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Ladies’ Home Journal, August 1965
ETHEL SLOANE WAS WHISTLING to herself as she got out of her car and splashed across the sidewalk to the doorway of the hardware store. She was wearing a new raincoat and solid boots, and one day of living in the country had made her weather-wise. “This rain can’t last,” she told the hardware clerk confidently. “This time of year it never lasts.”
The clerk nodded tactfully. One day in the country had been enough for Ethel Sloane to become acquainted with most of the local people; she had been into the hardware store several times—“so many odd things you never expect you’re going to need in an old house”—and into the post office to leave their new address, and into the grocery to make it clear that all the Sloane grocery business was going to come their way, and into the bank and into the gas station and into the little library and even as far as the door of the barbershop (“… and you’ll be seeing my husband Jim Sloane in a day or so!”). Ethel Sloane liked having bought the old Sanderson place, and she liked walking the single street of the village, and most of all she liked knowing that people knew who she was.
“They make you feel at home right away, as though you were born not half a mile from here,” she explained to her husband, Jim.
Privately she thought that the storekeepers in the village might show a little more alacrity in remembering her name; she had probably brought more business to the little stores in the village than any of them had seen for a year past. They’re not outgoing people, she told herself reassuringly. It takes a while for them to get over being suspicious; we’ve been here in the house for only two days.
“First, I want to get the name of a good plumber,” she said to the clerk in the hardware store. Ethel Sloane was a great believer in getting information directly from the local people; the plumbers listed in the phone book might be competent enough, but the local people always knew who would suit; Ethel Sloane had no intention of antagonizing the villagers by hiring an unpopular plumber. “And closet hooks,” she said. “My husband, Jim, turns out to be just as good a handyman as he is a writer.” Always tell them your business, she thought, then they don’t have to ask.
“I suppose the best one for plumbing would be Will Watson,” the clerk said. “He does most of the plumbing around. You drive down the Sanderson road in this rain?”
“Of course.” Ethel Sloane was surprised. “I had all kinds of things to do in the village.”
“Creek’s pretty high. They say that sometimes when the creek is high—”
“The bridge held our moving truck yesterday, so I guess it will hold my car today. That bridge ought to stand for a while yet.” Briefly she wondered whether she might not say “for a spell” instead of “for a while,” and then decided that sooner or later it would come naturally. “Anyway, who minds rain? We’ve got so much to do indoors.” She was pleased with “indoors.”
“Well,” the clerk said, “of course, no one can stop you from driving on the old Sanderson road. If you want to. You’ll find people around here mostly leave it alone in the rain, though. Myself, I think it’s all just gossip, but then, I don’t drive out that way much, anyway.”
“It’s a little muddy on a day like this,” Ethel Sloane said firmly, “and maybe a little scary crossing the bridge when the creek is high, but you’ve got to expect that kind of thing when you live in the country.”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” the clerk said. “Closet hooks? I wonder, do we have any closet hooks.”
In the grocery Ethel Sloane bought mustard and soap and pickles and flour. “All the things I forgot to get yesterday,” she explained, laughing.
“You took that road on a day like this?” the grocer asked.
“It’s not that bad,” she said, surprised again. “I don’t mind the rain.”
“We don’t use that road in this weather,” the grocer said. “You might say there’s talk about that road.”
“It certainly seems to have quite a local reputation,” Ethel said, and laughed. “And it’s nowhere near as bad as some of the other roads I’ve seen around here.”
“Well, I told you,” the grocer said, and shut his mouth.
I’ve offended him, Ethel thought, I’ve said I think their roads are bad; these people are so jealous of their countryside.
“I guess our road is pretty muddy,” she said almost apologetically. “But I’m really a very careful driver.”
“You stay careful,” the grocer said. “No matter what you see.”
“I’m always careful.” Whistling, Ethel Sloane went out and got into her car and turned in the circle in front of the abandoned railway station. Nice little town, she was thinking, and they are beginning to like us already, all so worried about my safe driving. We’re the kind of people, Jim and I, who fit in a place like this; we wouldn’t belong in the suburbs or some kind of a colony; we’re real people. Jim will write, she thought, and I’ll get one of these country women to teach me how to make bread. Watson for plumbing.
She was oddly touched when the clerk from the hardware store and then the grocer stepped to their doorways to watch her drive by. They’re worrying about me, she thought; they’re afraid a city gal can’t manage their bad, wicked roads, and I do bet it’s hell in the winter, but I can manage; I’m country now.
Her way led out of the village and then off the highway onto a dirt road that meandered between fields and an occasional farmhouse, then crossed the creek—disturbingly high after all this rain—and turned onto the steep hill that led to the Sanderson house. Ethel Sloane could see the house from the bridge across the creek, although in summer the view would be hidden by trees. It’s a lovely house, she thought with a little catch of pride; I’m so lucky; up there it stands, so proud and remote, waiting for me to come home.
