The Love Talker Part 9

"You were twelve," Laurie said. "Always . . ." She stopped just in time and subst.i.tuted "busy with Four-H or something," for what she had started to say: ". . . always whining and following me around."

Laurie had not forgotten that Hermann had a younger sister, but since the subject of Sherri Schott interested her less than almost any other conceivable subject in the world, she had not thought about the girl for years. Maybe she had a.s.sumed the little brat would not live to grow up. But she had; she certainly had. Laurie turned a benign smile on Doug and purred.

"Just look at Sherri, Doug. Hasn't she gotten to be a big girl!"

Caught off guard, Doug had the look of a man with one leg in a bear trap, and the bear advancing rapidly toward him.

"Oh, yes, she has," he said feebly.

Sherri plumped herself down on the arm of his chair, obliterating him in green taffeta. He fought his way out of the rustling folds.

"I bet you wouldn't have recognized me," Sherri said.

"No, indeed," Doug said.

"c.o.ke for my baby sister," Hermann said, offering a gla.s.s. "She doesn't drink, Doug. Or smoke."

Doug's fascinated gaze was riveted on Sherri's bosom, which, to be honest, was the most conspicuous object in his field of vision.

"Or go out with boys?" Laurie asked sweetly.

Hermann took the question seriously.

"Not much, no. She's pretty fussy. And I'm even fussier, aren't I, honey?"

"You mean you okay her dates?" Laurie demanded.

"Why, sure. That's what a big brother is for, eh, Doug?"

"Isn't it nice," said Mrs. Schott loudly, "to see four young people so handsome and so well matched."

The hideous evening dragged on. Laurie was too annoyed by Hermann's ponderous advances to enjoy the spectacle of Doug being pursued by Sherri. Surely, she thought, none of the elders really believed any romantic-much less matrimonial-alliances were going to come of this! Probably they figured it was worth a try. When Hermann wasn't hinting broadly at his hopes of advancement in the bank, and his intention of building a nice new split level, with all the modern conveniences, as soon as he got another couple of thousand saved, he was telling Doug of Sherri's virtues. Most of these seemed to be negative. She didn't drink, she didn't smoke, she didn't drive a car or believe in Women's Lib or allow her Pekingese to sleep on her bed. Hermann didn't mention her most conspicuous a.s.set, but Doug scarcely removed his dazzled eyes from it. Well, be fair, Laurie told herself; it's all the girl has got.

After about a million years Ida decided they had better be getting home. Ned nodded agreement.

"There's that one bad patch on the hill," he remarked. "You know where I mean, George; solid ice by now, solid ice."

The Schotts tried to dissuade them, but to no avail. As they drove away, Laurie looked back. Sherri was framed in the doorway, her hair lit from behind, her wide skirts carefully arranged.

"Wave bye-bye to Sherri," she said to Doug.

"Funny," said Doug.

"Hasn't she grown into a pretty girl," Laurie murmured.

"She's a perfect idiot," Ida said crisply.

"Aunt Ida," Doug sighed, "I love you."

"But Hermann is an up-and-coming young businessman," Ida went on. "And of a good family, too. The Schotts are not the most intelligent people of our acquaintance, but the character of the family is unexceptionable."

Laurie thought of several comments she might have made, but she did not make them. Sherri wasn't good enough for the young heir, the last scion of the Mortons, but for a mere female, Hermann was quite a catch. She couldn't really be angry at her aunt, though. In the old days, a girl's family knew all about her beaux-their families, their financial status, even their medical histories. Such knowledge was no guarantee of finding a suitable mate, but it did eliminate some of the dangers. Like all parents, and parent-subst.i.tutes, the aunts were appalled at the modern world, and they had some right to feel that way. It was a dangerous place. Hermann's family was wealthy, healthy, and, if not wise, at least free of mental and emotional disorders. A girl could do worse. And Laurie devoutly hoped she would.

It was almost eleven o'clock when they reached home, and the aunts and uncle were yawning, exhausted by the unaccustomed late hours. Doug dropped them at the front door and took the car on around to the garage. Laurie managed to get a word with Ida as they dispersed to their rooms.

"Doug and I will take turns watching," she murmured.

"I appreciate that." Perhaps Ida would have said more, but Lizzie, ahead of them on the stairs, turned to inquire, "Are you coming up now, Ida?"

