"Um..." she said still leery. Her guests were usually older people who had been coming to her rooming house for years and years. All she had to offer them was home cooking and a clean place. There were no facilities. The pond was too small for boating and too muddy for swimming. Martin's Rooming House was just a place to rest your tired old bones, she thought, and wondered why this young man would want to stay here, especially now.
"I don't heat the rooms, you know," she said, not quite sure herself why she was searching for ways to discourage unexpected found income.
"That's fine. I don't sleep with heat on much anyway. I like it better when it's cool. How big is this house?" he asked gazing up at one of the dormers. "It looks enormous."
"Eighteen rooms," she replied, her arms still folded tightly under her small bosom. In fact, she was pressing her forearms against herself so firmly, she felt she might crack one of her own ribs.
"Is there a room available in the tower? That looks like fun," he said.
"The tower? Yes," she said. "I suppose you could take that one. I got to get some fresh bedding together first. And it needs a good dusting. I've had the rooms closed down for nearly a month, you know," she said defensively.
"Oh, I'm sure it will be a lot nicer than the motel I was in last night. You know how they clean those places," he said. She grunted.
"Where are you from?" she asked. It was more like a demand. She still hadn't agreed to rent him the room.
"New York City. Upper Manhattan on the East Side," he said. It came to him as quickly as a line memorized from a play he had been doing week after week.
"What do you do, Mr...."
"Karl," he said, but he could see she wasn't comfortable with first names. "Karl Stanley. I'm an accountant," he said. "A CPA," he added to impress her. She didn't look impressed. "I have a vacation now and..."
"What kind of vacation is it that you don't know how long you will stay?" she asked quickly.
He felt a chilling sweat break out on the back of his neck. Only old people could do this to him, make him sound and feel defensive. He took a deep breath. Her eyes grew smaller as she waited for his answer.
"Oh, I'm self-employed," he said. "I own my own business and can usually pick and chose my own schedule. So," he said, "will it be all right... the room in the tower?"
"I suppose," she replied. "You'll have to wait until I get it ready, though. You can bring your things into the sitting room on the right here until then," she added, finally backing up to indicate where he should go.
"Great. I'll just get everything out of the car."
"Don't you care how much it will be?" she asked quickly. He had already turned and stepped away; he was that anxious and anxious people always frightened her.
"Oh... I didn't think you were going to rob me. How much will it be?"
"Forty a day," she said quickly. "Fifty-five if you take meals, too." He could sense it was more than she would have charged an older person off-season. It was her last attempt to discourage him.
"Fine," he said. "I'd paid a lot more for a dingy motel room and I'm looking forward to home cooking."
"Um," she said not hiding her disappointment. He flashed the best smile he could and retreated to his car to get his things.
Nearly a half hour afterward, she told him it was all right for him to go up to his room. She showed him the way and then she asked for two days rent in advance. He peeled off the bills from his wad, her eyes big when she saw how much he had. He had no idea himself how he had gotten it, but he imagined it came from his trail of feeds.
"Very pretty," he remarked, looking in at the queen-size brass bed and the light oak furniture. There were a nightstand, an armoire, and a dresser. He put his things down quickly and went to the window. It afforded him a sweeping view of the hamlet's main street in the distances. He could see a trickle of traffic. "So picturesque," he said.
When he turned around, she was gone and she had closed the door. Suddenly, he had another memory flash. He was locked in a room just like this and he was pounding on the door only his hands and his arms were all bandaged, and the window... he spun around to look through this one again, to be sure it was uncovered. The window in his memory was painted black so that no light would come through.
Who am I? he wondered with a new intensity. Was it because he was in a house that had such character and he sensed family? The ghosts of all the children, the parents, and the grandparents who had lived here still lingered in the walls, reminding him in ways he didn't want to be reminded that he had no one and was no one.
But the frustration passed through him quickly, like some muscle spasm. He could breathe freely again. It was all right. Everything was all right. He returned to the window to gaze over the hamlet and way off, toward the end of the street, in the direction from which he had come, he saw beautiful, young Kristin walking home from work, walking toward him, coming closer and closer like the promise of light that came with the first rays of morning. His old confidence returned.
He was in the right place. For now, as always, he was in the right place at the right time.
Invigorated, he began to unpack.
FOUR
Hyman adjusted their schedules so that Terri could attend Paige Thorndyke's funeral.
"Although," he told her, "during all the years I've lived here, Terri, I think I could count on my fingers how many of my patients' funerals I've attended. I know doctors who have never attended any. I suppose it's a touch of paranoia, something that comes with the territory. You sit there in church or synagogue and you feel the eyes of loved ones and you think they are wondering if you made a mistake or if there was something more you could have done. Ridiculous, I know, but nevertheless, you feel it. At least, I did. Still do.
"And I don't blame them," he added. "We're always second-guessing, wondering if we should have seen that heart attack coming or that stroke. I've often revisited patient histories with just that question. Even after years and years of practicing medicine, I do it on occasion.
"Of course in this case, you have nothing to second-guess. You never treated the woman for anything, and you had no opportunity to provide any medical diagnosis or prescribe any therapy," he concluded.
"For what it's worth," she said, "Curt is on your side. He and I had a bit of a quarrel about it last night. He thinks I'm losing my critical objectivity."
"A certain amount of aloofness is important. It helps you maintain the objectivity you need to do your best," Hyman told her. "I wouldn't even deliver my own children. Sent my wife to Crackenberg, who charged the full ticket, I might add. No professional courtesy. He was not what anyone would call a generous man. His was a funeral I attended, motivated by a bit of glee, I'm ashamed to say."
Terri laughed, thanked him, and prepared to get to the church. It was a heavily attended service. Most of the hamlet had turned out, as well as people from Bradley's airline, the entire travel agency, and various relatives of the Thorndykes. The bizarre nature of Paige's death gave the funeral an unrealistic air, a sense that everyone was moving within the same nightmare. Terri could see it in the way people greeted each other, shook their heads in confusion, and stared at the grieving parents and Paige's brother Phil, all three of whom now looked stunned, gazing occasionally at the faces of the attendees as if they were looking to see if anyone could tell them why they were here. Bradley Thorndyke held his wife tightly, supported and guided her along, but to Terri it looked like he was really doing it to hold himself together as well or even more so. Phil Thorndyke held hands with an attractive brunette. They were comforting each other. Terri heard someone say her name was Eileen Okun and she had been Paige's closest friend.