Usher's Passing

RIX ENTERED THE GATEHOUSE LIVING ROOM AND WENT TO THE decanters to pour himself a stiff drink. As he splashed bourbon into a glass, he heard his mother say, "Where have you been?"



He turned toward her voice. She was sitting in her chair before the fireplace, wearing a white gown and a diamond necklace. Rix poured his drink and took a long swallow of it.



"Where have you been?" she asked again. "Off the estate?" "I was driving around." "Driving around where?" "Here and there. Who are Dad's visitors?" "General McVair and Mr. Meredith, from the plant. Don't change the subject. I don't think I like your sudden disappearances very much."



"Okay." He shrugged, trying to think of an excuse to pacify her. "I went to Asheville, to see a friend of mine from college. Then I drove by the Lodge." His hand was shaking as he lifted the glass to his mouth again. What had happened at the Lodge only a short while ago now seemed as vague and strange as an unsettling, half-remembered dream. He felt jittery and irritable, and all he could see in his mind was that open doorway, and beyond it the magnificence of the Lodge. "Where's Katt?" He'd noted that her pink Maserati was missing from the garage.



"She's driven into Asheville, too. Sometimes she has lunch with friends."



"So it's all right for her to leave, but I can't. Right?"



"I can't understand your comings and goings," she said, watching him carefully. "You say you drove by the Lodge? Why?"



"Jesus! What is this, an inquisition? Yes, I drove by the Lodge. No special reason. I saw Boone over there, too. He was prowling around inside with a flashlight."



Margaret turned her attention to the small flames that flickered in the hearth. "He loves the Lodge," she told him. "He's said so a hundred times. He goes inside to walk the hallways. But I've warned him about the Lodge, Rix. I've told him . . . not to trust the Lodge too much."



Rix finished his drink and put the glass aside. "Not to trust it? What do you mean?"



"I meant what I said," she replied evenly. "I've warned him that someday . . . someday the Lodge is not going to let him come out again."



"The Lodge isn't alive," Rix said - but he recalled the imagined aromas and sounds, the faint whisper of his own name like someone beckoning him in, the dark form that had moved near the marble fountain. What would have happened, he wondered, if he had continued into the Lodge? Would that door have swung shut behind him? Would the rooms have lengthened and twisted crazily out of shape, as they had when he was a child?



She sat for a moment as if she hadn't heard. Then she said softly, "I loved the Lodge, too. Walen and I lived there during Erik's last days. That was a terrible time, but still . . . I thought the Lodge was the most beautiful house on earth. Walen warned me not to go off alone in the Lodge, but I was a stupid, headstrong girl. I decided to explore it by myself. I went from one exquisite room to the next. I followed corridors that seemed to go on for miles. I took stairways that I'd never seen before -  and never saw again." She looked up from the fire at him. "I was lost for ten hours, and I've never been so frightened in my life. It must have been awful for you, wandering in the dark. If Edwin hadn't found you . . . God only knows what might've happened."



"It's a miracle I didn't break my neck on a staircase," Rix said.



"Not only that. No . . . not only that." She paused, as if trying to decide whether to continue or not. When she spoke again, her voice was pitched very low. "Erik was always building onto the Lodge. The work stopped not because the job was finished - but because the workmen wouldn't complete it."



"Why? Wasn't he paying them enough?"



"Oh, he was paying them, all right," she said. "Paying them triple wages. But Walen told me they stopped because they Were afraid. One day before Walen and I were married, thirty workmen went into the Lodge. Twenty-eight came back out. The other two . . . well, the other two did not. And never did. I've always thought that, somehow, the Lodge would not let them go.



Rix had never heard his mother talk this way about Usher's Lodge. It both unnerved and fascinated him. "Why did you and Dad decide to leave the Lodge after Erik died?"



"Because it's just too big. And I never got over that feeling of being lost in there, almost. . . as if I were at the Lodge's mercy. Besides, the Lodge is unsteady. I've felt the floors shake under my feet there. At the center of the house, the walls are cracking." She was nervously fingering the rings on her hands. "We didn't brick in the windows because of the birds, Rix; we bricked them in because they kept shattering. Over the years, every window in the Lodge has exploded outward. What that is, I don't know. I just know . . . I dreaded thunderstorms when we lived there. Thunderstorms, particularly violent ones, when thunder shook the house, scared me to death. It was during those that most of the windows blew out."



