She drank a glass of orange juice while standing at the back door, looking over the narrow porch they never used.
It's going to be sultry, she thought. A definitely unpleasant harbinger of a miserable summer. The real heat shouldn't have come until the last of July.
A robin fluttered to the grass, its head cocked in search of worms. It hopped toward her, then fled when a half-dozen crows settled down by the hedge. They spread out in a single line and moved slowly across the yard, stabbing, stopping every few minutes to preen their wings. When they reached the trees in the center, they rose to hide in the leaves. Act Three, Terry thought, now comes the horrible lion stalking through the jungle. And she laughed silently when Bess' Siamese burst through the hedge and stood rock still, with tail dipped to the ground. It was old, and when it moved, its belly brushed at the grass.
So who shall be the great white hunter and save the populace from the terror? She tapped a fingernail against the screen. The cat froze, turned its head slowly toward her and stared, and Terry used a knuckle to send it dashing out of the yard. Brave eagle, she thought, biggest damned coward in the neighborhood.
She carried her glass to the sink and held it under the faucet. She knew she was stalling; sooner or later she would have to go into the study and look at the easel, if only because her deadline was but four days away and Maddy had begun her gentle, dourly program of harassment. But she felt no pressure; all that remained was the final short chapter and two, perhaps three illustrations. It was the color that bothered her most. What she'd sent in had been pastel, too gentle for the excitement, yet it was too late to suddenly go stark, too late to redo all that had gone on before. And as she thought about it she became nervous, anxious to get to work and fearful of doing so. It was a fine book, even by her own exacting standards, and she was positive it would do well. But . . .
"All right, woman," she told her reflection in the stove's chrome hood. "Get your ass into gear. It ain't going to kill you, you know."
She hurried back into the bedroom and changed into a light blouse, which she tied under her breasts, and a pair of patched and faded jeans. Her feet she left bare, and her hair was tied back with a frayed piece of yellow yarn.
A minute as she looked down at Syd, his naked chest slightly moist with the early heat. Raising her fingers to her lips, she blew him a kiss and, after opening both windows, carefully drew the door closed.
Onward, she said, and went into the study before she could lose her nerve. The easel faced away from her, and though she was tempted to fuss at the desk, she stepped around the frame, puffed her cheeks and blew. The paper was empty. Just as she'd left it. Feeling around behind her, she found the stool and sat heavily, wiping her brow and shaking, her head. The dream-image was still quite vivid, and she decided that it needed doing, if only to cleanse her for the day's work.
But before she completed the outline she unpinned the paper and tossed it into a corner, spitting after it dryly. It was a miserable sketch, oddly lifeless, and in her anger she knew she'd wasted the hours before lunch. "So, a walk," she said. "Get the old muscles creaking, the old brain unmuddied."
She picked up a pad and dark pencil, thought about and discarded the idea of a light sweater. She slapped at her bare midriff and left by the front door, hoping Syd would sleep away most of the day. If anyone around here needs the rest, she thought, he does.
She walked to the crest of the hill, glad for the jeans instead of shorts when she saw the number of bees swarming over the meadow's flowers. The fact that she'd never been stung only added to her anxiety, and when she reached the drop couldn't blame the heat for all her perspiring.
The marker hadn't changed. But why should it? And the answer: knowing now that a man's body had been draped across it. Perhaps there would be a specter of blood, a slice of tissue from the long-gone corpse. Again she slid down the incline and walked up to the monument. It reached her neck when she stood directly before it, was far thicker than she'd first thought. She touched it cautiously, found no splinters, and pressed against it firmly. She closed her eyes. Waited.
Felt foolish. Waited.
The heat burned her neck. She moved behind and let both hands grip the curved top, and her head bowed until her forehead touched the rain-smooth wood. Mumbling nonsense syllables, thinking of the books she'd read and the characters who conjured the past through occult spells and deals with the demonic Underworld. The grass, initially cool to her soles, became brittle, warm, and she shifted to the front where there was bare earth. She lifted her face to the sky, and the darkness behind her closed lids exploded into a red that swam and made her head ache. Tighter, and the light intensified. Straining, and suddenly she backed off and sat hard on the ground.
