by
Mary E. Overstreet
End of January, 1972
Willie looked at his bank book, smiling as his balance had just gone up five hundred dollars. Not bad for a week's work, he thought. What work there had been, he added. The kind of thing Barnabas had had him doing amounted more to traveling time and figuring than anything else. And Willie knew there would be a heap of paperwork waiting for him as a result of his latest "business endeavor". Not to mention the typing practice. But this truly was a step up from handyman and hospital maintenance.
He shrugged to himself. It hadn't been bad really, though the paperwork was often confusing and tedious. Willie wondered how Barnabas had mastered it, coming into a vastly different business world from the eighteenth century. The principles were still the same, he guessed, and other man was well acquainted with them. But now, as training exercise, he had Willie doing nearly all the work for him as well as his own investing. The younger man didn't hate it, but found it made him restless. Except when he looked at his increasing bank balance.
Time alone on the road had been giving Willie ample chance to think. He had come to the conclusion that he was better off now than he had been in his entire life. Even so, he knew he was no closer to feeling like himself than he had been in a long time, since before the shooting. He tried to convince himself that he was happy now, enjoying a kind of financial security he had never known. Security and happiness he craved, and while the former seemed to be his, he could not ignore that he did not possess the latter. He was barely content, and he knew it. But he stayed on, not daring now to shake his security.
Willie arrived back at the Old House in the afternoon, immediately starting to remove his already loosened tie as he walked inside. He slung his coat onto the rack and glanced around for Barnabas, calling him. Without waiting for an answer, he set his brief case up on the small lamp table by the banister, opened it, and removed a large envelope. He was about to call out again, when the tall man stepped out from the narrow hallway leading to the basement. Willie felt a knot of anxiety, fearing trouble. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Nothing. I was just looking for your reserve supply of candles." Barnabas smiled. "How are you?"
"Fine. Been doin' okay without me?" He allowed himself a grin.
"Fair enough."
"Here." Willie handed the envelope to him. "And you won't find any candles down there. I quit putting them down there. . .a while ago." Barnabas opened the envelope and pulled out the papers within. "I've been puttin' them in a drawer in the kitchen."
"Willie, I can't read this." He frowned at the scarcely legible handwriting.
He took it from him, a little insulted, but not much since he knew his handwriting was poor. "I'll type it up tonight. Just look at this." He pointed to figures on another page. "Up twenty percent over the first week. I told ya these guys were gonna be good."
"Yes, you've done well." He looked down at his. . .partner, he finally decided. Even that term was a poor description for their relationship. Willie was just. . .Willie.
Willie felt his face get a little warm under Barnabas' approval and study. "Uh, thanks." He looked away and took the reports. "Guess I'll work on this for a while." He shut his briefcase and turned to go around the banister and up the stairs.
"Don't work too hard on it, Willie. You can do it tomorrow."
He stopped and looked at him. "But I have a lot to catch up on."
"Not as much as you think."
"What do you mean?"
"I finished up everything I could for you."
There had to be a reason for that, thought Willie. "How come?"
Barnabas was suddenly a little uncomfortable. "Well, you need more time here."
"What f—" He realized what the other was thinking. "The house. You still want me to work around here," he said, in a way relieved.
"Yes. I hope you don't mind. I had thought I could manage it myself, but I really do need you to keep things up. After this last trip. . ." He let the sentence trail off, looking at Willie who then smiled.
The younger man knew how much Barnabas hated asking him for something that was in his power to refuse. But for Willie this would be a welcome break. "Let me guess, you want the candles?"
"Well, that isn't the only thing. I'm not asking you to continue the restorations." Damn Willie, he wasn't making this easy, Barnabas thought.
"But you want someone to do all the chores, like cleanin' and cookin', and takin' the laundry in."
"Well, yes."
Willie didn't answer till Barnabas looked at him. "Okay."
"You'll do it?"
"Sure. Have to do some of it anyway." He shrugged and continued on his way. "Make me a list of what you want done, and I'll get started on it right away."
"All right, but you don't have to start today."
"I don' mind." Willie didn't want idle time when he'd be forced to think too much.
"But aren't you tired?"
"No, not really."
Barnabas thought Willie must have so much energy because he was young. "Well, suit yourself. I'll write up a list."
"Okay." Willie was glad to get away finally and be able to change clothes. He truly was not tired, only a little jaded from the train and car rides home. The idea of having a more familiar task to do was welcome. He thought he would start by changing out all the candles.
At least Barnabas seemed to be in a good mood, he thought, not one of those frightening tempers he had had for several days at a time during the past weeks. Willie found himself shaky and on edge whenever he dwelled on the near violence he had escaped when Barnabas fell into a dark and cruel mood. The very thought of Barnabas hurting him again made him break out in a cold sweat. He had to wrench his mind away from the fear and concentrate on his job.
