Ammie, Come Home (8 page)

“It's all described in
Old Georgetown Stories.
”

The medium was too accustomed to skepticism to show anger, if she felt any. She gave Bruce a sweet smile and said indifferently, “I have never read that book.”

“Does the book describe the old man?” Mrs. MacDougal demanded.

“No. But a blue coat and brass buttons aren't unusual.”

“What about Mary Ann?”

“I haven't the faintest idea whether or not Henry had a daughter of that name,” Bruce said cheerfully. “I doubt if it would be possible to find out.”

“That's why it is impossible to convince you skeptics,” Mrs. MacDougal said in exasperation. “If you do find verification, you claim the medium could have looked up the information; if you don't find it, you claim it can't be verified.”

Bruce gave her a look in which amusement and respect were mingled.

“You're quite right,” he said courteously. “It's hard luck, isn't it?”

“Hmmmph.” Mrs. MacDougal turned away from him. “Let's try again, Nada, it's still early. Perhaps we can get something which will convince this young man.”

“I don't know….” the medium said slowly.

“Come, it's too good a chance to miss. You went quite quickly into deep trance; obviously the atmosphere here is very sympathetic.”

The medium was silent. Ruth, next to her, thought she looked more bloodlessly anemic than ever.

“Perhaps Madame Nada is tired,” she said, with no other motive than sympathy. “I understand the trance state can be tiring.”

“Yes, it is tiring,” the medium said. “But that is not why I am afraid—I mean to say, why I am reluctant—”

“No, you mean afraid,” Bruce interrupted, staring at the woman. “What are you afraid of?”

Ruth turned toward the boy with a disapproving frown—and realized that he was right. Madame Nada was frightened, badly frightened and, at the same time, excited. Somehow her fear was more convincing than any manifestation she could have produced. Ruth began, “If you feel that way—”

But her gentle voice was drowned out by a booming “Nonsense!” from Mrs. MacDougal; and after a searching glance at her patroness, the medium shrugged.

“Very well. But I have warned.”

“We must all concentrate on pure thoughts,” Mrs. MacDougal urged. “Perhaps if we sang a hymn—”

“Oh, no,” Ruth said involuntarily. The medium gave her a bleak smile.

“I think not. Just—let us begin.”

 

V

The medium sank into trance at once, deeply, frighteningly, almost as if she had been dragged under the surface of consciousness by a force she could not resist. The wrist Ruth held went limp, as before; but Ruth shivered as she felt the undisciplined pulse racing wildly under her fingers.

“Names,” the droning voice began. “Mary Ann, Henry, a Frank…someone named Hilda.”

“Go on,” breathed Mrs. MacDougal.

“I see two women. One young, one older. Gray hair. Or is it powder? The quarrel, the girl is crying. Poor Mary!”

Ruth relaxed. This was the same sort of vague talk they had heard before, unconvincing because it could be tailored to fit almost any event. Relieved of her anxiety, her mind began to wander, only half-hearing the medium's descriptions and recitations of names which might apply to anyone on earth, or no one. Something about an Indian in a feathered headdress…a hanging man…a little white dog. That reminded her of the elusive Sammie, and she was speculating idly on his identity when, as if the memory had been a cue, the terror began.

It came slowly and slyly, like a trickle of dirty water through a crack. A voice, the voice of no one in the circle, began to mutter. It sounded, at first, like a recording played at too low a speed—a dull, forced drone of sound, with no words distinguishable. Then it grew louder, and words began to be heard. But still the mechanical impression was there, as if something were being pushed and squeezed through the wrong sort of machine.

The medium had gone rigid. Her thin wrist was no longer lax; it pulled and pounded against Ruth's fingers. Madame Nada had good cause for alarm; for she, of all the people in the room, knew that the muttering horror of a voice did not come from her own throat. She, and one other. Ruth knew that the sound originated, not from her right-hand side, but from her left. From Sara.

The others, of course, assumed that Madame Nada was producing this voice, as she had produced the others. Yet there was a qualitative difference in this sound, and they all felt it. The room became absolutely still. The cold suddenly seemed intense; Ruth had to clench her teeth together to keep them from chattering.

