FIRE AND FOG (20 page)

The path was a narrow track, and perilous; it is a wonder I did
not fall to my death that afternoon. Certainly I did not watch my
step, because my mind and my heart were both too full. I do not
believe in angels any more than I believein God, but perhaps an
angel was watching over me. I do not know; all I know is that at
Land's End that June day I made a decision that shaped my life: I
decided not to marry Anson Tyler.

It was not a clear-cut decision, of the sort where one says,
I have decided and so that is that.
No, it was more that I
finally let myself think honestly about Michael. Yes, he had gone
away, but he would return, and when he did, he would come to me. He
had not written . . . and that disturbed me much more than it
should have. I had felt angry with him . . . but the person I was
most angry with was myself. I was angry with Michael because it was
easier to be angry than to admit my true feelings for him. I was
angry with myself for having those feelings:
I was in love with
Michael Archer!

There, the truth was out. And I owed Anson a debt of gratitude I
could neither mention nor repay, because thinking about his
proposal of marriage had forced me, at last, to acknowledge my love
for Michael.

I stopped on the path and turned my face to the moisture-laden
wind. I snatched off my scarf and the clasp that held my hair,
letting the wind stream through it. I was completely alone, not
another soul in sight. "I love Michael!" I shouted, and the wind
bore my words away.

The foghorn moaned, a reminder that love is not all joy, it
comes mixed with pain. For me the pain was that I knew Michael did
not love me. He had loved once, deeply, a woman called Katya, for
whom his boat was named. She was dead; he blamed himself; he would
never love again.

I resumed my steps. My long hair streamed into my eyes and
wrapped itself around my neck; I could not see, nevertheless I
walked on, lost in my thoughts. Michael did care about me, as a
friend, or perhaps-and this was rather humiliating-as a daughter.
For he was some twenty years older than I, and while this
difference in age was not a barrier to me where love is concerned,
it was to him. True, he did not treat me like a child. Indeed he
had always, from the very beginning, when I was more than a little
green at being a woman on my own, treated me as an equal. I amused
him. Sometimes I even seemed to provoke his admiration. But he did
not love me.

When I reentered the greeny dark among the cypress trees, it no
longer seemed deliciously spooky but rather somber; its somberness
matched my mood. I wished I could regain those few moments of
exultation, but they were gone. After a while, I realized it was
all right, / was all right. I felt somehow clean inside. By
admitting that I loved Michael, no matter how he might feel about
me, I had achieved a kind of inner balance.

It is good when one is able to be honest with oneself.

I returned to Haight Street to find an old woman picking her way
carefully down the front steps from my door. I hastened to help
her, because she looked as if she could fall and break an ankle as
easily as blink an eye.

"May I help you?" I asked.

She looked at me with eyes as black and inquisitive as a bird's.
"Oh, it's you, isn't it? I almost didn't recognize you with your
hair all down around your face."

"I'm Fremont Jones," I said, mentally bracing myself; cruel fate
had given me a taste of self-honesty only to confront me once more
with the necessity of lying to others. I was getting sick of this.
"I'm Alice Lasley's housemate. I don't believe we've met?"

"No, we haven't, but that doesn't mean I don't know who you are.
I've seen you going in and out. I thought at first Alice got you in
to help with her aunt, but then I saw your sign. You're just a
boarder, that right?"

"I rent two downstairs rooms from Alice," I said, thinking,
Aunt? What aunt?

She pulled in her chin and rocked back on her heels, regarding
me in a way that said
nosy neighbor.
Nosy neighbors know
things; she could be useful to me. She could also be a liability. I
was on my guard.

"In trade, are you?" she asked.

"No, what I offer is a service. As the sign says, a typewriting
service. What may I do for you, Mrs.-?"

"Weeks. Miss Lola Weeks. I'm a maiden lady, just like poor
Gertie."

"Poor Gertie." I have observed that repeating a person's words
back to them in a certain tone will often draw them out.

