Free Souls, Chapter 15

“Mrs. Schmidt,” Sandy addressed the secretary in the Architecture School office, “Professor Robbins says there’s a grant I can apply for and you have the forms. Could you get them for me?”

“Certainly, Sandy,” said the secretary. Sandy leaned on the counter, watching Mrs. Schmidt as she extracted the forms from a filing cabinet. It was a sunny day in November, and the light streamed through the tall narrow office windows and reflected rectangles like illustrations from a geometry book on the white-painted wall of the waiting area.

Just then another student erupted into the office and rapidly approached the counter. His face and hair intercepted the light from one of the windows and were thrown into high relief, like a figure in a Baroque painting. It was Jeff Chesters, and she had to suppress a gasp of delighted wonder.

“Mrs. Schmidt!” he called out to the secretary. “Can I get an appointment with Dr. Forsythe?”

“Of course you can, Jeff. Just wait till I get this paperwork for Sandy here.”

As if noticing for the first time there was a third person present, he turned in her direction. For a moment their eyes met, but his held no acknowledgment or recognition. His glance was neutral, accepting her merely as part of the environment, like a chair or a potted plant.

“Whew!” she sighed with hidden relief. She was glad simply to drop her eyes and be absolved even from daring to say Hello. What could she possibly say to him without making a fool of herself? She satisfied herself with wondering what his business with the principal might be. It must be important, she was sure. Jeff Chesters and Dr. Forsythe: she could see them consulting nearly as equals.

Mrs. Schmidt brought her the grant forms. “Here you go, Sandy. Be sure this section is completely filled out, and this one, and here’s where you sign. If you have any questions, just come in and ask me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Schmidt. Thank you.”

“Now, Jeff,” she turned to the young man, “you were needing to see Dr. Forsythe?”

“That’s right. I need– ”

Sandy wished with all her heart she could hang around until she learned what it was about. But she had no excuse.  Still, she left rejoicing in having shared the same small space with him even for two minutes.

Better still were those occasions when she happened to come into the student store in the basement when Jeff was there. In the store there was a backless bookcase set up as a kind of display shelf at right angles to the counter. She could duck around behind it and see him without him seeing her, and bathe in the aura of his nascent greatness as it seemed to fill the little room. Nevertheless, she always maintained the presence of mind to observe what brand of triangle and what weight of leads he preferred. Then, when some other student volunteer was on duty, she could come back and buy the same.

Best of all was when she could watch him sitting reading in the school library. She would carefully look to see what architecture books he was perusing, and if they weren’t senior year texts she’d wait for them to be returned, and read them herself. And to think that his capable hands had touched them, and his artist's eyes had gazed upon these very words . . . the idea was almost too wonderful to bear.

And if she couldn’t see him in the flesh, she could study his beautiful drawings. Almost always he had some project posted in the school gallery. Sandy certainly would not copy his designs, even if the freshmen and the seniors had been assigned the same projects. That would be plagiarism, and dishonorable. But she could emulate his style of printing, the way he drew his North arrow (with a little alteration of her own, so it wouldn’t be obvious), the firm, confident ground line under his elevations, the way he arranged the various smaller drawings on the larger sheet.

As the weeks passed and she learned more, she could also recognize and learn from the way he paid homage to the great Modern architects like Wright and Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe, discreetly following their lead in his plans but at the same time making the design his own. “I can do that,” Sandy thought to herself. And she sketched and studied and persisted, and in time her own individual work also gave honor to Wright, Le Corbusier, Mies– and Chesters.

“But there, too,” Sandy thought now, “I was getting off base. I came up intending to design for the greater glory of Jesus Christ, but halfway though my first year I was focussing on how my work would glorify some guy I met in school!”

But for Sandy in her nineteenth year Jeff Chesters was not just “some guy.” The second semester brought a happy change in her studio arrangements. She managed to get in the class taught by Professor Ruben, whose studio was on the second floor. Of course she had picked his section because he was the best architect who taught freshmen; the fact that being in his class put her closer to the staircase most of the seniors used was just a bonus.

By the time she returned from Christmas break she had gotten over the silly notion that it was wrong for her to admire Jeff's body as much as she did his work. But of course it wasn’t just his body, it was also his mind, his soul, everything about him she admired– and thought she loved.

True, Sandy had never actually had a conversation with him. She was never invited to the parties where Jeff was likely to be. He had an apartment with some other guys while she lived in the dorm, so she never saw him outside the walls of the school. “But I thought his drawings spoke for him. I was sure anyone who designed that beautifully must have a beautiful heart as well.”

Was he a Christian? Of course, he had to be. Obviously he wasn’t Jewish or Moslem. And if he were an atheist, she was sure she would have heard something about it. People like that (she drew on her limited experience) tended to be very outspoken, especially on a college campus.

So since he had to be a Christian, it was all right to think of him . . . to think of the two of them, he and she . . . together . . . someday . . . wedded in a true partnership of architectural design and Christian love. At the moment she was sure he didn’t know she was alive. But the time would come, if not now, then later, once they both graduated and were out working, when he would discover her and love her deeply for the excellence of her design and the beauty of her soul.

For awhile that hope was enough to make her content.

But not for long.

______________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1982, revised 2013 & 2014.  All rights reserved

Free Souls, Chapter 10

Sandy climbed the stairs to her apartment in a distracted state of mind. She unlocked the door and routinely, almost mechanically, placed her hat on its hook and hung her coat and scarf in the minuscule coat closet. She hardly paid attention to what she was doing: something unsettled and sad had bedded down in the pit of her stomach and would not let her look back on the afternoon with any degree of contentment or rest.

“What do I want, anyway?” she demanded of the four walls. “I should be ecstatic!” 

