Nursery Tale Page 8

  He got his heavy winter coat out of the closet and put it on. He had no idea where he'd look first for his brother-in-law. If Manny hadn't been in any of the bars, and he wasn't at home, well then, where else could he be? He was a real predictable son of a bitch, Clyde thought, and that fact told him that something was very, very wrong.

  Lorraine Graham pushed her twins' bedroom door open quickly, so as to catch them by surprise. "You boys had better—" she began, and fell silent. Robin and Robert Graham were sleeping quietly in their separate beds. Lorraine's brow furrowed; she closed their door gently. She felt certain she'd heard them talking and giggling (Christ, but why did they giggle, for God's sake?). She pulled her short, terrycloth robe tight around her. The next time she went into Penn Yann, she decided, she'd have to check the prices on good, winter-type robes. This thing she was wearing was obviously meant more for seduction than warmth. She started for her bedroom, her steps made uneven and uncertain by the interruption of sleep.

  She heard the sound of her boys giggling again.

  She hurried back to their room, threw the door open.

  Robin lifted his head a little from the pillow. "Mom? What's the matter?"

  She stared incredulously at him. "What do you mean, 'What's the matter?' You know damned well what the matter is."

  Robin pulled his blanket up around his neck. "No, I don't, Mom," he stammered. "Could I have another blanket, Mom?"

  Robert woke. "What's goin' on? Is it time for school?" He started to get out of bed, Lorraine shook her head; "No, Robert—you've got a couple hours' sleep left." She paused—her sudden anger had quickly given way to confusion. "You boys have been asleep all this time?"

  "Yes, Mom," Robin answered.

  Robert said nothing. He was asleep again.

  "Oh," Lorraine said. And she left the room.

  The smell of Norm Gellis's nervous perspiration roughly approximated the smell of vegetable soup. It was a smell that permeated the air around him now, and made his nose wrinkle. He had his finger on the downstairs light switch and was toying with several ideas. The first told him it was probably best to give his trespasser fair warning—something like, Freeze, or you're a dead man! Or maybe, I got a .38 here, and I hate to tell ya what size hole it'll put in your belly! Because, said the small voice of his intellect, the abrupt turning on of the light might panic the trespasser, and if the trespasser had a gun, too . . . Which was why he much preferred the second idea. Surprise. Sudden and sure! And anyway, said the same, small voice, why give the trespasser fair warning?

  He flicked the light on, took his military stance—bent-legged, straight-armed, a two-handed grip on the .38.

  And he heard frantic, scrambling, scratching sounds on the hardwood floor to his right, near the entrance to the kitchen. He moved forward a few feet, the sweat suddenly pouring out of him, his legs still bent He stopped and saw a flurry of movement in the darkened kitchen. "Okay there," he yelled, his voice cracking slightly, "you freeze!" And he fired the .38. It discharged dully and, at the same moment, he heard Marge scream from above. "Shit!" he murmured. "Go back to sleep, Marge!" he called over his shoulder, suddenly irritated.

  He moved awkwardly into the kitchen, his legs still bent, the gun still in its straight-armed, two-handed grip. He heard a low, humorless chuckle from deep within his chest.

  And then he heard Marge scream again, closer, on the upstairs landing, and he turned his head slightly. "Marge"—still irritated beneath his chuckling—"it's okay, Marge!" He switched the kitchen light on, crouched even lower. He quickly scanned the room.

  And sensed Marge behind him, in the kitchen doorway. He continued scanning the room, chuckling all the while.

  Marge screamed a third time. Loud.

  He whirled, took one hand from the .38, and slapped her hard. She stumbled backward, tried to steady herself, and fell to the floor; a fourth, off-pitch scream erupted from her.

  Norm Gellis hissed, "Marge, will you shut up! Can't you see I'm trying to do something here?!"

  She stopped screaming abruptly. Her eyes widened, her lower lip trembled.

  "And cover yourself, Marge." She wore white cotton panties and a pink flannel, long-sleeved pajama top. "There's somebody in the house!"

  He turned and scanned the kitchen again. He saw the open door to the cellar. "Marge, did you leave the cellar door open?" He waited, got no response. "Marge, I asked you a question." Still nothing. "Damn!" he whispered. He moved slowly toward the door, the .38 once again in its two-handed, straight-armed grip.

