Ariel

  It was spooky.

  She’d been more and more aware of this since Caleb’s death. She’d be in one room, any room, and suddenly she’d have the feeling that the child was nearby, watching her, spying on her. She would turn around, suddenly or stealthily, and never managed to catch Ariel in the act. The child seemed to be always hovering just out of sight, like a little speck dancing on the periphery of one’s vision.

  Lately the two of them had seemed to be playing some terribly elaborate game without rules. Just this afternoon, for example, it had been obvious to Roberta that Ariel had known she was standing in the doorway. She’d gone on writing in her notebook, pretending to be unaware of Roberta’s presence, and Roberta in turn had pretended to believe Ariel didn’t know she was there. And so Roberta had hesitated only for a moment before withdrawing and returning to the first floor. It had been not unlike a ritual passage in some exceedingly formal Spanish dance, and yet each of them had performed instinctively, without thought.

  She was on her way to the kitchen, bearing an empty coffee cup and a full ashtray, when the phone rang. The wall phone—beige, with touchtone dialing—was mounted at eye level just to the right of the kitchen fireplace. She put down the cup and the ashtray, reached to answer the phone.

  “Bobbie?”

  Her hand shook. She almost dropped the phone.

  “Bobbie, are you there? It’s Jeff Channing.”

  As if he had to identify himself. As if she couldn’t recognize his voice. As if more than one man had ever called her Bobbie.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  “How are you, Bobbie?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you? I’ve been thinking of you ever since the funeral. I almost called several times but I stopped myself.”

  “And now?”

  “I had to talk to you.”

  She stared into the fireplace. When they first looked at the house it had been one of the special touches of charm, a cozy hearth in the brick-floored kitchen. Then, after they’d bought the house and moved in, and after she’d learned that half the damp in Old Charleston seeped up through that authentic brick floor, they’d tried lighting a fire in the cozy hearth. All of the heat had gone straight up the chimney, while the kitchen itself had filled with a sour smell that rapidly permeated the entire house. It was weeks before the smell was entirely gone, and the fireplace had not been put into service since then.

  “Bobbie, I want to see you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think it’s important.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Jeff.”

  “Why not?”

  “I—“

  “We have to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About Caleb.”

  “Caleb,” she said, and drew a breath and steadied herself. “Caleb is dead.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He died in his crib. He just died, Jeff. Are you trying to torture me?”

  “He was my son, wasn’t he?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Bobbie.”

  “We never played games with each other. Did we?”

  “No.”

  “So let’s not start now.”

  “All right.”

  “Caleb was my son.”

  Was the phone tapped? Was she being tricked into admitting something? She felt drawn, exhausted.

  “If you say so,” she said.

  “Bobbie—”

  “Whatever you say, Jeff.”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Talking?”

  “I have to see you.”

  “David will be home soon. Or did you want to see both of us?”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  She wished she had a cigarette. She wished she’d thought to put her shoes on before coming into the kitchen. The floor, as always, was cold underfoot. But she hadn’t planned on spending any time in this room. She’d just intended on putting a fire under the kettle and dumping the ashtray. She stood on one foot now, rubbing the sole of the other foot against her pants leg for warmth.

  “Tomorrow,” he was saying. “You’ll be home tomorrow?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You don’t sound good, Bobbie. There’s no life in your voice.”

  “Oh. I can’t help that.”

  “I’ll come tomorrow.”

  “Ariel comes home after school.”

  “I’ll come a little after noon.”

  “All right.”

  “I want to talk to you for my own sake, Bobbie, but I have the feeling you need someone to talk to yourself.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I’ll be there around twelve-thirty or so.”

  She started to speak, then stopped herself. At that moment, standing on one foot like a flamingo, the receiver pressed tightly against her ear, she felt a sudden touch of cold air on the nape of her neck.

  A shiver went through her.

  She was certain, absolutely certain, that Ariel was standing behind her. She had not heard her approach. But she could feel the child’s tiny eyes upon her now, pawing at her like cold damp hands. She wanted to turn around but could not will herself to move.

  “Bobbie?”

  She could not answer him.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  The phone clicked in her ear. Still she stood there, aware of everything that was touching her—the cold brick floor beneath her left foot, the pressure of the receiver against her ear, the chill gaze of the child on the back of her neck. “Yes,” she said aloud to no one at all. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Certainly.” And she continued in that vein, muttering something noncommittal from time to time, as if it would be somehow dangerous to let the child know that the telephone conversation had ended.

  She felt like a character in a play, acting out a meaningless part in simple obedience to the author who had written it for her. Her body was frozen in position. A cramp was building in the calf muscle of her bent right leg. Her left hand was braced against the fireplace mantel, helping to support her weight, while her right hand clutched the dead telephone receiver to her ear.

  “Yes, I certainly agree with you,” she said crisply. “Well, goodbye, then. And I’m so glad you called.”

