Nathaniel (28 page)

In the distance, as if from very far away, he could hear a dog barking. It was Shadow, and though Michael knew the big dog was nowhere around, he also knew that the shepherd was trying to help him.

Suddenly his voice came to him, and a scream erupted from his throat to fill the vastness of the barn and echo off the walls in a keening wail. The pain in his head washed away, only to be replaced by another pain, a searing that shot up through his body like a living thing, twisting him around so that suddenly he was facing his grandfather, his eyes wide, his face contorted into a grimace of agony.

Then, as he felt himself begin to slip into the darkness that was gathering around him, once again he heard Shadow. The barking grew louder. It sounded furious—as if Shadow was about to attack.…

At first he was only aware of a murmuring sound, and was sure that Nathaniel was talking to him again, but slowly the voices became more distinct, and he recognized his mother’s voice, and his grandmother’s. And there was a third voice, not quite so familiar, but one that he recognized. And then he knew—it was Eric’s mother. He opened his eyes to see Ione Simpson smiling at him.

“Well, look who’s back,” Ione said. “Feeling better?”

Michael tried to remember what had happened, but what he could remember made no sense. He’d seen his father, but that was impossible. And he’d had a headache, and Nathaniel had been talking to him, warning him about something. Slowly, he became aware of a throbbing pain in his right foot, and he struggled to sit up. Ione placed a gently restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet,” she told him. “Just lie there, and keep your foot up. Okay?”

Michael let himself sink back onto the cushion that was under his head, and fought against the pain that seemed to be growing every second. He looked around, recognizing his grandmother’s parlor. His mother was there, and so were his grandparents, and they looked worried.

“What happened?” he asked at last.

“A little accident,” Ione told him. “It seems you aren’t quite an expert with a pitchfork yet.”

Michael frowned, and another fragment of memory came back to him: his grandfather, moving toward his father. But it hadn’t been his father. It had been himself. “I—I didn’t—” he began, but his mother interrupted him.

“Of course you didn’t, sweetheart,” she assured him. “It was just an accident. The pitchfork slipped, and went through your foot.”

Now Michael raised his head just enough to gaze at his right foot, which was propped up high on a second cushion, swathed in bandages.

“It isn’t nearly as bad as it looks,” Ione Simpson assured him. “It looks like the fork went right between the bones, and it doesn’t seem like anything’s very badly hurt.”

Michael stared at the foot for a long moment, then gazed curiously around the room. Something was wrong—if he was hurt, where was the doctor? He frowned worriedly. “Is Dr. Potter here?”

Ione’s smile faded away, and her eyes left Michael. Then his mother was bending over him. “Dr. Potter couldn’t come,” she said. “But it’s all right, honey. Mrs. Simpson’s a nurse, and she knows what to do.”

But Michael’s frown only deepened. His mind was continuing to clear and as it did, another memory came back to him, a memory from the previous night. “Dr. Potter,” he whispered. “Why couldn’t he come? Did—did something happen to him?”

A silence fell over the room, finally broken by the gruff voice of Amos Hall. “He might as well know,” he said.

“Amos—” Janet began, but the old man shook his head.

“Dr. Potter died last night, Michael,” he said. Michael’s eyes widened, and the color drained from his face. “Do you know what a stroke is?” Mutely, Michael shook his head. “It’s a blood vessel bursting inside the head. That’s what happened to Dr. Potter last night. They found him this morning.”

In his mind’s eye, Michael had a sudden vision of Dr. Potter, slumped in a chair in front of a fire, his face scarlet, his eyes filled with pain and fear. He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to …” His voice trailed off, and his eyes met his grandfather’s. There was a look in his grandfather’s eyes that terrified him, and after only a second, he tore his eyes away and listened to his mother’s voice.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” she was saying. “No one thinks you meant to hurt yourself—it was just an accident. And you’ll be all right. The foot will heal right up in no time at all.”

Michael started to say something, but then, once again, he saw the strange look in his grandfather’s eyes, and he changed his mind.

“Can you tell us what happened, honey?” Janet asked. “Do you remember any of it?”

Michael ignored her question. “Can we go home, Mom? Please?”

Janet’s encouraging smile gave way to a worried frown.

“Now?”

Michael nodded.

