Searchers After Horror

by S. T. Joshi

  Elaine pointed a grubby finger. “Is that Aunt Miranda?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you going to say hello, and kiss her?”

  The idea was obviously as displeasing to Miranda as to Elaine, but Edna’s voice was a command. The aunt stooped, and the child pressed her sticky lips against a faded-tan velvet cheek, leaving a chocolate mark. She pointed ecstatically to it.

  “Look! I left some lipstick!”

  “Carry your Aunt Miranda’s bag up to the porch, Junior. Then you can go. Ralph, don’t you see that Randy’s holding a heavy basket?” But Miranda would not surrender its handle to Ralph. “Well, Randy!” The sisters kissed, and Edna stepped back, her eyes appraising her sister. “Well, you don’t seem to have changed very much!” By jerking her shoulder toward the house, she achieved the effect of a pointing hand. “Let’s go into the house, shall we?” They started up the front steps. “Elaine! Get away from under my feet, or I’ll step on you!” Ralph remained behind to pay the cab driver.

  Late sunlight lay among blue shadows like an unfinished gold-leaf project on slate. Miranda eyed the grass-choked flowerbeds, roses badly in need of pruning, and the stripes of tall grass which Junior’s hurrying lawn mower had missed. “You have a very pretty yard,” she said. Her look strayed into the vacant lot and caressed the spreading oak. “What a beautiful tree!”

  The oak was a ponderous giant which seemed to be crouching, ineffably sad, as though its friends had deserted it, leaving it to brood, huddled and forlorn. Its leaves were still; then they twinkled in the sunlight as a breeze pressed against the branches, dipping them down and flinging them upward like hands waving a welcome.

  As Edna started into the house, Elaine surprised her by holding open the screen door. The party entered a dim hall cluttered with heaped tennis rackets, baseball paraphernalia, small wagons, dolls, and upset doll buggies, resembling a battlefield’s wreckage.

  Edna toyed with the brooch at her throat. “When Ralph told me what time your train was due, I knew it’d be no use waiting your dinner for you. But I have a nice snack ready for you in the kitchen. We can talk a little while you eat, and then afterward you can go and see what you think of your new home.”

  They stepped over the strewn toys, into the grimy-walled kitchen. Water dripped rhythmically into dishes piled high in the sink.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am—” Miranda murmured, near tears, sitting on the chair at which her sister pointed.

  Edna lifted a soiled tablecloth from a spread of dishes on the table, and dropped the cloth carelessly over the back of another chair. She jerked open the icebox door and slammed down a cream pitcher, a bowl of salad, a wax-paper twist containing minced ham.

  “I’m worried about being an expense to you—” Miranda began.

  Edna slammed the icebox door. “Expense!” She sniffed grandly, resembling a Pekingese. “Don’t you worry about the money side of things!” She was striving to sound sisterly and reassuring, and was embarrassed, as she told Miranda to start eating, by forgetting to alter her tone.

  “I was hoping you’d let me care for the children and help with the house work,” Miranda offered. “I want to feel that I’m earning at least part of my keep—”

  Edna poured tea. “Well, of course, I knew you’d want to help, so I planned it so you could.” Ralph entered, Elaine behind him. “You sit there, Ralph.”

  “Mama—” Elaine hurtled against the table, laid dirty fingers on the cloth, her eyes round at the food. “Mama! Can I have something to eat, too?”

  “No, Elaine,” Edna said severely. “Run along now and don’t bother us. We’ve got grown-up things to discuss.”

  Elaine’s expression dulled. She whirled away resentfully from the table. Her eyes struck Miranda’s wicker basket, on the floor in a corner. She squatted down beside it and lifted a corner of its newspaper covering. “What’s in here? Did you bring a present for me?”

  Miranda quickly lowered her teacup, left the table, and fluttered to the child. “Oh, do please be careful! They’re the plants I brought along.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “I held them on my lap all the while I was on the train, so that nothing would hurt them. See?” She kneeled, removing the newspaper as reverently as a madonna unveiling her child, disclosing half a dozen potted shrubs. She lifted her eyes to Ralph and Edna. “I gave away all the rest that I had, but I simply couldn’t bear to part with these. Aren’t they beautiful?” Her face was radiant with shy pride.

