The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft (17 page)

Flossie returned with a silver urn of coffee and a cake on a tray.

I mean,
she said, setting the tray on the table and licking frosting from her finger,
the lock could be done up. From the inside or from the outside, it doesn’t matter. Either way, they’d be locked. I’d be locked. See what I mean?

That sounds very New Thought.

And why not? I believe in the power of positive thinking. That you can create yourself, just by imagining yourself how you want to be. I suppose you think they’re a bunch of kooks or something.

It’s not my cup of tea,
I said, clearing a spot on the sofa.

Well, I like to think I can change my destiny. Not just who I am, but who I will be. Who wants to be all locked up like that? I wasn’t very independent, back in Indiana. My family doesn’t encourage that sort of thing. And then I wasn’t very independent here, you know, at first. But now.

Now,
I said, thinking again about what she’d told me at the wharf, about Helen, and the implication. A gloominess passed across her face and I wondered if she was remembering it, too, and her tears afterward, and I said nothing.

She handed me a slice of cake and a cup of coffee, which I doused liberally with milk and sugar. I caught her watching me, amused.

Sweet tooth, is that right?

Not really
, I said distractedly, then followed her gaze to my cup, where I’d deposited several teaspoons of sugar. It was scattered all around the saucer and I brushed it into my palm. Then, not knowing what to do with it, I dumped that into my cup as well.
Wasn’t paying attention
.

I stirred and sipped, thinking I’d surely ruined the coffee, but in fact it tasted quite pleasant.

Flossie leaned back in her armchair, watching me with a curious amusement. Her white feet were bare, her toenails painted a bright Chinese red. I tapped my fingers on my coffee cup. Flossie smiled and wiggled her toes. I looked away.

I see you’ve made some changes,
I ventured.

You noticed. The ferns were dying anyway. God only knows when they were watered last.

And what does your friend think of the changes? Helen?

Helen?

Isn’t she back?

Flossie frowned.
Why would you think that?

I paused and lowered my cup, looking at her carefully.

I haven’t heard a word.
She set her cup down with a clatter and bit at her thumbnail.
I don’t know what to think. I tell you, I’m just about ready to write to her folks, in Indiana.

Why don’t you?

I don’t want to worry them. I mean, if she isn’t.

Perhaps she’s on extended holiday,
I offered.

I thought of that.

Or some other reasonable explanation. From what you told me, she seems just the sort of girl who would leave an unfinished meal and disappear for a few days. Unpredictable and all that.

It’s true,
Flossie said, considering.
She really is.

Well, she does seem to be of a type. From what you’ve told me. Girls like her are not uncommon, I think. Seeking attention. Dramatic, I suppose.

Oh, terribly. You seem to understand her perfectly. It’s as if you know her.

She does seem to be a certain type,
I said again.

Difficult, yes. The stories I could tell. She did have, you know, problems.

Problems?

Oh, I don’t know. It’s just what my friend always said, her sister, Harriet.
She looked at me carefully then.
Arthor, what I said, the other day, about Helen. I … really don’t know for sure. It’s just, there was always talk. I wouldn’t want you to think badly of her.

I understand.

She nodded.
And, anyway, would you really think it was so terrible?

As you said, it’s not for me to judge.

She seemed satisfied.

Maybe it’s even best she’s not here. It’s been sort of good for me, to learn to be on my own. That independence, like I said. I think it’s starting to suit me rather well.

Liar,
I said.

She looked up, shocked.

You hate being alone.

She flushed then, looked away, forced a laugh.

It’s true,
she said.
I do hate it. You see right through me, Arthor.
She poured out more coffee though her cup was almost full.
Anyway. We’ll see. I hope she won’t mind, Helen, about the changes. When she’s back. It was just so awfully green.

Easily remedied if she doesn’t. But if you decide to put in a new bathtub, you should probably wait till she returns.
I laughed uneasily; it was a stupid, inappropriate thing to say, but she had not taken the remark so. It was pleasant, in Flossie’s company again. The awkwardness between us dissipating. But, still, there was the question of the girl I’d seen in the garden. I’d been sure it was Helen. If it had not been …

Flossie
, I began, leaning forward.

Mm?

I wonder if you wouldn’t mind my asking a personal question.

Ooh
, she said,
my favourite kind. Ask anything
.

I set my coffee cup down with a sharp clack I had not intended.

I thought I saw you out in the garden the other night.

She looked up in surprise.

Me? What was I doing there?

I’m not sure.

Well, you must be mistaken. I hate gardens, all dirt and earthworms and cat droppings. Reminds me only too well of my rural roots. Weeding—is there no worse hell?

It was late. Perhaps you were sleepwalking.

I sleep like the dead
.

She held my gaze steadily. A beat, perhaps, too long. Then she lifted the coffee pot and eyed me, suddenly coy.

I do like that you thought you saw me there
, she said.
It’s kind of romantic. Was I wearing a flowing gown?

In fact,
I said, holding my cup out to her,
you were.

Flossie laughed, delighted at the idea. She refilled my cup and set the pot down.

