Burnt Offerings (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) (25 page)

She hurried to the window, panic growing in her, and strained to see beyond the rise of lawn, down to the pool which was hidden from view. And then it hit her, even without seeing. Her hands jerked up to her face, and almost voiceless, she said, “No! Oh, God!
No!
” She ran to the front door and that was locked too, and she screamed it out now, filling the house: “NO!”

He had swum all the way to the middle of the pool where he stopped, winded, and began to tread water clumsily, turning to face Ben who seemed to be looking directly at him.

“What’d I tell you – ?” he tried to say, but his mouth filled with water. He gagged and tried to raise his chin, but the water slapped against it, higher and higher, as if an unseen hand stirred it and sent it over him in faster and rougher waves. He breathed it in and choked on the burning in his lungs, and flailed wildly and more desperately, crying out to Ben who blurred distantly in David’s eyes. The water rose over his head, the rolling waves beating him lower and lower.

Ben’s hands began to tremble on his knees, fighting against the heaviness that weighed them down. His eyes were fixed on the center of the pool which might have been a shadow passing through the whiteness in his mind, and a cry penetrating dimly from far away. His hands rose strengthless to the arms of the chair, under the umbrella that was now blazing with color, and as he tried to push himself forward, his mouth opened on a great, soundless moan. The chair shook under his weight. He lifted himself and moved an inch beyond the perimeter of shade, and then another, before he fell forward.

The moan unshaped itself, and two thin lines of blood started to run from his eyes, absorbed by the sun-baked pavement, which pressed, smooth and polished, against his face.

They were all locked, every one of them. She came into the living room, blind with terror, and whatever was in her stumbling path, however precious, she threw it aside until she reached the doors to the terrace; and they were locked, and all the other doors from the room as well. She turned and searched the room for something to smash through the doors, and as she did, she saw the walls brightening with color, as though the paint were being poured down them, and the panels and rosettes and cornices carving themselves vividly into the ceiling, and everything in the room taking on a splendor that was dazzling. And she knew immediately what it was that had already happened at the pool, and hurled herself against the locked glass doors until they shattered. And went back down to the pool where she saw what was behind the continuing approbation of the house.

The stairs were almost too much for her. She stopped several times and rested her face wearily against her hand on the bannister, and then pulled herself up again. When she reached the upstairs hall she hesitated, as though she were suddenly unsure of her direction. Then she saw the double doors ahead of her, and stared at them for a long time. She started to move toward them, but stopped at the door of the room that had been Ben’s and hers. And hesitated again. She went into the room, into the bathroom where she pulled off her wet clothes and wiped her hair dry. Not thinking of anything at all, too drained and dead inside ever to think of anything again. Whatever she was doing, she was doing automatically.

She chose the long blue-and-gold gown and dressed herself, and pulled a comb through her white hair. Then she went down the hall, looking neither left nor right, and entered the sitting room.

The pictures were there, of course, at the very edge of the table. Ben and David, each of them with that same blank and lifeless stare, their eyes fixed on a point that would always be somewhere beyond Marian. Ben. And David. She touched them. And if there were any tears, any emotion at all, left in her, she would have asked, “Why aren’t I there with them? Why have I been saved?”

Saved . . .

She sat in the wingchair, her hands opening and closing against its arms. She heard the hum and stared into the door, silently, feeling something deeper than she had ever felt before build slowly inside herself. Deeper than anger or hate or betrayal or loss – total, unrecoverable loss.

There’s nothing more, she said to herself; and then she said it again, aloud, still staring at the door.

“There’s nothing more. Nothing. It’s all in order now, all the way it should be.”

She waited, and then rose and walked toward the door.

“And there’s nothing, nothing at all left.”

She stopped and her eyes travelled again over the maze in the door. She raised her hand and touched it, and the hand tightened into a fist which struck against it, just once.

“Is this how it ends?” she asked. “With this still between us? After I’ve given you everything?”

The fist loosened, and almost beyond her control began to move over the surface of the door with a slow, caressing motion.

“Mrs. Allardyce?” she called softly. “Mrs. Allardyce?” She rested her face against the door. “There are times when you’ve been so close to me . . . and I’ve seen you so clearly in everything that’s in your house . . . Why should this door still be between us now . . . when I’ve given you everything?” She waited for the strength to well up and power her voice and her hand, and when it did she pounded the door. “There’s nothing more to give!” she cried. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing
. . .”

She heard the
click,
and felt the door move against her hand, just slightly. The suddenness of it, under her cries, stunned her. She stood absolutely still, and then a smile, part astonishment, part triumph, began to transform her face. Her hand went down to the gold knob and pulled the door towards her. The hum grew, deeper and more resonant as the door opened wider, pushing out against her, even after she had pulled her hand away.

It was massive, incredibly thick behind the carved facing, like the door of a great vault. The smile froze on Marian’s face as it continued to open, beyond her control, with the hum growing even louder, shaking her, shaking the room with its power, and a thin light issuing, becoming stronger. She threw herself against it, trying to stop the movement of the door, to cut off the overwhelming force of the hum and the terrible blaze of light whitening everything. The door pushed against her, opening wider, and she felt herself screaming at it, screaming at the vastness, the magnitude of the power being released on her. And then felt nothing, and heard nothing, and saw, in the heart of the whiteness, a point, a shadow, which she knew was the source of the light, rushing toward her. Closer. Closer. The features swirling and gathering themselves out of the shadows. Hideously old, leaning forward in a great chair, with her eyes blazing out at Marian. Closer, more penetrating, burning everything out of her – grief and affection and memory – burning it out finally, until there was nothing. She raised her hand to touch the figure, and it was a gesture of acceptance. The eyes blazing in front of her faded then, and the figure dissolved, leaving the chair empty. For Marian. Who closed her eyes and began to move forward slowly, hearing the voices chambered in the vast silence.

“Our mother . . .”

“Our darling . . .”

“Restored to us . . .”

“In all her dearness . . .”

Marian stood in front of the chair.

“Her glory . . .”

“Her beauty . . .”

“Her youth . . .”

She turned.

“Always with us . . .”

“Always . . .”

“Always . . .”

And sat.

“Always . . .”

She clutched the arms of the chair and felt the force of the hum not outside herself but in her, issuing forth and driving itself into the house and grounds, all the way down to the smallest bit of crystal, the tenderest green shoot. And somewhere beyond the chair there was the sound of a great door closing, on a vault, or a tomb.

They materialized as if by instinct almost immediately, the Allardyces and Walker. And went, with silent reverence, through all the rooms of their mother’s house, which had never looked so rich and shining and perfect.

“Not since last time anyway,” Brother said in his wheelchair.

They travelled over the grounds, as much of them as they could cover in a single day. The trees and shrubs were full, the grass the deepest green, and the house shone white and immaculate on the hill.

“Ah . . .” Roz said.

And whatever there was to mar the serenity of the scene, Walker was ordered to attend to.

The house was photographed from the angle of the wide field in front of it, to capture the moment of perfection, and eventually the picture was brought into the alcove between the living room and the greenhouse. Walker raised it to the wall filled with similar photographs, and then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Roz and Brother.

“There’s no more room on the wall,” he said.

“Well, make room,” Roz said, handing him the hammer and a picture hook. “What do we pay you for anyway?”

He stood on his toes and lifted the picture higher, beginning a new row on top of all the others.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Brother.

Walker hung the picture in a position of prominence while Roz looked on approvingly, and Brother rose from his wheelchair to celebrate the moment.