The Spirit Wood (24 page)

Thirty-two

W
HEN THE FIRST
bubbles began to pop up, Mrs. Constantine turned off the flame. If the milk was too hot, she didn't like it. Just warm, that was how it was most likely to help her sleep. She sat at the kitchen counter, her long navy blue robe buttoned up to the neck, holding the mug between both hands.

This was the most reassuringly normal room in the whole house—no ancient pottery or sculpture, no columns or caryatids, no gloomy corners. The floor was plain old checkered linoleum, the oven a Westinghouse, the toaster a GE. All of this Mrs. Constantine found comforting. That young girl, Leah, kept everything very neat and clean, too—except, she noticed now, a rectangular patch of floor beside the refrigerator. The linoleum there was a dingy gray. Then she remembered. That was where Dodger's blue bath mat used to lie.

Her heart fluttered again at the recollection. The scare she'd had that morning was the worst she could remember . . . even though the actual fighting was over in a matter of seconds. She was starting to wonder how much of Arcadia she'd be able to withstand, after all. She could almost feel the air thickening, the tranquillity of the place growing as menacing as the preternatural calm before a storm. Tonight, in her bed, she'd bolted upright with her father's face floating, still and
white as a death mask, in her mind's eye. And for the thousandth time since coming to Arcadia, she'd wondered why, and how, he had told Nikos.

Had he been drunk? Had he blurted it out to purge his soul? Had he grieved? Had he
boasted
of it?

Are you asleep, Ellen? Let your papa tell you a story
—
remember not to tell Mama.

Ellen
—
your mother has gone to Heaven. Papa will stay with you. Papa will stay.

You are not leaving this house! There's nothing that boy can do for you that I can't.

And always, through it all, the creak of the bedroom door, the stale smell of cigars and whiskey, the orders and rules and punishments and restrictions. All growing worse with the passing of the years, until the ultimate tragedy. Unforeseen? Or premeditated? She had worked at that puzzle forever. The will, leaving the estate to Peter—that had made her think, yes, he'd intended it right from the start. The legacy to Kesseogolou—that, too, confirmed it. Kesseogolou had come into the house just before. And soon after, he had disappeared again.

She finished the milk and rinsed out the mug in the sink. Turning off the light, she padded in her velvet slippers (a Christmas gift from Peter) through the dining room, then down the first-floor hall past the billiard room. She was about to emerge into the foyer, from under the overhanging balcony, when she stopped to regard the pebbled floor mosaic. The naked woman on the right of the design was hurling a pitcher of water at the hunter on the left; the water was cleverly done in a flurry of white and gray stones which glimmered in the moonlight. A shadow passed across the picture, lending it an eerie impression of movement. She was about to cross over it and continue up the stairs, when the shadow loomed again, this time more darkly and with greater definition. Above her head, in the upstairs hall, she thought she
heard a floorboard groan. She shrank back under the overhang, out of sight. The shadow seemed to be bobbing and weaving back and forth, as if something or someone were swaying slowly overhead. For a moment, she debated going back to the kitchen, or even forward, toward the foot of the stairs. Who could it be—Byron, Meg, Peter? But not knowing, she held back until she heard footsteps, very light ones, approaching the staircase and then descending.

Just seeing the feet and calves between the white marble balusters was enough for her to know that it was her son, and not Byron, tiptoeing down to the front hall. She was about to come forward, out of the shadows—perhaps he was just going down to the kitchen, too, for a midnight snack—when he descended farther, and she saw that he was naked. Not since he was a boy, eight or nine years old, had she seen him like that. He was hairier than she could ever have imagined—on his chest, and legs, even his back. His arms were held slightly out from his body; he moved cautiously, stealthily. She couldn't reveal herself now; she was ashamed even to watch.

At the foot of the stairs, he stopped to observe the mosaic himself. He shook his head idly, the way a horse might shake its bridle. Was he sleepwalking, Mrs. Constantine wondered. Should she do something to wake him?

One of his feet pawed at the ground; he raised himself up, on point, with the other. Then swiveled, effortlessly and with great agility, toward the front doors. He opened them slowly, as if anxious to make no noise.

