The Devil's Wife, page 3
He points a few yards up the road to a silver Jaguar parked between two large stone pillars.
“…delicacies handpicked from the best shops in all of Louden, and I can assure both of you that my wife is a splendid cook. You must have dinner with us. Your lovely wife, Adam, needs to kick her feet up on our ottoman and feel the warmth of what is to my mind the finest fireplace in all of the Hudson Valley. Are we on?”
Adam looks to Maria then nods yes.
They follow the silver Jaguar through the stone pillared entrance. Gnarled cedars line Haverford’s graveled road like an army of humpback men escorting them to a grand castle. Soon they are on a cobbled driveway and they see Haverford’s estate, an ancient mass of carved stoned dormers, gables and spires sitting on an immense rock cropping overlooking the Hudson River. Surrounding it are mammoth hemlocks, oaks and maples. Between them the cobbled road and pebbled pathways wend up to a flight of limestone stairs that leads to the entranceway of the mansion.
Haverford parks his Jaguar in front. Adam moves in behind and kills his engine. Through their windshield Adam and Maria can see the river and in the distance the darkening Catskill Mountains turning a shade of purple against the setting sun. It looks different here then the view from the back of the cottage. For one thing, you can see for what seem miles in either direction. Further down the valley a train whistles screams.
"Did it sound like I was treating him like a pushy real estate agent?”
“ Don't worry about it, hon. I don't think this guy gives a shit about what we think.”
A dark man meets Haverford at his car. They exchange greetings and the man walks over to the Saab leans on Adam’s open window staring down with the blackest eyes, a face that looks as if it were carved from an oak burl.
“Do you have luggage you would like me to carry to your room, sir?”
“They’re not staying for the weekend, Charlie, just dinner.” Haverford calls from behind him.
Charlie goes back to the Jaguar, grabs some grocery bags from out of the trunk and proceeds toward the main entrance.
“He’s a bit old fashioned, calls me Chief," Haverford said. “ Please follow me. I’d like you to meet my wife.”
Perry Haverford is a hulking man, well over six foot. He has a boyish enthusiastic stride. Occasionally he stops on the path to make a point- throwing his mane of silver hair back over his shoulders like a rock star. His face is nearly unlined and it is hard to believe he is in his eighties. He points to a field 50 yards away.
“Years ago we started this vineyard-we only grow the grapes not the wine. It’s sacramental wine.”
“You mean the wine that priests use in Mass?” asks Adam.
“ That’s right. The nuns, the Sisters of the Passion, help us maintain it. Their convent is just beyond our property line over there.”
Maria looks to distant, recently pruned grape vines. Several nuns in stiff white cornettes drift through the rows like sailboats. The air has gotten cool with the pleasant fecund odor of freshly plowed earth. There is a sense of mystery in the darkening brown fields that she finds intriguing, almost enchanting.
“Well at least you’re not raising chickens or sheep for religious sacrifices.” Maria quips.
Haverford gives Maria a steely look then cracks a smile. Adam quickly places his arm in hers, a gallant effort to save her from further embarrassment.
"What is wrong with me?" Maria says in a distressed whisper.
Adam squeezes her hand reassuringly.
“ We just need to get out more.”
The pebbled pathway opens up to a set of stone steps that fans out to a flag-stoned terrace and to the lawn beyond. Standing on the terrace with a seedling in her hand beside a cement statue of the Virgin Mary is Lilith Haverford Woodson. She wears a wide brimmed straw hat with a loosely fitted linen dress draped gracefully over her slender hips. Her once long blonde hair, almost white now, is pinned up haphazardly showing her exquisite neck and nearly perfect profile. The words often used by the tabloids to describe her twenty years before, after her stint on Broadway, after her Academy Award and three Emmy’s, was” regal…elegant…the most gorgeous creature on earth.”
Haverford places his large arms around Lilith kissing her as if he were a long lost lover finally returning home. She slowly releases herself from his embrace and turns in Adam and Maria’s direction. With her gloved hand she brushes a strand of hair away from her brow and focuses her famous violet eyes on Maria. From around her neck a large silver crucifix sparkles. She pulls off a glove, wipes her hand on her dress, and extends it.
