by Peter Ponzo
The nurse sat down again. "Yes. Kumar. Melissa Kumar."
Liz looked at Bryan and smiled.
"She's in the retirement wing, not the nursing home wing." The nurse grunted and looked at her watch. "But she'll be visiting Mr. Brubacher now. She always visits at this time. He's in room 203, second floor, middle of the hall." She looked at Liz, then at the pen in Liz's hand. Liz handed her the pen and the nurse started to write again, ignoring them both. Bryan walked toward the stairs and Liz followed.
"Kumar?" said Liz. "Have you ever heard that name before."
"Not that I can remember."
"Hmm, I could have guessed that; not that you can remember. Well, she's another player in this drama. Maybe someone from the apartment building? Someone who escaped the deadly New Year's Eve party? Wasn't there one tenant who escaped? What do you think?"
"Could be. There's the room. We'll see."
The room was brightly decorated with windows covered in delicate sheers and heavy flowered drapes that hung in lazy loops to each side. There were two beds, each neatly made up with tight sheets and light brown covers. A man was sitting, gazing out the window. No one else was in the room. Bryan looked at Liz.
"Excuse me," said Liz. "Are you Mr. Brubacher?" The old man turned and stared for a moment then turned again to gaze out the window. Bryan looked again at Liz.
"We'll wait for ... what's her name? Kumar, Melissa Kumar. Bryan, have a seat," said Liz pointing to a vacant chair. Bryan dutifully sat. Liz walked to the window and spoke to the old man again in whispered tones. "Is Miss Kumar coming today?" The old man began to shake, but didn't answer. "Does she come every day?" Still no answer.
Liz whispered to Bryan. "Doesn't talk much," she said. Then she walked back and sat in another chair ... and they both waited for Melissa Kumar.
***
After about thirty minutes Liz rose and walked out of the room. Bryan followed. They had waited for some time, for Melissa Kumar, at the Moss Hill Nursing Home. Old Mr. Brubacher continued to stare out the window. He hadn't said a word, not in all this time.
"Liz? Where are you going? Aren't we going to wait for Melissa what's-her-name?"
"We'll check at the desk. If Miss Kumar visits Mr. Brubacher every day at this time then she's late, and we'll see why."
There was a crowd at the front desk. Several men in white uniforms were talking simultaneously to the nurse who seemed flustered. Liz waited and listened.
"But she was fine this morning," said the nurse. "Her vitals were normal and -"
"Did you call her doctor?"
"Yes, of course. He's on his way now. He's on the premises. I had him paged. There. There he is now."
The doctor walked briskly to the front desk and spoke to the men in white uniforms in a low voice and they left, carrying the body in a stretcher, covered in a white sheet. Then the doctor left and the nurse fished a mirror from her purse and began to straighten her hair. Liz walked up and leaned over the desk.
"We're waiting for Miss Melissa Kumar and -"
"You've got a long wait," said the nurse without looking up from her mirror. She carefully put the mirror back in her purse, snapped the purse closed and looked up at Liz. "Mrs. Kumar just left, just this minute." The nurse giggled and continued, "She left in some hurry and I'm afraid she won't be back." She giggled again and put her hand over her mouth. Liz looked out the glass door and saw the ambulance pull away.
"Was that Miss ... uh, Mrs. Melissa Kumar, just now? Is she ill?"
"Ill? No ma'am. She's dead."
The nurse leaned back in her chair. "A stroke, the doctor says. They always say that. But it's just old age, you know. She was almost 100 years old I'd say, but as bright as a pin, right to the last."
Liz turned and looked at Bryan then they slowly walked out the front door, then Liz stopped.
"Jaffre. What about Jaffre? We could talk to him."
She turned quickly and reentered the building. Bryan grunted then followed and lead the way to room 151 and walked directly to Inspector Jaffre's bed and sat down.
"Inspector Jaffre?" he said. "How are you today?" The old man nodded his head and pulled at his ear. "I was wondering if you felt up to answering a few questions. I just thought, if you feel up to it, you might tell us ... uh, this is Liz ... if you felt up to it -"
"Mr. Jaffre," said Liz. "Could you please tell us about the willow tree deaths."
