Rainsong, p.21
Rainsong, page 21
Why had he let it go? I almost wished I’d never recognized Pete’s voice on my tape recorder.
“Does Alan know you played with Ricky’s band?” I asked.
“No! So don’t tell him. Because of Tim, he hasn’t any love for Ricky Sands. He might start digging, and I’m in a vulnerable position. I’ve told you more this morning than anyone else knows. Nobody’s ever asked me more than casual questions, or turned up the fact that I was with Ricky in the Village that day. I’d just as soon it stays that way.”
He grasped my arms as if for emphasis, and his fingers hurt me. At once he stepped back. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”
But he had meant it. His grip had been a warning to say nothing. I wanted to get away from him—away from everyone, so I could think.
“There’s no need for me to say anything to Alan just now,” I assured him, and started up the hill.
I walked as fast as I could. I had a crazy impulse to run, to hide, to avoid seeing anyone for a long time. All I felt—the whole muddle of my fears—would be clearly written on my face for anyone to read. And there was too much I mustn’t give away. Ricky could have been there when Coral died. He could have been to blame … he might have given her the drugs, or administered them himself!
I was lost in my own turmoil and completely unprepared when Luther Sykes appeared suddenly on the road before me. His white hair had blown wild in the wind, he was unshaven, and his eyes under thick gray brows had a glassy look that was unfocused. There was no one within shouting distance on this private road—no help for me if he took me for Mary Ames again.
“I’m Mrs. Baker,” I told him quickly. “You do know me, Luther.”
His quick, wiry movements made him almost dance on the road. “Of course I know you! Last night I got mixed up in the dark and I thought you were someone else. I’ve been walking around in the woods all night, trying to forget what I nearly did. Maybe I am crazy, like some folks say.”
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I wasn’t hurt. Mr. Gordon explained about the mistake you made. He’s been looking for you, and he’ll be glad to see you again.”
The old man relaxed a little, and some of the wildness went out of him. “He’s not angry with me?”
“He understands, Luther. We know you didn’t mean what you did.”
It was difficult not to speak to him as if he were a child. He had undoubtedly had a good education, and once he’d been a young and talented artist. Somewhere inside him that younger man still lived.
“I’ve seen one of your paintings,” I said, and realized at once that it might not help to mention the portrait of Mary Ames.
He waved off my words with his scar-twisted right hand, and I was afraid he might get excited again.
“Mrs. Ames is coming home today,” I went on quickly. “I must get back to the house now and see if I can help Birdy.”
He hadn’t known she was coming, and he stared at me in surprise. “I thought she was gone for good. I thought she’d close up the house now—maybe get rid of it.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Houses that stay around for a long time can get notions of their own. Especially when bad things have happened in them. You ought to get out of there before the house hurts you. It doesn’t like us—not any of us!”
“I have to go now,” I repeated.
“You don’t believe me! Don’t you know that people who go down into death and come back can see things other people can’t? I can see what that house is all about. Come along with me and I’ll show you.”
Before I could escape, he’d grasped my arm with his powerful left hand and was marching me back to the gatehouse. Pete saw us coming and left his work on the gate, only to have Luther wave him off.
“I’m just going to show her something she needs to see,” he told Pete and took me into the big room, where flames were still lively in the grate. Pete followed us to the door, and stood there watching.
Luther went to rummage in a cupboard, and in a moment returned with a rough canvas in his hands, propping it against another chair. I stared at the painting in dismay.
This time he had done a portrait of Windtop. It was crude and unfinished, and I realized that he must have painted it with his left hand—since the fire. Yet it was recognizably the house in much of its rough detail, viewed from the front and showing red embers still glowing in the burned-out section. The chimneys leaned a little, the corner towers wavered, as though under water, while the lower windows seemed to peer out through a gauzy veil. Some sort of metamorphosis seemed to be taking place that threw everything off from the normal and into some world that belonged only to the house. A world that was clearly evil. Or mad.
“Well?” Luther said.
Pete said, “You painted what you saw in your own mind, Luther. Maybe it helped a little to blame the house. Instead of Mary.”
“She was part of it! She knew what the house was like. Now it doesn’t want to go on without her.”
“Then we’ll have to watch out,” Pete said quietly. “We’ll have to see that it doesn’t damage those who live there now. Maybe you can help on that, Luther. Just keep your eyes open.”
It was the best thing he could have said. His quiet words seemed to turn something around in Luther’s mind, and bring him into protective alignment with us against the house.
“That’s right,” he agreed. “We’ll all watch it now. You watch it especially, Mrs. Baker. It almost got you last night.”
Pete made a slight gesture of his head toward the door, and I hurried out to make my escape. This time I climbed the hill without seeing anyone, and when I reached the upper drive I stood for a moment staring at Windtop’s imposing facade, half expecting the chimmeys to lean and the towers to waver. Luther’s macabre painting was something I wouldn’t soon forget. Fortunately, the house shone serenely in the sunlight, its walls secure and foursquare except for the scar of the fire.
