Page 7 of Short Stories

  Now why, he asked himself, should a little smile and a simple yes make me feel so damn good?

  No doubt about it. She did something to him.

  “Great! I’ll —”

  A deep, gutteral woman’s voice in­terrupted him. “Young Pritchard! I wish to see you a moment!”

  Jerry shuddered. He hated what her accent did to the r’s in his name. Setting his teeth, he followed the sound of her voice through the ornate, cluttered din­ing room with its huge needlepoint car­pet and bronze chandeliers and heavy furniture. Whoever had decorated this house must have been awfully de­pressed. Everything was dark and gloomy. All the furniture and decora­tions seemed to end in points.

  He came to the semi-circular solar­ium where she awaited him. Her wheel­chair was in its usual position by the big bay windows where she could look out on the rolling expanse of the south lawn.

  “Ah, there you are, young Pritchard,” she said, looking up and smiling coyly. She closed the book in her hands and laid it on the blanket that covered what might have passed for legs in a night­mare. The blanket had slipped once and he had seen what was under there. He didn’t want another look. Ever. He re­membered what his mother had always said about deformed people: That they were marked by God and should be avoided.

  Old lady Gati was in her mid-sixties maybe, flabby without being fat, with pinched features and graying hair stretched back into a severe little bun at the back of her head. Her eyes were a watery blue as she looked at him over the tops of her reading glasses.

  Jerry halted about a dozen feet away but she motioned him closer. He pre­tended not to notice. She was going to want to touch him again. God, he couldn’t stand this!

  “You called, ma’am?”

  “Don’t stand so far away, young Pritchard.” He advanced two steps in her direction and stopped again. “Closer,” she said. “You don’t expect me to shout, do you?”

  She didn’t let up until he was stand­ing right next to her. Except for these daily chats with Miss Gati, Jerry loved his job.

  “There,” she said. “That’s better. Now we can talk more easily.”

  She placed a gnarled, wrinkled hand on his arm and Jerry’s flesh began to crawl. Why did she always have to touch him?

  “The basement — it is coming along well?”

  “Fine,” he said, looking at the floor, out the window, anywhere but at her hungry, smiling face. “Just fine.”

  “Good.” She began stroking his arm, gently, possessively. “I hope this heat wave isn’t too much for you.” As she spoke she used her free hand to adjust the blanket over what there was of her lower body. “I really should have Ste­phanie get me a lighter blanket.”

  Jerry fought the urge to jump away from her. He had become adept at masking the revulsion that rippled through his body everytime she touched him. And it seemed she had to touch him whenever he was in reach. When he first got the caretaker job, he took a lot of ribbing from the guys in town down at the Dewkum Inn. (Lord, what Mom would say if she ever saw him standing at a bar!) Everybody knew that a lot of older, more experienced men had been passed over for him. His buddies had said that the old lady really wanted him for stud service. The thought nauseated him. Who knew if she even had —

  No, that would never happen. He needed this job, but there was nothing he needed that badly. And so far, all she had ever done was stroke his arm when she spoke to him. Even that was hard to take.

  As casually as he could, he moved out of reach and gazed out the window as if something on the lawn had attracted his attention. “What did you want me to—”

  Stephanie walked into the room and interrupted him.

  “Yes, Miss Gati?”

  “Get me a summer blanket, will you, dear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She flashed a little smile at Jerry as she turned, and he watched her until she was out of sight. Now if only it were Steph who couldn’t keep her hands off him, he wouldn’t--

  “She appeals to you, young Pritchard?” Miss Gati said, her eyes danc­ing.

  He didn’t like her tone, so he kept his neutral. “She’s a good kid.”

  “But does she appeal to you?”

  He felt his anger rising, felt like tell­ing her it was none of her damn busi­ness, but he hauled it back and said, “Why is that so important to you?”

  “Now, now, young Pritchard, I’m only concerned that the two of you get along well. But not too well. I don’t want you taking little Stephie away from me. I have special needs, and as you know, it took me a long time to find a live-in maid with Stephie’s special qualities.”

  Jerry couldn’t quite buy that expla­nation. There had been something in her eyes when she spoke of Steph “ap­pealing” to him, a hint that her interest went beyond mere household harmony.

  “But the reason I called you here,” she said, shifting the subject, “is to tell you that I want you to tend to the roof in the next few days.”

  “The new shingles came in?”

  “Yes. Delivered this morning while you were in the basement. I want you to replace the worn ones over my room tomorrow. I fear this heat wave might bring us a storm out of season. I don’t want my good furniture ruined by leaking water.”

  He guessed he could handle that. “Okay. I’ll finish up today and be up on the roof tomorrow. How’s that?”

  She wheeled over and cut him off as he tried to make his getaway. “What­ever you think best, young Pritchard.”

  Jerry pulled free and hurried off, shuddering.

