Nellie smoothed the hair at the nape of her neck with a pretty gesture.
“All right, Lucas,” she said. “There's no girl could resist your pretty talk. You go on outside while I get dressed now. It won't take me a minute.”
As Nellie spoke, she fingered the strong silk cord of Allison's bathrobe which hung on a hook just inside the closet door, and she was smiling, a moment later, when she dragged a straight chair into the closet. It took two tries before she could get the end of the silk cord over the two-by-four beam which the closet had been constructed to hide.
“You quit that stampin’ ‘round out there, Lucas,” she giggled. You sound just like a stud horse. I'll be ready in no time. I'm fixin’ myself up just like a pitcher I seen in a magazine once.”
“Well, damn it, Nellie, a man don't want to wait forever for a girl as pretty as you. Get a move on.”
“There was somethin’ I wanted to ask you, Lucas,” Nellie called. “But I can't rightly remember what it was. It was somethin’ to do with a baby.”
“That's a helluva thing for a young girl like you to be thinkia’ about,” Lucas called back. “Come on, now, get a move on.”
In the quick second after she had kicked over the chair, and before the strong silk cord of Allison MacKenzie's bathrobe had cut off her life, Nellie Cross remembered.
Selena! she screamed silently. It was Selena havin’ Lucas’ baby!
♦ 16 ♦
Shortly after six o'clock, Constance MacKenzie entered her house on Beech Street. She had no premonition of tragedy as she surveyed her living room. She was terribly angry. Nothing had been done. The ash trays still held last night's cigarette ends, the sofa pillows had not been straightened, and there were two magazines on the floor, in the exact position in which they had been left the previous day. The rug had not seen a vacuum cleaner since Nellie Cross's last cleaning day, and it should most certainly have been attended to that morning. Constance strode angrily to the kitchen, and she nearly burst into tears at the disorder which she encountered there. There were plates, caked with dried egg yolk, sitting on the table, and dirty dishes in the sink. The garbage had not been taken out, and the glass coffee maker, still half full, sat on one of the burners on the electric stove. “That damned Nellie,” muttered Constance angrily, forgetting all the times when she had come home from work to find her house spotless. “She hasn't done a thing all day!”
Constance, who had been looking forward to a cool bath and clean clothes all afternoon, slapped her purse, hat and gloves down on top of the refrigerator. She snatched one of Nellie's tentlike aprons from a hook inside the broom closet door and began to run clean water into the sink.
Steak, French fries and a green salad, she thought. That was what Allison and Tom would get for dinner. There wasn't time for anything else. And as for Allison, where was the child? Constance had told her distinctly to be home in plenty of time to bathe and change, because Mr. Makris was coming to dinner at seven-thirty. Constance glanced at the clock set into the back of the stove. Six-thirty. Well, dinner was going to be late and there was nothing she could do about it. Certainly, no one could expect her to prepare food in a kitchen as messy as this one.
At seven o'clock, when Constance went upstairs to her room, she glanced carelessly through Allison's half-open door. The room was empty, Allison's bed still unmade, and there was a pair of crumpled pajamas on the floor.
Why couldn't that girl do as she was told for once? she wondered angrily. And why hadn't Nellie Cross cleaned the house? Nellie had come in plenty of time this morning. She had come before Constance had left for work. She had had all day to clean. Constance shrugged impatiently. It just went to show, she thought, how little you could depend on anyone. If you wanted anything done to your own satisfaction, it was best to do it yourself.
Constance showered and dressed with the same efficiency with which she did everything. On her way back downstairs, she closed Allison's door. In the event that Tom should want to use the bath room, she did not want him to glance into her daughter's room and see an unmade bed. When Tom rang the front doorbell at seven twenty-five, Constance met him, looking as if she had done nothing more strenuous all afternoon than buff her fingernails. She carried a frosty cocktail shaker in one hand and a cigarette in the other. In the kitchen, potatoes sizzled in the deep fat fryer, and the salad stood in the refrigerator, waiting to be dressed.
