Face on the Wall

by Jane Langton

  “This guy who disappeared,” said the interviewer, “the handyman, who is he? Is he her lover?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Minnie carelessly. “Once there was Swann, then Burgess, then Jack, and now it’s O’Dougherty. She sort of goes from man to man.”

  Then old lover Jack turned up in person. To Mary Kelly’s astonishment, he appeared in the driveway one day, talking into a camera. She watched him expand with self-importance. He was eager to capitalize on his relationship with Annie. “She’s a little unstable, I’m afraid. A wonderful woman, of course, but seriously unstable.”

  Jack should have been more cautious. The interviewer had done his homework. “Is it true that the personal-liability insurance you sold to Anna Swann did not cover her liability, when the time came?”

  “Well, you have to understand, these things are difficult. An insurance company has its limits. We can’t exactly—”

  “Is not the Paul Revere Mutual Insurance Company notorious for refusing compensation until the claimant brings suit?”

  “Of course not,” blustered Jack.

  The legal owners of the house, Roberta and Robert Gast, were less forthcoming. They dodged from house to car in the morning, and from car to house in the evening, without saying a word.

  But at the offices of Pouch, Heaviside and Sprocket there were whispered conferences between Roberta and her boss, Dirk Sprocket, who was suggesting another lawsuit. This time the Swann woman would be sued for disturbing the peace of the neighborhood, for the severe emotional trauma endured by the Gast family, and for the mounting cost of the delay.

  “Oh, God, I don’t know,” said Roberta. Her face was drawn. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks. “I’m just so sick of the whole thing.”

  Only Charlene seemed strong in a crisis, buoyed by the vision of her indoor pool. She badgered her father. “Why don’t the police get her out? Why don’t you do something, Daddy?”

  Then, without asking permission, she called up the swimming-pool company. Delighted, they sent out an eager salesman. Charlene ran to the door to greet him, but he was pale and shaking. A couple of cameramen had swarmed up around his van, with its big logo—

  POOL AND PATIO

  RESIDENTIAL AND COMMERCIAL

  FREE DESIGN SERVICE

  Too late, the salesman identified his potential customers as the notorious Gast family of television fame. And when he learned that he had been summoned by a ten-year-old girl, he had an excuse to back out.

  “Get your father to call me,” he said, and hurried back to his van.

  But Bob Gast was not yet ready to order a swimming pool for his daughter. The heavy machinery that was at this moment heaving its way across the ninety-nine-acre property belonging to Frederick and Pearl Small in Southtown was costing him an arm and a leg. In his head, night and day, he heard the clattering roar of the bulldozer, the grinding smash of the concrete pulverizer, the whine of the excavator, and worst of all a high keen ringing that pierced through all the rest, arising from no single source, an unbearable shrill scream in the same frequency range as the cry of herring gulls, the screeching of blue jays. But all the birds had vanished from Small’s place in Southtown—except of course for the scavenging crows, ranging overhead, peering down, always on the lookout for something recently dead.

  “I don’t know, Charlene,” said Gast. “I just don’t know.”

  “But, Daddy,” complained Charlene, “you promised. And don’t forget what I said!”

  “Oh, God, Charlene,” groaned her father, sinking into a chair and putting his head in his hands, “you just don’t understand.”

  The tension of waiting for an end to the crisis was unbearable. Gast went to the chief of police, shoved his copy of the eviction order under his nose, and demanded, “Come on, get her out of there.”

  The chief had been watching television and reading the paper. He had no intention of becoming the villain in this drama. “Okay, okay,” he said, “I hear you.”

  “Well? Are you going to do something about it or not?”

  The chief bristled. His hair-trigger irascibility came to his aid. “Listen, friend, kindly do not tell me how to run my department. I’ve got to consult counsel. I’ve got to know what the hell I’m doing. The media, they’re savages. They’ll roast me alive and serve me up on a platter. No, no, you heard what I said.” The chief stood up. “I’ve got to consult town counsel.”

  As soon as Gast left, the chief did just that. Town counsel advised him to lie low.

  Chapter 50

  She told him that if he could reach the place where the end of the rainbow stands he would find there a golden key.

