KALEIDOSCOPE III
Cynthia Hatch
Part 1e
Catherine Chandler slept soundly and woke in the
bright morning hours, vaguely disappointed that she
had dreamed no dreams at all.
It was ten o'clock, late enough to justify
dressing for bed. Had he come any earlier she would have welcomed him in her
street clothes. Anything else might have seemed too suggestive, but in fact, she
was eager to wear the new gown, and from the very beginning he had been used to
seeing her in her nightclothes.
She checked herself in the mirror, smoothing the
simple gown of sea-foam green over her hips. In this light it looked almost
white, but she decided it had been a good choice. Lingerie had always been her
weakness. The same winter coats hung in her closet that she had worn two years
ago, and they would do for another season, but she loved buying beautiful gowns
and pajamas and robes. Nancy had once teased her about it in college, claiming
she was better dressed asleep than most of the students awake, and she'd replied
that she wanted to be prepared--in case she met the man of her dreams while she
was sleeping. It was a joke at the time, but now she thought it had come close
to reality.
Fortunately, a floral print robe in her closet
picked up the same subtle shade, and she put it on, looping the sash and
returning to the living room to wait. It could be a long wait, she reminded
herself. There was no guarantee that he'd come tonight, no guarantee that if he
did, their encounter would take them as far as her fantasies liked to pretend.
Few things in life
are guaranteed. She could hear
Vincent's voice, saying that very clearly, but for the life of her couldn't
remember when. Determined not to pay attention to the butterflies in her
stomach, she picked up the novel that Jenny had given her, flipped to the page
that had failed to hold her attention last night, and had scarcely begun reading
when a tap came on the dining room doors.
She dropped the book, and the butterflies
swarmed. Calm down, Chandler, she advised herself sternly, patting her hair,
tugging the robe into place, as she went to the doors. There was no shadow
looming larger than life, dearer than life, beyond the curtains, but she was
sure of what she'd heard. The far-off sounds of traffic rose on the warm wind,
as she stepped out into the moonlight. The terrace seemed deserted, untouched,
and it was a moment before her eyes could adjust to make out the dark-shrouded
form in the shadow of the wall.
"Vincent?"
There was no answer, nor did he move out to
embrace her.
"Vincent--what is it? I can hardly see you."
Uncertainty held her motionless, as she watched the figure peel away from its
obscuring backdrop, the moon's beams catching a flash of bright hair beneath his
hood, the blue of his eyes as they flicked over her.
To her increasing mystification, he moved past
her to the balcony wall.
"What is it? Is something wrong?"
"Catherine, I promised to come
here. . . a note, a messenger. . . I didn't want you
to worry."
"Worry? About what?"
"I'm going away. . .
for a while."
"Away. . . where?'
"Someplace. . . any
place"
"Vincent, what on earth's going on? Has
something happened below?" The shock that had held her in place fell away under
the onslaught of questions, and she moved to his side, searching his profile for
the answers.
"There's a place I go
sometimes. . . to think, to understand. . . a river. I may go there. Know
that I have to do this, Catherine."
Yes, he'd spoken of the place before, after a
long period when she hadn't heard from him at all, after. . .
"Vincent, have you had to.
. . to. . . hurt someone?"
"No."
It wasn't quite a lie, of that she was sure, but
the word held such undercurrents of feeling that her stomach lurched. For the
first time he turned to her. "Catherine, please don't worry. I won't be so far
that I cannot help you if something. . . if something
terrible should happen to you." He turned as swiftly away, the last words
swallowed like a bitter pill. "It's the distance of solitude I need, not the
distance of miles."
"Vincent, I thought it was agreed
that. . . whatever happened. . . we would share it
together. . . help each other."
"I can share this with no one,
Catherine. . . least of all you."
It should have hurt. Was it only the shock of
this encounter, so inconceivably different from what she'd expected, that kept
her from perceiving the remark that way? His pain was so clear, in every word,
every movement. It was his pain she felt--almost as if they were one.
"You're scaring me, Vincent."
He wheeled to face her, finally meeting her eyes
with an unsteady, haunted gaze.
"I don't wish to frighten you.
Catherine. . . ever. What we hoped
for. . . what we planned. . . You have every right
to--"
Sensing the self-recriminations that were sure
to follow, she interrupted, reaching out to touch him, "The only right I want is
for us to love each other." The sash slipped from her robe with the movement to
reveal the pale gown beneath, and he recoiled as if her image in the cool
moonlight had blasted him.
Wild-eyed, he stared at her, and his muttered
words seemed torn from some jagged place within. "It's because I love you that I
must. . . I must go. . . Forgive me, Catherine." His head dipped and he whirled
back toward the shadows. the cloak brushing her legs
like a black storm cloud as it billowed out behind him.
It was the only physical contact of their
encounter. The only tactile proof that anything other than a
wildly troubled spirit had visited her this night. He was gone so
swiftly, so completely.
