Witch, page 4
She had deliberately chosen to tell the ghost story. There was no hope of concealing it from Jack, and only by being matter-of-fact about the grisly tale could she convince him that it was unimportant to her.
To call Jack overprotective would be unfair to both of them. He gave her exactly the degree of support she needed at any given moment, and if that support was sometimes greater than she ought to have, that was her fault for asking—not his for giving. One of the reasons why the house in the mountains appealed to her was because it was a complete break with her former life and habits—a change she owed to herself, and to the people who had been propping her up, in one way or another, for ten years. She depended on the children, on Jack’s boys as well as on Penny, more than they realized. Because she owed them so much she had to let them go, and she could only free them by being capable of standing alone, asking no more of them than the freely given love which is a hard-won gift, not an obligation. If she owed the kids that, she owed Jack even more.
She really did love her new house. It reached out to her as no inanimate thing had ever done. But she wished Ed hadn’t told her that gruesome story!
She said, “Damn,” and the cat, now on the table, questing among the plates, cocked a wary ear in her direction before deciding that the expletive had not been directed at her. Ellen was vaguely aware of Ishtar’s misbehavior; she was more preoccupied with the things she had left out of her ghost story.
She had not mentioned seeing a cat—a white cat. Jack was absolutely right, it was a feeble sort of ghost to invent. She had been more disturbed by the idea that Maria’s frail ivory bones lay somewhere under the green grass of her front yard. Jack had seen that she was disturbed, but he knew she was too sensible to be seriously upset. The bones were only part of the cast-off cocoon, the outgrown shell of the nautilus…. “Build thee more stately mansions, oh my soul!”
On the whole, Ellen thought she had carried the whole thing off rather well.
So why hadn’t she told Jack how Maria had died?
According to Ed, whose talents as a raconteur were certainly wasted in his present location, the investigating committee had found the woman’s body hanging from a hook. But the comments of her family that morning had crystallized Ellen’s uneasy feelings about the death. If Maria had been a member of the Catholic faith, suicide was a deadly sin. Why should she kill herself? The legend held no hint of illness, of consciousness of sin, that would drive a woman to such a deed. Suicide conflicted with Maria’s theoretical religion and with her personality, as demonstrated by her ruthless behavior. She had known the woodland pharmacopoeia; if she had found signs of a fatal illness, would she not have resorted to one of the natural drugs available to her, rather than seek such a painful death?
Ellen gave herself a vigorous shake that vibrated the silver-gilt curls on her head.
“That is enough of that,” she said aloud, and advanced purposefully toward the table. The words might have had a double meaning, but Ishtar went by actions, not speech; she vanished and Ellen started gathering up egg-stained plates.
II
On Saturday they all drove down to see the house. Jack was silent for most of the drive; he had asked her not to sign a contract until she had had another, critical look at the house. He meant until he had had a look at the house, but was too tactful to say so. Phil and Penny were in manic moods, laughing and singing and making outrageous jokes; they thoroughly approved of Ellen’s back-to-nature movement.
To Ellen’s relief, the house worked its magic on all of them, even on Jack. Impatient with the deliberate movements of their elders, the younger pair rushed off to explore the house. Their shouts of approval, broken by a howl from Phil when he hit his head on the stair arch, floated back to Ellen as she stood with Jack in the living room.
“It’s a charmer,” he admitted, rubbing his chin and smiling. “I don’t blame you, Ellen; I’d like a place like this myself someday.”
“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad.”
“Wait a minute, now, I haven’t said I approve. Charm is one thing, termites are another. Let’s go slowly and see how many flaws we can find.”
The tour took almost an hour. Ellen’s anxiety returned as she watched Jack poke and probe and mumble. He made no audible comments, nor could she tell from his expression what he was thinking. It was not until they stood once more on the walk before the house that Jack cleared his throat and prepared to pronounce. The young people were off in the woods somewhere; Ellen could hear them shouting to one another.
