In the momentary silence, challenge seemed to flash between them. "I'm sorry I slept so late," he said. He tried to sound crisp and unperturbed but only sounded tired.
"Don't be silly," Ellen told him. 'That's what we're here for."
Is it? David nearly asked. He nodded once and headed for the kitchen painfully aware that his gait was close to that of an old man.
Ellen began to put aside the newspaper section. "Don't get up," he told her.
"I don't mind."
"I'm only having coffee," he explained.
"You aren't hungry?"
"No." The thought of eating was repellant to him. "I'll have some breakfast later."
"Brunch," she said.
"Or brupper." He was startled by the rancor in his voice and, stopping, looked at her with an affected smile. "Where'd you get the paper?" he asked.
"In town."
"You've been to town?"
"I had a lot of time," she said.
Was she baiting him deliberately? He turned toward the kitchen again. Crossing the dining alcove, he pushed open the door.
It was cold in the kitchen. David shivered as he poured some coffee into a pan and began to heat it. He thought about having a slice of buttered toast but even that seemed offensive. His stomach was oppressively on edge, the start of a headache pulsing at his skull. He got a drink of water from the sink; his fourth since waking up. It's like a hangover, he thought; except that one martini could scarcely be the cause. His drunkenness had been with Marianna's flesh. The memory of that lunatic intoxication made him shudder.
He focused his eyes to see the coffee boiling. Turning off the flame, he poured it into a mug and set the pan in the sink. The involuntary groan he uttered, sitting down, made him wince. He leaned back heavily against the chair, his body feeling ponderous. He'd slept for nearly twelve hours, too: close to half a day, for Christ's sake. David shook his head, grimacing. He was coming apart at the seams. Another day or so, I'll be a basket case, he thought.
He wrapped his chilled fingers around the mug. He ought to sit in the other room; it was warm there. He didn't budge. He had the odd conviction that he'd taken root. He sighed and took a sip of coffee. Even raising his arm felt strenuous. He looked at the mug as he set it down. It was like the ones Ellen and he had used when they were first married. As he recalled, they'd cost a quarter apiece in those days.
He shivered convulsively. God, this place is cold! he thought. He still couldn't fathom how the unheated studio could feel so warm when he and Marianna were together. Granted, I'm in flames, he thought derisively, still—
The thought broke off as Ellen pushed into the kitchen. "Why are you sitting here?" she asked. "It's cold."
"I know."
He must have looked and sounded pitiful, he realized. Ellen's smile was almost pained. She lay her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it once. "Sit in the dining room," she said.
"All right" He tried to stand without revealing his fatigue.
"That's all you're having?" Ellen asked.
"Yes."
"I'll be glad to make you some bacon and eggs."
"No, no, this is fine. I haven't really woken up yet" I mean my appetite hasn't woken up yet, he thought defensively. He considered saying it aloud. "Join me," he said, appalled by the weariness in his voice.
Ellen hesitated. "Well—" She looked around. "Is there any coffee left?"
"I think so."
David watched her lift the pot and shake it. As she moved to get the pan, he turned away. "I'll wait outside," he said. She didn't answer.
He sat in one of the captain's chairs, his back to the window. I should have gotten dressed, he thought. It would have made his being up seem more official. He stared at his hands holding the mug. The low-ceilinged alcove was dim and shadowy. He glanced across his shoulder, frowning. Another scintillating day, he thought. He turned back, blowing out disgruntled breath.
He gazed at his hands again, wondering where Marianna was. Still in bed, sleeping off last night's dissipation? He closed his eyes. He simply could not believe it, that was all. He knew it had happened, yet it seemed, like last time, more the memory of a lurid dream than of reality. And it wasn't only guilt-afflicted conscience looking for a subterfuge. What had occurred was, literally, unbelievable. Marianna was a paradox. She came and went without consistency. Physically, he knew her, yes; knew her with such brutish incontinence that, even now, the memory of it choked his breath. Beyond that, there was nothing. He blinked, incredulous, realizing that he didn't even know her last name. When she'd introduced herself, it had seemed quixotically Atting that she tell him only her Arst name. Now, suddenly, it seemed preposterous. One name, no address, almost no identity. It made him feel obtuse, insensitive.
He glanced aside as Ellen came in, carrying a mug of coffee. "Would you like some cookies?" she asked.
"No, thank you."
She sat across from him and they exchanged polite smiles. "Did you sleep all right?" she asked.
"Yes; thank you."
No, thank you. Yes, thank you. David thought: Any moment now, we'll start addressing each other as Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. He started feebly. "What?"
"Did you?" she repeated.
"Uh … not too well." He'd been about to answer that he'd slept like a block of wood but decided that she'd wonder then why he was still so tired.
"I'm sorry," Ellen said. "Were you sick?"
"A little bit. Wine with dinner always gets to me."
She nodded, then in several moments said, "If you don't feel well—"
"What?"
"Go back to bed."
He would have taken prompt advantage of her suggestions if it hadn't made him bristle so. "I'll be all right" he said. What would you like to do today? he heared himself inquiring in his mind. We could take that picnic. He didn't choose to repeat the words aloud. He had no wish to go on a picnic or even to find out what she'd like to do. He wanted to go back to bed and sleep some more. He wanted Marianna to join him in bed and—
"What's the matter?" Ellen asked as he shivered.
"What?"
"You have a chill?"
"It's cold in here." He took a sip of coffee. "I'll get dressed," he said. He rubbed at his forehead, grimacing.
"What's the matter?" she asked again.
He squinted at her. "What?"
"You have a headache, too?" Her tone was formal.
"A little bit" he answered stiffly.
"Maybe you're coming down with something."
"Maybe."
"You've always been susceptible to flu."
"Have I?" He knew how hostile he sounded but didn't care.
Ellen's smile was distant. "Haven't you?" The truth of her words only plagued him further.
"This conversation doesn't seem to be going anywhere," he said.
"I'm sorry."
David drew in a pacifying breath, released it shakingly. "Been up long?" he asked, saying the first thing that occurred to him.
"Since eight," she said.
That's six long hours, isn't it? he heard his mind retort. He nodded, then began to yawn before he could control it.
"Still tired?" she asked.
"No, I'm not still tired."
Her expression was unreadable. "You yawned," she said.
"True." His smile was fleeting, "I do that every now and then."
"So I've noticed." Ellen gazed into her coffee with a bleak expression.
David breathed in deeply. He couldn't seem to get enough air in his lungs. He frowned, realizing that he wanted another drink of water.
"David, what is wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing." He shifted on the chair, feeling trapped and restless. "Ellen, I just got up." Her expression made him irritable. "All right, it's this cottage," he said. "We should get away from it."
"What difference does the location make?" she demanded. "The trouble is with us."
He felt a burst of fear inside himself. "It's not" he said. "It's this cottage."
Ellen shook her head. "It's not the cottage and you know it" she told him. "It's our marriage." She lowered her head. "What's left of it," she murmured. Her hands were clasping on the table now, the fingers rigid, white.
He felt his muscles tightening. "Do I have to spend the rest of my life in a state of penitence?" he asked.
Ellen looked up in defiance. "Would you feel the same if it was me who'd had the affair instead of you?"
A sense of unreality made David's head feel numb. He knew that she was talking about Julia but, horribly, it all fit what had happened with Marianna as well. "It was not an affair," he said. "I thought I wanted to marry her."
"Why didn't you then?" She was brushing away tears as if infuriated by the weakness which had caused them.
"Do we have to go through that again!" he asked, trying not to let himself be angry. "Do I have to say it again? All right. I will. I didn't want to lose what you and I have together."
"Which is—?" she asked in a faltering voice.
"A lot Ellen. If you'd—"
She wouldn't let him finish. "Call it what you like," she said. "It was an affair."
"No, it wasn't" he snapped. "Our marriage was falling apart when I met—"
Again, she interrupted. "Why was it falling apart? Why?"
"What difference does that make now?"
"I want to hear!"
"You know the reasons as well as I do. Too many hours at work. Two small children. Lack of time together. Your background, my background. What's the difference?"
"That's really facing it" she said, her voice grown hard.
"Facing what?" he demanded.
"The fact that we are almost strangers."
"Oh; I see." He felt barely able to speak. "I guess I've been wrong in thinking we had something all these years."
