by John Saul
"You need to rest, at least for a little while," Janet said.
"Of course he does," Anna declared, rolling her chair close to the couch. "He should just lie here and take it easy, and you should do your errands."
"But I don't want to stay here," Michael argued. "I want to go home."
"Hush, child," Anna told him. "Your mother has a lot to do, and she can't do it and take care of you, too. And Mrs. Simpson can't stay here all day either." Suddenly she smiled. "But just because I can't get out of this chair doesn't mean I don't know how to look after someone. In fact, I was thinking of making some cookies."
Michael turned his attention back to his mother. "I don't want any cookies," he said, his voice taking on a sullen tone. "I want to go home."
Janet wavered. She wanted to give in to Michael, wanted to take him home and give him all the attention she thought he needed. And yet, there was something that was holding her back, and she immediately knew what it was. It was that tone of voice he'd just slipped into, the tone of a spoiled child, which Michael had never been. She made up her mind.
"I want you to stay here," she told him. "I won't be gone very long, and you'll be fine. Just stay here, and keep your foot up on the cushion. That way it won't throb so much. I'll be back as soon as I can, and then we'll get you home. Okay?"
Michael hesitated, but finally nodded.
A few minutes later, he was alone with his grandparents.
Janet left the drugstore, then turned the battered green truck away from the square and drove the two blocks to Laura and Buck Shields's house. She parked the car in the driveway and was starting toward the front door when she heard Laura's thin voice calling to her from the upstairs window.
"It's unlocked. Let yourself in and come upstairs." A wan smile drifted across her face, then disappeared. "I'm afraid I'm still not quite up to coming down."
Janet found Laura dressed, but propped on the bed, resting against several pillows.
"I should be in bed, but I just couldn't stand it anymore," Laura told her. "So I got dressed this morning, and I'm spending the day on bed. At least I don't feel quite so useless this way." She patted the mattress. "Come and sit down and tell me what's happening. I feel like I've been cooped up here forever."
Janet sighed, and lowered herself gratefully onto the bed. "I suppose you've already heard about Dr. Potter."
Laura's gentle eyes hardened. "The only thing I want to hear about him is that he's dead," she half whispered. "I hate him, Janet—I hate him so much…"
Janet reached out to touch Laura's hand. "He—Laura, he is dead."
The other woman paled, and a tear suddenly welled in her eye. "Oh, God, Janet. I didn't mean—"
"Of course you didn't." She shrugged helplessly. "It was a stroke, I guess. They found him this morning."
Laura fell silent for a moment, then slowly shook her head. "I should be sorry, shouldn't I, Janet? But you know something? I'm not. I just feel sort of—sort of relieved, I guess. After what he did —"
"No," Janet interrupted her. "Laura, stop torturing yourself. Please?"
But Laura only shook her head again. "I can't help it. I believe what I believe, and I believe they killed my baby." Then, seeing Janet's discomfiture, she decided to change the subject. She made herself smile. "Where's Michael?"
"And that's the rest of the news," Janet replied. Briefly, she told Laura what had happened.
"Is he all right?" Laura asked when Janet was done.
Janet nodded. "But it just seems so stupid. And Michael's always been so good with things like that."
"It was stupid," Laura agreed. "But I'll bet it won't happen again—one thing about farms: you usually only make a mistake once. After that, you know better. And how are you doing? Is the house all in order?"
"Hardly, but I guess some progress is being made. And last night Michael and I cleaned out the attic."
"The attic? I thought it was empty."
Janet frowned. "You mean Anna was right? You and Mark never went up there?"
"Mark did, once," Laura told her. "Dad gave him a beating he never forgot. Or anyway, one I never forgot. I guess it was one time I learned by someone else's mistake."
"Amos beat Mark?"
Laura gave her a puzzled look. "Of course he did. He'd told Mark never to go up there, and Mark disobeyed him."
"So he beat him?" Janet pressed. "Not just spanked him?"
