Here I Stay (24 page)

Like all the windows in the house, those in the tower were double—hung two sections, one above
the other—but since the tower windows were almost floor-to-ceiling in height, they had four panes in each section instead of the conventional two. Both sections of the north window were missing, as was the windowsill and part of the inner molding. The window sections lay on the floor, and an empty space four feet wide by eight feet high gaped in the wall.

It was obvious what had happened. Trying to replace the rotten sill, Jim had found the damage more extensive than he had expected. He had blithely removed the entire window—how, she could not imagine—and had been unable to get it back in place. He probably hoped he could get the advice or the help he needed at the hardware store and repair the damage before she found out about it.

She approached the gaping hole with extreme caution. The sill was only three feet from the floor; an unwary step, a slip or a trip, could propel a person straight out through the empty space to the ground forty feet below.

She had had some vague idea of putting up a makeshift covering, but it didn't take her long to realize it couldn't be done—not by her at any rate. There wasn't a damn thing she could do except close the door and refine the lecture she meant to give Jim.

She had every intention of stopping a safe distance away, but somehow she kept moving forward—slowly and carefully, but moving. The ground was a long way down. The rhododendrons below were big old bushes, but rhododendron wasn't a thick growth like boxwood or yew; it wouldn't break her fall, she would just crash through it, smashing the brittle stems and the brittle bones, the fragile flesh...It would hurt, but not for long. It
would be quick. Quicker and kinder than other ways of dying...

One detached portion of her mind knew what was happening and screamed in silent terror. It tried to hold her back, but muscle and sinew pulled her forward. She stood in the opening, hands clutching the frame on either side; and the sweat poured down her face as she swayed, locked in a motionless struggle, fighting to jump and fighting not to jump.

Then she felt something touch her shoulder, touch and close tightly, like the firm grip of a warm, strong hand. It broke the paralysis that held her in the opening. Gasping, she stumbled back and fell in a huddled heap on the floor.

"Andrea? Where are you?" It was Martin's voice, Martin's footsteps approaching. "Do you know there's a hell of a cold blast blowing down the stairs? I think Jim must have.. .Holy God! What happened? Did you fall?"

Warm firm hands lifted her to a sitting position. Not the hands that had saved her—not the same at all. "Where are you hurt?" Martin demanded. "Talk, damn it." *

"I didn't fall. I'm all right...I almost...Martin—I wanted to jump. I stood there—in the window—and I wanted to let go and fall, all the way down..."

"Jesus Christ." Martin's face grew visibly paler as he looked at the gap in the wall. "Damn that kid! I'll break his neck. Come on, Andy, let's get you out of here."

"It wasn't his fault...Close the door, Martin."

"Yes, of course. Here, let me help you."

"I'm okay." His touch made her self-conscious. Collapsing onto the bottom step, she took a long, shuddering breath. "Wow. What an experience!"

"It's not uncommon," Martin said.

"Really?"

"Heights affect some people that way."

"You?"

"No. But I'm not wild about being high up with nothing between me and the ground. A railing, even a pane of glass, gives an illusion of protection."

"That must be it, then. I'm not afraid of flying; I've never had anything like this happen."

"Let's hope it doesn't happen again."

"It won't. Forewarned, forearmed."

"You okay now?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She got to her feet. "I'll speak to Jim. It wasn't his fault—I hardly ever go in that room, and no one could have anticipated that I'd react so—so neurotically."

"Suit yourself. Just don't go back in there. Promise?"

"Yes, of course."

Jim didn't get a lecture after all. When he came back, the towheaded Wayne and the latter's father, Mr. Burton from the hardware store, were with him. In some confusion of mind Andrea retreated into the kitchen before they could see her. She didn't want to humiliate Jim in front of his friends. In fact, now that she had had time to think the matter over, she would rather he didn't know about her bizarre experience. He would reproach himself—unnecessarily, it was her own fault—and he would worry, and get funny ideas...She would warn Martin to say nothing. It was pure bad luck that he had found her before she had time to recover.

She waited for almost an hour before she went up to see what they were doing. The window was back in place; Burton was wielding a caulking gun
while Jim looked on and the useful Wayne swept up debris.

"Why, Mr. Burton," Andrea exclaimed. "I didn't hear you come in. How nice of you and Wayne to come and help."

"No trouble at all, ma'am. Jim had most everything done; it was just a question of putting it all together. Some jobs need two pair of hands. Wasn't much going on at the store, so I figured I'd show the boys a couple of shortcuts."

The explanation was more elaborate than the situation required; Burton was covering up for Jim, helping him to maintain the image of mate omniscience. Neither of them, nor Wayne, would ever admit he had run into a problem he couldn't handle. No, they were just pitching in, saving time with a few shortcuts.

"We're very grateful," she said.

"Least I can do for a good customer. Jim's pretty handy, but he's got plenty to do if you figure on getting this room in shape by Thanksgiving."

"Oh, I don't see how we can possibly—"

"No reason why not," Burton said. "There—that should do it. We'd best be getting back, Wayne. Just take that there bag of trash with you when you go down."

"Thanks again," Andrea said.

