Knowing Sunnie was an unexpected adventure for Sandy. She represented the outside world for him, a world which, though he knew it existed, had seemed so distant and imaginary as to be irrelevant. Suddenly it was here, in his own home.
"You know, Sandy," Sunnie said one day as they walked through the gardens scattering crumbs for the chickens, "I can see why you never wanted to leave here."
"I never thought about it," he said honestly. "Leaving here simply never occurred to me."
"Well, if it ever does, I'd suggest ignoring it. You have no idea how restorative it is for me to be here. The bustle of the city, the hassles of living there ... why, it's a jungle. I've worked hard from the time I was a little girl, and this is the first vacation I've ever had. Oh, I realize it's not a
real
vacation. I mean, I know I'm working, but it's so nice and easy here. My mother wasn't very well and I never knew my father, so I had to take care of a lot of things. My mother was an actress, but she had to leave the only good role she ever got when she found I was on the way. My father was a street juggler who went to Florida in the winters. Because of the weather, you know. He left just before I was born, and he didn't come back when he'd said he would. In fact, he never came back. For years my mother spent her days walking around the streets looking for him, hoping he'd returned without telling her, the way a charming but irresponsible rogue, which he was, would do. That's probably what broke down her health, so much walking around in all kinds of weather. Then when her health got too poor for her to walk, she sat at home looking out the window of our apartment, still watching for him." Sunnie lowered her voice. "She used to drink a little more than was really good for her.
"Even when I was small I earned a little money running errands for some of the other people in the apartment house. I'd go to the market for them or walk their dogs or buy a newspaper for them. We were always short of money. Then when I was old enough, I got real jobs after school, waitressing and working in the dime store and things like that. But my mother was getting sicker and sicker, and I spent a lot of time taking care of her. That's when I decided to be a nurse. I really liked taking care of her. But she died anyway. I mean, I don't think the way I took care of her had anything to do with it," she said hastily. "I think she would have died no matter who was taking care of her. But the oddest thing was, right after she died, I got a telegram from a lawyer in Florida telling me my father had just died and left me and my mother some money. He'd stayed in Florida all that time, and had a little nightclub. I was really mad at him. But then I found out from the lawyer how my father had always felt guilty about leaving me and my mother but he just wasn't cut out to be a family man. Then I wasn't quite so mad. I mean, it was an awful thing to do to us, but it bothered him for the rest of his life, so he wasn't as hard-hearted as I thought. Nobody's simple, I guess. So anyway, I took the money he left me. It was just enough to support me so I didn't have to work at anything except school, and the day the money ran out was the day Dr. Malcolm called and asked me to come here. So things work out. They really do. Now I can support myself doing something I love to do, and my very first assignment is in this lovely place taking care of your sweet family. Oh, I know they're sweet. I can tell from the way they smile in their sleep. I've even become fond of Attila. Look how poor Louie misses her. Every morning after breakfast he comes upstairs and gets in the dishpan with her for a while. I'll bet she knows it, too, even in her sleep. That's why I talk to your parents and Flossie all the time I'm taking care of them. In nursing school we learned that the last sense to go is hearing and that it's important to talk to our patients all the time, even if we don't think they can bear us. I always try to be encouraging when I talk to them. I tell your mother and father and Flossie that someday they're going to wake up, and the first thing they'll want is a hug and the next thing they'll want is a steak. You have to feed both hungers, you know. I'm not sure exactly what to tell Attila. I mean, I don't know if chickens need much hugging, and I feel funny telling her I'll have a big fat bug ready for her when she wakes up. But that's what I tell her, just in case she can understand me."
They had walked for several miles around Eclipse while Sunnie talked, but Sandy hardly noticed. He never tired of listening to her talk, and she had so much to say. She made him think about things he had never considered before, such as the hunger for hugs as well as for steaks. And how a runaway husband and father could suffer from what he had done, too. And lots of other things as well.
As entranced as he was by Sunnie, Sandy's days were still shadowed by the continued absence of those in the sickroom. Every morning he woke with the hope that this day might be the one when life returned to normal. But it never was.
One evening as Bentley and Sandy sat in the kitchen trying to decide whether they should make pea soup or toasted cheese sandwiches for supper, and Sunnie sat upstairs watching over the patients, the intercom buzzer sounded. Bentley and Sandy looked questioningly at each other, and then Bentley went to answer it. Sandy trailed along behind him.
