Here I Stay (13 page)

The alacrity with which Reba accepted told Andrea that her feelings had indeed been hurt, but that peace was now restored. "I've been meaning to ask you about Linnie," Reba went on. "How is she
working out?"

"Fine." She would have been less enthusiastic if Reba had not been Linnie's sponsor. Eventually she meant to explore the possibility of a replacement, but the direct question caught her off guard.

"You may have to fire her."

"Why?"

"Because she's set her cap for Jim, that's why."

"I suspected as much." Andrea managed to conceal her amusement at the quaint phrase, which she had last encountered in the pages of Louisa May Alcott. "She has a crush on him, but he's not interested. He thinks she's a child."

"That's not how I heard it. Hell, it's none of my business what the two of them do or don't do. It's that crazy Gary Joe I'm worried about. He's threatening to beat Jim up."

"Gary Joe? Oh, yes—Linnie's fiance."

"Fiance is one word for it. Gary Joe Bloomquist is no damned good. Lazy, shiftless kid—he'll end up in the slammer sooner or later, for drunk driving if nothing worse. I was sorry to see Linnie get involved with him. She's not all that bad—dumb as a mule, but harmless. Gary Joe is sexy, if you like the type—dark, glowering, sullen—one of those barrelchested, fat-lipped guys. Apparently Linnie has been needling him about Jim—how handsome he is, how gentlemanly...Well, you can guess the rest."

Andrea felt a twinge of pity for the unfortunate Linnie. If Reba's description of Gary Joe was accurate, Jim must seem like all the heroes of fiction rolled into one—courteous, sensitive—and a wounded hero at that. But Linnie would have to go. It was absurd to suppose that Jim, her fastidious,
intelligent Jim, could succumb to the charms of a Linnie. Still...

"Thanks for telling me," she said. "I'll think about it. Would Thursday be a good day for you?"

They agreed on Thursday, subject to possible changes in Andrea's schedule, which had been disrupted by the rain, and Andrea hung up.

I mustn't neglect Reba again, she told herself. It's bad business, and bad manners. Besides, I rather like the old witch. Maybe I'll ask her for dinner sometime. She must get tired of the same food, even food as good as hers. I really must learn to cook. It can't be too hard...Someday I may want to serve meals. I couldn't compete with Peace and Plenty— not now—but someday...I wonder if the guests are as bloody sick of muffins as I am?

At five Martin left for the restaurant—planning, no doubt, to make use of some of its other amenities. The power had not been restored and probably would not be until later that evening, according to Potomac Power and Electric. Andrea spent half the afternoon trying to reach them and the rest of the time mopping up. There wasn't much more she could do until she had water.

The smell of broiling meat led her to the library, where she found Jim cooking hamburgers, one of his two specialties. She sneezed. Jim looked up. "Catching cold?"

"I hope not."

"Why don't you take some cold tablets and sack out? A good night's sleep might help you fight it off."

Touched by his concern and persuaded by his logic, Andrea agreed. The lights came on while they were carrying their dishes to the kitchen, but Andrea was in no mood for housework. She enjoyed having Jim fuss over her; he tucked her up in bed with a hot toddy and a mystery story and a box of tissues, and a lot of other items she didn't want, but which she received gratefully. The pills and the alcohol made her drowsy. She was staring at the book, watching the print dissolve into fuzzy nonsense, when the door opened and Jim looked in.

"You asleep?"

"Getting there."

"I just thought I'd tell you I'm going out for a while," Jim said rapidly. "A guy I met at the Historical Association called and asked if I wanted to go out for a few beers. I won't be late."

He was gone before she could question him.

If she hadn't felt so groggy she would have followed, asking, admonishing, suggesting. All of which, she acknowledged, would have been an error. Maybe her cold was a blessing in disguise.

But she left her light on and remained sitting up, drowsing off and waking to glance at the clock, and drowsing again, until Jim returned. He had kept his promise. It wasn't quite eleven-thirty when he looked in again to wish her good night.

"Did you have a good time?" Andrea asked.

"Oh, you know—the usual."

"Invite your friend to come here next time, why don't you?"

"Yeah, sure," Jim said. "Good night, Andy."

If her cold was no better next day, it was no worse, but after eight hours of scrubbing and wringing out mops, caulking windows and patching leaks, taking telephone calls and changing reservations, she was not displeased to find that Jim had again assumed the role of chef.

