"What are you going to do today?" he asked.
Shaken by the sudden turn in the conversation, Megan stared at Carl.
"We could picnic. Yes, why don't we do that? Let's take the boat further upstream, stop at a shady cove, and dine al fresco. Shall we do that?"
A flash of hope sparked in Megan's mind. Please, Carl, please include me in your private life.
"I'd like to picnic in the garden behind the yellow house. I'd like to gather some hyacinths to bring back here."
Carl shook his head.
"I don't want you to see the house up close until I've managed to tidy up the place."
"When will you do that?"
"After I've gotten your response to my request that you stay for the winter. Then I'll repair all the loose boards, tighten all the pipes, clean out the furnace, and drive out all the old spooks to make room for my beautiful conquest." He took her right hand and raised the palm to his lips to kiss it. "Since you sit so mutely, I take it for granted you are not going to favor me with an affirmative answer today. Therefore, we should ransack the cupboards and refrigerator for edibles to take on our cruise up the river."
Sullenly, Megan helped Carl. His words kept repeating inside her head. ". . . drive out all the old spooks." Is that how he saw his mother, as someone already dead, who was looming about making a nuisance of herself? Or was Beverly an aged spirit refusing to die? Megan visualized the hand that she had seen yesterday and the blackened chin she had noticed the day before. Megan could almost believe that she had been speaking, touching, communicating with one already deceased. Her disbelief overcame the horror of that proposition. She looked next to her at a man who could be captivating yet mercurial.
The picnic cheered Megan, and she managed to forget Beverly for an afternoon. They coupled under a sweeping weeping willow tree. Megan couldn't call the act love, because Carl held something out of her reach, some sort of bait that lured her in deeper even though she couldn't pronounce what it was.
When they got back to the house, both were exhausted. Megan chose to stay awake for a while. Carl kissed her on the forehead and disappeared into the bedroom. Drowsily, Megan searched the hall closet until she found a flashlight. With flashlight in hand, she walked toward the back door and the crumbling shed. Beverly wanted a shovel; that had to be where Carl would keep things like that.
Dew had settled. Watery brush scraped against the sunburn on her leg, irritating the sensitive nerves.
"Great," she said, looking at the solid door leaning against its hinges.
After putting down the flashlight, Megan grasped the edges of the door and lifted with a strong yank. Her body was jostled by the sudden lightness of the wood. Megan set the door aside, then retrieved her flashlight.
Spiders. Carl had warned her to stay away. Hesitant to enter, Megan flashed the beam around the shed. In the near corner she saw a fat handle emerging above a sooty rag.
"I bet that's a shovel," she whispered, wiggling her nose and consciously stilling her shoulders after a brief shiver.
Her hand reached out, but the shovel wasn't close enough to reach from the doorway. Cringing and with teeth chattering from the damp night and fear, Megan eased her way into the shed, centering all her attention on the handle. One quick grab and she could be gone, but her skittish fumbling dragged on the rag, knocking over a box full of negatives.
She couldn't leave them there. Carl might walk on them, ruining any attempt at making further prints. Although she did wonder how good it was to store negatives in an unheated shed. Still, she was responsible.
Megan shoved the shovel out the door, turned, squatted, and began to right the mess she had made.
When she finished, Megan slid the box back where it had been. As she did, she spied another journal. A well-used journal, coated with dirt and webs, and slime from who knew what. Gingerly she picked it up. She wondered whether Carl knew it was out there or whether it had been misplaced. It absolutely didn't belong in the shed.
With book in hand, Megan left. She would show it to Carl in the morningnot that she expected any sentimental rewards. Carl was miserly with his emotions. That was one thing her father had not been. Until . . . until he became ill. She looked to the house and at the bedroom window. There was no light. Carl had been tired, although he seemed fit. Was he really ill, or was his mother lying? No, Beverly wasn't lying, she believed. Megan assumed Beverly was fantasizing. The woman must have missed her. Too bad she hadn't been able to tell Beverly that she would be there the following day. The shovel would make up for her absence, even if Megan hadn't had a chance to work on the drawing.
The book was laid near the shovel. Megan leaned the door back against its hinges.
While she headed back to the house, exhaustion took over her limbs and she dropped the shovel on the wooden porch. There was a dull thud, not loud enough to awaken Carl, but it awakened Megan to the fact that the shovel had landed a quarter of an inch from her toes. Letting out a soft whistle, Megan stepped back down off the porch and stored the book and shovel under it. Tomorrow she could retrieve them. She dared not take these filthy things into the house, where she was bound to bang and clang them in her sleepy stupor.
35 - Preparation
Beverly whimpered. "Megan. Megan. Where is my Megan?" Her singsong voice came close to being throttled by the dry, peeling flesh within her throat.
It was nearly noon by the readout on the digital clock in the office. Megan, if she were coming, should have been there by now.