He was soon in the drawing room, scraping out with an old knife the build-up of melted wax in one of the two candlesticks that rested upon the mantel. A knock on the door startled him so that he almost cut himself. He left a pile of old wax, the knife and candlestick on the small end table to answer the door.
Willie felt a flush of embarrassment upon seeing Carolyn at the door but tried not to show it. "Hello, Carolyn," he said, holding the door open for her.
"Thank you, Willie," she said, smiling warmly up at him. "I saw you coming up the drive a little while ago. Did you have a nice trip?"
"It was all right." He shut the door. "I don't know where Barnabas is."
"Well, I didn't come to see him." She was still angry with him and did her best to avoid him. When that was impossible, she was unable to keep from saying a few sarcastic remarks if the opportunity arose.
Willie had seen her only a few times in the past two months, and had successfully kept a considerable distance, was always in other company, or was strictly formal. He knew it bothered her, but he was so ashamed of himself that it was difficult to be around her without feeling terribly low and embarrassed.
"His car is gone anyway." She went on into the drawing room and sat in one of the wing chairs.
Willie stood on the threshold, not knowing what to say.
Carolyn was equally uncertain about what to say. She looked over at him, sighing mentally. He still had not changed. Since he obviously was not going to speak up, she decided she would have to. "I guess you're wondering why I've come by. Well. . . Well, I just wanted to talk to someone. Someone my age, who wouldn't be. . .telling me how things are going to get better, because they know from experience. I. . . I," she faltered, uncomfortable with his silence. Her longing for a friend—someone she felt equal to, with whom she could share her thoughts and feelings—seemed a distant and vain desire.
He looked at her when she was not looking at him. It would be very rude if not cruel of him to not make some acknowledgment of what she was trying to say. "It's okay, Carolyn." He nodded a little encouragement and came forward. "Can I get you anything?"
It was her turn to feel embarrassed, and she looked down, shifting her attention to the mess of wax still on the small table. "No, thank you." She wished he would sit down.
Willie saw her looking at the chunks of whitish wax and stepped up to the table. "Let me get rid of this." He brushed it into the shoe box he had been keeping narrow tapers in.
"Willie, don't you ever feel that you're wasting your time?" Her question was serious, meant for deep and thoughtful contemplation. It was what she had been thinking of for months now about her own life.
Willie understood it on two levels, very much on the inner more personal one, but it struck him initially about his immediate job. He was not expecting it and straightened, still holding the box. "You mean, changin' out all the candles? Sure, it's a waste of time. I've been tryin' to get Barnabas to let us have electric lighting, but he won't do it." Immediately, he wished he had not brought up Barnabas.
She looked at him, watching his eyes avert from hers, and shook her head. "That wasn't what I meant."
He just looked into the box, unwilling to answer.
"Oh, Willie, I just feel so frustrated!" She stood up. "I don't do anything that has any meaning!"
"Yeah? Well, neither do I." His admission didn't surprise him, though he really did not want to talk about himself. He set the shoe box on the table almost angrily, tense and now agitated.
"But what is there to do?" She looked at him as if any suggestion he made could be very important.
"I dunno. You could donate your time to some charity," he said, rubbing his tensed neck and stepping over to the window to look out. She needed to get laid, he thought crudely, ashamed at his insensitivity—or was it his inability?
"I do that already." Disappointment that he was not really sharing with her sank in. "But that doesn't. . .that isn't the answer—it doesn't help me. I mean, it doesn't make me feel satisfied." She refrained from adding that she was lonely.
He turned and glanced at her, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I—I'm sorry, Carolyn. I understan' what you're sayin', but I. . .but you. . ." He needed to tell her not to look to him for help—he couldn't give it—but he didn't know how to tell her without sounding callous. "I— I can't help you." He mumbled it, turning away.
She had not been able to understand what he said, but she knew anyway. "Well, you understand, and that's more than anyone else has," she said gently. "I just can't help but wonder what's wrong with me." Her throat developed a lump quickly after saying this, and she had to turn away in case he looked at her.
