There was none. There was only the coal chute, a foot wide, and that nearly buried by the piled-up coal. The windows were small and recessed, impossible to squeeze through.
The footsteps upstairs began again, much faster than before. He heard the pealing of the bell and the door slam shut. They've run, he thought, run for help or because they're scared. His only chance now was to run himself. Though there was a possibility now that he'd be seen when he left, he was trapped if he stayed, and that gave him no chance at all. He climbed the stairs quickly and stealthily, ran through the apartment into the storeroom, and peered around the heavy curtain. Except for the two Marie Snyders, the newsstand was empty.
Thornton tugged his hat down low over his forehead, wrapped the scarf to cover his nose and chin, and walked doggedly to the side door. Seeing no one, he left the shop and ran back to the alley where his car was parked.
~*~
"You shoulda seen her," Fred Hibbs said, shaking his head. "It was just awful."
Eddie Karl dunked and gulped a piece of doughnut. "I guess I can see her yet. She ain't goin' anywhere, is she now?"
"Really strangled?" Jake said, her hands trembling. "I mean, it wasn't just a heart attack or something?"
Hibbs nodded assertively. "Strangled. Frank Kaylor said so. And hell, I seen her neck . . . or, well, her . . . her ghost's neck. And it was all tucked in like."
"It gives me the creeps," Jake said. "Who on earth coulda done it?"
"Dunno why the cops didn't hold you, Loafer."
"Me?" Hibbs bridled. "I didn't do nothin'! I just found her!"
"So you say." Eddie smiled slyly. "But if you done it, sayin' you found her's a good way to throw suspicion offa yourself."
"Goddammit, you're loony! I had no reason to—”
“He's kiddin', Fred. He's just kiddin', aren't you, Eddie?”
“ 'Course I'm kiddin'. Honest to Jeez, Loafer, if your skin got any thinner, your guts'd pop out and dance a hula.
“Besides, everybody knows you wouldn'ta strangled Marie Snyder." Eddie paused a beat, took a sip of coffee. "You'da just raped her."
"Goddammit!" Fred Hibbs shouted over Eddie's cackling laughter and Jake's involuntary giggle. His next words were quieter as he saw two clerks from Sam Hershey's store come into the Hitching Post. "It ain't funny! Marie Snyder's dead, and here you are laughin' about it."
"We're all gonna be dead sooner or later," Eddie said. "Maybe it ain't funny, but it ain't no great tragedy neither." Jake went to wait on the clerks, leaving the two men alone. "What were you doin' out so early anyway?" Eddie asked Hibbs. "Sun wasn't even up before six."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Now I've heard everything. You sick or somethin'?”
“No. I just . . . haven't been sleeping good."
Eddie took another bite. His voice lost all trace of cynicism. "Your mother and father."
Fred Hibbs nodded, swallowed deeply. "I can never forget they're there. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about them sitting down at the kitchen table, and I can't get back to sleep."
"Y'know they can't hurt you."
"I know that. Hell, they never hurt me when they was alive. But I get scared just the same. It . . . it makes me think about dying."
The two sat for a while, Eddie dunking and sipping, Fred Hibbs slowly stirring his spoon in his coffee and staring at the brightly colored cereal packs in their plastic display. Finally Eddie spoke softly. "Fred, I'm gonna give you a Christmas present."
Hibbs looked up, suspicious. "What Christmas present?”
“Peace of mind. A good night's sleep."
"And how are you gonna do that?"
"I'm gonna let you move in with me."
"What?"
"What's the matter? I wash." He put a friendly arm on Hibbs's shoulder. "Look, I like you, buddy. That's why I josh ya so much. You're one of the few people in this town that'll say more to me than `How's it goin', Eddie.' Now I just rattle around in that house of mine, and like I said before, there ain't a spook to be seen. Y'can have your own room, get up when you want, sleep when you want, and we'll just split the food 'n' the beer. Whaddya think?"
"I . . . I don't know."
"Well, you better make up your mind quick. This ain't no long-standin' offer."
"What about your friends?"
"My friends?"
"You know. The folks you talk to all the time. The dead folks. "
Eddie shook his head and smiled. "They don't come to visit me very often. And when they do, I'll keep 'em downstairs. "
Fred Hibbs looked hard at Eddie Karl, then knitted his fingers and stared down at the nearly empty coffee cup in front of him. "Y'know," he said, "I'm not too damn easy to live with."
Eddie shrugged. "I'll take my chances. And I wouldn't mind the company. Besides''—he frowned—"I can't do things like I used to . . . lifting things around the house and such. You may not be the goddamn most industrious bastard in this town, but you're strong. You'd earn your keep."
Hibbs nodded. "All right, Eddie. It sounds all right. Just one thing though. Don't call me Loafer no more. Okay?"
"Sure, Fred." And for the first time in their lives, Fred Hibbs and Eddie Karl smiled at each other.
CHAPTER 22
"Hello."
"Brad, this is Bonnie."
"Yeah."
