Read Online The Drowning House by Elizabeth Black - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Black
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I mention that Will was especially attractive to women?
That was when I raised my camera. It wasn’t a great shot. Will’s mouth was half open, the figure of Stella awkwardly truncated. When the flash went off, there was an audible gasp. The guests turned. Some looked annoyed.
I didn’t care what they thought. I was looking at Will. He had hosted similar groups so many times, told his stories, fielded the inevitable questions. Now something had changed. It was as though somewhere a bolt had slid back, a door opened. I felt it, and I saw that he did too.
He went on with his talk, ushering the group toward the staircase and up past a pair of stained-glass windows toward his study. He kept everyone moving. He must have understood how exhausting it was to stand and admire.
We were bunched together on the stairs, taking small, awkward steps, when I heard someone say, in the kind of raised voice you are meant to overhear, “I think it’s rude to take pictures without asking.” Leanne’s eyes were glazed and she was breathing through her mouth. “I think it’s tacky.”
“My dear, she’s an artist.” It was the older woman with the walking stick, Harriet, who spoke. She was smiling, and I couldn’t be sure if she was serious.
Leanne said, “An artist?” She looked at me. “You’re a photographer, right?” Before I could answer, she went on. “Photography isn’teven a craft. The camera does everything.” Her voice rose. “You just push a button.”
The woman in black said, “There’s more to it than that.” Her long-sleeved jacket was fastened all the way up, and I wondered that she wasn’t hot. Her white hair was twisted into a figure eight at the nape of her neck. She turned to me. “I’m Harriet Kinkaid,” she said. “You won’t remember. But I live in what you children used to call ‘the witch house.’ Oh, it’s all right. In fact, I rather like to think of myself as a witch. Better than being just another old bag.” She laughed, a sound of pure delight that made her seem suddenly much younger.
That was when Leanne, stiff-legged, began to tilt backward in her too-small shoes. She must have been steadied on the way up by the presence of the crowd. Now there were just the three of us, everyone else had gone on, and there was nothing between her and the floor below but the hard angles of the stairs.
The space around us seemed to contract suddenly into tight focus. I saw Leanne’s left hand fly up, saw her reach for the banister and miss. Her eyes widened and I heard the sound of something shattering and I knew her glass had flown backward and landed in the front hall. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Tyler Henry was there, his hands on her waist. He walked her down.
Harriet Kinkaid patted my arm. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. They ought to warn the unsuspecting about the planter’s punch. Those old recipes are lethal. Most of us can’t drink the way they did. Our ancestors.”
She touched my cheek. “The hair. The eyes,” she said. “I would have known you anywhere. I used to see you when you were a little thing, going around with your Brownie camera. The one Will gave you. You were an interesting child.”
She turned to face the second-floor landing. “I’d better move along now if I’m going to stay with the others.” She grasped the stair rail and began to work her way up, a pull on the banister, a push with the stick. She looked over her shoulder. “Maybe you’ll come and visit me one day,” she said. “I’ll show you my house. I believe you’ll be entertained by the contrast.” She laughed again.
Alone on the landing, I thought about the way a pinhole camera reconstructs an entire scene through the smallest aperture. Trees, buildings, figures materializing out of the tiniest dot of light. Your Brownie camera. The one Will gave you . Harriet Kinkaid had pricked a hole in time. Through it, the past, complete and undimmed, came flooding.
Chapter
That was when I raised my camera. It wasn’t a great shot. Will’s mouth was half open, the figure of Stella awkwardly truncated. When the flash went off, there was an audible gasp. The guests turned. Some looked annoyed.
I didn’t care what they thought. I was looking at Will. He had hosted similar groups so many times, told his stories, fielded the inevitable questions. Now something had changed. It was as though somewhere a bolt had slid back, a door opened. I felt it, and I saw that he did too.
He went on with his talk, ushering the group toward the staircase and up past a pair of stained-glass windows toward his study. He kept everyone moving. He must have understood how exhausting it was to stand and admire.
We were bunched together on the stairs, taking small, awkward steps, when I heard someone say, in the kind of raised voice you are meant to overhear, “I think it’s rude to take pictures without asking.” Leanne’s eyes were glazed and she was breathing through her mouth. “I think it’s tacky.”
“My dear, she’s an artist.” It was the older woman with the walking stick, Harriet, who spoke. She was smiling, and I couldn’t be sure if she was serious.
Leanne said, “An artist?” She looked at me. “You’re a photographer, right?” Before I could answer, she went on. “Photography isn’teven a craft. The camera does everything.” Her voice rose. “You just push a button.”
The woman in black said, “There’s more to it than that.” Her long-sleeved jacket was fastened all the way up, and I wondered that she wasn’t hot. Her white hair was twisted into a figure eight at the nape of her neck. She turned to me. “I’m Harriet Kinkaid,” she said. “You won’t remember. But I live in what you children used to call ‘the witch house.’ Oh, it’s all right. In fact, I rather like to think of myself as a witch. Better than being just another old bag.” She laughed, a sound of pure delight that made her seem suddenly much younger.
That was when Leanne, stiff-legged, began to tilt backward in her too-small shoes. She must have been steadied on the way up by the presence of the crowd. Now there were just the three of us, everyone else had gone on, and there was nothing between her and the floor below but the hard angles of the stairs.
The space around us seemed to contract suddenly into tight focus. I saw Leanne’s left hand fly up, saw her reach for the banister and miss. Her eyes widened and I heard the sound of something shattering and I knew her glass had flown backward and landed in the front hall. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Tyler Henry was there, his hands on her waist. He walked her down.
Harriet Kinkaid patted my arm. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. They ought to warn the unsuspecting about the planter’s punch. Those old recipes are lethal. Most of us can’t drink the way they did. Our ancestors.”
She touched my cheek. “The hair. The eyes,” she said. “I would have known you anywhere. I used to see you when you were a little thing, going around with your Brownie camera. The one Will gave you. You were an interesting child.”
She turned to face the second-floor landing. “I’d better move along now if I’m going to stay with the others.” She grasped the stair rail and began to work her way up, a pull on the banister, a push with the stick. She looked over her shoulder. “Maybe you’ll come and visit me one day,” she said. “I’ll show you my house. I believe you’ll be entertained by the contrast.” She laughed again.
Alone on the landing, I thought about the way a pinhole camera reconstructs an entire scene through the smallest aperture. Trees, buildings, figures materializing out of the tiniest dot of light. Your Brownie camera. The one Will gave you . Harriet Kinkaid had pricked a hole in time. Through it, the past, complete and undimmed, came flooding.
Chapter
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