Her boss, whom she respected, esteemed, and yes, yes, yes, loved had just asked her to accept a promotion to associate architect in his firm! “He runs the best damn design practice in Wapatomekie, and I’m going to be his first associate! And I’m only twenty-eight!” It would bring amazing new opportunities, not to mention an increase in pay, all tied in with the fact that Eric Baumann thought she was worthy of the position. “Ecstacy” certainly should be the word.

But she was not ecstatic. She felt flat, empty, and painfully at odds with herself.

“What’s wrong with me?” she cried aloud as she kicked off her shoes and drew herself up on the sofa. “I was horrible to him! There at the exhibition, and later on in the car! Why can’t I take a compliment from a man I care about with any sort of grace? Would it have killed me simply to say ‘Thank you’ and get it over with? But no, I have to throw it back in his teeth and twist his words!”

But it wasn’t just that. Any other woman, loving a man and wanting to lead him on to love her, would have skilfully laid hold of that compliment (“You look like an Old Master,” he had said, and she had known exactly what he meant: the ensemble was one of her favorites; she knew it became her, though it was too good for office wear). Any woman would have made of his words a golden cord to bind him to her and make him her own. Any woman, that is, but herself.

She was sure Leah Matthews would have taken full advantage had Eric so complimented her. On the thought, she stopped. “He probably has said such things to her.”

But so what if he had? The point wasn’t what he had or hadn’t done, it was what she, Alexandra Marie Beichten, had done and had kept on doing to him.

Painfully, she recalled every word of their exchange over the El Greco. 

A self-justifying voice within her spoke up: “Well, there was no meaning in that, anyway. Totally silly for him to talk about giving you something neither he nor you could ever own. Talk is cheap. Easy enough for him to go on like that, when he’ll never be called on to back it up!”

But the contrary voice died away, suppressed by what she knew was the truth. For what Eric had offered her there in the Spanish gallery was not a priceless Old Master painting, but the assurance, much more valuable, that he could be aware of her wishes and desires, and in some way desired to fulfill them. No, he was not aware of everything she desired– not that, not the impossible That– but to the extent her wishes were right and fitting given their present relationship, that certainly was how he felt.

He’d shown it when he’d offered– no, given– her the position as associate architect. He had known that was something she wanted before she had been willing to see it for herself. The thought had crossed her mind over the past few months, but she had always repressed it as a dim, distant, impossible dream. But Eric had known she longed to handle projects on her own, to make a greater contribution to their mutual effort. And at some cost to himself he had given the opportunity to her.

And how had she reacted? 

"I practically turned my back on him in the car!  I acted like I had nothing to do with him, the office, or our work. Did I really have to make him spell it out for me as if I were a stubborn kid in the slow learners' class?"  But that's what he'd had to do before she would stop putting words in his mouth and consent to receive what he would give.

And then in her heart she had impugned his motives.

"'He's trying to see less of me', that's what you automatically thought.  All your life since you were a kid you've wanted to stretch your architectural wings and fly, and now you're saying 'Feed me, coddle me, don't make me leave the nest'?  He's going to give you more freedom, and you know how hard that must be for him, he's such a strong designer himself.  And your first thought is to think he's deliberately being cruel to you?  Where is your self-respect, Alexandra, your good sense, your-- your gratitude?"

She should have been happy about how things had turned out; happy, joyful, and relieved. But she wasn’t yet and as yet she couldn’t be. “What is wrong with me?” she demanded again. 

Then, “I should call him. He’ll be home by now. Things seemed better by the time he dropped me off, but I should apologize for being such a shrew before that.”

But she knew she wouldn’t even pick up the phone. She knew why she wouldn’t, and she knew what had driven her to act the way she had.

It was fear.

Fear crouched like a shrivelled loathsome gnome visible to her mind’s eye, grinning in her face, mocking her. She got off the sofa, put on the kettle, and made herself a cup of tea. Maybe that would break its grip on her and she could go on with her evening as she had planned. There was an orchestra concert on the radio she was looking forward to listening to. And maybe she would draw a little on the sketches for her dream house.

But twenty cups of tea would have been no charm against a demon so long in residence. And the question of how her prospective kitchen should relate to a possible family room was nothing compared to the problem of how she had gotten to this point in her life and what she should do about it. And she had to do something about it, or her career (she would not allow herself to say “more than her career”) might be in jeopardy.

She pushed back her hair from her face with both hands, as if trying to clear her sight. “Why,” she whispered into the silence, “why do I act like this? Especially towards him? Why am I so afraid?”

Especially when for so long in her life there had been no need to be?

_________________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013 & 2014, all rights reserved

Free Souls, Chapter 9

“You look very nice,” he’d finally said.

Such a statement was prosaic enough to be borne, so Sandy had accepted it with equally prosaic grace. She tried to immerse herself in the study of Rembrandt’s portrait of his mistress Hendrickje Stoffels, though every cell in her body seemed to be a separate antenna picking up the frequency of Eric’s continued presence behind her.  There had been poetry in what he had said before, but she dared not credit that from him. Hers was too fragile a hope to be founded on such ephemera: she had miscalculated on men's feelings towards her before; she dared not risk error now.

The safest explanation was that something was going on.  Turning back to him she asked, "Has something happened since Friday afternoon that I shouldn't know about?"

"Absolutely not! I mean, yes, you should know about it." And he told her about the new commissions for the Ryersons' family room and the FirstCon Packaging building. "I won't know all the details till Tuesday night, and probably not then. But I'd say for sure they're ours."

"Oh, Eric, that's wonderful! And you say Mrs. Ryerson and Mrs. Felder and everyone got together and agreed to close down the rumor mill?"

"Seems that way. And if what Sheila told me later is any indication, that same mill might grind out still more little jobs for us!"

