Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  “Yes,” said Vincent. “An accident. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “And I’m sure she’s going to be just fine,” said Meredith.

  Mr. Santos stepped over and mopped up the bloodstain. They all looked at each other. “I think I’ll head over to the hospital,” Vincent said.

  Ingrid wiped her face on the back of her sleeve. “Can I go with you?”

  “Of course,” said Vincent. He patted her on the back.

  They all ended up going together in a convoy that stuck close together, winding along River Road and up the hill to the hospital. Ingrid rode in Vincent’s car, her feet resting on a bag of kitty litter. Silence grew. The feeling of dread—suffocation plus a heavy weight in the stomach, like an anvil—also grew, feeding on the silence.

  “You’ve got a cat?” Ingrid said, just to hear some sound.

  He nodded.

  More silence. It was like a third person, too big for the car.

  “Was Barbara Stanwyck a big star?” Ingrid said.

  His eyes shifted toward her for a second, a quick flash. “Barbara Stanwyck?”

  “Like Ingrid Bergman,” said Ingrid. “That kind of star.”

  Vincent smiled. “I forgot you’re a movie buff,” he said. “Yes, she was a big star. But different from Ingrid Bergman. Better, in my opinion.”

  “How?” said Ingrid.

  “Hard to describe,” Vincent said. She could feel him thinking. Then he laughed, a little laugh, to himself. “The way she spooned honey into her tea, practically the whole jar.”

  “What movie was that in?” Ingrid said.

  “Movie?” he said. His hands—he was wearing those driving gloves again—tightened on the wheel. The oppressive silence fell again. “I forget,” Vincent said. “She made so many.”

  They pulled into the visitors’ lot at the hospital.

  The Prescott Players sat in the admissions waiting room, taking almost every chair. Rain started falling outside, harder and harder. There was college football on TV and nothing to read except AARP magazines. Ingrid leafed through one, all about white-haired people laughing their heads off and ads for every medicine known to man. After a while Mr. Ferrand arrived. He had a few words with Chloe, then spoke to the nurse at the desk, who led him through a door marked NO ADMISSION BEYOND THIS POINT. On the way he had time for a quick glare at Ingrid.

  Lots of people around, but Ingrid was all alone with the dread. She went over the accident a million times, thinking of all the things she could have done differently. Like not taking her drink onstage, which was against the rules. And why, greedy pig, did she need a Fresca so badly in the first place? And how about opening it with more care? And once it had spilled, she should have said, “Stop, it’s slippery.” But no. How could you call what could have been prevented so easily an accident? All at once she remembered Sergeant Pina, on crutches for six weeks, hunting trip ruined. She was a danger to the community.

  Some time later, the no-admission door opened and Mr. Ferrand and a doctor in blue scrubs came out, dabbing his forehead with his little blue hat.

  “This is Dr. Washington,” said Mr. Ferrand.

  The Prescott Players were on their feet, gathering around.

  “She’s going to be all right,” Dr. Washington said.

  Everyone went whew all at once, like a soft breeze, and through the windows the sky seemed brighter. There was even some clapping.

  “Skull fracture,” said Dr. Washington, “but she’s regained consciousness and there’s no internal bleeding.”

  Ingrid raised her hand. “Can we see her?”

  “Maybe in a day or two,” said Dr. Washington. “We’ll be keeping her here for a few days, and after that she’ll have to take it easy for a month or so. Any questions?”

  “Thanks, Doc,” said Mr. Rubino. More applause.

  Dr. Washington smiled and went back through the door.

  Mr. Ferrand ran his eyes over the Players. “I assume you’ll be shutting down the production?” he said.

  Lots of foot shuffling. Mr. Ferrand moved things along so fast, Ingrid realized. But it made sense. Six weeks till opening night. How could they possibly do it on their own? She didn’t even want to.

  But then came a surprise. Meredith O’Malley put her hand over her heart and said, “I don’t think Jill would want us to quit.”

  Heads nodded.

  “How about Vince?” Mr. Santos said. “He could take over.”

  “Vince?” said Mr. Ferrand, not sure whom Mr. Santos was talking about, although Ingrid remembered Mr. Ferrand and Vincent shaking hands in the octagonal entrance hall.

