CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CLOUDS THICKENED OVER THE CARRIAGE HOUSE AS THE FIRST brush-strokes of night began to darken its crude brick-stone face. Like a hideously painted mask, its reddish brick front grimaced secrets of those who had lived within for so many years. Images sprang into miniature jet-black view between the cracks and crevices of its malevolent, yet comic makeup: tiny pirouetting figures, dancers from another time, another stage, hellbent to express the intensity of their own pent-up emotions, while willing themselves to escape from their own stone skin.

Chandal stopped for a moment, listened to the whispers of the tree branches blowing in the slight breeze.

Secrets... the will-o’-the-wisp sound echoed in her mind. She went from room to room, drawing curtains and turning on a few lamps. In the den the light was especially dim and gloomy, and she made a mental note to get a package of higher-watt lightbulbs.

She sighed and turned her eyes to the yellowed parchment which she now held stretched tight between her hands.

“All human clay is subject to decay. But in Hell, we shall still be alive in this body—and this is better than annihilation.”

Standing completely still, her face pale, her eyes squinting from the room’s poor light source, she considered this. Considered the carefully scribed saying written in a fine Victorian penmanship across the deteriorating, perishable parchment paper.

After a moment she laid the scroll aside. It was old, possibly worth something. In any event, it was a curiosity worth saving. Strange words to be written in such dainty penmanship. Nothing else in the desk drawer seemed of interest. She tilted the drawer over the trash basket and let an assortment of debris and dust empty out. Then, using a damp cloth, she cleaned the grimy interior of the drawer.

Her thoughts threatened to wander toward last night and Eric Savage, who hadn’t called all day. What was she expected to do tomorrow—simply show up for rehearsal as though nothing had happened? Or sit and wait until Eric called? She shoved her chin forward and decided to go to rehearsal. The most he could do was to send her home. And she didn’t believe he would do that.

Unwillingly she let her confidence lapse a notch. Most people seemed to have dark, unpredictable sides to their personalities, shadow-selves so diverse as to completely alter, and sometimes dominate, the original creation. God knew she had her opposing slants. Last night, she had met Eric Savage’s divergent personality.

A hectic flush of heat worked into her throat. Her thoughts raced around, unable to fall into any one line of reasoning.

It was really just a few instants that she had retained, nothing else. A fleeting memory of Eric’s hands on her breasts, squeezing too hard. Something brutal about his eyes, as though they were punishing her for having digusted him. A leg flipped over her body, pinning her. The word “Rachel” spoken in an odious, shrill tone.

The question—the thing that eluded her—was how she had gotten into Eric’s bedroom. She had gone over it time after time and always her memory stopped at a certain point. She had gotten up from the couch almost ill. She had lost the part, Eric had said, but something in his voice, some teasing element told her he didn’t mean it, that there was still something she could do about it.

Hesitantly, almost timidly, she had moved. Eric’s eyes had followed her. Had she been seductive in any way? That hadn’t been her intention. She had merely crossed the room to stare at an unusual pen-and-ink sketch in a small chromium frame.

Then in the next instant, she had raised her eyes. It was all but impossible, yet there she had stood, naked before Eric Savage’s bedroom mirror, and she had known that in some horrible way she had degraded herself.

It made no difference to her why it had happened. It had happened. She knew she should never have gone to bed with him. Not then, not that way. She knew only too well. But the knowing hadn’t been enough, had it? She had allowed herself the experience anyway. But had she allowed it? It was hard to say. She had never even known the urge was there. If so, she would have guarded herself. Especially since it hadn’t helped anything. Her part in the play, apparently, was as much in jeopardy as ever.

How could she really be sure, she thought now with sharp loathing, exactly what Eric Savage would do? What any man would do, for that matter?

“Why don’t you pitch out that shelf of old magazines?” Mike Hammer snapped from the corner of the den.

Chandal turned with a start. She stood facing him as though suddenly stricken with amazement that she was really there, facing him in this small, shabby room. More to the point, she was amazed that he was there! She had completely forgotten his presence, despite the fact that he had been at work for most of the afternoon plastering the walls.

She waited, twisting her hands together.

“I... I think you could sell some of them to an antique shop,” she began slowly, “if you wanted to bother....

“Not me,” he sneered as if she had accused him of being a ragman.

She looked at him with sorrowful eyes.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said.

“I didn’t say you did. I’m just not interested, that’s all.”

“Okay!” Chandal suddenly laughed. “Then we’ll pitch them.” She gathered the magazines up in two armloads and dropped them into the large wicker basket she was using for trash. When she turned around to see what Mike’s reaction had been to her sudden and swift obedience, she discovered that he had gone back to work, slapping plaster into place.

