by Cave, Hugh
From out of nowhere a voice said sharply, "Children, what are you—" and ended in a gasp. Olive glanced up and saw that Elizabeth Peckham had come from the house. "Teresa!" the woman screamed. "What are you doing?"
The child looked up but said nothing. She looked down at the frog again and withdrew the nail. The frog was still twitching when she tossed it to the ground and stood up. "I guess you have to go now," she said to Jerri. "Good-bye."
Elizabeth came out of her state of shock and-grabbed her niece by the wrist. "You come with me!" she sputtered. "At once! Never in my life have I seen anything like this!" With only a glance at Olive she spun about and marched to the veranda, jerking the child along beside her.
"Come, Jerri," Olive said and walked to the car with her daughter obediently following.
On the way home she demanded answers. "Whose idea was it?"
"Hers, Mommy."
"How? Did she get the idea first and go looking for a frog, or did you find the frog first?"
"We found it first."
"The nail. Where did she get the nail?"
"It was in a box of things we keep under the porch."
"She sharpened it? She deliberately sharpened it so she could put that poor creature's eyes out?"
"She scratched it on a stone."
"My God, baby, didn't you even try to stop her? Didn't you know it was wrong?"
"She said it was her frog. She caught it."
"Jerri, have you kids ever done anythin' like this before?"
"No, Mommy."
"Never, never do it again. You hear?"
"Yes, Mommy."
Afterward, when the shock had worn off somewhat, Olive tried to expel the incident from her mind. They were only children, after all. A frog meant no more to them than a lizard, a cockroach, a spider.
She knew, though, that any such attempt to rationalize what had occurred was wrong. One simply killed a spider or a cockroach; one didn't torture it. Thank God the child doing the torturing had been Teresa and not Jerri.
And now the phone call. After that ghastly business at the band concert, a telephone call from Elizabeth Peckham at quarter to twelve at night. Naturally, Olive, I've been trying to find out why, and just a few minutes ago Teresa broke down and told me. The fact is, Jerri put her up to it.
Oh, my God, Olive thought, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling above her bed. What's happening to us?
4
In Keith Wilding's bedroom a clock turned a tape player on at seven A.M. Keith was adept at rigging up such devices and liked to wake to music.
So, for that matter, did Melanie Skipworth. He knew because she had been waking more often lately in his bedroom than in her own apartment, a development in their relationship that enormously delighted him. The selection this Monday morning was the Mozart flute and harp concerto, one of Melanie's favorites among his vast collection of tapes.
She snuggled into his arms when the music waked her and after lying close for a time, gently touching each other while the sound flowed over them, they made love. Neither had felt in the mood last night after the eerie occurrence at the concert. For a long time, in fact, they had simply lain there side by side trying to agree on some explanation for Jerri Jansen's behavior.
As they rested after the lovemaking, the subject came up again. "Do you suppose Vin will actually come to work today?" Melanie asked.
"He shouldn't. But, being Vin Otto, he probably will."
"Have you thought of what may happen, Keith? An awful lot of people heard Jerri accusing him. Practically everyone in town goes to those concerts now, you know. And it was in the parking area—all those people going to their cars. All of them right there." Though still low-pitched and musical, her voice was unusually tense.
"What do you mean, have I thought of what may happen?"
"Here at the nursery, when they find him still working for you after what he did, or what she said he did. Some of your customers may think you ought to fire him." When he did not immediately answer, she said anxiously, "Keith?"
"I know. I've thought about it. To hell with them."
"You can't just say to hell with them if they're your customers."
"Can't I? Watch me."
"No, Keith. I'm serious. What will you do?"
After another brief silence he said, "Mel, Vin didn't touch that child. I don't know why she accused him but I know him, and I'm positive he didn't do any such thing."
Melanie had already mentioned her theory that the youngster might have been dreaming. She repeated it now and Keith nodded.
"That has to be it, hon. It made sense last night and still does. She fell asleep. She dreamed he was touching her. She turned on him without really waking up." Leaning over, he kissed her slowly and thoroughly on the mouth before sliding out of bed. "Who makes breakfast?" he demanded then. Living alone, he had become a skillful cook and enjoyed proving it—at least to someone as appreciative as she.
"You do," she told him. "It's your turn. Besides, I want one of your fancy omelets."
Showered and dressed, Keith went into the kitchen while she was bathing, and took time to concoct a breakfast that would please her. He enjoyed pleasing her at all times but especially when she did him the honor of spending the night with him. They would marry eventually, of course. They both took that for granted. Meanwhile he ran the nursery and she her little gift shop in town, and except that they maintained separate residences and hadn't been pronounced man and wife by a third party, they were married. Into the omelets this morning went fresh sweet basil and chives from the herb garden outside the kitchen door, and immeasurable love.
After breakfast Melanie departed, driving off in her own small car, which had been in the yard since before the concert. She would go home before going to her gift shop. She lived in a rented apartment on the lake, not larger than the one Olive and Jerri Jansen occupied in town, but newer and nicer. Like Olive she was a Nebulon girl—had in fact been only a year behind Olive in high school. Her father, Sam Skipworth, owned a garage and was so respected a mechanic that he was given all the local farm machinery to fix. Her mother was shamefully fat but so unfailingly good-natured that no one thought a thing about it.
