Houses of Stone (20 page)

"I
have no doubt you are right," Ismene replied, studying the carven surface. Its sunken eye pits and gaping mouth, the suggestion of fangs rimming that scream and the stony protuberances on the brow were hideous in the extreme; but the shiver that ran through her body was not produced by superstitious
terror. What sort of mind, she wondered, could admire, much less preserve, such a horrid travesty? "The aborigines of this region," she continued, "did not, I believe, build in stone, or carve graven images of their gods. Moreover, the features recall to mind the demonic visages sometimes found in medieval cathedrals, or even the rude local godlings of the ancient Greeks. "

"Your reaction is as reasonable as I had hoped and expected," Edmund said approvingly. "You do not fear the task I ask you to assume, then! The keys to storage vaults and wine cellar should be in the hands of the mistress of the house, but my sweet sister will not come here; it resembles too closely the haunted monasteries and demon-ridden caverns featured in her favorite novels; and she swears sheeted forms gibbered and rattled chains at her on the sole occasion when she ventured here. She is of a sensitive nature and reads too much.

It was not difficult to understand why a sensitive nature would shrink from that ambience, lsmene thought. The smell of mold and damp, the rough-hewn stones of the enclosing walls, the darkness that filled the passageway ahead and the chambers beside and behind her did indeed conjure up the worst excesses of sensational fiction. The candelabrum held by the silent servant only intensified the shadows beyond the reach of the light. The man stood rigid as an ebon statue, as bereft of animation as the object of furniture whose function he served.

Karen closed the manuscript. Ismene must have seen that carved stone, there could not be two such unusual ornaments in old American mansions. And what woman other than a member of the household would have the opportunity to see it? Delicate lady visitors were not taken on tours of the cellar.

She had come straight back to the apartment, leaving Cameron to his labors—and thankful, probably, to see the last of her. Though she had rinsed her boots and her hands before leaving, the smell of the dank cellar filled the car like a fog of poisonous gas. She could almost believe a faint whiff of it still lingered, though she had changed and showered.

Perhaps Ismene's description of the cellar had prompted the impression. She had felt compelled to reread that part of the manuscript, even though she knew her memory was accurate. Picking up a spoon she began
to eat the soup she had heated. No wonder she was hungry; it was later than she had realized. Leaning back in her chair she savored the pleasure of self-congratulation. She could hardly wait to tell Peggy of her discovery. That detail clinched the identification. Peggy would probably insist on finishing the job of comparing the actual house to Ismene's description, but there was no longer any doubt in her mind.

The skies had darkened, though the rain still held off. She could, with a clear conscience, devote the rest of the afternoon—what was left of it—to the manuscript. She had gone to the stove to put the kettle on for coffee when she heard a sound at the front door. Surely it couldn't be Cameron with the papers he had promised to bring. He would work till rain or darkness forced him to stop. And surely this time he wouldn't poke a note under the door instead of knocking.

The note was there, rustling as it moved across the floor. Karen flung the door open.

Not Cameron—Mrs. Fowler in all her glory, violet-crowned and triple-chinned, like a Hogarthian caricature of a Greek goddess. She started back with a little scream. "Oh, dear, I've disturbed your work. I had no intention of doing that, I was just leaving you a little note."

"That's quite all right," Karen said untruthfully. What the devil did the woman want? Checking up to make sure her tenant wasn't entertaining a male visitor? "Won't you come in?"

"Oh, no, I've been nuisance enough already." But she continued to stand there, feet firmly planted, face beaming. "It's the Literary Society, you see. Our next meeting is Wednesday and I hoped you'd be able to give your little talk then. I know it's short notice, but I'm sure that won't be a problem for a scholar like you, and your nice friend assured me you'd be real hurt if we didn't ask you."

The series of bland, unfounded assumptions—that she had promised to speak, that extemporaneous lectures were no problem, and that she would be hurt if she were ignored by the Literary Society—left Karen momentarily speechless. Then she managed to focus her confused brain on the last part of Mrs. Fowler's speech.

"My nice friend," she repeated.

"Yes, that nice Professor Meyer. He certainly does admire you." Mrs. Fowler gave her a meaningful twinkle.

"When did ... I didn't realize you knew him."

"Why, I didn't, till he telephoned me yesterday evening. He was courteous enough to invite me to lunch today. Such a pleasure, talking to an intellectual gentleman like that. He said all sorts of sweet things about our little literary group; I didn't realize we were so well known." Her pause invited a corresponding compliment from Karen, but the latter was still too dumbfounded to produce it. With a deprecating chuckle Mrs. Fowler continued, "You can just blame him for encouraging me to ask you. I wouldn't have dared otherwise."

