Pin (27 page)

She rushed to the closet and pulled out a shirt and a tweed suit. She handled everything roughly and frantically. I wanted to tell her that the tweed could use some pressing, but in the state she was in I didn't think she'd care. She went to the dresser drawer and
took out a pair of knee-high socks and then went back to the closet to get a pair of black shoes. At least they had been recently polished, I thought.

“Oh, we'll play your game, we'll play your game,” she said. She was chanting more than talking. “You're the one who couldn't face death. You're the one who was weak, who created ways to avoid reality. You, not me. OK, OK, don't let Pin die; don't let the doctor die. Let Leon die. LET HIM,” she screamed. I felt so sorry for her. She came very close to my face. I could see the tiny red veins in her eyes. “I want him to die,” she said slowly, pronouncing each word with separate and distinct emphasis.

She took the shirt off the hanger and began putting it on me. It was still nicely starched and clean. I welcomed the feel of it. She pulled it around roughly, though, and buttoned it quickly. I wanted to complain about that, but I figured she was just too disturbed to appreciate what I would say.

She went back to the closet and picked out a tie. I didn't care all that much for her choice, but as with the shirt, I kept it to myself. As she tied the tie, I saw the smile on her face spreading. Her eyes were dancing with light. She had the gleefulness of a little girl. Every once in a while she would laugh. Yet tears were coming from the sides of her eyes. She'd wipe them away and laugh and smile and work diligently on the knot of the tie until she had it perfect. At least she adhered to that. I always demanded perfect tie knots.

Then she smoothed the front of my shirt down against my chest and stepped back to consider me.

“Oh, yes,” she said. She took the pants off the bed, and she moved me to the spot. I was happy to sit down. It took awhile for her to work the pants up
my legs. Afterward, she stood me up, grunting, struggling, but still uttering a small laugh here and there. She buckled my pants and put on the suit jacket. When I was all dressed, socks, shoes and all, she stood back and admired me, nodding her head, still breathing heavily from the effort. I thought I might say something about one of my cuffs, but I didn't want to do any damage to her self-satisfaction.

“And now,” she said, “we'll put you where you belong, won't we?”

She brought the wheelchair forward and backed me into it. Then she wheeled me out to the living room.

“Now just let me get dressed and then we'll have tea, won't we? We'll have tea, tea.” Her breasts quivered as she said the word. “Don't go away,” she added and laughed again.

I was feeling so sorry for her. Such a state of mind, such a state. I sat there reviewing some similar cases I had known. I wondered what had put her in such a state. You can never tell what it is with women, I thought. Small things can do it almost as much as big things sometimes.

Something, though, something … I couldn't help feeling it was something terrible. I think I should try to find out, I thought. Before trying to treat her in any way.

I wondered. Could it have anything to do with that horrible mess in the bedroom?

T
HE LIVING ROOM WAS LIT ONLY BY THE LAMP ON THE
table beside the easy chair. Ursula sat in the chair and held a book on her lap. She wore a white cotton blouse with a scoop neck and ruffled collar, a light-blue skirt, and a pair of high-heeled sandals. A charm bracelet dangled from her left wrist. Her hair, washed and brushed, lay in a smooth sheen over her neck and shoulders.

The rest of the room was subdued, the walls silhouetted with the distorted shadows of the furniture. He sat in the corner, in Pin's corner, barely illuminated by the fringe of Ursula's reading lamp. The weak light made his eyes seem deeper, hollow-like, glassy. The bony features of his face were skeletonized. His lips, firmly closed, were like a
seam sewn tightly. His arms rested on the arms of the wheelchair and his hands dangled at the ends, hung in afterthought, lifeless, frozen.

In fact, all of him seemed cut in ice, preserved. His eyes were rigid; he did not blink. Only on close inspection could one discern the slight, almost imperceptible movement his breathing created in his chest. His hair had been brushed and sprayed until not a strand was out of place.

It was snowing in heavy, wet flakes, the kind that stuck to the window and turned quickly into raindrops that moved willy-nilly down the panes, creating spider webs on the glass. Because of the angle of the lamplight, the rest of the outside world was cloaked in a curtain of black. Indeed, it seemed as though the windows hung on a wall of night. Only a counter light was on in the kitchen and the hall light that illuminated the entranceway and stairway.

The house was quiet. The wind moved over the shingles to make an undulating hissing sound. Occasionally one of the shutters on the side of the house would bang, but it had no rhythm or regularity.

Ursula smiled and stroked the cover of her book lovingly. It was wrapped in a thin, aged leather, and the imprint on it was almost rubbed out. It said, “Ursula's Book.” She opened it gently, as though it would crumble in her fingertips.

“I know,” she said, without looking toward the corner, “it's time. You want me to begin. Mustn't be impatient,” she added in mock chastisement. “We mustn't rush, ever. Rushing only causes accidents. Yes.

“Shh,” she said. “I won't begin until it's perfectly quiet. You must pay complete attention.”

She paused. The angelic smile stayed with her.
She looked up from the book and into her own memory for a moment. What she saw and what she heard pleased her.

“It's my turn. I go,” she said and lifted the opened book from her lap until she held it close enough before her to begin.

“The Adventures of Pinocchio,”
she began. “Once upon a time …”

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Another
Original
publication of POCKET BOOKS

Copyright © 1981 by Andrew Neiderman

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

ISBN: 978-1-4516-6651-9

eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-8174-1

First Pocket Books printing April, 1981

POCKET and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster.