The brownstone, p.17
The Brownstone, page 17
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“It dazzles—intrudes. It’s not very comfortable, especially for Chandal.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“I’m not going to fight with you, Justin.”
“Why not? We’ll square off, take five paces—turn, and pelt each other with ice cubes.”
“Why act so frightened all the time?”
“Frightened. Of what?”
“Conscience, perhaps.”
“Ah, yes. Well, let us not speak of conscience. It’s a very unhealthy subject.”
“For some, yes; others, no.” Sissy was smiling wryly, staring, puffing at her cigarette absently, when Chandal entered the room.
Justin raised his glass to Chandal. “Well, here’s looking at you, babe.” He downed his drink in one gulp and left the room to return to the basement to work on his portrait of Magdalen.
“What was that all about?” Chandal asked.
“Beats me.”
Chandal sighed. “I am glad you’re here. Come on, I’ll get you settled in.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Sissy said, following Chandal to the spare room.
“It’s all right,” Chandal said, trying to be cordial. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to clean the room.” There were still unpacked boxes in the spare room and debris piled everywhere. She explained that Justin was a collector of junk and that already the room was jammed full of his latest findings: a New York street sign, an old chair, two lamps, a desk, and three large picture frames, minus the canvas. However, the room was warm and the bed was comfortable.
Sissy reacted immediately. Without explanation, she turned and left the room. “I’m sorry, Chandal,—I can’t sleep in there.”
“Sissy, I’m sorry about the mess—”
“It’s not the mess! I just can’t sleep there, that’s all.”
Chandal could see that Sissy was shaken. Had she seen something in the room? Sissy insisted that she hadn’t—she merely preferred to sleep on the couch. She left no room for discussion.
They prepared the sleeping couch and then sat silently together in front of the television, pretending absorption.
“How’s work going?” Chandal asked during a commercial.
Sissy’s eyes were far off, distracted.
“Sissy?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sissy pushed her hand through her hair. “Just a little headache or something. What were you...”
“I was wondering how your job’s going. Are you going to get another promotion, do you think?” Chandal watched her face somewhat enviously. Why hadn’t she gone into business? No, she’d wanted to be one girl in a million who makes it in show business. Instead, here she was, one of the 900,000-plus who hadn’t.
She had a sudden image of herself as Abigail in The Crucible. She’d felt so physical as Abigail, electric and vital. It hurt like hell to think about herself in that part—the rave reviews, everyone saying, “Chandal, you’re going to make it,” her own heart synched into the chant—I’m going to make it, make it, make it—and then, of course, she hadn’t. She’d only worked one time after that, just after having met Justin. Was it his fault, or was it hers? Was she using him to cop out? Was she really as good as everyone said she was in The Crucible? Did she used to have it and did she lose it? Did she ever have it?
The old cold sweat popped out across her forehead and she couldn’t block out the memory of that night, the first dress rehearsal night of Traps. The play that they said was going all the way. Justin out in the audience and Chandal standing backstage waiting to make her entrance. The part that could do it for her, could make her a star. Her heart was moving in heavy, painful lunges and her breath was uneven, coming in great gasps. She stood there in her long emerald-green dress, cut low in the front, looking like a knockout, and the only thing she could think about was how scared she was. The fear was bigger than her, exploding in her stomach, her bright green bodice jerking in and out with it, the fear shooting through her bloodstream. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt coated.
The stage manager said softly, smiling, “Stand by, please.” And she turned wildly, staring, wondering at how calm they were. The light man’s hand so steady on the dimmer, the tech crew playing poker in the hall. I can’t go out there, she thought, with dead frightening certainty. I can’t take a step. I’ll fall.
“Are you ready?” whispered the stage manager, winking.
She could not respond, could not say a word as a pain ripped through her chest, sending her against the back wall.
Arms grabbed her and shook her. “That’s your cue. For God’s sake, Chandal!”
“I can’t!” she managed to gasp, feeling that her lungs were flat, completely out of air. Sweat rolled down her face.
“They’re out there ad-libbing!” the stage manager said furiously, contempt in his voice.
Her knees were water. She slid wearily down the wall and buried her face in her hands.
“The producer’s out there!”
She shook her head. Never even looked up to see him calling for the curtain to be rung down. She could feel the eyes staring at her, but she kept her face covered. Only when Justin came did she cry. They stood there holding each other, her arms straining him against her, her hot tears wetting his shirt, blackening it with her mascara. He was the only thing in her world that hadn’t toppled over, ceased to be.
She’d lost the job, naturally, and the dream after that was only make-believe. She never really believed in it again. Perhaps that’s why no one else had, either. Too tall, they’d said. Too thin. Excuses. She knew what they were seeing—the fear. An actress who couldn’t really cut it.
Lucky Sissy, she thought now. Sissy had never been afraid of anything in her life. Suddenly it was vitally important to know if Sissy was going to get that promotion. Because if she did, would they be in completely different worlds? Was she going to lose Sissy, too?
“Sissy?”
“What?” Sissy said blankly.
“I asked if you’re going to be promoted again.”
Sissy said yes, she was going to be promoted. And within two years, she’d be a vice-president. The executive V.P. had practically told her so. Her voice was mechanical, flat—as if she was not paying much attention to what she was saying.
At eleven P.M., both girls showered and went to bed.
Sometime later, Chandal awoke to find that Justin wasn’t in bed. What time was it? Three-thirty in the morning! She slipped on her robe and checked to see if Sissy was all right. Sissy was gone. She had left a note saying that she was sorry, but that she would explain when she next saw Chandal.
Chandal crossed to the kitchen and turned on the light. Mintz looked up from her box and yawned. The cellar door was closed, but the red light wasn’t on. Where was Justin?
She opened the cellar door and turned on the light switch, but the cellar remained dark. The bulb must be out, she thought. She was about to close the door when she heard a very low, very soft moaning coming from the cellar. Her first thought was that Justin had hurt himself in the dark,
“Justin? Is that you? Are you all right?” She called out anxiously.
The moaning continued. Chandal reached for the flashlight and made her way down the cellar stairs. Abruptly she stopped. Someone had completely torn apart the basement. Several of the mannequins had been smashed to pieces, developing trays were overturned, and photographs were scattered everywhere. Someone had taken the large portrait of Magdalen and slashed it with a knife. “Justin, where are you?”
The moaning was coming from the wall, the same spot where she had burned her hand. She moved closer, stepping over the developing trays. She could feel the heat from the wall as she drew nearer.
Suddenly the small door in the corner flew open!
Chandal spun around as the door slammed off the wall. The moaning stopped. There was no one there. Cautiously, she crossed the room and entered the narrow passage. No sooner was she inside than the door slammed shut, locking her in the stairwell. She tried to force it open, but it was stuck. From above she heard a whirling sound. Flashing her light to the top of the stairs, she could see a black mass ready to descend on her. She frantically pushed on the door. The black mass moved in a circular motion toward her. It made a high-pitched whistling sound that was deafening. She pushed on the door—it flew open.
Chandal was still sitting in the living room shaking when the sun came up. She had waited all night for Justin to come home. He never had.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE FRAGRANCE OF LILACS HUNG HEAVY IN THE dust-filled attic air. The morning light clustered below the horizon, then fractured the rooftops with its brilliance.
Adjusting her lace shawl, the old woman moved away from the window and sat in her rocker. She stared at a heap of odds and ends and remembered eventful dates. There was so much recorded in her memory.
Eyes vacant—thoughtful, she watched herself wander arm in arm with a young man through the lush green park. Sunday, early summer—people were rowing on the lake. Stopping at a small sidewalk cafe, she held his hand under the table and sipped white wine from a crystal goblet, sitting beneath a canopy of pastels. Children played among the tables and their laughter was everywhere. Gentlemen passed by and tipped their hats, envying the young man—she was well known and popular. Then she heard her sister’s voice say, “Ah, yes—the attic. The room for old things. Everything that has outlived its usefulness will be stored there.”
On a bleak and dreary day in 1928, Marjorie Bennett Krispin, age thirty-nine, was lowered into the frozen ground next to her husband, Alexander. Magdalen and Elizabeth, young and frail, stood motionless, each embracing her private grief in silence. To Magdalen’s right stood Dr. Steven Rock, handsome and aloof. With a sudden move of companionship, he took Magdalen’s arm and whispered into her ear. Elizabeth’s eyes flickered, the tears blurring her view of the doctor’s face. Nothing seemed to make sense now. She felt panic. Later, she realized it was because she knew she’d never be able to live with it—Magdalen’s marriage to the doctor, his running the brownstone like his own, his flirtatious little gestures. Yes, he had made her life unbearable, and, yes—he’d have to be punished for it.
In opposite rooms, the two old women continued to reflect, and later, much later, a pair of old hands turned to page three in The Book of Ahriman.
1. Everything in this world has to be worked out in pain, even pain itself.
2. Everything vanishes.
3. Everything passes into the awaiting arms of Ahriman.
4. Life comes anew to thee who worships His power and awakens to keep an ancient rendezvous.
5. To live again, to plunge thy soul into His hands, to venture forth, without fear, toward the perfection of Ahriman, is to live forever in His glory.
6. And then Ahriman spoke: Behold in me thy own glory, and I will not deny the existence of thy spirit.
7. Behold in my glory, and I shall be pleased.
8. Behold in my glory, and I shall be back for thee.
9. Behold in my glory, and I shall set thy spirit free. Together, we shall go abroad and triumph, and will not be put back.
The old woman shuddered with ecstasy. She had secretly stolen away from the far reaches of her sister, and had begun to worship the demon privately. To love it, caress it, as a mother caresses a newborn child.
She would make love to it, convince the demon that she should be the chosen one, not her sister. Her eyes dropped back to the fragile yellowed page, where words were sweet, encouraging.
She would study the scripture, comprehend its meaning, its true meaning, and when the time was right, apply her knowledge to her best advantage. Yes, her advantage, not her sister’s.
