Лоуренс Блок - Ariel

“They actually used to sleep together?”

“No, they took turns using the bed.”

“Mine would, if it was a choice between that or sleeping together.”

“Well, they slept together once, didn’t they?”

“Sure, and look what it got them.”

“You.”

“Right. So they won’t make that mistake again. How about if we screw in their bed? That would be better than blowing out a pilot light.” He pointed at a closed door. “What’s that, the bathroom? No, the bathroom’s down the hall. Whats that?”

“Caleb’s room.”

“The room where he—”

“Died,” Ariel said.

“What’s it like?”

“Like a baby’s room. A crib and a bathinet and a playpen and things like that.”

“And the door’s kept shut all the time? Does anybody ever go in there?”

“Roberta, sometimes. She sneaks in and out sometimes.”

“Honestly?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How about you? Do you ever go in there?”

“I used to. I would play the flute for Caleb or tickle him or things like that.”

“What’s wrong, Ariel?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Why?”

“The expression on your face. Like something bad was happening in your mind.”

“No. Maybe it was just the lighting.”

“I suppose.”

“I wasn’t thinking about anything besides what I was saying.”

“Don’t you ever go in there now that the room’s empty?”

“It’s not empty. All his things are there. The only thing missing is Caleb.”

“Well? Don’t you ever go in?”

“I’m not supposed to. Roberta says nobody should go in there.”

“So?”

She hesitated. “Once or twice when I was all alone in the house. I don’t know. It feels funny.”

“When you have an old house, there’s always rooms that somebody died in at one time or another.”

“Any minute now I’m going to start talking about bugs.”

“I didn’t know it bothered you.”

“A little.”

“Can we go in there?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“Open the door and let me look in? Roberta won’t know and I won’t actually go inside if you don’t want. Please?”

She sighed. “Open it if you want. I don’t want to look. And promise you won’t walk in?”

“Sure. You want me to cross my heart?”

She turned away and regarded the far wall for a few moments. The door to Caleb’s room opened. Erskine said nothing. Then there was the sound of the door closing and Ariel turned toward him again.

“I see what you mean,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes swam out of focus behind his thick lenses. “Hey,” he said, “where’s the attic?”

“On top of the house. We were going to keep it underneath but the basement was already there and the two of them would have crowded each other.”

“Don’t be a cunt, Jardell.”

“Oh, charming,” she said. “You haven’t called me a cunt since the day before yesterday.”

“I didn’t call you a cunt. I told you not to be one. Where’s the stairs to the attic?” She pointed. “What’s it like up there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t go up there?”

“No. There’s just things that haven’t been unpacked. Suitcases and things.”

“But you’ve never explored up there?”

She shook her head.

He flung open the door and took the stairs at a dead run. She hesitated for only a moment, then trudged up after him.

The attic was unfinished, with no insulation beneath the rafters. Accordingly it was very cold and uncomfortable up there. Ariel would have been perfectly happy to take a quick look around and go back downstairs, but Erskine was in his element. He couldn’t get over the fact that Ariel had lived in the house for the better part of a year without once investigating the attic.

“People leave valuable things in attics,” he said. “It happens all the time. They hide something and then die before they have a chance to tell anybody where it is. Or it’s not valuable when they put it there but it becomes valuable years later.”

“Like True Confession magazines,” Ariel offered.

“Very funny.”

But it turned out to be more interesting than she had thought it would. There were no lights, which made things difficult, and the cold certainly interfered with her enjoyment of the project, but it was definitely interesting. The dozen or more Jardell cartons were off on one side, easily ignored once they had been identified. And the other cartons and bushel baskets and heaps of articles were all the debris of previous occupants of the house.

There was a steamer trunk filled with old curtains and drapery, all smelling of must and mold. There was a stack of local newspapers with dates in the forties. There were several cartons of old clothing, all of them smelling as uninviting as the drapes.

And there was the picture.

It was lying flat in a corner and she very nearly missed it. Then she happened on it and just gave it a quick glance, not wanting to waste any time on it, not really wanting to waste any more time in the cold attic. And then she saw what it was.

“Hey!”

“Find something?”

“It’s a picture. I think it’s a painting.”

“Of what?”

“I can’t tell. Help me get it over to the window, will you? I want to see it in the light.”

“Can’t you manage it?”

“The frame weighs a ton.”

Together they got the picture over near the window where enough light filtered through to illuminate the painting. It was a portrait. The frame was a massive wooden rectangle with an oval opening. The frame had been gilded, and most of the gold paint still adhered.

The oil portrait was of a woman who looked to be in her twenties or early thirties. Her perfectly straight light brown hair flowed down onto her bare shoulders. Her face was wedge-shaped, her skin very pale but glowing with vitality. Her hands, narrow and long-fingered, were clasped at her waist, holding a single red rose. Her eyes, small and pale, looked directly out of the picture at the viewer, burning with a passionate intensity.

“I wonder who she was.”

Erskine shook his head. “Must be very old.” He extended a forefinger, touched the painting where the woman’s hair met her shoulder. The surface sported a web of tiny cracks. “All dried out,” he announced. “It could be a hundred years old. Maybe older.”

“I wonder if she lived here. In this house.”

“Maybe. She could have lived here a hundred years ago. Or maybe she lived in England and never saw this house and ten years ago somebody found her in an antique shop and bought her and stuck her in this attic.” He giggled. “There’s no way to tell, is there? Unless there’s a signature on the painting and we can find out something about the artist.”

They looked, but there was no signature visible.

“She lived here,” Ariel announced.

“Maybe.”

“She did.”

He looked at her curiously. “Whatever you say,” he said. He extended his forefinger again but this time he touched the woman where her cleavage began just above the top of her gown. He moved his finger down over her breasts. “Nicely built,” he said.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I know.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Are you crazy, Jardell? All of a sudden I’m not allowed to feel up a picture?”

“Just quit it, okay?”

“Okay, but I think you’re nuts.”

“Help me carry her downstairs.”

“Why?”

“So I can see her better.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to get a flashlight and bring it up here? Remember how much trouble we had dragging her over to the window.”

“If you don’t want to help me, just say so.”