Dark on the Other Side (6 page)

“That depends on the faith,” Michael said drily. “Some
beliefs are no less pernicious for being honest. But I don’t see why I
should be offended at an admission of belief in the devil.”

Briggs chuckled again. His pudgy hand waved his half-full
glass in a mocking salute. Linda realized that no one had offered her
anything to drink. For once the thought did not preoccupy her. She was
too engrossed in the greater need.
Ask him
, she
begged silently, focusing her demand on Andrea.
Ask him, I
can’t. And I’ve got to know
.

“Then you don’t believe in Satan—the powers of evil,”
Andrea persisted.

Gordon groaned, half humorously.

“Andrea, you have the subtlety of a pile driver. And the
mindless persistence.”

“And the directness,” Michael said, smiling. “After the
double-entendres
of the literary world I find it refreshing. No, Miss Baker—Andrea,
then, if you insist—I do not believe in Satan.”

“Then how do you explain the existence of evil?”

“Do I have to explain it? I’ve got problems enough.”

“Don’t be frivolous.”

“I beg your pardon.” Michael sobered. “A number of
explanations have been offered, have they not?”

“None make any sense.” Andrea dismissed the garnered
wisdom, philosophy, and theology of the world with a shrug. “Given the
omnipotence of God and His complete unshadowed benevolence, you can’t
account for evil.”

“The finite mind of man,” Michael said, with the air of
someone who is quoting, “cannot comprehend the eon-long plans of the
Infinite.”

“Baloney,” Andrea said. Michael started at the word. “If
our kindness is only a weak imitation of the supreme benevolence of
God, and we gag at cruelty, how can He endure it, or condone it—much
less perpetrate it, as He does, by your definitions?”

“Now wait a minute,” Michael protested. “They aren’t my
definitions. I only said—”

“Baloney,” Andrea repeated. The light was merciless on
her face as she leaned forward. The wrinkled, cosmetic-caked skin
looked like lava that had coincidentally congealed into the simulacrum
of a human face. “The only hypothesis that accounts for evil is the
existence of another Power, equal to the power of good and unalterably
opposed to it.”

“Manichaeism,” Michael muttered. He glanced at Gordon.
“Odd. We were talking about it earlier today.”

If he was looking for help in changing the subject, he
didn’t get it. Gordon simply nodded.

“You’re trying to snow me with words,” Andrea said.
“Think I’m a dumb old woman, don’t you? Well, I know what Manichaeism
is, it just so happens. They were on the right track; but they were
wrong, just the same. Evil is! It exists! And you’ve got to fight it!”

Even Linda, tense and involved, had to admit that the
choice of words was unfortunate; they sounded like a parody of a
football cheer, and the muffled thud of Andrea’s fist, pounding the arm
of the sofa, was equally anticlimactic. Linda was the only one who
didn’t smile. Even Andrea looked, momentarily, as if her mouth might
relax. But Briggs’s oily chuckle tightened it again.

“You’re the worst of the bunch,” she said obscurely,
glaring at the secretary. “You and your damned Lucifer!”

Briggs chortled again, and Michael’s laugh echoed his.

“A singularly appropriate adjective,” he said, grinning.

Linda couldn’t stand it any longer. It was no use. Now
she would have to try the other way. She jumped to her feet.

“Isn’t it time for dinner?” she demanded; and without
waiting for Gordon’s answer, she went on wildly, “Of all the stupid,
idiotic conversations…Let’s talk about heroin, or the crime rate, or
something pleasant. And someone get me a drink!”

By the time dinner was over, Linda felt better, except
for the bad taste in her mouth, which no variety of food or drink was
able to remove. They talked about heroin and the crime rate; about
massacres in Iraq and starvation in India and poverty in Appalachia.
Briggs gobbled and Andrea ate sloppily, scattering crumbs. Gordon ate
almost nothing.

When they went back to the living room for coffee, Andrea
lingered, touching Linda’s arm as if she wanted to exchange a word in
private. Linda brushed past her. There was no use talking now. Andrea
was a fool, like the others, a loud-mouthed, bragging fool. She had
done more harm than good. No, there was nothing for it now but to try
the only remaining means of approach.