  The irregular splotches of blood on the blue linoleum started him chuckling again—louder, in his throat. "I got him, Marge!" he said. "I got the bastard!"

  Chapter 13

  Clyde Watkins leaned across the seat and opened the pickup truck's passenger door. "Hi, Sarah."

  Sarah climbed in and fastened her seat belt hurriedly. ("I feel naked without it," she had explained more than once.) She turned her head, attempted a smile. "Hi, Clyde. Thanks for stoppin'. I woke you up, didn't I?"

  "It ain't the first time, Sarah." He put the truck in gear.

  "Where we goin', Clyde?"

  "Yer husband took my thirty-ought-thirty, Sarah, so I got a fair idea where he is." He punched the accelerator; the pickup lurched away from Sarah's mobile home.

  "Why didn'tcha tell me about the rifle before, Clyde?" she said.

  "He didn't borrow it, Sarah, he took it. Right outa this truck." He inclined his head toward the empty gun rack behind them. "I didn't find out till I come to get you."

  Sarah looked confusedly at him: "You mean he's huntin', Clyde? Then why's he been gone so long?"

  Clyde chose not to answer. He knew that Sarah would realize the answers to her questions soon enough. She did. "Oh my God!" she whispered.

  Clyde reached across the seat and patted her hand. "Now, Sarah, don't go imaginin' things, it won't do no one no good."

  "Clyde, he's shot himself, I know it. That damn fool's shot himself, just like your Uncle Winston–"

  Clyde braked hard for a flashing red light; he looked left and right, saw no headlights; he hit the accelerator. "We don't know he's shot himself, Sarah, and until we do—" He stopped in midsentence. Sarah had begun to weep.

  "We're gonna find him all shot up, ain't we, Clyde? With a great big hole in his chest or in his head, ain't that right, Clyde?"

  He turned the pickup sharply left. "You calm down right now, Sarah, or I'm lettin' you out."

  She continued to weep. She made no reply.

  Lorraine Graham thought, I'm losing control of those boys. They need Stan—he's firmer than I. And she rolled quickly in the bed, from her back to her side, as if that physical movement would put her mind on something else, something that didn't turn around and bite its own tail, as her thoughts of her dead husband invariably did.

  She let her eyes open. "Bastard!" she said. "Bastard!" to leave her with two young boys who giggled too much, and with the awful job of finding someone new for them, and for herself (and in the meantime to be what she could never be—both mother and father to the boys).

  And "Bastard!" because she spent her nights so very much alone and so very much in need . . .

  She focused on the closed bedroom door, only a vague, whitish outline in the dark, and she imagined Stan pushing it open, imagined him crossing the room to her. Touching her. Holding her.

  "Bastard!" she said again, because he'd extracted that damned promise from her that this house would be where Robin and Robert "turned into men."

  "Bastard!" for that idealism and that chauvinism, because this house was really no different, was it, than a city apartment? There were still the (displaced) city people, only far fewer of them (and she wanted to be alone, yes, yes, but not that alone). . . . Christ! If only the lousy bastard were here with her now!

  Sarah asked, "Where you takin' us, Clyde? Is this where you and Manny used to hunt?"

  "Uh-huh," Clyde answered. "Up the road a bit." He nodded.

 
Because of a heavy overcast, the darkness beyond the pickup truck and its headlights was nearly total. Sarah held her watch up so she could read it by the light from the dashboard: 3:55. "Shit, Clyde—what we gonna do out there, now? We gotta wait till the sun comes up."

  "I got a couple flashlights." He reached, opened the glove compartment; there was a large silver-colored flashlight in it. "There's one," he said. "And I got another one in a tool chest back there." He indicated the bed of the pickup, then closed the glove compartment.

  "I can't do that, Clyde."

  He looked questioningly at her. "Can't do what?"

  "I can't go prowlin' around out there in the pitch dark."

  "You wanta wait in the truck?"

  "Yes, Clyde—'less you got some objections."

  "I got no objections, Sarah. Maybe yer husband will, but I don't." He turned his head briefly and grinned at her.

  He saw her straight-arm the dashboard suddenly: "Clyde, look out!"