“You didn't, by any chance, see Allison on your way, did you?”
“No,” replied Tom, “I did not. Did you tell her the reason for our little dinner party?”
“No. I merely told her that you were coming at seven-thirty, and that I wanted her home early.”
“She is probably doing something interesting and has forgotten the time.”
“Probably,” agreed Constance. “Let's have a drink first. Then I'll call Kathy Ellsworth. Allison must be at her house. What a day,” she sighed, after she had poured two drinks. “Hot, no business worth bothering with, and then home to a dirty house. Nellie didn't do a single thing that she was supposed to have done, and Allison can't do me the favor of being home on time. I'd better call Kathy.”
It was an evening Tom would never forget.
“Hello, Kathy?” said Constance into the telephone. “Listen, Kathy, will you please tell Allison to come home. She is over an hour late now.”
“But Mrs. MacKenzie,” protested Kathy, “Allison's not here.”
“Not there?” Constance felt a thin jolt of fear. “Well, where is she then?”
“Gone on a picnic with Norman Page,” said Kathy, who had shared all of Allison's confidences and did not mind betraying one of them now that she and Allison were no longer on speaking terms. “She went early today, Mrs. MacKenzie,” said Kathy.
“Was Nellie Cross still here when you left this morning, Kathy?”
“Yes, she was, Mrs. MacKenzie. Allison was awfully mean to Nellie this morning. She was mean to everyone. She called Nellie a crazy, insane old woman.”
“Thank you, Kathy,” said Constance, and slammed the receiver into place with a furious crash. Almost at once, she picked it up again and asked the operator to ring Evelyn Page's number.
“Has that son of yours returned home yet?” she demanded as soon as Evelyn Page answered.
“What business is that of yours?” asked Evelyn quickly, angry at once because of Constance's truculent tone.
“The fact that he took my daughter off somewhere makes it my business,” said Constance. “He took her off on a picnic only God knows where.”
“A picnic!” shrilled Evelyn Page, in much the same tone she would have employed if Constance had told her that Allison and Norman were attending a hashish party. “Norman and Allison on a picnic? Alone?”
“I do not suppose for a minute, Mrs. Page,” said Constance with heavy sarcasm, “that your son invited a party to go along when he saw his chance to take my daughter off somewhere alone.”
“Alone?” repeated Evelyn, unable to get beyond the terrible vision which this word conjured up for her. “Norman alone with Allison?” Constance hung up viciously.
“Well?” she demanded, turning to Tom who lounged comfortably in an easy chair and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Well, what do you think of that?”
“I think that we ought to eat,” said Tom calmly. “And that we should put Allison's dinner in the oven to keep warm. Then, I think, we should either play checkers or listen to records until she comes home, at which time we should feed her and act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.”
“She is off in the woods somewhere with Norman Page,” cried Constance.
Tom looked at her levelly. “So what?” he asked.
“So what!” Constance shouted. “So what! How does anyone know what they're doing? I didn't slave to bring Allison up so that she could go off into the woods with boys, that's what! I won't have it!” she cried, stamping her foot and flinging her cigarette into the empty fireplace. “I simply will not stand
for it!”
Tom did not raise his voice. “You'll have to stand for it until she comes home, at least,” he said. “There is nothing to be done about it now, and if you are as smart as I hope you are, you won't act like this when she comes home. As you told me last night, Allison will be sixteen in the fall. She has to try her wings sometime.”
“She isn't going to try her wings in the woods alone with some boy!” declared Constance. “Come on. We'll go look for her in your car.”
“Oh, cut it out,” said Tom disgustedly. “You are making too much ado about nothing. A parent cannot go chasing after a kid without making both himself and the child ridiculous, especially in the eyes of the child. If there has been an accident, you'll hear about it soon enough. But if nothing has happened, as I am sure it has not, Allison will never forgive you for going out to search for her as if she were six instead of almost sixteen. There is nothing to do but wait.”
