The Spirit Wood

by Robert Masello

  Thirty-five

  WHEN LEAH WENT into the bathroom, he pulled the sheet up over him again and smoothed it across his chest. Her room reminded him, in one way, of Nikos's cottage: above both windows and hanging from hooks in the ceiling were perhaps a dozen potted plants, their leaves and vines trailing down so low that when he was standing, they became tangled in his hair. The furnishings were few and simple: a white wicker chair and matching headboard, a round woven rug in the center of the floor, on the wall a small framed print of Botticelli's Birth of Venus. He heard the faucet running.

  “What are you doing?”

  The tap was turned off; a moment later, she came out carrying a red plastic watering can. Except for a band of silver wound around her upper arm, she was naked.

  “Got to water these,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to reach the highest plant. Peter watched as she tended to one after the other, turning the pots so that all of the leaves were exposed to the sunlight streaming through the open windows, plucking away any dead leaves and cupping them in her palm. The silver armband glinted in the light.

  “You've got a green thumb,” Peter said.

  Leah, puzzled, looked at her hand. Peter laughed.

  “It just means that you're good with plants, that they grow for you.”

  “Oh.” She finished with the watering and set the can down on the windowsill. “But look at you,” she said, smiling and coming to the bed. “What's this?” and she tugged playfully at the raised sheet. Peter held it down. “Do you still hurt?” she asked, solicitously.

  “Not as much, when I'm with you,” he said. And it was true; the prickling in his ears, the ache in his bones, the sharper pain he had developed at the base of his spine, which made it so difficult to sit without a cushion, were alleviated by Leah's touch and company. She was the only one who knew, who had been allowed to see, the extent of what was happening to him.

  Leah let the sheet stay where it was. Peter gently stroked her side. He seldom had an opportunity to see her like this, naked and in sunlight, and he marveled again at the perfection of her body. The small but perfectly contoured breasts, firmly uplifted; the long, slender legs; the flawlessly smooth olive skin. That more than anything was what amazed him about her—the flawlessness of her. There wasn't a blemish or birthmark anywhere on her body, not a single tiny cut or mole or vaccination spot. It was uncanny, he thought, as if she'd been air-brushed all over.

  “Would you like me to rub you?” she asked. “On your back?”

  “Do you want to?” Much as he enjoyed it, he was still shy about exposing himself, even to Leah.

  “Of course I do. Roll over.”

  Peter turned, awkwardly, onto his side, kissed Leah's knee—his mind flashed to Meg's knee, still scarred from the accident, and he had to force himself to blot it out—then onto his stomach. He pushed the pillow away and stretched out his arms, as much as he was now able, on the bed. He felt the mattress give as Leah straddled him; he closed his eyes and breathed in her verdant scent.

  Her fingers worked at the nape of his neck, kneading the flesh. Then they moved to his shoulders and back, drawing down the sheet as she went. Peter could feel the curly hairs that had sprouted on his shoulder blades tickled by the light breeze from the window. He remembered, as a boy, seeing men at the beach with hair on their backs. Maybe this was just something that happened to men as they got older; maybe his was just an unusually sudden case of it. Maybe it would even, somehow, recede.

  Leah sat back for a moment, and Peter winced; she'd landed on that tender spot, the size of a walnut, just above his buttocks. He squirmed under her, and she quickly rose up again.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “I forgot.” She bent forward, her long black braid dropping down in front of his eyes, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. When she tried to lean back again, he caught hold of her braid and kept her there.

  “No more massage?” she said, her breath warm on his face.

  “Why don't you untie this?”

  “I never do that.”

  “You did that night we made love in the bay.”

  “No,” she said matter-of-factly, “I didn't.”

  Even if she'd forgotten, he hadn't. The swirling veil of long black hair, sweeping around his neck and shoulders, obscuring everything, even the moonlight.

  “My mistake,” he said. “It must have been someone else.”

  “It was.”

  He rolled back onto his side, and Leah slipped off him. Then she lay down beside him, with her braid coiled like a question mark across the white pillow.

  “That was Demetria.”

  “Demetria?” he said.