  George MacDonald, “The Golden Key”

  Ron was back. Homer had almost forgotten about the vacationing hardware-store clerk. But when he made another routine call to Biggy’s in West Concord, the clerk on the line yelled, “Hey, Ron, guy wants to talk to you.”

  “Hello?” said Ron.

  Homer almost dropped the phone. “Oh, Ron, is it really you? Listen, hold it, I’ll be right over.”

  It turned out that Ron was not a tanned Lothario who had spent his vacation in St. Martin on a nude beach. He was tanned, all right, but he was a pudgy sixtyish man who had stayed with an old buddy and spent all his time fishing for tuna.

  With trembling fingers Homer showed him Annie’s snapshot of the grinning Gasts—Robert, Roberta, Eddy, and Charlene.

  “Oh, sure,” said Ron, “I made keys for that guy. He wanted half a dozen of the same one. Didn’t trust me. Said half the time they didn’t work.”

  Exultant, Homer showed him Annie’s key. “Did the key you copied have a tag like this?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. That’s the one. He wanted keys, bought some tools.”

  “When, Ron, when was it?”

  “Oh, I dunno.” It was obvious that the ocean horizon of the Caribbean was still hazy and blue in Ron’s head, the outboard still loud in his ears, slamming his sportfisherman across the turquoise waters of the bay.

  Homer prompted him. “Do you remember the little kid who died in a fall? It was in the Concord Journal, a story about—”

  “Oh, right, the retarded boy. Sure, I remember.”

  “Well, was this before that? Do you remember whether you made the key before or after?”

  “Heck, no.”

  “Well, try,” said Homer, exasperated. “Try to remember.”

  Ron struck a pose of mock concentration, eyes crossed, finger to forehead. “Sorry, fella, it’s no use.”

  “Hey, Ron,” called the other clerk, “you got customers backed up.”

  “Just one more question. What kind of tools did he buy?”

  “God, I don’t remember. How many tools you think we sell every week?”

  Homer thanked him and drove away. It was raining. He was depressed. True, he had succeeded in finding out that Robert Cast had copied Annie’s key, but what good did that do? There was no law against copying somebody else’s key, and Gast could say it was merely a neighborly precaution. Suppose he saw smoke from Annie Swann’s part of the house, and she wasn’t home?

  At Annie’s fortified camp a few patient media people sat in their cars, waiting for something to happen. Surely another wrecking machine would roar up the driveway one of these days, accompanied this time by law enforcement. There’d be a confrontation, the Swann woman would be physically removed, her wall would be knocked down, her friends would do a lot of yelling, but then they would give up and go away, and the whole thing would be over.

  But so far nothing was happening. They were bored. The rain came down.

  Mary opened the gate in response to Homer’s shout. “Lunch, Homer? I made some really good liverwurst sandwiches.”

  From the door of Flimnap’s shelter Annie’s welcoming smile was a tense constriction of facial muscles. “Come on in, Uncle Homer. You’re getting soaked.”

  “Just a sec,” said Homer, mopping his dripping face. He walked acr
oss the muddy churned-up grass to Robert Gast’s fence and stared at it. The gate was padlocked. At one end the fence was attached to the house near the rip in the clap-boarded wall where Quincy Wrecking had severed the two parts of the house. At the other end the ground fell away into a thorny tangle.

  Oh, Jesus, he’d have to climb over in the middle. Homer shouted to Mary for a chair.

  She looked at him doubtfully. “Homer, what fool thing are you going to do now?” But she reached into the shelter and pulled out a folding chair.

  Homer took it, set it up beside the fence, and pushed its flimsy legs down into the rain-soaked dirt. Then he hoisted his six-foot-six-inch, 250-pound frame up onto the seat, wobbled left and right, and grabbed frantically for the tops of the fence-poles. Clinging to them uneasily, he explained, “I just want to take a peek into Bob Gast’s tool room. Oof!” Gasping, he threw one leg over the fence, lost his foothold on the chair, and slithered to the ground on the other side, landing in a muddy heap.

  Mary called, “Homer, are you all right?”

  “Umph,” said Homer, struggling to stand up.

