But as she showered and dressed she kept seeing Horton as he had stood in the hall, grinning down at her- his heavy features and massive chest; his hands, twice the size of hers. Harmless enough, no doubt; but not the figure one would like to meet in a dark alley. Or in a room of one's own house.
THE
telephone call had delayed her. She arrived breathless and perspiring on Mrs. Ferris' doorstep. Externally the house on Thirty-sixth Street resembled Ruth's- a red brick Georgetown Federal of approximately the same age. Unlike its neighbors which it also resembled, it had a forlorn appearance; the small front yard was filled with weeds and the windows on the ground floor had draperies or shades drawn, like blind white eyes.
Karen's knock was promptly answered by a stout, smiling woman with gray hair arranged in an astonishing beehive coiffure. She drew Karen inside. "I'm sure glad to see you, honey. Glad to see anybody, to tell the truth! You don't mind if I call you Karen, do you? Miz MacDougal talks about you so much I feel like I know you. She's about the only human soul that ever comes here, God bless her. I'd just about go loony from lonesomeness if it wasn't for her-and my soaps, of course. Couldn't live without my soaps."
The vestibule was a gloomy cavern lit only by a single bulb in the chandelier. "Sorry about the dark," the housekeeper went on in a lower voice. "She"-with a significant nod at a shadow-filled doorway-"she doesn't like to waste electricity. Old age takes some people that way. Miserly. Don't let her cheat you on them old scraps she's trying to sell."
"I won't." Karen was grateful for an ally.
A quavery, querulous voice issued from the cavernous darkness of the parlor. "Who's that? Who are you talking to, Betsy? Is it that girl? Bring her in, bring her in; don't stand out there whispering about me. I can hear you. I can hear you saying things about me."
At first glance Mrs. Ferris was only a shapeless bundle, swathed in shawls and lap rugs despite the stifling heat of the room. The housekeeper turned on an overhead light and the bundle took on identity. The face that peered at Karen was a mass of wrinkles, the head almost hairless except for a few dry white wisps; but the eyes that met hers were alive and aware.
"Turn that off, Betsy," the old woman croaked. "Waste, always waste!"
Betsy winked at Karen. "Now, Miz Ferris, how can the young lady look at your junk in the dark?"
Mrs. Ferris acknowledged the truth of the statement with a grunt. Her clawed hands fumbled at something on her lap.
Blinking in the light-dim enough in itself, but dazzling after the gloom that had prevailed before-Karen was afraid to move from the doorway. The room was so cluttered with furniture, there was scarcely room to pass between the little tables and the overstuffed chairs, the horsehair sofas and the bookcases and bureaus and desks. And every surface was strewn with fabric. Crumpled silks and ragged linens draped the chairs, scraps of embroidery and lace black with dirt lay heaped on tables and footstools.
Karen's heart dropped down into her sandals. Junk was right. How was she going to get out of here without buying something she couldn't use?
Mrs. Ferris raised her hands. Suspended from her twisted fingers was a web of creamy lace. "My wedding veil," she croaked. "Valenciennes. Worth a fortune. How much?"
The transaction took hours. At first the old lady haggled over every item and told interminable stories about each scrap. The stories, some tragic, some touching, some frankly slanderous, would have fascinated Karen if she had known any of the people concerned, and if she had not been so hot. She couldn't decide whether Mrs. Ferris was too stingy to turn on the air-conditioning, or so old she needed heat to keep her body functioning.
She
didn't perspire, but sweat beaded Karen's face and made her blouse stick to her body. As time went on, she would have been glad to pay any price just to get away, but the housekeeper's nods and winks confirmed her suspicion that Mrs. Ferris was enjoying the company, and the bargaining.
At last she began to tire and to wander down pathways into the past, addressing Karen as Susie ("Her daughter," the housekeeper whispered. "Just say, 'yes, Mama.'") When Karen offered a flat sum for the last few boxes, sight unseen, she nodded wearily.
She perked up, though, when Karen handed over the money-Mrs. MacDougal had warned her she would be expected to pay cash-and scribbled her name on the prepared receipt. Karen had to call a taxi to carry away the loot, and when she left the room Mrs. Ferris was chuckling to herself as she counted the bills and silver, briskly as a bank cashier.
