The Black House (22 page)

Harry's thoughts drifted back to a perfect weekend (Sunday noon till Monday morning), when he and Connie had painted his kitchen bright orange. Wonderful! Connie in already paint-spattered jeans, on the ladder, alternating with him on the ladder—drinking beer, laughing, making love. God! He could see Connie more easily in the Westchester house than Lesley.

By five o'clock, Harry had come to at least one decision. He would take a look at the house, and right away, if possible. He rang Dick's office, caught Dick in the middle of a talk with Raymond, but Harry was able to say, “I'd love to
see
the house. Can I maybe drive up with you this evening?”

“Absolutely! Stay overnight with us? See it in the morning too?—I'll give Helen a blast. She'll be pleased, Harry.”

So at 6
P.M
. Harry walked with Dick to his garage, and got into Dick's car. It was a pleasant drive of less than forty minutes, Dick in cheerful mood, and not trying to query Harry again about which girl it might be. Dick talked about the easy driving, the easy route he was taking. Harry was thinking that he would have to acquire a car too. But that would still be within his financial possibilities. His parents in Florida would give him a car as a wedding present, Harry was sure, if he dropped a hint. No problem there.

“You seem to have pre-marital tension,” Dick remarked.

“No. Ha-ha.” Harry supposed he had been silent for several minutes.

They went to the Bucks' house first, because it was on the way, and because Dick wanted Harry to see the place and sleep on it. Dick said he had not bothered telephoning Julie Buck, because he knew the Bucks so well, and Julie was quite informal.

Julie welcomed them with a smile on the white front porch.

Harry and Dick went into a large hall which had a polished wooden staircase, carpeted, three handsome rooms going off the hall, one being the library. Julie said she was packing up the books, and there were cartons of books on the floor, some of the shelves empty. The Bucks' ten-year-old son, in blue jeans with holes in the knees, followed them around, tossing his football in his hands and eyeing Harry with curiosity.

“Very good apple trees. You'll have to give the apples away to the neighbors, they're so many,” Julie said as they gazed from a second-story window.

The lawn sloped beautifully downward from the back of the house. Julie said something about a brook in the hollow beyond, which marked property boundary. The upstairs bedrooms were square and generous, the two baths not the last word in modernity but somehow just right for the country. The upstairs hall had a window front and back of the house. Harry was sold, though he didn't at once say so.

“I like it. But I've got to think, you know,” Harry said. “A couple of days, Dick said I had.”

“Oh, of course. You ought to look at some other houses too,” said Julie. “Of course we love this one. And we'd like to think of a friend of the Hansons taking it over.”

Julie insisted on giving them a scotch before they left. Dick and Harry drank theirs standing up in the living room, which had a fireplace. The scotch was neat and tasted lovely. Wouldn't it be great to be master of such a house, Harry was thinking. And which girl would be mistress? He had a vision of Lesley walking through the door from the hall, bearing a tray of something, smiling her divine smile. And almost immediately he saw Connie strolling through, blonde, calm and gentle, lifting her blue eyes to meet his.

Good Christ!

That night, after roast beef, cheese and wine at the Hansons', Harry hoped he would have a dream that might enlighten him about Connie and Lesley. Connie or Lesley. He did not dream at all, or if he did, he did not remember any dream. He awakened to blue-flowered wallpaper, maple furniture, sunlight streaming into his room, and thought,
this
was the kind of life he wanted. Fresh air, no city grit.

Dick and Harry departed at 8:30 with well-wishes from Helen, who hoped as much as Dick that Harry would opt for the Bucks' house. In the early morning, Harry fell more deeply in love with the white house which could, with a word and a check, be his. One solution was, Harry thought, to speak to both girls and ask them straight out if they would like such a house, in such a location, and—either Lesley or Connie might say no. Maybe for different reasons. Lesley might find it impossible with her present work. Connie might prefer a house in Long Island. Harry hated feeling vague, but what else could he do? How else could he feel?