  “Vincent, here,” said Mr. Santos.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Ferrand, gazing at Vincent with maybe a glimmer of recognition.

  “Vince’s got a lot of experience—anybody with eyes can see that,” said Mr. Santos.

  “How about it?” said Mr. Ferrand.

  Vincent shook his head. “I really couldn’t,” he said. “It’s Jill’s vision, and besides—”

  “Try it for a week or so,” said Mr. Ferrand. “How can that hurt?”

  “Makes sense,” said Mr. Rubino.

  “What do you say?” said Meredith.

  “Da show must go on,” said Mr. Santos in his thickest wiseguy accent.

  Everyone’s eyes were on Vincent. He took a deep breath. “You flatter me,” he said. “I’m touched.”

  “Meaning yes?” said Mr. Ferrand.

  Vincent nodded. “I’ll need a key,” he said.

  twenty-four

  Sunday morning. The note on the fridge read:

  Hi Ingrid! I’ve got an open house till four, Dad’s out with the Sandblasters, and Ty stayed over at Greg’s. Waffles in the freezer. Have a nice relaxing day. Plus homework. Love, Mom.

  Ingrid toasted waffles. Waffles, such a great invention, and all because of those little squares, like rice paddies, perfect for filling up with a melted butter and maple syrup combo. Another example of what made America great—the nation that turned plain old rice paddies into syrupy butter paddies. As for a suitable drink—how about hot cocoa?

  Ingrid sat in the breakfast nook, gazing out at the backyard and the town woods beyond. A clear blue day, the treetops still; but not warm-looking. Cold didn’t stop the Sandblasters, a group of fanatical golfers at Dad’s club who’d sworn a blood oath or something to keep playing all year long. She’d been forced to take lessons one summer. The outfits, the lingo, the tedium: Ingrid had never laughed so hard in her life, actually rolling around on the practice green one day—her last at the club, as it turned out.

  She called Stacy.

  “What are you eating?” Stacy said.

  “Waffles.”

  “With that butter syrup thing?”

  “Yeah. Any news about Jill?”

  “My dad called this morning. She’s doing good.”

  “Did he speak to her?”

  “Hey, Dad,” Stacy yelled. “Did you speak to Jill?”

  Ingrid heard Mr. Rubino in the background. “Just the nurse,” he said. “Jill’s got a bad headache but she’s eating solid food.”

  “She’s eating solid food,” Stacy said. “Wanna come over? Sean got a new video game where the whole earth is just a blood cell in the body of the galactic monster.”

  “Sounds good,” Ingrid said. “I’ll—”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Just a sec.” Ingrid went to the front door, opened it.

  Grampy.

  “Call you back,” Ingrid said.

  “Latro,” said Stacy.

  Ingrid clicked off. “Hi, Grampy.” Grampy looked perky. Despite the cold, he wore just a T-shirt, plus baggy corduroys and filthy work boots.

  “Hi, kid,” he said. “Need some help with the chores.”

  “No one’s home,” said Ingrid.

  “You are.”

  “Me?” said Ingrid. “What chores?”

  “You’ll see,” Grampy said.

  Mystery chores with Gr
ampy versus blood cells in the body of the galactic monster? Maybe Grampy sensed her reluctance. “After that we’ll do some shooting,” he said. “You can try out my new gun.”

  “You got a new gun?”

  “Wait till you see this baby,” said Grampy.

  The barn door opened and out came the tractor, Grampy at the wheel. “Hop on,” he said.

  Ingrid hopped on.

  “Ever driven one of these?” he said.

  “No.”

  Grampy looked surprised. “Nothing to it,” he said. “Just like driving a car.”

  “I’ve never driven a car,” Ingrid said. “I’m thirteen.”

  “Did I remember your birthday?”

  “Fifty bucks,” said Ingrid.

  “No flies on me,” said Grampy. He brought the tractor to a stop. “Guess how old I was when I learned to drive,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Ingrid. The wind was picking up. She could have been warm and cozy in Stacy’s entertainment center. Instead she was out on the tundra, playing guessing games with Grampy.

  “Go on, guess,” he said.

