Authors: KATHY
"But in a fascinating reversal of conventional male-female roles. Usually it's the hero who nobly sacrifices his life for a principle, and the
heroine who refuses to go on living after the sole light of her life is gone. As for Antigone's sister . . . Admittedly she does offer to join Antigone in death, but only after she has tried to persuade her sister to accept the tyrant's refusal to give their dead brother honorable burial. And in the end, Ismene doesn't go through with it. She lives and Antigone dies."
"Antigone talks her out of sacrificing herself. She doesn't want to share the glory."
"That's one interpretation." Meyer raised his eyebrows. "But I didn't expect you to be so
cynical
about female heroes."
"Why should they be any different from male heroes? Do you think it was love for her sister that moved Antigone, then?"
"Why not? Ismene had offered the highest proof of her love; she was willing to die for a cause she obviously considered foolish. Their brother was already dead and rotting. What use is honorable burial to a corpse?"
"That's a modern viewpoint. The Greeks didn't share it."
"True," Meyer admitted. "Nor did some of our not-so-distant ancestors. I doubt the parallel between the drama and the novel extends beyond the similarity of names, however, so I wouldn't bother searching for a pair of sisters and a dead brother in the Cartright genealogy. I have, however, found Ismene's house of stone."
The words were like a slap in the face of a swooning heroine. Karen had been leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands, forgetting her dislike of Meyer in the rare and unmatched pleasure of shop talk. There weren't many people who knew her field so well, and whose intelligence was as quick as Meyer's. Or as crafty. He had caught her completely off guard.
"You sneaky son of a bitch," she exclaimed. "How much of the manuscript did you read?"
"And then he said, with one of those nasty grins of his—I quote exactly—'I'm quite a fast reader. And I know how to skim the cream off a text.' "
She was speaking to Peggy, who had called to report her arrival shortly after Meyer left. She was earlier than Karen had expected, but Karen hadn't commented on that or on Peggy's drawn, tired face. The perfidy of William Meyer still rankled. As she drove to the motel to pick up her
friend she carried on a profane monologue with herself, but it was an even greater catharsis to express her rage to a sympathetic listener.
"Have a drink," Peggy suggested. She already had one; her first question, after they reached the apartment, had been, "Where's the booze?"
"Maybe I will." Removing the cork from the bottle of wine relieved a little of her spleen. While she worked at it Peggy said mildly, "So what's the beef? He didn't have to tell you. Did he describe the location of the place he had found?"
"Well . . . yes. I'd have found it anyway. I had already located the clearing in the woods."
"But not the house."
Karen shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like to remember the attack of panic she had felt in that clearing, and she had no intention of admitting it to anyone—not even Peggy. "I only found the reference to it last night," she said evasively. "Up till that point I had no reason to suppose Ismene's house of stone was anything other than figurative."
"I wasn't criticizing you. You've accomplished a hell of a lot in only a few days." She watched Karen pace back and forth and then added, in a sharper voice, "For God's sake, sit down and relax! I don't know why you let Meyer get to you. What else did he say?"
"Not much. He didn't have a chance to say much—I more or less kicked him out." Karen slumped into a chair and sipped her wine. "Calling him a son of a bitch didn't exactly improve matters."
"What . . . did ... he ... say?" Peggy repeated.
"He didn't return the compliment." The wine, or Peggy's presence, or both, had had a soothing effect. Karen smiled faintly. "In fact, he laughed. He said he'd given me the information as a token of his good intentions, and that he'd continue to pass on anything of interest, without expecting me to reciprocate. Not that I believe it."
"It could be he's on the up-and-up," Peggy mused. "Cherishing a secret passion for you, unable to express it because you are a professional rival as well as a beautiful, desirable woman ..."
"Very funny." But the idea had its appeal. It would certainly be a triumph to have Bill Meyer, the Don Juan of the Modern Language Association, kneeling at her feet. Karen savored the image: Meyer submissive and stammering, like some bucolic swain, with her foot planted firmly on his bowed neck.
The picture was as absurd as it was unlikely. "Maybe I did overreact," she admitted. "I doubt my rudeness fazed Bill, though. He'll be back. Want another drink before I start my report?"
"Yes." Peggy rose and followed her into the kitchen. "I wouldn't say no to a cracker and a crumb of cheese, either, if you have them. I haven't had anything to eat since this morning; stopped off at the house to change clothes and pick up the car, and then drove straight through."
"No wonder you look so tired." Karen went to the refrigerator. "I'm sorry; I should have asked. How is your friend?"
"Dead," Peggy said. "The funeral was yesterday."
We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground— The Roof was scarcely visible— The Cornice—in the Ground—
Emily Dickinson,
1863
The package of
cheese slipped from Karen's hand. She bent over to retrieve it. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, painfully aware of how inadequate the words must sound. "What ... I mean, was he ... What I really mean is, do you want to talk about it?"
"Not at length." Peggy had already helped herself to the Scotch. "But I don't mind answering the questions you were courteous enough not to ask. 'What' was AIDS. He's been sick a long time, and it was not a merciful death. He was a close friend, I guess you'd say. I was married to him."
Karen's hand slipped again. The cheese fell onto a plate this time. "I didn't know you were married," she gasped, forgetting tact in astonishment.
" 'Was,' I said. We split up fifteen years ago, after he found the courage to admit he preferred his own sex. I had," Peggy said without expression, "suspected that earlier."
"But you went to be with him when ..."
"When he asked for me. Sure I did. I got over my anger and hurt a long time ago. He didn't want to hurt me. He was a nice guy; we could have been friends if he'd been able to face the truth. It wasn't as easy to do that twenty years ago."
"It still isn't easy, I guess." Still reeling mentally from the barrage
of
revelations, Karen offered a plate of cheese and crackers like a burnt offering. "Are you all right?" she asked.
