When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  “What about the diary?” she asked, interrupting me.

  “Take it up to my room. We’ll read it after dinner.”

  “What shall I do with this?” She indicated the gun.

  “Give it to me,” I said.

  I thought this was all taking on elements of a farce. Missing jewels, secret diaries, a violent rain storm, slamming doors, footsteps—it was too much to assimilate all at once. We would feel much better after a good meal. I took the gun from Billie, handed her the diary and prodded her towards the door. I could hear her footsteps clattering down the hall and up the staircase.

  I walked over to one of the French windows and pushed back the drapes. I looked out at the gardens, barely visible through the swirling gray mass of rain. Great drops of rain slid over the smooth surface of the window panes, merging into intricate wet patterns. I touched the glass. It was icy cold. I shut my eyes and felt the huge old house closing in on me. I wanted to run. I had come into this of my own volition, but it was too big now, too horrifying.

  What had seemed simple and clear-cut had become a maze of confusion. I was trapped in that maze. There are too many elements at work, and I was unable to sort them all out. I had understood, or thought I understood, before, but now I was lost. I had the feeling that there was something terribly important, something urgent that I should know, something I had seen or heard that would provide the key to all this, but I couldn’t remember. I wandered in the maze, searching, and that something urgent was just ahead, just out of sight, taunting me.

  Remember, remember, my mind said. You saw, you heard, you knew. It was right there … the key. The answer. Something.…

  I released the drapery. It dropped back in place. I straightened up, throwing my shoulders back, shaking my head slightly. The thing I must do now was maintain calm, stay cool, keep all my senses alert. The time to run had passed. I could not give way to nerves. I couldn’t acknowledge the fear that threatened to stymie me. I must keep going. I must cook dinner. I must eat. I must relax. Later. I could think this all out and try to recall whatever it was that plagued me.

  The kitchen was in the back part of the house. I walked down the main hall, turned a corner and walked down a smaller hall. It was narrow, the ceiling low, the brown and blue paper peeling from the walls, and I could barely see. The few windows were set high up and little light penetrated. There was an unpleasant sour smell that mingled with the odors of dust and mildewing paper. My footsteps on the bare wooden floor echoed all around me, and it would have been easy to fancy that someone was following me. I glanced over my shoulder. There was nothing behind me but an empty hall, illuminated now by a sudden flash of lightning.

  I stepped into the kitchen. It was a large room with dark green walls and a floor covered with brown linoleum. Huge cabinets towered to the ceiling, and pots and pans hung on the wall space not dominated by cabinets. A crude wooden table with chairs to match stood in the middle of the room. I saw Boyd’s yellow mackintosh draped over one of the chairs, a bright spot of color in the dark ugly room. Boyd had just finished lighting the stove. He stood leaning against the zinc drainboard. The big gas stove roared. It was almost as loud as the rain pounding on the roof.

  “You are cautious, aren’t you?” he said.

  “What?”

  “The gun,” he retorted.

  “Oh?” I had hardly been aware of carrying it. I put it on the drainboard and shivered.

  “Are you frightened?” Boyd asked.

  “I don’t really know. I suppose—yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Burt Reed didn’t murder Henrietta.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Almost. The doctor said—” I hesitated. It would be better to keep that to myself.

  “He was here for quite a long time, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes he was. He’s going to come back tonight. He’s going to stay here with us. Just—just to make sure.”

  “He doesn’t think I’m protection enough?”

  “It’s not that—”

  Boyd smiled, understanding. He moved so that I could get some things out of the cabinet behind him. I put a pot of coffee on the stove, opened a large can of oyster stew and began to slice ham and cheese. I took a red linen tablecloth out of one of the drawers and spread it over the table. It was the color of blood, the material coarse. I stared at it for a moment, a lovely white cloth soaked in blood, in blood, and I shook my head. What was happening to me? I took down the dishes, brown earthenware with golden daisies painted around the rims of the saucers and plates. I dropped one of the cups. It shattered noisily.

