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

Karen made a face and closed the curtains. Why hadn't she refused that invitation? It would kill an entire day. What a wimp she was! At least I won't have to worry about fire tonight, she consoled herself, as she got into bed. Everything is too waterlogged to burn.

Fire and water and earth were three of the basic elements of Greek science. The fourth was air. Earth, in the form of the primeval cave, was a recurrent motif in Gothic novels. How would the other elements apply? Fire was not so common. There was the horrific blaze in Jane Eyre, of course—the terrible but cleansing force that had removed the barrier to Jane's happiness with Rochester and destroyed the house that symbolized enclosure and imprisonment. And the blast of supernatural lightning that had burned the elder Wieland to a nasty crisp. There must be other examples, as well as examples of the other pair of elements. Hadn't she read somewhere that two were considered masculine and the other two feminine? Fire would be masculine, of course. It was aggressive, active, destructive. And by the standards of those super-male chauvinists, the Greek philosophers, earth could only be considered feminine— passive, acted upon instead of active. It would make an interesting article: "The Aristotelian Elements in the Gothic Novel." Happily distracted by useless speculation, Karen drifted off to sleep.

She woke after another dreamless night to find sunlight filling the room. Mrs. Fowler's curtains were as thin as her towels, and they didn't quite cover the window.

Glancing out the uncurtained bathroom window as she brushed her teeth, she saw that the ground was steaming. It was going to be a hot, sticky day. Poor old Cameron, she thought contemptuously; he's probably out there right now, wading through soggy leaves and trying to find something dry enough to paint or bum. The man seemed absolutely driven. He must need money very badly to work so hard, but if he was expecting to recoup the family fortunes by selling the family mansion he was unduly optimistic.

After a hasty breakfast she made a mental list of errands. Liquor store, grocery store, Laundromat. She hadn't brought many clothes, and the ones she had worn the day before retained a faint but disgusting smell. There was a huge puddle outside her door; the floor of the landing wasn't just uneven, it was absolutely caving in. Larger elongated puddles filled the ruts in the graveled driveway. It must have rained hard. The cellars at Amberley would be flooded again. Lucky she had examined them already. She'd never have had the courage to wade through several feet of filthy water.

Locking her briefcase in the trunk of the car, she backed out of the garage and headed for the shopping center. The Laundromat first, she decided. The windows of the car were open, but it seemed to her that a faint unpleasant odor emanated from the bundle of clothes in the back seat.

The place was doing a brisk business. She had to wait for a machine. As she stood tapping her foot impatiently, she saw a familiar face. It was bent over a book, but she recognized the tight-clustered black curls and heavy horn-rimmed glasses, despite the fact that the body to which it belonged was clad in jeans and an enveloping loose shirt instead of a tailored dress. The librarian—what was her name? Tanya something. The glasses must be an affectation, an attempt to look older and more authoritative. Most women of that age wore contacts. Karen edged closer, trying to see the title of the book and failing, since it was covered with brown paper. She ought to have brought something to read. She hadn't used a Laundromat for a long time; she had forgotten she'd probably have to wait.

The book was obviously absorbing. Tanya didn't look up until her machine had stopped spinning. She started to remove the contents and then saw Karen.

"Good morning. I hope you weren't waiting for this washer. I have another load to do."

"I'm waiting for my turn, as is proper," Karen said with a smile. "To be honest, I was trying to see what you're reading. I'm one of those compulsive people who is driven to read book titles."

Tanya peeled back the brown paper and displayed the book—the new Toni Morrison. "Have you read it?"

"I admire her work a great deal, but I haven't read that one. I usually wait till they come out in paperback," Karen admitted. "I can't afford to buy hardcovers."

"Neither can I. This is from the library. It's one of the few perks of the job, getting first crack at the best-sellers."

Karen's number came up then. She tossed her armload of clothes into the machine the woman had indicated and sat down on the bench next to Tanya.

"I hear you're addressing the lit'rary society next week," the other woman said, giving the word a sardonic accent.

"I got railroaded into it. How did you know? I only agreed yesterday."

"Miz Fowler was in bright and early this morning with a handful of artistically hand-lettered posters. She stuck one on the bulletin board and another on the front door."

"That must have been what she was doing so late last night," Karen muttered. "Damn!"

Tanya laughed. She was much more relaxed than she had been at the library. "Don't you court publicity?"

"Not when I'm speaking on 'Lady Authors of the Nineteenth Century,' " Karen said wryly. "I'll never live it down."

"You weren't the one who selected the subject, then."

"Good God, no. I suppose Mrs. Fowler wanted to make sure I wouldn't shock the audience by quoting from Morrison, or Sylvia Plath, or some other 'unladylike' writer."

"It would shock them, all right."

"Don't tell me you're a member."

"Good God, no," the other woman repeated, grinning. "I just might attend this meeting, though. Unless you'd rather I didn't."

"I may be in need of one sympathetic listener. Promise you won't laugh or make faces."

"It's a deal." Tanya got to her feet. "I've