She stopped as abruptly as though she had walked into a stone wall. Or a sudden icy shower. Or the middle of a horror movie. Her mouth opened. Her lips formed the words "My God!" but no
-
sound came out. She stood there unable even to say "Stop!"
In one small hand Teresa Crosser held a large, pale-green frog. Held it by the neck, in her lap, while she bent over it with her pursed lips only inches from its open mouth and her eyes peering into its eyes. Its long hind legs flexed jerkily against her wrist where its sharp feet had already reddened the tender skin. Between thumb and forefinger of her other hand the girl held a rusty nail, the point of which was clean and bright as though it had been rubbed on something, perhaps on a stone, to sharpen it.
With intense concentration the child brought the point of the nail to one eye of the frog, and Olive saw with horror that the other eye had already been pierced. Olive at last found her voice and cried "Stop!" but it was too late. The nail had gone home. The child would not have stopped anyway, she thought. Would not even have heard, so intense was her concentration.
From out of nowhere a voice said sharply, "Children, what are you—" and ended in a gasp. Olive glanced up and saw that Elizabeth Peckham had come from the house. "Teresa!" the woman screamed. "What are you doing?"
The child looked up but said nothing. She looked down at the frog again and withdrew the nail. The frog was still twitching when she tossed it to the ground and stood up. "I guess you have to go now," she said to Jerri. "Good-bye."
Elizabeth came out of her state of shock and-grabbed her niece by the wrist. "You come with me!" she sputtered. "At once! Never in my life have I seen anything like this!" With only a glance at Olive she spun about and marched to the veranda, jerking the child along beside her.
"Come, Jerri," Olive said and walked to the car with her daughter obediently following.
On the way home she demanded answers. "Whose idea was it?"
"Hers, Mommy."
"How? Did she get the idea first and go looking for a frog, or did you find the frog first?"
"We found it first."
"The nail. Where did she get the nail?"
"It was in a box of things we keep under the porch."
"She sharpened it? She deliberately sharpened it so she could put that poor creature's eyes out?"
"She scratched it on a stone."
"My God, baby, didn't you even try to stop her? Didn't you know it was wrong?"
"She said it was her frog. She caught it."
"Jerri, have you kids ever done anythin' like this before?"
"No, Mommy."
"Never, never do it again. You hear?"
"Yes, Mommy."
Afterward, when the shock had worn off somewhat, Olive tried to expel the incident from her mind. They were only children, after all. A frog meant no more to them than a lizard, a cockroach, a spider.
She knew, though, that any such attempt to rationalize what had occurred was wrong. One simply killed a spider or a cockroach; one didn't torture it. Thank God the child doing the torturing had been Teresa and not Jerri.
And now the phone call. After that ghastly business at the band concert, a telephone call from Elizabeth Peckham at quarter to twelve at night.
Naturally, Olive, I've been trying to find out why, and just a few minutes ago Teresa broke down and told me. The fact is, Jerri put her up to it.
Oh, my God
, Olive thought, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling above her bed.
What's happening to us?
I
n Keith Wilding's bedroom a clock turned a tape player on at seven A.M. Keith was adept at rigging up such devices and liked to wake to music.
So, for that matter, did Melanie Skipworth. He knew because she had been waking more often lately in his bedroom than in her own apartment, a development in their relationship that enormously delighted him. The selection this Monday morning was the Mozart flute and harp concerto, one of Melanie's favorites among his vast collection of tapes.
She snuggled into his arms when the music waked her and after lying close for a time, gently touching each other while the sound flowed over them, they made love. Neither had felt in the mood last night after the eerie occurrence at the concert. For a long time, in fact, they had simply lain there side by side trying to agree on some explanation for Jerri Jansen's behavior.
As they rested after the lovemaking, the subject came up again. "Do you suppose Vin will actually come to work today?" Melanie asked.
"He shouldn't. But, being Vin Otto, he probably will."
"Have you thought of what may happen, Keith? An awful lot of people heard Jerri accusing him. Practically everyone in town goes to those concerts now, you know. And it was in the parking area—all those people going to their cars. All of them right there." Though still low-pitched and musical, her voice was unusually tense.
"What do you mean, have I thought of what may happen?"
"Here at the nursery, when they find him still working for you after what he did, or what she said he did. Some of your customers may think you ought to fire him." When he did not immediately answer, she said anxiously, "Keith?"
"I know. I've thought about it. To hell with them."
"You can't just say to hell with them if they're your customers."
"Can't I? Watch me."
"No, Keith. I'm serious. What will you do?"
After another brief silence he said, "Mel, Vin didn't touch that child. I don't know why she accused him but I know him,
and
I'm positive he didn't do any such thing."
Melanie had already mentioned her theory that the youngster might have been dreaming. She repeated it now and Keith nodded.
"That has to be it, hon. It made sense last night and still does. She fell asleep. She dreamed he was touching her. She turned on him without really waking up." Leaning over, he kissed her slowly and thoroughly on the mouth before sliding out of bed. "Who makes breakfast?" he demanded then. Living alone, he had become a skillful cook and enjoyed proving it—at least to someone as appreciative as she.
"You do," she told him. "It's your turn. Besides, I want one of your fancy omelets."
