Here I Stay (12 page)

Picturing the members of the historical society as doddering septuagenarians who tottered off to bed at an early hour, she expected Jim and Martin home by eleven. It was well after midnight before the front door opened and the wanderers returned.

"Still up?" Jim asked.

"You're late. The meeting must have been fascinating."

"We dropped by the Shamrock Club for a few beers," Martin explained, tossing his wet raincoat over a chair.

"Isn't that the dive on the other side of town— the one that features topless male dancers on Wednesday night?"

"This," Martin pointed out, "is Thursday night. Dive is not an inappropriate term, however."

"Shame on you."

"I was checking the pulse of the community. Want some coffee?"

"You won't find much sympathy with your bleeding-heart views in this neck of the woods," Andrea said.

"We got up a good argument." Jim grinned broadly. "Martin sure knows how to bring out the worst in people."

She hadn't seen him look so happy and relaxed in a long time. Propped on his crutches, his hair curling around his ears, he stood smiling down at her. Damp weather always made his hair wave, driving him to frantic efforts with hair creams and blow dryers.

"Did you enjoy it, darling?" she asked.

"The meeting wasn't bad," Jim admitted. "Did you know this house was a hotel once before?"

"You're kidding. It's funny that book didn't mention it."

Martin poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. "It wasn't the type of establishment your cousin and her father would have wanted mentioned. Nobody at the meeting knew much about it, but the impression is that it wasn't a very classy joint."

"Probably the local cathouse," Jim said.

"What an awful thing to say!"

"Don't be so stuffy, Andy."

"Prostitution and other seamy occupations take on glamour after a few years," Martin said. "People are collecting those brass tokens from Old West whorehouses—mostly fakes, of course."

"I refuse to sit up half the night discussing whorehouses." Andrea stifled a yawn. "But I'm glad you had a good time. Did you meet any nice young people, Jimmie?"

"Are you putting me on, sis? I was the only person there under eighty."

"Thanks," Martin said.

"You know what I meant—"

"Uh-huh," Martin said gloomily. "I know."

Her robe wrapped around her and her stockinged feet on a stool, Andrea listened drowsily as they exchanged amiable insults and recalled the high points of the evening's varied entertainment. They were on first-name terms now, casual as old friends. And here she sat, in disheveled dishabille, acting as if Martin were one of the family.

How had it happened? She couldn't accuse Martin of being pushy. He paid well for his privileges,
and she had only herself to blame for the candid criticism he occasionally leveled at her; she had been too open with him, too free to ask for help and advice. That sympathetic, concerned manner of his was only part of his professional technique; he probably behaved that way with everybody. I'll be a little more reticent from now on, she promised herself. It's ridiculous. I know almost nothing about his personal life, and he knows only too much about ours.

When the party broke up, and Jim had gone to his room, she followed Martin into the hall.

"Thank you for tonight," she said softly.

"Why should you thank me? I enjoyed myself."

"That's not the point. You did it for Jim."

"Not only for Jim."

He stood quite still, one hand on the banister, the other holding his notebook. But something in his look made Andrea step back a pace. Don't be silly, she told herself. He's never even...He wouldn't...Not the way I look right now, with my hair all in a mess and this horrible old robe.

"I'm fond of you, too," Martin said coolly. "The two of you have given me more than formal hospitality. You let me butt into your business and you bitch at me when I get out of line. It's a new experience for me to be part of a family. I like it."

Andrea felt herself flushing. She had been an egotistical fool to imagine even for a moment..."I'm glad you feel that way," she said. "But I don't want to take advantage of you. I know you're busy. You don't have to worry about Jim. He's fine now."

"Do you think so?"

"Why, of course. It's obvious. He's happier, more cheerful—"

"Damn it," Martin said, slamming his fist down on the stair rail, "I don't know how a woman of your obvious good sense can be so blind. The kid is a prisoner here. He can't get away. Do you honestly believe a boy of nineteen is going to be happy with the company of two sedate adults like us, tied to four walls and a few acres of ground? He needs people his own age—he needs freedom, independence..." He broke off. After a moment he said more quietly, "I have a real talent for screwing myself. Your turn now. Go ahead, let me have it."