  “Yes. In the water.”

  She had to be kidding, though she didn't look it. Then he remembered something. “You mean the girl who used to work here before you came?” Peter said. “The potter?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's impossible,” he said, dismissively. “We were the only ones out there.” He ran one hand lightly over her breasts, feeling the nipples stiffen. He knew she liked that. “And why would this Demetria have been joining in, anyway?”

  “Because we share.”

  “Me?” Peter said with a laugh. “You share me?”

  It was clear he didn't believe her.

  “Where is this Demetria now? Surely she can't spend all her time in the cove—she'd get terminally waterlogged.”

  “Sometimes she comes out,” Leah replied, perfectly seriously. “Sometimes she goes back to the boathouse.”

  “Meg's boathouse?”

  “I don't think she likes it,” Leah confided, “someone else being there.”

  Peter drew himself up onto one elbow.

  “She thinks of it as her place.”

  Peter was growing exasperated. Whatever all this gibberish was about, he wasn't enjoying it. And the faint note of warning that had crept into Leah's voice alarmed him. “I guess that's too bad,” he said. “She shouldn't have gotten herself fired, then.” He was growing aroused too. He bent his head to her breast, taking the nipple between his teeth. Leah's fingers slipped into his hair. He didn't want to hear any more about his grandfather's household help; that wasn't what he needed right now. His hands coursed down her body; her skin was as smooth and cool as polished stone. Flawless, he thought again. Flawless.

  “Your wife is making a new statue.” Her fingers had found one of his ears; she was gently tracing its furry, leaflike shape.

  Peter murmured into her fragrant skin.

  “For the auction, I think.”

  Funny, Peter thought, that Meg had told Leah and not him.

  “What of?” he asked. He slid one hand down between her thighs. She parted her legs.

  “Byron's dog.”

  His ears involuntarily twitched; Leah laughed. Dodger? Why would Meg be doing something as grim as that? Why couldn't she just forget about it now? And who would want a sculpture of a golden retriever, anyway?

  “When did Meg tell you this?”

  “She didn't.”

  He hesitated. “Are you saying Demetria did?”

  “I'm not saying,” she replied mischievously. “I just thought I would tell you.”

  “Then you've been poking around in there again. You have, haven't you?” he said, suddenly tickling her ribs. Leah squealed, and pressed herself against him. “Come on, admit it.” She shook her head. Her legs wrapped themselves around his. He took hold of her hips. “Somebody's been snooping around,” he teased, and he felt himself growing erect. Leah must have, too. She rubbed herself against him, then reached down and stroked his bristly, engorged penis. Hard, it jutted straight up now, almost flat against his abdomen. Not the way it used to. Harder than it had ever been in the past. But Leah had never seemed surprised by it, no more than by his ears.

  “I haven't snooped.” She reached lower, cupped his swollen balls as, earlier, she'd cupped the fallen leaves. Peter groaned with pleasure at the coolness of her touch.

  “I haven't,”
she whispered, so close her words could be felt on his lips. “Believe me?”

  “I believe you,” he said, kissing her. Anything she wanted. This was all that he wanted now. As if she'd read his mind, she plunged her tongue deep into his mouth. Withdrew it. Laughed. “I think you're ready,” she said, glancing down. “I think you will want the usual, yes?”

  She slip upwards, as gracefully as if she were swimming, and took hold of the wicker headboard with both hands. Her knees spread, her back arched, she looked at Peter over one shoulder. He knelt behind her. The silver armband shone like a cresting wave. He fitted himself into her. She dropped her head, the black braid sliding slowly off her shoulder. He thrust forward; the wicker creaked. He pulled her backwards, then forwards, then back. The room was filled with the odor of flowers, the aroma that Leah always bore, mingled, and finally swamped, overpowered, by the thick, musky scent of a rutting animal.

  Thirty-six

  BYRON, LET ME call you back. You shouldn't always have to pay for this.”

  “And what do you think Peter would say if he got a gander at your phone bill and wondered why I never asked to talk to him? Let it go, Meg—I don't mind. You know I don't. This afternoon I even picked up a private tutoring job that'll bring in the mighty sum of fifteen dollars a week.”