He shut his eyes briefly in empathy with her pain and longing. "Nothin'. There's nothin' wrong with you." He did turn around to see her holding onto the marble mantel of the hearth. Willie knew what she felt because he had those same feelings. He wished that they were the only unpleasant feelings he had, but for him, loneliness and dissatisfaction were the least of his worries. For years before he came to Collinsport he had dealt with them. Now they only added one dimension to his inner confusion, one strand more to the complex web of emotions and thoughts filling him. Loneliness was a thread that twisted and tangled his heart, running through his being like an infinite loop, always coming back to confront him and remind him that he was destined to remain essentially alone. And so far this had been true in his life. The ties he had shared with others had been incomplete, as if he could find no way or no one to sever the infinite loop and take the ends of the thread with which to tie a lasting bond. For a time he thought Roxanne was the one to end his loneliness, but that had come apart, too. The only one who had ever come close was Barnabas, and his link to the man was as intricate as it was unfathomable and more often than not unpleasant. He had tied Willie's mind, his emotions and heart into knots as he had invaded and taken his will. And being so deeply traumatized by the shots to his back had scrambled his senses. He was still full of tangles and snares and a hundred more tightly wound knots from his experiences in Wyndecliffe. Fear and pain were like a backlash of barely sorted feelings, snagging them into a new jumble of twisted, writhing emotions. And Carolyn made him afraid and ashamed, adding unintentionally to his dilemma.
"It's nice of you to say that. I'm just. . . I'm tired of feeling like this. I know I— I really shouldn't burden you with my problems. You must have your own to deal with." She let the last hang in the air, guessing that he would not enlighten her about them.
"I'm sorry you're havin' problems, Carolyn," he said at length, wishing she would give up and leave him alone.
"I'm sorry that things aren't different." She looked at him and after a brief glimpse into his troubled eyes, he averted them again. "Oh, Willie—I wish you'd—"
He turned completely away. "Don't. I don't wanna hear it."
"All right." She stared at his back a moment, stung by his unexpected reply. "I'm sorry," she said with a trace of sarcasm. "You can keep everything to yourself; I will too, or at least I won't come to you." She had let her hurt speak and was sorry for it.
"I didn't ask you anyway," he said, defending his own feelings.
Pride kept her from apologizing again. She could take only so much rejection. Carolyn walked to the door, opened it, and went out.
Willie watched her though the window, seeing her stop and talk to Barnabas who had just pulled up. He could tell from her stiff posture and body movements that she did not want to be speaking with him. Sighing with regret, he turned away from the window and picked up the box of candles to go back to work.
Carolyn looked up at Barnabas, blaming him for Willie's rejection of her.
"Have you been talking to Willie?" he asked, not caring if she had been, he just needed to say something.
"Well, I've tried, but thanks to you, he isn't willing."
Barnabas wondered if Willie had told her why he was punished. Why else would she say that? But he sincerely doubted the younger man would have told her. Perhaps Willie still thought he was not supposed to see her. He frowned. "Carolyn, I really would like to talk with you about what happened." He more than regretted having alienated her, and now that Willie was well over it, Barnabas felt a lot more distant about it. But not enough, however, to tell her what had led him into the violence. He wanted her to understand his growing concern over his black moods.
"What is there to talk about?"
"Carolyn, I don't like this animosity between us. Please give me a chance to explain on this matter. It's more complicated than you think." He watched her go around to her own car door and open it. "Please, Carolyn."
"I'll consider it." She got in and shut the door. What could Barnabas possibly say? she thought.
Willie sat in a wing chair having finished one candle, and was starting on the second when Barnabas came in.
"Willie," he said somewhat hesitantly.
"Hi, Barnabas," he answered, looking up from his work, then quickly down again.
Barnabas crossed the floor to stand in front of him. "Willie, I. . . I'm afraid you might have misunderstood something."
"What?" He looked up and rose slowly from the chair, noting that Barnabas didn't seem angry.
"Well, I thought I'd made it clear that I wouldn't interfere in your personal life."
He flushed and looked down. "I know it."
"What I mean to say, is that—" He turned away, embarrassed as well. "I. . . Well, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to see Carolyn. Don't feel you have to—"
"I told you I wasn't anyway," Willie said indignantly, close to walking out of the room.
"All right," Barnabas said placatingly, knowing that he had stepped on a particularly tender point with Willie. "I told you I wouldn't interfere. I just wanted to be sure you still did not think that—"
"Please, Barnabas," Willie muttered. He could barely stand to be reminded of the incident. He swallowed hard, eyes focused on the faint stain in the rug.
"I'm sorry, Willie." The younger man had never been one to talk about what was personal to him, Barnabas recalled. He decided to change the subject. "Julia is back today, too," he began in a fresh tone, turning around to look down at Willie who slowly returned his gaze. "We're having dinner at the Inn. Would you like to join us?"
He didn't know what to say; the offer touched him. "At the Inn?"
"Yes. I would ask that you dress a bit more appropriately."
"I dunno." He shrugged, shaking his head. "Thanks, Barnabas, but I don't know." He looked down. "I don't feel like it. But I appreciate the offer."
