“I expected it,” she cried.
“It would be great if people behaved reasonably, but they don’t always. They blame you for what happened to those children, not because they have any evidence, but simply because you’re new here. You know, your great-great-grandfather wasn’t in the crow’s nest when Horace McWhirter’s ship first bumped into this island.” He paused for a second and then mused, “It’s a mercy he didn’t call it McWhirtersville, isn’t it?”
“You know about what happened at the fair,” she observed dully.
Owen clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I try to ignore most of their silly gossip.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said wearily. “Everyone knows.”
“Now don’t take that attitude,” he insisted. “You’re letting them get to you, and it’s not that serious. This will all blow over. Listen, when I first came here they practically used to cross the street to avoid me. You’d think I’d arrived by flying saucer, instead of the ferry.” Owen shook his head and chuckled at the memory.
“I don’t feel well,” she said. “I’d like to go.”
“I’m just trying to tell you that I know what it’s like.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
Owen sighed, then walked around to his side of the car.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” he asked gently when they reached her driveway.
“No.”
“I’m sure Jess wouldn’t want me to leave you alone.”
“Jess wanted me to go to that meeting,” she muttered.
“He only thought it would be for your own good,” Owen chided her.
“I know,” she whispered. For a moment she was silent. Then she said, “I should have told them all to go to hell.”
“You probably should have,” Owen agreed.
They sat quietly, each involved in his own thoughts. Finally, Owen asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Sit and stew, probably.”
“Why don’t I come in? We can have a drink.”
“No,” she said. “I think I just want to be alone.” She
opened the car door and stepped out. “Good night, Owen.”
Owen watched her in the glare of his headlights as she walked up the driveway toward her house. “Good night,” he said to himself. He shook his head, then backed out toward the road. There was something odd about her, yet something so familiar. He wished he could place her. He realized guiltily that he had not pressed her harder about staying for a drink because the events of the night had tired him. Other people’s problems usually did. He looked forward to the quiet sanctuary of his house above the lagoon. But as he pulled up to the fork in the road which led to his property, he was troubled by an uneasy feeling. Owen craned his neck to the right to see if any traffic was coming, but the road was completely dark. Suddenly it occurred to him, as he waited, that the porch light at Maggie’s house, which had been on when they left, was no longer lit.
I should have waited until she got inside,
he thought.
Made sure she was all right.
Slowly he made the left turn toward the lagoon road. The darkened porch light intruded on his consciousness. He slowed the jeep and looked back in the direction from which he had come. The Thornhill house was out of sight now.
It must have burned out,
he told himself. Then he accelerated and started up the winding road. Gratefully, he realized that he was almost home.
They won’t let you be,
she thought, as she walked toward her back door.
They get an idea about you and that’s it. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t do it. You can
cry out to heaven that you’re innocent or shake your fist in their faces. It’s all the same. They have an idea about you, and that’s who you are to them.
Maggie felt as if she could barely drag herself along under the weight of the depression settling over her.
Lost in her ruminations, it was not until she slammed her shin into one of the steps that she realized the back porch light was out. As she massaged her shin, she looked up in puzzlement at the darkened globe. The house was dreary without the light, but absolutely still. She approached the door and put her hand on the knob, listening cautiously for anything out of the ordinary. All was quiet.
I guess the bulb blew,
she thought. She turned the doorknob and walked in, groping for the light switch on the wall. Her fingers found it and threw it. The room remained black.
“Is there anybody here?” she called out, trying to sound intrepid.
The only reply to her ringing demand was the soft sound of whimpering and tiny yelps coming from beyond the living room.
“Willy,” she called out, “I’m home now.” Maggie stood tensed in the doorway for a moment, reluctant to step into the darkened room. In the silence, as she waited, she realized that she could hear neither the humming of the kitchen clock nor the hum of the refrigerator. She sidled over quickly to an end table and pulled the lamp chain. Nothing happened. “The power must be out,” she said aloud. “God damnit.”