On one side of the hill the Sanderson land had long ago been sold off, and the hillside was dotted with small cottages and a couple of ramshackle farms; the people on that side of the hill used the other, lower, road, and Ethel Sloane was surprised and a little uneasy to perceive that the tire marks on this road and across the bridge were all her own, coming down; no one else seemed to use this road at all. Private, anyway, she thought; maybe they’ve talked everyone else out of using it. She looked up to see the house as she crossed the bridge; my very own house, she thought, and then, well, our very own house, she thought, and then she saw that there were two figures standing silently in the rain by the side of the road.
Good heavens, she thought, standing there in this rain, and she stopped the car. “Can I give you a lift?” she called out, rolling down the window. Through the rain she could see that they seemed to be an old woman and a child, and the rain drove down on them. Staring, Ethel Sloane became aware that the child was sick with misery, wet and shivering and crying in the rain, and she said sharply, “Come and get in the car at once; you mustn’t keep that child out in the rain another minute.”
They stared at her, the old woman frowning, listening. Perhaps she is deaf, Ethel thought, and in her good raincoat and solid boots she climbed out of the car and went over to them. Not wanting for any reason in the world to touch either of them, she put her face close to the old woman’s and said urgently, “Come, hurry. Get that child into the car, where it’s dry. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” Then, with real horror, she saw that the child was wrapped in a blanket, and under the blanket he was wearing thin pajamas; with a shiver of fury, Ethel saw that he was barefoot and standing in the mud. “Get in that car at once,” she said, and hurried to open the back door. “Get in that car at once, do you hear me?”
Silently the old woman reached her hand down to the child and, his eyes wide and staring past Ethel Sloane, the child moved toward the car, with the old woman following. Ethel looked in disgust at the small bare feet going over the mud and rocks, and she said to the old woman, “You ought to be ashamed; that child is certainly going to be sick.”
She waited until they had climbed into t
he backseat of the car, and then slammed the door and got into her seat again. She glanced up at the mirror, but they were sitting in the corner, where she could not see them, and she turned; the child was huddled against the old woman, and the old woman looked straight ahead, her face heavy with weariness.
“Where are you going?” Ethel asked, her voice rising. “Where shall I take you? That child,” she said to the old woman, “has to be gotten indoors and into dry clothes as soon as possible. Where are you going? I’ll see that you get there in a hurry.”
The old woman opened her mouth, and in a voice of old age beyond consolation said, “We want to go to the Sanderson place.”
“To the Sanderson place?” To us? Ethel thought, To see us? This pair? Then she realized that the Sanderson place, to the old local people, probably still included the land where the cottages had been built; they probably still call the whole thing the Sanderson place, she thought, and felt oddly feudal with pride. We’re the lords of the manor, she thought, and her voice was more gentle when she asked, “Were you waiting out there for very long in the rain?”
“Yes,” the old woman said, her voice remote and despairing. Their lives must be desolate, Ethel thought. Imagine being that old and that tired and standing in the rain for someone to come by.
“Well, we’ll soon have you home,” she said, and started the car. The wheels slipped and skidded in the mud, but found a purchase, and slowly Ethel felt the car begin to move up the hill. It was very muddy, and the rain was heavier, and the back of the car dragged as though under an intolerable weight. It’s as though I had a load of iron, Ethel thought. Poor old lady, it’s the weight of years.
“Is the child all right?” she asked, lifting her head; she could not turn to look at them.
“He wants to go home,” the old woman said.
“I should think so. Tell him it won’t be long. I’ll take you right to your door.” It’s the least I can do, she thought, and maybe go inside with them and see that he’s warm enough; those poor bare feet.
Driving up the hill was very difficult, and perhaps the road was a little worse than Ethel had believed; she found that she could not look around or even speak while she was navigating the sharp curves, with the rain driving against the windshield and the wheels slipping in the mud. Once she said, “Nearly at the top,” and then had to be silent, holding the wheel tight. When the car gave a final lurch and topped the small last rise that led onto the flat driveway before the Sanderson house, Ethel said, “Made it,” and laughed. “Now, which way should I go?”
They’re frightened, she thought. I’m sure the child is frightened and I don’t blame them; I was a little nervous myself. She said loudly, “We’re at the top now, it’s all right, we made it. Now where shall I take you?”
When there was still no answer, she turned; the backseat of the car was empty.
“But even if they could have gotten out of the car without my noticing,” Ethel Sloane said for the tenth time that evening to her husband, “they couldn’t have gotten out of sight. I looked and looked.” She lifted her hands in an emphatic gesture. “I went all around the top of the hill in the rain looking in all directions and calling them.”
“But the car seat was dry,” her husband said.
“Well, you’re not going to suggest that I imagined it, are you? Because I’m simply not the kind of person to dream up an old lady and a sick child. There has to be some explanation; I don’t imagine things.”
“Well…” Jim said, and hesitated.
“Are you sure you didn’t see them? They didn’t come to the door?”
“Listen…” Jim said, and hesitated again. “Look,” he said.
