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by Charles Carreon
As I drove out of the
filling station, my mind was not on the business before me, but on the
changing colors of the leaves. I had been driving for hours since leaving
the metropolis behind, and the progress of the scenery, from grimy freeway
frontage, to highway, to country road, had gradually decreased my habitual
level of tension to a pleasant awareness of my surroundings. I had always
enjoyed driving in the country for just this effect.
Although my work is in the
city, I have taken pleasure over the years in acquiring and maintaining a
number of older houses in the rural areas to the north. As investments go,
they have I suppose done reasonably well, but the satisfaction for me has
always come in the form of being free to visit and survey my modest
domains, and to taste the air of history that infuses them. Employing
groundskeepers as my proxies, it provides some comfort, as I sit in the
stately removal of an office building pursuing my profession, to recall
the serenity of these removed locations.
The house in Susquannee is such a place, an old rooming house with
established tenants and seventeen acres of grounds that I rescued from
foreclosure and neglect. It had been something of a resort before I
acquired it. My groundskeeper cleaned up the ponds, renovated the
boathouse and adjacent cottage, and resurrected the gardens from a jumble
of overgrowth. I supported his endeavors, approving materials invoices
routinely and paying him a monthly stipend. It has always given me
satisfaction to sponsor the efforts of simple persons who, unconcerned
with whose property is enriched by their efforts, take the largest portion
of their compensation in aesthetic satisfaction.
So it was that when I arrived at the property, the scene was one of well-
ended simplicity --hedges neatly but not prudishly trimmed, stone walks
swept clean, leaves elsewhere left to pile up as they would. The autumn
sky was blazing with that radiant cobalt blue that Emily Dickinson chose
as her favorite inebriant. The house was quiet, and a policeman was posted
at the door.
The roomer on the second floor, a middle-aged teller at the Susquannee
Bank, had done himself in two nights before, and this being the largest
crime in local history, the town officers had outdone themselves
investigating the matter. Mr. Rastick, who hung himself with a stout rope
attached to an angle of pipe jutting from the ceiling of his room, had
thoughtlessly failed to leave a note explaining the cause of his distress.
All possible motives that would occur to the small-town imagination had
thus been investigated, including embezzlement and an affair with a
hypothetical bank patron. By the time of my arrival, the excitement had
played itself out, and my mere signature to a property receipt was enough
to procure the departure of the police officer.
Rastick had no known next of kin, so out of a sense of duty, I had
resolved to go through his papers to see if he had any assets, and if so,
to arrange for their proper disposition. Under the law of our state, an
innkeeper of a deceased lodger has the prerogative to assume such duties.
Rastick's room was tidy, as he'd left it, the deputy said, with a few
dishes stacked neatly in a drainer in the kitchen area. His bed was made,
and I stripped it, remaking it with sheets and blankets I'd brought from
home for the purpose, since I intended to stay the night and meet
Rastick's employer the next day. Perhaps also, by immediately taking up
residence in the room, however briefly, I intended to dispel any
superstitious notions that might arise among the other tenants. My
personal view was that it would be highly illogical for a suicide's spirit
to continue haunting the precincts he had previously been so anxious to
escape. Just looking around at the room before departing for a walk, I
diagnosed the cause of Rastick's demise to be the final exhaustion of
habitually low expectations.
I encountered Lionel down by
the big pond, working on one of the old canoes. He was slightly taciturn,
then turned somewhat self-pitying as he recounted his lengthy
interrogation at the local police station. Apparently Rastic's decision to
use a length of rope procured from the boathouse as the instrument of his
death had prompted much speculation among the investigators, which was not
allayed until they had questioned Lionel extensively. The conduct of the
police toward Lionel was disturbing -- hey had not provided him with a
lawyer or even advised him of his right to speak with one --and I resolved
to take the matter up with the town authorities.