"Oh!" She jolted with incensed frustration, then controlled herself. "Of course, we had something," she said, severely. "Would we have stayed together twenty-one years if there hadn't been something? But there wasn't enough. We never went below the surface. Now that surface is wearing thin and there's nothing underneath to hold us up. The heart isn't there, David; it just isn't there. I'm going to be a grandmother. A grandmother, David. I'm not even sure I know what it is to be a wife."
David felt as though he'd been mysteriously transposed, replacing the man who was supposed to be sitting here, listening to these words. All he could reflect on was that Ellen minded being a grandmother. He knew that it was just a fragment of the truth but it was all he could grasp at the moment.
"You know what I feel like?" she asked. She gazed at him accusingly. "Like a betrayed wife. A second time."
He was already shocked. This new blow only made his stomach muscles cramp a little more.
"I know it isn't true," she said. "It's just the way I feel. Because the kind of secrecy you used to hide your affair from me is the kind you've always used to hide yourself from me. I don't know you, David. Not what's down inside. You're kind and gentle and—fun to be with but—I just don't know you. Maybe that goes both ways; I suppose it does. Maybe I'm as secretive as you are. I don't mean to be, don't want to be but maybe I am—and maybe it's because you never gave me the chance to tell you what I really feel. Maybe I've held it back because I knew you didn't want to hear it.
"We've never discussed things, Davidi Never! Not the really important things—what we are, what we believe about ourselves, about our marriage. Our relationship has been like a—an iceberg. The part that's been exposed is just a tiny part. Most of it is still submerged. We've talked and we've talked but we've never really said anything, never probed or searched. We haven't built a relationship, we've avoided one. We've been pretending with our married life instead of living it." Her voice began to break. "I know it's hideous for me to say this to you after twenty-one years. It makes me sick to say it—me, forty-two, you, forty-six. And here, for the first time, I'm saying it. The first time, David."
The stillness following was so oppressively heavy that he imagined he could feel it weighing on him. His body seemed to be carved from massive, fragile glass; he knew that it would shatter if he moved. The room appeared askew, about to tilt. Any second now, his chair would topple and he'd fall, splintering into a thousand fragments. Ellen, help me. Somewhere in the deadened hollow of his mind, a voice was pleading.
Ellen closed her eyes abruptly, pressing out tears that trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them off. "I'm sorry," she said. "I apologize. It wasn't very nice of me to hit you like this when you've just woken up." She inhaled deeply, tremulously. "I didn't intend to do it" she added. "I didn't mean for it to end like this."
David nodded, murmuring, "I understand." He didn't. He felt totally disoriented, cut loose from his moorings, his mind adrift in eddies of confusion. The only thought he could retain, because it chilled him so, was that, without actually knowing about Marianna, Ellen had, somehow, sensed her existence.
The rest of it he was unable to cope with. It was too vast, too all-encompassing. How could one begin to reappraise a relationship of twenty-one years?
The alcove and the house seemed deathly still. The only sound was the remote, incessant boom of waves striking the shore. Both of them sat mutely, frozen in their separate isolations. Nothing more to say, David's mind repeated several times. He knew it wasn't so, that just the opposite was true. There was so much to talk about, it was impossible to find a starting point. Things had gone too far.
"Well," he said. His voice was quiet, passive. "Under the circumstances, it doesn't make much sense to ask what you want to do today. Or tomorrow or …" His voice trailed off, he leaned back tiredly against the chair. Three thousand miles they'd traveled to renew their waning marriage, he thought and, in a matter of days, it had collapsed entirely. He swallowed, feeling cold and ill. It seemed impossible. Then again, perhaps it had been inevitable. Perhaps Marianna had only hastened what was bound to happen anyway.
He looked up, twitching, as Ellen rose and started for the living room. "I'm going for a walk," she said.
He nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him. He watched as she picked up her camping jacket from a chair and pulled it on. She started for the front door, then stopped to look at him, her face expressionless, the pain apparent only in her eyes.
"I put it all too harshly, I'm afraid," she said. "It's not as if we haven't had a good life together. Or that you haven't been a good husband. It's just that … well, we're getting older now. The children have their own lives; it's only you and me. There should be something in our marriage to sustain us—something to cany us through these difficult years." She shook her head. "I just don't think there is," she said, unhappily. "I think there'll be another Julia." She hurried to the door and left.
David sat immobile, feeling paralyzed. She's leaving me, he thought. He listened for the sound of the engine, then realized that the ignition key was in his trousers pocket upstairs. Where was she going then? For a walk, she'd said. But he couldn't believe that she was coming back.
He blanked his mind deliberately and stood, observing his movements as he might those of someone else while he pushed open the kitchen door, crossed to the sink and filled a glass with water. Drinking, he caught sight of Ellen through the window. She was walking along the beach in the opposite direction from the bluff. He watched her move farther and farther away, her figure shrinking imperceptibly until it was a length which he could span between a thumb and index finger. At that point, he turned away.
Moving into the living room, he sat on the sofa and picked up the bulk of the Times, depositing it on his lap. Ellen had moved the sofa back to its original position. He couldn't seem to recollect how it had been to push it up against the hearth and make love to her on it. Those moments seemed so long ago. It was bewildering to think that it happened only last night. Since they'd come to Logan Beach, time had become grotesquely attenuated. The moment of their arrival seemed the distant past and life in Sherman Oaks had all the aspects of an ill-remembered dream.
David sighed and turned the first page of the news section, looking down sightlessly at the print. Never discussed anything? he thought. How could she say that? They'd talked about their families, the children, his work and aspirations, hers, life in general; so many things, he couldn't possibly enumerate them. None of which went far below the surface though, the thought assailed.
David shuddered. For a moment he felt terrified and lost. Then the fear was ended; he was conscious only of desire for Marianna. Why not? he thought Was he to spend the rest of his life in unresolved despair with Ellen? "To hell with that!" he muttered, slapping fiercely at the pile of newspaper sections, scattering them in all directions.
Again, he shuddered, staring at the disarray of pages on the floor. What was wrong with him? He shook his head as if recovering from a blow. Guilt again, he thought. He nodded vengefully. By God, he was sick and tired of guilt. He recalled the icy wrenching of it in his stomach last night when he'd told Marianna that he was hers. Why shouldn't he have told her? Why shouldn't he be hers? Even though she'd told him, afterward, that she was only teasing about their "wedding," why shouldn't there be one?
Lurching to his feet, he started for the stairs. He'd dress, find out where Marianna lived, tell her that he—
David jerked around as someone knocked on the door. Marianna! he thought. But why should she be knocking? All the other times she'd come right in.
Maybe the door was locked and she'd forgotten her key, he guessed as he moved across the living room. Had she been waiting down the beach, seen Ellen leaving? David reached the door and found that it was locked. He twisted the latch knob and pulled it open.
Mrs. Brentwood returned his smile. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon." He stared at her. She was wearing a tweed skirt and suede jacket belted at the waist, a white, silk scarf around her neck. Her cheeks were reddened by the wind.
"How are you?" she asked.
"Fine." His tone was undetermined. Taking her extended hand, he shook it once.
"May I come in?"
David started. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking." He stepped to the side. "Please; come in." He caught the scent of her perfume as she entered. Closing the door, he turned to face her, dreading that she'd come to tell him how she'd noticed Marianna entering and leaving. "My wife's not here right now," he told her.
"I know," she said. "I saw her leaving."
David forced a smile. Now he was certain that she'd come to speak of Marianna. "She should be back soon," he said.
Without replying, Mrs. Brentwood looked around the room as though in search of something. David felt himself starting to bristle. Did she think he'd hidden Marianna in a closet or behind a chair?"
"You want to sit—?" he started to say.
"Here is fine" she said. She smiled at him. "Well," she continued, "how do you like it here?"
David held himself in check. Even if she did know something, he wasn't going to let her trick him into verifying it. "Fine," he answered. "It's very pleasant."
"Yes." She nodded, looking around again. A war of nerves? he thought. He forced himself to smile as she returned her gaze. "I didn't ask last night," she said. "It didn't seem appropriate; but have you seen its ghost yet?"
David's smile went faintly quizzical. "Its what?" he asked. He was sure he hadn't heard correctly.
"Its ghost."
