Ammie, Come Home (7 page)

“The secret of good cooking,” Ruth said didactically, “is to stick to what you can do well, but use no substitutes. I can't handle elaborate meals; they require too many hands at the last minute, and I really don't enjoy cooking all that much anyhow. A roast is easy to prepare, but this one I've got is a roast of roasts; I bullied it out of that French butcher on Wisconsin, and paid a week's grocery money for it. The salad is my own invention, but it's very simple—every fresh vegetable I can find goes into it, plus eggs. You'd be surprised how impressive it looks. So the rolls have to be handmade, those frozen ones taste like cardboard and would spoil the total effect.”

“I see your point. You know what I'd cook, don't you?”

“Spaghetti,” Ruth said.

“How did you ever guess?”

“Well, I used to serve it myself when I started housekeeping. It has the advantage of being honestly peasanty, but I can't serve Mrs. Jackson Mac-Dougal spaghetti. Not that she wouldn't eat it with perfect aplomb.”

“What's she like?”

“She's a darling. You'll like her.”

They stood for a moment in silence, their arms lightly touching as they surveyed the room to make sure no touch had been omitted. It was a good moment. Ruth was to remember it later, with a sharp pang of loss.

 

III

The guests were due at seven thirty. At six Ruth went downstairs to do the last-minute kitchen work which could not be put off any later if she wanted time to dress. The hors d'oeuvres needed to be made, the drink tray set up, the rolls kneaded and shaped—a dozen little odds and ends, time-consuming and annoying, which every hostess knows.

She had done her hair, but her person was attired in mules and a garment unattractively known as a duster. She had just plunged both hands up to the wrists in dough when the doorbell rang. She said “damn,” and wondered who on earth it could be. Sara was dressing and was probably unfit for society at the moment. She would have to answer the door herself.

Snatching up a paper towel she stamped into the hall and flung the door open, prepared to give a short shrift to any luckless newspaper boy or lost tourist. One glance and she started to slam it shut.

“Go away! Go away and come back in an hour. Of all the outrageous—”

Pat had thoughtfully inserted one large foot in the door. Now he shoved.

“I'm not a guest, I'm a waiter. Open up.”

She had very little choice. He kicked the door shut behind him and headed for the kitchen, without further comment. Ruth trailed along, too curious now to be angry. But if the parcel he carried contained food or wine, she was prepared to rage.

Pat deposited his bundle on the counter and unfolded it.

“My favorite bottle opener, my best carving knife, and,” he held up the white material which had contained the other items, “my apron. What needs doing?”

“But you—you…. Words,” said Ruth honestly, “fail me.”

“This last minute stuff is the worst part of the party. I'm trying to demonstrate,” he said, with a sidelong glance, “that men are useful things to have around the house. What have we here? Bread or something? Well, I'll leave that to you. What are we drinking? Where do you keep the gin?”

Twenty minutes later Ruth was shaping the last of the rolls while Pat put a shaker of martinis in the refrigerate and swept the kitchen with a comprehensive glance.

“All set, I think. I'll light the fire now, while you change.”

“Just a second, till I finish these.”

He came up behind her and stood watching, and gradually Ruth's movement slowed. She had expected this sooner or later and had not been sure how she would handle it—or how she wanted to handle it. What she had not anticipated was the mindless lassitude that gripped her at the first touch of his hands.

“Relax,” he said, into her ear. “I don't want flour all over my brand new jacket.”

Leaning back against him, she heard his quick breathing, felt his hands move from her waist to her breasts. His lips slid down her cheek, seeking her mouth; without conscious volition she turned her face to meet his. So…. Those particular nerve endings were not atrophied after all. Through the years she had sought—perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not—partners who did not arouse the deadened emotions, and had told herself that they were gone for good. Now, wherever his hands and lips had touched she felt stripped, not only of clothing but of skin, as if the skillful fingers manipulated the nerves themselves.

For several long unmeasured seconds her consciousness hung suspended on a single pivot of pleasure; then the automatic defenses, never so long defied, snapped into place. She stiffened and moved; and he released her at once, stepping back, hands touching her waist only to balance her.

Staring dizzily at her own hands, Ruth saw a pathetic squeezed lump clenched between taut fingers. Automatically she began to pat it into shape.

“What happened?” he asked quietly. His breathing was slower but still uneven.

“Nothing. I…squashed my roll, didn't I?”

“Do you find me that repulsive?”

“Oh, Pat—no.” She turned to face him, hands eloquent; with the beginning of a smile he fended off her floury fingers.

“I thought the first reaction was too good. Well, I guess this isn't the time or place to go into the matter. Remove your tempting person from my presence and I'll try to behave myself the rest of the evening. We'll pretend nothing happened.”

 

It was no use pretending; every time her eyes met his she remembered, with her entire body. As Sara deftly removed the plates and served cherries jubilee, Ruth's eyes went back to the magnet that had drawn them all evening, and found his eyes waiting and alight.

When they moved into the drawing room Ruth shook herself mentally. It was high time she paid more attention to her guests, especially now that the main event of the evening was coming up. She had invited a couple from the office, amiable nonentities whose personalities would not be obtrusive, and Sara had added two school friends whose faces, then and forever after, remained pink blurs in Ruth's memory.

Madame Nada, decked in swirling black chiffon for the occasion, led the way into the room. She had already seen and approved the arrangements, but their previous occupation of the drawing room had been confined to the couches near the fire. Now, as the medium approached the table, she suddenly stopped short, her hand outstretched in the act of seeking a chair. Ruth heard her gasp sharply.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, moving to Madame Nada's side. The other guests, chatting and relaxed after a good meal, were not paying much attention. Ruth was the only one who saw the medium's face, and she felt as if she were seeing its true shape for the first time. Genuine surprise and a shadow of some other, less innocuous emotion, had stripped away the mask temporarily.

“It is so cold,” said Madame Nada.

“I know, there always seems to be a draft at this end of the room. If it's too bad—”

“Draft?” The close-set brown eyes, still wide with shock, met hers.

“Are we ready?” Mrs. MacDougal asked crisply, at Ruth's elbow. She had changed her personality with her costume, and was wearing a soft dressmaker suit that looked like a thousand dollars, which was probably its approximate price.

“I don't know.” Ruth turned impulsively. “It is so chilly at this end of the room. Will it be uncomfortable for you? We could move the table….”

“Heavens, no. Pat told me about the draft—that's why I wore a suit. It seems quite comfortable to me. Where shall we sit?”

Ruth glanced inquiringly at the medium, who replied with a slight shrug and a smile. The mask was back in place.

When they were all seated, Ruth glanced around the table. The scene had an odd distinctness. Colors seemed more vivid, faces sharply cut and memorable. She was struck with a feeling that she ought to remember every detail.

The medium sat with her back to the windows, whose drapes were pulled shut. Ruth's coworker, Jack Simmons, sat on Madame Nada's right, and Ruth had been directed to the place on the medium's other side. Next to her sat Sara, looking especially vivid and alert; her eyes sparkled with anticipation, rich color stained her cheeks, and her olive complexion was set off by the clear yellow wool of her dress. Bruce sat almost directly opposite her. He had been on his best behavior all evening, except for indicating by his very silence that he found the conversation incredibly dull. As his eyes met Ruth's passing glance, he inclined his head slightly, and his beard twitched. Ruth's glance moved on. Mary Simmons, solemn and self-conscious, her reddened housewife's hands clasped on the table; Pat. That was enough, just…. Pat.

“We begin,” said Madame Nada suddenly.

 

IV

Afterward Ruth wondered whether she would have been conscious of that atmosphere if her
more delicate senses, those beyond the normal five, had not been preoccupied. A quiver of uneasiness penetrated even that most consuming of all self-interests; for when the lights went out, and the groping hands fumbled and linked, something touched her in the darkness, something impalpable that brushed and passed on; and a long shiver shook her bare arm.