I went inside and offered my services to Birdy, who merely sniffed me away. Alan was still gone, and I could only hope that everything was developing well between him and Tim. There was still at least an hour before Geneva Ames was due to arrive, and I remembered Pete’s advice. I needed a rest from horror, and I went determinedly into the music room to see if I could once more become absorbed in my song.
My years of learning to concentrate helped, and I was able to blank out everything but my music. Notes seemed to flow from my fingers, carrying out the melody I could hear in my head. I was too deep in my work to notice when the Lincoln drew up in front of the house. This room could hold itself apart in a shell of silence, away from everything else.
When Geneva Ames opened the door and walked in, I came back to reality with a start. At the hospital I’d thought her patrician and rather autocratic. Now, dressed in a well-tailored gray suit, with a gray fur hat pulled at a jaunty angle, she gave an impressive and slightly contradictory effect. A woman of importance, with just a dash of something less proper about her. But I didn’t think anyone would call her Jenny now.
I slid off the bench and stood up, feeling young and respectful as she came toward me with her hand held out.
“I’m delighted to see you in my home, Hollis. And I’m glad you found the Bechstein. That was an intriguing tune you were playing just now. Is it yours?”
“It’s something I’m working on,” I said lamely. I found that she awed me more than a little—this lady who had stepped out of my father’s past.
Until this moment her portrait had dominated the room. Now it gave way to the real woman. A comparison was not unflattering, since she’d aged with distinction and dignity. She was a handsome woman, and she possessed even more assurance than the woman in the picture. I had the feeling that everyone around her would always snap to attention and carry out her slightest wish.
“I’d hoped that Alan would be here,” she said as she moved about, touching the cover on the harp, shifting a music stand an inch—as though she reacquainted herself with her own possessions. “Do you know where he is?”
“He went down to The Shutters to see Tim.”
“Of course. Tim is why I’ve come home. I’m not certain that Alan handles the boy in the right way, and I thought I might be useful now.”
I felt relieved. I hadn’t known where Geneva might stand when it came to Tim, and the boy didn’t need any more obstacles in his path.
“I’m sure you will be,” I said.
She smiled. “You’re already on Tim’s side, I see. Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”
There seemed no reason to hold back anything that concerned Tim, so I told her of the tricks he had played on me, and how I had caught him.
“I think it’s mainly because of his brother’s opposition that he ran away,” I finished. “Alan hates the idea of Tim becoming a pop singer and a songwriter. But when a young person feels as strongly as Tim does, no opposition is going to stop him—and it may make everything worse. Perhaps you can persuade him to delay a little until he’s older.”
Geneva nodded. “Yes, I remember how it was for me. I had to have my career before I tried any other road.”
She took off her hat and set it on the piano. Then she smoothed a lock of upswept gray hair and sat down in a chair near me, crossing elegant legs.
“Of course this is different with Tim,” she went on. “A different field altogether. You must realize that your husband was to blame for what is happening to Tim. I should never have invited Ricky Sands to come here in the first place.”
The tone of her voice had darkened, and I knew that I’d congratulated myself too soon about her making things easier for Tim.
“My husband tried to encourage talent whenever he found it in the young,” I said mildly.
The look she turned on me was commanding. “I wanted you to come here where I might see you again because we needed to talk. It isn’t only because of Tim that I’ve come home.”
“When you invited me to Windtop, you didn’t tell me you’d met Ricky.”
“It wasn’t necessary. And of course impossible really to talk under hospital conditions.”
I wasn’t sure where she was leading, and it was a relief when Alan came into the room. He went quickly to greet Geneva with a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ve never seen you look better,” he said. “I’m glad you’re home. Birdy is fretting for us to come to lunch, so let’s go in now, if you’re ready.” He looked past Geneva at me, and his smile was unexpectedly warm. “You’ve helped Tim a lot, Hollis. We’ll talk about it at lunch.”
They went ahead, with Geneva on Alan’s arm, and as I followed I had a strange feeling that I was walking inside Luther’s painting of the house. If I turned my head quickly as we crossed the side square of hall, I might catch the staircase shimmering in its own light, or find that the floor had moved subtly out of balance under my feet.
But I mustn’t be haunted by a picture. With Geneva Ames here, nothing would dare to move even slightly askew at Windtop.
14
Lunch was a rather grand affair, with the three of us sitting in state at the table in the formal dining room. The meal went smoothly enough for a while, though Geneva Ames could ask penetrating questions.
“Luther looked a little wild when he came to open the gates for us,” she said to Alan. “Is anything more than usual wrong with him?”
Alan gave me a quick, questioning glance before he answered. “He wasn’t feeling well yesterday. I’m glad he’s up and around again.”
“I met him in the woods a little while ago,” I said. “I told him you wanted to see him, Alan. I think he’s better today.”
“And Peter Evans?” Geneva went on. “What is he doing here?”
Again Alan explained. “He’s staying at The Shutters with his sister, and he came up here looking for temporary work. So we took him on.”
She shook her head doubtfully. “He seems an unstable young man. Elizabeth must have her hands full. I don’t like the idea of a teacher doing yard work.”
