The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane

by Laird Koenig

  "You her boyfriend?"

  “Yes."

  Hallet turned his face, fiery red, to the girl.

  "You said ‘no boyfriends.’" The man included the table with its two plates in his gaze: "Looks to me like you even entertain your boyfriends at dinner parties. With candlelight and wine."

  Suddenly Hallet faced Mario. "She’s very young. How old did she tell you she was?"

  "Thirteen."

  "Fourteen, thirteen—younger than you, right?"

  Mario nodded.

  "Don’t you know any girls your own age? Or do girls your own age like to dance?"

  "The jelly glasses," the girl said boldly.

  "Yes?"

  "On the telephone we talked about the jelly glasses. They’re ready for you to take."

  "Not now.”

  Rynn weighed the man’s every word. Did he mean he was not going now and therefore the glasses could wait, or did he mean that now his mother would never again have use of them? She did not need to study the red face at the fire to know he was enjoying this intentional ambiguity, Her father had had a friend in London, a barrister, a man who loved the maze of the law and the labyrinth he could make of half-answers every bit as much as her father loved working always to be precise and make his meaning exact and clear.

  "Perhaps Dear Mother came by but you weren’t home."

  "I was here all the time."

  "Didn’t go to the football game?"

  "No."

  "On Saturday afternoons this time of year everyone goes to the football game. Today the Wildcats won." Hallet was looking at Mario. "Did you know that?"

  "Yes.”

  "Hardly a soul in the village this afternoon." He was still looking at Mario. "Right?"

  But Mario was looking at Rynn.

  "You go to the football game?" Hallet asked.

  "No."

  "You play football?"

  Before Mario could answer, Rynn said, "I couldn’t possibly have missed her."

  Hallet spoke only to Mario, "I didn’t hear you answer."

  "No. I don’t play football."

  "I don’t play football either. Saturday afternoons I listen to the Metropolitan Opera. On the radio. In the office. But I see you get all dressed up—"

  "He does a magic show," said Rynn.

  "That makes two of us in the village who don’t play football." The. man looked again at Rynn. "You said you were here all the time?"

  "Yes."

  "Couldn’t have missed her?"

  "No."

  "Strange."

  "You can take them for her now," the girl said.

  "The jelly glasses?"

  "I can put them in your car," said Mario.

  "Can you?"

  "I’ll do it now."

  "You can’t.”

  There it was again. The maddening ambiguity Hallet led them into, the subtle little confusions.

  "I don’t mind," the boy said, by which he meant that he was both able and willing to take the glasses out of the house. He would do it now.

  "I said you can’t." The man snapped his fingers at the cigarette box which Mario brought to him. Mario returned the box to the table and struck a match to carry the flame to light the cigarette. Hallet breathed deeply. To Rynn he seemed not so much to exhale as to allow the smoke to leak out of him, blue curls of smoke that hung around his puffy red face.

  "Can’t," the man said. "No car. I walked here tonight. My dear wife has the station wagon. Mother’s very grand and liver-colored Bentley sits majestically in front of the office." He drew smoke from the cigarette: "Dear Mother has the keys."

  Rynn told herself that her eyes must not seek Mario’s. Hallet appeared content to gaze, to ponder the mystery of his burning cigarette.

  A spark snapped out of the fireplace and lay glowing on the hearth. Then it died.

  Around the house the autumn wind moaned. Tree branches clashed.

  Time after time Rynn tried to break the silence till she had begun to doubt she was capable of uttering a word. When she finally began she prayed her voice would not screech out all the panic that churned inside.

  "It’s very late, Mr. Hallet. I’ll have to ask you to excuse us now."

  To her surprise the words came out clearly, even calmly. When the man gave no indication he had heard what she said, though of course he had, she felt she must not lose the confidence her first words had given her, but thrust on.

  "What do you want, Mr. Hallet?"

  The man smoked. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy, who still stood leaning on his cane.

  "What do you want?"

  "What do you mean?" Mario’s voice was another croak.