“Very pleased to meet you, I am Lilith Woodson.”
Adam and Maria had not remembered that Lilith Woodson and Perry Haverford were married nearly twenty years ago. It was a marriage that perplexed most of Lilith's public. How one of the biggest Hollywood stars could marry a TV soap maven and then quickly retire, never to be seen again- was hard to figure out. But seeing them in the flesh together, the chic strikingly handsome elderly man hugging his radiant wife and kissing her and holding her with such evident and fierce affection wascertainly a testament to the longevity of passionate love.
“I’m sorry to say, dear, that today I seemed to have wasted these young people's time. So, to atone for my sin, I am attempting to win their forgiveness with one of your gastronomic delights. I’ve invited them to dinner.”
"Please, you did not waste our time. In fact-"
“Darling,” Haverford says in feigned solemnity as he takes both of Maria’s hands in his,” my sense of guilt adds spice to an otherwise boring list of vices.” He then clasps her arm, and together they step off the terrace toward the house.
Turning back, Adam watches Lilith walk towards him. She moves with a fluid grace, her eyes fixed on his. A heat rises from his neck, crawling slowly up his face. She stops before him. Her smile withholds nothing; her lips spread wide, her nostrils flare with a feline excitement as the wind takes her white hair across her cheek. She pulls the strands away, her eyes teasing him.
“Remember,” she says in a low whisper.
Adam’s heart stops. He is as still as stone, as if she has nailed his feet to the terrace floor.
“Remember what?” He says in much too loud a voice.
She throws her hair back over her shoulder, and reaches for his hand.
“Just try to remember this time.”
In the Haverford’s kitchen, larger than Adam and Maria’s apartment, Lilith takes a chicken and potato casserole out of the oven. Maria sits on a stool watching her.
“Perry tells me you didn’t like the cottage. What a shame. It really is quite a dear place. For the last year it has been my pet project. I had a barn filled with junk, mementos from various films, and I thought, well that pretty little cottage is just sitting there doing nothing but gathering dust. So one day out of nowhere, Mother Mary Grace, the prioress of the Sisters of Passion convent, offers it to me. I became an interior decorator and landscaper overnight.” She laughs.
“ Oh please don’t get me wrong, the place is a stunner…breathtaking really,” Maria says.
“Well, thank you. If I were younger I’d find it irresistible, but I can understand you being hesitant. Living in the Village does come with benefits. This road is filled with such old fogies.” She turns to Maria, reaches out, and holds her hand in an affectionate motherly way.
“ It would have been nice to have a young couple nearby. So nice.”
Were those tears in Lilith’s eyes? Maria stiffens, not knowing how to respond. She barely knows this woman. Her throat goes tight, so tight, she’s amazed that she can speak.
“It…it really has nothing to do with the cottage. You see our finances are not exactly…well they're not…not the way we would like them to…to…we…don’t have--"
Maria feels as if she has swallowed a bone and it’s stuck in her wind pipe. She coughs, leans against the counter wheezing, sucking in air like she’s having a seizure. Lilith holds out a glass of water.
“ Lift your arms up…lift your arms up. Breathe…breathe,” she says soothingly over and over.
Maria lifts her arms above her head and takes deep breaths. The feeling passes. Slowly, she sips the water and sits back down on the stool. Tears reflexively flow down her cheeks. Lilith reaches out again and this time holds her. Maria returns the embrace murmuring a” thank you.”
Later, Maria feels more at ease as the two women set the large wooden table in the kitchen. Haverford and Adam enter through the butler’s door from the formal dining area, each holding a bottle of wine and stemmed wine glasses.
“I didn’t tell you about Adam, Lilith, that we have a bona fide Mictlan priest in our midst.” He pours the wine into the glasses and cheerfully hands one to Lilith and then to Maria.
“There is also something else I discovered about Adam, something he was too humble to tell me so I had to pry it out of him. He, my dear, is the young man who saved Sister Vincent and the little orphan girl’s life.”
