by Devon, Gary;
But he waited, and tonight the pills failed him completely. There was no rippling relief, no jolt, just that glassiness at the edges of his sight. Sherman turned his head, struggling to hold his eyes open. The air had never been so swift, spinning around him in a blur. He reached for a place to sit on the couch and leaned back. With his hand under his jacket, he pulled the knife from his pocket and shoved it down between the thick cushions. Then he put the jacket to one side. His hand came up from his knee and floated to the side, and there, for just a moment, on the tips of his fingers he felt the coarse phantom hair of the Chinaman, waiting, standing guard. Only then could he let his mind close like an eye, let it think nothing and be very still. Sleep sank through him like a breath.
“He’s asleep,” Patsy said, peeking into the kitchen as Leona set out a napkin and silverware. “Come look.”
And so he was. Leona saw his face slack with sleep, his eyelids peacefully shut, his mouth slightly open against the cushion. What a strange, lonely boy. She beckoned to the girls. “Sh-h-h,” she said, “let him sleep. He’s had a hard time. And besides it’s time you two were in bed.” She withdrew pajamas from a suitcase and told them to change upstairs. As she undid the high buttons at the back of Mamie’s dress, she thought Mamie’s skin seemed unnaturally warm, almost feverish. “Do you feel all right, Mamie? You’re so warm and restless.”
“No, I’m not,” Mamie said, and twisted away from her. She stepped back, drifting slowly toward the couch. “Can I stay down here?”
How unpredictable Mamie’s moods were. “No, no,” Leona said. “It’s bedtime. Now, leave him alone and let him sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get a Christmas tree.”
“A Christmas tree?” Patsy said.
“Yes,” Leona said, “maybe, if the weather’s nice.” She took their small hands and walked with them to the stairs; she told them which room was theirs and let them go up unattended, giving Mamie her independence. “I’ll come say good night in a little while.” From the bottom of the stairs, Leona watched them cross the balcony. Patsy scampered to their bedroom, but Mamie kept hanging back, her fingers trailing on the bannister, moving slower and slower until she stopped and looked down. “Mamie, go on,” Leona said. “Go on to bed, now. It’s late.”
“Will you be comin’ up pretty soon?”
“Soon,” Leona said, and laughed. “Very soon. Go on, Mamie.”
For a moment Mamie continued to look at her; then she went on, very slowly, dragging her heels. Once more, she looked down. “When’re you comin’ up?”
“Mamie, for heaven’s sake, what’s the matter with you? Please. Now, go—” but before she could finish, Mamie went into the bedroom. When the door swung shut, Leona crossed the living room, shaking her head. She’s so stubborn, she thought; determined to have her way.
In the kitchen, Leona emptied the boy’s soup into the kettle, washed and rinsed the crockery bowl, and set it out on a dish-towel to dry. It was as if all the world had condensed to this small lamplit place in a vast wilderness of sky and trees and snow. The warmth of the air around her, the hint of wood smoke from the fireplace mingling with the river mustiness of the house, the lingering residue of the pine soap she had used all converged in a feeling of lightheartedness, a sense of peace and well-being. In less than an hour, she would give Walter his second dose of medicine and go to bed herself, under the roof made heavy and silent with snow. She lifted a drinking glass from the shelf to take along upstairs, added a few twigs to the fire, and turned off the lights. As she passed through the living room, she hesitated by the sleeping boy. When she had questioned him about his hand, she had seen panic in his eyes and it raised a curious sympathy in her. So afraid, she thought. So distrustful.
Now he slept, his fears and enemies temporarily laid to rest. A string bean, her mother would have called him. Yes, Leona thought, stringy and tough. Tomorrow, when they had plenty of hot water, she would insist he take a bath before he left. She untied his battered shoes and carefully removed them. She pulled a coverlet up around him. And as she stepped away from him, she noticed his ragged jacket. It was so torn and filthy. She thought, maybe I could at least sew it up before he goes. Picking up the water glass for Walter, Leona took the jacket from the end of the couch and turned toward the stairway.
Suddenly, Sherman opened his eyes. He watched her go up the stairs and shrink to nothing in the night.
