The Boy at the Keyhole

by Stephen Giles

  Was he the boy she was speaking of? Samuel thought that he must be. Ruth chatted a little longer and then said her goodbyes, hanging up the phone. Then she picked up the oil lamp and began to climb the stairs. Samuel was already moving then. He crawled along the landing, then, when it was safe, ran down the corridor toward his bedroom. And as he went, he willed his bare feet to tread lightly on the boards so that Ruth would not hear him.

  His bedroom door closed with hardly a sound of protest and Samuel tiptoed to the bed as quickly as he dared and arranged himself under the covers. He turned off the lamp and shut his eyes, listening. There wasn’t a lot to hear. If not for the occasional crack of a floorboard, Samuel might have imagined Ruth was floating down the corridor. Or that she was standing very still and listening just as hard as he was. It didn’t take long for the steady rhythm of her steps to make their mark on the stillness. Samuel heard her coming toward his door. He lay on his side and willed his eyes to not flicker when she came in to check on him.

  But that didn’t happen. What the boy heard was Ruth passing by without so much as a pause at his door. Then he heard the unmistakable sigh of a door opening somewhere down the corridor. And in the dead of night, with a head full of troubles, such a sigh couldn’t go unheeded.

  * * *

  The boy moved quickly, his silhouette appearing and vanishing, as he passed the moonlit windows with their layers of milky dusk. At the very end of the hall, a soft glow framed the door. It was his mother’s dressing room and, as it was the only light on in the entire hall, Ruth had to be there.

  The floorboards seemed not to mind his light steps and made little noise. Ruth had been talking about him to her sister. It can’t go on much longer, those were her words. Something has to be done. Samuel wasn’t stupid, he knew what that meant. Ruth wasn’t going to keep him around. The time was up. She would do to him what she had done to his mother. What she had done to Robin Hood.

  He reached the door and heard a faint sound, like a motor running low. Perhaps nobody in the whole world, except for Joseph, would believe the truth. They couldn’t see what he could see, all the threads of lies and secrets that weaved around each other to make the whole blood-soaked tapestry. Ruth was a bad woman who had done horrible things. He knew that as surely as his name was Samuel Clay.

  Ruth planned to murder him; she’d just confessed as much to her sister. Samuel had met Alice once and she had seemed nice enough, but now the boy understood that she had been putting on a show. She was just as wicked and nasty as Ruth. Probably they were in on it together.

  Samuel dropped down on one knee and moved toward the keyhole. No one knew what Ruth was really like, not even his poor mother, who said Ruth was like her right arm. Now he was the only one left and he would have to stop her on his own.

  If the boy was to guess what Ruth was doing in the dead of night in his mother’s dressing room, he would have been wrong. For as he peered through the breach, his eyelashes brushing the brass plate of the doorknob, Samuel saw the flash of something red flicker to his left. Just a flash. The oil lamp was set down on the couch where his mother liked to sit and put on her shoes and its faint glow captured only the middle part of the room. There was no sign of Ruth.

  Samuel’s eye fogged up and he blinked. And just like that she appeared, spinning into view. Yes, spinning. Ruth had his mother’s red silk dress pressed over her bathrobe and she moved as if she were dancing, hugging the gown to herself. Samuel realized that the low sound he had heard was the housekeeper humming to herself.

  She paused in front of the long mirror and looked at her reflection, just like his mother would, turning this way and that and stroking the fabric like it was a cat, humming all the while. Then Ruth closed her eyes and spun around, melting into the shadows.

  31

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Collins.”

  “Who’s this?” She sounded nervous. Or perhaps it was startled.

  “It’s Samuel, Mrs. Collins.”

  “Samuel? My goodness. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s got you calling at this hour?”

  Samuel had the phone so close to his mouth the receiver was wet. “Could I speak to Joseph, please?”

  “He’s sleeping, love.”

  “Oh.” Samuel swallowed, his eyes trained on the landing above for any sign of Ruth. “Could you wake him up, please? I know it’s late but it’s very important.”

  “I can’t do that, Samuel.”

  Samuel took a shallow breath.

  “As you say,” continued Mrs. Collins, “it’s awful late and you’d get no sense out of Joseph with a head full of sleep.”

  “I don’t mind waiting for him to wake up.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I just need to speak to Joseph.”

  “Maybe I can help? What’s this about, Samuel?”

  The boy said nothing.

  “You should have been in bed hours ago,” she said, “so I’m thinking there must be a very good reason you’re calling Joseph at this time of night.”

  Wasn’t that obvious? He had a reason. The most serious and bloody reason of all. But it was a reason that Mrs. Collins had found comical enough to laugh about with Ruth. Which is why he didn’t answer her.

  “What is it, Samuel?” she said.

  “Nothing. It’s only...I need to talk to Joseph.”

  “Is Ruth about? Let me have a word with her and I’m sure we can sort this out.”

  “No.” Samuel said this firmly. “Ruth is asleep and nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to have a talk with Joseph about school. We have to write out a psalm for the reverend and draw a picture and I wanted his help.”

