by Ivan Blake
“You wouldn’t care if the plant closed?”
“Nobody in this town buys my stuff. Matter of fact, if the plant closes and some of the locals I’ve had to deal with over the past forty years are forced to leave, I may even dance a jig as they drive away.”
The old car rolled past the Dahlman property. Chris glanced out the passenger window in time to see Floyd Balzer on Mallory’s front porch waving his arms and stomping about in an apparent rage. Mallory merely stood there, arms crossed, seemingly unmoved by Floyd’s display.
“So I guess the teachers give you a hard time because they’re afraid for their own jobs. What’s your problem with the girls?”
“Not all girls; one is nice.”
“And is she the young Willard beauty?”
“Gillian Willard?” Chris asked. The notion he might be interested in Gillian Willard struck him as comical. “No, she’s just a friend, well kind of. I don’t know her that well.”
“Pity.”
“Why did you call her a beauty?”
“You don’t see it?”
“Not really.” Okay, so she’d looked kind of nice in the mist and the moonlight the previous evening when she’d told him about Floyd, but a beauty?
“Well, next time you have a chance, look a little deeper. She dresses like a farmhand because that’s what she is. When she isn’t studying, she’s helping her mother, and they both work like dogs, or hadn’t you noticed that either.”
Of course he’d noticed her working in the orchard from time to time.
“I’ve known Gillian since she was born. I used to be good friends with the family until the accident and her mother had to take over running the apple business. I wish there was something I could do to help.” She fell silent for a moment. “What was I saying? Oh yes, next time you see Gillian, look closer. If she lived anywhere else, somebody would have swept her away to Hollywood and made her a star by now. She looks like some sort of ancient princess to me, tall, amazing face. One day you’ll see her in a magazine and think, how did I miss that? That’s the artist in me talking. If I could paint portraits instead of landscapes, her face would have made my fortune.”
Chris was amazed at this description of the gangly stranger in dungarees he’d avoided for months.
“So if it isn't Gillian, then who is it?”
“Mallory Dahlman?”
“Ah, the Dahlman girl.”
“You know her?”
“Oh yes. Are you two ‘involved’?”
“No, not yet. I think maybe she likes me, and she is well....”
“Stacked, we used to say when I was young.”
“Pretty.”
“Pretty? I guess, in a buxom, chunky, cheap kind of way.”
“I don’t think she looks cheap or chunky.”
“You wouldn’t. You only see those huge tits.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” Chris said, but he almost started laughing.
“How much do you know about Mallory Dahlman?”
“Not much. Just that everyone at school likes her, and I guess her family’s nice.”
“Nice!” Mrs. Holcomb almost exploded. “Have you met them? The mother drinks like a fish. The brother is a peeping tom. The father hasn’t been home in years, because he can’t stand his wife, I bet.”
“How can you say those things? You can’t know—”
“Listen, my dear, I’ve lived here for decades, and in all that time, my experiences with the Dahlman family, and with Mallory Dahlman in particular, have been my worst.”
“Maybe, but—”
“Would you like me to tell you why I hold the Dahlmans in such low esteem?”
“No.” Then he said, “Well, okay.”
“I could start with the small stuff, all the nights the Dahlman boy used to come prowling round my cottage, tapping on the windows, banging on the walls, setting fire to my shed. And the boy was nine when he did all that.
“Or I could tell you how the Dahlman woman tried to have me declared insane because I filed charges against her dear son. It cost me years and nearly everything I had to fight that battle. Or about the time she and her daughter had me barred from all the public places in town. But you want to hear about Mallory. Okay, you asked for it.
“When my husband Harold died, I remained good friends with his brother James. Still am. He lived over near Millawamkett. Nothing romantic, James just helped me out from time to time, and we liked each other’s company. We’d sit and have a beer, and we’d talk about Harold. We both missed Harold terribly. Well, James never married, and I think he may have had a crush on me, but he was always the gentleman, and he respected Harold’s memory too much to ever do anything. Truth to tell, as time went by, I kind of wished he would make a move, because I missed my man. Still, neither of us dared do anything to change our comfortable relationship.
“Then, about four years ago, James had a massive stroke, and was put in the Adinack Nursing Home. I went to see him as often as I could. He was almost entirely paralyzed and couldn’t speak. He would sit propped up in bed and smile and hold my hand as I chattered away about everything and nothing. That’s where I go on Tuesdays and Fridays.
“Mallory Dahlman was volunteering at the Home around the time James was admitted. Of course, we never spoke because of my fight with her mother.
“One afternoon, sitting with James, it became—how shall I put this—it became rather obvious he was aroused.”
“What?”
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Old man? Not possible. Well let me tell you, arousal and desire are not functions of age, just blood flow and imagination!”
“I...I don’t think—”
“Oh, stop being such a prude. You’re a teenager, for heaven’s sake, you know all about this stuff. Anyway, from the color in his cheeks, and the look in his eyes and the way he was struggling to move his arm toward his groin—”
“Look, this is not—”
“Well, I guess I thought he was asking me to, you know, to help him. It makes me laugh to think how long it had taken that damned man to make a move. Anyway, I thought I knew what he wanted, so, what the hell, I slipped my hand underneath the sheets...and...”