“But Michael, you need to rest for a while.”

“I don’t want to rest,” Michael said. “I want to go home.”

Suddenly Amos’s voice cut in. “Your mother has some things to do, and you need to rest. And you need to be looked after. You’ll stay here.”

Now a look of real fear came into Michael’s eyes. “Can’t I go with you?” he begged his mother. “I can stay in the truck, and my foot doesn’t hurt much. Really, it doesn’t.”

“You need to rest, at least for a little while,” Janet said.

“Of course he does,” Anna declared, rolling her chair close to the couch. “He should just lie here and take it easy, and you should do your errands.”

“But I don’t
want
to stay here,” Michael argued. “I want to go home.”

“Hush, child,” Anna told him. “Your mother has a lot to do, and she can’t do it and take care of you, too. And Mrs. Simpson can’t stay here all day either.” Suddenly she smiled. “But just because I can’t get out of this chair doesn’t mean I don’t know how to look after someone. In fact, I was thinking of making some cookies.”

Michael turned his attention back to his mother. “I don’t want any cookies,” he said, his voice taking on a sullen tone. “I want to go home.”

Janet wavered. She wanted to give in to Michael, wanted to take him home and give him all the attention she thought he needed. And yet, there was something that was holding her back, and she immediately knew what it was. It was that tone of voice he’d just slipped into, the tone of a spoiled child, which Michael had never been. She made up her mind.

“I want you to stay here,” she told him. “I won’t be gone very long, and you’ll be fine. Just stay here, and keep your foot up on the cushion. That way it won’t throb so much. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll get you home. Okay?”

Michael hesitated, but finally nodded.

A few minutes later, he was alone with his grandparents.

Janet left the drugstore, then turned the battered green truck away from the square and drove the two blocks to Laura and Buck Shields’s house. She parked the car in the driveway and was starting toward the front door when she heard Laura’s thin voice calling to her from the upstairs window.

“It’s unlocked. Let yourself in and come upstairs.” A wan smile drifted across her face, then disappeared. “I’m afraid I’m still not quite up to coming down.”

Janet found Laura dressed, but propped on the bed, resting against several pillows.

“I should be
in
bed, but I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” Laura told her. “So I got dressed this morning, and I’m spending the day
on
bed. At least I don’t feel quite so useless this way.” She patted the mattress. “Come and sit down and tell me what’s happening. I feel like I’ve been cooped up here forever.”

Janet sighed, and lowered herself gratefully onto the bed. “I suppose you’ve already heard about Dr. Potter.”

Laura’s gentle eyes hardened. “The only thing I want to hear about him is that he’s dead,” she half whispered. “I hate him, Janet—I hate him so much …”

Janet reached out to touch Laura’s hand. “He—Laura, he
is
dead.”

The other woman paled, and a tear suddenly welled in her eye. “Oh, God, Janet. I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you didn’t.” She shrugged helplessly. “It was a stroke, I guess. They found him this morning.”

Laura fell silent for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “I should be sorry, shouldn’t I, Janet? But you know something? I’m not. I just feel sort of—sort of relieved, I guess. After what he did—”

“No,” Janet interrupted her. “Laura, stop torturing yourself. Please?”

But Laura only shook her head again. “I can’t help it. I believe what I believe, and I believe they killed my baby.” Then, seeing Janet’s discomfiture, she decided to change the subject. She ma
de
herself smile. “Where’s Michael?”

“And that’s the rest of the news,” Janet replied. Briefly, she told Laura what had happened.

“Is he all right?” Laura asked when Janet was done.

Janet nodded. “But it just seems so stupid. And Michael’s always been so good with things like that.”

“It
is
stupid,” Laura agreed. “But I’ll bet it won’t happen again—one thing about farms: you usually only make a mistake once. After that, you know better. And how are you doing? Is the house all in order?”

“Hardly, but I guess some progress is being made. And last night Michael and I cleaned out the attic.”

“The attic? I thought it was empty.”

Janet frowned. “You mean Anna was right? You and Mark never went up there?”

“Mark did, once,” Laura told her. “Dad gave him a beating he never forgot. Or anyway, one I never forgot. I guess it was one time I learned by someone else’s mistake.”

“Amos beat Mark?”

