The deathstone, p.13
The Deathstone, page 13
It was difficult to say what had happened after that, not much point to it either. Except to say he was stunned, completely stunned by his behavior last night.
He rose slowly to his feet, a study in vagueness, until his eyes fixed on a small note propped on the dresser. The note was written in Chandal’s meticulous handwriting, all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. He snatched it up and read:
Ron
You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you. Kristy and I have gone out for a while. Back soon. Del.
He read it twice, then stood for a moment staring into space, unsure of what to do next. Swiftly, drifting through a crack of consciousness, a tiny light visible so far, far away, so far in the past—the carriage house in New York. And a voice whispered: “Do not forget it, because it is still with you.”
Whose voice?
His own.
Stepping from the shower, he toweled off quickly, then returned to the room and began to dress. He reached down for his jeans, slipped into them as rapidly as possible, as if clothing his naked body would armor the overwhelming vulnerability he now felt.
Brother, he thought, you’ve got a problem. Memory, he knew, was a tricky business. It throws up, when nudged, a scattered mass of sorted details, a looming event here and there, a sequence broken by years of forgetfulness, by blurs, confusion and darkness. Accuracy in recollection, at no time more necessary, at no time less certain.
Now the room—as he blinked—became drained of all color. A slight breeze caught the drapes off the balcony, fluttering them outward before they resumed their sedate vertical folds.
Closing the balcony door, he heard a strange sound from above. A scratching, sputtering sound. Then footsteps. Someone was walking in a room above his head.
When he stepped into the hallway, he noticed that the small door at the end of the corridor was open. He advanced slowly. Dust particles hung quiescent in shafts of light and whirled up as he approached.
The stairwell leading to the attic was empty. To the top was a door; it stood ajar. Slowly he started to climb; the stairs were narrow and deep. He glanced upward. Yes, a light was on up there.
“Hello?” he called out.
Nothing. Not a whisper of breath.
He cocked his head forward, having stopped to listen. Nothing... except a creaking board as he took the next step. “Anyone up there?”
He mounted the steps, one by one. He held onto the railing, and his palm was sweaty and slick. He reached the top and turned soundlessly to look around.
Before him stretched a narrow room that ran the full length of the house. There was no ceiling, except for a steep and slanted roof, all its rafters bare. The entire room was thick with dust. A glow shone overhead where a dim bulb dangled from its cord. It swayed back and forth casting light here, and then there. Portions of the room which had been nonexistent only seconds ago, had now come out from behind the clouds; now vanished.
“Hello. Anyone here?” He waited in silence.
There was no furniture, not even a trunk, only rows of deep-shadowed shelves to the rear of the room where the light did not reach.
Slowly, he reached over and tried the wall switch by the door, hoping for more light. But it had not given any. He flicked it again, still no added light.
Something brushed against his forehead. A cobweb, he thought, and he flicked his hand to brush it away, but it returned. He brushed again, turning his head to one side to avoid any further contact, and saw a pair of eyes glinting at him in the darkness beyond.
“Who’s there?” he shrilled.
The eyes remained locked on his face. Now he realized there were many eyes staring at him. Dozens of them.
In a rush, without thinking, he moved closer. The dimmer portion of the room reached out to him. There, resting in thick dust and stifling heat were hundreds of dolls in mocked, grotesque imagery. Their dry painted faces struck by a strange enchantment beyond the touch of man. Wax-over-composition dolls; masked peg wooden dolls; wax-head dolls, all leering at him with their lifeless, frozen eyes.
He stood there flaccid; his face, his muscles, his whole body was softer, open to signals. He barely moved, barely breathed; it seemed their eyes were sending wordless tidings from an unnatural world.
Uncomfortably, he let his eyes drift from one shelf to the next, until he gazed fixedly on the last shelf, upon whose dusty planks rested a dozen or so dolls’ heads. Nothing else. Just the heads: bisque, china and parian heads. All mottled, streaked and patterned, as if some mischievous child had marked them with a paint brush. He didn’t notice the painting immediately, it all had been done in muted colors, all receding, all lifeless.
Lifeless, yes. Yet one of the doll heads was moving, rocking back and forth, her eyes peering out, then walling back into her head. What the hell made it move, he wondered. He glanced around nervously.
Finally, he had to make himself realize it was all of his own doing. His weight upon the floorboards had probably shifted the shelf slightly. The house was old, so were the shelves. Still he suddenly felt the urge to get out of the room into daylight.
He backed away guardedly, then turned away completely. The first few steps and he was still in shadows. Then, just as he stepped into the light, he saw it.
That quickly it flashed before his eyes. Kristy’s doll. Jennifer.
There was no mistaking it. Jennifer’s doll-face stood out among the others in stark contrast. A face he had seen so often peering at him from under the couch, or from behind a chair, or lying peacefully beside his sleeping daughter.
He picked the doll up. One of her hands touched her mouth. The other remained rigid at her side. Her eyes were sparkling and radiant.
As Ron gazed at the doll, he had the odd sensation that he too was being gazed at. He turned. A tall spectral shape stood palely before him. It might have been standing there for a long time, he thought. He stared past the small glow of the light, still motionless, not so much as the fluttering of an eyelid.