“I hate to admit it,” Jack said, “but the place is in amazingly good condition. Oh, there’s a lot of minor work that needs doing, especially inside. It will cost you a mint to remodel the kitchen and bathroom. You’ll want another bathroom downstairs, and the plumbing needs a thorough overhaul. Ditto the wiring. The well pump looks as if it’s about to go, and the septic tank probably hasn’t been touched in thirty years. But the basic fabric is sound. Those walls will stand for another century.”
“What about the price?”
“Lower than I’d expected. There are going to be more and more people wanting to get away from it all, as the cities expand. You won’t take a loss if you resell.”
“Then you advise me to go ahead.”
“No.” He smiled at her, and her treacherous heart quivered. “I’d be much happier if you bought a nice new townhouse in Potomac or Chevy Chase.”
“I’d hate a house like that.”
“I know you would. And I feel the attractions of this house. Its imperfections don’t offend, they make you itch to get in there and fix them up. I’m being selfish. I want you to take something you would detest just to relieve my anxieties. Which is a helluva thing to ask anyone, much less someone for whom I feel as I do about you.”
“You know your opinion means a great deal to me.”
“That’s why I shouldn’t have had the crust to give it to you. Forget my feelings. Only be sure, Ellen, that you will be happy here. You won’t be afraid, alone and isolated?”
“I’m probably safer here than I would be in your dear suburbs.”
“Physically, yes. It’s your state of mind I’m concerned about.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you that story! Do you really think I’m that neurotic?”
Jack looked astonished, and then amused. He threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“My dear girl, believe me—your ghost is the one thing I’m not worried about!”
Chapter 3
THE NEXT TWO MONTHS PASSED WITH UNBELIEVABLE speed. At the beginning Ellen wondered how she was ever going to complete the complex chores that lay ahead—preparing three people for departure to scattered parts of the world, selling the Bethesda house, and getting her new house in order. In his unobtrusive way, Jack did a good deal of the work. He took care of all his own preparations; and if Ellen sewed on a few buttons that didn’t need sewing, he never knew about it, and she felt entitled to that final indulgence. Jack sold the house, managing to be on hand when it was necessary, despite his killing schedule at work. He even made Phil and Penny help with the constant cleaning Ellen insisted upon. Later, when she had time to think, Ellen wondered whether Jack hadn’t sold the house for less than he might have obtained, just to put an end to her exhausting orgies of house cleaning.
The speed with which her new house was readied for occupancy astounded Ellen and left her city friends vocal with envy. Either the old-fashioned virtues of hard work and reliability still lingered in small towns, or else Ed Salling had greater influence with local workmen than he would admit. Plumbers, electricians and carpenters came and went; each time Ellen drove down to inspect the house she found another job done.
The two older boys, Arthur and Sam, came back from college in the middle of the upheaval. After inspecting the house in the mountains they called a family conference and informed Ellen that it was ridiculous for her to spend all that money on work they could perfectly well do themselves. Her objections were firmly overruled; the three boys, equipped with sleeping bags and a case of canned spaghetti and meatballs, moved into the house and painted every piece of wood that showed. Penny seethed with frustration. Her school didn’t dismiss until the end of June, so it was only on weekends that she was allowed to wallow in paint and plaster.
The last week was a whirlwind of activity. When Ellen looked back on it afterward she couldn’t recall a single action clearly; it was a blur of moving figures carrying ladders and furniture and suitcases, pounding nails and hanging pictures, hemming new drapes and laying rugs. When her family left, all the heavy work was done, but there were enough minor chores to keep her busy for a week. And that, she knew, had been deliberately planned.
She stood in the doorway the final morning, waving as the station wagon drove off. The day before they had all put Penny on the plane for New York, where she would meet the chaperoned tour she was joining for a month in Europe. Jack was leaving next day; the boys would spend some time with friends in Washington before scattering on their summer activities—Arthur to a job as counselor at a boys’ camp, Sam to spend three months working in a northern city before returning to finish his doctorate, and Phil to a Canadian hiking tour with cousins of Jack’s. The last she saw of them was the red flare of the car’s taillights as it passed between the pines at the end of the drive.
