by John Saul
“And you,” Phillip added.
“And me, and in a few months, a new baby as well. And I just keep thinking maybe I’m being unfair to Beth. She’s so unhappy here, and it doesn’t seem to matter what you or I do. Sometimes I feel as though we’re both caught in the middle.”
“I know,” Phillip agreed. Giving her shoulders one more squeeze, he wandered over to the window, and looked out into the night. From here, at the front of the house, he could barely make out the upper ring of the mausoleum, glowing softly in the moonlight. Up there, at least, it looked peaceful. If only they could make the house peaceful, too.
“Let’s not make any decisions now,” he said. “Let’s give it a little more time, and see what happens. I hate giving up. Another few days, all right? And then we’ll talk to Alan.”
Carolyn nodded, and looked at herself in the mirror once more.
She not only looked tired now, she thought. She looked defeated as well.
In the corridor outside, Tracy padded silently away from the door to her father’s bedroom.
She hadn’t heard every word—the wood was too thick for that—but she’d heard enough.
They were thinking about sending Beth away. That was exactly what Tracy wanted. But it wouldn’t be forever.
When the baby came, they’d bring her back, and then it would be worse than ever.
She had to figure out how to convince them that Beth was crazy so they’d send her away and never let her come back again.
She went back to her room, and got into bed. The television was on, and though she was looking at it, she wasn’t really seeing it. She was thinking.
By the time her father came in to say good night twenty minutes later, she had figured it out. When he leaned over to kiss her, she slipped her hands around his neck, and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Daddy,” she said quietly. “I love you, and I really am sorry about what happened with Beth tonight. From now on, I’ll do my best to be nice to her. All right?”
She felt her father’s body stiffen for a moment, then relax as he returned her hug. “Thanks, Princess,” he said into her ear. “That would really help out.”
“Then I’ll do it,” Tracy whispered, giving him one more kiss, then rolling over in bed. “Good night, Daddy.”
When he was gone, she rolled back over and lay staring at the ceiling. When the house was silent and she was sure everyone had gone to sleep, she got out of bed, and quickly dressed.
A minute later, she was down the stairs and out of the house, moving across the terrace, then disappearing into the night.
18
The warmth of the morning woke Beth early, and she stretched luxuriously, then kicked the covers off and got out of bed. But a moment later, as she came fully awake and remembered last night’s fight with Tracy, her good feeling vanished.
It would be another day just like all the rest—a day of trying not to make any mistakes, of trying to stay out of Tracy’s way, of not knowing what to do next.
Maybe she should go down to the village and find Peggy.
Or maybe, instead of looking for Peggy, she should go to the mill. Maybe, if she promised to stay out of everyone’s way, her father would let her spend the day at the mill. Then, while everyone was busy, she could go down into the basement, and sneak into the little room under the stairs. And Amy would be there, waiting for her.
They could sit in the dark together, and Beth could talk to her. It would be nice, Beth thought, to be alone in someplace cool and dark and quiet, with no one around except a friend who wouldn’t laugh at you, or tease you, no matter what you said. That’s the kind of friend, she was sure, that Amy would be to her. Someone for her to talk to when she got so lonely she felt like no one in the world wanted her, or understood her, or cared about her.
She began dressing, then looked at the clock. It was only seven-thirty. Hannah would be in the kitchen, starting breakfast, but neither Peter nor Mr. Smithers would have come to work yet.
Maybe she should go down to the stable and visit Patches before Peter got there. Because Peggy, she was sure, would have told Peter what happened yesterday. Peggy always told everybody everything, and by now Peter probably would have decided she was crazy, too.
What if he told her she couldn’t come to the stable anymore? That, she decided, would be awful. Going down to see the horses in the morning was the best part of every day. Still, it hadn’t happened yet, and even if it did, she could just start getting up earlier every day.
She tied her tennis shoes, then quickly made her bed and put away the clothes she’d been wearing last night. Then she left her room, and glanced down the hall in both directions, listening. She heard nothing. Both Tracy’s door and her mother’s door were still closed. Everybody but her was still asleep. She scurried down the stairs, and through the long living room, then slowed down as she crossed the dining room. She could almost feel the portraits of all the dead Sturgesses glaring disapprovingly down on her, even though she always did her best not to look at them. When she came to the butler’s pantry, she let out an almost audible sigh of relief. Here, in Hannah’s territory, she always felt more comfortable. Finally she pushed open the kitchen door.
“Must be a quarter to eight,” Hannah said without turning from the stove where she was scrambling some eggs. “You’re getting to be as regular as clockwork. Orange juice is in the refrigerator, and the eggs’ll be done in a minute.”
“I could have made my own eggs,” Beth said as she reached into the refrigerator and brought out the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. Even though she hated the pulp in it, she wouldn’t hurt Hannah’s feelings by telling her so, so she poured a big glass, then took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut tight, and tried to drink it all in one gulp. When she was finished, she opened her eyes to see the housekeeper shaking her head sympathetically.
“Don’t see how you can do that,” Hannah said, her face serious but her eyes twinkling. “The pulp in that stuff makes me gag. I always have to strain it, myself.”
