Here I Stay (7 page)

Greenspan, scratching his head, contemplated this demonstration with visible distress. He didn't look like the popular image of a famous writer; he looked like a tired, unsuccessful salesman of unwanted goods. His stomach hung out over his belt, his suit was wrinkled, and his tie was loose.

Kevin bounded down the stairs. "Sounds like the thermostat."

Greenspan turned, blinking. "Is that right? It's been doing that since..." Catching sight of Andrea, who had advanced to the top of the steps, he raised his hand to his forehead, realized he was not wearing a hat, and made an awkward little bow. "Forgive my bad manners, Miss Torgesen. I can only plead faulty mental coordination; for the last ten miles I've been expecting that accursed vehicle to blow up."

It didn't occur to Andrea that he might be nervous. Why should he be? She thought, What a pompous speech, and replied with comparable stiffness.

"Please don't apologize. It's a pleasure to welcome you to Springers' Grove Inn, Mr. Greenspan."

Ignoring her outstretched hand, he stood looking at her with a singularly foolish expression, his mouth a trifle ajar. "This is my brother and co-host," Andrea went on.

She had grown accustomed to stares, some openly curious, some, even less acceptable, pitying. Greenspan displayed neither; he acknowledged the introduction with a nod and a smile. Of course Reba would have warned him.

Kevin had vanished under the back end of the car. Only his legs stuck out, rigid with concentration. He shot out again and beamed at Greenspan. "I can fix it for you, sir. Won't take five minutes once I get the part."

Greenspan started to laugh. It was a rich, uninhibited sound that shook his entire body and transformed his face. All the wrinkles fell into place, signs of good humor rather than age.

"That's Kevin," Jim said. "He really does know about cars, sir."

"Kevin." Greenspan took a firm grip of the grease-stained fingers Kevin was trying to wipe on his pants. "Miss Torgesen didn't mention in her brochure that car repairs are part of the service."

"I'm also the bellhop. Bags in the trunk, sir?"

"Back seat. Thanks."

The ice had been broken into a million fragments, and Greenspan's self-consciousness was gone. Smiling, he joined Andrea on the porch.

"What a sensational job you've done with this place. I've often seen it from the road and regretted that such a fine old house should be neglected."

"I hope you'll find the interior equally to your taste," Andrea said primly. "Perhaps you'll join us for cocktails before you go to dinner; you're our first guest, so we felt a little celebration was in order. Ordinarily we don't serve drinks, but—"

"I know." He took one of her brochures from his coat pocket. "I've brought my own bottle, but don't worry—alcoholism is one of the few vices I don't enjoy."

"Which ones do you enjoy?" Jim asked.

"Jim!"

Greenspan's eyes twinkled. "All of them," he said soberly. "Sloth, envy, pride, vanity..."

"But you don't object to cats, do you?" asked Kevin, taking the suitcases out of the car.

Greenspan glanced at Andrea's crimson face. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he said gravely, "It depends on the cat. Am I to understand there is a resident feline?"

Since the said feline was now out of the bag, Andrea explained. Her account was carefully expurgated, but the boys added details that started Greenspan chuckling. "I suppose Satan insists on sleeping in the precise center of the bed? Well, we'll see how we get on. No doubt some accommodation can be arrived at. I am a great believer in compromise."

"Satan isn't," Jim said.

But Satan was not in evidence, on the bed or elsewhere in the room. Greenspan let out a low whistle of appreciation as he glanced around.

"Superb. Absolutely superb."

"Thank you. The bathroom is across the hall— please let me know if there is anything you need. We'll expect you downstairs, but only when you're rested and ready. There are no schedules here except the ones you set for yourself."

The words sounded stiff and stilted, as prepared speeches usually do.

"Thank you," Greenspan said softly. "I rather think I won't be too long in coming."

