Here I Stay (9 page)

"Jim's got a book that tells about the old cemeteries," Kevin explained. "Some guy made a survey, back in the thirties or forties. Must have been
quite a job, because even then some of the sites were overgrown and forgotten. Since then a lot more of them have disappeared."

"But this house appears to have been built—oh, I'd guess mid-nineteenth century, give or take a few decades," Greenspan said. "Much later than the period when the cemetery was in use."

"We figure there was a house here before this one," Kevin explained. "Not necessarily on the same site, but part of the same estate."

Greenspan nodded. "That's reasonable. Have you checked it out?"

"Oh, no, we're not going in for anything resembling homework," Kevin said with a grin. "Just some honest manual labor."

From outside the graveyard looked unchanged. The brick wall was crumbling and uneven, and overhanging cedars cast a somber green shade. But the interior was almost unrecognizable. Formerly the entire enclosure had been a mass of weeds and intertwined brambles. The boys had chopped down intrusive saplings, rooted out honeysuckle and wild blackberry bushes, and cut the weeds down to an uneven stubble. It wasn't pretty, but it was less ugly, and a few stones remained in place. Others, in varying stages of decrepitude, had been lined up along the brick wall.

Kevin flung the gate open and assumed the role of guide.

"We didn't move any of the gravestones that were still in place. And we made a plan of where we found the others." He cocked an eye at Greenspan and received the nod of approval he had hoped for. "A lot of them had fallen over or been uprooted by trees. But look at this one—look at the date."

" 'John Springer,' " Greenspan read. " 'Born Apr. 17, 1712, died...' When?"

"We couldn't read it either, it's all worn down. But isn't that something? Seventeen twelve!" He tugged Greenspan away to examine the other stones.

Andrea looked at her brother. His lifted face was illumined by a ray of sunlight that filtered through the cedar boughs. His expression was dreamy and remote.

"Jim!" she said sharply.

He turned toward her, using one crutch as a pivot, his dreamy smile unchanged. "I thought we could fix it up. Plant grass and some flowers. And put a bench there, under the trees."

"Jimmie, I wish you wouldn't—"

Greenspan was at her side, his hand on her arm. "It's fascinating, Jim. You guys must have busted your biceps here."

"It was one hell of a lot of work," Jim said. "But it's just the beginning. I thought we would fix it up..."

He went on to repeat and expand on his plans. But for some reason, this time they didn't sound so—so alarming? So morbid? Yet Andrea's dislike of the place was not lessened. She was about to suggest that they leave when Greenspan said, in a voice sharp with excitement, "What's that?"

He moved quickly to examine it—a tangle of leafy branches hanging over the wall at the end opposite the gate. A few patches of color spotted the green, and as Andrea joined Greenspan he lifted a flower onto his palm, with as much reverence as if it had been a rare orchid. The crumpled petals, of softest pink, gave off a strong musky scent.

"It's a wild rose," Jim said. "It was half-strangled
by honeysuckle, but we thought it was kind of pretty, so we left it."

"Wild rose nothing," Martin said. "Unless I'm crazy, this is
Rosa damascene bifera."

"Rosa what?" Kevin asked. "What's so unusual about it?"

Martin held the flower cupped in curved fingers. "The autumn damask—one of the oldest roses in the world. Mentioned by Ovid and Livy. It was brought to the New World by the Spaniards, who called it Rose of Castile."

"Cousin Bertha must have planted it," Andrea said indifferently. "You certainly have a wide range of interests, Martin."

"You mean I don't look like a lover of roses. I am, though. Some day I hope to retire to a place like this, in the country, and cultivate my garden. You won't find old varieties like this at a neighborhood nursery; it's only obtainable through specialized sources. You're sure your cousin never—"

"I really can't say." Andrea could not understand his persistence, and she was anxious to get away. "Gentlemen, I admire your effort, your wisdom, and your general amiability, but I've got work to do. Are you coming?"

"Wait a minute. What's this?" Martin stooped, parting the leggy stems and the rank crabgrass from which they sprang. "Another stone?"

"It's fallen over again," Kevin said, kneeling beside Martin. "I thought we had it set pretty solidly. It's got a funny inscription," he added casually.

Martin tipped the stone back so that the sunlight fell across its surface. One line stood out amid a tangle of half-obliterated letters. Either accident had spared that single section, or the carving had been
so deep, so enduring, that the ravages of weather and time had not obliterated the message. It was indeed a funny inscription.

" 'Here I stay,' " Martin read. "Good Lord— who was the belligerent atheist?"

But the rest of the writing was almost gone. "I think the first name is Mary," Martin decided finally. "There's a date in the 1800's—could be 1809 or 1889, or almost any variant thereof. One of the Springers?"

"If we cleaned it, maybe we could read more," Kevin suggested.

"Could be. I don't know that I care that much. But someone evidently cared enough to plant
Rosa damascena
on her grave...I still find it hard to believe a rose could survive so long without care. Wait." He bent again to search the tangled stems. "The roots are here, several feet away from Mary's grave. Another grave? There are a few fragments of broken stone."

His voice died away, and for an interval no one spoke.

Movement was suspended in a fixed instant of time; even the breeze died to a breathless hush.

"I'm leaving," Andrea said. Her voice sounded too loud, too harsh—an affront to the silence. "I have work to do."

Martin caught up with her as she slowed her headlong flight to a walk. "What's the matter? Did I do something?"