  “You’re nervous,” Boyd said.

  “It’s this rain. The noise, the isolation.”

  “I’m here,” he said quietly. “You have nothing to fear.”

  “I know it’s silly. I know I’m acting like a child.”

  “Relax,” he said.

  “Shall I set the table for three?”

  “I had a sandwich in the apartment. I’m not hungry.”

  “Good. I mean—”

  “Relax, Emmalynn. You don’t have to talk. Just ignore me.”

  “You—you’re rather hard to ignore,” I said.

  “Am I?”

  “You know you are. Why—”

  “Why what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You remember, don’t you?”

  “Remember what?”

  “Us. You and me. I sense it. That’s why you’re so nervous. You’ve begun to remember—that’s why you’re so uneasy, why you dropped the cup. You couldn’t really forget, Emmalynn, not completely. That night on the beach when you poured your heart out to me.”

  “I can’t visualize myself doing that.”

  “You did. Believe me.”

  “I remember nothing,” I said stiffly.

  “When were you last in this kitchen?” he asked abruptly.

  “This morning. We had breakfast here.”

  “Oh—that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” I inquired.

  “Why you’re so familiar with the room. You seem to know exactly where everything is—the dishes, the tablecloth, the knives. You didn’t have to stop and hunt for anything.”

  “We examined all the drawers and cabinets this morning.”

  “I see. For a moment there I thought—” He paused.

  “What did you think, Boyd?”

  “I thought it had all come back.”

  I was slicing a loaf of French bread. I didn’t answer at first. I put the knife aside and piled the bread on one of the earthenware plates. I set the plate on the table, checked to see that the stew was boiling, and then I met his eyes with my own.

  “It is coming back,” I said calmly. “Little by little, bit by bit. I—I’m letting it come back. Before I tried too hard. The memory is part of me, in me, but when I make an effort to reach for it, it evades me. I was afraid of it before, but I’m no longer afraid. I want to remember and I’ve stopped fighting it. The fog is lifting, slowly, of its own volition, and things are taking shape.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “Being here—just being here helps. Last night I had a dream. I saw the murder. I saw her going down the hall to answer the door. I saw the axe. It was real.”

  “And the murderer? Did you see him?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He stared at me with questioning eyes.

  “A dark shadow, standing there in the shadows of the porch. I couldn’t tell who he was, but I saw him.”

  “Maybe next time you’ll be able to identify him,” Boyd said quietly.

  “Perhaps. Doctor Clarkson thinks so.”

  “This must all be a great strain on you, Emmalynn.”

  “It is. I won’t try to pretend it isn’t.”

  “Why are you doing it? Why are you torturing yourself this way?”

  “It’s something I have to do.”

  “A duty to the dead?”

  “You might call
it that,” I replied.

  “I’m afraid I’d call it something else—fear, repression, stupidity, one of those words, maybe all of them. You’re afraid of yourself, and you hide behind ‘duty,’ an empty word. You did then. You do now. You’re missing life—the life you were meant for—and that’s stupid.”

  “You seem to know quite a lot about me,” I said frostily.

  “I do, Emmalynn. I understand you. I may be the only person who has ever really understood you. I know what you want, and I know what you’re afraid of.”

  “What do I want?” I asked.

  “Me,” he said simply.

  “And what am I afraid of?”

  “Me—and you.”

  I didn’t laugh. I knew that would have been disastrous. I didn’t meet his stare either. I turned my attention to the stew. It was boiling over, filling the air with a delicious aroma. I turned the burner off and poured the stew into two brown bowls. I set the bowls on the table, took out two blood red linen napkins and laid them beside the bowls. Boyd watched me, a petulant curl on his lips.