When Harry tried to get down to it, asking the question, in the next days, he found that he couldn't. He spent one night at Connie's manuscript-and-book-cluttered apartment, and couldn't get the question out. That was Thursday night. Was he really hanging onto Lesley, therefore, because he preferred Lesley? But the same thing happened with Lesley during a hasty Friday lunch. Harry was rather obliged to give an answer to Dick that day. The Bucks were leaving Tuesday, and Monday was the date for putting the house on the market, before their departure for California. Harry had considered looking at other houses in the area, but the low price of the Bucks' house made the effort appear absurd. From a glance at newspaper ads, Harry saw that the Bucks' property was a bargain, with its acreage. Harry pulled himself together at the end of the lunch with Lesley, and said:

“I've seen a house—”

Lesley looked at him over her coffee cup. “Yes? What house?”

“House for sale, Westchester. In the area where Dick Hanson lives. You know, Dick in my office. You've met him.”

They went on from there. Harry told her about spending the night at Dick's, that the house was a bargain and about thirty-five minutes from Manhattan, a railway station two miles away, a bus also.

Lesley looked dubious, or hesitant. She was concerned about the commuting angle. They didn't even mention marriage, maybe because Lesley took that for granted, Harry thought.

“The problem is, it's such a bargain, they want an answer now, or it'll be put with an agent Monday at a higher price. The house.”

Lesley said she'd love to see the place, anyway, since Harry seemed to like it so much, and maybe they could go up tomorrow? Saturday? Harry said he was sure he could arrange that, either through Dick or the Bucks who would probably not mind at all picking them up at the railway station or the bus stop. That afternoon, Harry spoke with Dick Hanson about a Saturday afternoon appointment with the Bucks. Dick said he would ring Norman Buck at his New York office and fix it. By 4:30 that afternoon, Harry had a date with Norman, who would meet the train that left from Grand Central and got in at Gresham, Westchester, at 3:30.

Harry had a date that evening with Connie, who was to come to his apartment. Harry did some shopping in his neighborhood, having decided to speak to Connie at home and not in a restaurant. He was so nervous, a bottle of red wine slipped from his hands and broke on the kitchen floor, before Connie arrived. Fortunately he had another bottle in his rack, and it was so warm Connie might prefer beer, but the wine had been a good one.

He had come to a desperate but at the same time not very clear conclusion that afternoon just before leaving the office: he would invite
both
girls to see the Westchester house. He could at least see which girl liked the house better. Maybe there would be a scene, maybe there wouldn't be. Maybe they'd both say no. At least it would clear the atmosphere. Harry had not been able to concentrate during the afternoon, and had scraped through the minimum of work that he should have done. He had reasoned: if he showed the house to the girls one at a time, what then? Suppose both Lesley and Connie liked the house equally? Would he have come to any decision about Connie or Lesley even then? No. He somehow had to confront both of them, and himself, with the Westchester house at the same time. Since the girls had never met, this presented a different problem: introduce them at Grand Central, and they would all ride up on the same train? This seemed unthinkable.

Harry poured himself a straight scotch, not a big one, and lifted it with a shaking hand. There were times when a person needed steadying, he thought, and this was one of them. Harry remembered that he had said after lunch with Lesley today that he would ring her back about a time to meet tomorrow to go up to Westchester. He hadn't rung Lesley, however. Why not? Well, for one thing, more than half the time he didn't know where to ring her, because of her hopping around at her work. Should he try her at her apartment now? As Harry frowned at his telephone, it rang.

It was Lesley.

Harry smiled. “I was just about to call
you
.”

“Did you make any arrangement about tomorrow?”

Harry said he had, and stammered out something about the train from Grand Central at 3
P.M
. or a couple of minutes before. Lesley asked him why he was so nervous.

“I dunno,” Harry said, and Lesley laughed.

“If you've got it all arranged with the Bucks, don't change anything, but I can't make it by three, I know,” Lesley said. “Werner—you know, Werner Ludwig, he needs me at two tomorrow, and I know he'll need an hour anyway, but the good thing is, he lives near that town you mentioned.”

“Gresham?”

“That's it, and he said he'd be glad to take me up with him in his car. I think he even knows the Bucks' house. So I could be there by four, I should think.”