  "I mean exactly what I’m asking. What do you want?"

  "Does everybody have to want something?"

  Hallet’s pink fingers brought the Gauloise to his shiny lips. "Of course. Right now we’re waiting. We’re waiting to hear what you want."

  "I’m waiting too." The boy fought to struggle out the words.

  "Then we’ll all wait together." Hallet allowed the silence to return. One of those deafening silences, it had a presence that could almost be felt, like water soundlessly filling a vault. In time this kind of silence could kill.

  "I’d say you want what all boyfriends want." Hallet smoked. "Is that what you want?"

  "No."

  Eyebrows slowly climbed on Hallet’s shiny red brow.

  "You don’t like girls?"

  "Yes, but . . ."

  "Then you don’t want Rynn?"

  Rynn ached to break into this cross-examination, to help the boy, but she knew Hallet would ignore her. Or worse. The man would take anything she might say in an effort to help Mario and twist it around, and trap her deeper in his maze.

  "Little magician," Hallet said, "why don’t you do a trick we’ll all like? Disappear yourself?"

  Rynn found Hallet’s eyes glittering at her.

  "Tell him to go home."

  "He’s my friend."

  "But not your boyfriend?"

  Vastly pleased with himself, Hallet sucked in cigarette smoke. Slowly he sent it out in a thin blue stream. With his cigarette he indicated the girl.

  "Shall I tell you what you want?"

  Rynn could not bring herself to raise her eyes to the man.

  "We’ll save that," he said. "First, I shall tell you what I want."

  Hallet rose and came to the fireplace to stand over Rynn where she sat on the woodbox.

  "I want to know what’s happening. Here—in this house. I want to know what’s been happening. What happened today."

  "Nothing happened," the girl managed to say.

  Hallet looked down at her, almost as a teacher might stand over a student. His tone was as patronizing as a teacher’s, a tone calculated to put everything the child said into doubt.

  "All day is a long time for nothing to happen."

  Rynn shook her head. "Nothing."

  Still the instructor, still playing the role of one on the road to truth, he was deliberately slowing down the review of facts so no point would escape either student or teacher.

  "Just now. The police were here. That happened."

  Rynn shook her head, but the adult would not allow his pupil to retreat into silence.

  "Police. Here. Yes or no?"

  Rynn nodded.

  "Yes or no?"

  "Officer Miglioriti said you called him. He said you were worried about your mother."

  "Yes?" His one word was an order to keep talking.

  "He said that you thought ..."

  "Yes?"

  "He said that you thought if you could learn where your mother had been ..."

  "Been? Since when?"

  "Since she left her office."

  "Good." Hallet sat on the woodbox beside the girl, who held her breath.

  "Then what did the officer think I’d think?"

  "If you could find where your mother had been, you’d learn where your mother is."

  "Do yo
u think the officer’s right?"

  Rynn tried to shrug. The heavy smell of cologne almost made her gag.

  "Yes or no?"

  "Yes."

  Hallet smoked.

  "That’s part of what I want."

  "There are the glasses."

  Hallet did not need to glance at the carton against the wall. They were already as much a presence in the room as anyone of them.

  "So they are."

  "Waiting for her."

  "Meaning?"

  "She hasn’t been here."

  "Wrong. We’re going too fast." His tone was professorial again. "I’ll have to correct your logic. All those glasses sitting there proves—what? That those glasses are still sitting there."

  "Then I’m afraid I can’t help you."

  "You want to help?"

  The girl twisted her face from the cologne and cigarette smoke.

  "Yes."

  "Then what do you suggest we do?"

  "We call the police."

  "Already did. Seems we need more help." Hallet’s gaze moved to Mario: "Do you want to help?"

  "Yes."

  "Then go ask her father to help us."

  The boy gulped and stammered. "He’s sleeping,"

  "In the next room?"

  "Yes," the boy nodded vigorously.

  Hallet spoke to Rynn. "In the hall. That’s his study?"

  She nodded.

  "He sleeps there, too?" Hallet rose.