"Yes, of course. Good night, Laura dear."

Laurie went to the kitchen, arriving just as Doug came in the back door.

"All quiet?" she asked.

"No pixies, if that's what you mean. Your hero is burning the midnight oil. I could see him pacing back and forth, past his window. Apparently the muse is not active tonight."

"I've done a certain amount of pacing myself when I was trying to finish a paper," Laurie said.

"Really? Now me, I always found a brief nap restored the old brain and gave me strength to type a few more lines."

"Do you want a cup of tea, or a sandwich, or something?"

"Not now. I may yearn for sustenance in the small hours. Want me to take the first watch?"

"I don't care?"

"You take it, then. Wake me about three."

He left. Laurie, who had hoped to get in a few pointed remarks about green taffeta and voluptuous bosoms, felt frustrated and restless. There was no way of working off steam by means of cleaning or was.h.i.+ng dishes; the kitchen was as spotless as any kitchen could be. She made herself tea and cut a few chicken sandwiches, which she wrapped in wax paper and put in the refrigerator. Then she checked the doors and turned out the lights. She would sit in her room, right next to the register; she couldn't miss hearing Lizzie if the latter should get out of bed.

She made herself comfortable, dragging an easy chair into position and placing a lamp by it. She started to change into a robe, then selected jeans and a sweater instead. Funny, how slowly the time was going. The antique French clock ticking on the mantel told her it was just past midnight. Fortunately she wasn't sleepy. If she began to feel drowsy she would go downstairs and pace the hall.

She was tempted to select a nice soothing book, but knew that would be a mistake; she needed something to keep her awake, and mentally alert. With a wry smile she took out the Encyclopedia of Fairies. That should do the trick. Since she had seen the photographs, her att.i.tude toward fairies had changed radically. A ghost story could have been no more disturbing to her nerves.

This time, instead of turning aimlessly through the book, she searched for information, even though the sane part of her mind jeered at her for trying to be rational about an irrational subject.

As she had thought, the Unseelie Court was a collection of malevolent spirits. She had not known there were so many. They came in all sizes and shapes and all degrees of wickedness. Half-forgotten childhood stories came back to her, reinforcing the unpleasantness of what she read. George MacDonald's goblins, misshapen and malicious, working to steal the Princess as a bride for their horrible dwarfish prince. Andersen's Ice Queen, cold as that frozen substance itself, chilling little what's-his-name to death as she stole him from mortal life. The goblins in Christina Rossetti's poem, "clucking and gobbling, mopping and mowing," as they hara.s.sed poor Laura.

Laurie got up and turned on the overhead lights. The shadows retreated, but they were still there, biding their time, waiting till her vigilance relaxed so they could slink out again. . . . "This is ridiculous," Laurie said, and started at the sound of her own voice.

She returned the book of fairies to the shelf. Thoughts like those weren't keeping her awake, they were scaring her half to death. What she needed now was something solid and normal and matter-of-fact-Louisa May Alcott, or Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. As her eye ran along the books-with occasional breaks, while she glanced nervously over her shoulder-a name caught her attention. Conan Doyle. What was Doyle doing among the fairy tales? Sherlock Holmes and several of the historical romances were in the other bookcase.

She ran her finger back along the spines of the books and located Doyle again. Memory stirred: Aunt Lizzie had mentioned Conan Doyle when they were talking about the photographs. What had she said? His pictures weren't anything like hers. . . . Cutouts. Paper cutouts. Something like that.

The t.i.tle of the book was The Coming of the Fairies. No wonder she hadn't noticed it before. Doyle's name was in small print, the t.i.tle much larger. The key word would have been noted and the book dismissed as just another work of fiction.

The picture on the cover-a pair of rather s.e.xy lady fairies sitting on a flower-suited this a.s.sumption. But the first sentence of the preface told Laurie that she had found a significant addition to her knowledge.

"This book contains reproductions of the famous Cottingley photographs, and gives the whole of the evidence in connection with them. The diligent reader is in almost as good a position as I am to form a judgment. . . ."

Laurie decided she was definitely a diligent reader. She took the book to her chair-pausing to listen at the grille and hearing only silence. Before long she was deeply engrossed, shadowy terrors forgotten, in the mingled fascination and pathos of the situation Doyle described.

