Nursery Tale (17 page)

The bus, driven by Howard Welsh, 43, the dead man, was apparently traveling north on Reynolds Road, approximately ten miles north of Penn Yann, sometime late Thursday afternoon, when it skidded, flipped over, and careened down an embankment Mr. Welsh was killed instantly. One of the two injured children, Eric Miller, 15, of Bergen, New York, is still under observation at Myers Community Hospital in Penn Yann, with head wounds and a broken wrist. The other child, Loretta Marks, whose address was given as R.D. 4, Penn Yann, was treated for minor cuts and released.

The missing child, Robert Graham, 13, a resident of Granada—New York City entrepreneur Rowland Reynolds's newly built housing development near Penn Yann—apparently escaped from the bus through an emergency window shortly after the accident and wandered into the surrounding woods in search of his twin brother, Robin, who has been missing since November 15th. According to Penn Yann police, a thorough search is now being made for Robert, who is described as 5'5" tall, with short brown hair, brown eyes, and wearing tan corduroy pants and a green pullover sweater.

There is evidence that excessive speed may have contributed to the accident, according to Sharon Jarvis, media liaison for the Penn Yann police. Says Ms. Jarvis, "Skid marks and other evidence at the scene indicate strongly that Mr. Welsh may have been proceeding down Reynolds Road at a speed which was improper for road conditions and which may have markedly contributed . . ."

December 5

N
orm Gellis lifted his head slightly from the pillow and peered into the adjoining bathroom. Marge was sure taking a hell of a long time in there this morning. Christ, did she think she owned it?! "Marge, you crappin' in there? What're you doin'?"

Silence.

"Marge?"

"I'm okay," she called; it was obvious that she was crying. "I'll be out . . . in a second."

Norm Gellis swung his feet to the floor. He stood. He was naked. "What in the fuck are you
crying
about, Marge?"

"I've got a right."

"You've got a
what
?" He moved quickly to the bathroom doorway. Marge was sitting on the toilet—the cover was down—she was wearing her pink flannel pajama top, and a pair of white cotton underwear. Her legs were together, elbows on her knees, her face covered by her hands. Norm repeated, "You've got a
what
, Marge?"

She said nothing.

"Are you some kinda woman's libber, Marge?" He chuckled. "You gonna tell me why you're sittin' on the toilet there, cryin', while I'm standin' here in need of takin' a shit? Or am I gonna have to guess and go shit out the window?"

She said nothing. She continued weeping.

"Why don'tcha just get up offa there, Marge? Some of us got better things to do. It's a Saturday, you know, and these men around here are all gonna be home, and I got real important things to discuss with 'em." He waited a moment; Marge stayed where she was. "Hey, woman, I'm talking to you!"

She slowly took her hands away from her face; she looked up at him; her eyes were bloodshot, her face flushed and puffy from crying. She smiled a small, quivering smile. "Menopause," she said. "Hot flashes. That's all, Norm. Just hot flashes."

Norm chuckled again. "Yeah, well I got a hot flash for you, Marge—if you don't get up offa that toilet I'm gonna crap right in yer lap."

She stood. Head down, she moved past him and into the bedroom. "I'm sorry, Norm."

"Hey," he said, "women cry. I can't do nothin' about it, even if I wanted to."

Marge nodded slowly. She glanced at the window; the drapes were open, and the morning sunlight seemed much brighter than usual. She went to the window and looked out. She gasped.

T
immy Meade pushed his face briefly against his bedroom window. He stepped back and smiled. The first snow of the year was on Granada—two inches of white fluff on the roofs and shrubs and on the thinnest branches of trees, snow that was not yet corrupted by car exhausts, and by the dirt that always hung, unseen, in the air.

He moved back to the window. He squinted, as if that would help him to see better. Someone had been walking in that first snow, already, he saw—the tracks were everywhere, like a million wrinkles on a huge white bed sheet. Somebody had been walking around in it in their bare feet.

He scowled. Damn it! Why would they do that? Why would they ruin it for him?

He stepped back from the window.

He thought a moment. He remembered.

Then, puzzled by what he had just seen and disbelieving, he stepped back to the window and looked once more.

T
he Harrises' bedroom contained two windows. One faced west ("A very nice view," the real estate agent had explained. "And so it will remain for some time, because Mr. Reynolds doesn't plan to build any new homes out there until some drainage problems have been solved"), and the other window faced east; it overlooked the front porch roof.

Shelly Harris, dressed in a red and black nightgown, stood facing that window now, her eyes on the porch roof.

She was on the verge of a scream. She was seeing something she could not hope to understand.

D
ick Wentis became aware that his mouth was hanging open, and he thought dimly that he had never imagined that that sort of thing ever happened—he had always assumed it was just a literary device.

"You've been standing there a long time," Trudy said. "Deep in thought?"

He glanced around at her. "Could you come over here, Trudy, and tell me if you see what I see?"

She smiled, confused, "What?"

"Just come here, please." He turned back to the window.

Trudy climbed out of the waterbed, threw a robe around herself, and walked over to him. She stood on her tiptoes and looked over his shoulder. "It snowed, huh?" she said.

Dick stepped to one side. "The footprints, Trudy. Look at the footprints."

She looked.

L
orraine Graham saw the footprints, and the new snow, and the frigid blue sky, and the cluster of houses around her.

She said, "Stan, it's really beautiful, really very nice."

She felt his arm around her waist; she smelled his aftershave; she heard him whisper something passionate, as he always did in the morning.

And she said, giggling a little, "But what about the boys, Stan?"

"To hell with the boys."

She thought about that a moment. "Yes," she said. "To hell with them." And she stepped very slowly away from the window, and the new snow, and the footprints.