A sudden gust of wind set the violets on her hat to dancing madly. "Please do come in," Karen said. "I can't quite . . . I'll have to check my schedule."

"Certainly, my dear, I know how busy you are. That's why I was going to leave my little note, so you would have a chance to think about it."

Karen thought about it. She'd have to accept—or leave town for a few days. Bill had done his usual expert job of setting her up. As he was capable of doing when he chose, he had charmed the socks off Mrs. Fowler; she'd never believe he had acted out of malice, and she would be deeply offended if Karen turned her down without good and sufficient reason. Nothing less than a death in the family would suffice; despite her modest disclaimers, she obviously had a high opinion of her "little literary society."

"I guess I can manage it," Karen said. "Next Wednesday, you said?"

"How lovely! I'll notify the members right away; I'm sure such a famous speaker will attract a large group. Now as to your topic . . . Something along the lines of 'Lady Writers'? Or perhaps 'Lady Writers of the Nineteenth Century'? That's your specialty, I know."

Karen wondered whether the topic was Mrs. Fowler's idea, to make certain she wouldn't offend the audience by quoting from current "unladylike" writers. It was more likely that the topic had been Bill Meyer's idea of a joke. Oh, well, she thought resignedly, I can always talk about Jane Austen. She should be ladylike enough. The literary mavens of Blairsville wouldn't notice Jane's delicately barbed comments about male-female relationships unless someone pointed them out.

Mrs. Fowler retreated in triumph, holding tightly to the rail as she descended the steps. She had tiny feet; at least they looked small compared to the mass of the body they supported so dangerously. And of
course she was wearing dainty high-heeled shoes. Karen closed the door and clumped, flat-footed, back to the kitchen.

When the rain began she hardly noticed it, except as a soothing background noise. She was fully absorbed in Ismene's story.

As she had expected, there were more visits to the grim cellars. They formed a dark counterpoint to the descriptions of sunny spring days and cheerful social engagements, and symbolized Ismene's unhappiness as she watched her sister's increasing fondness for Isabella. It was not an attachment Ismene could approve; Isabella seemed to her frivolous and heartless, and under her influence Clara's corresponding faults of character (reluctant as her sister was to admit them) were encouraged, to such an extent that she came to resent openly Ismene's gentle remonstrances. Increasingly isolated, by her own temperament as well as by Clara's coldness, Ismene wandered the wild acres of the estate, seeking solace, as she put it, in the immutable charms of nature. It was while she was engaged in one of these rambles that she came upon the little stone house.

A knock at the door interrupted Karen at this thrilling point in the narrative, and she came back to reality with a start, realizing that the sound she had scarcely noticed was that of rain beating on the roof and that the room was filled with a cavelike gloom, except for the single lamp that illumined her work. She hurried to open the door.

Cameron looked as if he had gone swimming in his clothes. Rain had darkened his hair and plastered it to his head. The box he carried had been covered with a tarpaulin, but water had collected in its folds and ran down onto the sagging floor of the porch, from which a miniature waterfall poured down the steps.

"Good God," Karen gasped. "Come in—hurry up, don't just stand there. Is this a flood or what?"

"Just a good old spring rain," Cameron said, depositing the carton on the floor and removing the tarpaulin. "It's all right—the box isn't wet. The same can't be said for your rug, I'm afraid."

"It's not my rug," Karen said callously. "Stand still; I'll get a towel, or ... or two."

He brushed the wet hair back from his face and grinned. He looked unreasonably cheerful for a man whose clothes clung wetly to his body and around whose soaked shoes a puddle was forming. "Your entire supply
would be inadequate for the job. I got pretty wet out at the house, so I decided I might as well deliver the carton before I changed clothes. Sorry about the mess."

"Wait, I'll write you a check," Karen began.

"The sooner I get out of here the less damage I'll do to your—Miz Fowler's—carpet. You can pay me later. I trust you."

He was out the door before Karen could reply. She shrugged. If he was that determined to avoid even the appearance of a social relationship, that was okay with her. Had there been a suggestion of sarcasm in his final comment? She decided there had been, and went in search
of
a cloth to wipe up the puddle. He'd been right about the towel situation. The ones Mrs. Fowler had supplied her tenant were extremely threadbare.

