“I’ve been looking a long time for a community like this,” James said with a smile. “Not a neighborhood, but a real community, away from all the chaos and change in the world, where people still have old-fashioned values, and kids can play outside all day until they’re called in for supper. And just when I’d given up on ever finding someplace like that, I came to take care of my great-aunt and found what I’d been looking for all along. I’m a very lucky man.”
“Did you already join a church?” Slick asked.
“And there’s no Mrs. Harris joining you?” Kitty asked over her.
“No,” James Harris said, addressing Kitty. “No children. No family, besides my great-aunt.”
“That’s peculiar,” Maryellen said.
“What church do you belong to?” Slick asked again.
“Who do you read?” Kitty asked.
“Camus, Ayn Rand, Herman Hesse,” James Harris said. “I’m a student of philosophy.” He smiled at Slick. “I’m afraid I don’t belong to any organized religion.”
“Then you haven’t really thought it through,” Slick said.
“Herman Hesse,” Kitty said. “Pony read Steppenwolf in his English class. It sounded like the kind of thing boys like.”
James Harris turned the full force of his smile on Kitty.
“And Pony is your…?” he asked.
“My oldest boy,” Kitty said. “Everyone calls his father Horse, so we call him Pony. Then there’s Honey, who’s a year older, and Parish, who turns thirteen this summer and is driving all of us crazy. And Lacy and Merit, who can’t stand to be in the same room together.”
“What does Horse do?” James asked.
“Do?” Kitty said, and sputtered out a laugh. “I mean, he doesn’t do anything. We live on Seewee, so he has to clear scrub, and do burns, and there’s always something to fix. I mean, when you live at a place like that it’s a full-time job just to keep the roof from falling in.”
“I used to do property management out in Montana,” James said. “I expect he could teach me a lot.”
Montana? Patricia wondered.
“Horse? Teach someone?” Kitty laughed and turned to the rest of the room. “Did I tell y’all about Horse’s pirate treasure? Someone came along looking for investors to hunt underwater pirate treasure, or Confederate artifacts, or something improbable like that. Well, they had this fancy slide presentation and real nice folders, and that’s all it took for Horse to write them a check.”
“Leland could have told him that was a scam,” Slick said.
“Leland?” James asked.
“My husband,” Slick said, and James Harris turned his attention to her. “He’s a developer.”
“I’ve been thinking of investing in real estate if I could find the right project,” James Harris said.
Grace’s face looked carved from stone and Patricia really, really wished they’d talk about anything besides money.
“Right now we’re working on a project called Gracious Cay.” Slick beamed. “It’s a gated community we’re building out by Six Mile. It’s going to really elevate the surroundings. Gated communities let you choose your neighbors so the people around you are the kind of people you want around your children. By the time this century is over I expect just about everyone will live in a gated community.”
“I’d be interested in hearing more about it,” James said, which prompted Slick to go into her purse and hand him a business card.
“Where are you from, Mr. Harris?” Grace asked.
Patricia started to say that his father was in the military and he’d grown up all over when James Harris said, “I grew up in South Dakota.”
“I thought your father was in the military?” Patricia asked.
“He was,” James Harris said with a nod. “But he ended his career stationed in South Dakota. My parents got divorced when I was ten, so I was raised by my mother.”
“If everyone’s finished with the third degree,” Maryellen said, “I’d like to get this month’s book over with.”
“Her husband’s a police officer,” Slick pointed out to James. “It’s why she’s so direct. By the way, maybe you want to join us this Sunday at St. Joseph’s?”
Before he could answer, Maryellen said, “Can we please put this book out of my misery?”
Slick gave James Harris a We’ll continue this later smile.
“Didn’t y’all just love The Bridges of Madison County?” she asked. “I thought it was such a relief after last month. Just a good old-fashioned love story between a woman and a man.”
“Who is clearly a serial killer,” Kitty said, keeping her eyes on James Harris.