Thunderstorms, Rix thought. He remembered Ludlow's fear of them from Nora's diary, and Nora's perception of the Lodge trembling around her. Erik had said the Lodge was built in an area that was prone to earthquakes. Could severe thunderstorms, Rix wondered, actually be triggering quakes?



"I think Boone's love of the Lodge is a dangerous infatuation," Margaret said. "He's been after me lately to have the electricity turned on again in there. It wouldn't surprise me if he actually wanted to move into the Lodge." She hesitated, and Rix saw dismay pass over her face. "I've always thought that for some reason the Lodge was meant to attract thunder and lightning, with all those rods and tall spires on the roof. When a storm comes over the mountains, it seems to be drawn right to that house." She said it with a hint of revulsion. "If the thunder is loud enough, it almost shakes the Gatehouse to pieces."



"There was an earthquake around here in 1892 or 1893, wasn't there? Didn't it damage the Lodge?"



She looked at him questioningly, as if she wondered where he got his information, but then she said, "I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised. I was sitting right in this room four years ago, when most of the windows on the north side of the house exploded. One of the servants had to be taken to a hospital. Cass was cut on the arm. And I've been in the dining room several times when the plates trembled on the table. So perhaps we do have tremors from time to time - though it's nothing like living in the Lodge at the height of a thunderstorm."



"The windows on the north side?" Rix walked across the room to the north-facing picture window and pulled aside the curtain. He was facing Briartop Mountain and the Lodge. "I never heard about that."



"After it happened, we never discussed it among ourselves. Walen said it was a freak thing - something to do with air pressure, or a jet breaking the sound barrier or something. The rain got in and made an awful mess, I remember."



Rix turned toward her. "Did that happen during a thunderstorm, too?"



"Yes, it did. There was glass all over the rug, and I'm lucky it didn't put my eyes out when the window blew in."



"The windows blew inward?" he asked, and she nodded. Earthquakes, thunderstorms, and the Lodge, he mused - was there a connection between them? She'd said that the Lodge's windows exploded outward. That seemed to suggest a disturbance in the air, rather than a quake - maybe a Shockwave, he thought. But a Shockwave from what?



"I'm going to tell you something I've never told a living soul," Margaret said. She peered into the fire, avoiding his gaze. "With all my heart, I despise Usherland."



It was spoken with such conviction that Rix couldn't reply. All his life, he'd assumed that his mother gloried in the grandeur of Usherland, that she'd rather live nowhere else on earth. "At first," she continued, "I thought Usherland was the most beautiful place in the world. Perhaps it is. I loved Walen when I married him. I still do. Oh, he's always been a loner, he doesn't really need anyone, and I understand that. But before Erik passed his scepter to Walen, your father was a carefree, happy young man. I saw him the afternoon he came down from Erik's Quiet Room with that cane clenched in his hand. I swear to you, he looked as if he'd aged ten years. He locked himself in his study for three days and nights, and on the fourth morning he came out, because Erik had died in the night." She lifted her chin, and her glassy eyes met Rix's. "From that time on, Walen was different. He didn't smile anymore. He turned his entire life into his work." She shrugged. "But I hung on. What else could I do? Having you children gave me something to occupy my time."



"And you blame Usherland for changing Dad?"



"Before that scepter was passed, your father and I took vacations. We went to Paris, to the French Riviera, to Madrid and Rio de Janeiro. But after Walen became the master of Usherland, he refused to leave it. There was always the business to answer to. Usherland had seized both of us, made us into prisoners. These" - she motioned wanly at the walls - "are our gilded bars. The time is coming," she said, "when that scepter will be passed again. I pity the one who accepts it. You others will be free, to lead your lives as you please. I hope both of you live them very far away from Usherland." She sighed deeply and without strength, as if released from a great burden. Rix came over to stand beside her. She looked frail and tired, an old woman with a strained, overly made-up face. Rix felt she wouldn't live very long after Walen's death. Everything she was, her total identity, was enmeshed in Usherland. Katt would of course insist that she stay here, but Margaret's life had been lived as a decoration in the house of Walen Usher.



He felt an overwhelming surge of pity for her. How could it be, he wondered, that one's own parents were often the most distant strangers? He leaned over to kiss her cheek.