As she stood on the step with Betsy, waiting for the taxi, the housekeeper said, "You gave the old dear a real shot in the arm. She'll squirrel that money away before I get back in the room; Lord knows how much she's got tucked away, under chair cushions and behind pillows. And she'll talk for days about what a sharp bargainer she is."
"I hope I didn't cheat her."
"Good land, honey, that stuff has been rotting in the attic for thirty years or more. I'm glad to get it out of the house."
"But won't her children resent her selling family heirlooms? I mean, the wedding veil-"
"Well, honey, it's hers, isn't it? Seems to me she's entitled to do what she wants with it. There's no family except a daughter and granddaughter, and they sure don't put themselves out any for her; one of 'em comes by every month or so, and it's downright indecent how disappointed they are when they find she's still alive and kicking. Here's your taxi, honey."
The cabdriver good-naturedly helped Karen carry the overflowing cartons to the door and then left, his headlights cutting twin beams through the darkening street. Alexander ambled to the door and Karen began tugging the boxes into the house. She was anxious to examine her purchases in a decent light. Either she had made an excellent deal or she had just wasted $78.50. If it was the former, she had no qualms; she had had to work for every penny.
As she dragged the last of the boxes inside, the dog made a sudden dart for the door. Karen grabbed and missed; Alexander scampered down the steps and ran to the gate, barking furiously.
Thank goodness she had closed the gate. She went after the dog. He had stopped barking, but he seemed to be intent on something across the street.
A
pool of darkness had gathered there, equidistant between two streetlights. The windows of the opposite house were unlighted. After a moment Alexander turned and went back into the house.
Until that moment Karen had forgotten her conversation with the lawyer. She was sorry to have been reminded. Not that Alexander's aggressiveness was significant; he might have been barking at a squirrel or a shadow. Nevertheless she retreated quickly into the house and locked the front door.
Alexander was sniffing at the cartons. A violent sneeze indicated his opinion; he stalked off, shaking his head.
Karen pulled the boxes into the dining room. She had cleared the long table and covered the surface with thick layers of newspaper so she could use it as a work table. She began unloading her purchases.
At first she was inclined to agree with Alexander, and her heart sank. Seventy-eight dollars wasn't much money, she supposed, but from the point of view of someone who had none at all, it was too much to waste on material that could never bring a profit. Just touching the fabrics made her want to scrub her hands. She reminded herself that she had been spoiled by the superb condition of Ruth's and Mrs. MacDougal's clothes. The things she had bought from Mrs. Mac's other friends had not been up to that standard, but neither had they been as bad as this. Most of the cloth reeked of mold and mustiness. Some appeared to have been stored without being washed. She shook out a long pink organdy dress stained all down the front; it looked as if it had been wrapped around a rusty iron frying pan.
But there were treasures among the trash. The laces were beautiful, ranging from separate pieces of edging and insertion only a foot long to big sections large enough to have been overskirts or dress panels. Most were of cotton; they would respond well to plain soap and water.
She took a double handful of laces, some of the ones that would require what her pamphlets called "heroic treatment," and carried them upstairs. Filling the basin in the bathroom with warm water and detergent, she left them to soak overnight. Tomorrow she would rinse them thoroughly and wash them again, adding a small amount of ordinary bleach to the water.
It was still early-early on a Friday night, the beginning of the weekend. Karen raised the window in the master bedroom, which looked over the street. The house across the way showed lighted windows now; the sound of voices drifted across to her. A puff of stale, hot air warmed her face and she lowered the window. Georgetown gardens were beautiful, but she didn't envy the people who were sitting in the one across the street, talking and drinking and having fun, in spite of the heat. At least she didn't envy them much…
She went downstairs. Alexander raised his head when she turned on the lights in the parlor, but he did not move. He had refused to occupy his bed-antique basketry, lined with crushed velvet-when it was in the kitchen, so Karen had given up and put it in the parlor, on the hearthrug.
"Come on," she said. Her voice sounded strange in the empty room. "You're not much, Alexander, but you're better than nothing. How about coming upstairs with me?"