She returned with numbed steps to the living
room, to curl up on the couch, arms around herself protectively. The temptation
to yield to unrestrained tears was enormous, but what good would it do? There
could be no cleansing in them. Such self-indulgence could only reach out to
touch him, intensify the guilt, the nameless suffering that had been so clear in
every nuance of his behavior, and it would bring her no closer to understanding
the source of his turmoil.
For a long time she sat too stunned to think.
Without thought, there was no reason to move, no justification for any action at
all. The phone rang, but she made no move toward it, and the answering machine
clicked on, filling the room with the unnaturally rendered voice of her father's
former secretary, reminding her of some papers that must be signed. It seemed
monumentally unimportant.
Her distracted gaze fell on the yellow legal pad
sticking out of her briefcase. You have to do something, she told herself
fiercely--anything. Look at the problem the way you would any other. Try to
separate your emotions from the facts. The facts were precious few. Some unknown
event had taken place since she saw him last, since he had looked at her with
such courage, such shy and joyful purpose. Just as clearly, he did not want her
to know what it was. What possible circumstance could swing him so totally away
from the course they had agreed to follow?
The single greatest impediment, the one that had
most effectively divided them in the past, stemmed from that other power inside
him. His shame when it had obliterated his gentle nature, erupting in a volcanic
fury of blood and violence, was terrible to witness. However justified his
vengeance, however welcome its invincibility in the face of danger, he broke
beneath it, hating its inevitability, accepting the guilt that resulted as proof
that his humanity was wanting, allowing the gulf that spread between them to be
his penance.
The guilt.
Wasn't it proof of his humanness? It was the very strength of his humanity, she
was certain, that demanded such soul-searing shame, but he'd said no such
incident had happened, and she believed him. In his eyes she had seen only the
soul of a tortured man, no glimpse of that mindless other.
What, then? Had someone said something to him
that could so swerve his resolve? The possibility seemed highly unlikely. His
decisions were never lightly made, and she'd never known anyone so immune to
manipulation. There was no one whose opinions he respected more than Father's,
and even those had lost their persuasive powers when she had entered his life.
You're speculating, she told herself
sternly--and not very successfully either. Stick to the facts, pitifully few as
they are. He wanted to be left alone. It wasn't the first time, and at least
this time he had come to her, told her, apologized, though clearly it hadn't
been easy for him. She took what little reassurance she could from that. And
before--when he'd gone away without a word--he had returned, after all.
She'd never been one to violate
anyone's else's privacy, expecting the favor
returned, so was it selfish now to refuse one of the few requests he'd made of
her? Trust him, she admonished herself. Trust him to do the right
thing, the way you keep insisting he should trust
you--and himself.
Having constructed this framework of logic
around her doubt, she felt less helpless, untwining from her fetal position,
following the usual bedtime routine. Once in bed, she willed herself to fall
asleep quickly, suspicious that her construct was merely a house of cards that
could easily topple under her disappointment and a terrible nameless fear.
The next day was a blur of activity,
shuttling between the Tombs and the hall of records, followed by several hours
in court, and when she returned to the office Joe was out. Moreno's door was
shut. She hated to admit she was avoiding them, hoping not to be forced into
giving her decision about the approaching seminar.
In truth, she hadn't given the matter much
thought. It was another question that weighed more heavily on her mind in those
moments when the pace slowed and her attention could afford to be divided. She
liked to think she had accepted the situation as befitted a realist, but when
she finally headed for home in the heavy twilight, her thoughts unoccupied by
the details of the job, the uneasiness set in.
Granted, she was allowing him to choose his own
way, unhampered by her emotions, but who was to say he'd made the right choice?
So many times he had acted, not in his own best interests, but in hers. If he
was doing that now, if whatever had occurred was something that made him feel it
was best to turn away--for her--well, then she was involved. If some misguided
notion had set her, unknowingly, at the center of this odd quandary, surely it
gave her a proprietary interest in the problem. Surely she had a right--no, an
obligation--to find out if that was true.
Uncertain whether it was logic that had brought
her to this conclusion or merely the prospect of an evening alone in her
apartment, worrying, longing for him, she hurried through dinner, changed
quickly and descended into the tunnel world. It was hard to pass the spot where
last he'd kissed her, harder still to quell the pounding apprehension that had
lain beneath all the purposeful activities of the day.
She was scared. Scared and deeply troubled. The
thought of the suffering she'd sensed in him last night threatened to loose all
the emotions she carefully restrained. To call him here, simply because she
couldn't handle the anxiety, would be the height of selfishness, solving nothing
but her own fervent desire to see him, hold him, comfort him. She told herself
it was strength that had made him come to her, unwilling to leave an impersonal
note, and it had to be strength that carried her through this.
She paused at the entrance to his chamber,
calling out softly, not really surprised when the sound rang hollow in the empty
space. There was no temptation to enter--to see that place, so crowded with warm
memories, suddenly lifeless, shorn of its magic.
Instead, she turned her steps to Father's
chamber, telling herself there was always the possibility that she'd find the
two of them engrossed in a game of chess, the crisis past.
