Trick or Treat

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “You’re not Elizabeth,” Conor said, not unkindly. “Your life isn’t her life.”

  “No … hers is over.” Martha glanced up at him, then shrugged. “There’s so much I don’t understand. Blake and Wynn both say Dennis was a jerk. But Wynn says he really loved Elizabeth and wouldn’t have hurt her.”

  Conor toyed with his cup, the handle going back and forth between his fingers. “So how would Wynn know?”

  “I was thinking about that,” Martha said. “Wynn probably knew him better than most people ’cause she was Elizabeth’s best friend, and best friends tell each other everything. Elizabeth probably told her lots about Dennis.”

  “And Blake probably spent just as much time with him at school. They had classes together, and they were teammates.”

  “Blake said Dennis was a dirty player.”

  “He was an ace player. They both were. Every article I came across when I checked out the newspapers that day couldn’t say enough about the two of them. They were the top scorers. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were top rivals, too.”

  Martha nodded glumly. “And then Elizabeth started going out with Blake after she and Dennis broke up.”

  “You didn’t tell me that yesterday.”

  “I guess I forgot.”

  Conor glanced at her, the eyebrow lifting again. “Eat your cereal. I’ll go fish out the car.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Probably. It rained all night, and it hasn’t stopped yet.”

  “Great,” Martha mumbled, “it matches my mood.”

  The day dragged on relentlessly. Walking down the halls was pure torture — she was sure she could see fear and Elizabeth Bedford written in everyone’s eyes. She had quizzes in three classes that she wasn’t prepared for, and when Greg questioned her on a reading assignment, she realized she’d studied the wrong chapters. In between she managed to knock over a bottle of hand lotion in her locker, spotting most of her books with grease. When she realized there were papers due in her last two classes that she hadn’t done, she leaned her head on her locker, feeling too hopeless to even cry, and never even noticed that Blake had come up beside her.

  “Hi.” He grinned. “You look like you could use a change of scene.”

  After the initial leap, Martha’s heart settled sickeningly in her stomach. She thought of what Wynn had told her about Blake and Elizabeth Bedford, and she concentrated on rearranging her locker. Well, it was nice while it lasted….

  “What’s the matter? Can’t stand to tear yourself away from this place?” He slid his hand beneath her elbow and bent close to her ear. “I have to pick up some stuff for Wynn’s decorating committee. Why don’t you cut class and come with me?”

  Martha felt shivers up her spine as his chin brushed the side of her face. “I can’t just not go to class — I —”

  Blake drew back, disappointed. “It’ll be a chance to show you some of the scenery — come on, who’s gonna know?”

  “Oh … I … I don’t know.”

  “Say you got sick.”

  “But Conor — he’ll be waiting after school —”

  “I’ll get a message to him. One of the secretaries owes me a favor.” He winked. “I’ll have you safe at home by the time Conor gets there. Cross my heart.”

  Martha looked into his eyes, his persuasive grin. “Well….”

  “What do I have to do, beg?” Blake laughed then, and the last of her defenses crumbled.

  “Okay.”

  “Great. Let me give the word to Terry, and I’ll meet you by the gate. Five minutes.”

  It was still raining when she went outside — a steady stream turning the world to a gray, soggy mess. Martha had scarcely reached the gate when Blake was beside her, shielding her head with a notebook as he guided her to a van. Within minutes they were warm and cozy, and Martha settled back, allowing herself a luxurious sigh.

  “Bad day?” Blake seemed genuinely concerned, and Martha gave a wry smile.

  “Bad day? Bad week, bad month … bad life.” She glanced away then, laughing to herself. “Sorry. I’m not very good company.” I’m not like Elizabeth….

  “Hey —” Blake leaned over, his fingers on her arm, “would I have kidnapped you if I believed that?”

  Martha half smiled. “Thanks for asking me to come.”

