The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror (22 page)

“You know?” Bud said again. “Jesus.”

“I told him no,” she said. “And I’ll tell him again if he asks.”

“Well, I think we ought to leave.”

“Bud, look,” she said, and stopped. When she tried to take his arm he backed away, nervously massaging the back of his neck, his gaze seldom lighting on anything for very long.

Oh god, she thought; oh god, he’s still spooked.

“In fact,” he said firmly, “I think I’m going to insist on it.”

“Bud, we can’t leave.”

“Why not?” he asked, petulantly now.

She held her breath. “Because of the Bazaar, and you and me, and because I’m pregnant.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and stared at her waist. “I don’t believe it.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Bud, please, I am, and I’m scared.” But when she looked for a hug, or a touch, or even a smile, she found nothing. He only stared, shaking his head in denial. Finally, he covered his eyes with one hand and drew it slowly down to his chin.

“You can’t be.”

Her tears could not be stopped.

“How long?”

She licked at her lips and tasted salt. “Five . . . five months.”

“Five . . .?” He frowned. “But we went for our checkup. You weren’t. . . what the hell are you trying to pull here, Ollie?”

“Nothing,” she insisted, almost begging. “Bud, there’s—”

“I don’t believe it.” He strode around the counter to face her. “I just . . . I don’t believe it.”

Her hand gripped his arm. “Bud, listen to me, please. I know I wasn’t pregnant three weeks ago. But I am now. I am!”

He shook off her hand and opened the door. “You’re crazy, right? You’re really crazy.”

“Bud!”

“How could you do it, Ollie? How could you do it? We agreed, goddamnit, and now you’ve—” He raised a hand, bunched it into a fist and punched at the air between them. “And I suppose you want to keep it.”

She almost slapped him, and he backed away from the horrified expression on her face. “Bud, it’s ours. I need help. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but it’s ours, Bud. And I’m scared.”

“Ours,” he muttered. “A month ago you weren’t pregnant, now you look like a cow.” He sniffed. “Christ, you’re a lousy liar, Ollie. How dumb do you think I am?”

And he was gone before she could stop him, racing down the step and around the side of the house. A moment later the VW bellowed into the street, and all she could do was stand on the threshold and watch him leave. Crying without a sound.

And whimpering when she felt something move in her womb.

13

“I’ve been talking to Mr. McMahon and Mr. Cleary.” said Eban Parrish.

Keith stood at the gate, hands clasped behind him so they wouldn’t shake so hard. He thought he had done the right thing bringing Heather here—that’s what he thought all the whispering had said—but Mr. Parrish looked mad, so he decided to keep quiet. It wasn’t fair that he should have to find out stuff on his own, anyway. But maybe that’s the way it must work.

He just wished he could be sure, just wished he could remember.

First . . . he was in the shed.

Then the shed took him. There was no other way to put it—the shed
took
him. And hurt him. Hurt him so bad he thought he’d never stop screaming.

Then the shed that was really a rock that was really, he guessed, just another part of Winterrest, then the shed light let go and sent him home. He wasn’t sure that part was right, but it was close enough because the next thing he knew he felt little whispers in his ear. Like shadows talking low behind a door. It wasn’t little keith, who told him this and told him that and told him how to start the Mohawk Gang; these were littler, cold but nice, darksoft, humming, and he figured that what he had to do was get someone else there for the stone to sort of . . .
take.

And as he told that part of it to Mr. Parrish, it occurred to him that what he was saying was that Sitter was wrong, and Piper was too—there were nodemons or witches out there in the house.

What he was saying was that Winterrest was alive.

He said all this aloud, and winced when Mr. Parrish lifted a hand, took his arm and pulled it gently, until Keith brought his own hands around front. Then they started down the road. A man and a boy taking a stroll. The boy was terrified; the man was smiling.

“I am very pleased, Keith, that you thought that way.”

Keith’s legs nearly buckled with relief.

“It shows that you are very, very intelligent.”

“Yes, sir,” he said softly, realizing with a cold start that it was the first time he had ever called anyone “sir” in his life.

