Here I Stay (4 page)
Authors: KATHY
It wasn't until she went to the local bank to ask for a mortgage on the house that she began to wonder why matters had gone so smoothly. She didn't expect to get the money without a fight, not at the first place she tried; but the manager, who called her "Miss Andrea," practically handed her the cash.
Dazed, she left the bank and stood on the front steps to get her wits together. The bank was a branch of a state-wide institution, but it occupied a building dating to the thirties, when banks looked like banks, not like red brick bungalows. Tall stone pillars supporting a pedimented Greek gable shone in the sunlight. Straight ahead was the main street of Ladiesburg, less than a mile from Foster's Amoco at one end to the Ladiesburg Meat and Freezer Company at the other. The business district was three blocks long, and the majority of the buildings were of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. In recent years there had been a concerted attempt to restore the original appearance of the gracious Federal houses, and Ladiesburg merchants nurtured Machiavellian schemes for challenging New Market as the antiques capital of Maryland.
Andrea had met a number of these merchants in the course of her enterprise; they had been helpful and friendly but she had not had time to respond to their overtures. Now, as she pondered her newfound wealth, her eyes focused on a building in the middle of the next block. It was the largest structure in town, including the bank—a low stone building with black shutters and tubs of petunias lining the facade. Andrea started walking.
It was ten-thirty, and luncheon preparations at Peace and Plenty were underway. Andrea went
through the back door and into the main dining room. Peace and Plenty had started life as an inn, "the oldest continually operated tavern in Maryland," as its brochure proclaimed. Reba Miller had taken over the restaurant from her parents. Presumably there had once been a Mr. Miller, since Reba had the title of "Mrs.," but Andrea suspected that even when that ephemeral personage had been alive he had been referred to as "Mr. Reba Miller."
Reba stood in the corner of the room shouting orders at the waitresses who were setting the tables for lunch. A cigarette dangled from her mouth without impeding speech; the top of her black beehive wig brushed the ferns that filled hanging baskets attached to the low ceiling. She was almost six feet tall and correspondingly broad. She used the same type of makeup she had used when she was twenty; the slash of crimson lipstick was crooked, and the powder was caked in the wrinkles of her broad face. Andrea arrived in time to hear her bellow, "Get your ass in gear, Susie, we open in an hour."
Susie, a slim little creature who looked delicious in the mobcap and colonial gown that constituted Peace and Plenty's uniform, grinned and went calmly on with what she was doing. Hearing Andrea approach, Reba turned and waved a hand in greeting.
"Lazy little bitches," she said around her cigarette. "Want a cup of coffee?"
She was obviously expecting a refusal. Usually when they met on the street or in one of the shops, Andrea excused herself on the grounds that she was too busy to take time off.
When Andrea said, "Thanks; if it's not too much trouble," Reba smiled broadly. The cigarette fell out
of her mouth. Andrea bent to pick it up, but before she could do so Reba stepped on it and ground it into the stone-flagged floor.
"Tracy, get over here and clean up this mess," she shouted.
They had their coffee in Reba's office, which adjoined the dining room so she could harass her staff. It was a large, untidy room, containing not only a desk and file cabinets, but a dining table and chairs, sofas, and bookcases. During a lull in the conversation, when Reba had rushed to the door to chastise a waitress for forgetting the napkins, Andrea glanced at the books; somehow she was not surprised to see that the selection was, to say the least, eclectic. It ranged from a worn, well-read copy of
Mother Carey's Chickens
to Proust in the original French, and included one or two volumes of the sort that Reba's generation usually hid under the mattress.
Andrea wasted no time. "Are you the one I have to thank for all the sweetness and light and cooperation I've been getting?"
Reba tried without success to look bewildered. "What do you mean?"
"I just took out a mortgage on the house." Might as well admit it; Reba knew everything that went on in town, sometimes before the participants did. "I got more than I had hoped, with no hassle. Somebody down here likes me."
