The Gorgon Field Read Free Page A

approached, until it seemed to loom over everything else; none of the other buildings was two stories high. But as soon as they were inside, everything changed again. They were in a foyer with a red-tile floor; there were many immense clay pots with greenery; trees, bushes, flowering plants perfumed the air. Ahead, the foyer widened, became an indoor courtyard, and the light was suffused with the rose tints of sunset. The proportions were not inhuman here; the feeling was of comfort and simplicity and warmth. In the center of the courtyard was a pool with a fountain made of greenish quartz and granite.
    “Father said it was to help humidify the air,” Deborah said. “But actually, he just likes it.”
    “Me, too,” Charlie agreed.
    “It’s all incredible,” Constance said. They were moving toward a wide, curving staircase but stopped when a door opened across the courtyard and a man stepped out, leaning on a gnarly cane. He was wearing blue jeans and a chamois shirt and boots. His hair was silver.
    “Father,” Deborah said, and motioned for Charlie and Constance to come. “These are my friends I mentioned. They got here in time for the sunset.”
    “I know,” he said. “I was upstairs watching, too.” His eyes were on Constance. They were so dark, they looked black, and his skin was deeply sunburned.
    Deborah introduced them. He did not offer to shake hands but bowed slightly. “ Mi casa es su casa, ” he said. “Please join me for supper.” He bowed again and stepped back into what they could now see was an elevator. “And you, of course,” he added to his daughter, and the door closed on him.
    “Well,” Deborah said with an undercurrent of unease, “aren’t you the honored ones. Sometimes people are here a week before they even see him, much less have a meal with him.” She gave Constance a searching look. “He was quite taken with you.”
    As they resumed their way toward the stairs and started up, Constance asked, “Does he have rheumatoid arthritis?”
    “Yes. Most of the time it’s under control, but it is painful. He says he feels better here than anywhere else. I guess the aridity helps.”
    The courtyard was open up to the skylights. On the second floor, a wide balcony overlooked it; there were Indian rugs on the walls between doors and on the floor. It was bright and informal and lovely, Constance thought again. It did not surprise her a bit that Carl Wyandot felt better here than anywhere else.
    Deborah took them to two rooms at the southeast corner of the house. There was a spacious bathroom with a tub big enough to lie down in and float. If they wanted anything, she told them, please ring—she had not been joking about Manuel being at their disposal; he was their personal attendant for the duration of their visit. Dinner would be at seven. She would come for them shortly before that. “And don’t dress up,” she added at the door. “No one ever does here. I’ll keep on what I’m wearing.” She was dressed in chinos and a cowboy shirt with pointed flaps over the breast pockets, and a wide belt with a huge silver buckle.
    As soon as she was gone and the door firmly closed, Charlie took Constance by the shoulders and studied her face intently. “What is it, honey? What’s wrong?”
    “Wrong? Nothing. That’s what’s wrong, nothing is. Does that make any sense?”
    “No,” he said bluntly, not releasing her.
    “Didn’t you feel it when we first got out of the car?” Her pale blue eyes were sparkling; there was high color on her fair cheeks, as if she had a fever. He touched her forehead and she laughed. “I felt something, and then when the sunset flared, it was like an electric jolt. Didn’t you feel that?”
    “I wish to hell we were home.”
    “Maybe we are. Maybe I’ll never want to leave here.” She spoke lightly, and now she moved away from his hands to go to the windows. “I wish we could have had a room on the west side. But I suppose he has that whole end