A Ship Made of Paper

by Scott Spencer

  Ferguson stands transfixed as the snow drifts over everything.In less than an hour, there is no green, no red, no brown, no gold:every tree is white, and every inch ofopen land is white, too.The snow is wet, porous;it lies in the field like that foam they spray on runways after a crash.This is very, very bad, Ferguson thinks.Yet he’s smiling.He feels a kind ofdelight in the imminence oftrouble, a morbid receptivity to dis-aster.Good, he thinks, good, let it all come down.

  Moments later, Ferguson’s wife, Susan, appears on the porch.Ferguson dresses like a handyman, but Susan favors capes, and at least two pounds ofjewelry.She’s a large-boned, voluptuous woman, full ofen-thusiasm and temper.With erupting, abundant black hair and fierce green eyes, she’s the sort ofwoman who frightens children.She and Fer-guson have been married for twelve years.They are second cousins on their mothers’sides, but whatever genetic risk that poses is a moot point.They have no offspring.

  “The electricity just went off,”Susan announces.“And once again we are plunged into shit.”

  Fuck yourself, I wish your head would explode, get out of my life,thinks Ferguson.Let me sleep with Marie unmolested, spare me your pedestrian, boring guilt trips, get out get out…

  “I don’t know why we don’t have a generator,”Susan adds.

  “I’m working on it,”says Ferguson.“Sit down, Susan.Look at all this snow.You may never see anything like this again.We are really in for it.

  This happened before, in1934,and it was a complete disaster.”

  “I was hoping to bathe,”Susan says.“And I was also hoping to make some progress in organizing the library.”Eight Chimneys’state ofdisre-pair has come to irritate Susan, and, lately, imposing some order on it has become a virtual obsession.She simply cannot take it any longer.What had once seemed like a charming, funky casualness, a kind ofstylish nose-thumbing at all ofthose blue bloods who once occupied these rooms, now strikes her as a kind ofhell, an inferno ofshattered sconces, peeling wallpaper, cracked plaster, stained ceilings, threadbare carpets, broken windows, knobless doors, perilous staircases, inexplicable drafts, grotesque armoires, and heirloom furniture theoretically worth hun-dreds ofthousands ofdollars but in reality worth nothing because no one in his right mind would ever want it.

  “I don’t want you to organize the library,”Ferguson says.“I need to go through everything first.”

  “What is it exactly that you want to‘go through’?”

  “There’s a lot to go through.”

  “And in the meanwhile, the disorder is intolerable.”

  “You should work on your tolerance, then, Susan.It’s a brand-new world, nothing is ever going to be the way we want it.We have to adapt, wehave to grow, learn, change.Haven’t any ofyour spiritual advisors told you this?”

  Susan can no longer tell ifFerguson is speaking his mind or trying to make her lose hers.He likes to play devil’s advocate, which she thinks is the most corrupt, exhausting parody ofreal conversation.

  “Who are you waiting for anyhow?”she asks him.“You’ve been out here for an hour.”

  “Dan Emerson.He’s going to give us advice about making Eight Chimneys a historic site, and maybe even a museum.”

  “Oh yes, Marie’s bright idea.”She looks out at the snow.“He’s probably not coming.”

  “He’ll be here.A man like Dan Emerson isn’t going to be pushed around by a few snowflakes.He’s high energy all the way.And I don’t think he’s averse to developing some river clientele.”

  “Oh, no one gives a hoot about river people anymore.”

  “But I don’t think he knows that.He was raised in our great collective shadow.”

  Susan sticks her hand out over the porch railing, the snow melts in her dark, henna-streaked palm.“Maybe the roads are already closed.We can never be sure what’s happening out in the world.We’re stuck away like lunatics in this place.”

  “I’m working on it, Susan.Anyhow, look who’s here.”He points toward the west, where a line ofcedars stand like exclamation points.A car is coming toward the house, snow spraying from beneath the tires.

  A few minutes later, Ferguson, Susan, and Daniel go into the library, where MarieThorne awaits them.Serene and delicate, she stares sight-lessly out the window.She has luminous long hair, practically to her nar-row little waist, the hair ofa woman not fully in the world.She has been blind since birth.

