Doppelgänger (11 page)

“You are a
valet
,” she interrupted. “Your duties center around this house, not outside of it.”

“With all due respect, ma'am, Mr. Atherton is my employer, not you.”

She stiffened.
So, that's how it's going to be, is it?
“We'll see about that,” she said coldly. She turned and started up the stairs.

Shoop's voice calling loudly from below stopped her. “He told me about you!” said the young man loudly.

“What did he tell you?”

“He said you were frigid.”

At first she didn't understand what he meant but she took his tone as hostile just the same. “That will be enough,” she said firmly. She continued upstairs.

As Shoop turned away he murmured something else under his breath. It sounded a little like
“Icy bitch,”
but she couldn't be completely sure. It was pointless to provoke further conflict with him so she let it go.

The clash with Shoop unnerved her more than she had anticipated. Her hands were shaking.
So he's now my enemy too
, Anine thought, and for a moment regretted speaking to him; the last thing she needed was a hostile spy in her husband's employ keeping tabs on her. But she thought better of it. She had to say something. The more quiescent and passive she was the more people would take advantage of her.

It wasn't until mid-day, after she retreated to her Green Parlor for the afternoon, that she finally understood what Shoop had meant by
frigid
. She'd assumed at first that it referred to personality, but now she realized it had sexual connotations. This meant, disturbingly, that Julian was gossiping to his valet about their bedroom relations.
I want that boy out of this house
, she thought bitterly, laying down a card on the table in front of her. But how to do it? Was it even fair? If Clea was Anine's own confidante and she was cut off from her husband, why was it so terrible that Julian have one of his own?

She suddenly realized that this was why Julian hired Shoop in the first place. The boy was too young to have any significant qualifications as a valet, and she'd noticed he seemed to be terrible at it; Julian's clothes were frequently rumpled and his bedroom was usually cluttered. It was clear Julian expected something of him other than first-class personal service.

I'm surrounded by enemies and spies
.
I have to find some way out of this situation
. She despaired. Throwing down the cards, she buried her face in her arms and wept softly.

That evening at dinner—Julian again was out, and Anine believed Bryan Shoop was absent as well—she began to feel a curious chill. She wore a new tea gown of elegant pale orange-pink silk and she first felt the chill in, of all places, her bodice. Mrs. Hennessey cleared away the dishes for the main course and was just bringing dessert. Anine placed a hand on her front and felt a strange cold dampness there which she could not explain. Recoiling at the dish of ice cream Mrs. Hennessey set in front of her she said politely, “I think I will dispense with dessert tonight. Would you bring me a cognac in the Green Parlor, please?”

“A cognac?” Mrs. Hennessey seemed surprised. Anine had never called for spirits in the evening. But she quickly regained her composure. “Yes, ma'am.”

A crate of Swedish-language books from Stockholm had arrived that afternoon, and she was grateful to have something to do within her velvet-walled meditation chamber other than play solitaire. She was eager to begin reading
The Red Room
by August Strindberg, which scandalized Stockholm society the year before she left Sweden. The strange chill in her bodice, however, made it difficult to concentrate on the book. The cognac didn't help. It left a burning trail down the back of her throat and a pleasant warmth in her belly but her bosom was still dreadfully cold. Eventually Anine put down
The Red Room
and again clasped her bodice. Inexplicably it seemed to have gotten colder. Her nipples felt like nodules of granite, but it had nothing to do with arousal; it was like being outside, naked, on Lake Vänern in January.

What is this?
she thought, reaching furtively into her tea dress. Because it was a tea dress and she was at home she could wear it without a corset. Under the silk camisole her fingers encountered what felt like ice. Her breasts were numb. She did not feel the chill in any other part of her body. Indeed, everything else felt completely normal. It was bizarre and deeply alarming.

