Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (40 page)
Choral music. Against an orchestral background. German
words and voices. That, he guessed, was as close as Stur
devant dared come to playing an operetta. This was fine,
but Corbin would have preferred Bach. He sat back to enjoy
the ride.
crossed into the Bronx. Just ahead of him and to his right
he saw Yankee Stadium, and that made him turn in his seat
to see if he could spot the Polo Grounds. There was noth
ing. Just a housing project. It didn't matter. The more or
less modern stadium that had been there wasn't the way it
used to be anyway. It used to be wonderful. The first Polo
Grounds, the one where he'd taken Margaret, was much
farther downtown, right at the upper corner of Central Park
but not part of the park. He hated to see it move but the
city needed the land and for the last five years the owners
had let it go to seed. Peeling paint. Rotted benches. More
dirt than grass on the field. But the new field was magnif
icent. Big new grandstands, with two tiers, and then
bleacher seats along the third-base line. You could take the
elevated right to the gate and, in fact, some special trains
would park there and you could remain inside and watch
the game if you wanted. The best way to watch the game
was still from the upper deck of the grandstands, where
everybody had hampers and pails of beer, but the most comfortable way, especially if you wanted a little privacy,
was, as before, from a surrey in the outfield, where they staked off a carriage area maybe three hundred feet from
home plate which meant that during any given game you'd
still see an outfielder scrambling under a horse to retrieve
a ball and sometimes even playing one he'd hidden in the
outfield grass against an emergency.
Margaret.
was there. It was just that it wasn't any of her business.
There. It sounds harsh, doesn't it, when you put it into
words. But there were some things about Margaret that
Gwen just didn't have any right to know, and some feelings neither he nor Margaret had any obligation to share, and, come to that, some of it seemed even too personal for him,
Corbin, to know about.
Is it possible, he wondered, that Tilden's ghost, if that's
what it is, or Jonathan Corbin's ancestral memory, if that's
what it is, is capable of picking and choosing what Jonathan
Corbin is permitted to know. And
know
is the right word, isn't it? It's not the same as remembering. It's not the same
as revelation or discovery either. It makes you wonder if
everybody has a Tilden Beckwith. Sturdevant sure thinks
they do. Maybe dozens. Hundreds. Hearing from them is
just a matter of the right stimulus coming along and the
right switches being thrown.
Talk to me, Tilden. Am I your great-grandson? Talk to
me. I mean, you let me stand there watching while old Ella
gets frozen stiff, you take me to bars, you take me to ball
games that happened a hundred years ago. I think you took
me to a whorehouse in New York, but it's as though you
made me stand facing the corner in that one. Okay, how
about just answering yes or no. That whorehouse was— Tilden, why did I just get the feeling you don't like it when
I call it a whorehouse? How about seraglio? Bagnio? You
can't be crazy about bawdy-house either. Establishment?
You want establishment. Okay. You met Margaret for the
first time in that establishment, right? She was one of the—
Let's not go through that again. Whatever she was doing
there, that's where you met her. I think she played music for you and I think there was something about how she
could be exclusively yours if you—if you what? If you bought a season ticket? What?
Suddenly Corbin winced. Something, somehow, had
made him feel deeply ashamed of himself. He felt as if his
face had just been slapped.
I'm sorry.
I really am.
felt it and because she's special to me, too. One way or the
other you got her out of there. You didn't plan to. You
didn't intend to go back there even though you were very
attracted to her. Something about the whole thing was mak
ing you sick. But you did go back and you—what? You
paid some woman, and you took her out of that life. Right?
Tilden?
That's wrong, isn't it. It didn't happen quite that way. I
know that because I'm beginning to feel ashamed again
except it isn't really me who's feeling ashamed.
It's okay.
It's enough that you got her out of there.
The cold wall of frigid air that persisted between himself
and Ella had done it. And a sleepless night spent staring
into the blackness at the slender form of Margaret Barrie
and into the lost and frightened sadness of her eyes. And feeling his manhood rise against his sheet and becoming
disgusted with himself because of the animal lust it signaled
and because he was finding that he had little will after all
to resist the cold logic of Georgiana's proposal. He needed time to think. But there was only until tomorrow evening. Then, if Georgiana is to be believed, Margaret goes on the
block to the highest acceptable bidder. Impossible. That
cannot be allowed. And Georgiana, that witch, knows full
well that Tilden Beckwith will not permit it.
Margaret”—Georgiana Hastings's manner had a special
gladness to it—“you remember Mr. Beckwith, do you
not?”
“
Of course.” She offered her hand.
“
In the room upstairs just past the Greek urn,” Geor
giana said to Tilden, ’”you will find a bottle of champagne on ice. A light supper will be brought up shortly. I suggest that the two of you go there now and take all the time you
like to become better acquainted.”