Reba was quick to catch her meaning. "God, you're an
evil-minded
little cynic, aren't you?" she said admiringly. "No, kiddo, I'm not looking for any favors. Except for sending trade my way, and that's mutual. We aren't competing, since I don't rent rooms and you don't serve meals."
"Then you are the one who's been putting in a
good word for me. I'd have caught on before this if I hadn't been so busy."
"I talked to a few people," Reba admitted. She lit another cigarette and tried to look casual.
"Why?"
"Why the hell not?" Reba shouted. Her cigarette fell onto the table. She picked it up, put it back in her mouth, and mumbled, "What's wrong with doing a favor for somebody you...well...for a friend? A friend who's had a hard time?"
Andrea had grown accustomed to the fact that everybody in Ladiesburg and its vicinity knew her personal history. People who were the slightest of acquaintances stopped her on the street to ask how Jim was getting along. She hated pity as much as she hated morbid curiosity, but had forced herself to respond pleasantly; she couldn't operate without the goodwill of the local shopkeepers, and mutual cooperation was to her advantage as well as theirs. But it had never occurred to her that small-town intimacy might work in her favor.
"I'm sorry," she said, realizing that she was staring and that Reba, hideously uncomfortable, had chewed the end of her cigarette to shreds. "I just don't understand. You hardly know me."
"I like your guts," Reba said. "There was a time when I...Well, the hell with that. Actually, it's none of your g---------d business why I do anything, is it?"
"No." Andrea smiled.
The corners of Reba's clown-red mouth twitched. "Oh, get out of here. I've got to light a fire under those worthless kids, and you have work to do."
"Right." Andrea rose. "Come over for a drink sometime."
"I might at that."
The sidewalks of Ladiesburg were of brick, large sections of which had been tumbled or displaced by the roots of the miniature weeping cherries that lent the town such distinction in April. Her eyes on the ground, Andrea walked along the street, past Raider's Antiques, Antique Haven, Past and Present (antiques), the Candle and Basket Shop (also crafts), Patchwork Paradise, and Long Remembered (antiques) . Reba was the last person in the world from whom she would have expected such a burst of sentimentality. "I admire your guts," indeed. Dialogue from an old film starring Spencer Tracy and Mickey Rooney...But if Reba was moved by underhanded motives, Andrea could not imagine what they might be. For all Reba's tough-guy affectations, her sexual orientation was of the kind most of the world called normal; Andrea had encountered the other variety often enough to have developed instincts in such matters. Apparently Reba identified with her and her struggles, but it was hard to picture that formidable old woman as young and vulnerable.
Though she couldn't understand Reba's motives, she had no hesitation in accepting the help they provided. Discreet questioning of workmen and shopkeepers provided her with an explanation for Reba's clout; she was the biggest property owner in town, with a sizable share of stock in the bank. It's a pity she isn't my cousin, Andrea thought, as she slapped plaster into holes in the parlor wall.
It was August before Jim was ready to leave the hospital. Andrea increased her efforts and somehow the essential work got done. The most valuable of Cousin Bertha's furniture had gone to dealers, but there was enough left to furnish the reception rooms and bedrooms in Victorian splendor. The attic had
proved to be a treasure trove, containing marble-topped washstands and oak tables, handmade quilts and crocheted spreads, beds and chairs and fireplace screens. Andrea was able to advertise that "each room is furnished with genuine antiques" without stretching the truth too much. She had several advance bookings weeks before she was ready to open. Here again she had Reba to thank. "Word-of-mouth advertising is what you want," Reba had said, adding, with a lip-stretching grin that proved her point, "My mouth is big enough to help quite a lot."
The inn sign was the final touch. Andrea had deliberately waited until everything else was in order before hanging it; the act was a little private ceremony not to be shared, even with Jim. She wanted everything to be absolutely perfect when he saw it.
He would see it in only a few more hours. The doctor had suggested she pick him up about eleven. She knew she ought to get back to the house, shower and change. But the warm sunlight felt good on her aching shoulders and she was reluctant to move.
