by John Saul
CHAPTER FIVE
The first word that came into Janet's mind was "firetrap," but she made herself deny it, even though she knew it accurately described what she was seeing as the Shieldses' Chevy slewed over the bumpy dirt driveway and the house came into view. Then she got a grip on her emotions and reminded herself that any wooden structure can burn, that this house was no different from any other house. What had happened to the house she grew up in would not happen to this house. She would not let it happen.
Her sudden panic checked, she made herself look at the house objectively.
Objectively, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
From what she could see, the building had no discernible color whatsoever. The prairie weather had long ago stripped it of its paint, and its siding was a streaked and dirty gray, far from the silvery color of the salt-weathered cedar cottages of the eastern seaboard.
She'd wanted a red barn.
This barn, crouched almost defensively behind the house, bore the same drab color as the house, but was in an even worse state of disrepair. Its shingles were half gone, and the loft door, visible beyond one of the dormers of the house, seemed to be hanging from only one hinge.
"This place," she declared at last, "lends new meaning to the word 'awful.' "
"Are we really going to live here, Mom?" Michael asked, voicing Janet's own thought. He had been tempted to giggle as he watched his mother's reaction until he realized the terrible truth: this… place was his new home.
"Maybe it's not so bad, once you get inside," she replied doubtfully.
"Actually, it's worse," Laura told her.
Janet turned to gaze at her sister-in-law. "Worse? What could be worse? It doesn't have dirt floors, does it?"
Laura carefully brought the car to a stop in the weed-choked front yard, and Janet fell silent, studying the house once more. There was something about it that didn't fit. And then she realized what it was.
"My God," she breathed. "All the windows are whole."
Laura gave her a puzzled look. "Why wouldn't they be?"
"But the place is abandoned. What about—well, don't kids like to throw rocks anymore?"
Suddenly understanding, Laura laughed. "Amos fixes them when they do get broken. I'm not going to pretend everybody's perfect around here." She opened the car door and eased her bulk out, smiling wryly at Janet. "I hope you carry your babies more gracefully than I carry mine," she said, then turned her attention to the house. "Actually, it isn't nearly as bad as it looks. It's weathered, and it needs a lot of work, but basically, it's sound. And the floors, believe it or not, are hardwood."
Slowly, the three of them went through the house, and to her own amazement Janet discovered that Laura was right. Though the paint and wallpaper were peeling and the floors needed refinishing, the house did seem to be solid. The floors were level, and the doors square. The plaster had no holes in it, and the plumbing worked.
There were four rooms downstairs—a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and a pantry; four more upstairs—three bedrooms and a bathroom, with an attic tucked under the steeply sloping roof. Each of the upstairs rooms had a dormered window, including the bathroom. A narrow staircase through the center of the house connected the two floors, with a spring-loaded pull-down ladder providing access to the attic.
There was no furniture.
Ten minutes later, Janet and Laura were back in the living room.
"I know it isn't much," Laura sighed, moving out onto the front porch and lowering herself awkwardly onto the top step.
"No, Laura," Janet protested. "You were right. It's much better than it looks from the outside."
"And it's a lot better than it looked yesterday," Laura pointed out, brightening a little. "Ione Simpson and I worked like dogs cleaning out the grime."
"I wish you hadn't," Janet began. "The kids and I could have done it. And in your condition—"
Laura brushed her objections aside. "You'd have taken one look and fled. Ione and I almost gave it up ourselves. But by next week or the week after, you won't know the place. We'll have all the weeds cleaned out, the buildings painted, and the fields plowed."
"But I can't afford—"
"Janet," Laura said quietly, "this was Mark's home. Now it's going to be yours, and we're your family. Let us do for you what we'd do for each other." When Janet still hesitated, she added, "Please?"
"But there's so much that needs to be done—"
"And the whole town can do it," Laura stated. "We'll make a party of it, just like an old-fashioned roof-raising. Except, thank God, the roofs in good shape."
The two women fell silent, gazing out into the prairie. It was a comfortable silence, and Janet could feel the quiet of the plains seeping into her, easing the tension that had been her constant companion over the last several days.
"I think I'm going to like it here," she said at last. Next to her, she felt Laura shift her position slightly.
"Really?" the other woman asked. Then she laughed, a brittle laugh that made Janet turn to face her.
"It's so quiet. So different from New York. There's a sense of calm here that I haven't felt since I was a little girl. I'd almost forgotten it."
"That's boredom you're feeling," Laura remarked, her voice tinged with uncharacteristic sarcasm.. "Right now it seems like peace, but just wait a year or so."
"Oh, come on," Janet cajoled. "If it's that bad, why do you stay?"
Now Laura turned to face her, her large eyes serious. "You think it's that easy?" she asked. "How do you leave a place like this? When you've grown up here, and your husband's grown up here, and you've never been anywhere else, how do you leave? They don't let you, you know."
"But Mark—"
"Mark ran away," Laura said, her voice suddenly bitter. "Mark fled, and I should have too. Except that when he got out, I was too young to go with him. And by the time I was old enough, it was too late. I was already trapped."
