Lightfall (32 page)

Just don't drink it.

She poured the boiling water on the leaves. Then she set the teapot out on a lacquered tray, where two old Belleek cups were already side by side, along with a sugar bowl and a tiny, empty milk jug. She turned to the yellowed icebox, pulled the door open, and ducked inside. The roses were overwhelming.

She couldn't turn her back on it. She crouched and began to rifle through the stores. The butter keep. The vegetable drawer. Then a dozen different jars. She screwed off lids and drank in the smell of ordinary things. Mustard. Olives. Lard. It was just such sane and simple stuff that proved it was only roses in the air. Nothing to be afraid of. Life was the same as ever.

Tears poured down her cheeks as she reached out a pot of jam. There was a cluster of blackberries etched on the label. Her mouth began to water for a field with a split rail fence around. The bushes were out at the end of August, for about a week till Labor Day. She lifted the lid with her eyes shut, smiling like a girl with an apron-load of sweet dark fruit.

The rot of roses was so deep down, there was nothing left of flowers in it. It was dead like the dead themselves, squirming in the earth.

“What are you doing?” Emery said as he peered around the kitchen door. There was danger in his voice.

“Nothing,” she gasped, clamping the lid on tight and shoving it in exactly where she found it, right beside the ginger ale. “I can't find the milk.”

By now he was right on top of her, and he reached in over her head and pulled the carton out. “Here,” he said flatly, seeming to mock her. “Myself, I take it plain.”

She stood up and went to the tray. She snatched the pitcher and turned with a smile, holding it out till he poured half a cupful in. “Here,” she said like an echo, “you take it.” She placed the pitcher precisely by the sugar, then felt the side of the pot to be sure it was piping hot. She stepped aside demurely so he could lift the tray with two hands. He was too much the host to refuse her.

“You know, my dear,” he said quietly as he shuffled toward the door, the teacups rattling gently, “I don't think you know what you want.”

She followed the barest step behind and caught up the knife from the knife rack by the sink. It came out so clean that it made no sound. As Emery tipped the door open with his elbow, she raised it above her head and danced up close, till her breath sent a ripple through his wispy hair. The blade must have been a foot long. What was it for, she wondered. Meat?

She drove it down with all her might and connected just at the top of his spine. She hit bone right away, and the knife point glanced to the side with a slice across his shoulder. It wasn't enough at all. Though the blood bloomed out and drenched his shirt, for a moment yet he even held the tray as he spun and faced her. Though his eyes bugged wide with shock, his final act was to offer her a cup.

She drove it in a second time, in the pit of his gut and aiming up, so as not to be stopped by the rib cage. Now he seemed to fling the tray away. It crashed to the floor before he did, like a mere domestic mishap. All the time he was sinking down, she held his eyes and the handle of the knife. For all the horror in his face, he didn't seem a bit surprised. When he reached his knees she let the weapon go. He teetered forward. She slipped back neatly and gripped the counter as he pitched over onto his nose with a sickening crack.

Then the sun came out.

Then the doorbell rang.

She scanned her clothes and her shaking hands—calmly, calmly. She hadn't a speck of offal on her. She floated across and out the door to the dining room, letting it shut behind her. She smiled at herself in the mirror as she passed, freezing it in place as she made her way to the front hall. The bell rang out a second time, just when she gripped the doorknob. It almost seemed to remind her: she brought up a hand and yanked the pearls, and the whole string came away. They spattered all over the floor. With the smile still fixed, she opened the door. It was Roy.

“Oh,” he said, perhaps a trifle sheepishly. It must have been the changing of the hour. He had betrayed her, after all.

She had no intention of bringing it up. And anyway, she was so startled to see the sun on the sea behind him, with the clouds boiling off to the north, it was all she could do to look at him.

“Where's Emery?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Upstairs, I guess. I just walked in myself.” She took his hand and led him into the parlor, caressing his arm and sidling close, so his mind was all on her. “Why don't you put a log on the fire?”

