The Cannibal Heart

by Margaret Millar

  They skirted the side of the house and headed for the stone steps a hundred yards beyond. No one saw them or challenged them, though they had a glimpse of Mr. Roma standing where James used to stand, under the magnolia tree. The cowbell was silent.

  “I think my father’s home,” Jessie said. “I saw the jeep.”

  “You’ll see him when we come back.” She began to talk fast, trying to keep Jessie’s attention away from the house and the jeep parked in the driveway. “Last night I had a dream. It was funny. I dreamt the sea had dried up, and where the sea had been there was a vast hole covered with dust and crushed salt. In the hole, everything, all the fish and seals and porpoises, lay gasping and half-dead. There was no water anywhere in the world. Everything had come down to the sea to drink, birds and animals and people. Even people I know were there, Luisa and you—you were there, Jessie. But of course the sea had dried up, too. There was only this great hole.”

  “That’s silly,” Jessie said.

  “Dreams are. Then it began to rain, and the sea filled up, and everything came to life like magic. There was no lightning or thunder, just the rain. I walked in it. I walked in the woods, and out of the dust grew beautiful flowers, and the path was a velvet ribbon of grass. Not just devil grass, the kind we have now—this was real grass with a little clover in it. And the trees—ah, you should have seen the trees, Jessie. The live oaks seemed to reach almost

  the sky. Every orange tree was jeweled with gold, and the leaves of the peppers hung down like moist green lace. I could see things growing quite plainly. Buds opened before my eyes, and from bare wood little green sprouts emerged . . .”

  “The sea was all right again, though?”

  “Yes, it was all right. Just the way it is now.”

  “Kind of rough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you swim in it?”

  “No, I woke up too soon.”

  “That’s a funny dream,” Jessie said, nodding gravely. “It certainly is.”

  In single file they started down the stone steps holding onto the rust-blistered iron rail guard. Just before the house dipped out of sight Jessie turned to look back at it, and a secretive little smile crossed her face. She felt quite dashing and adventurous, following Mrs. Wakefield down the steps, and seeing ahead of her in the distance the island, the

  shape of a giant curled up on his side asleep. She wasn’t in the least afraid even when she thought of the giant image, because they had reached the bottom of the steps now and Mrs. Wakefield had taken her hand again and was holding it very securely.

  “I’m glad you’re coming with me,” Mrs. Wakefield said gaily. “It wouldn’t be any fun visiting the island all by myself.”

  “What will we do when we get there?”

  “Explore. Or maybe we’ll watch the porpoises first.”

  “How do you know there are porpoises?”

  “A fisherman told me. He tried to catch one with a jig, but the porpoises were too clever to be fooled. Then he found out later what bad luck it is to catch a porpoise, so he stopped trying. Fishermen are superstitious.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they live by luck. You’re not getting cold, are you?”

  “No.” But she was a trifle cold, in spite of the midafternoon sun. The masses of foam blowing along the beach like soapsuds had dampened her jeans, and they were beginning to feel soggy, flapping against her legs.

  “Here we are, Jessie.”

  The rubber boat was where Mark had left it, half-pulled up on the big rock out of reach of the tide. Mr. Roma’s old rowboat was there, too, upside down, showing its grey slivered bottom.

  Mrs. Wakefield tugged at the raft until it came bouncing down into the sand. Tautened by the sun-warmed air inside, it seemed ready to burst. But when they dragged it across the sand into the cold water it began to shrink until it was quite flabby.

  “It’s leaking,” Jessie said, stepping back up on the dry sand.

  “No, it’s not. It’s just the change in temperature.” Mrs. Wakefield had kicked off her shoes and was standing in the water holding the raft steady against the pressure of the breakers. “Take your shoes off and roll up your jeans. I’ll hold it while you get in.”

  Jessie obeyed, slowly. The raft, which looked so enormous when it was carried on top of the car, now looked hardly big enough for two.

  “Hurry up, Jessie.”

  “I am. I’ve got a knot.”

  “Leave it then.”

  Mrs. Wakefield’s dress was soaked all the way to her waist, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was smiling, and when a wave broke over the raft, slapping its flabby yellow flanks, she let out an excited little laugh.

  “Isn’t this fun, Jessie?” she cried. “Look at me, I’m drenched! Come on now, climb in, darling.”

  “But it won’t stay still.”

  “Of course it won’t. Imagine a boat that would stay still. No one would want such a thing. Come on now.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Holding up her jeans she stepped into the water. An outgoing wave sucked at her feet and left her up to her ankles in sand. She wished that there was an easier way of getting to the island, such as a bridge or a big ferryboat that didn’t bounce so sickeningly.

  She wriggled over the side of the raft, and sat down, stiff with pride and fright, on the little rubber seat in the stern.

  “Good girl. Now when I get in we must both paddle as hard as we can to get beyond the breakers. Can you do that?”

  “I—guess so.”

  “All right then. Bon voyage, Miss Banner.”

  Jessie giggled, holding her hand over her mouth.