Showered and dressed, Keith went into the kitchen while she was bathing, and took time to concoct a breakfast that would please her. He enjoyed pleasing her at all times but especially when she did him the honor of spending the night with him. They would marry eventually, of course. They both took that for granted. Meanwhile he ran the nursery and she her little gift shop in town, and except that they maintained separate residences and hadn't been pronounced man and wife by a third party, they were married. Into the omelets this morning went fresh sweet basil and chives from the herb garden outside the kitchen door, and immeasurable love.
After breakfast Melanie departed, driving off in her own small car, which had been in the yard since before the concert. She would go home before going to her gift shop. She lived in a rented apartment on the lake, not larger than the one Olive and Jerri Jansen occupied in town, but newer and nicer. Like Olive she was a Nebulon girl—had in fact been only a year behind Olive in high school. Her father, Sam Skipworth, owned a garage and was so respected a mechanic that he was given all the local farm machinery to
fix
.
Her mother was shamefully fat but so unfailingly good-natured that no one thought a thing about it.
After watching her car turn at the gate, Keith went to work. There was much to do at the nursery, and except on special occasions he had only the one assistant. This morning he walked along rows of tropical fruit trees—sapodilla, custard apple, carambola—for the production of which he was beginning to acquire a reputation. People came from far away to buy them.
It was a little after eight o'clock. The low morning sun made an acre of shimmering leaves glisten as though they had just been dipped in dark green enamel. He loved every leaf.
He too had been born in Nebulon. After earning his degree at the University of Miami and failing to find a job, he had decided the social sciences were not for him anyway. While in college he had worked summers at a south Florida nursery to help pay expenses, and had found the work fulfilling. So that was it. Some men had to stumble around for years before finding their milieu. He was lucky; he had it right away.
Moving back to Nebulon where no one had thought of doing that kind of thing, he started the Wilding Nursery on a few dollars borrowed from his mother, who was well enough off to risk losing the money. His father, a builder, had been dead a year then, of a heart attack at the age of fifty-two.
Keith straightened from picking a caterpillar from a Guiana chestnut leaf. A car had turned in at the gate, the same car he had driven from the park last night after little Jerri Jansen had torn the face of its owner.
Not only here but early
, he thought, shaking his head in admiration. Wondering whether Vin had removed Doc Broderick's bandages, he hurried down the path to the nursery office.
No bandages, he noticed as the car stopped and Vin got out. But it might have been better had they been left on. On each side of Vin's face four deep lacerations were visible, like harrow tracks in smooth soil. An attempt had been made to hide them with some kind of cream, but the cream was too light in color.
"You should have stayed home today, pal," Keith said. "How you feeling?"
"Not bad. I know what I look like, but it does not pain very much."
"It sure looks painful enough." Keith turned to peer at the car. "You know, you really take care of this machine, pal. It sings."
Instead of smiling at the compliment, Vin said solemnly, "Well, yes, I suppose it does."
"I wish mine were in the same condition."
"It can be. If you would like me to work on it sometime . . ."
They were talking to hold back the silence, Keith realized. Both were foolishly embarrassed by the condition of Vin's face. This wouldn't do. Never one to tiptoe for long around the edge of an uncomfortable situation, he strode straight in to get it over with. "Vin, I want to ask you just one thing about last night. Was Jerri asleep before she turned on you? Could she have been dreaming?"
Without hesitation Vin said, "No, that is not possible. She was humming with the music. Those Scott Joplin rags they were playing, we have them on a record."
"I see."
"Believe me, I wish I could say yes to that question. I have thought about it—don't think I have not. But she was wide awake. Where she got the notion that I was touching her I just do not know, Keith. I could never do such a thing."
The awkward silence returned.
"Let's get at that citrus, shall we?" Keith said. "It's going to be a long job."
They budded citrus most of the day, transforming young lemon trees, grown from seed, into assorted orange and grapefruit trees. Keith had obtained the seed from a friend who owned a coffee plantation in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, where that particular wild lemon had proved to be an exceptionally sturdy, disease-free stock on which to graft scions of more sophisticated citrus. He wanted to try it.
Interruptions were frequent, of course. A good thing too, for interruptions meant business. Every little while a car turned in at the gate and rolled down the nursery road to the office near the house. People wanted plants and shrubs. They sought vines. They inquired about fruit trees or ornamentals. Some also wanted to talk.
A Mrs. Maude Vetel was one of the talkers. Much overweight and florid of face, the lady was a person of importance in one of the town churches and came to see about having some flowering shrubs planted around the church parking lot. "Is that Mister Otto I see working over there?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows.
Keith was instantly on guard. "In the citrus, Mrs. Vetel? Yes."
"Really? After what happened in the park last night? I don't think I understand."
"In the park, Mrs. Vetel?"
"You were there, Mister Wilding. Very much there. Right in the midst of it, I'd say. That's what I've been told, at least."
Keith affected a shrug. "It was much ado about nothing, we think."
"Nothing, Mister Wilding?"
"Well, it seems the child was dreaming and woke up screaming. You know how kids are. Dreams can be pretty real to them." Oh Lord, Keith thought at once, how did I get lured into saying that. Now she'll have it all over town and people will ask Vin if that's what happened and he'll say no because he's so damned honest. "Anyway," he hedged, "that's what I think. And, as you say, I was right there on top of it."