Crying Child (23 page)

“I don’t know what we’re doing here,” Will said, breaking the silence. The thought was so akin to my own that I started a little.

“We’re on our way to feed your cats, I think,” I said.

“And pick up the car.”

“Why did you leave it at home yesterday?”

“It had a flat tire, and I was late.”

“So you’ll have to fix the tire now.”

“Yep. Cheerful thought.”

Off in the woods there was a rustle and squawk, as some bird expressed annoyance. The sound was distorted, mournful. I shivered.

“Horrible day. Isn’t the sun going to shine?”

“We may be in for one of our fogs,” Will said. “This is the area where the expression pea-souper originated. Maine has more fogbound days per year than any other state in the union.”

“You’re probably just bragging. Though why that should be anything to brag about…”

He didn’t respond, and I let the words trail off, too dispirited to talk. There was a melancholy peace about the scene; but that hideous Gothic mausoleum with the fog around it was like something out of a stage set forDracula.

“Well,” my companion said, after a time. “I guess she isn’t going to show up.”

“Don’t,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the mist-shrouded spot where the grave lay.

“Wasn’t that why you wanted to come this way?”

“Certainly not.”

“Really? I was hoping she would materialize. I’d like to get a good look at her.”

“That’s what you think now.”

“That bad, hmmm?”

I shivered. Will said thoughtfully, “That’s odd. The face you sketched didn’t convey that feeling.”

“It wasn’t the look of it,” I said, groping for words. “It was the atmosphere. The cold, the whole feeling—”

“I know. Like a nightmare in which the events themselves are quite prosaic. It’s hard to describe something like that. Why did you want to come to the graveyard then, if the idea of seeing her bugs you so?”

“I had some vague idea of looking at the stone again, to make sure there was nothing else on it.”

“There wasn’t. I saw it too, remember?”

“Well, if you say so. I don’t particularly want to go near the place.”

“Okay.” As we stood side by side, his shoulder touched mine, and I let myself lean, just a little. It felt so solid and supportive. He went on, “I thought maybe you were going to ask me to dig up the grave.”

“Will!” I stared at him in horror. “Of all the awful ideas…Why would I want to do that?”

“It’s not such a crazy idea—after you’ve accepted our original crazy premise, I mean.”

He went on smoking placidly, leaning on the wet black iron bars; and I thought about the idea. It was still horrible, but it had a grisly attraction.

“Why?” I asked. “Could you tell anything, after all this time? From just—”

“Just bones? Not much. Signs of foul play? Poison wouldn’t leave a trace, neither would a knife or a bullet unless it nicked a bone. Even supposing we found overt signs of violence, that could be caused by a number of things. A fractured skull might be the result of a fall.”

“No one has even suggested the idea of—of murder,” I said. “But that’s one of the conventional reasons for a ghost walking, you know. For vengeance, or to right a wrong, or…Will, would you mind very much if we continued this discussion in your living room, with all the lights on?”

He didn’t answer or turn his head. He was staring out across the clearing. Finally he said, in a muted voice,

“Look at the way the fog gathers, there beyond the stones. You can see how ghost stories begin, when you watch fog; that patch over there is the right size and shape, and the way it moves with the breeze almost suggests—”

“Stop that!”

“Sorry.” He turned his head and looked at me. His eyes shone with amusement. “That wasn’t bad, was it? I really scared you.”

“You aren’t at all superstitious, are you?”

“Not at all.” He rested his elbow on the fence
and studied me quizzically. “But I think I know what your trouble is.”

“What?”

“You’re hopelessly sentimental. A sucker for every corny cliché and every hackneyed emotion in the book.”

“Why fight it?” I said listlessly. “You’re absolutely right. You name it, I’ll cry over it. ‘Danny Boy,’ with lots of violins; all the songs ever written about hopeless love and angel children; ‘The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and staunch he stands,’; the statue of Nathan Hale; the Blue and the Gray, andUncle Tom’s Cabin —”

“How about ‘Up the hill to the poorhouse I’m trudgin’ my weary way?’”

I laughed unwillingly.

“Oh, well, I guess there’s a limit. But it’s far out, and I don’t mean that as slang. Some of my friends have taken up old movies and books, as camp and chic. When Shirley Temple pleads for the life of her soldier daddy, guess who’s the only one crying?”

“Anne would say you’re too suggestible to be a reliable observer,” Will said.

“But that’s just it. I know I’m susceptible, and that’s why I’m especially skeptical of my own feelings. Look, I can readGone with the Wind and feel my heart bleed for the beautiful gallant South, but even while the tears are running down my face, I
know that the gallant South is a fiction and that its position was morally indefensible.”

“All right, all right,” Will said. “I believe you. And in deference to your sensitivities, we’ll postpone further discussion till we get home.”

On the cliff edge the fog wasn’t bad; the sea breeze whipped most of it away. But Will predicted worse to come.

“The wind won’t hold,” he said. “By late afternoon this stuff will have closed in, and you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face.”

“I wonder…”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” I was wondering whether the weather would keep Anne from leaving as scheduled. The thought of her staying on filled me with a depression which, I preferred to believe, had nothing to do with my personal feelings toward anybody at all.

Will had thoughts of his own about the practical difficulties of fog.

