Dover Beach (25 page)

"That's swell," I said. "That's really swell."

The Spirit pulled me along.

And I was chopping wood outside a familiar, broken-down barn. I was sweating, despite the cold, and my arms ached. A woman came out of the barn, carrying a scrawny chicken she had just killed. Her face was lined and wind-burned, her body shapeless under a heavy coat. She stopped and looked at me, and I kept on chopping. "Walter," she said, "things is tough."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. I kept on chopping.

"Mr. Simpkins says we'll have to leave here pretty soon if things don't get better. I don't know what we'll do if we leave, where we'll go, but there's got to be someplace better."

"I expect," I said. I put another log on the block.

"But we'll take care of you, Walter. We made a promise, and no matter how hard things get, we keep our promises. You understand?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

The woman nodded, satisfied. "Christmas is coming, but I'm afraid there won't be any gifts. We can have a tree, though. You like them old ornaments, right? We can make the place real festive. Won't that be nice?"

I split the log neatly. "Very nice," I said. "Much obliged."

The woman nodded some more. Chicken blood dripped onto the snow. "It's the spirit that counts, that's what I always say. We don't have much in the way of things anymore, but we still have the spirit, don't we, Walter?"

"Yes, ma'am. We still have the spirit."

The woman smiled and went inside. I picked up another log and put it on the block.

"Spirit," I said, "show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?"

"One shadow more!" exclaimed the Ghost.

"No more!" I cried. "No more. I don't wish to see it. Show me no more!"

But the relentless Ghost pinioned me in both his arms, and forced me to observe what happened next.

The three of us were sitting in the parlor that first year together, and Stretch was expounding. "If we're going to preserve our civilization, we have to preserve its rituals. Rituals are what bind us together. They shelter us from the terror of loneliness and death. They give life meaning and shape."

"Christmas sucks," I said.

Gwen smiled.

"It isn't Christmas that sucks," Stretch explained earnestly, "it's your
experience
of Christmas. That's why it's so important to create our own experiences—to overcome those other experiences, to connect with the best of the old civilization, to keep us alive. Don't you see?"

Yeah, I saw.

And then it was Christmas Eve. The pine boughs had been strewn, the popcorn strung, the fire roared wastefully; and at midnight we all kissed and exchanged presents that we couldn't afford.

I gave Gwen a typewriter I had bought at the Salvage Market.

Gwen gave me a book from Art's special stock. It was called
The Maltese Falcon.

"See?" Stretch said. "Isn't this good? Isn't this the way life should be lived?"

And then later, lying upstairs in each other's arms. "What do you think of Christmas?" I asked Gwen. "Is Stretch right?"

"I think," she said, "that I have never been happier in my life."

"Spirit," I said, in a broken voice, "remove me from this place."

"I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"

"Remove me!" I exclaimed. "I cannot bear it!"

He let me go finally—back to my bleak hotel room, back to my guilt, back to this present that I had so longed for all my life—while he went off, presumably, to torture some other undeserving soul. No other ghosts came to call—I didn't expect any—and eventually I drifted off to a tense and restless sleep.

When I awoke it was Christmas Day.

Chapter 23

It was a beautiful day. Even the desk clerk's dark comments about the money I owed couldn't spoil it. If I wasn't as happy as Scrooge on Christmas Day, at least I was nowhere near as depressed as the Sandman on Christmas Eve.

I met Kathy at Waterloo Station. She was wearing a forest-green wool skirt and a white blouse with a red plaid vest. She looked gorgeous. She was carrying a shopping bag that contained a gift-wrapped box. "A blouse," I said.

She smiled. "Absolutely correct this time. You're quite good."

"Elementary. You look very nice, by the way."

"Thanks. I hope my mother will approve, but I'm sure she'll find something to criticize."

"I can't imagine what."

Kathy took my arm when we went to board the train.

Mrs. Cornwall lived in a suburb south of London. The train ride wasn't very long, and there wasn't much to say. Kathy had called the Oxford police, and there were no new developments; Winfield and her father were still missing.

"Maybe if you and I and your mother put our heads together, we can figure out what's going on," I said.

"Good luck talking about my father with her," Kathy replied. "There's a lot of bitterness."

"But probably no one knows him better."

Kathy shrugged and was silent.

We walked from the station. The town was drearier than Oxford, but not unpleasant: the houses were all intact, all inhabited; there were no stray dogs lurking. People smiled and nodded to us as we passed.

"God, how I hate this place," Kathy murmured.

"Did you live here long?"

"Too long—from when my father and mother split up until last year, when I finally managed to escape. My mother got a job as a cashier in a bank after the divorce. She's good at it—she's very practical, very precise. But it's all so dull. She's never seen any Chekhov. I don't think anyone in this entire town has seen any Chekhov."

"Does your father like Chekhov?"

Kathy didn't respond. "Here we are," she said instead.

We had reached a semidetached brick house with about ten square feet of snow-covered garden and a stunted tree in front. There was a wreath on the door and little electric candles in the front window. "Well," I said, "I'm sure we'll have a lovely time."

Kathy didn't say anything. She led the way up to the door, and we walked inside without knocking. "Hullo," she hollered. "We're here."

