The Fiend

by Margaret Millar

  “Was Howard with you to pay for it?”

  Virginia sucked in her breath as though the question had knocked it out of her. “No, no, he wasn’t. I paid for it myself.”

  “But the other night he said—”

  “The other night he said a lot of things he didn’t mean. He was tired and out of sorts. We all get like that sometimes, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “When two people are married, they share whatever money comes into the house, whether it’s the man’s salary or the woman’s or both. If I see something I want and can afford, I buy it. I don’t need Howard’s permission.” But it helps, she added bit­terly to herself. He likes to play Big Daddy, spoiling his foolish and extravagant little girl, as long as the little girl is duly appre­ciative.

  Jessie was considering the subject, her mouth pursed, her green eyes narrowed. “I guess Howard gives you lots of money, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every month my daddy gives money to the bank for this house. In nineteen more years we’re going to own it. When is Howard going to own you?”

  “Never,” Virginia said sharply. Then, seeing Jessie’s look of bewilderment, she added in a softer voice, “Look, dear, I’m not a house. Howard isn’t making payments on me.”

  “Then why does he give you money?”

  “He doesn’t exactly give it to me. We share it. If Howard didn’t have me to look after the house for him, he’d have to hire someone else to perform the same services for him.”

  “If he hires you, that makes him the boss.”

  “No. I mean—how on earth did we get off on this subject? You’re too young to understand.”

  “Will I understand when I’m older?”

  “Yes,” Virginia said, thinking, I hope you never grow up to understand what I do. I hope you die before your innocence is torn away from you.

  Jessie was frowning and biting the nail of her left thumb. “I certainly have tons of stuff to learn when I grow up. I wish I could start right now.”

  “No. No, don’t wish that. Stay the way you are, Jessie. Just stay, stay like this, like tonight.”

  “I can’t,” Jessie said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Mary Martha would get way ahead of me. She’s already taller and spells better. Mary Martha knows a lot.”

  “Some of them are things I couldn’t bear having you know, Jessie.”

  “Why not? They’re not bad, they don’t hurt her.”

  “They hurt. I see her hurting.”

  Jessie shook her head. “No. If she was hurting, she’d cry. She’s an awful sissy sometimes, she can’t stand the sight of blood or anything oozing.”

  “Do you ever see me cry, Jessie?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I hurt. I hurt terribly.”

  “Because of your sunburn?”

  Virginia hesitated a moment, then she laughed, the harsh, brief laugh she heard herself utter so often lately. It was like the distress signal of an animal that couldn’t communicate in words. “Yes, of course. Because of my sunburn. I must be as big a sissy as Mary Martha.”

  “She’s not a sissy about everything.”

  “Perhaps I’m not either, about everything. I don’t know. Not everything’s been tried on me yet. Not quite.”

  Jessie would have liked to ask what had or had not been tried, but Virginia had averted her face and was changing the subject, not very subtly or completely, by opening her purse. It was a pink silk pouch that matched her dress. Inside the pouch was a tiny box wrapped in white paper and tied with a miniature golden rope.

  Jessie saw the box and immediately and deliberately turned her head away. “Your shoes are dirty.”

  “I stepped off the path. Jessie, I have a little pres—”

  “You’re not supposed to step off the path.”

  Virginia’s face was becoming white even where she was sun­burned, on her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, as though whiteness was not a draining away of blood but a true pigmenta­tion that could conceal other colors. “Jessie, dear, you’re not paying attention to what I’m telling you. I said, I have a little present for you. It’s something I’m sure you’ll love.”

  “No, I won’t. I won’t love it.”

  “But you don’t even know what it is yet.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t want it, is that it?”

  “No.”

  “You won’t—won’t even open it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s too bad,” Virginia said slowly. “It’s very pretty. I used to have one exactly like it when I was a little girl and I was so proud of it. It made me feel grown-up.”

  “I don’t want to feel grown-up anymore.”

  “Oh, you’re quite right, of course. You’re really very sensible. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t choose to grow up either. To live the happy years and die young—”

  “I’m going to watch television.” Jessie’s lower lip was quiver­ing. She had to catch it with her teeth to hold it still so that Vir­ginia wouldn’t see how frightened she was. She wasn’t sure what had caused the sudden, overwhelming fear but she realized that she had to fight it, with any weapon at all that she could find. “My—my mother doesn’t like you.”

  Virginia didn’t look surprised, her eyes were merely soft and full of sadness. “I’m sorry to hear that because I like her.”

  “You’re not supposed to like someone who doesn’t like you.”

  “Really? Well, I guess I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to. I step off paths and get my shoes dirty, I buy presents for little girls—Perhaps some day I’ll learn better.”

  “I’m going to watch television,” Jessie repeated stubbornly. “I want to see the ending of the program.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You turned it off. When company turns it off my mother makes me keep it that way.”

  “Turn it on again. I’m not company.”

  Awkwardly, Jessie unfolded her arms and legs and went over to the television set. Her head felt heavy with what she didn’t yet recognize as grief: something was lost, a time had passed, a loved one was gone. “You—you could watch the ending with me, Aunt Virginia.”