Out in the middle of the pasture next to the house a single dark blot broke the expanse of rippling green. Satan sat like a statue carved of jet, his coat shimmering in the sunlight. Haunches and tail were concealed by the tail grass, and in his utter stillness he resembled an expensive art object in a dealer's window, with green satin swathing his pedestal. He spent hours in that position on sunny days; presumably he was lying in wait for mice or moles. Andrea preferred not to think about that. Satan's sole virtue was that so far he had not presented her with the spoils. Such a demonstration was, she had heard, a mark of affection. It was one she could well do
without.
The road behind her was a county highway, narrow but well traveled. Cars passed frequently; not a few of them slowed as they approached. Prospective customers, hopefully...But most, she knew, were local people gaping at the transformation of the house. Some even pulled into the driveway to stare openly. I must put up a sign, she thought—Private Road, No Trespassing. When she heard the screech of tires and the crunch of gravel she turned, frowning.
Instead of retreating in embarrassment at the sight of her the car came to a stop. Andrea's freshly laid and very expensive gravel spurted up under its wheels. She recognized the car immediately; it was one of a kind. Kevin's beloved 1965 Buick convertible, rescued from a junkyard in Connecticut, stripped and refurbished by the devoted hands of "the guys." Kevin was at the wheel, and beside him sat Jim.
Anger weakened Andrea's knees. The boys were waving and grinning like idiots...She took a deep breath and walked toward them.
If they noticed her scowl they ignored it. "I asked Kevin to pick me up," Jim explained.
"So I see."
"Figured we could save you the trip," Kevin added, his hands caressing the steering wheel. "Jeez, Andy, you've done a sensational job. It looks great. Wow—is that Satan? Look at the old bastard, lying in ambush. The sign is sensational. Did you put it up yourself? Should have waited for us."
He didn't stop talking long enough for her to answer, probably because the expression on her face warned him that her comment would not sustain
the cheerful mood he was trying to create. "Hop in and we'll save you a walk. There's enough room in the back, even with all Jim's stuff."
Andrea looked steadily at Jim. "Hop in," he repeated. "We can all get in the front. Here—"
"No." Andrea's hand went out in an involuntary gesture of protest. "No, thanks. You go on. I'll be there in a minute."
"Right." Kevin shifted gears and off they went, the twin exhausts roaring. He's afraid I'll crack and say something, Andrea thought bitterly. Well, I won't. At least I hope I won't...
From among the boxes and bags heaped promiscuously in the back seat the crutches protruded like a pair of flagpoles, boldly defiant. Jim wasn't wearing the pants she had carefully tailored to fit; his faded, tattered jeans had presumably been supplied by Kevin. The material was wadded up and fastened with two huge safety pins over the stump that had once been Jim's left leg.
She wondered if she would ever get used to it. In the beginning, when the issue had been a simple one of life or death, the loss of a limb had seemed one of the lesser injuries. But now the other wounds had healed; the hair had grown back over the holes bored through skull and brain. In a few months there would be no signs except a few scars—and the emptiness where a healthy limb had been. But she would get used to it. Jim would get used to it. People could get used to anything.
By the time Andrea reached the house, the boys had vanished inside. The front door stood wide open. Cool air poured out—she could almost see it—and insects poured in.
They were upstairs. She heard the thud of Kevin's footsteps, and another sound that made her wince— the irregular thump and beat of Jim's progress on crutches. He had resisted the idea of an artificial... of a prosthetic device. Later, the doctor had said. Give him time.
The thumps advanced to the top of the stairs. Andrea cried out in alarm and started up, arms outstretched. "Be careful, Jimmie—not so fast! Let me help."
Jim stopped on the landing, halfway down. Light streaming through the stained-glass window dressed him in motley and streaked his face with crimson and green. He lifted one crutch and shook it at Andrea. Gesture and words were meant to be humorous, but there was a glint in his eyes that told Andrea he meant what he said. "If you touch me I'll fall over. Probably mash you on the way down."