It seemed an odd thing to say, but otherwise— so far, so good, Andrea thought. She shooed the boys ahead of her down the stairs and into the kitchen, knowing that if she didn't, they would haunt Greenspan's doorway.

"Isn't he great?" Kevin exclaimed.

"I can't see that he's done anything great so far," Andrea said.

"He was damned nice about Satan."

"He hasn't met Satan. Look, we're still on probation; keep it cool, will you? Jim, you can put some ice in the bucket and get the drink tray ready."

"I'll chop up some cheese," Kevin offered.

"I was afraid you'd say that. There is a tray of canapes in the fridge—canapes, not chopped-up cheese—but don't you dare touch it till he comes."

Foraging on the despised cheese, Kevin said thickly, "The VW's not in such great shape. I could offer to drive him tonight—"

"Not unless he asks. I told you, Kevin—cool it."

"You did good, Andy," Jim said. "The perfect hostess."

"Sexism, sexism," howled Kevin, waving the cheese.

"The perfect innkeeper," Jim amended.

True to his word, Greenspan was not long in joining them. After admiring the parlor, he said diffidently, "Would it be too much trouble to move the party out onto the porch? I haven't sat in a porch swing since...Well, never mind when. I'll carry the cheese and crackers."

Greenspan appeared to enjoy himself. It was seven o'clock before he excused himself, saying he was already late for dinner. In the interval he completed his conquest of the boys, listening deferentially to their views and paying them the compliment of assuming they knew as much as he did about the subjects under discussion. Though she disagreed with most of his opinions, Andrea had to admit he was a witty, fluent speaker.

Clearing away glasses and plates, she thought again, So far, so good. But tomorrow would be the true test—four more guests, and Satan still an unknown quantity in the equation of Greenspan. The boys got hamburgers for dinner and Andrea retired early. She had given Greenspan a key to the house, but she suspected the boys intended to wait up for him. Well, she thought wearily, that's his problem;
he must be used to admiring acolytes dogging his footsteps and hanging on his every word. She fell asleep at once and never heard him come in.

In the dead hours of early morning she came jokingly awake with an agonized knotting of muscles. There was no period of drowsy dislocation; she could see the open window, a pale square of moonlight, and the white muslin curtains hanging limp in the still, hot air.

The darkness reverberated with the sound of beating wings. Thrashing against the bars of night, frantic to break free, they dropped and soared and sank again; the air driven by their passage struck her shrinking flesh in rhythmic beats.

By the time the boys burst into her room, Andrea's throat ached with screaming. Through the thin sheet she had pulled over her head she saw the light go on; but Jim had to wrench the fabric from her clenched fingers.

"Andy! What's the matter?"

The sight of his sleep-crumpled face, drawn with concern for her, broke the spell of horror. "Jimmie, Jimmie—oh, God—"

"Hey." He sat down on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her. "It's okay, I'm here. Did you have a bad dream?"

Andrea shuddered. "It was no dream. There was something in the room. I swear there was. A bird— trapped, trying to get out—a big bird, Jimmie..."

"Nothing here now," said Kevin, in the doorway. His face looked unfamiliar and undressed without the glasses.

"Look." She sat up, but did not loosen her grip on Jim. "Look. Under the bed, behind the bureau."

Kevin obeyed. "There's nothing here," he insisted. "Not even a hole in the screen. You had a nightmare. But I don't understand what's so terrifying about a bird. Have you been watching horror movies on the Late Show?"

"A bat?" Jim suggested. "They can be rabid. Was that what scared you, sis?"

Andrea forced her clutching fingers to release their grip on his arm. "it was not a bat. It had feathers. And big—big—" She measured the size with her hands.

The boys no longer bothered to hide their smiles. "That's typical of nightmares," Kevin said condescendingly. "It isn't the image itself, but the Freudian neurosis it represents, that scares you."

Andrea dropped back onto the pillow. She was drenched with perspiration and her muscles ached as if she had run for miles, but in the last analysis she preferred nightmares to Kevin's half-baked psychology.

