The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft (9 page)

She took a deep breath, making a self-conscious—perhaps too self-conscious—effort to collect herself.

I’m Flossie, Flossie Kush. I’m the one staying with Helen. Obviously.

Helen.

This is her flat, isn’t it? She said she was subletting from a Mrs…. oh, something to do with farmers … Shepherd, that’s it. Mrs. Shepherd? While she’s in Europe? Can you just imagine? What a place. Europe, I mean. That Adolf Hitler, the big bully. I knew boys just like him from first grade on. Babies, every one, and bullies because of it. Please, do come in.

You’re not a supporter, then,
I said, stepping into the room.

Goodness, is anyone? They’re supposed to be so cultured, you know, so intellectual, those horrid Germans. They call us vulgar? They call us loud? Philistines, they say, Americans, you know, but really they’re so awful and following that terrible man and his hateful ideas. He’s almost as bad as that Reverend so-and-so everyone’s so crazy about back home, Coughlin or whatever—do you listen to that radio show of his?

I’m not sure I know it.

Oh, but you must have heard of him.
The Little Hour of the Golden Flower
? Or
The Golden Hour of the Little Flower,
I’m never sure which. He’s not a German, of course, but he might as well be, he’s just as bad. The things he says about those poor boys in, whatever, Scottsboro.

Scottsboro?

Oh, you know. Those negro boys accused of, well, I shouldn’t say—
she lowered her voice—
rape. You know, down there in Alabama? I’ll tell you those boys were lynched, that’s what that was, only it was the courts that did the lynching. But to hear old Reverend Coughlin tell it. I’m surprised you haven’t heard him, he sure makes himself known. We should just ship him off to Germany, too, that’s what I think. You know I can’t even picture it there, everything that’s going on now. It’s just about the last place I’d want to be, that’s all I know.

Alabama?

Silly. Germany.

Oh? Why is that?

Kush
, she said, as if I should have known.
My surname. They wanted me to change it, of course.

They?

No one wants to hire a Jew actress. That’s one thing they were clear on.

You’re an actress.

That’s funny, you didn’t say, “You’re a Jew.” Some do, you know. Well. Anyway. Trying. To be an actress, that is. Trying not to be a Jew
. She laughed without humour.
Not really. On the outside, I guess. You know how it is.
She plucked at the hem of her cloak.

What was it? Before?

What was what?

Your name.

Kushner. Can you imagine? Florence Kushner? They wanted me to change it to something more delicious, they said. Delicious, imagine. Something like, oh, I don’t know, one of them suggested Arabella del’Aqua. That one stuck with me, I can tell you. What a laugh. So now I’m Flossie Kush. I don’t mind it. Only that I went on a cattle call once—do you know what that is, a cattle call?

I’m afraid I don’t.

No, I didn’t either. I hate the term. Not very flattering. It’s like an audition, but it’s open to, say, dozens of girls, hundreds. I guess it’s open to anyone who wants to go, and you stand around waiting all day, biting your nails, like cattle, I guess. Though I think that’s downright insulting, not just the name but, you know, all of it. Anyway, I went on this one and do you know this woman had the nerve—oh, but I shouldn’t say.

Shouldn’t say what?

She looked around dramatically, as if to check would she be overheard in the empty apartment.

She had the nerve to say, “Oh, Flossie Kush, is it? Sounds about right for the French market.”

French market?

You know,
she said, lowering her voice,
you must have heard about those kinds of pictures.

I see
, I said.
Yes, of course.

Europeans again. Just like I said. Well. I’d like to say I gave her a piece of my mind.

Didn’t you?

I needed the job.

I know about that.

Do you?

Did you get it?

She stuck her tongue out charmingly.
It was for, I don’t know, cat food or something anyway. So who cares.

You could have changed it to something else, I suppose.

The radio commercial? Oh, they don’t let you do that.

Your name.

Oh. Like what?

I don’t know. Anastasia Uppington Arabesque. The third.

That’s a laugh. Can you imagine having to go around with a handle like that. Anyway, I’ve come to like Flossie Kush. It suits me, I think. Better than old Florence Kushner, anyway. From Miami.

Ah, Florida.

Indiana.

A Midwestern girl.

And how. Do you know it? Miami? There’s a college there. A pretty good one, I guess, if you like that sort of thing.

Don’t you?

My father wanted me to go. I had other ideas, I guess.
She shrugged and fiddled with the hem of her cloak again, then looked up at me suddenly.
But here I am rattling on. You must have some papers for me, or something? And a key? One that works? Helen said you would.

She lifted the white handbag from the sofa and rummaged through it. It was dirty and worn across the bottom, as if it had spent a good deal of time waiting on floors.

Do you have them with you now?
she said.
The lease, or whatever you call it. I only plan to be here a couple of weeks or so, but Helen said Mrs. Shepherd was a stickler for that sort of thing. Germany’s the place for her, I guess. And a key, of course. I’ll need that. I have a pen in here somewhere. It’s like a good omen, you know; if I carry a pen around, someone somewhere’s going to ask for my autograph. You know, someday. That’s what I think, anyway.

It occurred to me then—I’ll confess I was a bit slow—that she had taken me for the landlord.

I’m sorry,
I said,
you must have me mistaken …

But I wasn’t quite sure how to finish. Had she mistaken me for my own employer? Was he subletting on behalf of this Mrs. Shepherd? Or had she confused me with someone else entirely?

