"Too young!" Jeremy exclaimed. "She's nearly seventeen!"
"She's only sixteen," Simon pointed out obstinately. "Look, if you two are friends, that's just fine with me. But I don't want any of this huggy-kissy stuff, you understand?"
"Jesus!" he said with disbelief. "You're starting to sound like my uncle!"
"Jeremy . . . ," Simon said darkly, a hint of warning in his voice.
"Okay, okay!" he said quickly. "God!" He left the room in a huff and then left the house, closing the front door loudly behind him. Simon watched him leave, frowned, and then walked over to the telephone.
As Rowena led Gwendolyn and Adrienne down the corridor which led to the guest rooms, Karyn ambled out of the room which she shared with Lucas. Lucas was right behind her, and both of them looked exhausted and worn out, though Rowena knew full well that it was not from any legitimate expenditure of energy. They each rubbed their bloodshot eyes and scratched their scalps through matted hair, yawning loudly. Karyn looked blearily at Rowena. "Hiya, kid," she muttered.
"Good morning," she replied. "Uh, Karyn and Lucas, these are our guests for the next day or two. This is Gwendolyn, and this is Adrienne."
Adrienne nodded deferentially. "My pleasure to greet you." Gwendolyn said nothing.
"They may be joining Daddy's act," Rowena said.
This seemed to awaken some spark of interest in Lucas. "Oh yeah? What do you do, sing?"
"Aye," Gwendolyn replied, "and make music. We are also witches."
Lucas gazed at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. "Say what?"
Rowena sighed. "Gwendolyn and Adrienne say that they are witches, real witches. Daddy thinks that maybe they can draw bigger crowds to his shows." Rowena 's opinion of the whole thing was clearly expressed in her tone of voice.
Lucas nodded, impressed. "No shit! That's mint!"
Gwendolyn cocked her head slightly. "You be Proctor's son?"
"Yeah." Lucas yawned. "I be."' He gestured over at Karyn with a movement of his thumb. "This be my woman."
Karyn shot him an angry glance and then smiled at Gwendolyn. "Please pardon Lucas. He's an asshole." She extended her hand and added, "Nice to meetcha."
Gwendolyn regarded her proffered hand quizzically for a moment and then shook it awkwardly. She ran her eyes up and down Karyn's body and then observed, "You are with child."
Patting her belly, Karyn grinned. "Yup."
"And when will it be delivered?"
"Not sure," she replied. "Sometime in February, I think." Gwendolyn thrust her hand into a deep pocket on the side of her long black skirt and fished around for a moment. "Have you a chain, a necklace?"
"Sure," Karyn said, pulling forth the chain which had been hidden by the wrinkled collar of her soiled shirt. It was a cheap imitation gold chain with a plastic shark's tooth on the end.
Gwendolyn took a small amulet from her pocket and handed it to Karyn. "Here," she said. "Place this upon the chain and wear it until you are delivered of your child."
Karyn took it from her hand and examined it. "It's pretty," she said, not quite truthfully. The amulet was a plain square ornament with a noticeable seam and a small catch on one side. "Is it a locket? Does it open?"
"Aye, but do not open it," Gwendolyn said quickly, "lest the contents spill out."
"What's in it?"
"Dried dog's blood and a powder made from the grindings of the testicles of a bull."
"Oh," Karyn said, not knowing quite how to react. "That’s, uh, very interesting."
"It will insure a manchild," Gwendolyn explained.
"Hey, come on, huh?" Lucas whined. "That's disgusting. I feel sick enough without hearing shit like that!"
Gwendolyn laughed. "You have, I think, sucked too freely upon Bacchus' teat, young mister."
Lucas stared at her blankly. "Huh?"
"I can be of help, perhaps. Many were the times I helped my father recover from a night of revelry."
"Yeah?" Lucas said. "How?"
"A drink which I can prepare for you," she explained, "Which will lessen the effects of the grape and clear your mind."
"No kidding?" he asked. "What's in the drink?"
She thought for a moment. "Some dried cattle dung and the legs of a dozen spiders."
Lucas looked at her for a few moments as he began to turn a pale green. Then he placed both hands over his mouth and began to run down the corridor to the bathroom. Karyn shot Gwendolyn an irritated glance and then followed him.