  “That still won't pay for the calls.”

  “I'll find another tutoree. Anyway, let's not spend any more time arguing about this. You think I'm made of money or something?”

  Meg laughed.

  “Where is Peter, by the way?”

  “Guess,” Meg replied. “He's over at the Simons, loading up the car with stuff for the auction.”

  “I thought Anita and her pals were going to do all the work.”

  “So did I. But not the manual labor, apparently. They have covered the town with leaflets decorated with little Greek designs and a dancing satyr—I'll send you one for your wall—announcing the auction and the good cause for which it's being held. They're even charging twelve dollars a head just to get in.”

  “And they think people will shell out?”

  “A lot already have. They've been selling tickets out of Lazaroff's shop all this week.”

  “At least it'll be over soon; forty-eight hours from now you can forget the whole thing . . . and leave Arcadia if you want to.”

  “Leave if I can,” Meg corrected. “I already want to.”

  “Peter's mother still determined to stick it out? I give her credit—this has all been a nightmare for her, too.”

  “So far she is. It's nice, of course, to have some human company around here—and I am glad she stayed—but it does give me one more thing to worry about all the time.”

  “Her heart, you mean?”

  “I think the place is really starting to get to her,” Meg confided. “She seems nervous, jumpy. She's not looking too great. Last night she nearly ran out of the room when Peter came down to dinner.”

  “Any particular—or new—reason?” Byron asked.

  Meg paused. “He's started wearing a hat lately. A white sailor cap with the brim pulled down around the sides, sort of like that guy on ‘Gilligan's Island.’ “

  “Sounds ridiculous,” Byron said, “but not particularly scary.”

  “Don't ask me why, but it scared Mrs. Constantine. That, and the way he was walking. He does kind of creep along now—it's hard to describe. And he sits—this is a new one—on a foam rubber pillow.”

  “You're kidding. Why would he do that?”

  “I asked him if he was having a problem,” Meg said, “and I offered to pick up some suppositories in town if he needed them, but he just glared at me and said he was more comfortable sitting that way. After that, I just let it drop.”

  “So, in other words, he's still refusing to get any help, see a doctor, anything like that?”

  “Categorically. Not that I ever have much of an opportunity to talk to him. If you thought he was reclusive before, you should see him now—or not see him, to be more precise. He's the Phantom of the Opera, skulking around, hiding out in his study, hanging out at the Caswells.”

  “What about at night, when you're getting ready for bed?”

  Meg was quiet for a moment. “I go to bed by myself now, By. If he comes in at all, it's an hour after I've turned out the light, and he sleeps on a chaise on the balcony, in his shirt and pants, under a sheet. With his hat on.”

  “Every night?”

  “Every night.”

  Outside, Byron could hear a mother calling her children to come home. It was just getting dark. In Passet Bay, it already would be. “Then maybe he wouldn't notice if you weren't there either,” Byron said. He could picture Meg on the other end of the line, smiling ruefully, tucking several stray hairs behind one ear. “Maybe he'd be relieved—he could drag the whole bed out onto the balcony that way.”

  “It wouldn't fit.”

  “Let him worry about that. If he can cart that auction junk around, he can move a bed.”

  “How's yours?” Meg asked. “Did you get it fixed?” Byron's mattress had been in dire need of support.

  “Cumberland's building a new gym. I swiped a couple of two by fours from the building site.”

  “That's good.” There was a long pause. “Well, I don't want to run your bill up anymore, By . . . I'll call you the next time.”

  “Okay,” Byron said. “But just remember—anytime you want to come out to see the brand-new Cumberland University Athletic Center, you're very welcome.”

  “Thanks,” Meg said. “I know.”

  When they hung up, the mother was still calling. Leaning out his window, Byron could see her—in an apron, on a whitewashed front porch. For a moment, he felt so unutterably alone that he wished he could answer her call himself.

  Thirty-seven

  THE OLD MAN had been sitting on the back deck of the house in a canvas director's chair, smoking a cigar in the dark. Stan Simon had ushered Peter as far as the lighted threshold of the den, then stopped. Peter had recognized the man immediately.