“I am not saying you are correct, mind you, but it shows me you will be a great help when I require it.”

“For what, sir?”

“Soon,” he was told. “Soon, Mr. Egan. Do not be impatient. It will all come to you, in time.”

“Yes, sir, okay.” He didn’t understand, but he didn’t want Mr. Parrish angry at him anymore.

“But I do not want you back here again, do you understand? Not until tomorrow.”

He didn’t ask why. And he didn’t ask about the part about the stone being alive because he knew he had to think about it some more. His mother had always told him that all things were living in one way or another. But she never said anything about stones being alive.

He just nodded when they passed Sitter McMahon on the road. Sitter was heading for Winterrest, but Keith didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask why about anything at all. He just walked to the amber light, said goodbye to Mr. Parrish as politely as he was taught, then ran all the way home and used all the swear words he knew when he found no one there.

He was scared—really, really scared.

He didn’t care what Mr. Parrish said.

There were darksoft whispers climbing around in his head, and he was scared, and he wanted his father.

THREE

1

Nerves, Liz concluded, or a form of mild hysteria. That’s what it was. Any other explanation did not hold true, not when all the facts were examined beyond the taint of emotion.

She stood in the bathroom, the shower curtain blocking out most of the sun. It was nearly dark, she could barely see her reflection in the mirror over the basin, but she desperately needed the quiet, the time, without distractions or temptations.

Now that she knew about Doug, she could readily see how he was susceptible to periodic baths of guilt over something which had not been his fault. An accident was all it was. Tragic and beyond recalling, but an accident just the same; and his tirade against coincidence merely a search for a rational reason where none apparently existed.

And Ollie denied the pregnancy because of the pact she and Bud had made against having children—and her own fears about being capable of raising a child. That was the least surprising since she had seen more than one case of it herself among the many female clients she’d had as a public defender.

Bud, too, was anxious—he was almost frantic. This was their third try at making a go of their business, and he worked furiously hard because the specter of another failure was too potent to live with; and having a child now was precisely what he had convinced himself he didn’t need.

Her dim reflection grinned sourly, wry amusement at the diagnoses she had managed for all of them but her.

Standing away from the basin, she leaned against the towel rack and squinted. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the biggest jerk of all?

Clark was coming over, and he was going to ask her to marry him. But after all the miserable, grueling, oftentimes satisfying work she had done since Ron had died, she was afraid now that another marriage would take it all away. Clark was an attorney. No matter how much he might protest (and he would oh yes he would), they were tempting the birth of an intracouple competition, and she could not help doubting that his vanity could accept the role.

So hey, there was a mild earthquake that was extremely rare but not unknown in the state where she lived; a hell of a strong wind blown stronger out of proportion; a fire not nearly as bad as claimed; an unwanted pregnancy.

So what?

She didn’t know; god help her, she didn’t know.

Doug was still in the living room, sitting on the couch with a highball glass in his hand when she returned. She sat beside him, close enough for their legs to touch. He stirred but did not shift away, set the glass on the coffee table and turned to her slowly.

“You think we ought to go after her now? She’s had time to talk with Bud.”

“No,” she said. “I have a bad feeling he’s not going to believe her.”

“Yeah, me too. Maybe, though, we ought to be there anyway, to give her some moral support.”

Her hand went to his hair and brushed a strand away from his forehead. His back stiffened but again he did not pull away, and she told herself this was neither the time nor the place to explore what she’d suspected she had felt all along. But before she could stop, he took hold of her wrist, pulled it to his lap and held her hand.

His finger moved gently over her knuckles, following the faint traces of her veins. Her hearing grew more sensitive, and she listened to the erratic pace of her heart and the almost hissing sound of his breathing; her vision grew more acute, and she saw the lines about his eyes, the ghosts of grey hiding in his hair; and she could identify the smell of him—the hints of stable, of cigarette smoke, of the house he lived in.

It was a moment startlingly intimate, and she could no more resist when he leaned forward to kiss her than she could lift the couch onto her back.

A brief kiss; tender, promising, and not at all touched with threat.

