“It must be entirely white,” Kay said. “And the branches thick with icicles. And in the spring and the fall it’ll be different again.” She turned toward him and looked into his eyes; he’d pushed away the haunted darkness, for a little while at least, and for this she was grateful. She put her arms around him. “It’s going to be good,” she said. “Just like we’ve always wanted every thing to be. I’ve got my teaching position, you’ll be writing, Laurie’s going to be meeting new friends and having a real home; that’s very important to her right now.”
“Yes, I know it is.” He held onto her and looked out across the forest. It would be beautiful under a cover of snow. And then in the spring, as the first green buds appeared on the thousands of bare brown limbs, there would be nothing in sight but fresh green and the slow and sure growth of new thicket; and in the autumn, as the weather cooled day by day, the trees would take on the appearance of fire, the leaves scorched with gold and red and yellow, slowly turning brown and curling, dropping to the earth. Beyond those windows Nature would be constantly changing her colors, like a beautiful woman with many dresses. It pleased Evan that there was so much beauty to look forward to, for in the past few years there had been achingly little.
There was a sudden bing-bong! from the entrance foyer. The doorbell, Evan realized.
“I’ll see who it is,” Kay said; she squeezed her husband’s hand briefly and then turned away from the kitchen windows, going out through the den and a connecting corridor to the entrance foyer. Through the panes of frosted glass set into the door she saw the head of the person on the other side; she unlocked and opened the door.
It was a woman, perhaps in her late thirties, wearing a canary yellow tennis outfit; a locket initialed with the letters J and D hung around her neck. Her flesh suntanned but amazingly unlined, she looked as if she practically lived outdoors, and in her rather square-jawed but attractive face her gaze was steady and calm. She held a basket of tomatoes. “Mrs. Reid?” she said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It’s so good to meet you. I’m Janet Demargeon.” The woman motioned with a tilt of her head. “Your next-door neighbor.”
“Oh, yes,” Kay said, “of course. Please come in, won’t you?” She stepped back and the woman came into the entrance foyer. The aroma of freshly mown grass wafted in through the open door, reminding Kay of wide, luxuriously green pastures.
“I see you’re all moved in,” Mrs. Demargeon said, swinging her gaze in toward the living room. “How pretty.”
“Not quite,” Kay told her. “there’s still some furniture to buy.”
“Well, it’s coming along nicely.” The woman smiled again and offered her the basket. “From my garden. I thought you might like some fresh tomatoes this morning.”
“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Kay said as she took them. They were, too; large and red and unblemished. Mrs. Demargeon walked past her into the living room and looked around. “Just a hobby,” she said. “Everyone should have a hobby, and gardening’s mine.”
Kay motioned for her to sit down, and she did, in a chair near the picture window. “It’s so nice and cool in here,” Mrs. Demargeon said, fanning her face with a red-nailed hand. “My air conditioning has been breaking down since the first of June; it’s a real problem getting the Sears serviceman over from the Mall.”
“Can I get you something? A cup of coffee?”
“I’d love some iced tea. With plenty of ice.”
Evan, hearing the voices, came through the foyer into the living room. Kay introduced them and showed him the tomatoes; Evan took the woman’s outstretched hand and shook it, finding it as hard and dry as a man’s. Her eyes were very attractive though, green veined with hazel, and her dark brown hair was swept back from her face. Glints of blond showed in it. Kay took the tomatoes back to the kitchen and left them alone.
“Where are you and your wife from, Mr. Reid?” Mrs. Demargeon asked him when he’d settled himself on the sofa.
“We’ve been living in LaGrange; it’s a small mill town near Bethlehem.”
Mrs. Demargeon nodded. “I’ve heard of it. Were you with the mill?”
“In a way. I was a writer and copy editor for Iron Man, the mill’s public-relations journal. Mostly I wrote headlines.”
“A writer?” She raised her eyebrows. “Well! I don’t think we’ve ever had a writer in the village before. Have you ever had anything published?”
“A few things. I had a short story in Fiction magazine in April, and before that an article on truck drivers in a CBer’s publication. There’ve been some other articles and short stories, all in minor markets. Things like that.”
