The Stone Angel (25 page)

At the far end of the long room stands a derelict fishboat, perched up on blocks, stripped of gear and tackle, faded blue shavings of paint falling away from its hull. Not even a ghost vessel, this. Only a skeleton, such
as one that might have been washed up somewhere centuries after it had set out for heaven with its Viking dead. I don’t much like the look of that boat. I’ll settle myself here among the boxes and the nets.

Here’s a pile of scallop shells. Someone meant to take them home for ash trays, and forgot. They’re sandy inside—the sea clings to them still. The outside of each is pale brown, intricately striped and frilled. I pick them up, turning them in my hands, feeling the rough calloused surface, and the bland inner shell coated with a silken enamel of diluted pearl.

I have everything I need. An overturned box is my table, and another is my chair. I spread my supper and eat. When I’ve done, the light still holds and in one shell lying on the floor at my feet I see that half a dozen June bugs have been caught. I prod them with a fingernail. They’re not alive. Death hasn’t tarnished them, however. Their backs are green and luminous, with a sharp metallic line down the center, and their bellies shimmer with pure copper. If I’ve unearthed jewels, the least I can do is wear them. Why not, since no one’s here to inform me I’m a fool? I take off my hat—it’s hardly suitable for here, anyway, a prim domestic hat sprouting cultivated flowers. Then with considerable care I arrange the jade and copper pieces in my hair. I glance into my purse mirror. The effect is pleasing. They liven my gray, transform me. I sit quite still and straight, my hands spread languidly on my knees, queen of moth-millers, empress of earwigs.

All at once I’m worn out, aware that the nudging pain in my chest can’t be ignored any longer. My feet seem swollen in these tight shoes, and the heavy veins throughout my legs burn like long blisters. This day has
exhausted me, although I’ve done nothing, really, except walk a little. I can’t recall exactly what I did this morning. Did I go to the forest then, or was that after lunch? It’s not important, but it bothers and irritates me not to know. I rack my brains, but the morning is hidden. Perhaps I cleaned that other house. I can’t abide a messy house.

Sickeningly, my head spins. There. Now I’ve done it. I’ve slipped from my box, and I’m sitting on the floor, my legs jutting stiffly out like fence posts and my hands pressing at my balloon belly as though it would escape and drift away if I didn’t hold it down.

A sea gull is flying in this room. I feel the brush and beat of its wings as it swoops and mounts. It’s frightened, trapped and flapping. I hate a bird inside a building. Its panic makes it unnatural. I can’t bear to have it touch me.
A bird in the house means a death in the house
—that’s what we used to say. Nonsense, of course. But the way the thing pulses—it scares and disgusts me. It darts low like a piercing hawk, and I, hardly knowing what I’m doing, pick up the wooden fish box and fling it, expecting it to miss, intending only to shoo the creature away. Horribly, the crate catches the gull, stuns it, and it falls. Squawking, it crawls, ruffling a bloodied wing, only a hand-span from where I’m sitting. Has its wing been snapped, or what? Should I kill it? If I were miles away, and being told of this, or imagining it, I’d feel something for the broken gull, at least a token regret, recalling its white curved soar into the wind. But now I only want to get it away from me, to shut its open beak so I needn’t hear its cry. I’d gladly kill it, but I can’t bring myself to go near enough.

If Marvin were here, he’d know what to do. He’s
practical. He always knows what to do. The sea gull has so much strength. It’ll never drop. It flounders, half rises, sinks, batters itself against the floor in the terrible rage of not being able to do what it is compelled to do. Finally it drags itself onto a pile of nets and lies there throbbing aloud. I can’t move a muscle. It’s not fair that I should have to sit here and listen to it.

Why doesn’t Marvin come? He hasn’t a thought for me. He’s off gallivanting with Doris. At the movies, more than likely, the pair of them, not giving a care whether I live or die. Well, I won’t. They needn’t think they’ll get my house that easily. If he tries to sell it, I’ll get the lawyer on him.

The night has begun to thicken. What I’m doing here I couldn’t say, not if my life depended on it. The last light seeps insipidly through cracks and crannies, and the staining darkness spreads. The old boat and the pieces of machinery stand awkwardly, gaunt and angled. Nothing looks right. All is distorted, haggard, scooped out and the empty places filled with shadows. Should I sing?

My voice quavers in tremolo, breaks in low mournful grunts, and I might as well be singing the directions from a knitting book, for all the good it’s doing me.