He blinked. "I thought that's what you said."
"You haven't seen it then?"
David gestured toward the living room, surprised to notice that his hand was trembling. "Here?" he asked.
She didn't answer, looking at him warily. At last, she nodded. "Here," she said.
He wanted to swallow, but felt that he should not permit himself such a telltale reaction. "Well," he said, "that's fascinating." He wondered why he felt so ill-at-ease about it. "You should have told us last night."
"I didn't want your wife to know," she said.
He felt his stomach muscles quivering. "Why?"
Again she failed to answer, eyes unblinking, fixed on him; they frightened him somehow. "Whose ghost?" he heard himself ask.
"You believe it then?"
He laughed awkwardly. "Well," he said. He gestured as though embarrassed. "I hardly know you well enough to say that you're making it up."
Mrs. Brentwood's eyes remained on his. 'The ghost is that of a young woman," she said.
David stared at her without expression.
"Don't you want to know her name?" she asked.
It's Marianna isn't it? he thought, startled at his prompt acceptance of the idea. "What?" he asked.
"Marianna."
"Oh." He nodded, two things suddenly established in his mind: One, that ghosts did not exist; two, that he had no intention of revealing anything to Mrs. Brentwood. Strengthened by the double certainty, he said, "That's a pretty name."
"You've never heard it before?"
"Well, not in reference to—"
"And you haven't seen her."
"Mrs. Brentwood—" David gestured, smiling with polite dubiety. "No; I haven't" His smile grew teasing. "Are you disappointed?"
"Yes, I am," she said. "In you."
He tensed involuntarily. "I'm afraid I don't understand that"
'You don't"
"I don't." His tone verged on animosity. "Perhaps you'll explain."
Her smile, though hinting at derision, seemed sincere enough to be disarming. "No," she said, "there's nothing to explain. If you haven't seen her, you haven't seen her." She looked around again, then back at him. "Be glad you haven't" she continued. "You would find it most unpleasant if you did."
"Why, is she ugly?" That was better, bland, aloof.
Mrs. Brentwood looked amused. "Ugly?" she repeated. "Hardly. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"You've seen her then." He tried to sound intrigued.
Her gaze read his with curious detachment "How else could I have known about her?" she asked.
"I gathered from what you said last night that you knew very little about the cottage." David's tone was openly challenging now.
Mrs. Brentwood smiled. "I know enough," she said.
David tried to look disinterested.
"I see her as I walk," she told him. "She watches me.
Something aberrant in her tone made David look more closely at her, sensing that he'd found a key. "From where?" he asked.
"The studio."
He nodded. "And are you the only one who's seen her?"
Mrs. Brentwood's smile was one of cool detachment. "Mr. Cooper, I have lived for sixty-seven years," she said. "I have yet to have my first hallucination."
David tightened. "You have no doubts, then, that this—this—"
"Marianna" she supplied, her tone implying that she knew he was aware of the name.
"Yes," he said. "You know that she's a ghost."
Her answer was another smile.
"All right" he said, concedingly. "I'll be predictable and ask. How do you know?"
"For the very simple reason, Mr. Cooper, that she died some years ago."
David was unable to prevent himself from shuddering.
"You look distressed," she said.
"Well—" He managed a straining smile. "It isn't every day that …" He wanted her to leave and yet he couldn't let her go; he had to hear it all now. "Were you a witness to her death?" he asked.
"I saw her afterward," she answered. David waited, staring at her. "Her corpse, that is," she said.
He shivered violently.
"You have seen her, haven't you?" Mrs. Brentwood said.
"What?" he frowned. "I told you—"
"I know what you've told me," she cut him off. "I, also, know what I see."
"See?" His effort to sound merely curious was unsuccessful.
"Your face," she said. He stiffened as she put her hand on his arm. "Leave the house, Mr. Cooper," she said.
"What do you mean about my face?"
She drew her hand away with a sigh. "Very well, then, we'll assume that you have not seen Marianna," she began.
"Mrs. Brentwood—!"
"All right; you haven't seen her then." She ran her gaze across his face. "Unfortunately, whether you have or not, you've been exposed to her. And suffered by her presence."
Abruptly, he felt stripped of logic and defense. "Which means?" he asked.
"Which means that there is terrible depletion in your face," she said. "The depletion which is brought about by psychic attack."
David struggled back toward rationality. "I'm afraid that sounds absurd," he said.
"You're exhausted, aren't you?" she told him. "You sleep too much. You have a dreadful thirst which cannot be relieved. Your solar plexus feels abused and tender. Please—don't bother to deny it. I'm not here to argue, only to persuade you to quit this house."
Mrs. Brentwood's words had acted on him like a surgeon's scalpel, slicing away the last of his assurance. That she knew these things appalled him. He still fought against accepting the idea of ghosts—a subject which had always evoked skeptical amusement in him—but he could no longer avoid a chilling infestation of fear.
"Will you go?" she asked. "There's no need to tell your wife if that concerns you. Give her some other reason for leaving."
Despite his unsettled state, David felt the lancing of a cruel amusement. Getting Ellen to leave was hardly the greatest of his problems right now.
"There's a small inn several miles along the beach," Mrs. Brentwood said. "Very charming, very clean. I know the manager; I'll phone him if you like. I do suggest you go there though." Her gaze probed sharply into his. "Immediately."
David looked at her in silence.
"You will find," she said, "that shortly after you have left, a sense of peace will come to you."
"I see," was all he could reply.
"I hope you do, Mr. Cooper. I'm sure you pride yourself on being an intelligent man. I'm sure you are accustomed to demanding facts. Don't let that habit blind your insight. As illogical as it all sounds to you, let your intuition have its way—for it believes me if your mind does not. Later on is time enough for delving into facts." Her fingers gripped his arm again. "Only one thing matters now," she said. "That you leave this house."
David swallowed dryly. "Am I the first you've said this to?" he asked, still searching for an answer.
"By no means," she answered. "Without going into details, I've done everything I could, in past years, to keep this house untenanted. I've made myself a dreadful bother, I'm afraid—but in a good cause, Mr. Cooper."
"I thought you paid no attention to who stayed in the—"
"Mr. Cooper," she interrupted. "That was last night. This is now. Listen to me. Because of my efforts, there hasn't been more than a handful of people here in many years—and only one of those was—"
"What?" he asked when it became clear that she didn't mean to continue.
"I don't—" Mrs. Brentwood braced herself. "No," she said, "You ought to know. It was a young man who lived here one summer. Against my advice, he remained in the house for nearly four months.
"And?"
"He had to be removed by force. He was committed to a mental institution."
David felt the pulsing of a vein in his right temple.
"I believe that he fell victim to Marianna's influence," she said, "and was possessed by her."
He tensed. "Possessed?"
"Taken over," she explained. "His mind controlled by hers."
David clenched his teeth. It isn't true, he told himself. He wouldn't buy it. When he was alone, he'd work it out.
"Marianna, you see, is what is known as an earthbound spirit" Mrs. Brentwood told him. "Probably the most insidious psychic force to which man is subject Because, while not alive themselves, the earthbound choose to dwell among the living, seeking to control and use them. They reject the hereafter, wanting to believe—indeed, in most cases, actually believing—that they are still alive, that nothing has been changed."
"How do you know all this?" he asked.
"Having finally accepted Marianna's existence," she answered, "—and I assure you that it took me just as long as it will take you—I made it my business to know. In order to protect those who might chance to stay in this house."
"Why should you want to protect them?"
Her smile was almost sorrowful. "Why does any human being want to protect another?" she asked.
"Sorry," he said, not certain whether he was or not.
Mrs. Brentwood looked around, grimacing slightly. "I must go now," she said. "I dislike being in this house." She forced a smile. "Goodbye, Mr. Cooper. After you've gone to the inn, come and visit me."
David's first impression as the door thumped shut was one of dazed awakening. He closed his eyes, then opened them. Had Mrs. Brentwood really been here? Had she really said the things that filled his mind? Unreality crowded in around him; he didn't know which way to turn. It was not enough to disparage. Not when confirming evidence seemed to flood across him.
The way he'd met Marianna. The way she always came to him—without a sign, appearing suddenly. The outfit she wore, always the same; a summer outfit in the winter. Bare feet; sandals. When he went out, it was in heavy clothes and shoes. If she really came along the beach, how could she keep warm in such inadequate attire? Which raised the point that he had never seen her outside, never found that so-called "house down the beach."