It wasn’t easy to arrange, though. Everyone seemed
relaxed and lethargic after a heavy meal and an abundance of wine.
Andrea flung herself down in her favorite corner of the sofa. Michael
had chosen a chair by the fire; only his long legs and the top of his
head were visible. Linda sat on the edge of her chair, nerves
prickling. She didn’t see how she was going to manage it. Unless,
later…But that was dangerous, roaming the halls alone in the night. And
it had to be tonight. He was leaving the next morning.

The fire crackled in the vast stone hearth, but its light
was diffused and lost in the brightness of the lamps scattered around
the room. The paneled walls and lovely stuccoed moldings of the beamed
ceiling were another successful copy of an old English original. She
had been unfair, of course, to attribute this artistic servility to
Gordon. The house had been built by his grandfather, after his first
trip abroad. He had been a parvenu, and
nouveau riche,
and all the other offensive French snob terms; but Linda supposed she
ought to give the old man credit for realizing his own lack of taste.
Rather than make a mistake, he had simply copied what he knew to be
beyond criticism. It was a fault and a weakness in herself that she
preferred to make her own mistakes.

Linda roused herself long enough to accept the brandy
Briggs was handing around, and then slumped back into lethargy. They
were at it again, Gordon and Andrea—not about demons, this time, but
about gardening, which was their other major source of disagreement.
If, as Gordon always said, you could call Andrea’s mixture of
superstition and random digging real gardening.

Characteristically, Michael was trying to keep the peace.

“I think science is now coming around to Andrea’s point
of view,” he said. “Didn’t I read somewhere that there may be a
chemical present in the skin of certain people which stimulates plant
growth? The old green thumb made respectable?”

Gordon made a rude noise and Michael grinned amiably at
him. Linda was accustomed to her husband’s ability to charm; but he had
succeeded even faster than usual in winning Michael. Slouched
companionably in two chairs, side by side, they gave the impression of
having known one another for years. To Linda’s annoyance Andrea failed
to see the amused sparkle in Michael’s eyes, the reflection of Gordon’s
sly amusement. With loud cries of pleasure, the old woman amplified
Michael’s comment, adding, “You don’t pay enough attention to these
things, Gordon. If you’d listened to me, your marjoram would be in
better shape.”

Gordon laughed aloud, and Andrea finally realized that
she was being made fun of. Her eyes narrowed angrily.

“I didn’t know you had an herb garden, Gordon,” Michael
said. “How did I miss it today?”

“It’s on the north side. Linda was the one who wanted an
herb garden, so I had it laid out according to one of the old
Elizabethan manuals. But Andrea is right. My marjoram is in wretched
condition.”

“I thought marjoram was a girl’s name,” Michael admitted.

“It’s a rather common plant. I’ve got a few of the rarer
kinds that I’m quite proud of. Did you know that there are strict rules
for the layout of such gardens—specific plants next to others, some
which must be planted in borders, and so on? I’ve gotten quite
fascinated by it, even though it was Linda’s idea to begin with.”

She felt their glances, but did not respond. Whose idea
had it been? Hers, his—someone else’s? Surely that was
unimportant—except as another proof of her failing memory. Then,
belatedly, she realized what they were talking about, and she sat up a
little straighter. This might be the chance she had been waiting for.

“…not like ordinary floodlights,” Gordon was saying.
“It’s a new system. The effect is like very strong moonlight. No, it’s
no trouble; I had switches installed all over the house. And I love to
show off my gadgets.”

They were all at the window; Gordon was pulling back the
heavy damask drapes. Linda turned in time to see Gordon touch the
switch and the high oblong of black window turn silver as the outside
lights went on.

Michael made appreciative noises.

“It does suggest moonlight,” he said. “If I were ten
years younger I’d turn it on at night and go for a moonlight
stroll—tripping over things and reciting poetry.”

“You can’t see the herb garden, though,” Gordon said,
peering. “It’s mostly hidden by the boxwood. Moonlight stroll? That’s a
good idea, Mike. It’s a little chilly, but not too bad. Linda? Andrea?”