  “My pleasure.” Blake inclined his head, then fastened his eyes back on the road. “We’re going to Whitley — it’s about twenty miles. You’ll like it — nice old buildings, smaller than Bedford, so there’s more countryside. My grandparents used to have a farm there, but they sold it to my cousins before they died.”

  “Do you ever go back there to see it?”

  “Sure, that’s where we’re headed now. My mom goes every week to pick up vegetables they’re always canning for us.”

  “Ummra. I wish Sally would learn about good food.”

  “Who’s Sally?”

  “Oh. Conor’s mother.”

  “You like her?”

  “She’s okay. She’s an artist, and she’s kind of a slob most of the time. But I think her work must be pretty good — she’s in galleries in New York and places like that.”

  “No kidding. You guys really are famous.”

  “Hardly.” Martha looked out at the bleary trees and rain-beaten meadows. “My mother died two years ago,” she said softly. “She wasn’t at all like Sally.”

  Blake’s eyes fell upon her face, his smile sad. “I’m really sorry, Martha.”

  “Oh” — she waved him away, a laugh catching in her throat — “don’t be. Hey, I have a brand-new family now. Lucky me.”

  “You are lucky.” His voice sounded so serious that she glanced up in surprise. “Conor seems like someone you can depend on — believe me, that means a lot.” And before she could ask him what he meant, he broke into his carefree grin. “Hey, what’d I tell you? Smalltown, USA.”

  As the van began its descent into a narrow valley, Martha straightened in her seat to get a better view. A little village lay before them: roofs, chimney tops, and one white church spire all postcard-perfect through the veil of rain. Blake slowed to a crawl and began identifying things along the way — feedstore, market, post office, garage. Several old men in overalls, recognizing the car, gave lackadaisical waves, and Blake honked the horn in reply, swerving as a mangy dog took its time crossing in front of them.

  “Feel like you’re in a time warp?” Blake teased.

  “Actually it feels very nice.”

  “Good, I don’t want to bore you. Even if the decorating committee is counting on me.”

  “What are they decorating for?”

  “The Halloween dance.”

  At Martha’s questioning look, Blake struck his palm against his forehead in mock alarm. “What! At Bedford nearly a week and so uninformed!” He wagged an accusing finger at her. “You haven’t been reading the posters in the halls.”

  Martha’s mind raced. There had been something, she remembered now — some announcement about a dance, on big orange posters all over the school — but she hadn’t really paid much attention to them. Why should I? I won’t be going…. She glanced sheepishly at Blake. “I … sort of remember —”

  “Ah ha. Well, it’s Sunday night this year, and they’re giving us Monday off. The party’s an annual thing — probably the reason nobody thought to enlighten you.”

  Martha stared at him, something gelling in her memory. “A party … like the one last year?” The last time you saw Elizabeth alive….

  “Yes,” Blake said quietly. He didn’t look at her again until they were several more miles past town, and Martha felt the van slowing down. “This is it.” Blake hopped out to unfasten a gate blocking a dirt road, and presently they pulled up in front of a farmhouse.

  “Are you sure we should drop in like this?” Martha asked anxiously, but Blake was already opening her door.

  “Oh, there’s nobody home — they’re in the city today. Come on.” He took her hand and t
hey ran across a muddy stretch of yard to a huge barn.

  The warm, dusty interior felt wonderful after their dash through the rain. As Martha squeezed water from her hair, Blake pulled some blankets from a stall and tucked one around her shoulders, using one frayed corner to wipe raindrops from her cheek. Martha looked away, flustered.

  “Hope you’re not susceptible to pneumonia,” Blake teased. “I’m drenched.” He walked off a short distance and shrugged out of his jacket. “See up there?”

  Martha looked where he pointed and saw a high, open loft heaped with mounds of hay.

  “We used to have contests — Greg and I. We’d jump off and see who could land the farthest away.”

  “You could have killed yourselves.”

  “You’re right,” he chuckled. “And Wynn always told on us. Come on —” Before Martha could protest, he took her hand and started up the ladder.

  “Blake — what are you —?”