I have you mistaken?
she asked, looking up from her handbag and tilting her head.
Don’t you live upstairs?

Yes—well, no.

She straightened then, slowly, and the smile faded.

Well, which is it? Yes or no?

Forgive me,
I said, feeling the heat rise to my face. I’d always been terrible in such situations.
I have not introduced myself.

That’s all right.
She looked sideways at the open door behind me.

I … I do live upstairs. My name is Arthor. With an “o.”

Orthor?

I spelled it. Then added,
It’s Irish.

You don’t sound Irish.

My parents.

And you live upstairs? With your parents?

No. I mean, yes, I do live upstairs. Not with my parents.

Alone?

I don’t know why I said it. It seemed simpler, I suppose, at the time. Easier than explaining the odd situation, and one I had so little information about. Perhaps I was embarrassed. Perhaps I did not want to feel as if I’d been caught in a lie, though what followed was, of course, far worse. Who can say why one does anything.

Yes,
I said.
Alone.

There is some saying or anecdote or proverb I’d heard somewhere about the first lie being the hardest. Certainly, that lie was not my first, nor even the first to which I’d admitted, and in truth it came out very easily indeed. It caused me scarcely a pause.

I see
, she said, though the look on her face made it clear she did not.

Perhaps
, I said,
you spoke with my … colleague?

Your colleague?

Yes.

But,
she said,
you are the one leasing the apartment? On behalf of Mrs. Shepherd? Alice Shepherd? That’s what Helen said.

Mrs. Shepherd, that’s right.

You do know her?

Not what you’d say personally. She is fond of green, I am told.

She stared at me from across the room. She did not smile. She glanced again toward the open door.

Allow me to explain
, I said, stepping forward.

She snapped her handbag shut and I could see I was causing her some distress.

This must seem confusing
, I said.
I am not expressing myself well at all. Forgive me. Mrs. Shepherd is a friend.

I thought you said you didn’t know her.

A friend of a friend. Of … my aunt, actually.

Your aunt.

That’s right.

And where is your aunt?

She’s … in hospital just now.

Oh,
she said, looking a little relieved.
I think Helen may have mentioned something about that.

Rather a bad case of the grippe. No easy thing for a woman her age. So I’ve been managing her affairs. While she is incapacitated.

She doesn’t live here then, your aunt?

In fact, she does.

But you said—

That I live alone? Well, as you can see, at present I do.

You live with your aunt usually, then? When she is well?

I laughed, as if it were an entirely understandable though quite clear error.

No, not usually. Not when she is well. I’m here only while she is in hospital, to manage her affairs, as I say. And then perhaps for some time afterward.

But … the colleague?

She’s not as strong as she once was. Aging, you know.

But
, she said, softening,
she is on the mend?

I hope so, yes. She seems to be. Only one can never tell with these things. Strong of mind, not so much of body.

I marvelled at myself. How easy it was.

She seemed to consider. Then she said, again,
But the colleague—

Did I say that, did I say colleague?

I believe you did.

A misunderstanding, then.

Well, Helen—

Indeed, where are my manners; I’ve troubled you enough, certainly. I must let you get settled.

Not at all
, she said, pursing her lips. She seemed to hesitate over something. Then she said, quietly, musingly,
It is going around.

I’m sorry?
I risked another half-step forward and this time she did not recoil.

I say
, she said, raising her voice louder than necessary,
it’s going around.

What is?

The grippe.

Ah. Yes.
I smiled. Charmingly, I hoped.
For a moment, I thought you meant this conversation.

A pause, and she studied me, and then the corners of her lips curled up into a smile, and she pulled off her gloves and, after an almost imperceptible hesitation, stepped forward and offered her hand. It was like a scene from the pictures.

Pleased to meet you, then
, she said,
Arthor … ?

Crandle. Arthor P. Crandle.

Arthor P. Crandle. From upstairs. My pleasure.

I smiled, felt it twitch uncertainly. A nervous tic.

Might I ask your aunt’s name? Is she a Crandle then also, Irish?

Gracious, no. Let’s all be glad she wasn’t around to hear that. It’s Annie … Phillips?

Was it? I seemed to recall it from the letter.

The “P.” For Phillips, then.

I beg your pardon?

Phillips. Arthor Phillips Crandle.
She looked pleased with herself.

That’s right. Phillips. Of course.
I smiled again. She seemed, I thought, to be waiting for something, but I had no earthly idea what was expected of me. I had begun to enjoy our little charade, my little charade. But it occurred to me then how deep I had sunk myself and I panicked.

Well
, I said briskly, uneasily. I made a sudden motion toward the door. It seemed to startle her.
I should be going, let you settle.

But …

Yes?

About the lease, of course. And a key.

The emphasis she put upon the final word did not escape my notice, as I believed it was intended. She stood there with the gray light from the window silvering her pale hair, her slender silhouette.

No doubt
, she said,
you would also like payment.

Payment?

The first month.

I’m afraid I don’t understand.

She laughed.
This apartment is a bargain. I assume you would like to receive some money from me. For the rent. Or do I give it to Helen? She was unclear about the details. So like her.

I paused there in the doorway, considering the new twist. It was so neatly packaged, it seemed almost preordained, certainly fortuitous. Money, precisely what I needed.

Yes,
I said.
Of course. The rent.

She reached again into her handbag and counted the money out carefully and handed it to me. I thanked her and stood holding it out—it burned in my palm—as if giving her opportunity, as if urging her, to snatch it back.