Lucy took a deep breath and marched toward the house, clutching her Christmas presents and bearing bad news.
CHAPTER SIX
#7059 Our frosted glass night light gives a comforting glow as well as a reassuring sense of security. UL tested. $9.
Lucy stashed her packages in the ell off the back door and let herself into the house. She followed the sound of voices into the living room, where she found Bill perched on a stepladder in a tangle of Christmas lights and greenery.
“You're putting the tree up,” accused Lucy. “Weren't you going to wait for me?”
“Of course. We were only getting it ready,” Bill reassured her as he climbed down. He looked at her closely. “Did shopping tire you out?” he asked sarcastically. “I've got a big pot of clam chowder sitting on the stove, I've spent quality time with my childrenâa lot of quality time, I might addâand I'm ready for a beer. Do you want something?”
“A glass of wine?”
Bill went off to the kitchen, and Lucy hugged Sara, who was tugging on her coat and squealing, “What did you get us?”
“Yeah, what about us!” demanded Toby.
“Seven days till Christmas and you're asking for treats?” Lucy raised her eyebrows in disapproval.
“Don't you know that Santa might be watching?” inquired Bill, returning with the drinks.
“Oh, nobody believes that stuff,” Toby grumbled.
“Nobody believes in Santa?” Bill was incredulous. “Do you believe in Santa, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, I do.” She nodded her head gravely.
“What about you, Sara?”
“I believe in Santa, Daddy.”
“Well, I'm glad to hear it. It seems to me that you're in the minority here, my boy.” Bill looked sharply at his ten-year-old son. “Perhaps you'd better rethink your position.”
Lucy laughed and drew three candy canes from her pocket. “You can chew on these while you mull things over.”
The three children happily grabbed the candy canes and went off to watch the
Garfield Christmas Special
, which was playing on the VCR.
Bill and Lucy retreated to the kitchen, where Bill stirred his chowder and Lucy slumped at the table, sipping her wine.
“Patches is out by the road. She must have gotten hit.”
“Shit, what a crummy Christmas present.”
“I don't know how I'm going to tell the kids.”
“Don't look at me,” said Bill. “That's your department. I'll handle the graveyard patrol.”
“Maybe we can find a little Christmas kitten. They'd like that,” said Lucy, sitting up straighter.
Later that evening, after the family had eaten their chowder supper and trimmed the tree, Lucy supervised the Saturday night baths while Bill went out to bury the cat. It was a clear, starry night and not too cold. He picked a spot near the compost heap and began digging. The ground wasn't frozen yet, and his shovel went into the loamy soil easily. As he worked he couldn't help thinking that if an occasional dead cat was the worst thing he and Lucy had to face, they were pretty lucky.
But when he picked up the dead animal to place it in the small grave, he noticed a bit of cord around its neck. He turned on his flashlight in order to get a better look, and he saw that the cat had definitely been strangled with the cord. He dropped the cat into the grave and began shoveling the earth back as quickly as he could. As he replaced the shovel in the toolshed, he tried to think who would do a thing like that. He wondered if Toby had had a fight with someone at school. He couldn't imagine an adult strangling a cat. Not an emotionally healthy one, anyway. Entering the house, he shook off the sense of unease he'd felt outside. From what he could hear, Lucy had her hands full in the bathroom.
She had put both girls in the tub together and was trying to convince Sara that washing her hair every now and then was really necessary.
“What do you mean we can't stay up and watch the
Peanuts Christmas Special
?” interrupted Elizabeth.
“It's too late. Daddy will tape it and you can watch it tomorrow.”
“I want to see it tonight.”
“Me too.”
“Well, you need your sleep tonight. Tomorrow you're in the Christmas pageant.” Lucy's knees were beginning to get sore, and her leg muscles ached from leaning across the tub. “Let's get finished up here.”
Toby appeared in the doorway, causing Elizabeth to scream and grab for the shower curtain.
“Relax, Elizabeth. I don't think he's interested in your little pink shrimp body. What's up, Toby?”
