The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft

by Jacqueline Baker

  I left that in the note as well, not about Jane, of course, but that I’d taken the few dollars. I was not so dishonest as all that.

  I spent the remainder of the morning typing “business” correspondence—letters to fans and publishers and other writers—and I planned to give the afternoon over to work on the book of grammar, the ghostwriting project upon which I’d made no progress. In the evening, I would type his horror story.

  It occurred to me only then the perversity of such a schedule, working on the horror story in the dark hours before going to sleep. Given my bad dreams and my general uneasiness since arriving at Number Sixty-Six, my own growing inclination to see, to feel, darkness everywhere, I determined to restructure my days. The grammar book, indeed, was dreary business, and sure to put me into a dreamless sleep.

  I began another letter to Jane, enclosing the money and assuring her more would soon follow. Beyond that, I had little to write and I found myself staring at the page, so I signed off and sealed the envelope and put it aside. I picked up the chunk of gravestone and sat turning it, staring out at the glittering city. The dormer light there blinked on and off, on and off. I was becoming quite accustomed to it. I thought I must venture out when the weather was warmer and find out just what sort of building it was. I recalled then, with a ripple of remorse, the letter for my employer’s mother. I had forgotten all about it. I stood, riffling through the papers on my untidy desk and finally plucking the letter from beneath a stack, intending to head straight out, but then the pages of the grammar book caught my eye, waiting there. I looked again at the directions he’d given me to his mother’s. It appeared to be no short distance and I was feeling fatigued from my morning’s outing. What was half a day more? I considered whether Miss Kush might enjoy such a walk as well.

  I wondered how she was settling in to her green apartment below. In spite of my poor judgment, my foolish actions, I was very glad, indeed, to have her there, Helen or no. And who was this Helen, after all? Certainly I’d seen no signs of anyone else at Sixty-Six. The presence of others was quite welcome, though, and I felt I would sleep easier that night.

  Still, I promised myself I would set Miss Kush straight about the situation at the earliest opportunity.

  She was quite beautiful. I don’t believe I mentioned that.

  2

  Miss Kush was leaning against the balustrade on the landing the next morning as I went down to the postbox with my letter for Jane. Hands clasped before her, ankles crossed, she appeared to have been waiting some time.

  She smiled up at me, her lips a shocking, glossy shade of red. The pale skin of her hands and throat luminous in the half-light.

  Well, Mr. Crandle, she called, have you come to keep your promise after all?

  My determination of the previous day to come clean about my foolish pretences flitted back to me and I paused on the stairs. Had I been so transparent, after all?

  Miss Kush?

  Miss Kush, she said, sounds like some frumpy governess. Flossie. I insist.

  You are hardly. I cleared my throat. Please, call me Arthor.

  I intend to. And I can see by your face you’ve quite forgotten your promise of taking me out to the shops.

  Indeed, I had.

  On the contrary, I said, slipping Jane’s letter into my pocket. Here I am.

  She smiled archly as I descended to the landing but said nothing.

  When I reached her there, the hair all up my arms stood on end and I ushered her quickly before me down the stairs. When I looked back from the foyer, of course, there was nothing.

  Arthor? Flossie said, giving me a funny look.

  Just wondering if I’d forgotten anything, I said. And smiled. But, having said it, I realized that in fact I had forgotten something: the letter for my employer’s mother. I had intended to go straight out with it after breakfast. Well, after lunch, then. And I would invite Flossie to accompany me. A pleasant thought. It was astonishing how greatly her presence had lightened the atmosphere of Sixty-Six.

  The pale sky was clear and bright, and the air felt sharp and fine against my face as we stepped out, blinking, into the shining courtyard. I slipped Jane’s letter discreetly into the red enamelled postbox. Flossie was watching me but pretending not to. I gestured for her to precede me into the lane and she smiled. The previous night’s rain lit the trees spectacularly, the bare limbs flaring and glistening as the breeze stirred them.

  It’s like Christmas, Flossie said as we passed beneath.

