KALEIDOSCOPE II PART 9
By Cynthia Hatch
"Nance, hi. It's good to hear the sound of your voice."
"I wish I could say the same. Every time I call you, Cathy, all I get is your recording. I was beginning to wonder if you really existed."
"Are you serious? You haven't left any messages."
Her friend's warm laughter brought back a wealth of pleasant memories, reminding her suddenly of how long it had been since she'd heard it.
"I know better, Cath. I'd be old and grey, if I waited for you to find time to call me. I even tried you last Saturday night. Silly me -- I forgot you single people are all out living it up."
She remembered the caller who'd hung up when she was with Vincent but felt no temptation to go through the "plumber" routine again.
"I'm sorry, Nance. It isn't that I don't think of you often. I do. It's just so hard to get out from under the job. How have you been?"
"We're all fine, but I promised the kids we'd try to get you up here while the weather's still nice. We're going to drive out to the lake tomorrow for one last picnic. If you could get here by ten, we could make a day of it."
"Okay , . . sure, I'd love to."
Nancy, after all, was not part of the problem. She had played, in fact, a very important part in setting her on the path to a solution, helping her put her life into perspective, to see that, when all the doubts and questions pulling at her had seemed most complex, the answer was incredibly simple.
Things might be very different if Vincent had a Nancy in his life. Nancy knew her so well -- her faults as well as her virtues. They were alike in many ways. For Vincent there was no one like that -- no one who could act as a mirror, allowing him to examine his fears from a different perspective, to see his own uncertainties clarified through the experiences of someone else.
It was impossible to imagine what mocking demons he met in the recesses of his mind, or whether their faces were merely masks fashioned from his own rigid self-denial, the taboos instilled in him by Father.
He had said she was the end of his aloneness, but in one sense she was its beginning, compelling him to enter the forbidden passageways within himself that had long been closed and sealed. Her love and his acceptance of it had forced him on a solitary quest through those unexplored places, where he would have to confront those demons, once securely locked away, face them and discover whether they were merely phantoms of his own manufacture or creatures with a power all their own. No one could stand with him in that battle. No one could even appreciate its scope. In that, he was alone.
What he saw on those inward journeys was invisible to her, however deeply his feelings might stir her own. She could only take her cues from him and summon the strength that lay in patience, a virtue that came far more naturally to him than to her.
The self-examination triggered so violently and -- at the same time -- with such undreamed of tenderness that fateful April, had begun as self-criticism. The challenges she had set herself had seemed all the more unattainable with the evaluation of her potential abilities to meet them. She found little in her past, in her patterns of behavior, that promised any success. Never had she had to work very, hard or delve very deeply into her own resources. The road rose always up to meet her, lifted by the forces of wealth and status, an inbred charm and the automatic response of the human species to physical beauty.
In the beginning she had blamed herself for everything, the chance factors as well as the conscious choices that gave her life so little significance in the larger picture. The blanket rejection of all she was had led to an initial depression, a sense of futility that served little purpose and was in its own way a kind of serf-indulgence, an easy if painful justification for doing nothing at all.
It was only when she began to reflect on her life objectively that any progress became possible. Instant gratification. Yes, it had been a staple of her existence, but once past childhood, it had been less a demand than an inevitable byproduct of her privileged position. She was used to it, but the strength to wait, the patience -- she had learned that as well.
The park was still alive with people when darkness fell, young people mostly, whose parents would have frowned on their choice of a place to congregate. The irony that the park, that haven of gentle nature and open breathable space among the tightly locked towers of the city, should be known as a treacherous place, a place where random violence hid and flourished, was typical of the paradoxes that defined New York.
She knew only too well the truth of that reputation and wondered, as she passed groups of teenagers, whether they were potential victims, reckless with the youthful illusion that nothing bad could happen to them, or were they part of those armies of the night: ordinary looking boys in whom some awful emptiness would abruptly fill with hate and mindless savagery toward a stranger? She had been incredibly lucky to venture here, a woman alone, so often without incident, but there was an awareness, too, that she never really walked alone.
It came as a shock then, when she'd gained the safety of the drainage tunnel and opened the heavy door, to be greeted -- not by the formidable sight of her protector -- but a small fresh-faced figure with all the intimidating presence of a cherub.
"Geoffrey. Hello -- is something wrong?"
"Hi, Catherine. I don't know -- maybe. Vincent was coming to meet you, and there was a message on the pipes. An intruder, I think. He had to go check it out, so he said I could come and get you."