"Bonnie."
"I know who you are. I'm listening."
"All right, then. I'm leaving town. With Linda. We're going to my aunt's in Allentown and I'm going to stay with her until I can find a job up there."
"Okay. You called to tell me that?"
"Not just that. There's more. I can't sell the house.”
“Big surprise."
"Will you just listen. There's no point in it just sitting empty. So I thought that since you're really the one who paid for it, you might like to use it, move in with that girl you're living with."
"Christine. Her name's Christine."
"All right. With Christine. And her little boy."
"Why the sudden generosity? It's yours. The courts gave it to you."
"It just seems silly not to have it used. It was your house too."
"How long will you be gone?"
"For good. I'm not coming back. If this freaky thing ever ends and I can sell it, maybe we could work something out. Or maybe you'd like to buy it yourself eventually if you don't leave."
"I'm not leaving. And I have no intention of buying a house I already bought once."
"Well, I'm not worried about it. Do you want it?”
“No cost."
"I suppose I'd be stupid not to take it."
"That's up to you."
"All right. I accept."
They discussed arrangements then, and when Brad hung up, he walked into the kitchen where Christine was finishing the dinner dishes. "We're leaving here," he said.
She straightened up and looked at him doubtfully. "When?”
“Friday. Next Friday."
Something in his tone told her it was not a lie, and she ran to him and embraced him with wet, soapy hands. "Where are we going?" she crooned. "Oh, where are we going?"
"Sundale Road," he said. "1765 Sundale Road."
He felt her stiffen in his arms, but it was not until she pulled back and away from him that he saw the terror mold itself anew to her features, and he thought for the first time that he could see madness in them as well.
~*~
Jim Callendar told Alice about himself as they lay naked in bed under the warm blankets that were pulled up to their chins. Their hands each rested lightly on the other's flank, their heads turned on the pillows so that they faced each other only partially, as if there were still something that each did not want the other to see.
He talked about it all, nevertheless, and as he did, there was the sense of a burden not so much dropping from him as being shared, but not in the way that he felt Beth had tried to share it, that detached way that accepted it only clinically, taking in
facts and motivations while trying to keep emotion at bay. Alice absorbed the emotion, understanding not the detail, but the sense of it, soaking up his pain like a rich humus absorbs bitter rain. For the first time he felt understood, and with the understanding came something that he was desperate to grasp as love.
She had been there a few mornings before when he'd stumbled groggily and unclothed past the living room on the way to the kitchen for his morning coffee. He hadn't noticed her, and remembered her only dimly from the drunken and bruising night before, so that when she walked into the kitchen, the shrill blast of the teakettle having awakened her, he was standing with his bare ass to her and not a cover-up within reach.
"Oh," she'd said nonchalantly, "sorry," then turned and walked back into the living room while he stood pouring hot water over the edge of his cup. He set down the cup and scooted as quickly as his aching legs could carry him back into the bedroom for a robe. Then he made coffee for them both while she scrambled some eggs. When she asked about the night before, he didn't tell her much. Her questions were phrased delicately so that he got the impression her interest stemmed from something other than mere curiosity. He told her that there was bad blood between him and the man who had beaten him, but did not elaborate. As he talked, however, he found himself wanting more and more to tell her everything—the accident, the guilt, the way it had transformed him into someone only barely approachable by others. And one by one pieces slipped out, until he stopped himself, pulled back from touching her with more than mild interest.
Although he did not realize it, he had already touched her with far more, or she would not have stayed the night. Alice Meadows was fascinated by Jim Callendar. In him she saw the burdens and pains of guilt as plainly as she saw the sun in the sky. He knows, she had thought. He knows what I know. So she kept the morning's conversation flowing smoothly, effortlessly, and when the eggs were gone, the coffee drained, she did not want to go. But having slept in her clothes, she felt soiled and unattractive, and said that she should go back to her place and change, but that she'd enjoyed the talk, and couldn't they get together that evening to chat some more.
He had seemed surprised by her boldness, but also strangely pleased, and they agreed to meet for dinner. Alice drove back to the Reardons', called the Holiday Inn off of 283, and reserved a room. She packed, called Ellen Brouther to tell her she was leaving, and drove to the motel, gently berating herself for changing her plans and not returning immediately to New York.
But there was something about this man (and she realized that she did not even know his name, nor did he know hers) that held her. In the back of her mind lurked the thought that all those years of what she had suffered could not have been futile, even if her return to Tim Reardon's side had been. Perhaps she had returned for a different reason. Tim had been beyond her help, her compassion coming years too late, so perhaps her return had been for someone else, for some purpose she did not as yet understand. Like the ship Rachel, searching for her own lost children, had found instead only Ishmael, so perhaps she had come to repay Tim Reardon, but would instead reclaim the sad and lonely man she had rescued the night before.