Trying to tamp down the anxiety rising in her, Anine moved from the settee to a wing chair, and she moved the chair very close to the fireplace. She made another attempt to delve into the Strindberg novel. Within a few minutes she was uncomfortably hot. Her hands blazed in the glow from the fire and beads of sweat covered her forehead. But again feeling her bodice, her breasts remained ice-cold.

She gave up. She put down the book on the end table, replaced the wing chair and left the parlor, headed upstairs. She shivered. She could no longer feel any sensation in her breasts. It felt like two snowballs had been strapped to her chest. It was the eeriest feeling she'd ever experienced.

Once in her bedroom Anine quickly pulled the bell cord. It seemed an eternity before Clea appeared. “Bring me a hot water bottle and some hot tea, please, Clea,” Anine said.

“Are you ill, Miss Anine?”

“I don't know. Do as I say, please.”

Clea returned quickly. Anine was too embarrassed to mention anything of the phenomenon to her. She took the tray, bade Clea goodnight and the woman left. Anine quickly stripped off the tea dress. She lunged for the hot water bottle—a copper flask wrapped in a cloth—and clutched it to her chest. She hoped to feel the warmth radiating back into her breasts.

She did not. Within seconds the flask grew lukewarm, then positively cold. Gasping, Anine threw it to the floor. It hit the carpet with a dull thump. The cold water inside the flask sloshed, but it also made a curious tinkling sound.
Ice
. Only a few seconds' contact with her bosom had been enough not only to chill the water, but to begin to freeze it.

Panicked, Anine stripped off the camisole and stared at her naked breasts in the mirror. They were a dull bluish-white color. Her nipples were encrusted with frost. Just touching one made her finger so cold that it ached sharply.

“What's happening?” she gasped, her voice becoming a frightened sob.

Desperate now, she reached for the teapot. The liquid inside was steaming powerfully, only a few degrees below boiling. Without a second thought she tipped the pot and poured a stream of steaming tea directly on her left nipple. Where the tea made contact with her frozen skin it hissed and sizzled, giving off a puff of vapor. Then her nipple simply crumbled, falling to the floor in a shower of icy crystals.

She screamed. Staring dumbfounded in the mirror Anine looked at the corroded chunk of white-blue ice that remained of her left breast. There was no pain, and oddly that in itself made the experience even more horrifying. Instinctively she clutched at the wound with her right hand. As she did so her right forearm brushed her right breast. Fragile from extreme cold, the nipple and a chunk of her breast three inches across popped off like the cork from a bottle. It hit the edge of the dressing-table as it fell and shattered into snowflakes.

“No! Nooooooooooooooo!”
Her arms clutched tightly across her chest, Anine fell to her knees. The terror within her seemed almost soul-shattering. She bent double, wailing, feeling at once the horror and shame of being disfigured, but none of the physical pain. Indeed her entire body was now going numb, and soon the coldness spread to the center of her brain. She gave another gasp and fainted.

She came to in the morning. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows. She was topless, laying on the thick-pile wool carpet. The teapot she'd dropped and the hot water flask lay on the carpet next to her. With a sudden panicky jerk Anine bolted upright, drew her arms away from her chest and stared at her breasts in the mirror. They were both perfectly fine, complete and unmarred, and the eerie coldness seemed a distant memory.

She felt her breasts. The flesh felt totally normal, her nipples soft and pliant. Relief flooded through her.

A hallucination?
There seemed no other explanation. She was completely uninjured, which meant what she'd seen last night could not be real, but it certainly seemed real enough.
The cognac, maybe?
She didn't think so. She drank only a small amount, nothing that would cause visions on
that
graphic scale.

But already she knew what it was. The
spöke
was toying with her. This was more than simple play, though—the rawness, the ugliness of the experience suggested it was more than that. It was, Anine realized, a declaration of war.

