Bloodlines

opened her door. Transpose that screaming raspberry into a violent electric green, and you’ll see the color of the garment she wore, a silky pantsuit or polyester evening costume or possibly a pair of nineteen-thirties Hollywood-movie lounging Pajamas minus the feather boa. Exactly what the outfit was didn’t actually matter, I thought: Anyone willing to wear it at all would probably be willing to wear it anywhere.
    The woman herself was in her late fifties, I guessed. She was very slim and had what my grandmother always refers to as “good posture,” meaning that she held her shoulders back as if in perpetual defiance of imminent osteoporosis. Her most striking feature was exceptionally sparse black hair that had been cut, gelled, curled, fluffed, and sprayed to create the illusion of thick tresses, but a prominent part down the side revealed a good half inch of white scalp. Delicate, fragile, heavily moisturized skin stretched across the fine bones of her face. Thick glasses magnified the lines and pouches under her darting hazel eyes, which seemed to focus on a fascinating series of objects that didn’t exist. I had the immediate impression that Enid Sievers believed something extraordinary: that alien beings had subjected her to grueling medical tests aboard their spaceship, or that Elvis regularly returned to earth to offer her spiritual counsel and tips on the lottery.
    But her welcome was perfectly ordinary, even gracious. As soon as she introduced herself and made sure that I was, in fact, Holly Winter, she invited me in, saying proudly and confidently, “You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, did you?”
    “No,” I said, half embarrassed. “Not at all. I spotted it right away.” I was sorry I’d worn old jeans.
    “No one ever has trouble finding us,” Mrs. Sievers assured me as she led me through a little foyer and into a living room. “Edgar liked cheerful colors,” she went on to explain. Her voice was high and wispy, as if amplified from a great distance, for example, Mars or Saturn. “Edgar always said that vision is a great blessing and that we should use it to the best of our ability and not just waste it.”
    She swept a bony green-swathed arm around to direct my attention to the room’s furnishings, of which there were hundreds, maybe even thousands, and I’m
    n ot exaggerating. The windows were not so much curtained as red-velvet-barricaded against light, and above each window hung great swathes of the same red velvet augmented with heavy gold braid and thick tassels. Elaborately upholstered in a bewildering variety of red brocades and crimson patterns, dozens of Victorian love seats, fat couches, and old-fashioned overstuffed armchairs battled for floor space against the armies of highly polished mahogany coffee tables, teak magazine racks, wrought iron plant stands, French provincial end tables, and standing lamps about which the less said, the better. Small area rugs with the bright, happy designs of Poland were scattered here and there on the richly textured bright maroon wall-to-wall carpet. The intricately carved green marble mantle of the fireplace supported an ormolu clock, two oversize modernistic jade green vases, a small collection of expensive-looking crystal owls, and a pair of china shepherdesses with candles sticking out of their heads.
    Just as Enid Sievers invited me to have a seat, my legs seemed to go out from under me. When I’d caught my breath, I found myself in the soft depths of one of the love seats. Fringed pillows nudged at me like friendly lap dogs. The end table to my left held a large brass lamp, a foot-wide porcelain ashtray, a set of cork-and-plastic coasters, and two glass candy dishes piled with paper-wrapped caramels.
    Enid Sievers took a seat on an equally pillow-laden couch opposite me. Between us lay a pie-crust-edged coffee table crowded with glass objects and candy.
    “Edgar was an optometrist,” Enid Sievers explained brightly. She sat stiffly upright, her ankles crossed, her knees locked tightly together. “It taught him the value of seeing. He always said that we should use what God had given us.”
    “That seems like a good idea,” I said stupidly or maybe even stuporously. The house was sickeningly hot and had a stale reek of perfumed soap and microwaved food additives. Where was the dog?
    Enid Sievers leaned forward, picked up a candy dish, and graciously proffered it. “Would you like a caramel?”
    “No, thanks,”