Motionless, she watched the wide expanse of his back, watched the muscles in his arms twitch heavily once or twice. She studied him in silence for a long time. Studied his broad shoulders and immense body that seemed to fill the entire surface of the wall he was now working on. With each new dip of his body, as he leaned down for fresh plaster, came a short gasp of air.

During the past week, Chandal had found that Mike all but inspired a feeling of visceral terror in her, an emotion so intense and so confusing that it required all her energies to avoid experiencing it, or at least to deny its existence. She had the strange sensation that Mike had been coming to her in her sleep. Dreams, she had told herself. Yet each experience had been distressingly vivid. There had been no sense of struggle, only a soft, effortless seduction of sorts. And there, in the shadows, Doreen was watching with glee. A terrible, pitiless exaltation.

“It has been ordered,” she would whisper. She would say it over and over again as though Chandal should understand and sometimes Chandal thought she did understand on some deep somnambulistic level. Each dream brought with it a source of constant irritation and frustration. A blend of revulsion and longing.

Suddenly Mike stopped his work to glance over his shoulder. He saw Chandal standing directly behind him. He brought his hand up to his forehead and flicked salty beads of sweat from his finger to the floor. Awkwardly, Chandal reached for the clean towel that hung over the desk chair. She stepped closer.

“Here,” she said.

“Thanks.”

Nervously she turned away, her eyes scanning the room.

“This is really a terrible room, isn’t it?” she said, not for the first time, and wondered why the only window in the den, the tiny arched window in the north wall that faced the courtyard, had been sealed off.

“Whose bright idea was that anyhow?” she asked, her head cocked at the window.

“Beats me....

“Can we do something about it?”

“Oh, sure. I really have nothing better to do than plastering your walls and knocking out your windows.”

Chandal pointedly ignored his sarcasm. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Old ladies drink tea.”

“Coffee?”

“I’ll take a cold beer if you have one.”

“I don’t have one.”

Their eyes locked for what seemed like a lifetime, but was in reality no more than a second or two. It was sufficient for Chandal to feel that she knew everything there was to know about him, past, present and future, and that there was a current which crackled between them.

Chandal wasted no time in averting her gaze, glancing at the wallpaper she had selected for the room. “Do you think this paper will lighten the atmosphere in here?”

Mike looked at the paper briefly. “I guess,” he muttered and returned to work.

“I could add a few lights,” she said slowly, “but there is only just the one wall outlet.” She hesitated and waited for him to answer. He continued to work. “Electricians are so expensive. I guess I’ll just have to wait,” she said and moved closer. She found her eyes riveted to the back of his neck where his thick dark hair lay in longish curls. “Why in heaven’s name do you suppose that window was sealed up?” she said hastily for something to say and flushed when she realized she was retreading old ground.

“Drafty,” Mike said in a curiously gentle voice and flipped fresh plaster on the wall.

“Yes. You’re probably’ right. The heater in this room isn’t very big.”

“That’s what I mean.”

Irresistibly drawn to take a step closer, she peered over his shoulder. “Anything I can do to help?”

“No, I’m about done.” He smoothed out the last of the plaster and then laid down his trowel and turned to face her.

They were too close for convention’s sake and yet he moved closer until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. Chandal’s heart skipped strangely. An awareness that she was on treacherous ground flooded her being, but she was unable to turn away, was completely helpless to take her eyes from Mike’s handsome face.

He smiled. “I’ll let that dry. Finish it in the morning.”

“I won’t be here,” she said.

“I have the key.”

“Oh, yes—that’s right.”

For no reason Chandal could put her finger on, she felt her cheeks burn when Mike grinned and walked out the front door without saying another word. As if she... hell! Forget it.

She went back to cleaning drawers. She still had an evening to kill before meeting Billy Deats at The Boulevard at eleven. Dust was thick in the desk’s interior, great old rolled top desk that it was. It filtered down in little puffs every time she removed another item from the drawer. It caught in her throat like sticky fiber and even coughing did not completely expel it.

Digging through the pigeonholes she found old stamps, a stack of yellowing envelopes, a broken pocket watch, pens and pencils and several cigars which crumbled almost immediately upon her touch. Something about the way the cigars disintegrated in her hand left her with a vague unsettled feeling. She had always feared death. She had always been afraid to even permit herself to consider it.

Experiencing a certain disquiet, she opened her hand and allowed the loose tobacco to fall like dirty snow into the wicker basket. The action itself became a baptism of sorts.

