“Abracadabra,
Purple and green,
This little boy
Will grow up mean.”
“Did you just make that up?” Jessie asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s very good.”
“I think so, too,” Mary Martha said modestly. “We could make up a whole bunch of them about all the people we hate. Who will we start with?”
“Uncle Howard.”
“I didn’t know you hated your Uncle Howard.”
Jessie looked surprised, as if she hadn’t known it herself until she heard her own voice say so. She stole a quick glance at Mike to see if he was listening, but he was engrossed in the ball game, his eyes closed. She said, “You won’t ever tell anyone, will you?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. Now let’s start the curse. You go first.”
“No, you go first.”
Mary Martha assumed her witchlike face and voice:
“Abracadabra,
Yellow and brown,
Uncle Howard’s the nastiest
Man in town.”
“I don’t like that one very much,” Jessie said soberly.
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s play another game.”
From the street a horn began to blow, repeating a pattern of three short, two long.
“That’s my mother,” Mary Martha said. “We’d better wake Mike up and tell him we’re leaving.”
“I’m awake, you numbskull,” Mike said, opening his eyes and turning down the volume of the radio. Then he looked at his watch. “It’s only a quarter after twelve. She’s not supposed to be here until one.” He rolled over on his back and got up. “Well, who am I to argue with good fortune? Come on, little darlings. Off to the launching pad.”
“You don’t have to come with us,” Jessie said.
“No kidding? You mean you can actually walk out of here without breaking both your legs? I don’t believe it. Show me.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Yes, you shut up,” Mary Martha added loyally.
The two girls went out through the stone arch, arm in arm, as if to show their solidarity against the enemy.
Mike waited a couple of minutes before following them. He saw Mrs. Oakley standing on the curb talking to them, then Mary Martha and her mother got into the car and Jessie turned and walked back to the playground, alone. She was holding her head high and her face was carefully and deliberately blank.
Mike said, “What’s the matter?”
“We’re not going to the Museum today.”
“Why not?”
“Mrs. Oakley has some errands to do in town. Mary Martha didn’t want to go along but she had to.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Oakley won’t leave her at the playground alone anymore.”
“What does she mean, alone?” Mike said, scowling. “I’m here.”
“I guess she meant without a grownup.”
“For Pete’s sake, what does she think I am? A two-year-old child? Man, oh man, women sure are hard to figure. . . . Well, come on, no use hanging around here anymore. Let’s go home.”
“All right.”
“Aren’t you even going to argue?”
“No.”
“You’re sick, kid.”
“I’m sorry,” Kate Oakley repeated for the third or fourth time. “I hate to disappoint you and Jessie but I can’t help it. Something unexpected came up and I must deal with it. You understand that, don’t you?”
Mary Martha nodded. “But I could have stayed at the playground with Jessie while you were dealing.”
“I want you with me.”
“Why? To protect you?”
“No,” Kate said with a sharp little laugh. “You’ve got it all wrong, sweetikins. I’m protecting you. What on earth gave you the silly idea that I need your protection?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sometimes your mind works in a way that truly baffles me. I mean, really, angel, it doesn’t make sense that I need your protection, does it? I am a grownup and you’re a little girl. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary Martha said politely. She would have liked to ask what her mother was protecting her from, but she was aware that Kate was already upset. The signs were all there: some subtle, like the faint rash that was spreading across her neck; some obvious, like the oversized sunglasses she was wearing. Mary Martha didn’t understand why her mother put on these sunglasses when she was under pressure, she knew only that it was a fact. Even in the house on a dark day Kate sometimes wore them and Mary Martha had come to hate the sight of them. They were like a wall or a closed door behind which untold, untellable things were happening. If you threw questions at this wall they bounced back like ping-pong balls: what on earth do you mean, lamb?
They had reached the center of town by this time. Kate drove into the parking lot behind the white four-story building where Mac had his office. It was the first inkling Mary Martha had of where her mother was going and she dreaded the thought of waiting in Mac’s outer office, listening to the rise and fall of voices, never hearing quite enough and never understanding quite enough of what she heard. If the voices became distinct enough, Miss Edgeworth, Mac’s receptionist, started talking loudly and cheerfully about the weather and how Mary Martha was doing in school and what a pretty dress she was wearing.
When her mother got out of the car Mary Martha made no move to follow her.
“Well?” Kate said. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I can wait here.”
“No. I don’t like the look of that parking-lot attendant. You can’t trust these—”
“Or I could go to the library and maybe start on one of my book reports.”
“I don’t think a nine-year-old should be wandering around downtown by herself.”
“The library’s only a block away.”
Kate hesitated. “Well, all right. But you’ve got to promise you’ll go straight there, not loiter in the stores or anything. And once you’re there, you’re to stay. No matter how long I am, don’t come looking for me, just wait right there.”
“I promise.”
“You’re a good girl, Mary Martha.”
