Here I Stay (22 page)

"I'm so sorry," Andrea said. "I should have told you what to do next. Would you like to do one of
the bedrooms?"

Mrs. Horner looked, if possible, even blanker. It was rather like operating a computer, Andrea thought, conquering an insane desire to laugh. You had to phrase the question correctly or there would he no answer.

"You can do one of the bedrooms," she amended.

Mrs. Horner brightened, and Andrea said, "Let me just see if..." She knocked on Martin's door. She didn't hear the typewriter, so perhaps this would be a good time to interrupt him.

He flung the door open and faced her with such a formidable frown that she stepped back, treading heavily on the foot of Mrs. Horner, who had trailed her like an obedient dog. His shirt looked as if he had slept in it, his scanty hair stood straight up around his head like a rusty halo, and his face was smudged with ink.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I am changing the typewriter ribbon," said Martin. "I have been changing the typewriter ribbon. I will be changing the typewriter ribbon now and forever more, world without end, amen."

Mrs. Horner then spoke her second word. "Amen," she repeated devoutly.

Andrea caught her laugh in midcourse and turned it into a cough "Surely you must have changed several million ribbons over your career," she said.

His eyes were narrowed with answering amusement; since the joke might reasonably appear to be on him, he smiled. "I have. And never in all those million cases have I done it without a struggle that makes Waterloo look like a skirmish."

"Why don't you get one of those new typewriters that use cartridges?"

"I can't type on them," Martin said sulkily.

Andrea was distracted from this exchange by the sight of Martin's bed, a tangled mass of blankets and sheets in the midst of which Satan reposed like a black inkspot. The floor was littered with the crumpled victims of Martin's creative efforts, and the wastebasket was overflowing.

"I'll change your ribbon for you if you'll get out of here for half an hour and let Mrs. Horner clean," she said. "Oh—Mrs. Horner, this is Mr. Greenspan."

Mrs. Horner was now flat up against the opposite wall. She shook her head violently.

"No, ma'am. Ah jest can't. Ah'm sorry. Ah'll do any kinda work you want, but Ah ain't goin' in there with that there critter."

So that was what it took to wring speech from Mrs. Horner—passionate emotion. There was no need to inquire as to the identity of the critter. Mrs. Horner's wide blue eyes were focused in horrified concentration on Satan.

Martin came into the hall and closed the door behind him. Mrs. Horner relaxed with an explosive gasp. "Thank you, sir. Ah forgot about that critter bein' here."

"I'll take him out," Martin offered. There was sincere goodwill in his voice, but there was also a certain reserve; and Mrs. Horner was quick to sense it.

"You can't take him out," she said flatly. "Not iffen he don't wanna go. No, sir, thank you, but Ah don' think Ah can clean that there room."

Horrified apprehension filled Andrea. She fully expected that Mrs. Horner's next pronouncement would be, "Ah can't work in this here house with
that there critter."

"I'll take care of Mr. Greenspan's room," she said quickly. "Would you—you can clean the room at the other end of the hall."

To her relief, Mrs. Horner nodded. After explaining the routine, she hurried back to Martin. He watched admiringly as she dealt with the typewriter ribbon.

"Where did you find that remarkable woman?" he asked.

"Reba, of course. I was afraid for a minute there that I was going to find, and lose, her in the same morning. She's a little peculiar, but she cleans like a dream. I only hope Satan doesn't decide to move from room to room."

Satan showed no inclination to do so. When Andrea approached the bed he opened one eye the merest slit and closed it again.

"Maybe you should wait till he's ready to—" Martin began.

"Nonsense. This room is a disaster, and I'm going to clean it right now. Damn it, Martin, did you wipe your hands on the sheet after you tried to change the ribbon?"

"I'll buy you some new ones," Martin said guiltily.

"It will wash out. I hope...Go away. I can't work with you looking over my shoulder."

"Leave you here alone with the critter? I'm prepared to join in the fray, or at least bind up your wounds afterwards."

"It's ridiculous, the way you all let that animal intimidate you," Andrea exclaimed. "Get up off there, Satan. Scat. Move your butt." She took hold of the blanket in which Satan was nested and gave
it a sharp tug. Satan rolled onto his back, all four feet in the air. Martin laughed. Satan spat.

