Head cases

by Scott Nicholson

  "What are you doing in here?" Peter said.

  "I… couldn't sleep." She looked down at the empty carpet, at the small marks where the crib legs had rested.

  Maybe if she cried.

  "We should paint this room," Peter said.

  She went to him, sagged against his chest as he hugged her. After she was through sobbing, he led her to the bedroom. He fell asleep again, but she couldn't. Behind her eyelids lived that small, gasping mouth and those two silent, begging eyes.

  As she listened to the rhythm of Peter's breathing, she recalled the line from that movie, the cop thriller that they'd gone to see when she was seven months' pregnant. The tough plainclothes detective, who looked like a budget Gene Hackman, had said, "There's only two ways to get away with murder: kill yourself, or put a plastic bag over a baby's head."

  What a horrible thing to say, she'd thought at the time. Only a jerk Hollywood writer would come up with something like that, so callous and thoughtless. Peter had later apologized for suggesting the movie.

  "Is it really true?" she'd asked. "About the plastic bag?"

  "Who knows?" he'd said. "I guess they do research when they write those things. Just forget about it."

  Sure. She'd put that behind her, too. She wondered if Peter had been able to forget it.

  He had taken out the insurance policy for Amanda a week after her birth. Peter had always wanted to be a millionaire. That's why he played the market. He wanted to hit one jackpot in his life.

  She turned on the lamp and studied Peter's face.

  Amanda had some of his features. The arch of the eyebrows, the fleshy earlobes, the small chin. But Amanda's eyes had been all Katie. When those silent eyes looked imploringly out from Katie's memory, it was like looking into a mirror.

  Katie shuddered and blinked away the vision of that small stare. She pressed her face against the pillow, mimicking a suffocation. No. She wouldn't be able to smother herself.

  She wrestled with the sheets. Peter was sweating, even though he wore only pajama bottoms. She pulled the blanket from him. He sleepily tugged back, oblivious.

  She must have fallen asleep, dreamed. Amanda at the window, brushing softly against the screen. Katie rising from the bed, pressing her face against the cold glass. Amanda floating in the night, eyes wide, flesh blue, lips moving in senseless baby talk. The sounds muffled by the plastic bag over her head.

  When Katie awoke, Peter was in the bathroom, getting ready for work. He was humming. He was an ace at putting things behind him. You'd scarcely have known that he'd lost a daughter.

  Why couldn't she show an equally brave face?

  She made her morning trek into the nursery. No crib, no Amanda. The books were dead on the shelves, words for nobody. The toys were dusty.

  "I'm going to stop by on my way home and pick up a couple of gallons of paint," Peter said from the doorway. He put his toothbrush back in his mouth.

  "Was she ever real?" Katie asked.

  "Shhh," Peter mumbled around the toothbrush. "It's okay, honey. It wasn't your fault."

  Even Peter believed it. She looked at his hands. No. They would never have been able to slip a bag over a baby's head, hold it loosely until the squirming stopped.

  She was surprised she still had tears left to cry. Maybe she would run out of them in a week or two, when she was beyond utterly. When she had put it behind her.

  "Peach," she said. "I think peach walls would look good."

  "It's only for a little while. Until we have enough money to move. The sooner we get you away from this house, the better."

  The million wouldn't buy Amanda back. But at least it would help bury her, confine her to a distant place in Katie's memory. Maybe one day, Katie really would be able to forget. One morning, she would awaken without guilt.

  She made coffee, some eggs for Peter. He rushed through breakfast, checking over the NASDAQ in the newspaper. She kissed him at the door.

  "I promise to try harder," she said to him.

  He put a hand to the back of her neck, rubbed her cheek with his thumb. "She had eyes just like yours," he said, then he looked away. "Sorry. I'm not supposed to talk about it."

  "We'll be away from here soon."

  "It wasn't your fault."

