Skeletons (11 page)

Two skeletons, Mr. Carlucci and Mr. Cary, appeared in our headlights, walking toward us. Mr. Carlucci held a tire iron in one hand.

Mr. Carlucci laughed. "Going somewhere, ladies?"

He pointed to Mr. Cary. "The old bastard didn't tell me he couldn't drive."

Mr. Cary put his skeletal hand on Mrs. Garr's wind-shield and said, "Get out of the car."

On my side of the car Mr. Carlucci brought his tire iron down, cracking the window.

Mr. Cary's skull grinned.

Mrs. Garr threw the car into reverse.

Mr. Carlucci threw himself on the hood of the car and brought his tire iron down again on the windshield.

Mrs. Garr stepped on the gas, pulled back fast, then turned the wheel hard.

Mr. Carlucci was thrown off. He hit a tree next to the road, hard, and collapsed into a pile of powder.

Mr. Cary was running toward us from the front entrance, shouting, "Stay where you are!"

Mrs. Garr turned the car around, back toward Withers, and put her foot on the gas.

"Pray, Claire," she said. "Pray that the back gate is open."

We roared past the main building, skirted the playing field, and drove past the small cemetery. Under the night sky the graves were all open and gaping.

There at the end of the cemetery was Mr. Cary's house, a small, neat cottage. Another short drive, hemmed in close by trees and underbrush, brought us to the gate.

It was closed, and locked. High on its iron bars was a sign of polished brass that Said, WITHERS HOME FOR WOMEN.

"What will we do?” Mrs. Garr said.

Suddenly she seemed to reach a decision.

"Get out of the car, Claire," she ordered.

I obeyed. I stood on the side of the road while Mrs. Garr backed the car up, turned it to the left, and drove it into the underbrush between two large trees. I watched the brush spring back up after the car disappeared. In a moment the car was hidden, and Mrs. Garr and I were making our way to Mr. Cary's house.

The house was a small, pleasant-looking place with a rock garden out front and flower boxes on the front windows. We followed a stone path up to the porch, and Mrs. Garr tried the door.

It was locked, and so was the window off the porch.

Retreating to the rock garden, Mrs. Garr returned with a rock and smashed it through the porch window. She reached in, unlatched the window, and raised it up.

She climbed in, and in a moment had opened the front door for me.

The lights in the house were off.

"I was only in here once, for tea with Mrs. Cary," Mrs. Garr said, "but if I remember, the cellar was off the kitchen—"

We heard a sound in the back of the house, down a hallway we were passing.

Mrs. Garr went quickly to the living-room fireplace, took the poker from its cradle.

She entered the hall in front of me.

A cat ran out past us from a bedroom.

We both jumped.

Another sound came from the room at the end of the hall.

Mrs. Garr pushed the back-room door open with the long poker.

A gunshot sounded, splattered plaster in the hall above our heads.

A voice shouted, "I'll kill you, stay away from me!" Mrs. Garr called out, "Mrs. Cary, is that you?”

“I know who you are, stay out, I'll kill you!”

“Mrs. Cary, please, we can help you."

"Let me see your hand!"

Mrs. Garr slowly stretched her hand out into the bedroom door opening.

"It's a trick—let me see the rest of you!"

"All right," Mrs. Garr said. She turned to me. "Stay where you are, Claire." She stood and moved slowly out into the bedroom door opening.

The voice from the bedroom broke down into weeping. "Oh, God . . ."

Mrs. Garr called out, "It's all right, Claire." I followed her into the bedroom. There in a corner behind the big bed cowered Mr. Cary's wife. A handgun lay in her lap.

"Don't cry," Mrs. Garr said. She went to Mrs. Cary, knelt down, and held her. "It's all right now."

"They came, they were all around!" Mrs. Cary cried. Her trembling hand pointed to the window. Outside was a clear view of the cemetery. "Out there! I saw them! They rose up out of the ground, and they came to the house, knocked on the doors, they kept rising out of the ground. . ."

"It's all right," Mrs. Garr said, holding the old woman.

"What about my John?" Mrs. Cary said suddenly. She had stopped crying and looked intently at Mrs. Garr. "You know my John, he was down at the school—what happened to him?"

"Mrs. Cary ..."

"He's coming, isn't he? He'll be here soon to help me? He's always here when I need him—"

She had risen, letting the gun drop to the floor, and tried to walk out of Mrs. Garr's grasp to the bedroom door.

"No, Mrs. Cary, stay here. Come into the cellar with us." Mrs. Garr hesitated, then said, `John will be along later."

"Will he?" Mrs. Cary said, brightening. "Yes, of course he will. He never leaves me alone for long. He's always there for me."

Mrs. Garr said quietly, 'Yes, of course. My husband, Michael, is always there for me, too."

"Then let's get into the cellar!"

Mrs. Cary rose and walked briskly to the doorway.

Mrs. Garr followed, picking the handgun up from the floor, and put her arm around my shoulder. "Come on, Claire."

We went to the cellar. Mrs. Cary went ahead of us, turning on lights. 'There's a place in the back that John set up, just in case." She sounded unnaturally happy. "John is always thinking ahead. When we first moved here, he stocked us with cans of food and water. He never trusted those Russians, ever since they tried to put those missiles in Cuba." She looked around at Mrs. Garr and smiled. "He'll be proud of himself now. He's probably one of the only ones who was ready."

She pulled a light chain. We stood in front of what looked like a wall. But there was a handle in it. With some effort, and help from Mrs. Garr, Mrs. Cary pulled it open, revealing a small, dry little room with shelves of canned goods along one wall, another shelf with a lantern, a small cook stove and first-aid kit, a pile of magazines, a little row of books, two cots, even a little writing desk with an old, nicked chair.