Tilden rubbed a nervous hand across his chin, freshly
shaven at his office for the occasion. He wished he'd bathed
a second time as well; he had not counted on perspiring so.
“
Now, Tilden. You may go now if you wish.”
“
Yes. Yes, of course.” He offered a solemn arm to Mar
garet, who was waging an equally losing battle to appear
at ease.
”
I want to know about you.” Tilden refilled her glass, his hand somewhat steadier than when first he poured. “Will
you tell me about yourself?”
“
It isn't really done, I'm told.” Her honest eyes did not
avoid his. “To speak of personal things, I mean.”
“
On the contrary,” he answered. “Not that I am greatly
experienced here, but several of the girls have told me their
entire histories.”
“
They made them up, I think,” she replied uncertainly. “They will answer such questions if it pleases a patron to
want to know more about them. But these histories are re
hearsed, sometimes invented upon the moment. Do you know the girl called Little Annie?”
“
The one who dresses like a child, yes.”
“
She helped me make one up for myself. I will tell it to
you if you wish.”
“
But, dear Margaret,” he asked, “what would be the point if it isn't true?”
”
I think it is to satisfy your curiosity without troubling
you unduly.”
“
And possibly to let your patron feel he's more a friend
than a cash customer?”
”
I expect so. Yes.”
“
Is it your intention to so delude me, Margaret?”
Oh no, Mr. Beckwith.” She seemed genuinely upset
that she had given that impression. “My intention is only
to please you. I would have told you my story straightaway,
but I am not yet artful enough at it.”
“
At what? Lying?”
Entertaining.” Tears were forming in her eyes. She
knew, Tilden could see, that she was making a bad job of
this. .
“
Margaret”—Tilden paused, searching for words— “how artful are you at pleasing a man?”
The girls have told me some things. And they've shown
me drawings in books.”
.
But you are not, as you say, artful at it.”
try to please you, Mr. Beckwith.”
There was a rap at the door. Margaret rose to open it,
taking that opportunity to blot her eyes as a tray was pushed
into the room by a maid in uniform. Margaret waited until
she retired, then, putting a mask of cheer upon her face,
began preparing a plate for Tilden.
“
Margaret—”
“
These oysters are excellent. The sauce is coriander and
honey.”
“
Margaret.” Tilden stepped to her and took the plate f
rom her hands. “Margaret, why in God's name are you
doing this?”
sured me that she explained my situation to you.”
Only in the vaguest terms. She told me that you were
considering, only considering, a life of—this sort of life.”
I have made my decision.” She dropped her eyes. ”I
would like to try to please you now.”
Margaret”—he touched her cheek—“can we not just
visit a while?”
herself, she reached for the lapels of his coat.
Margaret.” He threw up his hands and backed away. “This entire affair is absolutely ridiculous. You have no
business whatever in a place like this.”
”
I can do it.” The tears came again. ”I
can
please you.
Oh sir, must we talk so much?”
“
No,” he told her. Tilden reached for her shoulders and
drew her against his chest, very lightly, as he might comfort
a daughter or niece. He could feel a heaving at her bosom
and a quivering along the muscles of her back. She wore
no corset. She was all softness. ”I would very much like to try the oysters,” he said.
Tilden barely tasted them, or the slices of cold woodcock
on toast points, or the small dish of lemon sorbet. Margaret quickly regained her composure and was making amiable conversation, no doubt rehearsed, on subjects in which he was known to have a special interest. Tilden’s mind, however, was in turmoil. On the one hand, there he was in the
presence of one of the most charming and lovely young
ladies he had ever seen, who was perfectly prepared to offer
her body to him in any way he chose to use it. It was all
he could do to keep his eyes from lingering upon her
breasts and her waist and on her gentle hands, whose mar
velous dexterity he had already witnessed. On the other
hand, though he wanted her beyond his powers of forbear
ance, his head swam with reasons why an act of such lasting consequences should be avoided or at least postponed.
It simply could not be that no other alternatives existed for
her. Women everywhere were becoming teachers, book
keepers, journalists, even doctors and lawyers. Margaret al
ready knew how to be a typewriter and how to keep
ledgers. These were enviable skills for a woman, and Tilden
was certain that he could help her find a situation in which
she could earn at least a thousand a year and possibly half
again that much until a suitable husband came along. As
for making a good marriage, it was true that she had dim
prospects in any stratum of society which would insist upon a blameless reputation and a well-defined lineage, but there
were any number of good and honest fellows who were
making their own way in life and who lived in worlds
where few such questions would be asked. Such a charming
young lady would find no shortage of proposals of the decent sort.