“Interesting. At least you’ve seen some money from your efforts; I’m sure that’s a lot more than most can say. Do you have a job here in the village, or in Johnstown?”
Evan shook his head. “I’m looking. We left LaGrange because of some…well, complications. And Kay’s going to be teaching during the summer session at George Ross.”
“Oh? Teaching what?”
“Basic algebra,” Kay said, bringing Mrs. Demargeon’s glass of tea across the room to her. The woman sipped at it gratefully. “Strictly a summer-session course, but I’m hoping for a math concepts course in the fall.” She sat down beside Evan.
“That sounds way over my head,” Mrs. Demargeon said. “Anyone who can handle that has my immediate respect. I saw you drive in yesterday; wasn’t there a little girl with you?”
“Our daughter, Laurie,” Kay said. “I think she’s still sleeping.”
“Too bad. I’d like to meet her sometime. She looked like such a pretty, sweet little child. How old is she?”
“Just turned six in May,” Kay told her.
“Six.” The woman smiled, looked from Kay to Evan. “A beautiful age. Then she’ll be attending first grade at Douglas in September? That’s a fine school.”
“Mrs. Demargeon…” Evan began, leaning forward slightly.
“Please. Janet.”
“Okay; Janet. I noticed the street was very dark last night. Are all the houses on McClain Terrace occupied?”
“Yes, they are. But most of the people on the Terrace are early-to-bed, early-to-rise types. A bit sedate, if you get my meaning. Also, I believe the Rices are on vacation this month; they drive up into the Allegheny forest to do some camping every summer.”
“What about the house directly across the street from us?” Evan asked her. “I didn’t see any lights at all over there last night.”
“Oh? Well, I suppose Mr. Keating may be on vacation, too. As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen his car there for a few days. He’s a widower, but I believe he has relatives living in New York; he may be visiting them. He’s a very nice man; I’m sure you’ll like him.” She smiled and sipped at her tea. “Oh, how cooling that is! Of course, June isn’t really our hot month in Bethany’s Sin. It’s August you have to watch out for. That’s the killer month; everything wilts. And dry. My God, is it dry!” She swung her gaze over toward Kay. “So. Have you met many of the villagers yet?”
“You’re the first neighbor we’ve met,” Kay said. “Of course, we know Mrs. Giles, but that’s about it.”
“It takes time, I’m sure. I wouldn’t worry. They’re friendly people.” She shifted her eyes to Evan. “Most of them are, at least; some of them, the ones who live in those large houses down near the Circle, stay to themselves. Their families have lived in the village for a few generations, and, Jesus Christ, they’re more family-conscious than the DAR!”
Kay smiled; she felt relaxed with this woman, and glad that she’d come over to make them feel welcome. It was, after all, an indication that they were being accepted into the village, if only by one neighbor. And acceptance was always a good feeling.
“The Circle’s very beautiful,” Evan was saying. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble and expense to keep those flowers looking nice.”
“The Beautification Committee does it. Let’s see. Mr. and Mrs. Ho
lland, Mrs. Omarian, Mr. and Mrs. Brecker, Mr. Quarles. A few others. They take turns planting and watering and weeding and such as that. They wanted me on the committee last year, but I had to turn it down. That garden of mine keeps me close enough to the earth.”
“I’m sure it does,” Evan said. “I was wondering: what’s that large house over on Cowlington? I can see its roof from my front yard.”
Mrs. Demargeon paused for a moment. “Large house? Let’s see. Oh, right! That’s the museum.”
“Museum?”
She nodded. “Built by the historical society.”
“What kinds of things are in there?” Kay asked her.
Mrs. Demargeon smiled wryly. “Junk, dear. Just junk. Those society ladies think junk and dust make history. Don’t even waste your time going over there, because usually the place is locked up tighter than a drum! Do you play tennis, Mrs. Reid?”
“Please call me Kay. Oh, I used to play a little bit, but I haven’t in quite some time.”
