The Cypress House (16 page)

    "Even
supposing you get the thing in a condition that it
could
run
again," Arlen said, "you've got to get it set up so it actually feeds
power the way it used to. Those wires were all torn apart."

    "Oh,
that'll be easy. Just a matter of looking, seeing how it makes sense."

    "I
suppose that leaves me to that damn widow's walk myself? "

    Paul's
lack of response allowed that it did, and Arlen walked out into the yard,
grumbling and swearing, and stared up at the peak of the roof. The widow's walk
was perched onto the back, affording an expansive view of the Gulf, and all
except for one corner piling had been torn off. They'd gathered the pieces from
out in the yard and stacked them up alongside the house. Even from down here,
Arlen could tell that it was going to be awkward and dangerous work.

    He
found the stairs to the attic, sweat springing out of his pores as he climbed
into the dank, closed space. It was so dark he had to feel around with his
hands to locate the trapdoor, but it opened easily enough and he poked his head
up through the roof and into fresh air. He'd never been unsettled by heights,
but this roof was pitched steeply, and he felt a swirl of doubt as he climbed
out onto it, keeping a tight hand on the braces of the door frame. Ordinarily
the railings would keep you from tumbling off, but they were stacked on the
ground now, nothing between him and a broken spine but a few bounces off the
shingles.

    Had
to admit, though — once he was up here, the view was stunning, like being in a
lighthouse. He could see out into the sea and along the shore. This was his
first realization of just how damn isolated the inn was. To the south the beach
ran on unbroken, and to the north the trees grew thick along the winding inlet.
No such thing as a neighbor. He turned to look east, inland, and saw the boat
in the inlet.

    It
was positioned around a bend, where there was a slot in the trees that afforded
a view of the house. The boat was flat- bottomed, outfitted only with oars — a
craft you could move damn near silently if you knew how to use it. There was
only one man inside. From here, all Arlen could tell was that he was an older
man: stringy gray hair showed along his neck down to his shoulders.

    
Don't
stare,
he thought
.
He'll know that you've seen him
.

    He
turned away and got busy taking measurements for the roof deck, working with
his back to the inlet for a while. When he finally turned around and risked a
glance, the boat was gone.

    That
night they all sat together on the porch, as had become their custom, and ate dinner
as the sun went fat and red in the west and slipped down toward the horizon
line. It moved at a crawl right until the bottom edge touched the water, and
then it was as if something greedy were waiting for it on the other side,
snatched it away quick, leaving only a crimson smear on the horizon.

    "This
place sure is something," Paul said, stretched out on the porch floor with
the already empty plate on his lap. "It's beautiful."

    Rebecca
nodded but didn't speak, and he turned to her.

    "Why
doesn't anyone ever come out here?"

    "Excuse
me? "

    "Well
. . . why don't you have any customers?"

    She
looked away from him. "Corridor County is a very rural place. There aren't
a lot of people. Less now that the lumber mill closed."

    "Well,
still,
somebody
has to live around here."

    "I
don't have much business from locals. Mostly people who rent it out for a few
days at a time. There's less of that now. Hard times."

    "Have
you always been out here alone?"

    "Not
always." Her voice was tight. "Tell me, where are you from?"

    If
Paul sensed that the redirecting of the conversation was intentional, he didn't
show it.

    "New
Jersey. Town called Paterson. Back there, we'd be sitting in an alley and
looking at trash cans if we wanted to eat outside."

    "You
don't care for it?"

    He
looked uncomfortable. "I don't know. It's just a place . . . doesn't look
anything like this, though." Then, after a pause, "But there's a
bridge you ought to see. Just up from the waterfalls."

    Rebecca
Cady laughed, and Paul looked perplexed.

    "I'm
sorry," she said. "I just thought it was amusing that you'd mention a
bridge before you would a waterfall."

    He
shrugged. "I just like it, that's all."

    Arlen
smiled and sipped his beer. She didn't know him yet. With the exception of the
ocean in front of them, Arlen had never known the boy to show the slightest
interest in the natural world, only in man-made structures. He was mighty
American in that way: show him a river, he'd want to see a bridge; show him a
mountain, he'd wonder how you could get a tunnel through it. For all his
carpentry experience, Arlen didn't have the same mind-set. The older he got,
the more he wished people would leave things alone. As a boy he'd watched the
hills around his hometown blasted open with dynamite, laced with gouges that
looked like wounds of the flesh, and in their own way they were exactly that.
Had watched the skies above them turn black with soot and coal smoke, the
stretches of ancient forests replaced by stump fields. No, he wasn't the
conquering sort. That was one of the things he'd liked so much about the CCC.
Back at Flagg Mountain, they'd spent weeks at hard labor to build a tower. Its
purpose? To afford a view of the beauty around it. That was all. Arlen loved
that damn tower.

    He
didn't know for certain what he'd even have thought of the bridge in the Keys,
that attempt for road to conquer water. Maybe it would've been impressive.
Maybe it would've been heartbreaking.