"Go back to bed," she said gruffly. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"You okay now?" Jim asked.

"Yes, of course."

Jim lingered. "Honest, sis, there's no way anything could get in here. The screen is tight, and there isn't a chimney."

"I know. I'm all right now."

"Want me to leave the door open?"

"No! I mean, no thanks. Go back to sleep."

It was some time before she could force herself to get out of bed and reexamine the places the boys had already searched. She couldn't blame them for failing to understand the shuddering horror of the experience; in retrospect she found it hard to understand herself. Wings, trying to fight free...It was
an obvious symbol—birds, wings, flying, freedom. But it didn't make sense. There was nothing in her life from which she wanted to escape.

To Linnie's poorly concealed disappointment the boys slept late next morning. Andrea put her to work in the parlor where, it was only too apparent, a prolonged bull session had taken place the previous night. The participants had virtuously carried their beer cans and coffee cups to the kitchen, but there were crumbs and ashes scattered everywhere, and they had overlooked a plate of cheese, now curled into leathery strips.

Greenspan had requested breakfast at eight. Although she was sleepy and out of sorts, Andrea got the tray together with a minimum of blunders. She had made the muffin batter the day before; all she had to do this morning was add a cup of blueberries and spoon the mixture into the pans. Sliced peaches and cream, an assortment of dried cereal, toast and fresh brewed coffee...She gave the tray a final check. It wouldn't do to forget anything. Sugar, diet sweetener, silverware, napkin...Butter in a tiny Meissen bowl...With a suppressed exclamation she went to the refrigerator. She had almost forgotten the jam. More little bowls, strawberry and apple jelly, made by a local farmer's wife. The little bowls were a nice touch; Cousin Bertha had several dozen of them. Andrea had no idea what their original function had been.

Eventually she meant to have Linnie take over the drudgery of carrying trays upstairs, but on this
important occasion she decided she had better do it herself. The tray was heavy and her aching calves protested as she climbed the stairs.

The idea of serving individual breakfasts had come from a cooperative innkeeper in Virginia, whose brain she had not scrupled to pick. Toilsome as the task might seem, it was no more difficult than serving everyone at once, in the dining room, and it lent a pleasant touch of personal service. "Your clientele aren't ordinary tourists," the friendly colleague had pointed out. "Most fall into two categories—newlyweds looking for a romantic ambiance, and elderly people who have to have a cup of coffee before they can put their teeth in. Don't laugh! You're a lot younger than I am, but don't you find it's getting harder and harder to face the world before you have that first cup of coffee?"

Andrea lowered the tray onto the table outside Greenspan's door, gave it a final inspection, and knocked softly. The transom over the door was ajar; she heard bedsprings creak and then a muffled groan.

"It's eight o'clock, Mr. Greenspan," she announced, and at once retreated. The door didn't open until she was on the landing, out of sight, and she smiled faintly as she finished the descent. Greenspan appeared to be one of those who wanted his coffee before he got his teeth in.

She was in the parlor, putting the final touches on Linnie's somewhat casual cleaning, when Greenspan came down. He paused in the doorway to wish her good morning.

"Excellent breakfast," he said. "I suppose you baked the muffins."

His tone was so portentous that Andrea felt a stab
of alarm. Rotten berries, salt instead of sugar? "Yes, I did. Weren't they edible?"

"They were superb," Greenspan said, even more gloomily. "Well. Just going out for my morning exercise."

"It's half a mile to the gate and back," Andrea said.

"Oh, is it? That's fine. Nothing like a little jogging after breakfast. I do it every day."

"Good for you. I hope you enjoy it."

"Oh, yes. Well. Thank you for the admirable breakfast."

After he had gone, Andrea went back to her dusting. She rather suspected that Martin Greenspan, famous author, was showing off. That tummy of his wouldn't be so well developed if he made a habit of jogging every morning.