Here I Stay (35 page)

Martin stopped talking and picked up his glass. "Here's to her," he said.

Andrea had listened with a singular lack of surprise, as if someone were narrating a story she had heard before. It only increased her admiration for Mary Fairfax—she had earned the name, let her keep it. Faced with the same situation, under the same circumstances, she would have done the same, if she had had the wits to think of it.

"Here's to her," she echoed. "But what does it matter, after all?"

Martin countered with another question. "To whom? It mattered a hell of a lot to Mary, and even more to her daughter. Do you know what the word bastard meant back then? It was a label that barred a person from all the desirable things in life—a career, a place in society, a good marriage. I'd like to think Alice never knew the truth, but I'm afraid she did. That drawing of the soldier—the idealized face of the father she never knew—was something she didn't want her mother to see. She must have had some suspicion or she wouldn't have hidden it."

There was a pause, while the waiter brought their food. Then Martin said, "I haven't finished the saga. I started where Jim did, at the county courthouse. I was looking for Mary's wedding license, in case Jim overlooked something. I didn't find it, of course. But I did find a license for Alice Fairfax."

That piece of news did surprise Andrea. "But Alice was never married. Are you sure?"

"It was our Alice, all right. The dates and place of residence fit. The license was never used. And, as we know, the tombstone gives her maiden name.

"Now," Martin said, forestalling her next question, "you are about to ask me why. I'll tell you why. Or at least, what I think happened.

"The license application was dated three months before Alice died. It was not her death, then, that prevented the marriage. She jilted him, or he jilted her, or someone else broke it up. The boy's family may have interfered, because of her illegitimacy. But I rather suspect history repeated itself; Mary decided the young man wasn't good enough for her daughter. Three months later Alice fell, or jumped, from the tower window. The coincidence of time is not conclusive, I grant you, but it is certainly suggestive."

"Do you suppose she could have been pregnant?"

"That would be ironic, wouldn't it? The timing is right. It doesn't really affect the case, however.

"And now," Martin went on, poking distastefully at his cooling food, "you will again ask why. Why have I wasted ten days tracking down this tragic but long-gone history? Since you ask, I will tell you.

"There are two ways of interpreting the things that have happened over the past four or five months. First there is the rational, commonsense explanation. I needn't go over it in detail, because I'm sure it is as familiar to you as it is to me. Like me, you've spent a lot of time and effort trying to convince yourself that it's true.

"The second explanation is far simpler and far less acceptable. It is that Mary Fairfax, or some part of her, still exists. It is her presence, tormented and guilt-ridden, that Reba feels. Her influence has guided you from the start. The rose she planted over her daughter's grave still lives, by supernatural means. When she comes to my door, her cat greets
her. Oh, yes," he smiled, without humor, at Andrea's look of astonishment. "I know she's there. She's been back since. I look up, feeling her presence. I see that infernal animal preening himself and rubbing against an invisible skirt. Have you ever heard Satan purr? He purrs when Mary enters the room. And she was in the parlor that night...

"You mean that's why you didn't—"

"I don't perform well before an audience.

"I never heard anything so incredible in my life, Andrea said sincerely.

"Oh, yeah? How many other incidents have there been, that you neglected to mention to me? We've both concealed things from one another, and for the same reason—we haven't the guts to admit we're facing something we don't understand. Or do we?" Martin threw out his hands. "I just don't know. This is the first time I've been faced with a situation that can be explained in two entirely different, mutually contradictory ways. When I went looking for the rest of Mary's story I hoped I'd find something that would settle the matter, one way or the other. What I came up with is a perfectly valid motive for a restless ghost, but it's no solution to the problem."

"What precisely is the problem?" Andrea demanded. "If you're afraid of your own fantasies—"

"I could learn to live with Mary," Martin said seriously.

"For a restless spirit she's quite well behaved— she doesn't throw dishes around or pull the covers off the bed or howl in the night."