"I love it! Nick Hardt hoist with his own petard!" Her tone became confidential. "Eric, I wasn't sure how you'd feel about this, but it's my career at stake as well as yours, and I figured I should take the chance while I had it. Um, the president of the local AIA chapter, Mr. Byfield, goes to my church, and this morning after the service I spoke with him."

She paused, Eric made no comment, so she went on. "I explained that I knew he couldn't send out any edicts or decrees, but I asked whether he couldn't circulate the report, the truth, I mean, among the local firms that, well, that we're good upstanding little children 'in whom no iniquity is found' and so on, and ask that our colleagues treat us the way they'd like to be treated. He agreed to do it, and it may work. He's got enough influence."

Eric considered this. "He'll just drop a word here and there? No soapbox lectures against unfounded gossip?"

"Goodness, no! He'll do it discreetly, don't worry. He's not AIA president for nothing, and besides, he's a Christian gentleman."

"Hmmm," was Eric's initial reply to this last.  "Well," he said presently, "I'm glad you acted on your impulse. If things work out, we may be saved on both fronts."

"I hope so."

"Well, enough of this. Have you seen the exhibit?"

"Not all of it."

"Did you see that Raeburn in the other room? Come on, I'll show it to you."

She followed docilely and indeed, the portrait was very beautiful. He accompanied her through the rest of the exhibit, he elucidating the fine artistic points of the paintings, she illuminating him on the religious or mythical backgrounds of many of their subjects.

After awhile, they came to the Spanish gallery, where Eric was drawn away by a remarkable Velasquez. Sandy, in her turn, stood fascinated before a large canvas by El Greco.

Its subject was a young Spanish saint, a soldier by his dress, with that peculiar attenuation of the bone structure so characteristic of the artist’s work. The young man stood on a high, weather-shrouded hill, the relics of his martyrdom in his hand, and on his face an expression as of the hope of eternal joy mingled with an awareness of the futilities of the world. It took her breath away: as a work of art, certainly; but also because if he had been born a 16th century Spaniard while yet remaining himself, she would have sworn the young soldier-saint was Eric Baumann. It was all there: the face, the hands, even the attitude of the body. The only thing missing in Eric was the look of spiritual assurance, something she knew the Lord alone could supply. In that moment if it had been proposed that Eric had been transported to the late 1500s and sat for the artist, or that El Greco had time-travelled to the 20th century that he might paint him, she would have accepted it without doubt or question.

A hand was laid gently on her shoulder. She turned and in a kind of delicious shock recognized the seeming original of the painting. “I’m not the only one who looks like an Old Master . . . ,” she murmured with soft recklessness.

If Eric heard he gave no sign. “Do you like this El Greco?”

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

“If I had the money I’d buy if for you.”

“My God, he’s serious,” she thought. She rummaged through the ragbag of her social experience to find something appropriate to say, but against his confusing onslaught could muster no defense but levity.

“Well, yeah,” she laughed, “but if you had the money you’d probably live in a château in France and never would’ve known me anyway!”

“Yes,” he continued with what she decided to label maddening obstinacy, “but if I lived there I’d probably have tours. You might come over, I’d meet you, and then I would certainly give it to you.”

“This is not working,” she thought. Congratulating herself on her control of the situation, she asked steadily, “What did you think of the Velasquez?”

The treacherous mood was broken. “Oh, yes, come and see it!”

He pointed out its salient features with proper enthusiasm, but after her appreciative responses had died away silence closed around them. They did the rest of the exhibition with hardly a word, marking each other’s reactions only by the curving of a mouth, the widening of an eye, the gesture of a hand.

He did not touch her again, but she was ever conscious of the impression of his long hand upon her shoulder. Increasingly distracted from the masterworks, she resolved to come again, alone, for now her rebellious energies demanded leave to flow out to the man at her side, and it was fear and pride, as much as prudence, that with difficulty kept them dammed in.

Eric for his part threw himself headlong into the paintings, trying to disregard the odd sensation that had so inexplicably come upon him. Ah, yes, here was one of Moses and the burning bush. But it offered him no security. He recalled his mother’s Bible stories in that drab little walk-up in Bismarck: “‘I will turn aside and consider this great marvel . . . ’” What great marvel? Just an ordinary bush, the kind you see every day, the kind you take for granted (and almost against his will he glanced down at the young woman standing next to him) . . . take for granted, until you notice it’s on fire, but not burned, and that it has the voice of God or at least of an angel sounding forth from it.

When they were through Eric asked quietly, “How were you planning to get home?”

“I thought I’d get the bus, as usual.”

“On a Sunday evening? Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be standing there in the cold for an hour. Come on, get your things. I’ll drive you home.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied in a tone that was an almost perfect counterfeit of her normal workday voice. Eric started at the slight difference, then forced himself to put it out of his mind.

* * * * * * *

They rode mutely through the still November dusk, till he suddenly said, “You know, if we have these new jobs we’ll have to hire some new people in the office.”

Oh,” thought Sandy, feeling the point of the knife to her ribs, “so this is it. I’m losing my place and privileges as his sole assistant and he’s being nice to me to make up for it.” She lectured herself roughly: “Listen, girl, you knew this day was going to come from the word Go. It’s part of the profession and all you have is a professional relationship, understand?”

He was still speaking. “We have time yet before the office building project will start. I’ll interview a few people and submit them to your judgement. If you find anything wrong with them, they’re not hired, ok?”

“Eric, look, you’re the boss,” she replied ungraciously. “You know better than I do what you want in an employee!”

“Sandy, you know I respect your opinion! What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I’m tired, I guess. Long day.”

“Long weekend,” he agreed. “But you’re right, I do know what I want in employees, and one of those things is that they be agreeable to you. I also know what I want in an associate.”

The blade began to explore her vitals. “Oh,” she tried to say evenly, “you have an old college friend or something who’s coming back to join the firm?”

