The Promontory - Chapter 3

The Promontory 17,000 words

-3-

Gradually, the Autumn chill set in. The leaves shriveled around us, and the skies began to turn gray with more regularity. We became more conscious of the wind. It blew the leaves into swirling patterns, like russet colored currents of papery detritus on the surface of the road.

It also increased in intensity, sometimes blowing hard enough to make a grown man brace himself against it, other times howling softly, seeming to speak auguries of things to come. Even in its absence it could be heard blowing elsewhere in the distance, a reminder that we, its weary subjects, were not forgotten. It would return.

The job slogged along, unmindful of the change of seasons. Every morning I would wave goodbye to Julie, get in my car and drive to the station. From there I would join the plodding column of other commuters and board the train, where we would sway gently inside the car to the soft rustling of newspapers as we sped to our destinations. Resolutely, I would wade through the cycle of meetings and agendas, budgets and office politics. I would speak across the polished tables about the driest business affairs, embellishing them with the language of sports, trauma units and warfare.

Abe was actually mellowing with time as he got to know me better but he was still a man fundamentally living in his own logic-space. He seemed to be able to distort recent events and recombine them to fit his own inscrutable sense of causes and events. He was actually fascinating. But despite this small improvement, my workday was a fairly routine and turgid turning of the calendar page, and increasingly my thoughts would turn back to Julie, who looked more and more pregnant, and that unexplained, brooding pile of stones and frozen time across the street from our home.

Our own place was looking better. We had saved a little money by doing lots of things ourselves - I was becoming quite the handyman - and gradually, items of furniture, wall decorations and kitchen implements began to appear.

I was sitting in my office at work, dwelling on these matters one day, when the door burst open and Esther, our sultry group secretary, came storming in, in a complete frenzy.

"Peter! Peter! You won't believe it. Candida! The police!"

"What? Calm down! What about Candy?"

"Come quick, you've got to help," she flapped her hand at me imploringly, gesturing for me to come with her.

So I followed her, letting her nails dig into my wrist and lead me out into the company lobby where, surely enough, there were six policemen and two plainclothes men looking very serious. And Candice. She was in cuffs and in the process of being dragged away. She looked shell shocked. She saw me and came alive.

"Peter! I've been framed!"

I approached the policemen and tried to look important.

"Officers, what gives?"

"Step aside, sir," answered one, moving to block me.

"What's the charge?" I demanded more angrily.

One of the plainclothes assessed me from cold eyes and decided to give me the time of day.

"This lady's under arrest for possession and trafficking of drugs across international borders."

"What?"

"Better check your FedEx bills, chum," answered the plainclothes, as they all stepped into an elevator with Candida held tightly between them.

None of us ever saw her again.

* * *

That day we were let out early and I hurried home, eager to tell Julie the incredible tale. When I arrived home, just as the sky was turning the color of a dark bruise and the wind had risen to a conspiring whisper, I was surprised to find no one there. My heart skipped a beat as I imagined all sorts of horrible happenstances, but I wrote it off to the melodrama back at the office earlier in the day. I looked around the house.

Dinner was in a state of partial preparation in the kitchen. Julie's car coat was gone, so she had had time to get it. Nothing out of order in the various rooms. The door had been locked. No signs of scuffle, no notes or open windows. I almost hated my inevitable conclusion, though I had known it from the beginning.

She was across the street. There could be no doubt.

I grabbed a flashlight from the utility closet and headed across to the old mansion. As I was approaching the gate, which was ajar, Julie emerged from the grounds, evidently struggling with something. A dog? I rushed forward and shouted. She looked up startled, and presented me with a menagerie of facial expressions the likes of which I had rarely heretofore seen: puzzlement, gladness, trepidation, embarrassment, guilt, defiance, mischief, and finally exhaustion, in that order.

"Could you kindly help me with this? Why home so early? Are you fired?" she asked.

"What? No, but you wouldn't believe what happened...hey wait, don't change the subject - what's that your pulling?"

"What's what?"

"Julie."