  Marta Gati watched young Prit-chard’s swift exit.

  I repulse him.

  There was no sorrow, no self-pity at­tached to the thought. When you were born with twig-like vestigial appen­dages for legs and only half a pelvis, you quickly became used to rejection — you learned to read it in the posture, to sense it behind the eyes. Your feel­ings soon became as callused as a miner’s hands.

  He’s sensitive about my little Ste-phie, she thought. Almost protective. He likes her. He’s attracted to her. Very attracted.

  That was good. She wanted young Pritchard to have genuine feelings for Stephie. That would make it so much better.

  Yes, her little household was just the way she wanted it now. It had taken her almost a year to set it up this way. Month after month of trial and error until she found the right combination. And now she had it.

  Such an arrangement would have been impossible while Karl was alive. Her brother would never have hired someone with as little experience as young Pritchard as caretaker, and he would have thought Stephie too young and too frail to be a good live-in maid. But Karl was dead now. The heart at­tack had taken him quickly and with­out warning last June. He had gone to bed early one night complaining of what he thought was indigestion, and never awoke. Marta Gati missed her brother and mourned his loss, yet she was revelling in the freedom his pass­ing had left her.

  Karl had been a good brother. Ty­rannically good. He had looked after her as a devoted husband would an ail­ing wife. He had never married, for he knew that congenital defects ran high in their family. Out of their parents’ four children, two — Marta and Gabor — had been horribly deformed. When they had come to America from Hun­gary, Karl invested the smuggled fam­ily fortune in the mines here and, against all odds, had done well. He saw to it that Lazlo, the younger brother, received the finest education. Lazlo now lived in New York where he tended to Gabor.

  And Marta? Marta he had kept hid­den away in this remote mansion in rural West Virginia where she had often thought she would go insane with boredom. At least he had been able to persuade him to decorate the place. If she had to stay here, she had a right to be caged in surroundings to her taste. And her taste was Gothic Revival.

  Marta loved this house, loved the heavy wood of the tables, the carved deer legs of the chairs, the elaborate finials atop the cabinets, the ornate val­ances and radiator covers, the trefoil arches on her canopy bed.

  But the decor could only carry one so far. And
there were only so many books one could read, television shows and rented movies one could watch. Karl’s conversational capacity had been lim­ited in the extreme, and when he had spoken, it was on business and finance and little else. Marta had wanted to be out in the world, but Karl said the world would turn away from her, so he’d kept her here to protect her from hurt.

  But Marta had found a way to sneak out from under his overprotective thumb. And now with Karl gone, she no longer had to sneak out to the world. She could bring some of the world into the house. Yes, it was going to be so nice here.

  “Tell me something,” Steph said as she rested her head on Jerry’s shoulder. She was warm against him in the front seat of his old Fairlane 500 convertible and his desire for her was a throbbing ache. After the movie — a Burt-Rey-nolds-type car-chase flick, but without Burt Reynolds — he had driven them back here and parked outside the gate­house. The top was down and they were snuggled together in the front seat watching the little stars that city peo­ple never see, even on the clearest of nights.

  “Anything,” he whispered into her hair.

  “How did Miss Gati get along here before she had me?”

  “A lady from town used to come in to clean and cook, but she never stayed over. You’re the first live-in who’s lasted more than a week since I’ve been work­ing here. The old lady’s been real choosy about finding someone after the last live-in . . . left.”

  Jerry decided that now was not the time to bring up the last maid’s suicide. Steph was from the farmlands on the other side of the ridge and wouldn’t know about her. Constance Granger had been her name, a quiet girl who went crazy wild. She had come from a decent, church-going family, but all of a sudden she became a regular at the roadside taverns, taking up with a dif­ferent man every night. Then one night she became hysterical in a motel room — with two men, if the whispers could be believed — and began screaming at the top of her lungs. She ran out of the room jaybird naked and got hit by a truck.

  Jerry didn’t want to frighten Steph with that kind of story, not now while they were snug and close like this. He steered the talk elsewhere.

  “Now you tell me something. What do you think of working for old lady Gati?”

  “She’s sweet. She’s not a slave driver and the pay is good. This is my first job since leaving home and I guess I’m kinda lucky it’s working out so well.”

  “You miss home?”

  He felt her tense beside him. She never talked about her home. “No. I. . . didn’t get along with my father. But I get along just fine with Miss Gati. The only bad thing about the job is the house. I gives me the creeps. I get night­mares every night.”

  “What about?”

  She snuggled closer, as if chilled de­spite the warmth of the night. “I don’t remember much by morning, all I know is that they’re no fun. I don’t know how Miss Gati lived here alone after the last maid left. Especially without any legs. I’d be frightened to death!”

  “She’s not. She tried out girl after girl. No one satisfied her till you came along. She’s a tough one.”