Barnabas was surprised Willie didn't want to come. He seemed to have become depressed in the short time Barnabas had been gone. Willie's moods seemed to change as rapidly and unpredictably as his own lately. "Are you sure? We'd both like you along."
"Thanks, but I. . ." Willie didn't know how to explain that even with them, he would feel out of place. They seldom included him in their conversations anyway. He would rather avoid the awkwardness that the forced effort of involving him would cause. He was far more comfortable with the brief, impersonal, casual talk that he had at the Old House with either of them, or even the training sessions with Barnabas would be preferable. "I guess I am kinda tired after all."
"Well, all right. Get some rest then, and you don't have to work so hard." Barnabas reached into his coat pocket. "Here is that list you wanted me to make out for you. But, Willie, don't push yourself."
"Thanks." He took the list, lowering himself back into the chair and reading Barnabas's irritatingly neat handwriting rather than looking at the other man. It did not amount to a great deal of work, he was a little disappointed to see. He estimated that he'd be through by the afternoon of the following day.
"Well, I'll be upstairs for a while," he said when he realized Willie was not going to say anything else.
"Okay, Barnabas." Willie waited until Barnabas was gone from sight before putting the list on the table and leaning forward to rub his face with his hands. Why did he feel so low now? he wanted to know. Barnabas had been kind to him, but he had inadvertently brought up a not-so-old wound and a very fresh pain—Carolyn. Willie didn't want any of these thoughts—he wanted peace inside. But it never would come. He just kept thinking of how he had hurt Carolyn's feelings. She'd get over it, he thought. She certainly could forget him, he thought disparagingly.
He picked up the candlestick and continued cleaning it.
Willie went through the open rooms of the Old House, drawing open the drapes to let the morning sun come in where it would. He went to the kitchen last, rubbing his hands together to warm them. He heard Barnabas' steps as he came to the room and went to look for breakfast ingredients in the small white refrigerator that rested conspicuously in one corner—Barnabas' only concession to modernizing the house.
"Mornin', Barnabas. You want breakfast?"
Annoyed that Willie had spoken to him without having looked to be sure he was there, he just stared till the other looked up. Seeing Willie's look of apprehension appeased him. "Yes, I do."
He was in a bad mood, Willie thought worriedly. "Wh-what would you like? We're outta eggs."
Barnabas took an angry step forward. "I put them on the list. Why haven't you bought them?"
Willie stepped back, letting the refrigerator door shut on its own and looked up at the other man. He felt himself tense up and start shaking. "I-I haven't gone to the store yet. I'll— I'll go now." He started forward, trying to pass around Barnabas without looking like he was keeping a safe distance.
Barnabas cut him off, grabbing his upper arm with one hand and jerking him back a step. Willie shut his eyes a brief moment when he felt the vicelike grip on his arm, as if he could not face what might happen. All his muscles seemed to turn to water, and he hung his head, his face turned away as much as possible. He didn't say anything, not even a plea would come. He just heard his own hard breathing which sounded loud and harsh in the silence.
"Never mind," Barnabas said, feeling him tremble. He shoved him away, releasing his hold. "I'll eat out. Continue as you were." He started for the door, but stopped long enough to add, "I'll be gone for the day if anyone asks."
Willie looked up slowly, afraid to move or say anything. There was a pain, almost physical, inside him, and it was all he could feel.
When Barnabas was well out of the room, he stopped, putting a hand to his head and leaning against a wall. He felt anger and rage inside, and he didn't know why. It reminded him of the feelings he'd had while chained in the coffin. Only this was a constant irritation as if there was a buzzing sound in his ears that only he heard. The rage came at any annoyance, and abated at any satisfaction. Poor Willie, he thought, was the only one he could get away with intimidating to the point of satisfying this cruel rage. Anyone else would simply be surprised or put-off that he no longer seemed to desire their company. And so he tried to keep to himself during these moods. Living in the same, albeit large, house with Willie made it more difficult to avoid him. Barnabas decided he would do better to be away from the house, or he might do something he would regret terribly when the mood passed.
Willie hugged himself, leaning on the counter, fighting through the pain that was trying to make him break down into helpless sobbing. He told himself he was a grown man, and that he had not been hurt. God, he had been afraid though. But Barnabas had walked away—the moods bothered him too. The thought that the man was trying to protect Willie and anyone else from his own unpredictable temper made him feel better. It kept him from running upstairs and packing again. Willie even found it within himself to pity Barnabas for being a potential danger to people he loved. Willie never carried that thought far enough to include himself among those, but underneath this pain and fear, he wanted to be.
*