The Face of Death (19 page)

Two years later and still unknown, Linda began to have serious doubts. The total certainty from her early twenties was beginning to wane as she hit twenty-five.

Sam had dismissed her doubts, in an absolute kind of way that she still loved him for.

“You’re a great artist, babe,” he’d said, holding her eyes with his. “It’ll work out.”

Three weeks later, he’d come home from work, and had tangoed into her studio—literally tangoed, stepping and twirling toward her with an over-serious look on his face and a phantom rose between his teeth.

“Let’s go,” he’d said, holding out a hand.

“Hang on a minute,” she’d said, concentrating on her brushstroke. It was a painting of a baby, alone in a forest, and she
liked
it.

He’d waited, tangoing with himself.

Linda had finished and folded her arms, smiling at Sam as he danced. “What’s up, silly man?”

“I have a surprise,” he’d said. “Let’s go.”

She’d raised an eyebrow. “A surprise?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“The kind that surprises you, of course.” He’d tapped his foot, had motioned with his hands toward the door. “Giddyap. Get a move on. Take the lead out.”

“Hey,” she’d said, feigning indignation. “I’m not a horse. And I need to change.”

“Nope. Tarzan say Jane go, now.”

She’d giggled (nobody could get her giggling like Sam), and had ended up letting him drag her out of the house and to the car. He’d driven them down the local highway, taking the exit that led to the new mall that had just opened. He’d pulled into the parking lot.

“The surprise is at the mall?”

He’d waggled his eyebrows at her. More giggling ensued.

It was an indoor mall, and Sam had led her inside, through the milling crowds of shoppers, walking, walking, walking—until he stopped.

They were standing in front of a medium-sized empty store.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Sam had indicated the empty space with a sweep of his hand.

“It’s yours, babe. This is the space for your store. You can figure out a name, haul in your art and photos, and
make
the public discover you.” He’d reached out a hand, had touched her face. “You just need to get seen, Linda. Once they see you, they’ll know what I know.”

She’d felt like the air had been sucked from her lungs. “But…but…isn’t this expensive, Sam?”

His smile had been somewhat rueful. “It’s not cheap. I took money from the house, from our home equity line. You can survive for about a year without turning a profit. After that, it’ll get a little dicey.”

“Is…” She’d turned to him. “Is this smart?” she’d asked in a whisper. Wanting what he was offering her, but doubting her ability to keep it from hurting them.

Sam had grinned. It was a beautiful grin, filled with happiness and strength. All man, now, no boy at all. “It’s not about smart. It’s about us.” The smile had been replaced by seriousness. “It’s a gamble on you, babe, and win or lose, it’s something we have to do.”

They’d gambled, and they’d won. The location had been a perfect choice, and while she didn’t make them rich, she made a good profit. More important, she was doing what she loved, and her husband had helped make sure of that. It didn’t make her love him more, that was impossible. What it did was add a new layer of permanence and certainty. This was the secret to their love: its priority. They kept their love important, above money, pride, or the approval of others.

They continued to love each other, in life and in the bedroom. Two years later, Sarah was born.

Sam liked to joke that Sarah was a “red-faced, cone-headed beauty.” Linda had watched in wonder as that tiny mouth found her nipple with single-minded certainty. Life had thrilled through Linda, something undefinable but huge, new and ancient at the same time. She’d tried to get that feeling onto canvas with paint. She’d failed each time. Even the failures were magnificent.

Linda watched her husband and her daughter fight their tickle-war as Doreen struggled to be a part of it in her desperate, doggy way.

Sarah was special. The cone-head had gone away within hours, of course, and as the years moved on, Sarah had only grown more beautiful. She seemed to skip caterpillar, going straight to butterfly, hold the cocoon. Linda wasn’t sure where it came from.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Sam would joke. “Maybe she’ll get ugly when she becomes a teenager and keep me from having to buy a shotgun.”

Linda didn’t think so. She was pretty sure that her munchkin was going to be a head-turner.

“I think she’s just the best parts of both of us,” Sam had said once.

Linda liked that explanation.

19

SARAH HAD BABBLED NONSTOP THROUGH SUPPER ABOUT HER
birthday, all excited eyes and energy. Linda wondered how in the world she was going to get her calm enough to go to sleep. A common parental problem, the “Christmas Syndrome.”