Inspector Jaffre immediately perked up and mumbled, "It was the willow tree ... it killed everybody, the willow tree killed everybody, the babies ..."
Liz was standing and Bryan gave her his chair.
"Tell us about it, can you? How do you know it was the willow tree? The tree was removed when the apartment building was built. How could -"
"The willow tree," muttered Jaffre. "It was the willow tree. It killed everybody."
"When did you first suspect the tree?"
"The willow tree," muttered Jaffre, "... killed everybody."
"How many deaths do you think were a result -"
"It killed everybody," muttered Jaffre. "The willow tree."
Bryan looked down at Liz . "This is useless. He's crazy, senile. Let's go. Let's forget the whole thing. Let's -"
"Wait," whispered Liz, turning to Jaffre. "Mr. Jaffre? Do you know what time it is?"
"The willow tree," muttered Jaffre. "It was the willow tree ... killed everybody."
"Mr. Jaffre. Do you know what day this is?"
"The willow tree ..."
Liz stood and mumbled, "Okay. Let's go."
They both walked down the hall and out the front door. Bryan stopped to look across the parking lot for the car, Liz continued and Bryan followed her. He fished in his trousers and pulled out the keys. Liz reached in her purse and removed the key, unlocking the door. Bryan looked up. It was her car. He shoved the keys into his trousers and grunted. As they left , Bryan muttered, "Liz, I think we should forget about this investigation. It's not worth -"
"Bryan! Don't you dare say it's not worth the effort."
Bryan sat silently, quietly, as they drove down King Street toward Willow Towers.
CHAPTER 14
Mrs. Perkins: August, 1977
Mrs. Teresa Perkins would finish her tea and visit the bathroom. Her daily schedule never varied. Tea at noon, with small shortbread cookies, then a visit to the washroom. The living room was filled with worn furniture covered in dainty needlepoint throws. The walls were dark and gloomy with faded photographs that used to be black and white, now brown and gray. The tea pot was ornate silver and the tea cups were thin china that tinkled on their flowered plates. Several carpets of varying sizes were strewn across the floor, mostly maroon in colour with zigzag patterns.
When her husband had died he had left her practically penniless. The small government pension was just enough to pay the rent on this shabby apartment and buy the food for her table. She moved in with all her prized possessions and now these rooms were her entire world.
Although she and her husband had two children, they never visited. At Christmas she would get a phone call from each, that was all. How could they ignore her after all she and her husband had done for them? After having scrimped and saved to put them through college, they had left with barely a thank you. Now she was alone and it was sometimes frightening. When she listened to the radio each evening she could hear that the world had changed. Children just didn't have any respect for their elders. Lootings, beatings, theft. It was frightening. Every noise seemed threatening. She would peek through a partially open door when people came and went. You can't be too careful. And strange noises in the night and dirt that crept into her rooms, soiling the bathroom floor, muddy streaks on the wall. Beyond her rooms, her world, it must be even more frightening. At least here she had her cherished possessions. The china plates were a wedding gift and she had kept them carefully stored in the buffet all these years, taking them out each day for meals then washing a
nd drying them and placing them carefully at the back of the first shelf. Her hands were shaky at times but she had never broken a single plate in all those years. And the tea service was real silver. Her husband had bought it on their first wedding anniversary. When he was alive they would spend every Sunday afternoon looking at photographs and drinking from the dainty cups that she had bought at Marcy's before the store closed, right after the big war. Most of the stores she knew had closed. She listened to the notice of sales on the radio nearly every day. Now, outside these walls, everything was different, violent, fast. Inside, it was her world and she certainly would not leave it, not for anything. Even the few groceries she needed were delivered to her door by the local store. Her meals rarely changed: a bowl of corn flakes for breakfast, with coffee, then one slice of bread with tea-sausage for lunch, then a bowl of canned cream of mushroom soup for dinner, with coffee. After her lunch she had her tea and shortbread cookies, then visited the washroom.