Behind them she heard the boys laughing and talking. They were heading for the shed where they had placed Jim's weight lifting equipment. Why couldn't he find something safe and harmless to do? Waving heavy weights around, and brooding like
Hamlet in a moldy graveyard...

"It's morbid," she said vehemently. "Sick and morbid. Why do you have to encourage him?"

"In those terms archaeology is morbid, and so is history," Martin said. "Genealogy, paleontology, anthropology—digging up the dead bones of the past. He needs something, Andrea. New interests, new hobbies, maybe a new career. I gather he was thinking of going pro."

"That was just a pipe dream, a joke we had. He's going to major in accounting. Or computers."

"Or hotel management? Okay, so tell me it's none of my business. But I can't allow people I—people I like—to make such flagrant mistakes without speaking my mind. Jim's interests can't be artificially induced by you or anybody else. The most you can do is cultivate the ones he develops himself, and thank God for them."

"You're right," Andrea said. Martin's defensive look relaxed; she waited, hatefully, cruelly, before adding, "It isn't any of your business." She let the screen door slam in his face and ran to her room.

Kevin's departure, that evening, precipitated another fight, this time with Jim. Andrea couldn't understand what she had done to anger him. She wasn't sorry to see Kevin go, but she was sure she had concealed her feelings; Kevin didn't seem to see anything lacking in her farewells and thanks, but after he was gone Jim turned on her with angry accusations of a sort she hadn't heard from him for years. "You hate Kevin—you hate all the guys—you don't want me to have any friends!" He stormed off
to his room and wouldn't come out, no matter how she pleaded. When she tried the knob she found, to her incredulous hurt, that the door was bolted. He must have installed the bolt that afternoon, with Kevin's help.

Andrea exhausted herself cleaning objects that were already spotless. When she went to bed she would have cried herself to sleep if she had allowed herself that kind of weakness.

Wings, beating against dark bars of shadow, trying to break free... She came out of an uneasy dream to feel them all around her, stirring her hair with the wind of their passage, brushing the hands she lifted to fend them off.

Lips locked and teeth set, she managed to keep from screaming, not so much from shame as from pride. She would not use that weapon against Jim. But not for any reward on earth could she have forced herself out of the frail refuge provided by mattress and sheet, not even to reach the lamp on the table by her bed.

After an endless interval she realized that there was something else in the dark room. She fancied she could see it through her closed eyelids—a tiny point of light, like the dimmest of candle flames. It fed her failing strength, and the wings fell back before it, retreating into remote realms of shadow. She slipped a shaking hand from under the sheet and found the lamp.

And, of course, there was nothing in the room. A night breeze stirred the thin curtains. It felt cold as winter, but as the sweat of terror on her body dried, warmth and courage gradually returned. This time she had won. And next time, if there was a next
time, the victory would be easier.

Next morning Andrea lay in wait for Martin. He had refused to let her carry a breakfast tray to his room, claiming his schedule was too erratic and that he couldn't possibly know in advance at what time he would want his coffee. It was nearly ten before he came downstairs, dressed for jogging. When he saw her he mumbled a greeting and headed for the door.

"I want to apologize," Andrea said.

"I guess I was out of line." Martin stopped, but did not turn.

"You care about Jim. I should have given you credit for good intentions."

"But not for good sense?" He faced her, smiling. Unaccountably relieved, Andrea smiled back.

"Let's make a deal. You're entitled to give me your opinion and I'm entitled to blow up if I don't like it."

His head on one side, Martin considered the suggestion. "That seems reasonable," he admitted.

Then Andrea went to make her peace with Jim.

He opened the door as soon as she knocked. "Sorry I flipped last night," he said with a carefree smile. "I hated to see Kevin leave. Not fair to take it out on you. Okay?"

"Okay." The bolt was shiny, brand-new. Jim saw her looking at it.

"Don't take it personally, sis. It's just that I have to—well, I need a place where I can be by myself. My own place."

"I understand."

"Good. I'm starved—what's for breakfast?"

He headed for the kitchen. Following, Andrea stopped to check the supplies in the pantry. She needed more mixing bowls. Linnie had broken two of the big ones in the past week. Better get stainless steel next time, she thought wryly.

From the next room she heard the scrape of Jim's chair and his casual greeting. "Hi, Linnie. Hot enough for you?"

"Here's your coffee, nice and strong," Linnie murmured. "I'll make you some bacon and eggs."

"Don't bother, Linnie."

"It's no bother. I like to do it." Her voice dropped even lower, to a crooning whisper. "You need to eat more, Jim. You're too thin."

Now that really is the last straw, Andrea thought furiously. That cheap little tart! I assumed it was Kevin she was after, hanging around the kitchen till he got up in the morning, offering to work longer hours...She slammed the cupboard door—a tactical error, for it warned Linnie of her approach and gave the girl time to retreat to the stove.

"I'll do that," Andrea said, taking the bacon from Linnie. "Go and clean Mr. Greenspan's room. And hurry up, he'll be back soon."

After the girl had gone, dragging her feet and pouting, Jim said mildly, "Aren't you a little hard on the kid?"

"She gets more incompetent every day. I think I'd better look for someone else."

"I guess she doesn't need the job." The indifference in Jim's voice reassured Andrea, but she decided it wouldn't do any harm to add a warning.

"She told me she was planning to be married next
spring. At seventeen—can you imagine?"

"Who's the guy?"

"He works at the gas station. He's only a year or two older, and according to Reba he's not worth a damn. They should suit one another—two high school dropouts, with no skills and no ambition."

"Any muffins left?" Jim asked.