Face on the Wall (34 page)

“When, Ron, when was it?”

“Oh, I dunno.” It was obvious that the ocean horizon of the Caribbean was still hazy and blue in Ron's head, the outboard still loud in his ears, slamming his sportfisherman across the turquoise waters of the bay.

Homer prompted him. “Do you remember the little kid who died in a fall? It was in the
Concord Journal,
a story about—”

“Oh, right, the retarded boy. Sure, I remember.”

“Well, was this before that? Do you remember whether you made the key before or after?”

“Heck, no.”

“Well,
try,”
said Homer, exasperated. “Try to remember.”

Ron struck a pose of mock concentration, eyes crossed, finger to forehead. “Sorry, fella, it's no use.”

“Hey, Ron,” called the other clerk, “you got customers backed up.”

“Just one more question. What kind of tools did he buy?”

“God, I don't remember. How many tools you think we sell every week?”

Homer thanked him and drove away. It was raining. He was depressed. True, he had succeeded in finding out that Robert Cast had copied Annie's key, but what good did that do? There was no law against copying somebody else's key, and Gast could say it was merely a neighborly precaution. Suppose he saw smoke from Annie Swann's part of the house, and she wasn't home?

At Annie's fortified camp a few patient media people sat in their cars, waiting for something to happen. Surely another wrecking machine would roar up the driveway one of these days, accompanied this time by law enforcement. There'd be a confrontation, the Swann woman would be physically removed, her wall would be knocked down, her friends would do a lot of yelling, but then they would give up and go away, and the whole thing would be over.

But so far nothing was happening. They were bored. The rain came down.

Mary opened the gate in response to Homer's shout. “Lunch, Homer? I made some really good liverwurst sandwiches.”

From the door of Flimnap's shelter Annie's welcoming smile was a tense constriction of facial muscles. “Come on in, Uncle Homer. You're getting soaked.”

“Just a sec,” said Homer, mopping his dripping face. He walked across the muddy churned-up grass to Robert Gast's fence and stared at it. The gate was padlocked. At one end the fence was attached to the house near the rip in the clap-boarded wall where Quincy Wrecking had severed the two parts of the house. At the other end the ground fell away into a thorny tangle.

Oh, Jesus, he'd have to climb over in the middle. Homer shouted to Mary for a chair.

She looked at him doubtfully. “Homer, what fool thing are you going to do now?” But she reached into the shelter and pulled out a folding chair.

Homer took it, set it up beside the fence, and pushed its flimsy legs down into the rain-soaked dirt. Then he hoisted his six-foot-six-inch, 250-pound frame up onto the seat, wobbled left and right, and grabbed frantically for the tops of the fence-poles. Clinging to them uneasily, he explained, “I just want to take a peek into Bob Gast's tool room. Oof!” Gasping, he threw one leg over the fence, lost his foothold on the chair, and slithered to the ground on the other side, landing in a muddy heap.

Mary called, “Homer, are you all right?”

“Umph,” said Homer, struggling to stand up.

“Homer, dear, you're trespassing. Come back.”

“Just a goddamn minute.” Homer limped to the house and peered in the nearest window, holding his hands beside his eyes. His wet hair streamed into his face.

He was looking directly into Gast's workshop. It was neat as a pin. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place. A table saw and a drill press stood on the floor. Tools hung on a pegboard. Gast had used a marking pen to outline the hammer, the coping saw, the wire cutters, the wood saw, so that you could see exactly where to put them back. It was altogether admirable. Homer was envious. His own shop was a mess, with the tools heaped all over the workbench. He frowned, and hunched closer to the window.

One tool lay on the bench, uncategorized, unorganized, unfitted into Gast's perfect collection. There were no clever little supporting gadgets waiting for it on the pegboard. No black outline had been drawn around it, to show where it belonged.

It was a sledgehammer. Even within the dimness of an un-lighted room on a rainy day Homer could see the price tag pasted on the handle. Instantly he made up a scenario—Gast had provided himself with a key and a sledgehammer at the West Concord hardware store. He had used the key to unlock Annie's door. He had propelled Eddy inside and watched him climb the ladder, and then he had jerked on the scaffolding to make Eddy fall, and at last he had brought the sledgehammer down on Eddy's tender skull.

“What the hell are you doing here? Get off my property.”

Homer looked around guiltily at Robert Gast, who was standing beside him in a raincoat and a child's rainhat. “Sorry,” said Homer.

“Oh, it's you,” said Gast, recognizing Annie's interfering uncle. “I will thank you to leave my premises.”