  Elaine’s finger jabbed a tender sprout. “What’s this?”

  Miranda’s face lost its joy. “That’s a slip from Mother’s grave—an azalea, her favorite flower.” She was almost whispering. Ralph was regarding her steadily, seeing her as she had been in the past, and her vision interlaced with his, sharing the memory. Edna watched them suspiciously.

  Their attention was not on Elaine, who pushed her face down, touching the plants, sniffing at them. A shoot snapped off. She jerked up her face in dismay, but no one had noticed, so she pressed the end of the sprout into the dirt to hide the damage. She arose. “I guess I better be going. Goodbye!”

  Edna was guiding her sister up into the attic. “Here, now. Here we are. Take hold of my hand until I find the light switch. There! Now we go up these stairs. You have no idea of how really comfortable it’s going to be—”

  They blundered through a doorway. Edna pressed another light-button. The little room was semi-visible under a feeble light around which a moth gyrated.

  “I’ll get you another bulb. This one’s in just temporarily. Elaine’s been using this for a playroom, and there’s no sense wasting light,” Edna remarked, her eyes vigilant on Miranda’s face for signs of opposition.

  The pink roses of the wallpaper had faded to rusty grey, and Elaine had personalized portions of the wall with crayon scribbles.

  “It’s very pleasant, Edna,” Miranda said. “Why, this bedspread! I remember helping Mother sew on it. She gave it to you—how long was it? About fifteen years ago, and you’re still able to get some use from it.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing wonderful,” Edna assured, “but at least it’s better than—well, I guess you’ll find it’s all right.”

  Miranda fingered the dusty window-sill. “Perhaps I could put up a little shelf here for my plants? I simply couldn’t bear not having them near me— they’re like old friends.” She smiled gently, as if sharing a sweet secret. “What a lovely view there must be out through this window! I can look down and see that beautiful oak every morning when I awake.” She turned and laid her thin hands on Edna’s shoulders, “Oh, thank you, dear, for this room!”

  Edna looked apprehensively at the hands, then shrugged carelessly to indicate that thanks were not expected and to shake away the sentiment of Miranda’s fingers. She threw a last took

  around her, nodded with satisfaction, and ambled to the door.

  “Of course it’ll be better, later on,” she said. “Ralph’s going to do some more fixing on it. He hasn’t had much time lately to make any improvements on the house.”

  She paused, her mouth lifting slightly. “Funny! As soon as Ralph heard that you were actually going to come, he became all entangled in his lodge work. You’d almost think that he was trying to avoid being home! I hope it’s not because he dislikes you.” She ran a tongue appreciatively over her lips. “I ought to warn you, Randy, he’s a mighty peculiar fellow. Sometimes I wonder why on earth I ever married him!”

  “Oh, but he was very sweet to me in the car!” Miranda exclaimed, and Edna’s gloating oiliness vanished. “He seemed just as sympathetic and kind as he ever was!”

  “Well—” Edna endeavored to radiate amiability, “I hope that you and he will manage to get along. You can find your way down to the bathroom if you need it, can’t you?” She gave directions. “I’ve got to go now. I’ve some letters to dash off— they keep piling up on me so! I never have any time for myself at all,
any more!”

  She stopped at the door as though she had just remembered something. “Oh, say! Tomorrow I’m going over to the P. T. A. meeting at Junior’s school. Would you kind of look after the place while I’m gone? You can answer the phone, and bring in the mail, and see that things-in-general are all right. There’s a raft of dirty dishes in the sink, but I’ll wash them tonight if I’m not too tired—”

  “No! Let me!” Miranda’s hands fluttered as she stretched them out in her eagerness.

  “And I think you ought to put those plants of yours out on the back porch. You might spill water, carrying it up to sprinkle on them.”