After my talk with Lionel, I spent the afternoon walking about, admiring
his work and the splendor of the waning day, which ended with the sun
sinking like a smoldering coal amid the hazy hills. I took dinner in a
small bistro in the town, enjoying the quiet as a respite from the clamor
of restaurants of the city. Indeed, I tarried longer over coffee and
brandy than is my habit, and wondered briefly if perhaps I was just the
slightest bit reticent about spending the night in Rastick's room. I
shrugged off the notion, however, and took myself back to the place,
stopping only to fetch a cigar and a copy of the financial daily that I'd
missed reading that morning.
Back at the house, all was
quiet, with just the lights in the common areas left burning. I made my
way to the room in nearly complete silence, appreciating the sweep of the
rustic balustrades. From the first floor, the broad wooden stairs rose to
a mid-level landing that was carpeted and furnished with a settee. From
there the stairs split and reversed themselves for the remainder of the
ascent to the second floor. I recognized in the layout a perfect place for
party-goers to gather about the railings and call out smart remarks to
others ascending and descending the stairs. I thought idly that perhaps
someone different than I would have put the house to such a purpose,
removing the tenants and hauling platoons of cosmopolitans out to the
country for weekends of intrigue and business as pleasure. Not for me, I
thought as I shook my head with a smile and fitted the old skeleton key
into the lock of poor Rastick's room.
All was as he'd left it down to the pathetically well washed dishes.
Rastick did have a good reading chair, I found, and a properly situated
floor lamp, where I accommodated myself and began perusing the paper I'd
bought. I'd only been at it for what seemed a short while, when the
surprising sound of voices and laughter sounded outside the door.
Expecting the sound to vanish momentarily, I redirected my attention to
the news of the bond markets, only to be surprised a few moments later by
another burst of glittering laughter.
Still in my street clothes,
I rose to the door and peered out, expecting perhaps to see a couple
engaged in their goodnights. Imagine my surprise when I saw the doors of
what had been the old ballroom flung open, and elegantly dressed guests
drifting in and out. Suddenly I remembered of course that the old ballroom
was rented by a Chinese benevolent society whose rent checks I had been
depositing for years. Apparently they had chosen this night to make use of
the facility. I was about to shut the door when a slim gentleman caught
sight of me and called out my name. Inwardly I sighed, wishing to return
to my reading, but realizing what civility demanded under the
circumstances, I stepped forward to greet the fellow, who was taking long
strides in my direction across the landing.
"Mr. Evans, " he said, extending his hand, "Robert Fang, executive
secretary of the (here he gave the name of the association, which I was
unable to retain)."
" A pleasure, Mr. Fang, " I
responded -- "you have some festivities afoot tonight?"
"Oh yes, Mr. Evans, and, we
would be honored if you would join us briefly for a drink, perhaps?"
I would have demurred, at that point, had it not been that a delicate
woman swathed in what appeared to be green silk, suddenly called to my
speaking partner from her place on the stairs. "Robert," her voice sang
out, "who have you found there?"
"This," said Mr. Fang, bridging the space between us with a smile and a
sweep of his hand in my direction, "is Mr. Evans, the owner of the
estate." Here he turned to me with a pained look, "I assume you've come to
clear up the affairs of poor Mr. Rastick?"
"Yes, that's right," I responded.
"Ah," he apologized, "I'm sorry this affair could not be postponed to
respect Mr. Rastick's passing, but it has been planned for months, and
there was no way to notify all of the invited in time for a cancellation."
Turning then to the woman who approached, he introduced her as Miss Nen,
the treasurer of the organization.
Between the two of them they wrapped me up in small talk about the city
and what shows were playing there and what restaurants I frequented, all
the while towing me towards the open doors of the ballroom. They were very
good at this, and my most earnest protestations earned me only a brief
reprieve to fetch my coat and straighten my tie.
The party turned out to be a charity ball for the Chinese community, which
was apparently more numerous than one might have expected. Chief among the
attractions was a peculiar gambling game involving a die and small, square
chips of polished bamboo. With Miss Nen at my elbow, I hazarded a few
bills, and although I could make neither head nor tails of the game, she
several times declared me a winner. I gamely donated my winnings to the
charity.
The evening drifted on and I
did not give a second thought to what I'd left behind in Rastick's room.
Dry figures, I thought, lifting a cup and peering over the rim to see the
sparkling dark eyes of Miss Nen regarding me with a steady, familiar gaze.
