Childgrave

by Ken Greenhall

  At quarter to ten the next morning, I began peeking out the window into the street. At two minutes after ten, Sara Coleridge turned the corner. She was walking quickly, and I took that as a sign that she was eager to see me. Of course, it also could have meant that she wanted either to see her portraits or to get out of the light spring rain that had begun to fall.

  I had made coffee and had left it warming in the living room next to two cups (carefully chosen to match) and the portraits of Sara. We sat down and I poured the coffee while Sara looked through the portraits. There were no tears this time—a development I didn’t welcome, because it meant that there would be no occasion for a consoling embrace. Sara divided the prints into two equal stacks. She picked up one stack and said, “I’d like to have these, if I may.” The portraits were on their way into her handbag before I could say anything. Sara sipped her coffee absentmindedly, and I waited for her to tell me what she thought of the portraits.

  “This is good coffee,” she said.

  “Harry Bordeaux bought it—my agent. He likes good food. He’d also like me to exhibit your portraits. Do you have any objection?”

  “No. But I suppose my agent might.”

  “Lee Ferris? She and Harry are thinking of getting married. They can split his commission.”

  Sara looked interested. “Someone is in love with Lee Ferris?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Yes. Quite a bit.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s not the type.”

  “I didn’t know there was a type.”

  “Yes. I think there is.”

  “What is the type?”

  “I’m the type.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. But I wasn’t pleased to hear it. It seemed to mean that I had competitors. And it didn’t sound exactly modest, although I decided not to say so. But I didn’t have to, because Sara said, “That might sound immodest, but I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that people do fall in love with me—often enough so that I’ve had to think about why they do it.”

  I began to get the feeling I was being warned off. “So why do they do it?”

  “Some people like mysteries. They think I have a mysterious personality. But they’re wrong. I don’t have any personality at all. Hadn’t you noticed that?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then tell me what kind of personality I have.”

  I hesitated.

  “You see?” Sara said.

  “I don’t know you well, that’s all.”

  “There’s nothing to know, Jonathan. If I were to continue to see you, I would begin to take on your qualities. I’m a chameleon that way. When I’m with Lee Ferris, I turn aggressive and my sentences get long. There’s really nothing much to me—certainly nothing mysterious.”

  “Your portraits are a little mysterious.”

  “That has nothing to do with my personality.”

  “What does it have to do with, Sara?”

  Sara weighed a few words. Then she made the worst possible announcement: “I think I’d better go now.”

  A little too vehemently, I said, “But you can’t do that.” Sara raised her eyebrows slightly. “All right,” I continued, “you can do that. But it would be irresponsible.”

  “Do I have a responsibility to you?”

  “Not to me, but to Joanne. You’ve given her your hallucinations or whatever they are. I’ve got photographic evidence of it.”

  “That won’t last. I’ll go away and everything will return to normal.”

  I drank a little cold coffee. Sara put her cold, wet shoes on. We stood up and walked to the door.

  Despair and anger were competing for my attention, and I was wondering which one would win the battle. Sara looked as if she had only pity to contend with. She said, “I’ve caused a disturbance in your life. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s one of the better disturbances I’ve come across. But I’d like to know at least one thing. I saw you talking to Joanne when you left yesterday. Will you tell me what you talked about?”

  “She did most of the talking. She was telling me that her toads died.”

  “Her toads died? She didn’t tell me that.”

  “She was afraid you’d think it was her fault.”

  “She was talking about death yesterday. I guess it was the toads that put it in her mind.”

  “And you thought maybe I had put it in her mind?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What makes you think I would do something like that?”

  “I don’t know. You’re an unusual person.”

  “A mysterious person, you mean.”

  “Yes. I love you.”

  Sara smiled. “Good-bye, Jonathan.” She tried to open the door but couldn’t deal with the three locks that adorned it. She stood aside, apparently expecting me to help her. I held my ground and tried to think of something to say that might keep her from leaving. I didn’t have much luck. “Were you born in this country?” I asked.

  Sara gave me an unkind glance. She moved back to the door and began to turn various knobs and to pull on the door handle.

  Sara continued to struggle with the locks. What she needed to know was that the top and bottom bolts had to be turned to the right, and the middle one to the left. I sidled over to see how angry she was. She had begun to smile again. “I wasn’t born in Manhattan, if that’s what you mean. Most Americans think of Manhattan as a foreign country, and I suppose it shows.” She stood aside again. “Open the door, please. And don’t expect me to answer any more questions.” The smile was gone, but she still didn’t look angry.

  I took a chance: “Are you romantically involved with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t like men?”

  “I don’t like silly men—or women.”

  “I’m a serious person.”

  “You told me that once, but I haven’t any evidence of it.”

  “Hold still,” I said. I put my head close to Sara’s interesting ear and began to hum the melody of Bach’s last composition.