Andrea laughed. "You're joking. It's all a joke— isn't it?"

"Making fun of myself is an old habit—Tony would call it a defense mechanism. I'd probably try
out one-liners on the hangman while he was fitting the rope around my neck. That doesn't mean I would be indifferent to the gravity of my situation.

"You still don't understand the basic issue here. It's not Mary—guilty ghost, or figment of my imagination. It's not you. Mary hasn't injured or affected you. You're the same person you always were—if not more so.

"It took me some time to see it myself. Reba told me there was nothing wrong with the house before you came to live there. What she forgot was that Jim came too. He was the catalyst, the moving force, not you. Think what has happened to him. Admittedly much of his behavior can be accounted for in rational terms, like all the rest of this damned mess— but aren't the rationalizations wearing a little thin, Andrea? You can discount my fantasies if you like, but the fact can't be denied: The house isn't good for Jim. He's got to get out."

"There's a rational, commonsense explanation for your feelings about that, too, Martin."

"I'm only too well aware of it. And I'm sure Tony Benson would agree with you. But it isn't true. I'm not asking you to choose between me and Jim. I love Jim. Never thought I'd say that about another guy..."

She was unable to return his smile. "I won't deny I'm troubled about Jim. But this is too—too amorphous. I need something solid, something I can get my hands on."

"My God, so do I! When the medical reports came back, I was in a deep depression for days. It would have been so easy if they had found a physical problem—or a mental one. We could have dealt with that. But how do you cure a haunting?"

Andrea shook her head. "I might buy one ghost. But I draw the line at two."

"Let one in and the door is open; you can't keep the others out. The evidence for Alice's presence is even stronger than it is for Mary's. You've got better sense than to stand in an open window forty feet from the ground. What else happened that time? You didn't tell me everything, did you?"

"I felt a hand on my arm," Andrea said. "Holding me back—pulling me back. I think I'd have jumped if it hadn't been for that."

"There we are again," Martin said helplessly. "Subjective hallucination, or Alice, trying to save you from her fate?"

"Or Mary."

"Mary." Martin considered it. "That's even neater, isn't it? Alice is the destructive force; her despair still permeates the house. Mary is the good guy, earning her passage out of Purgatory by helping others as she failed to help her child. No, damn it, it's too Dickensian. Too carefully plotted."

"Perhaps the basic error we're both committing is attributing human characteristics, motives and feelings, to these—these—"

"Why shouldn't they have human feelings? They were human."

"Martin, I'll play this game as long as you like, and I'll play fair. But it's as you said—for every occurrence there are two explanations. I can't buy yours."

"Even after what happened to Jim?"

"What happened? He was on the verge of a nervous breakdown after a traumatic mental and physical experience. I'll even admit you may have been right about his intention of committing suicide.

There were other things I didn't tell you about— things I refused to admit even to myself...But when he found himself actually in danger of dying, when the reality hit him, he knew he had made a mistake. He didn't want to die."

"He didn't want to come back," Martin said softly.

"That was a long time ago. He was in pain, confused...It's different now."

"The night we found him in the graveyard, after he'd taken the pills, did you have the impression that he was not alone? That someone was sitting there beside him?"

He waited for her to answer. When she remained silent he shrugged. "All right. Believe what you like, but admit that it would be better for Jim if he went away. Not for ever, just long enough to build a normal life for himself."

"If he wants to go, I won't stand in his way."

"That isn't good enough. He doesn't want to go. Don't you see that that is what worries me? You must make him go. Kick him out. Set him free."

Andrea shivered. "I'll try."

He reached for her hand. "It's going to be all right, Andy.. .What do you say we stop and get some hamburgers to take home? I can't eat this disgusting slop."

The great search for a car to replace Martin's beloved Beetle began next day. He and Jim left early in the morning and did not return until suppertime. They had had no success, and, according to Jim, they never would if Martin didn't change his attitude.

