Lost (31 page)

The house was silent. Funny Grandma had gone to her room for her afternoon nap. The minutes stretched slowly away like minutes in a dream. Now and then, Leona stopped what she was doing and held her head in her hands. The throbbing didn't slacken for a moment. And yet she wanted to do her part for Mamie's birthday; it was important. Through the side window she could see the three children working with Vee to build the snowman, occasionally heard them call out in their delight. After she had stirred in all the ingredients, she thought there was too much batter and wondered if she had done something wrong; what kind of cake did Vee have in mind? She hadn't the strength to question it further.

After a time, she grew aware that the voices outside had stopped and she lifted her head. The neighbor, Hardesty, was talking to Vee, the children leaping around them in a kind of spontaneous dance. Watching them was like watching a movie with no sound. Hardesty turned and swung Mamie up on his shoulders, took Patsy's hand, and they set off through the trees with Walter leading. How right they looked together like that, Leona thought. How happy.

Vee was coming to her across the kitchen. She took the bowl from Leona's lap. “I knew it,” she said. “I don't know why I even said anything. You're not fit to be up yet, and this's all my fault. Come on, get ahold of me. You gotta get back to bed.”

When Vee helped her stand, Leona thought the top of her head would fly off. She caught and steadied herself. “But, Vee,” she protested, “I'm going to be all right. It's her birthday. I can't miss it.”

“Don't worry about that,” Vee said, supporting her. “Nobody's gonna leave you out.”

“Where's he taking them?”

“Oh,” Vee said, “he's been tellin' 'em stories about his blind fish. It's all a pack of lies but they enjoy it. He's goin' to show 'em his fish.”

“Are they really blind?”

“Of course not. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

She heard a soft scuttle of activity around her and opened her eyes. Directly in front of her, on the piano stool, sat a four-layered birthday cake covered with white icing, and punched into the top of it were eight small pink candles. “She's awake,” Walter said, hovering just beyond the cake. “Patsy, go tell Aunt Vee she's woke up.” Patsy broke from him at a run. Standing next to Walter was Mamie, and behind the two of them, in her rocking chair, sat Funny Grandma. Still deeper in the room, near the wood stove, Mark Hardesty stood like a dark column. Night was settling in; a single lamp had been lit on the piano across the room. Leona still couldn't see him clearly, but she was aware of him. And she felt better. When she shrugged up on the bed, rearranging her pillows, there was only a faint throb at her temples. Turning on her side, she felt something brush against her thigh under the covers, and as she shrank from it, she realized what it was—the box of trinkets for Mamie. Vee must have put it there, she thought, while I was asleep.

Vee came to the foot of the bed, folding her arms. “You look better than the last time I looked in,” she announced, and Leona said, “Yes. I must have slept a long time. What time is it?” But already the children were beginning to clamor.

“Is it time to light the candles?” Walter asked.

“They're not new candles,” Patsy said, elbowing him. “They've been used.”

Vee was feeling in her sweater pockets for matches. “We made up for these old candles by making an extra big cake.” She looked at Mark. “Couldn't you set that cake afire and let that pretty girl get on with her birthday? She's about to bust at the seams.”

Leona watched Mamie, who was beaming. Hardesty came toward them, striking a match with his thumbnail. Leaning over the children, cupping the fire in the palm of his hand, he lit the eight candles one at a time. The wick blazed up and the flame stabilized before he went on to the next one; little by little, the small flames exposed his face.

What struck Leona about him now was the absence of anything boyish in his face. Most of the men she knew, even Dr. Merchassen at the age of seventy-nine, carried some remnant of their boyhood in their faces all their lives. Not Mark Hardesty; his was entirely a man's face. He was a lean, rugged-looking man; his eyes were warm and dark and crinkled at the corners. She noticed that his hands were weathered, accustomed to work. “I understand,” she said as he lit the last two candles, “that you have blind fish.”

“That's right,” he replied. But the children disrupted anything else he might have said. “Yeah,” Walter told her. “We fed 'em corn.
Field
corn.” And Patsy said, “Uh-huh, we went inside their cave.”