  She couldn't answer. She had a lump in her throat. So she nodded, watched him walk to his car, then closed the door. After he'd driven away, headed for the Battery in Manhattan, she went up the stairs.

  She reached under the bed and pulled out the keepsake box. She untied the pink ribbon and opened it. Amanda Lee Forrester, born 7-12-00. Seven pounds, nine ounces. Tiny footprints on the birth certificate.

  Katie shuffled through the photographs, the birth announcement clipped from the newspaper, the hospital bracelet, the two white booties, the small silver spoon Peter's mom had given them. Soon Katie would be able to put these things behind her and move on. But not too soon.

  She could cry at will. She could pretend to be utterly if she needed to, if Peter ever suspected. She could hide her guilt in that perfect hiding place, her disguise of perpetual self-blame.

  Katie put all the items of Amanda's life into the plastic bag, then tied the box closed with the ribbon. She returned the box to its place under the bed. Peter would never understand, not a trade such as the one she'd made.

  A million dollars to forever carry the weight of silence.

  She clicked on the nursery monitor, sat on the bed, and listened.

  ###

  WEE ROBBIE

  By William Meikle

  We knew it was a bad idea to isolate ourselves so much when it was so near her time but it had been years since our last holiday and besides, her doctors assured us that we were at least three weeks away from the birth.

  It wasn't planned-not at all. We'd settled for a couple of weeks' rest and I'd booked a three-month sabbatical from the office, hoping to get some work done on the house. Then we won the competition. One week anywhere in Britain of our choosing as long as we took the holiday in the next month. One day we were in our flat in London, surrounded by half-finished building work, noise, dust, and general aggravation, the next we were all alone on the west coast of Scotland, in a cottage by the shore on Jura-just us, the seals, and the view over the sea to Argyll.

  I wasn't sure at first. I wanted to be near a hospital, just in case of emergencies, but she insisted. It would be our last holiday alone for a while, she was fit and healthy, and she wanted to do it.

  The nearest house was five miles south, the nearest doctor twice that distance. To the north and west there were only the rugged hills and the deer. We didn't even have a boat. At least there was a road, a single-track lane with passing places. It had recently been resurfaced and we had been provided with a new Range Rover for the duration. I was confident that we could reach the doctor's house in less than twenty minutes in event of an emergency. That was quicker than I could have managed it in London. And we had warned the doctor we were coming. I had talked myself round to the idea and I wasn't worried. I should have been.

  We arrived late. Jura is not the easiest place to get to. It involved a flight to Glasgow and a short hop over to Islay. The Range Rover was waiting at Islay airport, which is more a glorified field than an airstrip. After that, it is a fifteen-mile trip to the Port Askaig ferry, a small ramshackle affair that can take four cars on a calm day across the half mile of treacherous waters towards the stunning mountains of Jura.

  Once on the island, it was a single track road all the way. There is only one road twenty miles of it-with Craighouse, the only town, halfway along, but we were going right to the far end.

  We stopped in the one and only hotel for a meal but we were too late to pick up any other provisions. That would have to wait till the morning.

  It was dark when we arrived and Sandra was too tired to do anything other than fall into bed and sleep. As for me, I was restless. I never believed that I would miss the bustle of London's streets, but the lack of noise here had me on e
dge.

  The only sound was the gentle lapping of the sea on the rocks only ten yards from the cottage's front door. Occasionally there would be the forlorn cry of a gull or the croaking of a crow, but apart from that, it was silent and dark and strangely disquieting.

  I paced the floors, studying the titles of the books on the long shelves round the walls, listening to the radio, drinking whiskey and trying to pretend that I didn't miss the television.

  It was very late by the time I snuggled into bed, taking advantage of the radiating heat from my pregnant wife beside me. I believe I slept soundly, I don't remember any dreams, and nothing disturbed me during the night.

  She woke me the next morning with a whisper.

  'Get up. Hurry. You've got to see this.'

