Barbara Michaels: Shattered Silk

"Stop it, Pat. Darling, you'd be doing me a favor if you cleaned that whole lot out. Take what you can use and call Salvation Army or someone to pick up the rest. And while they are at it, they can clean out Pat's study. Just tell them to take everything-"

"If one scrap of paper is missing," Pat shouted, "I'll put the grandfather of all curses on ye!"

"Are you sure you meant to throw them away?" Karen persisted.

"Absolutely. What do you have in mind?"

Karen explained. "I suppose it's presumptuous of me to think I could open my own shop," she ended. "But I've learned a lot from Julie, and with your things to get me started… Julie says acquiring stock is one of the major problems."

"Darling, I think it's a marvelous idea. Of course you can do it."

"Just don't set up shop in the parlor," Pat said. "It isn't zoned commercial."

"You know I wouldn't do that."

"You have no sense of humor, damn it. Go ahead, become a seller of rags and bones; judging from what I see in shop windows, some people will buy anything. Go see my mother. Maybe you can talk her into cleaning out her attic."

"I intend to call her, of course-but not for that."

"Why not for that? I've been trying to get her to move out of that mausoleum on R Street for years. She says she can't because none of the retirement homes will let her take that damned dog--Hey," Pat said brightly.

"Oh, no," Karen exclaimed. "Oh no, you don't, Pat."

"Why not? It's a great idea. A dog would be protection for you."

"Not that dog. It bites everybody who walks in the house."

"That's what a guard dog is supposed to do."

"It bit me last time I visited your mother."

"You can train it not to do that."

"How?"

"Club, cattle prod? God, that is really a terrific idea. I can't imagine why I didn't think of it before. I'll call the old girl right now. Come on, Ruth, you've been on the phone long enough, everything is fine, right? Good night, Karen."

The phone went dead, cutting off Ruth's halfhearted protest.

If she had had the telephone number of the friends with whom Pat and Ruth were staying, Karen would have called back. Ordinarily her uncle's antics filled her with a blend of amusement and outrage. Tonight she was not amused. If she knew Pat-and she did-he would be carrying out his threat this very moment, explaining his brilliant scheme to his mother in an enthusiastic bellow. Karen could have killed him. She didn't want a dog. She particularly didn't want Mrs. MacDougal's dog.

She got into bed and turned out the light, still fuming, but after a time she realized she was probably getting upset about nothing. Mrs. MacDougal would yell right back at Pat. She wouldn't give up her home, filled with a seventy-year accumulation of memories and bric-a-brac, for the sterile safety of a nursing home. Not Mrs. Mac. At ninety-three she had more zest for living in her little finger than some people of twenty-seven going on twenty-nine had in their whole bodies.

A board creaked in the hall. The wind was rising; a leafy branch brushed the windowpane with an eerie rustle. A white lingerie dress flung over the back of a chair shimmered dimly in the darkness, limp as a swooning Victorian maiden.

A hundred and fifty. There were at least six petticoats in the box, the same number of nightgowns. Say a hundred dollars average on the petticoats… A hundred times six, plus six times fifty-perhaps seventy-five…

Karen had fully intended to indulge in the long-awaited fit of weeping, but she was so busy adding and multiplying she fell asleep before she had shed a single tear.

THE ringing of the telephone was a vulgar intrusion into the blissful vacuum of sleep. Karen opened her eyes. Rain whispered at the window, and the room was gray with shadows. The illuminated dial of the clock read six-thirty.

The phone went on ringing. Karen squinted unbelievingly at the clock and pulled the sheet over her head. The thin fabric did nothing to mute the sound; putting her fingers in her ears didn't help much either. Who on earth would have the nerve to call at this hour? Pat? He was on his way to Borneo by now. Julie? She never got up at six-thirty. In fact, there was only one person she knew who rose at that unearthly hour.

"Damn," Karen said. She took her fingers out of her ears and reached for the phone. She knew it would go on ringing until she answered.

"Hello?" she croaked.

Julie and Mrs. MacDougal had only one thing in common: their reluctance to waste time on meaningless amenities. "I hear you're going into business," Mrs. Mac said brightly.

"Not right this minute," Karen muttered.

"What? Well, you ought to be thinking about it right this minute. Time is money. Come for breakfast and we'll talk about it."

Karen had been taught to be courteous to her elders, and Mrs. MacDougal was as much her elder as any living person could be. Besides, she adored Mrs. MacDougal. At least she adored her most of the time. The gloomy skies outside, the corresponding gloom that enveloped her spirits, and a hideous fear that she was about to be bullied by not one, but two, MacDougals made it necessary for her to summon up every ounce of good will and good manners in order to refrain from screaming at her old (in every sense of the word) friend.

"I was planning to call you later," she began.

"No time like the present. Just slip on a raincoat and come on over here."

Mrs. MacDougal's bland assumption that she was already up and dressed would have amused her under far different circumstances. While she was trying to decide whether to admit to slothfulness or find some other excuse for delay, Mrs. MacDougal went on, "I was about to suggest some such scheme myself. Delighted that you thought of it too. Now I happen to own a little place that would be perfect for your shop-it's on Thirty-first, just off M Street-and I've been thinking of names. Something evocative but not cutesy. Dreams of Yesterday, or-"

"Mrs. Mac," Karen said desperately. "You're very kind, but I… It was just an idea. I wasn't serious. You know Pat, he always jumps on careless remarks and blows them up into big dramas. I can't… I don't know anything about…"

"Nonsense. What you mean is that you've developed cold feet."

"No, I mean I've come to my senses. It was a crazy idea, and now that I've had time to think about it-"

"Crazy ideas are the best ideas," said Mrs. MacDougal. "Child, I know exactly what you are going through. Your pride has been mashed flatter than a pancake; there is nothing more humiliating to a woman than to have a man tell her he doesn't want her-especially a worthless, low-down creature like Jack. The next few months are going to be hell. You'll be up one minute, and way down the next. But take my word for it-if you decide on a course of action and stick to it, through hell and high water, something will always happen to shake you out of the depths. Now put on your clothes and get over here before I come and fetch you."

The MacDougal house on R Street was almost invisible from the sidewalk; only the massive chimneys showed above the trees that surrounded it, and a high wall enclosed the grounds, which filled an entire city block. It was one of the few remaining mansions of George Town, half a century older than the capital city of which it had become an appendage (a word Georgetowners past and present would have indignantly repudiated).

The gates were closed, but a smaller entrance stood invitingly ajar. Karen shook her head at such carelessness, but as she approached, a voice made robotlike by electrical circuits squeaked, "Good morning, Miss Karen. Please close the gate after you have entered. It locks automatically."

Karen returned the greeting. The closed-circuit television was a new addition, but she recognized the voice of Joseph, Mrs. MacDougal's butler. He must be almost as old as she; the other servants were equally superannuated. Pat was right, it was high time his mother gave up the house, for security reasons if no other. Its museum-quality collections of furniture, fine art, and silver were an irresistible lure to professional thieves, and the aged staff would present no obstacles to a team of burglars.