Wicked Angel

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Why, that’s bad,” said Mark, with honest concern. “And she broke her arm?”

  “Fortunately, that was all, and some contusions. Except that her head was hurt, too, but not too seriously. My doctor says that if she hadn’t instinctively thrown up her right arm to protect her face and head as she was thrown into the air and then onto the stones, she might very possibly have been killed. As it was, she had to have eight stitches taken in her scalp, slightly above her right ear. But what a brave little thing she is. She was back at school in two days, in spite of my insistence that she remain home for at least a week. Naturally, the school paid her bills, and her income wouldn’t have been cut if she had stayed home.”

  “I hope the boy, or boys, were punished,” said Mark, with some anger.

  “Oh, you know how boys are. They were all confused. In fact, they didn’t know that one or two of them had run into Jane, until they were far back in the schoolyard, and had stopped for breath, and then heard her screaming. They carried her into the school. They were terribly sorry and bewildered; none remembered running into Jane, and I can credit that, considering their boisterousness, and boys’ obliviousness in hard play, and the light, and Jane’s smallness and her childish weight. They couldn’t do enough for Jane; they stayed around until the doctor came, and took turns holding her hand and wiping the blood and tears from her face, and fanning her, for she’s a great favorite with them. I believe one or two actually cried, and the others looked like crying. And none could have been kinder and more concerned than your own boy, Angelo.”

  “Angelo?” Mark carefully put the bottle down, and that infinitesimal cold finger touched his heart.

  “Yes. And I was very vexed with Angelo. The boys on the team are all thirteen and fourteen and he had no business practicing with them. Oh, he’s a big boy, almost as big as some of them, and a great leader even among the older boys in the last form, and he excels in sports as he does in everything else. Why, only a month ago a delegation of boys”—and she smiled—“who are part of the football team came into my office and begged me to allow Angelo to be with the team, as he is a marvelous tackler, they said. I refused, of course, for, for all his height and strength, he’s too young. I expressly told Angelo, in private, that I did not approve of him even practicing with the boys, and he assured me he would not in the future, and would be content with basketball and baseball until he was older. I suppose I’m old-fashioned in this, for I see children of five and six playing football, but I don’t approve of younger children on a team with much older and larger boys than they are. It’s dangerous.”

  “And,” said Mark faintly, “Angelo was with them that day. Does he—does he—know who ran into Miss Whythe?”

  “No. Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned that part of it anyway, Mr. Saint. Angelo is about the most popular, most obedient, most serious, and, perhaps, the most intelligent boy in the school, and this was his first infraction. Please forget about it; he was punished, and now it’s forgotten. The boys took up a collection for Miss Whythe to buy her a nice gift, to show her how sorry they were, and …”

  But Mark was not listening. His gray face was even more ashen than usual. He was thinking of Jane Whythe, who was not even as tall as Angelo, and who weighed much less. He was thinking she might have been killed—Mark wet his lip cautiously with his tongue, as if blood were there, and his lip had a taste of acid on it.

  “Does Miss Whythe know who the boy, or boys, were who ran into her?”

  Miss Simmons had bent to examine the shrimps Newburg which were bubbling in the chafing dish. From this crouched position she looked up across the table at Mark, and her wide blue eyes were abstracted and a little startled, as if she were surprised to see him still standing there. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say, Mr. Saint?”

  Mark repeated his question. Did the old lady hesitate a little too long before she straightened up, and, did she linger too long over the dish? Mark did not know that his hands were clenching the lace-covered edge of the table. He did not hear the murmurs and laughter and voices of the others across the room. He saw only Miss Simmons. And now she was gazing at him, sincerely puzzled at his expression and gray pallor.

  “Does she know? Mr. Saint, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself for two weeks. Of course, it was an accident, and nothing can undo it. But Jane is such a loving and devoted little thing; she isn’t many years older than what she calls ‘my boys.’ Even if she knew—and I think she knew—she wouldn’t tell. I don’t blame her, in a way. It was all a stupid accident. All the boys were equally responsible, I suppose, for not watching where they were running, though they all swerved, except that one or two, when they were almost upon Jane. What good would it do, Mr. Saint, for Jane to tell? It would only cause the boy more embarrassment and more wretchedness. And it’s very possible that he didn’t know himself, in the boisterous excitement. If he had known, he would have stopped immediately, I’m sure, instead of running off with the rest, for everyone loves Jane.”