"Watch out," Martin said, as she reached for the cat.

"Don't be silly." Satan hung like a stuffed toy from her hands as she lifted him. Andrea staggered. "My God, he's heavy," she gasped.

"He does it on purpose," Martin said. "He can instantly double his weight when he wants to."

"You and Mrs. Horner..." Andrea dumped the cat onto a chair. "Sit there till I'm through," she told him.

Satan glowered, but remained where she had put him.

"Now," Andrea said, glancing with poorly concealed triumph at Martin, "get out of here and let me work."

Martin shook his head and took his departure.

Not at all discomposed by the unwinking feline stare that followed every move she made, Andrea stripped the bed. When she went to fetch clean sheets, the vacuum cleaner, and a trash bag, she was careful to close the door behind her. A glance into the rear bedroom showed Mrs. Horner placidly at work. Martin had apparently joined her; Andrea couldn't see him but she heard his voice rambling on, in an unending monologue. They should get on beautifully, Andrea thought.

Satan was unperturbed by the vacuum cleaner, which most cats, she had been told, disliked intensely. He didn't blink, even when she vindictively vacuumed all around and under the chair in which he was sitting.

Martin came back just as she was finishing. He waited until she had turned off the machine, and
then said, in tones of mild surprise, "It looks better."

"That's not a compliment. Anything would look better. How can you stand to work in such a mess?"

"I'm used to it."

"You should have taken a walk in the nice sunshine. Didn't you find conversation with Mrs. Horner a little onesided?"

"Mrs. Horner," said Martin oratorically, "is like a gold mine. It takes a while to strike pay dirt, but once you hit the mother lode the nuggets of rare metal make the effort worthwhile. To put it another way—"

"I wish you would."

"Once you get her started, she talks," Martin explained. "I'm tempted to write a regional novel; she'd make a superb character. Do you know what she said about Satan? 'That there's a witchcritter, that is. He still got some o' his nine lives left. He was here in my granddaddy's time and he'll be here when you and me is dead and gone.' "

"That particular breed and color has apparently perpetuated itself in this area," Andrea said. "If it were white or calico, people wouldn't be so superstitious about it."

"I shouldn't make fun of her," Martin said repentantly. "She's a good soul. Promised to make me an apple pie."

"She can cook?" Andrea's eyes lit up. "Then she can believe in witches and familiars and all the devils in hell as far as I'm concerned."

Andrea was anxious to test Mrs. Horner's talent, so the following morning she produced an armful of magazines containing recipes and glossy,
touched-up color photographs of coffee cakes and breakfast rolls. She didn't care what Mrs. Horner made; any change from the loathsome muffins would be a blessing.

Mrs. Horner liked the pictures, but when she realized what Andrea wanted, her face blanked out. "Ah don't cook outta books," she said.

"You can use one of your own recipes," Andrea said encouragingly.

"Ah don't...You want me to make one o' these?" She indicated a photo of a braided breakfast ring, shiny brown with egg white and bristling with glazed almonds.

"It doesn't have to be that one," Andrea said patiently. "Anything I can serve for breakfast. But," she added, with a sudden memory of the most popular fare available in local farmers' markets, "not sticky buns."

"Not sticky buns," Mrs. Horner repeated.

"They're too messy. Just do anything you like. Do you mind?"

Mrs. Horner shook her head. Taking this for the response she wanted, Andrea left her to it. Not until she had started straightening the parlor did it occur to her that perhaps Mrs. Horner didn't cook "outta books" because she couldn't read.

She was sweeping the veranda with the door left open to the balmy air when a series of seductive odors began to seep out. Her stomach responded before her brain did, with a hopeful lurch and mutter, but she forced herself to finish the job. In a way it was a pity to remove the leaves; they ranged through all the shades of red from scarlet to deep cinnamon brown, forming a multihued carpet lovelier than any manmade product. It took almost an
hour to sweep the veranda, but it was one of Andrea's favorite jobs when the weather was fine. Cousin Bertha's mums were masses of bloom, sunshine-yellow and soft amber, rust and magenta and lavender. A group of sycamores down by the creek might have been composed by an oriental painter; the pale, dark-splotched trunks rose in symmetrical angles almost too perfect to have occurred naturally.