“No,” and he looked at her curiously. “I thought you’d just assume. You don’t think you can handle a promotion?”

“What– me?”

“Well, yes!” He grinned. “With a raise and all the rest of it, providing the office building goes through. The room next to ours is empty; I’ll see if I can rent it. We can put the catalogs and the help back there.”

“What a marvellously dehumanizing way of speaking of them! ‘The catalogs and the help’!”

“Well, you know me!” he answered cheerfully. “A regular Simon Legree. We’ll put the huddled masses of whatever type back there; I think it’s best you and I stayed up front for the time being. At any rate, we won’t know for sure until I speak to the Ryersons and Delkirk Tuesday night.”

“I think it’ll work out . . . ,” she said, as much to herself as to him.

"I was hoping to do this for awhile," he went on, "but we didn't have enough work.  I think this FirstCon project once it gets into the building phase should give you some good opportunities to get out of the office and get some good experience in construction management."

"I guess so," Sandy replied, a little flatly.

"You don't seem all that enthusiastic," he said with some surprise.  "I thought you'd like being more independent.  And if your portfolio was any indication, you've got a lot of ideas under that hat that I'm sure you're dying to bring to light.  There will be new projects, I'm sure, that you'll be able to handle on your own.  I can't see you playing second fiddle forever."

"Oh, Eric, I am excited, I really am.  It's just that, well, I'm-- "

"Tired," he concluded for her.  "That's all right.  And it's a big step.  I remember how I felt when I was first made associate.  It can be overwhelming.  You'll feel clearer about it in the morning."

But Sandy wasn't sure she would ever feel more clear about the matter than she did right now.  It was one thing to gain a promotion with all the powers, privileges, and emoluments pertaining thereunto.  It was another thing to be convinced that the duties of that new position were inevitably going to separate you from the one whose presence you valued more than anything else in the world, and to feel that he somehow had planned it that way.

____________________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved)

Free Souls, Chapter 7

But it took no effort on their part to come to conclusions; conclusions leapt upon them like grasshoppers on ripening grain. 

In the next few weeks, they received calls from Eric's clients from his years with Richardson & Greene, ran into people in stores and on the street, were subjected to "meaningful" looks from building materials representatives, all bearing some delightfully shocking if unsubstantiated tidbit that reflected badly on Eric and Sandy's professional reputations. None of their current clients cancelled their agreements, but neither did the firm seem to be getting anything more in. Perhaps a month's worth of drawing remained on the Weisman cabinetry, but after that, who could tell?

There was nothing to prove a Nick Hardt connection with the rumor campaign, and Eric felt it'd be like tracking a ghost, or a demon, to try to run him down.

He felt better in anticipation of a travelling exhibition of Old Masters from the National Gallery in London. Though a fine connoisseur of the moderns, he bore a lively enthusiasm for their predecessors, and as a member of the Civic Museum's Fine Arts Guild he was invited to attend the inaugural reception the night before the exhibit officially opened.

The November night was cool without being cold and he decided to walk over and prolong his sense of expectation.  He thought of Sandy: Should he have asked her to accompany him to this? But no, it wouldn't be a good idea, going out with one's employee. 

Still, there had been that evening with Bach at his place. They'd heard the Magnificat, most of the Brandenburgs, some organ fugues, and at last, neglecting the turntable, they'd discussed the music until the lateness of the hour had been laughable. Where, he wondered, had she developed that knack of expressing his very thought, not parrotlike, but even before the idea had coalesced into English in his own head? And wasn't it remarkable how her serious Christianity breathed new life into the religious works and made him better appreciate Bach's intention in the music? "Soli Deo gloria . . .  "  He was an agnostic, certainly, but, as he reflected now, that meant "I don't know, not "I won't know."

His meditations scattered like birds at a shot as he entered the Museum's reception hall and Sheila Ryerson descended on him with a look of satisfied accomplishment in her eye. "Eric!" she trumpeted. "I was wondering if you were coming! Let's get you some wine and some of these nice sandwiches, and then I have something to tell you!''

"What?" he said drily. "Somebody's hundred-year-old foundation has caved in and it's all my fault?"

"No, you silly boy! As for that, I got together with a group of my friends, who are also your clients, and we compared notes. We'd all heard the most disastrous stories about each others' houses, and as you may expect, not a word of any of them was true. We agreed that somebody is spreading pernicious gossip about you and resolved not to let them get away with it.''

"That's very good of you all.''

"You don't know who it could be?" Sheila inquired narrowly.

"No. Yes. Well, we have our suspicions, but they can't be proven.  Don't worry, Sheila, it's nobody in your circle."

"Well, that's a relief! Oh! What was I going to tell you?  Oh, yes!   You know that family room we'd just had redecorated when you started working for us and we wouldn't let you touch?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"Well, Jacob and I enjoy your part of the house so much, we feel so comfortable in it, that frankly, we hate going into that room.  It's hardly been used for six months. The kids play in there occasionally, but even they complain that it's gloomy. We've even moved the TV to the spare bedroom."

Eric knew that family room well and winced to remember it.  It was the sole blaring sour note in the finely-tuned symphony of his redesign: monstrous and dark with its over-stained panelling, ponderous brick fireplace, shag carpet that could have been the progeny of an English sheepdog outraged by a Las Vegas stageset, and black fiberboard beams traversing the oppressively-low dropped ceiling.  He wondered why it'd taken them so long to be repelled by it.

"Well," Sheila went on, "I've talked to Jacob, and especially after all this vile gossip, and knowing how painful that room is to you-- no, don't deny it, I know-- we decided you deserved a chance to bring it up to the level of the rest of the house."

His ingrained modesty compelled him to veil his excitement.  "Sheila, I'd be happy to make whatever improvements you like in your family room."