And why were they always in darkness or in semi-darkness? The only time he'd seen her in anything approaching daylight had been yesterday when she'd appeared by the front door, and, immediately afterward—at her insistence—they had gone up to the studio, to the darkness. That strange sensation in his stomach. His unnatural lassitude. What had Mrs. Brentwood called it? Psychic depletion? That ghastly wrenching in his stomach last night! Our wedding.
"Oh, my God," he muttered in sudden, terrified revulsion.
With his shudder came reaction. "Bull!" he snapped. He was behaving like a credulous fool. There could be any number of legitimate explanations. Mrs. Brentwood had been so damned melodramatic that she'd thrown him totally off-balance, then kept him there; he hadn't used his brain once. It was her eyes, he decided. Well, those eyes were gone now—and the contradictions were appearing.
A ghost with a warm-fleshed body? A ghost a man could make love to? A ghost with clothes, required to remove those clothes by undressing? A ghost that owned a locket and chain he could keep in his pocket overnight? Did she walk through walls, evaporate? She did not. She used doors like anyone else. She walked on stairs with very audible footsteps. She breathed, for Christ's sake!
David make a sound of disgust. How quickly Mrs. Brentwood had deluded him; why she wanted to, he didn't know. He also didn't know how she'd discovered he was tired and thirsty, that his stomach muscles hurt. He was sure that there were explanations, though. Perhaps she'd guessed. No, that was unlikely. Facts then. She'd observed that he almost never left the house. She'd seen the way he walked, the way he looked, and had concluded, logically enough, that he was tired. She'd seen Marianna entering and leaving. From this, it was obvious deduction that his stomach muscles would be aching, that he'd be tired and thirsty. Especially if Marianna had a reputation for this sort of thing.
And speaking of facts, he thought, abruptly, Mrs. Brentwood had been precious sparing with them. Without going into details, she'd said. That seemed to be the gist of her approach. All she'd really told him was that Marianna was the ghost of a young woman who had died some years ago. What year? How?—and why? Who was the young man who had supposedly gone insane here? When had it happened? Where had he been committed? Was he still there? Why should only men be subject to Marianna's will? What had Mrs. Brentwood done to keep this house untenanted? Spoken to the realtor? The owner? Tried to have it condemned?
Not one of these facts had she tendered—not a date, a name, a reason. She'd given him, instead, high drama and mysterioso. He had no idea why she'd done this or what the truth really was—except that it did not include Marianna's being a ghost. All he was certain of was that Mrs. Brentwood had lied to him. Why hadn't he been aware of it at the time? God knew, he'd been exposed enough to that sort of thing on television and in grade-B movies. He should be immune by now. Why wasn't he?
The answer was a simple one, of course. It was not sequential to apply, to life, the critical values one exercised in judging dramaturgy. Had he witnessed Mrs. Brentwood's performance on a screen, he would have grasped its flaws immediately. As it was, she'd stood before him in the flesh—a real woman speaking real words. At least he had assumed the words to be real.
What else could he have assumed? How often, in his life, had he met anyone who lied so well that the feeling of consistent truth was imparted? The last such person he recalled was a boy he'd known in high school who had lied about his female conquests with incredible skill. He'd been fooled then and he'd been fooled now, only the length of his gullibility had differed. Not that he felt particularly stupid because of this. It was only common sense to function on the premise that people told the truth when they spoke. This was not the sign of a pollyanna attitude, merely a reasonable—and fundamentally workable—assumption.
An assumption which failed only when one came across a person like Mrs. Brentwood. He knew, especially now, what it was too create, by omission—subjects avoided, issues skirted—an atmosphere of partial deception. But never had he created a structure of deliberate lies in order to victimize Ellen or anyone else; nor was he capable of truly understanding anyone doing such a thing to him. That Mrs. Brentwood might conceivably, believe what she'd told him only made the problem more disturbing than ever. To all appearances, she was as sane as he. Certainly a passing strangeness in the eyes, an occasional betraying tremor in the voice was not enough to translate into aberration.
Still, it was simpler to accept that than the notion of ghosts. That, he refused to acknowledge; it offended and defied every logic he believed in. He could readjust his mind to encompass the probability of Mrs. Brentwood's alienation but not to admit the concept of life beyond death. If only there were some facts on which to build this mental readjustment something tangible to serve as cornerstone. A single fact.
As if in answer, David found his gaze attracted toward the painting hung above the fireplace mantel. Painting, he thought. Abruptly, he snapped his fingers, turned and ran to the steps, ascending two at a time. There was a fact he could establish!
Entering the studio, he moved along the east wall, looking for the outline of a door, the parted drapes admitted enough light for him to see. After several minutes, he found the parallel cracks and ran his fingers up and down the right-hand one as Marianna had done. Locating the catch, he pressed it and the door sprang ajar. He pulled it open and went inside. As he entered, he grimaced at the smell, a fusion of dust, mold and dampness. He hadn't been bothered by it Thursday night; astonishing what rhapsodical distraction could do.
Breathing through his mouth, he walked to the painting and pulled it over to a patch of dim light. Disappointment made him frown. The portrait was nowhere near as fascinating this time. Not that it was unattractive; but he could see, now, that the artist had completely failed to capture Marianna's beauty.
He rubbed a fingertip across its surface. It was coated with a film of greyish dust. Looking closer, he was able to make out a network of infinitesimal cracks in the paint. Even assuming extreme dampness and dust accumulation, it was difficult to see how any painting could age so radically in a period of months. Swallowing, he rubbed away the dust on its lower right-hand corner. The letters T. L. were exposed, beneath them a numbered date. David leaned in closer, squinting. 7-10—He rubbed at the canvas, then, abruptly, jerked his hand back with a harrowed gasp.
The final number was 37.
"David?"
He gasped again, twisting around so sharply that he almost fell. Crouched in darkness, he gaped at Marianna's silhouette in the doorway, a wave of chilling, primitive dread plunging across him. His limbs felt frozen, locked; he couldn't think.
"I had to wait until she'd left" she told him. "Otherwise—" She stopped, then murmured, "David?"
He had no tongue. His mind was in a struggle to regain itself.
"What is it?" Marianna sounded worried now. "Are you all right?"
David filled his lungs with fetid storeroom air. "Go—" he muttered.
"What?"
He swallowed hard. "Go back," he said. He couldn't recognize his voice.
She stood in fixed silence for a while; was it five seconds, ten? He couldn't tell. At last she backed off. David waited until there was a gap of several yards between the doorway and her, then stood on trembling legs and edged into the studio. Suddenly faint, he leaned against the wall.
"David, what is it?" she asked.
He shook his head infirmly. Why do you appear like that? he heard his mind demanding. Still, there was illumination now. This wasn't darkness, yet she stood before him, evidently physical. Conviction oscillated in his mind.
"What did she say to you?"
He started. "What?"
"What did she tell you about me?"
David set himself. "Why is that—?" Again, his voice failed and he drew in breath convulsively. "Why is that painting dated 1937?"
"So that's it." Marianna's smile was harsh, embittered. "She told you that I'm a ghost."
He stared at her in shock; again, his mind reversed itself.
"Didn't she?"
"Well—" He couldn't seem to form a thought. Like obstructed machinery, his brain felt jammed, grinding ineffectively.
Marianna turned away and moved to the couch. Settling on its shadow-hooded curtain, she began to stare across the room. David watched her in bewilderment.
"I'd hoped—" she started.
David waited. "What?" he finally asked.
She turned to look at him. "That I wouldn't have to tell you."
"Tell me—?"
Marianna sighed. "Come sit beside me."
He didn't move and, after several moments, Marianna turned away again. "You believed her, every word," she said.
"Marianna—" David drew in rallying breath. "Are you telling me—?"
"—that I'm not what she said?" She shook her head despondently. "David, do I have to tell you?"
"Marianna, I didn't believe her; not at all. You think I want to believe a thing like that? But that painting is dated 1937. Tell me why."
"Because that's the year it was painted."
His head began to swim again. "Of you?" he asked.
"I'm twenty-three years old, David."
"But … you told me—"
"I was teasing you."
"Why?"
