He was looking back over his shoulder. “I don’t believe it.”
“Ask her.”
“Mel, what’s bothering you?” He returned and leaned his hands on the table, his elbows locked. “Are you seeing that guy in black again, is that what it is? Did you say something to her about it?”
She denied it with a crisp shake of her head, denied it again when his expression told her he still didn’t believe it. It was that bad around here, then, she realized; they were in fact having trouble and she had been too blind, or too pollyanna, to see it. Quickly, she pulled her napkin off her lap and dropped it on the table, rose and walked to the front closet.
“Where are you going?” Paul said, standing directly behind her.
“Home,” she told him. “If I stay here any longer, I’ll just ruin everyone’s Christmas.”
He appeared ready to take hold of her shoulders, but a look into the living room stayed him. “Mel, I think you’d better call me tomorrow.”
She pulled away from his helping hand and shrugged into her coat unassisted, tied her scarf carelessly over her hair and knotted it tightly under her chin. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“Mel, you can’t fool me. You have been seeing that man again.”
Point Number Five: She could be going crazy.
She almost told him, had the words arranged and ready, but a sudden fanfare from the ceiling speakers stopped her. “You’d better see to Tammy.”
“Mel, you’re being foolish.” He followed her to the end of the porch, his grasp just missing her shoulder as she hurried down the steps. “Mel! Mel, you need help.”
She paused at the juncture of slate walk and pavement, saw the aluminum tree glittering through the window, saw Tammy’s shadow in front of the fire. “Just leave it, Paul, okay? I’m all right. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She was into the car before he could speak again, away from the curb and heading for home before she realized how violently she was trembling. Beneath a rakish cap a snowman winked at her from his perch in someone’s yard. She slowed as she passed it, taking deep breaths that did nothing to calm her. It was frustrating; she didn’t know whether to be afraid or angry, whether to lock herself in the house or drive straight to Hartford and demand that Michael do something about her.
Her palms slapped mindlessly at the steering wheel. She sucked her lips between her teeth and tried to bring herself pain.
And as she pulled into the driveway, the darkman vanished around the back comer of the house.
The car bucked as it stopped, grinding into a stall, but she was out the door and running, leaving the keys in the ignition. The melted snow had formed ice puddles near the base of the house, and one of them nearly sent her sprawling into a clutch of burlap-hooded rose bushes. Something twisted behind her left knee. Lurching, now, to keep her balance, she flung her hands out to the house and propelled herself into the back yard . . . stopped with a wind milling, agonizing skid.
The cherry trees in back, the glass-sided feeder to the left of the low fence that marked her neighbor’s property, the handle of a rake poking out of a drift alongside the garage. Nothing more. She had not been out here since the snowfall; except for a few splayed bird tracks, the white was unbroken.
Point Number Six: There was no gutter to stand in here; the darkman doesn’t exist.
She kept her mind as blank as possible as she dropped her coat onto the floor beside the couch. Yanked off the scarf and wadded it into a ball to toss at the baseboard. Sat and pulled off her shoes, throwing them to the carpet to hear their thumping, watch them roll toward the empty Christmas presents. Her hands massaged her feet to get them warm, pulled her blouse out from her slacks so she could scratch at her stomach without undoing the buttons.
Then she pulled a fistful of hair over her shoulder and combed it with her fingers until it was dark.
Point Number Seven.
Sitting in the black. The streetlamp backlighting the tree, making it solid, turning the ribbon bows into wings and the bulbs to shrunken heads. Hiding the corners, shrinking the room, forcing her to lift her feet to the cushion in case there were tigers prowling the floor. Listening to the furnace, wondering if it had legs to scuttle it, lumber it, slide it across the cellar floor to the raw-wood steps that led to the kitchen; listening to the warm air seep through the vents, swirling the dust, poking at the ruffled skirt of the chair near the study, filling the room with the touch of spider legs. Sitting in the dark. Feeling the perspiration roll down her temples, glide down her jaw, bubble at her chin and fall to her breast; feeling the perspiration gather at her nape, roll down her spine to the roll at her waist, slip to her buttocks, darken her slacks; feeling the saliva force her to swallow; feeling the single tear force her to blink. Sitting in the dark. Her hands on her thighs feeling the muscles jumping, feeling the cloth that covered her skin, feeling the heat that rose from her groin, feeling the tension that made stiff her arms, feeling the air and the sweat and the spiders. Swallowing. Listening. Feeling. Touching. Sitting in the dark until the moon rose and brought silver to the room, gave the tree shape, gave the corners depth, rid the carpet of its tigers, rid the air of the spiders.