"Yes?" Bentley said into the intercom.
"It's Bart and Bernie," said a loud voice. "Tonight's the third Thursday of October. It's time for our monthly dinner. Open the gate."
Sandy and Bentley looked at each other, aghast. They'd forgotten all about the monthly dinner.
"What shall I say?" Bentley whispered frantically.
Sandy stepped up to the intercom, trying to control his rage. "We forgot this was the night," he said. "You know, without calendars, it's hard to keep track. Let's skip this month. I promise we won't forget next time."
"No problem," Bart yelled into the microphone. "We'll take potluck. Open the gate."
"Well, to tell the truth, we've all had a touch of the flu. We're probably still contagious. I certainly wouldn't want you to catch it."
"We're disgustingly healthy," Bart bellowed. "Don't worry. Open the gate."
"Disgusting, anyway," Sandy muttered.
"What?" Bart yelled.
"Nothing. So we'll see you next month, OK?" Sandy said, hoping they'd get the idea.
"If you don't open this gate," Bart hollered, "we'll have to assume something worse than the flu is wrong and we'll have to let the board of directors of HAHA, Inc. know. And they'll be out here before you know what happened, with court orders and habeas corpuses and stuff like that, just to be sure Horatio's of sound mind, et cetera. So open the gate."
"We're going to have to let them in," Sandy said. "Act as if everything's fine. We may even have to feed them. Just don't eat
anything
they've touched." He pressed the intercom button and said, "OK, I'll open the gate. But Mousey and Flossie and Horatio have already gone to bed, so you'll have to be content to eat with just me and Bentley."
"Perfect," Bart said, and laughed evilly.
When the doorbell rang, Bentley cautiously opened the door.
"Evening, Bentley old boy," Bart said, stepping over the threshold and thumping Bentley's shoulder so hard he nearly knocked him over. "Come on, Bernie. Don't just stand out there freezing." Bernie came in and closed the door behind him.
Sandy restrained his impulse to leap at them both and ... and ... well, he didn't know exactly what, but it would be bad. Then his better judgment reasserted itself, and he knew that if he was ever to prove their responsibility for what had happened to his parents and Flossie, he had to keep his wits about him.
Bernie thrust a bottle of wine into Bentley's hands. "We brought this to have with dinner. The least we could do."
Bentley held the bottle at arm's length, only his thumb and forefinger touching it around the neck. It was port, which he despised, and not a very good year, at that.
"While you whip us up some dinner," Bart said, throwing his overcoat, and then Bernie's, over Bentley's outstretched arm, "I'll run up and have a look at my dear brother." He crossed to the staircase.
Sandy grabbed his flabby arm. "I told you he's gone to sleep. You can't wake him up."
For a moment they stood looking each other directly in the eyes, and Sandy knew they each could read the other's thoughts. Bart knew something was wrong with Horatio. And Bart knew Sandy understood his and Bernie's parts in what was wrong. War was silently declared.
"I'll see him next time, then. Won't I?" he asked Sandy challengingly as he turned from the stairs.
"Absolutely," Sandy said grimly.
Bentley said, "We were just going to open a can of soup for supper."
"A can of soup is dandy with us," Bart said. "Right, Bernie? And this bottle of wine will make it a real party." He strode off to the kitchen.
Sandy grabbed Bentley's arm and whispered, "Let's just feed them and get them out of here."
Bentley put together a plate of toasted cheese sandwiches and started the soup heating on the stove.
Bart said, "I'll go wash my hands and then I'll open the wine." He left the kitchen and a minute later they heard a scream from upstairs.
Bentley, Sandy, and Bernie ran up the stairs and found Sunnie at the door of the sickroom, her arms stretched across the entrance, screaming her head off as Bart tried to get past her.
"What are you doing up here?" Sandy yelled, grabbing Bart by the collar and pulling him away from where he hovered threateningly over Sunnie.
"I just wanted to tiptoe up and see my own brother," Bart said, shrugging Sandy off, pushing Sunnie aside, and marching possessively into the sickroom. "How come you need a nurse and hospital beds and all this other junk if they've only got the flu? What's this chicken doing in here? I want my own doctor to examine them, and I'm going to inform my lawyer about this, too." Bart cast triumphant glances at Sandy as he spoke. "Your father has a fortune to manage, and if he's incompetent to do it, as it certainly looks like he is, I want something done about it, and done in a hurry. I always knew this was an unhealthy setup, the way you live out here like hermits, getting more and more removed from reality. Wouldn't surprise me if you were all crazy as bedbugs. And I doubt I'd have any trouble convincing a court of that."