    "Did
you always live in Paterson?" Rebecca was asking Paul, and Arlen looked
back at the boy, realizing Arlen himself didn't know the answer to this one.

    "Yes."
Paul got to his feet and set the plate aside. "I'm going to go for a walk
before it gets too dark."

    He
left without another word, headed south with his hands in his pockets and his
shoulders hunched. Rebecca Cady said, "Did I say something wrong?"

    "I
think you both did."

    "Pardon?"

    "You
didn't want to answer questions about yourself," he said, "and neither
did Paul. Everybody's got a few things they'd like to keep quiet on."

    He
finished the warm beer and tilted his head and studied her. Her face was lit
with fading sunset glow, and it made her blond hair look red.

    "Can
you really see the dead?" she asked. The question hit him like a punch.

    "Paul
told me about the train," she said when he didn't answer. "Why you
two got off."

    "Wasn't
his place to tell you that."

    "Don't
be angry with him. He was just fascinated by it. Maybe a little frightened,
especially after reading that newspaper article and learning what happened to
the men who stayed on the train. He told me you see smoke or —"

    "I
don't know why we're talking about this."

    "I
just wanted to hear what it's like," she said.

    "I
can't tell you what it's like. You won't believe it if I try, and I don't give
a damn what you think. It's a waste of everybody's time."

    "I
might believe it."

    "You
wouldn't."

    "You
can see death before it happens," she said. "That's what Paul
said."

    He
didn't answer.

    "Did
you see anything with Walter Sorenson?" she asked.

    He
studied her for a long time before saying, "No, I didn't."

    "Why
do you think that was?"

    "I'm
not sure. But I suspect it's got something to do with this place."

    "This
place?"

    "That's
right. There's something wrong here."

    He
could see her throat move when she swallowed. She said, "You can feel
that?"

    "Sure,"
he said. "Can't you?"

    She
said, "I'm not part of it. You think that I am, but I'm not. When I
arrived, it was with the expectation that I'd be leaving soon, just like
you."

    "That
some kind of warning?"

    She
didn't reply.

    "Answer
the question I asked," he said. "Do you feel like there's something
wrong with this place?"

    "Of
course. It hangs in the air like the salt smell from the water. But I don't
need to
have feelings
about it. I've been here far too long for that.
You have bad feelings; I have bad memories."

    They
fell silent after that. Eventually he said, "As long as everybody's
trading questions, I have one for you. Why don't you like to be called
Becky?"

    She'd
bristled every time someone said it, from Sorenson to Barrett, the delivery
driver. It seemed to Arlen to go well beyond a dislike of the nickname.

    She
looked at him with a steady gaze, but something in her face faltered. He felt,
for just a moment, as if she were about to tell him things that had gone unsaid
for too long. As if she kept a silence that pained her. He knew about that. He
had his own untold tale, guarded for years, but somehow, on this porch, lit by
the fading sun and warmed by the Gulf breeze, he wanted to tell it to her. That
last part was key. To
her.

    She
turned from him, though, and when she spoke her voice was distant and her eyes
were on the sea.

    "People
used to call me that," she said. "Different people in a different
place. I'm not that person anymore, so that name . . . it doesn't suit me these
days. It's not mine, not anymore."

    She
rose then and walked to the end of the porch and stood with her back to him as
the last smears of red light faded, and though they shared the shadowed space,
they were each alone with their silent sorrows.

    Rebecca
waited until the next morning to try to get rid of them. She came out onto the
porch, where Paul was working on the generator and Arlen was sanding down
pieces of the broken railing from the roof deck, and held out a slim stack of
worn dollar bills.

    "Here,"
she said. "You've earned it, and I don't want to make you stay any longer.
I can drive you into High Town, let you find a ride from there."

    Arlen
just sat back on his heels and didn't speak. Paul looked from the money in her
hand to her face and frowned.

    "We're
not finished," he said.

    "You've
done enough. You've done more than enough."

    He
shook his head. "No. I'm going to get this generator running again."

    "There's
no need to —"

    "You
trying to run us off because the judge's friends are coming?"

    That
stopped her.

    "No,
it's just . . . you've both already done enough," she fumbled. "You
were a big help, but you've done enough, and I can't afford to keep you on
anymore. So please take the money and I'll drive you —"

    "I'm
going to finish this job."

    She
stared at him, then slowly folded her hand over the bills. Her eyes were still
on Paul, but they'd gone distant.

    "Listen
to me," she said. "It might be best if you weren't around
tonight."

    "Why?
Who are these guys? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

    Arlen
said, "Paul, it ain't your concern," but the boy never looked at him.

    "Are
you in some kind of trouble? " he repeated.

    "No,
I'm not. But when Solomon Wade rents this place out, he wants it empty. It's
supposed to be for his friends; no one else is allowed."

    "Well,"
Paul said, "we're here."