She shifted uncomfortably, and turned her face away. "Don't. You smell like bourbon."



Rix stopped, and straightened up until his back was rigid.



Their silence was interrupted by a light tapping on the door. "What is it?" Rix said curtly.



The doors slid open. A maid peered tentatively in. "Mrs. Usher? The gentlemen would like to speak with you, ma'am."



"Send them in," Margaret told her, and Rix saw a transformation come over his mother as suddenly as if a switch had been thrown in her head. She rose from her chair and turned to greet her visitors with the smooth, gliding motion of a practiced hostess, her eyes bright and her smile turned to full incandescence.



The uniformed man that Margaret had identified as General McVair - heavyset, craggy-featured, with close-cropped gray sideburns and small eyes as powerful as pale blue laser beams -  came into the living room. He was followed by Meredith, from the armaments plant. Meredith wore a dark blue vested suit, and had short blond hair flecked with gray. Aviator-style sunglasses obscured his eyes. Handcuffed to his left wrist was a black briefcase. m



"'Scuse us, please," General McVair said, with a deep-fried Southern accent that sounded, to Rix's ear, highly exaggerated. "Miz Usher, I wanted you to know we were on our way. Thank you for your hospitality."



"You're ever so welcome, General. I know Walen appreciates your visits."



"Well, I'm sorry to intrude at a time like this, but I'm afraid business is business." His eyes moved from her to Rix.



"Oh, pardon me. I don't think you've met our youngest son. Rix, this is General McVair - I'm sorry, but I don't know your Christian name." She fluttered her hands helplessly.



"Call me Bert. All my friends do." He shook Rix's hand with a grip that threatened to grind Rix's knuckles together. Rix squeezed bade just as hard, and a look passed between them like two wary animals sizing each other up. "I expect you know Mr. Meredith?"



"We've never met." Meredith's voice was soft and reserved, and his mouth twisted like a gray worm when he spoke. He didn't offer his hand.



McVair seemed to examine Rix's face right down to the pores on his skin. "You favor your father," he decided. "Got the same nose and hair. Your dad and I go back a long way. Saved my skin during Korea, when he sold us about ten thousand incendiary devices that were jim-dandies. Of course, anything your dad's business cooks up is worth its weight in gold." He smiled broadly, showing large, even teeth. "Make that platinum, times bein' what they are."



Rix nodded toward the briefcase Meredith held. "Working on something new?"



"The company is, yes," Meredith replied.



"Mind if I ask what it is?"



"I'm sorry. It's classified."



Walen's final project? Rix wondered. Pendulum? He smiled at the general. "Can't even give me a hint?"



"Not without you signin' a lot of papers and goin' through a big long security check, young fella." McVair returned the smile. "Some folks we'd rather not mention sure would like to get a look at it."



Meredith glanced at his wristwatch. "General, we've got to be getting back to the plant now. Mrs. Usher, it was good seeing you again. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Usher."



Rix let them get to the door, then he tried a shot in the dark. "What's Pendulum going to do for you, General?"



Both men stopped as if they'd run into a glass wall. McVair turned, still smiling, though his eyes were cold and wary. Meredith's face was impassive. "What say, son?" McVair asked.



"Pendulum," Rix replied. "That's the name of my father's last project, isn't it? I'm curious to know exactly what it is, and how the Pentagon's going to use it." He suddenly realized that he'd seen a face very similar to McVair's before: the overfed, florid face of the cop who'd called him a "fuckin' hippie" before the baton had cracked down against Rix's skull. They were the same breed of animal. "Pendulum," he repeated, as McVair stared at him. "Now that's a name to conjure with, isn't it?" He smiled tightly, his cheek muscles aching. He had a dizzying sensation of being out of control, but he didn't give a damn. These two men represented everything he detested about being an Usher. "Let's see now, what can it be? A nuclear missile that homes in on an infant's heartbeat? Time-release capsules of plague virus?"



"Rix!" Margaret hissed, her face contorted.



"Nerve gas, that's it!" Rix said. "Or something that melts a person's bones like jelly. Am I getting warm, General?"



McVair's smile hung by a lip. Meredith urged softly, "I believe we should go now."



"Oh, not yet!" Rix said, determined to push it to the limit. He took two steps forward. "We're just beginning to understand each other, aren't we?"



