Almost two weeks and they still hadn’t met. The old woman, Marian had said at one point, had a fascinating picture collection. Aunt Elizabeth’s painting was primitive and hardly fascinating, but it was an appropriate way to introduce herself. And it wasn’t merely nosiness on her part (not completely, anyway); more an act of courtesy, long overdue. And if it would somehow alleviate the enervation, the creeping weariness . . .
Aunt Elizabeth held the picture at arm’s length, decided it wasn’t all that embarrassing, and carried it out of her room.
The double doors at the end of the corridor, up the five steps, were closed. Would she regard it as an intrusion? Marian had said the area was out of bounds, but that was obviously for David’s benefit. A lonely old woman? She’d welcome the company.
Aunt Elizabeth stopped in front of the pier-glass-console and passed a hand over her hair which, she noticed, could use some attention: it looked thin, shapeless, and the gray was washing out to an old lady’s white. Beauty parlor, next week – wherever the nearest one was. As a matter of fact, she’d suggest it to Marian as well; her hair was becoming noticeably gray at the temples, which was a shame in such a young, attractive woman. A nice outing, a few hours away from the house, with Aunt Elizabeth treating. It was the least she could do for all the hospitality, though of course she’d show her gratitude with something more elaborate once they all returned to the city.
She continued toward the double doors, stopping to catch her breath at the foot of the short staircase (one cigarette from now on, with her martini). She gripped the bannister, and her arm began to shake with the effort of pulling herself up the stair; there was lead in her shoes. One step, pause; another, pause again, a little longer. She held the painting more securely, thinking, “For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, what’s wrong with you? Up.” When she reached the top step she was winded. She leaned against the wall until the slight dizziness passed and she was breathing more evenly. If it weren’t so ridiculous it would be alarming: five steps and she was on the verge of collapsing. Will, Elizabeth, will; age is a state of mind. She pushed herself away from the wall, raised her hand which was small and pallid, and knocked. She held her hand against the door, looking at it; the skin was loose, the bones prominent. But steady, still. She knocked again, waited, and then began to turn the knob.
“Mrs. Allardyce?” she called softly as she opened the door; “May I come in?”
She heard an inner door closing, and then the knob was pulled out of her hand and Marian stood in front of her.
“Marian, I didn’t know you were in there, dear.”
“Straightening up,” Marian said. She kept the opening narrow. “What is it?”
“I thought it was about time I introduced myself,” Aunt Elizabeth said and paused for breath; “to our benefactor.”
“She’s sleeping,” Marian said.
“Oh. That’s too bad.” She raised the watercolor. “I thought she might enjoy seeing my picture.”
Marian looked at the painting briefly. “I’m sure she would. When she’s awake.”
Aunt Elizabeth was trying to see beyond Marian. “She sleeps quite a bit, doesn’t she?”
“Quite a bit,” Marian said.
“When do you think I might see her?”
“That’s hard to say. She very seldom leaves her room.” Aunt Elizabeth lowered her voice and gestured toward the area in back of Marian. “Is she sleeping there?”
“No,” Marian said, “that’s her sitting room.”
“With her picture collection?”
“Pictures?” Marian seemed surprised.
“You said she collected pictures. That’s why I brought this.”
“Her photographs, you mean.”
“Oh,” Aunt Elizabeth said, “photographs.”
Marian brushed her hair back from her face. “Aunt Elizabeth, I’m right in the middle – ”
“Yes, dear, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
Marian smiled politely; her voice lightened. “Everything under control downstairs?”
“David’s playing on the terrace, Ben hasn’t come back yet.”
She smiled again and closed the door another inch. “I’ll be out in a while. Lamb for dinner, all right?”
“That’s fine,” Aunt Elizabeth said. She started to turn away, then stopped. “Tell me – you’ve met her of course? Mrs. Allardyce?”
Marian hesitated, quickly adjusting something on the inside doorknob. “Yes,” she said, and then looked up at Aunt Elizabeth again. “Several times now.”
“What is she like?”
Marian shrugged. “Very old,” she said.
“That’s not saying much; there’s old and there’s old. Did she speak to you?”
“Casually, yes. ‘Good morning’ and ‘How are you all enjoying the house?’ That sort of thing. I’m sure you’ll meet her eventually.”
“I’m prying, I know,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “It’s just that I’m curious. A woman that age – she’s what? Eighty-three?”
“Eighty-five.”
“Eighty-five. And very independent, I’d think.”
“Very.”
“That’s admirable.”
“She’s certainly that,” Marian said. “And terribly shy. I think we should all respect her privacy.”
“Of course.”
“It’s probably upsetting enough to have me coming in and out.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of upsetting an old woman,” Aunt Elizabeth assured her. “You’ll tell her, though, that I came to visit?”
Marian nodded. “I know she’ll appreciate it.”
“And any time she’d like some company – ”
“I’ll let you know,” Marian said. “Be careful on the steps.” She lowered her eyes as if guiding Aunt Elizabeth’s feet.
