Even Lynn heard the shot, way down in her dream of a life she used to know. Or maybe it was a life she dreamed of, the kind of life that is lived on Sesame Street, where the houses sit in neat rows, with flower boxes in all the windows, where it doesn’t ever seem to snow. It was a loud pop, and it reminded Lynn of the corn she had popped for the first storm of winter. Pike had wrapped his husbandly fingers around her throat that night, too, hadn’t he? And yet here she was, still in the same defense position.
“Something awful has happened out there in the real world,” Lynn thought, and she came back to it, like a drowning woman coming up to the sunny surface for air. “Something awful has happened,” she thought again as Pike’s hand left her throat.
“Get up, Bill,” Pike said. Billy was down on the floor. What was Billy doing on the floor? Pike was the one who always got falling-down drunk, but not Billy, not “The Kid.” Now he saw blood oozing up out of Billy’s throat, like a tiny red fountain, a fireworks of blood. Where in hell had the blood come from? How had Billy cut himself in Pike’s goddamn living room? They were just going to be there a minute, just going to get a measly bottle of vodka and be off into the night. What was all this blood shit? Then Pike looked up and saw Conrad, on the telltale, tell-all bottom step of the stairs, saw his rifle weighing heavily in Conrad’s hands. Conrad raised his eyes from where Billy lay, and looked into his father’s eyes. They were so much like his own that he might have been gazing into the mirror at his older self. A gurgling came now from Billy’s throat, a musical sound, the kind the Mattagash River makes in the spring when it can finally run free of ice.
“Someone call an ambulance,” Lynn said hoarsely. Her throat was already beginning to swell. She scooped the wailing Julie up into her arms.
“Get out of my way!” Reed shouted to Stevie. Reed was the one to make the emergency phone calls now. He had taken over for Conrad the night Pike’s scalp had opened up beneath the silver bat, and already it seemed he had inherited the job. As he dialed the numbers, it seemed the job would be his forever.
“Look what you done now, you little bastard,” Pike said to Conrad. He was trying desperately to block off the flow of Billy’s blood with a dirty thumb. “If you hit his jugular, he’ll bleed to death.” Pike had seen deer die this way, and die quickly.
“The ambulance is on the way,” Reed said. No one mentioned that it had thirty twisty miles to cover before it reached the Welcome to Mattagash sign. Billy lifted up a hand, feebly.
“You’re bleeding booze, Kid,” said Pike, but the joke went nowhere. He pressed his thumb tighter to Billy’s throat. If he lost Billy, he lost everything. To hell with Lynn and the kids. Billy was the only real family Pike had ever known. “There ain’t nothing coming out but vodka,” Pike said, and Billy smiled. He motioned to Pike with his hand. Pike leaned in closer.
“Yeah, Bill?” Pike asked, expecting some famous last words. He could almost hear himself repeating them at The Crossroads, a small tearful crowd gathered around to hear what the great Billy Plunkett had had to say as he rounded the last bend. Instead, Billy slapped him, with amazing force, and Pike pulled back in disbelief.
“What in hell did you do that for, Bill?” he asked. But Billy had closed his eyes and was breathing noises out of his throat again. Conrad still stood, the gun in his hand, stunned.
“This is what being doomed means,” Conrad thought. “This is doomed.”
“He’ll be okay, Con,” Lynn whispered and realized she would not be able to say anything else. Her throat was swelling tighter around all the words she might say. Worse yet, it was blocking off forever the words she should have said so long ago. Something awful is happening, and I’m the only one who could have stopped it. She motioned to Conrad to come to her, but he turned and went quickly up the stairs. Lynn buried her face in Julie’s hair and began to rock them both back and forth, back and forth.
“It’s gonna be all right,” she lied. When they heard the second shot, that most unusual pop, come down from upstairs, come down from Lynn’s bedroom where the little box of bullets had waited, it caught them all off guard, all except for Reed. He jumped immediately into action, and was en route to the telephone when he realized that the ambulance was already on its way.
NEWS OF LITTLE NELL: MATTAGASH OFF-BROADWAY
“Is Little Nell alive?”
