Someone in the House (30 page)

“Anyhow, you prayed the heathen image out of its socket,” Roger said, with genuine admiration. “Who the hell is Edmund Mandeville?”

The last was too much for Bea. Rigid with fury, she rose to her feet. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “Won’t you come to my sitting room? I’m sure you could use a cup of tea.”

“We’ll be right there,” said Roger, to her retreating form. “Come on, Steve, who was Edmund?”

Father Stephen explained as we walked toward the door. Roger kept making gruff sounds indicating incredulity. Not that Father Stephen claimed he had gotten to the root of the trouble; in fact, he scoffed at the suggestion that the fall of the carving had anything to do with his service. “That’s childish,” he said. “God may work in mysterious ways, but He doesn’t throw pieces of scenery around for effect.”

I had to agree with that. In fact, we were getting too damned many effects. The someone, or something, in the house seemed almost too willing to oblige our ignorant efforts.

12

DURING THE FOLLOWING DAYSI began to think that I had underestimated Father Stephen’s spiritual influence, or Bea’s much-maligned séance. Something appeared to have done the trick, for one day followed another in peaceful sequence, without the slightest disturbance. They were halcyon days, days of wine and roses, heavenly days that cannot die, salad days (for Iwas green in judgment), red-letter days, a time full of sweet days and roses.

There is a special tang in hours spent with someone who shares not only your emotions but your interests—someone you loveand like. Obscure references and professional jokes don’t have to be explained, they are caught and tossed back, weaving an ever-strengthening web of closeness. When Kevin was moved to quote “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun….” I could cap it with “Everything that grows, Holds in perfection but a little moment.” When he came up with a juicy suggestion from his beloved Restoration dramatists, I could dredge up something equally licentious and literary from Donne. Kevin enjoyed it too. Not all women melt when they are wooed with Shakespearean sonnets.

The other relationship didn’t develop so well. The day after the ceremony in the chapel, Roger told Kevin he was leaving.

“Was it something I said?” Kevin asked, trying not to smile too broadly.

“I didn’t mean to impose so long,” Roger said. “Thanks for everything.”

“I trust this is not farewell forever,” I said—for of course I was with Kevin. I usually was.

“Oh, right,” Kevin said. “Drop in anytime.”

“I would like to use the library now and then, if you don’t mind. I could start on the cataloging.”

Kevin said sure, and offered to help Roger carry his stuff to the car. Roger refused. I guess even Kevin would have wondered if he had lifted those suitcases, with their load of cameras and equipment.

It was not hard to figure that Roger had been given his congé by Bea. She wasn’t happy with me and Kevin either. She had had a long session with Father Stephen at the parsonage, and had returned looking as if she had been crying. I assumed she had confessed to him about giving Kevin sleeping pills. Undoubtedly he had scolded her for that, and no doubt spiritual arrogance and materialism had also been mentioned. For all his gentleness, I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of one of Father Stephen’s lectures. She went moping around the house for several days, and finally I decided to take steps. I was so happy I wanted everybody else to be happy too. Except perhaps Debbie.

I ran Bea down in the kitchen while she was getting dinner. She had been cooking huge elaborate meals that nobody wanted; some women do that, I am told, when they are feeling sorry for themselves. She refused my offer of help, so I sat myself firmly in a chair and asked straight out what was the matter.

“Something has gone wrong between you and Roger. I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t keep my nose out of the affairs of people I care about.”

Once again, by instinct, I chose the right words. They pricked her smooth defensive surface as a pin breaks a balloon. She slumped, the knife with which she had been boning chicken dangling from her hand.

“It’s easier for you,” she muttered.

I had some idea of what her problem was, so her comment made more sense than it might otherwise have done. “Maybe so,” I agreed. “But you’re an adult, you have no responsibilities to anyone but yourself.”

“Those are the only responsibilities that matter.” She looked at me. The misery in her face shocked me into silence. “My principles may seem stupid to you, but they are important to me. I can’t violate the beliefs of a lifetime without suffering.”

I had thought I understood. I realized that I had understood only with my mind. My heart and my gut couldn’t understand, couldn’t agree. At least I had sense enough not to argue with her. Logic never convinces the heart. I tried to find a way out, one she could accept.

“If you are going to be married—”

I hit the wrong note that time. Bea jerked back as if I had voiced an obscenity. “Married! I couldn’t marry Roger. Oh, he asked me….” And, despite her genuine grief, there was a hint of complacency in the last sentence.

“But I thought—”

“Anne, you don’t realize the state I was in when I came here. I hope I hid it successfully; I don’t approve of inflicting one’s private miseries on others. Those tasteless jokes I made about Harry—that wasn’t me, that was a frightened woman whistling in the dark to keep from crying. I—I actually hated Harry, toward the end; yet I felt helpless and terrified without him, as if someone had knocked down the walls of my house and stripped off my clothes and left me shivering in a blizzard. The walls might have been ramshackle and the clothing threadbare; but they were protection of a sort, do you see? Then to come here, to find affection and warmth and comfort—I began to feel I could make something of life after all. Roger gave me something to lean on, his admiration made me bloom. I’ll never relish independence, Anne. I need someone. Roger has strength, humor, tenderness.”

“It sounds to me as if you’re in love with him.”

“I love him,” Bea said, with a shrug.

“Then what’s your problem? Is it—I mean, do you feel as if marrying Roger would be—like adultery?”