Mary Martha got out of the car. She was glad that her mother called her a good girl but she couldn’t understand why she said it in such a strange, sad voice, as if having a good child was somehow harder to bear than having a bad one. She wondered what would happen if she turned bad. Maybe Kate would give her to Sheridan and that would be the end of the fighting over the divorce terms. Or maybe Sheridan wouldn’t want her either, and she’d have to go and live with a foster family like the Brants and be Jessie’s almost-sister.
Once the idea occurred to her, the temptation to try being bad was irresistible. The problem was how to begin. She thought of loitering in the stores, but she wasn’t sure what loitering was or if she could do it. Then she heard her mother say, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mary Martha,” and the temptation died as suddenly as it had been born. She felt rather relieved. Loitering in stores didn’t sound like much fun and probably the Brants couldn’t afford to feed another mouth anyway.
Kate went in the rear entrance of the building and up the service stairs to avoid meeting anyone. After the bright light of noon the stairway seemed very dark. She stumbled once or twice but she didn’t remove her sunglasses, she didn’t even think of it. By the time she reached Mac’s office on the third floor she was breathing hard and fast and the rash on her neck had begun to itch.
Miss Edgeworth was out to lunch. Her typewriter was covered and her desk was bare of papers, as though she’d tidied everything up in case she decided never to come back.
The d
oor of Mac’s office was open and he was sitting at his desk with his chair swiveled around to face the window. He was eating a sandwich, very slowly, as if he didn’t like it or else liked it so much he didn’t want to reach the end of it. Kate had known him for over twenty years and it seemed to her that he hadn’t changed at all since she first met him. He was still as thin as a rake, and his hair was still brown and curly and cut very short to deny the curl. He had the reddish tan and bleached eyes of a sailor.
“Mac?”
He turned in surprise. “I didn’t hear the elevator.”
“I used the back steps.”
“Well, come in, Kate, if you don’t mind watching me eat. There’s extra coffee, would you like some?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured some coffee into a plastic cup. “Sit down. You look a bit under the weather, Kate. You’re not dieting, I hope.”
“Not by choice,” she said grimly. “The support check’s late again. Naturally. He’s trying to make me crawl. That I’m used to, that I can stand. It’s these—these awful other things, Mac.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“About half an hour ago, on my way here. He was driving that same old green car he drove yesterday when he was parked outside the house. When I saw it in the rear-view mirror, something terrible came over me, Mac. I—I just wanted to kill him.”
“Now, now, don’t talk like that.”
“I mean it. All I could think of was chasing him, ramming his car, running him down, getting rid of him some way, any way.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I tried.”
“You tried,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Tell me about it, Kate.”
She told him. He listened, with his head cocked to one side like a dog hearing a distant sound of danger.
“You might have been killed or seriously injured,” he said when she’d finished.
“I know that now. I may even have known it then, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t thinking of myself, or even, God help me, of Mary Martha. Just of him, Sheridan. I wanted to—I had to get even with him. This time he went too far.”
“This time?”
“The letter, the anonymous letter.”
“Have you got it with you?”
“Yes.”
“Show it to me.”
She took the letter out of her handbag and put it on his desk.
He studied the envelope for a minute, then removed the wad of paper and began unfolding it. He read aloud: “Your daughter takes too dangerous risks with her delicate body. Children must be guarded against the cruel hazards of life and fed good, nourishing food so their bones will be padded. Also clothing. You should put plenty of clothing on her, keep arms and legs covered, etc. In the name of God please take better care of your little girl.”
“Well?” Kate said.
He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s a curious document. The writer seems sincere and also very fond—if fond is the correct word—of children in general.”
“Why in general? Why not Mary Martha in particular? Sheridan’s never particularly liked children; he’s crazy about Mary Martha because she’s an extension of his ego, such as it is.”
“This doesn’t sound like Sheridan’s style to me, Kate.”
“Who else would accuse me of neglecting my daughter?”
“I don’t read this as an accusation, exactly. It seems more like a plea or a warning, as if the writer believes he has advance knowledge that something will happen to Mary Martha unless you take preventative steps.” Alarmed by her sudden pallor, he added quickly, “Notice I said he believes he has such knowledge. Beliefs often have little relationship to fact. My own feeling is that this is from some neighborhood nut. Have you or Mary Martha had any unpleasantness with any of your neighbors recently?”
“Of course not. We mind our own business and I expect other people to mind theirs.”
“Perhaps you expect too much,” Mac said with a shrug. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about the letter if I were you. It’s unlikely, though not impossible, that Sheridan wrote it. If he did, he’s flipped faster and further than I care to contemplate.”
“Will you find out the truth?”
“Naturally I’ll try to contact him. If he’s pulling these shenanigans he’s got to be stopped, for his own sake as well as yours and Mary Martha’s. Meanwhile I’ll keep the letter, with your permission. I have a friend who’s interested in such things. By the way, was it folded half a dozen times like this when it was delivered?”
