Here I Stay, page 14
Mary Fairfax had not tried to escape. She had tucked up her widow’s veils and gone to work. Andrea’s sympathies were not for the girl who had died young, they were for the bereaved mother. Alice had escaped, Mary had been left to bear another, harder burden.
The fatiguing household chores took on a new and poignant interest when she thought of Mary performing them too—scrubbing the same floors, washing the same windows, even polishing some of the same furniture. The walnut what-not and the mahogany breakfront were old enough to have belonged to her. Mary had directed that the contents of the house be sold; why not, she had no one left to inherit her treasures. Seventeen…. Alice must have died—Andrea couldn’t remember the exact dates—somewhere around 1880. Mary had lived alone for twenty years.
Yes, her sympathies were with Mary, not with Little Alice, dying young. Somewhere, at some time, she must have known a girl named Alice, a girl she thoroughly disliked. The name had negative vibes, as Jim would have said. Back in the third or fourth grade—a flaxen-haired, smirking child whose pig-tails never dissolved into straggling wisps and who was the teacher’s pet.
III
Andrea got through the weekend somehow, and staggered on into Monday. The promised helper arrived, but was not much help. Slow and reluctant, obviously regarding housework as a more demeaning occupation than bottling syrupy slop, Mrs. Shorb had to be shown how to do everything, even how to make a bed. Jim took one look at the woman’s glum face and retreated to his aerie in the tower. During the course of the day ominous sounds of sawing and pounding reached Andrea’s ears.
After Mrs. Shorb left she didn’t even have the energy to go up and find out what he was doing. Martin found her drooping over the kitchen table with a bottle of sherry on one side and a box of tissues on the other.
“You ought to see the doctor about that cold,” he said.
“It’s my sinuses, I guess.” Andrea blew. “Standard complaint in this area.”
“I brought you a present.” Martin tossed a bundle of papers on the table. “It may or may not cheer you up.”
As she reached disinterestedly for the papers, she heard Jim come clattering down the stairs. Martin’s presence drew him like a magnet.
“Hi, Martin. Did you—”
“You might say hello to your sister,” Andrea said hoarsely.
“Why? You’ve been here all the time. Did you find what you were looking for, Martin?”
“Some of it.” Martin sat down at the table. “You should have come with me.”
“I had stuff to do.” Jim gestured at the ceiling. “What’s that you have?”
“Xeroxed copies of old newspapers,” said Andrea, leafing through them. “I’m glad you have time to waste, Martin.”
“It wasn’t a waste of time. I can get a couple of columns out of this material—changes in journalistic styles, quaint quotes, that sort of thing.” He picked up a pile of sheets and began arranging them. “I didn’t take the time to sort these, but they should be more or less in order…. Here we go. This is the Frederick Examiner of July 17, 1869. It was a weekly—ten whole pages. Not a bad effort for a small community, but one can’t help being amused at the arrangement, which seems to have been typical of newspapers of that period. There is hardly any national news, not to mention international. Even local news is relegated to the back pages. The front page features a poem, “Always Look on the Sunny Side”—probably written by the editor’s mother, judging from the quality and the fact that it is modestly anonymous; a moral tale entitled “Mrs. Wilkins’ Duty”; and six paragraphs of what might be loosely termed humorous stories.”
“Also useful bits of information,” said Jim, reading over his shoulder. “Andy, did you know that ‘tabby cat’ comes from ‘Atab, a street in Bagdad’?”
“Uh,” said Andrea, blowing her nose.
“On page three we get to the news,” Martin said. “‘On Friday last Mrs. Jonathan Fried slipped and fell on the staves of a half-barrel. One of her ribs was fractured and she suffered acutely.’ And here, Ms. Businessperson, are the advertisements. Dr. Robinson guarantees a cure in all diseases of the Urinary Organs, Nervous and Seminal Weakness, Impotency and Syphilis.”