Laura chuckled hollowly. "I wouldn't call a razor strop an ordinary spanking, but it's amazing how effective it was."
"It's no wonder Mark got out as soon as he could," Janet observed, making no attempt to hide her disapproval.
"That wasn't it at all," Laura said quickly. "That had something to do with the night mother had her last baby. By then, Dad hadn't given Mark a beating in—well, it had been a while. What did you find in the attic?"
Janet made an instinctive decision: what Anna Hall wouldn't talk about, her daughter might. "Among other things, I found Abby Randolph's diary."
Laura stared at her. "You're kidding, of course."
Janet shook her head. Then as casually as she could, she said, "Anna told me that the house has been in your family since the day it was built."
Laura nodded. "The old family homestead, and all that sort of thing. But there was never any mention of Abby having lived there. In fact, if I remember right, we were always sort of led to believe that her house had burned down. If it ever existed at all. Personally, I was never sure there ever was an Abby Randolph. And I certainly don't believe she did all the things she's supposed to have done."
"Well, apparently she did exist, and if I read her diary correctly, it seems that she did exactly what the old stories claim she did."
Laura's face paled. "I—I can't believe that."
"It's in the diary," Janet said gently. "Would you like to see it?"
Quickly, Laura shook her head. "And I don't want to talk about it, either. The whole idea of it makes me sick."
Janet wished she'd never brought the subject up. "Well, none of that matters now anyway," she said quickly. "Whatever happened, it's ancient history. But there was a lot of other stuff—china and silver—and I thought we ought to split it between us. I've talked to Anna about it, and she insists it wasn't hers. In fact, she said if it was in the house, it must be mine, since the house is mine. But that just doesn't seem fair."
Laura looked at her curiously. "But if it wasn't hers, then whose was it?" When Janet made no reply, she suddenly understood. "Oh, God," she groaned. "You're not thinking—" Then, seeing that that was exactly what Janet was thinking, she shook her head. "I could never use it. I couldn't look at it, or touch it, let alone eat off it! And anyway, I've got loads of china and silver of my own, which I never use. It came from Mother's mother, and it's all stowed up in the attic. Limoges china, and the most garish silver you've ever seen."
"Limoges?" Janet repeated. "But that's what was in my attic. Maybe it's from the same set."
"I don't see how—"
But Janet was on her feet. "Can I go up and look? Please?"
"Well, if you want to—" Laura told her where the china and silver were stored, and a few minutes later, Janet was rummaging through the Shieldses' attic. She found the trunk Laura had described, opened it, and felt a pang of disappointment. The china and silver were there, all right, but these things bore no resemblance at all to the things she'd found in her own attic. Slowly, she closed the trunk, and was about to go downstairs when something in the far corner of the attic caught her eye.
It was a crib, and though it was not new, neither was it an antique. Indeed, it seemed barely used. And it was not the crib that Laura had set up in her bedroom in preparation for the baby who had died—that crib was still downstairs, a lonely reminder of Laura's loss. Curious, Janet moved toward the crib. Only when she was near it did she see the rest of the nursery equipment.
A tiny rocking chair, painted pink, and hardly used.
A bassinet, used, but,
like the crib, in nearly new condition.
Behind the crib, there was a small chest of drawers, just the right size for a three- or four-year-old. Hesitantly, Janet opened one of the drawers. Inside, clean and neatly folded, she found several stacks of clothing, all of it in infant sizes. Tiny dresses, playsuits, blouses, and pajamas, much of it in pinks and whites.
And then, in the bottom drawer, she found an album. Bound in white leather, it was thin and, like the rest of the things in that far corner, barely used. Frowning slightly, she opened it. On the first page, beneath a blank space neatly outlined in green ink, there was a neatly lettered caption:
REBECCA—HER FIRST PICTURE
Janet stared at the odd page for a moment, then quickly flipped through the book. Where the pictures had once been, now there was nothing. Someone had gone through the album, taking out the photographs, leaving nothing but the eerily hollow captions.