"I didn't know you." Marianna shrugged. "I wasn't sure I wanted to know you."
David felt the muscles in his chest and arms begin to loosen. "And Terry Lawrence?" he asked.
"What about him?"
"You met him last summer?"
"Yes."
"How old is he?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Marianna—!" David glared at her in furious confusion. "How can he be twenty-seven? For God's sake, he could have a son that age!"
Her look was patient. "Yes; he could," she said.
"Oh, for—" David hissed, disgusted at himself. He felt like an idiot. A classic demonstration of cliche thinking, he thought He'd been immersed in video dialectics far too long. Crossing the studio, he sat beside her. "And the woman in the painting?"
"My mother."
"Mrs. Brentwood." Revelation flooded through his mind. It hadn't been an actress she'd resembled at all. "You do live on the bluff then."
Marianna nodded.
"Why did you tell me you didn't? Never mind; I know. You weren't sure you wanted to know me."
She shook her head. "That wasn't the reason."
"What then?"
"I didn't want you to meet her." Marianna's shoulders bowed. "But now you have."
She sounded so defeated that, on impulse, David put his hand on hers. "It doesn't matter," he assured her.
"It doesn't?" Marianna looked up eagerly. "Nothing's changed?"
He started to reply, then checked himself; he'd consider that part later. "Tell me why your mother tried to make me think you're a—" He finished with a scoffing noise; the very word affronted him.
Marianna looked at him intently. He hoped she wasn't going to mention that he'd changed the subject. "Why did she?" he pressed.
"To frighten you away."
David noticed that his hand was still on hers and drew it back. "Why?" he asked.
"So I'd be alone again."
"I don't understand."
Marianna averted her face. "She hates me, David," she said. "She's hated me so long that—" She shook her head. "—I can't remember when it started."
"Why should she hate you?"
Marianna looked distressed. "What can I say that won't make me sound terrible?" she asked. She faced him. "She's my mother, David. I don't want to speak against her."
"She's spoken against you."
"I know, but—" Again she shook her head. "She isn't normal. The things she believes …"
"About the dead?"
Marianna shuddered. "Please."
"I'm sorry." David patted her back, then drew his hand away skittishly as the urge to stroke her rose in him. He felt his stomach muscles tensing and resisted it; he knew exactly what that meant now. "Why does she hate you?" he asked.
"Because I'm young," she said. "Because—" Her expression grew tormented. "—She says I have the beauty she lost."
David winced. The picture was depressingly complete now: A beautiful but selfish and vindictive woman resenting her own daughter for reminding her that she was growing old; jealousy begetting hatred and, at last derangement That was what he'd seen revealed in Mrs. Brentwood's eyes, heard trembling in her voice—a spiteful malevolence boiling in the depths of her.
"Did she frighten away Terry Lawrence's son?" he asked.
"Probably," she murmured.
David frowned. "Why do you live with her then?" he asked.
"I have to."
"Why?"
She stared at her hands. "I'm afraid, if I leave, she'll—"
"Kill herself?" he provided after several moments.
Marianna closed her eyes. "She's sick, David. She's so very sick."
Suddenly she pressed against him. "Hold me, please," she begged. He hesitated as she clung to him. "I need you. Please don't be afraid of me."
"Afraid?" His laugh was stricken. "Good God, you don't still think I'm afraid of you?" He put his arms around her. "Marianna." Poor, unhappy child, he thought. That's what she was; a child in a woman's body, earthbound in the far more grievous sense that she was bound to the carnal, seeking to derive all comfort and enjoyment from her flesh. Dear God, he thought unhappily, and he, with his own world of problems, had been fool enough to enter hers. She needed so much help and understanding, so much love, that even the lifetime of a younger man devoted solely to her welfare might not be sufficient. As for him—
He closed his eyes and felt the familiar assault of guilt. How irresponsible is the flesh, he thought; how negligent and greedy. He should never have begun with her. By doing so, he'd only made the tangled pattern of her life a little more disordered.
He tightened as she rubbed against him. "Love me, David," she whispered. "Make me forget."
"No." He spoke without thought.
Merianna sat up quickly, looking at him in dismay.
"I mean—" He broke off, feeling sick with fault. "It's not enough to just forget your problems, Marianna. You have to solve them." He felt contemptible for speaking this way; still, it was the truth. "You have to face reality, and—"
"No!" She cried out with such explosive vehemence that David felt himself recoil. "I won't! I won't!" She glared at him, the hatred in her face appalling him. Until that moment, he had never truly known the meaning of the phrase: "his blood ran cold."
"I want your body," she muttered, "I want to forget."
David stared at her dumbly, aware—for the first time it seemed—that she was virtually a sealed book to him. Her reaction had been so abrupt so violent and unexpected that, at once, he was afraid of her again. She's mad, he thought. He felt, somehow, incredulous at his position. What in God's name was he doing here?
"Oh, David." Obviously, she'd noted his expression, for her tone was pained, repentent now. He shivered as she took his hands. "I'm sorry, darling. Please forgive me." She kissed the hands and held them to her cheeks. "It's only that I love you so, I lose my mind when you reject me."
"Marianna—"
"Please make love to me, David."
He couldn't speak.
"I'll make it nice for you. Here; feel how soft I am." She pressed his hands against her breasts. "You know I'm yours. Do anything you want with me." She pulled back. "Here, I'll take my sweater off so you can see them."
"Marianna, no!" He spoke through clenching teeth, his eyes closed tightly. Nausea billowed in his stomach. Even now, he wanted her; God in heaven, even now. Jarring to his feet, he hurried for the door, then stopped and turned. "I'm leaving, Marianna. I'm going home with my wife."
He drew in faltering breath. "I feel ashamed for having made your life more painful than it is already. For having used you to—absolve my own shortcomings. I apologize most humbly to you. But I have to leave. My responsibility is to my marriage. I wish I could help you, but I can't You need much more than I could ever give."
They gazed at each other in silence. She is a ghost, he thought the pitiful ghost of what she might have been. "Please don't hate me," he said. "I never meant to hurt you; that I swear."
He felt himself begin to tighten as she stood and walked across the studio. She stopped before him. Unaccountably, she smiled; the smile that had bewitched him. "I don't hate you, David," she said cheerfully. Rising on her toes, she kissed his cheek. "Have a good trip."
He watched her as she moved away, a mixture of emotions wresting him—sorrow and remorse and, in spite of everything, disappointment at her casual farewell. He heard her voice repeating, in his mind: It's only that I love you so, I lose my mind when you reject me. If she'd really meant it, how could she—?
He closed his eyes, grimacing. Vanity of vanities, he thought. Sighing, he waited for the sound of the closing door. When it came, he opened his eyes, listening to her footsteps on the stairs. Impulsively, he moved to the door and opened it. He heard her walk across the living room. The front door closed. He was not prepared for the burst of pain it caused him. He was going to miss her. She was ill. It was nothing but infatuation. His decision was the right one. Nonetheless, he'd miss her. What was that phrase from Cyrano? How well it applied to her. That wind of terrible and jealous beauty blowing over me—that dark fire, that music …
He whispered, "Marianna." Then, "Goodbye."
He was waiting in the living room when Ellen returned; as she opened the door, he rose from the sofa. Ellen stopped and looked at him in curious surprise. He swallowed. "Hi."
She didn't answer.
David hesitated, gestured toward the sofa. "Sit?"
Without a word, she crossed the room and settled on the sofa. He sat beside her.
Silence. David drew in strained breath. "Let's go home," he said.
Ellen watched him guardedly.
"It was a mistake to come here."
"Maybe not."
He started. "What?"
"Would we be better off if nothing had been said?"
He sighed, then, after several moments, shook his head. "No; it's better they were said. But … well, they are said now, the problem's in the open. Can't we settle it at home?"
She didn't speak.
"This place isn't right for it," he said. "It's true: you can't go home again."
"Is that what you think we were trying to do?"
"Yes." He nodded slowly. "I think we somehow had the feeling that what we'd lost might still be here in Logan Beach."
She looked at him a while before she lowered her gaze. "Perhaps you're right."
"Then let's go home."
"Home." She spoke the word as though it represented some impossible goal. David took her hand. "We can work it out," he said.
"But will we work it out?" Her look was one of pleading. "Or will we just … settle back in?"