"Oh, the hell with you," Andrea said, forgetting her resolution. "You drive me crazy with your gloom and doom. I'm going to bed."

"That wasn't so bad," Martin said. "I do believe you're mellowing, my dear."

The strangest thing about the dream—as Andrea
preferred to call it—was the quickness with which the memory of it faded. As she lay quivering in the dark, she contemplated every possible means of relief—tranquilizers, a neurological examination, a psychiatrist...If a self-proclaimed exorcist had turned up, she would have hired him on the spot. In the cold light of day the terror faded, like the memory of pain. She told herself it was probably an expression of some deep inner doubt, which would fade as success brought freedom from anxiety. Ignore it and it would go away.

She had no time next day to worry about it, for she woke to the drumbeat of pouring rain, the heaviest she had ever seen. The backlash of the season's final hurricane had moved inland, pouring tons of water on an already flooded countryside.

Before the power went out they heard of bridges washed away, highways under water, and streams overflowing. The telephone went out too, but Andrea did not need formal notification to know the guests she was expecting would not arrive. The bridge over the stream bounding her property was under water by midday, and the pasture looked like a brown lake. She spent most of the day frantically mopping up puddles. Water poured in under the doors and through hitherto unobserved cracks around windows and eaves.

To add to her exasperation the men found the storm exhilarating. They kept running out to watch the water rise, returning to drip on her polished floors. Tiring of this activity at last, they left Andrea to cope with her puddles. Chortling over his foresight in refusing to trade his antique typewriter for an electric model, Martin went back to work. Jim retired to the attic, where he spent the rest of the
afternoon.

Andrea was sitting on the bottom step listlessly watching a puddle spread out across the hall when Martin's door opened.

The house was so dark he would have fallen over her if she had not growled a warning.

"What are you doing there?" he asked in surprise.

"Giving up. My hands are frozen, I've emptied twenty buckets of water out the door, and it just keeps coming back in. I've had it."

"You need a drink. And some food—those cold sandwiches we had for lunch weren't very sustaining."

"The stove is electric," Andrea pointed out, with forced calm. "I can't cook."

"Oh, you poor city sticker. How would you have managed in pioneer days?"

"I'd have cut my throat."

"Come on." He pulled her to her feet. "Let Uncle Martin demonstrate his skills."

Within ten minutes he had a fire going on the hearth in the library. Dry-shod and enveloped in her warmest robe, Andrea sipped sherry and watched as he coaxed the fire to a blaze.

"The worst is over, I think," Martin said, squinting knowledgeably at the hissing flames. "Clear skies by morning...But God knows how long it will take to restore power. We'd better have something simple. Hot dogs. Have you got any? Never mind, I'll see what I can find."

Humming in an off-key tenor, he trotted out. Andrea knew he would make a mess of the kitchen, but she couldn't have cared less. The wine warmed her interior as the dancing flames cheered her soul. At that moment she would have voted for Martin
Greenspan for President—or any other office to which he aspired.

He came back with a loaded tray, and distributed pans and pots around the hearth. "Good thing you filled the kettle," he said cheerfully. "We may be a little short on water before morning. Absurd, isn't it, with all that liquid pouring down outside?"

"There's bottled water in the Pantry," Andrea said. "For emergencies."

"I'd call this an emergency, wouldn't you? I'll put a couple of buckets outside; but if worse comes to worst, we can haul water from the stream to flush the toilets. You are on well water, aren't you?"

"Oh, my God. I didn't even think of. Yes, there's a well. With a pump. Run by electricity..."

"You'll get used to it. You'll have to, if you live in the country."

"When did you—"

"Baked beans, hot dogs—1 found some skewers we can use to toast them. I don't suppose you have any marshmallows?"

"You're crazy," Andrea said, laughing. "What do you think this is, a Girl Scout picnic?"