At the top of the study stairs she stopped. This
room too seemed empty at first glance, strangely silent, but a small sound drew
her attention to a place beneath the gallery where Father was trimming the wick
of an oil lamp.
"Father, where's Vincent? Is he here?"
"No." He paused to light the lamp, replacing its
ornate shade of reds and yellows. "He's gone, Catherine. He left this morning."
With a step more wearied than usual he crossed the room to his desk and looked
up at her. "Come down here, Catherine--please. Sit with me a while."
"Where did he go? Do you know what upset him so
badly? If you do--please. . .tell me. I don't know
how to help him."
"Catherine, please, calm
yourself. Can I get you something--a brandy perhaps?"
"Brandy? Is it that bad? Why--"
"No, it is not that bad," he said levelly,
talking two crystal glasses from the antique cabinet behind him. She watched him
pour the amber liquid, watched it catch the candlelight, sparkling and dancing
in the glass as he handed it to her, and tried to do as he asked. "I simply feel
that your agitated state will do nothing to solve the problem, and it could very
well draw Vincent here--away from a place where he is thoroughly convinced he
should be right now. I think it's best that we respect his wishes."
She released a harried breath and took a sip.
The burning sensation was not unpleasant. It centered her, helped her to
recognize the validity of what he was saying.
"Father, do you know what happened? Did he talk
to you about it?"
"Yes and. . . no," he
said carefully. "I think I know what prompted his turmoil, but I have no idea in
what way--what thoughts it set seething in his mind."
"I don't understand."
He hesitated a moment and then reached for a
dark, leather--bound volume, lying atop the clutter. He opened it to a page
already marked with a strip of red ribbon and pushed it across the desk. "I
found this in his chamber after he'd gone. Go on. . .
read it."
"In a Dark Time," she read aloud, "by Theodore
Roethke." The name was not familiar to her, and she
threw Father a questioning look, but he gestured for her to continue.
"In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade,
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hiss and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The days on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat--maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind
And one is One, free in the tearing wind."
Voice quavering, she finished and laid the book
carefully on the desk. "Has he read this poem before?"
"I don't know. . .
it's possible that he has."
"Then you don't think it was responsible for his
decision?"
"Perhaps the decision to
withdraw. . . yes. It may have spoken to him at a particularly receptive
time. but that's not how this crisis began."
"How then?
Father, I have to know."
He regarded her for a moment. Even in the
forgiving glow of candlelight his face looked etched with worry. "The night
before last, Catherine, he had a dream. I was sleeping quite soundly when
his. . . cry awoke me. It was so like when he was
younger. Nightmares were frequent then, and I would often go to sit with him,
soothe him. This was more chilling," he said uncomfortably. "To hear him cry out
so. . . a grown man. . . I went to his chamber and,
rather jokingly, I'm afraid, asked him what goblins had visited his sleep. He
was by turns very agitated and deadly calm with an
attitude of resignation--defeat--that was quite as unnerving as his excitement.
But he absolutely refused to discuss it with me, and the next day he announced
he was withdrawing from us, to spend some time in solitude."
"A dream. . . a dream
caused all this?" She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or angry that such a
commonplace event had precipitated so much anxiety. "How could he let a dream
have such an effect on him? To pull away from you, his
friends--from me. It just doesn't make sense."
"Catherine." he reminded her sharply. "What you
see around you here--all this--is the product of a dream. What you share with my
son--that too has the courage of dreaming at its core. And Vincent's gifts, his
empathic powers, have frequently given rise to dreams that have in them
something of the precognitive."
"He's told me, but they weren't literal visions
of what was going to happen-- just warnings. Once, he said, he dreamed that I
had died and, as it turned out, I was in a lot of danger."
"Mmm."
He nodded thoughtfully. "It's not so very different from our own dreaming.
Frequently, the subconscious sends us messages while we sleep, perceptions that
perhaps we've overlooked in our waking hours. In Vincent's case, we merely add
the factor of his sensitivity to others--particularly you. The cautionary
visions, common to us all, might for Vincent very well include some powerful
subconscious thoughts of your own, Catherine."
"I think that's right." Their conflict over
Steven Bass had come immediately to mind. Hadn't he said that his warning
visions must have come from something she herself knew--if only subconsciously?
"Then you suspect whatever upset him in his dream had something to do with me?"
He gave a brief laugh, "It hardly takes any
intellectual exercise to arrive at that conclusion. You are the center of his
universe, if something has great meaning for him, then yes. . . I'd say it is
likely that thoughts of you are somehow involved."
It was impossible not to feel a twinge of guilt,
yet how could she apologize for being so important to him, when the fact seemed
to her a precious gift? "I don't know what to say."
"Or do. Yes, I know. I've frequently faced such
dilemmas, loving Vincent as I do. But you must realize what you've brought into
his life, his love for you, your extraordinary acceptance of all that he is,
have made it necessary for him to reevaluate everything--to look at the world
and certainly at himself in an unaccustomed way. For a long time, Catherine, he
has accepted his dual nature-- hating its darker part, but accepting it all the
same."