  "I promised not to wake him," said the girl.

  Hallet was moving toward the door in the hall.

  "Let’s wake him up and ask him if he can help us find Dear Mother."

  Slowly he took another step as if he expected the girl to try to stop him.

  "This room—you’re sure?"

  Mario, his black cape flying, lurched to the hall and stumbled past Hallet to block his way to the door.

  "Rynn, pick up the phone!"

  At the phone the girl saw Hallet advance, looming over the boy. Dropping the cat-and-mouse game, he glared at him.

  "I told you to get out!"

  Mario, not daring to look at him, as if Hallet’s answering eyes would make him falter, shook his head.

  "You and your wop tricks, get the hell out!"

  "Rynn—go! Run to the neighbors!"

  The girl dropped the phone onto the hook, ran to the hall, but slowed as she assessed her chances of dashing past Hallet.

  "Go ahead," said Hallet. "Run."

  "Run!" Mario was begging her.

  Hallet made no move to block the front door. Suddenly his smile, outlined with the balm’s shine, glinted in the shadows.

  "Run where?” His hand indicated she was free to open the door. "Your neighbors aren’t even home. The Jews all went to Florida."

  "Call the police!" Mario yelled.

  Hallet strode to the kitchen counter and grabbed the receiver from the hook. He made the line into a loop around his fist.

  "Do I pull this out?"

  "If you do that they’ll know it’s out of order," said the girl.

  "Who’s going to call at this time of night?"

  "Put it down!" The order came from Mario—a surprise to both Hallet and Rynn, for the boy seemed to blaze with a dangerous energy that neither had suspected lay coiled beneath the sweet smile. He pulled abruptly at his cane, which clicked apart to open in half. From the sheath he drew out a long, shining blade.

  Hallet, staring at the sword, rattled the telephone receiver back on the counter.

  Mario, his fury uncoiled, lurched without his cane toward the man, the sword in his tensed fist. "I’m a wop. Wops carry knives. Right?"

  Hallet fell back from the limping boy, and twisted himself away from the counter toward the door. A pink hand signaled for a truce.

  "Keep away!" Hallet’s voice exploded in a piercing shriek charged with fury arid rage.

  "Guinea? Dago? Wop?" The ferocious boy struggled toward the man.

  Hallet wheeled around to prevent his attacker from outmaneuvering him. Falling back again, he barked out what he hoped sounded like a laugh. "It’s a trick! A trick cane!"

  "Is it?" with another step Mario dragged himself closer.

  Hallet’s pink face trickled sweat. He backed into the hall.

  The boy jabbed the sword out in front of him.

  Hallet crashed into the bicycle, regained his balance and flung open the front door. He was gone.

  Rynn rushed for the door, slammed it shut and hurled herself against it. She looked to Mario who was signaling for absolute silence. She nodded, only too relieved to say nothing, too exhausted to do anything but fall against the door.

  Mario picked up the other half of the cane and fitted the stick back together. "Call the police," he said.

  In the dark hall Rynn leaned against the door.

  "We don’t dare."

  A sudden thought hurried the boy across the parlor toward the woodbox. Only as he was about to lift the lid did he realize Rynn had run past him.

  She sat on the box.

  "You didn’t want him to look in here, did you?"

  A toss of the girl’s head threw her long hair out of her eyes.

  "You don’t want me to ask why it’s there."

  He pushed the girl, but it was not his force that made her move. She stepped away from the box and allowed him to lift the heavy cover. Reaching down among the maple logs he lifted out the umbrella.

  He snapped it open.

  "Hers?"

  Rynn reached for the umbrella, closed it with a snap, and tossed it onto the couch, then crossed the oak floor to the table where she waited, signaling him with a glance to join her. She motioned for him to pick up his side of the table.

  The two moved the gateleg table off the braided rug.

  With her bare feet Rynn rolled the rug back. She knelt at the hasp and pushed back the bolt. With one hand she lifted the door till it stood perpendicular; then she let it fall back against the wall.