“Nothing!” cried Constance. “Allison isn't your child, so what do you care what she is doing! You keep your fancy theories about children and sex drives to yourself, Tom Makris. I don't want them applied to Allison!”
Tom looked almost shocked. “What makes you so sure that Allison's being late for dinner has anything to do with sex?” he asked.
“Don't be a fool!” said Constance. “What else would she be doing off with some boy in the woods? What else do males ever have on their minds? They're all alike. The first thing that concerns them is their pants!”
Tom did not answer, but he looked at her closely, speculatively, and Constance turned away from him and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
“I'm going to look for Allison,” she said. “If you won't drive me, I'll walk.”
At that moment, Evelyn Page ran into the living room. She had neither knocked nor rung the bell, but simply burst, unannounced, through the unlatched front door. She was disheveled and wild eyed and looked, Makris thought, truly insane.
“Where is he?” she panted, and Constance's face grew mottled with ugly red patches.
“If you kept better tabs on him,” said Constance, “you'd not only know where Norman is, but also where he had taken Allison.”
“Norman never took Allison anywhere,” protested Evelyn. “If there was any taking done, it was Allison who took Norman.”
“Don't give me that,” scoffed Constance. “He's a male, isn't he? Don't try to tell me who took whom where! He knew what he was doing. Going off into the woods with a boy would never enter Allison's head.”
“Don't you dare say a word against Norman!” cried Evelyn hysterically. “He has no interest in girls. He never has had. If Allison has him interested, it is no one's fault but her own. And yours,” she concluded with a look in Tom's direction. “Some women never have enough of one man. And daughters often take after their mothers!”
“You bitch!” shouted Constance, and if Tom had not stood up, she would have hurled herself at Evelyn.
Good God! thought Tom. “Cut it out!” he demanded sharply, and Constance stopped moving. She and Evelyn looked at one another with murderous, spiteful eyes but the moment for physical violence had passed. Tom almost smiled. It was the first time he had ever heard Constance utter a word such as the one she had used to describe Evelyn Page.
“Listen, girls,” he said, and this time he obviously smiled. “Let's dispense with the verbal hair pulling and sit down. There is nothing to get excited about.”
“Nothing!” they cried in unison, and while the echo of their combined exclamation still sounded in the room, Allison MacKenzie walked dreamily through the front door.
“Allison!” cried Constance.
“Where is Norman!” demanded Evelyn.
Allison looked around vaguely. “Hello, Mother,” she said. “Norman? He was just outside. He went off down the street.”
Evelyn ran to the front door. “Norman!” she screamed. “Norman!”
She kept screaming the boy's name until he had returned to the front of the MacKenzie house.
“Come in here!” she ordered in the same screaming voice.
Norman came into the MacKenzie living room. He looked at Allison fearfully, then at Constance, at Tom, and finally at his mother.
“Hello, Mother,” he said.
“Hello, Mother. Hello, Mother!” shouted Constance. “Is that all either of you can say? Where the hell have you been?”
Evelyn Page's lips compressed themselves. “There is no need to use vile language in front of Norman,” she said.
“Ha!” exclaimed Constance. “I imagine he knows many more vile things than the word hell!”
Allison's face was paper white. She lowered the picnic hamper to the floor. “What's the matter, Mother?” she asked, and her voice trembled.
Tom could not bear it a moment longer. He went to stand beside the girl. “Your mother has been a little worried,” he said. “It's dark now, and she didn't know where you were.”
“I know where she was all right,” said Constance furiously. “Off in the woods with this animal doing God knows what!”
“For God's sake, Constance,” protested Tom, turning to her.
“Yes, for God's sake indeed!” said Constance. “Well!” She approached Allison. “Well! I'm waiting for an explanation for your incredibly cheap behavior.”
“I haven't been behaving cheaply,” protested Allison.
“I suppose you were off in the woods doing nothing but reading books!” exclaimed Constance.
“We didn't read today,” offered Norman. “Today we pretended that we were at Walden Pond.”
“You keep out of this,” said Constance, turning on him. “When I want your explanation, I'll ask for it.”
