by John Saul
“Jeff Benson, you stop that.” Sally cried. “That’s just the kind of thing Susan used to say. And look what happened to her!”
Now Jeff stopped, and his eyes fixed on Sally. “You do believe Michelle did something, don’t you?” he asked. Sally bit her lip and stared at the ground.
“Well, it’s all right if you do,” Jeff told her. “Everybody in town thinks she did something to Susan. Except, I guess nobody knows exactly what.”
They were near the playground now, and Sally suddenly felt a creepy sensation, as though she were being watched. When she turned around, she drew a sudden and involuntary breath: a few feet away, just inside the fence, Michelle stood, facing her, gently pushing a swing while Billy Evans laughed happily and begged to be pushed harder.
For a split second Sally’s eyes met Michelle’s. In that instant, she was sure that Michelle had heard what Jeff had said. There was a look in Michelle’s eyes, a look that frightened Sally. She reached out and took Jeff’s hand.
“Come on,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “She heard you!”
Jeff frowned, then glanced around to see why Sally was suddenly whispering.
He saw Michelle staring at him.
His first impulse was to stare her down, and his eyes narrowed. But Michelle’s gaze never wavered, and her face remained expressionless. Jeff could feel himself losing control. When he finally gave up, and looked away, he tried to act as if he’d done it on purpose.
“Let’s go, Sally,” he said loudly, making sure Michelle would hear him. “If Michelle wants to play with the babies, what do we care?” He started down the street, leaving Sally by herself. She waited a few seconds, confused, wanting to catch up with him. Yet part of her held back, wishing she could somehow apologize to Michelle. Unable to sort it out, she ran off down the street after Jeff’s retreating figure.
Corinne Hatcher glanced up from the tests she was correcting, her automatic smile of greeting fading to a look of concern when she saw June Pendleton framed in the classroom door. There was a haggardness about June as she waited uncertainly at the door, her unease writ plain on her from her windblown hair to her somewhat rumpled skirt. Corinne rose from her chair and waved June into the room.
“Are you all right?” She realized only when it was too late that her words couldn’t help but amplify June’s obvious discomfort. June, however, seemed not to take offense.
“I must look the way I feel,” she said. She tried to smile, but failed. “I—I need to talk to someone, and there just doesn’t seem to be anybody else.”
“I heard about Susan Peterson,” Corinne offered. “It must have been terrible for Michelle.”
Grateful for the teacher’s immediate understanding, June dropped into the chair at one of the undersized desks, then quickly stood up again—the feeling of grossness the tiny desk gave her was more than she could bear.
“That’s one of the reasons I came,” she said. “Did—well, did you notice anything about Michelle today? I mean, anything unusual?”
“I’m afraid today wasn’t one of the better days for any of us,” Corinne replied. “The children were all sort of—how shall I say it? Preoccupied? I guess that’s the best way to put it.”
“Did they say anything? To Michelle?”
Corinne hesitated, then decided there was no reason to keep the truth from June. “Mrs. Pendleton, they didn’t say anything to her. Nothing at all.”
June grasped her meaning immediately.
“I was afraid that would happen,” she said, more to herself than to Corinne. “Miss Hatcher—I don’t know what to do.”
Once again June lowered herself to a seat, suddenly too tired, too defeated by her whole situation to care how she might have looked. This time it was Corinne who drew her to her feet.
“Come on. Let’s go to the teachers’ room and have a cup of coffee. You look as though you need something stronger, but I’m afraid the rules are still the rules around here. And I think it’s time we started calling each other June and Corinne, don’t you?”
Nodding dispiritedly, June let herself be led out of the classroom and down the corridor.
“Do you think your friend can help?” June asked. She had told Corinne what had happened the day before, and how senseless it had all seemed. First Michelle coming home—calm, apparently nothing wrong. And then Cal’s return, and the nightmare beginning.