"Spaghetti for a change?" she said, smiling.

"We had hamburgers last night."

"So we did. Thanks, honey; I appreciate your helping."

"No problem," Jim muttered, his back to her.

"Don't put the spaghetti on just yet. Let's have a beer and talk for a while."

"I figured you would want to go to bed early."

"I don't want to go to bed. It's those damned pills that are making me so sleepy. I think I'll stop taking them."

"That's the trouble with you, Andy, you always quit taking medicine when you feel better and then you get sick again. You need lots of sleep."

Surprised at his vehemence, Andrea said mildly, "Maybe you're right. But I get bored lying in bed."

"I could move the TV into your room. There's a good movie on tonight."

The cold medicine must have dulled her wits. Any experienced guardian of the young should have been alerted by the clues Jim had dropped. But Andrea didn't catch on until after the movie had started. It was one of the car-crashing private-eye dramas she personally disliked, but which she thought might appeal to Jim, and she left her room to ask if he would join her. The utter silence of the house struck her at once. Jim was not in his room, or in the kitchen.

After climbing to the third floor and finding no sign of him, she knocked on Martin's door.

"Something wrong?" he asked, seeing her worried expression.

"Is Jim with you?"

Sensing that a simple denial would not satisfy her, Martin stepped back and opened the door wide. From the middle of the bed Satan blinked arrogant golden eyes. Jim was not there.

"Where could he have gone? He's not in the house."

"So he's gone out," Martin said. "What's the big deal? He's not six years old."

"But he's..." She swallowed. "He's handicapped."

"That still doesn't make you his nursemaid."

"Oh, shut up. You don't understand."

"Yes, I do." Martin sighed. He was in his shirt sleeves, his collar open and his glasses riding high on his forehead. "Did you look to see if he left a note?"

"No. No, I didn't." Andrea ran toward the stairs.

Martin looked at Satan. The cat yawned. "You are undoubtedly right," Martin muttered. "But I haven't your sangfroid, more's the pity." He followed Andrea downstairs.

The note had been in plain sight on the kitchen table, weighted down by the sugar bowl. Andrea was reading it when Martin came in.

"He's gone out with that same boy," she said angrily. "Says he didn't want to disturb me...Who is this person? Jim said he met him at the Historical Association."

Martin's eyebrows rose. "I can't remember anyone in particular," he said evasively.

"Jim said there wasn't anyone there under eighty."

"Why do you assume this newfound friend is his age?" Martin asked.

"He didn't exactly say that...It must be someone completely unsuitable, or Jim wouldn't take such pains to keep me from meeting him. Goddamn it, how can he do this to me?"

Martin appeared to be debating with himself. One of him lost the argument; he shook his head morosely and said, "Can I give you some advice, or will you bite my head off?"

"I'll probably bite your head off." Andrea paced, crumpling the note in her hand.

"I'll give it anyway. Don't wait up for him."

"I'll do exactly as I please, thank you."

"I know." Martin sighed again. "I don't suppose you want me to keep you company?"

"No, thank you."

"All right. I'll be upstairs if you want me."

Andrea spent the next hour pacing the hall, drinking coffee, smoking, and talking to herself. The coffee made her sick and the cigarettes raked her raw throat. After a while she moved a chair into position by the parlor window and sat staring at the road. Cars passed, their headlights forming increasingly infrequent streaks of brightness as the night moved on toward morning. Once a car turned into the drive. Andrea started to her feet. But the driver had only wanted to turn; the lights retreated and retraced their path.

At one-thirty—she knew the time to the precise second—she rose stiffly from the chair and went to Jim's room. The door could only be bolted from the inside, but the bolt itself had been a warning she had heeded until that moment. She had punctiliously respected his privacy, never entering the room without telling him she intended to do so. And this was her reward! He had broken their mutual trust,
and no longer deserved her consideration.

She was looking for an address book—or, more likely, in Jim's case, a scrap of paper with a name and telephone number. Any name she didn't recognize. And she wouldn't hesitate to call, even at this hour.

If she had not been so frantic with worry and rage, it might have struck her as pathetic that there were no such scraps. Jim's desk and dresser had always been littered with them, signs of the friends of both sexes he had once acquired so easily. After searching every drawer in every piece of furniture and finding nothing, she picked up a notebook and shook it. A sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.

