choice.
The shovel worked as though on its own. The blade rang musically on the first stone. He tossed the stone away. Another shovelful grated, a hard sound that made him pause. They’ll hear me, he thought. Work quietly, or everyone will know.
The shovel knew what to do. It worked carefully, surgically, paring away first the larger stones, and then the gravel. He pried earth from within the shifting figure of his own shadow. The dust lifted into the air, and hung there, drifting nowhere.
A dozen voices chattered in his mind, warnings, reassurance. He couldn’t do this. A superhuman couldn’t do this. It was asking too much. The memory of their times together was sharp, vivid, more real, in a way, than the years that had followed.
Night after night Asquith would despair, rumple his hair, swear that he needed a drink. And Speke would pour him a couple of fingers of Southern Comfort and urge him to stay alive. “We need people like you. Do you realize how boring most people are?”
“I’m bored,” Asquith would moan. Or: “This is all stupid.” Or: “I can’t possibly continue waking up, trying to figure out where I am. This is a complete and utter waste of time.” Spoken always with that theatrical flair, Asquith’s standard stage diction sharpening each T, making his melancholy, or his hangover, the stuff of tragedy.
“You have to believe in the future,” Speke would say. “You have to believe in yourself.” He actually mouthed such trite encouragement, and he believed it, in his youth and his enthusiasm. He had felt honored to be the companion to such a great soul.
A vibrant soul, but hardly an easy one, on himself or on others. A ballet could move him to tears, and the casual discourtesy of a waiter could have him brooding for days. Asquith had possessed a characteristic way of listening, eyes closed, head tilted against a wall, drawing hungrily on a cigarette. And a characteristic way of answering a doubtful opinion with a glance. Occasionally he had made coffee for both of them, or poured Speke a beer, and such a homely gesture had always touched Speke.
Don’t do it, he told himself now. You know what you’ll find.
I have to be sure. I have to be absolutely sure of what is going on. Because I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe Asquith’s spirit is out there in the woods. I think Asquith is still alive.
I know he is. All I have to do is keep digging, and I’ll prove it.
He knew very soon that he was wrong.
The smell was worse than he had anticipated, an odor like a shriek. The smell made him pant, and he nearly dropped the shovel several times.
He’s here. He gagged for a moment. He’s in the grave. I was deluding myself. Playing little games with my mind. Asquith is rolled up in the rug, and he is rotting.
Speke gagged. This stench tells the tale. There was no need to keep digging.
He let the shovel fall. The carpet was a vague shape under the last remaining earth. Cover it up, he told himself. Cover it all up, and go on with your wasteland of a life.
But something rallied within him, that old, tireless courage that had caused so much trouble in the past.
I don’t believe in ghosts. There are certain rules that we have that keep us … sane. There are certain truths. One is that dead people do not get up and stroll around, not at night or at any other time. This simply cannot be Asquith.
The thought broke over him with the strength of hunger, or sexual desire: he should run away. It was such a wonderful thought. There is that farm, he recalled, near Avignon, where they grow the red Rhone wines. He’d spent a summer there once, after spraining his back in an athletic affair with that television actress. Why not an extended visit now? How about that flat in Edinburgh, that chateau near Chartres? He had spent time in so many wonderful places. It was time to seek refuge. Ham, you can’t stay here any more.
Was Maria calling him? Christ, she can’t show up here and see what I’m doing.
Pick up the shovel and finish the job.
What do you mean, finish the job. I’m done. It’s all over.
Uncover the carpet, and unwrap the body. You have to be sure.
I can’t do this. I need a drink. This is fetid air. Every breath coats my lungs with a stink I’ll never be able to cough up as long as I live. Death pus—my lungs are slimy with it.
All through his days with Asquith he had suffered nightmares of the staring dead. His rational approach to the subject of ghosts was one he had acquired over years of adulthood, and he would not relinquish it now. He had a characteristic he knew was unlovely but real. He liked a fight.
A black chip floated in the blue, like a defect in his vision, a carbon fleck in his eye.
Finish the job. Look at the body.
I’m a human being. He was my friend. I can only ask myself to do so much. It will destroy me to look upon his rotting face.
Maria was, indeed, calling him. Or maybe it was a hallucination—he couldn’t be sure.
The black chip drifted closer, a pair of black wings shaded with ash white. The graceful half-circles continued, the wings passing over the tops of the oaks as Speke watched. Another pair joined it, high above. The most graceful bird of flight, the vulture passed a folding, pliant shadow over the stones.