He handed the sheets to Andrea, who found them entertaining enough to distract her from her aching nose. “Confectioner and Ice Cream Saloon,” she read.
“Saloon?” Jim repeated.
“Saloon. Ladies and gentlemen’s watches, Henry Miller’s Cheap Shoe Store—I admire his honesty, don’t you?—French Pattern Hats and Bonnets, Manhood Restored…. Oh! Here’s an ad for Fairfax’s Hotel. Is that why you copied this, Martin?”
“I thought it might interest you.”
“‘Fairfax’s Hotel, Ladiesburg, Maryland. Mrs. Mary W. Fairfax, Proprietor. First class in all its appointments. Private parlor for ladies. Commercial gentlemen welcome.’ Not very imaginative, is it? I hoped she would have something unusual I could reproduce in my brochure.”
“Try this.” Martin handed her another page. It did not contain advertisements, only news items, but the boldly printed NOTICE caught her eye.
“‘NOTICE to all citizens of Ladiesburg, and in particular to those unknown parties responsible for the recent series of reputed accidents in and around my establishment. This is to serve NOTICE that in future anyone trespassing on my property with or without intent to do damage will face the pistols once owned by my late father. Though but a “weak woman,” I have inherited my father’s skill along with his weapons and will have no scruples in employing them against those cowards whose evident purpose it is to force me from my home. Here I have every right to be, and here I will stay. Mrs. Mary Fairfax, proprietor, Fairfax’s Hotel.’”
“Here I stay,” Andrea repeated. “So that was why….”
“That was how it started,” Martin said. “But one wonders…” He caught Andrea’s startled eyes and smiled faintly. “I was referring to her religious views, or the lack thereof, Andrea. What did you think I meant?”
Andrea preferred not to answer. “Was she paranoid, or did this harassment actually occur?”
“Oh, it occurred. I found a couple of references to it; there were probably others I missed, or that were not reported. Here, for example, in the column entitled, ‘Ladiesburg News,’ we have the following:
“‘On the night of the 8th ulto., the meathouse of Mrs. Mary Fairfax of this place was consumed by fire, origin unknown. Mrs. Fairfax lost nearly all of her meat, since fire fighting equipment was unable to reach her home until the fire was under full sway.’”
“What’s the date?” Andrea asked, reaching for the paper. “August…. The roads should have been all right at that time of year; why couldn’t the fire engine get to her?”
“There are a number of suspicious circumstances about it,” Martin agreed. “Other items over a three-year period mention the destruction of farm equipment, rude mottoes painted on the gateposts, and so on. All by parties unknown.”
“But why? Why was she so unpopular?”
Martin shrugged. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. I could make an educated guess, though.”
“Like what?” Jim asked.
“She was a woman alone, running a business. ‘Commercial gentlemen welcome.’ She couldn’t afford to be too fastidious about her clientele; this backwater wasn’t a commercial center or a tourist haven; many of her guests must have been of the type we laughingly refer to as traveling salesmen. Who knows what ‘appointments’ she offered to draw in trade?”
“If you’re implying she ran a brothel, I’ll call you a liar,” Andrea said angrily. “That portrait is the image of Victorian respectability. I never would have suspected you of being a male chauvinist, Martin Greenspan.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I don’t care what she did for a living. I doff my chapeau to the lady. In case you hadn’t noticed, I admire fighters, male and female.”
He smiled at her, personalizing the compliment. Mollified, Andrea said snuffily, “All right, we accept your apology. I guess the neighbors would assume the worst. Even so, their resentment seems exaggerated. I’ll grant you this was one of the most sanctimonious, hypocritical periods in history, but the same old vices went on flourishing—pornography, child prostitution—”
“Ah, but this was a small town,” Martin pointed out. “Villagers have long memories, and they are slow to forgive an injury or a mistake. Once you establish a reputation, it’s yours for life. You can give millions to charity and found orphan asylums by the dozen, and the village will shake its collective head and recall the crimes of your youth.”