—Readers who had read the latest installment of The Old Curiosity Shop, shouting to arriving sailors at the pier in New York City
A lot of water—albeit frozen water, considering the temperature—had sped under the proverbial bridge by the time Charlene and Davey Craft rounded up their daughter’s hospital toys and prepared to take her home. Hope, like snow, was in the air.
“I know you’ve probably heard of Lyme disease,” Dr. Brassard told them. “That’s what Tanya’s got. I know that word ‘disease’ frightens a lot of people.” They were sitting in fat, comfortable chairs in his office, and feeling most uncomfortable, waiting for the news of Tanya’s fate. Tanya was upstairs in her room, waiting for them to take her home. As a family they had done their share of waiting. Charlene didn’t even care what kind of hysteria the word “disease” would create in Mattagash, Maine. Davey reached for her hand, squeezed it tightly.
“The first case recorded was in Lyme, Connecticut, but we’ve never had any cases this far north before,” Dr. Brassard explained. Davey looked quickly at Charlene, who knew what he was thinking.
“We spent our summer vacation in Connecticut,” Charlene told the doctor. “The kids played baseball in a little park next to my brother’s house.”
“It’s very likely that she contracted the disease then,” Dr. Brassard said. “I think Tanya’s going to be okay,” he added, and Charlene sighed. Davey squeezed her hand tighter. “But I won’t lie to you. There have been cases that were fatal.” Now Charlene realized that all along she had feared it was cancer. She put her index finger into her mouth and tugged at a hangnail that had been bothering her. She had begun biting her nails again, something she had not done since the perils of high school dating. Now they were reddened down to the quick.
“Ixodes dammini is the species,” Dr. Brassard said. “A tick no bigger than a poppy seed that can bite without your even knowing it. It’s one hell of an infection. It can hide in the eye, in the brain, a lot of places.”
“How is it treated?” Davey asked. He had his legs crossed, his hat resting on one knee.
“Antibiotics,” said Dr. Brassard. “And that’s what we’ve got her on. Doctors still don’t agree as to the length of treatment because some patients respond well, others not so well. Women seem to need more aggressive treatment than men. No one’s really sure why. They think it’s hormonal.”
“She did have a rash,” said Charlene. “And that’s a symptom, isn’t it?”
“Some people bitten never develop the rash,” said Dr. Brassard. “In a way, if this had to happen to Tanya, better now than a year ago, when patients were being misdiagnosed by the thousands. We know a lot more about it now, but we’re a long way from home plate.” Charlene looked at Davey. Lyme was an expensive illness, she already knew from the Geraldo show. There were hospitals, tests, doctors, medicines, time missed from work. She was thankful she and Davey had reached a decision about all of that at last.
“Tanya is responding well,” Dr. Brassard went on. “I think, in a matter of weeks, she’ll be just fine.” He was leafing through some papers on his desk, ready to dismiss them, it seemed.
“Well, as I’ve told you,” Charlene said, “we’re moving back to New Milford, Connecticut, as soon as possible. It’s almost certain that Davey will have a job waiting for him at the plastics factory that my dad manages.” Her fingernails had begun to ache. She reminded herself that in no time, a month maybe, they’d be grown out again, the painful biting of them a memory, just as Mattagash would be a memory. “Good old Connecticut,” Charlene added—an
irony to be headed back to the origin of Lyme disease. She looked at Davey, and he nodded his agreement. For a minute, Charlene had been frightened Davey might suddenly change his mind. But in all their discussions, they had come to the conclusion that not only would the move be better for Tanya, it would be better for the whole family. And Davey needed that dependable job.
“We’ll have no trouble finding someone qualified there,” said Dr. Brassard. “Call me tomorrow,” he added as Charlene reached out a hand, its fingertips raw, and patted Davey’s arm. “I’ll have the name of a doctor in New Milford for Tanya.”
***
With Thanksgiving now less than a week away, Charlene was packing frantically. If they hurried, they could be rolling into her mother’s Connecticut driveway, a U-Haul of memories tagging behind them, just in time to bite into the turkey.
“I don’t care if I have to leave the furniture,” Charlene had said to Davey before he drove off to take care of the blasted skidder. “All I know is two things. Tanya’s gonna live, and we’re gonna get the hell out of Dodge.”