Chapter Ten

The Indian

Julian Atherton did not believe in the manifestations that his wife had reported. At first he ignored them, and then he was amused by them; but quickly his amusement turned to annoyance, and then to disgust. He knew nothing of the vision of the woman or the cat or anything else and was basing his evaluation on her reports of ghostly voices and footsteps, which seemed easy enough to dismiss. Yet he was painfully aware that since moving into the house Anine had become increasingly twitchy, high-strung and disagreeable, and he credited this to her superstitious fear of nonexistent ghosts.
She'll snap out of it soon enough
, he thought.
When she realizes this is home and there's no other choice, she'll accept it
. In the meantime he was annoyed that he had to correct her in her wifely duties. Forcing himself upon her sexually was regrettable but he believed it was necessary. She had to understand that he was her lord and master. She wasn't in Sweden anymore. She was a New York wife.

Lately, however, Julian had noticed that he barely even desired Anine anymore. This disturbed and worried him more than a little, but of course he couldn't show any outward sign of it. She was beautiful—there was no question about that—but her coldness and her emotional distance had withered her allure almost down to nothing. He was deeply alarmed that it seemed he would have to resort to whores only five months into his marriage. He'd never been a particular fan of whores, although he had some experience with them, especially on his trip across the West four years ago. He didn't even know where to begin in New York. While trying to decide, he adopted masturbation as a morning ritual. He guessed it was healthier than philandering with the disease-ridden crones who prowled the Bowery and the Five Points after dark, and it was certainly cheaper.

The night he and Bryan Shoop went out drinking immediately followed Julian's decision that he would have to seek female companionship somewhere. He was sitting in his office that afternoon, pawing through papers from some endless property case, thinking about what to do.
I shouldn't have to go to the Five Points or the Bowery
.
Surely there are more respectable places in the city where gentlemen of means can be serviced
. He was certain some of his law partners and colleagues at the gentlemen's club knew such places, but he hesitated to ask them. Julian was quite aware of the low esteem in which his colleagues—except Roman Chenowerth—held him. He had no idea why, but he was reluctant to give them any more ammunition against him. One of Anine's great disappointments was her apparent inability to persuade New York society to swallow whatever contempt it had for him and treat him as an equal. He wasn't sure how to get out of this box.

In the afternoon he sent a messenger back home bearing a card for Bryan Shoop:
Join me at my club. 5:30 o'clock. Say nothing. Leave the house unobserved
. Julian of course couldn't invite his manservant into the gentleman's club so he met him outside. “I fancy a drink,” he said as Shoop walked up. “There's a charming little tavern over on 29th Street. Would you care to join me?”

The tavern, called the Brass Arms, was solidly middle-class. It served roast beef and chops and tall frosty steins of beer, but it was at least the sort of place where one might envision a well-dressed gentleman ducking in from time to time on a lark. As they drank beer and Shoop cracked peanuts, flinging the shells onto the floor, Julian confessed his problem. “My wife is frigid. I know she's beautiful—she was one of the most beautiful young ladies in Stockholm society when I met her—but she's frigid. There it is. I've said it.”

“What does ‘frigid' mean?” Shoop asked.

“It means she's cold. In bed. It's like fornicating with a wet rag.”

Shoop gave a boyish giggle. “I wouldn't have imagined it.”

“Neither did I, when I married her. That's my problem.”

“So what do you want
me
to do about it?”

Julian lowered his voice. Hoping he didn't sound desperate he asked, “Do you know of any…places where a gentleman might find reasonable companionship? I'm not talking about brothels in back alleys. But I'm sure there are some more respectable places.”

Shoop disappointed him. “If there were,” he said, “what makes you think
I
would know about them?”

Julian recoiled. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you.” He reached for his beer mug.

“I'm not insulted. I just don't know.”

“Do you think you could find out for me?”

Shoop blushed. “Mr. Atherton, I'm not sure that's what I should really be doing.”

“Call me Julian. Why not? You're a manservant. Your job is to tend to the needs of gentlemen. This
is
a need, isn't it?”

“I suppose so.” Shoop seemed eager to change the subject. “Hey, if you like taverns, I know a couple of those around here.
That
I can help you with.”