The red lights blurred around the edges, and it wasn’t only because of the rain, which fell with appropriate dreariness. Ellen brushed the tears from her eyes, sniffed twice, and turned briskly back into the house.
She put a record on the hi-fi and settled down with the boxes of books that occupied a large part of the living room. The fireplace was flanked by built-in bookcases, freshly painted by the boys. A fire flickered on the hearth; Jack had lit it, as his last gesture. The therapy of music, literature, and a fire worked wonders with Ellen’s spirits, but the unpacking didn’t progress quickly; the books had to be dusted and arranged, and Ellen kept finding old favorites she hadn’t read for a long time. When the doorbell rang she was deep in the third chapter of The Immense Journey, and she had to flex her stiff knees before she could stagger to the door. The doorbell sounded again before she reached her goal, and she reminded herself to look for an antique knocker. The bell was an unnecessarily modern intrusion.
She had not been exaggerating when she told Jack she was not afraid to be alone. She opened the door without hesitation; but at the sight of the group on the porch she recoiled.
The man wasn’t alarming. Quite the contrary. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore an aged mackintosh dripping with rain. His hair, flattened by wet, was prematurely silver, to judge by the youthfulness of his smiling face. Ed Salling had pointed him out to Ellen on a former occasion, so she even knew who he was. But the dogs flanking him on either side would have made most people run for cover. They were huge Dobermans, black as midnight.
“Mrs. March? I’m Norman McKay, your nearest neighbor. I live up on the hill.”
“Oh, yes.” Ellen extended her hand. “Mr. Salling mentioned you. Won’t you come in?”
“I’d like to, if I won’t be interrupting. I didn’t drop in earlier because I knew how busy you were, but I saw your family leave a while ago and thought it might reassure you to know you have friends at hand.”
“That is kind,” Ellen said warmly. “You’re not interrupting anything that won’t be going on for the next month. I was just about to take a coffee break anyhow.”
She stepped back from the door. Instead of following her, Norman stooped and took the dogs by their collars.
“I hope the dogs didn’t frighten you?”
“Oh, no,” Ellen lied valiantly.
“I wanted to introduce you formally so you wouldn’t be alarmed if you met them on one of your walks. They won’t attack unless ordered to do so, but the very sight of them can be frightening if you come on them unexpectedly. Bruce—Champion—meet Mrs. March.”
Ellen extended a hand to each dog in turn. Ordinarily she was not afraid of dogs, but she appreciated Norman’s firm grip on the collars of this pair. That it was unnecessary she could well believe, for the animals appeared to be very well trained. All the same, it was a considerate gesture, indicating unusual thoughtfulness.
The dogs sniffed her hand politely and then lay down, simultaneously, like well-drilled acrobats—or machines, Ellen thought involuntarily.
“That’s amazing,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t even see you give a hand signal.”
“I did, though.” Norman grinned boyishly. “Behind my back. I can’t resist showing off. Do you mind if they wait on the porch?”
“Of course not.”
Ellen led the way into the living room, an apology for its cluttered state on her lips, but before she could speak Norman exclaimed,
“Books! Books that have been read! What a beautiful sight.”
“Messy is the word I would have used.” Ellen laughed.
“You have no idea how wonderful it will be to have a neighbor who reads. I feel like an alcoholic who has just called on a new arrival and found the living room full of bottles. An immediate empathy!”
“Then I won’t worry about how you will amuse yourself while I get the coffee.”
“No, indeed.”
When Ellen came back with a tray her guest was sitting cross-legged on the floor amid the scattered volumes of a set of Dickens. He leaped to his feet when she came in and took the tray from her. I wonder how old he is, she thought. He moves like a boy….
Norman’s enthusiasm for her favorite authors strengthened Ellen’s first favorable impression. By the time he rose to go they were on first-name terms.
