Phil came through the hall door carrying two barrels of the Colonels best. Setting them down, he kissed Gloria on the cheek and said, Hello! What is this? Cheating on me already?
Gloria ignored the remark. Phil, this is Jack Cole, a neighbour. Hes a fan of yours.
Phil extended his hand and they shook. Not many people pay attention to who writes a movie, Jack.
Hes read your books, Phil. All of them.
Phil looked flattered and said, Well then, Jack, there are fewer people still whove read my Did Gloria say all of them?
Jack grinned. Even Winds of Dark Passion by Abigail Cook.
Well, Ill be go-to-hell. Look, why dont you join us for supper. Weve both original and extra crispy, and theres another bottle of beer where that one came from.
Jack appeared about to beg off when Gabbie entered the kitchen carrying paper bags filled with rolls, potatoes, and other accompaniments for the chicken. She was on the verge of some comment when she caught sight of Jack. For a brief moment the two young people stood facing each other in an obviously appraising fashion, and equally obviously both approving of what they saw. Jacks face slowly relaxed into his biggest smile so far as Gloria said, Jack Cole, this is Gabrielle.
Jack and Gabbie exchanged nods, while Phil ordered the twins to wash up. Gloria fought off the urge to giggle. Gabbie absently touched her collar, her cheek, and a strand of dark hair, and Gloria knew she was dying for a mirror, comb, and clean blouse. And Jack seemed suddenly unable to sit comfortably. Gloria glanced from Jack to Gabbie and said, Right, one more for dinner.
Chapter Four
Dinner was relaxed. Phil and Gloria, Jack and Gabbie sat around the kitchen table while the twins ate sitting on a crate before the television in the parlour. Jack had spoken little, for his questions had coaxed Phil into explaining the familys move from California.
So then, said Phil, with Star Pirates and Star Pirates II being such tremendous hits, and with me getting an honest piece of the box office, as well as a creators royalty on Pirates III, IV, and however many more they can grind out, I have what I like to call go to hell money.
Go to hell money? asked Jack.
Gabbie said, Dad means that hes got enough money to tell every producer in Hollywood to go to hell. Gabbie had managed to find a mirror, comb, washcloth, and clean blouse and had barely taken her eyes off Jack throughout the evening.
Thats it. Now I can go back to what I did first, and best: write novels.
Jack Cole finished eating and sat back from the table. Youll get no arguments from me. Still, most of your films were pretty good. The Pirates films had darn good writing compared to most others in the genre; I liked that sly humour a lot made those characters seem real. And the plots made sense well, sort of.
Thank you, but even so, films more of a directors medium. Even with an editors input, a books a single persons product. And its been too many years since Ive been able to write without story editors, directors, producers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for changes in the script. In films the writings done by committee. Youve never lived until youve been through a story conference. There was a half-serious, half-mocking tone to his voice. Torquemada would have loved them. Some idiot from a multinational conglomerate who needs to have every line of Dick and Jane explained to him is telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the boards wife wont be offended. Or some agent is demanding changes in a beautifully thought out script because the characters actions might be bad for the stars image. There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of Shakespeare have Othello divorce Desdemona because his clients fans wouldnt accept him as a wife-murderer. Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the actress so they can get a PG rather than a G, cause they think teenagers wont go to a G. Its a regular Alice Through the Looking Glass out there.
Is it really that bad? Jack asked.
Gabbie rose and began gathering up the paper plates and napkins. If the volume of Dads yelling is any indication, its that bad.
Phil looked wounded. I dont yell.
Gloria said, Yes you do. Several times I thought youd smash the phone, slamming it down after speaking to someone at the studio. She turned to Jack. Youve been doing most of the listening, Jack. We havent given you a chance to tell us anything about yourself.
Jack grinned as Gabbie replaced his empty bottle of beer with a fresh one, indicating he should stay a little longer. Not too much to tell, really. Im just a good old boy from Durham, North Carolina, who got a BA in English from UNC and wandered up north to study at SUNY Fredonia. I had my choice of a couple of different grad programmes, including a tempting one in San Diego, but I wanted Agatha Grant as an adviser, so I pulled some strings and got her, and here I am.