Chandal had a difficult time remembering what day it was. She looked blankly at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. Wednesday, the twenty-fourth of January. Wednesday? Why did she think it was the weekend? Suddenly she felt that something had been added, as though there was more to her than her usual self. Was it the baby? She reached for her stomach. No, she wasn’t any bigger, yet some new dimension had been added.
It wasn’t until she caught sight of the cellar door that she remembered. Trapped. The stairwell had been her jailer—deliberate, malevolent. And the horrid sound. And the havoc. Let him tell her she’d imagined that!
Drained and numb, Chandal moved into the darkened bedroom to get dressed for work. She stopped. Jesus. Someone was lying in her bed. She switched on the light. Justin. “What’s happening?” she muttered. She knew he hadn’t come home last night. Or had he? When she was down in the cellar, maybe? But then why—? Chandal did not move, did not flicker an eyelash as she stared at Justin’s back. Laugh, she thought, cry—do something, for Christ’s sake! Get up, Justin—tell me what’s happening—please. Frenzied, Chandal attempted to reach out and wake him and stopped. She took a breath and forced herself to calm down.
At a little past nine, Chandal was sitting moodily behind her desk pretending to be engrossed in her work. She was disturbed, puzzled—and found herself staring expressionlessly at the blotter.
The white light on her telephone flashed on—her extension. She picked up the receiver. Dr. Margolin, her mother’s doctor. There was a lump in her throat when he introduced himself. Nerves. Strange. She hadn’t known just how worried about her mother she really was.
“I hope it’s good news,” she ventured into the phone and she could hear his hesitation.
Actually, he said in his carefully concerned-but-not-involved voice, it wasn’t good news or bad news. The truth was, he didn’t know. Didn’t know? What kind of illness could it be that he wouldn’t know? Chandal wondered.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Knight.” Uncomfortable. Something else—some kind of phobia about bodily contact. Her mother couldn’t tolerate being touched.
“How do you mean?” asked Chandal.
“Well, she insists on placing the stethoscope herself during my examination. I would say that at present this phobia borders on the delusional, inasmuch as your mother feels that touching may result in death.”
“But—that doesn’t even sound like my mother!”
“Tell me, have you ever noticed other types of neurotic behavior prior to her illness?”
“No—none. Perhaps a touch of hypochondria. Why?”
“Well...” he hesitated. “I don’t believe I have to tell you that repressed emotions can be extraordinarily strong. I thought perhaps—”
“Perhaps what?”
“It appears to me that your mother is deeply disturbed, emotionally. It doesn’t appear to be a recent emotional instability. Her state is too advanced. There should have been evidence of this prior to her becoming ill.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“I’ll be honest with you. Has she ever appeared suicidal?”
Chandal gasped and couldn’t speak for a moment.
“Mrs. Knight?”
“Yes, I’m—here.”
“I know that’s a tough question to answer, but I think it’s important that I know.”
Chandal shook her head. “No. Not that I know of.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. My mother has always been the stable one in our lives.”
“I see here that your father died some years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Did that have any unusual effect on her?”
Chandal gripped the phone tightly. “Unusual. What does that mean? She cried, she took it badly, yes, but not in the way you mean.” Her hands were starting to sweat. She changed the phone to her other ear.
“I see. Well, perhaps her anxiety is purely a hysterical symptom. She may be frightened at suddenly being confined. This is her first serious illness, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you are, then,” he said in a cheerful voice. He concluded the conversation by stressing the need for patience and understanding in what appeared to him to be an unusual case.
Chandal paced the office. Confused. Nervous. She finally managed to type and place two notices on the bulletin board. She had just tacked the second notice into place when the telephone rang again. It was Sissy. “Are you mad?”
“If you mean crazy, maybe. If you mean angry—no.”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Sissy. “I just felt uncomfortable there.”
“Sissy, be honest with me. When you went into the spare room last night—did you see anything?” Chandal tried to choose her words carefully. “I mean, anything unusual?”
“Not that I can remember. Why?”
“Then why did you refuse to sleep there?”
“Well, if you must know,” she said promptly, “the room was too small. I suffer from claustrophobia.”
“So, when you said you were uncomfortable there, that’s what you meant?”
“That and other things.” Evasive!
“What other things?” asked Chandal bluntly.
“To tell you the truth, Justin made me feel unwelcome. And then I thought, when he comes up from the basement and sees me lying on the couch, what then? He’d make some smart-ass remark—we’d argue—who needs it? So, I decided to leave.”
“I see,” said Chandal disbelievingly.
“Lunch on Friday?”
“Right.”
“Got to fly—bye-bye.”
“Yeah.”
Two of the museum’s more established employees stood at the water cooler conversing. Chandal could sense that they were discussing her. Secretaries had been discouraged from accepting private phone calls during business hours. In less than forty-five minutes, she had received two.
Chandal spent the next hour poring over rare books, the latest to be added to the museum’s small but impressive library. There were books of poetry, math texts, horticulture manuals, and books on ancient Greek history. Even in those days, Chandal thought, everybody was an author.
When she was about to enter the last of them into the log, her phone rang again—it was Justin. He sounded excited and happy.
“Come home for lunch. I’ve made a shrimp casserole.”
“Justin, I can’t.”