He shook his head. "We couldn't if we wanted to."
"You sound almost disappointed."
"No." He smiled dejectedly. "Well, maybe a little. It was peaceful."
"And unreal."
"I guess." He looked at her inquiringly. "You don't regret the change at all then?"
"I regret that it came so late," she said, "I regret that we held it back."
David took his hand away, a wave of discouragement oppressing him. "You make it sound as if our marriage has been a fraud."
"I don't mean to." Ellen's tone was milder now though not placating. "It's only in the past few years that the pretending grew painful. Which brought on Julia." She sat up straight. "As I said before: probably, I've put it all too harshly. All I wanted to convey was that we had a problem that couldn't be ignored any more."
"All right." He nodded once. "We won't ignore it anymore. We'll solve it but at home, not here."
Ellen looked disturbed. "Can't we even start here?"
"I don't think so." David held himself in check. "It's—distracting, unfamiliar."
She didn't reply and he wondered, almost fearfully, what she was thinking. "Is that unfair?" he asked. "To want to settle it in our own home?"
"You don't even want to talk about it here?"
"Right now, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Well—sure; of course. I don't mean we have to board the plane in twenty minutes." He didn't dare press any harder for fear that his anxiety would seem undue. "I just mean, I think we ought to leave some time today; go home, really get to work on this."
Ellen sighed. "If you feel it's that important."
"Well—" If there was some alternative, he thought. He brightened as it came to him. "Look, we don't have to go back home immediately, if that's what bothers you. We can go some other place—"
She interrupted. "What would be the point of that?"
David felt himself tightening. "Well—" He shrugged. "So we wouldn't have to hurry home."
"But—" She gestured with exasperation. "Why not here then? This is where it all—opened up."
He drew in shuddering breath. "I just don't like it here."
"Why? Because it opened up here?"
"No." He looked distressed. "Well, maybe; I don't know."
Ellen sighed defeatedly. "Oh, David." She stared at her hands. "Is it really the location that bothers you?"
He didn't understand.
"Or is it the problem? Is that what you want to get away from?" She looked up. "Permanently, I mean."
David closed his eyes. There seemed to be a dreadful weight across his shoulders and he let them slump beneath it. "Do you?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Silence filled the room.
"I don't know," she said, finally. "I feel … extraneous, somehow. As if I've served my purpose and it doesn't really matter what I want anymore."
He looked at her in pained surprise; he'd never heard her sound so lost before. He wanted to take her hand again, console her; but something kept him from it.
"The more we talk," she said, "the more I get the feeling that our marriage, in the last few years, has been like an unsuccessful game of charades—each of us trying, in vain, to guess what the other was trying to convey." She turned to him. "Even so, I never felt as far away from you as I do right now."
He watched her stand and move across the room. She stopped at the foot of the stairs. "I'll go up and pack," she told him in a tired voice. "We'll go back to Sherman Oaks. We'll see about a divorce."
He shuddered. "No."
She looked at him in silence. He began to wonder, vaguely, if his eyes were going bad, she seemed to shimmer so before him. "No," he murmured. He shook his head, staring at her through a gelatinous film.
She seemed to drift across the room to touch his cheeks in wonder. "David?"
"No."
"You don't want it that way?"
"No."
"You want us to go on?"
He had only the strength to stretch out his hand for her.
"David." Suddenly, she was beside him, in his arms, her arms around him, her cheek pressed to his, her tears spilling across his face.
"Don't leave me, El," he begged.
"I won't, I won't."
"I need you. Please don't leave me."
"David. Oh, my sweetheart; David, David. I won't leave you. Not if you need me, never if you need me." She kissed his face and lips with joy.
David pressed his face into her hair and held her tightly. This is right, he thought; the rightness of it seemed to bathe his mind and body with a healing warmth. This is my love, my heart. How could he have doubted it? It was so clear. The passion he felt for her was so entirely different from that which he had felt for Julia, certainly for Marianna. This, too, was physical; yet, somehow, it transcended flesh, adding to it, the dimension of his mind; perhaps, his soul.
That's it! he thought. The realization struck him with awe. That was the solution, the combination, the Answer: to lend meaning to the body's appetite by giving it the motivation of unselfish love, expressing spirit through flesh. He'd thought of it before but now he knew it. He trembled at the concept—so violently that Ellen looked at him anxiously.
"What is it?"
"Nothing." David clung to her. His laugh was broken. "Nothing? My God, everything!" He shook his head, astonished. Was this inspiration? Was this the feeling of the self release which he had read about? His body seemed not gone, still with him but securely in its place now, not dominating any more, not the control but the instrument to be controlled; on it he could play whatever music he chose. He shut his eyes, feeling dizzy. Surely, this euphoria could not go on.
It didn't. Like a dazzling mantle thrown across him, then removed, the feeling lifted, gone beyond him. He could see again. He looked at Ellen. "Wow," he said.
"Wow?" She smiled.
"I just went cosmic."
"I don't—"
"—Understand? Neither do I but it was great" He held her close. "And it was all because of you. I don't know how but it was."
Whispering his name, she clung to him. "I love you so."
"Oh, I more than love you," David said. "I exist because of you." He kissed her lips. "Whatever that means; don't ask me, I don't know. The feeling's gone. I had it though and it was marvelous, it really was. I wish the same for you."
He stood and drew her up. Reality was back again, everything in proper place. "Come on," he said. "Let's get our stuff and head for home. There's a lot to do."
"All right, darling."
They moved for the stairs, arms around each other. "Look at us," she said. She brushed the tears from David's cheeks, her own. "A couple of boo-hoos."
"We were crying with love," he said. Remarkable, he thought. Until this moment, he would never have believed that he could speak such words and not feel self-conscious. Now, he only thought how true they were. "It's going to be all right," he said. "We're going to find the answer."
"I want to find it," Ellen said. "With you."
"Oh, definitely with me. That's in the books." He kissed her lightly on the cheek.
They started up the stairs. Amazingly, his step was buoyant; he didn't feel exhausted anymore. "Here, blow your nose," he said, holding up his handkerchief.
"I can't get over it," she said. "Here, I thought that everything was over: that you didn't love me, that you wanted to leave."
"I do love you," he said, "I'll never leave."
Her arm drew tight around him. "Don't."
"Never." He believed it too. It was incredible how positive he felt; how secure. Another cliché phrase, he thought; abused but apt: It was as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. That was how he felt—disburdened, confident. There wasn't even a twinge as they passed the studio. That was finished; a destructive yet enlightening episode. He did not regret it now except to the degree that it had injured Marianna.
He smiled. "One good thing; we'll be there when the baby comes."
She nodded, smiling. David looked at her more closely. "Talk about me," he said, concerned. "You look tired yourself."
"I am; a little bit." She leaned her head on his shoulder as they finished climbing the stairs. "Relief, I think. It's been a rough few days."
"I know." He squeezed her.
As they entered the bedroom, David noticed how vague her expression was becoming. "You sure you're all right?" he asked.
"Sure." She patted his cheek. "It's just reaction. And that walk. I kept on going as if there was no tomorrow. I shouldn't have gotten up so early."
"Poor baby." David led her to the bed. "Here; sit. I'll do the packing."
She made no objection, sinking to the mattress with a groan. "Oh," she murmured. She smiled at him. "I feel a little weak, old boy."
"What did you eat this morning?"
"An oatmeal cookie."
"Ellen Audrey." Bending, he kissed the top of her head. "As soon as we're out of here, we're going to stop at a restaurant and get you a nice, big, heavily caloric meal."
"I'm not really hungry." Ellen sighed. "Just a little tired." She started to rise but David held her back. "I'll pack," he said.
"I don't want you to have to do it all."
"There's not that much to do. Here." Kneeling, he removed her shoes, then, standing again, lifted her legs and swung them toward the bed. She fell on the pillow with a tired grunt. "Feels good," she said. She reached out and took his hand. "I'll just rest a little. Then I'll pack."
"Don't worry about it"
"Don't you do it," Ellen said. "Here, lie beside me. We'll pack together in a little while."
David sat beside her and stroked her hair. "I want to get home with you," he told her. "We have a passel of years to catch up on."
"I love you, David."
He leaned over and kissed her gently. "And I love you," he said. "Some day I'll tell you just how much."