She had managed to stop packing long enough to give Tanya her medicine and start a quick lunch for the boys. Tanya was now up in her bedroom snoozing, Otis sprawled feet. Charlene could concentrate on James and Christopher, the latter most unhappy about the rapid move back to Connecticut. James was elated, having missed the Saturday afternoons at New Milford movie theaters, the arcades full of the latest video games, his city friends. “I even miss the ice cream truck,” he’d told his mother. Christopher, on the other hand, insisted he be left behind. “I’ll live with Grandma Craft,” he had pleaded when informed of the moving plans. “That’s not a good idea,” Charlene had said. “Over my dead body,” is what she thought. But Christopher was not appeased. He had thrown himself upon the sofa, dressed in his Miles Standish outfit, from Pilgrim hat to shining boot buckle, and had refused to pack a single toy, a shirt, a book.
“Come and eat,” Charlene called softly from the foot of the stairs. She didn’t want to wake Tanya, who had finally settled down to sleep. James was in his bedroom, boxing up his prized comic books. He came bounding down the stairs.
“Shhh!” Charlene reminded him. She pointed to a chair at the table. “Sit, please,” she said.
“Where’s Miles Outlandish?” asked James. He blew on his bowl of soup.
“Don’t start with that Miles Outlandish stuff,” said Charlene. “He’s in a bad enough mood as it is.” She went to the living room. Christopher’s face was hidden beneath the Pilgrim hat.
“Come eat, honey,” said Charlene. “But you’d better take off that white bib.”
“It ain’t a bib,” said a muffled voice from beneath the hat. “That’s all you know. It’s a collar.” He plunked a booted foot on the coffee table, the other still stretched out before him on the sofa.
“If you eat tomato soup wearing that collar,” Charlene told him, “it will be a bib before you’re done. Now take off that hat, get that Pilgrim hoof off my coffee table, and come out here and eat your lunch.” Christopher plunked his second foot on the coffee table, then waited defiantly beneath the hat.
“It might be close to Thanksgiving, Chris,” said Charlene, “but there’s no law about spanking Pilgrims, not in this house anyway. I’m giving you five minutes.”
“Why can’t I stay with Grandma Craft?” Christopher whined. “Tell me why.” Charlene put a hand on her hip and sighed.
“Grandma has her hands full as it is,” she said. “She can’t take in a young boy and raise him. She just can’t. And besides, what makes you think Grandma Craft wants you to stay with her?”
“She already told me she does,” said Christopher. “You just don’t like Grandma, is why I can’t stay.” He removed the hat and sat up on the sofa, his little face red with anger. “I’d rather live with Grandma than with you,” he said. “You’re a damn witch!” Charlene felt the skin on her face stretch. She assumed it was draining itself of color, as angry faces are supposed to do. She pointed to the stairway, Christopher’s room being at the top of it.
“Now, Mr. Standish,” she said. “Unless you want to end up in the stocks until you’re eighteen.” She watched as Christopher scuffed angrily past her. At the top of the stairs he stopped. It might have been beneath Priscilla Mullins’s window, but it wasn’t. It was only a few feet from Tanya’s bedroom, and this was what concerned Charlene. He raised a thin arm into the air. Charlene thought he was about to curse all future Thanksgivings.
“Grandma said you’d make me go,” said Christopher. “I got no rights because I’m a kid. I should get a lawyer.” Then the boot buckles disappeared at the top of the stairs and his bedroom door slammed loudly.
“Miles Standish might’ve made friends with the Indians,” Charlene told James, back in the kitchen. “But if he wakes Tanya up, there isn’t a peace pipe from here to Plymouth that’ll save him from a beating.”
“Can I have his sandwich?” asked James.
“Did you hear what he said about me?” Charlene exclaimed. She was still reeling in disbelief. Christopher had picked up some rough habits lately for such a little boy.
“You oughta hear what he’s been saying about Priscilla Mullins,” said James.
***
Charlene had washed up the lunch dishes, given the boys permission to go skating, and was back at the packing when she heard car tires crunching into the snowy driveway. It was her mother-in-law, Selma Craft, who was always dropping in unexpectedly.