"I've never tried to pretend it didn't exist.
It's part of him, I know that. I only want to help
him see that it's an insignificant part, that it can't dominate all the things
that make him such an extraordinary man."
"Yes, but you see in
order to live with it, he has given it significance--or perhaps we all have.
In using that primitive power to safeguard our world, he found a means to
validate it. It became a gift to those who protected him, loved him."
"A gift that costs him dearly," she said,
suddenly angry. "How can you condone that? Surely, there's some other way you
could protect this place."
"And we do so whenever possible, I assure you. I
am no more anxious than you. Catherine, to see the gentlest, most civilized of
men, a person I love more than my own life, eclipsed by a mindless brutality.
But in giving that instinct an outlet, a purpose, Vincent in some small way made
peace with it. He saw it as his unique contribution to our survival here--an
exchange, if you will--for being a part of us."
"That's ludicrous!" Her glass slammed down on
the desk top, almost spilling its contents. "His. . . his 'contribution' touches
the lives of everyone down here, his compassion, his understanding, the
non-judgmental way he deals with people--even the children. I've certainly seen
you depend on his advice whenever--"
"Catherine, please. You need not enumerate his
virtues to me. They've benefited our society in ways you cannot even know. It
was his vice we were discussing. Without the belief that he could use his
darkness to some good purpose, it might have remained so horrible to him that he
couldn't have borne it. You don't know what it was like during the dark time,
when he struggled so against it. . . " his voice
fell, rasped with emotion, ". . . when he nearly lost. Without that sense of
purpose I believe he might very well have gone mad--trying to pluck out a part
of himself that cannot be purged."
"Maybe it can't be purged," she said more
calmly, "but it can be controlled. It can be put into a.
. . a more realistic perspective, as he learns to accept himself."
"I agree with you." He responded with
conviction. "What you two share has already begun to shift the balance. I
suspect whatever he found so disturbing in this dream was some facet of that new
life that he had not yet consciously considered and that he found it
sufficiently worthy of his consideration to seek out peace and quiet in which to
reflect on its meaning."
The brandy was soothing her unrest--the brandy
and Father's cautious optimism. Certainly, no one outside herself loved Vincent
more than he did, so if he wasn't unduly alarmed. . .
"It just hurts me to think of him alone, brooding, maybe convincing
himself that whatever's troubling him is his fault."
"Yes, well he does have a tendency toward that, I grant you."
"Maybe I could go to him. Mouse--Mouse knows
these tunnels, surely he could find--"
"Catherine, believe me, if Vincent does not wish
to be found, he won't be. He has the ability to melt into shadows, to sense
anyone drawing near long before they arrive. I think we must simply accept that
he requires this time apart and hope he'll be able to come to grips with
whatever has disturbed him. You realize, of course, that he's quite himself. His
thoughts may very well be centered on his darker nature, but I saw no indication
that he was in its grip."
"No," she agreed, taking what little comfort she
could from the fact. "I didn't either."
"Whatever's troubling him I suspect arises very
much from his most human characteristics, perhaps ones with which he's not
overly familiar." The comment was accompanied by a look she could only define as
speculative, and she took another sip of her drink to avoid it.
"Excuse me, Father. Will it disturb you if we
come in? I only wanted to look for a book."
Lena stood at the top of the stairs, and
Catherine felt an involuntary rush of warmth at the sight of her namesake,
bouncing energetically on her mother's arm.
"No, of course not, Lena--come in. You're
welcome to browse all you like." He pushed back his chair, walking with renewed
energy to the steps. Catherine following his lead.
"It's always a delight, to have such a charming visitor," he proclaimed,
ruffling the baby's wispy curls, "and her mother, of course."
"Yeah, sure.
Hi, Catherine." The girl's smile was unmistakably
genuine, but it faded quickly. "Is it true that Vincent's gone away? Is there
something wrong?"
"There's nothing wrong, Lena," Father assured
her as he patted the infant's cheek. "And he's quite near. We're all perfectly
safe."
"Can I hold her?" Catherine asked, already
beaming at the cherubic face that regarded her with wide-eyed interest.
"God, I wish you would. She's getting awfully
heavy," Lena said not without a note of pride. "She'll have all the books off
the shelves before I can find anything."
"Would you do that?' Catherine exclaimed in the
exaggerated tone all infants seemed to wring from grownups. "Would you really
like to throw all the silly old books on the floor?"
The baby cooed an enthusiastic response, and
Catherine returned to sit down with her prize. Father resumed his place behind
the desk, as Lena disappeared up the spiral stairs in search of a book.
"Do you feel a little better now?"
"Yes, I guess I do. It helps to share all this
with someone who cares deeply about him. I know the last thing he wants is to
hurt anybody, so I'll try not to take it that way. I suppose we'll just have to
be patient till he returns."
"A wise decision," Father decreed wryly,
"particularly since we seem to have very little choice in the matter."