Suddenly that problem was solved, for Harry. Or postponed, he thought, the girls' meeting. At least they wouldn't be meeting in Grand Central.

They hung up, and the doorbell rang. Connie had his key (so did Lesley), but Connie always buzzed when she knew he was home.

Harry's nerves did not improve during the evening. He was cheerful, even made Connie laugh once, but he felt that his hands were shaking. When he looked at his hands, they were not shaking.

“Jitters already, and you haven't even signed anything?” Connie asked. “You don't have to take
this
house. It's the first one you've looked at up there, isn't it? Nobody buys the first thing they see.” Connie spoke in her serious, logical way.

He was no good in bed that night. Connie thought it funny, but not as funny as Lesley would have. Connie had brought two manuscripts. They slept late on Saturday morning (Harry had at last fallen asleep after hours of trying to, and trying to be motionless so as not to disturb Connie), and she read one of the manuscripts after their brunch, until it was time to leave for Grand Central. They took a taxi to the station. Connie read the second manuscript, absorbed and silent, during the short ride, and was not even half through the script when they got to Gresham, doing as usual her careful job, Harry was sure.

Dick Hanson met them, not Nelson Buck as Harry had expected.

“Welcome, Harry!” Dick said, all smiles. “So it's—” He looked at Connie.

“Connie Jaeger,” Harry said. “You've met her, I think. I know.”

Dick and Connie exchanged “Hellos” and they got into Dick's car, Harry in the back seat, and off they went into the countryside. Twenty to four. Would Lesley be there ahead of time? Would it be any worse than her coming five minutes
after
they got to the Bucks'? No. Should he mention now that he was expecting someone else? Harry tried rehearsing the first sentence, and realized that he couldn't have got the first words out. Maybe Lesley wouldn't be able to make it, after all. Maybe Werner had had a puncture, was going to be delayed? And what then?

“There's the house,” said Dick as he made a turn in the road.

“Oh. Very lovely,” said Connie, quietly and politely.

Connie never went overboard about anything, Harry reminded himself, with a little comfort.

Harry saw a car in front of the Bucks' house on the curving graveled driveway. Then Harry saw Lesley come out the front door, onto the porch, with Julie Buck.

“Well, well, they've got visitors,” said Dick, pulling his handbrake.

“My friend Lesley,” Harry mumbled. Did he black out for the next seconds? He opened the car door for Connie.

Much chatter, introductions.

“Connie—this is Lesley—Marker. Connie Jaeger,” Harry said.

“How do you do?” the girls said simultaneously, looking each other in the eyes, as if each was trying to memorize the other's face. Their smiles were polite and minimal.

Dick shuffled, brushed his hands together for no reason, and said, “Well, shall we all go in and look around? May we, Julie?”

“Su-ure! That's what we're here for!” said Julie cheerfully, not digging a whit of the situation, Harry realized.

Harry felt that he walked into purgatory, into hell, into another life, or maybe death. The girls were stiff as pokers, didn't even look at him as they all walked from room to room. Julie gave them a guided tour, mentioning defects and assets, and as on many a guided tour, Harry felt, some of the tourists were not listening. He caught the girls sizing each other up with lightning glances, which were followed by an ignoring of each other. Dick Hanson wore a puzzled frown, even when he looked at Harry.

“What's going on?” Dick whispered to Harry, when he could.

Harry shrugged. It was more like a twitch, though he tried for a desperate couple of seconds to say something intelligent or normal to Dick. He couldn't. The situation was bizarre, the rooms, the house suddenly meaningless, their parading back down the stairs as useless as some rehearsal in a play in which no one had any interest.

“
Thank
you, Mrs. Buck,” Lesley was saying with careful politeness in the downstairs hall.

Lesley's friend, who had brought her, had evidently departed, because his car was gone, Harry saw. Connie looked at him with her quiet, knowing smile. Her smile was not friendly, but rather amused.

“Harry, if you—”

“I'm afraid it's off,” Harry said, interrupting Dick. “Off, yes.”