“I have certainly never been the kind of person who goes around imagining that she sees old ladies and children. You know me better than that, Jim, you know I don’t go around—”
“Well,” Jim said. “Look,” he said finally, “there could be something. A story I heard. I never told you because—”
“Because what?”
“Because you… well—” Jim said.
“Jim.” Ethel Sloane set her lips. “I don’t like this, Jim. What is there that you haven’t told me? Is there really something you know and I don’t?”
“It’s just a story. I heard it when I came up to look at the house.”
“Do you mean you’ve known something all this time and you’ve never told me?”
“It’s just a story,” Jim said helplessly. Then, looking away, he said, “Everyone knows it, but they don’t say much, I mean, these things—”
“Jim,” Ethel said, “tell me at once.”
“It’s just that there was a little Sanderson boy stolen or lost or something. They thought a crazy old woman took him. People kept talking about it, but they never knew anything for sure.”
“What?” Ethel Sloane stood up and started for the door. “You mean there’s a child been stolen and no one told me about it?”
“No,” Jim said oddly. “I mean, it happened sixty years ago.”
Ethel was still talking about it at breakfast the next morning. “And they’ve never been found,” she told herself happily. “All the people around went searching, and they finally decided the two of them had drowned in the creek, because it was raining then just the way it is now.” She glanced with satisfaction at the rain beating against the window of the breakfast room. “Oh, lovely,” she said, and sighed, and stretched, and smiled. “Ghosts,” she said. “I saw two honest-to-goodness ghosts. No wonder,” she said, “no wonder the child looked so awful. Awful! Kidnapped, and then drowned. No wonder.”
“Listen,” Jim said, “if I were you, I’d forget about it. People around here don’t like to talk much about it.”
“They wouldn’t tell me,” Ethel said, and laughed again. “Our very own ghosts, and not a soul would tell me. I just won’t be satisfied until I get every word of the story.”
“That’s why I never told you,” Jim said miserably.
“Don’t be silly. Yesterday everyone I spoke to mentioned my driving on that road, and I bet every one of them was dying to tell me the story. I can’t wait to see their faces when they hear.”
“No.” Jim stared at her. “You simply can’t go around… boasting about it.”
“But of course I can! Now we really belong here. I’ve really seen the local ghosts. And I’m going in this morning and tell everybody, and find out all I can.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Jim said.
“I know you wish I wouldn’t, but I’m going to. If I listened to you, I’d wait and wait for a good time to mention it and maybe even come to believe I’d dreamed it or something, so I’m going into the village right after breakfast.”
“Please, Ethel,” Jim said. “Please listen to me. People might not take it the way you think.”
“Two ghosts of our very own.” Ethel laughed again. “My very own,” she said. “I just can’t wait to see their faces in the village.”
Before she got into the car she opened the back door and looked again at the seat, dry and unmarked. Then, smiling to herself, she got into the driver’s seat and, suddenly touched with sick cold, turned around to look. “Why,” she said, half whispering, “you’re not still here, you can’t be! Why,” she said, “I just looked.”
“They were strangers in the house,” the old woman said.
The skin on the back of Ethel’s neck crawled as though some wet thing walked there; the child stared past her, and the old woman’s eyes were flat and dead. “What do you want?” Ethel asked, still whispering.
“We got to go back.”
“I’ll take you.” The rain came hard against the windows of the car, and Ethel Sloane, seeing her own hand tremble as she reached for the car key, told herself, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, they’re not real. “I’ll take you,” she said, gripping the wheel tight and turning the car to face down the hill, “I’ll take you,” she said, almost babbling, “I’ll take you right back, I promise, se
e if I don’t, I promise I’ll take you right back where you want to go.”
“He wanted to go home,” the old woman said. Her voice was very far away.
“I’ll take you, I’ll take you.” The road was even more slippery than before, and Ethel Sloane told herself, drive carefully, don’t be afraid, they’re not real. “Right where I found you yesterday, the very spot, I’ll take you back.”
“They were strangers in the house.”
Ethel realized that she was driving faster than she should; she felt the disgusting wet cold coming from the backseat pushing her, forcing her to hurry.
“I’ll take you back,” she said over and over to the old woman and the child.
“When the strangers are gone, we can go home,” the old woman said.
Coming to the last turn before the bridge, the wheels slipped, and, pulling at the steering wheel and shouting, “I’ll take you back, I’ll take you back,” Ethel Sloane could hear only the child’s horrible laughter as the car turned and skidded toward the high waters of the creek. One wheel slipped and spun in the air, and then, wrenching at the car with all her strength, she pulled it back onto the road and stopped.
Crying, breathless, Ethel put her head down on the steering wheel, weak and exhausted. I was almost killed, she told herself, they almost took me with them. She did not need to look into the backseat of the car; the cold was gone, and she knew the seat was dry and empty.
The clerk in the hardware store looked up and, seeing Ethel Sloane, smiled politely and then, looking again, frowned. “You feeling poorly this morning, Mrs. Sloane?” he asked. “Rain bothering you?”
Just an Ordinary Day: Stories Page 47