Crying Child (16 page)

The face was not the face I had seen so often in the mirror in my San Francisco apartment. The brown hair and the turned-up nose were the same, but almost every other feature seemed to have altered. There were hollows under the cheekbones,
and a new droop to the mouth—and a line where there had never been one, across the forehead.

Experimentally I tightened my mouth and stuck out my chin. It was a pugnacious chin anyway—suitable, as I had often told Mary, for the descendant of bullheaded Irish peasants. Maybe it was time I displayed a little of that fighting spirit instead of feeling sorry for myself. A fine state of affairs that would be, a McMullen letting herself be intimidated by a few ghosts.

In that fine mood of belligerence I marched across the room and flung the door open, ready to proceed and do battle.

I found myself facing Will Graham. For a second my new-found courage faltered; I wondered whether he had been lying in wait for me. Then I realized that he had probably just been passing by, and I got a grip on myself.

“Oh—good morning. I didn’t know you were planning to spend the night.”

“I didn’t. I got back here at six.”

He looked tired. But I refused to let myself feel sorry for him. We were all tired. A man shouldn’t be a doctor if he expected to get his sleep every night.

“How is Mary?” I asked.

“Amazing. The way that woman bounces back…She’s asleep again. But according to her she hasn’t the faintest recollection of doing anything last night.”

A door opened softly and Ran came tiptoeing down the hall. Will frowned at him.

“I don’t want her left alone, Ran.”

“I’ll go right back. I heard you two talking and there’s something I want to say to Jo. In front of you, Will.”

“Now, Ran,” I said unhappily.

Physically Ran wasn’t in top condition. His skin had a sallow pallor and the scratches on his face stood out shockingly. But his eyes were clear and hard.

“I’m sorry if it embarrasses you, Jo, but from now on I’m sticking to Jed’s policy of candor. I owe you an apology and so does Will. I told him the other night that you were in no way responsible for that stupid performance of mine. You know how I feel about Mary—I’ve never looked at another woman—”

“Uh—” I said; and a reluctant grin touched Ran’s mouth.

“All right, so I’ve looked. And maybe I’ve had a few ideas. But that’s all. As for you, Jo, you’re not only my kid sister, you’re my friend; at least I used to hope you were. I guess I never realized how important that relationship was to me until I messed it up. Do you think I’d destroy a rare feeling like that for some cheap suburban affair? I wouldn’t have insulted you, or Mary, in that way if I’d been in my right mind. You believe
me, don’t you? You believe it will never happen again?”

“Ran,” I said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do, and I’ve got to do it in front of old Cotton Mather here.” He indicated Will, who was looking as uncomfortable as I have ever seen a man look. “There’s nothing stuffier than the combination of puritan New England and Scottish Presbyterian. This so-called New Morality everybody talks about may have trickled into Massachusetts, but it never got past the borders of Maine. I want Will to get down off that pulpit of his and apologize to you. If there’s any blame attached to anyone, it’s one hundred percent mine. You never thought of me as anything but a brother. I hope to God you can go on thinking of me that way.”

He had never looked more handsome. The dark bruises of fatigue and the rakish bandage, half hidden by locks of black hair, only increased his appeal. But there was a difference; and it was in my mind. Poor Ran, flagellating himself, had never suspected that morally I wasn’t as innocent as he believed. And he would never know; it wouldn’t relieve his conscience, it would just make him feel worse, to find out that I had adored him from afar in the past. Because now it was past. Gone, as if it had never been.

I believe in candor too. But there’s a limit to everything.

“You’re an old Calvinist yourself,” I said. Deliberately I stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the corner of the mouth. That was the final test; not that I could kiss him casually, as a friend, but that I could do it in front of Will without the slightest twinge of self-consciousness. I added, “Go back to Mary. I’ll ask Mrs. Willard to bring you up some breakfast.”

“That would be great.” But Ran didn’t move. He looked at Will; and Will, red as a brick and rigid with embarrassment, muttered something which, if you strained your ears, might have been, “Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” I said, and walked away, with dignity.

He trailed after me. I wasn’t sure whether he believed Ran, or whether he even cared. Being Will, he would have to act like a gentleman even if he had his doubts. But I no longer cared whether old Cotton Mather believed in my virtue or not. Ran was right. We had all been skulking, verbally and physically, for too long.

Breakfast was always an informal meal and that morning Mrs. Willard covered the kitchen table with an assortment of food that would have fed an army. Food was more than nourishment to her; it was a form of emotional expression. The worse things got, the more she cooked.

The kitchen was a good place for taut nerves.
I’ve never seen a warmer, friendlier room. One end of it had been thoroughly modernized, with the latest in gleaming kitchen gadgetry and a table set in a curved bay window. The other end still had the huge brick hearth of the original house. The Willards used this part of the big room as their sitting room; there were oak settles flanking the fireplace together with a few comfortable chairs, and a beautiful handmade rag rug covered the hearth. The seats of the settles were piled with cushions; most were covered with cotton or corduroy, but one seemed to be made of the long-haired fake fur that is becoming popular for bedspreads, throws, and pillows. It didn’t seem the sort of thing Mrs. Willard would care for, and when I studied it more closely I recognized Prudence the cat, curled into a ball, adding the final quintessential note of domestic comfort.

Mrs. Willard took a tray up to Ran, and Jed came in and sat down with us. I won’t say I wasn’t glad to have him. The tension between Will and me was still pretty thick. But I had intended in any case to speak my own little piece and contribute my bit to the general knowledge.

“How’s the ghost theory this morning?” I asked Jed.