  He turned back. "Oh Jesus!" And hit the brake hard, pulled the wheel to the left. He heard the grating, shrill screech of metal against metal as the pickup connected with the back end of Manny's Chevy. A half second later, the pickup shuddered to a halt. "Christ almighty!" Clyde muttered. His hands were shaking; he gripped the steering wheel hard; he looked at Sarah; "You okay?" She was rubbing the side of her head, had obviously hit it against the passenger window. "Yeah, I guess." She winced, turned to look at the car they'd hit. "That's our Biscayne, Clyde—that damned fool husbanda mine parked it right in the middle of the road! What'd he do that for, Clyde?" She was on the verge of hysteria. "What in hell would he go and do that for, Clyde, why would he–"

  Clyde slapped her; her hysteria ended abruptly. He looked her squarely in the eye. "I'm gonna go check the damage to the truck, Sarah. You understand me? I'm gonna go check the damage, and I want you to wait right here."

  She nodded once, quickly, her eyes wide. "I'm sorry, Clyde."

  "No need." He got the flashlight from the glove compartment and climbed out of the truck. "Stay put, for now," he called. He aimed the flashlight at the truck's left rear tire. He groaned. "Christ almighty!" He shone the flashlight on Sarah; she put her hand up against the glare. "Clyde!" she protested. He turned the light off. "Whole damned wheel's about six inches back of where it should be, Sarah, and the tire's flat besides." He turned the flashlight on again and aimed it at the rear end of the Chevy, where it had connected with the pickup. "Yer car looks like it might be okay, considerin'. Little bit of a gas leak—"

  "Is Manny in the car, Clyde?"

  "'Course not," he answered, and shone the flashlight briefly into the car's interior. It was empty. "Why would he be in it, Sarah?" She didn't answer. He poked his head into the cab of the pickup: "Ground's hard, Sarah, but I think Manny coulda left some tracks. I'm gonna take a look. Yer stayin' here, right?"

  "Can't you wait a minute, Clyde? Till there's some light."

  "What if Manny's hurt, Sarah? The quicker I get to him the better. You'll be okay, here. Just lock the doors." He stepped away from the truck, walked to the front of the Chevy, looked back, heard Sarah open her door and scramble out. "Clyde?!" she called, "I'm coming with you, Clyde."

  He aimed the flashlight at the front of the pickup. "Over here, Sarah."

  She ran to him, and grabbed his arm: sudden fear had made her breathless. "It's . . . awful dark, Clyde. And cold."

  "Not's cold as it was. Winter ain't on us yet." He played the flashlight beam on a couple square yards—of ground near the Chevy's driver's door.

  "Clyde, that door don't work," Sarah told him.

  He went around to the passenger side. He found Manny's footprints quickly and followed them off the road, Sarah still clinging to him.

  Chapter 14

  Norm Gellis closed the cellar window and locked it in one, quick, agitated motion. "Damn it!"

  Marge came up behind him, rubbing her cheek. "I was just scared, Norm. That's why I was screaming. I was scared."

  "Someone was in here, Marge. Someone was in here, and I shot at him, and I hit him." He paused to absorb it all; he squeezed the .38 affectionately. "I hit him, Marge," he repeated, as if in fascination.

  "I'll call the sheriff, Norm." She turned quickly, with a sense of urgency, and started for the cellar stairs.

  "You do, Marge, and you'll see that that little love tap I gave you was just the beginning. You understand me?"

  She said nothing.

  "And I told you to get something on, Marge. Unless you're going back to bed. Are you going back to bed, Marge?"

  Still nothing. Her back was to him. She was motionless.

  "I asked you a question, Marge."

  "Yes," she answered.

  "Yes what?"

  "Yes, I'm going back to bed."

  "You're not going to call that idiot sheriff?"

  "No, I'm not, Norm." Her voice was steady, quiet, frightened. "I'm going right to bed, right now."

  "'Cuz he can't do nothin', Marge. All he can do is say, 'You got a permit for that .38?' and I'll have to tell him the truth, 'No, I don't, Mr. Sheriff,' and he'll say, 'Well then, I'm puttin' you under arrest.' Because all I wanta do, Marge, is protect my home and family and belongings, and the best way I know of doin' that is with this little beauty." He squeezed the gun again; he held it up, though Marge's back still was turned. "And you're sayin' you'd let him put me in jail for that, Marge? Mandatory one year?!"

