Crying Child (13 page)

“Wasn’t the music that brought him, I can tell you,” Mrs. Willard said. “It was the smell of good food. He eats out of cans in that place of his. If it wasn’t for the meals he cadges here, he’d have rickets and scurvy and TB.”

“Now, Mrs. Willard, Will knows better than that. After all, he is a doctor.”

“The shoemaker’s children are the ones that go barefoot,” Mrs. Willard retorted. She straightened up from the table, where she had been arranging cups and plates. “Don’t you know any pretty songs, Jo? That stuff is enough to give a person indigestion.”

“What kind of music do you like?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. Music. Irving Berlin, and ‘Mary Is a Grand Old Name.’ Songs like that.”

Will laughed nastily.

“I’ll bet Jo never heard of Irving Berlin.”

It was such a petty remark that I felt a nice revivifying spurt of anger run through me. After all, who was Will Graham to think he had the right to sit in judgment on me?

I played Mrs. Willard out with a nice medley of George M. Cohan (I saw the musical) and, as soon as she was out of earshot, I gave Dr. Graham the Top Ten pop songs, in order. He hated every note of them.

Before long Ran joined us, and I was interested to observe that relations between the two old schoolmates were slightly strained. I couldn’t figure out why Will was sticking around, unless it was for the food. He certainly couldn’t derive that much pleasure out of recalling his triumphs as a first baseman back in sixth grade, which he and Ran were reminiscing about in a halfhearted fashion. I didn’t think even Mrs. Willard’s food would compensate William for the presence of two people as disgusting as Ran and I.

Apparently it did. He stayed for dinner. Nobody invited him, he just stayed. And over Mrs. Willard’s superb pot roast, I began to get a glimmer of what was on the man’s mind.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Mary. She was looking lovely, flushed and vivacious, and her conversation had the wit and charm I remembered so well. But Will wasn’t charmed. I could
read his face like a book by now; it was, for all its reserve, a rather ingenuous face. He was suspicious. As I watched Mary, I began to wonder myself. The change in her was fairly dramatic.

It was Mary who mentioned Will’s sister, expressing her pleasure at being able to meet her. Will’s face went absolutely blank. For a second I was afraid the idiot was going to say, “What sister?”

“Oh,” he said, after a long moment. “Yes. Yes, I am looking forward to seeing her.”

“How long has it been?” Mary asked.

“Oh. Years.”

“What a shame that you can’t get together more often.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“But it’s nice of her husband to let her come now, if only for a few days.”

Will looked horrified, and Ran said irritably,

“Anne isn’t married, dear. I told you that.”

“Did you?” The sweetness of her voice should have told me something. “I guess I forgot. Did you tell me what her job is?”

“No, I didn’t,” Ran said swiftly. Will’s mouth had dropped open like a loose trap door. “She’s in advertising.”

“Just like Jo. That’s nice, you’ll have something to talk about.”

“If there’s anything I don’t want to talk about,
it’s my former job,” I said. “Maybe we can discuss local history. Is Anne also an authority on the China trade, Will?”

Talk about looks that could kill. Like my own, Will’s mental processes seemed to be stimulated by anger. He came back with rather a snappy retort.

“She hates history,” he said. “Always flunked it in school.”

“Oh, dear, what a shame. I’m so interested in the China trade.”

It was stupid of me to bait him; he was a poor enough conspirator at best, and there was a decided risk of his losing his temper and giving the whole show away. Ran realized that too, and intervened.

“I have a couple of books you might like to read, if you’re that interested,” he said, giving me a warning look. “Will—I talked to Sam today about the boat. He says we can take her out next week. What day is good for you?”

They discussed the boat, safely and dully, for the rest of the meal, and then Will left. When Ran came back into the parlor, after seeing him to the door, I thought he looked more relaxed than he had all day. He gave me a smile which was almost like his old smiles. I wondered whether he had had a talk with old judge-and-jury Graham.

Mary was at the window.

“It’s going to rain,” she said. “I hope Will doesn’t get caught in it.”

“He’s driven these roads in worse weather than we’re apt to get tonight.”

“I guess so.” Mary let the curtain fall back into place. “What about a drink? Jo?”

“Not for me,” I said.

“No, thanks,” Ran said.

“What a pair of party poopers. Are you going to let me drink alone?”

She looked young and pretty standing there with her head tilted and her face flushed. I was sorry Will couldn’t see her, and see the look on Ran’s face as he watched his wife.

So Ran had one drink, and then at Mary’s urging he had another; and after a while I got up and went to bed. They didn’t need me around. Mary was sitting on the arm of Ran’s chair and they were looking at each other in a way I remembered very well. In the past that look had turned me sick with jealousy and guilt. I wasn’t jealous, but I did feel a little forlorn as I climbed the stairs by myself.

I was reading in bed when I heard them come upstairs. The two sets of footsteps went past my door; they were slow, and Ran’s were unsteady. He stumbled; I heard him swear, and heard Mary laugh.

Maybe it was that laugh that made me…not
exactly suspicious, the word is too strong for the slight uneasiness that brushed my mind. The laugh wasn’t Mary’s normal laugh; it was high-pitched, like a child’s giggle. I remembered what Will had said about her nighttime moods, and my uneasiness grew. I tried to reassure myself. Ran couldn’t be drunk; there hadn’t been time for him to drink that much since I came upstairs. Surely he would have better sense, anyhow.

