"Leave her alone, Ed,” Ted said, shifting Maggie over slightly so he could lean back and put his feet up on the coffee table. “Let her go on."
"Yes, well where was I?” Miss Laura was momentarily distracted.
Lee was only too eager to cue her in. “The pile of dead men at the church."
"Oh yes. As I was saying, there are photographs. One curious item also revealed in the photographs, was also an entry in Captain Limpkin's journal. The fighting had been so intense, with such a volume of cannon shot and musket fire from both sides that every tree in the vicinity of the battlefield was denuded of its leaves, with many of the branches having been shorn away."
She stopped for a bit and collected her thoughts, then said: “Limpkins wrote, and I quote: ‘The portrait of this ravaged landscape cautions one to be mindful of God's retribution as painted by his own hand in the blood of a bitter brush. North, south, east, and west, every direction of the compass is a stained canvas, describing a land of wretched desolation populated by a host of the dead and dying. And we, the living, are no better than the dead; for even those who survive are naught but a congregation of lost and woeful souls for whom eternity can offer no hope of redemption as a punishment for the joy we take in the grievous nature of our sins. And of these, these damned, I fear, I am the worst, because the truth in my heart is I loved it all. I should never wish to wash the smell of the blood from my memory nor my hands. Here, in this place, this nowhere in Pennsylvania, it is not just the souls of men, but the land itself, which has been rewritten by God's own hand, bearing the script of His righteous strokes in blood. Though men will always die, the land will remain, holding on to that, which we as men would forget. The characters of His word stand out like grand letters written against the sky in the myriad forms of the groves of sorrowfully ravaged boles. Each manifests God's wrath through their shattered trunks and their naked branches stripped bare of leaves by musket fire and cannon shot. It is as though all the world bears just witness to a pitiless God, proving there can never be such a thing as mercy for any of His works, be it man, animal, or even a simple tree. During these brief days of glory at Gettysburg, no succor was afforded, neither in the fields, nor in the in the bloodied halls of the pest house."
"Pest house?” Lee spoke up. “What's that?"
"That's what they called the hospitals,” Miss Laura answered matter-of-factly. “It was short for house of pestilence."
"How could she remember a quote like that,” Ted whispered to Ed.
Ed raised his eyebrows seriously. “You'd be surprised what that girl can remember."
Miss Laura looked over, though she obviously hadn't heard what was said, she must have known it had to do with her. “Should I continue,” she asked, “or are all of you too bored?"
"Are you kidding, Miss Laura?” Lee sat forward even more. “I want to hear more. This is getting good."
"Who needs another beer?” Ted piped up. “I think I need a bathroom break."
"I could use one, too,” said Ed. “My back teeth are floating."
Lee leapt up and ran down the hall calling out, “Me first!"
CHAPTER TWELVE: CANDY PANTS
When he came out of the bathroom Maggie was standing in the hallway, leaning up against the wall. Lee passed her by, avoiding her smirk and returned to the living room where he found Miss Laura all alone in her chair looking intently into the iris of the eye.
"Miss Laura?” He loved calling her by that name; it suited her perfectly. Ed was Uncle Ed as that was the custom, but Miss Laura would never let him address her as “Aunt” since there really wasn't any relation. She'd always been especially nice to him, maybe even better than a real aunt, but she was a stickler about names and such.
"Yes, Lee?” She didn't look at him, but continued peering into the eye.
He moved up closer, standing right against the arm of the chair. “The story you were telling of what Captain Limpkins wrote about Gettysburg made me think of something."
"And what would that be?” she asked absently.
"The trees."
She still wasn't looking at him, concentrating her full attention on the glass eye. “What about the trees?"
"Do you think it's possible that the cherry trees at the Ballard house have something to do with the trees on the battlefields at Gettysburg?"
She finally tore herself away from the eye and gazed up at him. “How do you mean?"