The muttering, mumbling monologue seemed to go on and on; but in actuality the whole business could not have lasted more than thirty seconds, and the voice had forced out no more than six articulate words, before the medium's strained nerves erupted in a hair-raising scream. It broke the horrified paralysis of the others; there were sounds of chairs being pushed back, cries and questions. The lights flashed on. Ruth had a wild, vivid glimpse of Bruce, his hand still on the light switch, his body braced against the wall, his face paper white as he stared at her…. No, not at her. At Sara, beside her.
He knew.
Somehow, he knew.

Making the greatest effort of her life, Ruth turned her head to stare at the thing that sat beside her—quietly now, demurely, head bent and hands still. The features were the same—the narrow nose and flowing black hair, the quiet mouth. The physical identity only intensified the terror; for she knew, with a certainty that defied the senses, that when Sara turned her head, something that was no longer Sara would look back at her through Sara's eyes.

THAT NIGHT
,
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FORTY YEARS
,
RUTH
left a night light burning when she went to bed. But whenever she closed her eyes a face took shape against the darkness—the familiar, unrecognizable face that had been superimposed on Sara's face for one impossible moment.

From a social point of view the evening could not be called a success, ending as it did with the demoralization of most of the guests and the complete collapse of one of them. Madame Nada had fainted dead away, falling so ungracefully and painfully that even the skeptics knew it was a genuine faint. When she recovered she could think of only one thing—getting out of the house as quickly as possible. Mrs. MacDougal's car took her home, and Pat felt he had to escort the excited women. The other guests made their excuses like people fleeing a house of death. Séances were only fun when they were artificial.

It was clear to Ruth that none of them really knew what had happened; they were simply reacting to an atmosphere as intense as it was unpleasant. The medium was a true sensitive, in that she had felt the unpleasantness more keenly, but she was no more equipped to cope with genuine horror than were the others.

Bruce would have lingered; but Ruth sent him packing. His presence was not the one she wanted, and, in fact, she was not sure that she wanted anyone. She preferred to be alone with Sara.

For Sara it was, once again; no doubt about that. When Ruth turned shrinkingly back to her niece, after administering first aid to Madame Nada, the illusion (if it had been an illusion) was gone. Sara's voice, Sara's expression—the indefinable, essential Sara-ness—were back.

Ruth was left in bed with two equally unpleasant theories for company. The room was comfortably warm, the blankets fleecy, the brushed nylon of her nightgown soft against her recumbent body; but from time to time she shivered with an ungovernable chill.

What is it that defines an individual? Not the body, the color of hair and eyes, the shape of the face, for these may alter with accident or illness, and they do, inevitably, alter with the one unavoidable illness, old age. Opinions and beliefs, the products of the thinking brain, also change; the bright young idealist may become a cynical supporter of bigotry in old age.

So what is it, she wondered, that makes a man or woman, distinctly himself, different from all others? Give that quality a name—personality—though the name itself is meaningless; it may be what some call the immortal soul or it may be simply a cluster of traits, inherited and acquired. Character, soul, spirit, individuality…the turn of the head, the expression of the eyes, the responses to pain, fear, love.

When she was little, Ruth had thought of herself—the real Ruth—as a little homunculus living inside her head, busily manipulating the muscles that moved the puppet of her body, arranging the thoughts that animated her brain by day, sorting and selecting her dreams at night. She wondered now whence she had derived this image; surely there was something like it in one of Louisa May Alcott's books…. Or perhaps it was an idea which would occur to any sensitive child—the little soul living inside the brain, looking out through the eyes.

Tonight something had looked out of Sara's brain, through Sara's eyes, that was not Sara.

Ruth twisted uncomfortably between sheets which were already wrinkled and hot. The incredibility of her fancies was even more apparent when she put them into concrete images.

In a way, the alternative was less difficult. It was simply that she, Ruth Bennett, was suffering from hallucinations. That she was able to entertain, even for a moment, the wild hypothesis of Sara's differentness, indicated that her own mind had slipped considerably from normal standards.

People who are losing their minds, they say, do not doubt their sanity. Ruth suspected that this consoling thought would not be supported by a psychologist. Heaven knew she had enough doubts. But at the basis of all her queries lay one damning fact: that it was easier for her to believe in her mad idea of possession than in her own madness.

