Nursery Tale

by T. M. Wright

  "I'm scared again," said Janice McIntyre. She was in her big brown wicker chair; Miles stood behind their small bar at the opposite end of the room, drink in hand. (Janice, patting her now plainly swollen abdomen, had declined his offer of a scotch and soda, and settled for ginger ale instead.)

  "Scared?" he said. "Why?"

  "Are you going to tell me you aren't scared, Miles?"

  "Of what, precisely? Kids' footprints in the snow?" He sipped his drink and pretended to chuckle. "That's asinine, Miles."

  He set his drink down and leaned forward, both hands on the edge of the bar. "Listen," he said, summoning up his most serious tone, "the sheriff was right; it was just a stupid, giant-sized, and very clever practical joke. Nothing more. How could it have been anything more than that, Janice? There really are no ghosts, you know."

  She did not answer.

  He went on, trying a different approach, "It's like watching a magic show. Things are never what they appear to be. If you see a magician tear a newspaper up, and then he throws it to the ground, and suddenly it's whole again—well then, you have to assume that it can't be the newspaper which was torn up, or that he never tore it up in the first place. Simple. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Janice?"

  She sighed. "Yes, Miles, I understand what you're trying to tell me, and I think you're rationalizing the whole thing. I think you're denying it merely because you can't explain it."

  He sipped his drink again, then said pointedly, "For our own sanity, Janice, it's the only thing we can do."

  She answered immediately, "No, it isn't, it most certainly isn't the only thing we can do." She stood abruptly. She left the room.

  Miles listened, confused, as she went up the stairs. "Janice?" he called.

  "It's for us," she called back. "For me and the baby. And for you, too—if you want."

  Malcolm Harris reluctantly took the gun that Norm Gellis offered him. It was the Weatherby 20 gauge—an ugly damned thing, Malcolm thought. "I haven't held one of these in twenty years," he said nervously. Its long barrels gleamed darkly at him in the living room's fluorescent light. "I'm not even sure how to load it."

  Norm leaned over and released a small catch near the trigger. "Okay," he said, "now crack it open."

  Malcolm opened the weapon at the middle, exposing two chambers, one above the other. Norm handed him two shells. "It's lead shot, Malcolm. I had a devil of a time getting 'em—damned government's outlawed 'em practically everywhere—but they're a hell of a lot better than steel."

  Malcolm fingered the shells uncertainly. "I don't know—maybe we should leave the whole thing to . . ." He faltered.

  "Leave it to who, Malcolm? That damned idiot sheriff who doesn't know a bad situation when it comes up and bites him on the cock? Or maybe to the Penn Yann police? Shit, they can't even find two lost little boys. They'd probably get into trouble tryin' to find their Own assholes, for Chrissakes! No, I'll tell you again, Malcolm—"

  "Mal. Please. Just Mal."

  "Mal—I'll tell you again. This is our fight, and our responsibility, and no one but us can see that it's taken care of properly." He nodded at Shelly, on the couch; she was holding Serena; Marge was sitting quietly beside her. "Tell me this, Mal—how much does that pretty wife and that beautiful baby mean to you? How much?"

  "Everything, of course," Malcolm answered quickly.

  "Then it's for them you gotta do this. Not for me or for yerself, really. But for them. Okay?"

  Malcolm thought a moment. He put a shell in the bottom chamber of the Weatherby 20 gauge. "Okay," he said and loaded the top chamber. "But I'll tell you this, Norm—we didn't move here expecting to have to do this kind of thing."

  Norm grinned. "Hey, Mal, what can I tell ya?! Read the newspapers—things are gettin' tough all over. The blacks are riotin', and the spics are riotin', the cities are falling apart, people are killin' other people left and right. That's why I came out here. But now, the trouble's trying to catch up with me." He grinned. "But we're not gonna let it catch up, are we, Mal?"

  Malcolm shook his head briskly, his resolve suddenly much firmer.

  "Mal," Shelly called, "could you toss the diaper bag over." It was next to his chair. "Serena's soaked."

  Malcolm reached for the bag. Norm touched his knee. "It's for her, Mal. Remember that," he whispered. "It's for her and for the little one."

  Chapter 26

  Sanity came back to Lorraine Graham like an unwanted guest. It gnawed at the edges of her illusions, it altered them, made them quiver.