“No, really? Well, we have a genuine hero in our midst.”
Lilith raises her glass. They all raise their glasses. Perry toasts.
“To the improbable union of friendship, may we be so aware as to embrace it.”
Dinner is a long leisurely affair because the Haverford’s like to talk and listen. They thrive on language; the meaning of life, the intimacy of relationships- theirs and others. Whatever trepidation Maria might have had or mistrust that she and Adam felt earlier is soon replaced with a genuine feeling as if by some magical osmosis Adam and Maria have not just become friends with the Haverford’s, but somehow in a time warp that bent its way back to this moment- they have always been friends.
“So tell us Adam, other than saving lives what else do you do?”
“He’s a writer and film director.” Maria interjects. “ He’s won prizes.” She smiles as Haverford pours her more wine.
“I bet he has.” Lilith winks.
“ Well, you must show me some of your work,” Haverford says while filling Adam’s glass.
“ Perry is forever on the lookout for new voices,” Lilith says as she covers Adam's hand with her own.
“ Well, the truly talented member of the Crocker household is Mrs. Crocker,” Adam says as he slowly slips his hand out from under Lilith's and puts it in his lap.
“ Missus Crocker!” Maria nearly spits out her wine laughing at the words.
“You should hear her play the violin.”
“Next time please,” Lilith reaches out and holds both Adam and Maria’s hands together,” bring your violin so that we can hear beautiful, live music.”
After dinner Perry and Adam go into the study. Haverford closes the large engraved oak doors behind them and asks Adam to sit on one of his overstuffed Elizabethan couches. To Adam all the furniture in the room feels to be twice the size necessary, as if the room were built for giants. Haverford sits behind his desk, half his face obscured by a large stack of screenplays.
“Look at this…" his hand motions to the pile of manuscripts on his desk,” eighteen revisions…six different sets of writers and I don’t feel we are any closer than we were on day one to capturing the original concept of the TV soap.” Haverford stands, and pushes the tower of screenplays aside. They tumble off his desk. “ You remember 'Dark Horrors'…it was irreverent,it was sinister while still maintaining a dark humor…but mostly it had distinct moments of sheer terror…the kind of terror that you can’t make up…. the kind of fright that comes from one’s own life…the kind of horror that can fuck-up your sleep, turn your day into a walking nightmare. That’s what I’m looking for…instead I get this pabulum shit.”
“ Didn’t you write all the episodes of” Dark Horrors” yourself? What does Perry Haverford need a writer for?”
Haverford takes a deep breath, releases it and with a tinge of amusement lets out a small nervous laugh.
“Would you join me for a short walk to my…sanctuary?”
As they near the river the night air gives off a sudden chill. Haverford’s sanctuary as he calls it is a small cabin nestled somewhat precariously on a bluff perched over the river.
The light in the cabin is sharp and clear- the kind of light that makes everything unambiguous. An old typewriter sits on a small table surrounded by shelves- a wooden swivel chair neatly tucked beside it. Everything in the room is precisely placed. On the shelves are glass mason jars arranged by size. Each wears a circlet of masking tape marked with felt pen:rubber bands, paper clips, fasteners, correction fluid, scotch tape, pencils, tabs. It’s puzzling to Adam that these jars have labels when they are glass and their contents can be easily seen.
On the opposite wall is a cork board filled with index cards meticulously spaced apart with silver thumb tacks that look as if they have been shined. The cards are blank. Except for a few flies there isn’t a speck of dirt or misplaced item anywhere. The room feels more like a hospital lab then a writing sanctuary.
Haverford sits beside his table on the wooden swivel desk chair, throwing his arms out to the room as if introducing a dying friend.