“I think the world is changing so quickly that people need a hopeful story,” Slick said.
“About a lunatic who travels from town to town seducing women, then killing them,” Kitty said.
“Well,” Slick said. Thrown, she looked down at her notes and cleared her throat again. “We chose this book because it speaks about the powerful attraction that can exist between two strangers.”
“We chose this book so you’d stop going on about it,” Maryellen said.
“I don’t think there’s any actual evidence he’s actually a serial killer,” Slick said.
Kitty picked up her copy, bristling with bright pink Post-it notes, and waggled it in the air.
“He doesn’t have any family ties, no roots, no past,” Kitty said. “He doesn’t even belong to a church. Very suspicious in today’s world. Did you see the new driver’s licenses? They have a little hologram on them. I remember when they were just a piece of cardboard. We are not a society that lets people roam around with no fixed address. Not anymore.”
“He has a fixed address,” Slick protested, but Kitty rolled on.
“Then he sails into town and do you notice he doesn’t talk to anyone? But he targets this Francesca who’s all alone, because that’s what they do. These men find a vulnerable woman and arrange an ‘accidental’ meeting and they’re so smooth and seductive that she invites him into her home. But when he visits he’s very careful no one sees where he parks his truck. Then he takes her upstairs and does things to her for days.”
“It’s a romantic story,” Slick said.
“I think he’s feebleminded,” Kitty said. “Robert Kincaid uses his cameras as hand weights, and he plays folk music on his guitar, and as a child he sang French cabaret songs and covered his walls with words and phrases he found ‘pleasing to his ear.’ Imagine his poor parents.”
“What about you, James Harris?” Maryellen asked. “I’ve never met a man who doesn’t have an opinion: is Robert Kincaid a romantic American icon or a drifter who murders women?”
James Harris flashed a bashful grin.
“Clearly I read a very different book from you ladies,” he said. “But I’m learning a lot here tonight. Carry on.”
At least he was trying, Patricia thought. Everyone else seemed bent on being as unpleasant as possible.
“The lesson of Bridges,” Maryellen said, “is that the man gets to hog all the conversation. Francesca gets less than one page to summarize her entire life. She’s had children and survived World War II in Italy, and all he’s done is get divorced—and maybe kill people, according to Kitty—yet he goes on and on and on about his life for chapter after chapter.”
“Well, he is the main character,” Slick said.
“Why does the man always get to be the main character?” Maryellen asked. “Francesca’s life is at least as interesting as his.”
“If women have something to say they should just say it,” Slick said. “You don’t have to wait for an invitation. Robert Kincaid has hidden depths.”
“Once you’ve washed a man’s underwear you realize the sad truth about hidden depths,” Kitty said.
“He’s…,” Slick groped for wo
rds. “He’s a vegetarian. I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those.”
Thanks to Blue, Patricia knew exactly what Kitty was about to say.
“Hitler was a vegetarian,” Kitty said, proving her right. “Patricia, would you cheat on Carter with a stranger who showed up on your doorstep, with no people, and told you he was a vegetarian? You’d want to at least check his driver’s license first, wouldn’t you?”
Patricia saw Grace, facing her from the other side of the room, stiffen. Then she noticed Slick staring, too, and realized Grace’s gaze was on the hall door behind her. Full of dread, she turned.
“I found your photograph, Hoyt,” Miss Mary said, standing in the doorway, dripping wet and stark naked.
At first Patricia thought she wore some kind of flesh-colored sheet that hung in folds, and then her eyes focused on the angry purple varicose veins scrawled across Miss Mary’s thighs, the livid veins in her sagging breasts, her slack, pendulous belly, and her sparse, gray pubic hair. She looked like a cadaver washed up on the beach.
No one moved for five long, terrible seconds.
“Where’s Daddy’s money?” Miss Mary shouted, voice cracking, staring furiously at James Harris. “Where’s those children, Hoyt?”