At least during Christmas, she could tell Sarah that Santa wouldn’t come unless she went to sleep. Birthdays were more of a challenge.

“Do you think I’ll get a lot of presents, Mommy?”

Sam looked at his daughter, puzzled. “Presents? Why would you get presents?”

Sarah ignored her father. “And a big cake, Mommy?”

Sam shook his head, regretful. “Definitely no cake,” he said. “Girl’s gone wonky in the head. Soft in the noggin.”

“Daddy!” Sarah rebuked.

Linda smiled. “Plenty of cake and presents, babe. But you’re going to have to wait,” she cautioned. “The party isn’t until after lunch, you know that.”

“I know. But I wish it was like Christmas, where you get your presents in the morning!”

Bingo, Linda thought. Sneaky, yet obvious. Why didn’t I think of it before?

“I’ll tell you what, sweetie,” she said. “If you go to bed tonight—
on time
—and don’t give me any hassle about it, I’ll let you open a present in the morning. How’s that sound?”

“Really?”

“Really. If”—she held up a finger—“you go to bed on time.”

Sarah nodded her head in that overenthusiastic way of small children, head all the way back, then chin to chest, repeat.

“Then it’s a deal.”

Sam was putting his daughter to bed. Buster followed them as always, his routine. Doreen was the kind of dog that loved everybody. She’d probably lead a burglar through the house with her tail wagging, glad for the company, hopeful she’d get a treat for being helpful. Buster loved too, but his love was sparing, his view of the world more suspicious. He picked few people to love, but those people were
his,
and he loved them with his whole self.

He loved Sarah most of all, and slept with her in her bed each night.

Sarah was under the covers. Buster jumped up and nestled beside her, resting his head on her small stomach.

“All set, munchkin?”

“Kiss!” she said, stretching her arms out toward him.

Sam leaned forward, planting a kiss on her forehead, accepting her gossamer hug.

“How about now?” he asked.

Her eyes popped open wide. “My Little Pony!” she cried.

“My Little Pony” was a child’s character, mixing fairy-stuff with pony-stuff, resulting in improbable light blue ponies with manes of pink. Sarah had a doll version that she slept with.

“Hmmm…” Sam said, looking around. “Where is My Little Donkey?”

“Daddy!” Sarah half-yelled, a mix of exasperation and delight.

Fathers tease their daughters in many ways; this was one of Sam’s. It had started a year ago, him substituting “donkey” for “pony.” At first Sarah’s distress had been real, but over time it had become a tradition between them, something he knew they’d laugh about together when she was older.

He found it on the floor next to her bed and deposited it into her waiting hands. She hugged it to her, wiggling farther under the blankets. The movement forced Buster to move his head. He glared and sighed, a deep, doggy-sigh.
The lot of an unappreciated animal,
he seemed to be saying.

“How about now?” Sam asked.

“You need to leave, Daddy,” Sarah admonished. “I got to go to sleep so I can wake up and open my present.”

“Propen your mesent?” he said, puzzled.

She giggled. Sarah loved when Sam made up spoonerisms—where you reversed the first letters of two words, like the “the spork and the foon.” She thought that was the mat’s ceow.

“Olive juice, munchkin.”

“Olive juice, Daddy.”

Another one of their silly traditions. If you mouthed “olive juice,” it looked from a distance like you were saying “I love you.” Sam had demonstrated this to Sarah when she was four. She’d thought it was the most brilliant thing ever, well worth repeating a few thousand times. Now they said it to each other every night.

He had no way of knowing this would be the second-to-last time he’d ever say it.

Sarah squinched her eyes shut, and petted Buster, and tried to make her brain turn off.

Tomorrow was her birthday! She’d be six, almost a grown-up, which was
interesting,
but the presents,
that’s
what she was most excited about.

She looked around at her walls, lit by the hallway bulb that came through the half-open doorway to her room. They were covered with paintings her mother had done. Her eyes searched for and found her favorite: the baby, alone in the forest.

Someone hearing about it, not seeing it, might think it was a scary picture. But it wasn’t, not at all.

The baby, a girl, was peaceful, lying on a bed of moss, eyes closed. Trees were to the left of her, a brook to the right. The sun was out, the sky had some clouds in it, and if you looked close, you could see a smiling face in those clouds, looking down on the baby girl.

“Is it watching her, Mommy?”