 

Morning is often a revelation in itself. When Ruth woke from a brief, but deep, sleep, she could hardly believe in the dark visions of the night. Sunlight poured in through the window and the mockingbirds who had made a nest in the chimney discussed their plans for the day. Downstairs she heard movement, and Sara's voice, an untrained but sweet contralto, singing “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” Smells floated enticingly up the stair—coffee, bacon, toast.

Saturday was cleaning day. Since Sara arrived Ruth had gladly abandoned the never-ending search for reliable help. She and Sara could go over the entire house in four hours, and leave every bit of glass sparkling and every chair leg polished. If there was the slightest shadow on Sara's soul it was invisible. She sang like a bird and worked like a demon and, after lunch, went dashing off to keep a shopping appointment with a girl friend. Ruth's decision had been made without conscious debate; not for anything in the world would she have mentioned her fears to Sara. She decided that she would call her doctor for a checkup, just to be on the safe side. But Monday would be time enough; Saturday morning was always busy for Dr. Peterson. There was no hurry.

 

II

She met It again that night, walking in the hall. Sara was barefoot, but the old, uneven boards creaked. Ruth came awake as a soldier in a battle zone jerks out of sleep, alert and fully conscious. She knew instantly what was standing outside her door; and knew, as well, the futility of her former attempts at reason.

The hardest thing she had ever had to do was to get out of bed and go to meet it.

 

III

“She always wears bedroom slippers,” Ruth said. “Ever since she got a splinter in her foot last fall.”

Suddenly, without meaning to, she began to cry. Pat, whose face had assumed a deepening expression of concern, slid over and put his arms around her. When the first storm of tears subsided he said quietly, “I don't blame you for being upset, Ruth. But you've got to tell me the rest. What happened after you went out into the hall?”

“I'm sorry.” Ruth sniffed, and took a deep breath. “I know I'm not…. It was bright moonlight last night; the light came flooding in through the circular window on the landing. It—Sara—” She faltered, seeing his lips tighten at the slip, and then went doggedly on. “She was standing there, on the landing, looking like something out of Mrs. Radcliffe; she always wears nightgowns, not pajamas, and her winter ones are long and high-necked because the house gets cold at night…. Sorry again. I'm fighting away from it, aren't I?”

All he said was, “You're doing fine, go on.”

“What I'm trying to give you is the picture—a girl in a long pale gown, with her black hair falling over her shoulders. Wraithlike, pale-faced in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide open…. No, I can see what you're thinking, but that wasn't it; she was not sleepwalking. My roommate used to walk in her sleep and I know the look. This—Sara—was awake. It was awake, Pat, wide awake; and
it was not Sara.
”

“You're giving me your impressions. You are not describing what happened. We'll worry about subjective sensations after you explain how you got those marks on your face.”

“I must look awful,” Ruth said drearily.

“You have what is popularly known as a shiner. Plus a couple of scratches on your cheek. How did you explain them to Sara?”

“I didn't. I yelled through the door, told her I had a headache and didn't want to be disturbed. Finally she went out. As soon as she left the house I called you.”

“She was—Sara—again this morning?”

“Yes. She offered to get breakfast, call the doctor. She was awfully sweet….”

“All right,” he said, as her voice began to quaver. “You've told me everything but the main thing. Sara hit you, didn't she?”

“Yes.”

Pat pointed a long finger at the glass on the table beside Ruth.

“Finish your medicine. I know this is a hell of an hour for sherry, but you need a stimulant. Why did she hit you?”

Ruth made a face; for a moment she felt sure that the wine would be the last straw for her churning stomach. Then the warmth spread, and her icy hands relaxed a bit.

“Let me try to be coherent. I saw her standing there in the moonlight. After a minute I spoke to her. She didn't answer. I said, ‘Sara, are you ill? What's wrong?' She started. She said—”

“Exact words, if you can remember them.”

“Good God, I wish I could forget them! She said the same thing she said at the séance. She said it twice. ‘Not dead. Not dead.' Then a sort of sigh, and—I think—the word ‘please.' She kept repeating that, faster and faster, till the words ran together…. She was screaming by then, Pat; in the middle of it, I thought I caught something that sounded like ‘the General.' But I wasn't really listening. I felt I had to make her be quiet. It was when I touched her that she—flailed out with both arms. Honestly, I don't think she meant to hurt me; I'm not even sure she knew who I was.”