Her voice echoed around the room, this shrieking hag from a nightmare, waving a small, white square of cardboard in front of her.
“You thought no one would recognize you, Hoyt Pickens!” Miss Mary howled. “But I have a photograph!”
Patricia heaved herself up out of her chair and scooped the fuzzy blue afghan from its back. She wrapped it around Miss Mary, who kept waving the photograph.
“Look!” Miss Mary crowed. “Look at him.” And as the afghan closed around her, Miss Mary saw the photo in her hand and her face went slack.
“No,” Miss Mary said. “No, that’s not right. Not this one.”
A horrified Mrs. Greene came running from the den.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Greene said.
“It’s all right,” Patricia said, shielding Miss Mary’s nakedness from the room.
“I went to answer the phone,” Mrs. Greene said, taking Miss Mary by her shoulders. “I was only gone for a second.”
“Everything’s all right,” Patricia said, loud enough for everyone to hear as she and Mrs. Greene herded the old lady out of the living room.
“This isn’t right,” Miss Mary said, allowing herself to be led away, all her fight gone. “Not this one.”
They got her to the garage room, Mrs. Greene apologizing all the way. Miss Mary clutched the photograph to her chest as they dried her with towels and Mrs. Greene got her into bed. Patricia went back into the living room but found everyone already in the hall. James Harris was making plans to visit Seewee Farms to meet Horse, and to attend St. Joseph’s, and to meet Leland, and Patricia wanted to ask Grace why she’d been so quiet, but Grace slipped out the door while Patricia was apologizing for Miss Mary, and then everyone drained out the front door, leaving Patricia alone in the hall.
“What’s going on?” Korey called down. Patricia turned and saw her on the upstairs landing. “Why was Granny Mary shouting?”
“It’s nothing,” Patricia said. “She was just confused.”
Patricia went out onto the porch and watched Kitty’s headlights reverse down the driveway. She made a mental note to call everyone the next day to apologize, then went back to the garage room.
Miss Mary lay in her hospital bed, clutching the photo to her chest. Mrs. Greene sat next to her, making up for her previous lapse with extra vigilance now.
“It’s him,” Miss Mary said. “It’s him. I know I have it somewhere.”
Patricia pried the photograph from between Miss Mary’s fingers. It was an old black-and-white shot of the minister from Miss Mary’s church in Kershaw surrounded by grim-faced children clutching Easter baskets.
“I’ll find it,” Miss Mary said. “I’ll find it. I know. I will.”
CHAPTER 10
She sat with Mrs. Greene, reassuring her that it wasn’t her fault, while they waited for Miss Mary to fall back asleep. After the old lady began to breathe deep and regular, she stood in the driveway and watched Mrs. Greene’s car back out and wondered how tonight had gone so wrong. It was partly her fault. She’d ambushed everyone with James Harris and they’d ambushed him back. Partly it was the book. Everyone felt irritated at having to read it, but sometimes they humored Slick because they all felt a little sorry for her. But mostly it was Miss Mary. She wondered if she was getting to be too much for them to handle anymore. If Carter got home from the hospital before eleven she’d bring it up with him.
An intolerably hot wind screamed off the harbor and filled the air with the hiss of bamboo leaves. The air felt heavy and thick and Patricia wondered if it might be making everyone restless. The live oaks whipped their branches in circles overhead. The lone streetlight at the end of the driveway cast a slender silver cone that made the night around it blacker, and Patricia felt exposed. She smelled the ghost of used incontinence pads and spilled coffee grounds, and she saw Mrs. Savage squatting in her nightgown, shoving raw meat in her mouth, and Miss Mary standing naked in the doorway, a skinned squirrel, hair streaming water, waving a useless photograph, and she ran for the front door and slammed it behind her, pushing it hard against the wind, and shot the deadbolt home.
Something small screamed in the kitchen, then all over the house. She realized it was the phone.