"I was pushed," she said aloud. "Goddamnit, I was pushed!"
She snatched up her pad and scrambled back to the top of the hill, had to tighten her legs to keep from running. When she emerged from the stand of birch, she saw Denver in the middle of the street; beyond, Mrs. Denbeau struggling from her mailbox. A package was tucked awkwardly under her arm. It slipped, and when she bent to retrieve it, she looked Terry's way. Denver put his hands on his hips, and Mrs. Denbeau straightened and hobbled as fast as her walker would allow into her garage. Denver waited a full minute before turning, a slight sardonic grin on his face.
"That old woman doesn't like me a bit," he said loud enough for her to hear. "Come on over and sit a while with me." He smiled, but Terry knew it was more than a casual invitation. His hand reached out, waited until she was by him, then closed on her upper arm. "A magnificent day, don't you think? One of God's best. A little too hot for some folks, but then there's always the winter or the movie theater if you want cold air blowing in your face."
He led her to his stoop and helped her sit on the top step. Then he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. "Mrs. Denbeau, for example—"
"I heard her husband was murdered last year."
He looked back at her and nodded slowly. "Terrible thing. I suppose Syd told you all about it?"
She nodded, pressing the pad hard into her thighs.
"I had to toss the guy out on his ear. Frightened the hell out of little Mary. Luckily she wasn't pregnant at the time or I think I would have scalped the drunken bastard."
"Denver," she said suddenly, having roused a simmering anger into words, "you were very nice to us when we moved in last year. When we came—"
"Well, it's easy to be nice to nice people, Terry."
Forked-tongue to you, too, she thought. "Thanks, but I have to admit to some confusion. I mean, if we're still friends—"
"But how else would it be?"
"—Then I'd like to know what I said yesterday that offended you. It was purely unintentional. You must know that."
McIntyre pulled a checked handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his face and the back of his neck.
"For that, Theresa, I'd like to apologize."
"Look, it's not necessary to go through all that," she said shortly, annoyed at the patronization she sensed rather than heard. "All I want to know—"
"Theresa, it is necessary that I explain. Bear with an old man, will you?"
Some old man, she thought. He could take on any ten men and come out a winner without even sweating. But she smiled, and became uneasy when he leaned back to rest his elbows on the stoop. His face was lower than hers now, and slightly behind—it made her uncomfortable, knowing he was looking up at her yet unable to shift gracefully to meet his gaze. She concentrated on her own front door, hoping that Syd would suddenly waken and interrupt them.
"You see," Denver began, "Alec and me, we moved to The Lane about the same time. The first ones here, in fact, when the street was a dirt lane the folks on Hawthorne used to go to the meadow. His wife, Marsha, died a couple of summers later. Heart attack while she was out hunting for blueberries. Alec was never the same after that. And let's face it, Theresa, his physical appearance did not lend itself naturally to a floc
k of women hovering around his fireplace. It hit him hard, you see, and me and Mary and William, we sort of took him into our house like he was King. Helped him get the store, lent him money, little things like that. He was very close to us, Theresa, and since we still hold to a few of the old ways, we were mourning him and it just naturally didn't invite visitors, if you know what I mean."
"It seems like a lot of people die around here," she said without thinking.
"Old people die no matter where they are. Young folks, too. Like Timothy Barnes."
"Who?"
Denver laughed. "My God, didn't that agent tell you?"
She twisted around. "I don't think so, no."
"Why, Tim Barnes was the man who owned Number Three before you two folks came in. He was training to be a mile runner. Used to do that sort of thing in college, I understand, and when the track people went professional he decided to try it out himself. Heat prostration a June or two back. His wife moved to . . . Minneapolis, I think."