She gazed into the bathroom mirror and pulled her hair back off her face, over her head, then patted it firmly. It immediately fell again, but she paid no attention. She removed her worn robe and was about to lift her nightgown when she noticed the streaks of mud on the sides of the toilet bowl.
"Again," she muttered and wiped it clean with a cloth. This happened before and she meant to complain to the superintendent, but he never came around and she didn't have a telephone and she certainly wouldn't leave the apartment.
She turned, lifted her gown and sat on the toilet, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. She heard the gurgling almost immediately. It was coming from the toilet bowl. She had heard it before. And the soil in the bowl, that had happened before, too. She closed her eyes and dreamed of the days before her husband died. Things were different. The world was different.
She was about to get up when she stiffened, eyes opened wide, mouth half open. He body shivered and she gasped. She started to scream but it was only a cough, a wheezing cough. Her head stiffened and her eyes began to bulge and her arms began to rise stiffly to either side of her body. Her mouth was open and a hollow whine came from deep in her throat. Her head started to sway slowly from side to side and her red cheeks became puffed.
Then a black coil slithered from her mouth, hairy, distorted. Then her eyes popped, two black roots leaping from the hollow sockets. The roots spun quickly about her face, slid down her neck, spun around her frail body, lifted her off the toilet seat.
***
Bryan paused on the fourth floor as Liz continued up the stairs. Mrs. Perkins hadn't peered through her door as she usually did. He shook his head and climbed to the fifth floor.
"Mrs. Perkins ... she didn't come to the door," he muttered.
"Good. Maybe she's lost her interest in the comings and goings -"
"She may be ill," said Bryan and he fished through his keys, separating the red key from the others, unlocking the apartment door. "She always peeks out - maybe she's sick. She's pretty old I guess." Bryan stepped back and Liz walked into the apartment. He waited in the hallway and looked down the stairwell.
"Liz? I'm going to see if she needs help." Liz appeared at the door and watched him disappear down the stairs. Bryan was a good person, she thought.
When he reached Mrs. Perkins' door he knocked tentatively. There was no answer and he called, "Mrs. Perkins? This is Bryan Laker. Will you open the door? Is there anything wrong?" Still there was no answer. He tried the door but it was locked. He looked up the stairs and saw Liz. "She doesn't answer," he said. Bryan looked again at the closed door then started back up the stairs.
They had a small lunch of rye bread and liverwurst and herring in wine sauce. Bryan was quiet throughout, then he leaned back. "I think I should phone the police. Mrs. Perkins could be ill. She always peeks out her door."
He reached for the phone hanging on the wall and started to dial. Liz smiled. He was always concerned about others. He was a very thoughtful person and she loved him for that. Mrs. Perkins was probably sleeping, but she wouldn't discourage Bryan from doing what he thought was his duty.
***
The police officer arrived just before 1 o'clock. Bryan and Liz met him at the front door of the building and lead him to the Perkins apartment. He tried the door. It was locked.
"When was the last time you saw her ... Mrs. ... uh, -"
"Mrs. Perkins," said Bryan. "We saw her this morning, about 10:30, I think. She always peeks out the door and she did this morning but when we got back, about noon I think, she didn't peek out her door."
"You mean you phoned the station because your neighbour didn't peek out her door?" The officer seemed angry.
"Well," mumbled Bryan, "you see, she always ... I mean, when she didn't peek I assumed -"
"Officer," said Liz sternly, "when Mrs. Perkins peeks out her door 364 days every year then there must be something wrong when she doesn't, on the 365th day."
The officer looked from Bryan to Liz, frowned, grunted and pulled out a small plastic box, removed a slim metal pick and began working at the lock. In a minute he swung the door open and walked inside. Bryan and Liz followed. The room smelled musty. The officer called, "Mrs. Parkins? Mrs. Parkins?" There was no answer. He walked to the window and pushed the heavy drapes aside. The room brightened and they looked around.
There was a tea cup and a tray of cookies on the table. The officer picked up a cookie, sniffed it and popped it into his mouth. "Shortbread," he said with a smile. "I'm a sucker for shortbread cookies." Liz had walked to the bathroom and Bryan headed for the bedroom. The apartment was identical to his and he knew exactly where to look. The officer followed Bryan.