They made further arrangements over the phone, and that evening he picked her up and drove her to a restaurant in Lansford. It was, she thought, like a first date should be—tentative, shy, probing, and fun for all that. At the bar of the Holiday they had a nightcap, and decided to see each other the next day as well, Jim offering to cook dinner. Alice agreed on the condition that she buy the food.
She came to his house the next afternoon with porterhouse steaks, two dozen fresh oysters, and an assortment of vegetables. They cooked, laughed, ate, and afterward drank just a little more than they needed to. Then she told him why she had come back to Merridale, told him about Tim Reardon and staying at the house, told him that she had been mentally on her way back to New York when she had met Jim and, because of him, had decided to stay for a while.
The teasing manner that had come on him with the drinking had slowly disappeared, and his face grew sober, almost stern. "Did you stay," he asked, "because you pity me?"
"No," she answered. "I don't pity you. I just think that we're very much alike."
"Why?"
She struggled to put it into words. "I lost someone. And because of that I felt bad, for too long a time, I guess. I think you've lost someone too, and I don't think it's your wife."
His jaw started to tremble, and he took his drink and drained it.
"If it's true," she went on, "if I'm right, that can't help.”
“Then what can?" he whispered harshly.
"I can . . .”
"I don't need pity."
" . . . and you can help me."
"How?"
"I'm not home yet by a long shot. I've been . . . caged up too long to get free right away. Last Friday night I thought I could, but I'm scared to go cold turkey. I thought I could because at that very moment everything was right and I felt free. But those times don't last, and every moment isn't perfect." She touched his cheek. "But I feel good with you, like I know what you're feeling and you know how I feel. There aren't many people who understand, who you can even talk to."
He smiled weakly. "You make us sound like a couple of emotional junkies."
"Maybe." She shook her head. "But we don't have to be."
They drifted into each other's arms as gently and easily as if a tide pushed them. Later neither remembered moving to the bedroom, undressing, and in the morning when they awoke, it all seemed right and natural, and the one's arms were the most comforting and peaceful haven the other had ever known.
And now they were together, and he had told her what he had not thought he would tell, and she kissed him, not saying a word, not having to, for he knew she understood. They lay pressed together for a long time, and made love once again before rising and remembering that it was Christmas Day. Later Alice Meadows drove back to the Holiday Inn, packed, checked out, and drove home.
To Merridale.
The Town II
This is the time of tension between dying and birth . . .
—T. S. Eliot, "Ash-Wednesday"
CHAPTER 23
Christmas came and went in Merridale much as it did every year. There were perhaps fewer trees put up, not as many strings of lights stretched across eaves and around porch posts, but there was caroling and gift giving and candlelight services in the churches. Cards were signed and sent, and turkeys were carved with nearly as much flair as in years before. For most, the initial horror had fled, and although they did not seek the revenants' presences, neither did they go as far out of their way to avoid them. The face of death, if not death itself, was slowly becoming a commonplace in Merridale.
The rest of the country looked at Merridale as relatives would at a terminally ill old uncle—too obvious to ignore, too frightening to think about for too long a time. Newsweek's end-of-year issue heralded Merridale as the year's top news story, calling it a puzzle that might never be solved, and running pictures of the town and one of Clyde Thornton. But most of the other magazines and nearly all other media ignored it. The attempted influx of sightseers had slowed to the point where several of the roadblocks were taken off of the rural roads.
Merridale did, however, become immortal in the lexicon of sick humor. Ads in the back pages of National Lampoon offered T-shirts with the legends "Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Glowing in Merridale" and "Merridale Is for Lovers (who just lay there)." Merridale jokes had a brief lifespan, demonstrating none of the staying power of Polish or elephant jokes. The problem seemed to be that what was happening in Merridale was too chillingly inexplicable for the world to laugh at or to even think about for long.
So Merridale was, in essence, expunged from the mass mind of the world. Had the world not so ignored it, humanity might have been better prepared for what ultimately came. But it was easier to look away.
~*~
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
Alice was writing too, working on a play she'd been promising herself to try for several years, a light, romantic comedy set in a small town in the thirties. She spent much of her time in the Merridale and Lansford public libraries researching for period color, and the rest of her time working on a draft of the first act.
She had called her agent a week after moving in with Jim, and had learned that a Pond's commercial she had appeared in had gone national. Residual checks totaling over $26,000 were being held for her. When he asked when she was returning to New York, she told him that she'd been having some long-standing personal problems that could only be dealt with by coming back to her old hometown, adding that they'd been nearly solved, but the experience had been traumatic enough that she needed a little more time to wind down. He tried to talk her into coming back immediately, but she gently refused. After she hung up, she realized that the money meant little to her. It would allow her to keep the rent paid on her New York apartment for as long as she chose to stay in Merridale and it assured her that she would not have to start sponging off of Jim. From the first day she was in his house on Sundale Road, she made it clear that she would share all expenses—mortgage payments, food, utilities, the works—and when Jim balked, she threatened to leave. That had made him agree quickly enough, and even a week later he grew pale at the thought of her leaving, when she told him of her agent's attempt to lure her back.
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