Out in the false moonlight, among the shrubbery, one
person, or two, might casually wander away from the others…. Linda met
her husband’s eyes, and a cold, sobering shock ran through her. It was
as if he could read her thoughts.

“No,” she said. “I don’t feel like it. But the rest of
you go ahead.”

When they had left—Andrea still arguing about marjoram,
Briggs trailing his master in silent devotion—Linda got up and went to
the window. The pale gray light did not suggest moonlight, not to her
distorted imagination. It was a dull, unearthly light, like
phosphorescence. It was bright enough; she could make out the tiny
individual leaves on the boxwood hedges, twenty feet away. But instead
of silvering objects as moonlight did, this light gave them a strange
dead hue, between gray and green.

She shrank back into the concealment of the draperies as
the others came into view, strolling slowly across the gray-washed
grass. Andrea’s floppy sleeves were wrapped around the upper part of
her body. It must be pretty chilly outside. Gordon, as always the
perfect host, spoke to the old woman and she shook her head
vehemently—denying, Linda thought, any need for a wrap. Andrea prided
herself on rising above physical needs. Old fool, Linda thought angrily.

After a time her mood improved. It was fun, watching
people when they thought they were unobserved, studying faces and
gestures undistracted by the added element of speech. Michael was a
little taller than Gordon. He had a ridiculous way of walking,
like—like a—her mind fumbled for an analogy and then, suddenly, she
giggled. Like a camel. The same mixture of awkward angularity and inner
dignity.

Gordon’s head had been turned away from her. Now he
turned, stretching out his arm to indicate some point of interest. His
face was alive with the inner fire of personality that gave it its
charm, and his sharp-cut features had a beauty even the ghastly light
could not spoil. For the first time in months Linda’s body responded
with an inner twist that was more painful than a physical blow. Gordon,
she thought. The name was like an incantation, loosening a flood of
memories.

It hadn’t been so long. Five years. Was that all? It
seemed longer…. But she could still visualize Gordon as he had looked
the first time she saw him, standing by the battered desk in Room 21 of
Goddard Hall—the English Department. Only a dozen of them had signed up
for the course, in the Art of the Novel; the departmental chairman had
restricted it to seniors. But every eligible senior had registered.
They were curious. A little skeptical, some of them, of a visiting
professor who was only teaching one course, a non-academician, an
intruder from the world of politics and inherited wealth. The
Establishment—though they didn’t call it that, then. But no one was
contemptuous. Whatever his background, the fact remained that Gordon
Randolph had written one of the big books of the decade, which had won
every literary prize of its year.

If he sensed their curiosity and skepticism, he didn’t
show it. The tall, well-knit figure was relaxed, leaning against the
desk; the handsome face smiled slightly, a smile that warmed the dark
eyes. Even his clothing was perfect—loafers, dark slacks, tweed jacket.
If the jacket had been cut by a tailor whose income was higher than
that of any of the professors, it did not flaunt its ancestry. A
stupider man might have had unnecessary patches added to the elbows, or
affected a pipe. Gordon smoked cigarettes, from a crumpled pack that
lay on the desk. That might have been affectation, but Linda didn’t
think so. In those days he smoked incessantly, one cigarette after
another. That was before the doctors had started warning about cancer.
Gordon quit then….

It came back to her so vividly—the shabby old room,
scarred and scuffed by generations of students; the dusty sunlight
pouring in through streaked panes, brightening the colors of the girls’
pastel sweaters and blouses, showing the unformed contours of the boys’
faces…. Beside Gordon’s sure maturity they had seemed so young. Of
course all the girls had fallen in love with him, even the ones who
sneered at crushes on teachers. And the boys, after the initial
antagonism, had succumbed in a different way. Linda could still feel
the shock of incredulity when she realized that this god, this
man
,
was looking at her with more than the smiling courtesy he displayed
toward the others. That when he talked to her, his voice was different.
That he really felt—

The vision was so real that the interruption made it
waver and shake, like a film on a cracking screen. Linda turned with
the bright shards of memory still close around her and blinked through
dazzled eyes at the man whose arrival had disturbed her.

He was alone.

“Where—where are the others?” she stammered.