by Terry Brooks
She believed, though she refused as yet to let herself accept it fully and unconditionally, that it had to do with the fact that he was her father.
By the time her grandfather pulled the old pickup down the drive and next to the house, she had made up her mind to confront Gran. She stepped out into the heat, the midday temperature already approaching one hundred, the air thick with dampness and the pungent smell of scorched grasses and weeds, the wide-spread limbs of the big shade trees languid and motionless beneath the sun’s relentless assault. Nest walked to the porch, stooped to give Mr. Scratch an ear rub, then went inside. Gran was sitting at the kitchen table in a flowered housedress and slippers, sipping a bourbon and water and smoking a cigarette. She looked up as Nest passed by on her way to her bedroom, but didn’t say anything. Nest went into her room, slipped off the dress, slip, shoes, and stockings, and put on her running shorts, a T-shirt that said Never Grow Up, and tennis shoes and socks. She could hear her grandparents talking down the hall. Gran was asking about John Ross, and she didn’t seem happy with what she was hearing. Old Bob was telling her to keep her voice down. Nest took a moment to brush her hair while they finished the hottest portion of their conversation, then went back down the hall to the kitchen.
They stopped talking as she entered, but she pretended she didn’t notice. She walked to the refrigerator and looked inside. The smell of fried chicken still lingered in the air, so she wasn’t surprised to find a container of it sitting on the top shelf. There was also a container of potato salad, one of raw vegetables soaking in water, and a bowl of Jell-O. When had Gran done all this? Had she done it while they were in church?
She glanced over her shoulder at the old woman. “I’m amazed,” she said, smiling. “It looks great.”
Gran nodded. “I had help from the wood fairies.” She shot Old Bob a pointed look.
Old Bob responded with a strangely sweet, lopsided grin. “You’ve never needed any help from wood fairies, Evelyn. Why, you could teach them a thing or two.”
Gran actually blushed. “Old man,” she muttered, smiling back at him. Then the smile fell away, and she reached down for her drink. “Nest, I’m sorry about Mrs. Browning. She was a good woman.”
Nest nodded. “Thanks, Gran.”
“Are you feeling all right now?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. You both had phone calls while you were in church. Cass Minter called for you, Nest. And Mel Riorden wants you to call him right away, Robert. He said it was urgent.”
Old Bob watched wordlessly as she took a long pull on her drink. He was still wearing his suit coat, and he took time now to slip it off. He looked suddenly rumpled and tired. “All right. I’ll take care of it. Excuse me, please.”
He turned and disappeared down the hallway. Nest took a deep breath, walked over to the kitchen table, and sat down across from her grandmother. Sunlight spilled through the south window and streaked the tabletop, its brightness diffused by the limbs of the shade trees and the lace curtains so that intricate patterns formed on the laminated surface. It fell across Gran’s hands as they lay resting beside her ashtray and drink and made them look mottled and scaly. The tabletop felt warm, and Nest pressed her palms against it, edging her fingers into one of the more decorative markings of shadows and light, disrupting its symmetry.
“Gran,” she said, then waited for the old woman to look at her. “I was in the park last night.”
Gran nodded. “I know. I was up and looked in on you. You weren’t there, so I knew where you’d gone. What were you doing?”
Nest told her. “I know it sounds a little weird, but it wasn’t. It was interesting.” She paused. “Actually, it was scary, too. At least, part of it was. I saw something I don’t understand. I had this … vision, I guess. A sort of daydream—except it was night, of course. It was about you.”
She watched her grandmother’s eyes turn cloudy and unfocused. Gran reached for her cigarette and drew the smoke deep into her lungs. “About me?”
Nest held her gaze. “You were much younger, and you were in the park at night, just like me. But you weren’t alone. You were surrounded by feeders. You were running with them. You were part of them.”
The silence that followed was palpable.