“Mom, I can't find Patches. Have you seen her?”
“Actually, I have.” Lucy paused, and all three children stared at her, the two girls pink from the hot bath and Toby in his striped pajamas. “Patches got run over,” she said slowly, watching their faces carefully for a reaction. “I don't think she even knew what happened. She was a happy cat, right up to the moment she died,” Lucy reassured them as she wrapped Sara in a towel and began to dry her. Noticing the tears welling up in Elizabeth's eyes, she said softly, “I'm sure she's in cat heaven right now.”
“Patches was the best cat we ever had,” Toby asserted. “She used to sleep with me.”
“And she'd ride in the doll carriage,” added Elizabeth. “Sometimes she'd let me dress her up.”
“But then she'd scratch and run away,” remembered Sara, ever the realist. “See my scratches.” She pointed to two red lines on her forearm.
“She didn't scratch because she was bad,” Elizabeth said, defending her pet.
“It's just the way cats are,” added Toby. “I didn't mind the scratches. I loved Patches.”
“Well, we all loved her and we'll miss her,” said Lucy, folding the towels and hanging them up. “Maybe Santa will bring a new kitten.”
After she had finally gotten the children tucked in bed and read them the Patches memorial bedtime story, James Herriot's
The Christmas Day Kitten,
Lucy was exhausted. It had been a long day and she was glad to sink into a hot bath herself and let her tense muscles relax. It was an effort to make herself climb out of the tub and get dried off. Then she pulled about ten yards of flannel nightgown over her head, smoothed Oil of Olay under her eyes, and brushed her teeth. On her way to bed she detoured through the living room, where Bill was stretched out on his recliner, flipping through channels with the remote control. She stood next to him and smoothed his hair affectionately.
“I'm going to bed early tonight.”
Bill nodded. “Toby having any trouble at school?” he asked.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Patches wasn't hit by a car. There was a string around her neck. Somebody strangled her.”
Lucy was stricken. “Who'd do a thing like that?”
“Most probably a boy of a certain age.”
“You don't mean Toby? He's really upset.”
“No, not Toby.” He stroked her hand. “Maybe some kid with a grudge against him. Has he said anything?”
“Nope. He seems to get along with everybody.” Lucy's voice was defensive.
Bill shrugged. “Don't worry. Go to bed. I'll be up soon.”
“That was a nice thing you did today. Thank you.” Lucy sat on his lap.
Bill grunted. “What do you mean?”
“You know. Having Sue make me buy an outfit.”
“What did you get? Something sexy?”
“No, something beautiful. And expensive. Sue said money was no object.”
“I didn't tell her that.” Vertical lines appeared on Bill's forehead.
“I can take it back,” Lucy said quickly.
“No. I'm just teasing. I like to see you in new things. Are you going to model it for me?”
“You'll see it on Christmas,” said Lucy, yawning. “It'll be a surprise.”
Bill smiled. “Okay. Go to bed, sleepyhead. I just want to see the end of this hockey game. I'll be up soon.”
Once she was tucked under the down comforter in the antique sleigh bed, Lucy realized she wasn't as tired as she'd thought. She reached for the latest Martha Grimes novel she'd pounced on at the library. Soon she was absorbed in the adventures of Detective Inspector Richard Jury and his faithful sidekick, Detective Sergeant Wiggins. What exactly, she wondered, was a Fisherman's Friend?