Meredith grasped the general's arm, but the other man quickly shrugged him off. "I've heard a lot about you, boy," McVair said calmly. "You're the one who got his noggin busted at that so-called peace rally and had your face spread all over the newspapers. Well, let me tell you something. Your dad is a patriot, and if it wasn't for men like him, we'd be down on our knees beggin' the Russians not to lop off our heads! It takes more brains to build military deterrents than it does to go marchin' in hippie parades! You may have cut your hair, but it must've grown clear through your brain!" He glanced at Margaret. "I regret this outburst, ma'am. Good afternoon to you." He touched the brim of his cap and quickly followed Meredith out of the room.



Rix started to go after them, ready to continue the argument. Margaret said, "Don't you dare!" and he stopped at the door.



She came toward him like a thundercloud. "I hope you're proud!" she rasped, her eyes wide. "Oh, I hope you're feeling like the king of the world! Have you lost your mind?"



"I was expressing my opinion."



"God save us from your opinions, then! I thought I taught you good manners!"



Rix couldn't hold back a short, sharp laugh. "Manners?" he said incredulously. "Jesus Christ! Where's your soul? Is it covered over with white silk and diamond necklaces? That bastard was walking out of here with another killing machine that my father dreamed up!"



Margaret said stiffly, "I think you'd better go to your room, young man."



A strangled scream caught in his throat. Couldn't she understand? Couldn't anyone understand but him? No amount of fine clothes or furniture or food or expensive cars could alter the simple, terrible fact that the Ushers fed on death! "Better still," he said, "I'll get the hell out of here!" He whirled away from her and stalked out of the room with her shouts flung at his back.



Halfway up the stairs, he knew he'd let himself go too far. Pain rippled up the back of his neck and hammered at his temples. Colors and sounds began to sharpen. He staggered, had to stop to grip the banister. It was going to be a bad one, he knew - and where could he hide? His heartbeat was beginning to deafen him. Jagged images tumbled through his mind: his emaciated father, dying in the Quiet Room; the Lodge's open door, leading into darkness; a shining silver circle with the face of a roaring lion; a skeleton with bloody eyeholes, swinging slowly in a doorway; Boone's distorted face saying "Peed your pants, didn't ya?; Sandra's hair floating in the bloody water . . .



His bones ached as if they were being pulled from the sockets. He stumbled up the stairs, heading toward Katt's Quiet Room. Che skin on his palms sizzled on the banister.



In Katt's bedroom, Rix pulled open the closet door. The closet was large, with clothes hung from metal racks and a hundred pairs of shoes on wall shelves. He pushed the clothes away from the rear wall, as the pain increased and his eyes were almost blinded by the frenzy of colors. He felt wildly along the wall, sweat oozing down his face.



His fingers closed around a small knob, and he turned it frantically, praying that it wouldn't be locked.



It came open. Rix squeezed himself into a space as small as a coffin. The walls and floor were covered with thick foam rubber. When Rix pushed the door shut, all sounds - water thundering through pipes, the hiss and moan of the wind outside, the artillery-boom of a ticking clock - were dramatically softened. Still, the noise of his own heartbeat and breathing was inescapable. He moaned, clamped his hands over his ears, and curled into a tight ball on the floor.



The attack was worsening. Under his clothes, his flesh stung and sweated.



And, to Rix's horror, a sliver of light was entering beneath the door. Normal vision would have been unable to see it, but to Rix it pulsated like a white-hot ray of neon. The light's heat scorched his face; it became the blade of a sword that lengthened across the floor, quickly becoming sharper and brighter.



Rix turned his face away - and into the fierce red glare of what felt like a heat lamp. The light was reflecting off an object on a shelf just above his head. He put his hand up there - felt earplugs, a velvet mask with an elastic band, and a small metal box. Light was hitting the corner of the box, exploding like a nova. Rix slipped the mask over his eyes and waited, trembling, for the attack to fade or strengthen.



Over the booming of his heartbeat came a nightmarish, garbled sound that at first he didn't recognize. It steadily grew louder, and at last he knew what it was, and from where it came.



The Quiet Room.



It was his father's mirthless laughter.



Rix's spine bowed under the full weight of the attack, and when he cried out, his head almost blew apart.