Up close like this, Lee could smell her. She smelled fresh, like a girl, but different than Phoebe. Despite the overhead fan, a hint of lavender was in the air nearest where she sat. But it wasn't the difference of the perfume or fragrance entirely; Lee suspected it had something to do with the fact that she was a woman, and Phoebe was still a girl. “In captain Limpkin's quote you just told us, you said he talked about the trees on the battlefield being shorn of their limbs. And Mr. Ballard had all the cherry trees branches cut and sealed with creosote,” he answered her question. “And nobody knows why."
"You know,” she replied quizzically, “there might be some kind of an interesting parallel there. But I always just assumed it was that Walter Ballard was crazy."
"Well sure he was crazy,” Lee came back. “No one in their right mind would do that to those trees. I've seen places where people have had all their branches trimmed. It looks bad for a while, but the branches always grow back. But I've never seen anyone who'd lop off just the small branches so that all that are left are stubs and crooked stumps. He even sealed off the cuts making sure the trees couldn't sprout new branches, and so they just died where they were planted, sticking up out of the ground like an army of mutilated corpses in those rows like an army out on parade."
"That is an interesting observation, Lee.” Her drink was so strong, Lee could smell the rum on the heat of her breath. “Though I can't imagine any connection between a civil war battlefield in Pennsylvania some ninety-seven odd years ago and what Walter Ballard did to his cherry trees a few years back.” She still had not let go of the eye. And again, she was back to rolling it around in her cupped palm, now and then taking her eyes from him and glancing down at it.
Lee tugged at the collar of his shirt. It really did feel as if it was getting hot in here. “I don't know either, Miss Laura. It is weird though, isn't it? But maybe the connection is Captain Limpkins; he was at Cherry Heights. And you know something; I pretty sure I've seen a picture of him in the house."
Miss Laura now gave him her undivided attention. “And what makes you think you managed to run across an actual photograph of Captain Limpkins at the Ballard house?"
"Well,” he started up hesitantly. “To be truthful, Miss Laura, when I saw the photograph I didn't know who he was, but after listening to your description, I just now put two and two together, and I know it had to be him."
The rum in the drink Lee had been drinking had worked on him like a sunny day on an ice cube; he was all melty-warm and soft around the edges. He fidgeted, momentarily losing his train of thought as he was distracted. Miss Laura had scooted forward in the chair and was leaning over below him as she dipped a chip. Her loose summery blouse was gaping, and he could see down.
"And how are you so sure?” She was swirling the chip around, lightly scouring the last of the dip from the sides of the bowl. And though Lee felt awkward about the view she was presenting to him, leaning over as she was, he just couldn't not look.
"It had to be him,” Lee explained, hoping his speech didn't sound as slurred to Miss Laura as he sounded to himself. “Captain Limpkins was exactly how you described him, except in this photo he had the glass eye. When I first saw the photograph I thought it was just some cockeyed Yankee soldier. I only paid attention it because he looked so weird; his left eye, the glass one, was off at an odd angle. In the picture, he and another Union officer, a fat man, they are both standing on the balcony's roof over the front of the Ballard house. The Captain has the sword you talked about, and behind him you can see the cherry trees, and across the road ar
e the mansions in the background, you know, the ones that sank into the marsh."
Miss Laura's bra was a satiny little thing with a tiny bow affixed in the center. From where he was standing her right breast was almost fully open to view. The lacy fringe around the cup was covering less than half of her, leaving most of her soft skin exposed. He knew he should move or at least look away, but for some reason he couldn't.
She suddenly peered back up at him, lightly holding the chip between her fingernails as daintily as ever. “Exactly where was this picture?"
Lee was sure he'd been caught red-handed, staring, but Miss Laura didn't register any sign of complaint. He tried to bring his eyes up and look her squarely in the face without flinching. “Remember, Maggie told you we'd all gone over to the Ballard house for a visit right after we moved in?"
She nodded, but remained as she was, the right side of her blouse still open to him.
As aware as he was of how hot it had suddenly become he knew he was sweating. And that he was sure Miss Laura must have caught him looking certainly didn't make him any more comfortable. And though he told himself to not look, it was the hardest thing to try to keep contact with her eyes.