"Oh this little thing? It's just a... rug. That's all. But it's kind of heavy. Let's not get it dirty. Help me Mr. Man, please!"

I decided it was more comfortable to argue inside so I helped her. The 'little' rug was actually ten feet on a side and weighed as much as corpse. I wondered how she had managed to get it as far as she had, and in her condition, no less. The thought of this flared the anger within me and, as we crossed the doorway into our own house I slammed the door and threw my hat to the ground.

"Julie, this is out of control!" I shouted. "Do you want to go into labor prematurely? Are you out of your mind? Where did you get this thing?"

"From the second floor guest room."

"What?"

"I had to move some things around in order to free it, but it's just so beautiful and it would look so perfect in our living room with the fireplace going. It's authentic Persian, Peter. It's worth thousands and it's in mint condition."

"We've been through this, dammit. I don't care if it's a toothpick - it isn't yours to begin with!"

"I've thought about that, and the fact is, no one lives there, no one owns anything in there and therefore this is salvage. I claim it as salvage."

She put her hands on her hips and stood before me defiantly, the rolled up rug between us. The room was growing darker as we stood there. I finally broke her stare and went to turn on a light.

When I turned back to face her, I saw that she had kicked open the rug and let it unroll down the short steps into the sunken living room. It was sumptuous, and beautifully crafted, and it lent a much needed weight and richness to the spare living room. Julie went to light the fireplace. I sighed and took off my coat. The room was certainly more comfortable and inviting with the addition of the rug. My resolve wavered. The room warmed up. No matter the conclusion, I was tired and wanted out of the suit.

After I had changed, I returned to find the rug positioned in the center of the room. It was soft and forgiving to the feet. The color was a satisfying mix of blue highlights against browns interlaced with gold threads. The patterns were intricate and entertained the eye. It made our old furniture seem not so bad after all. I sank into the sofa and nursed a drink. While dinner was cooking, Julie came over and nestled up against me, tucking her feet and toes under my leg and folding her arms.

"Well, what do you think?"

I gave her the evil eye, though the drink had done its work.

"It's beautiful. But it's wrong."

"Wrong implies a victim, Peter. There's no one over there!"

"In any case, our neighbors had exquisite taste," I replied, not wanting to argue anymore. Best to worry about it in the morning.

I slept the sleep of the exhausted that night, but the rug business continued to nibble at the edges of my consciousness.

* * *

The next day was a Friday and the weather was taking a turn for the worst. There was a fresh chill in the air and I could see my breath as puffy vapors when I opened the front door to "taste" the day.

We sat in silence over breakfast, listening to the radio broadcast the news of the day, and rattling in our mental cages, in search of a solution to our little problem.

"Honey," I finally said to Julie over the rim of my coffee cup, "I think it's time we went into town and did a little investigating of the property across the way."

She looked stricken. "But you agreed."

"I know what I said but you've been busy breaking promises too and there's just nothing left to do but figure out what's really going on here or we're both going to go crazy. I mean, the rug is beautiful and it feels right, like the book, like the bottle. But empirically, ethically, intellectually it's wrong."

"It's not wrong."

"OK OK don't get upset. Believe it or not, I actually buy your salvage argument."

"You do?" she looked at me, expectant.

"Yup. You might have a case. In fact, I'll make you a deal."

She cocked her head in an attitude of attention. I could tell she was nursing triumph while trying very hard to appear calm and rational.

"OK, what do you have in mind?" she asked as casually as she could.

I pounced, "If we discover that the house has no surviving claimants to its title, I'll even help you raid the joint."

"Yes!"

"But if we do find someone, then it all goes back."

"Unless they don't care."

"Which means they might not know. That means we have to tell them what we found - and they will definitely care once they know what we know."

"But we don't have to tell them."

"We do."

"We don't."

"Do."

"Don't."

I stopped. She knew I was right.

I looked at her, saying nothing. Her lips twisted into a frown. Finally she nodded at me, reluctantly.

"Tomorrow then. We ride into town," I said decisively.

To be continued...