"Do you have any idea how long he night be
away?" she asked, as baby Catherine bounced joyfully in her lap, oblivious to
the trials and traumas of the adult universe.
"I'm afraid not. In the
past. . . at times like this. . . he's been known to vanish for
days--even weeks."
The thought gave rise to an unwilling despair in
the pit of her stomach, even as the baby's ecstatic gurgles brought an
involuntary smile to her lips. "You are such a little angel, you know that?" She
rubbed her nose against the baby's miniature one, eliciting a hiccup of
delight.
"I know that could prove difficult for you,
Catherine--having him so near, yet being unable to see him, talk to him."
"I'm used to that difficulty," she reminded him.
"but it's never been easy, and now. . . when I'm so
worried about what's bothering him. . . I don't want my own feelings to disturb
him--to call him back before he's really ready to return, but I'm not sure I can
help it if I stay nearby."
"You're thinking of going away?' Father frowned
at her uncertainly.
"I think maybe I should. I have an
opportunity--there's a month's worth of courses that would help me be more
effective in the courtroom. I've asked to concentrate on trial work--to spend
less time on the investigative end. It will be safer, but I don't want to blow
it. It might be best for both of us if I do everything I can to make that
succeed."
"I see. Well, I certainly don't have to tell
you. Catherine, how pleased I would be to see you out of harm's way--for
Vincent's sake as well as yours. You must try not to worry while you're gone. We
can only hope that what's challenging him at this
moment is some unexplored consequences of a love he was unprepared to confront
and that the power of that love will show him the way. I don't think it would be
exaggerating the issue to say your relationship has required of him almost a
rebirth, and birth is never without pain."
"Boy, I'll say." Lena was descending the iron
stairway, a slender volume clutched in her hand.
"Oh, come now, Lena, surely it was worth it--to
produce such an adorable result."
"How come it's always men that are so quick to
say things like that?" But her eyes shone with love as the baby waved its chubby
arms toward her, and she took her from Catherine with a ready kiss. "I'd do it
again in an instant." she confessed. "Only next time I'd like to make sure
there's gonna be a daddy around. Thanks, Cathy."
"Anytime."
"What's that you've chosen, Lena?" Father asked,
nodding at the book.
"It's called A Child's
Garden of Verses.
Is it a good one?"
"Oh, yes, a very good
one. You're reading it to
Catherine?"
"Sure. She likes it when I read to her. We
already did all the nursery rhymes. You don't think it'll hurt her do
you--reading to her when she's still so little?"
"I think it will do her a world of good," Father
declared with no hesitation.
"Okay, bye then. Say
good-bye, Sweetie." She helped her daughter wave in their general
direction, and left them alone again.
"Did you read to Vincent when he was just a
baby?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. Would you like some
more brandy, Catherine?"
"I guess it couldn't hurt. I'm certainly not
driving home. What did you read to him?"
"Oh--whatever I happened to be reading myself."
"What--, Cicero's orations?" she said, striving
to lighten the mood. "That's pretty heavy stuff for a tiny infant."
"The point, Catherine," he said fixing her with
a look of mock severity as he finished filling their glasses, "was to soothe him
with the sound of my voice. It worked quite well.
Many's the time I rigged up a makeshift
contraption so that he could lie right here--on the desk--while I read aloud. It
almost invariably hushed his crying, and he'd watch me--quite intelligently, I
thought--those blue eyes gazing up out of a tangle of blankets."
"Did he cry a lot?" she asked, inexplicably
touched by the plight of a baby who had long since ceased to be.
"Ah. . . how to
answer that?" He rocked back in his chair, smiling as he examined the memories
of long ago. "Suffice it to say, that it's nothing short of a miracle he didn't
grow up to be the most self-centered soul on the face of the earth--or beneath
it. I should say."
"What do you mean?" she asked, the very thought
bringing a smile.
"When he was quite small--when he first came to
us--he did cry, yes, incessantly--because he was so ill, you understand.
Then when he was stronger, when we settled on a way to feed
him that would not upset his poor little tummy, he so utterly charmed everyone
that he was virtually never alone. If the women weren't fussing over him,
the children would insist that they could watch over him while they played, or
Pascal's father might decide that he should get used to the sounds of the
pipes--so they wouldn't frighten him--and take him off to the pipe chamber for
the afternoon.
"Sometimes the cook would take it into his head
that it was no trouble propping Vincent up on the worktable, while he stirred
the stew and sang snatches of opera. He was quite a good cook, actually," he
added parenthetically, "but a wretchedly poor singer. There were even times when
the work crews would mind him--wherever they happened to be. It's little wonder
that he knows these tunnels better than anyone."
She felt inordinately pleased to hear he'd been
so cared for. "Even the cutest babies wear out their welcome with most people
when they cry a lot. He must have been remarkably placid."