  “Of course,” said Mark. The cold finger had become a clutch of ice around his heart. “It was an accident.”

  He said, “Miss Simmons, I’d like to talk with you a moment about Angelo—” But Miss Simmons had lifted a large elephant bell and was shaking it vigorously and nodding and smiling to the parents and teachers across the room.

  Mark found Kathy, with a bevy of admiring friends about her. She was, naturally, talking about one of Angelo’s latest exploits. He took her arm, and she turned her shining blank eyes upon him and hardly recognized him for a moment. “Kathy,” he said, “I’ve just remembered. I had a flat tire today and left it at the service station three blocks from here. I want to get it before they close in half an hour.”

  “Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?” asked Kathy impatiently. “We’re going to have supper now.”

  Yes, why couldn’t it wait? Why couldn’t it wait until tomorrow, or, better still, forever? Mark did not know why he should be in such an inner frenzy, and why the terror was now stronger in him than ever before. He only knew that he could not wait, not even for an hour, to know, finally.

  “One of the other tires is doubtful,” he said. “Look, I’ll be back before you know it. Save me some of those shrimps.” And he left her, almost running toward the door. I’m out of my mind! he told himself as he found himself in the empty, shining hall and looked about him for the telephone booth he vaguely remembered having seen before. “I’m out of my mind!” he repeated aloud. “What good will it do if I know, or don’t know?”

  He found the booth; his steps echoed as he ran to it, and he opened the telephone book to look for Jane Whythe’s number. Somewhere, dimly, something was crying a prayer that she would not be listed, that a number would not be found in the book. But the name jumped at him from the page, and he fumbled for a coin in wet fingers, dropped the coin in the box and dialed the number. It rang. The prayer changed to a pleading that Jane would not answer, that she would be asleep, though it was only a little after half past nine. But there was a click, and the gentle, almost childish voice answered.

  “Miss Whythe,” said Mark quickly. “This is Mark Saint. We’ve met a few times; you know, I’m Angelo’s father.”

  There was a little pause. Did the voice become fainter? “Oh. Yes, Mr. Saint.”

  “I hope I didn’t disturb you; I hope you weren’t in bed.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Saint—”

  Her tone was constrained. Or was it?

  His hand clutched the receiver so tightly that his fingers whitened. “Miss Whythe. You live not too far from here. I want to talk with you. I can be there in ten minutes or so, driving fast.”

  “Tonight?” She sounded a little shrill. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Saint. My granny is in bed; she isn’t well. And—I was thinking of going to bed myself, right away. In fact, I have a sedative right here near my hand as I am talking to you now.” She paused. “You—you heard about my arm? You are at the party?”


  “Yes. May I come, Miss Whythe?”

  She was silent so long that he thought she had left him. Then she said, and her voice was frightened—or was it?—“Can’t it wait until another time, Mr. Saint?”

  “Such as tomorrow? Shall I come to the school?” Again she was silent. And then he knew. She had not asked him why he wished to see her. She had shown no curiosity at all, no surprise.

  “If I have to wait a week, a month, a year, I’ll have to see you,” he said, almost inaudibly.

  Then she faltered, “You make it sound important—I don’t know—I’m tired—”

  “I know,” he said. “I know, my dear. And it is important, extremely important.”