  “Perhaps I will. That’s the nice part about television pro­grams, they start with a beginning and end with an ending. Other things don’t. You find yourself in the middle and you don’t know how you got there or how to get out. It’s like waking up in the middle of a water tank with steep, slippery sides. You just keep swimming around and around, there’s no ladder to climb out, nobody flings you a rope, and you can’t stop swimming because you have this animal urge to survive. . . . No television program is ever like that, is it, Jessie?”

  “No, because it has to end to make room for another pro­gram. Nobody can be left just swimming around.”

  “How would it end on television, Jessie?”

  Jessie hesitated only long enough to take a deep breath. “A dog would find you and start barking and attract a lot of people. They’d tie all their jackets and sweaters and things together to make a rope and they’d throw it to you and lift you out. Then you’d hug the dog and he’d lick your face.”

  “Thanks for nothing, dog,” Virginia said and got up and went over to the doorway. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay for the ending?”

  “You’ve already told me the ending.”

  “That’s not this program. This is about a horse and there’s no water tank in it, just a creek like the one behind Mary Martha’s house.”

  But Virginia had already gone. Jessie turned up the sound on the television set. Horses were thudding furiously across the des­ert as if they were trying to get away from the loud music that pursued t
hem. Above the horses’ hoofs and trumpets, Jessie could hear Virginia laughing out on the patio. She sounded very gay.

  (17)

  The pain began, as it usually did, when Charlie was a couple of blocks away from his house. It started in his left shoulder and every heartbeat pushed it along, down his arm and up his neck into his head until he was on fire. Alone in his room with no one to bother him, he could endure the pain and even derive some satisfaction from not taking anything to relieve it. But tonight Ben was waiting for him. Questions would be asked— some trivial, some innocent, some loaded—and answers to them would be expected. It would be at least an hour before he was allowed to go into his room and be by himself to plan what he would say to Jessie.

  He stopped for a red light and was reaching into the glove compartment for the bottle of aspirin he kept there when he remembered that he wasn’t driving the green coupé any more. There was no bottle of aspirin in this one, only a map of Los Angeles, unfolded and torn, as if someone had crammed it into the glove compartment in a fit of impatience.

  The light turned green. He drove past the house. Ben’s car was parked in the driveway, looking, to Charlie, exactly like its owner, not new anymore but sturdy and clean and well taken care of, with no secret trouble in the engine.

  The drug store was around the corner, one block down. There was no one in the store but Mr. Forster, the owner, who was behind the prescription counter reading the evening newspaper.

  “Well, it’s you, Charlie.” Mr. Forster took off his spectacles and tucked them in the pocket of his white jacket. “Long time no see. How are you?”

  “Not so good, Mr. Forster.”

  “Yes, I see that. Yes, indeed.” Mr. Forster was the chief diagnostician of the neighborhood, even for people who had their own doctors. Out of respect for his position his customers always addressed him as Mr. Forster and so did his wife. He took his responsibilities very seriously, subscribing to the A.M.A. journal and Lancet, and reading with great care the advertising material that accompanied each new drug sample.

  “A bit feverish, aren’t you, Charlie?”

  “I don’t think so. I have a headache. I’d like some aspirin.”

  “Any nausea or vomiting?”

  “No.”

  “What about your eyes? Are they all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had your blood pressure checked recently?”

  “No. I just want some—”

  “It sounds like a vascular headache to me,” Forster said, nodding wisely. “Maybe you should try one of the new reserpine compounds. By the way, did the man find your house?”

  `”What—what man?”

  “Oh, he was in here a while ago, nice-looking gray-haired fellow around fifty. Said he’d lost your address.”

  “I haven’t been home yet tonight.”

  “Well, he may be there right now, waiting for you.”

  “Not for me,” Charlie said anxiously. “For Ben. People come to the house to see Ben, not me.”

  “Isn’t your name Charles Gowen?”

  “You know it is, Mr. Forster.”

  “Well, Charles Gowen is who he wanted to see.” Forster took a bottle of aspirin off a shelf. “Shall I put this in a bag for you?”

  “No. No, I’ll take one right away.” Charlie reached for the bottle. His hands were shaking, a fact that didn’t escape Forster’s attention.

  “Yes, sir, if I were you, Charlie, I’d have my blood pressure checked. A niece of mine had a vascular headache and reserpine fixed her up just like magic. She’s a different woman.”

  Charlie unscrewed the cap of the bottle, removed the cotton plug and put two aspirins in his mouth. The strong bitter taste spread from his tongue all the way to his ears and his forehead. His eyes began to water so that Mr. Forster’s face looked dis­torted, like a face in a fun-house mirror.

  “Let me get you a glass of milk,” Forster said kindly. “You should always take a little milk with aspirin, it neutralizes the stomach acids.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I insist.”

  Forster went into the back room and came out carrying a paper cup full of milk. He stood and watched Charlie drink it as though he were watching a stomach fighting a winning battle over its acids.