An inhalation that took a full minute to fill her lungs. Exhaling through her mouth with a soft hissing whistle. Inhaling. Whistling. Inhaling. Whistling.
An inch. One inch. A shadow at a time she moved her left foot to the edge of the cushion. Let it dangle. Let it descend, one inch, one shadow, until her sole brushed the carpet.
An inch. One inch. A shadow at a time she moved her right foot to the edge of the cushion. Let it dangle. Let it descend, one inch, one shadow, until her sole brushed the carpet.
Outside. In the distance. Sirens . . . sirens.
Outside. On the sidewalk. Voices . . . quiet voices.
While her right hand slowly unbuttoned her blouse (it must be time for bed; there’s no light in the air), she rose and padded over to the tree. It was snowing again, small flakes, playing with the breeze that turned them to dervishes with streaming white tails. People on the sidewalk. She counted nine in all: four adults and five youngsters with ski hats and mufflers and topcoats and two lanterns and papers in their hands that fluttered against the wind. A sneeze. A giggling. A ragged start, then a song. Harmony now, not perfect, not wrong. A door across the street sent gold to the snow, and figures on the threshold stood warmly to listen. A window was opened. A car stopped in the street. The carolers walked onward, their lanterns aloft.
Outside. In the distance. Sirens . . . sirens.
She ran into the dining room and pressed face and palms to the panes, straining to hear the last note of the singing, catch the last light of the lantern, wondering who it was who would spend Christmas night away from their homes.
Not that it mattered. It had started her smiling, and once she felt the pull of her lips she held it, and held it, and hummed to herself as she walked up the stairs. Sang several noels as she turned on the shower and stripped off her clothes. Looked at the razor, and looked at her legs.
All in all, she thought as she stepped into the stall, she was handling her madness reasonably well. All it had taken was a simple act of banishment, and a simple act of fear. And once done, she was able to sweep out the confusion that had been stalking her since that party last week. One week ago. One week tonight.
She had no more questions now, everything was answered. She didn’t have to worry about footprints in the snow or shadows under streetlamps or creatures with claws that mauled her good friends. She didn’t have to worry. She could handle it. She could accept it.
What she needed to do now, she thought as she toweled herself dry and brushed at her hair, was get into bed and try to sleep without dreams. In the morning she would call Prescott and explain what she’d concluded, then call Michael and make sure that his Christmas had been all right.
She frowned.
Michael. With the towel saronged about her she hurried into the bedroom and lo
oked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Almost midnight. Why hadn’t he called her? He promised he would.
She took a slow breath (that whistled out slowly) and decided that she wouldn’t let it bother her, not now. She had too much to worry about. She had herself above all to keep from shattering; and as long as she could hold on until Paul came to save her then nothing else could touch her. Later, perhaps, but not now. Not now.
The confusion was over, and tomorrow she would mend.
She smiled, giggled when her stomach grumbled and reminded her she hadn’t eaten since lunch. A hesitation, a brushing back of the quilt so she could slip in later, and she made her way downstairs, through the foyer, through the dark. Toast and orange juice. A pungent cup of tea. Not looking at the windows, not looking at the doors. Upstairs again and her head on the pillow. Sighing. Sighing. Thinking: Melissa, don’t worry, you’re handling it quite well.
At midnight the telephone: Merry Christmas, Melissa.
The voice wasn’t Michael’s.