  I was still groggy when I raised my head to see her leaving the room. I got out of bed, wincing at the cold seeping through the floorboards, and joined her at the window in the front room.

  'Look', she said, 'Isn't it wonderful?'

  It was very early morning-the sun was just coming up over the hills of Argyll, spreading a pink glow across the wispy clouds.

  The sea was being slightly ruffled by a small breeze and, there in the foreground, just at the edge of the small lawn in front of the house, sat three otters obviously a mother and two smaller young. As we watched they trotted along the shore then slipped into the water.

  We crept out, still naked, and watched them cavorting among the huge fronds of seaweed until I slipped on the wet grass and the sudden movement caused them to dive, resurfacing again much farther out. Sandra came over and squeezed me, her full belly pressing its heat against my flesh.

  'Thanks for bringing us here John. I love it.' We kissed and I marveled again at how hot and alive and heavy with life she had become. It was only as we turned back to the house that I noticed the mound.

  It had been too dark the night before to see any details of the surrounding area but now I could see that the cottage was built on a small raised piece of land between two arms of a river. We had come across a small bridge last night but in the dark I had failed to notice it.

  Behind the cottage, just where the rivers split, there was a huge stone cairn, standing eight to ten feet high and topped off with a cross which looked to be the same height again as the cairn and made of solid iron. Around the cairn there was a wrought iron fence with spiked railings jutting up towards the sky.

  'Why would they put something like that out here?' she asked me 'I thought that cairns were usually built on top of hills?'

  'I'm not sure. Maybe it's for someone who died either here or at sea near here. We can ask in town if you like?' I turned towards her, noticing the goose pimples which had been raised on her arms.

  'Get yourself inside and put some clothes on. We don't want you to catch a chill. Anyway, by the time we get going and get to the town the shop will be open.'

  When we eventually got to the shop it was ten o'clock. There had just been too many things to see on the drive down.

  The shop held only basic foods-eggs, bacon, cheese, nothing too fancy-but Sandra had got over her cravings for exotica and we would be able to stock up with most of our needs for the week.

  Sandra was the focus of much of the talk and was in danger of excessive mothering from some of the women we met. We turned down several offers of a warmer room closer to town and the shop owner took our list from us, promising that she would make it up and we could collect it later.

  Luckily the hotel served late breakfast. The pace of life on the island moved slowly and you could run breakfast into lunch into evening meal into supper without leaving the hotel grounds. We managed to escape at one in the afternoon, weighed down by bacon and sausages and swilling with coffee.

  It was only when we stopped by the shop to pick up our supplies that I remembered the cairn.

  The shop keeper tried to hide her movement but I caught it-the sign against the evil eye, two pronged fingers stabbing at me as she spoke. 'You don't have to worry about that sir. It's only an old memorial. Some say there used to be a plaque fixed to it, but no one can remember what it's there for.'

  I noticed that the rest of the customers in the shop had fallen silent. I supposed that the cairn was the focus for some old superstition. That didn't bother me, but I wasn't about to tell Sandra. Unlike me, she held a fascination for the supernatural. Anything that went bump in the night or was out of the ordinary, she fell for it.

  I could never understand the fascination with scaring yourself half to death, but I knew that if she found out that there was something weird about the cairn, she would not stop until she had winkled out the story. In the car on the way to the cottage, I told her it was a war memorial and then let the subject drop. She didn't ask any questions.

  We finally got back in late afternoon, having made numerous stops to marvel at the stunning variety of life around us. Sandra made a big show of hand-washing our traveling clothes and hanging them from a clothesline at the back of the house.

  The rest of the day passed lazily as we sat on the lawn, drinking long drinks, watching the scenery, and making happy plans for our future. We took our food out onto the grassy area, sitting on an old rug and throwing occasional morsels to an inquisitive squirrel. I think that evening was the closest to heaven I have ever been.