  Miranda did not object, but her eyes were pained. Nevertheless she put out her hands timidly and lovingly to her sister. “Don’t do the dishes, Edna. As soon as I’ve changed my dress, I’ll be down to do them. I don’t mind at all, really. I want to be of help.”

  “Well, if you really want to—” Edna said, barely concealing her relief. “Be careful when you come down. The stairs are steep.”

  As she clattered heavily down the steps, Miranda wandered about the room, smiling wryly at the threadbare coverlet on the scarred bed. She fingered the scratched bureau and touched the back of the rocking chair, which swayed creaking to and fro. Abruptly she shut off the light and pressed against the window.

  The great oak lay below like a sleeping giant. Miranda rested her elbows on the window ledge, peering at the tree for many minutes.

  In the night, Edna was unable to sleep. She lay on her bed, stirring restlessly, listening to Ralph’s snores from the open doorway of his room. The wind dashed against the house with the sound of distant surf, making the walls creak, and outside, the old oak was threshing about, its fluttering leaves sighing dryly like the crumpling of endless quantities of tissue paper. The weighted cord of the window-shade, lifted by a draught, thudded erratic rhythms against the pane.

  At last Edna reached to her bedside table, switched on the little frilly lamp, took a book from the table, and searched through it for the bent corner which marked her place. Light from a slit in the lampshade slanted over the page, so she revolved the shade with a poking forefinger until the slit was no longer a nuisance.

  As she read, one hand dipped into the open candy box on the table, fumbled among the empty paper candy cups. Encountering nothing, she lifted the box, peered into it, shook it experimentally, and set it down. Her eyes squinted. “Damn Elaine!” she said.

  She returned to her reading, unconsciously dipped into the box again, and realized what she was doing. She moistened her lips and attempted to continue through the book, but her hunger was too strong. She laid the book down, considered, then slid her doughy legs over the edge of the bed and down into her slippers. Not bothering to wriggle into her bathrobe, she shuffled into the hall and downstairs.

  At the kitchen door she stopped dead, her hand flying to her mouth in fright. Someone was moving about on the back porch! Whoever it was, he was opening the back door and coming in! She cowered back, limp with terror. Then the intruder passed before the blue rectangle of a window. It was Miranda.

  Edna snapped on the light; both women blinked. “What on earth are you doing down here?” Edna asked sourly. “You nearly scared the living daylights out of me!”

  “I was afraid that the wind was going to blow my plants off the porch rail,” Miranda said.

  “Those plants! The way you fuss about them, you’d think they were alive!”

  “But they are alive,” Miranda assured mildly.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Edna said.

  “No,” Miranda replied, understandingly. “I know.”

  The two women stared at each other, Edna dubiously, Miranda shyly. Edna frowned to herself as she dragged her feet over to the icebox. She opened its door and bent over, peering in at the food, her lips spreading in a smile of greedy anticipation.

  Dusk lay over the world like blue fog. Ralph, on the porch swing, was roused from lethargy by a light switched on in the living room, its yellow rays striking him through the window. He yawned and arose, caught sight of something pale and indistinct under the oak in the next lot, and squinted sharply. The dim thing moved. Curious, he sauntered down the porch steps, over the clipped grass.

  Miranda was sitting under the oak, her back leaning against the jagged bark, her hands on snaky roots. Her head was tilted upward, as though she were looking at stars, but at the rustle of Ralph’s footfalls on the grass, she lowered her face.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I thought I saw someone here. Mind if I sit by you?”

  “Ralph!” She was surprised. “Yes—yes, sit down if you like—“

  He folded himself down carefully, grunting a laugh. “I’m a little stiff—not as young as I used to be. You neither, Randy.”

  She was silent. He felt, rather than discerned, that her gaze was on him. At last she said, “Yes.”

  “Are you happy, here, Randy?” His voice was wistful. “I think that Edna’s loading you down with too much responsibility. I don’t want you to be burdened all the time with work. You gave up everything so that you could take care of your mother—” He cleared his throat, and leaned toward Miranda. “Why did you have to go on taking care of her, when you knew I wanted you so?”