Old Bob closed the door to his den and stood looking into space. His den was on the north side of the house and shaded by a massive old shagbark hickory, but the July heat penetrated even here. Old Bob didn’t notice. He laid his suit coat on his leather easy chair and put his hands on his hips. He loved Evelyn, but he was losing her. It was the drinking and the cigarettes, but it was mostly Caitlin and all the things the two of them had shared and kept from him. There was a secret history between them, one that went all the way back to the time of Caitlin’s birth—maybe even further than that. It involved this nonsense about feeders and magic. It involved Nest’s father. It went way beyond anything reasonable, and it imprisoned Evelyn behind a wall he could not scale, a wall that had become impenetrable since Caitlin had killed herself.
There. He had said the words. Since Caitlin had killed herself.
He closed his eyes to stop the tears from coming. It might have been an accident, of course. She might have gone into the park that night, just as she had done as a child, and slipped and fallen from the cliffs. But he didn’t believe it for a minute. Caitlin knew the park like she knew the back of her hand. Like Nest did. Like Evelyn. It had always been a part of their lives. Even Evelyn had grown up in a house that adjoined the park. They were a part of it in the same way as the trees and the burial mounds and the squirrels and birds and all the rest. No, Caitlin didn’t slip and fall. She killed herself.
And he still didn’t know why.
He stared out the window at the drive leading up to Sinnissippi Road. It was hard losing Caitlin, but he thought it would be unbearable if he lost Evelyn. Their time together spanned almost fifty years; he couldn’t remember what his life had been like before her. There really wasn’t anything without her. He hated the drinking and the smoking, hated the way she had retired to the kitchen table and taken up residence, and hated the hard way she had come to view her life. But he would rather have her that way than not have her at all.
But what was he going to do to keep her? She was slipping away from him, one day at a time, as if she were sitting in a raft with the mooring lines slipped, drifting slowly out to sea while he stood helplessly on the shore and watched. He clasped his big hands before him and shrugged his shoulders. He was strong and smart and his life was marked by his accomplishments, but he did not know what to do to save her.
He reached up and loosened his tie. What could he do, after all, that would make a difference? Was there anyone who could tell him? He had spoken with Ralph Emery, but the minister had told him that Evelyn had to want to be helped before anyone could reach her. He had come out to the house to talk with her once or twice, but Evelyn had shown no interest in reaching out. Nest was the only one she cared about, and he thought sometimes that maybe Nest made a small difference in Evelyn just by being there. But Nest was still a child, and there was only so much a child could do.
Besides, he thought uneasily, Nest was too much like her grandmother for comfort.
He pulled off his tie, draped it over the easy chair with his coat, and walked to the phone to call Mel Riorden. He dialed, and the phone rang only once before Mel picked up.
“Riorden.”
“Mel? It’s Bob Freemark.”
“Yeah, thanks for calling back. I appreciate it.”
Old Bob smiled to himself. “What were you doing, standing by the phone waiting for me?”
“Something like that. This isn’t funny. I’ve got a problem.” Mel Riorden’s tone of voice made that abundantly apparent, but Old Bob said nothing, waiting Mel out. “You have to keep this to yourself, Bob, if I tell you. You have to promise me that. I wouldn’t involve you if I didn’t have to, but I can’t let this thing slide and I don’t know how to deal with it
. I’ve already tried and been told to go to hell.”
Old Bob pulled back the desk chair and seated himself. “Well, this doesn’t have to go beyond you and me if you don’t want it to, Mel. Why don’t you just tell me what it is?”
Mel Riorden gave a worried sigh. “It’s Derry. The kid’s more trouble than a dozen alligators in the laundry chute and stupid to boot. If he wasn’t my sister’s kid …” He trailed off. “Well, you’ve heard it all before. Anyway, I’m in church for the early mass with Carol and a couple of the grandkids. Al Garcia’s there, too. With Angie and their kids. So afterward, I go in for a coffee and a cookie like everyone else. I say hello to Al and Angie, to a couple of others. Everyone’s having a nice visit. I’m standing there, munching my cookie, sipping my coffee, Carol’s off with the grandkids, all’s right with the world, and up comes my sister. She looks really bad, worried as can be, all bent out of shape. First off, I think she’s been drinking. But then I see it’s something else. She says to me, ‘Mel, you got to talk to him. You got to find out what’s going on and put a stop to it.’ ”
“Put a stop to what?”