June recounted everything as it had happened, trying to convey to the teacher the sense of unreality it all had for her. It was, she said at last, as if her whole world had been turned into something out of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—the most horrible things happening, and everyone around her acting as though nothing at all was the matter. She wasn’t sure, really, whether she was more worried about her husband or her daughter, but she had decided, late last night, that Michelle must come first.
Corinne heard the tale out, not interrupting, not questioning, sensing that June needed simply to tell it, to externalize the chaos that had been churning in her mind. Now, as June finished, she nodded thoughtfully.
“I don’t see why Tim couldn’t help,” she said. She stood up and went to the coffee pot, thinking while she refilled her cup and June’s. As she turned back to June, she tried to make her voice sound encouraging.
“Maybe things aren’t as bad as they sound.” She hesitated a moment, unsure what to say. “I know it all seems frightening,” she continued gently, “but I think you’re worrying too much.”
“No!” It was almost a shriek. June’s eyes filled with tears. “My God, if you could hear her, the way she talks about that doll. I swear, I think she really believes that Mandy—she calls her Mandy now—is real!” There was a bleakness in her voice that frightened Corinne.
She took June’s hand in her own, and tried to keep her voice confident. “It is frightening, but it will be all right. Really it will.” Deep inside, she wasn’t nearly as certain as she tried to appear. In the depths of her being, Corinne had a feeling—a feeling that whatever had happened to Michelle, it was beyond their understanding. And that feeling terrified her.
Michelle tried to put Jeff’s words out of her mind as she watched Sally disappear down the street. But they lingered there, echoing in her head, mocking her, tormenting her. She was vaguely aware of Billy Evans, calling out to her to push him harder, but his words seemed distant, as if they were coming to her through a fog.
She let the swing die down, and, when Billy protested, told him she was tired, that she would push him some more another time. Then she moved painfully over to the maple tree, and lowered herself to the grass. She would wait a while, until Jeff and Sally were long gone, before she started the long walk home.
She stretched out on the grass and stared up into the leaves of the tree, which were changing colors with the coming of fall. When she was like this, by herself, with no one around her, the loneliness wasn’t so bad. It was only when she could hear them, or see them, their voices taunting her, their eyes mocking her, that Michelle really hated the children who had been her friends.
Except for Sally. Michelle still wasn’t sure about Sally. Sally seemed better than the others, kinder. Michelle decided to talk to Amanda about Sally. Maybe, if Amanda agreed, they could be friends again. Michelle hoped they could—she really liked Sally, deep down. But still, it was up to Amanda.…
From her classroom window, Corinne watched June cross the playground. She thought there was a reluctance about June, a reluctance to disturb Michelle, as if, as long as she was asleep under the tree, she was safe from whatever chaos was going on in her mind. But as Corinne watched, June knelt and gently awakened Michelle.
Michelle got to her feet stiffly, the pain in her hip visible in her face, even from across the yard. She seemed surprised to see her mother, but at the same time grateful. Taking her mother’s hand, Michelle allowed herself to be led around the corner of the building and out of Corinne’s sight.
Even after they had disappeared
, Corinne remained at the window, the image of Michelle—her shoulders stooped, her hair hanging limp, her spirit defeated by her crippling accident—imprinted on her mind.
It seemed a long time ago, that first day of school, when Michelle had come bouncing into her classroom, bright-eyed, grinning, eager to begin her new life in Paradise Point.
And now, only a few weeks later, it had all changed. Paradise Point? Well, maybe for some people. But not for Michelle Pendleton.
Not now, and Corinne was suddenly sure, probably not ever again.
CHAPTER 20
It was a crisp afternoon, and Corinne walked swiftly, her mind more on June Pendleton’s visit than on the direction she had taken. It wasn’t until she saw the building ahead of her, tucked in a small grove of trees, its walls covered with climbing roses, that she realized that the clinic had been her destination all along. She paused for a moment, reading the neatly lettered sign, with Josiah Carson’s faded name, and freshly lettered above it, that of Calvin Pendleton. The lettering struck Corinne as sad somehow, and it took a few moments before she realized why. It was a sign of the old order giving way to the new. Josiah Carson had been around as long as Corinne could remember. It was difficult to imagine the clinic without him.