She stared at the album for several seconds, wondering what could have happened to the pictures. Should she take it downstairs and ask Laura about it? Then, before she could make up her mind, she heard Buck's voice, his furious tones carrying clearly into the attic.
"She's up there? By herself? For God's sake, Laura, what are you thinking of?"
Startled, Janet closed the album and hurriedly slipped it back in the dresser drawer. Then she moved quickly toward the attic door, opened it a crack, and listened. Now she could hear nothing except indistinct mutterings, muffled by the closed door to the master bedroom. Janet reached up and pulled the light cord, plunging the attic into darkness, then started down the steep stairs to the second floor. Only when she reached the landing, though, could she hear Buck's voice once again.
"But what if she does see it? What if she wants to know where it came from, and why it's there?"
"She won't," Laura's terrified voice replied. "It's way back in the corner, and there's so much other stuff, she won't even notice it. And even if she does, I'll just say we're storing it for someone. Ione—I'll say we're storing it for Ione Simpson. She has a little girl."
"I told you to get rid of it." There was a silence; then, again: "Didn't I tell you to get rid of it?"
"Y-yes."
"Then why didn't you?"
"I—I couldn't."
"You will," Buck said, his voice holding an implacability Janet had never realized was in him before. "As soon as you're strong enough, you'll bring all that stuff down from the attic, take it out back, and burn it."
"Buck, don't make me—"
"It has to be done," Buck said. "Not today. Not until you're well again. But you have to get rid of that stuff. Do you understand?"
Then, as Janet shrank back against the wall, the door to the bedroom opened, and Buck emerged, his face set with determination. Without seeing Janet, he turned the other way and disappeared down the front stairs. A moment later she heard the front door slam.
For a long time, Janet stood where she was, wondering what to do. At last, forcing herself into a composure she didn't feel, she returned to the bedroom, where Laura, still on the bed, was blotting her face with a Kleenex.
"Was Buck here?" Janet asked. "I thought I heard his voice."
Laura nodded. "He just came by to see how I was doing. Wasn't that sweet of him?"
"Yes," Janet agreed. Then: "The china's all different from what I found, and so's the silver. But I found some stuff in the corner. Some nursery furniture." She watched as Laura swallowed hard, then seemed to search for words.
"It—it's Ione Simpson's," she said at last. "It's been there for a couple of years now. She didn't have any room to store it."
Janet hesitated only a moment, then nodded. Laura had lied, just as she'd told Buck she would.
Michael woke up, and for a moment couldn't remember where he was. Then the room came into focus, and he recognized his grandmother's parlor. Drifting in from the kitchen, he could smell the aroma of fresh-baked cookies. Tentatively, he sat up and lowered his bandaged foot to the floor. The throbbing had eased, and when he tried to stand up, he found that the pain wasn't bad at all as long as he kept his weight on his heel. Slowly, he began hobbling toward the door that would take him into the hall and then back toward the kitchen. But when he came to the dining room, he heard his grandfather's voice, and stopped. His grandfather was talking about him.
"There's something about him, Anna. Something in his eyes. I'm sure of it."
There was silence for a moment, and then his grandmother spoke. "Don't, Amos. Don't start. Not on Michael."
"But what about the headaches? He's having 'em, you know. Just like Mark did. And this morning—"
"What about this morning?" Anna demanded, when Amos showed no sign of going on.
"It was in his eyes," Amos finished. "The same look I saw in Mark's eyes. It's Nathaniel. There's the mark of Nathaniel on that child. They told me when I was a boy—"
Suddenly his grandmother's voice grew loud and angry. "They told you a bunch of lies and stories. They ruined your life and my life and Laura's life. The only one who got away was Mark, and now all those old stories have killed him, too!"
"What happened to Mark was an accident."
"If that's what you believe, then believe it. But I don't believe it. I believe you might as well have killed him with your own hands."