"Oh . . . well, I'm glad you did. I haven't seen you in a while." She smiled at him, attempting to keep a casual tone despite the fear welling up inside, the cold apprehension that the brutality festering above might have leaked into this place of safety.
Apparently the attempt to hide her alarm had not been entirely successful, as the boy took her hand. looking up at her shyly. "You don't need to worry. Vincent can take care of himself."
"I know he can." She had no desire to infect the child's confidence with her own terror, maintaining a light conversation as they journeyed downward. "Can you understand the codes, Geoffrey? Do the messages make sense to you?"
'Some of them. Even the little kids can tell when there's an emergency. But all the locations and stuff- that's hard.'
"You're right, it is," she sympathized. Here she was talking, concentrating on keeping her footing where the path was most treacherous, while all the time images were vivid in her brain -- men with guns, a pack of drug-crazed sociopaths hidden in the shadows, surrounding him. But surely, if there was any pain, she would feel it, no matter how far away he might be. "It takes time to master a whole language, Geoffrey. Like learning your multiplication tables."
"Yeah. Pascal comes and teaches us sometimes."
"Do you think you'd like to work with him some day -- in the pipe chamber?"
"Nah. It's interesting, but he gets too crabby."
"Pascal?" She was surprised that the small part of her still functioning normally, separate from the fear that gripped the rest, was capable of turning to the boy with an easy laugh.
He nodded. "He's nice and all, but he acts like all that stuff is simple. He makes you feel kind of dumb, cause you can't memorize about a million signals just like that."
"It's only because those things are second nature to him, Geoffrey. He was raised on that language. I'm sure it seems simple to him."
"I guess, but I'd rather be a teacher like Vincent. He never makes you feel dumb."
"No,' she agreed, "he never does." They had reached the entrance to his chamber, but she knew even before they stepped inside, that he wouldn't be there. The clamoring of her heart was beginning to make it hard to think. It wouldn't be long until the fear dominated her completely. "Thank you for meeting me, Geoffrey. You can go now, if you want. I'll wait here for Vincent."
"That's okay," he said, the round cheeks coloring slightly. "I can stay and keep you company."
Perhaps it was the thunder of her heartbeat or the rush of blood sounding in her ears that kept her from hearing his approach, but she turned suddenly, and he was there: standing in the doorway, calm, unruffled, the knowledge of her turmoil clear in his eyes. along with the reassurance that it was groundless.
She ran to him, unthinking, and his arm encircled her, pulling her close. "Shh," he whispered, as if the physical manifestation of her fear was audible to him as well. "I'm here. It's all right." The sound of his own heart was slow and steady against her ear.
"I was so scared," she said needlessly, her arms locked around him.
"I know." He raised his head, looking at Geoffrey who still stood in the center of the room, and Catherine released her hold, remembering the boy's presence, glad when Vincent kept one hand reassuringly on the small of her back.
"Geoffrey, I want to thank you for escorting Catherine."
"I didn't mind. I guess everything's okay then?"
"Everything is fine. It was only a false alarm."
"That's good. I guess I'll go then. Bye, Catherine. Bye, Vincent."
"Thanks for your help." she called after him, as he moved past them into the corridor, and she turned back to feast her eyes on the beloved face before her.
"You have made a conquest of Geoffrey, you know. He blushes continually in your presence."
"Does he really?" Relief that he was safe beside her bubbled over into a mischievous smile. "Does that make you jealous, Vincent? He's really awfully cute."
He shook his head with an air of resignation. "Forgive me, Catherine, but I cannot hope to compete with 'cute'."
"There's no need to be modest. I’ll admit it's not the first description that comes to mind, but it is applicable. You can be irresistibly cute, Vincent -- adorable even." His dubious expression, tinged with something very like alarm, tickled her. "It amazes me sometimes, how oblivious you are to your attractiveness -- in all its many forms."
Her teasing had embarrassed him now, but the sidelong glance he gave her, half hidden by the canopy of hair, only proved her point. She could have gladly grabbed him and smothered that enchanting expression with kisses, but this kind of bantering was foreign to him, leaving him already uncharacteristically nonplussed. He needed time to absorb the unaccustomed levity that came with flirtation, but his dignity was intact when he said wryly, "You are living testimony, Catherine, to the blindness of love."
"I don't think so. The heart sees truly, doesn't it Vincent? I can't help but see you with my heart, and what I see is magnificent and beautiful and, yes, sometimes cute. Why does that word make men so uncomfortable, I wonder?"
"I have no idea. Catherine, but would it trouble you greatly to eliminate it from the discussion for now?"