He
must
be asleep, she thought, as he stepped outside. She had to stop him, regardless of the embarrassment involved. She swept across the floor mosaic; her slippers seemed to adhere to the surface, as if the pebbles were wet.
Be careful not to startle him,
she thought;
don't do anything sudden.

As she came to the open doors, she saw him standing at the top of the front steps. He was crouching forward, the curly hair on the sides of his head shining like tiny silver springs. She was wondering how best to approach him, to say something first or just touch him gently on the shoulder, when she stopped and instinctively stepped back into the protection of the house.

On the gravel drive outside, Fifi and Fritz sat patiently on their haunches, as still as two lawn ornaments. Peter went down the steps, walking sideways, and bent down between them. With his arms outstretched, he scratched the tops of their heads. Then picked up from the driveway something they had laid there. He appeared to study it for a moment, running it through his hands. He straightened up again, though still not fully, and wrapped the offering around his shoulders like a cloak.

He raised his head and looked fixedly at the night sky. Then, as if in response to something his mother could not hear, cantered off with the dogs beside him, and the pale blue cape flapping loosely at his back.

Thirty-three

O
N MONDAY MORNING,
after allowing for the two-hour time difference, Byron called the head of the faculty housing department in Omaha and told her he'd accept the apartment in the off-campus house she'd mentioned.

“But what about your dog?” she asked.

“That's not a problem anymore. It'll just be me now.”

In that case—and she still sounded a little suspicious—Byron could move in anytime. Byron said he'd be there sometime Thursday. As soon as he got off the phone, he called up Greyhound and got the bus schedule out of New York City; he made a reservation on the 1:00
P.M.
Tuesday.

In his room, he pulled down the white sheet he'd used to cover the bureau mirror. Fat lot of good it had done him; in the nearly two months he'd been at Arcadia, he'd managed to complete only one article. Then he gathered up his books and papers, putting the most essential into one box that he'd take along with him and the others into a larger carton that he'd take into town and mail to himself. He was carrying it down to the foyer when Peter popped up soundlessly behind him.

“Books?” he asked, and Byron jumped.

“Jesus,” he said, “where did you come from?” He
dropped the carton by the front door. “Yes. I was going to ask Meg for the car keys so I could run these down to the post office and mail them.” He explained that he'd taken the apartment.

“Meg's busy in the boathouse,” Peter said, pulling out a set of keys. “But I'll take you in.”

Byron started to say it could wait, but Peter had already opened the door and headed for the car. Byron picked up the carton and followed. When they were almost to the main gates, his eyes involuntarily flicked toward the woods to the west.

“See something?” Peter said.

“No,” Byron replied. “Just a blue jay.”

“Lot of them around. All kinds of birds here.” He was trying to make conversation; Byron figured it was easier to go along with it than to sit like a mummy the whole way. By the time they got to the post office, they were even kidding around a little, as they'd once done all the time. Peter carried the box in balanced on his head and waited in line behind Byron like a native bearer. Outside again, Peter mentioned that since they were already in town, there was something he needed to pick up from Lazaroff. They went around the corner to the art shop.

Lazaroff was with a customer, an elderly woman looking for a photograph album. He gave Peter a raised eyebrow, as if to say “I'll be done with this as soon as I can” he looked surprised to see Byron.

“Is this something you're getting for Meg?” Byron asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Peter replied. “But it's gonna be a surprise. So don't mention we came here, okay?”

“My lips are sealed. What is it?”

Peter paused. “A surprise,” he said. “What kind of surprise would it be if I told you?”

“It's not supposed to surprise
me,
” Byron said with a laugh, then realized that Peter had no intention of telling him.

The woman gave up looking and left the store. Peter said, “Sorry. Did we blow the sale?”

“Nope. I've only got three photo albums in stock. There's probably some joint in the mall that's called Photo Albums R Us with twenty-five thousand different kinds. How d'you compete?”

Peter said, “I thought you might have that item I called about last night,” and Lazaroff said, “You bet. But it's in the back. You want to come and get it with me?”