"Gertrude Lasley, that child's aunt. Humph! Though she's not
such a child no more, the way she gets herself all gussied up-"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Weeks, but you still have not told me
how I may assist you. I assume you want some assistance, since you
were at the door."

"Was no answer," she sniffed.

"That is because I was out."

"You the only one in the house can answer the door, is that
it?"

"Something like that."

"I thought as much. Haven't seen Alice for a while, and I
wondered if she's took sick. Wondered who was taking care of poor
Gertie if the child was sick. Thought I'd inquire."

Even as I opened my mouth to speak, I had not the slightest idea
what I was going to say.

12.

Mens Sana in Corpore Sano,
or Some Such
Thing

"How kind of you to inquire!" I said brightly. "Have you known
them long, then?" I took her arm and turned her away from the
house. "You must allow me to accompany you to your door-we can talk
as we walk."

"I've known Gertie for dog's years. Alice since she came here,
let me see now, that was two years ago. Gertie first took sick not
long after Alice moved in. I guess it was Providence, the girl
being there to help out at just the right time and all."

"Yes, most providential. I must admit I don't know either of
them very well. I happened upon Alice right after the
earthquake-Oh! That reminds me: how did you do in the quake? I hope
everything is all right at your house?"

Lola Weeks stepped into the street without looking, with me
hanging on her arm and on her every word, as well. Fortunately we
did not get run over. She gushed, "It was really the most
unpleasant experience I have ever had in my life! I simply couldn't
deal with it. My dear, I just got right out and left all the
cleaning up to my housekeeper. I went over to Berkeley, to my
sister's children. They're all grown up now and I must say they
were really very kind, treated me like royalty, they did."

"How nice for you."

"I just came back a few days ago. Wanted to wait until
everything was back to normal. The housekeeper sent word."

"You were very wise." We had reached the steps of a house across
the street and one down from Alice's. She put her foot on the step
and I let go her arm, ready to flee.

"I do pretty well," she said complacently.

"I've enjoyed our little chat," said I, walking backward. "It
was so nice to have met you."

"Are you sure you won't come in for a cup of tea?"

"Not now, thank you." I stepped off the curb, waved, and turned
away. "Perhaps another time."

"Oh, wait! You forgot to tell me how they are, Alice and
Gertie!"

From the middle of the street I called over my shoulder: "They
are both as well as can be expected!"

"Well!" said I, closing the front door with relief. My head was
positively spinning.

I had assumed that the Haight was a neighborhood in which people
kept their distance out of respect for one another's privacy, as
often happens in cities. I based the assumption on the fact that
none of the neighbors had come to see Alice; and while at first
that had seemed odd to me, I'd gotten used to it. Now here was Lola
Weeks.

I hadn't quite lied to her, but she would be back. Which meant
my days-if not hours-in the house were numbered. I couldn't keep
putting her off
ad infinitum.

I puttered around, changing shoes for slippers, brushing my
hair, checking what food there was for dinner, and so on, and all
the while I was thinking, thinking, thinking.

If Alice had a husband, that nosy neighbor would have known. She
would have said. Especially if something had gone wrong in the
marriage-she would have spouted gossip of that nature, I was sure.
There was no husband. This large house belonged to the aunt,
Gertrude Lasley.

Gertrude
Lasley,
Alice
Lasley . . .
When a woman
marries she always takes her husband's name,
always.
I must
say it has never seemed quite fair to me, but there it is. If one's
surname were Smith or Brown-or even I daresay Jones-then one might
marry and still have the same name. But Lasley? Not likely.

I stood in the middle of the formal parlor with the sherry
decanter in one hand and two glasses, by their stems, in the other,
and my mind was working like clockwork. It was all coming together.
Yes. Yes, it was.

Mystery
#1
solved: There never was a husband. Alice
made him up out of some pathetic emotional need.

Mystery
#2
solved: The house belonged to the aunt,
which was how a librarian had afforded to live in it.