  Sara drew away. “You’re not musical and you’re not amusing, Jonathan.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be amusing. Wasn’t Bach a serious person?”

  “He was more than that. He was devout.”

  Then something occurred to me for the first time: Sara was a religious person. That would account for the ascetic undercurrent in her personality—or, as she would have it, her nonpersonality. It was natural that I would have trouble recognizing devoutness, because I had never before known anyone who could convince me that they had that quality. I reached over and unbolted the locks. Sara pulled the door open and went out without saying anything.

  I didn’t bother to close the door, and I didn’t bother to find a chair. I sat down cross-legged on the floor. My eyes began to sting, so I closed them. I felt like some kind of Eastern holy man who had discovered the secret of life only to have it slip his mind. I thought I might as well have a mantra. I began a rhythmic chant of “Damn . . . damn . . . damn . . .”

  After a few moments, I thought I heard a woman’s voice tentatively speak my name. I stopped muttering and opened my eyes. Sara was standing in the doorway. “I forgot my raincoat,” she said.

  It seemed best not to try to explain my activities. I devoted myself to some serious blushing instead. Sara walked over to me and put her hand on my head. I responded by pressing my cheek against her thigh. Instead of drawing away as I expected her to, Sara held my head tightly to her body. “Do I really mean that much to you?” she asked. Her voice was distant, and I thought I could feel its faint vibrations in the warm flesh that lay beneath her thin wool skirt. I put my arms around her legs and hugged. In the process, I caught her in
back of her knees and unintentionally threw her off balance. She made a little squeak of distress and then, not too gracefully, joined me on the floor. I was glad to see that she was smiling as she scuttled about on her hands and knees and settled into something resembling the lotus position and faced me across the rug.

  “You’re not hurt?” I asked her.

  “No. But you are. There’s blood at the left corner of your mouth.” Now that she mentioned it, I realized that the left side of my face was a little painful. Sara’s knee had probably hit me there when she fell. She leaned forward and touched the corner of my mouth with her finger. Then she held the finger up so that I could see that a bead of blood clung to it. I reached toward the back pocket of my trousers to get my handkerchief. But then Sara did something that stopped my hand in midair. She touched her fingertip to her tongue and tasted the blood. I had no idea how to react. Was she trying to be amusing, or disgusting, or—in an unsettling way—erotic? Since she was staring distractedly over my shoulder, I supposed it was none of those things. Whatever her little gesture meant, it was not for my benefit.

  I got out my handkerchief and said, “A little vampirism in the family?”

  Sara stopped looking at the wall and started looking at me; first at my eyes and then at my mouth. She smiled and said, “It’s nothing that simple.” Then she crawled forward, extended her tongue slightly, ran it up my chin, and gently kissed the corner of my mouth. I put my hands around her upper arms, but she moved backward and pulled out of my grip. I was excited and confused and a little embarrassed. I was less certain than ever of what kind of person Sara might be, but I was as determined as ever to find out more about her.

  “Why can’t we just have dinner together once in a while?” I asked.

  “If we could do that, I wouldn’t have any objection at all. But you’re looking for more than a dinner companion, Jonathan. You want someone who has a history you can become part of and who can be a mother to Joanne. I won’t give you those things.”

  “I won’t ask for those things. We’ll just have dinner.”

  “We would have to talk. Unfortunately, people always have to talk.”

  “We’ll talk about music; about why G sharp and A flat aren’t the same note. You can tell me about the harp.”

  Sara looked at me skeptically, but I thought she might be relenting a little. I continued to press whatever advantage I might have gained. I was holding my handkerchief against the side of my mouth, and though I lost a little in enunciation, I picked up quite a bit in poignancy. “I could do some portraits of you and Joanne together.”

  That suggestion seemed neither to gain me any points nor lose me any. I decided that the next plea would be the last. There had to be something that she would find irresistible. It was obvious that she had been able to resist what she had seen and heard of me so far. So, if Sara was not interested in my mind or my body, what was left to tempt her with? Should I offer to sell her my soul?

  With an agility that I could never match, Sara uncrossed her legs and moved into a squatting position that could only signal the approach of another good-bye. I had to play my last card.

  “You could tell me about God,” I said.

  The card turned out to be a high one. Sara gave me a nice warm steady stare. “Beware of people who want to tell you about God,” she said. “The best way to find out about God is to listen to God.”

  It would have been helpful if someone had given my late wife that warning. “You’re warning me to beware of you?” I asked.

  “You should be careful of all strangers, Jonathan.”

  “I thought that might be your policy.”

  “But I’m not going to tell you about God.”

  I tried to look disappointed, but I didn’t get the feeling I was being successful. I thought I’d better resort to honesty. “Actually,” I said, “I wasn’t so eager to hear about God.”