Will scowled; I gathered that he did not care to have the subject treated so flippantly. Jed was more tolerant. He finished his mouthful of pancakes—
he ate as fastidiously as one of Will’s cats—before he answered.

“As of now, it’s a hundred to one on the ghost.”

“Have you been out in the woods this morning?” Will asked.

“Since it was light.”

“You didn’t find anything?”

“No child, no strange animal.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nobody could be sure,” Jed said patiently. “Not unless he tore up the whole blamed thirty acres by the roots. But I think I would have seen signs—tracks or spoor—if there had been anything to see.”

“If anyone would, you would.”

“Well?” I said to Will.

He gave me another scowl and spoke to Jed.

“Have you had a chance to check around town about a missing child?”

Jed grinned. He indicated his wife, who had just come back into the room.

“Now, Will, do you think there could be a child lost in the entire state without Bertha knowing about it?”

“What are you all jabbering about?” Mrs. Willard turned from the stove.

“The crying,” Jed said.

“Oh.” Mrs. Willard flipped a pancake. She snorted. “Willie Graham, are you still harping
on that? You don’t have any sense. Do you think there was a child lost now and another one lost thirty years ago when me and Jed heard the crying? Use your brains.”

I beamed at Mrs. Willard.

“She’s got you there.”

“Oh, hell,” Will said. “Don’t you glare at me, Bertha, I’m not going to apologize for one little ‘hell.’ You drive me to it. Come here and sit down and tell me all about your experience.”

“All right.” Mrs. Willard placed another pancake neatly on the heaped plate and turned off the stove. “But you’ll have to keep quiet, Will. If you start sneering in your smart-alecky way, I’ll lose my temper.”

“At least keep an open mind,” Jed added. “We’ve eliminated your other theories pretty well. And you know what Sherlock Holmes used to say.”

“Eliminate all the impossibilities and whatever is left, however improbable, is the truth,” I quoted inaccurately.

Will shook his head disgustedly.

“Conan Doyle had a good mind,” Jed said. “And he came to believe in some of the things you’re doubting, Will.”

“He lost his son,” Will said stubbornly. “When people are bereaved, they crack up. It’s pitiful, but it’s understandable that they should.”

“Mrs. Willard hasn’t lost anything,” I said; and then I could have bitten the tongue right out of my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t think—”

“What are you sorry about?” Jed asked reasonably. “You didn’t know.”

“I knew,” Will muttered. “My mother told me about the little girl. But I didn’t realize…”

Unexpectedly, Mrs. Willard laughed. I think it was the first time I had ever heard her laugh out loud and the quality of the sound amazed me; it was the merry, high-pitched laugh of a young girl.

“Good gracious,” she said. “You’re all making such a to-do of this. It was thirty years ago, and people don’t suffer any tragedy that long.” She looked at me. “In those days, Jo, the island was pretty cut off in the winter and there wasn’t a doctor living here. They didn’t vaccinate you for diphtheria back then, least not around here. She was the only one we had—the only one we ever had. But, like I say, it was half a lifetime ago. And I know I’ll be seeing her again. Not too many more years to wait now.”

She said it in the same tone in which she might have said, “I’m going to Boston next week to visit her.”

“Course,” she went on calmly, “right after she died I was pretty near out of my mind. I was sick
too, couldn’t even get out of my bed; and it was that week, during one of the worst blizzards we’ve ever had in these parts, that I heard the crying. I heard it for four nights, and on the fifth night I couldn’t stand it any more. I got up out of my bed and tried to go after it.”

She glanced around the table. “Isn’t anybody going to eat those cakes? They’ll go to waste if not; I can’t keep ’em.”

“Cut that out, Bertha,” Will said. “You know you’ve got us on the edges of our chairs. What happened? I hope you didn’t go out of the house during a blizzard.”

“The storm was over,” Mrs. Willard said. Her face had gone blank, as if she were seeing something far off—in time, not in space. “I got the back door open without waking Jed; and the world outside was like some place I’d never seen before; some place out of a book. It was so still you could hear the branches creak under the weight of the ice on them. Everything was white and black. The snow was deep, and there’d been sleet after it; the whole surface shone like glass in the moonlight. The moon was small and bright like a little tiny silver coin, and the stars were like points of ice, so cold…. I could hear the crying just as clear; it was the saddest sound I ever heard, and I can still remember how it dragged at you. I thought how cold it was, and how deep
the snow lay; and how dark and lonesome it would be for her out there.

“Then I saw somebody standing out on the lawn. I never did see her face, on account of the hood that was attached to that black cloak—”

This time when she stopped speaking it wasn’t for dramatic effect. She looked at me in alarm; the noises I was making must have sounded as if I were strangling.

“What’s the matter, Jo?”

“You saw it,” I gulped. “You saw—her—too? I thought—I was going to tell you—”

Jed sat up straight and banged his hand down on the table.

“Annie Marks!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord, I must be getting thick in the head in my old age. I knew perfectly well that morning when you told me about seeing the woman in the woods that poor old Annie never gets this far away from home. But I never connected that…”

“Bertha,” Will said; there was a note in his voice that I’d never heard him use to her before. “On your honor, tell me the truth. Did you ever speak of this experience to Mary or Jo?”

“Will!” I exclaimed. “Of all the outrageous—”

“No, no,” Jed said coolly. “It’s all right, Jo. He knows better than that; but naturally he’s got to ask. I would myself.” He glanced at his red-faced, sputtering wife, and went on, with a smile,
“First time I’ve ever seen Bertha speechless. So I’ll tell you, Will. Neither one of us ever said a word to another living soul. Not even to the old gentleman—Ran’s granddaddy. There’s no way either of these girls could have heard the story.”