  Doctor Reid arrived around six o'clock and spent ten minutes reassuring himself that Sandra was not about to go into labour in the near future. He was gracious and gentlemanly and I could see that Sandra was charmed. Something in my chest loosened as a knot of worry melted away.

  I walked him back to his car while Sandra cleared up the remains of our picnic. We made small talk about the weather and our prospects for the coming week, and he had got into his car before I said what was really on my mind. I don't know what made me do it, what made me think that he was the man to ask, but before I knew it the sentence was out.

  'Do you know anything about the monument out the back?'

  He gave me a little sideways look over the top of his glasses and it was several seconds before he replied.

  'And why should you let that thing bother you Mr Wilson?'

  Before I could reply, he continued. 'If you really want to know the story, you'll find a version in a book on your shelves. A Tourist's History of Jura. I believe you'll find it educational. But make sure you don't tell your wife-it's not a tale for the faint-hearted.'

  At that, he wound up the window and drove off, leaving me with an unexplained chill in my spine. I shook it off and went back to help my wife.

  We were finally forced indoors by a chill wind which brought the clouds down the hills as the sun disappeared and a fine grey mist spread over the sea.

  Sandra busied herself with some knitting-baby clothes, naturally, and I managed to locate the book which the doctor had mentioned.

  It didn't take me long to find the appropriate section and I was amused to see that the chapter had been written by a certain Doctor Reid of Craighouse, Jura.

  There was a block of description of the cottage and the surrounding area before it got to the interesting bit.

  The mound behind the house is of some antiquity. A local legend associates it with the little people who seem to be all prevalent in this area, and one of the race in particular. In 1598, the battle of Trai-Guinard took place on Islay, the neighbouring island. The battle was going badly for Sir James MacDonald when he was approached by a dwarfish creature who proclaimed himself capable of swinging the battle in return for certain favours.

  To cut a long story short (and in these parts stories can grow exceedingly long), Sir James, despite some qualms, agreed. An hour later the battle was his and his enemy, Sir Lachlan, lay dead of no apparent injury. Sir James retired to his house near Craighouse and that night, Wee Robbie was made a freeman of the estate.

  And now we come to the meat of the story. The townspeople did not take kindly to the creature in their midst, but he was under the protection of the Laird and they were powerl
ess. Until, that is, the children started to disappear.

  Tales are still whispered around the fires of the scene that met the eyes of the men who had the courage to enter the dwelling of the dwarf. Hideous dismembered corpses lay strewn in all corners and a cauldron was bubbling in the grate, a foul brew of body parts which could be seen rising in the stew before falling back once more into the stinking mess.

  And yet none had the courage to end the creature's life. They interred him in the tomb, a chambered cairn for long-dead kings, and they fixed him there with the cross and the iron.

  It is said that sometimes, in the dead of night, the tortured screams of the Dubh-sith, the black elf, can be heard ringing from his prison, and that at such times it is wise to lock the doors and huddle around the warm hearths of home.

  I could see why the doctor didn't want me to pass the tale on to Sandra. One thing she didn't need was lurid fantasies of a child molester in the back yard. When she asked me what I was reading I passed it off as some local colour and changed the subject.

  For the rest of the evening, I tried to read about the wildlife of the island, but I couldn't get the vision out of my head of the seething pot of offal and the things which floated in it.

  The next time I looked up, Sandra was smiling at me and it wasn't long before we adjourned to the bedroom and made tender, careful love as the darkness closed in around us.

  Later, just as I fell asleep, I could hear the wind was rising, whistling through the chimney breasts and causing the trees to rustle and crack.

  I woke early and squeezed myself away from Sandra, taking care not to wake her. After boiling some water in the kettle, I ventured out to see what the weather was like, but the first thing I noticed was the effect of the wind. The washing was gone from the line, torn off the rope during the night. I found a shirt in the left-hand stream, a pair of underpants halfway up a tree, and I could see Sandra's blouse hanging from one arm of the cross on the cairn.