Here I Stay (25 page)

She had started looking through Jim's papers after she found the poem. She had no choice. It was the only way she could find out what was bothering him, since he refused to confide in her. Even as a child he had had an annoying habit of reticence. She would never forget that terrible year after their father and stepmother were killed. Jim adored Helen; he was too young to remember their real mother or resent the woman who had taken her place. Andrea had been jealous of their mutual affection, she could
admit that now; but by the time she left for college she had achieved a grudging recognition of Helen's worth. That first year away from home had been a revelation—new friends, exciting new ideas, and her first serious love affair. Johnny...She had been desperately, wildly in love—and now she couldn't remember his last name or what he looked like.

She had been nineteen, about to begin her sophomore year, when the plane went down in mid-Atlantic during a storm. There were no survivors. Recognition of her new responsibilities had forced grief into the background, but Jim, only eight years old, had no such help. It had been a dreadful time, not because he was frantic with grief but because he couldn't or wouldn't let it out. His small pale closed-in face still haunted her.

But, she reminded herself, he had worked it out. He ran it out, fought it out, played it out, exorcising his private demons through physical outlets. He didn't have those now. But he could find other means. If he couldn't, she would find them for him.

Andrea opened the notebook. Jim's present outlet seemed to be poetry—or rather, verse, for his outpourings did not merit any loftier term. A smile softened her face as she read the scribbled lines. One verse was an imitation of the Song of Songs, with innumerable references to female anatomy. Another seemed to be an attempt at a sonnet. He was trying to find new worlds to conquer, bless him; a year ago he wouldn't have recognized a sonnet if it had bit him. "O fairest blossom of the dying year, Leave, if you go, some lingering smell..." "Smell" had been crossed out—and rightly so, Andrea thought—but he had been unable to find a rhyme for "scent." The sonnet was unfinished.

One page was without revisions or crossed-out lines. Here Jim had copied quotations, evidently in the hope of stimulating his fainting Muse. "That undiscovered country from whose bourne No traveller returns..." So he had found
Hamlet
—another confused adolescent. A long passage from
Romeo and Juliet
—"Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath..." He might not be able to write poetry, but he could recognize the true metal when he saw it. "We are such stuff as dreams are made on..."

Andrea closed the notebook and replaced it in the drawer. She reached instinctively for the dirty glasses, but remembered in time; everything must be left exactly as she had found it. She'd tell Jim this evening that she intended to clean his room. He would appreciate the effort she was making to respect his privacy.

Mercifully the Bascoms stayed only one night. The Hinckleys remained until Monday. Before they left, Mrs. Hinckley asked about Satan. She had
never seen him, but evidently his notoriety had spread. She doted on pussycats; her visit would not be complete without a glimpse of the inn's most famous resident; would it be too much trouble...?

What she really wanted—Andrea suspected—was a glimpse of the private sanctum of the inn's most famous two-legged resident. Obviously she couldn't allow curiosity-seekers to intrude on Martin, so she went up and carried Satan down. She was the only one he allowed to handle him—even Martin bore the scars of ill-advised attempts to shift Satan off his papers or his bed—but he growled all the way downstairs. As always, Andrea was struck by his incredible weight. He lay in her arms like a lump of black granite, rumbling.

Mrs. Hinckley did not need to be warned not to touch the pussycat. Satan spat at her and she backed away, murmuring insincere compliments.

Jim had gone to the hardware store to pick up the wallpaper he had ordered. When he got back, the Hinckleys were still leaving; they had been leaving for almost an hour, and Mrs. Hinckley was apparently prepared to go on leaving indefinitely. Mr. Hinckley, bored but resigned, turned when he saw Jim unloading the car.

"Here, son, let me help you with that," he said.

The offer was kindly meant, but Jim resented it. His face flushed with anger and for a moment Andrea was afraid he would say something rude. He controlled himself, mumbled a thank-you, and followed Hinckley up the stairs.

"What a pity," Mrs. Hinckley murmured. "An accident, I suppose?"

Andrea was tempted to snap, "No, it was self-inflicted," but she kept her temper. She had encountered more direct, impertinent questions than that. She nodded, lips pressed tightly together, and Mrs. Hinckley, more sensitive to nuances than some guests, dropped the subject.

Jim was usually more tolerant than Andrea, but Mr. Hinckley had apparently struck a nerve; when Andrea entered the tower room he scowled and let go of the roll of paper he was holding. It coiled up again, showing only the blank back surface.

