The Woman Next Door (8 page)

"Who were you calling, Tim?"

"Calling?" He reappeared in the living room doorway. "No one. Just time-temperature."

"Oh?" She wheeled herself to the middle of the room, flashed him another perplexed smile, but now it was mixed with accusation. "Something's wrong, Tim, and I wish you'd tell me what it is."

"No. Nothing. Just this crap with the developer."

"You're sure?"

He went to her, leaned over, and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'Tm sure."

G
reg Courtney was too numbed with fright to cry. He didn't know what he'd done, precisely, but it didn't matter. This place mattered, because it was dark here and chillingly damp, and if the house itself had always made him uncomfortable—although he had lived in it all his life—the cellar had always scared him silly. The reason was simple: There were things in the cellar that couldn't live above ground, things that came into it from the earth surrounding, things that crowded into the darkness once the light was turned off and the door closed—once the cellar was left to itself.
Cellars
were for dead things because cellars were below ground.

Greg started to shake uncontrollably. He realized that he was scaring himself, that it was a stupid thing to do, that cellars were just places where furnaces were put, and boxes and old furniture. Sometimes cellars flooded, and then it was a real hassle getting them cleaned up again.

He wanted, needed to cry. The shuffling sounds of the things slipping toward him in the darkness would be covered by his crying But he was still too numbed, disbelieving, frightened. He thought suddenly how wonderful it would be if he could go to some small point in his mind where the reality of this place would be far beyond him, where he would be out of its reach—invisible, inside himself.

He knew there was a light above him, that it would be easy to reach, but quickly discarded the idea of trying, because the numbing fear in him now was better than what the sudden turning on of the light would show him.

He knew what he should be thinking—about other things, silly things: clowns, unicorns, barber poles. But he found that he could only think the words, and they were really code words for the things that existed in cellars, the things that were slipping toward him in the darkness.

He lashed out suddenly with both hands. The back of his right hand connected with something metallic, and a hot pain settled into his hand and arm. He swore—"Shit!" and realized it was the first time he had ever used the word. If his mother heard him . . .
 
Pain overcame his thoughts. He knew he had hurt himself. He stumbled toward the cellar stairs, found them, started up. "Mommy?" he called, tearfully. "Mommy!"

The cellar door opened; the sudden light blinded him momentarily. "Mommy, I hurt myself." His eyes adjusted; he saw that the doorway was empty.

He moved quickly up the stairs—the darkness behind, the light ahead, the pain pushing him. And vaulted through the kitchen, into the hallway, then to the entrance to the living room.

Because the curtains were open, he could see that a light snowfall had begun. And he could see that his mother was at the other side of the large room, near the windows, her back to him. "Mommy?" He noticed that the pain had ebbed, that his band felt merely numb. "Mommy, I hurt myself. So I came upstairs. It's okay, isn't it?"

Marilyn said nothing. Greg saw that she was holding something in her left hand—a sheet of paper.

He moved forward a few steps, stopped. "Mommy?"

Marilyn spoke, her tone even but tense: "I forgave you before, Greg. I sent you to your room, but it was necessary. You had to be punished before you could be forgiven. You understand that, I'm sure. You're a smart boy. You're my son. But this time you have
deliberately
, deliberately defied me. And I cannot countenance that. You understand why, don't you? You understand that if I let you do what you wanted to do, you would eventually destroy me? You understand that, I'm sure." She moved her left hand backward a few inches to indicate the piece of paper she held. Her tone became crisp, demanding: "I see from this . . . this
obscenity
that you have started to destroy me already, to put me out of your heart. And I don't blame
you
, Greg; it's the
animal
in you that I blame. And that animal has to be brought under control. Do you understand that, Gregory?"

"My hand hurts real bad, Mommy."

"I'll explain it to you; you'll understand. You're a smart boy. You're my son." She crumpled the piece of paper slowly as she talked. "You are going through what's called
puberty
. It means you're becoming . . . a man." Her tone softened very slightly. "It's a natural thing, Greg. But it's evil, too, because it destroys the child in you, my child. Do you understand?"

Greg did not understand. He mumbled something unintelligible, then fell silent.

"I am letting you come up from the cellar, Greg, but only under one condition." She held her hand out behind her, the crumpled piece of paper in it. "This is the evil in you coming out, Greg—an evil we must keep
inside
you. So, it's clear what you must do, isn't it?" She turned halfway, looked Greg squarely in the eye. "It's clear," she repeated, her tone crisp, demanding, "what you must do, isn't it?"

Greg said nothing. He moved quickly across the room, took the piece of paper from her. He glanced out the window. The snowfall was much heavier now. A storm was coming.

He put the crumpled piece of paper into his mouth, let his saliva work on it.

"That's right, Greg. I told you
you
were a smart boy. You're my son." She walked halfway across the room, stopped, turned. "There'll be nothing about this to your father."

Greg nodded.

"Good." She paused, then continued: "Supper will be ready soon, and I want you nice and scrubbed before you come to the table. That cellar is filthy."

Greg nodded again.

Marilyn smiled and left the room.

Five minutes later, Greg swallowed the ball of mush that his letter to
Coni
Weeker
had become.

C
hristine tried to make herself comfortable, but realized the room wouldn't allow it. She had felt the same way several days before when first entering the Courtney house with Tim, that it disliked visitors, that it was a showpiece not meant to be lived in. Entering this room today, she had been aware of the paths the wheels of her chair made in the expensive oriental rug, and she caught herself glancing at Marilyn Courtney for signs of disapproval. But the woman had been almost cloyingly gracious from the moment Christine appeared at the side door.