Company transfer, she thought, and we're like family. Oh brother, Syd, have I got news for you.
"So, people die, Theresa. Some because their time's come, others—like Denbeau and Barnes—because they bring their time to themselves too soon."
"Which one was Alec?"
There was a silence that made her want to vanish when she realized the implications of her question. Quickly, she fussed with her pad until she spotted a stick figure she'd doodled some time before. "Denver," she said brightly, "can I ask you about that doll again?"
"Why?" His voice was expressionless.
"Well," she said, deciding to play the role of the disingenuous young girl, "Alec told me that the elder had made that collection in the store. He said your father wanted them sold if possible. You know, that's what he said. I don't care, really, but it's kind of curious, you know?"
Denver sighed loudly and straightened, returning his forearms to his thighs. She saw the muscles tightening in his neck, his fingers kneading his knees. "Alec hadn't been well for a long time, Theresa. In fact, your sister was a godsend to him, really she was. A beautiful woman, you know. Kind of makes me wish I were thirty years younger. Twenty-five?"
"Around that," she said, almost adding, "And stop your stalling."
"Well, I saw those showcase dolls, too, and Alec told me the same thing. But as I said yesterday, the elder could not have done anything of the sort. He has palsy. He can't even hold his own knife and fork—he has to be fed by hand."
"But I've seen him dozens of times," she blurted, "and never noticed anything like that."
"Because," he said patiently, "when he's in what the doctors call repose, there's no problem at all. It's only when he tries to hold something. Like a pencil, or a knife."
He stood then, and turned abruptly as though he were going to make a point, but his feet tangled and with a surprised yell he fell sideways across the steps. Terry scrambled back, then jumped to the walk and knelt beside him. He was holding his head, shaking it, then pushing her away roughly.
"I'm okay," he said. "I'm okay."
"Not quite," he said. "Just banged up the grass a little."
"But I saw—"
He smiled and pointed to a flattened patch of grass near the bottom step. "If I hit the edge of that concrete, Theresa, this red man's face would really be red."
She nodded, still shaking from the scare and unable to keep from staring at his temple. It had all happened so fast, perhaps he was right. Perhaps? She frowned. No perhapsing about it; he was already up and walking off the ache.
"Sorry, Denver," she said. "Are you all right?"
"Don't worry, little lady. Surprised me more than anything. You just hurry back to your walking or writing or whatever you do to keep Syd happy."
"You're sure?"
He nodded, exaggerated a grimace, and pushed her gently toward the street. "Go," he said. "Your husband awaits."
She looked up and saw Syd standing in the doorway, wearing only a pair of cut-off jeans. He called a greeting to the Indian and smiled broadly as she ran up and hugged him tightly.
"Hey, slow down, woman! You want to put on a show right here in front of the whole neighborhood?"
"Well, look who's walking around half-naked."
"Jealous," he said, following her into the house.
"You wish you had my body."
"If I had your body, husband dear, we wouldn't be married, I don't think."
"Oh, I don't know about that. I've always thought you were a little strange."
"Peg up?" she said, leaning against the bathroom door while he shaved.
"Haven't seen or heard. Yesterday must have been a hell of a blow, angel. I wouldn't expect her up for hours."
"You think I should go down and talk with her?"
"About what? You'll only start her crying again."
"Yeah, but—"
"Grief, my angel, can be shared by two, like the poet says, but it can only be borne by one."
"Oh, my," she said. "Aren't we full of the philosophical bent today."
He grinned and wiped his face with a towel. "Look at that mug, will you? A remarkable piece of workmanship, if I do say so myself."
"You cut yourself."
He leaned toward the mirror, frowning. "Where?"
"Here," and she placed a finger alongside a droplet of blood beneath his ear.
"Shit."
"Foul!"
"It must have been that damned dream. I haven't cut myself in a hundred years."