In the book they came in packets. Perhaps they were cigarettes or a candy of some kind. Maybe a cough drop. She imagined the sharp smell of tobacco and the clean, astringent scent of camphor. When she was at summer camp years ago, she had been terribly homesick. For some reason she couldn't remember, the camp nurse had given her cotton balls soaked in camphor. Remembering the smell made her feel small and sad. Camphor and gray wool army blankets. She'd hated the rough blanket, so unlike the soft blue one on her bed at home. One night she'd kicked off the sheet and become entangled in the coarse gray wool. Somehow she hadn't been able to free herself from the gray wool cocoon and she'd screamed and screamed until the counselor had finally come. The counselor was huge and fat and unfriendly and made her feel small and helpless. The counselor had laughed at her and Lucy had perversely held on to the wool blanket. In her dream she had wanted to be free of it; now she held on to it for protection. Now she smelled the sooty, chemical smell of an automobile's exhaust. It was a comforting, familiar smell and she wanted to yield to it, to the great throbbing sensation of the automobile motor, but she knew she mustn't. She must fight to stay awake. She felt warm fur on her face as if the cat had curled up to sleep there. The cat began purring softly and then louder and louder until it sounded like one of Bill's power saws. Lucy's heart began beating faster and faster; it was pounding within her chest and she couldn't breathe. Her lungs were bursting and she finally fought her way free of the suffocating covers. Gasping and gulping for air, she realized she was sitting up in bed. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat and she was shaking with fright. She put her hand to her forehead to push her hair back and realized that her hair was soaking wet. It must have been a nightmare; there was nothing to be afraid of. Bill was lying there beside her, sound asleep. She took a deep breath and tried consciously to relax her arms and legs the way she had learned in Lamaze class. She really ought to get up and go to the bathroom if she wanted to be comfortable, but she was afraid to leave the safety of Bill's side. The thought of walking alone through the dark, silent house terrified her. Instead she turned on her side and curled against him, spoon fashion, to try to go back to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
#9997S Traditional Christmas wreaths made by skilled craftswomen from genuine Maine balsam. Each wreath is decorated with a weatherproof red bow. $16.
“Mommy, isn't that wreath big?”
Lucy smiled down at Sara, who was dressed in her prettiest Polly Flinders dress and was sitting beside her in the crowded church pew.
“Yes, it's very big,” agreed Lucy as she admired the enormous green wreath that hung behind the pulpit. Lovingly assembled by the flower committee, the wreath was the only decoration in the plain Protestant meeting house. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows and reflected off the white walls. This church had no stained glass or carved-wood paneling; there was no kneeling, no sense of hushed anticipation. Members of the congregation greeted each other and chatted while children ran up and down the aisles. This was the Sunday of the Christmas pageant, and the church was overflowing with families. A chord from the organ brought everyone to order, and the congregation rose to sing an old carol, “Venite Adoramus.”
Lucy loved the pageant. It was the same every year, and she enjoyed watching the children progress through the ranks. The very youngest were angels, naturally angelic with their plump rosy cheeks and soft baby hair, but they soon graduated to become sheep and other animals. After a year or two the animals went on to become shepherds. The very oldest had the important parts: Mary, Joseph, the Three Wise Men, Herod the King, and the angel Gabriel. This year Elizabeth was a lead angel and Toby was a shepherd. Little Sara was still too young, so she was watching with her parents and dreaming of next year, when it would be her turn.
Lucy had grown up in New York City, where her family had attended a large and wealthy Episcopalian church. As a child she had taken part in the Christmas pageant there, dressed in elaborate costumes donated by a rich parishioner. That pageant had been a very elaborate affair, complete with hired actors and singers for the main parts. It had been wonderful in its way; the darkened church had smelled of evergreens and the candlelit, glittering processions had been dramatic and mysterious. Yet Lucy much preferred the sunlit, homemade pageant in Tinker's Cove.
Hearing the familiar strains of “Angels We Have Heard on High,” Lucy craned her neck to see Elizabeth. She nudged Bill and they beamed with pride as their daughter, glowing with self-consciousness, paraded down the aisle. This year she even had a line. Lucy perched anxiously on the edge of the pew until Elizabeth announced, “Behold, I bring you tidings of great joy!” and she could safely relax.
Leaning against the straight back of the pew, Lucy thought how different the atmosphere in the church seemed today from yesterday. Yesterday's mourners had been replaced with families intent on celebrating Christmas. It was wonderful to see so many young families in the church, thought Lucy. When she had first started attending, Toby had been a baby and she had come to services with him cradled against her chest in a Snugli.
