Lost (38 page)

Hardesty drew her up, the rain splattering over them. “Take it easy,” he said. “You won't get there any faster acting like this.” He tried to take her hand. Under his arm he carried a black rifle; seeing it sent terror all through her. Her worst imaginings converged in that weapon. “My God, what's happened? What if they're hurt? Oh, Mark …” She ran from him, abandoning the path, tearing through the shortcut of the orchard. And the old house broke above the rim of night, growing closer as she rushed toward it, the living-room windows ablaze with light. Vee hurrying about. Something terribly wrong.

By the time she turned in at the gate, a heavy dread had closed around her; it was like pushing herself through lead. She could hardly open the screen door. The kitchen door stood ajar, and she entered the house in slow motion. “Vee!” she cried, but the name came out in a whimper. She could hear a shuffling noise from the lighted living room, then muted voices, then weeping. She stepped toward the rectangle of light as if walking a tightrope. “My God, Vee!” she gasped, overcome with her imaginings.

“We're in here,” Patsy said, peeking around the woodwork. Then the other two children appeared behind Patsy, and beyond them, near the stove, Vee was tending to Funny Grandma. As Leona knelt to the children, she saw the empty window frame and the shredded wall. “Vee, my God—is everybody all right?” Vee glanced toward her and nodded. “I think so.” In her wet coat, Leona drew the children to her. “Kids,” she said, steadying her voice, “tell me. What happened?”

“We helped Funny Grandma get up,” Patsy said. Her face was like a harlequin's—white, cheeks red and splotchy. She started to cry.

“Patsy, don't cry. Oh, don't cry. Just tell me what happened.”

“Funny Grandma's gun blew up,” Mamie said, gulping air through her open mouth.

“Yeah,” Walter said. “She killed somebody.” His eyelashes were wet, clinging together.

Vee stood away from the old woman in the rocking chair and crossed her arms. “Mama,” she said, “nobody thinks you're makin' it up.”

Funny Grandma pointed at the windows and smacked her empty lips.

“I know,” Aunt Vee said. “But they're gone now. They're all gone. And you need t'settle down. Look what you done to the kids—look how scared they are. You shouldn't scare these little kids.” The children were breaking away from Leona, gazing at the shattered wall, skirting it as if it were a danger zone. Vee turned to Leona. “I'm not gettin' anywhere with her. There's no humorin' her. She's too worked up. I still don't know what really happened.”

Hardesty, carrying the rifle, came through the kitchen toward them. “I thought I heard something out by the barn,” he said. “But in the rain—”

Before he could go on, Vee interrupted him. “Put that gun away,” she said, “and stop this talk.” She looked toward the children. “Some folks around here's still pretty scared.” Then she took a step toward him and leaned forward. “She thinks she saw somethin' and she shot it. I reckon it was bound to happen sometime or other. She sees things, believe me.”

“That's right,” Funny Grandma said. “Come in on me with a knife. Just come at me. Come like a damn streak.”

“You're all okay, then?” Mark said, looking at Vee. She nodded and let out a breath. “All right,” he said. “I'll check around outside a little closer.” And he was gone.

Mamie turned back to the rocking chair and tilted her head. “Funny Grandma, did you hurt yourself?”

Funny Grandma peered down at her. “Why, ye look just like my baby girl. Ye look like my li'l Phoebe.”

“We was asleep,” Patsy said, and rubbed her face.

“Yeah,” Walter said. “It shook the floor.”

The palsied voice chased after theirs, demanding its own attention. “He come through that winder. Hit's one of them Frakes boys.”

Vee said, “Mama. The Frakes boys went to school with you. They been buried in Hope Cemetery for twenty years. Who knows what you saw.”

“Then I cain't reckon who it was,” Funny Grandma said peevishly, her chin thrust out. “I seed 'im. Yonder there. Plain as day.”

“You shouldn't be down here in your bare feet,” Leona told the children. “Let's go upstairs and go back to bed.”

“I can't sleep any more,” Patsy said. “It's too loud.”

“It's way past your bedtime,” Aunt Vee said. “Don't want you catchin' pneumonia. The excitement's all over. Come along—I'll go up with ya.” Then to Leona, “Let me take 'em up. Maybe I can get my wits about me. I tell ya it shook the whole house. Just about scared me to death in my dreams.” She gathered the children and smiled at Leona as they started up the stairs. “I like your hair down like that. Makes you look younger.”