“Patricia?” the voice said when she picked up. She didn’t recognize it over the interference at first. “Grace Cavanaugh. I’m sorry to call so late.”
The phone line crackled. Patricia’s heart still pounded.
“Grace, it’s not too late at all,” Patricia said, trying to slow down. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”
“I called to see how Miss Mary is doing,” Grace said.
“She’s asleep.”
“And I wanted you to know that we all understand,” Grace said. “These things happen with the elderly.”
“I’m sorry about James Harris,” Patricia said. “I meant to tell everyone, I just kept putting it off.”
“It’s unfortunate he was there,” Grace said. “Men don’t know what it’s like to care for an aging relative.”
“Are you upset with me?” Patricia asked. In their five years of friendship it was the most direct question she’d ever asked.
“Why would I be upset with you?”
“About inviting James Harris,” Patricia said.
“We’re not schoolgirls, Patricia. I blame the book for the quality of the evening. Good night.”
Grace hung up.
Patricia stood in the kitchen holding the phone for a moment, then hung up. Why wasn’t Carter here? It was his mother. He needed to see her like this, and then maybe he’d understand that they needed more help. The wind rattled the kitchen windows and she didn’t want to be alone downstairs anymore.
She went up and knocked gently on Korey’s door while pushing it open. The lights were out and the room was dark, which confused Patricia. Why on earth was Korey asleep so early? The hall light spilled across Korey’s bed. It was empty.
“Korey?” Patricia said into the darkness.
“Mom,” Korey said from the shadows by her closet, her voice low and even. “There’s someone on the roof.”
Cold water flooded Patricia’s veins. She stepped out of the hall light and into Korey’s bedroom, standing to one side of the door.
“Where?” she whispered.
“Over the garage,” Korey whispered back.
The two of them stood like that for a long moment until Patricia realized she was the only adult in the house, which meant she had to do something. She forced her legs to carry her to the window.
“Don’t let him see you,” Korey said.
Patricia made herse
lf stand right in front of the window, expecting to see the dark shape of a man outlined against the night sky, but she only saw the sharp, black line of the roof’s edge with thrashing bamboo behind it. She jumped when she heard Korey’s voice beside her.
“I saw him,” Korey said. “I promise.”
“He’s not there now,” Patricia said.
She walked to the door and flipped on the overhead light. They both stood, dazzled, while their eyes adjusted. The first thing she saw was a half-empty bowl of old cereal on the windowsill, the milk and corn flakes dried into concrete. She’d asked Korey not to leave food in her room, but her daughter looked scared and vulnerable and Patricia decided not to say anything.
“There’s going to be a storm,” Patricia said. “But I’ll leave your door open and the hall light on so your father remembers to say good night when he comes home.”
She pulled Korey’s comforter back. “Do you want to read your book?”
Her eye caught the top of the blue plastic milk crate Korey used for a bedside table. A copy of ’Salem’s Lot by Stephen King lay on top of a stack of Sassy magazines. Suddenly it all made sense.
Korey saw her see the book. “I didn’t make it up,” she said.
“I don’t think you did,” Patricia said.
Disarmed by Patricia’s refusal to argue, Korey got into bed and Patricia left the bedside lamp on, turned off the overhead light, and left the door open. In his bedroom, Blue was already in bed, covers pulled up.
“Good night, Blue,” Patricia called to him across his dark room.
“There’s a man in the backyard,” Blue said.
“It’s the wind,” she said, picking her way between the clothes and action figures on his floor. “It makes the house sound scary. Do you want me to leave the light on?”
“He climbed up on the roof,” Blue said, and right at that moment Patricia heard a footstep directly overhead.
It wasn’t a limb falling or a branch scraping. It wasn’t the wind making the house creak. Just a few feet over her head came a deliberate, quiet thump.
Her blood stopped in its veins. Her head craned back so far she put a crick in her neck. The silence hummed. Then another quiet thump, this time between her and Blue. Someone was walking on the roof.
The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires Page 9
