If Leona had had a fanciful turn of mind she might have thought of those lumps and clots as little beasts of shadow-stuff, feeding on the old man, draining him of life. But she rejected such thoughts. Fancies were for the weak and timid.
She had dealt with illness before, the usual childhood things and her husband's long decline. But she had never been ill herself. She did not know how to be patient. Two steps from her bed to her chair. What were two steps? Only two out of how many thousands, millions she had taken? But those two steps were an effort calling for self-congratulation while her pulse throbbed in her ears and perspiration dampened her body.
The walk from her room to the sun-room was an event as momentous as the travels of Marco Polo. She rejected the once-again-offered wheelchair and never considered the ultimate cowardice of refusing to go. But dread cast a shadow over the afternoon hours. The second and third day the nurse returned her to the same chair, near the windows and the old man, and Leona was too exhausted to object.
He watched her. She knew he watched her, staring from the safety of his shadows. Was he remembering when her face had been not so lined, when her body had moved as easily and responsively as a girl's? Was he the one, the forgotten one whose guilt—surely, if he could feel it—should be greater than her own? And why was she thinking of guilt now, when it had never occurred to her as she stood by her husband's bed?
She felt impaled by the light. She longed for darkness, the peaceful, concealing darkness of night.
Again he accused her of cheating. The others stopped their gossiping and their piano playing and Leona imagined their eyes turning, widening. It was no longer amusing to think he might be speaking of something other than the card game.
She did not respond to his accusation, of course. It was a point of pride with her that she never allowed herself to become involved in these senile games.
It was another point of pride that she was fighting her weakness and defeating it. She would not give in as others had, as her husband had, to the narrowing boundaries of illness. She forced them back. On the fourth day, after a brief rest, she realized she was strong enough to get up and move to another chair if she chose. But the old man was watching. She could almost make out the gleam of his eyes within the clots of shadow. Would he think she was trying to escape? She remained where she was and made no effort to hide the way her hands manipulated the cards to win every game.
As the hour of the fourth day passed, this new game became more amusing than solitaire. The others in the room must have been frozen, because Leona could hear nothing but the old man's words and the sound of cards slapping on the lapboard.
His voice raged every time she slipped a card to a more favorable position. Surely if the light were better she would see unhealthy purple in his face. He was spitting words now, and his silhouette leaned from shadows as he tried to rise to add force to his words.
The game ended, as she had feared it must, when one of the others became alarmed and summoned the nurse. The old man was led away, lumps and clots of shadow flaking from his silhouette, trailing scraps of hysteria. Leona smiled. He was terribly thin without his little beasts. He must have been a long time dying.
With the old man gone, Leona's hands lost interest in solitaire and fell idle on the lapboard. Her eyes kept returning to the corner, trying to see past the glare of the windows. Strange—it almost seemed as if he still sat there, spying on her.
The room grew more dim. There was a storm coming. High, racing clouds and wind-whipped leaves made shadows that slipped and slithered in the sun-room. There was tension in the air, but whether it was from the coming storm or the remains of her battle with the old man Leona couldn't have said. Once, while trying to force her hands to resume their game, she thought she glimpsed a black snake sliding toward her from the corner. She almost cried out when it reached her feet but stopped herself in time, realizing that it was only a harmless shadow.
That night, as rain pelted the window and wind howled, her weakness returned, worse than before. She slept badly, once crying out at the pain in her legs. She spent most of the next day with a handkerchief in her hands, to dab away the treacherous tears. She told herself she was not losing her courage, she was not. But tears continued to drop from her eyes, and the thought of the long walk to the sun-room hung over her like a pall.
When she had to stop to catch her breath halfway down the hall, the nurse again suggested a wheelchair. Leona drove herself to complete the walk at once, almost without the nurse's help. But the cost of her pride was high. When she reached her accustomed chair she felt a weight crushing her chest. She dismissed the nurse with an abrupt wave, afraid her right to be here might be taken away "for her own good."