He waited in silence, more and more fearful, staring straight ahead. Finally the shape moved.
As the figure stepped beneath the light, he realized it was Nancy. He hesitated for an instant, unsure of what her reaction was going to be. Under the dim light, her eyes, the sparkling brown of mahogany, expressed a bewitching innocence. Her hair was drawn up onto her head, lending a strength to her features. She seemed easy and relaxed, with an air of grace about her.
Clearly, she was undisturbed by his presence.
A little sigh escaped her lips as she held out her hand. Automatically, without really understanding why, Ron handed her the doll. She looked at him gratefully before casting her eyes downward. She rubbed the tips of her fingers lightly over the network of lace at the bottom of the doll’s dress.
“That’s Kristy’s doll, isn’t it?” Ron said softly.
She nodded, then crossed to the far end of the room and placed the doll carefully with the others.
“Are these Mrs. Taylor’s dolls, Nancy?”
She stood silent with her back to him. She gave no indication that she had heard his last remark. Her silence in that instant communicated a marvelous sense of relaxation and contentment. She was, Ron suddenly realized, completely at home here. He noticed how the dolls seemed to stand out with remarkable clarity against the pure whiteness of her dress; joined together as two spiritual forces of the cosmic mind. Mother and child. How beautiful it all seemed. Like children born of a perfect union they warmed in her presence. The invisible force of her life manifesting itself in her children.
A sudden rush of peace enveloped him as he stood there. For a moment, it was like a great turquoise of blueness, then a rush of radiant yellow, and then a mysterious twilight in the softening folds of shadow. But always, all was sharp-cut and clear to his vision.
As if not to disturb even a single dust particle, he turned slowly, retraced his steps to the stairwell and softly descended the stairs, leaving Nancy alone in her own private sanctuary.
At the first floor newel post, not twenty feet from the living room, he found Kristy sitting on the lowest step, industriously fashioning a dress onto an ugly wooden puppet.
“Morning, sweetheart.” He bent over and kissed her forehead.
“Morning, Daddy.”
“And what do we have here,” he began, but before Kristy could answer, he turned away, listening; he could hear low voices in the kitchen.
He pushed open the kitchen door and saw Mrs. Taylor sitting at the table, Chandal stood beside her.
“There you are! Come in, come in,” Mrs. Taylor said, smiling the length of the table.
Ron started forward but was quickly intercepted by Chandal.
“Morning, Hon.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. She was wearing hoop earrings, her bright yellow cotton dress, and a touch of lip gloss. She looked startlingly alive.
“Good morning,” he said, feeling a twinge of discomfort.
“Coffee?” she asked, reaching for the pot.
“Yes, please.”
He noted that Mrs. Taylor served a good strong cup of coffee. Country coffee, made from freshly ground beans, served with real cream in china-thin and hand-painted cups. The breakfast was country style as well, plenty of homemade biscuits with honey, eggs, country-smoked ham, bacon and grits.
Ron felt self-conscious eating at the table alone. But neither of the women seemed the least bit disturbed by his tardiness. He watched Chandal move about the kitchen as though it were her own. He wondered what she was thinking. He yearned to be alone with her, to discuss last night, but instantly, he knew he would not broach the subject unless she brought it up first.
While he watched Chandal, gauging her mood, she told Mrs. Taylor a story of her childhood that made the woman laugh. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes which she wiped daintily away with her lace handkerchief. “Well, you know,” she said, “it’s nice to hear such memories. I mean it is sort of... comforting. Somehow the world has changed since then, don’t you think? It has grown more aggressive, less gentle. Even here in Brackston, life has changed. Things move faster now,” she went on. “Still, not fast enough for some, I imagine.”
Chandal leaned closer. “Do you ever get bored? You know, doing the same things each day with the same people?”
Mrs. Taylor considered her thoughtfully a moment. “Only those who search for novelty are in the end bored. As for me, I have my own personal obsessions, my daily functions—and they never bore me—no matter how familiar to me they may become. It is always the beginning of things for me. Always the beginning.” She smiled, her voice trailing off into a self-satisfied sigh.
Everything seemed to stop as her eyes sparked into a shining intentness.
“Besides,” she added, “we here in Brackston believe in the principle of ‘the common good.’ I may be bored, but that does not mean Brackston is boring. The emotions we feel are not important in themselves. Their only value is how they affect the town as a whole. To sacrifice ourselves without a moment’s thought for the common good. This is what we believe in.”
Quietly Chandal came up beside her. Mrs. Taylor turned. Her eyes were smiling as she looked up at her. She slipped her hand into Chandal’s and held on tightly.
Ron glanced away. He hadn’t understood what she’d meant exactly, but from some recess of his mind leaped again the image of the huge stone that sat upon the hill. The image flickered, then faded. Nervously, he lifted his cup, allowing a few drops of coffee to spill on the table.
“Oh, my, my, look at that. Now, where’s the dishcloth? We’ll have that all cleaned up in no time.”
“I’m sorry —”
“I’ve got it,” Chandal said. She found the dishcloth and wiped up the spill with quick little swishes. Straightening, she gazed down at Ron as if she’d only now become aware of his presence.
