Houses of Stone (22 page)

"But in a fascinating reversal of conventional male-female roles. Usually it's the hero who nobly sacrifices his life for a principle, and the
heroine who refuses to go on living after the sole light of her life is gone. As for Antigone's sister . . . Admittedly she does offer to join Antigone in death, but only after she has tried to persuade her sister to accept the tyrant's refusal to give their dead brother honorable burial. And in the end, Ismene doesn't go through with it. She lives and Antigone dies."

"Antigone talks her out of sacrificing herself. She doesn't want to share the glory."

"That's one interpretation." Meyer raised his eyebrows. "But I didn't expect you to be so
cynical
about female heroes."

"Why should they be any different from male heroes? Do you think it was love for her sister that moved Antigone, then?"

"Why not? Ismene had offered the highest proof of her love; she was willing to die for a cause she obviously considered foolish. Their brother was already dead and rotting. What use is honorable burial to a corpse?"

"That's a modern viewpoint. The Greeks didn't share it."

"True," Meyer admitted. "Nor did some of our not-so-distant ancestors. I doubt the parallel between the drama and the novel extends beyond the similarity of names, however, so I wouldn't bother searching for a pair of sisters and a dead brother in the Cartright genealogy. I have, however, found Ismene's house of stone."

The words were like a slap in the face of a swooning heroine. Karen had been leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands, forgetting her dislike of Meyer in the rare and unmatched pleasure of shop talk. There weren't many people who knew her field so well, and whose intelligence was as quick as Meyer's. Or as crafty. He had caught her completely off guard.

"You sneaky son of a bitch," she exclaimed. "How much of the manuscript did you read?"

"And then he said, with one of those nasty grins of his—I quote exactly—'I'm quite a fast reader. And I know how to skim the cream off a text.' "

She was speaking to Peggy, who had called to report her arrival shortly after Meyer left. She was earlier than Karen had expected, but Karen hadn't commented on that or on Peggy's drawn, tired face. The perfidy of William Meyer still rankled. As she drove to the motel to pick up her
friend she carried on a profane monologue with herself, but it was an even greater catharsis to express her rage to a sympathetic listener.

"Have a drink," Peggy suggested. She already had one; her first question, after they reached the apartment, had been, "Where's the booze?"

"Maybe I will." Removing the cork from the bottle of wine relieved a little of her spleen. While she worked at it Peggy said mildly, "So what's the beef? He didn't have to tell you. Did he describe the location of the place he had found?"

"Well . . . yes. I'd have found it anyway. I had already located the clearing in the woods."

"But not the house."

Karen shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like to remember the attack of panic she had felt in that clearing, and she had no intention of admitting it to anyone—not even Peggy. "I only found the reference to it last night," she said evasively. "Up till that point I had no reason to suppose Ismene's house of stone was anything other than figurative."

"I wasn't criticizing you. You've accomplished a hell of a lot in only a few days." She watched Karen pace back and forth and then added, in a sharper voice, "For God's sake, sit down and relax! I don't know why you let Meyer get to you. What else did he say?"

"Not much. He didn't have a chance to say much—I more or less kicked him out." Karen slumped into a chair and sipped her wine. "Calling him a son of a bitch didn't exactly improve matters."

"What . . . did ... he ... say?" Peggy repeated.

"He didn't return the compliment." The wine, or Peggy's presence, or both, had had a soothing effect. Karen smiled faintly. "In fact, he laughed. He said he'd given me the information as a token of his good intentions, and that he'd continue to pass on anything of interest, without expecting me to reciprocate. Not that I believe it."

"It could be he's on the up-and-up," Peggy mused. "Cherishing a secret passion for you, unable to express it because you are a professional rival as well as a beautiful, desirable woman ..."

"Very funny." But the idea had its appeal. It would certainly be a triumph to have Bill Meyer, the Don Juan of the Modern Language Association, kneeling at her feet. Karen savored the image: Meyer submissive and stammering, like some bucolic swain, with her foot planted firmly on his bowed neck.

The picture was as absurd as it was unlikely. "Maybe I did overreact," she admitted. "I doubt my rudeness fazed Bill, though. He'll be back. Want another drink before I start my report?"

"Yes." Peggy rose and followed her into the kitchen. "I wouldn't say no to a cracker and a crumb of cheese, either, if you have them. I haven't had anything to eat since this morning; stopped off at the house to change clothes and pick up the car, and then drove straight through."

"No wonder you look so tired." Karen went to the refrigerator. "I'm sorry; I should have asked. How is your friend?"

"Dead," Peggy said. "The funeral was yesterday."

Recovering himself, he displayed a palm liberally smeared with green
paint. "It's nice to see you again, Dr.—Peggy. You'll excuse me for not shaking hands."

"It would be easier to paint them if you took them off," Peggy said.

"What . . ."He blinked at her. "Oh, you mean the shutters. I can't get them off without using a hacksaw on the hardware, it's rusted solid. This job is purely cosmetic; I haven't time for ... But you don't want to hear about that. What can I do for you?"

The question implied he didn't want to do much and that he hoped they would go away. Karen said, "Peggy wanted to see the house. There's no need for you to go with us."

"The cellar's flooded again," Cameron said.

"Good," Peggy said. "That gives me an excuse to decline a visit. I come all over queer in dark, dank, enclosed spaces. We'd like to explore the grounds, though, if that's all right with you."

"There's poison ivy, brambles, snakes—"

"Honey, I'm a country girl at heart. I know all about snakes. As you can see, I dressed for the occasion."

Hands on her hips, feet planted firmly, she tipped her head back and gave him a cheerful grin. Cameron still appeared a trifle dazed by the transformation, but his lips relaxed in an answering smile.

"Yes, I see. Be careful."

"Same to you," Peggy retorted. "That ladder doesn't look very sturdy. You shouldn't be working out here alone. If you fell—"

"I won't fall. But I appreciate your concern." He sounded as if he meant it.

Karen had been curious to see how Peggy would react to the chill in the front hall. It struck her as forcefully as it had on the other occasions, but if Peggy felt anything she didn't mention it. Muttering to herself and scribbling notes, she tramped from room to room with Karen trailing after her.

"What are you looking for?" the latter finally asked.

"I'm trying to get some idea of how old the main house and its appendages are, and whether there are visible signs of alteration. For instance—" she pointed with her pen—"that could be a bricked-up doorway. It's in the right location for an entrance to another wing."

"Ismene mentions two wings."

"Don't tell me what she mentions. You saw the house after you'd read
the manuscript. I want to do it the other way around. Not that I doubt your conclusions," Peggy added quickly. "This is by way of being a cross-check."