Spidering her hands up along her spine, Leona unhooked the clasps of her clothes and changed to her robe. In the small adjoining bathroom, she turned the plump porcelain knobs, started her bathwater, and went back to the bedroom. Tonight, sitting before the vanity mirrors, brushing her hair, she again confronted the small wooden carving she’d left there earlier. With the wind whining outside and the glow of the bedside lamps creating a beautiful mistiness across the pillows, she was reminded of the night she’d spent in Mark’s cabin. Linger a while, he had said, and the way he said it sounded so quaint and old-fashioned.…
I must stop this, she thought. It’s doing me no good. And yet the memory clung so vividly.
She went to the side of the bathtub, wiped the steam from her face on the inside of her robe, and adjusted the taps. Gradually her memory dispelled even the vaguest sense of the present. The robe dropped from her shoulders. She could remember standing before the mirror in Vee’s living room, examining herself, while Mark was outside throwing snowballs. They had been so close then. She could almost hear him outside, laughing with the children. She tested the water, turned the taps off, and stepped over the rim into the hot water. The heat of the bath soaked through her skin, and she closed her eyes, feeling his hands gently shape and touch her, his length moving over her. A fragment of a song she’d heard on the car radio came to her, and softly she sang the little she remembered: “I’ll be seeing you … In all the old, familiar places.” The bathwater lapped inside the tub like the melody in the back of her mind, like the sound their bodies had made together that one time only. When her fingertips were beginning to wrinkle, she reached down the length of the tub, her mind adrift in that other, romantic world, for the bar of soap.
Minutes later, she stood up in the bath and the water dripped around her. Opening her towel, she stepped from the tub, and while her skin was still damp, she rubbed lotion on herself, then put on her nightgown and robe and went into the bedroom. She checked her watch: twenty minutes more and she could give Walter his medicine. Then she would kiss the girls good night and go to bed. She’d left the boy’s ragged jacket lying across the foot of the bed. Should I wait until morning? she thought. No, there’ll be too much to do tomorrow. Better take care of it now.
In the handkerchief drawer of the bureau, she found a spool of dark thread and Helen Merchassen’s old pincushion still holding a few bright needles. Leona chose one and threaded it, knotting the doubled strand with an adept twist of her fingers. Turning, she picked up the jacket and held it open at arm’s length to examine it. The lining was torn around the sleeve and down the back, coming loose at nearly every seam. It was simply worn out. If I had time, she thought, I’d put in a new lining. But, of course, there wasn’t time for that. The stitching on the collar had come undone, dangling against the yoke. That’ll be easy to fix. Shaking the jacket out a bit, deciding where to start, she sat down on the vanity bench and spread the jacket over her knees. Just then, she heard a soft flutter behind her and she looked over her shoulder. On the floor, from the foot of the bed to where she sat, was a trail of what appeared to be torn scraps of paper. Now what’ve I done? she thought. Again she held the jacket up, and felt in the pockets, but they were empty. She squeezed the body of the coat, felt nothing but the soft wadding of the shabby material. She looked down at the path of scattered papers. They must have come from the boy’s jacket.
With the jacket over her arm, she stooped and picked up the nearest scrap. It was a folded strip of torn newspaper with the headline MOTHER OF MISSING CHILDREN FOUND SLAIN, and printed below the bold le
tters was a family photograph of a woman and … Patsy and Walter. Their mother? Spellbound, Leona stared at the woman’s pretty face, then forced her eyes downward and read the first few lines of type: “Police are continuing their investigation into the brutal slaying of Mrs. Adele Aldridge …”
Dear God, their mother was murdered! But why would the boy have this in his jacket? It made no sense to her, no sense at all. Quickly she picked up the next scrap—another newspaper photograph. It had been folded in lopsided quarters and was falling apart. She had to arrange the four pieces on the floor to make out who or what it was. Mamie! She pressed her hands to her lips. What is this? It seemed impossible—an old crumbling picture of Mamie. There were words, fragments of words, around the picture, but they had deteriorated so badly she couldn’t decipher what they said. Mamie looked younger in the picture; it must have been taken in school, Leona thought. But what did it mean?