Beth’s eyes widened in surprise; then she giggled, and sat down at the table to dig into the plate of eggs that was now waiting for her. When she was finished, she scraped the leavings into the sink, rinsed the plate, then picked up the waiting bag of garbage and headed out the back door. She dumped the trash in the barrel as she crossed the little terrace, then waved to Ben Smithers, who was busy in the rose garden.
She ran all the way to the door of the stable. As soon as she stepped inside, she knew that Peter, as she’d hoped, was not there yet. There was a stillness in the little barn—a quiet that was broken only by the soft snufflings of the horses as they became aware that someone had come into the stable.
Beth let herself relax as she closed the stable door behind her, and started down the aisle toward Patches’s stall. The big mare was stretching her neck out as far as she could, and whinnying softly.
“Hi, Patches,” Beth whispered, reaching up to scratch the horse’s ears. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
The horse snuffled, pawing at the floor of her stall, then tried to poke her nose into the pocket of Beth’s jeans. Across the stall, the feed trough was empty.
“I don’t see why Peter can’t leave you something to eat during the night,” Beth told the big mare, scratching her affectionately between the ears. “What if you get hungry?”
The horse snorted softly, and her head bobbed as if she had understood every word Beth said, and agreed with her. That, Beth decided, was the neatest thing about Patches—she could say anything to her, and never have to worry about whether the horse believed her or not.
It wasn’t at all like it was with people. With people, if you said something that sounded just a little bit strange, they started calling you crazy.
Either that, or they didn’t believe you were telling them the truth.
Beth sighed, hugged Patches’s neck, then started down the aisle toward the feed bins to find something for the horse to eat. The hay wasn’t down y
et, but there was a big sack of oats beneath the hayloft.
As she found a pail and began filling it with oats, Beth wondered if anyone would ever believe that Amy was real.
So far, it didn’t seem like anyone would.
Except for old Mrs. Sturgess.
But had the old lady really believed her, or was she just pretending to for some reason that Beth couldn’t understand? Yet if she was only pretending, why would she have said that when she came home from the hospital she’d show Beth something that proved there really was a girl named Amy? And why would she have asked Beth what Amy wanted?
Beth didn’t think Amy wanted anything. All she wanted was for them to be friends.
She took the pailful of oats back to Patches’s stall, opened the door, and let herself inside.
“Look what I’ve got for you,” she said, holding the pail up close to the big mare’s nose.
The horse sniffed at the pail, then backed away, tossing her head.
“It’s only oats,” Beth said, moving slowly forward until she could reach out and take hold of Patches’s halter. “You like oats, remember?”
She offered the pail once more, but the horse, sniffing at it again, tried to pull her head away. But Beth, prepared for it, tightened her grip on the halter, and held Patches in place.
“Maybe she doesn’t want any,” she heard a voice say from behind her. “Maybe she’s not hungry.”
Beth felt herself redden, and whirled around to see Tracy standing at the stall door, smiling in that superior way of hers that never failed to make Beth feel stupid. “She likes oats,” she said. “She just wants me to feed her, that’s all.”
“She doesn’t want you to feed her.” Tracy sneered. “She doesn’t even like you. She just wants you to go away!”
“That’s not true!” Beth flared, stung. “Watch!”
Still holding on to the horse’s halter with one hand, she set the pail on the floor, then took a handful of the grain and held it up for Patches’s inspection.
The big horse eyed the grain, then tentatively opened her mouth and licked. Beth raised her hand, and the horse’s lips curled out, closed, and pulled in the oats. As she munched slowly, then swallowed, Beth reached down for another handful.
“That’s the way,” she crooned softly as the horse ate the second handful. “See how good they are?”
“Big deal,” Tracy replied, her voice scornful. “A horse will eat anything, if you shove it into its mouth.” Snickering, she turned away, and left the stable as silently as she’d come.
Beth felt a sudden stinging in her eyes, and glared after Tracy. “But you do like me,” Beth said to Patches when she was once again alone with the horse. “You like me better than anyone, don’t you?”
She picked up the pail, and held it while Patches, snuffling with apparent contentment, finished off the oats. Then, patting the horse on the neck, Beth let go of her halter and left the stall to take the bucket to the sink, wash it, and return it to its place by the tackroom door.
She was just about to turn Patches out into the paddock when she heard her mother’s voice calling her to come in. She hesitated, then patted the horse once more. “I’ll be back later,” she promised. “And maybe we can go for a ride. Okay?” The horse whinnied softly, and her tail flicked up. Then her tongue came out to give Beth’s hand a final lick. “Who cares what Tracy thinks? Who cares what anyone thinks?”
But as she left the stable, Peter Russell was coming in, and Beth could tell by the way he looked at her that Peggy had, indeed, told him all about yesterday morning. And though he said nothing, Beth felt herself redden. She did, after all, care what people thought.
Beth was just coming back into the stable an hour later when she heard Patches’s first high-pitched whinny, followed by the crash of hooves against the wooden walls of the stall.
She raced down the broad aisle between the two rows of stalls and got to the big mare just in time to see the horse rear up, her forelegs lashing at the air, then drop back down. She stamped her feet, then once more reared, her teeth bared and her mouth open as if she were trying to bite some unseen enemy.