“Go back to your work, Marian,” Aunt Elizabeth said, and waited for the door to close so that Marian wouldn’t see how absurdly difficult five small steps had become for a woman who just two weeks ago . . .
The thought, puzzling and disturbing, was interrupted by the sound of the lock.
He had dropped the knife in the bushes, when the presence had become intolerable, had left the scythe and clippers somewhere near the end of the driveway, and walked to the Camaro parked in the shade. Slowly and without looking back, as if nothing were behind him. He remembered pulling his shirt off the aerial, and the comfort of closing the windows on the sound of the motor idling; and then driving the short distance back to the house. Immediately, he thought. But when he found himself parked on the thin gravel paving in front of the garage, the inside of the Camaro had become airless and suffocating, the steering wheel hot enough to burn the palms of his hands, and his shirt and chinos were dark with sweat stains.
Mommie was busy somewhere, David told him when he reached the terrace, and Aunt Elizabeth had gone up to her room right after lunch.
“Lunch?” Ben said incredulously. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” David said. “Two maybe. How’d you get all sweaty?”
Ben repeated it soundlessly: “Two.” He moved away from David who was sitting on the floor in the middle of a network of orange plastic tracks that curved and looped over the flagstone; he was holding a small metal racing car.
“Wanna see something neat?” he said to Ben. He placed the car on the highest point of the track which was draped over one of the metal chairs. “Look at this, Dad.” When Ben turned he released the car, sending it flying, like a rollercoaster, down the dips. David embellished the sound with a guttural roar that exploded joyously when the car jumped a curve and crashed against the flagstone.
“You need more track,” Ben said distantly.
“A lot more,” David agreed and crawled over th
e stones, which Marian had already weeded several times, to retrieve the car. “Can we get some?” When he looked up, Ben had left the terrace.
The kitchen clock, the simplest in the house and the only one that worked despite Marian’s efforts with all the others, read one-twenty. At least two hours, then, were blank, lost; totally, as hard as he tried to retrace the morning. Maybe he’d left the house later than he remembered, or spent more time working on the driveway, or stopped the car somewhere on the way back. It was still blank, or vague at best, and the only memory he could call up with certainty was the sequence of the hallucination. Nothing else in retrospect was as real.
He heard Marian somewhere near the terrace saying, “Hi, sweetheart, how’re you doing?” and David replying, “Okay. Except I need more tracks.” A minute later the door to the kitchen swung open behind him. There was a brief silence before she said, a little too cheerfully, “My God, somebody here’s really been working!” She came in and let the door swing closed. Ben went to the refrigerator for a cream soda, keeping his back to her.
“I think I might’ve overdone it,” he said, and it surprised him by coming out normal and even.
“That’s a lot of driveway,” Marian said.
“Afraid I didn’t get very far, despite appearances.” He held up the can. “Want one?”
“No.” He could feel her watching him. “You didn’t get too much sun, did you?”
“Some.” He went to the sink and pulled the tab off the can. “We’re going to have to get someone. I can manage the power mower but that jungle’s a bitch.”
“We’ll get someone then. I’ll check the list.”
He felt controlled enough to face her. He turned and toasted her with the can. Marian nodded. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching him silently; one hand played with the sleeve of her shirt, a yellow and green boatneck which she either had or hadn’t worn that morning – he couldn’t remember. Ben took a long drink, and when he lowered his arm she was coming toward him and he could see her eyes filling suddenly. He put the drink down on the counter and held her as she buried her face in his chest. She said his name, calling him “Benjie,” and again how sorry she was about last night, could he ever forgive her? The words dissolved into quiet sobbing. “Okay,” Ben said, “okay . . .” His arm curved around her shoulders tighter, and something selfish started to creep into the compassion he was feeling for her. He shut his eyes, trying to block out everything but the close warmth and the comfort of feeling her against him. And when she said, “You know how much I love you,” he brushed his lips against her hair, nodding “Yes.”
“And nothing will change, Ben, nothing between us will ever change.”
“Why should anything change?”
She raised her face to him. “It won’t. Because you’re all that means anything to me . . . you and David.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “You know that’s true, don’t you?”
“Of course it’s true, Marian.”
“God, how I’ve wanted to say that to you today. I’ve been absolutely miserable.” She took a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes and nose.
Ben pushed the hair back from her face. She lowered her hand and forced a weak smile. “Are you okay now?” he asked.
“Better,” Marian said, drawing in a long shaky breath.
Should he bring it all out, he wondered; tell her about what had happened to him, as calmly and with as much sense as he could? Bring her to the driveway and show her where the limousine had appeared, point out the tire tracks and the spot where somehow two hours of his life had been wiped away?
She was saying something, tugging at his shirt. “What?”
“Good way to catch cold.”
“I’ll go up and change,” Ben said. The shirt was sticking to him, cool in the draft coming through the open window.