"Tell me now!"
"No, no. It would turn your head."
Ellen's smile was drowsy. "I could use a little head turning."
He ran a finger down the bridge of her nose. "Let's just say I couldn't cut the ice without you."
"Sure you could."
"No." He shook his head. "I couldn't. Really." He kissed her again. "Take a little rest now," he said. "I'll pack and then we'll go."
"All right" She stroked his cheek. "It'll be nice to get home." She yawned. "We'd better call Mark."
"We'll phone him from the airport." He grinned. "Give him a chance to get his women out of the house."
She smiled. "That's awful," she murmured.
"You rest now." He patted her cheek.
Ellen reached across her shoulder to touch one of the five X's on the headboard. "Wonder who made them," she murmured.
"Don't know, love." Standing, David crossed to the closet and opened the door. He pulled both suitcases off the shelf and turned back. "I imagine there's a flight about six or seven we can—"
He stopped and, putting the two suitcases on top of the bureau, moved back to the bed. Ellen was already asleep. He smiled at her. An angel, he thought. She really was. He shuddered at the thought that he'd almost left her. How could he have been so blind?
With care, he drew the comforter across her. She didn't stir. Poor kid, he thought. She must have been physically and mentally exhausted by all this. He'd make it up to her.
Smiling, he turned and walked to the bureau. Setting one of the suitcases on the floor, he opened the other on top of the bureau and began to pack in Ellen's belongings. Little Ellen Audrey, he thought. He patted her clothes as he put them in the suitcase. She was good for him. It was appalling to consider that he might have left her for Marianna. What a nightmare that would have been.
"Amen," he muttered.
The room was silent except for the rustling of clothes being packed; even the pounding of the surf seemed distant and muffled. David began to think about his flash of "exaltation" and what bizarre chemistry might have brought it about. Now that it was past, it was simpler to discredit. Not that it hadn't been electrifying; moments he would not have missed for anything. But that it had occurred within the realm of inspiration was more than improbable. He was David Cooper, TV hack, not some heaven-bent mystic.
What had, likely, hit him was a rush of gratified response at making up with Ellen. After all, they'd been in serious marital trouble for a long time. Add Julia to that. Add, to that, his liaison with Marianna in this very house, his consequent guilt and depression. Small wonder that, in making peace with Ellen so unexpectedly, he felt illumined by a burst of inner light, uplifted by the purging of that heavy guilt, the overbearing depression.
Not that he felt white-washed. Still, he definitely did feel as if a burden had been taken from him. So much so that perceptions of every kind seemed to be occurring to him where, before, there had been nothing but indifference.
Why was it, for instance, that, except on rare occasions in the past few years, he'd been unable to express, in physical terms, his love for Ellen? In their early years, there had existed, in their lovemaking, an atmosphere of romantic tenderness. True, it may have been delusive but both of them had believed in it.
Then it had faded. It had faded for other couples too, of course; reality was always cruel to dreamlike sentiment. In their case, though, the fading had resulted, not in usual boredom, but in a division of rapport. Their mental relationship had continued soundly, he liked Ellen, enjoyed her company, was proud to be her husband.
On the other hand, their physical relationship had begun to drift, separating from the basic substance of their marriage until it was virtually a relationship in itself. An unregenerative relationship, however, not viable enough to grow or ripen. A relationship in which—to keep it artificially alive—he had created constant, re-kindling stimulations. In time, that relationship had become, for him, rather than an overall fulfillment, a search for erotic variations.
He had sensed this many times but, fighting back, had managed to convince himself that this was sexual emancipation, adult and unconstrained. That the search had grown more intemperate by the year had only made him more defensive, more stubbornly determined that the search was justified.
No wonder, then, that Marianna had attracted him, being nothing less than the ultimate objective of this search: an exotic wanton who expected no emotional responsibility, who wanted and encouraged only self-indulgence. David shook his head. And he had been her instant and compliant partner.
Why?
Perhaps, because he hadn't lost the ability to express love in physical terms, but, rather, had never possessed it at all. Was that surprising really? His parents had separated when he was ten. An only child, he had been raised with intense protectiveness by his mother. She'd been devoted to him, yes, but, because his father had repelled her and because she was timid and withdrawn, she'd seen fit to make of sex, a shunned topic: shunned, he had sensed as a boy, because it was too vulgar and distasteful for her to examine—therefore, because he identified with her, too vulgar and distasteful for him to examine either. A secret a taboo. She'd been affectionate and loving, but never with the slightest hint they were male and female. The schism was complete. On one side there was love, direct and clean. On the other side there was sex, devious and, by implication, dirty. He had grown to manhood never appreciating that the two should be one. Now, after all this time, he had to form connective tissue between them, for he knew that one without the other was inadequate and empty. Sex had to be more than the coupling of unrelated animals. It had to be the ultimate exchange of love between a man and a woman.
He blinked to find himself staring at his reflection in the bureau mirror. Now which way? he asked the somber visaged man before him.
"Forward, I hope," he murmured.
Hurriedly, he finished packing. The suitcases filled and shut he set them by the door and returned to the bed. Ellen was sound asleep, her breathing deep and regular. He wanted to wake her and start for home but didn't have the heart. She looked so peaceful. He'd let her rest a while; she needed it.
He sat on the rocking chair and checked his watch. Almost four-thirty. He blew out fretful breath. Already, the light was fading. Maybe he should wake her after all. Allowing an hour to an hour and a half for the drive to the airport plus time for a restaurant stop didn't give them much leeway. As he recalled, there was a flight for Los Angeles around seven. It was unlikely they could make it unless he woke her now.
Oh, well. He shrugged. What were a few hours more or less? There was probably a late flight. The main thing was that they were going home. He relaxed and looked at Ellen's face. I love you very much, he thought. How marvelous that he should feel this way after all these years. It made his first infatuation for her seem childish and incognizant. This was based on knowledge, that on self-gratifying reverie.
He closed his eyes and listened to the muted booming of the surf. That I can do without for a long time, he thought. He considered, briefly, getting up to load the car, taking everything out of the house except Ellen and himself. He yawned. It could wait until she woke up. He smiled to himself. Mark would be surprised to see them; Linda too. Wonder if it's going to be a boy or a girl, he thought. Grandpa Dave, that lovable old coot. He made an amused sound. Him a grandfather. How ridiculous. He felt too young. He was going home with his child bride. Start out fresh. Years ahead of them. Joy. Contentment. Ellen. Home. Tonight.
Jerking up his head, he stared into the darkness. What the hell—?
He looked around, appalled, then raised his left arm which had gone to sleep, pinned between his body and the chair arm. Blinking hard, he focused on the hands of his watch. It was nine twenty-one. He groaned. "Oh, Christ" Standing with a crackle of bones, he felt his way to the nearest bedside table and turned on the lamp.
Ellen was still asleep, lying in the same position. David reached down to wake her, then withdrew his hand. He'd load the car first, straighten up the house; let her sleep until the last possible moment. Turning, he walked to the suitcases. There he hesitated, wondering if they ought to leave in the morning instead. Surely, there would be no flight available by the time they reached the airport.
No damn it, they were leaving now. If there wasn't a flight until morning, they'd rent a room near the airport. The way he felt, he was prepared to sit all night in the waiting room if he had to. Picking up the suitcases, he moved into the hall, set one of them down long enough to switch on the overhead light, then picked it up again and started downstairs.
Crossing the living room, he opened the front door and carried the luggage outside. The air was still and cold; well below freezing, he estimated. His breath steamed whitely as he unlocked the car trunk and loaded in the suitcases. The slam of the lid as he closed it sounded loud and sharp.
Shivering, he hurried back into the house and turned on one of the living room lamps. As he moved about the room in search of their belongings, he began to realize how hungry he was; not that it was strange, considering how little he'd eaten in the past few days. He picked up sweaters, jackets, some oatmeal cookies. Eating one of them, he carried everything to the door and dumped it on the floor. He'd make a pile and carry it all to the car later.
As quickly as he could, he moved around the room again, emptying ashtrays into the fireplace, straightening furniture and cushions, laying the bulk of the Times on the raised hearth; let some future tenant use it to ignite some future fire. It made him feel strange to realize that other men would probably stay here, encounter Marianna and become involved with her. He shook himself. So what? It wasn't his concern anymore. He looked around. The room was in order now. That left the kitchen, the bathroom and bedroom.