  I turned up the collar of my overcoat.

  It’s certainly cold enough.

  At the end of the lane, we stepped out onto the street and into the violet shadows of the John Hay Library. Flossie wore the same pale blue velvet cloak in which I’d first seen her, with a matching hat and gloves, and had thrown, in addition, a silvery fur about her neck. Her nose was very pink in the cold air and, between this and the fur, she gave the impression of a friendly little rabbit.

  Such a lovely morning, she said, such a lovely street, and then there’s that.

  What, I said, following her gaze, the library?

  So cold, she said. And shivered.

  A mausoleum of books, I suppose. I felt rather pleased with the sound of it.

  It isn’t very welcoming.

  Rather dignified, though.

  If you like that sort of thing. I prefer a bit of romance myself.

  In a university library? Glass doors onto long verandahs? Gauze curtains stirring in the breeze? Wisteria?

  And why not? A girl likes to be seduced by the building as well as the books.

  She shot me a glance, expecting some particular sort of response, obviously.

  Settling in all right? I asked instead.

  Right enough. Only …

  Yes?

  Vexing that Helen hasn’t turned up yet.

  Hasn’t she?

  Flossie shrugged. I suppose she’s away.

  Traveller, is she?

  I don’t really know. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll turn up soon enough. In the meantime, it’s nice to …

  Nice to?

  I was going to say, it’s nice to have the place to myself. But I would have been lying.

  Would you have?

  I hate to be alone. I can’t bear it, really.

  She said it lightly, but something in her tone had changed. A certain thoughtfulness settled over her.

  We walked on in silence, out of the violet shadows and into the drunken April sunlight, descending. The antique city spread out before us, its black domes and steeples and great trees still dead with winter, the river a slow unwinding of light, and beyond it the bay, stretched out shining like a foil sheet. Flossie’s pretty blue heels clicked against the cobblestones in a pleasant way and she chattered on as we wound our way down toward the commercial district. The houses began to give way to shops, and then the automobiles came steadily and the sidewalks buzzed with bundled housewives, toting their woollened young, gathering foodstuffs with an irritable, hungry, distracted air, as if just emerged from hibernation; scrubbed businessmen tapping spoons against coffee cups in café windows or shouldering past us, frowning importantly, overcoats thrown across their arms as if the cold could have nothing to do with them. Everywhere was movement, an air of things happening, important or ordinary. Only the rhinestoned salesgirls waited motionless in shop doorways, glittering sleepily, already checking the clocks.

  We wove our way in and out of shops, and every one held something of interest to Flossie. She astonished me with her vigour and enthusiasm. Packages accumulated in her hands as if by magic, and she displayed them all to me as if they were marvels, those charming unnecessaries: violet pastilles in a pretty little pewter tin; a hair comb inlaid with tortoiseshell; a pink glass jar of rose hand cream. In a jeweller’s, she ran ropes of pearls through her fingers and hovered for what seemed an hour over a velvet tray of cocktail rings and held up at least a dozen pairs of earrings, turning her head to and fro in the rosy light of a loo
king glass, finally settling on filigreed silver drops with lemony stones that matched the colour of her hair. I thought of the plain silver cross Jane used to wear always around her neck, the way it had sometimes throbbed with the steady rhythm of her pulse as she slept. I wondered if she wore it still.

  Flossie turned from the cash register with a smile.

  Shall we? she said.

  I held open the door of the jeweller’s, noting that she was wearing her new earrings, glinting with sunlight as she stepped outside. These were no paste reproductions. I speculated at their cost. Certainly, she seemed to have no qualms about spending. Her family was obviously well-to-do. Footing the bills, as it were. Or someone was.

  It occurred to me then that Providence was an odd place for an actress. I asked her about it.

  You mean why am I not in Los Angeles or New York or somewhere?

  One would think even Bridgeport. But Providence?