As she paused to catch her breath, Andrea experienced a moment of utter peace, one of those rare instants when everything seems too perfect to last. The year was dying, not in wild gusts of storm but in placid acceptance, and the brilliant colors of the fallen leaves were trophies of the past summer, and promises of spring to come.

And the smells from the kitchen were divine in quite another sense. Andrea bent to her task with renewed vigor, and then, shouldering her broom, went in search of the heavenly odors.

Jim was already there. She wasn't surprised; he had always been able to smell a chocolate bar, wrapped in two layers of paper, from sixty feet away. Elbows on the table, he was devouring cinnamon buns while Mrs. Horner watched him benevolently. Two pans of the delectable concoctions lay on the table, their surfaces laced with white frosting. On the counter was a bowl filled with dough rising to a pale hemisphere, and when Andrea entered Mrs. Horner turned to remove another pan of rolls from the oven. They had been shaped into bowknots, and Andrea watched in impressed silence as Mrs. Horner poured over them a pan of orangegold liquid that spread and settled in a shimmering glaze.

"Have a bun," Jim said thickly. "This lady is the
greatest cook in the entire world. We're engaged to be married."

Andrea had never heard Mrs. Horner laugh, but she deduced that the series of gurgles emerging from her parted lips fell into that category. "Gotta fat you up first, boy," she said. "Ah don't like skinny men."

She and Jim exploded with amusement.

Martin's head came around the corner of the door, his nose quivering. Between them, he and Jim ate a whole pan of cinnamon rolls, and in their presence Mrs. Horner became almost coquettish. When Andrea congratulated her on the rolls, she shook her head. "They's better with lard," she said. "Git me some lard next time."

"I'll get you ten pounds of lard," Martin said devoutly. "A chariot drawn by six white horses and a sable cloak. Will you marry me, Mrs. Horner?"

"No, sir, Ah can't. Ah'm already engaged."

She and Jim poked one another and exploded again.

When the pan of buns was empty, Andrea evicted the men by main force and left Mrs. Horner shaping her yeast dough into braids. Her fat, clumsy-looking hands moved with the sure skill of a craftsman. Andrea went meekly upstairs and cleaned the bathroom.

At one o'clock the kitchen counter was covered with pans of goodies which Andrea contemplated in a state close to awe. Mrs. Horner accepted congratulations with a bashful nod. She had relapsed into her customary taciturnity when the men left. Andrea accompanied her to the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said happily.

"No, ma'am. Not tomorrow."

"What? Why not?" It was a cry of anguish.

"Snow," said Mrs. Horner. "Ah can't drive in the snow."

"Snow?" Andrea glanced at cerulean skies, soft sunlight, a balmy breeze stirring the leaves. "Oh, no, Mrs. Horner. The weather forecaster says—"

"Ah can't drive in the snow."

Too taken aback to argue, Andrea watched Mrs. Horner plod down the stairs and climb into her aged car. Its original color was a matter of speculation; it had faded to a dull tannish-gray, and from what Andrea could see of the tires she couldn't blame Mrs. Horner for refusing to drive in bad weather. That was a problem she would have to deal with eventually—but snow, tomorrow?

She sped back to the kitchen just in time to rescue the weekend's breakfast rolls from Jim and Martin.

When Jim had returned to the tower and Martin had reluctantly climbed the stairs to face his typewriter, Andrea got the car out and drove to town. Reba was delighted to see her. "Twice this week! You're getting to be a real gadabout, Andy. Sit down and have lunch."

"Thanks, I've eaten. But I'll join you in a cup of coffee if you can take the time."

"Sure, sure. Good to see you. Figured you'd be busy this fine weather. We don't usually have much snow till after Christmas, but this is the longest, autumn I can remember in years."

"Mrs. Horner says it's going to snow," Andrea said.

"Oh, shit! I was going to drive to Baltimore tomorrow. Guess I better cancel."