  “Homer, dear, you’re trespassing. Come back.”

  “Just a goddamn minute.” Homer limped to the house and peered in the nearest window, holding his hands beside his eyes. His wet hair streamed into his face.

  He was looking directly into Gast’s workshop. It was neat as a pin. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place. A table saw and a drill press stood on the floor. Tools hung on a pegboard. Gast had used a marking pen to outline the hammer, the coping saw, the wire cutters, the wood saw, so that you could see exactly where to put them back. It was altogether admirable. Homer was envious. His own shop was a mess, with the tools heaped all over the workbench. He frowned, and hunched closer to the window.

  One tool lay on the bench, uncategorized, unorganized, unfitted into Gast’s perfect collection. There were no clever little supporting gadgets waiting for it on the pegboard. No black outline had been drawn around it, to show where it belonged.

  It was a sledgehammer. Even within the dimness of an un-lighted room on a rainy day Homer could see the price tag pasted on the handle. Instantly he made up a scenario—Gast had provided himself with a key and a sledgehammer at the West Concord hardware store. He had used the key to unlock Annie’s door. He had propelled Eddy inside and watched him climb the ladder, and then he had jerked on the scaffolding to make Eddy fall, and at last he had brought the sledgehammer down on Eddy’s tender skull.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Get off my property.”

  Homer looked around guiltily at Robert Gast, who was standing beside him in a raincoat and a child’s rainhat. “Sorry,” said Homer.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Gast, recognizing Annie’s interfering uncle. “I will thank you to leave my premises.”

  Homer made a gesture of total inadequacy and inability to cope, and stumbled away. Then something appeared miraculously on top of the fence, teetered there for a moment, and fell to the ground. Mary had divined his need. It was the folding chair.

  Chapter 51

  Judge Aufsesser, the father of Cissie Aufsesser, who had been blackmailed out of her camera by Charlene Gast, had not forgotten his daughter’s case. He had been unsuccessful in persuading Mrs. Rutledge to believe in Charlene’s perfidious behavior, and he had failed to convince the headmistress of Weston Country Day. But in the private-school system of Middlesex County there was a higher court, the Board of Independent Schools.

  At their next meeting he explained his grievance. “The trouble is, I’m still not satisfied with my daughter’s case. The child who oppressed her has not been made accountable. According to Cissie, she still tyrannizes the entire class. And her teacher backs her up at every turn.”

  The members of the Board were shocked. “You mean one ten-year-old child can dominate all the rest?” said Barbara Campoggio, whose son was a senior at Fenn School in Concord.

  “Precisely,” said the judge. “They’re too young to know what’s happening. They try out every kind of human social organization without realizing it—oligarchy, monarchy, dictatorship, sometimes carrying it to extreme lengths. Sometimes they even stumble on social equality.”

  “The question is, what are we going to do about it in this case?” said Dick Pringle, whose twin boys were sophomores at Concord Academy.

  The solution was obvious. They voted to call their next meeting at the school and confront the child herself, along with her parents. Judge Aufsesser would of course be present.

  “And we’ve got to do it soon,” cautioned Barbara Campoggio. “Don’t forget, the school year’s almost over.”

  “Charlene, dear,” said Mrs. Rutledge excitedly. “You’re wanted in the library.” She beamed at Charlene and accompanied her into the hall. “It’s the members of the Independent School Board, all three of them, along with Judge Aufsesser and your mother. It’s obviously some great honor. Not just for you, dear. For the whole school.”

  Charlene’s glasses flickered. She wasn’t as sure as Mrs. Rutledge that this was going to be a great honor for the school. The presence of Judge Aufsesser sounded ominous.

  When she came back, walking slowly into the classroom, she went straight to her seat without looking at Mrs. Rutledge. At once the teacher sent her a note—“Oh, Charlene, what did they say?”

  Charlene did not reply.

  By next morning she had worked out a plan of revenge, and she put it into practice at once. When Mrs. Rutledge called on her to read another chapter of The Flying Family, she said, “I’m feeling sort of tired, Mrs. Rutledge. Maybe Cissie could read instead.”