“Damn,” said Charlene, peering out the living room window. “She’s brought her knitting with her.”
Selma Craft hugged Charlene stiffly, and then slipped her boots off and left them by the front door. Charlene knew Selma would make small talk until she got to the real reason she’d come, and she did. They chatted quickly about Tanya, the Crossroads issue, the long drive to Connecticut, Ella Hart’s new grandson, Sicily McKinnon’s move to Pine Valley. Then Selma cleared her throat and said what Charlene knew she had come to say all along.
“Who’s gonna take Christopher’s place in the play?” Selma Craft asked her daughter-in-law. Her thin gray hair hung straight about her face, barely touching her shoulders. Charlene wished Selma would perm her hair into small blue waves, as other old ladies saw fit to do.
“They’ll just have to find someone,” Charlene said. “This isn’t Broadway. There are more important things, such as Tanya needing good medical treatment.”
“You know,” Selma said slowly, and Charlene braced herself. “I wouldn’t mind a bit if Christopher was to stay on here with me. He’d be good company, and I don’t think he wants to leave Mattagash for the city.” She took up her knitting, a gray sock, and went to work finishing the toe, her needles flashing and clicking with great urgency.
“Christopher needs to be with his family,” Charlene said. “He’s too young to make big decisions.” She waited to see if Selma would counter. She was ready for it. “You’ve raised your family, now let me raise mine,” she’d tell her mother-in-law.
“I still wish you’d wait till after Thanksgiving,” was all Selma replied. “Didn’t you promise to cook one of them turkeys for the Thanksgiving co-op dinner?”
“I didn’t promise any such thing,” Charlene said. “And even if I did, no one would starve if there’s one less turkey.”
“Did you promise to make a salad?” Selma asked. “I hear they plan to have some twenty different ones. I’m making my Frozen Cherry.”
“No,” said Charlene. It was going to be wonderful to see Selma Craft only on the occasional vacation. “I told them I was cooking dinner for my family and that we were eating it at home. I don’t know why everyone else isn’t doing the same thing.”
Selma knitted up the last stitches in the toe of the gray sock. “You folks who was raised in the city have a hard time understanding our ways,” she said. Her voice was dispirited. Just t
hat morning she’d been awakened early by her irritating bladder problem, and she had lain in bed, unable to sleep, and wondered how many more times in her life she would get to see her son Davey. He was her favorite child, her good-luck baby, born with that blessed caul over his eyes. “Now that we don’t have such things as quilting bees and barn raisings anymore,” Selma continued, “we find other reasons to gather up in a bunch and take a good look at one another. And I don’t mean folks gathering up the way strangers do in them big malls down in Bangor and Connecticut, where derelicts are waiting behind them indoor trees to steal your purse. I mean folks getting together and saying things like, ‘How’s Tommy like his new truck?’ or, ‘What did Gloria’s baby weigh?’ Or maybe even rolling down your sock and showing someone where a bumblebee bit you, or opening up a kid’s mouth and pointing out to everybody where the last baby tooth used to be. There ain’t no big things in little towns like Mattagash, Maine. I could’ve told you that long before you ever moved here, Charlene. There ain’t no murders and bombs and hijackings. That’s why the little things is so important. When they’re all strung together, them little things make up the whole of some people’s lives.”
“Davey should be here any minute,” said Charlene. The last thing she cared for was some perceptive explanation of Mattagash and its ways—not now, not while she was experiencing the throes of leaving. “He’s gone to get Bobby Fennelson to tow that darn skidder out of the woods. Then the bank can have it.” She continued packing her dishes from the creaky rosewood china cabinet that had belonged to her paternal grandmother. It had once stood in Gertrude Hart’s dining room, in the old Hart homestead, which had been renovated and was now being lived in again, this time by Dorrie and Booster Mullins. The china cabinet had been to Connecticut and back, and would soon be on its way out of town again. It had seen a lot of dishes come and go in its day. It had seen a lot of people, trapping their ghostly reflections in its glass, recording their passage as though it were some kind of magical camera.
The Weight of Winter Page 35
