The House on Black Lake (15 page)

They stand as we enter, all except Douggie Raye, who remains slouched in his wheelchair. Ramey slides his chair back and strides forward to greet us. He is dressed in a black cashmere jacket with a gray shirt and charcoal trousers, and his lustrous hair cascades down his neck and onto the back collar of his silk shirt.

“You girls look gorgeous. Alexandra, you’re a new woman; the city suits you, eh?” Ramey bestows me with the customary kiss to each cheek, leaving behind an intoxicating mixture of woodsy pine and musk.

“Darling,” Ruth says, and snuggles up for a lingering kiss. “We ran into Georgie on our way back.”

“I should have guessed La Pointe caused the delay. Come with me, dear,” Ramey says, and takes my arm. “Let me introduce you to my uncle.”

As I approach the table I note that Roger Sandeley does not share the rare physical beauty of his nephew. Though tall, well built, and impeccably groomed, he looks well into his sixties, with a bald pate and gray fringe. He moves to greet me in a courtly manner, bordering cavalier. But as I draw closer, I find myself being swept into his orbit, and the draw of a baser character, one of vigorous virility, and quenchless ego takes charge. He carries the aura of the anointed, one who expects all heads to bow and a few to roll.

“Welcome dear.” Roger ignores my offered hand and pulls me against him. The coarse bristles of his heavy mustache scrape my face as he bestows a kiss to each cheek, leaving behind a stamp, a numb print seeping skin to bone. There is no touch of flesh in this intimate gesture and his eyes, though seeking, are cloaked in darkness.

Over his shoulder I observe Luna, dressed in ivory silk with dark hair gathered up into a tight chignon, enter the room from the kitchen. “Roger, the chef would like to speak with you,” she says.

“Excuse me.” Roger releases me and turns to walk to the kitchen.

“Alexandra, when did you arrive, dear?” Luna asks.

“I need to talk to my husband in private,” Ruth says, and grasps his arm.

“Whatever you have to say can be said in public.” Ramey stiffens at her touch, his voice struggling to camouflage a perceptible contempt.

“It’s a private matter, darling.” Ruth is obviously irked at his response, and as an exclamation she turns away from him.

Ramey clenches his jaw, then politely excuses himself, and follows her out.

“Who is this beautiful creature who has entered the room? She throws off the radiance of intense spirituality and healing and the violet light of magic, mysticism, and vision. A lavender root is the highest vibration frequency in the world. Bring this lovely creature to me.” Douggie Raye speaks in a warbling voice and stares across the room through eyes covered in milky film.

“Alexandra, let me introduce you to Mr. Raye,” Luna says, and leads me to the table. Douggie reaches out a brown-spotted, purple-veined hand. His touch sends shivers of sensation through my body, like icy blue electricity.

“You glow with a mysterious inner light, and have been called into the world for a divine purpose. Why are you so frightened of yourself, my dear?”

“I was not aware that I am frightened of myself,” I say and smile wanly to conceal my discomfort.

“My dear, please sit down. You are the guest of honor and will sit next to me this evening,” Douggie tells me.

Ramey reenters the room with Ruth following close behind. “May I sit in the chair next to you?” he asks me as he approaches the table.

“Of course,” I say and a shudder passes through me as I turn to catch a glimpse of his eyes, nearly savage.

Ruth’s orbs look quite different from her husband’s—unblinking, fixed on an indefinable object stationed across the room. And her mascara, perfectly applied earlier, is now smeared onto her lower lids and her lips are pursed tight and void of the lipstick she wore before she left the room.

Douggie observes with sightless eyes, while his saliva makes a trail down his chin and onto the cloth he has tucked as a bib.

“I’m going to ring the bell,” Roger says as he reenters the room. He moves into the corner, where he yanks on a braided cord with a gilded tassel. A deep chime rings out and nearly a dozen French maids, dressed in traditional uniforms, move briskly around the guests, speaking in soft voices. A pretty young thing with wide eyes rimmed in clumped lashes approaches Ramey with a silver platter holding napkins, and asks him a question in French.

“She wants to know what part of the pig you want to eat,” Ramey says.

“Whatever you recommend,” I say and accept a linen.

Ramey says something to the girl in French that makes her drop the platter, which causes a clanging sound to reverberate throughout the room.

“Someone’s at the door; I just heard the bell,” exclaims Douggie.

Roger rings his fork against a crystal glass. “I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to my manor, Alexandra. It pleases us to have you join us here today as we partake of the harvest from our land and celebrate the upcoming summer solstice. We give our homage to Dionysius. Here, here...” he says, as they all raise their glasses.

“Welcome,” the other men chime in and drink their wine in unison.

Douggie Raye takes a drink from his glass, swirls the crimson liquid between his rubbery lips, and licks at the wayward drops that slip down his chin. “I hear you’re staying on the island, at the house on Black Lake, old Schlotter’s house.” He makes a stab with his fork that flips the meat into his lap, and brings the utensil to his lips to suck the empty tongs.

“I’m not staying there any longer.” As I speak these words, the monotonous sounds of dining—the clink of silver on china, cleared throats, murmurs, all sounds—cease, and the room grows as solemn as the interior of a sealed tomb. The French maids retire to the side of the room, where they stand perfectly aligned and motionless.

“And where, my dear, are you now staying?” Roger asks in a measured tone, polite, if not somewhat subdued.

“She’s staying at our house, in the basement,” Ruth announces.

“Well, that is not a place for a guest of the enclave to reside. I insist you stay here with us. We have plenty of extra rooms. It would be far more comfortable for you to stay with Luna and me.”

“Yes, dear, of course, you’re quite welcome to stay with us for as long as you like,” Luna says.

“Thank you for the kind invitation, but my son enjoys staying with the children.”

Roger taps his fingertips against his glass, while Luna says, “I understand.”

“Schlotter’s living in the land of the damned where he belongs,” Douggie exclaims. He lifts the piece of meat from his lap, and gnaws tenderly on the edges with his toothless gums. “An eternity of damnation would not be enough for his soul.”

“What happened to him?” I ask, and again a cloak of silence descends upon the room.

“Got what he had coming, the filthy old bugger. But, alas, he left the world the parting gift of his flesh. The rats upon the island never ate so well. He hung himself from the light fixture in his stairwell and gave the vermin a hearty feast. The housekeeper found him hanging; been there for weeks. The devil left his kitty to starve.” He follows this comment with a strangling sound, spits something into his napkin, and lets out a shrill peel of laugher, sending a spew of phlegm out onto the table.

He turns to Ramey and says in a tone reserved for a father about to administer a stern punishment to his son. “Why did you put this lovely girl in that death trap?”

“We thought it would be a nice place for Alexandra to stay with her son,” Ruth says. “Our house is full, you know with the six...” she pauses, and her face seems to drain of all color before she resumes in a shallow voice, “the five children and the two nannies.”

Douggie slams his hand down on the table. “I’m talking to your husband, dear,” he proclaims.

Ramey leans back in his chair and eyes him intently. “What are you getting at, Douggie?”

“I hear he willed you the property.”

“Schlotter had a debt to pay, so I took the house. He squandered his assets before he died.”

“The island is a native burial site, you know. Those Injuns have long memories. The spirits remain until the bones have disintegrated. You own desecrated land, young man. I lived with the Mayan natives for thirty years; I know what I’m talking about.” He puts down his forkful of meat and takes another gulp of wine.

“Actually, we planned a party on the island the day after tomorrow. We’re taking the children there to celebrate the solstice.” Ruth laces her exuberance with an expert touch of sanguine innocence. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“I’m going back tomorrow, to my house in the woods. I’m starting the fast on the solstice, the seven day fast, no food and no sleep. That’s when the visions come, when the lady visits me—the beauty in the white slip and the flowing brown hair. Love is a precious thing. I have only touched the face of love once in my life. When it comes to you, you cannot say no,” he says, and draws a finger down the sleeve of my jacket.

“I must excuse myself,” says one of the men in blue blazers. “I have an early morning tomorrow.” The others follow with similar proclamations and stand to file out of the dining hall.

Douggie leans forward as if to eye an invisible guest across the table. His bony hands clutch at the wheelchair armrests, fingernails scratching vaguely against smooth steel, as he evocates in a warbling voice: “The prophecy must be fulfilled, the time is upon us, the shift is imminent, the one is among us, the price must be paid,” he chants, thumping his fingers on the table in sets of three beats.

A trio of maids enters the room to clear empty plates and glasses from the table. A frazzled member of the group, with a tiny run in her silk stocking and a smudged chin, reaches out a hand to remove Luna’s dinner plate.

