Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

"No, you didn't." Peggy's eyes narrowed speculatively. "You ought to have thought of it. You're losing not only your sense of humor but your sense of proportion. I take it your pursuit of the bastard yielded nothing of interest?"

"I know where he's staying. We could call him and invite him to have dinner with us."

"Hmmm."

"I was kidding," Karen hastened to assure her.

"To convince me you haven't lost your sense of humor? The idea has its merits, you know. I could referee while you two fenced with one another; he must know you are a strong contender." After pondering for a moment, Peggy said regretfully, "No, it would be a waste of time. He hasn't got it, you know. Simon assured me he wouldn't let it out of his hands. Since Meyer is staying overnight, he may be planning to come back for another look tomorrow."

"He can come and go unobserved, so far as I'm concerned," Karen said. "I must have been out of my mind to do something so undignified and so unproductive." Peggy's pensive, thoughtful expression aroused a horrible suspicion. Karen went on insistently, "We can't play the same silly trick again, Simon will be looking out for us. He knows about the bar—"

"There's a porn shop next to the bar," Peggy began, but the horror on Karen's face was too much for her. She burst out laughing. "You ask for it, Karen. You've got to stop being such a patsy. We'll have a nice quiet dinner a deux—without distracting male presences—and I'll spend the rest of the evening on a paper I was supposed to have finished last month while you write that letter."

The program was duly carried out. Peggy was still sitting at the desk, head bent over her work, when Karen finished the letter, and her concentration was so intense Karen decided not to interrupt her. She read for a while and then got into bed. "Will the light bother you?" Peggy asked, without looking up.

"No, not at all." Karen wondered what Peggy would say if she admitted she had been sleeping with a night-light for the past week—ever since the dreams began.

Sleep did not come quickly. The day's events kept running through her mind: the futile, infuriating pursuit of Meyer, the ridiculous charade they had performed in the bar. She would never dare show her face there again. Not that she had any inclination to do so ... Who could have suspected Peggy would behave so childishly? Did everyone have a secret personality, a hidden self? The woman she had seen today was more like Peggy's evil twin than the distinguished professor she had known. Simon had apparently enjoyed her, though. Simon was somewhat schizophrenic himself. The practical joker meets the evil twin. Smiling, she drifted off.

Darkness like black earth pressing down on her face and flaring nostrils . . . She caught at the hands that held her, clinging as if to a rope offering escape from the dark abyss of sleep.

"It's all right." The voice recalled memories of other nights when she had waked crying in the night and found comfort at hand. "Just a bad dream. You're safe, you're okay."

"I'm sorry," Karen gasped. "Did I wake you?"

"I wasn't asleep." Peggy released her hands and sat down on the edge of the bed. "That must have been a bang-up nightmare. You sounded as if you were being strangled."

"Smothered."

"Oh, swell. Is this by any chance a dig at my smoking? I had the window open, but ..."

"I've had the same dream before." Karen sat up and raised shaking hands to her face. "It's the old buried-alive theme—-a classic feminist nightmare. I know what brings it on. Frustration." Peggy's eyebrows rose and Karen snapped, "Not that kind of frustration. The dreams started after I saw the manuscript. Once I get my hands on it they'll stop."

"I hope so," Peggy said soberly. "You scared the bejesus out of me. I've never heard anybody, awake or asleep, make noises like that."

Chapter Three

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who says my hands a needle better fits ... If what I do prove well, it won't advance, They'll say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance.

Anne Bradstreet, 1650

A wet, cool April moved grudgingly toward spring. The academic year was also moving toward its close; the increasing press of work kept Karen too busy to brood about her failure to hear from Simon or the unknown recipient of the letter she had written. She was still dreaming— the same dream, almost every night—but she was learning to live with nightmare. She slept with the window wide open, whatever the weather, and left a night-light burning. No problem.

Graduation was only a week away, and Bradford pears, cherry and apple trees were scattering the ground with white and pink petals when Karen emerged from the library and saw a too-familiar form bearing down on her. He knew she had seen him; there was no way she could retreat without rudeness, especially since he had broken into a trot and was yelling her name at the top of his lungs.

He hadn't run far or fast, but he was panting heavily when he joined her. Joe Cropsey bragged about avoiding exercise, as if that were something to be proud of. In his case it wasn't. The folds of fat caressing his jaws and plump hands weren't pink and healthy; Karen always had the feeling that if she poked a finger into one of those bracelets of lard-white flesh, the indentation would remain indefinitely.

"And how is our Karen getting on these days?" he asked, trying to look down at her from a two-inch superiority in height.

"Fine, Joe. How is our Marilyn?"

He knew why she had asked about his wife. She always made a point of mentioning his wife. Not that it had the slightest effect. "A busy little bee as always," he said, smirking. "The kiddies keep her hopping, but we're planning a little party the week after graduation; you'll