Barbara Michaels: The Dark on the Other Side

Hm, Michael thought. Probably true. And spoken, if not with enthusiasm, at least with a courteous approval.

“I wish I knew more about these things,” he said, indicating the bank of flowering bushes by which they stood. Descriptions of inanimate objects-which, to him, included landscape-were his weak point; he always had to labor over background. But now he found himself searching for color words: Salmon? Fuchsia? (What color was fuchsia, anyhow?) White, of course. That pink wasn’t just pink, it was sort of rose-colored and sort of-

“They’re azaleas,” said his guide, with amusement. “Very common plants.”

“Oh.” Michael stared blankly at the bushes. “Azaleas. It does sound familiar. I’ve never seen so many colors.”

“Some of the varieties are rare. That group over there is rhododendron.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested.” She was laughing, openly; the expression changed her face, robbed it of its oriental elusiveness.

“I am, I am. Keep it up. I’ll work it into some book or other and get gushing comments from lady reviewers.”

“More likely they’ll think you’re a woman in disguise-or a bit odd. Men aren’t supposed to be interested in flowers.”

“Or cats,” Michael agreed. “Or birds?”

“Definitely not. You know the stereotype of the male bird watcher.”

“Skinny, bespectacled, lisping…Interior decoration?”

“Effete,” she agreed gravely. “Fashions?”

“Times have changed. I’ve seen men’s boutiques.”

The tone of disgust made her laugh again, and after a moment he joined in.

“Sorry, I guess I’m more conventional than I thought. This last century is one of the few eras in history when men weren’t concerned with looking like butterflies, when you come to think of it.”

“That’s right. And you can’t think that dandies like Charles the Second and Francis the First weren’t one hundred percent male.”

“Not if the historical novelists are accurate. Okay. When I get back to town, I’ll buy myself a flowered tie and a velvet jacket.”

“And flaunt them publicly?”

“Certainly. When I take up a cause, I go all the way.”

She looked up at him, with the laughter fading from her face.

“I think you would,” she said slowly.

Michael found himself looking, not at her mouth or her chin or her nose, as people ordinarily do when they look at someone, but directly into her eyes. They were extraordinary eyes-so dark that they looked permanently dilated, with the pupils drowned and lost, luminous, shining…

“But,” she added, “you wouldn’t be easy to convince.”

Michael knew he ought to say something, but he couldn’t think what. He couldn’t even remember what they had been talking about.

Linda broke the spell by turning away.

“You get a good view of the house from here,” she said.

Michael shook himself, like a dog coming out of the water, and turned. The view was impressive-and relaxing, after what he had just been looking at. The gray stone of the house was mellowed by sunlight, which sparkled off innumerable windows. Surrounded by a haze of newly leafed trees, with a backdrop of darker green firs, the lovely lines of the house had the appeal of a Constable painting. Except for that damned tower…

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

Linda consulted her watch.

“We can walk down to the grove, and then we’d better turn back. I think Gordon planned to work with you this afternoon, didn’t he?”

“He said something about meeting at lunch.”

“We’ll make it a quick walk, then. You must see the meadow. Gordon’s latest scheme, that is; he had it grass planted with daffodils and narcissi, like the meadow at Hampton Court; it’s really gorgeous. And the grove is all flowering trees-cherry and apple and plum and almond.”

“Oh.”

“You’d better take notes,” she advised. “Or the lady reviewers will scold you for your errors instead of gushing.”

“I have an excellent memory. What are those stout pink and blue things?”

“Hyacinths.”

She went on chatting lightly about flowers, pointing out different varieties, explaining that Gordon’s rose garden was one of the sights of the neighborhood, and inviting him to come back in June, when it was at its best. The initial mood of their meeting, which had been shaken briefly by that odd exchange of words and glances, was back in full force. Making light conversation, Michael felt bewildered. It was impossible to reconcile this girl, composed and gracious, with the bitter-tongued drunk of the night before. He began to wonder whether he had misinterpreted the incident. Maybe something had happened the day before, something that set her off into behavior that was not a pattern, but an isolated outburst. Maybe he was starting to read too much into looks and expressions. Maybe…

“There’s one thing I miss,” he said casually, as they passed under the hanging boughs of white blossom.

“What’s that?”

“The dogs.”

He had gone several steps before he realized she was no longer beside him. Turning, in surprise, he saw her framed in apple blossoms, with a shaft of sunlight polishing the green leaves and spotlighting a face gone whiter than the petals.

“What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“Dogs,” she said, in a breathy whisper. “What…dogs?”

Michael was so shocked by her sudden pallor that it took him a second or two to remember what she was talking about.

“Why-animals in general. Pets. I guess I mentioned dogs because they’re always there in my mental pictures of country estates. Those brown-and-white hunting dogs…You look terrible. Sit down for a minute.”

He put his arm around her rigid shoulders. For a moment they resisted, like rock; then her whole body sagged, so suddenly that he fell back a step under the weight of it, and put his other arm around her to steady her.

Over her bowed head he saw her husband come into sight, at the end of the avenue of cherry trees.

Michael was too concerned for his hostess and too confident of his host to feel any embarrassment at his farcical position. Randolph ’s smiling face changed and he began to run; but his first words made it clear that he had not misinterpreted the situation.

“Darling, what’s wrong? She gets these dizzy spells,” he explained distractedly. “Too much sun, or not enough vitamins, or something…Linda…”

He put his arms around his wife, and Michael hastily removed his. Linda straightened.

“I’m all right. Sorry, Mr. Collins.”

“You scared the hell out of him,” Gordon said, sharp in his relief. “Damn it, honey, this time I’m not kidding. You’ve got to see a doctor.”

Linda started back toward the house.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Her footsteps were a little unsteady, but Gordon made no move toward her. As if by mutual consent, the two men fell into step together, following Linda’s slight figure.

“What did you say that set her off?” Randolph asked, under his breath.

Michael stiffened.

“I hope you don’t think-”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t talk like a fool. I meant, what were you talking about when she came over queer?”

Gordon’s candid gaze was one of his most attractive features. It was not in evidence now; he scuffed his feet and stared at the ground like a delinquent caught in the act. Michael saw the truth then, and cursed himself for his stupidity. Alcoholism was a symptom, not a disease. Naturally Gordon couldn’t come right out with it, not to a stranger…

“I don’t remember exactly,” he said truthfully. “But it certainly wasn’t anything that might frighten or distress her. Something about the grounds-flowers, animals, damned if I can recall.”