Turning once more, she unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse, pushed her sleeves to her elbows and faced the desk. In the next instant her hand moved over an oddly shaped bronze handle just above the writing surface of the desk. The seams of the little drawer were so clogged with dirt and grime that she had thought the handle a decoration. The drawer was small, with dimensions roughly those of a pocket-sized cigar box. Hesitantly she opened it and reached in. Her hand closed on a small stack of business cards. She made an involuntary move to toss them out and then hesitated. Arthur M. Showalter, the card read. Jeweler. A business on Broadway.

Once again she reached into the drawer and withdrew a passport. A thirty-odd-year-old man, according to Showalter’s photo. Distinguished as opposed to handsome.

The crying began then, though at first Chandal did not think anything of it. God, the baby probably needs changing again and feeding again and walking again—whatever made me get myself into a fool mess like this... all for what? Nothing. He loves her—he’s always loved her....

Chandal looked up sharply, the passport still in her hand.

Now the crying was deafening.

Where?

What baby?

She felt a coil of terror unwrap itself in a single shooting spurt until she heard herself begin to scream too, her cries blending with those of the baby’s. She tried to suppress the sob which rose in her throat, desperately restricting the muscles in her larynx. It was useless.

On her feet now, she began to search for what could not be there and yet must be there. So close—just across the desk, it seemed.

Nothing, nothing.

“His crib used to be there,” explained the voice coldly. “Arthur wanted him downstairs so he didn’t have to listen to the crying.”

Chandal still screamed, still groped with trembling hands through vacant space.

“He was a bad baby. He would have grown up to be like his father. I couldn’t have that.”

In a final paralyzing scream, Chandal found her hand clenched tight. She could not open it. Fear had turned to anger. To hate. She walked forward. She remembered now where his crib was. Just there, not three steps from the desk. Violently now, her hand curled tighter. She could feel the handle in her palm. She couldn’t wait to see Arthur’s face when...

Hand raised in a sudden sharp sweep, she paused, looking down into the crib. The hateful little face was screwed up tight. Tiny hands were fists beating the air. With a growl of animal rage, she began to plunge her hand downward....

Chandal paused, trembling.

Silence.

She fell backward, hitting the desk sharply. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks, but she was past being able to relate to that. She could not even relate to her right hand that even now refused to relax.

Only one thing was clear as she donned trench coat and hastily changed from house slippers to flat walking shoes. She had to get out of there. She had to breathe some fresh air. She had to get outside her own madness.

She ran to get her purse, found the keys on the mantel and flung herself through the door as though pursued. What is happening to me? she thought hopelessly. What kind of madness? And felt her hand close around a crumpled bit of paper in her coat pocket. It was Showalter’s business card, held all through the emotional explosion, and then shoved into her pocket almost in ribbons, but still an avenue to explore.

She stopped to hold the card up to the light. A sudden memory of a very old man. “Heavens,” he had said, “but she was such a pretty thing at nineteen, charming and well informed—ah!” Chandal had watched the old man’s faded blue eyes light up. “I have never seen anyone quite like her—never!”

She walked faster. She already knew the place. She had been there several times. She wasn’t sure just when, but she had definitely been there.

She recognized the shop immediately, even from outside, peering in through the glass. Yes, she had been here before. She also recognized the jeweler who sat in the rear of the shop, jeweler’s glass over one eye. Not the older man—this man couldn’t be over forty-five.

“Yes, can I help you?” he asked in antisocial tones.

“Is—is Mr. Showalter here?” Her hand closed nervously around the crumpled card in her pocket.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh, well, it’s late. I’m surprised you’re open at this hour.”

“Nine to nine. That’s the only way I can make any money these days.”

“I see.” She paused, then added, “Does Mr. Showalter come in earlier?”

“Not earlier or later. He’s dead.”

“Oh,” gasped Chandal softly and felt a small shudder go through her body. “Thank you. Thanks very much....

“Can I help you with anything?” he frowned, disliking to lose business.

“No, thanks. Ah, Mr. Showalter—he was the same Showalter who lived in the old carriage house on West 71st Street?”

“All his life.”

“Oh, I thought somehow he was only there for a short—”

“All his life,” repeated the man laconically.

“I’m sorry to ask this, but did he die recently?”

“No, about three years ago.”

“Was he married?”

“No.” The man eyed her suspiciously. “Are you a relative or something?”

“Nothing like that. I just wondered. Ah, one more thing. Was he living with children? Niece, nephew...?”

“What?”

“Children. Were there any children living there with him?”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking, you’ve got the wrong man.”