Julian smiled. “All right.”

So they made the rounds, hopping through a succession of drink-sodden grottoes nestled in the back streets of Manhattan; Julian was surprised at how many watering holes lurked in the shadows of New York's fashionable avenues and at how many of them Bryan Shoop seemed to be known. They spoke no more of whores or brothels. Julian got drunker and Shoop goaded him to tell some of his stories of his trip across the West, which he enjoyed mightily. At nine-forty-five, his head spinning, Julian finally decided that they should probably go home. Shoop stepped out and found a carriage, and guided him deftly back home.

Julian's head was buzzing so fiercely by the time they reached the house that he was barely aware of Anine's presence in the hallway. “Oh, look, the ice princess is still awake,” he laughed, staggering on Shoop's arm as they passed her. “See any ghosts today, Anine?” He was still thinking of her mysterious creakings and gigglings, nothing of which he'd told Shoop. But he was too drunk to notice his lapse.

Once in Julian's bedroom Shoop heaved him onto the bed. His head swam and the room spun uncomfortably around him. “Get my shoes off,” Julian said. Somewhat awkwardly Shoop knelt at the foot of the bed, untied his shoes and removed them. Then the boy stood and lingered for no apparent reason. There was a feeling of expectation in the air.

“I want another drink,” said Julian. “Go downstairs and bring me a brandy.”

“Are you sure you want to drink any more? We had quite a lot at that last tavern.”

“Do it,” he said harshly. “And turn down the gas on your way out. It's too bright in here.”

Shoop did as he was told, dimming the gas so the overhead fixture gave little more than a feeble gold-colored glow. While he was gone fetching the drink Julian took off the rest of his clothes, flinging them unceremoniously onto the floor.
I'm drunk
.
It feels good. I should do it more often
. He was on the verge of passing out when the bedroom door opened again and Shoop came in, bearing a tumbler of brandy on a silver tray. He set it on the bedside table.

“Good night, Mr.—I mean, Julian.”

“No, wait.” Julian lifted his head from the pillow. “You don't have to go.” He turned and reached for the drink, and was suddenly aware that he was totally exposed to the young man. He also realized that Shoop was looking at him and did not seem to be displeased at what he saw.

Julian looked down. He was surprised to find himself in a state of arousal.
Okay. So that's how it is, is it?
He laughed. A moment earlier he'd almost taken a drink from the tumbler of brandy, but now he leaned over and handed it to Shoop.

“Here,” he said. “You may need this more than I do.”

The next day, terribly hung over, Julian did not go to the office. In the afternoon after he rose and bathed he sent a message to Roman Chenowerth at the office, asking him to make his apologies to Margolis, the senior partner.
“Just a bout of something,”
Julian wrote.
“I'll be back tomorrow.”
He spent a quiet afternoon in the billiard room and later the Red Parlor, where he read up on the political news, and he rather enjoyed his unscheduled vacation.

In the evening he went out and dined at his club, mainly to avoid Anine. Sitting in the smoking room after dinner he considered summoning Shoop—for a quick drink, not a binge like last night—but decided against it. The boy had been understandably bashful all day.
Best not to push him
, Julian reasoned.
Whatever happened last night—and I probably don't remember the most important parts—it's best for both of us to accept it gradually
. He remained at the club as late as he dared, and counted himself fortunate to return home after everyone else had gone to bed.

Tonight he got his own drink, carrying it up the carpeted stairs to the second-floor hallway. Just outside the door to his bedroom Julian thought he heard something. It sounded like a rustling sound of some kind, but when he stopped to listen for it more intently he heard only silence, save for the distant ticking of the grandfather clock down in the entryway.

Nonsense
, he thought.
I'm letting Anine's delusions drag me down too
.