The nurse ignored her gesture. "Are you sure you feel up to this today, dear? Perhaps I should take you back to your room so you can get a little extra rest. I'm sure that with the storm last night you didn't get much sleep. Everyone had a bad night."
Even if she had been dying, Leona would have found the strength to deny being a part of this group. She shook her head impatiently and clutched at the nurse's arm.
"Old man—sits in the corner—where is he?"
The nurse looked at her so strangely that for a moment Leona was afraid her eyes had played a trick on her again, that he was there in the shadows after all. Then she sensed the pity, like warm, dripping butterscotch.
"Is he a friend of yours? I'm sorry, dear. He was terribly upset about something yesterday and then the strain of a restless night—it wasn't good for him. He seems to be failing. The doctor is with him now."
After the nurse had gone, Leona allowed herself to smile.
She woke with a start. Had she been asleep? But she never slept during the day. Naps were for babies and old people. She dabbed at her eyes, which had begun to dribble tears as soon as she opened them. The lapboard was an uncomfortably heavy burden. Perhaps she should give up solitaire. Perhaps it was the lapboard that made her legs feel as if they were being nibbled by ants.
But what would her hands do without a game to play? How could she help the hours to pass? She couldn't amuse herself by looking at the scenery, because the glare of the sky would blind her when the nurse came to take her to her room. And in here the shadows . . .
She shuddered. In the old man's corner she could almost make out his shape, part shadow and part silhouette. It was as if the little beasts had taken his shape to mock her. Had he been that forgotten one? Why did he seem to stare at her still?
Don't look, she warned herself. Don't let him know you know he is there.
No—look quickly because the little beasts have begun to slip and shift at the touch of your eyes. They are sliding across the floor now, dangerous life-sucking beasts, toward your legs, little clots of shadow.
Move. Move. They're not very fast. Move before they can reach your chair.
Leona pushed the lapboard to the floor and struggled to stand. In a panic she turned, her hands outstretched pleadingly, to see the others staring at her, like a flock of white birds startled by the appearance of a cat. What could she say? How could she explain? She had to get away, out of reach of the old man's little beasts, but these stupid ones would not be able to understand.
She looked at her feet, willing them to move. As she stepped away from the chair she saw her shadow on the floor like an elongated silhouette.
She was looking at it when the clots of shadow reached her feet and began to slither up her legs.
* * *
John Keefauver's stories have appeared in anthologies and magazines frequently, both here and in Great Britain. And white this may, at first glance, appear to be somewhat gentle, there is a sting, a lingering, that is most definitely . . . Shadows.
* * *
SNOW, COBWEBS, AND DUST by John Keefauver
"Beautiful, isn't it, darling?" the man whispered, standing on the boardwalk, his eyes half closed against snow that fell lazily onto the beach. White fluffs crouched on his moustache, gray and
newly trimmed, before melting down cheeks crinkled now in a wan smile.
"Give me your arm, Martha." He crooked his arm, the palm of his hand up, his fingers slowly curling. "Wearing gloves now, aren't you." A chuckle. "A little different from the last time we were here—that summer." He bent quickly and kissed an inch above his palm. "You'll have to forgive me for being such a romantic old fool, dear, but it's been so long since we've been together. Like this."
His chuckle seemed incongruously loud in the floating snow-quiet. "I know it's ridiculous, Martha, walking the boardwalk in the winter. But then, we always did do ridiculous things."
He listened, then quietly nodded. "Yes. A long time, forty-three years. Forty-three years ago today, we were married."
The feet of a policeman crunched dry snow, slowed, hesitated, then crunched on down the boardwalk.
"Let's hurry, darling," the man said anxiously. "It's cold, and I want to get inside with you. Again."