Laura gave her a puzzled look. “Of course he did. He’d told Mark never to go up there, and Mark disobeyed him.”

“So he
beat
him?” Janet pressed. “Not just spanked him?”

Laura chuckled hollowly. “I wouldn’t call a razor strop an ordinary spanking, but it’s amazing how effective it was.”

“It’s no wonder Mark got out as soon as he could,” Janet observed, making no attempt to hide her disapproval.

“That wasn’t it at all,” Laura said quickly. “That had something to do with the night mother had her last baby. By then, Dad hadn’t given Mark a beating in—well, it had been a while. What did you find in the attic?”

Janet made an instinctive decision: what Anna Hall wouldn’t talk about, her daughter might. “Among other things, I found Abby Randolph’s diary.”

Laura stared at her. “You’re kidding, of course.”

Janet shook her head. Then as casually as she could, she said, “Anna told me that the house has been in your family since the day it was built.”

Laura nodded. “The old family homestead, and all that sort of thing. But there was never any mention of Abby having lived there. In fact, if I remember right, we were always sort of led to believe that her house had burned down. If it ever existed at all. Personally, I was never sure there ever was an Abby Randolph. And I certainly don’t believe she did all the things she’s supposed to have done.”

“Well, apparently she did exist, and if I read her diary correctly, it seems that she did exactly what the old stories claim she did.”

Laura’s face paled. “I—I can’t believe that.”

“It’s in the diary,” Janet said gently. “Would you like to see it?”

Quickly, Laura shook her head. “And I don’t want to talk about it, either. The whole idea of it makes me sick.”

Janet wished she’d never brought the subject up. “Well, none of that matters now anyway,” she said quickly. “Whatever happened, it’s ancient history. But there was a lot of other stuff—china and silver—and I thought we ought to split it between us. I’ve talked to Anna about it, and she insists it wasn’t hers. In fact, she said if it was in the house, it must be mine, since the house is mine. But that just doesn’t seem fair.

Laura looked at her curiously. “But if it wasn’t hers, then whose was it?” When Janet made no reply, she suddenly understood. “Oh, God,” she groaned. “You’re not thinking—” Then, seeing that that was exactly what Janet was thinking, she shook her head. “I could never use it. I couldn’t look at it, or touch it, let alone eat off it! And anyway, I’ve got loads of china and silver of my own, which I never use. It came from Mother’s mother, and it’s all stowed up in the attic. Limoges china, and the most garish silver you’ve ever seen.”

“Limoges?” Janet repeated. “But that’s what was in my attic. Maybe it’s from the same set.”

“I don’t see how—”

But Janet was on her feet. “Can I go up and look? Please?”

“Well, if you want to—” Laura told her where the china and silver were stored, and a few minutes later, Janet was rummaging through the Shieldses’ attic. She found the trunk Laura had described, opened it, and felt a pang of disappointment. The china and silver were there, all right, but these things bore no resemblance at all to the things she’d found in her own attic. Slowly, she closed the trunk, and was about to go downstairs when something in the far corner of the attic caught her eye.

It was a crib, and though it was not new, neither was it an antique. Indeed, it seemed barely used. And it was not the crib that Laura had set up in her bedroom in preparation for the baby who had died—that crib was still downstairs, a lonely reminder of Laura’s loss. Curious, Janet moved toward the crib. Only when she was near it did she see the rest of the nursery equipment.

A tiny rocking chair, painted pink, and hardly used.

A bassinet, used, but, like the crib, in nearly new condition.

Behind the crib, there was a small chest of drawers, just the right size for a three- or four-year-old. Hesitantly, Janet opened one of the drawers. Inside, clean and neatly folded, she found several stacks of clothing, all of it in infant sizes. Tiny dresses, playsuits, blouses, and pajamas, much of it in pinks and whites.

And then, in the bottom drawer, she found an album. Bound in white leather, it was thin and, like the rest of the things in that far corner, barely used. Frowning slightly, she opened it. On the first page, beneath a blank space neatly outlined in green ink, there was a neatly lettered caption:

REBECCA—HER FIRST PICTURE

Janet stared at the odd page for a moment, then quickly flipped through the book. Where the pictures had once been, now there was nothing. Someone had gone through the album, taking out the photographs, leaving nothing but the eerily hollow captions.