"He compares every car we see to the VW," he said, half in disgust, half in amusement. "He's in deep mourning. When I point out some neat job, he looks at me like his wife has just died and I'm trying to drag him to the altar."

"Today's automobiles are heaps of junk," Martin argued. "Now the VW—"

"Is dead and gone," Jim shouted. "Now you listen—"

"And the prices!" Martin raised his eyes heavenward.

"Cars today cost as much as a house used to. I paid six hundred bucks for—"

"Don't say it," Jim warned.

"There's something obscene about shelling out thirty thousand dollars for a heap of chrome and tin."

"So who said you had to get a Mercedes? That was the salesman, not me. That red Corvette, now—"

"I refuse to buy a car I have to drive lying down."

The argument raged most of the evening. They finally agreed to have another go at it next day. Andrea, who had refrained from giving her opinion even when appealed to by both sides, firmly refused an invitation to join them.

If the matter of a car had been left to Martin, he probably would have gone out and bought the first thing he saw that had four wheels and a drive shaft. Involving Jim was part of a campaign that would include subtle suggestions about colleges and summer jobs and the like. Andrea had no objection. Yet, as always when Jim was with her, her forebodings seemed utterly absurd. He was so happy.

For months she had been sleeping soundly, without dreaming, but that night she was a trifle uneasy. There had been several burglaries recently, one at the gas station and another at a farmhouse whose deaf, elderly owner had a reputation as a miser. Al Wyckoff had called to tell her about them and to repeat his offer to find her "a nice little handgun." She had told him flatly that she didn't want a gun. But for the first time since she had moved into the house she was on edge. Her room was on the ground floor, and so far from the rooms where the men slept that she doubted they would hear if she called.

Like all homeowners she had developed a sensitivity to night sounds. The ones she had become accustomed to, like the murmur of the stream and the passing of cars on the highway, didn't disturb her slumber, but any unusual noise woke her at once. According to the illuminated dial of the clock on her bedside table it was three-twenty when the crackle of dried, frost-stiffened grass outside roused her from deep sleep.

Listening intently, she identified the sounds as furtive footsteps. She felt more anger than fear. Her window was open a few inches. She could tell that the intruder had stopped some distance away—perhaps at the window of the room that had been Jim's, now unoccupied. Careful not to let the bedclothes rustle, she slid out of bed. The sneakers she had worn that day were on the floor. She slipped her feet into them, and reached under the bed.

Neither Jim nor Martin knew about the poker. They would have laughed themselves sick if they had known, and then lectured her about rushing in where angels and sensible people feared to tread. Andrea would have been the first to admit that the poker's usefulness as an offensive weapon was limited, particularly for her. It just made her feel better. Gripping the heavy metal tool, she crept into Jim's old room.

She had barely entered when the furtive noises exploded into cacophonous discord—howls and human cries of pain, the hasty retreat of a heavy body now more concerned with speed than silence. She reached the window in time to see a dark bulk disappear behind the barn.

No need for caution now; she ran to the kitchen and snatched up a flashlight. It took her several minutes to unbar the back door. There were double locks, in addition to a bolt. Poker in one hand, flashlight in the other, she threw the door open.

A blast of cold air made her shiver. The night was still until she heard a car engine start up. It rose to a roar and faded into the distance.

He had made his escape. She considered going out to look for footprints, but a combination of cold and common sense restrained her; though she was fairly certain the car she had heard belonged to the trespasser, she wasn't absolutely sure, and it would have been foolhardy in the extreme to risk an encounter. She was about to retreat when the flashlight beam disclosed a moving figure. Tail bristling and switching, Satan swaggered up the steps and into the house.

Andrea locked the door. Satan sat down in front of the stove. Without deigning to look at Andrea he began grooming himself, licking his paw and passing it over his ears and nose. When he started worrying at one paw, Andrea realized there was something caught in a claw. She stooped and removed a shred of cloth.