The Spirit Wood by Robert Masello Read Free Book Online

steadily, through a close and narrow defile of trees, until it suddenly opened up into a large, circular cul-de-sac. On the far side, set back from the drive by a sprawling stone staircase which rose to a broad portico, stood the house itself, caught in the early afternoon sunlight. Three stories high, of dull white stone, it appeared to be nothing so much as an ancient Greek temple that had been grafted, in some unnatural way, onto a French Renaissance palace; immense white pillars soared past narrow rectangular windows to a flat roof bordered by an ornamental balustrade. Everything about the house, from the sculpted pediments atop the columns to the enormous wings which extended on either side of the main doors, bespoke an intended orderliness in its design, and yet the final effect was one of colossal confusion and misguided expense. It was a house that strove for grandeur and ended, far short, in extravagant pretension.

    “Oh, my God,” whispered Meg, in awe, “what an elephant.”
    "Our elephant,” corrected Peter, his head lowered in order to take it all in from behind the windshield. As if not wanting to get too close yet, he parked the car just at the end of the drive. Meg started to get out.
    “The guy on the squawkbox said to stay in the car. You see any reason to do that?” They both turned in their seats to look around.
    “Looks all clear on my side,” said Meg.
    “Except for that,” said Peter, and Meg turned to see what Peter was referring to—a man, small and swarthy, emerging from behind the car to the left. He was wearing a canvas fishing hat squashing down tight on his head and black rubber boots with the buckles unclasped. He appeared to be about fifty, with a thick fringe of gray beard, and walked slightly stooped over, with an odd kind of sideways gait.
    “The caretaker?” Meg suggested.
    “You must be Nikos,” Peter called to him, stepping out of the car.
    The man looked up from beneath the brim of his cap, raised his hand, but said nothing. His baggy khaki pants, held up by red suspenders, flapped loosely around his legs.
    “I'm Peter Constantine. This is my wife, Meg. I hope you were notified we'd be coming out.”
    The head nodded vigorously, and the man wiped his hands, front and back, on his trousers.
    “Nikos,” he said, introducing himself. Peter put out his hand, but rather than shaking it in the usual fashion, Nikos reached out with a straight arm and grasped it from above. He squeezed it with surprising strength and, looking up at Peter, smiled broadly; his face was creased and weather-beaten, and his eyes a deep, rich brown.
    “My wife, Meg,” Peter said again as Meg came around to their side of the car.

    “We were paying attention to your instructions,” Meg said, “and staying in the car.”
    “The dogs—Fifi and Fritz—they were running loose. I had to call them in and tell them who you are.”
    “I hope they took the news okay,” said Peter, smiling. Nikos shrugged and said, “With dogs, who can tell?” Meg and Peter laughed.
    “So,” said Nikos, scratching his beard and casting a quick eye around them, “you came here from New York City, yes?”
    “No, from New Jersey,” Peter replied. “A little town called Mercer.”
    Nikos nodded his head, but without appearing to have really registered the information. It seemed to Peter that he was waiting for something. He appeared nervous, and his dark eyes never rested anywhere for more than a second. Finally, as if he couldn't wait any longer for what he'd hoped would come up unsolicited, he glanced up and, with just a hint of wounded pride, said, “And so, what do you think of it"—he gestured with a sweep of his short, muscular arm— “the house? Your grandfather, he was very proud of this house—the plans for it, he made them all up in his own head,” he said, tapping his hat for emphasis. He gazed across at the house with evident satisfaction, and Peter and Meg felt obliged to do the same. That his