"Placid? No. . .
not precisely. The problem arose when everyone was
too occupied to pay him much attention. He was so accustomed to being surrounded
by people that the moment he was left alone, he would set up the most frightful
clamor. His lungs, Catherine, to say the least are exceptionally powerful, and
he used them to great effect. There seemed to be no place so remote that he
couldn't penetrate everyone's concentration with his wails.
Thus--my habit of including him in my reading--equal parts paternal affection
and self-preservation."
"He was afraid to be alone," she said with
sudden sadness, gazing into her half-filled glass.
Father too had turned pensive. His voice was
tinged with melancholy as he said softly, "Perhaps, he knew--even then--how
desperately alone he would be for much of his life."
"Why?" she said. "I understand how painful it
must have been to learn that he'd never be tolerated in my world, but with
everyone here so fond of him why did he retreat so far within?"
"Self-awareness, Catherine," he ventured
bleakly, staring into the candle flame. "When he grew old enough to recognize
his uniqueness, when others--even here--pointed them out, he became determined
to hide as many of his differences as he could. It was almost as if his love for
everyone required that he spare them his own reality. I can't help thinking that
I may have contributed to that, striving always to protect him. It seemed
necessary to continually stress what was least human about him in order to
impress upon him the dangers that awaited beyond
these walls. I. . . " He drew a weary hand over his
face. "I don't know."
"And now he's alone again," she whispered,
feeling the tears rising in her throat. I know the purity of pure despair.
Father threw her a sharp look. "Catherine, my
dear, I think it can safely be said that we are growing maudlin. For all I know,
this brandy's gone over. I believe it's been in the back of the cabinet since
the Kennedy inauguration. We shall now," he said decisively, rising to come
around the desk, placing an unexpected kiss on her head as he passed, "have a
proper drink--a lovely cup of Earl Grey. You'll drink it, won't you? You won't
run off just yet?" He fixed her with a look of parental reproof.
"I should. . . I. . . No. I'll be glad to have
some tea, thank you." She was all too aware that this would be her last visit
here for some time, and aware, too, that Father's sudden change of mood had been
for her benefit. The realization touched her, and she choked back the
threatening tears, determined that they would help each other through this
difficult time. "What you said before--about dreams--do you know something about
their interpretation?"
"Only as a layman, I assure you. To a research
physician, I'm afraid psychology seems rather an inexact science, but a
fascinating one all the same. I have the usual tomes on the subject--Freud,
Jung--they make quite stimulating reading, whether or not one holds to their
precepts. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, Lena just reminded me. I had a long, very
involved dream a couple of weeks ago, most of which I promptly forgot, but every
once in a while something comes up that reminds me. For some reason Lena did."
"Was she in your dream?" He brought their tea
back to the desk and sat down again, regarding her with interest.
"Actually, I don't remember, but there was
another woman here. No one I've actually seen. She seemed to be building things,
and you knew her. I remember her commenting on your weight." She frowned even as
a laugh escaped her. "I suppose it was all nonsense."
"Not necessarily. Even the most trivial details
are thought to have a purpose, although they may be disguised in any number of
ways. The word 'weight,' for example--"
"I'm not certain that was the exact word she
used."
"Ah--but it was the word you used to explain it
to me," he pointed out with a shrewd glance. "That's where the importance
lies--in the dream elements' significance to you. What you took in the context
of a personal remark, may very well have had as its purpose, the
homophone--'wait.' Was there any sense of waiting in the dream--of
anticipation?"
"Quite a bit, as a matter
of fact. It was one of the
feelings that stayed with me afterwards--a kind of expectancy, a tension."
"There, you see. Your dream, then, was set here
in the tunnels?"
"Part of it," she nodded over the rim of her
teacup. "But it was really all over the place. I remember I was trying to help
someone--a woman and for some reason I knew she was supposed to be in a mental
hospital, but they had let her out, and it was very important that I protect her
from someone or something."
Father regarded her hesitantly for a moment. She
had the feeling he was not quite sure whether to speak his mind. "There is a
process in dream theory known as inversion or transformation whereby a subject
one might find disturbing is translated into its opposite. Tell me, did this
dream occur after your dreadful experience with Mitch Denton?"
"Just after, yes." No need to add that she'd
been sleeping not far from this very room at the time.
"Remarkable." Father rubbed his beard, clearly
enjoying the puzzle. "Don't you see, Catherine, you were victimized by Mitch--a
man who'd been inadvisably released from a mental ward. Obviously, this was very
much on your mind, yet just as obviously it was upsetting for you to think
about, so your mind released it in a form that was acceptable to you--the mental
patient victimized, yourself as the rescuer, the person in control."
"Which is why it had to be a woman," she
speculated, getting into the spirit of the game, "because in a way it was me
that needed saving."
"Yes, quite possibly, but you understand we are
simply playing at parlor games here. My views on analysis are no more schooled
than those of anyone else who’s read a few scholarly texts."
"Still, as you say, it's interesting." And far
more pleasant than feeding on each other's anxiety about Vincent's situation,
something that unfortunately they could do nothing about. "There was a great
deal of water in the dream. Is that some common symbol?"