“I think I’ll stay at the house again tonight.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I’ve no reason to anticipate anything. I was just thinking that I’d hate to have Mary get out tonight if the fog does close in.”

Which was another cheerful thought.

Fortunately the activities of the next half hour were practical enough to cancel the effects of fog
and pessimism. Will’s house grew on me. Even when it was dark and unheated it was a warm place; the walls closed in and shielded the inhabitants. I realized for the first time that day what comedian cats are; in some ways they’re funnier than dogs because they’re not trying to be entertaining or ingratiating. The performance the Siamese put on for Will would have done credit to Duse; they all but fainted at his feet, trying to suggest emaciation, starvation, and heartless neglect. The coon cats were more direct. They shrieked in various keys, from soprano to tenor, but the burden of the refrain was the same—abandonment and agonizing hunger. If I hadn’t known that he had made a special trip home the night before to feed the wailing felines, I’d have thought they hadn’t eaten for a week. The dogs just sat and drooled, with their big sad eyes focused on Will. From the next room came various other animal signals of distress. The only ones who weren’t yelling were the snakes, and they would have if they could.

I made coffee while Will was opening cans for the crowd, but we had to drink it standing, so to speak; Will was anxious to get to town. His patients had been considerately healthy for the last twenty-four hours, but there were a couple of them he wanted to check up on.

“On Sunday?” I said incredulously. “House calls? Nobody makes house calls.”

“I do,” said Will. “Have another cup of coffee while I change the tire.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Hah,” said Will.

The phone rang just then, and I gathered from Will’s end of the conversation that he was going to have a new patient when he got to town, so I went out and started on the tire. I had the car jacked up and the wheel ready to come off by the time he came charging out; and although he shouldered me out of the way with hardly more than a grunt of thanks, I did get one of those rare looks of approval from him. I wondered what a girl had to do to be rewarded by, say, a hearty “Well done,” or a slap on the back. Build a log cabin, maybe, or take out a tonsil. Not that I wanted a slap on the back…

As we bounced off along the track, he asked, “Where did you learn to change a tire? Not from Ran; he hasn’t done anything to dirty his hands since he was a kid.”

“I’ve learned to do a lot of things this past year. I couldn’t afford to pay a mechanic or a plumber or a maid every time some little thing went wrong. So I learned to change my own tires and sew on my own buttons. What’s so strange about that? Millions of people do.”

“Millions of people don’t have a millionaire for a brother-in-law.”

“I’m just trying to impress you,” I said flippantly, “with my pioneer virtues and strong muscles. What’s the matter with the newest patient, the one who called just before we left?”

He took the hint.

“Probably just a belated virus. Tommy Meservey was what they call a ten months’ child, and he’s been a month late for everything ever since. But his mother is the nervous type. She reads medical journals in her spare time. Which is more than I do.”

We stopped at the garage to leave the tire and then Will dropped me in the center of town while he proceeded on his rounds. We had arranged to meet in an hour at the drugstore. I was supposed to join Ran at the museum, where he was presumably buried in the family records. But as I turned away, after watching the old blue station wagon turn the corner, I found myself in front of Sue’s Antiques. The face peering at me through the window, Sunday morning or not, was indubitably that of Sue.

The door of the shop opened and she called to me.

“Jo? If you aren’t going anyplace in particular, come on in and have some coffee.” I walked toward her and she added, with her wide grin, “You looked sort of bereft standing there. Maybe it’s the fog; it makes everything look lost and dreary.”

“I don’t feel especially dreary,” I said.

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“Sure, I know.” I returned her grin; there was no point in finding offense where none was meant. Malice, I felt sure, was not one of Sue’s vices. “I’m supposed to meet Ran. But I don’t have to be there for an hour.”

She closed the door behind me but did not lock it; and I asked,

“Are you open on Sunday? I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

“I’m open any hour of the day or night that anybody wants to buy something. Trade isn’t so brisk that I can afford to pass up a customer. I’ve been accused of dragging them in off the street.”

She grinned again, and brushed back a lock of shining hair with smudgy fingers that added another streak of dust to features already liberally covered. I accepted the coffee she poured, though I was dubious about it. My hunch was right, the liquid was as black and bitter as medicine. Sue swallowed hers down, and wiped her hands on her shirttail.

“I’m going to go on working, if you don’t mind. I picked up a bunch of miscellaneous junk on the mainland the other day—had to take it to get a terrific old spool bed. I want to get it sorted before tomorrow. Are you interested in old prints? I have a few, on that shelf back there by the books. Look ’em over if you want to.”

I didn’t expect to find anything rare; Sue was too competent to be unaware of the value of the stock she handled. But some of the drawings were pretty and amusing. I found one that really appealed to me. I was holding it up, admiring it, when Sue came wandering back, carrying another cup of coffee.

The print was of a sailing ship, caught in motion by the artist. The waves peeled crisply away from its prow, and every yard of sail was up.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I said.

“Should be. That’s theFlying Cloud, the most beautiful clipper ever built. And the clippers were the most beautiful things that ever sailed the seas.”

“I wonder if Ran’s ancestor, the Captain, sailed ships like this.”

Sue snorted.

“You’re way off. First clipper wasn’t launched till 1845. First real clipper, I mean; theAnn McKim wasn’t a true clipper, she was square-rigged on all three masts and her plan makes her a ship, not a clipper; I don’t care what you say—”