She had not left my side since we had met in the hall. A feeling swirled
up around me, and in me, strong enough to uproot all sense of the
familiar. We rose and danced to elegant music, and in her arms I seemed to
move with greater grace, my usual wooden steps smoothed as we glided about
the polished floor.
How it happened, I could not recall later, but she bid the last of the
merrymakers good night, closed the great ballroom door, and led me to the
broad bay window overlooking the front drive. She drew the curtains back
full and extinguished the lights, revealing beyond the pane a sky of
blazing stars and a radiant, motionless moon. There, what had already
seemed a dream became more fantastic, as I partook of her companionship.
Then I slept.
The next morning, I awoke
chilled, with the first streaks of dawn appearing outside the bay window.
The sky was filled with drifting clouds through which a few fading stars
were still gleaming. My memories of the night before were clear, and I
continued musing pleasantly in wonderment until my eyes adjusted to the
dim light. Then I was startled by the condition of the room, which was
filled with nothing by the dusty outlines of furniture draped with old
linens. I gathered myself up hastily and returned to Rastick's room.
The door was unlocked, the
bed was still made, and my newspaper lay folded on the chair. I glanced up
involuntarily at the crooked pipe jutting from the ceiling. I adjusted my
clothing, which was askew, and fetched my coat from its hook. With a quick
look about, I departed for a walk about the grounds.
What had seemed lovely the day before now was sickly and annoying. A flock
of ducks flew overhead, leaving a mournful trail of cries behind them in
the grey sky. My mind continually strayed back to the tryst of the night
before. I was both furtively ashamed and irresistibly fascinated by the
intricacy of the fantasy my inner theatre had produced. Enthralled by
these thoughts, I wandered back to the ballroom, which I found I had
inadvertently locked behind me. Frustrated, I returned to Rastick's room
to wait until what I judged a decent hour, when I could ask Lionel to
fetch the keys.
He was making coffee when I arrived --an early riser thank heavens. I
tried to downplay the oddness of my request by affecting an interest in
the beauty of the morning and a desire to conduct a full inspection of the
premises, including all unoccupied rooms in the main house. Lionel gave me
the keys and did not object when I declined his offer of company while I
made my rounds. Nonchalantly, I thought, I asked "Now which one of these
keys is to the second-floor ballroom?" At this he perceptibly froze, as if
suddenly divining my purpose. He seemed about to say something, but
apparently thought better of it, and simply indicated the appropriate key
on the ring.
The large room was more clearly illuminated than before, but no different
--the furniture, draped and layered with dust, the chandeliers, strung
with cobwebs, the great window, curtains drawn to reveal the chilly sky.
Looking about, hoping to find some trace of physical evidence to lend
substance to my fantasy, I found nothing. No gaming table, no cocktail
glasses, nothing. Combing through my memory as I stood there, dragging my
fingers through my hair, I realized that the ballroom had never been
rented to any benevolent society since I had owned the house. I caught
myself short then, realizing the pathetic nature of my obsession. Leaving
the ballroom, I left the door ajar.
Back in Rastick's room, I shaved, changed clothes, and packed my clothing.
I determined that closing up Rastick's accounts was clearly a waste of my
time, and hastily drafted a note to his former employer, requesting that
the bank' s trust department assume the task. They would like that, I
thought, as I signed the letter and folded it for Lionel to deliver to the
bank.
As I walked down the stairs with my single suitcase, Lionel came walking
up. "Leaving, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, Lionel, please clean up the ballroom, and air it out --it's musty.
And run this letter down to the President at Susquannee Bank, would you?"
Lionel looked up at me, his eyes squinting as we both stood poised on the
stairs. Then, in a single movement, he looked down and reached out to take
the letter, a gesture that bespoke nothing so much as respect for another
man's privacy. Fine fellow, Lionel.
Driving south out of town, I used the car phone to cancel my appointment
with the bank president. While state law permits innkeepers to act as the
de facto executors of a deceased lodger's estate, it does not require it.
Rastick's affairs, I realized, were simply not worth the trouble.
Copyright 1994, Charles
Carreon
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