Here I Stay (5 page)

Kevin draped a brotherly arm around her. Like
Jim, he was a good head taller than Andrea, with a shock of silver-blond hair brushed back from what he obviously believed was a high scholar's brow. Kevin read books when he didn't have to, and was therefore considered the brains of the group by "the guys." He was Andrea's favorite, as he was Jim's best buddy, but today she could have done without him. She had planned Jim's homecoming so carefully—

"Jimmie, don't you think you should lie down for a while?" she asked.

"I've been lying down for six months. I want to explore. Come on, Kevin, let's see the rest of the house."

"Your room—"

"Yeah, right, I want to see that." He paused in his headlong progress to add, over his shoulder, "Kevin's staying for lunch. I promised him spaghetti."

"Hey, I don't want to butt in," Kevin said.

"It's no trouble."
The response l
acked gracious
ness, but Kevin had never gotten much of that commodity from Andrea.
With a hasty "Thanks, Andy," he was off after Jim.

Andrea ground her teeth. Sweat had trickled and dried on her body; the jeans, stiffened into rigidity by layers of paint, rubbed her sore ankle. She had wanted to took nice for Jim—to be fresh and cool and relaxed, so he wouldn't feel guilty about leaving her with so much work to do. But if she went up to change now, she would miss the chance of showing Jim his room, and the wing of the house that was their private quarters.

She had lavished an unjustified amount of money on that area, the "servants' wing" behind the kitchen—money that probably should have been
spent on the income-producing parts of the house. But she wanted it to be perfect—for Jim. It was their home, the private place where they could get away from guests and be together.

Knocking out one end of the big kitchen, she had had a bay window built that opened up the room and changed its personality beyond belief. There was space for the most modern of kitchen equipment at one end—a necessary business expense, since she planned to serve breakfasts—and for a family sitting area at the other. The wall between two of the small bedrooms had also come down, creating a large bed-sitter for Jim, with twin sofa beds so he could have his friends stay overnight. Jim's cherished possessions were there—his, stereo, his books, his photographic equipment. But not all his possessions, not the ones he cherished most. Hidden in the darkest corner of the attic were the skis and poles, the tennis and squash rackets, the weights, the bench press, the hockey sticks—and the football. She had bought him a new one for Christmas. It had hardly been used.

The telephone interrupted her reverie. "Andy? It's me, Reba. I see Jim got home."

"I won't ask how you know," Andrea said resignedly.

"Just happened to be looking out the window when the car went by. Figured it had to be—him there's quite a strong resemblance."

Reba had her own brand of tact; she hadn't mentioned the crutches. "How about bringing him here for supper?" she went on.

Another interfering outsider trying to ruin the privacy of their first day at home! Andrea said quickly, "That's sweet, Reba, but...But he has a
buddy with him, and if I know Kevin, he'll hang around for supper."

"Bring him along. I like kids that age. They appreciate good food."

As Andrea fumbled for a more compelling excuse, she heard the slam of the back door. Damn, she thought angrily. They've gone out—God knows where, into the pasture after Satan, probably—rabbit holes and brambles—he'll fall, he'll hurt himself...

Reba took her silence for acceptance. "Good, I'll see you about eight. Fact is, I'm bribing you, Andy. Got a favor to ask."

"What?"

"That guy, Martin Greenspan—the friend of mine who booked for this weekend—"

"Yes." This monosyllable was a trifle more pleasant. Andrea owed the reservation solely to Reba. Martin Greenspan was a nationally syndicated columnist and writer. If she succeeded in pleasing him, his recommendation could carry a lot of weight.

"It's a helluva thing to ask, I know, with you just open for business—But he wondered if you could take him a day early."

"A day early." Andrea's mind fumbled with dates.

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow?"

"I know, I know. But he's not fussy—he's a good guy."

"And if there's anything I can do—"

"No, it's okay." It would have to be okay, she told herself.

"Get those big louts of boys to help you this afternoon," Reba advised. "I'll feed 'em tonight. See you then, Andy. And thanks."

Andrea said, "Son of a bitch!" to the silent telephone, and collapsed onto the stairs. She had looked forward to this day so long—through long nights of loneliness and long days of labor. In the refrigerator were two steaks, ready for broiling, a big tossed salad, and half a gallon of pistachio ice cream—Jim's favorite foods. After lunch he would have rested for a while, then she would have taken him on a tour of the house. She had pictured the surprise and pleasure on his face when he saw the rooms whose restoration she had described in such detail.

The guest rooms all had names. She and Jim had discussed alternatives, with "the guys" offering their suggestions—all more or less X-rated and unacceptable. Jim insisted on referring to Bertha's bedroom as "Satan's room," and it was Kevin who pointed out the consequences of the designation. "I guess you can't call a guest room 'Hell,' can you?"

The room in question was now officially "The Lincoln Room," but Andrea wondered whether her choice of decor had not been unconsciously affected by Kevin's comment. Hangings of dark-red damask draped the four-poster bed and the circular bay windows; they had cost Andrea, who was not a skilled seamstress, many profane and frustrating hours. The wallpaper was crimson and gold, a copy of a Victorian original. Comfortable overstuffed chairs flanked the black marble fireplace. The room had the dignity and warmth of its namesake, and Andrea considered it her masterpiece.

The choice of names implied that the distinguished personages mentioned had slept there, without actually stating that fabrication as fact. The Ulysses S. Grant room had brass beds, handmade quilts, and braided rugs; the Robert E. Lee room featured
Gone With the Wind
lamps, a marble-topped
washstand, and a hand-crocheted bedspread. The McKinley room...