Leona glanced at her and laughed softly to herself, and it broke the tension. Too much had happened. Everything was unclear to her, but her fear, her worst fear, had proved unfounded. The children were safe. Deeply relieved, she sat down on the third step, listening to the others climb the stairs behind her. Through the dark windows, she could glimpse Hardesty outside, walking in the rain. Presently he crossed the porch and entered the kitchen. She went to meet him and his hand came up and touched her cheek, and she caught his fingers in her hands. “There's nobody out there,” he said, “nobody shot or I'd have found traces. There's some tracks, but in this rain it could be anything. If somebody was here, they're gone.” He leaned down close to her. “Really, Leona, it's all right.” He went toward the old woman and Leona turned to go after him. What a night, she thought. What a night.

The wind was blowing the rain through the empty window frame. The rocker stopped. “I never seed nothin' like it. Old woman cain't sleep in her own bed any more. I shain't put up with it, I tell you, Vivy.” Funny Grandma craned her head forward till it was only inches from Mark. “Hit stood rightcher at my winder and growled.” She pointed. “Yonder. Lookin' in on my sleep. Not afeared of nothin'. Mean! Crazy, mean dog!”

Dog!
Leona was stabbed by terror. All the fear she had been struggling against broke loose inside her. It
was
him! Her stomach twisted so hard she winced.
It was him, after all. It was him!
Abruptly she stood. “Mark, he's out there! Nothing'll stop him.”

Doubtful, he looked at her, then squinted out at the night. “Did you see something?”

“No!” Leona cried. “No! But he's here. He's still out there. Mark, he'll come back.
He'll come back!
” Hardesty reached for her, but she pulled away from him. “Listen, Mark, please—he's out there. He won't stop. We're all in danger. I've got to do something!” In desperation, she leaned down to Funny Grandma and grasped her thin, papery arms. “Tell me … Funny Grandma! What did he look like?”

The old head sagged against the wooden headrest of the rocker. “Goodbye,” she said in that coarse, faltering voice. “Bye, bye. Glad ye come by.”

“Yes,” Leona persisted. “But, Funny Grandma, don't you remember? The man. The man with the dog. What did he look like?
Try to remember!
”

Funny Grandma shut her eyes, but her mouth kept opening and closing. She was starting to rock, humming, grumbling to herself, her slippers tapping the floor. It was no use.

Leona turned to Hardesty. “Oh, Mark, I'm so scared.” And then she realized what had to be done. “We have to go,” she told him. “We have to leave right now. Me and the children.” He started to protest, but she couldn't let him interfere. Turning, she noticed her purse, and went quickly and inspected it, but everything was in order, the map still there, just as she had left it.

Hardesty was watching her. “What is it?” he said. “What's going on? Leona, tell me.”

“I can't,” she said. Nor could she look at him squarely. “We can't stay here. We're not safe any more. Nobody will be safe here. We've got to go.”

Leona knelt among the children, buttoning their coats, smoothing their hair back under their stocking caps. Hardesty passed through the room carrying suitcases to the car. When the children were ready to leave, Aunt Vee beckoned them. “I believe your Funny Grandma's got a sack of Christmas presents for you kids to take with you. Just some things she put together. Why don't we go in and see her a minute?” As she directed the children toward the doorway, she turned to Leona. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Is this because of what you mentioned before? Remember, you said something about a man followin' you?”

“Yes!” Leona said, amazed that Vee had remembered. She glanced at the children and held her finger to her lips. “Yes, Vee. It just never ends.”

“I thought so,” Vee said, and turned to go with the children.

Alone in the room, Leona pulled out the briefcase from under the foot of the bed. The thumb latches were open. Suddenly she was afraid to touch it, but she forced herself to lift the lid. In a glance, she saw that the gun was gone.
No … God!
He'd found something he wanted all right.
Gone!
So that's what the bastard went into, she thought. Instead of my purse. He must have … He took the gun. Now what can I use, she thought with horror. What can I use to stop him with?

From the direction of the kitchen she heard Vee saying, “Mamie, I told you. Quit fussin' around with that Christmas sack. Leave it be.”

Leona shut the briefcase, gripped its handle, and hurried to them.