“That’s true,” Andrea said, thinking of Jim. A spot of casual fornication and an exchange of blows had established him as a man worthy of respect. On such shaky and superficial foundations a man’s life might rest—or a woman’s. She shivered, and as if he were reading her mind, Martin added,
“It works the other way too. Once the town is on your side, you have to commit more murders than Gilles de Rais before it turns against you. Mary must have done something to alienate her neighbors, but it’s unlikely that the truth will ever be known. Countless numbers of ancient scandals must lie buried under the dust of time; it’s only the rich and famous who have their lives laid bare, the respectable middle classes band together to conceal their sins.”
“I don’t care what she did,” Andrea said. “I’m on her side.”
Knowing she faced another long day with the recalcitrance of Mrs. Shorb, Andrea took her sinuses and her box of tissues to bed early. But instead of climbing under the covers with the book she had been reading, she opened the top drawer of her desk.
The golden eyes of Beelzebub glared at her, but Mary was looking at something else. Present enemies or past injuries—the heavy brows and unsmiling mouth contemplated no pleasant view. How remarkably that resentful child had captured her mother’s strength: “Here I stay.”
Right on, Mary, Andrea thought. The same goes for me.
She had taken Mary’s portrait from the sketchbook the night before. Jim had gone off with the rest of the drawings—she didn’t know or care what he did with them, so long as he obeyed her injunction to keep them safe. But she wanted Mary. She planned to find an appropriate frame, something ornately carved and gilded, so that the drawing could occupy a prominent place in the hallway. Under it, perhaps, an engraved plaque with Mary’s name and a legend, “Proprietor of Fairfax’s Hotel, founded 1866.”
It would be excellent publicity—worthy of a story in a Washington newspaper, or in one of the magazines that specialized in country living. Finding an appropriate frame might take some time, but there was no reason why Mary should languish in a drawer until one was acquired. Holding the drawing, Andrea inspected the pictures she had hung on the walls.
None of them had any particular meaning for her now, though they had once been favorites—a photo, cut from a travel poster, of the fantastic fairy-tale spires of Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria; an old movie poster—Clark Gable crushing Vivien Leigh in his muscular arms; a framed photograph of the cast of Jim’s senior play…. He had taken the part of the brother in Arsenic and Old Lace—the one who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt, and who kept dashing up the stairs waving a sword and bellowing, “Charge!”
The photograph, of course, was sacrosanct. But the others—she couldn’t imagine why she had hung on to them all these years. Fairy-tale castles and dashing lovers—had she ever been that young? Neuschwanstein’s frame appeared to be about the right size.
Shortly thereafter the fairy-tale castle was in the wastebasket and Mary Fairfax hung in its place. She seemed to be looking at the door, frowning slightly, as if in warning.
Chapter
9
TOWARD THE END OF THE WEEK, STILL STRUGGLING with sinuses, Mrs. Shorb, and another rainy season, Andrea was cheered by a call from a woman who wanted to bring a party of ten for a two-day stay. She explained that she only had four rooms; and when a long pause followed this statement, she wondered whether she had made a mistake by letting Martin monopolize her best room during the height of the season. However, the caller seemed more than reasonable. She would bring eight people instead, and if Andrea couldn’t take them that weekend, they would come the following week. What nights did she have open?
This abnormal agreeableness should have warned Andrea, but she was in no mood to be critical. Rosy visions floated through her head—the inn becoming so popular, so much the fad, that people would come whenever she could fit them in.
Mrs. De Grange’s check duly arrived and was promptly deposited, though Andrea had no reason to think it would not be honored; the address was Foxhall Road, one of Washington’s most fashionable neighborhoods.