By ten-thirty the next morning she had vacuumed the entire first floor, washed the dishes, scrubbed the kitchen floor, picked up the needles that had fallen from the tree, polished the dining room table, swept the snow from the porch, shoveled the driveway, brushed the snow from the car, showered and washed her hair, scrubbed the bathtub and toilet, changed the linen and made the bed, vacuumed the entire second floor, dusted the window seat, washed her hands, changed the linen in the spare room and made the bed, and was standing on the landing wondering what else she could do before she called Paul when the telephone rang.
She almost fell as she ran down the stairs, forced herself to hold her chin up, keep her back straight, eyes dead ahead as she walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
“Merry Christmas, Melissa!”
“Michael?”
“I tried to call you last night but you didn’t answer the phone. Did you stay at Tammy’s the whole time?”
She didn’t remember hearing the phone. “I must have been asleep,” she said. “I came home at lunch. I didn’t ... well, I didn’t feel very well.”
“Are you all right?”
“I ate too much, as usual, that’s all. I’m fine now. I can handle it.”
“Good. Listen, love, Mother’s not feeling weIl, either, so I’m going to stick around until I know she’s okay. Dad’s helpless around here. He thinks it’s a mortal sin when somebody catches a cold.”
“You baby her, Michael,” though it was said without rancor. “I know, I know.”
“You’ll call me?”
“Every day. Hey, it’s not like I’m in California or anything. I’m only in Hartford.”
“It’s still too far away.”
“You’re telling me. Happy, love?”
“I’d be happier if you were here.”
“So would I. Damn, I think she’s trying to get out of bed. Stubborn old coot. If she had pneumonia she’d try the Boston Marathon if we weren’t looking. Take care, darling. I love you.”
She said “I love you” to a phone that was dead.
But that’s all right, she told herself as she warmed up the kettle for a last cup of tea. That’s all right. He loves me. He’ll help take care of me. Anything I can’t handle Michael will, for sure.
She drank it slowly, until she told herself she was stalling. Then she washed her hands twice, brushed her hair at her reflection in the back-door pane, and dialed Paul’s number, her right hand drumming on the wall. But the man who answered wasn’t Paul Prescott.
“Windsor,” he said when she demanded his name. “Ben Windsor. Who’s this, please?”
“Dr. Melissa Redmond,” she said. Windsor, Windsor. Damn, she knew that name as well as her own. Who the. . . police. Ben Windsor was a cop. “Officer, I’m sorry. I think I’ve dialed the wrong number.”
“If you were trying to get the Prescotts, no you didn’t.”
She fumbled for the chair and pulled it to her, sat heavily. “What . . . I don’t understand.”
She listened until the policeman was finished, answered several questions in toneless monosyllables, rang off and traced a design on the wall.
It was that stupid glass screen set into the fireplace. The police still weren’t sure exactly how it happened, but sometime during the evening (sirens . . . sirens . . .) pressure had built up behind it, finally exploded it into the room. Paul and Tammy were lying on the hearth. Naked. Fire and glassknives scorched and punctured, blistered and slashed. Paul’s jugular had been severed; Tammy was in the hospital, not expected too live.
(sirens . . . sirens . . . and carolers smiling)
“It’s all right, Mel,” she told herself then. “Don’t panic. This is real, it isn’t the darkman. What you have to do now is get ready. Wash. Dress. Walk to the hospital (one block up, three blocks over). Do everything you can for Tammy. Then call Michael to see what the legalities are. Legalities.” She grinned at the word. Anyone who could remember a word like that at a time like this could handle anything. Anything at all. Including madness.
With a sharp nod she hurried up the stairs, undressed, showered, washed and dried her hair, stood in front of the mirror for several minutes trying to decide what makeup to use, went into her bedroom and threw off the bath towel, sat in the middle of the bed and crossed her legs.
Stared at the front window until it was dark.
Stared at the front window until the moon rose.
Stirred and called the hospital. Using her title she found out Tammy had fallen into a coma which she was not expected to leave. Mel sighed and hoped the end would be peaceful. An hour later she called again ... the end had been quiet.