She stepped inside the waiting room, and was relieved to see Marion Perkins sitting at the desk, working on the books. Marion, at least, was still going to be here, smoothing the transition between Dr. Carson and Dr. Pendleton. As the little bell attached to the door jangled softly, Marion looked up.
“Corinne!” Her expression as she recognized the teacher was one of welcome mixed with concern and a little surprise. “You know, I had a feeling you might be by today. It’s strange—well, maybe not so strange, really, all things considered. Nearly everybody’s been here today, wanting to talk about Susan Peterson.” The nurse clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Isn’t it terrible? Such a loss for Henry and Estelle. And of course everyone seems to think that little Michelle Pendleton had something to do with it.” She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Frankly, some of the things that people have been saying, I wouldn’t want to repeat.”
“Then don’t,” Corinne said, tempering the shortness of her words with a friendly grin. “Is Uncle Joe here?”
Suddenly abashed at her near indiscretion, Marion reached for the phone. “Let me buzz him, and see if he’s busy.” She pressed the intercom. “Dr. Joe? A surprise for you—Corinne Hatcher’s out here.”
A moment later, the inner door opened, and Josiah Carson appeared, his arms extended, a wide smile wreathing his face, though for a moment Corinne thought she saw something else in his eyes. A sadness? Whenever one of his patients died, particularly a child, Josiah Carson took it hard. Since his own daughter had died, long before Corinne was even born, Carson had lavished his paternal instincts on the children of Paradise Point. But today there was something beyond sadness in his eyes. Something she couldn’t quite identify.
He took Corinne in his arms in a massive bear hug.
“What brings you down here?” he said. “You feeling all right?”
Corinne wriggled herself loose. “I’m fine. I guess—well, I guess I was just worried about you. I know how you get when something happens to one of your children.”
Carson nodded. “It’s never easy,” he said. “Come on into the office, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Carson gestured her to a chair and closed the door. He produced the bottle of bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk, and poured each of them a generous shot, eyeing Corinne carefully.
“All right,” he said, sipping his drink. “What’s up?”
Corinne tasted the bourbon, made a face, and set it aside. Then she met Carson’s eyes.
“Michelle Pendleton,” she said.
Carson nodded, “Doesn’t surprise me. As a matter of fact, I thought you’d be here sooner. Things getting worse?”
“I’m not sure,” Corinne said. “Today must have been horrible for her—none of the children would have anything to do with her. Until yesterday, I thought it was just her limp. But now—well, you know how this town can be. People get blamed for things, even when they aren’t to blame, and nobody ever forgets.” She picked up her drink, sipped at it, then set it aside once again. “Uncle Joe,” she said suddenly, “is Michelle all right?”
“It depends on what you mean. You’re talking about her mind, aren’t you?”
Corinne shifted in her chair. “I’m not sure,” she said. “In fact, I didn’t really know I was coming down here until I found myself out in front. But I guess my subconscious was trying to tell me something.” She paused for a moment, and suddenly drained half of her drink. “Have you heard about Michelle’s imaginary friend?” she asked as casually as she could.
Carson frowned. “Imaginary friend?” he repeated, as if the words had no meaning to him. “You mean the kind of thing very small children do?”
“Exactly,” Corinne said. “Apparently it all started with a doll. I’m not sure exactly what kind, but Mrs. Pendleton told me that it’s old—very old. Michelle found it in the bedroom closet when they moved in.”
Carson scratched his head as if puzzled, then nodded. “I know what it looks like,” he said smoothly. “It is old. Porcelain face, old-fashioned clothes, a little bonnet. She had it on the bed with her when I saw her right after the accident. You mean she’s decided it’s real?”
Corinne nodded soberly. “Apparently. And guess what she’s named it?”