“Doug,” she said when they parted, “I . . .” She laughed shortly. “I think I have a problem.”

“Yep,” he said. “Me, too.”

“Mine’s Clark.”

“Mine’s . . .” he pointed at his chest.

They kissed again without an embrace, and at the second parting they leaned back and watched the afternoon shadows grow longer on the ceiling. The silence between them was neither strained nor forced, and when she turned her head she saw the smile working his lips.

“We have to talk,” she said at last.

“I know.”

“But not now.”

“I know that too. The outside intrudes, or something like that.”

“Something like that,” she agreed. “But later?”

“Definitely. Absolutely definitely.”

They talked then of other things—the wind, and the quake, and none of it making sense—until she lighted on the Winterrest sale and felt herself growing excited. She complained about what it would do to their town, quite possibly their lives, and after nearly twenty minutes of pacing the room and waving her arms, she stopped and looked at him.

“Not bad, madam lawyer,” he said with a grin. “You do that well in court?”

“I feel silly.”

“Don’t. In fact, hold on to that enthusiasm. It’s good, and we’ll need it. In another fact,” he added as he got to his feet, “why don’t we have a pre-tea party party? We’ll organize, we’ll form a solid front against the callous opposition, and tomorrow after we eat their food we’ll spit in their collective eyes.”

Liz applauded and hugged him, an embrace that held until the doorbell rang and Clark was on the stoop. He thought her smile was for him and hugged her, then heard Doug laughing. He tried not to frown when she dragged him up into the room and explained their war plan. He was clearly unhappy, clearly wanted her alone, but she would have none of it. She knew now what her answer would be, and that as much as anything buoyed her to giddiness.

Then she groaned when Heather walked in, demanding to know what Maggie was doing in their backyard, followed immediately by Keith declaring that he was starving to death and if he wasn’t fed soon he and the Gang would have to raid the town, and pillage and plunder all the old ladies until their stomachs were full.

“It’s okay,” Doug said with Heather hanging onto his arm and pulling him toward the back door. “If you can’t get a sitter, bring them along.”

Heather gaped. “A sitter? Mother!”

Keith stood at his sister’s side, scowling his support. “I don’t want a sitter, Mom. Jeez, that’s for babies.”

“Now listen here, you two,” Clark said sternly from Liz’s side, “you will do as your mother says, and that’s final. No more backtalk, period.” He turned to her with a flourish, presenting her with a silent family as if he had been mediating squabbles all his life. “You make whatever calls you have to, Liz. Don’t let them railroad you.”

At any other time she would have lost her temper at his presumption of authority, but at a wink from Doug she only giggled and told the kids they could come.

Doug said yes, they could feed Maggie and listen to his tapes, and no, they could not climb the rocks in back. Clark, swiftly and expertly retreating to an I-was-in-favor-all-along stance, opened his wallet for the drinks they would need to buy, and agreed to pick up Ollie and Bud on his way back. Breathless orders were given—for god’s sake, don’t forget the food—and before she could blink, Liz was in the kitchen, alone, watching through the screen door as Doug and the kids pampered the horse.

The silence nearly overwhelmed her.

So maybe she was kidding herself; so maybe they were only postponing all the decisions they had to make. So what? For the time being, they also needed the knowledge that none of them was alone, and if some ridiculous development scheme was the temporary bind she would be an idiot not to take advantage while she could.

She called Judy without thinking twice, found her at the Depot and told her Clark would be in for some bottles in a few minutes, and told her why.

“You guys are nuts,” said Judy, laughing.

“Yeah, but so what. Hey, can you get away? It wouldn’t be right without you.” She almost added, “And Casey, too,” but no mention had been made, and she decided not to be the first.

“Sure,” Judy agreed. “Gil’s a big boy, and he’s dying to prove he can run this show on his own. Well, as of now he’s on his own. It’ll take a while, though. I may be a little late.”

“No problem,” she said, watching Heather on Maggie, with Keith dancing for his turn. “And listen, maybe I can get the old fart to come in person. Maybe we all misunderstood.”