  “Relax,” he laughed. “I want you to see the view. I used to think I was on top of the world up here.”

  The blanket fell from her shoulders as she grasped the ladder and started up. As her head cleared the platform, she saw Blake wrestling with the doors, a fine spray of wind wetting his face as he stood looking out at the sodden landscape.

  “Here” — he motioned her close and swept one arm out in front of him — “see that? There were even fewer houses over there when we were kids. You could see for miles and miles, and it was only fields.”

  Martha stood beside him, shivering in the piercing dampness. The town and valley lay at their feet — a checkerboard of dark green and rusty brown and gold, the hills muted, the bare woodlands swathed in gray.

  “Cold?” In spite of her efforts to hide it, Blake noticed her shaking and promptly shut the doors.

  “Oh, don’t do that — I —”

  “No, it’s cozier this way.” He grinned and threw himself down on the hay, making a place beside him. “There’s room for one more.”

  Martha hesitated, and Blake’s smile widened. He lay back, head pillowed on his arms, and Martha gave in and sat down. Overhead the rain had settled to a gentle rhythm, and a sudden growl of thunder faded miles and miles away.

  “Does it make you sad?” Martha stole a look at him. “Having things change. Thinking maybe someday you might have to leave this?”

  “Are you kidding? I want to leave it. I can’t wait to leave it.”

  Martha leaned back, regarding him in astonishment. “But I thought — you said —”

  “I know, and sure, I love this place. But what kind of future would I have if I stuck around here?” His laugh was almost an afterthought. “I wouldn’t stand a chance in hell of ever being anything.”

  Martha studied him a moment, the grim lines that had formed suddenly around his mouth, the flash of anger in his eyes. “What kind of anything?” she asked gently.

  The hard look vanished, replaced almost immediately by a fierce gleam of hope. “Do you know how close I am to a basketball scholarship? So close I can taste it, Martha. I’ve got the reputation and the grades — and I hear it’s a pretty sure thing.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “A sure thing….”

  Martha looked down at her fingers clasped tightly in her lap. The silence was long before Blake spoke again.

  “You think I’m selfish for wanting it so bad, don’t you? But you don’t know how it is here … how people are just waiting for you to fail and be stuck here like them for the rest of your life. God, I’d do anything to get away.” He turned his head so that his eyes rested full on her face. They looked deep and sad. “Basketball’s my ticket out of here, Martha. It’s what I really want. What I really want to do. To be.” She couldn’t look away from that urgent stare, and suddenly his hand was on her arm, his fingers sliding up under her sleeve. “I … uh … don’t usually go around making true confessions to everyone I meet.” His laugh was embarrassed, but Martha gave him a reassuring smile.

  “And I don’t pass on true confessions, so you don’t need to worry.”

  His hand tightened on her wrist. Slowly he drew her down so that their faces were only inches apart.

  “You’re really something,” he said quietly, and there was only the soft patter of rain and the soft flutter of birds high in the rafters….

  And Blake’s lips, soft … soft upon hers….

  “Don’t,” Martha murmured, and her hand pushed weakly against his chest, her eyes hurt and confused. “Why didn’t you tell me I remind you of Elizabeth?”

  Blake looked like he’d been struck. For an endless moment he gazed down at her, his eyes growing as hurt as her own. “Elizabeth?” He could hardly get the word out. “You? Remind me of her? Damn!” He didn’t mean to push her away so roughly, but Martha sprawled back on her elbows. “Why in the hell would you ever think that?”

  Martha rubbed her wrist where his fingers had left a mark. “Maybe we’d better just pick up those decorations and —”

  “No. Not until we talk about this.” Blake looked off, shaking his head slowly. “I admit, that first time I saw you in the store, you sorta looked like her from the back….” He glanced at her reprovingly. “But it never went any farther than that.”

  Martha was acutely aware of his closeness now … his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head so he could look at her.