“Yes.”
“Kid stuff, I’d say. Just one more question, Kate. Did you manage to get the license number of the green car?”
“Yes. It’s GVK 640.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I should be,” she said harshly. “I rammed his license plate.”
“Kate. Kate, listen to me for a minute.”
“No. I can’t. I can’t listen any more. I want to talk, I’ve got to talk to somebody. Don’t you understand, Mac? I spend all my time with a child. She’s a wonderful girl, very bright and sweet, but she’s only nine years old. I can’t discuss things with her, I can’t burden her with my problems or ask her for help or support. I’ve got to put up a front, pretend that everything’s all right, even when I can feel the very earth crumbling under my feet.”
“You’ve isolated yourself, Kate,” he said calmly. “You used to have friends you could talk to.”
“Friends are a luxury I can’t afford any more. Oh, people were very kind when Sheridan first moved out. They invited me over to cheer me up and hear all the gruesome details. One thing I learned, Mac, and learned well: the only people who really enjoy a divorce are your best friends. All that vicarious excitement and raw emotion, all the blood and guts spilled—why, it was almost as good as television.”
“You’re being unfair to them.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I didn’t have the right kind of friends. Anyway, I stopped accepting invitations and issuing them. I didn’t want people coming over and feeling sorry for me because I was alone, and sorry for themselves because I couldn’t afford to offer them drinks. You want to lose friends, Mac? Stop buying liquor. No money down, results guaranteed.”
“What about Mary Martha?” Mac said.
“What about her?”
“She needs some kind of social environment.”
“She has friends. One friend in particular, Jessie Brant. I don’t especially care for the Brants—Ellen’s one of these pushy modern types—but Jessie’s an interesting child, free-wheeling and full of beans. I think she’s a good influence on Mary Martha, who’s inclined to be overcautious. . . . That’s another thing about the letter, Mac. It was inaccurate. Mary Martha doesn’t take dangerous risks, and I certainly wouldn’t call her delicate. She’s the same age and height as Jessie but she outweighs her by eight or ten pounds.”
“Perhaps the ‘risks’ mentioned didn’t refer to a physical activity like tree-climbing, but to something else that Mary Martha did. Say, for instance, that she was a little reckless while riding her bike and one of the neighbors had to swerve his car to avoid hitting her—”
“Mary Martha is very careful on her bicycle.”
“Yes. Well, it was only a suggestion.”
She was silent for a minute. Then she said in a low bitter voice, “You see? It’s happened the way it always does. I was talking about myself, and now we’re suddenly talking about Mary Martha again. There is no me any more. There’s just the woman who lives in the big house who looks after the little girl. I’ve lost my personship. I might just as well have a number instead of a name.”
“Calm down now, Kate, and get hold of yourself.”
“I told you, myself doesn’t
exist anymore. There is no me, there’s nothing to get hold of.”
In the outer office Miss Edgeworth had come back from lunch. As soon as she’d found out that Mrs. Oakley had made an appointment with Mac, she’d gone out and bought two chocolate bars to give to Mary Martha. When she saw that Mrs. Oakley hadn’t brought Mary Martha along after all, Miss Edgeworth was so relieved she ate both of the chocolate bars herself.
(9)
After the noon lunchers departed and before the one o’clock lunchers arrived there was always a short lull in the cafeteria which Ben managed for the owner. Ben used this period to stand out in the alley behind the cafeteria and soak up a little sun and smoke his only cigarette of the day. Ben didn’t enjoy smoking but he became sick of food odors and he believed that smoking would dull his sense of smell.
He watched a flock of seagulls circling overhead, waiting for a handout. He thought what a fine day it was for the beginning of his new life. Charlie was engaged. Charlie and Louise were going to be married. Ben had told the good news to his employees and some of his regular customers, and though most of them didn’t even know Charlie, they were pleased because Ben was. The whole place seemed livelier. A wedding was in the air, it hardly mattered whose.
Ben leaned against the sunny wall, letting the smoke curl up through his nostrils like ether. He felt a little dizzy. He wasn’t sure whether it was from the cigarette or from the surges of happiness that had been sweeping over him off and on all morning. I’ll let Louise and Charlie have the house, Mother always planned it that way. I’ll get a little apartment down near the beach and buy a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog. I could have bought one years ago—Charlie would never have mistreated an animal, he’s crazy about animals—but I never got around to it. I don’t know the reason. Why, Charlie would cut off his right arm before he’d hurt a dog.
“Ben.”
At the sound of his name Ben turned, although he didn’t recognize the voice. It was a little boy’s voice, high and thin, not like Charlie’s at all. Yet it was Charlie running toward him, down the alley from the street. His clothes were disheveled and he was clutching his stomach with both hands as though he were suffering an acute attack of cramps. Ben felt the happiness draining out of him. All the pores of his skin were like invisible wounds from which his life was spurting.
The Fiend Page 9