  Until at last, her dead husband grinned at her, and his mouth widened, and he became, very quickly, the Cheshire cat, and, like the Cheshire cat, he lost his parts one by one.

  Then he laughed.

  And Lorraine was overcome by the darkness. She murmured the names of her boys: "Robin? Robert?" Then she said aloud, "I know it's passé, Stan, and all the books are right about giving twins a chance to be individuals. But these are only names, after all."

  Stan said nothing. Thirteen years ago, he had disagreed vehemently. Now he could say nothing.

  Lorraine climbed out of the bed and scuffed across the floor to the light switch. She flicked it on.

  She screamed Stan's name into the empty room only once. Because, instead of summoning him again, the name merely echoed in her ears, and made them ring.

  Like a hungry animal, the real world was upon her. And she knew that fighting it was useless. Stan had proved that. And Robin, and Robert, and her mother. So, she decided, she would become a part of it.

  She would let it swallow her up.

  Simple.

  Miles McIntyre stood in his bedroom doorway and watched in dismay as Janice transferred clothes from her chest of drawers to two open suitcases on the bed. "I'm sorry, Janice," he said, "but I really have no concrete idea why you're doing this."

  She stopped midway between the bed and the chest of drawers. She sighed. "No," she said, as if in apology. "Of course you don't—how could you?"

  "Is it that you don't trust me, Jan?"

  She shook her head quickly. "It's not a matter of trust, Miles. I trust you implicitly." She lowered her head, suddenly aware of the basic unfairness of what she was doing, "Tell me something," she went on, and looked him squarely in the eye. "How do you feel about ghosts?"

  He grinned. "Are you serious?" The question was genuine.

  She closed her eyes; she inhaled deeply. "I love you, Miles," she said on the exhale, "so I'll ask again . . ."

  "What do you want me to think about them, Jan? I don't believe in them, I don't disbelieve in them."

  "And if I told you there's a ghost in this house?"

  He answered immediately, "I'd say that was very romantic. Every house should have one."

  She said nothing. She moved stiffly, with sudden agitation, to the chest of drawers; she opened the third drawer, withdrew a half dozen maternity smocks.

  After a long silence, Miles said incredulously, "You're fucking serious!"

  She looked up at him from packing one of the suitcases. "You're damned right, Miles!"

  "And that's why you're leaving?"

  "Yes," she answered. "And because . . . of the footprints."

  "Can we at least talk about it first?"

  "You talk. I'll listen." She continued packing.

  "Yes," Miles said tentatively. "Yes." But, in spite of his desperation, he could think of nothing else to say.

  And Janice continued to pack.

  Malcolm Harris's night vision had never been good, and now, under a blanket of clouds, and without even the faint luminescence of the morning's snow—it had melted almost completely before sunset—and with his back to the lights of Granada, he felt like a blind man.

  He had asked himself the same question a half dozen times since coming here, to the perimeter of Granada (marked by a long, narrow ditch awaiting sewer pipe). What was he doing with a gun in his hands (he had always hated guns), and why had he taken up with a man who seemed to p
ossess barely intelligence enough to speak, let alone to make hard and important decisions about their safety and security? But, he asked himself now, was that really fair? Norm was uneducated, true, and a little prejudiced—wasn't everyone?—but he was by no means a stupid man. He seemed, in fact, Malcolm decided, to have the tough, gut instincts—the crude and inarticulate, but very basic, common sense—that all men like him (who were devoid of pretension, who dealt with life on its own mean terms) seemed to have. And that, Malcolm decided at last, was why he was here. With a gun in his hands. He was facing life. He was doing, after all, one of the things that he, as a man, was designed to do. He was responding to a very real danger. And if the others couldn't see that, then, hell, they were the ones who were blind.

  "Norm," he said, "I can't see a thing."

  Norm Gellis, twenty yards west of him, chuckled shortly. "Yeah, well they're there, believe me."

  "I mean, I literally can't see a thing, Norm. It's my night vision. It's always been loused up."

  (The plan, as Norm had outlined it, was to "make our presence known to them. That's very important, Malcolm. We just show 'em we're here, and that we're prepared"—he patted his rifle—"and we hope it's enough. If it ain't—well then, we make other plans.")