  She rose and moved to the front of the trap, to stand at the top of the stairs. She motioned for Mario to take the pewter candlestick, light the candle, and follow her.

  Mario carried the flame to the girl, who peered down the stairs. Motionless, she waited for the boy to take the first step.

  She could feel Mario hesitate. She knew his every instinct was telling him to turn back, go, leave, run anywhere to keep from walking down those stairs into the dark.

  Across the candle’s wavering flame, he looked at Rynn. Their eyes met for only a second. His faltered.

  Rynn was waiting for the boy to walk down the stairs.

  At last Mario took his first step.

  Rynn followed.

  13

  THAT’S TO WARM IT," the girl said as Mario watched her pour boiling water into a teapot.

  "We don’t drink too much tea at our place."

  "If you’ll put the biscuits on a plate, they can go on the tray with the tea things." The boy arranged the cookies into two rings on the plate, examined his work and seemed satisfied.

  "Rynn."

  "Mm?"

  "How long for your mother?"

  The girl poured the steaming water from the teapot into the sink.

  "October seventeenth."

  "Wow,” the boy said. He watched her drop a few pinches of loose tea into the pot.

  "But, I mean, don’t bodies..."

  From the kettle the girl poured the boiling water m with the tea leaves.

  "Decompose?"

  Mario, who found himself unable to say the word, nodded his head.

  From the cupboard Rynn took the tea things and asked him to put them on a tray. He did as she said, but he was waiting to hear her explain how to keep a body from decomposing.

  "You can put stuff on them," she said, opening the refrigerator and taking out a carton of milk.

  "Yeah?"

  She filled a little creamer and handed it to him.

  "Wow," he said. "But how did you know how to do that?"


  "The tray’s ready now, if you want to take it to the fireplace."

  "Okay." He was grateful she did not ask him if he could manage the tray along with his cane, and he held it with great care as the girl took two teaspoons from a drawer.

  "Rynn?"

  She left the kitchen area and ran to clear a place for the tray on the coffee table. Holding the tray level to compensate for his limp, Mario brought it in front of the fire where she waited.

  "How did I know how to do that to a body? Is that what you want to know?"

  The boy, holding the tea tray, did not reply.

  "I told you. It’s exactly the same as cooking. I happen to know how to read."

  "The library has stuff on things like that?"

  The girl picked up the poker and pushed a maple logback into the fire. "The library has everything."

  "Wow. I guess."

  Mario put the tray on the table. From the floor he picked up Mrs. Hallet’s candy-stripe umbrella.

  "We’ll have to get rid of this too."

  Rynn seemed preoccupied with the fire.

  "Did you notice?" he asked, “I said we."

  "I noticed. Thank you.”

  "He’ll be back. Hallet I mean."

  “I know."

  "I’ll help you."

  She dropped the poker into the open woodbox. The boy held the umbrella.

  "Of course you have a right to know what happened."

  Seating herself effortlessly on the floor beside the coffee table she seemed to Mario to move as gracefully as a dancer in her long white caftan. She drew her bare feet under her legs. Mario steadied himself, one hand on the table, to sit on the floor across from her. Reaching inside the blue embroidery at the neck of her dress, Rynn drew out a folded letter which she handed to him.

  By the light of the fire he saw the black ink and bold handwriting on gray stationery, a letter Rynn’s father had written to her their last night in London.

  As he read, the girl arranged two cups, put a strainer across one, lifted the teapot and carefully began to pour.

  Mario read the letter twice then refolded it, and because he felt he must not put it down on the table, that he must not put it anywhere but back into Rynn’s hands, he held it.

  "In London my father’d been taking treatments for what we thought was a stomach ulcer. One evening—spring—when it stayed daylight very late into the evening, one of those evenings birds were still chirping, we walked to what had been—before he became ill—our favorite restaurant. Indian. Father ordered curry. A man with a stomach ulcer? One of those terribly hot curries. I stared at him. He leaned across the table, kissed me, and said it didn’t matter any more.”