There was a noise in the kitchen straight ahead, and Kathy's mother came out to meet us. "Katherine, Happy Christmas, dear."

"Hullo, Mum." They leaned toward each other and kissed, missing each other's cheek by about half an inch.

Then Mrs. Cornwall turned to me and held out her hand. "And you are Mr. Sands. So good of you to come."

I shook her hand. "Please call me Walter. It was awfully nice of you to invite me."

The pleasantries continued while we took off our coats. Mrs. Cornwall was in her mid-forties, I guessed, but her features were still handsome, her face unlined. Her black hair, turning to gray, was cut short. She was wearing a white lace blouse and a black skirt, covered at the moment by a gravy-stained apron. On the blouse was a plastic Christmas-tree pin.

She looked a little like Kathy grown older, but the style was obviously different. There was a severity in Mrs. Cornwall's looks, a no-nonsense plainness that I doubted Kathy would ever want to emulate. And Kathy had mastered the upper-class British accent in a way that her mother apparently couldn't. I could see why the two of them didn't get along, but still I was disposed to like Mrs. Cornwall. After all, she had produced Kathy—and she had invited me here for Christmas. It was hard to be critical with that in her favor.

She led us into the living room. "And here is our other guest, Mrs. Stumple."

I could feel Kathy suppress a groan. Apparently I was not the only stray that her mother had taken in for the holiday. Mrs. Stumple was a thin old lady with blue hair and a look of attentive idiocy. She smiled at us and started nodding, and she didn't stop.

"Mrs. Stumple has nowhere else to go on holidays, poor thing. But she's always welcome here." Mrs. Cornwall turned to her guest and raised her voice. "Mrs. Stumple, you know Kathy. And this is her friend Walter—from America."

Mrs. Stumple nodded and smiled. "America," she repeated.

"That's right," I said. "How do you do?"

"Boom!" Mrs. Stumple replied, throwing her arms over her head. Then she started to laugh. Understated British humor, I guess.

"Oh Lord," Kathy whispered.

"Would anyone like something to drink?" Mrs. Cornwall asked.

"Whiskey," Kathy said.

Her mother gave her a look but said nothing.

"Do you have any, uh, cider or apple juice?" I asked.

"Why, yes I do, Walter. Why don't you two sit down, and I'll bring the drinks."

I sat next to a plastic Christmas tree the color of Mrs. Stumple's hair.

"I'm so sorry," Kathy murmured, sitting on the other side of the tree.

I smiled. "Quit apologizing," I said. "I'm having a wonderful time."

She shook her head. "Maybe I overestimated you, then."

I kept smiling. How had she estimated me in the first place? I looked around the room. It was filled with knick-knacks and ugly plants. There wasn't a book in sight. But it was warm, and there were several photographs of Kathy on the mantel above the fake fireplace. It was a nice enough room.

Mrs. Cornwall brought in the drinks. Sherry for herself and Mrs. Stumple. Kathy's whiskey looked as if it had been watered down. We drank a toast to the holiday.

"How is your juice, Walter?" Mrs. Cornwall asked.

"Just wonderful, Mrs. Cornwall." It was lousy.

"Oh, good. May I ask: you don't drink alcohol?"

"Never developed a taste for it."

"I certainly approve."

Kathy swallowed half her whiskey. Mrs. Cornwall ignored her. "Walter, isn't this a terrible business with Kathy's father?"

"'E's an ass," Mrs. Stumple interjected.

"It certainly is terrible. And I'd like to apologize for—"

Mrs. Cornwall waved me silent. "Please. I understand. Kathy told me how helpful you've been."

"It was the least I could do, considering my part in all this. Anyway, I thought perhaps we could talk about what happened. Maybe the three of us could come up with some explanation—maybe figure out where Professor Cornwall might be."

"Well, of course, although I don't know—"

"Could we do it later?" Kathy broke in. "I'd like to relax for a while before we start dredging up the past."

"Why, of course, dear. Perhaps we can talk after dinner, Walter."

"That would be fine," I said. The last thing I wanted was to have Kathy angry at me. The two of them clearly had their problems with each other, and I wasn't going to be in the middle if I could help it.

Mrs. Cornwall politely changed the subject. "So tell me, Walter," she said, "how do you like England?"

"I feel as if I've died and gone to heaven," I said.

"But don't you miss the excitement in America—with the rebuilding and all?"

"No, ma'am. I find hot baths exciting enough."

Mrs. Cornwall smiled.

"I never bathe," Mrs. Stumple said. Everyone ignored her.

"I went to America once," Mrs. Cornwall said. "Just for a vacation—before the war, of course. It was so alive, so fascinating. It still seems hard to believe what happened."

"You get used to it," I remarked.

"You must have suffered a great deal, though."

"Not as much as a lot of people."

"Will you be going back?"

"Maybe someday—just for a vacation."

And we talked that way till dinner. I told just enough about my life to be polite. Kathy was sullen, and Mrs. Stumple pretended to be deaf until she had an opening to say something obnoxious. There was much to-ing and fro-ing to check on the progress of the meal. Whenever her mother was out of the room, Kathy whispered an apology. Whenever they were both out of the room, Mrs. Stumple and I smiled and nodded at each other.