Now his grandfather sounded as angry as his grandmother. "Don't say that, Anna. I've always done what I had to do, and nothing more."
"And look at me," Michael heard his grandmother say. Her voice was trembling now, as if she were starting to cry. "Just look at me. Five babies, and all I have left is Laura. And look at her—she's going to wind up just the way I am, and it's going to be on your head. So help me, if you start trying to see your unholy family curse in Michael, I'll see to it that Janet takes him and goes right back to New York. They're stories, Amos! None of it is anything but stories."
"Abby Randolph was no story. And neither was Nathaniel. It won't end, unless I end it."
"Leave it alone, Amos," his grandmother said after another long silence. "There's nothing wrong with Michael."
"We'll see," his grandfather replied. "When Janet's baby comes, we'll see."
Slowly, Michael backed away from the kitchen door, then turned and made his way back to the parlor. With his heart pounding, he lay down on the sofa again and carefully propped his foot back up on the cushion. Then he closed his eyes and tried to make his breathing come evenly, but he couldn't control the terror in his soul; He knows, Michael thought. Grandpa knows about Nathaniel, and he knows about me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Janet sat in the small living room, staring apprehensively at the last box remaining to be opened, knowing that its contents were going to be the most difficult for her. Everything else had long since been put away—as spring had given way to stifling summer, she and Michael had spent the long still evenings sorting through the remnants of their lives in New York, putting some things away, consigning others to the trash barrel. Finally there had been nothing left, except this single box which Janet had been assiduously avoiding. It was Mark's box, the remnants of his life, all the things that had been retrieved from his desks— both at home and at the university. Janet had been putting off opening it, working around it, moving it constantly farther into the corner of the room, but now it sat there, conspicuously alone, and there were no more excuses for ignoring it. Unless she put it in the tiny attic, consigned it to that easily forgettable storage room where it might lie undisturbed through several generations.
Like Abby's diary.
She turned the idea over in her mind as she sat enjoying the peace of the midsummer evening. The day's heat had finally broken, and a gentle breeze drifted over the plains. The soft chirping of crickets seemed to fill up the vast emptiness of the landscape, lulling Janet into a sense of
peace she hadn't felt in the months since Mark had died. But tonight, with Michael asleep upstairs—apparently peacefully asleep—she began to wonder if she really needed to
open that box at all. Perhaps she shouldn't. Perhaps she should simply put it away, as someone had long ago put Abby's diary away, and forget about it.
But Abby's diary had not remained forgotten, nor had Abby herself.
And, Janet was sure, it would be the same with Mark. To her, the plain cardboard container had become a Pandora's box. Despite all logic, she had the distinct feeling that when she opened it, serpents were going to spew forth, devouring what was left of her faith in her husband. And yet, no matter how long she argued with herself, she knew that in the end she would open it. She sighed, and began.
On top, she found all the things she remembered from his desk in the apartment—even the too-short stubs of pencils and the bent paperclips had been packed. She went through things quickly, only glancing at the stacks of canceled checks, the financial records of their life together, the scribbled notes Mark had often made to himself during the course of an evening, only to tuck them away in the desk and forget them.
Only when she came to the contents of his desk at the university did she slow down, pausing to read the files— the notes on his students, the notes on the various studies he always had in mind but never seemed to get around to. And then, at the bottom of the box, she found a large sealed envelope with her name written across it in Mark's distinctive scrawl.
With trembling hands, she ripped the envelope open and let its contents slide onto her lap. There wasn't much there: a copy of Mark's will—the same will that had been on file with their lawyer—and another envelope, again with its flap sealed and her name written on it.
She stared at this envelope a long time, still toying with the idea of putting it away unread, but in the end, she opened it, too. Inside, she found a note in Mark's choppy hand, and yet a third envelope, which had been opened and resealed with tape, this one postmarked Prairie Bend, but with no return address. She read Mark's note first:
