"Yes, well, I wish I wasn't so busy at the moment. I'd spend a little more time with you and help familiarize you with our country. However, I'm sure you'll do fine. Mrs. Endfield seems pleased with you. I hope it continues to be a successful experience for everyone involved," he said, "and my sister-inlaw's investment will be one that was well made. Continue," he added, waving his hand toward me as if I was practicing on the piano.
He pivoted and continued into the house. Later, when I decided to go to bed, I passed the billiards room where he w
as sitting quietly, smoking a cigar, and bolting out the window into the night. He had his back to the door, so he didn't see me pass.
How strangely alone everyone seemed to be in this house, I thought. Great-aunt Leonora was upstairs in her bedroom and probably didn't even know he was home. What sort of a life did Boggs lead working and living here? No one ever mentioned anyone in his family. I couldn't imagine any woman wanting to be his wife, and if he had a child, I could easily understand the child refusing to admit Boggs was his or her father. Leo was elderly and seemed content to retreat to his small apartment above the garage. Mary Margaret behaved like a snail or a turtle, pulling herself into a shell if I asked anything too personal. I didn't know if she had anything that even resembled a social life.
Was everyone who lived or worked on these grounds and in these buildings staring out their windows at the same darkness, their eyes empty, their minds turned off like lightbulbs? We had more laughter and smiles in our miserable apartment back in the projects in Washington, D.C., I thought.
I walked along quickly but as softly as I would if I had to cross a floor of eggs, afraid to breathe-- the heavy silence that filled the house and everyone's lives.
After I had complained about the hot water and my great-aunt had spoken to Boggs, he did have something done about it the next day. However, it was still erratic so that I never knew when it would be hot and when it wouldn't, but at least I had some. I tested the bath faucet and found it running hot enough for me to take a bath. No matter how I scrubbed the tub, it looked dirty to me. There were rust spots that had probably been there when Sir Godfrey Rogers's mistress lived in this house, I thought. The tub itself looked old enough.
Nevertheless, I filled it and took off my clothes. The water was soothing. I wanted to have my hair washed and nicely brushed out for my sightseeing date with Randall. I scrubbed in the shampoo and attacked my scalp, grinding my fingernails into it because I felt so unclean. Then I leaned back and dipped my head under the water, held it there and scrubbed my hair for a few seconds before sitting up.
At first I didn't notice anything and then I felt the cool breeze and turned to see that the bathroom door was wide open. My heart stopped and started. I just sat there staring at the doorway, waiting for signs of someone. It was quiet and no one appeared. I rose out of the tub and quickly wrapped a towel around my body. Then I practically tiptoed toward the doorway, my heart thumping. I paused and looked out.
There was no one in the hallway. Had the door simply opened itself?
Maybe it was the ghost of Sir Godfrey Rogers's dead mistress, I told myself and laughed.
Still, it seemed oddly quiet. Not a creak in the old house, nothing and no one moving. I watched and waited until I felt a chill run through me from the colder air in the hallway and then I shut the door, dried myself off, emptied the tub, got into my nightgown and returned to my room.
Maybe because of the little scare, I didn't feel tired enough to just close my eyes and go to sleep. I turned on the weak lamp and read some more of my play. After a few pages, something outside my window attracted my attention. I thought I heard footsteps. I closed the book and turned off the light. Then I went to the window and peered out.
It was a partly cloudy evening with the moon and some clouds playing peekaboo. The yellow light illuminated the pathway around the house and for a moment, I thought I saw the silhouette of someone walking slowly. It disappeared with the moonlight and then when the cloud moved away and the illumination fell from the night sky again, I saw a deep, dark shadow take the form of a man who entered the little cottage. Moments later, a light went on. I waited and watched. Was it Boggs? Leo?
Footsteps in the hallway spun me around. I kept myself perfectly still, listening. The steps stopped by my door for a moment and then continued on until the sound of them faded away. I heard another door slam and then it was quiet.
I turned back to the cottage. The moon went in and out of the clouds again. When there was some light, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone else moving toward the cottage. This person looked very small. I strained to see. It looked like a little girl. That was my last thought as the moon was turned off like a light by the heavier clouds that tumbled across the sky and settled the night into deep and thick darkness that would last until the morning.
Silhouettes appeared in the windows of the cottage, one shadowy figure so much smaller than the other. I saw them close to each other and than apart and then they disappeared deeper into the cottage. I waited and watched the window until my eyes grew tired and my lids felt heavy.
So someone is using the supposedly off-limits cottage, I thought. So what? I've got enough to think about without adding any additional problems and mysteries. I retreated from the window and went back to my bed, finally feeling myself drift off, but hearing what sounded like those soft footsteps outside again. They died away as I settled myself into the arms of sleep.
Boggs was up before my alarm went off. I heard his heavy footsteps outside my door. Didn't the man ever sleep? I wondered. How could anyone take his kind of work so seriously and with such commitment? He acted as if this was Buckingham Palace and my great-aunt and great-uncle were really the king and the queen of England. I had noticed how he walked through the house every day, sometimes twice a day, inspecting everything. He seemed to know exactly where each piece of furniture belonged. If so much as an ashtray was out of place, he stopped to set it right. When I mentioned that to Mrs. Chester and Mary Margaret Saturday morning at breakfast, Mrs. Chester nodded and then laughed and said, "Wait until you see the white glove."
The white glove? I wondered. I didn't have to wait long to learn the meaning of that.
Right after we had our breakfast, Mary Margaret and I went to work dusting and polishing. As we started out of the drawing room after completing it, Boggs stepped in front of us at the door. I was on my way to clean the bathroom by the billiards room as he had ordered.
"Just a moment," he said.
We paused and watched as he dug into his jacket pocket to produce a white glove. He slipped it on his right hand and entered the drawing room.
"What's he doing?" I asked Mary Margaret.
She just shook her head as if our speaking to each other while Boggs was present was another prohibition.
Boggs went to the tables and ran his gloved hand up and down the legs. He looked at the palm of the glove and then did the same with the chairs, the tops of tables and the sides of the furniture. He went behind a small table, wiped his hand over the rear of it and then turned to us, his white gloved hand open, a smudge of dust across the palm.
"Well?" he said.
Mary Margaret rushed back in and quickly dusted and polished behind the table. He stood by, his arms folded, watching her.
"You expect us to get every spot in the room?" I asked him.
"Mr. and Mrs. Endfield expect it. I simply make sure," he replied. He gazed around, nodded and left the room to wait at the door of the billiards room.