“Yeah, I will. By, why don't you stay right here for a second? This'll only take a minute.”

Peter and Lazaroff disappeared into a room in the rear of the store. What the hell was it, Byron wondered. He could hear their muffled voices—it sounded as if they were trying to keep them low—and then Peter came out again, empty-handed.

“Not ready yet,” he said.

“But I thought Larry just said—”

“Not ready yet,” Lazaroff agreed, closing the door to the back.

But Byron had the distinct impression that a deal or transaction had in fact been made. He even had a pretty fair idea what it had all been about.

“Peter tells me you're leaving,” Lazaroff said. “Too bad you're going to miss the auction—it's worth sticking around for.”

“I'm sure it is,” Byron replied. “But I've got a lot to get started on out West.”

“ ‘Go West, young man, go West,’ “ Lazaroff declaimed. “Didn't somebody say that? Who said that?”

“Horace Greeley, for one.”

“Who?”

Byron repeated it. “He was a journalist, and a politician, in the 1800s.”

“I'll take your word for it.” The door to the shop opened again; a teenage boy skulked in. Lazaroff said, “I'll be right with ya, Andy,” then shook Byron's
hand. “Good luck,” he said. “Peter, try me again in a few days.” He raised one hand, the palm turned toward them, as they left.

“Anything else you need to do in town?” Peter asked on the sidewalk outside.

“Get some cigarettes, I guess.”

“How about an ice cream cone, too? There's a Baskin-Robbins at the end of the block.”

“If you say so.” Peter clearly wanted to prolong their time together.

They bought the cigarettes, then the ice cream cones. They sat eating them on a shaded wooden bench set up outside the store. A woman walked by with a panting sheepdog on a long red leash. The dog made straight for Byron and his dripping ice cream cone.

“Perkins! Get back here!” She reeled the dog in, wrapping the leash around her wrist. “Excuse us,” she said. “Pistachio's his favorite flavor.”

When they'd gone, Peter said, “By—I haven't been able to figure out what to say to you about Dodger, except to say that I'm incredibly sorry. I still can't believe it. I am truly sorry.”

Byron dabbed away some ice cream that had run onto his hand. He wasn't sure what to say either. According to Meg, Nikos had tried to pass off the incident as the work of trespassers, while insinuating that no such thing would have happened if Fifi and Fritz had been free to patrol the grounds that night. What good did it do now to accuse Peter of anything—especially since anything he might have done was, Byron believed, beyond his control?

“Thanks,” Byron said simply. “I guess the whole thing will remain a mystery . . . How's your jaw?”

Peter rubbed it where he now had a two-day stubble; he'd decided to grow a beard. “Okay,” he said. “How's your solar plexus?”

“Okay.” Peter had already polished off his ice
cream and was now nibbling away, in tiny eager bites, at the sugar cone; he reminded Byron of a rabbit going at a lettuce leaf.

“How many hours have they got you teaching out there?”

“Fourteen a week. Two sections of something called Introduction to the Classics and an upper-level course in Greek civilization.”

Peter whistled in amazement. “That's a lot of work.” A bumblebee wafted over his shoulder, then dropped onto his shirt. Byron whisked it away for him. “Any graduate courses?”

“I'll be assisting on one. Depends on who I get along with on the faculty.”

They talked a while longer about Byron's teaching schedule, the reputation of his fellow faculty members, the physical plant—as much as Byron knew of it—of Cumberland University. It was just shop talk, but this was the first time in ages they'd been able to pull it off. Byron stretched his legs out, across the hot sidewalk. Peter did the same, then groaned and fidgeted on the bench.

“Something wrong?”

“I don't know,” Peter said. “Maybe Caswell was right, and I'm wrecking my back by sitting at a desk too long.” He pulled at the knees of his khaki trousers.

“Those new?” Byron asked. He'd never seen these pants before; they looked as if they were at least two sizes too big.

Peter said he'd bought them the day before. “Nice and roomy. I can't stand tight-fitting clothes.”

“That's the first time I ever heard you make a pronouncement on fashion.”