  “Someone had to,” Miranda murmured. “I knew that Edna was too giddy to do it.”

  “I didn’t want to marry Edna, you know. I wanted you.”

  Silence curdled the air between them.

  Miranda said, “But you married Edna.” “I was lonely. I would have married—anybody! But it was you whom I loved. Miranda—” He touched one of her hands; his fingers trembled. “I love you still—I never stopped—”

  For once, she was stern. “Ralph—I love you too. But it’s too late now. You’ve made your promise to Edna—you have the children—”

  He drew his fingers from hers. “Yes,” he said dully, “I know.” He sighed. The darkness deepened. They could barely see each other. They were only two voices. “Miranda—I don’t care! I love you still. I’ll explain to Edna—”

  Now it was her hand which touched his. “No! I’ll deny it!”

  “But having you near, reminding me of all that we used to feel for each other—”

  Her voice was very faint. “I’ll go away.”

  He was alarmed. ‘No! Where could you go? You can’t! You mustn’t!”

  “Then”—she was regretful—”we must never talk like this again.”

  She heard him arise. “Good night,” he said dispiritedly. “I’m going into the house.”

  Her voice was the kiss that she dared not give him. “Good night, Ralph.” His feet whispered over the lawn. She heard a door click shut. “Ralph,” she murmured, unconsciously lifting her arms, her hands pleading. “Ralph, dearest!” Her arms fell.

  She stared with downcast eyes as though she actually saw something in all that darkness. She drew herself up on her feet, clinging to the tree. She patted the dry bark. “Oh, Tree!” she breathed, and again, “Oh, Tree!”

  She slipped her arms around the trunk, hugging the oak as though it were a human being, capable of human response. She touched her mouth to the bark. “Ralph, dearest!”

  A slight breeze slid across the yard, pattering the leaves soothingly overhead.

  Miranda was tidying the kitchen, Edna sitting on a chair and watching without interest. Elaine wandered in. “Mama, will you help me make my dolly a dress?”

  “Not now, dear. Mama’s busy.”

  “Why? You aren’t doing anything. You’re just talking to Aunt Randy.”

  “I haven’t time, dear. I’ve got to run upstairs and change my dress. Daddy and I are going to go visiting this evening.”

  “But I want you to help make my dolly a dress!”

  “Now, listen, dear. There ought to be something nice on the radio—why don’t you go in the front room and listen
?”

  “I don’t want to listen to any ol’ program!”

  “Well, then, take your cloth and scissors and go somewhere and be quiet, just so you stop bothering me. Why don’t you help Aunt Randy with the dishes?”

  Miranda turned. “Yes, Elaine, dear,” she seconded, pleasantly. “Wouldn’t you like to help me?”

  “I will if I can wear an apron like Mama does when there’s company and she tries to look like she’s been helping you.”

  “There’s one over there on the hook behind the door.” Miranda dried her hands to assist the child into it. “There we are!”

  Edna groaned with luxurious discomfort as she struggled up from her chair and headed for the door, the dishes on the table rattling from her heavy tread. “Now you do what your Aunt Randy tells you!” She cocked a severe eye on Elaine, as she went out, the swinging door flapping back and forth after her with diminishing force, like a fan waved by a tiring hand.

  Miranda returned to the dishpan. “Have you a towel?”

  Elaine pulled a dish towel from a rack and wiped a handful of table silver, piling it all indiscriminately into the wrong compartment of the cabinet drawer. “Don’t you think that I’m a real nice little girl for helping you, Aunt Randy?” Her eye was charmed by the sparkle of light on cut glass. “Oh, let me wipe the pretty bowl next!”

  “No, I think you’d better let me do this one, dear. It’s old cut glass, and very expensive. Your mother’d never forgive me if anything happened to it. But you can wipe these saucers—see the pretty roses on this one!”

  “I don’t like roses! I want the pretty bowl!” Elaine stamped her foot, then read the refusal in her aunt’s eyes, and changed her tack. Her eyes swelled into reproachful moons. “Mama always lets me wipe that!”