“I’m coming to that.” Mel Riorden paused, arranging his thoughts in the silence. “See, I keep thinking of those newspaper stories we joke about over coffee at Josie’s. The ones about the people who suddenly go berserk. Their minds snap and they go crazy, insane, for no real reason. You wonder how it could happen, how the people who know them could let it. It’s like that. Like that schoolteacher walking in and killing all those kindergarten kids in Mississippi because he’d lost his job. You read about that in today’s paper?”
Old Bob shook his head at the phone. “I haven’t read the paper yet. I just got back from church myself.”
“Yeah, well, that’s one good reason for being Catholic. You get church out of the way early and have the rest of the day to yourself. Al and I talked it over once, the advantages of being Catholic over being Protestant …”
“Mel.” Old Bob stopped him midsentence. “What about Derry? Are you saying he’s planning to kill someone?”
“No, not exactly.” Mel Riorden paused. “Hold on a minute, will you? I want to make sure Carol’s not back from the store yet.” He put down the phone and was gone for a minute before picking it up again. “I don’t want her to hear any of this. I don’t want anyone to hear.”
“You want to meet me someplace private and talk about this?” Old Bob asked him.
“No, I want to get it out of the way right now. Besides, I don’t know how much time we’ve got if we’re going to do anything.”
“Do anything? What are we going to do, Mel?”
“Bear with me.” Mel Riorden cleared his throat. “My sister tells me, when I get her calmed down a bit and off to the side, that someone called her, some friend, and said they’d heard that Derry was out at Scrubby’s last night drinking with Junior Elway and talking about some plan to shut down MidCon. The conversation wasn’t all that clear, but there was some mention of an accident, maybe someone getting killed.”
Old Bob shook his head slowly. “Maybe they heard it wrong.”
“Well, with anyone else, you might shrug it off to talk and booze. But Derry’s been short-circuited since Vietnam, and he knows a lot about weapons and explosives. My sister begs me to talk to him. I don’t want to do that, because I know Derry thinks I’m an old fart, but I tell her I’ll give it a try. So when I get home, I give him a call. He’s sleeping, and I wake him. He’s not pleased. I decide it’s best to get right to the point. I tell him about the conversation with my sister and ask him if there’s anything to it. He tells me, hell, yes, there’s a lot to it, but it’s got nothing to do with me. I tell him he’d better think twice about whatever it is. First off, people already know that if something happens, it’s because of him; he made sure of that at the tavern. Second, anything he does outside the union will just get him in trouble with us. He says he doesn’t care who knows and that the only way anything will ever get done is outside the union.”
“What do you think he’s got in mind?” Old Bob pressed.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. But he might tell you. He’s still got some respect for you, which is something he doesn’t have for me. And I think maybe he’s a little afraid of you. Not physically, but … you know, of your reputation. If you were to ask him what he’s planning, he might open up.” There was a long pause. “Bob, I don’t know who else to turn to.”
Old Bob nodded, thinking it over. Derry Howe was full of himself and his wild ideas, but he was mostly talk. The danger came from his army training and his inability to adjust to any kind of normal life since his return from Vietnam. Mel was right about that; you couldn’t just dismiss his talk out of hand.
“Bob, are you still there?”
“I’m here,” he answered. He didn’t want any part of this. He wasn’t sure at all that Derry Howe thought anything about him one way or the other. He wasn’t sure at all that Derry would give him the time of day. Mel had more faith in him than he had in himself. Besides, he had problems of his own that needed his attention, and the biggest was sitting just down the hall in the kitchen. This whole business with Derry sounded like trouble he didn’t need. “I don’t know, Mel,” he said.
“You and Evelyn going to the park today? For a picnic and the dance? Didn’t you say you were?”
“We’re going.”