“She told me she named it Amanda.”
“Amanda,” Corinne repeated. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” She finished her drink and held her glass out. “Am I old enough for a second drink?”
Wordlessly, Carson refilled her glass and his own. “Well,” he said abruptly. “Apparently she’s heard some stories about the Point.”
Corinne shook her head. “That’s what I thought. But June told me she named the doll as soon as she found it. The very day they arrived.”
“I see,” Carson said. “Then it was just a coincidence.”
“Was it?” Corinne said softly. “Uncle Joe, who was Amanda? I mean, was she real? Or are they just stories?”
Carson leaned back in his chair. He’d never talked about Amanda, and didn’t want to start now. But apparently the talk had already started, as he’d known it must. The thing to do was to direct it.
“She was my great-aunt, actually, or would have been if she’d lived,” he said carefully.
“And what happened to her?” Corinne asked.
“Who knows? She was blind, and she stumbled off the bluff one day. As far as anyone knows, that’s all there was to it.” But there was something in his voice—a hesitation perhaps?—that made Corinne wonder if there wasn’t something more.
“You sound as though you know more than that.” When Carson made no response, she pushed him again. “Do you?”
“You mean, do I believe in the ghost story?”
“No. Do you believe that’s all there was to it?”
“I don’t know. My grandfather, who was Amanda’s brother, believed there was more to it.”
Corinne said nothing.
Carson leaned back in his chair and turned to look out the window.
“You know,” he said slowly, “when the Carsons named this town Paradise Point, they didn’t really have the setting in mind. It was more an idea, I guess you could call it. An idea of paradise, right here on earth.” His voice was filled with an irony that Corinne couldn’t miss.
“I knew the Carsons were ministers,” she said.
Josiah nodded, “Fundamentalist. The real fire and brimstone variety. My great-grandfather, Lemuel Carson, was the last of them, though.”
“What happened?”
“Lots of things, from what Grandfather told me. It started when Amanda lost her sight. Old Lemuel decided it was an act of God, and he tried to pass Amanda off as a martyr. He always made her dress in black. Poo
r little girl. It must have been hard for her—what with her blindness and all. She must have been a lonely little thing.”
“And she was all alone when she fell off the bluff?”
“Apparently. Grandfather never said. He never talked about it much. I always got the idea there was something odd about it, though. Of course, he never did talk much about the family at all—too many serpents in Lemuel’s paradise.”
“Aren’t there always?” Corinne observed, but Josiah didn’t seem to hear her.
“It was Lemuel’s wife,” he went on. “It seems she had something of a wandering eye. Grandfather always thought it was a reaction to Lemuel’s constant hell and damnation sermonizing.”
“You mean your great-grandmother was having an affair?”
Carson smiled. “She must have been quite a woman. Grandfather said she was beautiful, but that she never should have married his father.”
“Louise Carson,” Corinne whispered, “ ‘Died in Sin.’ ”
“Murdered,” Josiah said softly. Corinne’s eyes widened in surprise. “It happened out in that building June Pendleton uses for a studio. Lemuel found her out there, with one of her lovers. Both of them were dead. Stabbed to death.”
“My God,” Corinne breathed. She could feel her stomach tighten, and wondered for a moment if she was going to be sick.
“Of course, everyone sort of assumed Lemuel had done it,” Josiah said, “but he had the whole town pretty much under his thumb, and in those days an unfaithful wife wasn’t particularly highly regarded. They probably thought she’d gotten what she deserved. Lemuel wouldn’t even give her a funeral.”
“I always figured the inscription on the gravestone must have meant something like that,” Corinne said. “When I was a little girl, we used to go out there, and read the headstones.”
“And look for the ghost?”
Again, Corinne nodded.
“And did you ever see her?”
Corinne pondered her answer for a long time. Finally, reluctantly, she shook her head.
Carson noted her hesitation. “Are you sure, Corinne?” His voice was very soft.