After watching her car turn at the gate, Keith went to work. There was much to do at the nursery, and except on special occasions he had only the one assistant. This morning he walked along rows of tropical fruit trees—sapodilla, custard apple, carambola—for the production of which he was beginning to acquire a reputation. People came from far away to buy them.
It was a little after eight o'clock. The low morning sun made an acre of shimmering leaves glisten as though they had just been dipped in dark green enamel. He loved every leaf.
He too had been born in Nebulon. After earning his degree at the University of Miami and failing to find a job, he had decided the social sciences were not for him anyway. While in college he had worked summers at a south Florida nursery to help pay expenses, and had found the work fulfilling. So that was it. Some men had to stumble around for years before finding their milieu. He was lucky; he had it right away.
Moving back to Nebulon where no one had thought of doing that kind of thing, he started the Wilding Nursery on a few dollars borrowed from his mother, who was well enough off to risk losing the money. His father, a builder, had been dead a year then, of a heart attack at the age of fifty-two.
Keith straightened from picking a caterpillar from a Guiana chestnut leaf. A car had turned in at the gate, the same car he had driven from the park last night after little Jerri Jansen had torn the face of its owner. Not only here but early, he thought, shaking his head in admiration. Wondering whether Vin had removed Doc Broderick's bandages, he hurried down the path to the nursery office.
No bandages, he noticed as the car stopped and Vin got out. But it might have been better had they been left on. On each side of Vin's face four deep lacerations were visible, like harrow tracks in smooth soil. An attempt had been made to hide them with some kind of
cream, but the cream was too light in color.
"You should have stayed home today, pal," Keith said. "How you feeling?"
"Not bad. I know what I look like, but it does not pain very much."
"It sure looks painful enough." Keith turned to peer at the car. "You know, you really take care of this machine, pal. It sings."
Instead of smiling at the compliment, Vin said solemnly, "Well, yes, I suppose it does."
"I wish mine were in the same condition."
"It can be. If you would like me to work on it sometime . . ."
They were talking to hold back the silence, Keith realized. Both were foolishly embarrassed by the condition of Vin's face. This wouldn't do. Never one to tiptoe for long around the edge of an uncomfortable situation, he strode straight in to get it over with. "Vin, I want to ask you just one thing about last night. Was Jerri asleep before she turned on you? Could she have been dreaming?"
Without hesitation Vin said, "No, that is not possible. She was humming with the music. Those Scott Joplin rags they were playing, we have them on a record."
"I see."
"Believe me, I wish I could say yes to that question. I have thought about it—don't think I have not. But she was wide awake. Where she got the notion that I was touching her I just do not know, Keith. I could never do such a thing."
The awkward silence returned.
"Let's get at that citrus, shall we?" Keith said. "It's going to be a long job."
They budded citrus most of the day, transforming young lemon trees, grown from seed, into assorted orange and grapefruit trees. Keith had obtained the seed from a friend who owned a coffee plantation in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, where that particular wild lemon had proved to be an exceptionally sturdy, disease-free stock on which to graft scions of more sophisticated citrus. He wanted to try it.
Interruptions were frequent, of course. A good thing too, for interruptions meant business. Every little while a car turned in at the gate and rolled down the nursery road to the office near the house. People wanted plants and shrubs. They sought vines. They inquired about fruit trees or ornamentals. Some also wanted to talk.
A Mrs. Maude Vetel was one of the talkers. Much overweight and florid of face, the lady was a person of importance in one of the town churches and came to see about having some flowering shrubs planted around the church parking lot. "Is that Mister Otto I see working over there?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows.
Keith was instantly on guard. "In the citrus, Mrs. Vetel? Yes."
"Really? After what happened in the park last night? I don't think I understand."
"In the park, Mrs. Vetel?"
"You were there, Mister Wilding. Very much there. Right in the midst of it, I'd say. That's what I've been told, at least."
Keith affected a shrug. "It was much ado about nothing, we think."
"Nothing, Mister Wilding?"
"Well, it seems the child was dreaming and woke up screaming. You know how kids are. Dreams can be pretty real to them." Oh Lord, Keith thought at once, how did I get lured into saying that. Now she'll have it all over town and people will ask Vin if that's what happened and he'll say no because he's so damned honest. "Anyway," he hedged, "that's what I think. And, as you say, I was right there on top of it."
"Your Miss Skipworth was there too," the lady said, somehow making the word your sound like an accusation. "Is it also what she thinks?"
"Yes, it is."
"And the child? Does she now say she was dreaming, after the terrible things she screamed in the park?"
Keith's anger was lava rising in a volcano, close to the top now and about to erupt. He stoppered the volcano by drawing in a slow, deep breath but knew nothing would keep it capped much longer with such pressure building up. "Mrs. Vetel," he said, "she doesn't remember the incident." Incident was a good word, properly casual. "The truth is, she must have been pretty tired, staying up so late. She fell asleep again on the way home. Then when she woke up and saw Vin, she actually asked who had scratched him. She's crazy about him, you know."