Rowena was trying to stifle her laughter as she said, "Come on. Your rooms are this way." She walked before them down the corridor, saying, "This place used to be an inn, so we have lots of bedrooms." She opened the door to one of the unused rooms. It had a slightly musty smell. "I guess I'd better change the sheets."
"'Tis a goodly house, and a fair room," Adrienne said politely.
"Thanks," Rowena replied. "Hold on. I'll go get some fresh linen.?'
A moment after Rowena left the room, Gwendolyn turned to Adrienne and said, "Did you see? Did you see? 'Tis the same!"
She shrugged. "'Tis similar. There is a semblance, but—"
"Tosh! 'Tis the same countenance, the same visage!"
"It has been a long while, a long, long while. How can you be so certain?"
"Some things one can never forget."
Adrienne shook her head. "Even if he looks the same, he is not the same man. This is folly!"
Gwendolyn turned on her angrily, her green eyes blazing. Adrienne shrank back from her as she said, "Speak not to me of folly! 'Twas your folly which killed him, your folly which ruined me!"
"I—I meant no—"
"You are here, are you not? You breathe and live, do you not? Is this folly?!" She heard Rowena returning, and silenced her companion with a stern, angry glance.
Rowena walked back in, weighed down with piles of linen and wool. "I'll make up the beds in a moment. Just let me leave half of this stuff here, and then I'll show you the other room."
"By your leave, miss, I'll not trouble you," Adrienne said, still shaking from Gwendolyn's anger. "I can make ready the beds."
"Oh, I wouldn't hear of it," Rowena responded, pleased by the courteous offer. "I know my duties as a hostess." She noticed a slight movement off to the side, and turned to see her grandfather leaning his bald head into the room quizzically. "Oh, Grampa, this is Gwendolyn Jenkins and Adrienne Lupescu." He nodded to them and they nodded back. "They're gonna be staying with us for a couple of days. They're joining Daddy's act."
Floyd Proctor did not smile. "Oh, really?" he said noncommittally.
"It will be a good done by each for each," Gwendolyn said.
"That's nice," he said evenly, and began to walk toward the stairs.
Rowena shrugged, blushing slightly. "He probably doesn't like you."
"He does not know us!" Adrienne observed.
"That doesn't matter," Rowena explained. "If you're involved in Daddy's business, Grampa doesn't like you." She shrugged again. "Just try to stay out of his way. It's only for a couple of days, after all."
Floyd descended the stairs and began to wander from room to room, looking for his son. He found him at last in the first room he should have checked, the sitting room near the base of the stairs. He walked in to hear Simon saying into the phone, "That's right, Harry. Just one concert, just to test the waters, but we're gonna need some rehearsing. Can you get the boys together by, say, Tuesday? . . . Yeah, yeah, I know everybody's on a break, but this might . . . Right, a buck's a buck. . . . Okay. . . . Okay. . . . See you Tuesday in Tom's basement. . . . Right. Okay, take care." He hung up the phone. "Gotta call Mark—"
"Who are those women, boy?" Floyd demanded.
"Just a new act I'm gonna use, Pop, that's all," he said. "They're just staying here for a couple of days, and then we're going down to Manhattan."
"They do the same crap you do?" his father asked. "That devil crap?"
"Stop it Pop, will you?" he said curtly. "I'm busy."
&
nbsp; "I don't like strangers staying under my roof without my permission! I don't like that one bit!"
Leave me be, Simon thought, and maybe you can stay under your own roof for a few more years. "Just be tolerant," he said. "They won't hurt anything."
Floyd snorted his displeasure as he turned and walked away. Simon watched him leave and then walked over to the picture window and gazed out at the snow-covered street. "Might work," he said softly to himself. "Can't tell until you try." A fresh approach is a good idea, he thought. They sure do have lovely voices. I hope they can handle rock and roll. I'm pretty sure Gwendolyn can—her voice is strong—but I'm not sure about Adrienne. Voice seems a little too delicate. But we'll see. We'll see.
He left the sitting room and went to the closet beside the front door to get his coat. If I'm driving back to Manhattan day after tomorrow, he thought, I'd better get that muffler attended to. Don't want to make a long drive like that with my tailpipe dragging on the ground.
He donned his scarf and coat absentmindedly, lost in deep thought. He did not turn around to see the green eyes staring intently at him from the top of the stairs as he walked out the front door.
Gwendolyn Jenkins stared after Simon as he closed the door behind him. She sat down softly upon the top step and folded her arms around her knees. Her nostrils flared slightly with some unspoken excitement and her eyes grew wide with some as yet unrealized vision. Adrienne came up quietly from behind and sat down beside her. She cleared her throat and whispered," 'Tis not he, in truth. You know that. 'Tis not as promised."
Gwendolyn smiled. "Is it not?"
"Nay," Adrienne replied soberly. "You know 'tis not. "But he will serve," she laughed. "He will serve as well. If I shall not have the one, then I shall have the other."
"But you know not if he will love you," Adrienne said. "Perhaps 'twill be as before, perhaps—"
"He will love me," Gwendolyn said evenly, turning her cold eyes upon her friend. "He must love me. 'Tis predestined."
Adrienne shrank back slightly from the withering stare. "But what if—"
"Oh, hush up!" Gwendolyn snapped. "He will love me. And if he does not . . ." Her jaw clenched as she turned away from her friend. "If he does not then there is another prayer which shall be answered."
They sat in silence for a few moments longer, and then Gwendolyn rose to her feet. Adrienne followed suit immediately, and they both turned to walk back toward the rooms which Rowena had prepared for them. They passed Pistopheles in the hallway, and the calico cat pressed herself against the wall as they walked by. She ruffled the fur on her back and emitted a threatening hiss.
Gwendolyn smiled casually at the animal as she passed. There was no hint of humor or amusement in her smile. "Do you remember Goliath?" she asked her friend.
"Hmm? Who?"
"Goliath, Giles Corey's cat. The one that scratched me?" Adrienne sighed, remembering both the cat and what her friend had done to it. "Aye, I remember Goliath."
"I have always hated cats," Gwendolyn muttered, and continued on toward her room.
Chapter Nine
November 16, continued
Simon Proctor struck a match and brought the flame close to the tip of the perfectly rolled marijuana cigarette which dangled from his lips. He rarely smoked pot up here in Bradford, realizing that it would upset his daughter and infuriate his father, but now, late in the evening with everyone in the house securely tucked into bed, he felt entitled to a brief respite from his tension and his worries. He had spent the day on the phone, speaking to the musicians in his band, speaking to his agent, to his road manager, his lighting team, his lawyer, his accountant, and his depression was at this point overwhelming.
He inhaled deeply and allowed the drug-soaked smoke to sink into his lungs. After a few moments of holding his breath, he exhaled and expelled a billow of sweet fumes into the darkness of his bedroom. The rays of moonlight danced silently upon the smoke.
Day after tomorrow, he thought. Hit the road before seven, get to New York around noon, if there’s no traffic. Got to rehearse. Got to rehearse. See if these girls are any good with the band. Simon inhaled again, and then lay pensively, drumming his left hand on the night table. Hate to leave here, he thought. So calm, so relaxing. Wish I could just stay here all the time, never have to go on tour, never have to see the inside of a recording studio. Well, he laughed grimly to himself, you may get your wish. If the movie flops, if the tour doesn't sell out if the creditors drop down on you like vultures, you'll find yourself with all the spare time you want. Of course, it won't be spent in this house. You won't own this house anymore, or the acreage stretching out back. You'll have to get a job pumping gas or working in a warehouse or something. Rent a place for you and Row and the old man. Let Lucas take care of himself.
"God," he muttered. "Why the hell didn't I incorporate? At least then my house wouldn't be up for grabs."
Come on, come on, he told himself angrily. Things aren't as bad as all that. All you have to do is break even on the film, and everything will be all right. Look at all the crap kids shell out money to go and see nowadays. Enough of 'em will go to see your film to let it break even. And maybe the tour will go all right too. Never can tell. You can still draw a crowd, still fill a stadium. Hell, Madison Square Garden was just too big a place, that's all. Got to be a few empty seats in a place that big. Got to be. Got to be.
No, there doesn't, the other side of his mind replied. And things are exactly as bad as you think they are. You're mortgaged up to your neck and your career is petering out. Just look at you! You're so far gone and so desperate that you're hoping that a couple of crazy broads are going to be able to bail you out! Clutching at straws, clutching at straws.
"Hey," he said aloud, as if trying to attract his own attention, "I'm getting stoned to try to forget all this shit, right?" Take it easy. Calm down. Forget it all. Just forget it all.
A gentle knocking on his bedroom door disturbed his thoughts. Ah, shit, he said to himself. "Yeah? Who's there?"
"Gwendolyn," came the reply. "I smelled a fire as of burning wood, but can find no fireplace in use."
"A fire! Wait . . ." Then he realized that she had smelled the pungent aroma of his marijuana. "Hold on a minute." He rose from his bed and, after stubbing the joint out into the ashtray, walked over to the door. As he opened it he said, "Nothing to worry about. I was just blowing some weed."
"Just blowing—what? Weeds?" she asked in confusion. "You were burning weeds in the house?"
"Shhh! Not so loud. You'll wake everybody up."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I did not mean to speak so loudly. But I do not understand."
"I was smoking pot." No response. "You know, pot. Marijuana, grass. You know?"
She shrugged slightly. Though it was as dark in the hallway as in his bedroom, he could see the moonlight which was reflecting from his wall mirror glisten upon her black hair as she moved her head. "I know what grass is, of course. But—"
"Jesus, don't tell me you've never smoked pot!" He laughed. "What kind of rock singer do you expect to be?!"
A low throaty laugh floated toward him from the darkness. "I shall be whatever you want me to be, Simon Proctor." There was something about her laugh which caused him to smile, something sensuous and earthy. His smile could be heard in his voice as he replied, "You know, it's awfully hard to believe that a witch in the United States has never smoked pot. Are you sure you aren't putting me on?"
"Pretend that I am pretending, if you like," she said softly in the darkness. "What is this weed you burn indoors?"
Simon hesitated for a moment and then said, "Come on in for a minute." He pulled the already opened door farther open, and he half saw and half heard Gwendolyn glide into the dark room. "Hold on a minute. I'll get the light." He walked over to the night table, stubbed his toe on the bed post, muttered an imprecation, and switched on the small, dim lamp beside the bed. He was wearing his dungarees and no shirt, and he said, "Pardon my appearance. I was getting
ready to . . ."
He stopped in midsentence as he turned to face her. She was standing before him in a sheer white negligee which dipped at the bodice, revealing the unencumbered and unsupported cleavage of her ample breasts. "I found this nightgown among some old clothes in your basement earlier today. I had nothing to wear for sleeping, so I borrowed it and washed it. I hope you do not mind."
"No, uh, no, I don't mind." He allowed his eyes to drift lazily up and down her voluptuous form, not noticing the slight grin on her face. The nightgown had belonged to his first wife, who was a smaller woman than Gwendolyn, and the garment did not fit in any practical sense of the term. But from the standpoint of erotic effect, it was perfectly tailored. The thin cloth clung tightly to her bosom and hips and thighs. Her dark nipples thrust out against the tight fabric, seeming to pinch the cloth inward as they hardened under his gaze, and a dark triangle was clearly visible through the nightgown just below her high waist.
"Does it flatter me?" she asked innocently.
"Yes, ah, yes, it, ah, it looks quite nice." He coughed. "Would you like to get high?"
She laughed. "I cannot fly in this shape, Simon Proctor."
"No, no, I mean would you like to smoke some dope?"
"That is the burning weed?" she asked. "Ah, I think I understand. It is like tobacco, is it not?"
He felt his sexual excitement die down and his irritation begin to reassert itself. "Look, don't play around with me, Gwen. You wanna get stoned or not?"
She seemed to tense suddenly, and her eyes, which had been soft and wide a moment before, assumed a sudden air of wariness. "What do you mean?"
"Look, for Christ's sake, do you or do you not want to get high?" As he spoke he picked up the small plastic bag with the marijuana in it and held it up for her to see.
She regarded it and him with continued uncertainty, and then allowed a smile to break from the corners of her mouth. " 'Tis like unto tobacco, I think. I will indulge."
"Delightful," he said humorlessly. He gestured toward a wooden chair which stood beside the bed and said "Have a seat" as he sat down upon the bed and began to roll another joint. Gwendolyn walked slowly over and sat down on the bed beside him. She allowed their bare arms to touch slightly. To Simon her skin seemed appealingly warm, and her scent was very stimulating. "I like your perfume," he said. "What kind is it?"
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