  She laughed, then fell silent awhile; musing, it seemed. We walked slower, negotiating passersby and the puddles on the cobblestones, and bumping pleasantly against one another. Flossie glanced discreetly at her reflection now and again in the windowglass and I recalled Jane remarking once upon this being the pastime of certain kinds of narcissistic women, as if, she said, they could not be parted from their own precious image for even a moment. As if they might lose themselves. Jane thought herself above mirrors, and it occurred to me to wonder only then, in hindsight, what she feared she might lose there.

  I found this habit of Flossie’s charming.

  Finally she said, It wasn’t my career which brought me here, I’m afraid.

  I see.

  We strolled on beneath the bare elms and shop awnings in silence. I hadn’t intended to pursue it, but my curiosity got the better of me.

  Might I ask? I ventured.

  Where he is now? she said quickly, as if she’d been waiting for me to ask. Oh, still here. In Providence, I mean. With someone else. In our bed.

  So you were married, then.

  She gave me a funny look.

  I see, I said.

  You needn’t be so shocked, she teased.

  I’m hardly a prude in such matters. Though I confess it hadn’t occurred to me.

  So, anyway, she said, that’s why I needed the sublet in such an awful hurry. And Helen, I’d heard she was living here, and when I telephoned she’d sounded only too eager for a roommate, and so I handed him my walking papers. I swear my teacup hadn’t even cooled and he had her all moved in. Well. So what. He wasn’t worth it.

  But, I observed, you’re still here.

  She shrugged her silvery fur. For now. I don’t plan to stay. Just until I get my sea legs again. Do you know what I mean?

  I think so.

  She eyed me from beneath the velvet brim of her hat.

  What about you, Arthor P. Crandle? Got a gal? She grinned up at me, teasingly, and her smile faded. She brushed my sleeve. I’m sorry, that was too forward of me. I forget not everyone wants to hang out their laundry. Nor look at anyone else’s.

  She dropped her hand.

  It’s the Midwest in me, you know, she added after a time. I don’t mean to be rude. We’re very direct. It’s considered good manners there to just come out and say a thing. Otherwise you’ll be thought sneaky, suspicious. I forget you New Englanders are …

  Sneaky and suspicious?

  Reserved.

  That, too.

  There is something to be said for discretion, I’m sure.

  There is something to be said for all things, given one’s perspective.

  Yes, she said, and considered. Except deceit.

  I glanced down at her.

  Even that, I offered cautiously, can be excused, or at least accounted for. In certain circumstances. Can it not?

  Not by my code.

  The code of the Midwest?

  The code of Flossie Kush.

  It was my opportunity to come clean about it all. I knew very well it was then or never.

  Sounds like a picture, I said instead.

  Doesn’t it. There you go. I am at least the star of my own life. As are we all, I suppose.

  No, indeed.

  No?

  I think we are only the minor characters. Others take the best roles. The leads.

  That’s a sad thought.

  You’re right. It is. Let’s talk no more of it. It’s too cold for introspection and melancholy.

  But I seemed to have genuinely saddened her, and I regretted my silly banter. I had never been good at what people call “small talk” and I feared I had spoiled the morning.

  But I had not to worry long, for Flossie stopped abruptly in front of a shop window beneath a green and white striped awning.

  Oh, look. Do let’s go inside. My treat.

  I peered through the glass. White tiled floors and little round marble tables and wrought iron chairs with backs like twisted hearts.

  It’s an ice cream parlor.

  Oh, please, I’m almost frozen to death.

  And so you’d like ice cream?

  It’ll make us feel warm. Like when you jump into a lake on a cool day. It’s so much more pleasant than on a hot. The shock is not so great.

  I don’t swim.

  You’ve never swum in a lake?

  I’ve never swum anywhere.

  Then you must at least have ice cream, she said firmly. To make up for the loss.

  And, taking me by my overcoat sleeve, she pulled me inside, saying, We’ll agree to talk only of ice cream. Nothing of our personal lives. And nothing serious. It’s too cold for talk of serious things.

  I agreed that it was.