  “I can understand your being nervous,” Forster said, “at this stage of the game.”

  “What game?”

  “The marriage game, of course. The word’s gotten out how you’re engaged to a nice little woman that works in the library. Marriage is a great thing for a man, believe me. You might have a few qualms about it now but in a few years you’ll be glad you took the big step. A man stays single just so long, then people begin to talk.” Forster took the empty paper cup from Charlie’s hand and squeezed it into a ball. “Mind if I say some­thing personal to you, Charlie?”

  Charlie didn’t speak. The milk seemed to have clotted in his throat like blood.

  Forster mistook silence for assent. “That old trouble of yours, you mustn’t let it interfere with your happiness. It’s all over and done with, people have forgotten it. Why, it was so long ago you were hardly more than a boy. Now you’re living a clean, decent life, you’re just as good as the next man and don’t you be thinking otherwise.”

  Please stop, Charlie thought. Please stop him, God, some­body, anybody, make him be quiet. It’s worse than listening to Ben. They don’t know, neither of them, they don’t know—

  “Maybe it’s not in such good taste, dragging it up like this, but I want you to understand how I feel. You’re going to do fine, Charlie. You deserve a little happiness. Living with a brother is all right when it’s necessary, but what the heck, a man needs a wife and family of his own. When’s the big day?”

  “I don’t know. Louise—it’s her decision.”

  “Don’t leave all the deciding to the lady, Charlie. They like to be told once in a while, makes them feel feminine. You want me to charge the aspirin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Well, all the best to you and the little lady, Charlie.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Forster.”

  “And bear in mind what I said. The town’s getting so filled up with strangers that only a few old-timers like myself know you ever had any trouble. You just forget it, Charlie. It’s water under the bridge, it’s spilled milk. You ever tried to follow a drop of water down to the sea? Or pour spilled milk back into the bottle?”

  “No. I—”

  “Can’t be done. Put that whole nasty business out of your head, Charlie. It’s a dead horse, bury it.”

  “Yes. Good-bye, Mr. Forster.”

  Charlie began moving toward the door but Forster moved right along beside him. He seemed reluctant to let Charlie go, as if Charlie was a link with the past, which for all its cruelties was kinder than this day of strangers and freeways and super drugstores in every shopping center.

  “I’ve got to go now, Mr. Forster. Ben’s waiting for me.”

  “A good man, that Ben. He was a tower of strength to you in your time of need, always remember that, Charlie. He’s prob­ably quite proud of you now, eh? Considering how you’ve changed and everything?”

  Charlie was staring down at the door handle as though he wished it would turn of its own accord and the door would open and he could escape. Ben’s not proud of me. 1 haven’t changed. The horse isn’t dead, the milk is still spilling, the same drop of water keeps passing under the bridge.

  Forster opened the door and the old-fashioned bell at the top tinkled its cheerful warning. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Charlie. Come in again soon for another little chat. And say hello to Ben for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “By the way, that man who was in here asking for your address, he had an official bearing like he was used to order
ing people around. But don’t worry, Charlie. I didn’t tell him a thing about that old trouble of yours. I figured it was none of his business if he wasn’t an official, and if he was he’d know about it anyway. It’s all on the record.”

  The same drop of water was passing under the bridge, only it was dirtier this time, it smelled worse, it carried more germs. Charlie leaned forward as if he meant to scoop it up with his hand and throw it away, so far away it would disintegrate, and all the dirt and smell and germs with it. But Mr. Forster was watching him, and though his smile was benevolent his eyes were wary. You can never tell what these nuts are going to do, no matter how hard you try to be kind to them.

  “You,” Charlie said, “you look like Ben, Mr. Forster.”

  “What?”

  “You look exactly like Ben. It shows up real clear to me.”

  “It does, eh? You’d better go home and get some sleep. You’re tired.”

  He was tired but he couldn’t go home. The man might be there waiting for him, ready to ask him questions. He had done nothing wrong, yet he knew he wouldn’t be believed. He couldn’t say it with absolute conviction, the way Louise had the night she found him on Jacaranda Road: “Nothing’s happened, Charlie . . . You haven’t harmed anyone. The Oakley girl is safe at home, and I believe that even if I hadn’t found you when I did, she’d still be safe at home.”

  The Oakley girl was safe at home. So was the Brant girl, Jessie. Or was she? He hadn’t seen her at the playground, or outside her house when he drove past. Perhaps something had happened to her and that was why the man wanted to question him. He might even have to take a lie-detector test. He had heard once that real guilt and feelings of guilt showed up almost the same on a lie-detector test. If he were asked whether he knew Jessie Brant he would say no because this was the truth. But his heart would leap, his blood pressure would rise, his voice would choke up, he would start sweating, and all these things would be recorded on the chart and brand him a liar. Even Ben would think he was lying. Only Louise would believe him, only Louise. He felt a terrible need to hear her say: “Nothing happened, Charlie. The Oakley girl is safe at home, and the Brant girl and the other little girls, all safe at home, all snug in their beds, nothing to fear from you, Charlie. I love you, Charlie....”