Now, regardless of Marilyn's apparent cordiality, Christine sat very stiffly, the corners of her lips turned slightly upward in what she knew was not really a smile.

There was a cup of tea on a spindle-legged
cherrywood
table to her right, but, in fear of spilling it, she knew she wouldn't touch it. Marilyn sat cross-legged on a velvet rococo couch between the living room's two front windows.

"It's really very good to see you again, Christine. I very much enjoyed you and your husband's visit the other day. Your husband's a charming man." The condescension in Marilyn's tone was almost palpable.

"Thank you, Marilyn. I think he's all right."

Marilyn grinned; her teeth, Christine noted, were large, straight, and healthy. "That's a nice thing to say, Christine. You and your husband seem to have—what's his name again? Tim?—you seem to have what I call a playful marriage. And that's all right. In time —you're both quite young—I'm sure your relationship will mature."

Christine's lips moved nervously, trying to form a reply. Marilyn went on, as if in apology:

"That is in no way a judgment of you and your husband as individuals, Christine. I'm sure you are both very fine people, a real asset to the district, unlike some I can name. But that's another matter. No, when I say your relationship will mature, I mean only that it will grow solid, secure, if for no other reason than that it persists. Do you follow me?"

"I don't know. Maybe, in a way."

"I'll explain it all to you while I show you my house."

Christine looked quizzically at her.

"Would you
like
to see my house?" Marilyn said.

"We didn't have time for it the other day."

"Of course I'd like to see it, Marilyn, but—"

"Oh." Marilyn's gaze settled a moment on the wheelchair. "Yes. Well, that's certainly not going to stop you from seeing the first floor. And there's plenty to see. I've spent years, literally years, furnishing this house" (Christine fought back a grin; Marilyn had used nearly the same words two days ago), "and it is my pride and joy. I am, by design and by inclination, a homebody, Christine. Women's libbers can go off and burn their bras and work as pipe fitters, but I am very happy, thank you, to see to my house and to my family." (And those were
exactly
the same words Marilyn had used two days ago. Christine had always thought such repetition was a sign of senility. It was also a sign of obsession, she realized now.)

"Let me
tell
you about my house first," Marilyn said.

Christine nodded quickly. "Yes, please do."

"It's authentic mid-Victorian, built around eighteen seventy-four. The original owners were a banker and his family. Quite a large family, of course that's why the house is so large. His name was
Sporrington
"—she spelled it—"and he was a grotesque man. At the end of his life, he weighed all of three hundred and fifty-five pounds. He strangled to death at the dinner table. You'll see the table itself—a genuine Duncan Phyfe, inlaid mahogany. And while he was dying—while he was sitting there strangling to death on a chicken bone, or whatever it was—he stuck the table three times with his fork. In desperation, I'm sure. The marks are still there. You'll see them. And"—she beamed—"I have the fork, too."

Christine grimaced. "Marilyn, I really don't—"

"Duncan Phyfe," Marilyn cut in, "Eastlake,
Haviland
, Faience Manufacturing,
Gillinder
and Sons. Do these names mean anything to you, Christine?"

"Well," Christine began, "I
have
heard of Duncan Phyfe, but I always thought it was Duncan
and
Phyfe."

"No, no. He was only one man, a furniture maker, of course, and that was his name—Duncan Phyfe. I've spent literally years furnishing this house, Christine, making it into the showpiece that it is, making it comfortable for my family. We have few things in this life to cling to, Christine; the most important, of course, is the home we live in. . . and the people who live in it with us." She stood, crossed the room quickly, went around to the back of Christine's wheelchair, put her hands on the push bars.

"I really prefer maneuvering the chair myself, Marilyn, when it's possible."

Marilyn backed up a step. "Oh! I
am
sorry. I didn't know."

"But, if you'd like. . . ."

Marilyn stepped back to the chair, bent over slightly; Christine felt the woman's breasts against the back of her head.

"Thank you, Christine. It would really be a new experience for me."

"F
ourteen rooms," Marilyn announced. They were once again in the living room, Marilyn on the velvet rococo couch, Christine near the
cherrywood
table; her cup of tea, now cold, was still on it. "You saw only five of them, and I do so wish you could see them all."

"It's a beautiful house, Marilyn. You must be very proud."

"I am proud of
many
things, Christine: my home, my family, my marriage. I am . . . a rock in this little community." She adjusted her dress over her knees. "Have you met my husband?"

"No, I'm afraid not, but I'd like to."

"He's a busy man, a very busy man. He's an insulating contractor, you know. He goes around and insulates houses—not personally, of course; he has a crew of ten men who do the work—and this is the very busiest time of the year for him." She stood, crossed the room to a tall walnut armoire, opened it, withdrew a photograph. She brought the photograph to Christine. "This is my Brett," she said.

Christine smiled as she studied the photograph: It showed Marilyn and a tanned, mustached; patrician-nosed man in his late thirties or early forties—a very good-looking man.

"He doesn't have that awful mustache anymore," Marilyn said. "I told him to shave it off; it made him look so . . . so radical. Don't you think he looks radical?"

"I think he's quite handsome." She felt Marilyn stiffen suddenly, felt tension begin to rise between them. "I mean," she amended, "in a . . . a very distinguished way. A fatherly way."

Marilyn took the photograph from her, returned it to the armoire. She went silently to the rococo couch, sat primly, arranged her housedress. "We use all these rooms, you know. We have occasional visitors and so we need the space. It was quite a chore furnishing each room, but very much worth it." Her tone became low, secretive. "I even have a room of my own that no one knows about, because no one ever uses it. Not even me. Except, of course, when I clean it. I'm saving it."