Demon Child (15 page)

    “Well, Walter,” Cora said, “what have you got to tell us?” She seemed tense, prepared for the worst. Despite the treatment Hobarth had given her, she was drawn tight.

    Hobarth leaned back, away from the table, got his pipe and tobacco pouch out of a jacket pocket. “She's a very confused child,” he said. “And from what I've learned of her past, her life with her mother, I'd say it's a wonder she isn't worse. Perhaps you're to be congratulated for taking on these children when you did, Cora.”

    She nodded.

    “Then you've discounted any idea of the supernatural,” Richard said, smiling. It was the first smile, Jenny thought, that he had allowed himself in several days.

    “Absolutely,” Walter said.

    “But-” Cora began.

    “Now, Cora,” Walter said, “you know that I'm right. It's all perfectly logical, all these recent events. The presence of a real wolf, at this time, is a very unfortunate circumstance, nothing more. Certainly, nothing supernatural.”

    This time, Cora did not argue, though it was obvious that she required an effort to restrain herself.

    “But the curse still enters into our problem,” Walter said. He tamped tobacco into the bowl of the pipe, folded the aluminum-foil pouch and returned it to his pocket. He fished for matches, found them. “Freya believes in the curse, implicitly, and uses it to maintain a fantasy against the world.”

    He lighted his pipe, drawing quick breaths through the black stem, smoke leaking around his lips, smelling of cherries.

    “What do you mean?” Richard asked.

    “Freya, because of the years with her mother, views the world as unstable, as fluid, about to change unexpectedly at any moment, often for the worse. Her time here, in this stable home atmosphere, has done a bit to alleviate this neurosis of hers, though certainly not enough. It will take two or three more years, at least, before she'll begin to comprehend that not everyone's life is subject to the jet-set conditions.”

    He drew on his pipe a moment, gathering the words he wanted.

    Jenny shifted in her chair. It was dark beyond the window. No wolf howled. Irrationally, she thought that once Walter had explained Freya's illness, she would never hear a wolf again.

    “Now,” Hobarth continued, “when such a young child tries to cope with a changing world and is defeated by shifting conditions, that child will begin to seek a fantasy to shield him against reality. Schizophrenia, it's called. That child will begin to live his fantasy and to consider it every bit as real as actual reality. If the fantasy is not taken from him early, he will be institutionalized by adulthood, if not by adolescence.”

    “But Freya never had this fantasy before she came here,” Cora said. “When she lived with her mother, she was normal. She didn't sleep so deeply, in these comas. All that started here, when she came to the Brucker land, and then only a few months ago.”

    “That doesn't discount what I'm telling you,” Walter said. He held his pipe in one hand, stirred his coffee with a spoon in the other hand.

    Explain, Walt, Jenny thought. Explain everything to us. Already, she felt silly for ever having believed in the curse.

    “The first six or eight months that Freya lived with you, Cora, was the longest period of stability in her life. Before, she had been moved every two or three months, sometimes every two or three
weeks,
jaunting from hotel penthouse to hotel penthouse, from one European capital to another. Her first three months here, she expected to be uprooted at any moment, day or night. But the longer she remained, the more she came to love you and this estate and the stability it offered her. But, too, the more attached she became to this place, the greater her fear. Now, it would be more cruel than ever to be plucked up and deposited elsewhere. Daily, she expected Lena to arrive for her. The tension built-every bit of it bottled up inside of her. Eventually, she had just been wound too tight. She came across the legend of the family curse, somehow, and absorbed it. It offered an out, a fantasy. In the fantasy, she was a deadly, powerful wolf, a predator that no one could order about. In the fantasy, she was her own master, and Lena could do nothing to her.”

    They were all quiet a while.

    “The comas?” Richard asked.

    “A way to make the fantasy seem real. Closer to ca-tatonia than true coma.”

    “And you can make her better, get rid of these delusions?” Jenny asked.

    “I should hope so!” Walter said. “That's my profession, after all!”