“That sounds utter foolishness to you, doesn’t it? But I believed the vows I took, Anne. ‘What God has joined together…’ Only,” she added, with a faint smile, “I didn’t enjoy being joined together with Harry.”

“What did Father Stephen say?”

“You’re a sly one, aren’t you? Yes, I confessed my doubts to him; he told me they were unreasonable. But how can I live with a man who jeers at everything I believe? I know I can’t change him; people don’t change other people, they can only change themselves. And that’s not easy. I do love Roger. But—”

“Isn’t love the most important thing?”

The most beautiful look of compassion spread over Bea’s face. “My poor child,” she said. “Of course it isn’t.”

II

We talked for a while longer. Bea thanked me for encouraging her to let it all hang out—she put the phrase in verbal quotation marks. The conversation cleared the air between us, but it brought home to me the fact that we couldn’t ever really understand one another. She had thrown Roger out of her life because he didn’t believe in the Trinity or the loving kindness of God…. I found myself thinking, “Poor old Roger,” which was not a sentiment I had ever expected to feel.

Roger had not given up hope. He turned up from time to time. Occasionally I saw him in the library, but not often; I didn’t spend many hours there. Kevin and I were out of doors most of the time. The weather was perfect. The farmers began complaining about the lack of rain; but I didn’t care about the farmers. Inside the house matters went as smoothly as they did outside. The nights were as wonderful as the days.

Paradise has no clocks and no calendar. I don’t remember how long I enjoyed my personal Eden before the serpent slithered back into it, in the person of Roger. But it wasn’t long. Not nearly long enough.

One day I wandered into the library in search of some light reading and heard noises upstairs, in the gallery. I called, “Who’s there?” and got a grotesque, upside-down view of Roger’s head peering over the rail.

“Annie? Stay there.”

I hate being called Annie. I wondered why I had let Roger get away with it so long, and was about to express my sentiments when he came rumbling down the spiral staircase. One look and I forgot my complaints.

I hadn’t seen him for several days. He looked terrible. He had lost weight, especially in the face, and his jowls sagged like those of a sick old man.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“Not here.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Can you tear yourself away for an hour or so without telling the others where you’re going?”

“Certainly.” I resented the implication. “That is, if you can give me one good reason why I should.”

“You think it’s all over, don’t you? Well, it’s not. I could tell you things….” He broke off, with a repetition of that hunted look. Stains of sleeplessness circled his eyes. His rapid, muttering voice and his changed manner alarmed me. I took a step back. His hand shot out and clamped over my wrist. “No, don’t go. Promise you’ll meet me.”

“All right. When and where?”

“This afternoon.”

“I can’t. Kevin and I are—”

“Kevin and you. That’s what I was afraid of.” Then the tight lines around his mouth relaxed, and he produced a fair imitation of a smile. “You look terrified, Annie. Don’t worry, I’m not cracking up. When can you get away?”

“Tomorrow morning? I’m not sure what time. I’ll come to your place if you’re going to be home.”

“I’ll make a point of it.” Only then did he release his hold on my arm. “Don’t let me down, Annie. It’s important.”

Without waiting for an answer, he trotted back up the stairs. I picked up my book and left the room. I was trying to think what I could tell Kevin in the morning. A shopping trip? He might offer to come along. I could say I had a headache…. Then it struck me as wrong that I should have to invent excuses to get an hour by myself.

III

I solved the problem by getting up and out early, before Kevin was awake. I was tempted to leave him a note, and then I got mad at myself for considering such a demonstration of servility. I didn’t expect him to account to me for the way he spent his time; why should he expect it of me?

The keys to the cars and the doors of the house were kept on a board in the kitchen. I snagged the keys of Kevin’s car, the old Vega he had been driving as long as I had known him. For some reason the Mercedes struck a wrong note.

Early as it was, Roger was expecting me. The door opened before I could knock. I was about to commend his habits when I realized, from his haggard face, that he had not been to bed at all.

“What did you tell him?” was his first question.

“I didn’t tell him anything. Why should I?”

“Okay, okay. Come in the dining room. I’ve been working in there.”

“I want some coffee,” I said. “And you’d better have some too. You look like hell, Roger.”

“Charming as always.” He passed his hand over his unshaven chin. “I feel like hell, if you want to know.”

“You might try eating now and then, and sleeping a few hours every night.”

It wasn’t hard to find the kitchen; the house was tiny, with only two rooms on the ground floor, separated by a minuscule hall. The kitchen and pantry had been stuck on to the house behind the dining room. It would have been a cute little place, furnished tastefully with antiques, if it had not been in such a state of neglect. The furniture was dull with dust, and the floor had not been swept for over a week. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes. I had to wash two cups and saucers; there were no clean ones in the cupboard.

Roger’s pathetic appearance had aroused the good old maternal instinct, and pity had replaced my vexation. All the world loves a lover. I was more inclined to sympathize with his point of view than with Bea’s, anyway. So I ignored his grumpy remarks and made him sit down and eat some toast. The bread was the only thing in the kitchen I would have fed to a dog. Everything in the refrigerator had mold on it, and the egg I broke smelled like a skunk.

“That was a good idea,” he admitted, after he had finished the toast.

“You ought to know better. Men have died and the worms have eaten them, but not—”

“For love? Humph. That’s part of my complaint, Annie, but not all. If I can settle this business and prove to Bea that she’s been wrong from the start—”