Terrified, Beth backed away from the stall. “Peter!” she yelled. “Come quick!”
But Peter was already there, coming out of the stall that belonged to the big Arabian stallion named Thunder. He stared at Patches in amazement for a moment, then dashed down the aisle between the two rows of stalls, climbed the fence into the paddock, and hurried back toward Patches’s stall. As the mare, her eyes glazed now, bolted out of the stable, Peter made a grab for her halter, but missed. Bucking and snorting, Patches moved out into the center of the paddock, then stopped for a moment, glancing around wildly, as if searching for the unseen attacker. Then she dropped to the ground, and began rolling over, her legs thrashing violently. A moment later Beth, her face ashen, appeared at the open stall door.
“Peter, what’s wrong with her?”
Peter hesitated, his eyes fixed on the agonized horse. “I don’t know,” he said. “Get me the lead, then go up to the house and have someone call the vet.”
Beth darted back into the stable, grabbed a lead, then ran back outside and gave it to Peter. She stared at Patches for a moment, then dashed to the paddock fence, climbed over it, and charged up the slope toward the house.
A moment later she burst through the back door, calling out for Hannah.
“What is it, child?” Hannah asked, bustling out of her room.
“It’s Patches,” Beth gasped. “Hannah, we have to call the vet right away. Something’s wrong with Patches! I … I think she’s dying!”
As Beth and her mother, together with Phillip and Tracy Sturgess, looked on, Paul Garvey shook his head, and slid a large needle into a vein in Patches’s right foreleg. He pressed the plunger on the hypodermic home, and a moment later Patches shuddered, seemed to sigh, then lay still.
“It’s better this way,” the veterinarian said softly, rising to his feet. “There wasn’t any way to bring her out of that.”
“But it was colic, wasn’t it?” Phillip asked, his eyes leaving the dead horse to fix anxiously on Garvey.
“I never saw a case that violent before,” Garvey replied. “If I had to bet, I’d put my money on poison.”
“Poison?” Carolyn echoed, her eyes widening. “But who—”
“I’d like to check her feed,” Garvey interrupted, his attention shifting to Peter Russell. “Any of the other horses showing any symptoms like this?”
Peter shook his head. “They hadn’t even been fed yet. At least not Patches. I’d just filled Thunder’s trough, and Patches would have been next.”
The vet frowned. “The horse hadn’t eaten anything?” he asked, his voice conveying his doubt.
It was Tracy who answered him. “It was Beth,” she said, her voice quivering with apparent fury. “Beth was feeding her oats this morning.”
Garvey’s frown deepened. “Oats?” he echoed. “How much?”
“A whole bucketful,” Tracy said. “They’re in that bag over there.” She pointed to the big feedsack that still sat against the wall beneath the hayloft, and Garvey walked quickly over, reached deep into the sack, and pulled out a handful. Holding the feed close to his nose, he sniffed deeply. Garvey frowned, then sniffed again.
“Well?” Phillip asked.
“Doesn’t smell right,” Garvey said. “I’ll take some of this back to my lab. In the meantime, don’t let any of the other horses anywhere near this stuff.”
There was a moment of silence as the import of his words sank in, and then suddenly Tracy’s voice, shrill and angry, sliced through the stable once more. “She poisoned her! She poisoned my horse!”
Beth gasped, and turned to look at Tracy, who was pointing at her accusingly. “I didn’t do anything—” she began, but Tracy cut her off.
“You killed her!” she screamed. “Just because you hate me, you killed my horse! She didn’t even want those oats! I saw you, and you were maki
ng her eat them. You were shoving them right into her mouth!” She lunged toward Beth, but her father grabbed her, holding her back.
“Tracy, nobody would try to kill Patches—”
“She did!” Tracy wailed. “She poisoned the oats, and then made her eat them.”
Beth stared at Tracy for a moment, and suddenly remembered the way Patches had snorted, and tried to pull away from the pail. It wasn’t until she’d taken the food in her own hand, and almost shoved it into the horse’s mouth, that the animal had finally eaten it. Bursting into tears, she wheeled around and fled from the barn.
As Phillip held his crying daughter close, he and Carolyn exchanged a long look. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of silent decision-making, he spoke.
“I’ll call Alan,” he said quietly. “I guess maybe it’s time we did something.”
As he spoke the words, he thought for a moment that he felt Tracy relax against his body, and her sobbing seemed to ease.
Tracy Sturgess emerged from the swimming pool at the Westover Country Club, grabbed a towel, and flopped down on the lawn, shaking the water out of her hair. She’d been at the club for an hour, and even though no one had told her, she was almost sure she knew why her father had suddenly suggested—even insisted—that she come here this afternoon.
They were going to move Beth out of the house while she was gone.
And almost as good as that was the fact that her father had promised her a new horse, and even given in when she’d demanded an Arabian just like Thunder. She’d had to cry, of course, and act as though losing Patches was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, but that was easy. She’d always been good at things like that.
Now she propped her head up on one arm, and grinned at Alison Babcock, who was her best friend this summer. “What’s everybody talking about?” she asked.