That was when Liz screamed. Bryan jumped at least a foot in the air and even the officer jumped. They ran to the bathroom.
"Jeesuz!" cried the officer, involuntarily pulling off his hat, holding it firmly against his stomach.
Mrs. Perkins was lying on the floor. Her body was distorted, misshapen, covered in welts and bruises. Her head was twisted, grotesque, her eyes were black. Liz looked more closely. She had no eyes; just black sockets where eyes used to be. The room was covered in streaks of mud.
"Jeesuz, Jeesuz," muttered the officer.
Bryan backed out the door and continued to back toward the hallway.
"I guess it's in your hands now, officer," said Liz and quickly followed Bryan. Bryan was climbing the stairs, two-at-a-time. Liz heard the officer cry "Jeesuz" one more time, then she ran up the stairs. Bryan was putting on his coat.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Bryan handed Liz her coat. "Here. Put it on. We're getting out of this place. You know as well as I do what happened down there. Those marks on her body, just like the others, that's the way they all died - we're getting out of here."
Bryan grabbed Liz by the arm and dragged her to the stairs. She threw her coat over her shoulder and followed him down. When they reached Bryan's car he fumbled for the keys. She took the key ring from his trembling hand, opened the door and they both slid in and sat there for a moment without speaking. She handed him the keys and he held them tightly in his hands without moving.
"I know what you're thinking Bryan," Liz said quietly. "And you may be right. It sure looked just like the description in the Gazette, just like the -"
"Liz?" said Bryan. Liz stopped talking and stared at Bryan. He was as white as a ghost and she waited for him to continue. "Liz? That willow tree is still alive, somehow, somewhere." He shivered. "It could have been us, you or me." Liz sat without speaking and Bryan whispered, "Where is the tree - the willow tree? It was torn down when the apartment building - when -" He paused and looked at Liz. "Willow Walk. The vines on Willow Walk. The tree is still on Willow Walk. I think I've seen it - the tree - the roots. My God! It's making it's way through the building. Mrs. Perkins is on the fourth floor. I'm on the fifth -"
Liz opened the car door.
"Liz! Where are you going?"
; She started across the parking lot toward the front left of the building, toward Willow Walk. Bryan jumped out of the car and followed at a run. When he reached her she was staring at the roots covering the broken and splintered trellis, twisted, gnarled. She looked at the key chain in Bryans's hand and pulled off the small red Swiss army knife, flipping open the blade.
"Liz? What are you doing?"
She knelt beside a root and began to cut, drawing the small knife back and forth across a black and hairy coil. The root began to twist. She continued to draw the knife across the root which seemed to move, just slightly, almost imperceptably. Then she stopped cutting.
"Did you see it move?" she asked.
"No."
"I think it did move."
Bryan backed away and turned toward the parking lot, calling over his shoulder, "Liz! Let's go!"
She stood up, stared intently at the root, gave it a kick then turned and walked slowly toward the car.
When the police officer came out to ask them a few questions, they were gone.
***
Bryan looked out over the field of flowers: goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace and wild strawberry, oxeye daisies and blue violet. He was high in a tree and the horizon was a thousand miles away and the clowds were clinging to the hazy purple hills. The tree began to sway and he reached out to steady himself on a thick and twisted branch. It spun around his wrist and he drew back and fell, his hand bleeding. It was a thousand miles to the ground and he fell for hours and the branch caught him just before he reached the ground, pulling him high into the air, its teeth glinting in the bright sun, spiralling about his waist then his neck then he couldn't breath and turned his head from side to side trying to free his arms then tearing the coils from his mouth then he screamed.
Then he woke up.
Liz had waited for nearly five hours for him to awaken. Now he leaned forward on the bed and groaned.
"What happened?" He looked around. "Where am I?"
"You're on my bed, in my mother's house. You've been sleeping for ... for hours. Can you remember anything?"
Bryan scratched his head, sweating. "Yes ... Mrs. Perkins and Willow Walk. Did I dream all that?"
"No. I think you went into shock. I brought you home, to my house, my mother's house, you were like a zombie, then you just fell asleep."