Beverly's booted feet scuttled along the oak floor, making smaller and smaller circles until she was dizzy. Then she leaned against a wall until her sight was clear.
"Megan. Megan. Megan." Occasionally her speech was slurred by a foreign thought that attempted to drive this Megan person from Beverly's consciousness.
Slipping her gloved hand inside the pocket, she touched the matchbook she had found in the depths of one of the kitchen drawers. She pulled the matchbook out, flicking it open with a thumb. Five matches with blue caps were lined up in the back row. Beverly would need only one, but it was good to know that backups existed. Carefully, as if the matchbook were gold, she tucked the cover inside the flap and carefully placed the matches back into her pocket, making sure that it hit the sewn bulge at the bottom. She didn't want it to fall out. Not before the act was completed. She had so little time left.
The girl would bring the drawing. Yes, she would. Of course, she would have to approve it. Beverly concentrated, trying to recall every wrinkle, every mold or freckle, every hair on Carl's body. The contours of his face and body were easy; it was the minute details that she would have to retrieve from her crumbling mind. Scars, birthmarks. Oh Lord! She was panicking. Can't lose control now. Can't forget what to do. Plans. Made all the plans. Megan must follow through.
''Megan. Megan. Megan." Beverly started to whirl about the room, hitting pieces of furniture, spinning into her madness.
"Megan. Beverly. Megan. Beverly." She heard herself chanting the two names. Were they one person or two?
There was a voice not the same as hers. Higher pitch. Softer tone. No gravel spitting rough chords into letters.
"Beverly?"
"Megan!"
Beverly scurried, as the dead rats at her feet had done when seeking their prey, until she reached the bedroom. At the threshold she tried to calm her emotions, but found her body to be jumpy and jerky.
"Megan," she whispered, shoving her leathered fingertips deep inside the pockets. She pressed her palms against her thighs. If she could only keep herself from flying off into the rage of her excitement.
"Hi, Beverly, are you all right? I was worried when you didn't answer. Didn't you hear me?"
Beverly's body trembled. Megan carried a shovel, a sketch pad, and a dirty old book.
Her limbs shook as she crossed the floor to stand in front of Megan.
"The drawing."
"Sorry, not quite finished yet, but I did remember the shovel. I can dig a h
ole for the plant."
"Hole? Plant? Where's the drawing?"
"It's only partially completed."
"Let me see." Beverly's hands jumped from the pockets to end up outstretched between the two women.
"You might be disappointed if I let you see it now. Give me another day or two. I wasn't able to do any work on it yesterday"
"Lazy girl."
Megan was looking down at the pad, refusing to face Beverly.
"Teasing, Megan. I'm teasing you. Yes, that's what I'm doing. Laugh, please laugh. Don't let me make you angry. Don't go away and leave me alone."
"I tried to get Carl to come out and see you, but for some reason he refuses."
Beverly gurgled as the tightness in her throat squished the traveling larvae.
"I didn't tell him I'd met you. I only hinted that he should come to the yellow house and do some repairs."
With a thick cough, Beverly brought up the ground material, spitting the mobile sputum into the folds of her shawl. When she turned her face back to Megan, she noticed that the girl had moved several feet back from her.
"A cold, Megan. Nothing serious."
"I just don't like catching those things during the summer. They're harder to get rid of during the warm months."
"If you don't want to come down with what I have, then work quickly on that drawing, or else you'll be spitting up the bugs." Beverly leaned forward as if to approach Megan, but knew her limitations in the summer sun.
"Believe me, I know how bad a summer bug can be. I guess you're right; it takes more than one to give you a cold, doesn't it?"
Beverly shook her head. The thick, wet portion of her shawl rested against her neck. It cooled the rising ire.
"So where do you want the hole dug?"
"I want the drawing first."
"I'm sure we don't need the drawing of Carl in order to plant a bush or whatever."
"First, the drawing," Beverly reiterated.
"If you insist. I'll put the shovel under the swing. I've got an interesting book here."
"Megan, I don't care about the book. I want the drawing. Stop spending your time making love and reading and do some work."
Beverly was tired of watching the girl blush. She'll be eighty and blushing at her fiftieth wedding anniversary, Beverly thought crossly.
Megan turned her back to Beverly, squatted down to slip the shovel under the swing, then rose to place the book and sketch pad on the seat.
So slow. The girl took forever to complete any task, thought Beverly.
"Hurry!" Beverly's body shook. "I can't do it all myself. You must hurry."
"Do what yourself?" Megan's voice was not clear, her back still facing Beverly.
"The hole, the drawing, the fire. So much to do." Beverly coughed up another wad of larvae. She checked to see if Megan was watching before spitting it into the dirt.
"Oh, the roses!" Megan had moved to the right side of the garden. "The leaves are covered with white powder. And look, there are tiny spiders spinning threads between the leaves."
"But the hyacinths are beautiful, aren't they, Megan?"