"Let's see what you picked," Andrea said, determinedly cheerful.

He made no move to help her, watching sullenly as she pulled out a section. "Good heavens," she exclaimed.

"You hate it."

"No, I don't. It's—very pretty. It just isn't what I expected."

Roses—buds, half-opened and full-blown blossoms—bloomed on a silky cream damask background. Green leaves and coiling stems surrounded the flowers, which ranged from pale shell-pink to a vivid carnation.

Jim had long since passed the stage when he wanted his walls and his bed covered with huge reproductions of football players and NFL symbols in primary colors; but this dainty, feminine paper was the last thing she would have expected him to select. It was, however, a perfect choice for the light, airy chamber with its delicate moldings and high ceiling. Andrea had a sudden vision of the room as it should look—white woodwork, roses climbing the wall, thin muslin curtains at the windows, and soft white draperies around the alcove where the bed would be. A narrow brass bed set with medallions of French enamel, piled with ruffled pillows...

The room would look delightful furnished in that way, but it wasn't what Jim would want. The decorating scheme she had envisioned would only be appropriate for a woman—or a young girl.

"I like it very much," she said. "It's absolutely right for this room. When you're ready, I'll help you hang it."

"I can do it myself."

"But, darling, the ceiling is twelve feet high. You can't possibly—"

"I can do it myself! I don't want any help. I want," Jim said loudly, "to do the whole thing by myself. How many goddamned times do I have to tell you that? Why the hell can't you leave me alone?"

His eyes bulging, his cheeks stained with dark blood, he rose unsteadily. Andrea backed away.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "If that's what you
want—"

"I do want. Now get the hell out of here!" Breathless and shaking, Andrea ran to her room and closed the door. He had been angry before, but she had never seen him look like that—insane with rage, almost threatening. She had done nothing to deserve it, and neither had poor well-intentioned Mr. Hinckley.

After a while she recovered enough to comfort herself with the now familiar platitudes. He was going through a difficult period. He had lost his temper with her before. He was always sorry afterward. This time was no different except in degree. Once he got over it, he would apologize. But she had to get out of the house. She didn't want to see anyone, not even Jim—not yet. She would drive to town and do a little shopping. Several of the small baskets she used for breakfast rolls were missing—probably via the suitcases of guests like the Bascoms. Even the casual thieves among them, accustomed to carrying off souvenirs from motels and hotels, would hesitate before stealing her antiques; Haviland china and cut-glass vases were valuable, traceable, and not worth the risk. But the baskets were fair game.

Andrea drove through town. The crisp bright air and the greetings of people she knew made her feel better. By the time she parked in front of the basket shop, which sold a variety of other craft items as well, she had convinced herself there was nothing to worry about.

As she sorted through the piles of baskets Sue Vanderhoff, the proprietor, entered from the back of the shop. Sue was about Andrea's age, and an excellent businesswoman; her baskets and wreaths and pottery had a distinction that raised them above the run-of-the-mill crafts featured by most shops. Recently she had added a line of handmade clothing—woven, patchwork, embroidered—which she modeled herself, though the voluminous peasant skirts and baggy Russian blouses did not suit her short, heavy figure. Hung all around with silver chains, bangles, earrings, and belts, she jingled when she moved.

"Got in some patchwork vests," she said. "I'll let you have one at cost if you'll tell your customers where you bought it."

"I can't afford it, even at cost," Andrea said, with a glance at the price tag on the Texas star vest Sue was holding. "Is business that bad?"

"Business is pretty good, actually." Sue lit a cigarette and dropped her lighter into the pocket of her skirt. "Thanks in part to you. If I weren't so cheap,
I'd give you the vest. Maybe if they don't sell..."

"They'll sell." like all Sue's merchandise, the vest was beautifully made, its colors a blend of mauve, rose, and lavender. "I'm doing fairly well myself. I thought trade would slacken in cold weather, but this seems to be the season when the hardcore antique buffs come out of their holes."

"That's what Al Wyckoff was saying at the meeting the other night. You ought to come, Andrea; you're a member, aren't you?"

"The Merchants' Association? Yes, I am. I keep meaning to come, but I'm so damned tired at night, and your last two meetings have been on Friday, which is one of my busiest days."

"I'll talk to Al about scheduling the next one for midweek. He wants to get you in on his latest scheme—a day-long open house, with all of us participating. We can't decide whether a harvest or Christmas theme would be best."