"Oh, improvements, shimprovements!  Rip the whole damn thing out!  It's moribund anyway!"

"What's moribund?" inquired Jacob Ryerson, strolling up beside his wife.

"Our family room," she informed him.

"Oh, yes, that. Absolutely.  Say, Eric, sorry about all those rumors flying about you.  Though I can't say if I'd be all that sorry if one of them is true, if I were you."

"Which one?" he asked equably, though with some apprehension.

"Why, didn't I hear you'd gotten your secretary pregnant?"

"That's ridiculous.  I don't have a secretary!"

"Well, then, What's-'er-name, your assistant, Miss B-- "

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Ryerson!" Eric could not forbear himself. "Alexandra Beichten is a fine Christian woman who would die before she'd do anything of the sort and I think it's disgusting you'd even insinuate such a thing!"

A bomb thrown in their midst could not have transfixed them in a more appalling glare. The Ryersons were Jewish and Eric was paralyzed, aghast at what his assertion had implied.

A voice was speaking, a woman's, saying sensible, commonplace things:  "Well, Eric," it said, "When would you like to come over and discuss the family room with us?"

"Oh, yes-- Sheila, next week, I'm-- Jacob,  I'm terribly sorry, that must've been extremely offensive to you."

"No," replied the older man heartily, "the offense was mine.  I had no business talking about that girl like that.  I mean, she may be a prude, but-- "  His wife shot him a warning look and he faltered.  "Well, Eric, let's call it even, both debts cancelled. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"And Sheila's right.  You must come to dinner and tell us what to do with that room.  It's unusable as it is," he went on, obviously still embarrassed.  "And oh, yes, I have something for you as well, as soon as I can run down Delkirk.  Oh, there he is!"

Jacob waylaid and led back to them a short man with reddish whiskers and a cheerful aspect.  "You know my partner, Sam Delkirk?  Sam, this is Eric Baumann, the architect."

Greetings duly exchanged, Jacob said, "Sam, you do the honors, all right?

"Certainly.  Eric, as you know, Jacob and I have run our firm, FirstCon Packaging, out of rented offices for many years now. Well, due to a merger with a smaller firm and some judicious financial dealings, we find that it's high time we moved into a building of our own."

"You have a building in mind?"

"No," said Jacob with great satisfaction.  "And that's where you come in. We have the land. The building we want you to design and build."

Eric was overwhelmed.  Their first large-scale project!  He knew he could do it: he'd managed other such jobs at Richardson and Greene.  But now, after the apprehension of the past weeks-- !

"It'll be only two or three storeys," Mr. Delkirk was saying, "but we think you could keep yourself busy with it.  I've seen your work, Baumann, and it's as good as any I've seen in New York or Boston.  Maybe better."

"It's settled, then!" said Sheila with cheerful finality.  "Eric, you and Sam come over for dinner Tuesday night and we'll discuss the great new inroads we're going to make in local architecture!"

They all laughed, a toast was proposed, and the bargain was sealed.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Walking home that night, Eric considered how amazingly things had turned around for them.  Perhaps he should call Sandy with the news?  No, it could wait till Monday.

He felt strangely elated knowing the danger he had run for her, risking the loss of a prime client by going to her defense.  He loved Architecture better than anything else on earth or in heaven, and to hazard it, for her sake, should have been a thing foreign to him.  Yet he had done it.  Absurd, how much it pleased him.

But of course, he finally decided, it was a debt paid.  He'd made up for not having challenged Nick Hardt when he'd called her that foul name a few weeks ago.  Nick Hardt . . . .  but in his mood the thought of the man was like the tail of a lizard that whips into a crack of a sunlit wall and is gone.  A benevolent if slightly idiotic spirit was dancing about his brain repeating gleefully, "Virtue is its own reward! Virtue is its own reward!"

But still . . . was that really why he had risked alienating the Ryersons in her defense? Somehow, the mask of beneficent paternalism kept slipping away, half-revealing the face of something unknown but decidedly intriguing. The matter bore thought, Eric concluded, a great deal of it.

______________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved

Free Souls, Chapter 6

"Trick or treat!" exclaimed Eric as he came into the office one morning towards Halloween.

"You're in luck, you ghoul. I brought donuts."  Sandy pushed the box his way.

"Great! Any messages?"

"Only one from Mrs. Ryerson. I can't swear to it, but she seemed worried."

"Wonder what about. Well, I'll call her and see."

He pushed the buttons with firm, even strokes of his long artist's hands. Sandy reflected on what a great pleasure it was to be able to listen to him talking to someone else on the phone, to bathe in the cello-like inflection of his voice without having to worry that it might be distracting her from some important instruction.  Their drafting tables standing against opposite walls, generally their backs were to each other as they worked.  But even deprived of the actual sight of him for so many hours of the day, the music of his speech could console her for the loss.  It didn't seem fair to him that her own speaking voice (in her opinion) was nothing special, and her very ordinary appearance did not make up for the deficiency. "Poor man," she sighed in affected melancholy, "he has to look at me!''

"Yes, Annette?" he was saying to the maid, "Is Mrs. Ryerson in? Tell her Eric Baumann is returning her call."

He waited while Annette relayed the message.

"Hello, Sheila? Eric. What is it? Sandy said you sounded worried."

Mrs. Ryerson, never a quiet person, often forced Eric to hold the earpiece at a safe distance when she phoned.  Today was no different: Sandy could hear her voice distinctly, its anxious excitement amplified into shrillness over the wire. "Eric, it's that terrible thing that happened, that I've heard happened, and I wanted to hear your side of it."

"My side of what?"

"What? You don't know? I heard about it at a party last night. A woman, a mere acquaintance, but reputed to be reliable, you know, was telling me there was a terrible accident over at your Weisman construction site!"

Eric looked at Sandy with blank horror.