Marian stuffed the tissue back into her pocket; her eyes were red and shining, and there was still a quaver in her voice. “Can I show you something first?”
She took his hand and led him in the direction of the dining room, and still he wondered – should he tell her? The door was closed.
“Close your eyes,” she said. He heard her turn the knob and call, “Ready.” He opened his eyes and saw the table stretched out to its full length and covered, every inch of it, with freshly polished silver. And the other stuff – gold?
“Gold it is,” she assured him, and her eyes were shining even brighter now, her voice controlled and level.
Ben gave a low whistle and moved nearer the table.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Marian said.
“Where’d you find it all?”
“A closet; just today. I spent all morning polishing it.”
He walked the length of the table. It was an awesome collection. And for some reason what Marian had said a few minutes before came back to him: “I’ve been absolutely miserable.”
As sincere as he knew she’d been, he stopped and looked back at her, for even the slightest corroboration of just how miserable she might have been.
They slept together that night, and Marian made a point of coming into bed while Ben was still awake. He was wearing pajamas, tops as well as bottoms, which he seldom did, as if to reassure her that for the time being at least it would be by appointment only.
Again, he wanted to tell her, but how? She was propped up on the pillow beside him, with a gardening book open on her lap, and talking about the progress she was making in the greenhouse. At least she’d cleared away some of the debris – and would he remember to take it to the garbage pit tomorrow and burn it? The plants had been separated into “possible” and “hopeless” categories; and while her gardening experience had been limited to some apartment plants, she had been unusually successful with her philodendron and dracaena, and with a gardenia and Boston fern as well, both of which, she informed him, could be bitches.
He was only half-listening. How to tell her? “By the way, Marian . . .”? Or “Marian, I’m frightened . . .”? Or “Marian, I’m not sure, but . . .”? And why? What could he expect her to do – reason away the fears, encourage them; agree with him that, yes, there was something inimical in the house conjuring up these phantoms to torment him, and of course there’s nothing to do but pack up immediately, and find some nice doctor for him to see? The more he thought about it, the more confusing and incoherent it all became; and that itself became one more frightening realization. Thinking, simple reasoning was at times impossible, and his brain, when it did function, distorted reality. At times, he reminded himself; there were lucid moments. But which ones were they?
Marian had turned out her light. She said, “Goodnight, darling. I’m beat,” leaned over and kissed him.
“Sleep well,” Ben said, and watched her turn her back to him and pull the sheet up to her neck.
He leaned back and reached for a cigarette. The James novel he’d started reading a few days ago was on the night table; twenty-odd pages – the extent of the work he’d done on his new English IV class. He tried to recall what he’d read and then flipped through the opening pages for confirmation; at least it hadn’t all gone.
The light was hurting his eyes, aggravating the headache he’d developed after dinner. There was a slight throbbing now just above the eyes. He put out the cigarette and the light, and kissed the sheet covering Marian’s shoulder. She was asleep.
He tried lying on his right side and then his left and on his stomach, pressing his forehead into the pillow to numb the throbbing; when he lay on his back he heard it, just as he’d expected, somewhere under the bedroom windows. If he gave in and went to the window he’d see the limousine, he knew, even though there was nothing below but the terrace and the lawns sloping down to the bay. He shifted to his right side and lay his hand very lightly on Marian’s hip. He could see a line of
light beyond her, at the bottom of the closed bedroom door.
If he could sleep, if it would just come. The throbbing had separated itself from the pain in his head; it was outside. Would it stop if he went to the window and acknowledged it? The pain with it? And let him sleep? He closed his eyes and moved lower in the bed. His feet were sweating, and the palms of his hands; he could feel a tightening in his groin. How could she be asleep, breathing so evenly?
Who was it in college – Hoffman? Last day of the course. “Ladies and gentlemen, one word of advice: always get a good night’s sleep.” Thank you, Dr. Hoffman.
It came eventually; fitfully, a few minutes at a time – not sleep, but a dulling grogginess that, paradoxically, sharpened his senses, chambering sounds. The throbbing still, and then something else – a ticking somewhere beyond the closed door. Louder, more regular, and gradually replacing the sound under the windows. Ben’s eyes opened again; he raised his head and the pain sharpened above his eyes. The ticking was in the hall, and when he looked in the direction of the sound he saw a shadow passing slowly across the thin line of light at the bottom of the door; someone moving up the corridor toward the old lady’s room. He listened for footsteps or the creaking of floorboards. There was only the steady ticking. He passed a hand over his forehead and then got out of bed carefully, trying not to jog the pain. The windows were near his side of the bed, about ten feet away. Was it still there or had it disappeared with the sound? He struggled with the impulse to go to the window; took a step toward it, and then turned abruptly and headed for the door. The ticking was outside – the hall clock. He opened the bedroom door and saw the pendulum swinging in the glass case. There was nothing else; the hall was empty, the double doors at the end closed, Aunt Elizabeth’s as well. And David’s, whose door was never closed.
Burnt Offerings (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) Page 16