He bent to do her bidding, and the doorbell rang again. She turned and trotted back to it. She pulled the door open sharply: it was Mrs. Jeremy. Dr. Upton and Polly were coming up the walk behind. Maybeth was crossing the lawn. Iris crunched a pearl underfoot as she shook Mrs. Jeremy's hand.

“Where's Emery?”

“I don't know,” said Iris quietly. “Roy and I just got here.”

“Well, I want my tea.”

“Look,” said Polly, pointing at the sunset.

The whole group on the threshold stopped to watch. It was pink and yellow and a raging red, with a good half hour to go, besides. The air was suffused with a sudden mildness—almost tropical. Diamonds shivered all over the grass. It was like the end of any storm: their hearts lifted up with hope.

Now they went gladly into the house, laughing as if it were a party. Iris stood her ground as keeper of the gate. Maybeth squeezed her hand in passing. Perhaps for a moment a shadow vague as time fell across the older woman's eyes. She glanced up at Iris, puzzled. Then whatever it was seemed to pass, and the landlady walked inside with her head down, frowning and forlorn.

“Hurry!” Iris shouted at the others, trailing across the meadow from the patch of houses below the hill.

Instantly they picked up speed and rushed to close the gap, as if eager to do what she thought best. Jeff and Simon chased each other, larking it up like a summer game. Iris spotted the new couple, her with the baby in her arms, trudging grimly over the grass, jaws set. They looked as if they were going to a hanging. The Griersons, perhaps to counter them, were clearly stepping out to pay a social call. They sauntered up the lane. She carried a different parasol than she had the day before.

Iris stood and watched them come. She had no special wish to greet them; they were just an excuse to be somewhere else but in the house. Behind her, she could hear them milling in the parlor, pointing out the window at the sun. Then Maybeth called upstairs to ask if Emery was all right.

The Griersons passed inside with a pretty hello. Jeff and Simon bit their lower lips to keep a straight face for the formal gathering. Iris winked them in. She heard Roy thunder up the stairs, for the host had apparently fallen asleep. The new couple mumbled shyly at her, creeping in like servants. The baby began to cry.

“He's not there,” said Roy as he thundered down.

Iris waited a moment more, for Felix Quinn came running up like somebody late for a train. His face was red, his clothes all yanked and muddy.

“He must be in the kitchen,” said Mrs. Jeremy, pattering off in that direction.

“What is it?” said Iris, full of concern, as the doctor wiped his eyes with a hanky out of Maybeth's drawer.

“She still won't come,” choked the doctor. “She doesn't know what she wants.”

“Don't worry,” said Iris fiercely, gathering him into her arms. “We'll get her—I promise.”

And then Mrs. Jeremy screamed.

The only thing with wheels was a flatbed cart in Emery's shed. All the cars were over the side and smashed to bits on the shore below. It seemed a pity to lay him down on the bare and splintered wood, so Maybeth took the old Bethlehem quilt off his bed and tacked it to the cart. Roy and Jeff cleaned him up and dressed him in his wedding suit. Polly went through his things till she found an old sepia picture of Harriet, the daughter. This went into his breast pocket. Then his watch and chain across his vest. Then the signet ring from the dining room table—gold, with a ship etched into the ice-blue stone. They laid him out and put a bunch of flowers from the front garden in his hand. This, they said, was how he would have wanted it.

They had not neglected to open their gifts. Though none of the packages bore a tag, each of them managed to pass the table before it had gone quite dusk. Everyone got a present, even the baby, and everyone found the time to stop and tear the paper off. So before too long some had a pocket of coins or a silver dish to carry around. Polly got a little silver mouse. Roy got an inlaid drinking mug, Maybeth a hammered cross. Everything shone with polish, reminding them all how very much he loved them.

Before setting out, of course, they had a cup of tea.

For her part, Iris kept outside while they got him ready. She picked the flowers. They let her alone because they figured it was private. Naturally, they couldn't help but notice the resemblance between her and Harriet, but it only seemed to make them more determined not to intrude. When she finally came in for tea, they weren't surprised that all she wanted was crackers and a little marmalade. She drank water out of the tap. No one would have been so forward as to offer a spot of tea.