  “Very well,” she said, and hung up abruptly, and he felt the familiar cold sweat on his back again. He ran into the cool night, not stopping to find his coat and hat. He found his car, wedged between others, and savagely he threw the car forward against the bumper ahead, and then back against another bumper, and was finally free. The streets were quiet; he exceeded the speed limit. Within ten minutes or less he was in the quiet fringe of his own suburb, a much poorer fringe, of duplexes crowded together behind the smallest of lawns, with no garages for the little, old cars at the curbs. Jane Whythe lived in a white duplex. A light was shining in the living-room window; he saw the usual white lamp with ruffled pink shade on its table just behind the glass, and a glimpse of the tiniest of living rooms. Jane, herself, opened the door for him, and he saw how pale she was under her mass of riotous brown curls; he saw her right arm in its splints and sling. She looked like a little girl of ten, not a woman of twenty or slightly more. She led him into the living room without speaking, mutely indicated a cheap but brightly chintzed chair, and sat down on a brown mohair sofa across from him. Her pretty features had a withdrawn look, and her colorless mouth was carved and still and her eyes fixed themselves on him like a stricken child awaiting punishment.

  He leaned toward her, and tried to smile. “I’m sorry about your accident,” he said. She glanced away from him and murmured that he was very kind.

  “I heard how it happened,” he went on.

  Her eyes suddenly flew to his face, and she smiled brilliantly. “Oh, I knew it would be all right! I knew I was wrong. He—” Then she paused, as she saw Mark’s face, and her smile vanished.

  “No,” said Mark, and vaguely wondered how it was possible to feel like this and not have a heart attack. “If you mean Angelo, he didn’t tell me, Miss Whythe. I could have lied to you and said he did, and then you would have told me. But I couldn’t lie to you, you see.”

  Her face became shut and still, her eyes very wide. Her left hand, so small and delicate, trembled on her knee. Then she said slowly and carefully, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Saint. I can see, now, that you were told at the party about my arm, and those big, running boys who didn’t notice me in front of the rocks—after all, my coat is about the same color and it was a dull day, and I should have been more careful. And I was late; the boys weren’t expecting a teacher to jump right up in front of them that way. It—it was all my fault. And now—”

  He lifted his hand, as she was about to get up. “Please wait, Miss Whythe. I’m going to be frank with you. This isn’t the first time—things—have happened. Don’t you understand? It isn’t the first time. I can’t tell you—I’m Angelo’s father, and I love him very much. He’s my son; I love him very much. I have to be certain for once. Just once! Try to understand; think if it were your child. Wouldn’t you want to know? For his sake?”

  For a moment, for just a moment, her young features softened as if she were about to cry in pity and understanding, and then they became resolutely shut again, and her eyes were full of fear. “I still don’t know what you mean, Mr. Saint. If you—if you think that perhaps Angelo pushed me, or—fell—into me—perhaps he did. I don’t know. If he did, if any boy did, it was unintentional. It happened so very fast; it’s still a blur to me. I couldn’t believe it when I found myself on the rocks.”

  “What are you afraid of?” he asked gently. “Angelo? If you are, then all the more reason I should know. If—he did something to you once, he’ll do it to you again.” And he contemplated what he said with a fresh new horror and his head swam.

  Jane was also seeing the horror. As if it were happening now she saw the great boys racing toward her in the dim light, shouting, scuffling, diving, rolling, and she heard her loud and warning shout, and automatically, only sensing rather than actually seeing her, they had swerved aside instinctively. Except for one boy running swiftly and silently on the edge of a group, slightly apart from them, yet with them. She saw his face, immensely enlarged in her sudden knowledge of him and her fright, and then, as she began to lift her slight arm to protect herself she saw his eyes, brilliant as a tiger’s eyes, and as appalling, so close to hers, and then his shoulder had struck the rising arm and she was in the air, and then on the stones, breathless and crushed, and she heard and felt the snapping of her arm. None of the boys had seen what had happened, and who had done it, so intent were they on their excited and tumultuous play, and they were far from her before she had the breath and the full consciousness to scream.

  Mark was watching her; he saw the dilating and the darkening of her eyes, the way her lower lip was clenched between her teeth.

  “It could happen again,” he repeated. “To you. To others.”