She shifted on her knees and picked up yet another scrap. The paper had been folded very tight; she had to pick it apart—it was an envelope from Cornelia Dunham, Ridgefarm Road, Brandenburg Station, Kentucky, addressed to her.
Seeing her own name hit her like a stone.
Inside the envelope, bearing its same tight folds, was a thousand-dollar bill. Why would he have …
And then she began to know. A violent dizziness swarmed through her. Her legs were growing numb. I’ve got to stand up, she thought.
Reaching for the few remaining pieces of paper, she pushed herself to her feet. Against her fingertips, the underside of the bottom piece felt odd, rather slick. As she straightened up, Leona turned it over and found herself looking into her own face. It was a torn photograph of herself. My God, she thought. All the other scraps of paper fell from her hands. What’ve I done? The blood rushed from her face. She felt fear so intense she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe or utter a sound. Oh, my God. What’ve I done?
It’s him! It’s him!
I brought him here!
Her entire life reduced itself to this moment. He’s in the house! Her legs wouldn’t hold her. Blindly, she reached out for the vanity bench, but the photograph seemed stuck to her fingers; she couldn’t let go of it, couldn’t get rid of it. Her legs were dissolving. Her head swam. Suddenly she thrust out her hand, flicked the photograph to the floor, and slumped back, clasping the dirty jacket to her breasts. Then she realized what she was doing and flung the ragged thing from her, and when finally she drew breath, the air made an ugly, rasping noise in her throat.
It can’t be, she thought. It just can’t be! He’s just a boy. There’s some mistake. And yet what mistake could there be? There on the floor was the photograph of herself.
The jacket had landed in a clump on the floor; the papers were strewn about where they had spilled from her, and she stepped among them, afraid to touch them, as she crossed the room to sit on the side of the bed. Her eyes fell on the folded envelope from Cornelia Dunham. He could only have got that envelope from Emma—she remembered reading Cornelia’s letter the day before she left Graylie. My God! She nearly cried out, and knew that she mustn’t; her hands flew to cover her mouth. Again, unable to resist, she picked up the torn snapshot and stared at her own face. She could remember in detail the day the picture was taken. She and Emma had been laughing, arms thrown round each other, showing off for the sake of the camera. Now only Emma’s arm and hand remained, dangling around Leona’s shoulders. The rest had been torn away.
She sat on the side of the bed, paralyzed. As if to mock her, everywhere she turned now she saw herself. In the three vanity mirrors, her face looked back at her. On the cold window, her pale reflection swam and shimmied. In her mind, she saw herself utterly isolated in this house, this secret hiding place. It’s him! The seconds passed in slow, unyielding procession. But who is he?
Mamie! He wants Mamie! The chill spread through her. I must go to them! I must get Mamie and … I must protect … She told herself also that she mustn’t give in to her terrible fear, but it had her in its grip. He’s in the house! She had to get Mamie and the children and go. Go just as fast as they could. Leave everything … Throwing on some clothes, she tried to clench herself back into control, because now her fear had grown too deep within her to allow her to do anything else. The children!
I have to go out that door.
Her body was sapped of strength. Trying to move was like struggling through quicksand. And yet, carefully, soundlessly, she crossed the narrow room. Leaning forward, she reached for the doorknob, stopped, withdrew her hand and listened. There was no sound on the other side of the door. Again she lowered her hand to the cold knob and now heard a sound so slight it was hardly audible. Just outside, on the balcony, a board creaked.
And slowly the light in the two bedside lamps dwindled, bloomed softly, and shrank to utter darkness. Beneath the house, the faint humming of the generator had stopped. He got the lights!
Her fingers on her cheeks were like sticks of ice. With the lights out, the bedroom lost all definition—like a world seen fading through dark water. She was weak to the bone. Now’s my chance, Leona thought. I’ve got to go now. He’s in the cellar. Still, she turned the knob a hairbreadth at a time before she drew it open and peered out. The dark balcony was, to her eyes, deserted. The house was totally silent now, dead quiet. Staying close to the wall, feeling the grain of the wallpaper slide beneath her fingertips, Leona made her way to the next bedroom. The door was ajar, the room dark, not a speck of light anywhere. She slipped her hand out across the sheet. The bed was warm but empty. “Wal-ter?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, and licked her lips. “Walter?” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid. Where are you?”