  “Have you met my Joseph?” Mrs. Collins sounded amused. “He’s hardly done a scrap of work on that thing himself. Anyway, I’m sure you can catch up with him tomorrow and work on it together.” She laughed to herself. “Though I doubt you’ll find him much help.”

  He needed to talk with his best friend. Now. Why couldn’t she understand that? “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

  “See, there’s no need to sound so serious. I’ll tell Joseph first thing in the morning.”

  Samuel’s eyes swept back up to the landing where a heavy twilight had settled and he knew that anyone at all could be hiding within it. “Mrs. Collins, please don’t tell Ruth I called.”

  “Well, all right.”

  Samuel heard the pockets of uncertainty in her voice. “Mrs. Collins, please don’t tell Ruth. Please don’t—it’s very important.”

  “All right, Samuel.” Her voice was softer now and wonderfully reassuring. “I won’t tell her you called.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Collins.”

  “Good night, Samuel.”

  The boy hung up the telephone.

  32

  It came to him just before sunrise. The solution he’d been waiting on. It had just wandered in among his swarming thoughts and sat down in the middle of the storm. He didn’t pretend it would be easy—he wasn’t stupid—but now that he had it in mind he knew he must act. All he had to do was wait until dawn.

  * * *

  The keyhole, that unblinking eye, hovered before the boy. Samuel closed one eye and moved closer. Ruth sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him, her hair spilling around her shoulders. Her head was bent forward just so and the boy wondered if perhaps she was praying. But then she gripped the back of her neck and rolled her head like she did whenever she had one of her headaches. She released a sigh, or perhaps it was a groan, and turned her head toward the side table. On it was the oil lamp, a picture of her father and a bottle that he thought might be wine.

  Samuel’s eyes shifted, glancing all the way down the hall. Everything was ready. He reached for the doorknob, but he wasn’t careful about it and it shook with some f
orce. He saw Ruth spin around and that’s when he ran, tearing down the corridor. He heard Ruth’s door open just as he reached the landing, twisting around the corner and pressing himself against the wall.

  “Samuel?” From the sound of her voice, Ruth was probably scowling in his direction. “Samuel, I’m in no mood for games.”

  The sun was just waking, sifting through the trees outside and rendering the upper landing a patchwork of soft light and generous shade. The perfect place to steal a glimpse down the corridor. Samuel was sure she would see it at any moment.

  With his hands pressed flat against the wall, the boy tilted his head, his right eye moving across the panels in a blur, then slipping free with a clear view down the corridor.

  Ruth was turning already, looking the other way. And when she saw it, she took in a sharp breath and her hand went up to her mouth just as Samuel hoped it would. “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered.

  At the far end of the corridor was his mother’s dressing room. The door was wide open, the whole chamber awash with morning light. She was standing in the middle of the room in the red silk dress, its rippling folds fixed tightly to her chest and the curves of her waist, the skirt spread out around her like a halo. The neck was slim and graceful but beyond it was nothing at all, matching the empty space at the end of her shoulders. The dust churned in the first blush of sunrise, its golden haze moving around her like the radiant glow of a headless ghost. The ghost of his mother.

  The shock didn’t have a grip on Ruth for long. It took just a moment or two for her to really see what had startled her so. It was just a mannequin, nothing more. But the fact that it wore the red silk dress, the very dress she had pressed to her own body the night before...well, that caused her to tuck the hair behind her ears and march down the corridor.

  The boy watched, eyes rippling with curiosity and, yes, a little fear, as Ruth stormed toward the dressing room. “Samuel?” she barked.

  He was running then, in her wake. She had reached the dressing room and Samuel could hear her stomping about inside. But he knew the room wouldn’t hold her for long. Samuel willed his legs to quicken. He turned abruptly and darted through the open door. With a sharp right turn, he tucked himself behind the door and did his best not to make a sound. Ruth was once again in the corridor. He heard her move up the hall toward his bedroom, throwing the door open. She called his name several times but it didn’t take her long to discover he wasn’t in there, either.

  “I hope you’ve had your fun, scaring me half to death.” Her voice sounded scratched and rasping. “But I’ve had enough of your nonsense, Samuel Clay, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll show yourself this instant!”

  Through the seam of the door, he saw Ruth rushing past. Her eyes were wild and her mouth so tightly bunched it was barely a slit. The boy prayed to his mother that Ruth would keep walking—not stop and look inside the room where he was hiding.

  “You’re a wicked child, I know that much,” she hissed.

  Ruth had passed the door but then she stopped. Samuel saw the doorknob move. He heard her breathing, quick and short from the other side, and shut his eyes tight. Then the door closed with a bang. His whole body tensed, waiting for her to grab him. A key rattled in the lock. Samuel opened his eyes and found he was alone. Through the door, he heard Ruth walking away.

  “I’ll search every inch of this house if I have to,” she hollered, her voice carrying up and down the corridor. “There’s no running from me, Samuel, you should know that.” A few more steps, then, “Show yourself!”

  Her voice began to fade and Samuel supposed she was heading downstairs. The boy felt his shoulders relax and he took a deep breath, glancing around Ruth’s bedroom. He figured that she had locked the door to stop him slipping inside while she was searching the house. The fact that it was locked was a problem—he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t—but there was always the window, though the drop was steep and he was sure he’d break his neck. Samuel didn’t care. He had managed to find a way into Ruth’s bedroom; he had done it all on his own, and the thrill of it tempered the cold fear stirring in his chest.

  Ruth’s secrets were locked in that very room. Now all he had to do was find them.

  33

  The desk under the window called to him. It was a small table, plain and unadorned, and Samuel reached it quickly, his attention fixed on the drawer. That’s where Ruth had hidden the diary, the one in which she wrote down the terrible things she had done to his mother. The violence that had taken her from him.

  He pulled on the drawer but his fingers caught. It was locked. Of course it was locked. Ruth was hardly going to keep a record of her dark deeds in an unlocked drawer. Samuel had no idea how long Ruth would keep looking for him, but as she was still in her nightgown, he knew she would return to her bedroom eventually. So he had to act quickly.

  But how? Where would Ruth keep the key? Samuel’s eyes swept around the small bedroom and a white apron stopped him dead. It was folded and hanging on the back of a chair by the wardrobe. The boy ran toward it, three thoughts whirling in his mind. First, Ruth kept all of the important house keys in the pocket of that apron. Two, wouldn’t that have to include the one that opened the drawer where her gruesome crimes were recorded? Three, Ruth had just locked her bedroom door so did that mean all the keys were with her at that very moment?

  Samuel scooped the apron up and, as he felt its weight, hope blossomed within him. His hand found the pocket, yanking it open. Down at the bottom was a pool of objects—a few hairpins, a set of keys on a single loop and something else. The silver clover pin that Ruth’s father had given her. The one she said she had lost. More lies.

  Samuel slipped the brooch into the pocket of his pajamas and hurried back to the desk with the keys. The one he needed was easy enough to find. The lock on the drawer was set into the wood, a thin slot, and only one key looked small enough to fit it. Samuel’s hands quivered as he selected the key and pushed it into the chamber. He turned it and could hardly stop from gasping as the catch slipped away. Slowly, with greater care than was needed, Samuel pulled the drawer open. The boy looked down into this drawer and his mouth fell open, his eyes narrowed and dazed all at once. This is what he found. An ink pad and stamp. A pair of scissors. A container full of postage stamps, mostly American. A handful of postcards, each from cities in America and Canada. And something else—a folded piece of paper. What he didn’t find was a diary.

  A great mist blew up around Samuel’s mind and it was as if he were watching everything from afar. He picked up a pile of the postcards—many were all blank. Others, like the one from Chicago and Florida, had been started and then abandoned, a crossed-out word here, an ink smudge there. All in his mother’s delicate handwriting. The last postcard was from Boston and it was unfinished. Samuel turned it over several times, looking at it or through it, and it wasn’t so much that he read the words, it was more that they lifted up and danced before him.

  July 29, 1961

  Dearest Samuel,

  How slowly the days pass without you, my little man. I am still in Boston meeting with a great many boring bankers.

  I long to have this business over with so that I can get home to you but I fear

  It ended there in midsentence. Ruth hadn’t finished writing it yet. The ground seemed to shift under Samuel, moving or dropping away, and he reached out and grabbed the desk. Ruth had written the postcards. She had killed his mother, truly killed her—all this time, the postcards and the promises, these were all the threads of her duplicity. The whole thing, it was all her.

  The boy’s hands churned through the drawer, turning every postcard over. What he was looking for he didn’t know. A folded page at the bottom buckled and flipped onto the ground and Samuel scooped it up. The page was handwritten and numbered in the top right-hand corner. Four. Page number four. He hurried at the words.

  him but it doesn’t c
ome easily, and the harder I try, the less I feel.

  Does that make me sound a monster? Dr. Boyle says it will come in time and that I must be patient. My darling, I hope you will be patient, too. Samuel is very lucky to have such a wonderful father and I hope that once I am rested, the sun will shine on our little family and I will find my place in it.

  With love and kisses,

  Margot

  At the bottom of the page some of the words had been written out several times—love and kisses, Samuel, my—trying, it seemed, to get the shape and angle of the handwriting just so. He read the first line again.

  him but it doesn’t come easily, and the harder I try, the less I feel.

  Samuel thought back to the letter hidden in the atlas. The letter with the missing page. The missing page four. In his mind’s eye, the last sentence of page three scratched across the darkness.

  I do so want to love...

  Then it fixed itself, like a link in the chain, to the first line of the page in his hand.

  I do so want to love him but it doesn’t come easily, and the harder I try, the less I feel.

  She was writing about him. Wanting to love him but not being able to. His head was shaking, moving from side to side the way you do when something is utterly false. As he stared at the letter, the words began to curl around each other like a nest of serpents. Like a swarm of lies.

  Perhaps Samuel did hear the key rattle in the door behind him and the faint screech as it swung open. But if he did, it wasn’t enough to bring him back.

  “So, now you know.” That’s what she said. She didn’t sound angry or even upset. “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

  Samuel didn’t turn around. “It was all you.”

  “The postcards?” Samuel heard Ruth walking toward him. “Yes, I wrote them.”

  “It was all you,” Samuel said again.