The "famous photographs" had been taken by two little girls-cousins-and, Laurie discovered as she read, not all that little. One had been fourteen, the other sixteen. Doyle went into laborious detail about how he was drawn into the case, under the commonly held but illusory conviction that detail const.i.tutes scholarly proof. After a while Laurie became impatient. She flipped through the book and found the photos themselves.

They were, of course, in black and white. The first showed one of the girls, "little Elsie," wearing a pointed pixielike hat and a gown with long, full sleeves. Her hair flowed virginally over her shoulders. She sat on the ground, one hand extended; and at her knee, mincing along, was a gnome. He was about a foot high. His hat was a miniature version of the one the girl was wearing, he had striped wings and a beard, or perhaps a ruff around his neck.

Paper cutout. That was what Lizzie had said, and that was the first thought that came into Laurie's mind. The gnome was as flat as a piece of cardboard, and not well drawn. When she looked more closely Laurie thought there was something rather suspicious about little Elsie's hand, the one extended toward the dwarf and, in fact, touching him. It was too long and too large for the rest of her body. Was Elsie's real hand behind this peculiar construction, holding the "gnome" upright? Laurie thought it probably was.

The second photo was of the other girl, Frances.

An angelic-looking young lady, with flowing curls and an enormous white bow, she seemed to be shying back, as well she might, for the fairy fluttering in midair before her had its knee practically up her nose. This was a conventional, gauzy-winged fairy wearing an exceedingly skimpy garment. The fairy in the next picture was similarly attired. She (her contours, in the semitransparent dress, were decidedly female) had a modish " 'twenties bob," and a profile that might have come out of one of the fas.h.i.+on magazines of that period.

"Oh, Lord," Laurie murmured. "Poor old Conan Doyle."

She remembered that he had been drawn to spiritualism after the untimely death of his son. A good man, an intelligent man-an example of how intelligence bows to a driving emotional need. He had taken the fairies as seriously as he had taken the idea of communication from beyond the grave, and it was pathetic to observe his struggles to produce "evidence." He made much of the fact that various photographic experts had testified that the negatives had not been tampered with. But why should they be? Laurie thought pityingly. It was so obvious how it had been managed. The girls-one of whom had studied drawing, even if she had not learned to do it well-had taken the photos themselves, with no one around. "The little people won't appear to adults, only to those for whom the bloom of childhood is yet untarnished."

Laurie's lip curled. Doyle had lived into the twentieth century, but he was a Victorian at heart; and when he babbled on about the bloom of childhood, he really meant virginity. It was an old theme in folklore. Only a virgin could catch a unicorn. Witches often lost their powers after s.e.xual intercourse. And only an innocent child could see the fairies. Just another example of the value men placed on that wholly meaningless physical feature. Women knew better; but in most periods of history they soon learned to pretend that it was equally important to them. If they didn't, their husbands and brothers and fathers beat the tar out of them.

Laurie studied the photos again. Yes, in each case there was a convenient branch nearby to which the fairy could be attached. In the first case, either the gnome was propped up in an erect position-a stick or stone behind him would have done the job-or he was held up by that weird-looking hand of Elsie's. No doubt the "little girls" had found the whole business highly entertaining, and in a way Laurie didn't blame them. Fooling the grave, bearded adults must have given them great satisfaction. Children of that period had so few acceptable vents for their hatred of the grown-up world. They weren't allowed to beat up old ladies, or sprinkle their conversation with Anglo-Saxon e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns.

Laurie finished the book. It told her little she did not know, except to reinforce her conviction that half the world was nuts. Not crazy, not stupid-just nuts. Ready to believe anything they wanted to believe and ignore all contradictory evidence. And yet ... A troubled frown replaced Laurie's contemptuous smile. Conan Doyle's pictures were obviously cutouts, just as Lizzie had said. But what were Lizzie's? Two-dimensional they certainly were not.

The time lacked a quarter of an hour to three, but she decided to wake Doug anyway. She was getting sleepy. She tiptoed downstairs, pausing to listen at Lizzie's door. Doug's door was open. She pitied any girl he slept with. You couldn't exactly call it snoring, but it came close.

She took him by the shoulder and shook him. He responded with a series of hideous snorts and finally woke.

"Wha's time?" he inquired, rubbing his eyes.