  19

  Carmelita had closed the drapes in the living room so the afternoon sun wouldn’t fade the carpet. The room was so dark in contrast to the glare outside that Mark didn’t see Evelyn until she spoke:

  “Home so early?”

  “Yes.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see her more clearly, curled up on the davenport as limp as a rag doll, holding in her lap the half-finished sweater she was knitting for Jessie. The ball of yarn was way over by the fireplace as if it had been thrown there in a fit of rage.

  He said carefully, “I didn’t get a haircut.”

  “So I see.”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t get to town at all. I turned around and came back. The wind was so heavy it was like trying to drive through a sand storm on the desert.”

  He sat down in a chair opposite her, and rubbed his knuckles against the side of his jaw. He needed a shave and a shower, but he knew that Evelyn expected him to sit down and talk. She had probably been lying there for hours planning what to say

  to him.

  “What have you been doing all afternoon?” he asked her.

  “Thinking.”

  “What about? Or is that the wrong question?”

  “Home, mostly.”

  “Homesick already?”

  “A little bit.” She stirred, picked up her knitting and let it drop again into her lap. “I know we had a hundred reasons for coming here, but I can’t remember one of them. Isn’t that funny?”

  “To avoid the heat,” Mark said, “and to breathe the bracing sea air. Also I believe it was mentioned that travel would broaden Jessie.”

  “I don’t feel very braced. And up to today, the heat’s been practically as bad as it is in Manhattan. Do you think Jessie is being broadened?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely. We all are. It’s been a liberal education.”

  “Don’t get ironic.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You can’t talk to me for three minutes anymore without getting ironic. Is it—it is because of her, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t lie to me often. I can always tell when you do
.”

  “Can you?” he said wearily. “I can hardly tell myself sometimes.”

  He reached for the cigarette box on the coffee table in front of him. The box, as usual, was filled, the cigarettes were fresh, and the table lighter worked at the first try. Detail was Evelyn’s specialty. He felt vaguely irritated that she should waste so much time on such relatively unimportant things. “Do we have to have it so gloomy in here?”

  “The carpets will fade.”

  “They belong to Mrs. Wakefield. You don’t like her anyway, why not fade her damned carpets?”

  “That’s a beautiful thought. I will.”

  She got up and flung back the drapes. Dust swirled in the shafts of sunlight.

  “Please tell me the truth, Mark. It can’t possibly be any worse than what I’ve imagined.”

  “There’s not much truth to tell.”

  “She hasn’t been here all afternoon. Was she with you?”

  “Some of the time. We said goodbye. Permanently. She’s leaving tomorrow morning, and after that I don’t expect to see her again. You can stop thinking about her.”

  “Can I? Can you?” There was a ghastly little smile on her face. “Was the farewell—quite touching?”

  “Yes, it was. Most farewells are.”

  “But this one—this one specially, eh?”

  “Stop it, Evelyn.” He stared into the swirling dust and wished he was a part of it, unable to feel.

  “You’re suffering, aren’t you?” she said, her mouth shaking. “Underneath all that wonderful masculine control of yours, I can see you suffering. And I’m glad. I’m laughing, see? Now you know how other people feel, don’t you? Now it’s your turn, and I’m glad. I’m so glad I could die laughing!” She put up her arm and hid her face against her sleeve. “Other—other people can suffer, too.”

  He walked over to her and put his hands on her trembling shoulders.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, Evelyn.”

  “I know you are. But I don’t happen to want any tender apologies. They don’t affect me anymore. You’re rotten spoiled, Mark. You always have been, always the little king of the castle, with all your sisters dancing attendance on you, and your parents spending half their time convincing you you were the Great Brain. And where they left off, I took over. I became the stooge. I guess I shouldn’t complain now that I’m getting what stooges usually get, a custard pie smack in the puss. Hilarious.” One corner of her mouth turned up in a bitter little smile. “How am I doing in my role of the wronged wife?”

  “Just fine,” he said soberly. “Go on.”

  “I haven’t anything more to say, except that you’re a hard man, Mark—oh, very gentle and sweet when it comes to dogs or children or horses—but hard on people, on me, and on her, too, I guess. I—I could almost feel sorry for her. Maybe someday I will.”

  “And me?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll feel sorry for you, too. How can I help it when I love you?”

  The cigarette had burned down to his fingers and the real physical pain of the burn was almost a relief. He opened the window to throw away the butt. The wind fussed, and swept the smoke into the corners of the room like a whining housewife. Closing the window again he saw, a quarter of a mile from shore, the yellow raft bouncing on the choppy, whitecapped waves. The raft was headed out to sea and Mrs. Wakefield was paddling with frenzied speed. In the stern, looking tiny and vulnerable, sat Jessie.

  “She must be crazy!” he said incredulously.

  “Who?”

  “She’s got Jessie out there in the raft with an offshore wind like this.” He wheeled around in fury. “Where’s Roma?”

  “I—I sent him to call Jessie.”

  Mr. Roma was beside the old shed hanging up the cowbell on its nail.

