by V. J. Banis
A FAMILY AFFAIR
V.J. BANIS
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS
The Astral: Till the Day I Die
Avalon: An Historical Novel
The C.A.M.P. Cookbook
The C.A.M.P. Guide to Astrology
Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions
Color Him Gay: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Curse of Bloodstone: A Gothic Novel of Terror
Darkwater: A Gothic Novel of Horror
The Daughters of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #2)
The Devil’s Dance: A Novel of Terror
Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde
The Earth and All It Holds: An Historical Novel
A Family Affair: A Novel of Horror
Fatal Flowers: A Novel of Horror
Fire on the Moon: A Novel of Terror
The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Gay Haunt
The Glass House: A Novel of Terror
The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror
Goodbye, My Lover
The Greek Boy
The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)
Green Willows: A Novel of Horror
Kenny’s Back
Life & Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings
The Lion’s Gate: A Novel of Terror
Love’s Pawn: A Novel of Romance
Lucifer’s Daughter: A Novel of Horror
Moon Garden: A Novel of Terror
Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #1)
The Pot Thickens: Recipes from Writers and Editors (editor)
San Antone: An Historical Novel
The Scent of Heather: A Novel of Terror
The Second House: A Novel of Terror
The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
The Sins of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #3)
Spine Intact, Some Creases: Remembrances of a Paperback Writer
Stranger at the Door: A Novel of Suspense
Sweet Tormented Love: A Novel of Romance
The Sword and the Rose: An Historical Novel
This Splendid Earth: An Historical Novel
The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
Twisted Flames
The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.
A Westward Love: An Historical Romance
White Jade: A Novel of Terror
The Why Not
The Wine of the Heart: A Novel of Romance
The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1973, 2012 by V. J. Banis
Originally published under the pen name, Lynn Benedict
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.
And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.
CHAPTER ONE
Her mother was dead. Panting with the exertion of what she had done, Jennifer Rand felt a perverse excitement. Slowly, with infinite caution, she removed the pillow that she had held so tightly against her mother’s face and stared wide-eyed at the figure sprawled ungraciously over the bed.
Yes, she was dead, there could be no doubt of it. Jennifer’s eyes filled with tears, her mouth worked wordlessly. She stood as though transfixed, the awesome warmth of the pillow clutched to her breast. Then, dropping it all at once, she turned full around and half-ran, half-danced from the room. She pirouetted through the living room, bursting through the kitchen and out into the moonlight that flooded the backyard. Her mother was dead. Dead. Dead.
“Jennifer?”
As a balloon bursts when punctured, so Jennifer’s spirits burst, the exhilaration that had filled her spilled from her in one horrible rush.
“Jennifer?”
Sleep was rushing away from her, carrying with it the dream. Jennifer reached for them, tried to hold them to her, but the voice was too strong, instinct was more powerful than desire. She lay huddled and wearied in her small bed, and accepted waking with grim resignation.
“I’m here, Mother.” She held her eyes closed, trying to recall the dream. It had been something pleasant, of that she was certain, although she could not remember what; but not altogether pleasant, for lingering with the sense of freedom and exhilaration was an eerie feeling of guilt. She concluded that she had been dreaming of something wicked, and wondered what on earth it might have been.
“I’ve been calling you.” Her mother’s voice was heavy with reproach and self-pity.
“I didn’t hear you,” Jennifer offered meekly. Then, as though to substantiate the claim, she added, “I was asleep.”
“I called and called. I thought you had gone somewhere. You know I want you close by me.”
The dream, where had it gone? If she closed her eyes and surrendered to her sleepiness, would it come back to her?
“Did you want something, Mother?” It was useless. She would have to begin all over the maddening ritual of begging sleep, coaxing her body and her mind into the realm of non-consciousness, gradually drifting and waiting for the dream to come for her again, in its own way and its own time. It would come. It had come before and gone, and although she could remember nothing about it, she knew that it was the same. Someday, she promised herself, I’ll remember.
Her mother had not answered. Jennifer focused her attention in that direction, listening carefully. Yes, her mother was asleep again. She had wanted nothing after all, only to determine that Jennifer was here.
She’ll want me to die with her, Jennifer thought bitterly, and at once flushed with guilt at the thought. What a dreadful thing to think, she scolded herself, and turned on her side, tugging the blanket up close about her chin.
She thought of her mother’s medicine, sitting on the nightstand. She should have given it to her while they were both awake; it might have meant an opportunity for both of them to sleep comfortably past the time for it. But it was too late now. She would only have to awaken her mother, which would certainly provoke a quarrel, and in the end neither of them would get the advantage of the additional sleep.
“If only I weren’t so tired,” Jennifer thought wearily. “If only I could sleep.”
But much sooner than she had expected, she fell asleep again.