At first the session was not notably different from the other meeting a week earlier. Ruth was conscious of the usual distractions, the annoying little itches which could not be scratched, the intensification of sounds with the loss of sight. The room was quite dark; the heavy drapes cut off all light from the street and the back of the couch shielded the glow of the fire, which had been allowed to die down to a bed of coals.

The medium's breathing deepened and slowed and steadied—the preliminary, as Ruth had been told, to what is called the trance state. Her fingers were linked around the medium's wrist, so she was immediately aware of the moment at which the Madame Nada went into her trance, body relaxed and hands limp.

“A name,” the medium droned. “Ann. Something…Ann. Mary?”

There was a stir around the table.

“Can she hear us?” It was Bruce's voice.

“No,” Mrs. MacDougal answered softly. “Not unless we addressed her directly. She's in light trance now, speaking with her own voice, of impressions she is getting. Later she'll go into deep trance and other personalities will speak through her.”

“Mary,” the medium interrupted. “Wants to sing. Not doing…party….”

Ruth felt Sara's hand contract, and knew she was about to giggle. She squeezed, warningly. However much she shared Sara's feelings, she could not mock her guests.

“Who is Mary?” Mrs. MacDougal asked.

“Pretty! Mary, Mary, quite contrary. That's what Papa calls her.”

“Can you describe her?”

“Oh, pretty…. Yellow hair. Old-fashioned: long curls. That's funny….”

“Describe her clothing.”

“Such pretty, flowery stuff…little sprigs, pink flowers. Kerchief around her neck, elbow sleeves….”

Mary Simmons, whose hobby was American costume, gave an involuntary squeak of recognition. The medium, seeming not to hear, swept on.

“A man, too, he's with her. She calls him Papa. Wears long blue coat, brass buttons. Funny whiskers, long, bushy…gray. Close the door, close the door, don't let the damned Yankees in!”

The last sentence boomed out, startlingly, in a deep baritone voice, rough with simulated anger. Sara jumped; Ruth, who had done some reading during the past week, squeezed her hand again.

“She's in deep trance now,” Mrs. MacDougal whispered. “Who are you?” she asked aloud.

“Henry. Damn' Yankees, let 'em die. Bolt the door!”

“Henry who?”

“Henry” snorted; he did sound just like a choleric old gentleman.

“Campbell, of course. Henry W. Campbell. My house, damn it; damn' bluecoats can't come in.”

“Why don't you want them to come in?” Mrs. MacDougal asked.

“Wait.” The voice changed. It was no longer a man's voice; but it was so distorted by some strong emotion that Ruth could not identify it as Madame Nada's. The words sounded strained, as if each one had to be forced through a resisting substance. “No, no…. No…can…not….”

The limp hand flexed so roughly that it pulled loose from Ruth's grasp. The medium's breathing quickened.

“Nada. Listen to me, Nada. Wake up. Wake up…. Lights, someone.”

The circle broke. Lights flared, leaving everyone blinking. Ruth saw Mrs. MacDougal bending over the medium, holding her shoulders and speaking in a soothing voice.

“All right now?” she asked.

“Yes, yes.” The medium straightened and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. “What happened?”

“An intrusive entity,” Mrs. MacDougal said solemnly.

“Strong,” the medium muttered. “Strong and….”

She shook herself like a dog coming out of the water.

“Did we get anything of interest?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, splendid. Mrs. Bennett, you know something of the history of the house. Can you verify the incident?”

Put fair and squarely on the spot, Ruth stammered, “Of course the house did belong to the Campbells. I don't recall the name of the man who owned it during the Civil War, but—”

“Yes, it was certainly the War Between the States,” Mrs. MacDougal agreed. “Was Mr. Campbell a Southern sympathizer?”

From across the table Bruce said smoothly,

“May I, Mrs. Bennett? Not only was Campbell a rebel at heart—not uncommon in Georgetown—but the incident suggested did occur. When the Union Army fled after the battle of—First Bull Run, I think it was—the wounded, exhausted men streamed back into the city over the bridge at Georgetown. Many of them collapsed on the steps of the houses, and Mr. Campbell ordered his door locked and barred against them.”

He waited just long enough for the gasps of amazement to be heard. Then he added gently,