Nursery Tale (19 page)

Janice's interruption was pitched just slightly above a whisper, but it was tight and urgent, and it made Miles stop talking in midsentence: "My parents will welcome me in a second, Miles!" And she closed the suitcase hard and walked over to the phone on the nightstand near the bed. She put her hand on the receiver. "It's up to you, Miles."

He said nothing for a long moment, his mind darting from one possibility to another. "Yes," he said finally. "We'll sell the house. I'll call Mr. Jenner in the morning. I think we can get a buyer in about a month—"

"That's not good enough, Miles." She picked up the receiver, began to dial.

He rushed over, grabbed the receiver from her, put it back on the cradle. "A compromise, Jan," he pleaded. "Two weeks. That's all I want. It's what I'll tell Jenner. And if there's no buyer by then, okay—we'll go to your parents', or to a motel—"

"You think I'll change my mind, don't you, Miles?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But if you don't, I promise you we
will
leave. Okay?"

She moved silently to the closed suitcase, opened it, withdrew the maternity smocks. She looked over at him. "Miles," she said, "I do love you, you must know that. Otherwise—" And she carried the maternity smocks to her chest of drawers and put them away. Her gaze settled on the window. She wondered what was causing the wildly shifting red glow on the closed drapes.

T
he fire had been building for some time; now Malcolm watched, awestruck, as it played hotly and brightly inside the house; for the moment it was contained by windows, and doors, and insulation. After another few minutes, the windows would implode from the heat and partial vacuum behind them, and the flames would erupt crazily into the chill evening air.

Norm stared blankly at the fire.

Malcolm dropped the Weatherby 20 gauge. He wanted desperately to know the time. Because, if he and Norm hadn't returned by ten o'clock, Shelly and Serena were going to go back home. And if it was past ten, then that's where they were, now. At home. And if they were at home, they were dead.

Because it was his house that was burning so fiercely.

From
The Penn Yann Post Gazette
, December 6:

FIRE DESTROYS GRANADA HOME

Fire last night leveled a home at 22 Morningside Way, Granada. The fire, which, according to fire investigators, started in the kitchen of the big, eight-room luxury home, was discovered only after it had apparently gutted the interior of the house.

The home belonged to Malcolm and Shelly Harris, who were visiting friends in Granada when the fire began. The only person hurt in the fire was volunteer fireman Coby Pinkins, Jr., who was treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation, at Myers Community Hospital, and released.

According to investigators, arson has not been totally ruled out as a possible cause . . .

December 10

"Y
ou know," Sam Wentis said, "if you squint"—he squinted severely, as if to demonstrate—"it looks like nothin' happened, like you could walk right in and sit down and have your supper. Don'tcha think it looks like that?" He looked questioningly at Timmy Meade. "I mean, if you squint?"

"Yeah," Timmy Meade answered. "I guess." He squinted briefly. "Yeah. 'Cept for 'round the windows"—where the flames had blackened the yellow vinyl siding and twisted it into grotesque shapes. "Anyway, they're gonna bulldoze it. That'll be fun to watch. I guess they're 'gonna do it next week."

Sam Wentis said nothing.

"Don't you think it'll be fun to watch, Sam?"

"What if they kept right on goin'," Sam Wentis said, and he turned his head slowly so his gaze swept over all of Granada.

"Why would they wanta do that, Sam?"

He said nothing.

"Sam?"

"Where you wanta go to, Timmy? You wanta go into the woods? You wanta go over to Riley's Glen?"

It was a cold, clear morning. A Sunday. And Granada seemed very quiet and empty. From far to his right, Timmy heard the Gellises' new dog begin barking rhythmically (the dog seemed to bark, he thought, for no reason at all, which was okay, because it was kind of a lazy, soothing bark, especially from far away, and it was good to have a dog in Granada).

"It's a shit damn German Shepherd!" Sam Wentis said, nodding in the direction of the barking dog. "A shit damn killer!"

"Naw," said Timmy Meade, grinning. "There's this cat runs loose—great big thing—and I seen it chase that dog right up on his back porch. Funniest shit damn thing I ever saw."

"Yeah, well my father says he's a shit damn killer!" Sam Wentis seemed offended. "My father says that and my father oughta know."

"You're right," Timmy said immediately. "You're dead right, Sam."

Sam looked suspiciously at him a moment. "So where you wanta go to?" he said again. "Riley's Glen? You wanta go there?"

"Sure," Timmy answered.

"T
hat damned dog's barking again," Larry Meade said, looking out his kitchen window. "I thought we moved here to get away from that kind of thing."

"Is that why we moved here?" Dora said. She was seated at the kitchen table, hands around a cup of black coffee. "To get away from barking dogs?"

He glanced at her. "It was one of the reasons, anyway."

"To live 'the carefree country life'?" she continued expansively, sarcastically. "'Fresh air and sunshine and good neighbors'?"

Larry said nothing. Their relationship—never a match made in heaven—had taken a nose dive in the last few weeks and he wasn't at all certain what direction he wanted this present discussion to take.

"Is that what the brochure told us, Larry?—'Fresh air and sunshine and good neighbors'?"

"I didn't read the brochure, Dora."

"Well I did. And it didn't say a thing about arsonists—"

"C'mon, Dora—"

"Or kidnappers, or the devil's fucking footprints—"

"Christ almighty!"