So much for the tour, and for all her other plans. I might have known, Andrea thought drearily. When does anything turn out the way you hoped?

An hour later, showered and changed, she stood at the stove stirring spaghetti sauce. She hadn't bothered to call the boys; they would come when they were ready, and not before.

Finally she heard them. "Close the screen door," she said automatically, and then, "Jimmie! You're all dirty and scratched up...Where the hell have you been?"

"How about me?" Kevin held out his arms, now a network of interlaced, bleeding scratches. "Some are from brambles, but that one is Satan's contribution. Hey, Andy, is that vine with the hairy stem poison ivy?"

"I'd be willing to bet on it," Andrea said. "Honestly, you two...Use that big bar of yellow soap. It's supposed to be good for poison ivy, though I have my doubts."

Jim started toward the bathroom, remarking, "I'll cook the spaghetti. You always stew it into mush."

"Yeah, Andy, you sit down and have a beer," Kevin added. "We'll dish up."

"I hate beer."

"A genteel glass of wine, then. Put your feet up. God knows you deserve it."

To her surprise and embarrassment, Andrea felt tears springing to her eyes. Kevin tactfully departed, and she brushed the dampness away. I'm just tired and mad, that's all, she told herself. But she decided to take Kevin's advice. Let them make a mess of the
kitchen; the day was a mess anyhow.

The boys ate voraciously, but Kevin managed to talk at the same time, even when his mouth was full. "I'll bet there's trout in the stream, and we saw deer tracks back in the woods—unless they were cow tracks...You've even got your own private graveyard."

"Was that where you were? How did you get over the wall? I made sure the gate was padlocked—"

"Good idea; you don't want neighborhood kids in there. Some of them have a sick attraction to graves," Kevin said seriously.

"
Who
has a sick attraction to graves?"

"No, listen, Andy, you ought to get that place cleaned up. I'll bet the historical society would be interested. Did you know they fought all around here in the Civil War? Maybe there are soldiers' graves—"

"If you think I'm going to let you dig, looking for relics," Andrea began indignantly.

"Hell, Andy, we wouldn't do that. I'd like to restore the place, you know, cut down the weeds, put the stones back in place."

"It would be a tourist attraction, wouldn't it?" Jim said.

The food had brought some color to his sallow cheeks, and a smear of spaghetti sauce on his chin made him look very young and boyish. Knowing she had already lost the argument, Andrea said, "It would be a terrible job, Jimmie. The enclosure is a solid mass of wild raspberry bushes and poison ivy, there are trees, some good-sized—"

"I'd like to do it," Jim said.

"Why, for God's sake?"

"Why not?" Kevin asked.

"Because—because there are lots of other things that need to be done. Our first guest is arriving tomorrow—a day early."

"Greenspan?" Kevin dropped his fork and leaned forward.

"Yes."

"Hey, he is a really important guy, you know? Did you read his column on nuclear disarmament?"

"Yes, I did, and I thought it was a crock of—"

She stopped herself in time. Both boys burst out laughing. "You're a little old reactionary, Andy," Jim said.

"And Martin Greenspan is a bleeding-heart liberal—if you want to call names. But he is an important contact, and I want everything to be perfect."

"Right. We'll help." Kevin jumped to his feet. "What do you want us to do? Make the bed, scrub the john? We even do windows."

"Now, Kevin, I wouldn't want you to give up one of the last days of your vacation."

"No sweat."

"You just want an excuse to meet your idol," Andrea said.

"No point trying to kid you, Andy; you know what a low-down, underhanded character I am. Let's go, Jimbo—I'll clear the table and you put the dishes in the dishwasher."

Kevin was obviously planning to stay for a few days. It would not have occurred to either boy to mention this, much less ask permission, for that was not their custom; but when Andrea went to Jim's room to unpack for him, she found two large brown grocery bags of clothes she didn't recognize as her brother's. The life-style of the young male American never ceased to bewilder her; many of its elements reminded her of off-beat religious communities. Property was communal—they wore, each other's clothes, ate each other's food, stayed at one another's houses; time was a commodity to be enjoyed, not a series of boundaries restricting activity; trust was absolute, and betrayal of a brother to parents or police the ultimate sin. Sometimes Andrea felt like an anthropologist studying an exotic tribal group. More often she simply raged.

So there was a certain malicious satisfaction in her manner when she set Kevin to the task of scrubbing toilets and scouring tubs. Jim tossed back the dustcloth she had handed him and insisted on helping his buddy. "Squatting is something I do well," he said, with a defiant grin. "Not so much to fold up anymore."

By late afternoon Andrea had worked off her spite and was ready to dismiss her helpers. They expressed their intention of lying on the grass to "catch a few rays," and Andrea gave bathroom and guest room a final check. She had decided to give Greenspan the Lincoln Room. It was her favorite, the best and the most expensive room in the house, with its bay window overlooking the stream.

Before she left the room, Andrea lifted the dust ruffle and looked under the bed. Satan was not in the room. She was determined he should not get in. She could have put Greenspan somewhere else, since only two couples were expected that weekend, but she was damned if she was going to allow a fat arrogant black cat to monopolize her best room.

The sun was dropping toward the mountaintops when she went onto the front porch with a magazine and a glass of iced tea. The wicker rocking chair
was soft and comfortable—she had made sure of that—but this was the first time she had relaxed in it, swaying gently to and fro, her aching back supported by soft cushions. The magazine had an article she wanted to read, but instead of opening it she feasted her eyes on the vision she had sometimes thought she would never see again.