But despite the curse, she felt suddenly relieved. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness by now, and
the room seemed to be just as she had left it. She felt her way to the mantel and located a candle in a brass holder, and some matches. She lit the wick, then moved the candle in an arc in front of her. There were no signs of disorder. Maggie gave a shaky sigh.
Power was unpredictable on this island. She had heard that often enough.
I’d better check the fuse box,
she thought. Holding the candle out in front of her, she started toward the kitchen where she located the fuse box on the wall. From the back of the house she could hear the reassuring clamor of Willy’s yelping. “All right,” she called out to him as she yanked the fuse box open and peered in at the array of fuses, which looked like an assortment of tiny glass doughnuts. “Just a minute, Willy.”
Fortunately, she thought, she had asked Jess to explain this to her one day last week when a fuse blew in the kitchen. Now, if it wasn’t a power failure, then it had to be a master fuse, because it seemed to affect the whole house. She held the candle up to them. They looked okay, but it was hard to tell. She reached into the box to unscrew the master fuses. The top one practically fell into her hand.
It must have been loose,
she thought, frowning. From the back of the house she could hear the puppy’s excited cries. “Just let me get this fuse, Willy,” she hollered out to him. She examined the fuse intently, then replaced it in its socket. She screwed it firmly in place.
The lights came on, and the refrigerator began to hum. At the same instant an unearthly howl of agony filled the house. Maggie leaped back, then ran into the living room. The terrible cry came again from the back
of the house. Maggie ran through the living room toward the bedroom. As she passed the bathroom door, the stench of burning fur and flesh drifted out.
Maggie stopped short and stepped into the bathroom. Her heart pounded as she inched forward. Then she froze, clapping her hands over her mouth to stifle the scream.
In the bottom of the deep, claw-footed bathtub, the tiny puppy sprawled, stiff-legged, in a few inches of water. Willy’s raisin eyes bulged out of his fragile skull. The stink in the room was sickening.
“Willy!” Maggie shrieked, then knelt down to reach for the helpless animal. “What happened?” But even as she cried out, she jerked back her hands, her eyes falling on the smoldering electric razor immersed in the water just inches from Willy’s stiffened body. Her eyes followed the cord back to the socket where it was plugged into the wall. With an inchoate cry of fury she ripped the plug from the socket. Sparks crackled out from the fixture.
“What kind of fiend…?” Maggie whispered. She rocked back on her heels, her body trembling uncontrollably. She stretched out her hands toward the puppy’s tiny, rigid form, then quickly retracted them into fists against her shaking rib cage. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
“No,” she said. She began shaking her head, her voice rising like a river flooding its banks. “Willy. No.” Her bitter lament filled the room, but the puppy heard nothing, felt nothing. He could not see her crouching there, fists clenched, wailing for him.
16
With a grimy hand Maggie wiped away the perspiration that had collected on her forehead. She jammed the tip of the shovel into the earth and stood quietly, grasping the handle and staring down with dry and vacant eyes at the mound of dirt at her feet. “I’m sorry, Willy,” she said aloud. Then she leaned the shovel up against the house and went inside.
The house glowed warmly in the night but she was oblivious to its comforting light. In her mind her journey had already begun. She found her suitcases in the hall closet where she had stored them less than two weeks earlier and dragged them out. She carried them to her bedroom and laid them, open, on her bed. One by one she began to empty the dresser drawers of her meager belongings and fill the suitcases. It did not take her long. She had not had time to accumulate much.
That’s it,
she thought to herself.
I’m done.
For a second she stood there, staring into the suitcases, the sweater she was holding forgotten in her hand.
A normal person would call the police. They would say, an intruder has entered my home, killed my dog. The police would take care of everything. The neighbors
would be sympathetic.
Maggie gave a short, humorless laugh. She looked down at the sweater in her hand as if it were a moon rock. Then she recalled herself to her task. She tossed the sweater into the open suitcase and snapped it shut.