    “How?” Richard asked.

    Cora said nothing. Though she did not seem as tense as she was a few minutes before, she was still not relaxed.

    Hobarth hesitated, drew on his pipe, exhaled the rich smoke. “I have to preface my suggestion with a small explanation of my thoughts on this matter, why they ran the direction they did. I want to make it clear that I am making the recommendations that I am because I am aware of your family's financial holdings. Ordinarily, expensive solutions would be out and a chance for definite improvement in Freya's condition would be almost nil. What I am going to suggest may cost you money, but it will obtain the desired results with the child.”

    “Money doesn't matter,” Cora said. “We have more than we know what to do with, and the business and our other stocks are always increasing the family wealth geometrically. Whatever it costs, it can't be too much.”

    For once, Richard agreed with his stepmother.

    “Freya's case is a difficult one,” Walter said. “I have never seen a patient cling so steadfastly to a delusion, even under hypnosis, as the child clings to hers.” He nodded at Jenny. “You sat in on my second session with her. Can you explain it to them, what she was like?”

    Everyone turned to look at Jenny, making her feel uneasy. But, as succinctly as she could, she told them what she had witnessed in the library that previous Monday afternoon. She tried to convey the horrible conviction with which Freya had spoken of the hours that her soul had inhabited a large, black wolf.

    “And it has been like that every session since,” Walter told them. “Now and then, I find a chink in her facade that I manage to delve into a little ways. But I am very far behind schedule with her. She's the toughest patient I've had, bar none.”

    “Do you want to call in other psychiatrists?” Richard asked.

    “I don't believe that is necessary or that it would help,” Walter said. “Too many cooks spoil the soup, you know, and the same goes for headshrinkers.” He was amused at his own use of the slang.

    “Whatever you think is best,” Cora said.

    “I'm not ruling out other doctors. If you would feel better having a second man on the case, it's all right by me. I'm no prima donna who's going to throw a temper tantrum on you. If you know of someone whose opinion you would respect, call him in. Or, I can recommend three or four excellent men in the field who would be willing to consult with me on the case.”

    “That's not necessary,” Cora said.

    “Very well,” Hobarth said. “Then on to my advice -and I hope you don't find it too bitter a medicine.”

    A puff at the pipe again.

    Smoke exhaled.

    He continued: “In the curse, as I have read and understood it, there is mention made that the spell can only be broken if and when this estate and house pass out of Brucker hands. It is said that Sarah Maryanna's father was too jealous of his property and that it was Sarah's special way of punishing him-letting him know that the curse would reign until that precious land was separated from the Bruckers.”

    Cora nodded in agreement with his interpretation of the story in the old books he had read.

    “But how does this have bearing on anything?” Richard asked. “We said the curse was silly; we agreed on that.”

    “Just this. Freya has heard or read that part of it too, and she sincerely believes that she will be cursed so long as house and land are in the family name. It will be the hardest block of her delusion to break down, since it is one, if not
the,
major underpinning of her developing schizoid personality.”

    “Sell the house and land?” Richard asked. “That's absolutely preposterous!”

    “No, no, you misunderstand me!” Walter said, laying his pipe on a breadplate which was now empty of bread.

    Richard had come forward in his chair, as if he would seize the table and overturn it in his anger. His previous dark, glowering mood had returned. Now, he settled back a bit, though he did not relax completely, his entire manner one of a man wary for surprises.

    “What
did
you mean, then?” he asked.

    “It would help Freya's case enormously if Cora were to take a house in town and move there with the children. A permanent residence could be established, and the children could be told that the estate had been sold. You would keep the estate, of course. Then, if Freya holds true to her delusion, she must realize the curse is broken. She'll lose a grip on her fantasies, and give me room to sneak in and carry them away in further analysis.”

    “How long would Cora have to live away from the estate?” Richard asked.

    “A year. Perhaps two. Then we'll let the child become slowly aware of the fact that the family has never sold the land at all. By then, her hold on the world should be confident enough to let her accept the fact without a trauma.”