“I see. Well....” The man had dismissed her now, had headed back to his work bench. Chandal still hesitated, now glancing at the blue velvet jewelry pad. An image of a ring appeared. Suddenly she realized she was staring at her ring. Justin had given it to her. She frowned. One of the two sisters—not Elizabeth, but Magdalen, the older, frailer sister—had had such a ring.

Chandal’s head spun sickeningly. Remembering was not pleasant, not pleasant at all. Magdalen’s picture hanging in the basement of the brownstone. Justin had taken her picture, hung it there. The basement had been Justin’s darkroom. Now she wanted to stop the flow of memory, but could not. Justin lying in Magdalen’s lap. How disgusting. Magdalen’s white hair, catching a rosy glint from the rose-colored light shade. Her skin seemed for a moment young, soft and satiny.

“It was all her fault. You can see that, can’t you?”

Blindly, Chandal turned and stumbled from the shop. She could see herself descending the basement stairs of the brownstone. The manikins. There had been manikins and the little door in the corner, the one that led up the side stairs to the attic. It was up in the attic. That thing... what was it—hidden away up in the attic....

She stopped suddenly. Brakes had screeched—a car had missed her by inches. She tried desperately to retrieve her thought. What was she just thinking? Reality pressed in on her. The brownstone faded. She was standing in the middle of the street. Traffic had come to a standstill. People stood staring.

Somehow she started to function. Rapidly she picked her way through traffic and put distance between herself and curious pedestrians. It was only eight-thirty, she noted, still a long time before she was supposed to meet Billy. Her stomach seemed to churn and she realized she had hardly eaten a bite all day. Suddenly ravenous, she ducked into a coffee shop and absorbed herself in a club sandwich deluxe. The food was a vast relief and for a few hungry minutes she felt very calm.

Then she sat, quietly, satiated, and was able to see quite simply and with great clarity that she was in such trouble that escape was no longer an easy matter. That perhaps it was even possible that escape was no longer feasible. Grimly she laid her hands together and closed her eyes. It was funny how her one hope kept boiling down to Billy Deats. That perhaps Billy could help her when no one else could. It was more than a thought, more than a vague hope; it was a consuming passion that drove her headlong down Central Park West, although she knew she was too early, that Billy wouldn’t even have returned from the theater. But she had no self-control, nor reason, nor common sense. Then, blinking, dazed, she came to an abrupt halt in the midst of a large crowd, some thirty or so people gathered in a cluster at the front entrance of The Boulevard. Three police cars waited, their roof lights sending red flickers of spinning light across the confused expressions on most faces.

The high-pitched, sharp wail of a siren stabbed upward from the west. A police emergency truck scurried around the corner and came to a screeching stop between jammed traffic. Somebody is dead, Chandal thought. They never send out those emergency trucks unless someone is dead. The siren was like the distressed cry of a woman moaning at a wake. Its blast quieted as two attendants sprang from the truck. Now, who could be dead? Chandal wondered. Had a woman been mugged? Had a child accidentally swallowed pills, thinking them candy? Had a man suffered a heart attack?

“Stand back, please,” barked the policeman.

Another policeman turned and said, “He’s dead.”

Chandal pushed closer, watched as the attendants lifted a coat away from the body. Whose body? “Oh, my God,” Chandal gasped, and stared down at Billy Deats, who lay crumpled in a heap, his hair streaked and caked with blood, his face swollen, his black bathrobe open from his waist down.

“Move back. Move back!”

People were being shoved now and excited voices were heard everywhere. Still, Chandal could not move, could not take her eyes from Billy’s face, the flesh of his arms and legs that hung flaccid, utterly without form, without life.

Quickly the attendants lifted his body and dropped it into a plastic bag. The image seared Chandal’s mind like a hot branding iron. She knew she would see that broken body, that bloated face for the rest of her life.

With the quick flick of a zipper, the image was gone.

“He jumped from the 10th floor,” shrilled a voice front-right of her.

“What was that wooden thing he was holding?”

“It was a cross.”

Another voice—masculine: “He was holding it in his hands. Some kind of a religious nut.”

“It seemed to me he was actually nailed to it,” a woman explained. “Didn’t you see the palms of his hands? They were both bleeding. And his feet....”

“Don’t be ridiculous. His whole body was bleeding....

Chandal stepped swiftly away and lost her dinner. It did not, however, erase the image from her mind. The image of Billy Deats lying limp upon a large wooden cross. Broken by a skyscraper leap into death. And yet Chandal, like the woman, had seen Billy’s bloody palms, his bloody feet.

She turned back at last and saw Billy’s body being loaded into the white emergency truck. But to her, Billy would always be as she had just seen him. In a shattered cruciform position, lying on the sidewalk outlined in chalk, bathed in a pool of his own blood.