"Very likely, but I'm afraid I can't recollect
what it might be, assuming, of course, that you were suffering from neither a
full bladder nor considerate thirst at the time."
"No," she laughed, "nothing
so prosaic as that. But the woman I mentioned--her name was Gillian. One
of the things she was building was an aqueduct--she was apparently an expert."
"Believe me, Catherine, if there was someone of
such expertise among us, I should have taken advantage of her skills long ago.
Perhaps, she was some sort of maternal figure."
"I don't think so. The emotion I associate with
the image is jealousy." Until she'd said it, she wasn't even aware that it was
true, and she regarded Father with a bemused expression.
"You were jealous of her?
For what reason?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe because she was helping
you, and I couldn't?" She frowned a moment at the chair next to her, as it
triggered a fleeting image. "Vincent," she said thoughtfully. "She was saying
the most outrageous things about Vincent. It made me very uncomfortable."
."Cruel
things?"
."No.
. . just the opposite, things about how. . . how attractive he was." She could
feel the color rising in her cheeks.
.
"You disagreed with her comments?" he pursued--a
little archly, she thought.
"No, they were things I've. . . I've thought. I
just never said them."
"Then perhaps, this image was meant to represent
a side of yourself, a side that is usually
repressed."
"Why would I feel jealousy toward myself? I
remember something else now-- there was a box that she wanted to give him. I was
jealous of that."
"A box?
What sort of a box?"
"I don't know. . .
maybe like the kind fishermen use. No, wait. . . that
was a different box. It had been placed somewhere, I don't know--like an
offering, but it wasn't accepted, and I was very disappointed. It was extremely
valuable, yet for some reason it was rejected, and that caused all kinds of
trouble. But it was different from the other one. She had made it especially for
Vincent, and I was very disturbed that she meant to give it to him. . . "
She was just getting into the swing of this
exercise, but when she looked up Father was rubbing his brow, his expression an
odd mixture of discomfort and what seemed to her suppressed laughter.
"What is it? What did I say?"
"Catherine," he said, chewing slightly on his
lower lip. "I fear. . . I've been meddling in a discipline that should surely be
left to experts. What you're telling me is--unless I'm greatly
mistaken--something I have no right to hear, though God knows I've been curious
enough. Perhaps we should confine our parlor games to more ordinary pursuits--Botticelli,
for example or charades."
"Now wait a minute," she bridled. "That isn't
fair. If I've really said something significant, I have a right to know what it
is--especially if it's something about me that you've figured out and I
haven't--and, believe me, I haven't a clue."
"Oh, lord," he groaned, smoothing his hair back
from his temples, clearly evasive. "Doctors and lawyers should never play such
perilous games together. I'll no doubt find myself the target of a malpractice
suit."
"Father--for heaven's sake. . . "
"Very well.
It's merely that, while I've forgotten the symbolism of water, I've nonetheless
a very clear recollection of. . . of the role of
boxes in dream imagery."
"And?"
"Boxes, chests, any sort of receptacle,
actually," he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably, "are often assumed to
represent the female. . . specifically female
sexuality."
"Oh." She avoided is eyes, glancing around the
room as she absorbed this bit of trivia, and followed the subsequent train of
thought. Jealousy of another female figure, or perhaps her less inhibited self,
her own sexuality--highly valued, offered up. . .
rejected. "Oh," she repeated finally.". . . well,
then. . . I suppose that should put your mind at ease."
"At ease is hardly an accurate assessment of my
mind at the moment, Catherine. I am sorry if I embarrassed you--truly."
"It's okay." Strangely, she found herself
smiling. "After all it was only a dream. It could mean almost anything."
"Exactly so.
Can I get you another cup of tea?"
"No, thanks.
This time I really do have to go--but don't suppose I haven't enjoyed myself.
It's been very. . . enlightening."
"Well, certainly entertaining at any rate." He
came around the desk and put his arms around her. "We shall miss you. Catherine,
while you're away. Take great care, and hopefully on your return all of this
will have worked itself out."
"Is there some way you can let Vincent know that
I've left--when I'll be back? I wouldn't want him to return and find me gone."
"Yes, certainly.
He promised not to venture out of reach of our communications system--in case we
should need him, and I've asked him to cheek in periodically--just a few taps on
the pipes to let us know he's well."
"Good. I'll see you then," she said gamely, "in
a few weeks."
As she made her way upwards, determined that she
was doing the right thing, it was difficult to ignore the tiny voice reminding
her that--with every step-- she was moving away from her own heart.
The last suitcase slammed shut, and she looked
around the bedroom for anything that might have been forgotten. Nothing came to
mind. The feeling of incompleteness that increased with every concrete step
toward making this trip had a deeper origin than some item left behind in
packing. There was still time before the taxi was due, and little question of
where she'd spend it. Lugging the bags to the living room, she returned to the
French doors and moved out to the balcony.
It seemed almost sacred now--this spot, as if a
thousand memories, joyful and sad, still played unseen in the warm night air.