“There's a first time for everything,” Peter said. “This summer's been a regular watershed.”

Byron sensed that Peter wanted to steer the conversation somewhere. He wiped his fingers with the Baskin-Robbins napkin and waited.

“Yes sir, a lot of changes this summer,” Peter observed with what Byron thought a feigned nonchalance. Peter rested his arms awkwardly on the back of the bench. “A lot of changes.”

“You mean inheriting Arcadia?” Byron prompted.

“Yes, that,” Peter agreed. “But other things, too. Ever since coming out here, I've felt like . . . a new man, sort of. For one thing, I don't care anymore about things I used to care about.”

“Like?”

“Like getting ahead. Finishing my dissertation. Being an upright citizen.” An unconvincing smile twitched at his lips; behind his dark sunglasses, he stared straight ahead, at the window of the ice cream store, sparkling in the bright afternoon sun. “All I want sometimes is to lie around in the shade, playing with that silly little flute Angelos made me, and sipping at a glass of Nikos's wine.”

“Sounds not bad to me,” Byron joked.

But Peter replied with surprising vehemence. “I'm not kidding. That's all I want to do now. I never get any work done here. I never even feel like it. I can't even have a normal dream anymore.”

“You can't sleep?”

“Oh, I can sleep all right. I could sleep around the clock if I felt like it. I can't
dream
the way I used to. When I wake up, I feel as if I've been in someone else's head.”

“Whose?”

“My own.” He shot a glance at Byron, then looked away again. “Isn't that the weirdest thing? But it's true. I'm starting to feel like I'm two people now.”

Byron wasn't surprised at all. It was sad as hell, and he wasn't sure how he could help him, but he wasn't surprised. “Have you talked about this with Meg?” he said.

“She's tried to talk about it with me. But, By, sometimes I'm afraid to even be around her. It's like
she's calling me back to something, and I want to listen and I want to respond, but I just can't. Sometimes I'm afraid to be around her . . . for
her
sake.”

It chilled Byron to hear him admit it. “I think, for starters, you've got to cut out the coke.”

Peter flinched.

“Come on—it's obvious. Second, I think you've got to see a doctor. You
are
different these days; something
is
wrong.”

“But I don't even know any doctors out here,” Peter said lamely.

“One more reason for getting the hell out. And on the double. I'm no believer in haunted houses or any of that crap, but I'll tell you something—if ever there was one, Arcadia is it.”

“I can't leave.”

“Why not?”

“The auction, for one thing—it's only ten days away.”

“Screw the auction.”

“I promised I'd have it here. I can't back out now.”

“Back out.” Was he looking to Byron for justification? Byron would give it to him. Yes, he wanted Meg more than anything in the world, but he wanted her cleanly—not by deserting his best friend when the man had reached out to him, for the last time ever, desperately, for help.

“Peter, you don't owe anybody anything out here—not the Simons, the Caswells, Nikos, Angelos, Leah.” Was Leah part of what held him there? Byron had had his suspicions. “You owe it to yourself, and to Meg, to get out and get help while you still can. You can pack up tonight, just as I have, and be gone by tomorrow morning. Hell, you can drive me into New York on your way back to Mercer.” He laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed it encouragingly. But Peter, winced, and he let go.

“It's not that easy.”

“Why not?”

Peter shook his head, slowly. “Because I belong here. You don't. Neither does Meg.” He drew in his legs. “You know, if anything should happen to me—”

“Nothing's
going
to happen,” Byron interrupted.

“If anything
should
happen,” Peter repeated, patiently but firmly, “I'd like to know that you'd look after Meg.”

There was a long pause.

“Forget anything I might have done or said up to now,” Peter continued. “And I can't answer for anything I might say an hour from now. What I'm telling you here, at this second, I mean. This is me talking, Peter Constantine.”

He turned full face to Byron, his curly black hair and scruffy new beard nearly obscuring his features, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses. But in his voice, Byron heard a pleading and a profound sorrow.

“Okay?” he said, and a fat, furry yellow jacket suddenly plopped onto the ice cream wrapper in his lap.