"There's a pullout door on the bottom right with a portable toilet in it," Mrs. Cary said. "The waste gets stored behind it, down in a limed pit that John dug out." She smiled. "Oh, John is so smart! Even the air is filtered, and there are plenty of batteries if the electricity goes out. Best of all it can be locked from the inside, and no one on the outside can get in without John's key." She looked at Mrs. Garr. "Do you like it?"

"Very much," Mrs. Garr said. "Why don't—"

"Let me just go upstairs and close the cellar door," Mrs. Cary said. "Then I'll be back."

"All right," Mrs. Garr said.

Mrs. Cary went up the stairs, and in a moment we heard her upstairs, then heard the front door open and close.

"Oh, God," Mrs. Garr said, and I followed as she ran upstairs.

Mrs. Cary was on the front walk, heading for the road toward Withers.

"Mrs. Cary!" Mrs. Garr shouted.

Mrs. Cary stopped and turned. "It's all right," she said. "I'm just going to get John."

"But—"

"I know." Mrs. Cary smiled. "I knew from the way you looked at me. But he's never left me alone.”

“Mrs. Cary—"

The old woman waved, started to walk toward the road again. "You don't understand. I've never been without him." She stopped again, looked back at us. "If I find him, I'll bring him back here."

She walked on, and soon was out of sight.

"God," Mrs. Garr said.

We went back to the cellar, went down into it. Mrs. Garr checked everything in the little shelter, then pulled the heavy door closed. There was a lock on it with a turning mechanism, and she turned it and tested the door. She turned to me with a tired but hopeful look.

"I think we'll be all right here, Claire."

She stared at me for a few moments, then came and held me. She began to cry. "Oh Claire, Claire, I hope my own husband is all right...."

After a while she was calm, and lay on one of the cots. I lay on the other, and soon I was asleep.

I was awakened by Mrs. Garr. Outside the shelter door there was a scratching sound.

"Claire, get behind me," Mrs. Garr said.

She sat me back against my cot and got in front of me, holding Mrs. Cary's handgun.

"Mrs. Garr, are you in there?" came a voice from outside the door.

Mrs. Garr said nothing.

The voice said, "It's me, Mrs. Cary." She sounded just like she had before.

Still Mrs. Garr said nothing.

"Let me in, Mrs. Garr I know you're in there. Please let me in."

"Did you find John?" Mrs. Garr said.

There was a pause. "No, I didn't find him. I'm very scared. Please let me in.”

I looked at Mrs. Garr, who had not made a move toward the door.

"
Please
, Mrs. Garr. I think someone's coming." The scratching at the door resumed.

Mrs. Garr held the gun in both of her hands, and they were trembling.

"Oh, God, Mrs. Garr! They're out here! They're all out here coming toward me! Please! Please let me in!"

Mrs. Garr jumped up to open the door, but froze as another voice sounded outside.

"Doesn't matter," the new voice said.

"All right," Mrs. Cary's voice said calmly.

There was a rattling sound in the door, and the turning mechanism on the lock turned and the door swung open.

Mrs. Garr pressed back against me, held the gun up. Mr. and Mrs. Cary, both skeletons, stood in the doorway. Mr. Cary held an ax in one hand.

"I told you John was smart," Mrs. Cary said. "He was the only one who had the key for that door."

Mr. Cary's skull's mouth opened in a shout and he charged into the room at us, swinging the ax.

Mrs. Garr pulled the trigger of the gun.

She was slammed back against me. There was a loud sound in the room. Mr. Cary collapsed where he stood, the ax dropping into the pile of dust he had become.

"
What have you done
!" Mrs. Cary screamed. "
My John! What have you done to my husband!
Ohhhhhhhhhh
!"

Screaming, Mrs. Cary rushed into the room, her skeletal hands held out before her like claws. Mrs. Garr pulled the trigger of the gun again, but there was only a click as Mrs. Cary hit her. I felt one of her skeleton hands slide against my face, clutch the back of my head. There was a soft tingle, then the feel of bone. Mrs. Cary was screeching, trying to tear at Mrs. Garr and me both. I fell free as Mrs. Garr and Mrs. Cary fell to the floor. The gun fell, spun away to stop against the wall.

Mrs. Cary pushed Mrs. Garr down under her. She screeched. "
You killed my husband! You killed John
!" She scooped at the mass of dust that had been her husband and clutched it in her white fingers, howling. Suddenly she had whipped up the ax from the midst of the dust and swung it high overhead to bring it down on Mrs. Garr.

I picked up the gun in both my hands, holding it like I had seen Mrs. Garr do it, aimed it at Mrs. Cary, and pulled the trigger.

This time there was another loud bang. I fell back. My hands shaking, I dropped the gun.

When I looked, Mrs. Cary was dissolving into dust, her back arched, bones below her neck shattered. She said, "John ..." and then was gone.

Tears were coming down my face, and I could not stop shivering. Mrs. Garr came to me, held me. "Oh, Claire, you did the right thing. . .

Mrs. Garr led me to a cot, lay me down, and covered me with a blanket.

She went to the front door, started to close it, then opened it again and went out. She searched the floor until she found a key on a key ring. She brought it back into the room, closed and locked the door.

"Now no one can get at us," she said.

She locked the door and stood over me. "Sleep." She kept the light in the room on. She lay on the other cot, and after a while I heard her breath even and she was asleep.

I sat up on my cot and turned to look at the two scattered piles of dust that kept Mrs. Garr and me company in our little cell.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I was never much of a fiction reader. Billy Herndon was always trying to get me to read this and that, and I think I took a secret pleasure in not accommodating him.

But this Dickens fellow was all right, and I remember Billy reading those words to me sometime early in 1860 or so, just before the war started. Though it seemed to me, as things went on, that we were getting more of the worst and very little of the best.