Here I Stay (6 page)

The boys, still recumbent, added nothing to the tone of the establishment. Empty beer cans littered the lawn, and the old blanket on which they lay looked as if it had been used to clean a car engine. Jim seemed to be asleep, one arm over his face. Kevin, flat on his belly, was reading. His bare back was a mosaic of peeling sunburn, freckles, and—if Andrea's eyes did not deceive her—the red flush of an incipient poison-ivy rash. She rocked slowly back and forth, her hands folded in her lap.

She thanked Andrea again for altering her plans,
and added reassuringly, "The inn is going to be a hit; I can feel it. But I'm glad you're here, Jim. Good to have a man in the house. I worry about Andy out there alone."

"Do you have a lot of breakins?" Jim asked.

"Not so many. But there are always a few kooks around."

"I've never been nervous," Andrea said honestly. "After all, Cousin Bertha was there alone for years."

"Who owned the house before Bertha?" Jim asked.

"Her daddy, I suppose. Miss Bertha was living there alone, still hale and hearty, when I married Miller. She was always kind of queer. Not exactly a recluse, but she didn't encourage visitors." Reba chuckled. "Used to have one of those electric cars— remember them? She'd drive into town once a week to do her errands. I'd see her go by, same time, same day every week—sitting bolt upright in the driver's seat, and steering smack down the middle of the street."

"What happened to the car?" Kevin asked eagerly.

"It got smashed up the day she ran into Mr. Willis's old Chevy. She must have been past seventy then, and he was another of 'em, eighty if he was a day, still thought his was the only car on the road. It's a wonder they didn't crash before. I'll never forget that—I saw her coming like she always did, straddling the center line, and him steering straight at her from the other direction—it was like one of those old-time movies, the car and the train—you know they're going to hit and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. They crashed head-on, out there in front of the restaurant. They were both
blind as bats in the daylight, but I think part of it was pure bullheadedness. Neither was going to give way."

"Did it total the car?" Kevin asked.

"Your concern for human life is touching," Reba said with a grin, "it didn't do either car any good, let me tell you. Neither of the old folks was hurt, but Mr. Willis climbed out and started screaming at Bertha, saying it was all her fault. He got so mad he had a heart attack and dropped dead at her feet. Shook the old lady up considerable."

"I should think so!" Andrea exclaimed in horror. She was the only member of the group who found the story tragic. Jim was grinning and Kevin was obviously making mental notes for his book.

"She gave up driving after that," Reba said. "High time."

Three people spoke at once.

"How did she manage without a car?"

"Hey, maybe the car's still there, in one of the sheds. We didn't look in all of them, Jim."

"Is she buried in the graveyard behind the house?"

Reba was accustomed to multiple conversations. "Everybody kind of pitched in, ran errands for her," she told Andrea. "I don't know what happened to the car, Kevin; it could be there, she never threw anything away. What graveyard?"

Jim explained. Reba shook her head. "No, Miss Bertha's decently interred in the Methodist cemetery. I didn't realize there was a graveyard at Springers' Grove. Never been used that I can remember. But there's lots of them around, or used to be. Somebody wrote a book about them, back in the thirties. I've got a copy of it, unless it's been stolen. You
know those built-in bookcases in the lobby—I bought some old books at auctions, to give the place some class. Picked 'em up dirt cheap then; now they're worth money, and sometimes customers swipe them. Ready for dessert? Apple pie, cherry, raspberry, chocolate cake?"

Egged on by an enraptured Kevin and primed by countless glasses of wine, Reba told story after story, some comical, some tragic. Jim said very little. He seemed to be enjoying himself, though, and he ate enough to satisfy the most anxious of mothers, so Andrea delayed breaking up the party until midnight approached.

"We've got a busy day tomorrow," she said, rising. "I forgot to ask, Reba—what time is Mr. Greenspan arriving?"

"Afternoon, I guess. He's reserved a table for dinner."

"We'll be ready."

They went out through the dining room, where the yawning waitresses were clearing the tables. When they reached the lobby, Jim pointed. "Are these the bookshelves you meant?" he asked.

"What?" Reba turned from the door, which she had unlocked for them. "Yeah, those're the ones."

Jim scanned the shelves. "I don't see anything about graveyards."

Reba opened the door. The night air felt hot and humid after the air-conditioned chill of the restaurant; but as she stood motionless, looking out at the street, a slight shudder rippled through her massive frame.

"Let me look," she said. Selecting a volume bound in faded red cloth, she blew dust off the top before handing it to Jim. "Here it is. Got to get those
lazy little bitches to dust in here."

"I'll return it in a few days," Jim promised. Reba put a large hand gently on his shoulder.

"Take your time, Jim. Take all the time you want."

"I'll do it," Jim said. He squared his shoulders as if expecting an argument, but Andrea had already fought her private battle on this point. The riding mower she had picked up at a local sale was a necessity, but it was also a concession to Jim's passion
for cars. He had to have something to drive. And he couldn't get in trouble with the mower, the lawn was a gentle slope, smooth as a table.