“Great! This place could use another tennis player! At least we do. I’m in a tennis club—the Dynamos—and we play every Tuesday morning at ten over on the courts just down the hill. There’re five of us: Linda Paulson, Anne Grantham, Leigh Hunt, Jean Quarles, and me. Maybe you’d like to play some Tuesday?”
“Maybe,” Kay said. “It depends on my classes.”
“Of course.” The woman finished her tea and put the empty glass on a table beside her. The ice cubes clicked together. She rose, and Evan and Kay did the same. “I’d better be getting on,” Mrs. Demargeon said, moving toward the front door. Stopping to look back, she asked, “Are you two bridge players?”
“Afraid not,” Evan said.
“How about canasta? Poker? It doesn’t matter. I want both of you over at my house on Friday night. Can you do that?”
Kay glanced at Evan; he nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
“Perfect.” She looked down at her wristwatch and made an irritated face. “Oops! I’m running late! Leigh’s waiting for me over at Westbury. Kay, I’ll call you later on in the week and we’ll set up things for Friday, all right?” She opened the front door, moved out onto the steps, “Well, have a good day. And I hope you enjoy the tomatoes.” She waved a hand, gave them one last smile, and then walked off along the pathway to the sidewalk. Kay watched her for a moment and then closed the door.
She put her arm around Evan. “She’s very nice. I’ll take something over there on Friday. How about potato salad?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
There was a noise on the stairs, and Laurie came down, still in her pea green pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Hi, honey,” Kay said. “Do you want some breakfast?”
She yawned. “Cheerios.”
“Cheerios it is. How about some banana slices on top?” Kay took the little girl’s hand and moved toward the den.
“Mrs. Demargeon didn’t say anything about her husband,” Evan said, and Kay looked back at him quizzically.
“Her husband? What about him?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, really. I saw him on their front porch yesterday, and Mrs. Giles told me he’d been in an accident several years ago. He’s paralyzed and in a wheelchair.”
“Mrs. Demargeon is probably sensitive about his condition,” Kay said. “What kind of accident was it?”
“Car crash.”
“God,” Kay said softly. “That’s awful.” Brief flickering images of ripped metal, blank staring headlights, gashed flesh and nerves, swept over her. That could have happened to us once, she heard a voice inside her say. Stop that! “I’m sure we’ll meet him on Friday.” She tugged at Laurie’s hand. “Come on, honey, let’s get your breakfast.” They disappeared into the den, and for a moment Evan stood where he was in the corridor, surrounded by shadow and shards of sunlight. After a while he realized he was working his knuckles, and he remembered doing that a long time ago, while he’d waited inside a bamboo cage. While he’d waited for them to come for him and make him scream. He shrugged his shoulders, almost unconsciously, as if shrugging off an uncomfortable coat or an old, age-wrinkled skin. He moved into the living room, stood where he could draw aside a curtain and look out the window at the Demargeon house next door.
“Evan?” Kay was calling him from the kitchen. “Where are you?”
He didn’t answer, thinking numbly that she was trying to keep track of him as she would Laurie. The Demargeons’ driveway was on the other side of the house, and in another moment he saw their car—a white Honda Civic—back out and then turn away in the direction of the Circle. Only one person was in it.
And as he watched, Evan thought he saw a shadow move across one of the windows facing his house. Moving slowly and with effort. Moving in a wheelchair.
“Evan?” Kay called, the hint of disturbance in her voice barely hidden.
He looked up. “In the living room,” he said. And she was quiet. He heard Laurie ask something about how many children would be at the day-care center. Kay said she didn’t know, but she was sure they’d all be nice.
The shadow was gone from the window. Evan turned away.
Out in the cradling branches of an elm in the front yard, a bird began to sing. The notes rang out across McClain Terrace and echoed away into silence.