No answer.
“Where are you, Walter? Are you in here?”
She pulled a book of matches from her pocket, tore out a match, and struck it.
Walter was gone.
She knew she must force herself to be calm. He must be in with the girls. The outline of a glass lamp shone faintly in the dark. She struck a second match. Very little coal oil remained in the glass well. Cupping the flame in her hands, she lit the wick and adjusted the flame down, small and low. Again she listened, again no sound.
Carrying the lamp before her, she checked the balcony a second time and almost ran to the girls’ bedroom. Drab winter light filtered through the one window. The room met her gaze in shifting notches—the tall mirrored dresser, the footpost, the bed. But no one was there. One side of the bed hadn’t even been mussed. “Kids?” she said, her voice choking. “Mamie?” She slipped back through the door. Holding the lamp up away from her eyes, she stared down the length of the balcony. No one. What’s he done to them? Now, from somewhere else, she could just barely hear another noise, a small shuffle like footsteps.
She stopped abruptly where she was. The fear had burrowed into her now; she started at every infinitesimal sound. She stood perfectly still—tense, listening—afraid that even a breath might drown out some telling noise.
“Kids?”
The silence returned and hung poised in the air. She stepped to the railing of the balcony and looked down. The fire in the fireplace was still burning, casting a dull orange glow into half the room. Moonlight poured through the one uncovered window in a long creamy stripe. The couch was rumpled, vacant.
He’s taken them! He’s got Mamie! He’s got them all!
In panic, she whirled, dashing toward the top of the stairs and glimpsed sudden movement in a doorway, very close, a quickening blur at the boundary of her light. The darkness swam around her like a tremulous pool; the lamplight washed over his battered shoes and pants and up, slowly, to his malignant blue eyes. “Who—” she gasped, then swallowed. “Who are you?” She hadn’t heard him come up the stairs.
The air seemed to stir like a magnetic field and the boy flew through it. A scream broke from her lips, and at once, before she could properly turn or defend herself, he was at her. She swung the kerosene lamp and struck at him. The blade whispered by her ey
es, the fist, whitened by the force of his grip, brushing her cheek. The glass chimney exploded in the dark. A face darted over her, a flash of teeth. His strength was like iron. Leona began to shriek, all the sound her breath would carry, just as his bandaged hand closed on her throat, pinning her to the railing. And the knife flew at her again, the blade coming at unbelievable speed. Trying to wheel and duck, Leona wrenched her head to one side and buried her teeth in his bandages. The stench of corruption and decay assailed her. His body stiffened, thrashed about in agony; the knife dropped away, his mouth opened wide, and the noise he made was so loud and piercing it hurt her ears—a howl and a scream, one contained within the other. Still crying out, the boy yanked his hand from the unwinding bandages and shoved her away. He shouted at her then, yelled something, but she couldn’t hear him. She was falling, falling backward.
She struck the wall, the railing, the stairs, and lay in an excruciating tangle on the landing. Speeding points of light converged in her eyes; a horrible ringing ache sank into her brain. Everywhere her body felt jagged with pain. Slowly she opened her eyes and saw nothing but a firelit haze. Dimly, the familiar outlines of the room revealed themselves. She clutched the railing and pulled herself up, wildly searching the gray void at the top of the stairs and then out along the balcony. But the boy had vanished. He’s still up there, she thought. He’ll come down.
The night silence had returned to the house. “Children!” she tried to shout, but the word broke painfully in her throat. Except for the light in the fireplace, the room was dark. I’ll find them. I have to. I’ll get a light. She turned, stumbled to the table near the front door which held another kerosene lamp and tried to strike a match.
Her hands were shaking too violently; she couldn’t keep the matches burning. One after another, they flared and went out and she threw the smoking ends onto the table. Sulphur corroded the air. Suddenly all the hysteria broke inside her and she felt a resurgence of strength. And then a wave of deadly rage swept through her. She struck a match and held it without faltering. She was calm. Her head was perfectly clear. A light, she thought, would favor him, not her. She shook out the match.