"I want both of you to do it," she said. "It's a four-hour job even with the riding mower, and there are places that need hand mowing. Don't hit the trees and don't run over the flowers—"

"Picky, picky," Jim said. But the smile that warmed his face smote her with shame. Was she that hard on him? She was trying not to be overprotective; she had known even before the doctor lectured her that Jim needed to feel capable and independent. But it wasn't easy to do what she knew she should do.

"Before you start," she said, "I want that square pine table in the parlor carried up to the Lincoln room. Put it between the windows."

Kevin refused her help—and Linnie's, eagerly offered—saying he could handle the table more easily alone. Andrea went up with him to make sure he placed it properly. Jim followed. Andrea was learning self-control; she didn't even turn her head as the crutches thumped from step to step.

She went ahead to open the door for Kevin. Her shriek of fury made him jump. "Look. Look! How the bloody hell did he get in here?"

Square in the middle of the bed, curled up on the crimson spread she had constructed with so much labor, was Satan. Meeting Andrea's eyes, he deliberately extended a massive black paw and poised his claws over the spread.

"All right," Andrea shouted. "All right! You know and I know that you can shred that fabric before I can stop you. But if you do, you'll never get another bowl of cat food in this house!"

Jim doubled up with laughter. "My sister, Dr. Doolittle...What did he say? Or would you rather not repeat it?"

"It's not funny." Andrea swung around to confront the two grinning faces. "One of you must have left the door open."

Kevin raised his hand in solemn protestation. "I haven't been in here since yesterday."

"Me neither. Relax, Andy, he's not doing anything. In fact, he looks very classy—like a picture in one of those highbrow decorating magazines of yours."

"Mr. Greenspan won't mind," Kevin said. "He's got a great sense of humor. And he likes cats. Remember the column he wrote about—"

"Oh, shut up, both of you." Andrea glowered at Satan, who had sheathed his claws and tucked both paws under his chest. "I am decorative in the extreme," he seemed to be saying, "and only a boor would refuse to admit it."

"Well, I can't remove him by force," she said. "He'd rip that spread to tatters. Leave the door open. Maybe he'll go of his own accord."

Satan yawned.

In view of the way the day had begun, Andrea fully expected Greenspan to arrive early, before she was ready for him. However, he was still not there when the mowers stopped for a late lunch; she had evicted Linnie, and matters were well in hand. "I may even have time to shower and put on some decent clothes," she said hopefully. "Just do me one favor, you guys—one more favor. Come in the back way so you don't leave grass all over the hall. And put on shirts, please? And shoes."

She needn't have worried. Kevin went all out to
impress the object of his admiration; his intellectual image was overpowering. He looked like a young Clark Kent without the muscles of Superman— bespectacled, solemn, and extremely uncomfortable in an ill-fitting shirt and bow tie.

The bow tie moved Andrea to comment. "How about a hat with a press card in the band?" she suggested. "A card that says 'scoop' Wilson."

Kevin looked hurt. "I thought you wanted us to make a good impression."

She patted his arm. "I did, and you do. You look fine—both of you."

"So do you," Jim said.

"Thanks. Why don't you two go and—and—Oh, I don't care what you do, so long as it doesn't make a mess. He may not be here for hours, so there's no sense hanging around."

They were sitting on the porch, Andrea in the swing and the boys on the steps. The picture was one of charming domesticity, but she didn't want Greenspan to think they had nothing better to do than wait anxiously for his arrival. However, her hint fell on deaf ears.

"You don't get a chance to meet someone like Martin Greenspan every day," Kevin said seriously. "If I decide to go into journalism—"

"Don't you dare ask him to read your book."

Kevin grinned. "It's mostly in my head anyhow."

"I guess we're not wanted around here, bro." Jim shifted the crutches and prepared to rise. "We spoil the image or something."

A car turned into the driveway. Stage fright gripped Andrea, turning her hands into solid chunks of ice. "Please, Jimmie, darling, sit down—I didn't mean...Oh, my God, here he is."

Jim relaxed. "I guess I'm uptight too. Stay cool, Too-Small; you can handle anything they throw at you."

"What do you know?" But she was warmed by the compliment and by the nickname, bestowed on her after she had had to be forcibly restrained from attacking Too-Big Mazurski after he broke Jim's ankle. She made herself sit still as the car chugged up the drive between the flanking rows of dogwood trees.

It was a Volkswagen Beetle, age indeterminate but obviously not in its first youth, or even its second. The ground color was yellow, of varying shades ranging from faded cream to vivid canary, and the side-view mirror hung at a drunken angle. At first she couldn't believe the famous columnist would drive such a wreck, but then she realized the car was a perfect example of the reverse snobbism she found in Greenspan's writing. "I'm just a workingman at heart, like all the rest of youse guys—look at me, I don't even own a Mercedes."

Though blurred by the dusty windshield, his features were recognizable as the ones reproduced at the head of his biweekly column in the Washington
Post.
Vanity was not one of his failings; the photographs had aged along with Greenspan, depicting with unflattering fidelity his receding hairline, increasing wrinkles, and sagging jowls. The car came to a stop in front of the steps. Greenspan got out. A loud pop and a cloud of smoke emerged from the rear end of the car.