He went into the bedroom, lit a single gas jet and began taking off his suit. The brandy snifter sat on the edge of the dressing-table, its red-amber liquid reflecting the one soft glowing bulb of the overhead gas fixture. Julian threw the various pieces of his suit on the carpet, half in jest; it would be amusing to see Shoop pick them up in the morning. When he was naked he reached for the brandy snifter, took a lazy sip, and turned toward the bed. In doing so his gaze swept the mirror above the dressing-table—and suddenly he froze.

There was a figure visible in the mirror. It was a man sitting in the overstuffed Louis XVI chair against the wall of the bedroom, staring not into the mirror but somewhere off to the side. He was about thirty, had copper-colored skin and a long mane of silky black hair falling down his back. He wore a blue wool suit with a plaid waistcoat and a watch-fob chain. He sat totally still, his dark eyes immobile.

Julian gasped. The snifter fell from his grasp and bounced on the floor, spilling the brandy, but it did not break. He whirled around, looking at the chair, but of course there was no one there.

Dear God—what in hell was that?

Suddenly shamed by his own nakedness, Julian bolted for the wardrobe and snatched up a silk dressing-gown. He wound it around him and turned back to the chair. It was still empty. Gingerly he approached—the spilled brandy on the carpet was wet against his bare feet—and he reached out to touch the air where the apparition had been.

His heart pounded. This could not be blamed on drunkenness; he'd recovered from the hangover hours ago and since then had taken one sip of the brandy. Nor was it a mere hallucination. He had
seen
the Indian in the mirror. He was certain of it.

With great trepidation Julian stepped back over toward the dressing-table. Quivering, his eyes shut, he slowly swiveled his head toward the mirror. At last he opened his eyes. In reflection the chair was mercifully empty, but he still felt the strong presence of someone else in the room.

Finally he seized a box of matches and lit all the remaining gas jets. Then he went to the dimmer switch on the wall and turned them up full. The lights of the overhead fixture grew in intensity until they were a blaze of comforting yellow-white light. Now it all looked so silly: the clothes on the floor, the empty snifter, the glistening puddle of brandy and the empty chair.

The Indian. It can't really be, can it? He's been dead for years
. Strangely Julian was not thinking of Anine's spectral creaking and laughing in the night. He was thinking that he no longer felt safe in his own bedroom.

He went to the bureau, opened a drawer and removed the revolver. Stepping back over to the bed, he pulled back the covers and climbed in, dressing-gown and all, making sure the pistol was sitting on the bedside table. With the gas on full-blast and the lights blazing it would be difficult to sleep but Julian was determined not to turn them down. Perhaps it was an irrational hope but he thought keeping the lights on might prevent a recurrence of the apparition.

No one must know of this
, he decided firmly.
Not Shoop, not Anine—absolutely no one
.

For the first time Julian felt the fear himself.

The image of the Indian was a powerful one for Julian and an unmistakable indication of hostility. After seeing it he felt violated, as if someone had been rooting about inside his head. If his mind was playing tricks on him it was definitely a cruel and underhanded trick. He'd endeavored for a long time to forget about the Indian entirely, and thought he had largely succeeded until he saw him sitting in his bedroom.

The incident happened four years ago. Julian was finishing his second year of study at Harvard—it was to be his second-to-last, for with his father's connections he ended up matriculating early—and he'd grown terribly bored with reading law, with letters, with education of any kind. It was 1876 and his father was campaigning heavily for Rutherford B. Hayes, the Republican presidential candidate. At age nineteen Julian cared nothing about politics but he saw in his father's connections an opportunity for at least something more diverting than reading law, so he wrote to Cornelius.
“I want to join the campaign,”
he told his father.
“Reading law here is stupefying. Please let me leave Harvard and find a place for me in politics.”

Cornelius wouldn't have it, and he told Julian, who was then quite naïve, that a political career of any substance depended on him completing law and practicing for at least a little while. But he did offer a consolation prize.
“Take the summer months off,”
Cornelius suggested.
“See the country. Go West on the transcontinental railroad. I'll put some money at your disposal. Consider it part of your education. It might turn out to be an important one.”