Certainly that was Maria’s voice. It was far away, but unmistakable.
She was coming closer. If she sees this—and smells it—she’ll be shattered. She’ll see the vultures. They might as well be skywriters, spelling out in formation: dead animal. Spelling out: dead man
. Spelling out: look what Speke did.
He stooped to pick up the shovel just in time to see a vulture gliding from an unexpected direction, its little withered head glancing back and forth, a leathery nub of a head, like the hard butt of a corncob.
The bird’s voice was a grunt, a creak like a very old and very large trunk opening in a dark attic. The large bird was to eat the dead, without even a song. But what sort of song can we have, Speke thought, we who attend the dead?
Finish the job, Speke. Look at the body, Speke. Stop wasting time, Speke. Worthless jerk, Speke. Pathetic staggering killer. Go get a drink. Go get a bottle. Get half drunk and then you can give Asquith a French kiss.
There are no such things.
Why not?
As ghosts. No such things.
He had been denying something. He had been denying it very masterfully. But he could not continue to pretend: he was about to throw up absolutely every single thing he had ever eaten. Every spoonful of strawberry yogurt. Every pink shrimp in every scoop of dip. It was all coming back. Every last corn chip, every last beluga egg.
He had been the one who was never seasick, even on that ferry from the Yucatan to Cozumel, that pitching, staggering slab of wood and puke. No, he had held his own. But now—this was different. He had been a young man then, and a man who still thought himself a good person. Still, he walked with something like presidential grace, the dignity of a second inaugural address, or a summit meeting. He reached a poppy that had lost its blossoms, and was reduced, far past its prime, to a green shrub. He bent over, and retched.
Was that sound a step, that whisper, that rasp of footfall on dried leaf?
There was no one there.
I need to take a break. I’ll come back, after a little break. Half time for the weary athletes, just a bit of an intermission. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, the bar is open for your pleasure. The dancers all need to rest.
He experienced a thought he had never had before. Not on those long sweaty hungover mornings in Mexico. Not after one of those knuckle-breaking parties here on the estate. He thought: maybe it would be better if I died.
The powerful, strangely pretty syllables subvocalized themselves on his lips: suicide. This was not a sophomoric fling at despair or morbid philosophy. The idea of suicide, the flash of certainty that accompanied it, was foreign to him.
He shrank from the sensation gladly, but it left him feeling weaker. Weaker in spirit than he had felt in his life. In a short while, he thought, urging himself to attend to the business at hand, I’ll drag Asquith out of the grave. I’ll look at him so I will be one hundred per cent sure that he is dead. But not now.
Find out where Maria is. Make sure she isn’t about to burst upon you. The chatter of an emcee played itself in his head: We’ll be right back so don’t go away.
The black wings far above made the slightest rustle, the creak of plumes as the birds kept themselves from falling to the earth.
23
He could feel it—Maria was slipping along one of the paths, and he had to stop her.
But as he hurried toward the house he could see no one. He held his breath and listened. He had the itchy sensation that he was in the company of someone, but there was only sunlight and heat.
He knew then that it was his need to speak with Maria that had tricked his hearing. Maria was not calling his name. He was calling hers, over and over again, in his mind.
He stopped. He wanted to fall to the ground, slither through the dry weeds and hide. Someone was coming. The smell of the grave could not be detected from here, but whoever was lightly stepping along the path had to be stopped.
He gave a cry of welcome.
Sarah gasped and put her hand to her throat.
He apologized for startling her. He was always glad to see her, but now his enthusiasm seemed to surprise her, or trouble her. She stammered, “I looked everywhere. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“For what?”
Her voice steadied, and she continued, “I looked everywhere for you, Ham.”
“But you knew I was out here, didn’t you? You expected to find me here.”
“I haven’t been spying on you,” she said, quietly.
Speke could not respond to her steady gaze.
She continued, “I was just speaking with Mr. Bell.”
“Christ, I’ve been awful. The man must think I’m the rudest creature in the world. I can’t begin to talk about myself, Sarah. Maybe he should …” He should find another subject, he nearly said. “I hate to keep him waiting.”
“He understands.”
“Does he?” Speke wondered. A man who understood so much could be a great deal of trouble. “Have you seen Maria?”
“She’s in the garden, I think, or in her studio.”
Sarah was deliberately not saying something, Speke could tell.