  “I know. But it was clever of you to think of Him. I’ll have dinner with you.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Whenever I’m free.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  I felt like dancing—an impulse I had had maybe twice before in my life. I scrambled to my knees and, with no motive but joy, put my arms around Sara. In the process, I pulled her forward so that she was also on her knees. Sara didn’t seem to be having any uncontrollable impulses. She kept her arms in front of her, with her hands on her thighs. For a few seconds, she was patient with me, and maybe even compliant. But then she put her hands on my arms and slightly levered herself away from me. I stood and took Sara’s hands and helped her up. Her hands, like mine, were strong, warm, and slightly damp. But, unlike mine, hers were limber—which she proved by maneuvering them quickly out of my grasp.

  “Where would you like to eat?”

  “That doesn’t matter. That is, the food doesn’t matter. Somewhere quiet, though.”

  “I only know of one quiet restaurant. It’s quiet because the food is bad and expensive.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Will I have to do all the talking?”

  “I can talk.”

  “But you won’t talk about your personal history, or marriage, or God.”

  “There are other things.”

  “G sharp and A flat?”

  “We’ll do better than that, Jonathan. We’ll do all right.”

  We arranged to meet at her apartment. I got Sara’s raincoat—a garment I was indebted to—and went with her down to the street entrance. The rain had stopped. As we stood saying our farewell Sara moved just imperceptibly in my direction. I took the movement to be an invitation, so I kissed her cheek. It was a timid effort, but enough contact was involved to give me a twinge that reminded me I had had a little accident with my mouth. I had left a little trace of that reminder on Sara’s cheek. “You’ve got blood on your face,” I said.

  Sara Coleridge smiled and walked away.

  Chapter 7

  Sara lived in a big old apartment building that had been designed—appropriately enough—to accommodate artists and musicians. Essentially, that meant that it had large rooms and thick walls—two qualities that construction companies hadn’t been bothering much with in Manhattan since the late thirties, which is when Sara’s apartment house had most likely been built. I was surprised for a couple of reasons when I saw the building. First, I wondered how Sara could afford to live in such a place; and second, I didn’t expect that the landlord would let professional musicians or painters stay there, no matter how large their income. Such places were usually occupied by people who sold art rather than by those who made it.

  I had another surprise when the doorman turned out to be polite and cheerful. He announced me on the intercom and sent me up to apartment 3-C. On the way up, I speculated on how Sara’s place would be decorated. I thought Middle-Period Spartan would be most likely. I arrived at 3-C and found that its door was fitted with a brass knocker in the shape of what seemed to be an infant’s head. I knocked. When the door opened I decided that I must have got the apartment number wrong, because standing in the doorway was a tall young woman of decidedly Oriental heritage.

  She looked inquisitively at me and said, “Jonathan?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Pamela Kim, Sara’s roommate. Come in.”

  The surprises continued. For one thing, I’m unsophisticated enough to receive a little shock when I meet someone with Oriental features who sounds as though she had been born in Ohio. But even if there had been nothing distinctive about Pamela, I would have been startled just to find that Sara had a roommate. My apparently inaccurate lover’s instinct had told me that Sara was a solitary person. I was relieved to find I had been wrong.

  I was also wrong about the matter of apartment decor. Pamela escorted me through a sh
ort hallway that was decorated with Oriental scroll paintings. Most of them were atmospheric landscapes in delicate colors, but their restrained effect was offset by the fact that there were dozens of them. The hallway led into an enormous room that looked something like an exhibition area at a textile designers’ convention. Floral-patterned draperies were hung on all four walls, making it impossible to tell where the windows might be. The room contained six chairs and two sofas, all upholstered in contrasting floral fabrics. Hanging from the high ceiling was a sort of segmented dragon kite, which was not made of paper but of intricately printed fabric. My eyes had a lot of difficulty deciding where to settle until they spotted, in a corner of the room, a low platform on which rested a cello, a straight-backed wooden chair, and a music stand.

  As Pamela led me through the room I wondered how Sara could live there amid such clashing colors and shapes, and still retain her calm manner. After only a minute or so, I was already beginning to twitch a bit. And Pamela, although she wasn’t very talkative, was moving a little more quickly than most people do. As we entered the room, she had picked up a lighted cigarette from an ashtray and was puffing eagerly on it. We went to a door at the far side of the room, and Pamela knocked on it and called out, a little more loudly than seemed necessary, “Jonathan’s here, Sara.” Then Pamela turned quickly and put her hand on my arm. “Nice to meet you,” she said. Her gaze still seemed frankly inquisitive, and although there didn’t seem to be any hostility involved, she didn’t exactly overwhelm me with friendliness. But before I had time to speculate any further about Miss Kim, the door opened, and Sara invited me into another world—one that I understood much better. Sara’s part of the apartment was unadorned. Nothing at all hung on the white walls, and the room was dominated by an enormous golden harp. After a moment I became aware of another, smaller, harp, together with a sofa and two chairs upholstered in natural linen. Middle-Period Spartan style, I would have said.