A rude sniff was the only reply. Karen had been prepared for a refusal. She held out the chicken breast she had taken from the refrigerator. Alexander was passionately fond of chicken-only the white meat, of course.
It took a while, but she finally got Alexander, and his bed, into her room. The only book on the bedside table was the Georgetown legends book. The phantom of Dolley Madison held no charm for Karen that night; she found a children's book in one of the bookcases in the hall.
Little Women
was as bland and harmless as a piece of literature could be, and it finally put Karen to sleep. Yet she dreamed that night, for the first time since Ruth and Pat had left. She dreamed Horton was waltzing with Mrs. Ferris, he in his chauffeur's uniform, she swathed in her wedding veil like a mummy in its wrappings. The dance grew wilder and Horton lifted the fragile old woman clear off her feet, whirling her around like a withered leaf; and as the music swelled she shriveled and turned brown, until she
was
a leaf, sere and dead, but giant in size. Then Horton, grinning till his gums showed, let her go and she fluttered in diminishing circles around the room until someone opened a window and out she blew into the darkness. A faint shriek, like the squeal of a rusty hinge, shivered and died into silence.
KAREN
had never believed in the virtues of being early to bed and early to rise, but in Washington, in the summer, the second part of the adage made good sense. From dawn to midmorning-sometimes earlier, during a severe heat wave-the temperature was at least tolerable.
It was a surprisingly sociable time of day, too. Joggers and runners and exercise buffs were out in full force, not only because of the relative coolness but because most of them worked during the day. Karen had been jogging, or trying to, for over a week. The first time she emerged from the house into the pale light and long, soft shadows, she had been self-conscious and a little uneasy. Now she enjoyed it. There was a camaraderie among the would-be healthy, a pleased awareness of their superiority over the slothful majority who were still snoring in their beds. The truly dedicated ran in a state of profound detachment from reality, their eyes fixed in vacancy, their faces bright-red and streaming; but there were plenty like Karen, who had time for a friendly wave or grin, or gasped greeting, as they stumbled along. The tree-lined streets seemed cooler than they really were, and the towpath along the old B and O Canal was delightful at that time of day, shaded by surrounding buildings, with the water rippling gently under the footbridges.
Julie had given her a copy of the "new diet." Julie collected diets, though as far as anyone could observe she followed none. Karen was trying to stick to this one, though she found cottage cheese for breakfast an abomination difficult to accept, much less enjoy.
It was only a few minutes after eight when she returned to the house; time enough to do a load of laundry before she went to work. She couldn't believe how much she enjoyed washing clothes-not even in a machine, but tediously and carefully by hand.
The pamphlets she had obtained from the Smithsonian and the book Mrs. Mac had supplied intimidated her at first, with their dire warnings and their insistence on distilled water and special cleansing agents. In fact, they were singularly lacking in practical, precise advice. Most were written by or for museum curators, whose chief concern was preservation rather than appearance or wear-ability; Karen got the distinct impression that if these experts could have had their way, the garments wouldn't even have been displayed, but would have been packed away forever in special containers, safe from damaging light and touch.
The few books written for wearers and sellers of vintage clothing went to the opposite extreme. If the clothes can't be washed and cleaned by ordinary methods, don't bother with them, was the gist of their advice. Karen had had to rely on her own judgment and common sense in most cases. Anxious experimentation had proved to her that the white linens and cottons responded beautifully to soap and water and a careful use of bleaching agents. She learned to detect worn spots that might give way when wet, and she found that some long-set stains such as rust could not be removed without destroying the cloth itself. She tried the old methods-sun-bleaching, or lemon juice and water with a pinch of salt. One of Mrs. Mac's friends, delighted at finding an interested listener, told her how the frilly voluminous undergarments had been laundered when she was a girl-scrubbed by hand on a ridged washboard, starched and sprinkled and rolled and ironed with heavy irons heated on the stove. Karen wasn't moved to buy a washboard or give up her handy electric steam iron, but she searched the stores for old-fashioned Argo starch and followed the directions on the box, boiling and straining and diluting it as directed. It gave a better finish than spray starch, her mentor assured her, and lasted through several washings.