The hyacinths stood untouched on either side of the rosebushes.
"Yes, they are. Do you have any spray for the fungus on the roses? I could spray them before I leave. Do you think it would help if I trim the bushes?"
"Let them die!" The force of Beverly's breath brought up a mobile force of wiggly creatures. They slid blindly across her tongue and rode the air out between her lips.
Megan knelt near the base of a rosebush. Weeds swarmed around the plant. She turned to look at Beverly, who held her hand up to her mouth.
"It wouldn't take long to care for these plants, but if you'd like, I'll work on the drawing first."
Beverly's head nodded dully, resigned to anything Megan had to say.
Beverly watched Megan set up her things. When the girl appeared settled in her work, Beverly turned back to her own bedroom and started picking up the loose clothes lying about. She pulled a few more items from the drawers and armoire. With a hefty pile of clothing bundled in her arms, Beverly started for the kitchen. Once inside the room, she walked to the center, just under an old hanging Tiffany lamp. She dropped everything that had been in her arms onto the floral linoleum floor.
After making sure all the doors and windows were shut tight, she began to pick up bunches of clothing, which she then used to fill in the cracks and crevices around the windows and back door. The door leading from the hall to the kitchen would have to be done last. She put a small pile of clothes to the side of the entry hall.
36 - Who Is She?
Carl flipped his sketch pad shut. It was finally finished. That night, he would take a good look at Megan to make sure he hadn't left anything out. He doubted that he had, since he had been working from the nude photographs he had taken of her.
He chuckled, thinking about how lucky he had been these many years. Every time he had needed a new subject, one had arrived under his nose as if the gods blessed his parasitic life.
Carl locked the bottom desk drawer after he had slipped the pad into it. He leaned back in his chair to rest and gloat. Beverly's pervasive presence by way of the hyacinths didn't mean anything anymore. She hadn't been able to prevent him from completing his task. Had she even tried? he wondered. Was that flowery stink just a coincidence? If it was, so what? Long after her remains were gone, he'd probably find a wild bunch of hyacinths growing down near her grave. By then, Megan would be ensconced in the yellow house herself.
Where was she, anyway? Carl realized that she had been quiet all day. What could possibly take up her time? That trashy old journal he had given her to read? She'd never get to see the best volume. Carl had decided not to tell her anything about the transition that would take place. He would care for her as an invalid. Promise her medical help as soon as the doctor got back to town. Of course, there was a small medical clinic in town, but she didn't have to be told about it. He was glad that he hadn't broken down and taken her into town with him. The less she knew about her surroundings, the better.
Carl laughed out loud. Suddenly, looking around the room at nothing but his book-filled bookcases, he quieted. Megan would come scampering if she thought he was in a jovial mood.
It had been so easy with Megan. No one knew about their relationship. No one even knew that they were acquainted. Besides, his feelings for her were not the same as they had been for Beverly. Megan was cute, but he wouldn't miss her very much. He hoped that since she was young her body would last out the winter before he had to bury another image.
Carl stood and walked to the window. He pulled back the nylon curtains, which were backed by a cheap, cream-colored rayon lining. Twilight was looming, bringing some quiet to the backyard. The diurnal creatures were tiring and beginning to retreat. When the sun set, the nocturnal predators would be out stalking in the tall grass.
He let the curtain fall back across the window. Carl supposed that he should look for Megan while his drawing was fresh in his mind. Then he could simply make his mental comparisons and perhaps make some quick alterations if necessary. Usually there were some slight errors. He wasn't even sure if it was necessary to be as precise as he was. Still, he wasn't willing to risk his life on the chance that a missed mole or freckle didn't matter.
Carl ambled to the study door, unlocked and opened it. The interior of the house was dim and quiet. Shadows lurked around the curves of the hall. Opened doorways emphasized the emptiness of the house. He walked to the kitchen to call out Megan's name. He wanted to keep her far away from the study, especially with the completed drawing sitting inside his desk drawer. Carl didn't want a near disaster like what had almost happened with Beverly. Shaking his head, he recalled how he had given her the drawing. Such a fool.
"Megan," he called out again. Damn, was she down by the river? Could she be wandering around looking for the invisible hyacinths? Carl laughed. There was a logical reason for that perfumed stench. There had to be.
Carl stretched his arms out and over his head. He needed some exercise, and it had to be more than the sex play he planned for that evening. Maybe the next day he'd row down to the yellow house to see Beverly once more before he destroyed her shell and took her remains down to the river. He flexed his arms to test the power and tautness of his muscles. Was there a slight limpness? Rechecking, he flexed again. Still tight, no wasting as yet.
"Beverly, you came through, even though initially I wasn't so positive," he declared aloud.
"How did she come through?"
He heard the thin voice and immediately looked away from his bulging shirtsleeve to see Megan standing in the doorway between the hallway and the kitchen.
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