Houses of Stone (21 page)

The rain had slackened. It fell slow and steady on the water-soaked ground, glistening on the leaves of the shrubs under Mrs. Fowler's window, dimming the glow of the streetlight. No other lights were visible. With moon and stars hidden by clouds, the night was very dark. Nothing
moved in the blackness, not even a prowling cat. Cats had better sense than to go out in the rain.

So do I, Karen thought. Joan's mention of wine and chocolate had made her wish she had stocked up on both, but she hadn't wanted them badly enough to go looking for them. Tomorrow she'd get a bottle of Scotch for Peggy, and pick up something for supper. Peggy probably wouldn't arrive until late afternoon. Rather than go out for dinner they could settle in for a prolonged Show and Tell session. They had a lot to catch up on.

Mrs. Fowler's bedroom window shone steadily through the rainy night. Rather late for the old lady, Karen mused. Perhaps she was refreshing her memory of "lady authors of the nineteenth century."

Karen made a face and closed the curtains. Why hadn't she refused that invitation? It would kill an entire day. What a wimp she was! At least I won't have to worry about fire tonight, she consoled herself, as she got into bed. Everything is too waterlogged to burn.

Fire and water and earth were three of the basic elements of Greek science. The fourth was air. Earth, in the form of the primeval cave, was a recurrent motif in Gothic novels. How would the other elements apply? Fire was not so common. There was the horrific blaze in Jane
Eyre,
of course—the terrible but cleansing force that had removed the barrier to Jane's happiness with Rochester and destroyed the house that symbolized enclosure and imprisonment. And the blast of supernatural lightning that had burned the elder Wieland to a nasty crisp. There must be other examples, as well as examples of the other pair of elements. Hadn't she read somewhere that two were considered masculine and the other two feminine? Fire would be masculine, of course. It was aggressive, active, destructive. And by the standards of those super-male chauvinists, the Greek philosophers, earth could only be considered feminine— passive, acted upon instead of active. It would make an interesting article: "The Aristotelian Elements in the Gothic Novel." Happily distracted by useless speculation, Karen drifted off to sleep.

She woke after another dreamless night to find sunlight filling the room. Mrs. Fowler's curtains were as thin as her towels, and they didn't quite cover the window.

Glancing out the uncurtained bathroom window as she brushed her teeth, she saw that the ground was steaming. It was going to be a hot, sticky day. Poor old Cameron, she thought contemptuously; he's probably out there right now, wading through soggy leaves and trying to find something dry enough to paint or bum. The man seemed absolutely driven. He must need money very badly to work so hard, but if he was expecting to recoup the family fortunes by selling the family mansion he was unduly optimistic.

After a hasty breakfast she made a mental list of errands. Liquor store, grocery store, Laundromat. She hadn't brought many clothes, and the ones she had worn the day before retained a faint but disgusting smell. There was a huge puddle outside her door; the floor of the landing wasn't just uneven, it was absolutely caving in. Larger elongated puddles filled the ruts in the graveled driveway. It must have rained hard. The cellars at Amberley would be flooded again. Lucky she had examined them already. She'd never have had the courage to wade through several feet of filthy water.

Locking her briefcase in the trunk of the car, she backed out of the garage and headed for the shopping center. The Laundromat first, she decided. The windows of the car were open, but it seemed to her that a faint unpleasant odor emanated from the bundle of clothes in the back seat.

The place was doing a brisk business. She had to wait for a machine. As she stood tapping her foot impatiently, she saw a familiar face. It was bent over a book, but she recognized the tight-clustered black curls and heavy horn-rimmed glasses, despite the fact that the body to which it belonged was clad in jeans and an enveloping loose shirt instead of a tailored dress. The librarian—what was her name? Tanya something. The glasses must be an affectation, an attempt to look older and more authoritative. Most women of that age wore contacts. Karen edged closer, trying to see the title of the book and failing, since it was covered with brown paper. She ought to have brought something to read. She hadn't used a Laundromat for a long time; she had forgotten she'd probably have to wait.