"It's on the wall in the parlor,” he stammered, his mouth suddenly parched and his tongue sticky and dry. “They've got all kinds of really old pictures hung on the walls in there, almost all of them have something to do with the house, or the property, and I suppose the people who've lived there."
Miss Laura had the eye in her left hand, working it vigorously, bumping it over the soft, little calluses at the bases of her fingers where they joined her palm, pushing it back and forth with her thumb. Quite unexpectedly, Miss Laura flashed him a carbon copy of that same crafty and nefarious look he'd suffered from Maggie so many times following the recent incident in the bathroom.
Maybe it was baby powder he so suddenly smelled; Charlene was nearby, lying on the floor, dead to the world. But he didn't think the sweetly dry scent was from the baby. The fan overhead was almost full speed, yet it was so hot. And despite the breeze from the fan there was definitely something dry and sweet in the air that hadn't been there a moment before. Oddly enough, too, it seemed the room around them had grown eerily quiet, and they were utterly and completely alone.
Miss Laura looked down, leading his eyes down her blouse and then back up at Lee.
"It's really hot tonight,” she said out of the blue.
"Yes ma'am,” he replied.
She put the chip down and brought up her right hand and unbuttoned the top most button of her blouse, then fanned the fabric back and forth.
Lee, watching every move, swallowed hard.
"That's better,” she said, then picked up the chip and lightly took a tiny nibble of dip. But it had been on the chip too long; it cracked, dropping a blob of onion dip, which fell, catching her smack dab in between her breasts.
"Oh!” she cried out.
Lee was mortified. He watched as it began to melt and run down her skin.
Frantically, she lifted the hand holding the eye, but didn't appear about to let it go or put it down. Lee watched as she dropped the remains of the chip in the bowl and hurriedly pinched the front of her blouse with her free hand, pulling the fabric away from her skin. For a moment the two of them froze, watching together as the smeary blob ran down her chest.
Lee suddenly felt a little dizzy; maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the rum working on him; maybe, too it was the shock of this all too bizarre turn of events. In her effort to keep the dip from staining her blouse Miss Laura had pulled the fabric well away from her skin and from where he was standing above her he could see all the way down. The view she presented was so exciting it was terrifying.
At the same time it seemed as if the rest of the world had simply gone away. They were really all alone, and there was something tangible in the air, a stillness, even though the fan was visibly whirling like crazy overhead. Lee thought he could hear something, too. Enticingly familiar, he couldn't quite make it out, but it sounded something like a carnival hurdy-gurdy, an ugly blend of noise and melody, far off. The notes echoed with a distant quality, like the sound of water dripping way off in the darkness of a cave.
The manifestation of Maggie's devilishly nefarious cat-that-ate-the canary gleam had spread like an infection to Miss Laura's eyes, and Lee was positive he could see something swirling inside, like a wild, green mist.
Using her left hand, but still gripping the eye in her right, Miss Laura held her blouse pulled open, as far open as she could manage with the one hand. The blob of dip had slid down to rest between her breasts, having left a shiny trail of milky goo and tiny flakes of green chives sticking to her skin.
As though helpless, she looked down at herself and then back up to Lee. In that tick of the clock, when she'd glanced down, the remaining vestige of her personality, her eyes, had changed over completely from their deep, dark brown to that green. It was a sparkly, yet sickly green, the same color lining the inner rim circling the iris's black hole in the very center of the eye she clenched so tightly in her hand.
"What a mess.” Her voice was strangely teasing and provocative. “Oh, dear me. I seem to have had a slight accident.” She twisted towards him. “Would you be a sweetheart and help me?"
His palms went wet. Lee looked down; he had no choice. The runny blob of dip was smack dab between her breasts, just where her bra pressed the flesh together. Right then, he really felt how hot it was in here; he was suddenly sweating profusely.
"Be a dear,” she instructed coyly. “Just take a finger and daub it off for me."
But that's not what her eyes said.