Then I hear the wintry baying of dogs. There’s a heartlessness in the sound. Facing them would be like facing a maniac—no use to plead; they wouldn’t comprehend.

Two dogs. Two deep coarse voices sounding from the hillside, distant and muffled, then growing more and more distinct as they come nearer. I can hear them crashing through the wet ferns. They’re excited, in pursuit—but of what, of whom? It seems to me they can’t avoid discovering me here. Perhaps it’s my scent they’re tracing through the forest.

Again the wolfish voices, eager and vindictive. They’d not spare a soul if they had their way. I can’t get to my feet. On my hands and knees I crawl to the paltry shelter of the heaped boxes. Beside me, I can feel the tangle of nets where the gull lay. I’d forgotten it. I can’t hear it now. Did it find its way out, back to the sea, to be healed by the salt water or perish there in the gust of a single green-black wave?

Among the boxes I wait. Outside the dogs are snuffling, rooting through grasses and fallen leaves. One of them trumpets suddenly, a high yelp of triumph, and the other races to see. I cannot breathe, thinking they’ve found a way to get in here. I wait and wait. They’re silent. Then I hear an inexplicable snarl and scuffle, and they’re off. I can hear them panting past, and the faint crashing as they hurtle back among the trees and up the hill. Have they really gone? I can’t believe it. Will they return? I must move, get to some safer place. I lie here, shaking and sweating, yet almost past caring. Let them return and do their worst. If they were to attack me this minute, I’d put up no resistance.

But one slight snicking sound is all that’s required to make me change my mind on that score. I hear the door opening, and someone steps inside. I can’t see anything. The night is complete now, solid and lightless. I only know a person is standing there.

A struck match, and the sham star flares for a moment. Peering around boxes, I catch a glimpse of a man’s face—the glint of a cheekbone, eyes blinking against the shadows of the brief light. Then a sharp gasp. Has he drawn in his breath that way, or have I? The match goes out. We face each other in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” His voice is high and fluting as one imagines a eunuch’s would be.

“If you want what’s in my purse,” I say, “then take it, although it’s little enough.”

He steps closer. His step is cautious and stealthy. He strikes another match.

“An old woman—” His expelled breath is like a sob. “My God—I thought—I don’t know—”

Only then does it occur to me that he has been as startled as I. The falsetto in his voice was only fear. How peculiar it seems that anyone should be alarmed by me. The match scorches his fingers and he drops it. He burrows in his clothing and when the next small fireworks of light appears, he’s holding a candle. He stares at me, and then I’m aware of myself, crouching among these empty boxes, my cotton housedress bedraggled, my face dirt-streaked, my hair slipped out of its neat bun and hanging down like strands of gray mending wool. I put up a hand to straighten my hair. My fingers meet something brittle. I pinch it—it squashes and snaps under my nail and smells putrid. Then I recall the June bugs and could die with mortification.

“I hope you’ll excuse my appearance,” I say.

“Think nothing of it,” he says. “Are you all right, lady? How come you’re here?”

Then a thought strikes me. I know why he’s here. I’d rather he were a thief.

“You’ve come for me, have you? Well, I’ll not go. Marvin didn’t tell you what he plans to do with me, I’ll bet. Oh no, they’d not tell a soul about that. Those places have nothing to do with nursing or homes—the name’s all wrong. Once they get you in, you’re there to stay. They don’t consult you. I won’t be lugged around like a sack of potatoes.”

“Please, lady, calm down, calm down,” he says hastily. “I don’t know a thing about it, honestly I don’t. I didn’t come for you. I’m Murray Lees, Murray F. Lees, and I’ve been with Dependable Life Assurance for twenty-odd years.”

I look at him suspiciously. One candle is hardly sufficient to size a person up. He’s wearing a loose and floppy herringbone tweed coat, and at his feet he’s set the large paper bag he was carrying. He has a rodent face, uneasy eyes. Above his mouth grows a ginger-colored mustache, and he sticks out his lower teeth and nibbles at it persistently.

“You’re sure? Marvin never sent you?”

“Heavenly days, lady, I don’t even know who Marvin is.”

“Marvin Shipley, my son. I’m Hagar Shipley.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says. “You can take it easy. I only came here for a little peace and quiet. Sometimes I like to think, by myself, that’s all. Mind if I sit down?”

“Go right ahead.”

