Mrs. God by Peter Straub Page A

window and disappeared. Red dust lifted from the stones each time he took a step.

eight
    A t five minutes to eight he backed awkwardly into the dining room through the door from the secret corridor. Cradled in his arms were two bulky folders, one filled with drafts of poems, the other with partially ordered pages of The Birth of the Poet . He planned to go through the poetry while he ate, and to make a sustained effort at reading the memoir in the Fountain Rooms after dinner.
    When he turned around he saw his place laid in the now-familiar manner: the golden tableware, the domed covers, and the gold-rimmed wineglass. An opened bottle of red burgundy stood beside the glass. Two candles burned in golden candlesticks.
    He put the files on the table and sat down. He placed his hand over the cover. He hesitated for a second, then lifted the cover and looked down at slices of veal loin covered with a brownish sauce and morel mushrooms. “Now wait a second,” Standish said to himself. He replaced the cover.
    He saw the face of the marvelous woman who had let him into Esswood looking back up at him over her shoulder. There were two women in the house—one, old Miss Seneschal, who distrusted him and peered at him through windows; and the other, who teased. He stood up and went into the butler’s pantry.
    â€œWhat are you trying to do, fatten me up for the kill?” he called out.
    A burst of giggles floated toward him from the kitchen.
    An even diffuse light, like soft light in the library, filled the narrow stairwell. Standish trotted down to a bend in the staircase, around a half-landing, down again. He felt a bubble of elation rising to his throat from the center of his life, deep deep within.
    â€œYou have to eat this stuff with me, at least,” he called, and came down into the kitchen.
    A row of old iron sinks stood against one bright white wall, an electric dishwasher and a long, dark green marble counter beside them. White cabinets hung on the wall. On the opposite side of the room was a huge gray gas range with two ovens, a griddle, and eight burners. In the middle of the room was a large work surface covered with the same green marble. A golden corkscrew with handles like wings lay on the marble.
    â€œHey!” Standish shouted. “Where are you? Where’d you go?”
    Laughing, he threw out his arms and turned around. “Come on!”
    She did not answer.
    His laughter drained away. “Aw, come on,” he said. He peeked around the side of the big counter. “Come on out!”
    Standish walked all the way around the divider and touched the front of the range, which was still hot.
    â€œPlease.”
    He leaned against the marble counter, thinking that at any moment she would pop giggling out of a closet. On the far side of the iron sinks was an arched wooden door, painted white. A long brass bolt had been thrown across the frame. Standish pulled back the bolt and opened the door. He stepped outside into the middle of the arched trellis.
    â€œHello!” he shouted. Then he realized that the door had been bolted from the inside.
    He went back into the kitchen. Once more he walked all around the kitchen, hearing nothing but the sound of his own footsteps on the stone floor. His emotions swung wildly free within him, vacillating between frustration, rage, disappointment, amusement, and fear without settling on any one of them. He put his hands on his hips. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll play it your way.” At length he went back up the narrow staircase. On the table in the suffocatingly formal dining room were his folders, the cover over his food, the bottle of wine.
    Dinner could wait another few minutes. He went back into the pantry, opened the liquor cabinet, and removed the bottle of malt whiskey and two glasses. The bottle said COMMEMORATIVE HERITAGE 70 YEARS OLD . He set the glasses down beside the sink and poured an inch and a half of whiskey into