“Look, I really don’t want to—”
“Well, just then Mallory Dahlman came into the room. She looked at me and at James and at the lump beneath the sheets, and smiled this nasty, vicious smile. Then she screamed at the top of her lungs, ‘They’re having sex!’ and ran out of the room. I heard her telling staff what had happened, and the next thing I knew, I was being escorted out of the Home. I left thinking I’d give the situation a little time to cool down, but the following afternoon, when I tried to see James again, the administrator met me at the door and said I was barred from the premises until further notice. I asked why, and she said, ‘Because board members do not condone prostitution on public property.’
“Prostitution! Can you believe it? I’d have been flattered if the charge hadn’t been completely ridiculous. Some days later, I got a letter from the town clerk informing me I would not be allowed on any town property—the library, town hall, even the park for Heaven’s sake—because I had been caught engaging in lewd acts. Of course, I asked who had brought the matter to the town’s attention, and I’m sure you can guess—Mallory Dahlman and her mother.
“It took me months to get the order rescinded. I was humiliated, and it cost me a lot. The only upside to the whole affair was that I had been so desperate, I’d contacted my brother for help, and he was marvelous. We hadn’t spoken in years, but we’ve been writing to each other ever since. He is, or he was anyway, a successful lawyer in New York until he retired, and when he threatened to sue Bemishstock for a shitload of money, that did the trick.
“So, that’s my experience with Mallory Dahlman and family.”
What was the real lesson behind this truly yucky story, that Mallory and her family were vengeful predators? Or that Mallory volunteered at a nursing home and was sensiti
ve enough to have been shocked by the crude behavior of some free-thinking old hippy?
* * * *
Mrs. Holcomb stopped the car at the foot of the trail across the main road from Willard Lane. Chris wasn’t sure why he hesitated before opening the car door, but he did, and that gave the old lady a chance to ask if he’d like a cup of tea. His options were to go home and face questions about the Balzer incident, hide out at the Willard graveyard for hours in the cold, or accept the old lady’s invitation. Chris said yes to the tea.
The Buick rumbled up the dirt track like a Sherman tank assaulting a mountain fortress. The ruts, mud, and the hillocks tossed the great beast in every direction but couldn’t stop it. After twenty minutes, the car cleared the scrub forest and broke out onto a grassy meadow on top of the mountain. There were gorgeous views in every direction, to the east over Adinack Bay and beyond to the open Atlantic, to the north and south around the great arc of the bay, and to the west up over the rolling hills and valleys of the ancient coastal range.
Felicity Holcomb parked the car beside a small, square, saltbox-style cottage clad in rough pine boards weathered gray and silver. On the visible sides of the cottage, there were just a door and two small windows. When they went inside, however, Chris was taken aback by the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass that flooded the cottage with light and afforded spectacular views over the coast and the sea.
The cottage was one large room with a cathedral ceiling, a four-sided stone fireplace in the center, a cooking area in one corner, a toilet closet in another, and a big old bed to one side of the fireplace facing the windowed wall. The rest of the room was given over to comfy chairs and couches, to shelves of books and tables littered with small canvases and tubes of paint. Near the glass wall was a huge writing table with an ancient typewriter having pride of place amid the clutter.
“Welcome to my home.”
Whatever Chris had expected the old lady’s lair to be like, it hadn’t been this, not this warm and intimate and curiously beautiful room. He patted one of several cats that prowled the room, sat down in a worn floral armchair and looked out over the bay. The grey November afternoon was coming to a close, but the room was flooded with golden light.
“It’s nice, Mrs. Holcomb.”
“Felix, you must call me Felix. So...tea? Or maybe something stronger?”
He had no idea whether the old lady was joking. “Tea will be fine. Hey, you can see the Willard graveyard from here.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed you there a couple of times.”
“Like every day.”
“Now why is that?”
“No reason.”
“Then tell me, why did you roll your eyes just now?”
“I did? I’m sorry.”
“You also did it the first time I gave you a ride, before you even got in the car. And you sneered as well.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Of course you did. You do it every time I ask you an uncomfortable question.”
“Look, I said I’m sorry, okay?” He started to get up. “I’ll just go.” The last thing Chris needed was a fight with some old loon.
“No, please, don’t leave. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just that when I saw you do it the first time, I thought, we’re alike, this boy and me.”
“You and me?” Was she insulting him now?
“Please, have your tea, and let me explain.” She handed him a mug, and he sat down again. She took her own mug and sat in an old rocker by the window.
“All the years I’ve lived here, people have judged me. I’m from away, I’m alone, I always say what’s on my mind, and of course I dress—shall we say—colorfully? So, before they can attack me, I usually come out swinging. I wear even stranger clothes, and I say absolutely crazy things. That’s all I meant, why I think we’re alike.”
“Because you think my clothes are weird?” Chris struggled to keep his temper.