When Leona lowered her eyes, she saw that the three of them were looking straight at her. “I'll bet they liked that,” she said, and then turned again to Mark. “You must consider yourself very lucky? To have such fish.”

“They're something everybody should see,” Hardesty said to her, unable to keep from grinning. He winked at her and shook out the match, stepping back. She could no longer see his face.

With the eight birthday candles flickering, they all turned to Mamie. “You have to make a wish,” Patsy said, and Walter added, “But close your eyes first.”

“I know how to do it,” Mamie said.

“Hurry up,” Walter persisted, “they're gonna go out,” and Leona said, “Walter, let Mamie do it. We should sing,” and she started, “Happy birthday to you,” and Vee sang along. Walter and Patsy muttered the words, rapt, watching closely as Mamie bent over the eight yellow flames and blew them all out in one breath.

“What did you wish for?” Patsy asked.

“Don't tell 'er,” Walter said. “It's s'posed to be a secret.”

Vee diverted them. “Why don't we cut that cake and eat it? We'll all have some. Patsy, if you'd help me get the plates, and, Walter, you can hand out the forks.”

The candles were smoking, each sending up a tendril of white vapor. To keep the blackened ends from falling in the icing, Leona reached to take them out, but Mamie stepped forward possessively, blocking her hand.

Mark Hardesty noticed Mamie's spite and the hurt expression that sank quickly on Leona's face. But Mamie didn't object when Vee removed the candles and cut the cake.

Served on saucers, the pieces lapped over the sides. When Mamie was through with her cake, Leona said to her, “Mamie, there's a present here for you … from your Aunt Vee and me.” And she lifted the wrapped box from the covers. Funny Grandma said, “I seen the light come from the East in a hail of glory.”

Vee had wrapped the box in cooking foil. Mamie took it from Leona, sat with it on the floor. “It's heavy,” she said quietly. Eyes bright with anticipation, Patsy and Walter gravitated to her, going to their knees, setting down their cake plates.

“Wonder what it is,” Walter said.

Mamie tore the wrapping away. “It's everything,” said. “There's everything in it. Just look.”

Vee caught Leona's eye and nodded; then she said, “Mamie, you should share with them,” and obediently Mamie pulled out the yo-yo for Walter and the kazoo for Patsy, but they were more interested in everything still in the box. As the children went on exclaiming over their treasures, Vee collected the plates. She started to take Mark's, but he said he had to be going, and they turned toward the kitchen when suddenly, without warning, a scream ripped through the room like a knife to the heart. Leona leaped up from the bed; Vee and Mark wheeled in the doorway; Funny Grandma pitched forward. And then Mamie screamed again. The box of trinkets spilled from her skirt. She raced around the room. “Look!” she cried. “Look! Oh, look! Look!” Tears were running down her face. “
Look
, it's Toddy's ring!
It's Toddy's ring!
”

She ran from one of them to the next, holding up the metal ring in the shape of a skull with glass eyes. “It's Toddy's ring!” Pausing hardly a moment, she cried, “It's Toddy's ring that he gave me. It's Toddy's Phantom ring.” She showed it to Vee and Hardesty and Funny Grandma. She was crying, brushing the tears from her face. She showed it to Patsy and Walter, whirled and stopped short directly in front of Leona. Mamie wept uncontrollably then, covering her face with her hands, and when she drew her hands away, her face was shiny with tears. She swallowed. “Oh, thank you,” she said to Leona. “Where'd you ever find it?”

Mamie didn't wait for an answer, and it was just as well. Leona couldn't speak.

“It's my Toddy's ring,” Mamie said, examining it once again. “… That
he
threw away.” She wiped away her tears and turned to the other children, sliding the ring down onto her finger. “See,” she said, “it's adjustable.”

Leona couldn't stop looking at her. Suddenly there was something warm and different in Mamie's eyes.

In bed that night, Patsy said, “I think she likes him. Did you see how she looks at him? Maybe we can just stay here.”

“I like
Harkestry
,” Walter said. “He looks just like my daddy.”

Lying in the dark, Patsy said, “He don't
either
. Stop saying that. He looks like somebody else.”

“Who, then?” Walter asked.