7
* * *
The Law
in Bethany’s Sin
AT NOON OREN WYSINGER turned his white-and-blue Oldsmobile patrol car off Fredonia Street and into the McDonald’s parking lot. Watching from under the brim of his hat, he saw a few people stop eating to stare at him; only when they were certain the blue light wasn’t flashing round and round the rooftop glass bubble did they return to their lunches. That feeling of power made Oren Wysinger happy, as if he’d just been reminded that he was an important man. Maybe even the most important man in the village. He circled the restaurant slowly, looking at the cars parked in their yellow-outlined slots. Mostly locals. There was a red sports car he didn’t recognize; somebody out for a drive, maybe some young guy from Spangler or Barnesboro trying to pick up girls. He parked his own car and watched that red job for a few minutes. After a while a teenage boy and girl, both wearing blue jeans, she in a halter top and he in a short-sleeved white shirt, came out of the restaurant and got into the car. The boy noticed Wysinger and nodded, and Wysinger tipped a finger to the brim of his hat. The sports car pulled out of the parking lot slowly, but Wysinger had the distinct feeling that boy would get out on Highway 219 and drive like a devil with a pitchfork up his ass.
Oren Wysinger was forty-six years old. He had the face of a man toughened by the weather: squint lines around eyes so deeply brown they were almost black, creases and cracks and gullies in the flesh that looked like dried-up riverbeds. Gray sideburns, close-cropped, came down from underneath the hat, and below it the hair looked like so much salt and pepper sprinkled across pale skin. His hooked nose was made even more hooked by a large bump of bone on the bridge, where he’d been caught by a beer bottle during a fight three years ago at the Cock’s Crow. He looked wary and cautious and dangerous, distrustful of strangers and fiercely protective of Bethany’s Sin. Because that was his job as sheriff. On both seamed hands the fingernails were bitten to the quick.
Wysinger stretched, his six-foot-three bulk completely filling the driver’s side of the front seat, and his ornate belt buckle scraping up against the steering wheel. He was hungry as all hell; he’d had scrambled eggs and ham at five-thirty this morning in his small brick house on Deer Cross Lane, and during his morning rounds he’d chewed on Fig Newtons and Cracker Jacks and drunk a couple of pints of milk. The wrappers and containers lay on the rear floorboard. He got out of the car, walked across the lot into the restaurant. He knew the counter girls because he was a man of strict habits. They were cute little high-schoolers, two from Barnesboro and the other, the prettiest one, whose name was Kim, from Elmora. Kim had his lunch waiting for him: three ham burgers, French fries, and a large Cok
e. She smiled and asked him how he was doing, and he lied and told her he’d run down a speeder over on Cowlington just an hour before. He took his food, nodded or spoke to a few of the people at the tables, and then went back outside to his car. He switched on his radio and listened to the troopers while he ate. One of them was asking about a registration on a pickup truck. Codes were talked back and forth. Static, different voices, during one transmission the unmistakable scream of a siren. He found himself idly fingering the roll of fat at his midsection; it was no more than a bicycle tire, but it bothered him nonetheless. He could press all the way down through the fat to where the muscle was still firm; at one time the muscles and sinews had stood out like piano wires all along his body, and when he moved he could swear they vibrated. But now he wasn’t getting enough exercise; he used to be able to walk his rounds, but in the past few years the village had been expanding outward and he found it more practical to take the patrol car. He thought of the troopers out on the highway, hard-muscled men in their streamlined metal-and-glass machines. They would be wearing green or gray-tinted sunglasses to ward off the reflection of sun from asphalt, and those Smoky Bear hats that gave them impressive profiles. He’d wanted to be a trooper, and many years ago enrolled in the program, but things hadn’t worked out. It was his attitude, he’s been told; his reflexes were too slow as well. That was a fine thing for a pencil pusher to tell a man who’d been All-State halfback at Slattery High in Conemaugh, his hometown, about seven miles northeast of Johnstown. Slow reflexes. Shit. And that bullshit about attitude, too. What did attitude ever count for, anyway? They had it in for his ass because he was from a small town and hadn’t lived in Johnstown like the rest of them; they didn’t like him because his picture and a story about the ex-football star joining the state trooper program had been in the Conemaugh Crier. They’d laughed at him for that. The sons of bitches. Whole goddamn program wasn’t worth shit anyway. And he had nothing in Conemaugh, all of his friends having died or moved away, all the landmarks of his boyhood fallen to progress and concrete.
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