"Dream?" She grabbed his wrist, made him lower his toothbrush. "What dream?"
"Hey," he said, putting his hands on her shoulder, "what are you so excited about?"
"What dream?" she persisted.
"Hell, I don't know. I must have been tired or something. A nightmare."
She took his hands from her, pushed until he was seated on the edge of the tub. "Come on, Syd, tell me about the dream."
He shrugged and rubbed his hands across his chest. "What can I say? A run-of-the-mill nightmare. Nothing special." He frowned, then, when he saw she wouldn't move from in front of him. "Okay. Remember when I took that walk last night before bed?"
She nodded, biting her lower lip to keep from interrupting.
"Well, I found that wood thing you were telling me about. You know, all the time we've been here and I've never been ten feet from our own yard. Stupid, isn't it? That place over there would make a hell of a picnic ground. I was over by the park, too, and heard a stream. I wonder if—"
"Syd, damnit, stick to the subject!"
"Okay, okay." He held his palms up to ward off her anger. "I was thinking about the marker and I was going to nip down to the library after lunch to see if I could find out anything about it."
"I tried the city already," she said glumly. "Nothing. Nobody ever heard of it."
"Right, but I couldn't get the thing out of my head. That, and unwinding from the office and all . . . you know how it is, angel. We're not doing all that well these days, and I guess I was kind of uptight, you know what I mean?"
She did, and wished he were the kind of man who allowed himself the privilege of the confidence of others; but almost everything that bothered him he kept to himself until he was positive he could either solve it or expunge it from his system. Like the Denbeau murder he was sure would upset her; and, she was sure, he also knew about the Barnes death, thinking she wouldn't live in a house that belonged to a dead man. What he would never understand was that she wanted desperately to worry with him.
"I don't remember all of it," he was saying, "except that there was this wooden marker and I was trying to run away from it, but it kept getting bigger and bigger until I was afraid it would fall over on top of me. There was all this thunder that kept confusing me, too, and I think the thing was swaying toward me when I finally woke up." He stopped and looked down at his feet. "I guess it means I got some problems I think are going to crush me, they're getting so big."
Terry knelt on the floor and laid her c
heek on his leg. She closed her eyes when his hand buried itself in her hair, untied the yellow yarn, and brushed before cupping her chin and lifting. "You know," he said softly, "this here rug has got the deepest shag I ever saw in my life."
She shifted to allow his fingers access to the tie of her blouse, shivered at the scratch of nails across her stomach. "My feet are dirty," she murmured, "from walking in the field."
He unfastened the buttons and pulled the blouse from her shoulders. "It's not your feet I'm interested in."
"You're a lecher, you know that?"
She lay back and watched as he flicked off the light. The sun brightened the translucent window over the tub, darkening the front of him and making him a shadow. She was cold, then, blamed it on the steam still clinging to the walls and mirror. Colder, when he pressed against her and gripped her shoulders. His spine under her hands was damp, and she used her nails to keep from losing him, used her teeth to nip at his lips, his chin.
"Syd! You shaved off your beard!"
He raised back on his elbows and laughed, shaking his head. "I was wondering when you'd notice, dumb-head. For an artist you're not very observant."
As though she'd never seen him before, she stared at the sharp cut of his jaw, the slightly red skin between nose and upper lip. When she touched it, it was soft, and suddenly she grabbed him tightly, pulling his face into her breasts and waiting for the bucking moment of release.
Afterward, while he traced the faintly blue veins in her breasts, she watched the light in the window shade to gray, felt the afternoon close in as though a lid were being lowered over the house. Something caught at her hearing and she strained until she recognized music below her.
"I think Peg's awake," she said.
He grunted and sat up. "Well, thus endeth the orgy. Go make me some lunch. Cheese, if you don't mind. Cold."
She dressed, ducked out of the room as he slapped her buttocks. She ran down the hall laughing, was still laughing when Peg opened her door and stepped in front of her.
The Curse Page 11