Moving into the kitchen, he switched on the light and picked up the carton they'd been using for rubbish. He carried it into the living room, emptied the trash inside the fireplace and lit it. Returning to the kitchen, he set the carton on the table and began to load it with remaining groceries. We really should leave them, he thought. Certainly, they couldn't take them on the plane. Still, there might not be another tenant for a long time; they couldn't very well leave it to rot. He cleaned out the refrigerator and cupboard, his stomach growling at the sight of food. If only there was time to fry himself some eggs, make some toast and coffee.
He closed his mind to the thought. Ellen was hungry too; he'd wait until they reached a restaurant. The atmosphere there would be more conducive to dining anyway. He pulled out the refrigerator plug, removed the ice trays and put them in the sink.
"Oh, nuts." There were dishes to be washed; he stared at them in aggravation. Sighing, then, he twisted the drain cup into place and began to run hot water, adding a capful of liquid soap. He stared at the foaming surface until it covered the dishes, then turning off the faucet washed and rinsed the dishes, propping them in the rack.
Drying his hands, he turned to the table and took a chocolate cookie from its bag inside the carton. He looked around the kitchen. Good enough, he thought. He grunted in somber amusement as a thought occured to him. All those arguments his mother and father had avoided when he'd entered all those kitchens in the past; all the arguments his mother had not permitted him to have with her. He'd hated those evasions bitterly and, yet, he'd done the very same thing to Ellen—avoided arguments in order to maintain an atmosphere of peace, however fraudulent He shook his head. Things rub off, he thought; even the things you despise.
He lifted the carton and moved to the doorway, turned to run a final gaze around the room. It was tidy, clean. Goodbye, kitchen, he thought. He remembered the first moment they'd entered it; it had been like an icebox. By tomorrow afternoon, the heat turned off, it would be the same. Flicking down the light switch with his left elbow, he backed through the doorway, carried the carton to the front door and set it down.
As he headed for the stairs, he noticed the two coffee mugs on the dining alcove table and, groaning, changed direction, picked them up and carried them into the kitchen, setting them in the sink. Wash 'em yourself, he thought.
Ellen didn't stir as he sat beside her on the bed. "Honey?" He put his hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. She failed to respond and he shook her harder. "Ellen?"
She moaned a little, turning her head on the pillow.
"Come on, honey." He shook her again. "Time to go home."
She mumbled something that he couldn't make out; then she was asleep again. David grimaced. "Ellen?" He patted her cheek. "Come on. It's time to go."
She rolled onto her side, her back to him. He waited a few seconds, then turned her onto her back again. "Wake up, my dear, my darling."
Ellen's eyelids fluttered, opening part-way. She peered at him groggily.
"It's time to go."
She grunted, stared. After several moments, her eyelids fell shut again.
"Ellen?"
She opened her eyes.
"Don't you want to go?"
"Time's't?"
He checked his watch. "Almost ten."
She grunted. "Late."
"I know it's late. That's why we have—to"
He broke off, astonished. Her eyes were closed again.
"Ellen?"
"Tired." She twisted onto her side again.
He stared at her in silence. For a moment, he had the uneasy feeling that they weren't going to leave until Thursday after all; that he was going to see Marianna again, that every gain would be lost. Frightened, he reached out to shake her violently, then drew his hand back. Actually, it made no sense to leave now. She was, obviously, exhausted. He should let her get a good night's sleep before they left.
He clucked. He'd let her sleep, wake her up at dawn. That way they'd be in Los Angeles by late tomorrow morning; early afternoon at the most.
He watched her for a while, then decided that he may as well go down and fry himself some eggs. Standing, he turned out the lamp and moved into the hall. He took their toilet articles from the bathroom and trudged down the stairs. The edge was off their departure, that was certain. Leaving in the morning would be an anti-climax.
He put the toilet articles on the pile of clothes, carried the carton of food back into the kitchen, and turned on the light. He frowned at the thought of reusing the frying pan, a dish and mug, silverware, a spatula, the coffee pot. He'd make himself a sandwich.
Sitting at the table, he took two slices of wheat bread from their package and searched the carton for something to put between them. As he did, his hand closed over the neck of the martini-mix bottle. Good idea, he thought. He took it out, began standing to get a glass, then sat again. "Oh, no you don't" He'd drink from the bottle. By God, he'd even spread the margarine with his finger so he wouldn't have to wash a knife. He smiled as he unscrewed the top of the bottle and took a sip.
It hit his stomach with a jolt. "Yow!" He clenched his teeth and, hissing, set the bottle down. He looked in the carton again and found some cheese. Picking up the bottle he took another sip. That was better. Already, the warmth of the first sip was diffusing through his stomach and lower chest. "Stoke the furnace, man." He took another sip, a longer one.
Blinking, he put a slice of cheese between the two pieces of bread; he wouldn't even use margarine; save his finger. He took a bite of the sandwich. It tasted dry and made him cough; he took a drink of martini to wash it down. Here comes the numbness, hurrah, hurrah! His mind sang the words to the tune of a song he'd known in grade school: Here Comes the Milkman. He closed his eyes and felt the anaesthesia radiating through his body and head. By God, martinis were good, their language international. Gentlemen of the General Council, he addressed them, I hereby nominate the martini as United Nations Cocktail. Make it official and I guarantee you universal peace in twenty-four hours.
He took an extended drink from the bottle and set it down. Picking up the sandwich, he eyed it speculatively. "You do not appeal to me," he told it, putting it aside. He wasn't very hungry anyway. He tipped the bottle to his lips, then leaned back, sighing. After several moments, he raised his head again and took another drink. How much had there been in the bottle? There was about an inch left.
"Goombye, inch." He drained it off. "And to think, ladies and gentlemen of the radio audience," he announced, "I came down here for a fried egg. Now, I am a fried egg. I tell you, such a notion boggles the mind. We now return you to the Adventures of Granpa Dave."
He hiccupped, frowned. Forgive me, other. His chin dropped to his chest. After a while, he lay both arms on the table and rested his head on them. 'Take a snooze," he murmured. "Take a letter. My God, Miss Blodgett, I never saw you without your clothes on." He shifted in the chair, drawing in restless breath. Feel nervous, he thought. Want something; but what?
"Me?"
He sat up with a gasp.
"Behind you."
He twisted around. The swinging door was opened. In the dining alcove, just beyond the doorway, Marianna stood looking at him. David felt his stomach muscles wrench in.
She was naked.
He stared at her, unable to move. She drew in breath so that her heavy breasts hitched up, their nipples jutting darkly. "I came to say goodbye," she mocked.
He shook his head.
"Why not? No harm in it. Your wife's asleep; I checked. She's sound asleep. We have lots of time to say goodbye."
He felt himself shrinking from her. "I'm going home."
"Of course. I only came to say goodbye."
Helplessly, he ran his gaze down her body. "That's it, look at me," she said. He shuddered as she cupped a hand beneath each breast and held them up. "For you," she said. "Just one more time." Her teeth were clenched, her eyelids lowered halfway. "You know you want to. Only one more time. No harm in that." She drew back slowly.
No; I won't, he thought. But his mind was like a child before the burgeoning assurance of his flesh. He tried to shake it off but will would not direct his limbs. Standing dizzily, he weaved across the floor toward her.
"You want me, don't you?"
One more time, he thought. No harm in that. I'll be gone by morning. One more time, just one.
"Don't you, David?"
"Yes." Just one more time. He reach for her. She backed off and he stumbled after her into the living room, stepping across the jumble of her clothes. He had no mind now; he was body, flesh, an appetite.
"That's it; follow me. Follow like an animal. That's what we are. Animals. That's all that matters; being animals and enjoying it." She dropped to her knees, fell forward on her palms. "Take me like an animal" she said.
Possessed, he staggered toward her, musk-thick fragrance like a mist around him, glutting his brain, the room revolving, darkening. Only her before him, white, luxuriant; an animal. He pulled at his clothes like unwanted scales. "Don't make me wait," she ordered. He fell to his knees behind her. "Now!" she screamed.
Then everything was lost in blinding, crazed desire as her lust devoured his body and, for all he knew or cared, his soul as well.
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