  Daniel has heard about what is going on between Ferguson and Marie—people inWindsor County gossip about the local gentry as if they are royalty, or movie stars.Marie is the daughter ofSkipThorne, a former caretaker at Eight Chimneys, and she was raised right there on the estate.Ferguson has a reputation ofbeing especially drawn to young girls, and it’s also been said that he’d found Marie attractive even when she was eight years old.

  She turns when they come in.She has been looking forward to this meeting.Her plan to save Eight Chimneys is her gift to Ferguson;she hopes it will put them on equal footing and allow them one day to have a life together.She is dressed for business, in an oatmeal-colored tweed suit and a strand ofpearls.

  “I’m here with Daniel Emerson,”Ferguson says.“The lawyer?”His voice booms without effort, it seems like an unwelcome miracle of acoustics, he opens his mouth and a shout emerges.

  “Mr.Emerson.”Marie extends her hand and strides across the library to greet Daniel.She moves easily through rooms she has known her whole life.

  “So you want to turn this place into a museum?”Daniel says, as soon as they are seated at the library table.

  “Not all ofit!”Susan says, with some alarm.“Not the whole house.”

  “We’re thinking ofjust the main floor and the cellar,”says Ferguson.

  “And maybe some ofthe land, the property right around the house.”

  “And a swath going down to the river,”adds Marie.

  ”A swath?”says Susan.The word feels vulgar, like“hopefully,”or“be that as it may.”

  “Let me give you a little background,”Ferguson says.“You need to understand why we’re considering…”

  Susan rises to light the stubs ofcandles in various holders around the room.With unconscious frugality, she tries to light them all with one match.Suddenly the green shaded lamp on the desk flickers on, and a moment after that comes the whine ofthe water pump down below in the cellar coming back to life.

  But the respite is momentary.The lamp goes dark again and the pump is still.Ferguson laughs his strange, grating laugh.“It’s a mess, the electric company around here,”says Ferguson.“And it was from the outset.Our un-cle used to be on the board ofdirectors ofWindsor Power.Clare Richmond.

  People thought he was a woman.In fact, at one point I had an Uncle Clare and anAunt Michael.Do you rememberAunt Michael?”he says to Susan.

  Susan doesn’t like to dwell on the fact that she and her husband are related, however distantly, and she ignores his question.“You can’t cut out a swath ofland, it doesn’t make any sense.”

  The snow-filled windows are darkening, and the sudden sound ofa splitting tree is like the deadly bark ofa rifle.Ferguson returns to the sub-ject ofthe museum.He makes something ofa show oftelling Daniel about the financial pressures facing Eight Chimneys.Good professional manners dictate that Daniel take this to be shocking, distressing news, though everyone in the area is fully aware ofthe perpetual peril in which the Richmond estate operates, and even ifDaniel weren’t privy to the lo-cal gossip, one look at the place would tell him all he needed to know.

  “Ifwe can’t figure out this money business fairly soon,”Ferguson says,

  “this property might very well fall into the hands ofdevelopers and end up as Eight Chimneys Estates, or be turned into a rest home, or a mental hospital.”

  “Some people think it alreadyisa mental hospital,”Susan can’t keep herselffrom saying.

  “Something you said makes me curious,”Daniel says.“You said you wanted to use the main floor and the cellar.”

  “Oh, the cellar!”says Marie.She has turned her eyes
toward Daniel.

  They are bright and somehow thick, like the inside ofoyster shells.“That’s one ofthe most important parts.Do you know the Underground Railroad?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Well, as you know, it wasn’t really a railroad, it was really a whole lot ofhiding places.Like a system ofthem.And the cellar here was part ofit.There are these secret rooms and passageways.Slaves, mostly from Georgia, they were kept there.”

  “We’re so lucky to have Marie, aren’t we?”says Susan, turning around.The corners ofher mouth are turned down and her wide-set eyes blaze with anger.“Not only does she come to us with all her knowl-edge ofarts administration, but she knows history, too.”