“ This is what my life has become, Adam. See, I have all these new white pages beside my typewriter- the old Smith-Corona. The very machine I wrote my first four soaps on. Hundreds upon hundreds of episodes. I have ample ribbons poised in this box inches away so I won’t waste a single moment without ink. I have three staplers filled to the edges. Writing tablets…pens and sharpened pencils, ready for my most random thoughts. And here in my secret drawer a bottle of my best scotch with my favorite Havana cigars…my inspiration…when necessary. In short my dear friend, I am prepared. I am so prepared. And when I sit behind my arsenal of preparedness ready to dive in…there is…nothing…. always nothing.” He laughs, then sighs.
“It’s been like this for years. This room which I clean again and again. Me and the trapped flies that buzz in the windows. Not a word. I can’t write anymore. I have the will…but once I feel the tips of my fingers about to touch the keys…that’s when the trembling begins…the quaking. Years ago I had no fear. I could speak in the most personal terms from real, honest experiences. Now there seems to be nothing but this dark curtain. Perhaps the beast has finally taken over and all the fear I have created has finally crushed me…I try desperately to continue to hope…but time is running out. So I now look to employ others. Those who have not been crushed. Have you been crushed yet, Adam?”
“I don’t think so…no.”
“Well, good…then send me some of your work. I’ll take a close look at it.”
He reaches for his bottle of scotch, unscrews the cap and takes a long hard swig.
Maria never gets to sit in front of the mammoth fireplace. It’s too warm for a fire. Instead, she and Lilith go for a walk through the moonlit vineyards.
Maria feels a pleasant wine buzz as a breeze stirs through the valley, the rustling leaves on the trees hypnotizing her with their whispering, the mountains in the distance soft with lunar light.
“You know Maria the cottage will cost you nothing.”
“What?”
“ Well, if you want to live in the cottage there really isn’t any reason why you can’t unless you prefer the village.”
“Honestly, I’m not too fond of where we live. It’s above the Smoke Shop and as much as Marty insists it doesn’t smell- that cigar smoke leaks right through the floor. What do you mean it would cost us nothing?”
“The cottage and the surrounding land are owned by the Sisters of Passion. All the Sisters are interested in is for someone to caretake the place. Some general up keep…that’s all- its rent free.”
“No…you can't be serious. I mean the sisters wouldn’t have changed their mind about this?”
“Not at all, in fact I was just speaking to Mother Mary Grace yesterday and she’s very concerned that the place will not be lived in this winter. The fact that your husband saved the lives of two of their own…well… this will be a wonderful way for the sisters to show their gratitude. If you want I could give her a call?”
“Really? I mean, you don't even know us.”
“Oh, my dear all the years of successfully tiptoing through the entertainment industry have taught me to follow my instincts and they tell me that both you and Adam are kind, responsible, creative people who would appreciate the cottage in a way that was simply meant to be.”
They walk slowly as Lilith speaks, then pause for a moment to glance up at the white crescent moon. Storm clouds from the west are just beginning to cover the stars, turning the hills to a silvery sheen.
When Maria hears the first scream, she is walking a few steps ahead of Lilith. The cry seems more like a memory, a fragment of a sob, almost as if it were the sound so long ago of her own weeping for her sister as it echoed in the emptiness of her childhood room.
The second cry which comes from the area near the convent is louder and definitely not a memory.
“Did you hear that?” Maria sucks her breath in.
“Hear what, dear?”
“That screaming, crying sound.”
“Oh, that’s just a screech owl. It’s a mating call- the horny little bugger.”
Chapter Four
Mother Mary Grace feels the serpent between her breasts. She knows this should sicken her, she knows she shouldn’t desire this, but she does. She loves the way it feels against her skin, deep and rigid. Her muscles and joints are slick as oil and she begs for the moment he will strike. A single drop of sweat rolls down her navel and wanders through her pubic hair until it finds its spot. The snake’s head weasels its way downward and the good Mother lets out a gentle grunt as the serpent’s tail slaps against her neck. The room has a musky smell of perspiration and beeswax. She spreads her legs wide, her bones and muscles tense, poised for him to slip inside. The dry vibration of the snake’s rattling sends a shiver over her body as she raises her hips upward, locked and ready. His sounds…his reverberations, engulf her and there is a shriek…a screaming, but not from her mouth.