"No! What happened? When? Why didn't--?"

"She said the roof tree, or whatever you call it, fell in and killed one of the workmen! She said they'd checked the drawings and you, well, you hadn't made the beams or the joists or whatever you call them big enough!"

"Hey, wait a minute. When did she say this happened?"

"Just last week! That's why I'm so appalled you don't seem to know about it! And when I think that you redesigned our house, nothing structural, to be sure, but still, I just can't bear to consider that--!"

Eric cut her short. "Mrs. Ryerson-- Sheila-- look, I don't know where that woman got her information, but she's wrong. I was there just yesterday and the roof is solid and strong. The shingles are on, the insulation is in. Even if it had collapsed last week, there's no way they could've gotten all that repaired in so short a time."

"Well, I admit I don't really know her all that well . . . And I suppose she is a bit of a gossip
. . . "

"Listen, Sheila, if you're worried about it, the contractor's Bill Worthington. He's the same one who did your interior. You know how good a craftsman he is. Call him up and tell him to take you through the Weisman house. You'll see nothing has come down, I promise you."

"Well . . . yes, he is good. And forgive me, so are you. That's what shocked me so much: Something like this seemed so unlike Eric Baumann's work! Will you forgive me?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. Be sure and call Bill if anything's still worrying you."

"Well, if I do, it'll be because I'm just bursting with curiosity to see your first magnum opus! It was silly of me to believe a story like that even for an instant. If I hear it again, I'll kill it where it lies, ok?"

"I'd appreciate that, Sheila. Thank you. Goodbye."

He replaced the receiver. "Did you hear that?"

"I really couldn't help it," Sandy admitted.

"Where do these crazy rumors get started? Party gossips!  Oh, well, they're not worth losing your appetite over.  Want another donut before I finish these?"

"No, thanks. Eric . .  . " she began hesitantly, "I maybe should've told you this yesterday afternoon but I didn't think it was worth your while.  But with what Mrs. Ryerson just said . . . "

"What is it?"

"I was in the deli yesterday noon, getting lunch, and I ran into another architect, a girl I knew at college."

"And?"

"And immediately she saw me, she came rushing up and exclaimed-- so embarrassing, I thought the whole counter could hear--'Oh, I hear you and Baumann are getting sued for architectural malpractice!' I was as blown over as you looked a couple minutes ago. I asked her what on God's green earth she was talking about, and she said she'd just heard we'd been caught taking kickbacks from a contractor or something like that. No specifics, of course, and she couldn't for the life of her tell me where she'd heard this report, just that it was sort of floating around her office."

"What did you say?"

"I pulled the Aggrieved Artist act. I said I considered such an accusation beneath the dignity of a reply and pointed out that if the guys in her office spent more of their time reading and discussing the history and theory of Architecture instead of the latest building scandals they'd profit greatly by it."

"Whoo! A little harsh, weren't you!"

"Yeah, maybe.  But I could've said that maybe then they'd stop turning out those misbegotten Post-Modernist abortions they're so fond of."

"I congratulate you on your charity and restraint," he said, bowing in mock gravity.

"Eric . . .  I was kind of wondering . . . Do you think Nick Hardt . . . ?"

"I'm afraid that's entirely possible. But let's not jump to conclusions yet."

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by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved

Free Souls, Chapter 5

Their moment of truth came sooner than they anticipated. Nick Hardt appeared the very next day, swung himself with his version of insouciance into 'his' conference chair-- and directly noticed the ten thousand dollar check lying exactly as he had tossed it down the afternoon before.

"What's this?" His eyes narrowed.

Eric spoke with resolution. "Mr. Hardt, we can't do your job for you."

"You mean you're incapable."

"No, we're not incapable, not in the sense you mean. But we can't do it from a legal, and a moral, standpoint. And I'd advise you against pursuing it further yourself."

"Don't be a damned imbecile. You seemed eager enough before. What's got into you? Unless . . . Is it that bitch you use for an assistant?"

Sandy sucked in her breath.

"Damn you, Baumann, if she's in the way, get rid of her.  If you don't have the guts, I'll get rid of her for you. Be a man!  I will have this job done, and you're going to do it!"

Beaming Sandy a look of comfort, Eric repeated quietly, reasonably, even pleasantly, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardt. We will not do this job. That is final."

"You have the sense of this doorknob!  Listen to me. You know too much, both of you. Believe it, refuse me and you'll never have another client in this city!" The words speared in like the swordblade of unalterable truth. "I can arrange it. Don't trifle with me. You work for me, or I'll ruin you. I'll ruin you!"

"Mr. Hardt, we will not do this job. Kindly take your check and go."

His face a stone mask, his rage darting only from his uncanny eyes, Nick Hardt stood up, crumpling the check between his fingers. This time, they heard him go, stalking furiously off down the hall and out to the elevators.

"Well, at least he is human," Sandy whispered irrelevantly.

Eric closed the door as against a dreaded pestilence and sat down in his chair, hard, his head in his hands. "Oh god, oh, god!" he groaned.

Finally looking up he said, "I'm sorry about what he called you. And that I didn't, well, defend your honor. I had to keep on the subject, you know. You're a brave woman."

"You're a brave man. You did wonderfully."

"Not as much as you. You saw it a long time ago, didn't you? You were right. I don't think I could ever work for that man, even if what he wanted was squeaky-clean legal." He shuddered with horror. "Better the firm should fail than survive on someone like that."

"Eric," she ventured, "what about what he said about, you know . . . ?"

"About driving off the clients? I don't know. He was in earnest, I could tell. But whether he has the influence to pull it off, I really can't say.  We'll just have to wait and see."

"'Jump off that bridge when we get to it'?"