  "I'm not saying that, Norm. I just want to go back to bed. Can I do that?" she pleaded. "Can I go back to bed, Norm?"

  "Sure you can." He lowered the gun and held it, barrel down, near his thigh. "But you ain't going to sleep, are you?"

  "I'm pretty tired, Norm."

  "I didn't ask you that."

  She turned her head and futilely attempted a smile. "No, I'll stay awake. For you, Norm." And she moved slowly up the cellar stairs.

  Norm glanced about. The cellar was filled with packing boxes and leftover building materials. He moved a yard to his right, peered over a large box filled with scraps of Fiberglass. He moved to the left.

  "Shit!" he said. He had already completed what he supposed was a thorough search of the entire cellar and had found nothing. The trespasser, he felt certain, had escaped through the cellar window, because that's where the irregular trail of blood led.

  He went to the stairs and glanced back. "Little punk!" he said, smiling, and he ascended the stairs quickly, his heavy footfalls covering the sound of the creature moving behind him, in a corner of the cellar where the light was dim.

  The creature moved silently and swiftly to a nearby window. Beyond it, the warmth was returning. The creature reached up, slipped the window's lock, and pulled the window open.

  In the kitchen just above, Norm Gellis paused and glanced confusedly at the floor. He hadn't heard movement so much as felt it, through the floor, with the soles of his feet. He shrugged. He'd searched thoroughly enough, and now there was Marge to deal with.

  Chapter 15

  Clyde straightened. He let the flashlight beam play on Manny Kent's face. "He's breathing okay, Sarah. And far's I can see, there ain't no blood."

  "You think he hit his head?" Sarah asked, her voice quivering. She nodded to indicate the tall Empire fence only a couple feet from where Manny lay. "You think he tried to climb that fence and fell and hit his head?"

  "I don't know what to think, Sarah." He aimed the flashlight at the fence, then at a spot just on the other side of it; something gleamed dully in the light. "You see that?"

  Sarah nodded. "What is it?"

  "It's the butt of my rifle."

  "What's it doin' in there, Clyde?"

  "I don't know what it's doin' in there. Manny'll tell us, soon's he comes around." He leaned over and put his hands under Manny's shoulders. He noticed, then, the slight, almost warm breeze moving around them. "You ready for some work, Sarah, 'cuz I can't carry him by myself, he's too damned big—"

  "Clyde," Sarah cut in, her
voice low. He looked up and saw her nod at the fence. "Clyde, someone's over there behind the fence."

  He turned his head, looked; he saw nothing. "C'mon, Sarah," he said harshly, agitated. "Give me a hand." He pulled Manny to a sitting position. "I need your help—"

  "Gimme the flashlight, Clyde. Someone's over there!"

  "No there ain't, Sarah . . ."

  In one fluid motion she pulled the flashlight from his pocket, aimed it at the fence and flicked it on.

  Her scream made him stand bolt upright; it pushed adrenalin through his veins.

  She screamed again and dropped the flashlight. She turned, ran.

  Clyde turned his entire body very slowly, almost mechanically toward the fence.

  He looked.

  He saw nothing.

  "And there ain't no blood," he heard. "Far's I can see." The illogic of his fear told him, It's an echo, a kind of echo, because the voice had been his voice: And then.

  "What's it doin' in there, Clyde?" Sarah's voice.

  "And there ain't no blood, far's I can see."

  He saw movement. Shadows moving in the darkness beyond the fence. "Ba-na-na peels and melon rinds," he heard. "Ba-na-na peels and mel-on rinds." And the shadows and voices drifted slowly off, into the small stand of woods that crowded up to the fence.

  He turned hurriedly back to his brother-in-law, lifted him, put him on his shoulders in a rough approximation of a fireman's carry. He didn't stop to wonder where his strength was coming from.

  At the car, he put Manny down on the back seat.

  Sarah was in the front. "Shit!" she murmured. "Shit! It won't start. Shit!" Clyde looked. She was sitting stiffly in the driver's seat, both hands tight on the wheel. She couldn't be making an attempt to start the car, he realized, because she didn't have the keys.

  "Sarah, are you okay?"

  "Shit, it won't start!" she said again.