Phils eyes widened. Aggie Grant! Shes an old family friend! She was also my adviser when I got my MA in modern lit. at Cornell. Shes at Fredonia?
Emeritus. She retired last year. Thats what I meant by pulling strings. Im her last grad student. Im after a doctorate in literature. In a few more months Ill be taking orals to see if I get to continue, and an MA in passing. Im doing my work on novelists who became film writers, on how work in films affects a writers work in print. Im looking at writers who did both, like Fitzgerald, Runyon, William Goldman, Faulkner, and Clavell. And of course yourself. Though mostly Im working on Fitzgerald. When I figure out the thrust of my dissertation, Ill probably concentrate on him.
Phil smiled. You put me in some fine company, Jack.
Its all pretty technical and probably pretty boring. He looked embarrassed. When the local papers printed the word youd bought this place, I thought I might impose and get an interview with you.
Phil said, Well, Ill help if I can. But I dont have much in common with Fitzgerald. I dont drink as much; Im not having an affair with another writer; and my wifes not crazy most of the time.
Thanks, said Gloria, drily.
I was going to call Aggie, and take a weekend and drive up to Ithaca. I had no idea shed moved. First chance I have, Ill get up to Fredonia and see her. God, its been years.
Actually, you dont have to go to Fredonia. She lives on the other side of the woods now, right at the edge of Pittsville. Thats part of the deal. I double as something of a groundskeeper, general factotum, and occasional cook, though she prefers to putter in the kitchen most of the time. She only runs up to the university when she has to, commencements, a colloquium, guest lecture, the occasional alumni function, that sort of thing.
Tell Aggie Ill be over in the next day or two.
Shes at NYU for the next two weeks. Shes editing a collection of papers for a symposium in Brussels. But she should be back right after. She wouldnt miss the Fourth of July celebration in Pittsville.
Shes at NYU for the next two weeks. Shes editing a collection of papers for a symposium in Brussels. But she should be back right after. She wouldnt miss the Fourth of July celebration in Pittsville.
Well then, as soon as she returns, have her give us a call.
Shell be glad to know youre back home. Shell whip up something special for the occasion, I expect. Jack finished his beer and rose. Well, I want to thank you all for the hospitality and the dinner. Its truly been a pleasure. The last was not too subtly directed at Gabbie.
I hope well be seeing you soon, Jack, said Gloria.
If its not an imposition. I hike this area when Im thinking around a problem in my thesis, or sometimes I go riding through the woods.
Riding? asked Gloria, a calculating expression crossing her face. Jacks presence had lightened Gabbies mood for the first time since theyd arrived, and Gloria was anxious to keep her diverted from any black furies.
Theres a farm a couple of miles down the highway where they raise horses. Mr Laudermilchs a friend of Aggies, so I can borrow one sometimes. Do you ride?
Infrequently, answered Phil, but Gabbie here rides every chance she gets.
Oh?
Bumper thats my horse hes a champion Blanket Appaloosa. Best gymkhana horse in Southern California, and one of the best cross-country horses at Highridge Stables.
Never ridden an Appaloosa; they tend to be a little thick-skinned, I understand. But I guess theyre good working stock. Champion, huh? Pretty expensive, I guess.
Well, hes a good one Gabbie shrugged, indicating money was not an issue. Gloria and Phil smiled.
Jack said, Back home I had a Tennessee Walker. Perhaps youd care to go riding some afternoon, after youre settled in?
Sure, anytime.
Im going down to visit my folks in Durham, day after tomorrow. Ill be there two weeks. When I get back?
Gabbie shrugged. Okay.
Well then. As I said, its been a pleasure. I do look forward to the next time.
Phil rose and shook Jacks hand. Dont be a stranger, offered Gloria as Jack left through the back door. Returning to her husbands side, she said, So, Gabbie. Things dont seem quite so bad, do they?
Gabbie sighed. Oh, hes definitely a hunk; Ducky Summers would say, Hes got buns worth dying for. But how am I going to keep from losing my lunch when he shows up with some retard rockhead, cold-blood farm horse? Ugh!