  He turned at the sound of Mark’s feet running across the driveway.

  “Jessie doesn’t come. I rang and rang . . .”

  “She’s out in the raft with Mrs. Wakefield.”

  “The raft?” Mr. Roma shook his head in bewilderment. “But it’s too rough, Mrs. Wakefield should know that. The small craft warnings are up all the way from Point Concepción, I heard it on the radio.”

  “We’ll have to go after them.”

  “Better to phone the Coast Guard and say urgent.”

  “There isn’t time.” He grabbed Mr. Roma’s arm and shouted, “They’re headed out to sea, deliberately. They’re not just out joyriding. They’re going some place!”

  “There’s no place to go. Only the island.”

  “That’s miles away!”

  “Twenty miles.” The whites of Mr. Roma’s eyes seemed to be swelling like balloons. “And there’s nowhere to land. Just the straight cliff, and the tide caves . . .”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Mark said helplessly. “For Christ’s sake!”

  “We’ll go after them in the rowboat. Wait, and I’ll get a blanket.”

  Seconds later he came running out of the kitchen door with two blankets over his arm, and Carmelita at his heels screaming at him in Spanish. He paid no attention.

  Racing to the edge of the cliff behind Mark, he threw the blankets over. They began to climb down, half-sliding, half-falling, clutching at jutting roots and chaparral to slow their descent. Almost simultaneously they fell sprawling on the beach in a landslide of rock and earth.

  Mark’s hands were bleeding and there was a spot on the back of his head that was already starting to swell. “Are you all right, Roma?”

  “Yes.”

  “The boat doesn’t look too good.”

  “It is, though.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  They eased the rowboat off the rock into the sand and carried it down to the water. Mr. Roma fitted the oars into the rusted locks.

  “I’ll row,” he said.

  “No. I’m going to.”

  “Better for me to do it. Your hands . . .”

  “They don’t bother me. Get in.”

  The boat lurched wildly through the breakers. Leaning forward, Mr. Roma shielded the blankets with his body to keep them dry. Except for the cut on his cheek that was bleeding slowly, his face had a mauve tinge, and his eyes still seemed ready to burst like the eyes of a fish reeled up suddenly from the vast pressure at the bottom of the sea. He didn’t speak. He sat huddled over the blankets, his gaze fixed on the bottom of the boat, where the water that had splashed over the bow rolled back and forth across his boots.

  “Why did she do this, Roma?”

  “I—I don’t know exactly.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t realize the danger.”

  “She must. But she doesn’t care. She told me, she said she had been cheated, that she was entitled to anything she could lay her hands on.”

  “What did she mean?”

  Mr. Roma raised his head and looked out toward the little raft. “I guess she meant the—the child.”

  “What else?” Mark screamed above the wind. “Tell me what else . . .”

  “She said Jessie was all hers.”

  “Hers?”

  “I think she meant she would take Jessie away with her some place.”

  “But there isn’t any place to take her.”

  “The island.”

  “They’d never get to the island in that thing!”

  “She doesn’t care,” Mr. Roma said again.

  There was rage and fear now behind every pull of the oars. The boat was catching up easily with the clumsy rubber raft, but neither Mrs. Wakefield nor Jessie had turned around and seen it. They seemed inexorably headed for a destination.

  Mrs. Wakefield looked so funny with her hair streaming and her dress puffing in and out with the wind, that Jessie could hardly stop laughing. Wind-tears and laug
hter-tears squeezed out of her eyes and dried saltily on her blotched cheeks.

  “My arms are getting tired,” Jessie said.

  “Rest a while then. I will, too.”

  “Will we find seals there, do you think?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’d like to catch a baby one to take home with me. I bet the kids at school wouldn’t believe their eyes.”

  “Home?” Mrs. Wakefield half-turned, so that Jessie could see how very still her face had become. Her hair blew, her dress fluttered, but her face was quiet as stone. “Where’s home?”

  “Manhattan.”

  “Manhattan.” She spoke with her fingers pressed against her mouth. “That’s an island, too, isn’t it?”

  “A city-island.”

  Shivering, Jessie hugged her arms together to warm them. The sun had disappeared and a flock of clouds was blowing across the sky. The sea was changing color, from blue to green, and silver to slate. She was a little awed by all the changes, and she looked toward the island to see how close they were getting, and how soon they would be arriving.

  But the island had vanished. There was only the sea, going on and on and on.

  “It’s gone,” she shouted. “The island’s gone!”

  “No, no, it hasn’t. It’s still there, only we can’t see it. The weather’s changed.”

  “But we’re getting closer to it. We should see it better. It should be bigger.”

  “It’s only hiding behind the weather.”

  “Hiding?” She leaned forward straining her eyes, but there was nothing hiding out there. The sleeping giant had wakened and walked away.

  She remembered the mystery of the puddles on the highway. It had been a sunny day, and she was out driving with her father when she noticed on the pavement ahead of her shining wet puddles. But no matter how fast her father drove he never caught up with the puddles, they had always dried up and disappeared by the time the car reached them.