“It’s very peculiar,” he said, trying to make it sound amusing. “I kept hearing her voice, calling me.”
“I didn’t hear her,” said Sarah.
“No, I decided it was my imagination,” Speke began, but then realized she was saying something about going to the City today with Bell. She wanted to know if that was all right.
“You’re leaving?”
“For the day.”
She was aware that he sounded very happy, and was, he thought, a little surprised, even offended. But it was perfect. She should elope with Bell. That was all there was to it. She should escape with Bell, and never come back. They should have wonderful lives together, and leave this place to its fate.
He took her by the arm, and guided her along the path, back toward the house. “You’ve done so much for me,” he said.
“Ham, are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m trying to do more exercise. Get in better shape.”
“GQ said you were an exercise maniac.”
“That was a little unkind, wasn’t it?”
“You need me here.”
“You should travel more, Sarah. You’ve done too much to help me.”
“I’ll stay.”
“I want you to go. Get out of here. I insist.”
It was the ideal solution. With Bell gone, there was no one to fall into the grave by accident, and no one to ask any questions. Besides, she really did deserve a day off. Poor, hardworking, steadfast, trusting Sarah.
“Ham, please. You’re obviously under some kind of stress—”
“I’m a man of iron these days. Everyone knows that.” He made an extravagant wave. “All my troubles are in the past, Sarah. All healed, long since.”
She did not respond.
“I’m a healthy man,” he said.
“Be careful, Ham.”
“I’m like a rock.” He kicked a knob of serpentine out of the path. “Besides, you want to go to the City. You have a spark in your eye.”
She did not speak for a moment. “I can’t look after you this way, Ham. You have to turn to Maria for this kind of help.” She considered for a moment, and added, “You have to turn to yourself.”
“I have my inner resources.” He could not meet her cool, caring eyes. “I just had a little trouble working up some notes for the biography. I was writing about my dreams. My nightmares. The really ugly nightmares I had when I was a kid. Kids have worse nightmares than grownups do. They have to visit all the horror for the first time, a world of fire and violent men and earthquakes. They almost can’t do it. It gives them terrible dreams.”
“Ham, it’s all right. Whatever you think is wrong. It’s all right. There’s nothing that can’t be survived, as long as you have your body and your mind.”
Sarah still believes in me, Speke told himself. She still believes in life.
Inside the house it was cool.
The lounge was silent, that deep quiet that soaks in the footstep and the voice. Have a drink, a voice said, a serpent uncurling in his belly. Go ahead, you deserve it.
> He put his hand on the crystal that held cognac, but did not take a drink.
There was a splash in the aquarium. The piranha had snapped at nothing, apparently, breaking the surface of the water. Speke loved the quicksilver bright fish, and he loved the house, this refuge, this citadel of rooms he could enter like a boy, ever surprised at what he found. But he knew that he had neglected this house, and his life, in a fundamental way.
I’m wasting time, he nagged himself. Delaying the inevitable.
The firearms had vanished from this room long before he arrived, pilfered perhaps by servants or nephews decades ago. Guns were frankly evil, in Speke’s view, and he was happy to have not so much as a twenty-two on the estate. He had used the mounts for a display he knew was in doubtful taste, oars from Hitchcock’s Lifeboat and a spear, with a rubber head so old it was gray and stiff, from a Johnny Weissmuller movie.
The steel-bright creature pulsed peacefully in its tank. He never mentioned this to guests, but the piranha, for all its hatchet blade fierceness, was a vegetarian variety, and had never tasted blood.
Maria, he thought-whispered, where are you?
She must be in her studio, as Sarah had suggested, and he had promised her he would never enter that cottage uninvited. After all, they had both agreed, an artist needs that extra measure of privacy.
He often had imaginary conversations with his father. His father merely listened, in his fantasies, preoccupied as he had been in life with some tiny, intricate piece of work. Speke was, as usual, sour with the realization that his father would never listen to one of his songs. Would he have liked my music? Possibly not. His father would certainly not like any of the foul language spat between the characters in the plays. His brother Art had commented on Speke’s fondness for what Art called “the fuck word.”
Look at you, he told himself. You are wasting time. You have left unfinished business. This inner voice was like a talking computer in an early scifi movie, the voice an electric pencil sharpener might have if it got smart.
Wasting time, hurrying from room to room looking for your bride, mooning over your father, muttering about your brother, riding the ancient hobby horse of the many things your family could not, or would not, do for you.
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