At last she began to tire and to wander down pathways into the past, addressing Karen as Susie ("Her daughter," the housekeeper whispered. "Just say, 'yes, Mama.'") When Karen offered a flat sum for the last few boxes, sight unseen, she nodded wearily.
She perked up, though, when Karen handed over the money-Mrs. MacDougal had warned her she would be expected to pay cash-and scribbled her name on the prepared receipt. Karen had to call a taxi to carry away the loot, and when she left the room Mrs. Ferris was chuckling to herself as she counted the bills and silver, briskly as a bank cashier.
As she stood on the step with Betsy, waiting for the taxi, the housekeeper said, "You gave the old dear a real shot in the arm. She'll squirrel that money away before I get back in the room; Lord knows how much she's got tucked away, under chair cushions and behind pillows. And she'll talk for days about what a sharp bargainer she is."
"I hope I didn't cheat her."
"Good land, honey, that stuff has been rotting in the attic for thirty years or more. I'm glad to get it out of the house."
"But won't her children resent her selling family heirlooms? I mean, the wedding veil-"
"Well, honey, it's hers, isn't it? Seems to me she's entitled to do what she wants with it. There's no family except a daughter and granddaughter, and they sure don't put themselves out any for her; one of 'em comes by every month or so, and it's downright indecent how disappointed they are when they find she's still alive and kicking. Here's your taxi, honey."
The cabdriver good-naturedly helped Karen carry the overflowing cartons to the door and then left, his headlights cutting twin beams through the darkening street. Alexander ambled to the door and Karen began tugging the boxes into the house. She was anxious to examine her purchases in a decent light. Either she had made an excellent deal or she had just wasted $78.50. If it was the former, she had no qualms; she had had to work for every penny.
As she dragged the last of the boxes inside, the dog made a sudden dart for the door. Karen grabbed and missed; Alexander scampered down the steps and ran to the gate, barking furiously.
Thank goodness she had closed the gate. She went after the dog. He had stopped barking, but he seemed to be intent on something across the street.
A pool of darkness had gathered there, equidistant between two streetlights. The windows of the opposite house were unlighted. After a moment Alexander turned and went back into the house.
Until that moment Karen had forgotten her conversation with the lawyer. She was sorry to have been reminded. Not that Alexander's aggressiveness was significant; he might have been barking at a squirrel or a shadow. Nevertheless she retreated quickly into the house and locked the front door.
Alexander was sniffing at the cartons. A violent sneeze indicated his opinion; he stalked off, shaking his head.
Karen pulled the boxes into the dining room. She had cleared the long table and covered the surface with thick layers of newspaper so she could use it as a work table. She began unloading her purchases.
At first she was inclined to agree with Alexander, and her heart sank. Seventy-eight dollars wasn't much money, she supposed, but from the point of view of someone who had none at all, it was too much to waste on material that could never bring a profit. Just touching the fabrics made her want to scrub her hands. She reminded herself that she had been spoiled by the superb condition of Ruth's and Mrs. MacDougal's clothes. The things she had bought from Mrs. Mac's other friends had not been up to that standard, but neither had they been as bad as this. Most of the cloth reeked of mold and mustiness. Some appeared to have been stored without being washed. She shook out a long pink organdy dress stained all down the front; it looked as if it had been wrapped around a rusty iron frying pan.
But there were treasures among the trash. The laces were beautiful, ranging from separate pieces of edging and insertion only a foot long to big sections large enough to have been overskirts or dress panels. Most were of cotton; they would respond well to plain soap and water.
She took a double handful of laces, some of the ones that would require what her pamphlets called "heroic treatment," and carried them upstairs. Filling the basin in the bathroom with warm water and detergent, she left them to soak overnight. Tomorrow she would rinse them thoroughly and wash them again, adding a small amount of ordinary bleach to the water.
It was still early-early on a Friday night, the beginning of the weekend. Karen raised the window in the master bedroom, which looked over the street. The house across the way showed lighted windows now; the sound of voices drifted across to her. A puff of stale, hot air warmed her face and she lowered the window. Georgetown gardens were beautiful, but she didn't envy the people who were sitting in the one across the street, talking and drinking and having fun, in spite of the heat. At least she didn't envy them much…
She went downstairs. Alexander raised his head when she turned on the lights in the parlor, but he did not move. He had refused to occupy his bed-antique basketry, lined with crushed velvet-when it was in the kitchen, so Karen had given up and put it in the parlor, on the hearthrug.
"Come on," she said. Her voice sounded strange in the empty room. "You're not much, Alexander, but you're better than nothing. How about coming upstairs with me?"
A rude sniff was the only reply. Karen had been prepared for a refusal. She held out the chicken breast she had taken from the refrigerator. Alexander was passionately fond of chicken-only the white meat, of course.
It took a while, but she finally got Alexander, and his bed, into her room. The only book on the bedside table was the Georgetown legends book. The phantom of Dolley Madison held no charm for Karen that night; she found a children's book in one of the bookcases in the hall.
Little Women was as bland and harmless as a piece of literature could be, and it finally put Karen to sleep. Yet she dreamed that night, for the first time since Ruth and Pat had left. She dreamed Horton was waltzing with Mrs. Ferris, he in his chauffeur's uniform, she swathed in her wedding veil like a mummy in its wrappings. The dance grew wilder and Horton lifted the fragile old woman clear off her feet, whirling her around like a withered leaf; and as the music swelled she shriveled and turned brown, until she was a leaf, sere and dead, but giant in size. Then Horton, grinning till his gums showed, let her go and she fluttered in diminishing circles around the room until someone opened a window and out she blew into the darkness. A faint shriek, like the squeal of a rusty hinge, shivered and died into silence.
KAREN had never believed in the virtues of being early to bed and early to rise, but in Washington, in the summer, the second part of the adage made good sense. From dawn to midmorning-sometimes earlier, during a severe heat wave-the temperature was at least tolerable.
It was a surprisingly sociable time of day, too. Joggers and runners and exercise buffs were out in full force, not only because of the relative coolness but because most of them worked during the day. Karen had been jogging, or trying to, for over a week. The first time she emerged from the house into the pale light and long, soft shadows, she had been self-conscious and a little uneasy. Now she enjoyed it. There was a camaraderie among the would-be healthy, a pleased awareness of their superiority over the slothful majority who were still snoring in their beds. The truly dedicated ran in a state of profound detachment from reality, their eyes fixed in vacancy, their faces bright-red and streaming; but there were plenty like Karen, who had time for a friendly wave or grin, or gasped greeting, as they stumbled along. The tree-lined streets seemed cooler than they really were, and the towpath along the old B and O Canal was delightful at that time of day, shaded by surrounding buildings, with the water rippling gently under the footbridges.