J
anice McIntyre turned from her window to face her husband, her eyes wide. "My God," she said, "they're
every
where! But that's not possible, is it? It's not possible!"

Miles was seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "It's some kind of practical joke," he told her. "Somebody got hold of some ladders—"

"Those footprints are on the roof of the house across the street, Miles. And they're on the Wentises' roof, too—I can see them!"

"The carpenters have ladders tall enough, Jan. This is a construction site."

"Miles, the carpenters left a week ago."

He sighed, "Yes, I know."

"Then can you tell me what happened? Did someone drive in here while we were sleeping? Can you explain it, Miles?"

"No," he said immediately. "I can't explain it. Not right now, anyway. But I'm going to get my clothes on, and I'm going to go outside, and maybe then I'll be able to explain it. Okay?"

She stared silently at him a moment; then, "I'm scared, Miles," she said.

M
ost of them were dressed in winter coats thrown over pajamas and nightgowns, and they gravitated, through the new snow, to the center of Granada (a half-acre size circle of open land which, said the brochure distributed to prospective home buyers, "will house a children's playground, decorative bandstand, and lush botanical gardens"), their eyes on the footprints all the while. Most stayed clear of them, as if stepping on them or in them would bring bad luck, or as if the footprints—strange as they were—were somehow inviolate.

Norm Gellis was there, and so was his wife, her face still red and puffy from crying, though the tears had long since stopped. Norm's gaze darted from one line of footprints to another, and he whispered "Jesus!" over and over again.

Timmy Meade and Sam Wentis—Timmy in pajamas and heavy winter coat, and Sam in jeans and a flannel shirt—stood quietly together. Dora and Larry Meade were nearby, also silent. Larry felt a dinner chill—a feeling he couldn't explain—and it scared him.

Dick and Trudy Wentis stood with Janice McIntyre. "Where's Miles?" Dick Wentis asked. And Janice, nodding toward her house, answered, "Checking for signs of a ladder."

"I've checked already," Dick said. "There are none." And he fell silent.

Shelly and Malcolm Harris—their infant daughter Serena bundled up in Shelly's arms—wandered over. After a long, clumsy moment of silence, Malcolm said, "This kind of thing happened once before, you know." And he made a bad attempt at a smile.

"Did it?" said Dick Wentis, without enthusiasm.

"Yes. Late in the nineteenth century, I think. In Pennsylvania."

"The Devil's Footprints," Janice cut in, at a whisper. And she found that all eyes were suddenly on her. "Well," she hurried on, as if in apology, "that's what they called them, anyway. Three-toed footprints, like a deer's, I imagine. Only larger. And they were everywhere. Like these footprints are. There was even some evidence that whoever—whatever—made the footprints had walked up the
sides
of houses."

Sound carried well in the chill, quiet morning air, and Dora and Larry Meade, not far away, heard what Janice was saying and came over. Timmy Meade and Sam Wentis followed moments later.

Janice looked from one face to another. Each face was alive with anticipation. Finally, she said, shrugging, "That's all I know. They were never able to explain the footprints, I can tell you that."

Miles appeared. He was shaking his head slowly, in confusion. "Weirdest goddamned thing . . ." he muttered.

"What did you find?" Janice asked.

"I didn't find anything," he answered. "No ladder marks, anyway." He paused; then, "Has anyone called the sheriff?"

"We don't need him," Norm Gellis called. He was at the back of the small circle of people. "I called him," Dick Wentis said.

Norm Gellis shouldered his way to the front of the circle. "We don't need the sheriff here," he said again. With agitation. "What good has he been to us, so far? No good at all—am I right or wrong?" He paused only a moment. "I'm right," he continued. "Because we've got two boys missing, we've got a damned bus crash, we've got kids breaking into our houses while we're asleep, it's happened to me twice!" He held up two fingers. "Twice," he repeated. "And now we've got this . . . this stupid, damned
prank
—"

"You're Mr. Gellis, aren't you?" Dick Wentis cut in, straining to sound cordial.

He nodded quickly, "Uh-huh," and stuck his hand out.

Dick took it; he let it go quickly. "Trudy told me what you had to say a couple weeks back, Mr. Gellis."

"Did she now?"

"The way she explains it, you're a bit of a hothead, aren't you?"

"Yeah, sometimes," he answered, grinning. "I admit it."

The response took Dick off guard; he was momentarily at a loss for a reply.

"Maybe we should listen to Mr. Gellis," Malcolm Harris suggested.

Dick said, "I don't think so."

And they all heard the wail of a police siren behind them.

Evening

"I'
m scared again," said Janice McIntyre. She was in her big brown wicker chair; Miles stood behind their small bar at the opposite end of the room, drink in hand. (Janice, patting her now plainly swollen abdomen, had declined his offer of a scotch and soda, and settled for ginger ale instead.)

"Scared?" he said. "Why?"

"Are you going to tell me you aren't scared, Miles?"

"Of what, precisely? Kids' footprints in the snow?" He sipped his drink and pretended to chuckle. "That's asinine, Miles."

He set his drink down and leaned forward, both hands on the edge of the bar. "Listen," he said, summoning up his most serious tone, "the sheriff was right; it was just a stupid, giant-sized, and very clever practical joke. Nothing more. How could it have
been
anything more than that, Janice? There really are no ghosts, you know."

She did not answer.

He went on, trying a different approach, "It's like watching a magic show. Things are never what they appear to be. If you see a magician tear a newspaper up, and then he throws it to the ground, and suddenly it's whole again—well then, you have to assume that it can't be the newspaper which was torn up, or that he never tore it up in the first place. Simple. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Janice?"