Authors: KATHY
Houses of Stone (6 page)
"Did he know we were in the bar?"
"So he claimed." Peggy sipped her Scotch with obvious relish. "He wasn't about to invite us in while his customers were there. Meyer was the last."
"You were with Simon for over two hours? How could you leave me in suspense so long? I was beginning to worry about you."
"I couldn't tear myself away. The man's got a mind like a razor—and a sense of humor too. Of course he's a hopeless male chauvinist—not surprising, considering his age and his background—but I think I set him straight on—"
"I know Simon's opinions better than you do," Karen interrupted. "I'm really upset about this, Peggy. I spent two hours driving around in the rain, collecting tickets and making a fool of myself, while you were— uh—enjoying yourself with Simon."
"Flirting with Simon," Peggy corrected. "Not that I got anywhere. But it was entertaining. He's the first man I've met for ten years who was worth the trouble." Seeing Karen's expression, she laughed and shook her head. "Lighten up, Karen. Just because I like to kid around doesn't mean I don't take this seriously. The time I spent with Simon was very productive. He understands my interest in the historical aspects of the manuscript, and he has agreed to do us a big favor. He won't divulge the name of the original owner—quite properly, as I informed him— but he will forward a letter."
"I never thought of that," Karen said.
"No, you didn't." Peggy's eyes narrowed speculatively. "You ought to have thought of it. You're losing not only your sense of humor but your sense of proportion. I take it your pursuit of the bastard yielded nothing of interest?"
"I know where he's staying. We could call him and invite him to have dinner with us."
"Hmmm."
"I was kidding," Karen hastened to assure her.
"To convince me you haven't lost your sense of humor? The idea has its merits, you know. I could referee while you two fenced with one
another; he must know you are a strong contender." After pondering for a moment, Peggy said regretfully, "No, it would be a waste of time. He hasn't got it, you know. Simon assured me he wouldn't let it out of his hands. Since Meyer is staying overnight, he may be planning to come back for another look tomorrow."
"He can come and go unobserved, so far as I'm concerned," Karen said. "I must have been out of my mind to do something so undignified and so unproductive." Peggy's pensive, thoughtful expression aroused a horrible suspicion. Karen went on insistently, "We can't play the same silly trick again, Simon will be looking out for us. He knows about the bar—"
"There's a porn shop next to the bar," Peggy began, but the horror on Karen's face was too much for her. She burst out laughing. "You ask for it, Karen. You've got to stop being such a patsy. We'll have a nice quiet dinner a deux—without distracting male presences—and I'll spend the rest of the evening on a paper I was supposed to have finished last month while you write that letter."
The program was duly carried out. Peggy was still sitting at the desk, head bent over her work, when Karen finished the letter, and her concentration was so intense Karen decided not to interrupt her. She read for a while and then got into bed. "Will the light bother you?" Peggy asked, without looking up.
"No, not at all." Karen wondered what Peggy would say if she admitted she had been sleeping with a night-light for the past week—ever since the dreams began.
Sleep did not come quickly. The day's events kept running through her mind: the futile, infuriating pursuit of Meyer, the ridiculous charade they had performed in the bar. She would never dare show her face there again. Not that she had any inclination to do so ... Who could have suspected Peggy would behave so childishly? Did everyone have a secret personality, a hidden self? The woman she had seen today was more like Peggy's evil twin than the distinguished professor she had known. Simon had apparently enjoyed her, though. Simon was somewhat schizophrenic himself. The practical joker meets the evil twin. Smiling, she drifted off.
Darkness like black earth pressing down on her face and flaring nostrils . . . She caught at the hands that held her, clinging as if to a rope offering escape from the dark abyss of sleep.
"It's all right." The voice recalled memories of other nights when she had waked crying in the night and found comfort at hand. "Just a bad dream. You're safe, you're okay."
"I'm sorry," Karen gasped. "Did I wake you?"
"I wasn't asleep." Peggy released her hands and sat down on the edge of the bed. "That must have been a bang-up nightmare. You sounded as if you were being strangled."
"Smothered."
"Oh, swell. Is this by any chance a dig at my smoking? I had the window open, but ..."
"I've had the same dream before." Karen sat up and raised shaking hands to her face. "It's the old buried-alive theme—-a classic feminist nightmare. I know what brings it on. Frustration." Peggy's eyebrows rose and Karen snapped, "Not that kind of frustration. The dreams started after I saw the manuscript. Once I get my hands on it they'll stop."
"I hope so," Peggy said soberly. "You scared the bejesus out of me. I've never heard anybody, awake or asleep, make noises like that."
I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who says my hands a needle better fits ... If what I do prove well, it won't advance, They'll say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance.
Anne Bradstreet,
1650
A
wet, cool April
moved grudgingly toward spring. The academic year was also moving toward its close; the increasing press of work kept Karen too busy to brood about her failure to hear from Simon or the unknown recipient of the letter she had written. She was still dreaming— the same dream, almost every night—but she was learning to live with nightmare. She slept with the window wide open, whatever the weather, and left a night-light burning. No problem.
Graduation was only a week away, and Bradford pears, cherry and apple trees were scattering the ground with white and pink petals when Karen emerged from the library and saw a too-familiar form bearing down on her. He knew she had seen him; there was no way she could retreat without rudeness, especially since he had broken into a trot and was yelling her name at the top of his lungs.
He hadn't run far or fast, but he was panting heavily when he joined her. Joe Cropsey bragged about avoiding exercise, as if that were something to be proud of. In his case it wasn't. The folds of fat caressing his jaws and plump hands weren't pink and healthy; Karen always had the feeling that if she poked a finger into one of those bracelets of lard-white flesh, the indentation would remain indefinitely.