  “They’re for storage now,”Marie says, unfazed.“But we’re going to clean them out and make them like before.You can go down there, ifyou want.You can still feel the spirits ofthe escaped slaves.”

  In unison, the four ofthem turn to a clatter ofnoise coming from the hall, and a moment later the library door swings open and two men walk in, one ofthem middle-aged, with a warm, beatific smile, a down vest, and a maroon beret sparkling with snow.He cradles in his arms several brightly printedTibetan silk ceremonial flags.The other man is tall, an-gular, with long, black hair grown past his shoulders and a patch over his eye;he carries a large wooden box filled with fireworks.

  “I’m sorry,”the smaller man says, in a low, Spanish-accented voice,

  “we knocked and there was no answer.”

  “Oh, Ramon!”Susan says, springing up from her chair.“I didn’t realize you were bringing all this over today.”

  “Tomorrow I go to Bogotá,and then to BuenosAires.”

  “There’s more outside in the truck,”the taller man says.“We betterhurry.”

  Susan accepts kisses from Ramon on both cheeks, and then peers into the crate filled with Catherine wheels, Roman candles, gigantic orange sparklers.“Come on, Ferguson,”she says.“Help us unload this, please, before it’s all spoiled.Let’s get it offthe truck and into the ballroom.”

  “The ballroom?”Ferguson says.“What’s it going to do in there?What is this stuffanyhow?”

  “It’s for a purification ceremony two weeks from yesterday.We’ve got a van filled with monks coming up for it.”

  Ferguson reluctantly rises.“I’m surprised at you, Ramon.I thought you were a good Catholic.”

  “I sit at the feet ofanyone with wisdom,”Ramon says, beaming.

  ”Ifwe don’t do this soon, it’s not going to happen,”the tall man says.

  ”Please, Ferguson, let’s hurry,”Susan says.For a moment, it seems she is going to clap her hands, but she instead reaches out to him implor-ingly.“Marie can tell Mr.Emerson everything he needs to know, and what she forgets we can fill in when we get back.”

  When the Richmonds and the two men leave the library—their footsteps soon disappear into the dank, porous silence ofthe house—Daniel and Marie sit silently in the flickering gloom for a few moments.Daniel glances at Marie, afraid that she might sense it ifhe simply stared at her.

  She sits silently, her fragile hands folded.She has a prominent forehead, which, combined with her pale skin and dark hair, gives her the appear-ance ofsomeone temperamental, a worrier, a sufferer, someone who is capable oflashing out.She breathes in;the nostrils ofher long, stern nose practically close, and then she exhales and sits deeper in her chair, lets her head fall against the cracked leather back.

  “It’s so sad when love dies,”she says.

  ”Yes, it is,”Daniel says.

  ”This used to be a very happy house,”she says.

  ”Ferguson’s pretty excited about this idea ofyours,”Daniel says.

  ”My father loved this house, and everything connected to it.”

  “I met your father a couple oftimes,”Daniel says.Marie has no noticeable reaction to this;perhaps she, like the masters ofthe house, be-lieves that everyone in Leyden knows her and her family in some way.

  ”He saw my father a couple oftimes.He came to the house.”

  “Who’s your father?”

  “Dr.Emerson.He’s a chiropractor.”

  “My father had terrible back problems all his life,”Marie says.The sound ofa tree breaking nearby resounds like a cannon shot, making Daniel jump in his seat but leaving Marie unmoved.“I remember him talking about Dr.Emerson.He liked him, he thought he was good.”

  “I’m glad my father could help.”

  “Is he still alive, your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he ever work on you?”

  “Oh no, never.I was always sort ofphysically afraid ofmyfather.The thought ofhim cracking my back, or yanking my head and cracking my neck—I could never put myselfin that sort ofposition.He’d put me on that table ofhis, I might never get up.”Daniel means this to be amusing, but Marie frowns and nods her head.

  She gets up and glides to the tall windows.She places her palm against the darkening glass and then presses her cold hand onto her cheeks.Daniel sees that she is flushed;beads ofsweat have formed along her hairline.

  “Everyone in this town talks about Ferguson and me, don’t they,”

  Marie says, turning toward the window again.She presses her other hand against the pane, then touches her forehead, her throat.