"Trapped? What do you mean, trapped?"
"Just that," Laura told her. "That's what a small town is, you know. A trap. At least that's what Prairie Bend is. I used to dream about getting out. I used to think I'd take Ryan and just run away. But of course, I never did." Suddenly her eyes met Janet's. "You won't either, if you stay. They'll get to you, just like they get to everyone."
"Who? Laura, what are you talking about?"
"Father—all of them."
"Laura—"
But Laura pressed on, her words building into a torrent. "I can't get out, Janet. I'm stuck here, trapped by this whole place. I tried to leave once. I really tried. Do you know what happened? Mother just looked at me. That's all she had to do. Just look at me, with those sad, empty eyes.
She didn't have to say a word. Didn't have to tell me that I was all she had left, that Mark was gone, and the baby was dead, and there was no one left but me. It was all right there in her eyes. Ever since that night…" Her voice trailed off, and her eyes wandered away from Janet, across the yard, fixing finally on a pair of doors that lay low to the ground, covering what Janet assumed was a root cellar.
"What night?" Janet asked at last. "What are you talking about?"
Laura turned back to her, and when she spoke, her voice was unsteady. "Didn't Mark ever tell you about it?" Then, without waiting for Janet to reply, she sighed heavily. "No, I suppose he didn't. No one ever talks about that night. Not mother or father, not even me. So why would Mark?"
"Do you want to talk about it?" Janet asked, her voice gentle, sure that whatever had happened that night must account for the odd haunted look she had seen in Laura's eyes.
There was a long silence, and then, finally, Laura shook her head. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. "I'm not even sure I know what happened, really. Isn't that strange? I think it was the most important night of my life, and I'm not even sure what happened." Again she fell silent, then finally nodded toward the twin doors she had been staring at a few moments before. "I was in there. Right in there, i
n the cyclone cellar."
"Here?" Janet asked, her voice reflecting her puzzlement.
Laura's eyes came back to Janet. And then she suddenly understood, and a harsh laugh emerged from her throat. "My God, they didn't even tell you that, did they? This was our house. This is the house Mark and I were born in."
"But I thought—their farm—"
"This was our farm until that night. It was in the summer. I was nine, and Mark must have been sixteen. And mother was pregnant."
"Pregnant?" Janet repeated. "I thought there were only the two of you."
"There were," Laura replied, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The baby—well, mother lost it. At least, that's what they always said." Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she seemed almost to disappear somewhere inside herself, into some dark corner Janet knew she couldn't penetrate. And then Laura's expression cleared again, and she began speaking once more. Something in her voice had changed, though. It was almost as if she was repeating a memorized story, reciting carefully rehearsed words.
"It was hot that day," she said, "and Mother had been trying to do too much, and her labor came on early. Father was furious at her. It was almost as if he blamed her for the early labor. And then a storm came up, and they sent me to the cyclone cellar. And I stayed there. All afternoon, and all night. I stayed there," she repeated. And then, once more, "I stayed there."
Janet wondered what to say. There was more to the story, she was sure. But she was also sure that Laura didn't want to talk about it. Still, she had a certain feeling that she needed to know the whole story of that night, needed to know not only what had happened to Laura, but what had happened to Mark, as well. "And that was the night Mark left home?" she asked.
Laura nodded. "The next morning, Father came for me. He told me the baby had been born dead. I didn't believe him. There was something inside me that didn't believe him, but I don't know what it was." She smiled weakly at Janet. "It's still there," she said. "Even after all these years, I don't believe that baby was born dead, but I don't know why I don't believe it. It's as if there's something in my mind, something I know, but can't remember." She sighed. "Anyway, after that night, Mother was crippled, and Mark was gone."
Janet stared at her, speechless.
"You're still wondering what happened, aren't you?" Laura asked at last. "Well, I can't tell you. I've always wondered, but Mother never spoke about it, and neither did Father. It almost seems as though Mark must have done something, but I know he didn't." Her voice changed, became almost pleading. "I know he didn't, Janet. Mark was a wonderful brother, but then, after that night, he was gone." She reached out and took Janet's hand, her eyes taking on the look of a hunted animal. "For a while, I didn't hear from him. Then he wrote to me—he was in college. Just one letter, and then, later, another one, from New York. I wrote back. Oh, I wrote so many letters! No one knew, not even Buck. But he never answered my letters. Maybe he never even got them."
Janet slipped an arm around the distraught woman, cradling Laura's head against her shoulder. "How awful," she whispered. "How horrible for all of you."
Laura nodded. "It was as if our whole family came to an end that night. And I can't remember why. A little while after that, we moved to the other farm, where Mother and Father still live, but it never really made any difference— ever since that night, I've been so terrified. When Ryan was born, I was sure it was all going to happen over again. And now—" Unconsciously, Laura touched her swollen torso.
"It'll be all right," Janet said.
Laura's eyes met Janet's. "If I could only remember what happened that night, what happened to Mother. I—I'm always so scared now, Janet. Every time Buck wants to make love, I'm afraid of getting pregnant. And then, when I do, all I can think of is that horrible night." Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "Did—did Mark ever talk about it?"