This is fun
, she said, leaning back against the violet cushions and crossing her bare white ankles on the coffee table.
Like playing hooky. Well. You are. Not me, I guess. What I wouldn’t do to have something to play hooky from. But all in good time, as they say. “They” being the ones currently working. Anyway. I’m keeping you from your work. And you haven’t even told me yet what it is you do.

I took a long sip of my coffee and put it down on the table.
I’m a writer.

What else was I to say? And anyway it was out, and I could not take it back.

Are you?
she said, leaning forward.
How exciting. What do you write?

Oh, fiction, mostly.

What kind?

The usual.

Romance?

I considered my employer’s stories.
Hardly.

Oh.
She pouted prettily.
That’s too bad. I love romance novels. It’s the only kind I’ll read, when I have the patience to read at all. It’s not that I mind it so; it’s just I’d rather …

Yes?

Live.
She looked at me brightly.
I hope I haven’t offended you.

Not at all.

Good. We were just getting to be friends again. So, what do you write?

I suppose it’s called …

What?

Horror?
Or, what was the term he’d used in his letters, in the magazines.
Weird fiction?

She wrinkled her nose.
What on earth is that?

Like horror, I suppose.

I see.

I’m not sure how to describe it.

That’s all right.

We sat a few moments in silence, sipping our coffee.

I could tell you
, I said finally,
about the story I’m working on now. If you like.

Is it scary?

I’m not sure. Maybe you could tell me.

I don’t like to be scared.

Then perhaps I shouldn’t tell you.

Well, I suppose you have to tell me now
, she said. She tucked her legs up beneath her on the armchair and cradled her cup in both hands.
Okay
, she said.
Go on. But if I get too frightened, you must promise to stop.

It’s about a hotel. Right here in Providence. Quite a popular one. On Benefit Street, beyond the university. I wonder if you know it?

Oh, don’t tell me which, I might have to stay there sometime.

And it’s about a girl.

Young?

Around your age, I would think.

And is she pretty?

Very.

Good
, she said, settling into her chair.
Every scary story should have a pretty girl.

2

When I descended in the afternoon, I found Flossie’s door standing open, as if she had been waiting for me. I hesitated a moment on the lowest step, my hand on the balustrade, uncertain. I had been surprisingly untroubled, after our coffee, at my own growing lies, even though Flossie must surely, sooner or later, learn the truth. My employer would not be ill forever. And what was I to do then?

But the fact was, I was enjoying my little charade. Surely as much as Flossie was enjoying hers. Oh, I was not a complete fool. That late-night return from across the way, from the boarding house. I knew very well what she was. And I did not mind. It made it easier for me to do my own pretending. A kind of independence, as Flossie had said. An opportunity to be, however briefly, someone other than who I was. The man I might, with better fortune or wiser decisions, have been.

It was then I heard the second voice, from within, lower than Flossie’s, but unmistakably female. I couldn’t help overhearing; it was hardly eavesdropping. And I thought, illogically, with something like panic: Jane has come.

Arthor?
Flossie called out.
Is that you?

Her yellow head peeped around the door.
You must come in.

I’m just on my way out,
I lied.

Oh, but you must,
she insisted.
You’ve a visitor.

I confess my heart clenched. I could imagine only Jane seated there in Flossie’s sunny apartment, her hair drawn back starkly from her beautiful, unhappy face. How she would have aged. I knew without having to set eyes upon her. A visitor. It had to be Jane. There was no one else.

But, of course, it was not Jane. Seated there on the green sofa amid the violet silk cushions, just as I had been mere hours ago, was a dark-haired woman quite unlike my wife. Her hair was pinned back rather untidily, her neck long and drooping into her shoulders. She wore a mannish cardigan and a gray skirt. I would not have called her ugly, but there was nothing of grace in her. And though she was not old, there was about her something distinctly crow-like. She rose when I entered. I almost expected wings.

This
, Flossie announced,
is Mary.
Then added,
She’s a writer.

The woman, Mary, looked embarrassed.

I’d hardly say that
, she said.

Oh no,
Flossie said,
she’s written ever so many stories, and had some published in magazines. Magazines I’ve heard of, even. Poems too, isn’t that right, Mary?

Mary agreed that it was.

She’s a—what did you say again, Mary, what kind of writer?

Literary. Though lately I’ve taken an interest in weird fiction.

Hard to imagine
, Flossie said.
Anyway, she’s come all this way, all the way from Canada, can you believe it, just to meet you. She said she knows all your stories, isn’t that right, Mary?

Again, the woman looked embarrassed.

She didn’t know the one about the hotel, though
, Flossie mused.
Of course, that’s because you’ve not even finished it yet, have you. I’d just been telling her about it.

Pleased to meet you, Mary,
I said, finally stepping forward. Her handshake was cold and damp, but in that moment I could have clasped her in an embrace, so relieved was I.

It’s such an honour
, she said.

From Canada, is it?
I said.

Flossie fluttered around us.
Oh sit, everyone, sit. I’ll make coffee. You will stay for coffee, won’t you? Oh, I beg you, don’t go upstairs. Do stay and visit here. It’s sort of like a party, isn’t it. You know, I knocked for you, Arthor, some time ago. Didn’t you hear me? Poor Mary’s been waiting. All the way from Canada. Just imagine. Where was it you said, again?