“Probably not.”

“Pat, you know Sara. You know she wouldn't ever—”

“Dear heart, is that what worries you?” He smiled, for the first time since he had entered the house; but the lines on forehead and cheek did not disappear. “I don't think our nice Sara has turned into a homicidal maniac, no. Finish your story before I start lecturing. How the hell did you calm her? She's twice your size, and a healthy young animal.”

“I didn't. She almost knocked me out with that blow in the face, but she overbalanced herself. Her foot slipped. When she fell, she must have hit her head. I dragged her back to bed. I probably shouldn't have moved her, but…well, I did. She passed from unconsciousness into normal sleep without waking, and when I was sure she was asleep, I went to bed myself.”

“I'll bet you were ready for it. Okay. I get the picture.”

Ruth drew a long breath.

“I just want to know one thing. Who's crazy—me or Sara?”

“Neither of you is crazy,” he said violently. “Don't use that stupid goddamn word.”

“I'm sorry….”

“So am I. I'm a hell of a therapist, aren't I. Have another drink. Let's both have another drink.”

Ruth took the glass he handed her. In the morning sunlight the light liquid shone like tawny gold.

“Don't think I'm not grateful,” she said. “But if you would just tell me, without mincing words….”

“I intend to.” He drained his glass in one movement of his wrist. “Dismiss, first of all, the notion that you imagined all this. Such things have happened; people with certain types of mental illness have even inflicted injuries on themselves in order to substantiate a fantastic theory. But not you. This thing happened. So we are faced with the only other possibility. Sara is the one who is mentally disturbed. You're probably right in saying that she didn't know you. Now at this point that's absolutely all I can say; I haven't seen the girl. Something is bugging her, some anxiety; I could guess at the obvious possibilities, but I see no future in doing so.”

“Oh, God. What am I going to tell her mother?”

“Nothing, yet. Ruth, you're too intelligent to go into a tizzy at the mention of mental illness; this may not turn out to be anything serious. Let's wait and see before we start screaming.”

“But what shall I do?”

“First, you will go and get dressed.” He lifted his hand as she started to speak, and solemnly ticked off the points on his fingers. “Next we will go out to lunch and get some food in that queasy stomach of yours. Forget about your black eye, the waiter will think I slugged you, that's all, and he'll admire me greatly. Then we will come back here and wait for Sara. When do you expect her home?”

“Five, or thereabouts. But Pat—”

“I want to talk to her,” Pat said quietly. “That's all, just talk. Maybe then we can determine whether she needs a neurologist or a psychiatrist or a gynecologist, or just a good swift kick in the pants.”

“But—”

“Theorizing without sufficient data is the most futile of all occupations, Ruth. Wasn't it Sherlock Holmes who said that? It applies to practically everything in life. Now go up and get some clothes on.”

Ruth went. After her hysterical plea for help, she could hardly refuse to follow his advice. She wondered, as she dressed, what weird combination of motives had prompted her to call him instead of the family doctor. Some of them were reasonably obvious. Others….

She examined the image in her mirror. It looked abnormally normal, all things considered; trim and tailored in a powder-blue suit, silvery hair serene; carefully applied makeup had even diminished the bruise around her eye.

Others…. Her uncontrolled thoughts ran on. Other motives might be in doubt. But one was clear. She had instinctively summoned Pat because he was an expert on the subject that haunted her—literally and terribly. Despite what seemed to her a series of betraying admissions, he had not sensed her true fears—because, she thought bitterly, no sane person would ever conceive of such things. He believed that she had called out to him because she needed him, not as a professional, but as a man.

 

IV

The sunset was splendidly ominous—indigo and purple clouds rimmed with gold against a pale, clear green sky. The leafless branches of the big oak stood out black against the glory; their complex patterns had an austere mathematical beauty.

Ruth had reached the stage of irrational nervousness when the slightest phenomenon seems prophetic. When the wineglass, one of an old, cherished set, slipped from her hand and shattered musically on the coffee table, she bit her lip so hard that it bled.

Pat bent to collect the pieces. Then they heard the front door open.