There was something rather soothing about rain if you didn't have to go out in it. And if it didn't come in. A smaller puddle on the kitchen floor told her that Mrs. Fowler needed to have the roof repaired. Karen put a saucepan under it and went in search of additional leaks. She found two more, one in the bedroom—not over the bed, fortunately—and another in the corner of the living room.

She only had three saucepans. Rummaging under the sink, she found a couple of empty coffee cans, rust-stained from, she suspected, similar usage in the past. The
plink
of raindrops onto metal made a particularly pervasive, annoying sound.

The rain wasn't as soothing as she had thought. She roamed restlessly through the apartment, unable to settle down. There were a number of things she could turn to: the manuscript, with its evocative, exciting reference to a house of stone; the genealogy, which she hadn't examined in detail; her notes on the discovery she had made in the cellar. They ought to be copied and expanded while the incident was still fresh in her memory.

She wasn't in the mood for any of those things. Instead she set to work preparing supper, hoping the mechanical, domestic chore would settle her nerves. A good healthy supper—broiled fish fillets, salad, brown rice with herbs, and chopped vegetables. She had finished this repast and was feeling more cheerful when the phone rang.

Hoping it wasn't Peggy announcing she would be delayed, she was pleased to hear Joan's voice.

"I'm bored," the latter announced flatly.

"You, the party animal?"

"No party tonight. I'm alone, I'm slightly hung over, and it's pouring down rain. Dreary."

"Ditto."

"Is it raining there too?"

"Yes, it is. This is long distance," Karen reminded her. "Did you call to talk about the weather? Have you heard anything more from Joe Cropsey?"

"No to both. I called to find out what thrilling new discoveries you made today. My life is so dull I derive vicarious excitement from listening to the adventures of my friends."

"I'm sorry about the beach house," Karen said. "If you had to pay a cancellation fee—"

"You've got to stop being so defensive. I wasn't even thinking about that."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I didn't have to pay anything, they had a waiting list a mile long. In case your conscience is still bothering you, I'm going to spend a glorious week in the mountains instead. With Sharon."

"Doing what?"

"I said, with Sharon. You know what her idea of a vacation is. It's some kind of spa. Riding, hiking, tennis, golf. And when we tire of those amusements there's a completely equipped exercise room."

Karen laughed. "Is Sharon bullying you? You don't have to go, you know."

"It won't be so bad, I guess," Joan said gloomily. "I could stand to lose a few pounds. Now tell me about your unhealthy, dangerous—dare I hope fattening?—life."

Karen described her supper. Joan groaned. "It sounds disgusting. Not even a glass of wine? A chocolate-chip cookie? You're inhuman. What did you do today?"

"I explored a dark, muddy, odorous basement with a guy who went out of his way to show me rats, snakes and spiders."

"You lucky devil. Who was the guy? Bill Meyer?"

"If you ever catch me in a dark basement with Bill Meyer, I'll agree to let Sharon psychoanalyze me." She gave Joan a lurid description, including one of the snake, but did not mention the carved stone face.

That information and other confirmatory evidence of her theory were best kept to herself until she was ready to spring the finished work on an admiring world.

"If you won't let me distract Bill, how about this other guy? You can't handle both of them."

"I have no intention of handling either one of them." Hearing a ribald chuckle from the other end of the line, she added, "Don't say it. Thanks for calling, Joan. I was in a rotten mood and you've cheered me up."

"Is that a hint I should hang up?"

"This is costing you a fortune."

"Too true. Okay, I'll say nighty-night. Take care of yourself."

Her frame of mind considerably improved, Karen was able to get some work done. She forced herself to type up her notes on the exploration of the cellar, so she could present Peggy with a neat workmanlike report, before she went back to the manuscript. It proved to be disappointing; after her first description of the stone house ("windowless and squat, like an extrusion from the rocky skin of the earth, held fast by giant vines that crawled across roof and walls") Ismene went into a long digression about the rights of man and Rousseau's theories of the noble savage. Pious moral soliloquies were common in novels of that type, and it wasn't the first time Ismene had succumbed to the pleasure of preaching to the reader, but Karen had to fight to keep from skipping ahead—reading the narrative instead of transcribing it, line by slow line. She knew the futility of that, however. The writing was too cramped and faded, the text too obscure. It had to be deciphered rather than read.

Sheer boredom finally forced her to call it a night. Tucking the manuscript and her notes into the briefcase, she stowed it away and got ready for bed. The drip of water into the coffee can had slowed, which made it even more annoying; she found she was waiting for the next
plink
and counting the seconds that elapsed between them. Muttering irritably she wadded up a few paper towels and put them in the coffee can. It seemed to work.