Then they were saying goodbye, walking toward the gate, the children going ahead of them through the long white corridor of headlights. Leona peered about, still afraid, still expecting some specter to rise up in the dark. I've got to go out there, she thought.

“I'm sorry you have to leave, Leona,” Vee said, and she brought her arms up around her and held her firmly. “Me, too,” Leona muttered, “me, too,” and when they drew apart, she saw the abiding kindness in Vee's warm blue eyes, the caring and the strength, and felt it flowing out to her. I'm saying goodbye to Vee, Leona thought sadly. I'll never see her again. What a good friend. And the love and pain came flooding through. “Oh, Vee,” she said, reaching, clasping her rough hand as warmly as she knew how to.

But the gaunt woman silenced her. “Now, you just take care,” she said. “Godspeed.”

And Leona was in the Willys with Hardesty and the children, the headlights skimming down along the fence, catching a glimpse of Vee still standing there in the doorway, hand raised. Leona strained back to see her once more, but the tears in her eyes distorted the night around her.

“Take my car,” Hardesty said.

“No, Mark! Your car? I can't do that.”

“You have to,” he said. “It'll take you where you want to go. I'll walk back and stay with Vee till morning. Drive into Kentucky, buy a car there, if that's what you want to do, and leave mine. Just drop me a postcard where it is. I'll pick it up.” But his eyes said something else entirely.

The rain had tapered off. They stood in the soft, gray world of the country road, hardly a mile from Vivian Turner's farmhouse, to say goodbye. Hardesty gently took her shoulders. When finally he spoke again, it was to ask her to stay. “Don't do this,” he said. “I can't imagine living here without you. What'll I have left when you're gone? A memory? That's no good, Leona. How can we make a mistake this wrong? Don't go. I swear to you, I'll take care of you.” The quiet vehemence of his plea touched her as nothing ever had. All that she wanted was to surrender, to stay here with him and to let him have his way.

“I can't. I can't,” she said. “How could I know this would happen? I should never have involved you in this. I thought—I felt safe here with you, and it was …” Tears sprang to her eyes and she quickly wiped them away, trying to maintain some scrap of composure. “Oh, don't be in love with me, Mark. I'll break your heart.”

“Then you'll have to break it. What are you afraid of?”

“Of staying,” she said. “Of leaving.” The children were drawing faces in the steam of the car windows. Leona saw them and smiled grimly. The wind hurled down the road, clattering through the high dripping branches of the trees, and Hardesty drew her close into his coat.

“Then don't tell me,” he said. “Don't tell me some story. I don't care what it is. I'll just leave this, leave everything behind and come find you one of these days.”

“Maybe you won't want to,” she said. “You don't know me. I know you think you do, but, Mark—”

“You're like something wonderful that fell from the sky one night.”

The moment arrived when there was nothing left to say. They stood there then a while longer, not talking, not even touching. It hurt, inexpressibly. It would be like a blindness, not to see each other. At last, he said her name. He said he loved her. But nothing could hold down the fear. She tried to tell him she would never forget him, all her life. It was tearing her inside. She looked up and down the desolate road. Scarcely breathing, she clung to him, and then she kissed him with passion—to last her for the rest of her life.

19

Roosters crowed in the black and white distance. Time crept by. Dawn hung like a pall of smoke in the air, the rain had turned to frost, and the country road meandered through the rough terrain like a snail's shiny track. Among the trees, the morning light fell through the high branches in thin ecclesiastic beams, sliding over the boy. But in the ravines and creek beds the night's darkness still prevailed, silent, undisturbed, the color of indigo.

The left side of Sherman's face still burned from the shotgun blast; he pressed his cold sleeve against it. Of all the damn luck. He shuddered and hugged his outer arms for warmth. “Chinaman,” he said, “c'mon.”

Walking on stones, he crossed the creek and went on. Beneath his footsteps, the thawed ground oozed through ice as thin and crackling as paper. He wondered what time it was. Sherman kept walking, muttering, cursing to himself. He patted his leg for the Chinaman to come, but there was no movement beside him. He stopped and glanced back. “Chinaman,” he said louder. “Come on, boy. Let's go.” But nothing moved in the shadowed ravine. No dark shape ran across the stippled woods to meet him. And then there came a sound he had never heard before—a howl that was nothing like a howl—a terrible cry of pain.