When I realized that I was sitting bolt upright in bed, straining to hear sounds that couldn’t possibly penetrate two closed doors, I closed my book and turned out the light. But I didn’t sleep. After hours of tossing, I fell into one of those dismal states of half-consciousness which are worse than pure insomnia. I was just enough awake to know that I wasn’t asleep and not enough awake to sit up and turn on the light. I don’t know how long I lay there, listening to the rain drip, and hearing every squeak of settling floors and walls. Old houses are noisy at night. I kept telling myself that, but my unconvinced muscles tautened at every new sound. Finally, in sheer exhaustion, I dropped into deeper slumber. But part of my mind was still alert. The subconscious trains itself that way; a nurse can sleep through a thunderstorm and waken at the slightest change in her patient’s breathing.

That part of my mind heard the footsteps, soft
and careful as they were, but I was so groggy that it took me several precious seconds to believe what I had heard. By the time I had crawled out of bed and opened the door, there was nothing to be seen. I stood swaying and blinking, cursing my overactive imagination; then I heard the sound of the front door closing.

I had sense enough not to go howling down the stairs in pursuit. The walker in the night might have been one of the Willards, on legitimate business. Instead, I went to my window, which overlooked the front porch.

It was hard to see, with rain streaking the glass and heavy clouds cutting off moon and starlight. But the expanse of lawn was lighter than anything that moved on it; after a few moments I made out, not one dark figure, but two. One stood at the foot of the drive. The other was moving. It was Mary; she was walking quickly, almost running as she crossed the lawn.

Then I realized who—or what—the other dark shape was; and simultaneously it hit me, a wave of terror so intense that my knees gave way under it, and I would have fallen but for the grip of my fingers on the window frame. The emotion had nothing to do with Mary. It was pure terror, complete in itself, requiring no cause and no rational excuse. I took one more look at the still, dark shadow standing so motionless at
the foot of the drive; and I thrust myself away from it as I might have fled from an approaching tidal wave or avalanche. The terror subsided as I burst out of my room into the dim hallway; it left me shaking and staggering, with my nightgown clammy with perspiration. I went into Ran and Mary’s room without knocking and switched on the light.

She was gone, of course. Her side of the bed hadn’t even been slept in. The covers were turned back but there were no wrinkles on the pillow. Ran lay motionless, his back to me; my rude entry hadn’t disturbed him. His breathing was so stentorious it sounded like snoring.

I pushed at his shoulder and he rolled over onto his back. His face was slack, its fine lines blurred by sleep—and something else. Drunk, I thought. Contempt and anger rose to such a pitch that I slapped him across the face. He stirred but did not waken; and a new, uglier suspicion replaced the first. I slapped him again, and again; no longer in anger, but deliberately. Finally his eyes opened. They stared at me with no sign of recognition and then closed again; and I whirled, snatching at the telephone on the bedside table.

I didn’t know the number and didn’t have time to search for a directory; but the operator got it for me in a hurry. She was probably used to frantic voices asking for that particular number. When I
heard Will’s voice I didn’t even take time to identify myself.

“Mary’s gone,” I said. “I saw her leave the house and go into the woods. I can’t wake Ran, he acts as if he might be drugged. Did you prescribe sleeping pills for him too?”

“No. How bad is he?”

“He opened his eyes and looked at me. I had to hit him several times.”

“Wake Bertha. She’ll know what to do for Ran. You and Jed go after Mary. I’ll start from this side of the woods, meet you at the house in an hour, whether you find her or not.”

“Whether—”

“If we haven’t located her in an hour we’ll have to get the police. Any questions?”

“No.”

“Get moving, then.”

I went down the stairs at top speed. Mrs. Willard responded to my knock so promptly I wondered if she ever slept. Certainly there was no drowsiness on the round face that stared at me through a modest crack in the door, and when I had told my story she nodded calmly.

“Get some clothes on,” she said, surveying my scantily clad shape disapprovingly. “Warm clothes, you’ll need them. I’ll be right up.”

“Meet you in the kitchen in five minutes,” called Jed. I could hear him moving around.

By the time I had scrambled into slacks and sweater and sneakers, Mrs. Willard was on her way up. I met her in the hall; she carried a steaming coffeepot in one hand and a bowl of ice in the other. I wondered how the Hades she had gotten water to boil so quickly, and I spared a shiver of sympathy for Ran. Drastic measures were in order, and Mrs. Willard was the girl who could administer them.

Jed was waiting for me, a big flashlight in each hand. He was fully dressed, even to high-laced boots.

“Which way did she go?”

We went to the door and I pointed out the direction.

“No path there,” he muttered. “And no way of telling which direction she took once she was in the trees. I’ll head off that way. You’d better stick to the path, no sense in getting you lost too. You aren’t scared, are you?”

“I’m scared. But I won’t panic; don’t worry.”

He nodded and handed me one of the flashlights.

“Keep an eye on your watch; Will is right about the time. But don’t lose your wits. Slow and cool, that’s the way. We’ll find her.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but went striding off across the grass. I headed down the driveway, trying not to run; I knew if I didn’t keep my move
ments slow and deliberate I would start yelling and darting mindlessly. He was right, we would find Mary—eventually. But even if she encountered no other perils, in her weakened condition the damp and exposure could be fatal unless we found her soon.

I had assured Jed I wouldn’t panic, and I didn’t. But I hesitated under the eaves of the trees, and only the need that drove me that night could have sent me voluntarily into those stygian shadows. I thought I knew the path, but in the uncertain light it looked different; once I lost my way and blundered into a man-high clump of brambles before I realized that I was off the path. My stumbling progress made a hellish amount of noise, or so it seemed in the quiet of the night. From time to time I stood still, listening and calling and flashing the light off to each side among the tree trunks. The torch was a big heavy model, but it didn’t carry far; the darkness swallowed it up like a hungry mouth. After a time I began to lose confidence in my sensory apparatus. The crack of a branch sounded like a surreptitious footstep, and the wail of a night bird might have been a weak human voice calling for help.