Wait until Emmett hears about my sojourn here,
she thought. All those letters. All that careful planning. What did it matter? It was hopeless, and she could not stay. She wondered who it was that had arranged Willy’s cruel death. For a moment her thoughts turned to Grace, but then she dismissed the idea. Even Grace would not be that cruel. Perhaps it was some friend of the Cullums or some young punks who had heard what happened to the boys. Maggie realized that it really didn’t matter who had done it. Willy’s death was like a cross burning. A way of expressing local sentiment. The message was clear. It was a sick thing to do, but what good would it do to say so? Maggie swung the suitcase off the bed and dropped it heavily by the door.
She ran her eyes over the spare furniture in the room. It looked as if she had never lived there. She glanced at the bed, neatly made, its two pillows side by side. Jess. She had to tell him she was going. He would be furious about Willy, but he would urge her to stay, to keep trying. He would not understand why she couldn’t. Maggie walked into the kitchen and picked up the telephone. She dialed the number and waited for six rings, but Jess did not pick it up. As she replaced the receiver, she almost felt relieved. She dreaded telling him about Willy. If only she had checked on him before she turned
the fuse. And she was ashamed to admit that she was running away, giving up.
Stay,
he would say.
Think of us.
Maggie shook her head and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. He didn’t know. He couldn’t possibly understand. All those years in prison. The relentless abuse. She could not live like a pariah anymore. Somehow it had started again. But this time she could walk away. There were no bars or walls to restrain her.
Maggie picked up the phone impatiently and dialed Jess’s number again. She would not risk staying here. It was too dangerous. She knew herself too well. Too much pressure.… The phone’s ringing signal purred steadily in her ear. Where could he have gone? she wondered. She looked up at the clock. It was getting late. “Answer,” she urged him aloud. But the phone continued to ring.
She slammed the receiver back on its hook, then wandered aimlessly into the living room, sitting in each chair and finding that none of them felt comfortable. She got up and began to pace around the small room. Part of her felt that she should just leave and call him from the mainland. If she hurried, she thought, glancing at the grandfather clock, she could still make the last boat out for the night. But even as she considered it, she knew that she couldn’t do it. Not without seeing him one last time. Perhaps she would even tell him the truth about herself. She probably owed him that. He had believed in her. He had loved her.
I should tell him for his own good,
she thought ruefully.
Teach him a lesson about leading with his heart.
Maggie pushed herself angrily out of the armchair where she had settled and returned to the kitchen. She dialed the number again but was greeted with the unanswered signal. She couldn’t just walk out on him without a word. Still holding the phone to her ear, Maggie looked out the window. Just beyond the arc of the back porch light was Willy’s grave. She wished she could have buried him over closer to the stream, where she and Jess had taken him to play that first night, but she was daunted by the darkness.
Hanging up the phone, she sat down heavily in a kitchen chair and examined her hands. They were vibrating uncontrollably. She realized, after a moment, that her teeth were chattering. Maggie pushed herself up from the chair and bent down in front of a cabinet below the sink. There was a bottle of liquor hidden there. She recalled having seen it when she was cleaning.
I need something for my nerves,
she thought. She opened the cabinet door and looked in. The tall neck of the whiskey bottle caught her eye in the back. She reached in for it. As she did so, her hand grazed a white plastic bottle, nearly tipping it. For a second she hesitated, gazing at the blue and white label warning that it was disinfectant. She recalled the night she had poured herself a drink from just such a bottle, and the immediate, searing pain. Maggie frowned. She did not often let herself think of that night when she had tried to end her life.
Now, her hand traveled unconsciously to her throat. She massaged the area absently, her finger probing the spot where the tube had been which sustained her life.
It was completely healed now; the only remaining sign was a tiny scar near the base of her throat. Tubes and bottles and bags of blood had restored her to a life which she had finally decided to live. In all the months and years that followed, it had been a struggle to keep going. She could not afford to slip back.