  “You took lessons from Henry Ford.”

  Grampy laughed. “Just about. Tenth birthday. Drove my friends down to the picnic grounds in the Studebaker.”

  “Below the falls?”

  “What other picnic grounds are there?”

  Ingrid had been to the picnic grounds a few times on class trips late in the spring, on those warm days when school had already ended, except on the calendar. They played Frisbee, ate their lunches, watched the water roaring over that long drop to the rocks below.

  “Course the moment I got home, my daddy took the belt to me,” said Grampy. “But good. Here, change places.”

  Ingrid changed places.

  “What was your daddy like?” she said.

  “Long time ago,” said Grampy. “Lower that seat a couple notches. Now turn the key. Gas on the right, brake on the left. Got it?”

  “Not really, Grampy, I—”

  “This thing here’s the shift. Stick it in gear like so. And—we’re off.”

  The tractor shot forward. “GRAMPY!”

  “Ease off the gas a touch,” said Grampy. “Now we’re in business. Nothing to it.”

  There wasn’t.

  Ingrid drove the tractor across Grampy’s fields. Every so often he’d point out the direction he wanted to go and Ingrid would make a slight change in course. At first she drove in that Mom/Chief Strade style, both hands on the wheel, ten minutes to two; but soon she was experimenting with Dad’s two-finger grip. What was more fun than this? Let freedom ring!

  “Round the orchard,” Grampy said.

  Ingrid steered onto the cart path that circled Grampy’s apple trees, headed toward the back road. At the top of a rise, the wind rattling some old cornstalks, stiff and brown, he said, “Whoa.”

  Ingrid stepped on the brake and they came to a stop, maybe a little abrupt. Grampy said, “Look down there and tell me what you see.”

  Ingrid gazed down a long, gradual slope. “An old falling-down shed. Fields. The back road.”

  “What about that little sinkhole at the bottom?”

  Ingrid saw a small circular depression not far from the road. “What about it?” she said.

  “Important environmental feature,” said Grampy.

  “It is?”

  “Not now,” said Grampy. “But in the near future.”

  He climbed down from the tractor, took a wooden crate off the back.

  “Grab that cooler,” he said.

  Ingrid grabbed the cooler, a medium-size one, not heavy. They walked down the slope.

  “Is this the land they want for the condos?” she said.

  “Soon see about that,” said Grampy. “Know how close the water table comes to the surface, down in that sinkhole? Two inches. Now suppose that sinkhole sank some more, got filled up with water permanently. Then what?”

  “You could swim in it?” said Ingrid.

  “Why’d I want to do a thing like that?” said Grampy. “No circulation. It’s gonna be a scum bath.”

  At the edge of the sinkhole Grampy set down the crate, opened the top.

  “What’s that?” Ingrid said.

  “Dynamite, kid,” said Grampy. “Gonna just rearrange the surface level the teensiest bit.”

  “But why?”

  “Bring that water level up, like I just told you,” said Grampy. “Make a nice little pond.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  Grampy looked down at her, smiled. “Open the cooler,” he said.

  Ingrid opened the cooler. Inside lay some Baggies, maybe a dozen, filled with water, and in the water floated these long strings of tiny round balls, jelly-like and almost see-through.

  “What are these?”

  “Toad eggs,” said Grampy. “And not just any toad eggs, but good old”—Grampy dug a scrap of paper from his pocket—“Scaphiopus holbrooki, otherwise known as the eastern spadefoot toad.” Grampy looked up in triumph.

  Ingrid was lost.

  “The endangered eastern spadefoot toad,” Grampy said. “One hundred percent officially endangered, U.S.D.A. certified Grade A, signed, sealed, and delivered. See where I’m headed with this?”

  Ingrid caught the first glimmerings.

  Grampy reached into the crate. “What do you think?” he said. “Two sticks or three?”

  “You know about dynamite, Grampy?”

  His eyes darkened; she guessed he was thinking about the war. “Hardly a newfangled invention,” he said.

  In the end Grampy settled on four sticks of dynamite. He and Ingrid huddled behind a big tree, partway up the slope. Grampy pointed a remote—not too different from an ordinary TV remote—and pressed a button. KA-BOOM! A mud cloud rose in the air, real high, for some reason better than any Fourth of July Ingrid could remember, and came splattering back to earth.