    Richard looked at his stepmother. “What do you think?” he asked. “Would you do it if it's necessary?”

    “I don't like the idea of lying to the child,” Cora said. “In two years, when she finds out we've lied, she'll not trust us again.”

    “She'll understand that we did it for her health,” Richard said. “Isn't that so, doctor?”

    “Essentially, yes. She shouldn't be too upset with you.”

    “She will be,” Cora said flatly.

    “Cora-” Richard began.

    “I know children. She'll not trust us after that. And what chance, Walter, is there of a relapse if she discovers we've lied to her?”

    He hemmed and hawed, obviously reluctant to answer.

    “Is there a chance?” she insisted.

    “A very small one.”

    “How small?”

    “One in a hundred that she'd relapse after two years of intense analysis.”

    “That's too great a chance,” Cora said. “If she had a relapse, she'd never trust us, and we'd never get through to her a second time.”

    “But what else can we do?” Richard asked.

    “I'm going to sell the house and the land,” Cora said. She spoke firmly, though her lips trembled.

    “NO!” Richard shouted it.

    “I said that we will, and I am the owner of the estate, Richard. What matters more to you? The child's health or the land?”

    “That's unfair!”

    “Is it?”

    “Cora, this land has been in our family for one and a quarter centuries. More than that. It was my father's house, the house in which I was born. I do not want it sold!”

    “I'm sorry if I've caused some bitterness here. That wasn't my intent.”

    Jenny felt sorry for Walt, for she could see that he felt terrible about the row going on before him, one that he had indirectly instigated while only trying to say what was best for Freya. He was such a gentleman, and he looked aghast at the vehemence building in Richard.

    “Richard, don't embarrass our guest. For once.” It was a spark of anger that Cora had never shown before.

    “I did not recommend sale of the land and house,” Walter said. “I urge you to reconsider, Cora. All I asked was that you give the pretense of having-”

    “I
will
sell,” Cora said. “I had some happy moments with my husband in this house. But, lately, its connotations are far different than they once were. I'll never be able to go into the riding stables without thinking of Hollycross and of Lee Symington.”

    Walter tried to reason with her, to spell out the less drastic plan in more detail. But her resolve seemed to be strengthened rather than whittled away. Some of her color returned. She looked fresher than she had in the last couple of weeks. Perhaps, Jenny thought, it would be as well for Cora to get out of the house as it would be for Freya.

    In the end, the argument flared up between Richard and his stepmother, more violent than before. He grew red-faced, slammed his fist into the table again and again, emphasizing his disagreement. At last, cursing mildly but fiercely, he pushed his chair back from the table and said, 'I'll take you to court. I'll try to get them to protect the land and the house for my inheritance. There's little chance, but maybe I can get a temporary restraining order against you.”

    With that, he turned, bumping the table with his hip. A serving dish, a third full of scalloped potatoes, fell from the table, bounced on the thick carpet and spilled its milky contents over the plush nylon pile. He did not stop to examine the damage he had done, but stalked out of the room.

    Cora looked shaken. “Perhaps I'd better give it a little more consideration,” Cora said. “A day or two, anyway.”

    “Oh? I thought you were determined a moment ago.”

    “Not now.”

    “Do what you wish, Cora. Don't let me or anyone influence you.”

    “Two days. Then I'll make a decision.”

    “Your own peace of mind is as important as anything else we're dealing with here.”

    “Two days,” Cora said.

    Upstairs, Richard slammed the door to his room. Hard.

    

    The following evening, Freya disappeared.

    By mid-afternoon of that day, thunderclouds possessed the sky, great black masses of shifting water vapor that hung low on the mountains and sent thinner fingers of gray fog down to thread the land and wrap it up. Now and then, big water droplets spattered the parched earth, slapped the windows and drummed like countless pairs of tiny feet on the slate roof. But the downpour itself held back, like a seasoned performer waiting for the best moment of the evening to make his entrance on the stage.