Gloria smiled. Lets unpack another crate, then Ill chase the boys to bed.
Gabbie nodded resigned agreement, and Phil led her out of the kitchen. Gloria followed, but as she started to leave the kitchen she was struck by a sudden feeling of being watched, as if unfriendly eyes had fastened upon her. She turned abruptly and for an instant thought she saw something at one of the windows. Moving her head, she saw flickering changes in the light of the kitchen bulb as it reflected off imperfections in the glass. With a slight sense of uneasiness, Gloria left the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Sean tried to settle deeply into the bunk bed. The smells were new to him. Old feather pillows had been dug out of a closet when it was discovered the boys familiar ones hadnt been where they were expected to be, and despite the clean pillowcases, they had an ancient, musty odour. And the house made strange sounds. Creaks and groans could be faintly heard; odd clutters and whispers made by creatures of darkness had Sean burrowing deeply below the heavy comforter, peeking out over the edge, afraid to relax his vigil for an instant.
Patrick? he whispered, to be answered by his brothers deep breathing. Patrick didnt share Seans fear of the dark. The first night Patrick had tried to bully his brother out of the top bunk they had both wanted the novel experience of sleeping that high off the ground but Mom had prevented a fight and Sean had picked the number closer to the one she had been thinking. Now Sean wondered at the whim of chance that put him in the top bed. Everything looked weird from up high.
The moons glow came through the window, and the light level rose and fell as clouds crawled slowly across the sky, alternately plunging the room into deep gloom and lightening to what seemed almost daylight. The dancing shadows had an odd pattern Sean had come to recognize.
Outside, an old elm tree rose beside the bedroom, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. When the moon was not obscured, the tree shadows became more distinct, making their own display. The thick leaves rustled in the night wind, casting fluttering shadows that shifted and moved around the room, shapes of ebon and grey that capered in mad abandon, filling the night with menace.
Sean watched the play of shadows with a thrill of danger that was almost delicious, a sweaty-palm-and-neck-hairs-standing sort of feeling. Then something changed. In the blackest part of the gloom, deep in the far corner, something moved. Sean felt his chest tighten as cold gripped his stomach. Moving in the wrong rhythm, against the flow of greys and blacks, it was coming towards the boys bunk beds.
Patrick, Sean repeated loudly. His brother stirred and made a sleepy sound as the shape began to slither along the floor. It would move a beat, weaving its way across the carpet, then pause, and Sean strained his eyes to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long, agonizing moments he couldnt see any hint of motion, then just when he finally relaxed, thinking it gone or an illusion, it would stir again. The maddeningly indistinct shape approached the bed slowly, at last disappearing below the foot of the bunks, out of Seans view.
Patrick! Sean said, scooting backwards to the corner of the bunk furthest from the creeping shadow. Then he heard a sound of claws upon wood, as something climbed the old bedpost. Sean held his breath. Two clawlike shapes, dark and terrible in their deformity, appeared beyond the end of the bunks, as if reaching up blindly for something, followed an instant later by a misshapen mask of terror and hate, a black, twisted visage with impossible eyes, black opal irises surrounded by a yellow that seemed to glow in the gloom. Sean screamed.
Suddenly Patrick was awake and shouting and an instant later Gloria was standing in the doorway turning on the lights.
Phil was a moment behind, and Gabbies voice came through the door of her room. Whats going on?
Gloria reached up and hugged Sean. What is it, honey?
Something began Sean. Unable to continue, he pointed. Phil made a display of investigating the room while Gloria calmed the frightened boy. Gabbie stuck her head in the room and said, Whats going on? She wore the oversized UCLA T-shirt she used as a nightgown.
With a mixture of contempt and relief in his voice, Patrick said, Seans had a nightmare.
His brothers tone of disdain caused Sean to react. It wasnt a dream! There was something in the room!
Well, said Phil, whatever it was, its gone.
Honey, it was just a bad dream.
It was not, said Sean, halfway between frustrated tears at not being believed and a fervent hope they were right.
You just go back to sleep and Ill stay here until you do. Okay?