The telephone rang.
Be happy, Melissa.
And just before midnight she knew she was sane.
It surprised her, her sanity. There was no sudden fireball of revelation or thunderous voice from a fire-breathing cloud or chorus of angels from a pillar of fire. It . . . just . . . came. She had started walking around the house aimlessly, bumping into furniture, knocking against walls, when a particularly sharp corner dug into her calf. She yelled. She swore. She picked up a vase and threw it into the tree. When it rattled, trembled, began to fall, she lunged at it frantically, her hands plunging into the branches to grab for the trunk. Closed her eyes and waited. Righted the tree and knelt on the carpet to wipe the sap and the needles away from her fingers. As she did so, she bumped into some of the presents. Frowned and picked one up and shook it. Then she tore open the wrapping and tossed the empty box aside. Twice more she did the same before rocking back to her heels and uttering a quicksharp laugh. Empty. What an idiot! A lot of empty presents and no one around to accept them, or deny them, or call her a fool for pretending she had things that never existed.
I’ll be damned, she thought. I’ll . . . be . . . damned.
Biology, of course, dealt with those things that grew and were living. Bio. The study of life. Her life. Plant life. Even the life she had given the darkman.
Study him, fool; and she knew she was sane.
Cause and effect, isn’t that the way it is? She nodded to herself and sat full on the floor. Cause: unhappiness. Cause: Sam Litten and his amorous pursuit and his threats to her career. The effect was simple: Sam Litten had to go. She frowned. Had she really been happy when Sam died? No, she decided, not right away, but deep down inside something stirred, something was pleased that a pressure had been lifted, a pressure was gone. Cause, then: unhappiness. Cause: Tammy and Paul playing with her mind—the one accusing her of fomenting infidelity, the other accusing her of seeing things that weren’t there. Effect: Tammy and Paul Prescott had to go. She frowned again. Paul had—right away, according to the police. But not Tammy. Think, she ordered as she held her head in her hands, pressing her palms to her temples. Think. Think. Cause: unhappiness. Cause: Tammy in a coma, never to see the snow or the sunlight or the moonlight again. Effect: Tammy . . . went.
Mel scrambled to her feet and looked o
ut the window. There was no one in the street, no one standing in the snow that drifted out of the dark.
And as suddenly as she had known she was perfectly sane, she knew exactly why the darkman wasn’t there: she was happy. She was content. Of course, there was sorrow for the loss of her friends, but that was something you lived with because sorrow didn’t last.
“Happy,” she whispered. And smiled. Then grinned.
When Michael returned she would command them to be married. He’ll agree. They’ll tie the knot. They’ll live in this house and raise a hundred children. One of these days she might even head the department. Maybe even be dean.
Her laughter took the house, and the darkness, like a comet. Followed her up to her bed like its tail.
Under the covers, then, the quilt to her chin. The sheets cool, the pillow soft, the moon closing her eyes.
And after the honeymoon, she decided before sleeping, she would tell Michael of her partner, and what the darkman had done.
She prayed Mike would believe her.
She never looked good in black.
Epilogue
And it is still raining.
It seems as if it has always been raining.
I’ve put the book on the floor beside my chair and have moved to stand at the window, to look out across the street through panes that tremble like nervous ice at the passing of the wind. There are streaks of oil-induced rainbows writhing along the blacktop, and there are dark holes in the pavement that mark the spread of agitated puddles. The lamppost opposite me provides a glow that is more fog than light, and through it slashes leaves pursued by the wind, and rain more like scratches on an ancient, museum film. It is too late for automobiles, too late for pedestrians; my neighbor down the road has forgotten again to turn off the yellow bulb over his front porch, and the old man on the corner has left his empty garbage can out by the curb where it twirls like a drunken dwarf, kept from falling only by the battered lid that has somehow jammed at its base.
The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant Volume 1: Nightmare Seasons (Necon Classic Horror) Page 20