Even now, with the rosebush gone, it couldn't shed the aura of magic that
hovered in every corner. The rosebush--lugging it off to Jenny's place, making
her promise to water it faithfully, see that it got the morning light.
Jen's sensible nature had seen her concern as
justified by the uniqueness of the plant, which was just fine.
Practical Jenny, so uncharacteristically flustered by her
attraction to the new man in her life, so suddenly bubbling with enthusiasm and
confidence and apprehension.
"We had a great time, Cath.
Dinner at Maxim's, a walk along the river. He didn't come in--because he'd just
flown in yesterday afternoon, and he was beat. I mean, that's understandable. .
. I just hope he wasn't bored. Well, no. I'm sure he wasn't. He said he'd
call."
"I'm sure he will, Jen," she had said
encouragingly.
"It's just that there's a signing and reception
next week at Rizzoli's, and I'd really like to ask him to go with me. What do
you think? Does that look too anxious after only one real date? I don't want him
to think I'm reading too much into our relationship. Maybe he needs time to
settle in here again."
"Why don't you wait a few days and see if he
calls?"
"Yeah, that's probably the best thing to
do. . . but what if he doesn't? Do I just wind up
going to this thing with someone I really don't care about, when Michael might
like to go? He might even be hurt if I asked someone else."
"How would he know?" she asked, practically.
"I guess he wouldn't, but if he found out it
could give him the wrong idea. He could decide--if he wasn't my first
choice--that I wasn't really all that interested and move on."
Her role as a sounding board was tricky, but
Catherine suspected whatever she might suggest would probably have little
bearing on what her friend decided to do. "I guess that's possible."
"Of course, I could just call him--to say hello.
Maybe I'd get some idea of how he felt then." Jenny's dark curls bobbed as she
flitted from one alternative to the other. "Unless you think that looks too
desperate--calling for no reason. It's so hard to know when to push a little and
when to give them space."
"That's true," she commiserated. And harder to
live with the consequences when you do, she added inwardly. The phone rang and
Jenny ran to grab it, her dark eyes sparkling when she heard the voice at the
other end. That's my cue, Catherine thought, smiling, and with a final soulful
look at the rosebush, so strangely out of place on Jenny's tiny balcony, she
waved and showed herself out the door.
Jenny, she was certain, would hardly miss
her--not if her new romance proved to be as promising as it seemed, and Joe--,
Joe had been adamant about her going. Of course, he'd only been speaking for
Moreno, doing his job; their relationship had grown so warm it was sometimes
difficult to remember that he was, in fact, her boss.
Her two closest friends could do quite well
without her constant presence, a fact that, instead of reinforcing her own
melancholy mood, oddly lifted it, stirring something very like relief and an
incipient hopefulness deep in her heart. That this should be so seemed out of
keeping with the loneliness of her situation. Maybe it would be good to get
away, to take a break from the tense struggle that existed between her two
worlds, to get a fresh perspective on life.
As she gazed out over the treetops, a paler
green than not so long ago, parched now after so many weeks of summer, it
occurred to her that many of the people she would miss most lived far below the
leafy expanse that stretched to the far horizon. Not just Vincent. He was in a
class by himself. No common measures could begin to express what it meant to be
separated from him, by miles, by time, by whatever mysterious obstacle had
imposed itself in their precarious path, and she vowed not to work herself into
a frazzle trying to penetrate the secret that had brought this about. Only time
could offer the answer. There had to be one--an answer and a solution, believing
anything else would. . .
Staunchly, she forced her thoughts away from the
kind of futile self-torture that could do nothing to change the facts. She would
miss many people: the tunnel children, whose affection and high-spirited
enthusiasm was a tonic in the darkest times. What remarkable diversions and
achievements would she miss while she was away? What tears might she have helped
to dry when something went wrong? So many of the smallest
residents below had known loss and hardship and worse. Their bravery
touched her, and the way they began to flourish in the gentle world below was a
constant source of hope for the future.
A month without seeing Mouse's special genius at
work, his bashful, blustering approach to life, lived on his own peculiar terms,
without Jamie's tough femininity that welcomed every challenge, Mary's
solicitous nurturing, Baby Catherine--she could change a lot in a few weeks'
time. And Father. There was no doubt in her own mind that his anxiety about
Vincent rivaled her own, yet he had deliberately sought to comfort her with
reason, distract her, amuse her. Not long ago he
would simply have blamed her and let it go at that. She still couldn't claim
that he no longer intimidated her, but that, she suspected, came from her own
guilty knowledge of the part she'd played in so many near disasters befalling
his son, disasters that Father had devoted a lifetime to avoiding. It wasn't
that he deliberately tried to erect barriers between them, not anymore. And
there were others below, people whose lives had touched her own--all in some
special way. She found she would miss them all while she was gone.
Time to go, and she
did nothing to repress the heartfelt promise that surged from her very soul,
bent on finding its home in his. "Be well, Vincent," she whispered. "Remember.
. . love."
And turning, she went back into the apartment
and shut the door.