Janet shook her head. "Never. Never so much as a word. And you mustn't worry about it, Laura. There's no reason why what happened to Anna should happen to you."
"Isn't there?" Laura whispered. She swallowed once, then spoke again. "Oh, Janet, I wish I could believe that. But I can't… I just can't."
Wordlessly, Janet took her sister-in-law's hand in her own, and for a long moment the two young women sat silently, staring at the innocent-looking doors to the storm cellar, each of them wondering just what of Laura's past had been hidden away in that dark room beneath the earth so many years ago.
Michael stood at the window of the smallest bedroom, his eyes fixed on Ben Findley's barn. If he'd been asked to describe what was happening to him, he wouldn't have been able to. But one thing he knew: he was home.
This house, this room, this view of the limitless prairie from the small dormer window, all of it felt familiar, all of it right. His father was here; he could almost feel his presence in the empty room.
And the barn. Old man Findley's barn, clearly visible from this window. It was almost as if he could see into it, and yet he couldn't, not really. Still, if he'd been asked what was inside that barn, he'd have been able to sketch it out: ten stalls, five on each side, facing each other, none of them occupied. Two of them, though, seemed to have been put together into some kind of workshop. Above the stalls, a hayloft, with a broken ladder its only means of access. At the back, a tack room, still filled with rotting leather, bridles and harnesses long ago stiffened and dried from lack of use and attention. And below the tack room, something else, something Michael could feel as he could feel the rest of the barn.
It was as if there were a presence there, calling out to him, whispering to him in a voice he could feel, but couldn't quite hear…
"Michael? Michael, are you all right?"
Startled, Michael turned. Standing in the doorway, looking at him oddly, were his mother and aunt.
"Didn't you hear me?" he heard his mother say. He frowned.
"Hear what?"
"Hear me calling you. We're ready to go."
"But we just got here." He saw his mother and aunt glance at each other.
"We've been here for an hour and a half," his mother told him. "We called you, and when you didn't answer, we thought you must have gone outside. I looked in the barn, the loft, even the tool shed."
"Why?" Michael asked. His eyes drifted back toward the window, and Findley's barn, but though he could still see it, he could no longer feel it. Then, as he heard his mother's voice, tinged with anger now, he forced his attention back into the room where they stood.
"Because we couldn't find you," his mother was saying. "I was right here," Michael explained. Why was she mad at him? He hadn't done anything. "I've been right here all the time." And yet, even as he spoke the words, he wondered. Had he been there, or had he gone out, gone over to Mr. Findley's barn? Suddenly he was no longer sure.
"Then why didn't you answer me when I called you?"
"I—I didn't hear you." He felt a throbbing in his left temple. "I must have been daydreaming."
"For an hour?" his mother asked.
"It hasn't been that long—"
"It has," Janet replied. She saw a flicker of what looked like fear in Michael's eyes, and turned to Laura. "Why don't you wait for us in the car? We'll be right out."
Nodding her understanding, Laura smiled encouragingly at Michael, then disappeared down the stairs.
"Are you mad at me?" Michael asked when he and his mother were alone.
"Well, it seems to me—" She stopped, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at him. "Michael," she said, her voice gentle now. "Are you all right?"
The throbbing in his head faded away, and Michael nodded. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I was just daydreaming, I guess." His eyes roamed over the room, and he smiled. "Can this be my room?" he asked.
"This room?" Janet asked. She looked around the tiny room, wondering why Michael would ask for it. Of the three bedrooms, it was the smallest. "I suppose so, if you want it."
"I do," Michael told her.
From his tone, Janet was sure that som
ething had happened in that room, that it had affected Michael in some way. "But why?" she asked.
Because Daddy's here, Michael thought. He opened his mouth to voice the thought, but then changed his mind. Instead, he glanced around the room, and then, as before, his eyes were drawn to the window. "I like the view," he said. Janet crossed the little room in four easy steps and stood in the dormer, her hands resting on Michael's shoulders as she looked past him out over the prairie vista.
"It isn't much different from the view from the other windows, is it?" she asked.
"It's the barn," Michael said quietly. "I like being able to look at the barn."
"But you can't even see the barn from here—" Janet began, and then stopped as she realized he wasn't talking about their barn, but another barn, one she could see in the near distance. There was nothing special about the structure; indeed, if anything, it was remarkable only for its shabbiness.
"It looks like it's going to fall down," she commented.
Michael said nothing.
"Am I missing something?" Janet asked. "Do you see something about it that I don't?"
Michael hesitated, then she felt him shrug under the touch of her hands. "I just like it," he said at last.
"Well, then, I guess that's that."
Michael turned and faced her. "Then I can have it? This room?"
Janet nodded, the odd tension she had been feeling in the room, and in herself and Michael, suddenly evaporating. She smiled. "And it's a good thing you wanted it. I was afraid I was going to have to fight you for the other big one."
"I'd have lost," Michael replied.