  She hung up the phone. And stood now with both feet on the floor, breathing slowly and deeply.

  And turned around.

  She was quite alone in the kitchen.

  She sighed heavily, feeling the tension drain from her body. It was all her imagination, she told herself, all an indication of the state of her nerves. Or was it? Had the child been in the room? It was certainly not impossible. She might have stolen away as silently as she had approached, or she might not have been there at all.

  Maybe it was just her mood, or the particular atmosphere of the kitchen. Maybe some guilt or anxiety over her conversation with Jeff had caused her to imagine that she was being observed and her conversation overheard.

  But that sudden touch of cold air on the nape of her neck? Air currents in a drafty old house? Was that sufficient? Could that account for the tangible presence she’d felt behind her?

  She checked the pilot lights. All three were lit. She heated water for coffee, dumped the ashtray, returned to the living room. There she dropped to the couch and lit another cigarette.

  From somewhere overhead she heard the reedy piping of the child’s tin flute.

  She dreamed a good deal that night, and once a dream woke her, fading out of memory even as she sat up in her bed. She stared over at the corner of the room, squinting, trying to discern the woman in the shawl. But there was nothing there. David lay on his back in the other bed, breathing heavily, and as she listened to his breathing and waited for her own to regulate itself, he moaned softly and rolled over onto his side.

  Roberta lay down, closed her eyes. When sleep did not come swiftly
she got out of bed and put on slippers and a robe. She left the bathroom and walked on tiptoe in the hallway. Nevertheless, certain floorboards creaked when she trod on them.

  Wasn’t there a way to stop floorboards from doing that? You couldn’t oil them, she didn’t suppose, but couldn’t you sink a nail in a strategic place to eliminate a squeak? You really had to know how to do things like that when you owned an older home. There were always little things to be seen to. But she didn’t know much about such matters and David was next to useless around the house.

  You could be like the child, she thought, and glide soundlessly over the floors and stairs like a small pale ghost.

  Ariel’s door was closed, and no light was visible beneath it. That didn’t mean the child was asleep. She could be reading under the covers with a flashlight, the way all children did at one time or another. Or she could be sitting up in the dark.

  The brass doorknob was cool to the touch. Roberta’s hand fastened upon it. After a moment she released the knob without turning it.

  She walked almost the entire length of the hallway to her bedroom. Then something made her turn, and she covered half the distance again and took hold of another brass doorknob, this one on the closed door to Caleb’s room. She shut her eyes in the darkened hallway and concentrated on the silence. No boards creaked now, no windowpanes rattled, no eerie flute music wailed through the walls.

  A fantasy, an irresistibly tempting one, flooded over her. It was a dream, it was all a dream, the whole past two weeks had never happened, and if she turned the doorknob and entered the little room Caleb would be sleeping in his crib, and if she picked him up he would squirm and giggle and coo, and—

  She knew better. But all the same she turned the knob and pushed the door inward. Her hand found the switch on the wall and flicked on the overhead fixture.

  She blinked at the glare. For a moment her fantasy was reinforced by what she saw. Caleb’s room was as it had been. Nothing had been changed or removed. The fish mobile still swayed over his crib. The same stuffed animals kept their stations on top of the bathinet.

  But the crib was empty.

  You fool, she thought. Why do you punish yourself?

  She sighed, turned, slapped the switch and extinguished the overhead light. She stepped out into the hallway and drew the door shut.

  Should she go downstairs? Check the windows and doors? Check the pilot lights?

  She went straight to bed, and sleep was not long in coming. In the morning, when she went downstairs, there was a slight but undeniable smell of gas in the dank kitchen, and one of the pilots was out.

  By mid-morning she was in a good mood.

  This surprised her. She’d had a bad night and awakened from it expecting to drag herself through the day a minute at a time. Instead the morning flew by. She did the breakfast dishes, straightened the downstairs, made the beds, and observed her own spirits rising as she went along.

  Around eleven she bathed and got dressed. Sitting in front of her mirror, she realized for the first time that what she felt was excitement, anticipation.

  She hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

  The doorbell sounded at ten minutes after twelve. She hadn’t heard him drive up. She felt a little anxiety on her way to the door, but by the time she opened it she was calm and collected.

  He looked wonderful, she thought. Was his suit the same one he’d worn to the funeral? It might have been, but there was certainly nothing funereal about his appearance. His shirt was cream-colored broadcloth with a rounded collar, his tie a bold affair of cream and burgundy stripes.

  Their eyes met and the silence stretched until he broke it. “Bobbie,” he began.

  “Come inside,” she said. And, leading him into the living room, she said, “My happy home. A prime example of the gracious mode of living characteristic of antebellum Charleston. All the charm and refinement of the Old South is reflected in these warm and decorously appointed rooms.”