“Jennifer?”
The voice was little more than a whisper as it penetrated the depth of Jennifer’s slumber. A part of her, the wary sentry self, heard, and sounded its warning.
“Jennifer?”
From far, far away, Jennifer heard the warning. I should wake up now, she told herself, but the thought went unheeded. Sleep was so close about her, holding her tight in an embrace that would not be broken. And although the sentry listened throughout the night, the call was not repeated. Jennifer slept on without further intrusion upon her dreams.
* * * *
Her mother was dead. Jennifer had known it when she first awakened in the morning. She knew it before she poured the medicine which was never taken, and she knew it without once touching the thin, wasted body. And when she called Doctor Blackstone to come at once, she did not say, “My mother is sick again,” but very simply, “My mother is dead.”
Doctor Blackstone’s wife came with him.
In fact there was little either of them could do. Certainly the Doctor could only verify what Jennifer already knew to be true, that her mother was dead, and make arrangements for the body to be taken from the house. Nor was Mrs. Blackstone, determine
dly cheerful creature that she was, any more effectual.
“You must let me take care of things for you,” she insisted, fairly thrusting a cup of bitter smelling coffee into Jennifer’s hands.
“Yes, of course,” Jennifer agreed numbly, although for the life of her she could not imagine what there was to take care of.
“Are there any relatives I can contact for you?” Mrs. Blackstone asked. Her husband appeared briefly in the doorway, and she shooed him away with a wordless gesture. Jennifer heard him leave and guessed that his work was finished. It gave her a sense of finality. Death had come, and gone, and now it was finished. She let out her breath, and felt as if she had been holding it since she had first awakened and looked in the direction of her mother’s bed.
“No, there aren’t any relatives,” she answered, and became truly conscious of the conversation for the first time since it bad begun.
There were no relatives. She had lived for as long as she could remember with her mother, the two of them alone. In the entire world, she knew of no one who should be notified, no one other than herself who cared if her mother was alive or dead.
“But surely your mother’s family. There must be someone,” Mrs. Blackstone persisted.
“I don’t know,” Jennifer admitted honestly and patiently. She was used to being patient, accustomed to hiding her resentments and private desires. Mrs. Blackstone was no match for her mother in trying the nerves. “There were relatives at one time. My mother’s sisters, I think.”
“Sisters, of course. Were there more than one?”
“I don’t know,” Jennifer said.
Mrs. Blackstone was growing visibly short of good cheer, but she pushed on. “Where are they living now?”
“I don’t know that they are.” Jennifer wished that she could help. She saw in Mrs. Blackstone’s face the dreadful sense of uselessness that weighed upon her, and wished that she could relieve her of it, but she had spoken the truth. She knew nothing of her mother’s family. At some time before she was old enough to remember clearly, they had lived with her mother’s sisters. That much she did know, but she knew it from a few vague references that her mother had made over the years, and not from memory.
Why they had left, or why the ties had remained severed in the intervening years, she had never known. In all the years she had lived with her mother, Jennifer remembered no correspondence between the two branches of the family, nor communication of any kind, so that she could not even be certain now that she had not imagined it altogether, vague references and all.
“Your father?”
Jennifer shook her head without even bothering to answer. She was so tired. If only she could be alone, if only she could sleep. Her mother had told her she used sleep as an escape, the way other people used liquor or drugs. It was probably true. She would like to sleep right now, curled up into a ball; sleep, and have to think of nothing.
Her father she did not remember at all, although she made an effort now for Mrs. Blackstone’s sake. “He is no longer with us,” her mother had explained when Jennifer, as a child, had raised that question, and that ended the discussion.
“I don’t remember my father,” she said aloud. “He is no longer with us.”
The task proved finally too much even for Mrs. Blackstone’s insistent sympathy. “Well, I suppose there’s not much I can do,” she said. “If you like I’ll stay with you for the day. It isn’t wise to be alone too much during these times, they say.”
Jennifer lifted her face wearily, her eyes seeking the other woman’s, and she allowed her eyes to say the things she would never permit herself to express in words.
“No, I’ll be all right,” she said aloud, but the rest was as clearly communicated.
“I see,” Mrs. Blackstone said, meeting that chilling gaze, and backing down in the face of it. “I see.”
When she had gone, Jennifer carried the coffee to the sink and poured it down the drain. She did not like coffee, and she’d had to force herself to sip it to satisfy Mrs. Blackstone. She was accustomed to doing as others expected of her, rather than what she herself would have liked to do. Now she could begin to do as she wished.
She thought of the things Mrs. Blackstone had said, the questions she had asked, and with those questions weighing on her mind, she left the kitchen and made her way to the bedroom.
