CATHEDRAL by Patrick Sean Lee (novels to improve english .txt) 📖

a tincture of workingman’s sweat.

 “How was the flight?”

 I mumble into the arm of his black and white checkered sweater that it was smooth.

 “Was the trip up the mountain good?” He lets go of me and holds me at arms length, grinning.

 I flash back on this. Oh, yes. “Yes, very good.”

 “You must be all tuckered out, Izzy. Mr. Ash here put you in your old room. He moved to the ‘Franklin Suite’, but we…” He is struggling for a way to tell me I am not expected to sleep in Number Five, and so I offer him help.

 “You can have my bags taken to Matthew’s suite. I’ll be quite comfortable there, thanks. Cancel my old room.”

 “Well there ain’t no one else what needs it this time o’ year anyway! You two can have the whole floor to do whatever…”

 Mr. Davenport interrupts her with a look.

 “Well you know what I mean,” she says.

 Mrs. Davenport lays hold of her husband’s arm and giggles softly. Ah, love! I know she is thinking. Behind me I hear the door open with a soft squeak and the sound of a suitcase being set with a light “thump” onto the wood floor. A wave of cold air rolls over us, and then the sound of the door squeaking shut again with a clack. I glance over my shoulder past Matthew, who stands between me and the chauffeur. The gentleman driver is almost standing at attention, awaiting further instructions, splattered dots of snow clinging to him at his broad shoulders like huge flakes of dandruff.

  Matthew turns and says, “You can put them near the stairs at the far end of the second floor hall, Edward. I’ll take them from there. There’s an extra room paid for if you’d care to spend the night.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ash,” he replies, bending back down to gather my things, “but I must get back before the storm worsens. Thank you anyway.” He glides across the floor to the stairs and then disappears.  Jack is sitting on the registration desk watching him nonchalantly, only vaguely interested in this guy, because he doesn’t have a fishy smell about him, I guess. Matthew takes hold of my hand and leads me, along with the Davenports, to one of the sofas.

 Mrs. Davenport has placed a colorful, crocheted comforter across the backs of both loveseats. At the end of the room the fire pops and crackles mightily, and through the windows I can see that the snow has begun to lessen to nearly a postscript. A silver glow edges its way through the dissipating cloud cover. Tonight promises to be a perfect entryway into a land of fairytale beginnings.

 The four of us sit, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport and myself with our hands folded in our laps facing each other. Matthew sits and crosses his leg, and then lays an arm around my shoulder. For all that has happened, no one seems to be able to open the conversation gate. I nervously glance about the room without moving my head. The fire to my right is dancing. Some soft, classical-sounding piece—bells chiming, strings sighing up and down the scale, horns leading a glorious advance. And nearby, the elk peers sadly down at me, felled by who knows what violence, like a ghoulish three-D portrait. By some wit unbeknownst to me, either Mrs. Davenport or Mr. Davenport has done away with the floral vase in front of the windows, replacing it with a stolid bronze sculpture of a cowboy on a rearing horse for the winter. The chairs that used to intrude are now, permanently, I hope, set on either side of Matthew’s and my infamous chess table. The polished logs that are the walls glisten in the firelight like undulating, golden rods. The air is pine and aromatic and romantic—but that is only me—and this new home of ours is Eden, absolutely melodic, save for the dead animal’s head on the wall.

   “It’s colder than a well digger’s ass out there,” Mr. Davenport finally quips. I try to imagine a man in overalls, hanging from a bucket a hundred feet down a narrow shaft, shovel in hand, his rear end dangling in black water. Yes, that would probably be very chilly. Matthew likes the analogy and laughs out loud. Mrs. Davenport elbows her husband and cautions him to watch his manners in the presence of a “woman of refinement”—even if it’s only his little Izzy. The silence spell is broken, though.

  “How on earth should I have said it?” he asks with a barrel laugh. “Ain’t you ever heard that before, Izzy?”

  “No, sir. You’re the first to put the temperature quite that way.”

  “Impressive! Colorful!” Matthew follows. He squeezes my shoulder a little, and casually rubs his thigh against mine as if to tell me he is not really thinking of the frigid air or the asses of sandhogs.

  Edward the gentleman returns from his porter’s duties and quietly takes a position at the end of the registration desk behind Matthew and me. I hear only the faint rustle of his overcoat when he stops. I notice Mr. Davenport’s heavy eyebrows rise when he sees the man stop.

 “Well, hell, man. Come over here and join us for a minute or two. This ain’t a convention of kings and queens.”

Edward merely bows ever so slightly, almost nervously, before responding. “Thank you anyway, sir, but I really need to be going.” He glances at the front door and the glass quickly. “The forecast called for snow throughout the day and into tomorrow. I have to go.”