He walked over snow-matted boards, past shops and restaurants boarded up for the winter, his left arm crooked at his side. He slipped once and nearly fell, but caught himself and laughed and walked on again, the crunch-crunch of his footsteps loud in the quiet of the falling snow.
"It'll be nice and warm when we get to the club," he said reassuringly. "I saw Christy yesterday. He gave me a key to the place. See?" He pulled a key from his pocket and held it to his left. "I didn't tell Christy you were going to be with me." He grinned wryly. "Didn't think he'd understand. Just told him I was going to look around on my own. Told him I was a sentimental old fool. Don't you think that was the right thing to say?"
The man's face lighted as he listened. "You're lying," he said, "but I love it. Keep talking—I love to hear you talk, it's been so long; go ahead, please."
Chuckling, he crunched on until he stopped at the door of a restaurant that fronted the boardwalk, its windows now dark and saltcrusted. Jutting out from the building, the unlit neon tubes spelled Christy's.
"We're here, Martha."
He unlocked the door and went inside, snapping on a wall switch. Sheets covered stacked tables and chairs, like grotesque diners huddled in silent conversation. Cobwebs patterned corners. Unmelted, the man's snowy tracks led back through the dust to the door.
He quickly took off his hat and coat and hung them on hangers, and, shivering as he walked toward a table, said with eagerness, "Look at the crowd, Martha. Christy always did pack them in. Remember? Remember?
"Waiter! Table for two, please. In the corner. Over there."
He walked to a table and pulled the sheet off it and two inverted chairs. "Comfortable, darling?" he asked when he had arranged the chairs.
"Good," he answered.
He glanced at the dance floor. "I wish the orchestra would hurry. We haven't danced in years." His voice sagged into a husky whisper. "But let's have something to eat first—the same thing we had the last time we were here."
He snapped his fingers and ordered steaks and wine—"With candles, please."
He held a package of cigarettes over the table after he watched the waiter leave. "Martha?" He waited, smiling. "Cigarette, Martha?" His chuckle spilled into the quiet club. "You haven't changed a bit, have you. Still gaping at women's clothes." He burst into a laugh. "But go ahead and look."
His laughter broke. A match scratched loudly in the silence and through its flare he said, "Because even if you don't look at me—" his hand was trembling now, "—I'll be able to see you." He stared at her chair. "Let me. Please."
Then, with a resolute swing of the head, he turned toward the dance floor, his lips taut. "Let's dance, Martha. Now. Like we used to."
He got up and hurried to pull out the other chair; its legs made clear lines in the dust as it moved. He walked quickly, as if afraid he would stop and turn and come back, to the dance floor, his footsteps loud-thumping and hollow on the cold boards.
He hesitated when he reached the raised floor. "In each other's arms," he whispered. He stepped up onto the floor and walked to the center and stopped, standing like an old forgotten mannequin in a closed-up store.
He was trembling now as he forced his arms up, reaching for Martha. Then he let them fall. Sweat began to bubble on his forehead. His tongue flicked out over drying lips. A shiver spasmed him. His hands were knuckled at his side now.
Up came his arms again. Slowly. Slowly. Up. They reached out in front of him. Searching, they cupped. Cupped, feeling for her.
They felt. They held. His arms tightened; they held.
He felt her. He felt her.
"Martha," he whispered. "My God," he whimpered.
"My God. My God." And he jerked his arms down, he snatched them away. "My God." Backing, backing.
Backing from the floor and the covered tables and chairs; backing through the dust and the unmelted snow his tracks had left. Backing, and he yanked open the door and burst out onto the boardwalk, leaving his coat and hat hanging.
Outside, snow settled lazily onto his footprints, and after a while quietly leveled them.
* * *
Back again to the clubroom, the fireplace, the brandy. And who better to close this year's volume than Count Saint-Germain?