“I hadn’t meant to stay so long,” he said sincerely. “Are you sure I can’t help you put these away before I go?”
“Thank you, no. But I appreciate your coming. It’s nice to know someone is nearby.”
“Call any hour of the day or night. But you’ve nothing to worry about,” he added reassuringly. “We haven’t had a serious crime for two hundred years.”
It was, Ellen thought, a rather odd interval to mention. Did he mean that there had been a serious crime in the village two centuries earlier? But Mary Baumgartner had lived almost two hundred and fifty years ago….
Before she could make up her mind whether or not to pursue the subject, there was an outburst of barking from the porch.
“Someone coming,” Norman said, frowning. “Are you expecting company?”
“No. Perhaps they scent Ishtar. They wouldn’t attack a cat, would they?”
“You have a cat?” Norman said, in a peculiar voice.
Cat lovers insist that felines exhibit evidence of extrasensory perception; certainly Ishtar had a habit of appearing, apparently out of thin air, when anyone mentioned her name. She came stalking through the archway into the living room, tail erect and switching. Instead of stopping at the sight of a stranger, as she usually did, she advanced steadily upon Norman, blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on his face. Ellen was surprised to see Norman retreat. His face had lost some of its color.
“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, making a grab for the cat. “I know some people are allergic….”
Ishtar writhed, yowling, and with a grim expression Ellen carried her to the cellar. When she returned to the living room, followed by a chorus of hoarse Siamese complaint, she saw that her guest was wiping perspiration from his face.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” he said wryly. “No, for God’s sake, Ellen, don’t apologize, that just makes me feel a bigger fool. I can’t help it, though. The doctor says it’s the worst case of ailurophobia he’s ever encountered.”
“Oh, dear,” Ellen said in distress. “I hope that doesn’t mean you can’t visit me again.”
“No, it’s not like an ordinary allergy. As I understand it, allergic distress can be caused by animal hair in the air or on the furniture. It doesn’t bother me to know there’s a cat in the house, so long as I don’t see it, or—or touch it.” A long, agonized shiver ran through him, and he smiled apologetically. “See! The very idea gives me gooseflesh. I’m sorry to have repaid your charming hospitality with this absurd performance. Next time you must come see me—and not because I’m chicken. I’d like to show off my library and the few bits of bric-a-brac I’ve picked up. What about dinner tomorrow? I’ll call for you.”
“I’d love to,” Ellen said, following him to the door. “But you needn’t—”
“Of course I needn’t. I want to. You won’t have to suffer bachelor cooking, I have an excellent couple living in. Martha is a narrow-minded old Puritan, but she cooks like an angel.”
As he opened the door, another chorus of barks burst out, and Ellen ducked involuntarily. Norman laughed.
“Now that is real tact,” he said. “Pretending to be afraid of my poor little dogs to make me feel better about my reaction to your vicious cat. Ellen, thank you. This was a joy. I’ll see you tomorrow. About seven? Good.”
As soon as he opened the screen door the dogs darted out and ran across the lawn. They were silent now, but their silence was more menacing than the deep barks had been. They seemed to be in pursuit of something. Ellen shivered sympathetically, thinking of a rabbit or squirrel fleeing before that pair of white-fanged behemoths.
There was no car in sight, and as Norman followed the dogs into the woods Ellen realized that there must be a footpath connecting the two houses. I’ll have to find it, she thought, watching the tall, erect figure vanish among the trees. This was definitely an acquaintance worth pursuing, as Jane Austen might have put it. She had not expected to find such a paragon right on her doorstep—a man who was attractive, wealthy, cultured, and intelligent. He even had a sense of humor. Her female friends in Washington would gloat over Norman; some of them had been thrusting eligible males at her for years, and speculating dangerously about her immunity.
Well, why not, she thought defiantly. A few years of solitude would be restful—but thirty or forty years? The rest of her life? Jack would never marry her. He would probably be captured by some glamorous European, and then she couldn’t even count on seeing him as a friend. For him she would always be good old Aunt Ellen.