“No,” Roger says and grabs her arm. “You are not to take that plate. Stand where you are.”

The girl’s skin turns the color of stone as she freezes in place.

“Luna, dear,” he says, while removing a wayward crumb from his mustache, “you must finish everything on your plate. You are not to visit the bathroom afterward, is that clear? We will put an end to this habit tonight.”

“Roger...” Luna says, and a bloody stain creeps over her cheeks. “We have guests, dear. Let’s discuss this later.”

“You will eat all of your food. The maid will stand here all night if she must.” He addresses the young girl. “You are not to leave this spot until Luna has finished every morsel on her plate, is that clear?”

The maid’s starched hat bobs up and down.

“Once she has finished her food, you will stay with her for the night and make certain she does not go into the toilette. If I find you have not followed my orders, then you know what you will face. Do you hear me? Please look me in the eyes!”

The maid’s left eye flutters as she obeys his brusque command.

“It’s time for us to leave,” Ramey says, and stands from his chair. His gray eyes look ominous, the color of clouds in the still moment before a storm. “Alexandra has a son waiting for her at home.”

“I haven’t finished my dessert,” Ruth says. She casts Luna a look, the first I’ve seen her share, and with it comes a fierce, searing, unmistakable explosion of unbridled disdain and smug self-satisfaction. And Luna, no mere victim, though clearly an object of these assaults, lowers her eyes and gathers herself in the aftermath.

“Sit back down, Ramey Sandeley. We will smoke our cigars. I brought a rare brand; it has medicinal properties,” Douggie says with a cackle of crude laughter. He reaches inside a leather pouch on the side of his wheelchair and removes a dark cherry-wood box inlaid with jade. He tears open a silver seal on the box with his gnarled finger and lifts the lid with anticipation, as though it holds a secret treasure.

“It’s the smell of love,” he says, while lowering his nose into the container. He reaches inside and carefully removes a cigar. “These were given to me by a Peruvian king. It has been sealed for twenty-five years,” he says, and offers the sacred box to me. I take it from him and am about to pass it along to Ramey, when I feel Douggie grasp my wrist. “No, dear,” he says, “you will smoke with the rest of us.”

“You can put either end in your mouth,” Ramey says, as he takes a cigar and offers it to me.

“Well, in my opinion, if you kill a pig for food, it better not end up in the garbage.” Ruth’s tone barely disguises the pleasure she apparently finds in Luna’s discomfort.

“No one asked for your opinion, dear,” Ramey say, while taking a match to my cigar. As I inhale, he reaches under the table and slides his hand between my upper thighs, causing me to take a deep gasp of smoke into my lungs. The room spins around me as I struggle to draw in fresh air. I’m burning from the inside out, and my eyes wander around the room, seeking a solid anchor of equilibrium.

“She’s a virgin, this one,” he says to Douggie Raye. “Take it slow, darling.” He removes his hand and raises a glass of water to my lips.

The cool fluid eases the spasm in my throat, and a smooth cherry taste lingers on my tongue, nearly numbing. A loud buzzing reverberates in my ears, the colors in the room intensify, and the jousting knights on the frescoes appear to come to life. I see that Seth watches me from behind a pillar in the corner of the room, near the doorway. “It’s very nice, Douggie; it has a smooth taste,” I say, turning to him. But Douggie doesn’t answer, because he has fallen fast asleep. His head is canted sideways against his chair, with the cigar still burning between his lips.

“It’s time we said good night,” Ramey says, while putting out his cigar. “Come dear, we’re leaving,” he tells Ruth.

Ruth lounges languidly in her chair and leisurely raises her wine glass to her lips.

“I said we’re leaving, did you hear me?”

“It would be rude to leave before Luna finishes her food,” she says and ups the ante with a coy smile hiding a cloak dagger glare, then flips her hair back and takes a long drink of wine.

I stand boldly and walk as best I can to where Roger and Luna sit at the head of the table. “Thank you,” I say, nodding my head politely to Roger, who is spread out in his chair, a satiated satyr, gloating in inexorably presumptive arrogance. Evading his hungry eyes, I focus my intent on his wife. “I appreciate your hospitality.” Luna is silent as she lightly squeezes my offered hand, but when she looks up I’m caught off-guard by the ferocity of her gaze.