The stony scowl on Mrs. Vetel's face did not dissolve. "Well, I hope you're right," she said, obviously hoping nothing of the sort. "Because if there is one thing this town won't stand for, Mister Wilding, it's a molester of children. Do you remember Louis Neibert?"
"Who?"
"Perhaps you don't. You were away at college at the time, I believe. But you must have heard about him.
He had a shoe repair shop, and one day little Caroline Burney, who was just eight years old, accused him of taking her into his back room and fondling her when she went there alone to pick up some shoes. Then two other little girls found the courage to reveal he had done the same to them. Now do you remember?"
"Well—vaguely," Keith reluctantly admitted, realizing there was no way to escape without losing a customer. And not just one customer: probably others on his books who attended this one's church.
"And do you remember the reaction, Mister Wilding?" the lady went on relentlessly. "This town was up in arms. Groups of angry men met all over the place, trying to decide what to do about Mister Neibert. In the end it was determined he should be told to sell his business and leave town, and a group of the community's leading citizens went out to his house to tell him."
Keith nodded. "And found he'd already cleared out, I seem to recall."
"Yes. Exactly. And no one in Nebulon ever laid eyes on that man again, Mister Wilding. I hope you understand. That wasn't so very long ago, and this is still the same town. It hasn't changed its mind about such things."
"I'm sure it hasn't."
Mrs. Vetel seemed satisfied then, or at least willing to let the matter rest until she could learn more. But there were others. During the afternoon more customers implied they were not pleased at finding Vin Otto still working at the nursery. The worst of these did more than imply; he bluntly stated.
"What the hell's the matter with you, Wilding, keeping that son of a bitch on after what he did to that little girl? Don't you care?"
Keith's control had been worn thin by this time. Moreover, Leonard Quigley was a man who unfailingly found fault with anything sold to him and used his faultfinding as an excuse for not paying. He was a burly motorcycle cop for whom even his fellow policemen had no affection. "How do you know what Vin Otto did to the girl?" Keith challenged. "Were you there?"
"I heard about it."
"You heard about it. That's good enough? Why don't you ask the girl, and find out what really happened?"
"What the hell are you sore about?"
"I've been listening to cracks like yours all day long. I'm tired. I didn't realize this was such an uptight town."
"To hell with you, Wilding," the cop said darkly. "Anything goes with you college radicals. I just wish that girl would press charges against the bastard; that's what I wish."
Keith drew a deep breath to cap the volcano again, and said coldly, "What do you want here?"
"A tangelo tree, like you got advertised. Sell me one and don't expect to see me around here again as long as that SOB is working here."
"The tree will be six dollars."
"Put it on my tab."
"You already owe me more than forty."
"Shove it, then," Quigley snarled, and made thunder with his Harley-Davidson as he rode off.
5
At four the citrus grafting was nearly finished and Keith gathered up half a dozen small tree hibiscus—Montezuma speciosissima they were tagged—for delivery to a customer. He put them in his truck, a jonquil yellow pickup with the words WILDING'S NURSERY lettered in green and gray on its sides. "You better go when you're through," he said to Vin. "I have a hunch Mrs. Ellstrom may want me to plant these."
Vin looked tired. The day must have been long for him with his face hurting. "Should I stop there on my way home and lend you a hand?"
"No. Go on home."
Mrs. Lois Ellstrom was principal of the school Teresa Crosser and Jerri Jansen attended. A fine woman,
respected and liked. Her husband, Willard, was a photographer with a studio in the town's business section. In Nebulon if you needed a portrait of yourself, a batch of passport photos, an album of wedding pictures, or anything else that could be recorded on film, you went to Willard Ellstrom. He too was respected and liked.
They lived in the older residential part of Nebulon where at least a third of an acre of well-planted grounds surrounded every house, and the houses had high ceilings and spacious rooms. Keith always enjoyed working in that neighborhood. Today it seemed especially restful. He hoped Mrs. Ellstrom would want the hibiscus planted. He would like to be away from the nursery awhile in case any more Leonard Quigleys dropped in.
But the moment the lady answered her door he sensed something wrong and was both concerned and disturbed.
Mrs. Ellstrom was in her early forties, a handsome woman, plump but not fat, with prematurely gray hair. She had had polio as a child and still limped very slightly—a thing she was unduly sensitive about. She wore glasses. Through their lenses she peered at Keith as though puzzled by his presence.
"Yes, Mister Wilding?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellstrom. I've brought the hibiscus you ordered."
"Hibiscus?"
"You picked them out Friday, remember? You said you'd like to have them Monday, which is today. In the afternoon, you said, when you would be home from school." He was talking as though to a child, he realized. But the lost look on her face made him feel he had to.
"Oh?" she said. "Oh yes, of course." But she really didn't remember, he was certain. She was simply accepting his word for it. Her hands trembled. Even the one resting on the doorknob was unsteady. Before she could speak again, she had to wait for her lower lip to stop quivering too. "I—I don't quite know what I ought—" She stopped again in confusion.
"Would you like me to plant them for you, Mrs. Ellstrom? I believe you said Mr. Ellstrom had a lot of work this week and might not be able to find the time."