 “Nonsense,” Mr. Davenport says. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Come on, sit down, sit down. Gertie, get him a chair, swee-pea, would ya’? My leg…” he says, the last part apologetically.

  Mrs. Davenport pushes herself out of the sofa with a low grunt, waddles quickly around to the chess table and gathers up one of the chairs. She brings it back between the sofas and spreads her hefty bottom onto it. Mr. Davenport looks at her slightly surprised.

 “Why, I didn’t mean for you to give up your seat, honeysuckle. Mr…” he glances at Edward for help

 “Edward, sir. Edward Fitzgerald…not from the F. Scott clan, unfortunately.” He steps over to Mr. Davenport, hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Davenport.”

  Mr. Davenport laughs at this, shakes Edward’s hand. It’s two pneumatic claws meeting and loving the exchange of high pressure from the looks of the ferocity of the grips. If Mr. D could rise without his leg shooting spasms of pain clear up to the top of his head, I’m sure he’d latch onto the guy and make a real dance of the two steam shovel bodies. Two men from the ancient school of manliness.

  Edward bows ever so slightly and thanks Mrs. Davenport for giving up her seat, then sits beside Mr. Davenport. Matthew grabs my hand, and we listen as Mr. Davenport gives Edward the entire history of the lodge, his life prior to acquiring it, Mrs. Davenport’s love of cooking and humming, a rundown on bears and mountain lions roaming the hills outside, trout in the lake, winter in isolation and absolute quietude, the account of the man who dove off the rock at the lake thirty years back and never surfaced.

 I look longingly at Matthew after a few minutes of this, and motion with my eyes toward the stairway. In all honesty, I don’t think anyone will miss us. Edward, it turns out, has a voice and a history himself, trading interesting little asides with his host and Mrs. Davenport (who sits demurely and looks at them, smiling, then frowning, then reacting with surprise at various stages of the conversation). It seems he is from, of all places, Southern California, and was educated at UC LA. He does not explain how he wound up chauffeuring, but that is probably due more to the fact that Mr. Davenport continually interrupts him rather than a desire not to detail his present circumstances. At least he escaped the state with his dignity intact.

 Matthew removes his arm from my shoulder and stands during this exciting account. The suddenness of his movement makes Mrs. Davenport jump like a gigantic bowl of jello jostled and shaken. The conversation comes to a screeching halt, momentarily, and Matthew calmly asks that we be excused to freshen up.

 “Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Davenport exclaims. “I nearly forgot!” She rises and scurries off toward the kitchen. “Lord almighty! Dinner…” her mumbling follows along behind her like a forlorn, talking shadow. “Forgot. Forgot…”

 It’s barely past two.

 “By golly, you two young ones just go along. Go on, now,” he gestures with a hand. “Me and Edward’ll amuse one another until dinner.” He thinks about that for an instant, and then turns to his new friend and says apologetically. “Unless you want to go take a good, hot bath before we eat, Ed?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Thank you, though. The fire is relaxing. This room is reminiscent of an inn I stayed at in Switzerland during post-grad studies over in Europe. I rather like it right here. I’d be happy to keep you company…Bernie.”

  Bernie returns to a subject I think was covered some time earlier. “How the hell did you wind up driving a cab?”

  “Well, it’s pretty complicated…”

  Matthew takes hold of my hand and we leave the two men. I’m nearly overwhelmed at the thought of finally being alone with him. He leads me to the staircase and we ascend. Bernie is laughing at something Edward just said. From the kitchen I hear Mrs. Davenport humming an old hit by Glenn Miller—“String of Pearls”. Thank God it isn’t the one she loves by Waylon Jennings. Jack makes it halfway up the stairs behind us before Matthew notices him and roughly shoos him away.

   “Go find a mouse, you ugly creature. Get!”

 

 

Paradisum

 Matthew

 

 

  Four days ago while I helped Bernie bring firewood into the lodge, I mentioned in passing how comfortable I’d gotten; that my book was nearly writing itself, and that I felt as if I really was Father Daryl sometimes, Angeline at others. He shot me the queerest look, and then asked if I was comfortable in my suite; was the heat adequate? Perhaps I was suffering from the cramped conditions? I laughed. Becoming one's characters was a natural thing for a writer, I explained. I assured him that there was nothing to worry about—I had no intention or fears of chasing either him or Gertie around with an axe late on some snowy night, either. Certainly I was quite content. I related to him as we lay the snow-crusted logs into the log caddy at the side of the firebox how I had arranged everything in the cozy room to suit my schedule, wants, and needs. He seemed pleased to hear this, and then remarked that in view of the fact that there were no other guests scheduled to arrive in the near future, perhaps I would like to have a look at the finest room here at the lodge, “The Franklin Suite”.

  “You’re welcome to it. No extra charge, of course, Matthew. It’s just sitting empty anyway,” he said, dusting the dirt and chips of bark off his pants.