The congregation then had consisted mainly of old people; some Sundays the youngest member was sixty-seven years old! The women in particular had made Lucy feel welcome. They had fussed over baby Toby, delivered casseroles to her house when she caught pneumonia, and given her slips and cuttings from their gardens. Lucy was truly fond of some of the old members like Miss Tilley. She smiled to see her gaunt figure and straight back across the aisle.
When Miss Tilley had been the librarian at the Broadbrooks Free Library, she had been legendary for her strict overdue book policy and her tart tongue. She was not likable, but she had a penetrating intelligence that earned her the town's respect. It was rumored that she had been friends with Longfellow's daughter, Alice, and Lucy always meant to ask her if it was true.
Next to Miss Tilley sat Faith Willets. Faith was a simple, good-hearted woman who dressed in plain old polyester from Searsâand had the most beautiful garden Lucy had ever seen. Faith was the president of the Organic Gardening Club, and wrote the “Garden Checklist” that appeared in the
Pennysaver
each week. The acre surrounding her Cape Cod house was planted like an English cottage garden with fruit trees, perennial flowers, herbs, and even vegetables. Faith was the primary donor to the Memorial Day plant sale, and Lucy was a faithful customer.
In fact, Lucy had first discovered the Tinker's Cove church through the annual plant and used-book sales. One year Bill had discovered a treasure trove of erotica in the paperback section and had returned hopefully every year since. When she felt lonely and depressed after Toby's birth, Lucy began attending services. She'd given up trying to be an Episcopalian in her teens when she'd decided she just couldn't believe in God. She'd missed the hymns and sermons, however, and had been delighted to discover the friendly, informal community church. Shortly after she'd become a member, old Dr. Greenhut died and the congregation called a new, young minister, Dave Davidson.
Dave and his wife, Carol, were not a traditional ministerial couple. Carol avoided the Women's Club meetings like the plague and rarely attended Sunday services. Instead she poured her energy into her career as a sculptor and turned the old barn behind the rectory into a studio. The congregation didn't seem to mind; in fact, the Davidsons brought a new energy and vitality to the old church. Sunday school classes were organized and filled rapidly as many young families realized something was missing from their lives that church could provide.
The service was ending. Everyone rose to sing the “Hallelujah” chorus from Handel's
Messiah.
No one could resist joining in, and the church was filled with the sound of joyous if somewhat off-key voices raised in celebration.
Lucy left Bill in the line of parishioners waiting to greet the minister and, taking Sara with her, went to find Toby and Elizabeth. Truth be told, she always felt awkward around large male authority figures like Dave and could never think of anything to say to him.
Back home and changed out of their Sunday best into jeans, Lucy and Bill made lunch and planned the rest of the day. Since the weather was so beautiful, they decided to take turns staying with the kids and going out for a run. Once the dishes were washed, Lucy put on her sweat pants and running shoes and headed out alone along the network of dirt roads that crisscrossed the woods. They were originally made by early settlers who cut timber for firewood, but nowadays they also led to hunting and fishing camps. They were ideal for a peaceful jog when the weather was warm; once the ground was covered with snow they were perfect for cross-country skiing. Today Lucy stood for a while on the back porch, taking a few deep breaths and deciding which route to take. Because she hadn't been running much lately, she decided on an easy four-mile loop without hills that went around Erskine's Pond. She did her stretches and set out, enjoying the bright sunshine and mild weather. The last few winters had followed a pattern of mild weather until Christmas; then once the holidays were over, bitter cold and heavy snow storms set in. It seemed as if this year was going to be no exception.
Once she got past the mile markâan old Chevy truck that someone had left to rust in the woodsâLucy found her stride. The first mile was always the hardest, but she'd learned that if she didn't give up, the rest was easy. She felt as if she could run forever along these soft roads, smelling the sharp, piny scent of the trees and catching glimpses of the pond sparkling through the trees. Problems and anxieties receded, leaving nothing but the pounding of her heart, the rhythmic in and out of her breath, and the regular thud of her feet on the path. All too soon she saw the tall, narrow chimney of their house, and rounding the bend, she saw Bill and the kids in the yard. Bill and Toby were tossing a football back and forth, and the girls were mixing up pine cone and stone soup. Lucy cooled down by walking around the house and then went in for a drink of water and a shower. As she closed the door she saw Bill wave as he started off on his run.