  “But she’s not. She’s nice. A real lady. You know, I make her hot chocolate every night and she insists I sit down and have a cup with her while she tells me about her family and how they lived in ‘the Old Country.’ Isn’t that nice?”

  “Just super,” Jerry said.

  He lifted her chin and kissed her. He felt her respond, felt her catch some of the fervor running through him like fire. He let his hand slip off her shoul­der and come to rest over her right breast. She made no move to push him away as his fingers began caressing her.

  “Want to come inside?” he said, glancing toward the door at the gate­house.

  Steph sighed. “Yes.” She kissed him again, then pulled away. “But no. I don’t think that would be such a good idea, Jerry. Not just yet. I mean, I just met you six weeks ago.”

  “You know all there is to know. I’m not hiding anything. Come on.”

  “I want to . . . you know I do, but not tonight. It’s time for Miss Gati’s hot chocolate. And if I want to keep this job, I’d better get up to the house and fix it for her.” Her eyes searched his face in the light of the rising moon. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “Nah!” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring grin. How could he look into those eyes and be mad? But he sure as Hell ached. “Crushed and heartbroken, maybe. But not mad.”

  She laughed. “Good!”

  There’s plenty of time, he told the ache deep down inside. And we’ll be seeing each a lot of other.

  “C’mon. I’ll walk you up to the house.”

  On the front porch, he kissed her again and didn’t want to let go. Finally, she pushed him away, gently. “She’s calling me. Gotta go. See you tomor­row.”

  Reluctantly, Jerry released her. He hadn’t heard anything but knew she had to go. He wondered if her insides were as churned up as his own.

  “Hurry and drink your chocolate be­fore it gets cold,” Marta Gati said as Stephie returned from down the hall.

  Stephie smiled and picked up her cup from the bedside table. A lovely child, Marta thought. Simply lovely. Her own cup was cradled in her hands. It was a little too sweet for her taste, but she made no comment. She was propped up on her bed pillows. Ste­phie sat in a chair pulled up to the side of the bed.

  “And what did you and young Pritchard do tonight?” Marta said. “Any­thing special?” She watched Stephie blush as she sipped her chocolate.

  Marta took a sip of her own to hide the excitement that swept through her. They’re in love! This was perfect. “How was the movie?” she managed to say in a calm voice.

  Stephie shrugged. “It was okay, I guess. Jerry likes all those cars racing around and crashing.”

  “Don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Not really.”

  “But you go because young Pritchard likes them. And you like him, don’t you?”

  She shrugged shyly. “Yes.”

  “Of course you do. And he likes you. I can tell. I just hope he hasn’t taken any liberties with you.”

  Stephie’s color deepened. Marta guessed she wanted to tell her it was none of her damn business but didn’t have the nerve. “No,” Stephie said. “No liberties.”

  “Good!” Marta said. “I don’t want you two running off and getting married. I need the both of you here. Now, finish your chocolate and get yourself to bed. Never let it be said I kept you up too late.”

  Stephie smiled and drained her cup.

  Yes, Marta thought. A lovely girl.

  The gatehouse was one room and a bathroom, furnished with a small desk, a chair, a bureau, and a hide-a-bed that folded up into a couch during the day. A sort of unattached motel room. But since he took his meals up at the house, it was all that Jerry needed.

  The lights had been off for nearly an hour but he was still awake, rerunning his favorite fantasy, starring the vo­racious Steph and the inexhaustible Jerry. Then the door opened without warning and Steph stood there with the moonlight faintly outlining her body through the light cotton nightgown she wore. She said nothing as she came for­ward and crawled under the single sheet that covered him.

  After that, no words were necesssary.

  Dawnlight sneaking through the spaces between the Venetian blinds on the gatehouse window woke Jerry. He was alone. After she had worn him out, Steph had left him. He sat on the edge of the hide-a-bed and cradled his head in his hands. In the thousand times he had mentally bedded Steph since her arrival, he had always been the initi­ator, the aggressor. Last night had been nothing at all like the fantasies. Steph had been in complete control — de­manding, voracious, insatiable, a wild woman who had left him drained and exhausted. And hardly a word had passed between them. Throughout their lovemaking she had cooed, she had whimpered, she had moaned, but she had barely spoken to him. It left him feeling sort of. . . used.

  Still trying to figure out this new, unexpected side to Steph, he walked up to t
he house for breakfast. The sun was barely up and already the air was start­ing to cook. It was going to be another hot one.

  He saw Steph heading out of the kitchen toward the dining room with old lady Gati’s tray as he came in the back door.

  “Be with you in a minute,” she called over her shoulder.

  He waited by the swinging door and caught her as she came through. He slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her.

  “Jerry, no!” she snapped. “Not here — not while I’m working!”

  He released her. “Not your cheerful old self this morning, are you?”

  “Just tired, I guess.” She turned to­ward the stove.

  “I guess you should be.”