  “People like to gossip, Marie.I don’t pay much attention to what they say.”

  When she turns again, Daniel sees that a solitary thread ofblood has crawled out ofher right nostril and is making its way through the pale down ofher upper lip.

  “You’re bleeding, Marie,”he says.He feels in his pockets for a handkerchief, but all he comes up with is the plastic wrap from this morning’s gas station bagel, the touch ofwhich triggers a startling flash of memory: those magazines.He is beginning to understand the unbridled nature of desire when it is confined to the realm ofmake-believe, how without the reality ofan actual person in its path, it races headlong, blind and frothing.

  Marie seems not to have heard him.“I don’t care what people say.

  Something amazing has happened between Ferguson and me.And that’s all there is to it.Ifpeople are upset, then they’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “Marie…”

  “I’m telling you this because I want you to be careful with Susan.She once loved this place, but not now, not anymore, and she never loved Ferguson.And she’ll do anything to wreck what we’re trying to do, she’d rather Ferguson lose the house and everything else—which would kill him.This is his habitat.He can’t live anywhere else.It’s pretty funny, when you think about it, she’s into all these world religions, the Muslim, the Buddhist, the goddess, the meditation, the drumming, the spinning around in circles, but she’s cruel and she’s selfish, she can’t stand the idea that other people might find happiness.”At last, the trickle ofblood reaches her lip and she tastes it.She gasps and her fingers go to her lip and then her nose.“Blood,”she says.She has smeared the blood over her upper lip.

  “I don’t have a handkerchiefor a Kleenex or anything.”

  “Ifyou could go to the kitchen.”She has seated herselfand tilts her head back.

  “Where’s the kitchen?”

  “Walk out the nearest door, which will put you in the portrait gallery, go through the double doors, turn right, go to the end ofthe hall, and there it is.”

  The portrait gallery is barely lit by the anemic pearl light coming in through three adjoining sets ofFrench windows.Here, paintings and drawings ofthe Richmonds and the various families related to them by marriage have been hung on the blue plaster walls with such economy of space that the frames touch, though here and there appears an18 x 24sun-bleached blank, where a portrait has been removed and sold at auction.

  Daniel hurries through the double doors and into a long hallway, which is lit by a few bare bulbs.As the electric power continues to come and go, they flicker offand on, as ifa child were playing with the switch.

  A small SouthAmerican man in his twenties, wearing a serape and a fe-dora, and w
ith a crow perched on his shoulder, leans against the wall, pulling a nail out ofhis sneaker sole with a pliers.He gives no indication ofnoticing Daniel, who rushes past him to the kitchen, a dismal, cata-strophically disorganized room, where Ferguson and Susan are in the midst ofa bitter argument.

  “I didn’t hear you say anything, Susan,”Ferguson is saying.

  ”You were deliberately ignoring me,”she answers.“You love to negate me.”

  “You’re insane, Susan.”

  Daniel has entered the kitchen and there is no backing out.He stands next to the old eight-burner stove, every burner ofwhich holds a cast-iron kettle or skillet.Herbs that were hung to dry from the overhead beams have long ago turned gray and powdery.The double sink is filled with two towers ofdirty dishes;a calico cat with a rawhide collar swats atthe drops ofwater that swell and then fall from the silver faucet.Fer-guson and Susan have turned to face him.

  “I’m sorry,”Daniel says.“I need a paper towel or something.”

  “What for?”demands Susan.

  ”Marie has a bloody nose.”

  Susan’s laugh is surprisingly throaty and warm.“Did you hit her?”

  “We don’t carry paper towels here,”says Ferguson.He pulls a not very fresh-looking handkerchieffrom his back pocket, and as he is hand-ing it to Daniel the lights cut offand then come back on—it seems as if someone were shaking the room—and then they go offagain and that’s it.They are not in total darkness but in a deep opaque grayness, as ifthey have been woven into the fabric ofa sweater.

  “Hurry, Ferguson,”says Susan.“Run.She needs you.”

  “I needher,Susan.That’s the mess we’re in, and ifyou won’t see that, you won’t see anything.”