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.