"Three o'clock," Laurie said mendaciously. "Aren't you cold?"

"I wasn't, till you messed up the covers." Doug sat up. The blankets, now around his waist, displayed a hairless, rather pallid chest, but well-developed muscles rippled as he stretched. "Hand me my s.h.i.+rt, will you?"

It was draped over a chair next to the bed. Laurie obliged.

"All quiet?" Doug asked.

"So far." Laurie brandished The Coming of the Fairies. "Here's something for you to read while you keep your lonely vigil."

"Since when have you been selecting my reading material? I'm right in the middle of a fascinating tale; got it at my favorite adult bookstore in Atlanta. I keep it locked in my suitcase so the aunts won't come across it by accident and have-"

He broke off with a pained grunt as Laurie dropped the book, with deadly accuracy, onto his lap.

"You'll find this more engrossing than any X-rated novel," she promised, and left him.

CHAPTER 6.

Laurie slept late again next morning. She would have slept even later if Lizzie had not tiptoed noisily into the room and rearranged her bedclothes. The twitching and patting finally roused her, and she opened her eyes to find Lizzie's anxious face close to hers.

"Well," said her aunt, with a prolonged sigh of relief, "I was beginning to worry about you, darling. It's almost noon. Don't you feel well?"

"I'm fine. I sat up late last night . . . reading."

"Oh, you shouldn't do that." Lizzie settled down in a chair and folded her hands. "It isn't good for you. Early to bed and early to rise-"

"I know. You look healthy, I must say. Did you sleep well?"

"Beautifully." Lizzie's face was innocently serene, which was no proof that she had had a quiet night. But Laurie a.s.sumed Doug would have awakened her if anything had happened. "It's a lovely day," Lizzie went on. "You missed breakfast, so I have prepared an extra large lunch. And Hermann called. Twice. I told him you had gone out."

"Why did you tell him that?"

"Oh, but I didn't want him to think you slept so late. It isn't ... I mean, it doesn't look . . ."

Laurie suppressed a desire to pull the covers over her head and go back to sleep.

"What did he want?"

"Well, he didn't tell me, naturally, but I suppose-"

"Never mind. Forget I asked. I'll be down in a few minutes, Auntie."

"I'll just get lunch on the table."

Lizzie trotted out. Laurie m.u.f.fled her mouth with the covers and swore. Hermann certainly wasted no time. What lie could she tell him, to get him off her back? She couldn't say she was engaged or married; the word would get back to the aunts and they would be all a-twitter. Some undesirable trait-perhaps a hereditary disease? How about insanity in the family? Laurie grinned unwillingly. That was too close to the bone.

She went down to one of Lizzie's mammoth lunches. Doug and Uncle Ned had not yet returned from their morning walk. Laurie allowed herself a malicious grin when she heard that. Ned would whip Doug into shape if he stayed long enough. He probably had not gotten back to bed last night.

The aunts kept her company while she ate, chatting about this and that. Didn't she think it would be a good idea to have a quiet family evening, after the dissipations of last night? Unless she had a previous engagement . . . Oh. She didn't. Well, then, they could look at some pictures of the good old days, when Laurie and Doug were children. Doug would have to operate the projector; Ned always broke it.

Ordinarily Laurie would have objected to this nauseating suggestion, but she merely murmured faintly, being absorbed with the more serious problem of inventing an excuse for Hermann. How about alcoholism? No, that would get the aunts in a tizzy.

No use hoping Hermann could be sworn to secrecy; as a child he had been the worst tattletale in the neighborhood, and there was no reason to suppose he had changed. A hint-just a hint-that her mother and father had not been married?

Fortunately for her she had finished eating before the telephone rang again. She leaped to her feet as if the sound had engendered an electric shock, and s.n.a.t.c.hed at her coat.

."Walk," she babbled. "I think I'll run out and see if I can find Doug and-"

"You had better wait, darling, it might be for you," Lizzie said, with a giggle and a meaningful glance. Ida had gone to answer the telephone. Her measured stride, and the length of the hall, made it unlikely that she would reach the instrument quickly, but Laurie was taking no chances.

"No, no, Auntie, I've got to-need some fresh air-walk . . ."

As she bolted out the door she heard Ida calling her name; but since Ida never succ.u.mbed to the crudity of shouting, Laurie was able to pretend she hadn't heard.