Mystery
#3
solved: The aunt had liked milk, which was
why the standard order was for two bottles.

Mystery
#4
solved: The money hidden in Alice's bed
properly belonged to the aunt.
Well, maybe not; but anyway, my
mind rushed on to-

Mystery
#5
: Where was the aunt? The aunt had been
sick, the aunt was now . . .
dead! And buried?

I almost dropped the decanter. And at that inopportune moment
the doorbell rang. It was Anson on his nightly visit, I had
expected him. I set the sherry and the glasses temporarily on the
Monstrosity and opened the door.

"Good evening, Anson."

He kissed my cheek and presented me with a small bouquet of
daisies. "Fremont. You are looking lovely tonight."

I didn't; I was rather a mess, since I had not changed clothes
after my windblown walk. And I felt that I was accepting the
flowers under false pretenses because of what I had to say to him.
It wouldn't be easy, because I really did like Anson Tyler.

"I thought we might have a glass of sherry together," I said.
"Do you mind the kitchen? The parlor is so stuffy, and my office
is, well, an office."

"I enjoy being in the kitchen with you. The cozy atmosphere is
as pleasant as your company."

Ouch!
I thought. No, it wouldn't be easy.

Anson went on, "Is this the sherry here? Ah, yes, and the
glasses. I'll bring them, shall I?"

I thanked him, and tried to compose my speech while I arranged
the daisies in a water glass, not wanting to take the time to look
for a vase. I plunked the flowers in the middle of the kitchen
table and sat down.

Anson had poured the sherry. He picked up his glass. "I propose
a toast: to us!"

"To friendship," I said carefully, touching glasses. I drank; he
didn't. He raised his eyebrows and a wary look came into his
eyes.

"I cannot marry you," I said, getting right to the point, "but I
hope that we will continue to be friends."

He had gone very white, with a pinched look to his nostrils.
"Friendship is not what I had in mind, Fremont."

"I know. You made me a gallant offer, but in all honesty I
cannot accept it. On the other hand, I will be glad to be your
friend, for life. People need friends too, Anson. I know I do. Will
you still be a friend to me?"

He put down his glass untouched and turned his head away. A
great silence reigned. I sipped at my sherry. All of a sudden I
wanted to gulp the whole bottle, get disgracefully drunk, scream
like a banshee, tear my hair so that he would look at me in horror
and run from the house. Later he would realize how lucky he was,
what a near escape he'd had.

But of course I just sat there, suffering his silent
disapproval. My mother had been good at that, silent disapproval;
eventually she would sigh, look at me, and say something like
Caroline, how could you?
And I would feel about two inches
high.

Anson sighed. He looked at me. He said, "Fremont, why? Will you
at least give me a reason?"

I felt about two inches high. My voice squeaked a bit, but I got
it under control. He was a kind man, generous and considerate to
me. I owed him this. "As man and wife we would not suit. I have
something of a wild streak in me, Anson. Please do not
misunderstand, it is not sexual-"

He looked horrified that I had uttered such a forbidden
word.

"-but rather I am more unconventional than you realize. As a
wife, I would be expected to settle down.
You
would expect
that, and though I might try, I do not in all honesty think I would
succeed. Believe me, you would be happier married to someone
else."

"But, Fremont, I love you! I know I have not said it before, I
only fully realized it over these past three days when it has been
such agony waiting for you to say yes. I do, I
love
you!"

I hung my head. I never meant to hurt him. "I didn't know," I
murmured into my lap. "I thought we were only discussing an
arrangement between two people who care about each other, who might
at best grow into love someday."

He went down on his knees beside me and looked up into my face.
"It has already happened to me. I don't care if you're-what was
that you said?-unconventional. We will ... we will learn to
accommodate each other. You must reconsider. Please, Fremont, marry
me!"

Now I felt as low as a worm. I shook my head. "I had not wanted
to tell you this. I am in love with someone else."

"So. You're going to marry
him,
then." Anson got up off
his knees and slumped dejectedly into his chair.