  The whole class turned to look at Cissie, who was flabbergasted. She wasn’t a very good reader. She took the book and did her best, stumbling over words, while the other kids kept saying, “Louder!”

  “‘Even though Bitsy was the baby of the family, she was soon flying as well as big sister Joan. “Come on, Bitsy,”’”—

  The next word was too hard. “‘Exclaimed,’” said Mrs. Rutledge impatiently.

  “‘… exclaimed Joan, helping her climb to the highest branch of the tree. “We’ll fly together. All right now, jump!” Bitsy and Joan jumped, and together they flew in circles around the house, side by side.

  “‘“Oh, look, Bitsy,” cried Joan. “See that fox down there? It’s caught a baby—a baby—”’”

  “Rabbit! All right, Cissie, that’s enough. We’ll read some more tomorrow. Outdoors now, everybody! The bell’s about to ring. Mrs. Kelly will be with you today on the playground.”

  Mary stood up from her desk at the back of the room and followed the fifth-grade girls outdoors. Standing beside the tall pole supporting the basketball net, she kept her eyes on Charlene Gast. What on earth was going on? Why was Charlene putting her arm around Cissie Aufsesser and whispering in her ear? Was she threatening her?

  “What did you say?” murmured Cissie, unable to believe her ears.

  “I said best friends,” said Charlene. “I want us to be best friends, Cissie.”

  At once Cissie forgot all that had gone before. She was overjoyed. “Oh, yes, Charlene, yes, yes!”

  Mary Kelly had been present in the library when Charlene was chastised by Judge Aufsesser and the Board of Independent Schools. She had been working at a desk between two sections of book stacks. She had at last beheld the great judge in person. She had heard everything that was said.

  Now, on the playground, she watched as Charlene took Cissie’s hand and whispered in her ear. She saw Cissie blush and smile and walk off with Charlene arm in arm.

  How strange. How very strange!

  “My grandmother, what big teeth you have!”

  “So that I can eat you up!”

  Charles Perrault, “Little Red Riding Hood”

  Chapter 52

  Homer’s class was still meeting in the Concord prison. Even though daily life had become increasingly insane, he attended faithfully, once a week.<
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  Jimmy and Ferris were gone. Ernest Beck with was new. He was enraged at the length of his sentence for selling hashish. “That judge,” said Ernest, “he didn’t like me none.”

  It was obvious to Homer that Ernest was right.. The judge had gloated over the opportunity to make him an example. He had brought down against him the full force of the mandatory minimum sentencing law. Ernest was in for twenty-one years, with no opportunity for parole. “Twenty-one years!” said Homer. “It’s barbaric.”

  As for Hank, he was now so angry about the lack of recompense for services rendered, he could hardly speak.

  “Wait a minute,” said Homer, “I can’t help you unless I know more about it. What were the services you rendered? What did you do that you were not paid for?”

  Hank shifted his angry glance down to his shoes and muttered something under his breath.

  “Well, what kind of work do you do, Hank I mean, on the outside?”

  “I’m an auto mechanic,” snarled Hank. “I was like fifteen when I started in my uncle’s garage. I got twenty-five years’ experience.”

  Homer tipped his chair back lazily. “Well, were you repairing somebody’s car? Was that it? The job you didn’t get paid for?”

  “Not repairing it,” burst out Hank, “not repairing it, for shit’s sake. The opposite of repairing it.” His eyes moved left to Gordie and Barkley, right to Fergie and Ernest. “I mean, this guy appears at my shop in this old heap and asks me to loosen the brakes, so it, like, wouldn’t have any brakes at all, so I says what for, and he says none of your goddamn business, so I figure he’s going to wreck it, claim it was an accident, get the insurance. But, shit, better not to ask what for, what the hell, so he drove it to my place and I did what he said, not much to it, he must be an ignoramus not to be able to do it himself, so then a tow truck come and took it away. He was supposed to pay me a goddamn thousand the next day, only I got picked up for dealing and they put me in here, lousy mandatory sentence, me and Emest and a lotta other guys gonna spend half our lives incarcerated, only the guy never paid me, he was gonna pay in cash, only he didn’t.”