"Exactly!" His laugh made fair approach to merriment. "Hey, listen, we've been through a hell of a lot this afternoon. Why don't we go get us a hamburger and go to my place and listen to some Bach? I could use cleaning out my soul.''

"'Magnificat anima mea Dominum'," she replied, softly. "My soul doth magnify the Lord!"

"The Magnificat? Yes, we could listen to that if you like.''

He had not understood her, but standing there loving him she knew exactly what she had meant.

_________________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved)

Free Souls, Chapter 4

The phone was ringing. Eric, intent on his work, ignored it, so Sandy sprang to the task. "Eric Baumann's office! . . . Oh, hello, Leah," she said with a pleasantness that was remarkably unforced. "Yes, Eric's here.

"Eric, it's for you. Leah."

"Oh, hello, Leah! . . . What? Yeah, I saw it.  It was great, wasn't it?"

His voice was gay, enthusiastic, and Sandy labored to beat down an upstart jealousy.  She was well aware that Eric and Leah had been carrying on an off-again, on-again romance since well before she'd met him.  But Leah Matthews wasn't the type of woman who would be content to let her boyfriend put her second or third after his work; she also had a strong grasp on reality. Since he'd started the new office and it began to consume most of his time, she had let their relationship lapse into mere friendship.

Even so, they were still close friends and if anyone had the right to be resentful of another woman's demands on his attention, it was Miss Matthews.  Funny, then, how it was Sandy who felt her rights infringed upon whenever Leah would call.  It was silly, she knew, and she wasn't going to afflict Eric with it.  But neither would she deny her own feelings.

He and Leah talked for awhile and then Sandy heard him say, "What?  Next Friday night? I really can't, I have a deadline like you wouldn't believe . . . . You would believe? Well, yeah, you know me . . . "

Charity was a lost cause as she smugly contemplated the magazine design award submission he would be devoting his weekend to-- instead of to Leah Matthews. It was painfully true that he didn't take her out, either; he'd ruled that out as unprofessional. Their relationship, Sandy knew, would have to be much more or much less than it was for him to see her socially.  But as it was, his work prevented him from seeing much of anyone socially, and she was an intrinsic part of his work.

"Yes," he now said, "We should do that sometime. No, I can't say when . . . Well, you go and tell me about it later. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. I'm sorry I can't go myself."

"I'm not!" thought Sandy with unholy glee. He'd asked yesterday if she would be willing to come up to the office that weekend to help crank out the competition presentation.  As if her willingness were in question!  "Sorry, Leah, that'll give me even more time with him!"  It was unchristian of her to feel such self-satisfaction: she allowed that. Nevertheless, when Eric went down to the snack bar she permitted herself a nice greasy wallow in it. "I'd better watch out," she thought luxuriously. "I'm liable to be punished for this."

A shadow towards the doorway startled her. Eric returning with their candy?  But no. It was Nick Hardt, but this time he'd stopped not just inside the door but, exuding a defiant pride of ownership, had settled himself into one of their conference chairs.

"Vengeance is swift," Sandy thought ruefully. If all the powers of the universe had not interdicted, she would have sworn aloud.  Instead, "Salva me, fons pietatis!" was her inward cry as she made herself advance to greet him.

"Where's Baumann?" the man snapped.

"He's stepped out for a moment, sir."

"He's got to learn not to waste my time. If I didn't think he was the only architect for this job, I'd . . . "

"I'll fetch him for you, if you like, sir."  And without waiting for a reply she darted into the hallway.

She met Eric by the elevator. "Eric, guess who's here?"

"Um, Santa Claus?"

"No.  Mephistopheles."

"Who?"

"Mephistopheles. I mean, Nick Hardt.  I mean-- good grief, he's like the devil in The Damnation of Faust: pops in, pops out, looks so contemptuous, and acts like he owns everything!"

"What an imagination! Well, I suppose he'd like to speak with me? Really, Sandy, you are being polite to him?"

"Of course!"

"Well, I want you to be, because we need this job. We can overcome our distaste for a client's personality if his project gives us a chance to do some good architecture-- and to keep ourselves above water.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

They were back at the office.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Hardt. What can I do for you?"

"About time," the man muttered as Eric seated himself across the table. "Listen, couldn't--no, I remember, you told me that girl's in on everything. She may as well hear now as later; she can stay."

"Well, I hope so!" Sandy thought as she went back to her drawing. Eric, she could tell, was trying to look friendly, even amused.

"I've brought you my requirements for the house I want. Take it all down; I won't waste my time or yours on repetitions."

Careful not to be obvious about it, Sandy listened as much as she could while continuing with her work. It intrigued her how, in describing the grand vision for his subterranean house, Nick Hardt kindled from sullenness into a manner that was expansive, even fervent. Clearly this was to be no ordinary home. The large meeting room, the extensive kitchen, the many bed cubicles reminded her more of a college dormitory than of a private residence. But hadn't he said he was to live there alone?

Hardt paused for breath and Eric offered, helpfully, "Will you be requiring much storage space, sir?"

"Ah, yes, you anticipate me!  Indeed, storage space! And not just little broom closets, either. I want storage space!"

"A wine cellar, perhaps?"

"Yes, dammit, yes: space for wine, for food, for general supplies and provisions-- enough for weeks, no, months at a time. And there is to be a tunnel, running from just inside my property line, into the deepest, remotest part of the house. Just off that tunnel will be--my gun room, Baumann!"

Sandy stole a glance over. She didn't like the perfervid look in Hardt's eyes. But Eric just said stolidly, "Gun room, Mr. Hardt?"

"Yes, gun room. No ordinary gun room, either. I want-- I need-- room to properly store at least a thousand carbines, the same number of repeating rifles, two thousand automatic pistols . . . "

Sandy stiffened as he recited his index of high-powered weapons, most of which were forbidden to private citizens. Eric seemed wary, too, though he hid it admirably.