"Don't need no thanks for being neighborly. You got a smart boy here, Miss Andrea. Any time he wants a job I'll hire him."

"I may take you up on that," Jim said.

After the Burtons, junior and senior, had gone, Andrea gave the room a critical inspection. She had no sense of uneasiness now that the window was back in place; in fact, she found it hard to believe
that she had been so affected.

The overall impression was one of utter chaos, but Andrea had now had enough experience to recognize that the greater part of the job was done. Preparing the surfaces by stripping and scraping, patching and sanding was the most time consuming activity. Jim had finished these preliminaries. A few coats of paint and the room would be ready for occupancy.

Andrea turned to Jim, who stood with his back toward her. His shoulders were rigid, and the hands gripping the crutches were white-knuckled with tension. "What's the matter, Jimmie?" she asked.

He shied away from the hand she put on his shoulder, his face still averted. "Nothing. Why do you ask?"

"You weren't your usual chatty self."

"You talked for both of us. Just like the goddamned nurses at the hospital. 'Yes, Doctor, we're feeling much better today!' "

The sound of the doorbell gave her an excuse to retreat from a situation she didn't know how to handle. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that his pose was less tense and it hurt her to think that her very presence could arouse such inexplicable resentment.

The first guests had arrived; they bustled in, full of apologies for their cancellation the day before. They hoped they weren't too early. Andrea assured them their room was ready and escorted them upstairs.

Mrs. Hinckley, a bright-eyed, slender woman of sixty-odd, was the sort of guest Andrea found difficult—paradoxically so, for people of her type rarely complained and took minor inconveniences in their
stride. But they wanted to talk all the time—to her. How old was the house? Where had she found the charming antiques? What made her decide to go into the innkeeping business? Andrea foresaw a long afternoon and evening with nice, amiable Mrs. Hinckley.

The family from Delaware who arrived a little later fell into another category with which Andrea was only too familiar from her former job. Mrs. Bascom had the nervous apologetic air common to women who spend a great deal of time being embarrassed by their husbands; Mr. Bascom's first words were a complaint about the length of the drive and the difficulty of finding the inn. Since Andrea's printed circular included directions designed for an illiterate eight-year-old, she was not inclined to feel guilty. There were also two teenaged girls. Andrea's brochure made it clear that she did not accept children under sixteen; the junior Miss Bascom, though dressed in a style that was far too old for her, was obviously a year or two under the prescribed age, and she did not look like the sort of child who would find a weekend in the country to her taste. Her first question on viewing her room was "Where's the TV?"

The Hinckleys left for an early dinner, followed shortly thereafter by the Bascoms. Andrea hid, without compunction, when she heard Bascom's grumbling voice. As soon as the house was clear she went upstairs. Martin's door opened a crack. "What's the rating?" he asked.

It had become a standard inquiry. If the rating was high and if Martin was in the mood, he joined the guests in the library or the parlor after dinner. If negative conditions prevailed, he kept to his room.

"Three or four out of ten for the Hinckleys," Andrea said. "Inoffensive but dull. The Bascoms..." She turned her thumb down.

"That bad, eh. Him or her?"

"Him. And junior her—one of the kids is a real loser."

"Hmmm." Martin scratched his chin. "I'm in the mood for a fight. Does he look like a Republican?"

"Well, it isn't stamped on his forehead."

Martin withdrew. Andrea went up to the tower.

Jim was perched on the stepladder painting the chair rail. He grinned at her. "What's the rating?"

"You feel better," Andrea said, smiling.

"I never felt bad. Sorry I yelled at you. What's the rating?"

She supposed that hero worship was a normal attribute, but sometimes she got tired of hearing him imitate Martin. She replied rather shortly.

"Don't join the crowd. One, possibly both, of the women will try to mother you, the daughters will make passes at you, and Martin is gearing up for a loud political argument."

"Sounds interesting."

Andrea did not pursue the matter. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Pizza," said Jim, painting busily.

"Again?"

"I thought it would save you cooking. How does this look?"

"It looks wonderful, darling. You really are doing a super job. I wish I had time to help you."

"It's okay."

"Maybe we can go to town Monday and pick out the paint for the walls. What color were you thinking of?"

"I'm going to paper. It's already ordered."

"You picked it out?"

"You don't mind, do you?" Jim looked at her, the corners of his mouth ready to smile or sag according to her reply.

What could she say but "Why should I mind? What is it like?"

"You'll see when it comes. Big surprise, okay?"

"Okay. When do you want to eat?"

"In about an hour. I want to finish this coat."

Andrea went downstairs, straight through the kitchen and into Jim's room. He would be occupied for quite some time.

It was not the first time she had stooped to an act which she herself considered contemptible, and repetition had not dulled her sense of shame, but she did not hesitate. The top of Jim's desk was covered by the miscellaneous debris he collected—copies of Martin's columns, clipped from the newspaper, letters, glasses coated with milk scum or beer, a crumb-covered plate, two screwdrivers, circulars, paint samples...Andrea sat down at the desk. The second drawer was locked. Andrea unlocked it, using a nail file to press back the simple latch, and took out a blue spiral notebook.