There was something different about Chandal this morning, Ron reluctantly decided. He sensed a change, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. She was behaving completely different —she even looked different—like a woman who has made a discovery. But of what?
“There, that should do it.” Chandal moved back to the sink.
“So, what are your plans for the day?” Mrs. Taylor asked.
Ron’s eyes narrowed as he pondered, and his answer was not exactly responsive. “Oh, I couldn’t say.”
Mrs. Taylor, a smile cemented to her lips, murmured, “Through the back gate of my garden, beyond the wall, is some of the most beautiful country you will ever see. A waterfall as majestic as life itself. And a swimming place. Just a small cove where the water runs deep and cool. Clayton and I would swim there often. So many days of our lives were spent there.” Her face clouded as she concluded, “So many days...”
Ron nodded. “Would you like that, Del? To go for a swim?”
Shortly, perhaps unconsciously, Chandal said: “I can’t.”
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
“I can’t,” she said again.
“Why not?”
“Because Mrs. Wheatley has invited us for lunch.”
“Oh.” Ron nodded.
“More coffee?” she asked.
“All right.”
Mrs. Taylor started to say something, but she did not have a chance to finish. Kristy came bounding into the room consumed by frustration.
“Mom, this is awful! Just awful!” she cried, her shrillness a safety valve venting her agitation. She held up the puppet for all to see. “She looks terrible!”
Mrs. Taylor smiled, but weakly. “Kristy, you mustn’t bristle. It causes frown lines around the mouth.”
Kristy considered this seriously.
“Now, if you’ll calm down, my dear, I’ll be happy to help you.”
“You will? How?”
Mrs. Taylor chuckled with glee. “Well, let’s you and I adjourn to the sewing room, shall we? Clothing is everything to a young lady. You’ll see, she’ll look much better in satin. Yes, blue satin.” She slipped Ron and Chandal a wink. “If you’ll excuse us,” she said and led Kristy from the room.
Ron dropped a sugar cube into his coffee and watched the bubbles rise. It wasn’t his imagination; Chandal had definitely changed. For a second their glances locked. What was it that he saw in her eyes? Nothing he could understand, certainly. If anger over his getting drunk last night, it was well veiled—but there was something else, an expression he wasn’t used to.
“I’m sorry about last night—” he began.
She shrugged. “No apologies.”
“How’d I get home?”
“Sheriff Nash.”
“Ah, the village constable. The enforcer of small-town law and order.”
“Not a pretty thing for Kristy to see.”
“What—Sheriff Nash?”
“Ron...
He pushed on. “I tried looking for you.”
“You did? When?”
“I don’t remember,” he said dubiously. “An hour or so after I left the dance. But when I got back the—”
“The dance was over.”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“Then—then I must have passed out, I guess.”
She nodded carefully as though debating her next words. “Well, I guess you were entitled.” She put her hand over his and squeezed it. “Let’s forget about it.”
Ron had no idea what was passing through her mind. Conflicting expressions molded her eyes and mouth.
“Here, let me pour you some more coffee,” she offered.
“I’ve had enough, thank you.”
“Well, I haven’t. I could drink it all day.”
She chattered at random for several minutes, china cup in hand, running down the list of fascinating people she had met at the dance. Mrs. Taylor’s aunt, Beatrice Wheatley, old Tyler Adam, Lou Harris, and, oh, yes—Cynthia Harris, his daughter. And then it came out, quite casually.
“Cynthia Harris. She’s a very pretty girl, isn’t she?” Chandal’s voice seemed faraway, almost detached and not as friendly as Ron would have liked it to be.
“Who?”
“Lou Harris’s daughter. You remember, we met them last night.”
Ron paused. “You’re mistaken. I didn’t meet them.”
“Oh, that’s right. They came to the dance after you had gone. Still, Cindy mentioned meeting you at the beer tent.”
“Oh, you mean the redhead?”
“Yes, the redhead.”
“She came in looking for her father. Didn’t stay long enough to actually meet her.”
“Still, you must have looked at her.”
“Yes, Del—I looked at her.”
“Well, didn’t you think she was pretty?” The question was loaded. And Chandal was watching him, he knew, even though she had moved away to gaze out the window, which was disconcerting, for he sensed that she was finely tuned to what he might say.
“Not really,” he said and sipped the dregs of cold coffee. He was beginning to get that awful feeling, as if the situation were getting out of his control. To cover the slight pause that followed, he said quickly, “Where did you and Kristy run off to this morning?”
“Church.”
“Church?”
“That’s right. Church,” she said. “The service was entirely in Latin. I didn’t understand a word of it, but the ceremony was lovely.”
They were silent for a moment. Ron had begun to perspire. The August heat was sweltering, even while sitting under the huge kitchen fan that fluttered lazily above. Chandal sat down in one of the two older side chairs near the doorway, fanning herself with a magazine. The air was heavy and still, the trees beyond motionless, their leaves the deep, ripe green of midsummer.
“Del?”
“Humm?”
“Last night. The Punch and Judy show. It didn’t seem to bother you.”