“Why shouldn’t he do yard work?” I asked impulsively. “Why shouldn’t a concert pianist get married and turn domestic, for that matter?”
For a moment she looked startled at my temerity, but her smile was kind. “You’re right, of course. I was speaking out of turn. I’m glad you’re here, my dear. Do you know what we’ll do later today? We’ll call California and talk to your father. Alan tells me Daniel was pleased when you let him know you were coming here. I’ll enjoy speaking with him again after all these years.”
I wasn’t sure about a joint call to Dan, when I’d been too disturbed ever since I’d arrived to talk to him myself. I had written him a quick note that said very little, and that was all.
Geneva, however, took it for granted that I would agree, and went right on. “There are a few other things I’d like to do today. Are you free to help me, Hollis?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be glad to.” I liked the idea of keeping busy, even though I knew that no matter what I did a strong undercurrent was bearing me along at a different level, threatening to come to flood and submerge me in some way I couldn’t anticipate. It was impossible to put out of my mind what Pete Evans had told me.
Alan had noticed my distraction, and while we were finishing coffee in the sitting room he spoke to me directly. “Something’s worrying you, Hollis. Is there anything I can do?”
I wouldn’t give Pete away, but I could tell him a little. “I’ve just learned some new details about Ricky’s life that are upsetting. I can’t talk about them yet.”
“You needn’t talk about anything you don’t want to,” Geneva said, and I suspected that my relationship to Dan offered the main reason for her interest in me. Unlike the theme of my new song, perhaps she wanted to remember.
After lunch, when Alan had accepted an invitation to dinner at Windtop tonight, and had driven off to his greenhouse, Geneva stood at a window and watched him go.
“A fine man,” she said. “He’s always been dependable and considerate. Not a bit like young Tim. I must call Elizabeth soon and ask her to send that young rascal up here to see me. There’s so much that needs to be done. It’s good to be home—good to be alive!”
She took a step into the middle of the room and surprised me by whirling about with her arms outstretched—the movement of a much younger woman. I remembered her tilted hat—when hats in New York were being worn straight across the forehead. Geneva Ames could still fly in the face of petty convention when she chose, and I liked her all the more for her unguarded gesture.
“Have you explored my beautiful house?” she asked, turning back to me.
“Only a little. I’ll feel more comfortable with it now that Tim’s not hiding out, and trying to frighten me. Mrs. Ames—did you ever see the oil painting Luther Sykes made of this house?”
“You mean before the fire—while he could still paint?”
“No. I think he did this afterward. He even put in the burned-out section.”
She shook her head, puzzled. “No, I haven’t seen any such painting. I didn’t know he’d even tried to use a brush again. What was it like?”
“Crude,” I said. “But it had an eerie sort of power. A disturbing picture.”
“You’ve made me think of something, Hollis. Something I decided before I came home. I’ve put this off for too long a time. Come outside with me for a moment.”
Birdy had been hovering, with a watchful eye on Geneva, as though she expected her to collapse at any moment. When she saw we were going out, she rushed for a cape to put around Geneva’s shoulders.
Outside, I followed to where we could stand on the driveway before the blackened ruins left by the fire. When Geneva slipped a hand through the crook of my arm, I felt her tremble, felt her weight as she leaned on me. But she allowed no weakness to reach her voice.
“When I was in the hospital I made myself face this over and over again in my mind—as I never would for years after it happened. I’ve had enough of pretending. I don’t want this ugly scar to remain for a moment longer. I’ll consult with Alan and have this debris cleaned out. I won’t rebuild, but perhaps we can turn this space into a garden, an arbor. I’ve even thought of planting espaliered fruit trees against those awful black walls. The sun gets in here every morning, and it will make things grow. We were lucky that night to stop the fire before it spread to the whole house.”
Her words poured out in a release of old, long-suppressed emotion. When she spoke of her daughter, however, there was visible control as she reined herself in, though bitterness came through.
“Mary is buried a long way from here. I’ve never visited her grave, or wanted to. I lost her forever that night.”
“I learned only yesterday about what had happened,” I said.
She went on in the same cool tone. “I’ve forgiven myself at last—though it took time and a few stays in the hospital for me to accomplish it. For too many years I accepted a blame that wasn’t mine. Mary came home angry that time—she wanted a quarrel. And she grew angrier every day during that last visit. But how could I condone what she was doing?”
Now emotion came through again, and Geneva’s eyes blazed. Her hand tensed on my arm, and two spots of high color burned in her cheeks. I watched her in alarm.
“There’s still a score to pay off,” she said.
I didn’t know what she was talking about, since Mary was dead, and I was glad to see Birdy come running out of the house. She must have been watching from a window.
“You must rest now,” she told Geneva firmly, and then looked at me. “You shouldn’t have let her come out here!”
I could hardly keep Geneva Ames from doing whatever she pleased, and I suspected that Birdy’s loyalty would be more extreme than ever, now that Windtop’s owner was home again.
Left to myself, I returned upstairs to my peaceful azaleas. I took music paper from a suitcase and began to set down the notes for my song. The words on the tape were insistent, running through my head: I mustn’t remember.