"No, it's no trouble," she grinned. "Have you noticed anything peculiar about this conversation?"
"Decidedly."
"No, I mean something else. We're actually having it alone -- in your chamber--just the two of us."
Now he had the advantage. She saw the flash of ironic amusement in his eyes. as he turned away. "I think we will find that all too temporary."
There was, in fact, the echo of running feet in an adjacent passage, and Mouse burst into the chamber, excitement animating his expression. "What, Vincent? Who?"
Vincent didn't answer. She noticed he had lost entirely the shy quality of a moment ago. He was once more an imposing figure, and though she sensed no intense emotion in him, his silent appraisal was making short work of Mouse's enthusiasm.
"Nobody there, huh?" The boy wilted visibly. "Maybe Arthur --chewing on the wires again."
"Mouse, we need to talk about your warning system."
She felt his effort to repress some emotion -- anger or amusement -- she couldn't tell, but his voice was level. "Is it possible, Mouse, that you've worked on your system recently? Improved it perhaps?"
"Tried to," he admitted, perplexed. "Electrodes. Supersensitive. Shoulda worked."
"Oh. It does work. That isn't the problem, Mouse. It works only too well. Our intruder tonight was merely a possum."
'"A real big possum?" Mouse's open-mouthed look of consternation convinced her he must be envisioning something extraordinary indeed, a small animal grown inexplicably to the proportions he had expected to detect with his perfected alarm. She thought she knew now which emotion it was that Vincent had thought wise to suppress. "How big?" he asked, eyes wide with fear at the anticipated answer.
"Only an ordinary size possum. It is remarkable, Mouse, how well you protect us all, but you see the problem. We cannot have the sentries rushing to every outpost only to find something harmless. Who knows, we may begin to hear from the rats."
"Rats." Mouse repeated, starting to appreciate the extent of his own genius. 'Bells and buzzers going off all the time, sentries running, Father yelling -- all 'cause of rats. Maybe even mice. Works too good, right, Vincent?"
"Too good, Mouse," he confirmed solemnly.
"Okay good, okay fine. Fix it. Fix it right away." He was already headed out the door, hands working as if rehearsing the adjustments needed for the job. "Gotta be careful, though right? Fix it the wrong way -- alarm goes off -- run to the entrance -- ants -- ants and spiders ringing the bells." He interrupted his monologue to add, "Hi, Catherine," and disappeared.
The corners of Vincent's eyes had crinkled into a smile, as he turned to her.
"Oh, God, Vincent, he's so sincere, but it was all I could do not to laugh. The attack of the possum people?"
"Your laugh is beautiful, Catherine. It would be a shame to contain it, but Mouse must understand the seriousness of the situation. You were frightened needlessly tonight."
"I'm just so relieved that's all it was -- that you're safe."
"And that we could spend this private time together?" There was quiet humor in the question, but perhaps he wondered how much his accessibility to others in the community really disturbed her. "I sent for Mouse myself, Catherine. I'm sorry."
"Vincent, it's fine with me if there are fifty people in this chamber, as long as one of them is you, and I can see for myself that you're all right." She went to him then, hugging his broad shoulders.
"And our plans for the evening, Catherine -- would you prefer that I ask fifty people to join us in the Great Hall?"
"I don't think so." She fastened him with a determined stare, delighted to note that his guileless look couldn't hide a twinkle in the blue eyes. "I'd like to have you all to myself for a little while."
He nodded and went to the bed, picking up a sweater that had been carefully folded there; it was woven of thick, loose lamb's wool, interlaced with tiny ribbons of blue satin. 'It will be cold where we are going. You might need this."
She recognized it immediately as one of the garments she'd worn in the painful days following her father's death. That had been a dark, soul-wrenching time, but Vincent had been there, gently being whatever she needed at any given moment, not coddling her or attempting to vanquish the storm of grief with platitudes as her friends above might have done. Neither did he let her deny it, but led her to accept it for the truth it was, all the while surrounding her with the gentle reminder of his own unselfish devotion.
Now that time seemed bittersweet. The grief at her father's death, the loss of his steadfast, predictable presence would never go away, but her time here had convinced her in some strange, unexplainable way that she had made her peace with him and that, somewhere in the universe, that spark that was Charles Chandler at last understood what she needed and understood, too, that she had found it.
How had the sweater come to be here? Had it been worn by others since, or had he kept it here in his chamber for her or for the memories it might evoke when he held it, touched it. She didn't want to embarrass him by asking, and merely smiled her thanks, as he took her hand and led her from the chamber.