Homer made a gesture of total inadequacy and inability to cope, and stumbled away. Then something appeared miraculously on top of the fence, teetered there for a moment, and fell to the ground. Mary had divined his need. It was the folding chair.

Chapter 51

J
udge Aufsesser, the father of Cissie Aufsesser, who had been blackmailed out of her camera by Charlene Gast, had not forgotten his daughter's case. He had been unsuccessful in persuading Mrs. Rutledge to believe in Charlene's perfidious behavior, and he had failed to convince the headmistress of Weston Country Day. But in the private-school system of Middlesex County there was a higher court, the Board of Independent Schools.

At their next meeting he explained his grievance. “The trouble is, I'm still not satisfied with my daughter's case. The child who oppressed her has not been made accountable. According to Cissie, she still tyrannizes the entire class. And her teacher backs her up at every turn.”

The members of the Board were shocked. “You mean one ten-year-old child can dominate all the rest?” said Barbara Campoggio, whose son was a senior at Fenn School in Concord.

“Precisely,” said the judge. “They're too young to know what's happening. They try out every kind of human social organization without realizing it—oligarchy, monarchy, dictatorship, sometimes carrying it to extreme lengths. Sometimes they even stumble on social equality.”

“The question is, what are we going to do about it in this case?” said Dick Pringle, whose twin boys were sophomores at Concord Academy.

The solution was obvious. They voted to call their next meeting at the school and confront the child herself, along with her parents. Judge Aufsesser would of course be present.

“And we've got to do it soon,” cautioned Barbara Campoggio. “Don't forget, the school year's almost over.”

“Charlene, dear,” said Mrs. Rutledge excitedly. “You're wanted in the library.” She beamed at Charlene and accompanied her into the hall. “It's the members of the Independent School Board, all three of them, along with Judge Aufsesser and your mother. It's obviously some great honor. Not just for you, dear. For the whole school.”

Charlene's glasses flickered. She wasn't as sure as Mrs. Rutledge that this was going to be a great honor for the school. The presence of Judge Aufsesser sounded ominous.

When she came back, walking slowly into the classroom, she went straight to her seat without looking at Mrs. Rutledge. At once the teacher sent her a note—“Oh, Charlene, what did they say?”

Charlene did not reply.

By next morning she had worked out a plan of revenge, and she put it into practice at once. When Mrs. Rutledge called on her to read another chapter of
The Flying Family,
she said, “I'm feeling sort of tired, Mrs. Rutledge. Maybe Cissie could read instead.”

The whole class turned to look at Cissie, who was flabbergasted. She wasn't a very good reader. She took the book and did her best, stumbling over words, while the other kids kept saying, “Louder!”

“‘Even though Bitsy was the baby of the family, she was soon flying as well as big sister Joan. “Come on, Bitsy,”'”—

The next word was too hard. “‘Exclaimed,'” said Mrs. Rutledge impatiently.

“‘… exclaimed Joan, helping her climb to the highest branch of the tree. “We'll fly together. All right now, jump!” Bitsy and Joan jumped, and together they flew in circles around the house, side by side.

“‘“Oh, look, Bitsy,” cried Joan. “See that fox down there? It's caught a baby—a baby—”'”

“Rabbit! All right, Cissie, that's enough. We'll read some more tomorrow. Outdoors now, everybody! The bell's about to ring. Mrs. Kelly will be with you today on the playground.”

Mary stood up from her desk at the back of the room and followed the fifth-grade girls outdoors. Standing beside the tall pole supporting the basketball net, she kept her eyes on Charlene Gast. What on earth was going on? Why was Charlene putting her arm around Cissie Aufsesser and whispering in her ear? Was she threatening her?

“What did you say?” murmured Cissie, unable to believe her ears.

“I said best friends,” said Charlene. “I want us to be best friends, Cissie.”

At once Cissie forgot all that had gone before. She was overjoyed. “Oh, yes, Charlene, yes, yes!”

Mary Kelly had been present in the library when Charlene was chastised by Judge Aufsesser and the Board of Independent Schools. She had been working at a desk between two sections of book stacks. She had at last beheld the great judge in person. She had heard everything that was said.

Now, on the playground, she watched as Charlene took Cissie's hand and whispered in her ear. She saw Cissie blush and smile and walk off with Charlene arm in arm.

How strange. How very strange!

“My grandmother, what big teeth you have!”

“So that I can eat you up!”

Charles Perrault, “Little Red Riding Hood”

Chapter 52