At last she raised her voice to say that it was almost six, or almost dark. They hardly knew the numbers anymore. Putting up their collars against the chill they tramped out and smiled at the staggering, starlit night. Fourteen of them ringed around the cart made the going slow but sure. They eased it down the rutted lane, with no one complaining or carrying light. Iris was at the back. So was Roy.

“Iris?” he whispered.

“What?”

“I know.”

And that was all they said. The ruts got deeper, and somebody came between them—Dr. Upton. She found she only had enough room to lay one hand on the cart. It was just as easy to fall behind and wait to see if they needed her. Nobody noticed she wasn't pulling her weight. They were all intent on keeping the motion gentle, as if they feared to wake him. Iris counted on that intensity. The narrower they focused, the further in they'd go.

The night was not yet black as ink. Far out on the horizon, a streak of mackerel gray with a teal-blue rim made clear how fierce the day held on. The cart tipped some in turning from the lane to the muddy street, so the women gasped and put out hands to hold the corpse in place. Iris wondered: where was the split between women and men when it came to death?

They passed the church and the cemetery gate, not pausing for a moment. Neither place had any bearing here. Even if the church had not been jammed with naked revelers, they wouldn't have held their service in it. They hurried by, averting their faces from chaos. It seemed they could hardly wait to lay a body in the caves. So much so, they had ceased to wonder how the death had come about.

At first, Iris thought it was a ghost. The scene was overwrought with the creak of wheels and human silence. Perhaps the borders had broken down between some other world and this. She caught a glimmer of white in the corner of one eye—following at her own pace, passing from tree to tree on the right of the path. Ordinarily she wouldn't have looked, figuring to give it a chance to fade. But she had so much to do when they finally got to the lighthouse, she decided she'd better meet it face to face in case it wanted a hand in things. She turned and walked toward it. She wasn't afraid. Not any more.

It was only Judith Quinn.

Iris fell into step beside her. They walked together in the cliffside grass, watching the funeral wind along the street. No one seemed to miss either of them. Iris noticed for the first time that they were both about the same weight and height. They easily could have exchanged clothes, if the doctor's wife had had any.

“Who killed him?” asked Judith. “Did you?”

“Shh! He killed himself.”

The naked woman dropped her voice to a whisper: “At first I thought it was Felix.”

“Why?”

“I make him so unhappy. I don't see how he stands it.”

Iris stopped and faced her. Judith trailed another step or two, but she couldn't ignore the confrontation. The funeral was getting away from them. It was halfway there already. The doctor's wife looked shyly at the ground.

“What do you want?” Iris demanded sharply.

Judith didn't even think. She pouted and spoke in a queer, defiant whine: “Look, Iris, I just want to die, okay? I'm sorry if that's too much for you.”

“Why don't you, then? What are you waiting for?”

Judith searched her eyes and smiled in a cunning way. She primped her hair like a woman out for the evening. “I'd just as soon not
know
about it,” she said with a touch of irony. “How do you die in your sleep, Iris? You think you can teach me that?”

Iris wavered and studied her face. Part of her wanted to hurl the woman off the cliff without another word. The edge was only a few feet away, beyond a clump of gentian. But then they would be in collusion, and Judith would die happy. It was all a trick to have it taken out of her hands.

“Meet me at the light,” Iris said. “In about ten minutes. Don't let anyone see you.”

She didn't stop for an answer. She bounded over the grass and down the street, rushing to catch the procession as it crossed the brook and into the park. When she reached within ten feet of the cart, she heard a low, rhythmic chanting. Though each of the mourners was barely audible, no one was exempt. Together they sent up a murmur as gray as the wind on the bluff. Iris shouldered in between Maybeth and Jeff. She could tell they never even knew she left.

They passed through the center of the circle of stones, and as if there had been an explosion deep in space, they suddenly turned to gaze at the sky. In the north-northeast quarter, the moon lay white and gibbous, one day short of full. Its bloodless light raked the point with a thousand shadows. It gleamed their eyes and laid their faces open. The chanting stopped. They shivered now at last, as if the night were white with ice. Then they looked around the circle, vague and strangely agitated, as if the blank their minds had drawn had finally come to shame them.