Peggy grinned. She still looked tired—small wonder, Karen thought remorsefully—but it was her old smile. "I'm not infected, if that's what you mean. He called me as soon as he found out, even though he was sure it hadn't happened until after we separated."
"That was a decent thing to do."
"He was a nice guy," Peggy said again. "As for my mental state—well, it hasn't been a pleasant week, but I'll survive. When you're my age, you become more accustomed to losing friends." She stuffed a cracker into her mouth and added indistinctly, "The intellectual challenge you are about to offer will distract and divert me. Tell me all."
The distraction proved effective; it was Karen who called a halt to the discussion, though the hour was still early and they hadn't covered all the possible ramifications.
"You must be exhausted, Peggy. I'll take you back to the motel. Unless you want to stay here tonight."
Peggy admitted she was ready for bed, but she refused the invitation with all her old acrimony. "I'll bet the mattress is almost as thin as the towels. The old lady didn't exactly knock herself out furnishing this place, did she?"
"It's adequate. Are you sure you don't want company? I'll stay with you if you like."
"The only company I want is this genealogy." Peggy tucked it and the notes she had made into her bag. "Don't get sentimental and mushy, Karen, I don't need a shoulder to cry on. You needn't pick me up tomorrow. I know how to find the place now. Suppose I get here about nine? I'll bring doughnuts or something equally unhealthy. We'll finish planning our campaign, and then drive out to have a look at the house. Do you suppose your friend Cameron will be working there tomorrow?"
"Probably." Karen located her keys and opened the door. "Watch the steps, they're steep. Why do you want to see the house? I told you—"
"I am not questioning your data," Peggy said, determinedly patient. "I just want to see the damned place, okay?"
"Okay, okay." Karen unlocked the trunk and put the briefcase inside.
"Cautious little creature, aren't you?" Peggy said. "Do you haul that manuscript with you everywhere you go?"
"Yes, I do. There's no safe hiding place in the apartment. It wouldn't take much strength to force the door."
"That was not a criticism, just a simple question." Peggy settled herself with a grunt and reached for the seat belt. "I have to admit I keep losing sight of how valuable the damned thing is. Not in monetary terms but—"
"I wouldn't lose sight of the monetary terms," Karen said grimly. "How much do you suppose Bill would pay for a copy?"
"Please don't say things like that," Peggy pleaded. "The idea opens up too many horrible possibilities. Bill's not the only one who would pay for a copy, you know. You shouldn't have called him a son of a bitch."
"He is a son of a bitch."
"Who knows?" Peggy murmured. "Life is full of surprises. That is what makes it so interesting."
Cameron was descending a long ladder when they caught sight of him. Karen deduced he had been painting the shutters or woodwork of an upper window, and had left off when he heard the car.
"Who's that?" Peggy demanded, staring. "Not the prim and proper business gent we had dinner with? Wow! Who'd have thought he had such a good-looking pair of—"
"Shhh! He'll hear you."
"He can't possibly hear me. Anyhow, what's wrong with expressing admiration of a shapely body? Men do it all the time. The rest of him isn't bad, either. Except for his expression. I don't think he's happy to see us."
"Peggy, if you don't shut up ..." Karen hastily got out of the car and hailed their obviously unenthusiastic host. "Good morning. I'm sorry if we disturbed you. You remember Dr. Finneyfrock?"
"Call me Peggy," said Peggy with a broad smile and an outstretched hand.
"Uh—thank you." In some astonishment Cameron studied the small figure, dressed like a miniature commando in khaki shirt, baggy pants and heavy boots. Karen realized he hadn't recognized Peggy until she mentioned the name.
Recovering himself, he displayed a palm liberally smeared with green
paint. "It's nice to see you again, Dr.—Peggy. You'll excuse me for not shaking hands."
"It would be easier to paint them if you took them off," Peggy said.
"What . . ."He blinked at her. "Oh, you mean the shutters. I can't get them off without using a hacksaw on the hardware, it's rusted solid. This job is purely cosmetic; I haven't time for ... But you don't want to hear about that. What can I do for you?"
The question implied he didn't want to do much and that he hoped they would go away. Karen said, "Peggy wanted to see the house. There's no need for you to go with us."
"The cellar's flooded again," Cameron said.
"Good," Peggy said. "That gives me an excuse to decline a visit. I come all over queer in dark, dank, enclosed spaces. We'd like to explore the grounds, though, if that's all right with you."
"There's poison ivy, brambles, snakes—"
"Honey, I'm a country girl at heart. I know all about snakes. As you can see, I dressed for the occasion."
Hands on her hips, feet planted firmly, she tipped her head back and gave him a cheerful grin. Cameron still appeared a trifle dazed by the transformation, but his lips relaxed in an answering smile.
"Yes, I see. Be careful."
"Same to you," Peggy retorted. "That ladder doesn't look very sturdy. You shouldn't be working out here alone. If you fell—"
"I won't fall. But I appreciate your concern." He sounded as if he meant it.
Karen had been curious to see how Peggy would react to the chill in the front hall. It struck her as forcefully as it had on the other occasions, but if Peggy felt anything she didn't mention it. Muttering to herself and scribbling notes, she tramped from room to room with Karen trailing after her.
"What are you looking for?" the latter finally asked.
"I'm trying to get some idea of how old the main house and its appendages are, and whether there are visible signs of alteration. For instance—" she pointed with her pen—"that could be a bricked-up doorway. It's in the right location for an entrance to another wing."
"Ismene mentions two wings."
"Don't tell me what she mentions. You saw the house after you'd read
the manuscript. I want to do it the other way around. Not that I doubt your conclusions," Peggy added quickly. "This is by way of being a cross-check."