  He chuckled, took the chair she indicated. “It is a beautiful house,” he said.

  “Make me an offer and it’s yours.”

  “You’re not happy here? I’m sorry, that was a stupid question. Of course you’re not happy, not after what’s happened. But you’re not really thinking of selling because of—”

  “Because Caleb died? No, we’re not thinking of selling. At least we haven’t talked about it. David doesn’t even know I hate it here.”

  “Because of what happened?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” She shrugged, reached for a cigarette. He offered a light and she leaned forward to accept it. Blowing out smoke she said, “I’m not sure what it is. This place is a mausoleum. You remember those comic books? This place is like living in the pages of Tales From The Crypt. Do you believe in ghosts, Jeff?”

  “I never gave them much thought.”

  “Neither did I. I never had to before I set up housekeeping in beautiful downtown Charleston.”

  “Is this a haunted house? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flip—”

  “I don’t know, but something’s driving me slightly batty. Would you consider me a flighty woman?”

  “Not you, Bobbie.”

  “Because I always thought of myself as Stella Stable. A sort of second cousin to the Rock of Gibraltar. Now I hear things in the middle of the night, and I’ve got a personal grudge fight going with a gas stove, and I’m constantly being spooked by my own kid.”

  “Are you talking about Caleb?”

  She shook her head. “Ariel. Granted, she’s an intrinsically spooky kid, but I think I’ve been overreacting. I hope I’ve been overreacting.”

  “You lost a son, Bobbie. It’s only natural for you to be affected by it.”

  She looked at him.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. You’re the only person who ever calls me Bobbie, did you know that?”

  “If you’d rather I didn’t—”

  “I didn’t say that.” She held his eyes for a moment, then lowered her own and took a quick puff on her cigarette. “I’ve been going nuts,” she said. “But I said that before, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it started before Caleb died. I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was moving here that did it. This house. Maybe it’s not the house. Maybe—hell, Jeff, I don’t know what it is.”

  “You’re just upset—”

  “I’m more myself today than I’ve been in a long time. At least I can talk for a change. I can’t remember the last time I was able to talk to my husband, and I haven’t got anybody else in my life. I don’t even know the neighbors. They all stay in their own houses playing solitaire and passing the time of day with their own ghosts, I suppose. So I’m afraid you’re getting more than you bargained for.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Just what did you bargain for, come to think of it? A quick jump in the feathers for old time’s sake?”

  He colored.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m a bitch.”

  “It’s part of your charm.”

  “Is that what it is? Gintzler would tell me it’s part of the wall I build to keep other people out. Thirty bucks an hour and that was the best he could manage. Seriously, why did you come?”

  “To talk about Caleb. I never even managed to see him and all of a sudden he was dead.”

  “All of a sudden,” she said, and the next thing she knew she was sobbing fitfully and he was on the couch beside her, holding her, stroking her hair.

  “Go ahead,” he urged her. “Go ahead and let go.”

  But she couldn’t. She drew away, pulled herself together, crushed out her cigarette and lit a fresh one. He returned to his chair and she smoked for a moment or two in silence.

  “Coffee,” she said. “I didn’t even offer you a cup of coffee. The ultimate hostess.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Would you like a cup?”

  “I’ve had half
a dozen cups already this morning.”

  “Or a drink. Would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I wish I knew what to offer you.”

  “That’s something you’ve always known, Bobbie.”

  Their eyes met. There was a dryness in the back of her throat, a pulse hammering in her right temple. She drew on her cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “I think I want to talk,” she said crisply. “Could you stand that?”

  “Of course. It’s what I came for.”

  “You may get much more than you bargained for. The ravings of a female hysteric, replete with ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties.”

  “And things that go bump in the night?”

  “Oh, no end of things that go bump in the night. I don’t think I want to stay here. Ariel will be coming home sooner or later.”

  “Would it matter if she saw me?”

  “Probably not. David could turn up, as far as that goes. Oh, neither one’ll be here for a couple of hours, but could we just go for a drive anyway? I want to get out of this house.”

  “Of course, Bobbie.”

  Outside she said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “I parked on the next block.”

  “There’s plenty of room in front. Or were you concerned about my good name?”

  “I thought it would be just as easy to park down the street.”

  She nodded. “Well, let’s take your car, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Because I don’t want to have to concentrate on driving. I just want to put my head back and talk a blue streak.”

  She talked for a long time. He drove through town, then hooked up with the Interstate and stayed on it to the second interchange. Then they were driving in the country, taking a series of back roads, passing small subsistence farms with their little plots of corn and tobacco and tomatoes and okra, some flanked by immobile house trailers, others by tarpaper shacks straight out of Tobacco Road.

  Were there ghosts that walked by night in tarpaper shacks? Babies out here didn’t sleep in cribs. They generally made do with a bureau drawer. Did they ever die in their sleep, just close their eyes and never wake up?