He settles himself on a cushion of fishnets beside me. He might be lying of course. I don’t trust him, but for the moment I’ve had my fill of being alone.

“Those dogs chased me,” he says piteously, as though it were a personal insult. “I don’t suppose they’re really vicious, but I sure wasn’t keen to find out.”

“I heard them. I was frightened, too.”

“I never said I was frightened, did I?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Yeh,” he says sullenly. “I suppose I was.”

“Whose are they?”

“How should I know?” he says. “You don’t think I come here often, do you?”

“I only meant—”

“They’re the watchman’s,” he says. “He lives up the hill, but he’s pretty old and hardly ever comes down here because of the steps.”

“I couldn’t imagine why they changed their minds and left so suddenly.”

“They found a wounded bird,” he says, “and fought over which was to have it. A gull, it looked, in the bushes outside.”

“Oh. So that was it.” And for some reason I can’t fathom, I tell him.

“Lucky for me you nabbed it,” he says.

“I guess so. But I only wanted it to go away. I wish now I hadn’t harmed it.”

“What?” he says, outraged. “And have me torn to pieces?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. But I wish they hadn’t got it.”

He lights a cigarette and sucks in the smoke gluttonously. Then he holds out the packet.

“Smoke?”

To his surprise, I take one. He lights it for me and then he opens his paper bag and sets a jug of red wine on
the floor. He’s come well supplied—he even has a plastic cup, and this he fills and hands to me.

“Care for a drop? It’s not the best, but for two-fifty a half gallon, what can you expect?”

“Thanks. I don’t mind if I do, just half a cup.”

He drinks from the jug. I sip. A sweetish taste. slightly chemical, but to me it seems delicious after the rain water. I drink the rest right down.

“You were sure thirsty,” he says. “Have you eaten today?”

“How thoughtful of you to ask. But yes, I have. Have you?”

“Of course,” he says. “Do you think I’m a tramp or something?”

“Well no, but I’ve got some soda biscuits here somewhere. You can help yourself if you want any.”

“Thanks,” he says, “but I’m not hungry right now. It’s nice of you, though.”

Then he laughs, a low gurgling.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“We’re so polite,” he says.

“I see no reason for people forgetting their manners,” I say, somewhat aloofly “wherever they happen to find themselves.”

“No?” he says. “Well, I see every reason for it, to tell you the truth, but that’s neither here nor there. A little more?”

“You’re very kind, Mr.—”

“Lees. Murray F. Lees.” He holds the jug aloft and opens his throat. He’s skilled at this, I can see. Then he seems prepared to chat. “The F stands for Ferney. Murray Ferney Lees. My mother thought I’d be a poet, I guess, with a name like that. Ferney was Mother’s maiden name.
She loved the name and hated to part with it when she married Dad. That’s why she gave it to me. Rose Ferney, that was her. A delicate name, she used to say.”

He emits a bubble of laughter.

“She was a little bit of a thing, a dainty little soul,” he says. “She couldn’t keep house worth a damn.”

“She got fed up, more than likely,” I say. “Making meals day in and day out for a noisy bunch who never had a kind word for her.”

“Believe you me,” he says, “it was not that way at all.”

I sigh from the pit of my stomach and sip again. “How you see a thing—it depends which side of the fence you’re on.”

“How true,” he says. “Take me, for example. You’ll find people who’ll tell you you’re a parasite if you’re in insurance. Well, that’s just not so. What would people do if they couldn’t provide for the future? Answer me that. A man knows his dependents will be cared for if anything should happen to him—it gives him peace of mind. I’ve been selling peace of mind since 1934. I joined Dependable during the depression and I’ve never looked back. Before I went to work for them, my prospects weren’t worth a nickel.”

He talks and talks. He’s a bore, this man, but I find the sound of his voice comforting. The wine warms me. I can’t notice the chest pain so much now.

Outside, the sea nuzzles at the floorboards that edge the water. If I were alone, I wouldn’t find the sound soothing in the slightest. I’d be drawn out and out, with each receding layer of water to its beginning, a depth as alien and chill as some far frozen planet, a night sea hoarding sly-eyed serpents, killer whales, swarming
phosphorescent creatures dead to the daytime, a black sea sucking everything into itself, the spent gull, the trivial garbage from boats, and men protected from eternity only by their soft and fearful flesh and their seeing eyes. But I have a companion and so I’m safe, and the sea is only the sound of water slapping against the planking.