“No, because we’ve both been poked at a lot, we just assume the next person who speaks to us is going to do the same. So we attack before they get a chance. Or if we think the person is going to insult us, we insult them first. Maybe we don’t use words; we just sneer or grimace or roll our eyes...or maybe we wear weird clothes…anything to show them that they can’t hurt us, that we don’t give a damn what they think of us.”
Chris was stunned.
“Okay, now you can roll your eyes,” Felix said with a broad smile.
It took a moment, but eventually Chris smiled as well, and then said, almost in a whisper, “I guess maybe I do expect people to give me grief, and maybe...I do try to get off the first shot, make them think I don’t care....” He looked away.
“My father was a hard man, self-made, tough,” Felicity said. “He didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. He always said, ‘In this life, it’s always better to be the axe than the firewood’.”
Chris didn’t immediately grasp Felicity’s meaning. She must have seen the confusion in his eyes.
“You know, it’s better to strike than be struck. And I guess that’s how I always tried to live. Then one day, my Harold—wish you could have met him, he was just a decent guy, not smart, but so wise—he said, ‘You realize it’s the firewood that burns bright, eh, not the axe; the axe just rusts away.’ I’m not sure what he meant, but it got me to thinking. Maybe sometimes it’s okay to be the firewood. Be a hard ass most of the time if you must be, only sometimes, maybe you should just take the blows. Give yourself a chance to burn bright and give others the chance to get close to you, to enjoy your warmth.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Okay, so why do you wear that old fur coat?” Chris asked with a grin. “Is it one of your weird things...to let people know you don’t give a...?”
She laughed. “Well actually, my Harold gave it to me for our anniversary…right before he died.”
Chris felt like crap. They both turned and looked out the window.
“There’s Mrs. Willard collecting apples off the ground,” Chris said. He could just make her out by the lamplight from atop the pole at the end of Willard Lane.
“Last of the windfalls. Got to get them up before the frost.”
“And Gillian’s driving the tractor.”
“As soon as that poor girl gets home it’s out to work.” The affection in her tone was obvious.
“And I go and sit on a fence and mope....”
“You said it, not me.”
“You can see the old rail line, where it crosses the Willard’s land....” He paused, then asked, “Do you know the goatman? I mean the goat farmer, has the next farm?”
“Dr. Meath? Ronald, yes I know him.”
“Can you tell me a little about him?”
“Well, let’s see. He’s been here, oh, must be twenty years now. Came from England, to make cheese I understand, that’s how he got into the country anyway. He was a chiropractor back in England until he got into some trouble over his research. Ronald will bend your ear on the topic if you give him half a chance.”
“And does he still do research?”
“I don’t imagine. He barely raises goats, scratches out a living working a couple of jobs like most people round here. Why are you interested in him?”
Chris was about to tell Felix of the strange things he’d seen on the tracks and at the goatman’s house. If she was already having trouble with vandals and some folks in town, however, the last thing she needed was grief from a crazy neighbor as well.
“No reason, just seen him around, and he seems like a character.”
“I thought you already knew him.”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“The other afternoon, I saw Ronald by the Willards’ cellar door,” Felicity said. “I assumed he was there to see your family because the Willards never use that door. It’s where the accident happened, in the cider cellar.”
“Huh,” was all Chris could say as he got out of the huge chair and w
alked to the window. No one had ever mentioned a third door into the house.
“It’s getting late,” he said, “maybe I should be going.”
“Stay a little longer, and I’ll drive you down the hill.”
“No, that’s all right. I’d kind of like to walk.”
“Well, I’ve enjoyed our chat, and I hope we can do this again. Okay, so did you just roll your eyes?” she said, and they both laughed.
As he was leaving, Chris asked, “Would you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“If you see Dr. Meath around our house again, could you tell me?”
“You’re being mysterious.”
“It’s nothing. Just not sure what he’s up to.”
“Well, I can’t imagine it’s anything serious. He’s odd, but I’m sure he’s harmless.”
“Sure...but—”
“But I’ll let you know.”
“See you again.”
The old lady rolled her eyes and then smiled.
The hike down the trail was slow and a bit treacherous. In spite of the failing light, Chris managed to pick his way among the ruts and the puddles and got home without incident about a half hour later. To go in or not to go in, that was the question; before he could decide, however, the back porch door flew open and his brother and sister both bellowed at him, “Chris has a girlfriend!”
“I don’t.” Chris pushed his way into the mudroom.
“That may be so,” his mother called from the kitchen, “but you do have a date.”
“What?”
“A date, for dinner tomorrow evening. A young lady, a pretty young lady, dropped by the house not twenty minutes ago and asked for you. When we said you weren’t home yet, she asked us to give you a message. You’re invited for dinner tomorrow evening at six. She said you’d know who called and where she lives. Is that right?” This was the most he’d heard his mother say in months.
“Yes, I know.”
* * * *
From Willard Farm, Mallory drove to Perkin’s Pond, took the connector cross country to Route One, then headed north a few miles to Bailey’s Road. With an hour before she was to meet friends in town for a late movie, she had just enough time.