The book was obviously absorbing. Tanya didn't look up until her machine had stopped spinning. She started to remove the contents and then saw Karen.

"Good morning. I hope you weren't waiting for this washer. I have another load to do."

"I'm waiting for my turn, as is proper," Karen said with a smile. "To be honest, I was trying to see what you're reading. I'm one of those compulsive people who is driven to read book titles."

Tanya peeled back the brown paper and displayed the book—the new Toni Morrison. "Have you read it?"

"I admire her work a great deal, but I haven't read that one. I usually wait till they come out in paperback," Karen admitted. "I can't afford to buy hardcovers."

"Neither can I. This is from the library. It's one of the few perks of the job, getting first crack at the best-sellers."

Karen's number came up then. She tossed her armload of clothes into the machine the woman had indicated and sat down on the bench next to Tanya.

"I hear you're addressing the lit'rary society next week," the other woman said, giving the word a sardonic accent.

"I got railroaded into it. How did you know? I only agreed yesterday."

"Miz Fowler was in bright and early this morning with a handful of artistically hand-lettered posters. She stuck one on the bulletin board and another on the front door."

"That must have been what she was doing so late last night," Karen muttered. "Damn!"

Tanya laughed. She was much more relaxed than she had been at the library. "Don't you court publicity?"

"Not when I'm speaking on 'Lady Authors of the Nineteenth Century,' " Karen said wryly. "I'll never live it down."

"You weren't the one who selected the subject, then."

"Good God, no. I suppose Mrs. Fowler wanted to make sure I wouldn't shock the audience by quoting from Morrison, or Sylvia Plath, or some other 'unladylike' writer."

"It would shock them, all right."

"Don't tell me you're a member."

"Good God, no," the other woman repeated, grinning. "I just might attend this meeting, though. Unless you'd rather I didn't."

"I may be in need of one sympathetic listener. Promise you won't laugh or make faces."

"It's a deal." Tanya got to her feet. "I've got to get back; my so-called assistant is manning the desk. She's a volunteer, about a hundred years old, and the kids drive her crazy. The manager here is pretty reliable; if you don't want to stick around she'll put your load in the dryer and have it ready when you get back."

"Thanks for the suggestion. I'll do that."

They parted at the door. Tanya stripped off her shirt as she crossed the parking lot; under it she wore a tailored white blouse and knotted tie. Back into uniform, Karen thought, studying the other woman's slim hips and long legs. The jeans fit like wallpaper. If I had a body like that I'd probably wear them too, she acknowledged to herself—despite all my feminist principles. And I'd cover it up in public, as Tanya had done, with a long shirt. The jeans wouldn't show if she stayed behind the desk.

She visited the liquor store and the grocery store and then went back to pick up her laundry. The interior of her car felt like a steam bath, though it was only a little past noon. She rolled down the windows, wrinkling her nose as she caught a whiff of that sickening swamp odor. It must be her imagination. Only a few drops of the foul mud had splashed her clothes, and they now reeked of some commercial scented softener.

She had to pass the library on her way home; seeing a bright-pink placard on the front door, she pulled into the curb and stared. Mrs. Fowler had outdone herself. Not only was the poster pink, it featured a sketch of a lady in full skirts simpering from under a frilly parasol.

It did not improve her mood to find someone waiting for her when she arrived home. He was perched on the steps leading up to the apartment, legs stretched out, head thrown back as if enjoying the sunshine. Karen brought the car to a stop and began counting under her breath. She got to forty-seven before she felt calm enough to face him without yelling.

Meyer rose and came toward her. "Can I give you a hand with those bags?"