“That’s right, honey. Even though she’s alone in the forest, she’s never
really
alone, because the woman in the clouds is watching over her.”

Sarah had stared at the picture, loving it.

“The baby is me, isn’t it, Mommy? And the cloud-lady—that’s you.”

Her mother had smiled then, the smile Sarah loved so much. It had no secrets, no hidden meanings. It was just the sun, dazzling and happy and warm on your face.

“That’s right, babe. That’s what it is, for you and me and anyone else who looks at it.”

Sarah had been puzzled. “It’s you for other people too?”

“No, it’s
Mommy
for other people. They could be grown-ups, out in the world, away from their mommies, but they’re never alone, because Mommy is always there.” She’d grabbed her daughter, had hugged her in a spontaneous motion that had made Sarah laugh out loud. “That’s what mommies are, and what they do. They watch over you forever.”

The painting had been a gift on her fifth birthday. It hung on the wall that faced the foot of her bed, a talisman.

Her mother never bought her birthday gifts. She made them. Sarah loved them all. She couldn’t wait to see what she was going to get tomorrow.

She squinched her eyes shut again, and petted Buster (who licked her hand) and willed her brain to turn off.

She fell asleep once she stopped trying, a smile on her face.

The first thing Sarah realized when she woke up was that Buster wasn’t there. This was strange; the dog went to sleep when she did, and got up when she did, every day.

The second thing she noticed was that the sun wasn’t shining. This too was strange. It was night when she closed her eyes, morning when she opened them. That’s the way it worked.

There was something about this dark. Something heavy and scary. It no longer felt like the dark before her birthday. This felt like the dark of a closet when you got locked in. Stuffy, hot, close.

“Mommy?” she whispered. Part of her wondered why she didn’t say it louder. If she really wanted her mother to hear her, why was she whispering?

Her six-year-old mind provided the answer: because she was afraid something
else
would hear too. Whatever it was that was creating this scary dark.

Her heart was beating
so
fast, her breath was coming even faster, she was headed toward full-blown terror, the place of waking up after a nightmare, except that in those times, she always had
Buster,
and now Buster wasn’t here—

Look at the picture, stupid, she ordered herself.

She found her mother’s painting in the dark. The baby, asleep on the moss, peaceful and safe. She fixed her gaze on the face in the clouds. The face that meant Mommy, that pushed back this scary dark, that said Buster was in the backyard, that he’d used the doggy-door to relieve himself, that she’d just woken up because he was gone, and that soon he’d be back and she’d fall asleep again and wake up in the morning, and it would be her birthday.

Her heart stopped hammering as she thought these things. Her breathing slowed and her fear began to subside. She even started to feel silly.

Almost a grown-up and acting afraid of the dark like a little baby, she chided herself.

Then she heard the voice and she knew it was the voice of a stranger, here in her house, in the dark. The terror returned and her heart skipped. She froze, eyes too wide.

“‘I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself,’” the voice intoned, moving toward her door. “‘A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.’”

The voice wasn’t deep or high, but somewhere in between.

“Do you hear me, Sarah? A famous poet named D. H. Lawrence wrote those words.”

He was standing outside her door. Her teeth chattered, though she was unaware of it.

This was beyond terror. This was waking up from a nightmare to find that the thing in the nightmare had
followed you out,
was shambling down the hallway toward your room to
hug you,
to hold you tight while it laughed and moaned and you screamed and lost your mind.

“We could learn a lot from the wild things. Pity, for yourself or for others, is useless. Life will go on whether you live or die, whether you’re happy or unhappy. Life doesn’t care. Ruthlessness, now that’s a useful emotion. God is ruthless. That is a part of his beauty and his power. To do what is right, consequences or deaths of innocents be damned.”

He paused. Sarah could almost hear him breathing. She could also hear her own heart, so loud she thought her eardrums were going to burst.

“Buster didn’t feel sorry for himself, Sarah. I want you to know that he came right for me. No hesitation. He knew I was here for
you,
and he ran toward me without thinking about it twice. He was going to kill me to save you.”

Another pause. Then a chuckle, low and long.

“I want you to know that so you understand: Buster’s dead because he loved you.”

The door flew open wide, and The Stranger was there, and he threw something onto Sarah’s bed.

The light from the hallway lit up the object: Buster’s severed head, teeth still bared, eyes wide with rage.

Sarah unfroze then. She began to scream.