Toddy's really a good boy, Mr. Abbott. He works so hard.… None of us knew he was so deeply troubled
.… Mamie remembered that time. And she remembered asking Sherman, “Is Toddy comin' with us?” And Sherman said, “He's all right.” But Toddy wasn't all right. He wasn't all right any more. Tonight she couldn't stop thinking about Toddy, just like he'd said he couldn't stop thinking about Sherman. Without making a sound, she lay there in bed, crying, holding his Phantom's ring in both her hands. It was a year ago tonight that he had come to her room and given her the cuff-link box with this ring in it. No one else had remembered. It seemed like forever ago.

Finally she had to bury her face in the pillow to keep from making any noise. She knew she had to be quiet tonight. It would be a long wait before she could sneak downstairs and put back Aunt Vee's things: the buttons, the bobby pins, the silver dollars.

She was eight years old. She had her ring back. And Leona had given it to her.

16

Dawn.

A hinge squeaked.

Leona started and opened her eyes. Daybreak was just beginning to illuminate the drawn window shades. What was that? she thought. Her mind amplified a host of tiny sounds, but for several seconds she recognized nothing out of the ordinary. Then she heard two distinct footsteps. It's somebody, she thought; it must be one of the children. And yet the noise was too measured and surefooted to be the sleepy wanderings of a child. Someone was in the house. An inkling of who it might be sent a chill through her. “Oh, no … no,” she murmured, trying to dismiss it. But who else would come sneaking in so early? On the sofa across the room, Vivian was sound asleep. Leona had slept with her arm back over her head, hiding her face. Now, under the canopy of her sleeve, she could see only part of the room.

A dark figure came to the edge of her perspective and stood near the row of windows, as much as ten or twelve feet away, but the reddish glow from the stove didn't reach him and the thin morning light left him unexposed.
This must be what he did to Emma
. Standing at the other end of the dingy brown shades, he was hardly more than a shape—as if a shadow had drawn itself together there.
It's him!
she thought.
He's found us
. He just stood there, very still. Her heart was pounding so hard she wondered if it showed through the covers, but at the thought of Emma, her fright was tempered with an even colder resolve. Her eyes scanned the room for something to use against him, but she could see nothing that would stop him. Then she remembered placing the briefcase next to the bed and thought, If only I could get the gun.

The pale morning light filtered through the shades in dim, diagonal streaks. It was like looking through ribbons of gauze. Otherwise the room was dark. She wondered if he could see her any better than she could see him, and decided she had to take the chance.

Slowly, under the quilts, she slipped her concealed hand to the edge of the cool bed sheet and began to lower her fingers. She thought: When he comes … if he sees what I'm doing, he'll come very fast. He moved. He lit a cigarette. She saw the cupped flame bloom in his hands. She concentrated all her will into the quiet descent of her hand, and eventually her fingertips touched the top of the case. Muffling the spring-loaded latches under the ball of her hand, she undid them, first one, then the other. Wedged between the bed runner and the night table, the briefcase stood open a crack.

He was putting out his cigarette.

Shifting slightly, still hiding her face, she fumbled for the Browning, finally snatched the upright barrel end of it and carefully retracted her arm. She could follow the path of her hand under the covers: the surface of the quilt swelled and flattened like the track of a mole in soft earth. She slid the Browning into the warm air pocket near her body where she could manipulate it undetected. Then, like a slippery shadow, the figure at the window took a step and turned, and she closed her eyes, playing possum. If he came toward her, if she heard him or even sensed him coming at her, she would kill him. Shoot straight through the quilts.

Trying to keep her eyelids relaxed and her breathing steady, she found the small metal safety catch and released it. At the same time, she heard him shift, then nothing else. She tensed beneath the covers and felt a change in the air as the warmth from the stove was momentarily blocked from her. Her forefinger closed down like a knot on the trigger. To locate him exactly, she opened and closed her eyes very fast and saw the blur of his hand so close to her face that she couldn't move, couldn't even scream—her throat had slammed shut. Then, recovering, she threw herself up from the pillow, tearing the covers off, and glimpsed only his sleeve vanishing through the doorway.