There was a running joke in the profession about Bill Meyer's three-piece suits and expensive Italian ties—and how he could afford them on a professor's salary. He was more casually dressed this morning; the striped shirt had to be from Brooks Brothers or some establishment of similar prestige, but it was open at the throat and the sleeves had been rolled up to display tanned forearms. A modest amount of dark hair showed at
the open neck of the shirt. He flashed white teeth in a broad smile.

"No, thanks," she said. "I can manage."

"Sure you can." Before she could stop him he took the grocery bags from her. "But why should you? I'm perfectly harmless, you know. I just want to have a friendly chat."

Lips compressed, Karen started up the stairs. He was a master at maneuvering people into untenable positions. Short of wrestling the groceries away from him—which would be not only undignified but probably fatal to the vegetables—she couldn't prevent him from following her at least as far as the door. When she put down the bundle of laundry in order to search for her key, Meyer scooped it up, one finger under the string.

"Give me a break, Karen," he said quietly. "I know we've been on bad terms. It's my fault. I don't have much talent for social relationships, and for some strange reason I put my foot in my mouth every time I talk to you. I have a great deal of respect for you, you know. I think we could be friends, if I can stop acting like an arrogant jackass. Let me try."

"Humility is a new approach for you," Karen said. "I suppose it works with some people."

"What have you got to lose?"

Karen glanced over her shoulder. The briefcase was in the trunk of the car. There was nothing in plain sight that had any bearing on her present work, except the cardboard carton of papers—and he had already seen those.

"Come in," she said, stepping back.

He went straight through to the kitchen, without looking at her worktable or the box of papers, and deposited the grocery bags on the table. "Go ahead and put the groceries away if you like. We can talk while you—" He clapped a hand over his mouth and then removed it to display a sheepish smile. "There I go again. That's the trouble with teaching, you get in the habit of ordering people around. Can I sit down?"

"I suppose so," Karen said ungraciously.

He watched without offering to help, while she unloaded the groceries. "I don't suppose you'd consider having lunch with me," he said gloomily.

"No, thanks." Karen pulled out a chair and sat down. "This is all very pleasant and polite, Bill, but I haven't seen any signs of you changing your spots. I suppose you thought it was a huge joke to set me up for a lecture on lady writers."

The corners of his mouth quivered. "Oh, come on, Karen, lighten up. You'd have thought it was funny if it had happened to me. It was the old lady's idea, honestly. You don't have a dialogue with that one; she makes statements and interprets whatever you say as agreement."

Karen had to admit there was a grain of truth in that. Meyer went on, "I was trying to get in her good graces, sure. I assumed you were doing the same. Addressing her ghastly little group gives you an in. That's where you're going to get your evidence, Karen—from old fogies like Mrs. Fowler. She and her contemporaries live in the past, wallowing in memories of dead heroes and old glories."

Joan had said something along the same lines, Karen thought. Oral tradition, family legends.

"It's one source," she admitted. "But it's highly speculative. I've got better evidence, Bill."

"The manuscript is the essential item, I agree. As for the genealogy, you know as well as I do that it's only the first step. I counted no fewer than fourteen women who are possible candidates. There's absolutely no way of knowing from the genealogy which of them was Ismene." He didn't give her time to reply, but went on, "Have you thought—hell, there I go again, of course you have—about the implication of the name? She must have read
Antigone.
That's astonishing in itself; a classical education wasn't available to many women at that time."

"It weakened their brains."

"And drove them insane," Meyer agreed in the same sardonic tone. "The house of stone—in the poems and in the novel—must have been inspired by Antigone's 'place of stone,' her 'vaulted bride-bed in eternal rock.' But why did she choose to call herself by the name of the weaker of the two sisters? Antigone was the heroine; defying a tyrant at the risk of her own life, she is more admirable than any of the men in the play, even her lover."

It wasn't the first time Karen had considered the question of Ismene's nom de plume, but it was the first time she had had the opportunity to discuss it with someone who knew the literature as well as she did and whose interest was as keen as hers. "He died too," she pointed out. "He killed himself for Antigone's sake."