“Norman,” said Evelyn, grasping his shoulder and shaking him, “what has that evil, wicked girl done to you?”
“Done to me?” asked Norman, bewildered. “Allison hasn't done anything to me.”
“What have you done to her?” asked Constance. “That's the important thing.”
“He hasn't done anything!” shouted Evelyn.
“So help me God,” said Constance, in a low, terrible voice. “I am going to take Allison to see Matt Swain tomorrow. If she isn't the way she should be, I'll have your son arrested for rape.”
Norman's face was as white as Allison's. “I didn't do anything,” he stammered. “We didn't do anything, did we, Allison?”
“This has gone far enough,” said Tom, in a voice choked with outrage. “Take your boy and go home, Mrs. Page.”
“I see that you've taken over Mrs. MacKenzie's house along with everything else that you've taken over,” said Evelyn spitefully. “Come along, Norman. We don't want to be in the same room with harlots and the men who amuse themselves with them!”
Constance's teeth chattered with an anger such as she had never known. “Get out of my house!” she screamed, and with a sniff, Evelyn took Norman's hand and departed.
It might have ended there, had Allison not chosen that moment to find her voice and make a remark. As soon as Norman and Evelyn were out the front door, Allison turned on her mother.
“I've never,” she said, almost spitting the words, “never, never been so embarrassed in my whole life!”
Before Tom could stop her, Constance had swung her arm and slapped Allison across the face. The girl fell backward onto the sofa, and a woman Tom had never seen stood over her. Constance's whole body was stiff with rage, her face distorted with it, spotted red with it, and her voice shaking with it.
“You bastard!” shouted Constance at her daughter, and Tom felt sick with the look that washed over Allison's face.
“Stop it!” he said, but Constance did not hear him. She bent over her white-lipped daughter and screamed at her.
“Just like your father! Sex! Sex! Sex! In that way, you're just like him. It is the only thing like him about you! You don't look like him, or talk like him, but you certainly have acted just like him. It is the only thing of his that belongs to you. Not even his name
belongs to you. And after the way I've sweated and slaved to bring you up decently, you go off into the woods and act just like a goddamned MacKenzie. The bastard daughter of the biggest bastard of all!”
Her words hung in the quiet room like fog over water. Her breathing was loudly audible, as was Tom's. But Allison did not seem to be breathing at all. The girl sat as if dead, not even her enormous eyes moved. The three figures in the MacKenzie living room were as still, Tom thought, as the stiff figures in a tableau, and when the quietness was smashed, it was Constance who smashed it. She collapsed in a chair and began to sob, realizing too late what she had done. As if on a signal, the other two figures moved at the sounds of Constance's weeping. Tom's mind began to function again, as he realized in this moment what he had tried unsuccessfully to discover for two years. He looked down at Constance's bowed head and fancied that he could see the pieces of her broken shell lying around her feet. But what a cruel way for a woman to emerge from the falseness of her existence. He turned to look at Allison, and as if she had been waiting for his glance, Allison jumped to her feet and ran toward the stairs which led to the second floor. Tom walked slowly toward the front door, and Constance raised her head to look at him.
“I knew that you'd leave me when you knew the truth,” she said, and her breath caught on the edge of her tears.
“It is not the truth that is important,” he said. “It was your cruel way of putting it to a child that will take some getting used to in my mind.”
He winced when he heard Allison's first scream. He thought that the child's reaction to Constance's words was only now beginning to make itself felt. Allison screamed twice again before his numbed brain realized that these were not screams of pain but of terror. He ran up the stairs three at a time. He found Allison, a terrorized, impossibly white Allison who stood and held herself with her back braced against her bedroom wall and stared with eyes gone black with fear at her open closet door. Tom caught her as she fell, and gazed over the limp figure in his arms at the blue-faced, grotesque body of Nellie Cross hanging from the beam in Allison's closet. He carried Allison to the head of the stairs, and when he heard the voice speaking below, he felt as if he were truly living a nightmare.
Peyton Place Page 33