"And how is our Karen getting on these days?" he asked, trying to look down at her from a two-inch superiority in height.
"Fine, Joe. How is our Marilyn?"
He knew why she had asked about his wife. She always made a point of mentioning his wife. Not that it had the slightest effect. "A busy little bee as always," he said, smirking. "The kiddies keep her hopping, but we're planning a little party the week after graduation; you'll be receiving your invitation soon."
He made it sound like a royal summons. Karen moved away from the hand that was absently stroking her arm. "Well, give her my best."
"Don't run away. I want to talk to you about . . . about—uh—one of your students. Why don't we have a cup of coffee at the faculty club?"
That was all she needed—a tete-a-tete with Cropsey in full view of their colleagues, most of whom were only too well aware of his unsubtle attentions. She wasn't the first female faculty member he had pursued, and she wouldn't be the last. It was not difficult to understand why he picked on women who were younger and brighter than he.
"Sorry, I'm late for a lunch date," she said, moving away.
"It's only eleven-thirty."
"It's an early lunch."
Though they had arranged to meet at noon, Peggy was already there when Karen arrived. She had dismissed disgusting Joe Cropsey from her mind; her scowl had another cause, one Peggy interpreted accurately.
"No word from Simon yet?"
"No." Karen dropped into a chair. "I'm going to call him. It's been three weeks. He's doing this deliberately. Tantalizing me, making me wait—"
"Some men might do that. Some women, too," Peggy added fairly. "Not Simon. It takes time to talk universities into spending money."
Karen couldn't deny that. If it hadn't been for Peggy's offer, she'd be beating the hedges trying to raise money too. She waved away the menu the waitress offered her. "Taco salad," she said. "And coffee."
"You always have taco salad," Peggy said. "Why don't you try something different?"
"Taco salad is fine," Karen said abstractedly.
"Still brooding over the manuscript?"
"I've practically memorized the few pages I have. I've analyzed every
sentence and studied every damn word, looking for parallels and references." Karen smiled sheepishly. "And, to be quite honest, I'm dying to know what happens next."
"It must be pretty good, then. How about giving me a synopsis?"
"You understand," Karen said, "that the beginning pages are missing. I don't know how many pages. She didn't number them."
"Cut the crap," Peggy said impatiently. "You've told me that a dozen times, and I am only too familiar with careful academic disclaimers. Consider me a potential reader, not a critic. I just want to know what's happening."
"Oh, all right. Ismene is telling the story. It's third person, but it is from her viewpoint, at least so far. She and her sister—"
"Name of Antigone.
7
"
"Name of Clara. There are parallels with the play, though. The girls are orphans. Their father has recently died and they have been sent to live with their uncle, their only living relative. They've never met him. He and Daddy parted company years before, after a violent quarrel the cause of which has not yet been made clear."
Peggy's brow wrinkled. "I read a book like that once. Forget the title; something about wolves."
"It's a variation of one of the three original Gothic plots," Karen said impatiently. "Do you want to hear this, or don't you?" Go
on.
"While the girls are traveling to their uncle's home, there is an accident. The coach is overturned, the coachman is killed or injured; I'm not sure exactly what happened, that's in the missing portion. When the text becomes legible, they are walking—staggering, rather—up the long muddy track leading to Ferncliffe, their uncle's house. It's winter. An icy rain is falling. The trees lining the way move and moan under the lash of the wind. Clouds hang low overhead, and as the twilight darkens, veils of mist gather like ghostly figures."
Peggy leaned forward, elbows on the table, lips slightly parted. Karen went on, "Ismene is supporting her younger, slighter sister, who is on the verge of collapse. Their thin slippers are soaked and torn, their skirts are heavy with water. Ismene's head is bare; the long, dank strands of her hair coil around her throat and over her mouth. She can't brush them away because her arms are around Clara. She knows that if Clara
collapses she will not have the strength to raise her from the ground.
"Finally the trees fall back and Ismene sees the shadowy shape of the house ahead, darker than the steel-gray sky. There are no lights visible. Gasping words of encouragement to her fainting sister, she drags Clara up a flight of steps to a door. She can do no more; her grip loosens and Clara crumples at her feet. Ismene passes her cold, stiff hands over the wooden panels but fails to find a knocker. She pounds on the door with her fists, but the sound is lost in the wail of the wind, and she has the insane impression that her hands are sinking into the wood instead of striking against it. There is no response, no sound from within. Overcome with despair and a strange dread, she feels herself falling, and with the last of her strength gathers her sister's freezing body into her arms.
"She knows she is dying. The vision that imprints itself upon her failing sight is a vision of the world beyond death. The door that slowly opens, with a sound like muffled thunder, is the gate of Paradise; the figure its opening discloses is angelic, the head surrounded by a silvery nimbus. But where the angel's face should be, there is only an oval of darkness."
She paused, not for effect but to allow the waitress to serve the food they had ordered.
"Not bad," Peggy said. "I've read worse. Is that all you've got?"
"There's a little of the next scene. Ismene wakes to find herself lapped in warmth and in light. She meditates for a page or two on the transcendental but unexpected reality of heaven, and then the truth dawns. Someone is bending over her—a woman, wrinkled and kindly—obviously not an angel but a servant. Ismene realizes she is lying in bed, covered with blankets. Her first thought is for Clara. Rising up, she looks wildly around the room. It is handsomely appointed—I'll spare you the description—with a fire blazing on the hearth, but no sign of Clara. The servant reassures her. Clara is in the next room, where she is being tended with the same care. But 'there was no connecting door.' '
"That has a nice ominous ring to it," Peggy mumbled around a mouthful of enchilada.