Â
Â
Since Bill was a more enthusiastic runner than she was, Lucy didn't expect him back for a while. After her shower she settled down to stitch together the pieces of the sweater she had knitted for him. The girls were happy in their room playing with their Barbie dolls and Toby curled up in a corner of the couch with his book report book. It was only when she noticed the light getting dim and reached to switch on the lamp that she realized how late it was. According to the old Regulator, it was almost four, which meant that Bill had been gone for nearly three hours.
Lucy tried to fight her rising sense of panic. Something must be wrong; he could haveâindeed he hadârun the Boston marathon in that time. She didn't think he would have attempted anything so ambitious today. He knew she had to leave at five to pick up her mother at the airport.
Something must have happened to him, she thought. But what? He was a big strong man in his prime. Of course, Sam Miller had been in his prime, too, and someone had managed to kill him. She knew she was being ridiculous. No one wanted to kill Bill. But when she switched on the porch light and stood looking out the door, she couldn't help remembering Patches' lifeless body lying in the driveway. It was getting too dark to wait any longer, she decided. She would have to take out the Subaru and look for him. She piled the kids into the car and slowly and carefully drove along the rutted, twisted dirt road. Running along these roads was one thing; it was quite another to drive them at night, even in a four-wheel-drive. The woods were gloomy, filled with dark, shadowy shapes, and the branches brushed and snapped against the car.
Lucy gripped the steering wheel in clenched hands, her neck and shoulders rigid with anxiety as she searched for him. When she finally saw his familiar figure in the road, the tension drained from her body, leaving her with a terrific headache and aching muscles.
Bill was moving slowly, however, and as he came closer, Lucy could see he was limping.
“What happened?” she asked as he climbed into the car.
“I must have pulled a muscle or something. God, my knee hurts.”
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I'll put some ice on it when I get home. How late is it? Don't you have to get to the airport?”
Lucy checked her watch. “It's almost five. I'll drop you at the house and get the kids something to eat on the way. McDonald's okay, kids?”
As Lucy sat on the molded plastic seat in the airport, she knew she had made a mistake. Having grown up on a steady diet of tofu and brown rice, the kids adored McDonald's. Their excitement, fueled by excessive amounts of sugar, caffeine, and saturated fats, was almost unbearable. Her mother's plane was due at seven o'clock, and Lucy very much hoped it would be on time. She could see her reflection in the expanse of plate glass that overlooked the runway. She was a very small figure, surrounded by a moving blur of brightly clad children.
“Please sit down and wait nicely for Grandma,” she begged through clenched teeth.
“Ooh, here comes another one!” shouted Toby. The girls screamed and jumped from their seats, running to press their hands and noses against the window.
“Is it Grandma? Is it Grandma?” they demanded.
Lucy checked her watch. Five minutes past seven. “Maybe,” she said. “I hope so.” Actually, she rationalized, this isn't so bad. At least she wouldn't have to face her mother alone. Ever since her father had died six months ago, Lucy had dreaded being alone with her mother. When she last saw her mother, the pain of her loss was so palpable that Lucy could barely stand to be with her. One look at her grief-ravaged face and Lucy had wanted to flee back to the safety of Bill's arms, back to the cocoon of her house. “There is no safety, no security,” her mother's reproachful eyes always seemed to say. “I thought there was, but I was wrong.”
Lucy crossed her arms across her chest, pressed her lips together, and looked up to see the automatic doors opening. Her mother picked her way carefully along the rubber matting, holding herself together only by the tightly wound threads of restraint and good breeding. She might well have been the survivor of some dreadful battle or holocaust, a witness to unspeakable horror, scarcely sure herself whether she was alive or dead.