A single glance told her it was not what she was looking for. The paper was covered with writing— a letter, or, from the irregularity of the lines, a piece of verse. Angry as she was, she would not have deliberately pried into Jim's private correspondence, but a phrase caught her eye—something about fallen bridges. Before she could read on she heard the sound she had been waiting for. Thrusting the paper into her pocket, she ran to the front door, reaching it in time to see the headlights swing on around the house into the service drive leading to the garage and barn. By the time she reached the kitchen door, the car was retreating. In the dark of the moonless night she could not see it distinctly, but she knew the sound of the engine; she had heard it often enough.

A small enclosed porch separated the kitchen from the out-of-doors. Jim had just opened the door. His outline was unmistakable, but there was something odd about his stance; he was tilted at an angle, like a leaning tower. When he saw Andrea he giggled
and said, "Ah, shit. Caught me, di'n' you?"

The smell of stale beer was so strong Andrea realized he must have spilled a considerable quantity on his clothes. "Come in," she said. "If you can walk."

"Shit, yes, I can walk." But the first step was a stagger, and Andrea darted forward bracing herself against his weight. She felt him shaking with laughter as she held him.

With very little assistance from Jim she got him into the kitchen. When the light fell on his face she cried out. His mouth was swollen and his chin was black with dried blood. Patches of red scraped skin marked cheekbone and temple.

"You oughta see the other guy," Jim mumbled. Releasing the crutches, which fell with a crash, he swayed toward a chair.

"Did I hear a car—" Martin stopped. After a moment he said, "Good God." Then he started to laugh.

Jim joined him. "Oughta see the other bastard," he told Martin.

Andrea looked from one grinning, flushed male face to the other and burst into tears.

Her sobs sobered Jim faster than an icy shower. "Hey, sis, don't do that...I'm okay. I feel fine." His eyes widened ingenuously and his swollen lips parted in a look of consternation; he was just about to prove his last comment a lie when Martin grabbed him and hoisted him out of his chair.

"Come on, you can make it as far as the bathroom."

Their hasty departure was followed by a series of distressing sounds, interrupted only by acerbic comments from Martin. When the latter returned, Andrea had stopped crying and was sitting in stony silence.

"I put him to bed," Martin said, rolling his sleeves down. "He isn't hurt—just a few bruises and a loose tooth. He must have given a good account of himself. I've seen Gary Joe; he's a big lout, but he's flabby and out of—"

"You're crazy," Andrea said flatly. "Both of you. All of you. Men."

"Want a cup of coffee?"

"If I drink any more coffee I'll throw up."

"A nice hot cup of tea, then. The old-fashioned panacea for ladies in distress."

She didn't argue. Martin handed her a cup and sat down opposite her.

"Time for a lecture?" Andrea inquired.

"Can you believe I don't particularly want to lecture?"

"No."

"In that case I'll go on. I can see Jim's point of view, because I belong to the same vulgar sex. I suppose it's difficult for a woman to understand."

"Try me."

"Andrea, the accident crippled Jim in more ways than one. In a sense it emasculated him. Amputation, symbolizing castration—it sounds glib, I know, but think what he's lost. His prized athletic abilities, his car...Hell, I can remember how I felt about that beat-up wreck of mine, even though it was back in prehistoric times; to a modem kid his wheels are more than a means of transportation. Is it any wonder Jim has turned to the two classic methods of asserting his masculinity?"

"Fornication and fighting."

"That's one way of putting it."

"He was with Linnie, wasn't he? I recognized the sound of her father's truck."

"She's the only nubile female he has available," Martin said.

There was a note of criticism in his voice which Andrea chose to ignore. "But why can't they—do whatever they want to do here?"

"Did you just say what I thought you said?"

"I don't know what I'm saying." Andrea's head dropped onto her hands.

"You'll feel better in the morning." Martin pushed his chair back and rose. "Jim won't, though...Good night, Andrea."

"Good night." She waited until he had opened the door. "Thanks, Martin."

"Any time."

Andrea stayed where she was, elbows on the table, hands supporting her head. She had not tried to defend herself against Martin's implied criticism, but it wasn't altogether her fault that Jim had lost touch with his friends at school. Admittedly she sometimes forgot to pass on telephone messages; it wasn't deliberate, she just forgot. Jim was welcome to invite friends to the house, he knew that; she didn't have to tell him. He was the one who had cut himself off. Was it because he didn't want the girls he had dated to see him as he was now?