  “You're my grandfather's friend,” he'd said, moving slowly toward him. The deck was cluttered with items for the auction: a bicycle, boxes of books, a set of golf clubs. The old man had remained seated, observing him. “You're Kesseogolou. Aren't you?”

  With one finger, the old man had touched the brim of his hat, as if to acknowledge it. He watched as Peter lowered himself carefully into the chair on the opposite side of the table. Then tapped the end of his cigar over a metallic blue ashtray.

  “I do not need to ask who you are,” he'd finally replied in a very precise but nonetheless foreign accent. He wore a thick gray moustache that drooped down around his mouth. “You remind me very much of Alexander. Yes, I am Gregory Kesseogolou.” He extended one hand and shook Peter's from above, much as Nikos did. “Alexander would have been very pleased.”

  With what, Peter wondered. His body had never been so contorted; he'd never looked worse. “What are you doing here in Passet Bay?”

  “The lawyer, Kennedy, did not tell you? I came back to receive the things Alexander so kindly left to me in his will. I did not want to risk them being shipped to me in Heraea. My countrymen are not always so honest as they should be, no?” He winked broadly and drew on his cigar. “I am staying with your friends, the Caswells.”

  “For how long?” Peter could still hardly believe he was seeing this man—and here, on this deck, just as he'd appeared in the Caswells’ home movie. He half-expected his grandfather to show up next.

  “Not long. I might have simply taken my legacy from Mr. Kennedy in New York—he had kept everything, I'm pleased to say, in very fine condition—and returned home, had I not heard about this auction. That and, I must admit, a desire to meet you, the inheritor of Arcadia, persuaded me to stay on a little.”

  “How did you hear about the auction?” From Jack Caswell, no doubt. He didn't wait to be told. “And you're staying for it?”

  “I have no pressing business elsewhere
. I thought it would be pleasant to visit Arcadia again.” He gave Peter a long, appraising look. “I'm told your mother is there now. Has she mentioned me to you? No?” He shrugged. “Perhaps she has forgotten. It was such a long time ago. Alex and I had some business together.”

  “Nikos told me something about it.”

  At the mention of Nikos, Kesseogolou smiled, his moustache lifting at the corners of his mouth. “This will be a surprise for old Niko,” he said. “And Angelos and Demetria, too.”

  Demetria again. “She's not there anymore,” Peter said. “She was fired by my grandfather before I came. There's a new girl, Leah—Nikos's daughter.”

  For a second, Kesseogolou was perfectly still. Then he erupted into laughter, slapping the table. “Yes, of course, I'd forgotten about all that,” he said. “Deme- tria was very naughty. She killed the goose that laid the golden egg.” He laughed again, phlegm rattling in his throat, and subsided in his chair once more. “And Nikos, you say, has another daughter around the place now?” This all seemed highly amusing to him. It reminded Peter of Angelos giggling in the caretaker's cottage that rainy afternoon. “Leah,” he said, squinting his eyes, as if trying to remember her. “Yes, that does sound familiar. Good swimmer?” he added, with a sly smile.

  Odd he should remember, or guess, that. “Yes, in fact she is.”

  Kesseogolou nodded; blew out a cloud of smoke. “Given you any lessons yet?”

  Peter's ears, concealed beneath the turned-down brim of his cap, twitched. He said nothing.

  “After what happened to your father, I would hope she has.”

  Peter squirmed in his chair; there was a terrible ache in the base of his spine. “What about my father?” he said. “What's swimming got to do with my father?"

  Kesseogolou looked up at him imperturbably, considering how much, or exactly what, he wished to say. His eyes lingered conspicuously on the sailor cap, the curly chest hair escaping from the top of Peter's buttoned, long-sleeved shirt, the way he rested his elbows stiffly on the arms of the chair. “It's got everything to do with your father,” he said, removing a fleck of tobacco from the corner of his moustache. “If he'd known how to swim, he wouldn't have drowned in the bay. And you would not be here tonight. Surely a bright boy like you—Caswell tells me you are working on a doctorate—can see that.”