  Do you know, she said, unwinding the silver fur from around her neck as the door tinkled shut behind us, they say in India everyone drinks only tea? Because of the heat. She smiled up at me. Doesn’t that make good sense?

  I agreed that it did.

  The shop was nearly empty. I placed our orders at the counter while Flossie selected a table at the very rear of the room and sat with her back to the wall, settling her handbag neatly upon her knees.

  Perhaps they have a table in the ladies’ room, I suggested, joining her.

  She smiled up at me.

  I always like to sit in the very back. Of restaurants, or streetcars, or theaters, or wherever. Do you want to know why?

  Why?

  Because I can never stand the feeling of someone’s gaze on the back of my neck. It makes my skin crawl and I break out in gooseflesh, as if someone’s just walked on my grave. I like to know always what’s behind me. They say you can tell a lot about a person by where they sit in a room. Where do you sit, Arthor?

  Wherever there is space.

  I’m sure that’s true. I bet that says something about you, too.

  No doubt it does.

  Do you want to pretend something?

  I looked at her doubtfully.

  You know, pretend we’re visiting somewhere.

  We are visiting somewhere.

  I mean somewhere exotic. Like India. Or Paris. Or, I don’t know, Singapore.

  Not likely.

  I spoke more loudly than I’d intended. A woman in a ghastly hat three tables from us turned and gave us a goggle-eyed look over her shoulder, then stood and primly changed her seat. Flossie took no notice.

  Why not? she said. It would be fun.

  I gave a half-hearted shrug. I had never cared for such games. There seemed always a hidden motive in them.

  Flossie smiled and leaned toward me across the table.

  Arthor. Don’t you ever have any fun?

  Not in a long while, I said truthfully.

  She gave me a serious, searching look.

  I think that’s sad, she said, unhappily. Oh, here’s our ice creams.

  Rounding the corner of the library, Flossie was chattering out some amusing little story, some nonsense about a two-headed calf named Calvin back in Indiana. I began to laugh and, happening to look up, stopped cold.

/>   There, in the window of Sixty-Six, stood a man.

  But not on the second floor where my employer’s study would be. He stood in the window of my own attic room.

  What is it? Flossie said, turning back to me.

  Nothing, I said quickly. Thank you, Flossie, for the lovely morning.

  Arthor?

  But I was already running ahead, down the lane, throwing open the door to the house and clattering up past the cold landing. I opened the apartment door and stepped inside and stood very still in the listening gloom of the front hall.

  Nothing stirred.

  The rooms felt heavy, muffled. Before me the hall stretched dimly down toward my employer’s closed study door. I listened and then I heard, very clearly, the sound of footsteps passing slowly over my head. My eyes tracked across the ceiling.

  I crossed to the foot of the attic stairs and peered up. I could see nothing, no movement, just the twist of the stairwell walls in shadow. After a moment I went silently up, my left hand curled into a fist. I paused at my door, then reached out in a smooth gesture and flung it open.

  It was empty.

  I stood in the doorway a moment, blinking, then walked slowly in, pacing the perimeter, peering behind boxes, scraping back the bed from the wall. Of course there was no one. At last, with nothing else for it, I stood at the window and stared out over the rooftops, my heart hammering in my ears. I could not think what had just happened. Or how. I pressed my palms against the glass, tried to pry the windows up or out; they were, of course, sealed shut.

  On impulse, I pushed all the cardboard boxes into a corner and moved my bed back against the far wall, then shifted my desk so that it faced, not the window and the dormered building, but the room and the doorway.

  When I had finished, I stood panting, wondering what Flossie would have thought to see me behaving like a madman. I had abandoned her in the street. I looked out, as if she might still be there, waiting, where I had left her. Of course, she was not. What she must think. A madman, indeed.

  But I had seen him there in the window. Had heard those footsteps.

  And yet more.

  When I crossed the room and shut the door, the hair stood on end all up the back of my neck. Though it was light outside, the shadows hung heavily in the corners. I felt a thickness in my throat, as if I could not swallow: that presence I had felt always on the landing and the second floor, it had followed me inside.