Three weekend guests stuck grimly to their schedules, despite the unseemly weather. By driving herself beyond the call of duty and strength, Andrea made their stay a success—lighting fires in the bedrooms, serving extra food, moving her own television set into the room of a grumpy old gentleman whose arthritis was acting up. On Monday Mrs. Shorb gave notice—forty-eight hours’ notice—which Andrea received with mixed emotions. Mrs. Shorb wasn’t worth much, but she was better than nothing. At least she would be there to help prepare for the De Grange party. Beyond that, Andrea was incapable of planning.
The sun came out on Monday. On Tuesday it went in again. Wednesday morning Andrea awoke to the all-too familiar drip and drizzle against the window. Mercifully the guests did not arrive until late afternoon, and by that time the house was in order.
They were an effusive lot, given to much smiling and nodding and shaking of hands—with one exception, a tall blond woman swathed in folds of mink, who stood aloof from the others. The tilt of her chin, tightening the sagging muscles in her throat, and the careful positioning of her hands gave the impression of a professional model posing for a photograph. She could not have followed that career recently, for though her face was cleverly made up, it showed the ravages of half a century; but she had a certain air of distinction that made Andrea assume she was the leader of the group.
She was not Mrs. De Grange, however. That lady, plump and bespectacled and inclined to giggle, introduced the blonde as Mrs. Jones. Andrea produced the guest book, and one by one they signed their names.
She was a little surprised at the mixed nature of the group. Thus far her larger parties had been women, antique buffs or escapees from family responsibilities. Mrs. De Grange’s group included both men and women, of widely assorted ages. Mr. Abbott appeared to be in his early twenties; he had a frightful case of acne and watery blue eyes, magnified enormously by his thick glasses. Miss Gorman and Miss Wilkins were middle-aged, the former short and stout and gruff, the latter looking and sounding like a nervous gray rabbit. The oldest member of the party was a man, so withered and wizened that his very ability to move seemed mildly obscene—a reanimated mummy. Introduced as Professor Schott, he showed Andrea his ill-fitting dentures and gave her a surprisingly strong handclasp. His most unusual feature was his eyes. Andrea felt an almost physical shock as they met hers; violently alive, they were the eyes of a fanatic or an intensely angry man.
There was also a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Nasmith. They took one room, and the others sorted themselves out with little jokes and merry laughter—Miss Gorman, Miss Wilkins and Mrs. De Grange in one room, the Professor and Mr. Abbott in another—May and December. Mrs. Jones had a room to herself. Andrea wondered at this arrangement, but decided it was none of her business. Perhaps Mrs. Jones snored.
When they trooped downstairs shortly thereafter, on their way to dinner, Andrea was on hand to wish them bon appetit and inquire whether the rooms were satisfactory. She was overwhelmed with compliments. Everything was wonderful, charming, delightful. And would she mind if they explored her beautiful house?
“I’ll be happy to take you on a tour of the house, whenever you like,” Andrea answered, her smile a little cooler. She had had this problem before, though not often; some people felt that a night’s room rent gave them the right to walk through doors plainly marked “Private” or “No Admittance.”
“How kind,” Mrs. De Grange gushed. “And this evening—may we sit in the library, or will you be using it yourself?”
“All the public rooms are open to guests,” Andrea said.
“Oh, yes. I see. I do hope you won’t feel obliged to entertain us. You must be worn out, and I’m sure you would rather have a quiet evening by yourself without—”
Mrs. Jones coughed. Mrs. De Grange broke off with a nervous giggle. “How I do ramble on. Good night, Miss Torgesen.”
At least their good spirits aren’t dampened by the rain, Andrea thought, closing the door. But she couldn’t help wondering what common interest or occupation could unite such disparate types, and why they had sought out her inn. Most people were only too ready to talk about their hobbies and show off their specialized knowledge. None of this lot had so much as dropped a hint. Could Martin be the attraction? Fans of Martin Greenspan, Washington branch….
She was glad to follow Mrs. De Grange’s suggestion, for she was dead tired and the cold she had fought off for days was now fighting back. Settling in the kitchen with her feet on a hassock, she was half asleep when Jim came in.
“You look pooped. Want me to get supper?”