"A true philosopher makes the best of whatever comes," Martin said. "I could use an extra pair of hands here—no, don't get up. Where's Jim?"

"Upstairs. Lord knows what he's doing in the dark. He'll probably break his neck coming down the stairs." Andrea's tone was one of gloomy resignation.

Martin went into the hall. "Jim? Where the Hades are you?"

Andrea didn't hear a reply. When Martin returned he reported, "He's coming."

"He'll fall. He can't see—"

"He has a flashlight. What do you think he is, stupid?"

"Oh."

"More sherry?"

"Yes."

Before long Jim came clattering down. "What's for supper?" he asked hopefully.

"Nothing for you unless you get your carcass over here and help me," said Martin, squatting before the fire.

"Look what I found." Jim shook out the bundle he was holding. It proved to be a pair of white linen drawers, lavishly trimmed with lace and ribbons and large enough to encase the rear end of a baby elephant.

Martin sat down with a shout of laughter. "Beautiful. Why don't you model them, Jim?"

"No, don't," Andrea exclaimed, as Jim, grinning at the success of his joke, sat down and prepared to put his foot into the garment. "It's worth a lot of money. Linens and Laces, that new shop in town, sells petticoats and other clothes of that period with price tags of eighty and ninety dollars."

"I'll pay you eighty for that object if you promise to wear it to the supermarket," Martin offered.

The evening ended with laughter and charred hot dogs, and although the tickling sensation at the back of her throat warned Andrea that she was coming down with a cold, she dropped right off to sleep. The sherry might have had something to do with it.

When the doorbell rang, early the following morning, Andrea looked up from her newspaper in surprise. She was pleased with herself, for she had managed to start a fire and heat water for coffee without assistance. The rain had stopped, the sky was blue, and the newspaper had arrived, which indicated that the road to town was open. It was the first Sunday morning she had had free for a long time, and she looked forward to a long lazy hour with the papers and a pot of coffee. The last thing she expected or wanted to see when she opened the door was the vacant face of Linnie Hochstrasser.

"There was no need for you to come, Linnie," she said, blocking the doorway. "I couldn't call you—the telephone isn't working—but surely you realized our guests wouldn't make it, in that storm."

"I just thought..." Linnie shifted, trying to see past Andrea into the house.

"I appreciate your coming, but I really don't need you today."

"Well, I thought..."

"Go home," Andrea said firmly.

"Yes, ma'am." Shoulders drooping, Linnie turned away.

Andrea closed the door. Then she gave a start. "Goodness, Jim, don't sneak up on a person like that. I thought you were still asleep."

"I heard the doorbell."

"It was that stupid Linnie. I'm just not in the mood to deal with her today. She should have known better than to come."

"Maybe she wanted to talk to you." Jim followed her into the kitchen.

"What about?"

"She's having problems with that boyfriend of hers. She wants to break up with him, but he's giving her a hard time."

He went on talking while Andrea immersed herself in the style section. She was not particularly interested in Paris fashions, but she was even less interested in the romantic problems of Linnie Hochstrasser.

"Free country, after all," Jim said, "if she doesn't want..."

"Hems are going, up again," Andrea said. "Just look at these clothes! They almost make a person believe male fashion designers do hate women."

Jim reached for the sports pages.

Telephone service was restored that afternoon. Reba was the first one to call, asking how they had weathered the storm. As Andrea described Martin's wilderness expertise, amid appreciative chuckles from Reba, it occurred to her that Martin was only one of the things for which she was indebted to the older woman. One of her guests had said, only half in jest, "Mrs. Miller said if we stayed at the Holiday Inn instead of your place, we couldn't eat at Peace and Plenty. Not that I'm sorry, Miss Torgesen; we've enjoyed it very much."

"Reba, you've got to come and visit us. Do you realize that you haven't even been inside the house?"

"I don't drop in on people unless I'm invited," Reba said.

"You don't need an invitation. Consider yourself invited, any time. I like you too much to offer you a meal—I'm a wretched cook—but why don't you come for a drink one evening?"