The bed was empty now, and the sheets had been carefully smoothed. The sight of that smooth bed gave her an unexpected shock. Her mother might well have risen as she did in the past, and gone for a morning walk. At any moment she might come in the front door, with her firm, bold step. For the tiniest fraction of a second, Jennifer had an unpleasant sinking in the bottom of her stomach.
But of course her mother had not gotten up and gone for walks in well over a year, nor would she ever do so again.
Jennifer stood at the door, taking in the room. Her own small bed was still unmade, a fact for which her mother would certainly have scolded her. For the moment however she did not think it mattered much. Later she would move her bed back into her own bedroom, where it had been before her mother’s illness had necessitated an every night vigil.
Her mother’s desk was locked, as it had always been. The key was in the dresser, in the top drawer on the right. Jennifer took it, scarcely able to suppress a sensation of guilt as she did so.
The key was forbidden to her. Never had she been allowed to open the desk of her own accord, nor see its contents except at a glance. Snooping, her mother would have called it, and even now Jennifer stood with the key in her hand for several long minutes before she crossed the room to the desk and unlocked its drop front.
The hinge creaked a warning as she lowered the wooden shelf, and feeling a renewed pang of guilt, she again hesitated, listening, perhaps for the sound of approaching footsteps, or a scolding voice. The house sat silently around her, and her guilt faded, pushed aside by another emotion; she had a sense of childish excitement, the thrill of forbidden pursuits. Even the musty scent of old papers, drifting upward, added to her anticipation, and she approached searching the desk with a new enthusiasm.
Her enthusiasm soon faded. The desk held little of interest after all, certainly nothing to justify the privacy that Elenora Rand had maintained with such resoluteness over the years. Jennifer found a deed to the property, free and clear, and bank books which revealed a comfortable balance. There were no letters, no family albums, no pictures, and no names or addresses of friends or relatives; none.
With a feeling of disappointment she closed the desk again. She held the key in her hand for a moment, studying it as if it might answer the questions she had. Then, from habit, she locked the desk and returned the key carefully to the precise same place it had held before in the dresser drawer. If her mother had happened to come back, and had looked in the drawer for the key, she would probably have never seen that it had been moved, and used.
No one came to look for the key.
* * * *
The funeral was not, if the term could be applied, a successful one. The weather was unusually cold for so early in the fall. Had it not been for the cold weather, there might have been a few people from the town in attendance, if not for the sake of respect, then at least out of curiosity.
As it was, the undertaker had to hire pallbearers, although Elenora Rand had lived in the town for nearly thirty years before her death. The only non-official person present, in fact, was Jennifer herself. Mr. Peabody, the undertaker, took note of the fact that Jennifer shed not one tear when her mother’s body was lowered into the ground, although he told his wife afterward that she had certainly looked sad enough.
When it was all over, Mr. Peabody offered to drive Jennifer home rather than back to the funeral parlor, as was his custom.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I think I’ll walk.”
Since it was less than a mile from the cemetery to town, he left her without arguing the point, not a little relieved to be finished with this particular interment.
As a general rule, he liked his work. He got to meet people. His customers, neither the living nor the dead, rarely argued with him. He saw himself as playing one of the fundamental roles in the scheme of things, in which he attended to the rounding off of the cycle, so to speak. He did not think of his bodies as dead people, because that to him was a contradiction in terms. People were alive, and these figures that he arranged so artfully in the coffins were only symbols, symbols of the completeness of life. And the burial was its final step, one which generally gave him a sense of satisfaction.
This burial gave him little satisfaction, and he resented Jennifer for it. “Peculiar,” he described it to his wife afterward.
“They always were,” she said.
Alone at the grave of her mother, Jennifer stared at the ground and at the coffin suspended just below ground level. Then, when the men arrived to complete the burial, she left and walked slowly across the cemetery, passing through the massive iron gates that opened onto the road.
She walked automatically, giving little thought to the town that approached and quickly surrounded her. It was a pretty town, as towns go, but she had long ago shut most aspects of the town out of her mind, the prettiness with the rest. She could pass through it now a hundred times without really seeing any of it.
The few people who saw her passing experienced very fleetingly a twinge of grief, which was forgotten almost by the time she had drifted by. It was not that the local people felt no sympathy for death; indeed, they did, and for the people left behind. But after all, the Rands had never been what you could call friendly. Everyone in town knew them by sight, but not more than a handful of people could honestly claim to have carried on any sort of conversation with Jennifer or her mother. And the reports of Doctor Blackstone and his wife had not helped further any sympathy for Jennifer.
“It’s unnatural,” Mrs. Blackstone had said to any available ear. She had, although she would not say this, never forgiven Jennifer for that one glance across the kitchen table, nor was she likely ever to do so. “The way that girl is taking it. Not a sign of grief, not the first human emotion to anything.”