  “I liked you the first time I saw you, Martha. You were so honest and open … so cute … and I felt like I really wanted to get to know you better.”

  Martha felt the color rise in her cheeks at his intense scrutiny. “You … you never told me you were serious about her.”

  His head moved slightly. “We were close for a while. That’s all. It didn’t seem important enough to tell you. And anyway, it’s in the past. It has nothing to do with you and me … now.”

  His lips closed over hers. Martha caught her breath as his body pressed her gently down in the hay. He was so strong, yet so tender … and after an endless kiss, he looked down at her and smiled.

  “I guess I’d better get you back. I don’t want your brother calling out the troops.”

  “Stepbrother,” Martha murmured. “And he won’t even know I’m gone.” The last thing she wanted to think about right now was Conor and the house … the last thing she ever wanted to do was leave this warm, blissful haven and Blake’s arms.

  Blake glanced at his watch and groaned. “Just my luck, he probably has a black belt in karate — the one thing I can’t do.”

  Martha came slowly back to reality. Blake’s body still pinned her lazily to the floor, and she could still feel his kiss upon her lips. “If I had to guess,” she said breathlessly, “I’d say Conor’s a total pacifist.”

  “If you had to guess?” Blake teased. “You mean you still don’t know anything about him?”

  Martha shrugged, impatient to change the bothersome topic. “Don’t you have some decorations to pick up?”

  “Is that what I came for?” Blake asked innocently, then gave her a slow grin. “And you’re getting kind of bossy, aren’t you? Ordering me around?”

  “No — I only meant —” Martha squealed as Blake began tickling her, and as he finally gave in to her pleadings, he hopped up with a laugh, pulling her to her feet.

  “The stuff’s probably out in the shed, but I didn’t bring you along to work, you know. Why don’t you wait in the van? It’ll be warmer.”

  Martha gave him a push, but he righted himself easily, looking pleased with himself. “Maybe I will. You deserve to slave out there all by yourself.”

  But work went faster with two, and after Blake pulled the van up to the shed, they lugged bales of straw, bundles of cornstalks, and dozens of pumpkins and tossed them into the back. By the time they were finally finished, Martha thought her arms would fall off.

  Darkness was sifting down as they wound their way back towards the village. Martha leaned against the window, not really paying attention to the scenery, until something in a nearby field caught he
r eye. She hadn’t noticed the little cemetery on their way to the farm; now in the gathering dusk it looked almost like a mirage.

  “Has that cemetery been here a long time?” she asked, straightening to see out the window.

  Blake followed the point of her finger and nodded. “It’s used for both towns. Whitley was originally part of the Bedford estate till the family had to start parceling off the land. Everyone’s buried here now — even the family.”

  “Then what about the one behind our house?” Martha asked. “I thought the Bedfords were all there.”

  “That’s the old family and their servants. We’re talking eighteen hundreds. The town talked about moving them here, but that old family crypt is kind of intimidating to a lot of people. They finally decided to let the old Bedfords rest in peace.”

  “So….” Martha hesitated, not wanting to bring up the past again, but somehow, needing to know. “So … Elizabeth —”

  “Yes, she’s buried here.” Blake’s expression was very controlled. He glanced again at the cemetery in his rearview mirrow. “Dennis, too.”

  “Dennis? But I thought —”

  “They put up a marker for him,” Blake said scornfully. “In his memory. As if anyone would want to remember him.…”

  For several miles they rode in silence. Martha chanced a look at Blake’s face, and it was stony and strangely cold. When he mumbled something under his breath, it was so quiet that at first she didn’t even hear him.

  “They want him to be dead,” he said again, and Martha looked over with a start. “Everybody wants him to be dead. Including me.” Blake’s hands tightened on the wheel, and when he looked back at her, his eyes were dark with an emotion Martha couldn’t read.

  “But … he is dead,” she whispered.

  And Blake shook his head, his voice suddenly sad. “But they never found him, Martha. What … what if — somewhere — Dennis is still alive?”

  Chapter 10