  Everything was ready. I wished Billie would come on down. I felt uneasy in this dark room with this strange man hovering about. The rain had stopped. There was merely a splattering sound as water dripped from eaves. Now that the stove was off there was a heavy silence that was emphasized by the intermittent drip, drip from outside. I poured coffee into the cups. I straightened the silverware and smoothed the blood red tablecloth, and then there was nothing else to do, no other way to fill the long minutes. I had to meet those level blue eyes that studied me so calmly.

  “Come away with me,” he said. His voice was low.

  “Now?”

  “Now. Tonight.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you want to,” he said. “You want to,” he repeated.

  “You actually believe that?” I asked lightly.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Incredible, I thought.

  I smiled wryly. “I’m a good girl, Boyd. Surprisingly enough, there are a few of us left. I don’t go away with men, whether I want to or not. It isn’t my style.”

  “You think it isn’t,” he replied.

  He stood there with his arms folded across his chest, the drying hair springing into tight blond-tipped curls, his expression petulant. I wanted to laugh, truly. It would have cleared the air and released the tension I felt. I wanted to tell him he was foolish, absurd, a shop girl’s romantic dream materialized, a thing of cardboard and pulp fiction suddenly endowed with flesh and blood, but I knew that he was serious. He took himself seriously, and that was the most amazing thing of all.

  “I’m not rich,” I said. “I’m a working girl. I didn’t inherit anything but a broken down old house.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Everything, it would seem. I can’t afford you, Boyd. I don’t know why you thought I could, but I wanted to set the record straight. I’m not good pickings—is that the correct expression?”

  “I want you,” he said.

  “I’d like to believe I could inspire a grand passion,” I said. “Really I would, but I’m hardly that naive. I was never in love with you, Boyd, and you were never in love with me. There was nothing between us, nothing whatsoever.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I sense it.”

  “You’re deceiving yourself. There was—”

  “Besides, Henrietta would never have allowed it.”

  “Emmalynn, I’ve asked you to come away with me.”

  “Yes. I’m still trying to puzzle that out.”

  “I want to take you away from all this.”

  “That’s the second offer I’ve had today,” I replied, keeping it airy. “It makes a girl feel good. Gordon made a similar offer, though his approach was a bit more direct.”

  “You said yourself you didn’t believe Burt Reed murdered Henrietta. If that’s true, then you’re in danger. I want to get you away, before—” He hesitated, his brow creased.

  “Before?” I prompted.

  “Before it’s too late.”

  “I see. I’m the damsel in distress, and you want to be the hero and rescue me. Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? Really, Boyd, you’ve been reading far too many paperbacks.”

  “Emmalynn—” he implored.

  “Get real, Boyd,” I said, not unkindly.

  “The offer was sincere. I meant it. I won’t make it again. A man has his pride.”

  “Oh?” I said. The word was a spear thrust.

  “I guess I’d better go,” he retorted. “You don’t need me.”

  “Well, actually, I don’t, now that you mention it. Doctor Clarkson is coming, you see, and—”

  “I’ll go!” he said sharply.

  “What do I owe you?” I inquired sweetly.

  “Not a thing. Not a damn thing!”

  “At least let me give you a ride to town.”

  “I’ll walk,” he snapped.

  “Boyd,” I said quietly. “This is all really unnecessary, you know. Be reasonable.”

  “I know where I stand,” he said, the outraged male.

  He was like a moody child determined to have his way. I decided to let him indulge in drama, walk and be damned. The whole exchange had been absurd, divorced from reality. I wished he were able to see the absurdity of it and laugh as I longed to do, but he was intense and male and his ego had been wounded. I shrugged my shoulders, sorry, but too stubborn to try to reason with him any longer. His jaw was thrust out, his lower lip curled, the blond-tipped curls spilling over his tanned forehead. He slowly moved from his leaning position and let his hand come to rest on his thighs. He spoke in a cool, calm voice.

  “I hope you don’t regret this, Emmalynn.”

  “I hope so, too, Boyd,” I replied, bored with it now.

  Billie came tripping into the kitchen. Her high heels clattered on the hard brown linoleum. She had changed into a tight waisted jade green dress with a short full skirt and enormous puffed sleeves. Her tawny gold hair swung free, spilling over her shoulders. “Food!” she cried. “I’m ravenous! These people who’re always threatening to eat a horse—I won’t say I’d go that far, but right now I understand the feeling behind the expression.” She noticed Boyd standing by the drainboard. She gave him a little wave. “You’re going to dine with us? Wonderful! I’m glad I changed.”

  Boyd stepped briskly across the room and seized his mackintosh up from the chair. He swirled it in the air like a matador’s cape and slung it over his shoulder, and then he stalked out of the room. We heard the explosion of noise as he slammed the back door in fury. Billie looked at me, her lips parted, one brow arched inquisitively.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Oh, Billie, I was so ugly to him, really, and I didn’t intend to be. He was so incredibly absurd I couldn’t resist it. Like sticking pins in balloons—you know?”

  “Actually I do. But you?”

  “I couldn’t help it. He was so obviously faking it—thinking I would drop everything and run away with him because of his pretty muscles and big blue eyes. He wants to get me away from here. I don’t know why. He wants me to leave—tonight. It can’t just be concern for my welfare—”

  “Curious,” she said.

  “He’s leaving. Now. He intends to walk to town.”

  “Walk? But that’s preposterous.”

  “I know it is. I offered to drive him, but—”

  “Oh well, the exercise will be good for him.”

  Billie arranged her lanky body on one of the chairs and put her elbows on the table, extremely philosophical about the whole thing. I wished it were that easy for me to pass it off. I felt remorseful, genuinely sorry I had wounded him and thoroughly perplexed over his reaction. I knew I was going to worry about it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WE WERE silent. We had finished di
nner and were still sitting at the table. There was something sinister about the large, dark kitchen. The rain still dripped outside, and there was an occasional rumble of thunder, far away, receding. I was actively fighting depression, and even Billie had lost her sparkling vivacity. Now that Boyd had gone we were completely alone, and it was not a pleasant sensation. The gigantic old house was still silent, and it seemed to be waiting for an opportunity to swallow us up. I tried not to think of all those dark dusty rooms and the long narrow corridors thronging with shadows and soft noises, but I didn’t seem to be able to think of anything else.

  “Hitchcock would love this place,” Billie said.

  “Wouldn’t he? Did you see Psycho?”

  “Unfortunately. Three times.”

  “I wonder if Boyd has really gone?” I said.

  “I wonder when Doctor Clarkson is going to be here,” she retorted. “I am not really a coward, but—” She reached across the table and took hold of my hand. Her face paled. I was startled and started to ask her what was wrong, then I heard the noise too. It was coming from the front part of the house, a frantic pounding noise.

  “What—” Billie began.

  “Someone is pounding on the front door.”

  “But who?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” I said sharply. “Come on.”

  We left the kitchen and hurried down the narrow halls. I led the way, and Billie followed close behind me. The halls were dark. Barely enough light leaked through the windows to prevent us from bumping into corners. I wished I. had thought to bring one of the lamps. I wished I had thought to bring the gun, too. It was still in the kitchen, on the drainboard. The pounding continued. It echoed curiously along the halls, repeating itself over and over, loud, then a few yards from the huge front door. The pounding had stopped, abruptly. I had the strange sensation that it had never happened, that we had imagined the noise.

  “You’re not going to open that door, are you?” Billie whispered, her voice hoarse.

  “I don’t know—”

  “I wouldn’t,” she said firmly.

  We stood staring at the door, Billie’s hand gripping my own. Although the pounding had ceased, I could sense a presence behind the door. It was an acute sensation. I could feel someone standing, waiting, listening. I could almost hear a panting noise, but I knew that must be my imagination. There was another sound, almost like a whimper, and that was all too real. I felt cold chills crawling over my skin. Billie gripped my hand so tightly that I thought my fingers would break. I pulled my hand free and stepped towards the door.