"It said, 'Fresh air and sunshine and good neighbors,' or words very much to that effect. Jesus, what a crock
that
was! Over here"—she inclined her head toward the Harrises' burnt-out home—"we've got a remnant of the South Bronx. And over there"—she nodded toward the Gellis home—"we've got Mr. Exhibitionist, Gun Nut, and up over there" —she nodded to the east—"we've got the infamous Reynolds Road, barely wide enough for one car to pass over, and right here"—she thumped her chest with her fist—"we've got the world's A-Number-One sucker. Mrs. Sucker, that's me—"

"You sound a little angry," Larry cut in; he grinned at her. "Maybe even hysterical."

She grinned back at him. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?! You'd like to watch cool Dora blow her stack. Well,
that
you won't see, my darling husband. They can burn this place down around me and you will
not
see me lose my cool!"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, because I know you're cool, Dora—fifty degrees below cool, as a matter of fact . . ."

"Go to hell!"

He raised an eyebrow and tried to think of a snappy reply. He could think of nothing. He turned back to the window; he saw that the Gellises' dog was still barking—louder, now, and at a faster tempo, as if something was agitating it. "To hell, indeed," Larry muttered.

"T
hey were friends," Trudy Wentis explained. "Close friends. And now that Shelly's moved away, Lorraine's got no one. That's why I'm going over there."

Dick Wentis sighed. She was right, of course. "Just assure me, darling, that you're not planning to . . . endear yourself to her. I mean, nobody's seen her since the fire. It's obvious she just wants to be left alone."

Trudy straightened the collar of her brown wool coat and looked confusedly at him. "I'm surprised at you, Dick. What if I
did
endear myself to her—what's the harm in that?"

He shrugged. "No harm, really. I suppose it would be very humanitarian. It's just that I don't care very much for the idea of an emotionally disturbed woman dropping over unannounced and weeping all over us." He grimaced. "Jesus," he continued, his tone apologetic, "that sounded callous as hell, didn't it?!"

"Yes, Dick. It did." She opened the front door. "I won't be long. And don't worry—I won't bring her back with me."

S
he rang the Grahams' doorbell again. For the fifth time. Because, there was no doubt, someone was in the house. The closed curtains on the picture window had parted very slightly after the second ring. And besides, the house felt as if someone were in it—the same feeling, Trudy thought, that she got whenever she called someone on the telephone and
knew
whether or not there would be an answer. In the same way, she now knew that someone was in the Graham house. It was intuition, and it was never wrong.

She stepped back from the door and scanned the front of the house. She cupped her hands around her mouth: "Lorraine?" she called. She waited a few moments and got no response. "Are you all right, Lorraine?" Still nothing.

"Maybe she just wants to be left alone," Dick said from behind her.

She jumped a little and turned quickly to face him. "Jesus Christ, Dick! Why don't you announce yourself?!"

He nodded at the Graham house. "Like I told you, she's either not home or she just wants to be left alone. Why don't you wait till tomorrow?"

"She might be in trouble, Dick."
Intuition?
she wondered. "She might have . . . done something to herself."

"Of course she's in trouble, Trudy. She's lost both of her sons, for God's sake. How would you feel?"

"But I saw the curtains move, Dick." She nodded at the picture window. "
Some
one is in there."

"Which proves she just wants to be left alone, Trudy. If she's got strength enough to peek out the window, she's got strength enough to open the door. Now why don't you come away from there and we'll try again later."

"We?"

"Both of us. And if there's still no answer . . . I don't know, I'll pick the lock or something. Okay?" He took her hand and coaxed her away from the house.

"Okay," she said. "But remember—you promised . . ."

M
arge Gellis said to her husband, "The neighbors are going to get angry, Norm." She lowered her head. "No," she continued hurriedly. "I'm sorry." And she wandered back into the kitchen.

"You mean because of the dog?" Norm called. "He's like the guns, Marge, you know that. He's protection." Norm got out of his living room chair and joined his wife in the kitchen. "And besides, Marge, these damn houses are soundproof—almost, anyway. And Joe don't bark
that
much."

"Yes," Marge said quietly; she slowly poured some pancake batter into a frying pan. "Yes, I know."

Norm nodded at the stove. "You'd better turn the burner on, Marge, or that pancake's gonna take a hell of a long time to cook." He pretended to chuckle.

She turned the burner on.

"Marge?"

"Yes?"

"You got some kinda problem, Marge?"

"No."

"'Cuz you been like a damn spook, lately. What's it—that menopause thing again?"

She said nothing.

"Or are you still mad about what me and Malcolm Harris tried to do?" He paused briefly. "Maybe you think it was
my
fault his house burnt down."

"No," she said quietly.

Norm stared at her a moment. "Marge," he said, his tone soft, his words measured and slow, "things . . . are getting kinda shitty, aren't they?!"

She flipped the pancake; she said nothing.

"I admit it, Marge. And maybe some of it's my fault." He waited. She ladled the pancake onto a plate. "I just wantcha to know something, Marge." She poured more pancake batter into the frying pan. "I wantcha to know"—he looked away—"that what I'm doin'—it's all for you, Marge." He waited again, felt a nervous smile playing on his lips. "'Cuz I love ya, Marge."

She tried to get the spatula under the just-poured pancake batter. The pancake hadn't yet cooked enough. "Damn it to hell!" she whispered.

Norm left the room. He cursed himself; he felt very foolish.

T
he Riley's Glen Campsites—which lay a half mile outside the southeast perimeter of Granada—consisted of a dozen park benches, a half dozen concrete and stone fireplaces (in various stages of repair), and a small green plaque, imbedded in a square of granite, commemorating "The spot where, in 1733, Nathan Riley established the first Community Smokehouse in the region of Penn Yann."

Sam Wentis kicked idly at the plaque. "What's a smokehouse?" he asked.

Timmy Meade answered immediately, and with great authority, "It's where people go to smoke."

"Yer fulla shit," Sam Wentis said.