He and Bernie bustled down the stairs and out into the night, slamming the heavy front door behind them.
Then Bentley and Sandy had to explain to Sunnie who Bart and Bernie were, and why they were so dangerous.
At nine the next morning, Bart and Bernie were back at the front gate, this time with a doctor and a lawyer and a court order. There was nothing Sandy or Bentley could do to prevent them from coming in.
The doctor examined the patients, read Sunnie's meticulous records, and determined that the patients were in comas, had been that way for a month, and that nobody knew why. Bart insisted the circumstances were questionable, to say the least, and he cast elaborately accusing looks at Bentley, Sandy, and Sunnie.
As he left, the lawyer said to Sandy, "You'll be hearing from me. Your uncles are going to bring some kind of charges. They say you're the only one who stands to gain by your parents' death or incapacitation."
Sandy turned to Bentley after the door had closed and said, "He thinks I had something to do with the comas."
"Don't you think that would be the first thing Bart would suggest? And Bernie will agree with anything Bart says."
"But why would I? I've got everything I want right here. Nobody would believe I tried to kill them."
"What if Bart said you hated living out here, so isolated? That you wanted to go back into the world and live a different life and your parents wouldn't let you go? Then somebody might believe it."
Sandy pounded his fist on the newel post. "I'd never think of such a thing," he said, rubbing his bruised fist. "But, of course, Bart and Bernie would. What can we do?"
Bentley had been away from the world too long to remember much about wheeling and dealing. "We'll have to think," he said helplessly.
They went upstairs to sit in the sickroom with Sunnie. There was comfort in her presence, and they felt a need, as well, to be near those they loved most in the world—the ones whose suffering they shared and whose plight broke their hearts.
The next day Sandy received, by special messenger, a summons demanding his presence at a hearing having to do with his father's condition. He knew he had to go: He needed to clear his name. But he also knew he couldn't reveal the dastardliness of Bart and Bernie and accuse them of attempted murder unless he had some proof of what they had done. It was going to be intolerable to face them in the courtroom knowing what they had done and knowing that they knew he knew and not being able to say anything about them.
While Bentley sat with the sleepers, Sandy walked in the gardens with Sunnie. The pale, watery sunlight offered no warmth and the trees were bare.
Sunnie patted Sandy's arm. "Try not to worry. Things almost always work out, and they will this time, too. You'll see. Who could believe you'd try to do anything to your darling parents? Anyway, if you wanted them out of the way, why would you go to all the trouble of taking such good care of them now? Why wouldn't you just let them ... go?"
"You're right! If I'd poisoned them, I wouldn't be trying to save them now. Oh, Sunnie, you've probably saved my life. How can I thank you?"
"You don't have to thank me. Saving lives is a nurse's job. Anyway, just getting to know you and Bentley and your sweet family is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I want your family to wake up as much as you do. You know, I was wondering if some vitamins might help them. Of course, the liquid nutrition they're getting is full of vitamins, but everybody's vitamin requirements are different, and when you're sick you have different requirements than usual. I think a lot of illnesses, even mental ones, might be connected with lack of vitamins. And our food these days, well, ' my goodness, it's been so processed and fiddled with, it's a wonder there are any vitamins left in it at all. If there were any to start with, after it's been grown in the strange soil we have now, what with chemical wastes and all. I remember reading a study in nursing school about rats that were fed cereal—just everyday breakfast cereal—and other rats that were fed the cereal
box
all ground up. Believe it or not, the ones that ate the box did better than the ones that ate the cereal. I quit eating cereal after that. But it certainly makes breakfast difficult. Bacon and eggs have so much cholesterol, and cereal, well, I just told you about that. And there's something so lonesome about a plain piece of toast. Breakfast has been a real problem for me since I learned so much. You know, whales have the right idea. They just swim along with their mouths open and whatever floats in is what they eat. Sperm whales—there, you see, I got used to calling them that—eat mostly squid. Can you imagine being so picky? But squid beaks may be what cause the production of ambergris in the whale's intestines, and that's what they make perfume from. So it all works out, just like I told you. I think I know enough about whales, but I can't decide what my next subject should be. What would you like to know if you were me?"