  “Grampy!” She was jumping up and down.

  “Maybe three would have done,” said Grampy. But he was smiling, kind of a savage smile if you looked from a certain angle.

  It got very quiet, as if all nature was stunned. Water was rising in the sinkhole now, the bottom wet already. Ingrid took off her shoes and socks, rolled up her sweatpants, and went into the hole, planting toad eggs in hollowed-out nests of mud. Endangered toad eggs—more powerful than any developer, even Donald Trump.

  The water rose and rose. It was two feet high by the time they climbed back on the tractor.

  “I’m an environmentalist,” Grampy said. “That kind of gets lost in the shuffle.”

  Ingrid dropped Grampy off at the kitchen door, drove back to the barn by herself. She parked next to Grampy’s old Caddy, which mostly just sat there ever since he’d got his pickup two years back. A cool car, creamy on the outside, red leather within. Ingrid opened the door: like the tractor, as Grampy said—gas, brake; shift. She noticed that the keys were in the ignition.

  She went up to the house. “Grampy? Are we going to do some shooting now?”

  No answer. The phone started ringing.

  “Phone, Grampy.”

  It kept ringing. She picked it up.

  “Aylmer?” said a man; he sounded old.

  “This is his granddaughter,” said Ingrid.

  “Oh, right,” said the man. “Bob Borum here, over on Robinson Road. You people hear sort of a boom a while back? Thought it was a transformer, but we’ve got electricity.”

  “So do we,” said Ingrid. Absolute truth.

  There was a little silence and then he said, “Well, not to worry then.”

  “’Bye, Mr. Borum.”

  Ingrid found Grampy lying on the couch in the living room, fast asleep. He looked happy. She covered him up with a threadbare old blanket she found on his rocker by the fireplace.

  The thing about Route 392—the road that went by Grampy’s place—was that East Harrow lay on that very same road, ten or twelve miles south. Ten or twelve miles was out of the qu
estion for walking, just about out of the question for biking, but a snap in a car. A wild idea, but some of the best ideas were wild—she’d learned that in history. And she had to know.

  Ingrid took it one step at a time. Or rather, the steps took her. Step one: back to the barn. Step two: behind the wheel of the Caddy. Step three: adjust the seat. Step four: turn the key.

  Vroom. A nice sound. Ingrid checked the shift. P for park, R for reverse, N for God-knows-what, D for drive, some other Ds—one, two, and three for when things got fancy. She wouldn’t need them. Nothing was going to get fancy. Ingrid shifted into D and drove slowly out of the barn.

  Nothing to driving, really, just as Grampy said. The driving age should be lowered at once. Probably all sorts of other things too—drinking, voting, serving on juries. Kids could handle it. The whole country was missing out on—

  This arrow, pointing to 50. Could that be the speed thing? Maybe—those broken white lines were whipping by pretty fast. And the way they were passing right under the car, dead center, seemed a bit off. You were supposed to drive on the…right side of the road, just like with her bike. What a dummy. Ingrid steered over to the right, easing off the gas pedal. Getting a ticket would not be good. She looked around, realized she hadn’t been doing much looking around, checking the traffic, driving defensively, as Dad told Ty, ad nauseum, whenever he gave him a lesson. But she had the road to herself—no police cars, no cars at all, nothing to be defensive about. This was meant to be. A minute or two later, the East Harrow sign went by. A minute or two: This was the only way to get around. Her first Caddy.

  And then to her right, so soon she almost missed it: MOODUS ROAD. DEAD END. Ingrid turned onto it, remembering the turn signal too late. Moodus Road entered some woods. It got narrower and bumpier, and ended in a circle, like the bulb of a thermometer. On the far side of the circle stood the only dwelling she’d seen, a silver trailer set back in the trees.

  Ingrid parked at the bottom of the circle. Oops. What was that? Not a tree, really, more like a little sapling—would probably spring back in no time. She got out of the car and checked the name on the mailbox: KOVAC. Ingrid walked up the pine-needly path to the trailer and knocked on the door.