They discussed the plan for a while, and Sue said, "I knew you'd have some good ideas. You've got to come to the next meeting; the inn will be an important part of the deal. Listen, if you're tired that evening, I could come pick you up."

Andrea assured her that wouldn't be necessary, but she was flattered by the offer. She paid for her basket—ten percent discount to a colleague—and left.

She still didn't want to go home. The weather was chilly but pleasant; hands in her pockets, she wandered down the street. The Thanksgiving decorations were up—cornstalks tied to the lampposts, hunches of Indian corn and brightly colored gourds hanging on the doors. Her steps slowed as she passed the restaurant, and when she saw Reba at
the window, waving and gesticulating, she realized that she had hoped to see her. Not that she had any intention of discussing Jim's outburst; she just felt like chatting.

Reba lived above the restaurant, where her rooms included a prettily furnished parlor, but the shabby, overcrowded office was where she spent most of her time, and it was now comfortably familiar to Andrea. She sat down in her usual chair, shifting to avoid the broken spring, and put her feet on a hassock. She had stopped asking Reba to visit her.

"So how's Jim?" Reba asked.

She usually inquired after him, but on that occasion the question smacked of clairvoyance. Andrea replied almost too quickly.

"Fine, just fine. He's working on the house— painting, papering...Doing a good job, too."

"So I hear" Seeing Andrea's expression, Reba chuckled fatly. "You might as well get used to it, Andy. Small towns will talk. It's just neighborly interest."

"Like hell it is."

"People are the most interesting things there are," Reba insisted. "Look at Jane Austen—all she ever wrote about were ordinary people doing ordinary dull things."

Andrea was not in the mood for a literary discussion. "How's business?" she asked.

"Always busy this time of year, through the holidays. Had any interesting suckers lately?"

From the gleam in her eye Andrea knew she had heard about the Bascoms. "I don't know why you ask me. Martin blabs everything to you."

"You don't get 'em like that often," Reba said consolingly. "No, really I don't. I have someone
coming this weekend who sounds interesting. He's supposed to be an authority on old houses. Says he's writing a book. I don't mind people looking the place over if they have a legitimate reason and admit it openly."

"What's his name?"

"Holderman. John William Holderman."

"Holderman?"

"Do you know him?"

"I know of him," Reba said slowly. "He's written several books. About...about local history and architecture. Among other things."

"He's legitimate, then. I meant to look him up in the library, but I haven't had time."

"Oh, yeah, He's well known."

"But you didn't know I was expecting him, did you? Your stool pigeon slipped up on that one."

"You shouldn't talk about Martin that way," Reba said soberly. "He's damned fond of you, Andy."

"I like him too. He can be a pain in the neck sometimes, but I owe him a lot. I'll be sorry to see him leave."

"When will that be?"

"Spring, I suppose. He said something about March. Reba, do you know where I can get...Oh, I'm sorry—did you start to say something?"

"I changed my mind," Reba said.

Andrea left the restaurant in a much improved mood. Reba had a number of irritating affectations, but her gusty good spirits were infectious. She was about to cross the street when a man passed her, shoving her so that she staggered a few steps before turning to stare indignantly at his retreating form.

Something about the big, slouched body was familiar, but she didn't identify him until he reeled around the corner and she saw his face.

Gary Joe—Linnie's "fiance." Andrea had heard, via Reba, that Mr. Hochstrasser had told Gary Joe he was no longer welcome at their house. He had had a couple of brushes with the law—driving while impaired, another fight at the Shamrock.

And here he was, drunk and aimlessly wandering, on a work day.

"Are you all right, Andrea?"

The hand on her elbow was that of Al Wyckoff, owner of Past and Present. He was a retired Marine Corps colonel and carried himself with military rigidity. According to Martin, the same description could be applied to his political opinions.

"I saw that roughneck push you," Wyckoff went on. "If you want to lodge a complaint—"

"I'm not damaged. It was an accident. He seems to be a little unsteady on his feet."

"He's drunk," Wyckoff snapped. "Lost his job at the gas station—incompetent and unreliable—so of course his immediate reaction is to get drunk. I don't know what's the matter with these kids. No wonder the country is in such a mess."

"They aren't all like Gary Joe. And there are plenty of worthless bums in our generation, Al."

"Tactful woman." He smiled at her, then sobered. "Have you thought about getting a dog, Andrea?"

"What on earth for?"

"Protection. You're pretty isolated out there."

"Protection against what? Oh, for heaven's sake, Al—you aren't thinking of Gary Joe!"