Lee was transfixed; he was so caught up knowing what he was being asked to do was surely anything but proper. The whole awkward situation seemed a crazy nightmare, tainted by that sour ugliness peculiar to dreams when one is feverish and sick. And it was so hot, and his heart was pounding.
As though it wasn't reality, he saw his hand move, tentatively at first, but with Miss Laura holding her blouse open for him, he reached down using just two fingers and his thumb. Trying not to linger and to touch only as lightly as he could, he cautiously attempted to pluck the gooey stuff cleanly off.
She watched too, her chin pressed to the base of her neck.
His guarded attempt failed miserably, His fingers had been shaking. He'd only smeared the stuff at it appeared to just melt between his fingers. After a moment, and only making things worse, it became too strangely real, too embarrassing. He quickly brought his hand out and wiped his fingers on his shorts, taking a much-needed breath.
She glanced back up at him, so appealingly. This was not by any stretch of the imagination the same Miss Laura he'd known almost his entire life, the fussy lady who raises her little finger when she drinks and who eats a drumstick using a fork. Her eyes had gone fully green, and there really was a feral wildness to her. “You missed a bit ... down there,” she instructed. “You'll have to go a bit deeper."
Lee swallowed dryly. She was still holding her blouse open, obviously tempting him to do as she'd asked.
"Miss Laura...” he stammered. “I can't..."
"Be a dear,” she purred. “You wouldn't want me to stain my blouse. And I really, really don't mind your helping me like this."
This was crazy. Where was his dad, Uncle Ed?
Miss Laura twisted about in the chair and leaned towards him, offering herself, her eyes daring him to just go ahead. She was so exposed. He could see her entire chest. She was right, though. There was still dip between her breasts. Shaking as he was, and being shy and overly cautious he had only managed to smear it about.
Lee just didn't think he had the nerve to stick his fingers right down into her cleavage; that was too much. When she breathed, drawing deeply in and out, her breasts moved against her bra, and he could just spy a tantalizing hint, a promise of something pink edging the lace near the front of the right cup. God, he was sweating buckets.
"Really, Le
e,” she cooed. “You can't leave me like this. Now you take your time. Be a good boy. Don't miss a bit.” She giggled, so unlike her. “You never know just where it might have gotten to. You'll need to get it all. Don't worry. I want you to. Don't be shy. Do as you're told."
Oh, God! He didn't know what to do.
It was at that moment he heard it, just a whisper, a hiss. It came as if from somewhere within the walls, yet he heard it clearly in his ears. “Go on. Do it! Don't be a damn candy pants.” It was a strangely familiar voice, one he should know right off, but was perplexing and tantalizing because he just couldn't quite place it. Adding to his confusion, part of the puzzle was with the inflection of the words themselves; they sounded odd, highly pitched, but strangely masculine and shaded with a sharply foreign accent he could only identify as old. Maybe too, it was that the syllables resonated with a hollow and empty sound, as though there was a trace of a cavernous echo from which the sound had emerged.
"Don't stop now,” the voice persisted fervently, ringing in his ears. “Go on, reach down in there and put your hand right in. Grab her tit. Give it a good, long squeeze. You know how...” Now it was taunting, “...you weren't too afraid to grab a little tit in the train."
The voice had emerged from its hiding place within the walls; it seemed to be circling him. He could hear it in one ear and then follow it around as it spoke in to the other. “That one was just a silly girl. Just a whelp, a damn tease. This is a real woman. Look at her.” Then immediately it came around to whisper in his other ear. “Look at her!"
He looked. Miss Laura was waiting for him.
"This isn't some naughty little school girl: Post Office, Spin the Bottle, and little pecks on the cheek out behind the garage.” The voice had changed as it circled, becoming mockingly distasteful, each syllable somehow accented so it sounded compellingly lewd. “This is a real woman with a woman's body. You can touch her. Do just what you want. She likes it. They all do. Even if they say they don't, they really do. We all know ‘no’ really means ‘yes.’ You'll never get a better chance. Do it. Touch her. Do it now. You don't want her to think you're some kind of a candy pants, do you?"
Evil Heights, Book II: Monster in the House Page 25