* * *
THE SPIDER GLASS by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
an Edwardian story
"There is a curious tale behind this mirror, actually. I'm pleased you noticed it," their host said to the select and exclusively masculine company that had gathered in the Oak Parlor at Briarcopse after dinner. He reached for the port and rather grandly offered it around. "Surely you'll have some. It was laid down the year I was born—splendid stuff. My father was quite the expert in these matters, I assure you."
Five of his guests accepted with alacrity; the sixth declined with a polite, Continental bow, and the Earl put the decanter back onto the silver tray set out on the gleaming mahogany table. "Don't stand on ceremony, any of you," he said with a negligent wave of his long, thin hand. He then settled back in his chair, a high-backed, scallop-topped relic of the reign of Queen Anne, and propped his heels on the heavy Tudor settle before the fire. Slowly he lit his cigar, savoring the aroma and the anticipation of his guests.
"For the lord Harry, Whittenfield . . ." the rotund gentleman with the brindled mutton-chop whiskers protested, though his indignation was marred by an indulgent smirk.
Their host, Charles Whittenfield, ninth Earl of Copsehowe, blew out a cloud of fragrant, rum-scented tobacco smoke and stared at the small, dull mirror in its frame of tooled Baroque silver. "It is a curious tale," he said again, as much to himself as any of the company. Then, recalling his guests, he directed his gaze at his wiry, middle-aged cousin who was in the act of warming his brandy over one of the candles. "Dominick, you remember my mother's Aunt Serena, don't you?"
"I remember all the women on that side of the family," Dominick said promptly. "The most amazing passel of females. My mother refuses to mention half of them—she feels they aren't respectable. Well, of course they're not. Respectable women are boring."
"Yes, I'm always amazed by them. And why they all chose to marry such sticks-in-the-mud as they did, I will never understand. Still, they make the family lively, which is more than I can say for the males—not a privateer or adventurer among them. Nothing but solid, land-loving, rich, placid countrymen, with a yen for wild girls." He sighed. "Anyway, Dominick, Great-aunt Serena—"
Dominick nodded with vigorous distaste that concealed a curious pride. "Most misnamed female I ever encountered. That whole side of the family, as Charles says—they marry the most unlikely women. Serena came from Huguenot stock, back in the middle of the seventeenth century, I think." He added this last as if the Huguenot influence explained matters.
"Ah, yes, Great-aunt Serena was quite a handful." The host laughed quietly. "The last time I saw her—it was years ago, of course—she was careering about the Cotswolds on both sides of her horse. The whole countryside was scandalized. They barred her from the Hunt, naturally, which amused
her a great deal. She could outride most of them, anyway, and said that the sport was becoming tame."
"Whittenfield . . ." the rotund man said warningly.
"Oh, yes, about the glass." He sipped his port thoughtfully. "The glass comes from Serena's family, the English side. It's an heirloom, of course. They say that the Huguenot who married into the family took the woman because no one else would have her. Scandal again." He paused to take wine, and drained his glass before continuing. "The mirror is said to be Venetian, about three hundred and forty or fifty years old. The frame was added later, and when Marsden appraised it he said he believed it to be Austrian work."
"Hungarian, actually," murmured the sixth guest, though no one heard him speak.
"Yes . . . well." Whittenfield judiciously filled his glass once more. "Really wonderful," he breathed as he savored the port.
"Charles, you should have been an actor—you're wasted on the peerage," Dominick said as he took a seat near the fire.
"Oh, very well, I'll get on with it," Whittenfield said, capitulating. "I've told you the glass is Venetian and something over three hundred years old. The latest date Marsden ventured was 1570, but that, as I say, is problematical. In any case, you may be certain that it was around in 1610, which is the critical year so far as the story is concerned. Yes, 1610." He sank back in his chair, braced his heels once more on the Tudor settle, and began, at last, in earnest.
"Doubtless you're aware that Europe was a great deal more chaotic then than it is now—"
"That's not saying much," the rotund man interjected.
"Twilford, for God's sake, don't give him an excuse to digress again," Dominick whispered furiously.
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