  Jane saw the tiger’s eyes once more, full upon her even in that gloom, burning with hatred and the lust to destroy, and she shook her head, dazed. She had thought of it often; for a day or two she had been convinced that the boy had realized the advantage of his being with other boys, of being a part of the tussling and roaring mob, and that he had seized that advantage. He had been lying in wait for such an opportunity, and then it was presented to him, and in the swiftness of his splendid mind he had not hesitated. In a way, she had thought, sickened, it had been sheer genius. And then, as the days went by she became less and less convinced that her accident had been intentional. A young boy, almost a little boy, in age if not in strength and height! Children simply did not do such things, unless they were sub-average in intelligence, or like mindless animals! Boys like Angelo Saint were civilized; they came from excellent families; they were loved, protected, and sheltered. They did not come from “broken homes” where savagery was a part of life and hatred a familiar emotion. Jane Whythe was very young, and very innocent. She believed that love was a blessing, that those who possessed it were gentled by it. She had taken a course in child psychology, and had had it beaten into her mind that “bad children” did not exist, only “bad parents,” and that it was slum children alone, “the underprivileged one-third of a nation,” without advantages and love and cherishing, who were capable of doing deliberate evil, and plotting evil.

  She opened her soft mouth to deny, and then seeing Mark’s face again, she was silent. What had he said? “It isn’t the first time.” She studied Mark’s face; she thought of the devoted mother; she had once passed the beautiful house and had seen Angelo playing on the lawns. Oh, it wasn’t possible! This poor man was neurotic, full of complexes and boundless suspicions.

  And then she unaccountably thought of Kennie Richards; she thought of the whole month of March, and then she thought of her struggles with him, her prayers for him, which had come to nothing. She thought of the Miss Knowles, the teacher in Boston, and the Dr. McDowell, who were jointly paying the boy’s fees at Miss Simmons’ school, and buying his clothing, and visiting him, and giving him the love he had never had before. And her girl’s face flamed with wrath.

  Poor Kennie, poor little Kennie! He had come to the school, hopeful and bright-eyed and eager. His teachers were proud of him. He had skipped a grade, for Miss Simmons did not believe in children remaining in their “age groups,” as there lay disaster for the superior child who was so urgently needed in his country. It was only January when he had reached Jane’s class. She knew his history, his whole sto
ry. The history of every child was minutely recorded in files locked in Miss Simmons’ room, and the teachers alone had access to them in order to know their students fully, so that they would know when to help and when to withhold help, when to be stern and when to be affectionate, and what to expect at all times.

  Only Jane and Kennie’s other teachers, former teachers in the school, and Miss Simmons had known that Kennie was the son of a drunken murderer, and a murdered mother. She had been exceptionally kind to him, and he had responded gratefully. She could see his gray eyes even now, aglow with intelligence, and his shy and sensitive face. The boys had liked him very much and accepted him. They had known only that he was an orphan; they vaguely believed that wealthy relatives were supporting him. He had never become as popular as the flamboyant Angelo, with his captivating smiles, his rich laughs, his air of assurance, but still he had been much liked.

  It was some time before Jane realized that of all the boys only Angelo did not like Kennie. Was it because he suspected that Kennie might be a rival some day? It was impossible to know. Jane only sensed the dislike; she could not actually recall any occasion when Angelo had been offensive to Kennie. She saw with a sort of inner eye; she also saw that these two never had anything to say to each other, that they avoided each other.

  One day when alone with Kennie, she had said to him, “I know it’s none of my business, Kennie, but has something happened between you and Angelo?”

  Why had he colored? But he had said honestly, looking into her eyes, “No, nothing Miss Whythe. It’s just that I don’t like him and he doesn’t like me.”

  “But Angelo’s such a popular boy; everyone likes him!”

  Kennie still looked into her eyes. “Do you like him, Miss Whythe?”

  “Why, cer—” Then Jane had paused, and blushed herself. She had not thought of it before but suddenly she realized that she was the only teacher, and perhaps the only one in the school, who did not like Angelo Saint. It had not come to her conscious mind before, for she vehemently believed that all children were much superior to adults, that they were a special race apart, to be cherished, to be protected. In fact, she almost if not quite believed that they never grew up, that they remained forever what they were: helpless, dependent, uncorrupted, clean, timelessly innocent. She was always surprised to see little children she had known grow up and become tall, often taller than she. In some way she was hurt by this, even though she knew it was ridiculous. But she always thought of them as The Children, the golden ones, the imperishable, the treasures.