" . . . and room for more in boxes in rooms adjacent, and of course several thousand rounds of ammunition for all of them. Do you understand?”

"Yes. Uh, sir, do you hunt?''

"Do I hunt?" he repeated, his tone again grown steely cold. "Yes, Baumann, I hunt, and when I hunt, I don't fool around.  It may be awhile, but when I hunt, you'll hear about it, believe me.''

"Yes, sir, I see.''

"You see what? You'll see what I want you to see. I think you can do this job; you're probably the only one I'd see doing it. Don't worry about a contractor: I have men of my own, men I trust, that I'll use. And in case you were wondering, yes, you may see the site, but I'm afraid you'll have to go there in a closed van.  Just you.  Not even Miss. . . um, anyway," he dismissed her.

Eric cleared his throat. Before he could speak, Hardt ripped off a check and threw it on the table. "There. That's your retainer. Don't worry, I have enough for this, if that's what's bothering you. You'll get more when the job gets underway."

"No, Mr. Hardt, but we need to consult with each other to decide if we're capable of taking on a job this large.  This extensive an underground house . . . well, the technology required is really vast. I appreciate your confidence in our abilities, and we'd hate to get started and then disappoint you."

"No," Hardt said steadily, "I will not be disappointed." Why did it sound more like a threat than a commendation? "I'll be back soon to learn when you can start."

And with a slight nod, his sole condescension to politesse, he scraped back his chair and silently left.

Sandy rose from her seat. "How much is it for?" she asked, coming around to stare at the check lying baldly on the table.

"Ten thousand dollars. And he's right.  I made a couple of calls last night: He can afford this. He may be mad but he's not just a dreamer."

"Mad? You mean, you felt it, too?”

"Oh, yes. But don't worry. Men like this usually leave the business relations to an underling once things get going. I figure we won't have to deal with him personally much after this."

"I don't want to deal with him at all."

"Oh, you won't have to.  You heard what he said."

"You didn't hear what I said.  I meant I don't think either of us should have anything to do with him, or this project, either."

He stared at her, astonished. "Sandy, be reasonable! You like your job, don't you?  Can't you get over your distaste for the sake of keeping the business afloat?"

"It's not distaste, Eric!" she almost exploded, poised precariously on the verge of anger.  "It's-- well, I've tried to keep my behavior as free from religiosity as I could while still giving this job the benefit of my Christianity.  But I can't be tactful or discreet about this.  What he wants us to do is not only illegal, it's immoral.  You heard what he wants to store in that hellhole!  Possession of most of those is illegal, and even if it weren't, those weapons have only one purpose-- to kill people! A great many people!  And don't tell me he'll be keeping them for self-defense, either," she added bitterly.  "All that about hunting.  You know it's not animals he wants to go after.  He intends something, something terrible, and how you of all people could think of helping him, I-- !"  She broke off helplessly, her hands extended to him in appeal.

"Sandy, be reasonable!"

"I am being reasonable! You can fire me or throw me out or whatever, but I can't and won't do this job and I don't want you to do it, either!"

He refused to reply. Silence slammed its icy barrier between them as the advance check, so brazenly lying there, mocked them from the table’s surface. Eric put out a hand to pick it up, but abruptly pulling back he stomped back to his drawing board and with ostentatious busyness returned to work.

The frigid stillness imprisoned them in the the room, bristling bayonets at point, for one hour, two hours . . . so oppressive that she wished to flee, but so ominous that she dared not go even to the restroom, lest she return to find the door locked unappealably against her. She prayed within herself frantically, her thoughts refusing to cohere. “Oh, God, don’t let him– Make him– Please, God, oh, in Jesus’ name, please– !”

The late September day had nearly expired when Eric decisively arose. Sandy cringed. "Here it comes. I've had it. I'll be a martyr for the faith." But the absurdity of such melodrama struck her so that she was forced to giggle despite her anxiety.

"What's so funny?" Eric inquired, and she was amazed to see he was smiling, too.

" Oh, me. Wallowing in self-pity."

"I'm afraid you've had no monopoly on that this afternoon. I want to apologize and say you're right: we can't do that job for Nick Hardt.  Questions of Christian morality aside--I'm an agnostic, remember-- it probably is illegal. 'Accessory before the fact,' I think it's called.  Things might be rough not taking this job but they'd be a lot rougher if the government found out we'd connived at his little scheme.  And believe me, they'd find out."

"Thank God! Listen, I'll take a cut in pay, anything, to make it up to you. But we just can't--"

"Don't be an idiot. A cut in pay? I tell you you're right. I'll tell Hardt next time I see him, ok?"

"You're not mad at me, then?"

"Certainly not. You've probably saved us from a Fate Worse than Death.  And speaking of which, this day has about had it. Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes, but oh, I almost forgot. Here's something I got for you yesterday."  And she pulled out the sack containing the little mechanical dog.

"It's wonderful! Where'd you get it?"

"At that little store on 34th off Adams Street."

"Oh, I know it; they have fascinating stuff, don't they? This'll make a great 'watch' dog.  Look, you wind him up in just the same way!"

And they looked and laughed as the little contraption hopped and yelped with mechanized ferocity about Eric's table.

"Look at how the ears and tail spin!" he said.  "What shall we name it?"

"Up to you. He's your dog!"

"Oh, come on."

"How about . . . no . . . oh, wasn't it Le Corbusier who called a house a 'machine for living'? Well, this is a 'machine for dogging.'  Let's call him Corb!"

"Well," responded Eric, smiling, "I don't know if that's quite an appropriate memorial, but yes, the point is well-taken.  His name is Corb."

Sandy looked up at him as he watched the toy, his face again clear and serene.  She knew he would do as he had promised.  The ice was melted; she had him back.

_____________________________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved