Dark Rooms: Three Novels

by Douglas Clegg

  “Don’t forget the near dead, too,” Ted giggled almost like a little boy. “I’m sorry, Rachel, I just couldn’t resist. None of us in the family ever really liked Joanna—not that she ever let us near enough to know if she was likable. She was the most talented block of ice I’ve ever met.” His words were punctuated with sniffling giggles.

  Rachel crinkled the legal papers in her lap. Maybe it was Hugh who never let you get near enough to her, the way he keeps his family away from his second wife, too. She wondered how Hugh would react if he knew that his older brother had dropped by the house unannounced. But she felt giggly, silly, slightly dizzy— probably just hungry—her stomach was gurgling and she’d completely forgotten to buy any food. Ted continued talking, joking, saying hilarious things, and she felt like she’d been given a quick breath of pure oxygen. She was drunk from Diet Coke. “Ted, you’re so funny.”

  “What do you think Hughie would say if I was to tell him he’s got the most beautiful and intelligent wife on the planet?”

  “He’d say you were after something.” Rachel heard her voice as if down a long hallway. Watch what you say, Scout, this is a Greek bearing gifts, not your best old friend in college.

  But she’d said it: He’d say you were after something. She covered her mouth to keep other foolish things from pouring out.

  Ted stared at her. His jaw seemed to drop to the floor, his eyes widening incredulously.

  Then he was laughing even harder than before, gales of laughter. He slapped the sofa and his knees and his attaché case he was laughing so hard, clutching his stomach, kicking the floor with the heels of his loafers. Tears leapt from his eyes.

  “No, no,” she was laughing again, pointing to his shoes. “You’ll scuff the floors,” which caused both of them to laugh again because the wood floors were already mercilessly scratched like an ice rink after a hockey game.

  But the laughing died inside both of them, Ted wiping his eyes and Rachel catching her breath, feeling like she’d just sprinted a mile.

  “Families,” Ted said, shaking his head wearily. It was as if he were coming down from a drug-induced high. The laughing moment was over and normal, steady life had caught up with them again. Ted stood up, stretching his long frame. Rachel felt embarrassed as if they’d just shared something intimate. The camaraderie she’d just felt with Ted also felt like some kind of betrayal of Hugh. She sat there on the box that held Hugh’s collection of novels, smiling up at Ted, wondering if she was betraying Hugh, and if Hugh knew she was betraying him. A small betrayal, not a big one, just a normal betrayal. But what do you want me to do, Hugh? Tell him he’s not allowed in the house? My house as it turns out. Well, Hugh, you may have been raised to be rude to people, but I wasn’t. No grudge is worth nursing forever. Rachel got up off the box. “I should show you around the place.”

  Ted reached over, touching her left shoulder, bearing down slightly. “No, you sit down and wait for Hughie. The grand tour can wait for a housewarming party—you’re giving one, right?”

  Rachel shrugged, sitting back down. “We’ve got so much to do to get this place up to a livable standard.”

  “Don’t be stupid—that’s what a housewarming party’s for—everyone can bring a gift to keep your decorating overhead low.”

  “Look, Ted, Hugh should be back soon. Why don’t you wait and join us for dinner?”

  “Now, do you think Hughie would really want to have me sitting across the table from him?” Ted grinned. He went to the open door, about to leave, and then turned to face her again. “You’re a mender, Rachel, that’s nice. But no, I better skedaddle. And with those papers, no rush, just sign where you’re supposed to, call if there’s anything too weird in them, and then those at the end, well, it’s all that household crap about how the furnace is set up and insurance bullshit about your tenant—also a blueprint—well, more of a sketch of the floor plan. It’s a read-it-and-weep job, because I think a heck of a lot of work has been done in alterations on this place. I heard it was just a skeleton and a bunch of crumbling walls until about 1977. And Rachel, Rachel, Rachel, think housewarming party—I love a good blow-out and I always bring the best gifts, anyway.”

  He gave her a quick wink before descending the stairs to the patio.

  Rachel went to shut the French doors behind him; the muggy, steamy day was almost over, Hugh wasn’t home, damn him, and she watched Ted shut the back gate gently. He strode down the alley, looking back every few feet just to see if she was still standing there.

  And what would Hugh think of this visit? Oh, Hugh—your brother dropped by today with some papers.

  If the interview went well it might slide right off him. He might grin and say, “Oh?” and then tell her about this new job he might get.

  But if the interview went badly, or if he hadn’t made it to the interview (and that had happened twice in the past two months), what would he say? Would he give her his mad smile? The one that meant he was trying to maintain a pleasant exterior, but inside he was seething? He never mentioned his brother except to recall a particularly vicious moment from what Hugh termed “childhood’s greatest hits.”

  Let’s Pretend, Scout. Let’s Pretend that you’re me and you’re standing at the top of the stairs and your big brother Ted pushes you down them and you’re black and blue. But you don’t want to upset your mom because she has problems of her own, big ones like the Old Man. And so you say that you fell down the stairs all by yourself. And Let’s Pretend that this goes on, say, ten or twelve times one summer and you’re black and blue to the point where mom, out of concern, takes you to several doctors, one being a kiddo psychiatrist, because she doesn’t think an eight year old would normally be so clumsy. And Let’s Pretend that your brother puts a rubber band around your pet cat’s neck and he tells you, because you’re younger and you want to believe your big brother, that it’s a special, secret collar and not to tell mom or the housekeeper about it. And then you wake up one morning and the cat is dead on the balcony because this thing, this rubber band, has eaten into its neck and cut off its circulation. Let’s Pretend that you take the blame for it because your older brother lies and calls you a killer.

  It wouldn’t matter that Rachel would argue that they were both kiddos themselves and that maybe it wasn’t as black and white between the two brothers as Hugh made it out to be. “You make it sound like the evil twins on those stupid TV shows,” she would say if she had the nerve.

  But as Rachel watched her brother-in-law Ted walk out of sight beyond the apartments next to theirs in the alley, she thought: Okay, for marital harmony, Let’s Pretend you never came by, Ted, and these papers arrived through the mail slot:

  She went over to the stereo to turn the Ella Fitzgerald record over. Then she lay down on the couch, wondering when Hugh—the bastard—would make it home, wondering when the sun would go down, wondering if it was a headache she was feeling coming on or if this was just normal life taking its toll. She closed her eyes for a few moments, then opened them again, then closed them. Just for a few moments.

  Rachel Adair dreamed of babies, beautiful healthy babies coming out of her, all on schedule at nine months to the day, all little Adairs. And she was the mommy and Hugh was the daddy, and somewhere in the dream her healthy, beautiful father was saying, “I am so proud of you, sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE CLAMORING PLACE

  1.

  Rachel awoke on the couch feeling sticky and hungry. The summer light had not yet faded outside; it was almost nine p.m. When is this day going to be over? She turned off the stereo and went into the kitchen. The only things in the fridge were some Diet Cokes; she plucked an ice cube from the freezer and wiped it across her forehead. Rubbing the dwindling ice cube into her face, she walked down the hall towards the first-floor bathroom.

  When she flicked on the light she saw something dart across the floor—even though the cockroach could not have been more than a half-inch long it seemed to her to be a six-foo
ter. She gasped when she saw it, then broke out laughing. Join the club. Pulling a Post-it Note from her pocket, she scrawled across it in magic marker: ROACH 17—CALL EXTERMINATOR/BUY RAID. She stuck this just under the light switch.

  She turned on the shower, and the water came out in staccato bursts, rusty brown until she’d let it run for a few minutes. It smelled of rotten eggs. The pipes squealed and coughed, but finally ran clear water. Her clothes seemed to have attached themselves to her skin; peeling off the painter’s pants was like skinning herself. The water was spraying out of the white tub—there was no shower curtain, another essential she had forgotten along with toilet paper. She hoped that she still had the small package of Kleenex in her purse.

  Rachel stepped into the shower, and as she did this she noticed the small window. It was above the toilet and across the room from the tub and shower, but it had no shade and she wondered if anyone could see in from the outside. The cloud-filtered sunlight was flat and made the empty red buildings across the alley look like cardboard cutouts. She glanced down at her feet—the drain was clogged, and water was backing up. She bent over and scraped her fingers across the drain wondering if it was hair, but it was plaster dust, and it seemed that no matter how much she scraped away, there was more and the tub was filling up to her ankles. The water was coughing out rust colored again, and her hands went to the spigots. She turned off the water feeling dirtier than when she’d stepped under the shower.

  Of course, no towel. She shook herself off; it was warm enough and she didn’t mind the feeling of water on her skin.

  She had the sense of someone in the doorway, someone staring at her. When she turned, expecting Hugh, she saw the cat.

  It was a puffy Himalayan with a dark face but with a streak of peach and orange across its nose. It looked up at her with no curiosity, just empty blue orbs. Something dark and shiny wriggled against the cat’s whiskers just as it registered on Rachel’s brain what this thing was that the cat was playing with. A roach, gross! The cat swallowed the insect with a moist crackle, the kind of noise that Hugh made when he ate bean sprouts.

  Rachel gasped, and the cat darted off down the hall. But, on the practical side, as mom would say, just think of what this animal could save on exterminator bills.

  Rachel knew this must be the infamous Ramona from downstairs who vomited hairballs as omens. How did she get up here? The first thought in her mind: Hugh. Hugh was home, finally, waiting in the living room with his bad news and depressing apologies. He had accidentally left the downstairs door open, or the French doors to the patio. The cat got past him.

  Stamping a wet foot pattern across the bleached wood floor, Rachel went out to the living room. She realized at the last second she was naked and would be crossing by those French doors, but tried streaking through in case anyone was watching. No one was.

  There was also no Hugh in evidence, and Ramona was lying in front of the fireplace cleaning herself carefully. She rolled over onto her back, paws splayed in the air, gazing up at Rachel with patient eyes. Her belly was enormous.

  “Even you can get pregnant.” She reached over, petting the cat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me a minute.” Rachel sneezed, wiping her eyes—her allergy to cats always seemed to explode in her face like gunpowder in spite of the fact that she loved animals. “I’ve got to go put some clothes on.”

  Upstairs, Rachel rummaged through one of the boxes in the bedroom and found a summer dress her mother had given her years ago. She never liked what her mother gave her to wear, it was never anything she would’ve chosen for herself, but for some reason those gift clothes were always on hand in an emergency. They were dresses and skirts and blouses to be worn on moving days and when her other skirt was at the cleaners, or when she spilled ketchup on a blouse and needed another in a hurry. She felt like a little girl in them, and for some reason the clothes her mother bought her (like this dress she bunched up and pulled over her head getting lost in a sea of wildflower print) were always two sizes too large. Her mother no doubt expected her to gain twenty or thirty pounds, and perhaps one day she would. Yes, and then she’d have a complete wardrobe provided by mom. But right now she felt about twelve years old, which was probably right where her mother would’ve liked to keep her.

  She came back downstairs expecting the cat to have run off somewhere, however the hell it had gotten in, but Ramona still lay in the same place, stretching lazily. Rachel bunched up the Mumu around her waist and kneeled by the cat. Her sinuses were driving her crazy, but the cat was so adorable and furry. “You know you’re cute, don’t you? But don’t expect a kiss after wolfing that roach down.” She rubbed Ramona just beneath the chin and the cat let out an almost birdlike mew accompanied by a thrumming purr of satisfaction. A speck of dirt seemed to leap from the cat’s fur onto Rachel’s hand.

  Not a speck, a flea.

  “Shit.” She pinched the flea between her thumbnails until it popped. “Let’s get you back home before you contaminate the house. Roaches, fleas, mice, what other crawling things do we have around here?”

  Gently, she lifted Ramona up, careful not to let the cat’s belly sag. “Lots of little lumpkins in there.”

  2.

  “You’ve found the beast!” Penelope Deerfield shouted as she opened her door. She seemed even shorter than she had when they’d first met. Her eyes were just about level with Rachel’s chest. Perhaps it’s true that you shrink as you get older. Her yellow hair was done up with gold plastic combs, reminding Rachel of haystacks in a damp field. She wore a more conservative outfit than the last time they’d met: almost a suit, although mismatched, probably from a thrift shop. The overall effect of the dress and light jacket was of someone who didn’t care what anyone thought of her. Again, a “mom-ism,” because Rachel found this aspect of Mrs. Deerfield’s personality utterly charming.

  Mrs. Deerfield’s eyebrows curled around her blue eyes as she grabbed the cat up beneath its front shoulders. “Naughty little Ramona running off from Nanny Deerfield!”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Rachel said, peering around the open doorway without meaning to—there were two other women sitting at the day bed and the loveseat. They’d been speaking in whispers, and as soon as they saw Rachel their faces suddenly blossomed pleasant smiles as if Rachel were the last person on earth they expected to walk through that door and wasn’t this a nicer surprise than whomever they expected.

  “Not interrupting at all, dear, come in, come in, this must be moving day.” Mrs. Deerfield flung the door open; it hit the back of the wall with a thunking shudder. Mrs. Deerfield was mildly drunk, Rachel guessed. “We’ve been gossiping and pickling.”

  Yes, Rachel thought, and getting pickled. The room was redolent of vinegar and spices and the purest whiff of alcohol she’d smelled since she’d been in the hospital after the miscarriage. “Today seems to be lasting forever.”

  “As well it should, it’s the summer solstice—this is the longest day of the year. Somewhere Druids are dancing.” As she pulled Rachel in, tugging like an eager child at her arm, Mrs. Deerfield murmured an aside. “We won’t even go into the fertility rites involved, at least not with this group.” Her breath was laced with sherry. Then back to her stage voice: “My friends, this is my landlady, Rachel Adair, and Rachel, this is Betty Kellogg, and Annie Ralph—she runs the Ralph-Westford Gallery in Mount Pleasant.”

  Betty Kellogg and Annie Ralph were both in their mid-fifties to early sixties, and looked more uptown than Mrs. Deerfield. Betty looked as if she could be fascinated by the smallest mind, her eyes wide as if the lids were held back with tiny hooks, their pupils jiggling rapidly as if she were deep in REM sleep and wide awake. Her mouth was frozen in an apparently constant O of surprise and interest; her hair was dyed platinum and permed—it seemed an effervescent fizz above her slightly wrinkled, china-doll face. She was chubby—everything about her was round and getting rounder as she balanced her weight first on one hip and then on the other, creasing the royal blue fabric of
her cocktail dress. “So young to own a house. Len and I were in our mid-thirties before we were owners.”

  “Your Len would’ve lived in a tent if you hadn’t forced him to get that place in Chevy Chase.” Annie Ralph cast the words out of her mouth like they tasted bad, and she snapped her fingers at Mrs. Deerfield (making Rachel feel suddenly protective of her tenant). “Honey, get Rachel a sherry, and honey,” she added, the second honey intended for Rachel, “you sit down and make yourself comfy-cozy, ‘cause moving day’s always a bitch.” Annie Ralph looked vaguely bohemian in a peach peasant blouse and wide gray skirt, although Rachel thought she’d seen this outfit in one of the more chic boutiques in Georgetown. It was what Hugh referred to as the artsy-fartsy look. Rachel had been in the Ralph-Westford Gallery once and its owner was a perfect enough match: the gallery was full of the kind of art that only interior decorators got excited about, lots of bright squiggly colors on plain white canvases. Annie Ralph herself looked like a squiggly smudge of a woman, stretched and framed and bearing an expensive price tag. She looked like she would go with any room, any sofa-loveseat combination, any color scheme. Although the ages were all roughly equivalent among the ladies, Rachel could not imagine what they were doing with poor Mrs. Deerfield—they looked like rich Georgetown women. And if first impressions mean anything, I don’t like them one bit.

  “No thanks on the sherry,” Rachel said, stepping backwards to the doorway again. But Mrs. Deerfield’s grasp was firm and she tugged her into the small living room.

  “Penelope’s told us such nice things about you,” Betty cooed, sipping daintily from the sherry glass, not realizing she was dripping the liquid down the front of her dress.