“Well, Derry will be there, too. He’s going to enter the horseshoe tournament with Junior and some others. All I’m asking is that you take five minutes of your time and talk with him. Just ask him what’s up, that’s all. If he won’t tell you, fine. But maybe he will. Maybe, if it’s you.”
Old Bob shook his head. He didn’t want to get involved in this. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his free hand. “All right, Mel,” he said finally. “I’ll give it a try.”
There was an audible sigh of relief. “Thanks, Bob. I’ll see you there. Thanks.”
Old Bob placed the receiver gently back on the cradle. After a moment, he stood up and went over to open the door again.
“Nest, I want you to listen to me,” Gran said quietly.
They were seated at the kitchen table, facing each other in the hazy sunlight, eyes locked. Gran’s hands were shaking, and she put one on top of the other to keep them still. Nest saw disappointment and anger and sadness in her eyes all at the same time, and she was suddenly afraid.
“I won’t lie to you,” Gran said. “I have tried never to lie to you. There are things I haven’t told you. Some you don’t need to know. Some I can’t tell you. We all have secrets in our lives. We are entitled to that. Not everything about us should be known. I expect you understand that, being who you are. Secrets allow us space in which to grow and change as we must. Secrets give us privacy where privacy is necessary if we are to survive.”
She started to reach for her drink and stopped. At her elbow, her cigarette was burned to ash. She glanced at it, then away. She sighed wearily, her eyes flicking back to Nest.
“Was it you, Gran?” Nest asked gently. “In the park, with the feeders?”
Gran nodded. “Yes, Nest, it was.” She was silent a moment, a bundle of old sticks inside the housecoat. “I have never told anyone. Not my parents, not your grandfather, not even Caitlin—and God knows, I should at least have told her. But I didn’t. I kept that part of my life secret, kept it to myself.”
She reached across the table for Nest’s hand and took it in her own. Her hands were fragile and warm. “I was young and headstrong and foolish. I was proud. I was different, Nest, and I knew it—different like you are, gifted with use of the magic and able to see the forest creatures. No one else could see what I saw. Not my parents, not my friends, not anyone. It set me apart from everyone, and I liked that. My aunt, Opal Anders, my mother’s sister, was the last to have the magic before me, and she had died when I was still quite young. So for a time, there was only me. I lived by the park, and I escaped into it whenever I could.
It was my own private world. There was nothing in my other life that was anywhere near as intriguing as what waited for me in the park. I came at night, as you do. I found the feeders waiting for me—curious, responsive, eager. They wanted me there with them, I could tell. They were anxious to see what I would do. So I came whenever I could, mingling with them, trailing after them, always watching, wondering what they were, waiting to see what they would do next. I was never afraid. They never threatened me. There didn’t seem to be any reason not to be there.”
She shook her head slowly, her lips tightening. “As time passed, I became more comfortable with feeders than with humans. I was as wild as they were; I was as uninhibited. I ran with them because that was what made me feel good. I was self-indulgent and vain. I think I knew there was danger in what I was doing, but it lacked an identity, and in the absence of knowing there was something bad about what I was doing, I just kept doing it. My parents could not control me. They tried keeping me in my room, tried reasoning with me, tried everything. But the park was mine, and I was not about to give it up.”
A car backfired somewhere out on Woodlawn, and Gran stopped talking for a moment, staring out the window, squinting into the hot sun. Nest felt the old woman’s hand tighten about her own, and she squeezed back to let Gran know it was all right.
“The Indian had no right to tell you,” Gran said finally. “No right.”
Nest shook her head. “I don’t think it was Two Bears, Gran. I don’t think he was the one.”
Gran didn’t seem to hear. “Why would he do such a thing? Whatever possessed him? He doesn’t even know me.”
Nest sighed, picturing Two Bears dancing with the spirits of the Sinnissippi, seeing anew the vision of Gran, wild-eyed and young, at one with the feeders. “When did you stop, Gran?” she asked softly. “When did you quit going into the park?”
Gran’s head jerked up, and there was a flash of fear in her narrowed eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