  (It had seemed to make sense.)

  (And this place, halfway between Granada and the woods, had seemed the best place to make their stand. "I know they ain't comin' in by way of the gate, Malcolm. They can't. So they gotta be comin' in by way of the woods.")

  "You shoulda told me about your goddamned night vision before," Norm called. "What was I supposed to do?—read your mind?"

  "I guess I just didn't think about it, Norm. I'm sorry."

  "Jesus H. How do you know it won't get better if you just stay out here for a while?"

  "Norm, it's a problem I've had practically all my life."

  "Shit! Okay. Let's work it this way. Let's just stay put and see what happens. I can see, anyway. And so can they. And that's all that really matters."

  "How long, Norm?"

  "Long as it takes. All night, maybe. Whatsa matter, you cold now? You wanta go home for a blanket?"

  "No." Malcolm tried to ignore Norm's sarcasm. "It's okay. You're right—all night, if necessary. It's just that I was going to go into the office a little early tomorrow—"

  "You wanta be quiet, Malcolm, or can'tcha hear, either?—'cuz they sure can."

  Malcolm fell silent. Maybe, he thought, this one night would be enough.

  "Robin?" Lorraine Graham said. "Robert? Stan? Mom?" She put her hand on the vertical posts of Granada's main gate. She repeated the names of her sons, her husband, her mother—a litany of ghosts, an empty and dreary account of what her life had once been, but could never be again.

  She had toyed with the idea of starting over, of finding a man, and marrying him, and having sons. But it would take too much effort, she decided. And too much time. And she was too old, of course, and too tired. And nobody ever really starts over, do they? They go on to something else, something different. Which was something she simply did not want to do.

  Granada's gate was colder than the air. She took her hands from it. She turned. She walked back through Granada, her steady gaze on the squat, dark line of woods in front of her:

  It looked like a mouth. Closed. That would open for her.

  Malcolm Harris tried in vain to focus on the pale, elongated figure moving very slowly and very gracefully in the blackness about fifty yards north of where he stood.

  "Norm?" he said, his voice low.

  Silence.

  He mentally visualized the lay of the land around him. To the south, a long line of dense thickets stretched from the road to the woods. To the west, the land was clear for several hundred yards. To the east, Granada. And to the north, a dozen acres of untended apple trees. And there was also a path, he realized. Rundown, and unused, but, long ago, men had probably driven tractors on it, and hauled haywagons over it.

  The elongated, whitish figure was walking on that path, he knew. "Norm?!" he called again, louder.

  "You say something?" he heard. He turned his head; he saw Norm's short, squat shape as only a dark swell in the blackness. "Norm, there's someone over there."

  "Over where?" Eagerly.

  "North of us. On that path."

  Norm rushed over to him. "Where?"

  Malcolm turned his head back. He nodded. He said nothing. The figure was gone.

  "Where?" Norm insisted.

  "But she was there, Norm. She really was!" She? he wondered. Why had he said 'she'?

  "I thought you couldn't see in the dark, Malcolm."

  "I can see some things."

  "Yeah, and that's just what yer doin' now—"

  "Jesus," Malcolm cut in, "this is getting damned stupid!"

  Then, from somewhere in the darkness, they heard, "Norm, there's someone over there!"

  "My God!" Malcolm whispered, "That was my voice!"

  Norm slowly brought his rifle up to a firing position.

  "Jesus Christ!" Malcolm screeched. "What in the hell are you doing?" And he grabbed for the barrel of the rifle.

  Norm yanked it away. "Little bastards!" he hissed. And, like glass breaking, sudden, brittle laughter erupted all around them.

  "My God!" Malcolm said again.

  Norm fired. Once. Then again.

  The laughter stopped.

  And that is when they saw the fire.

  Miles McIntyre was talking about investments and interest payments and equities, and Janice, as he talked, was growing angrier by the moment.

  "So you see, darling," Miles concluded, "if we sell this house now we'll probably end up in the red, and the real question is—Where are we going to move to? That's the real question, Jan. Because new housing, these days, is getting awfully hard to find. Mr. Reynolds had a hell of a time getting an okay for this project—you know that, don't you? And if you're going to say, 'Well, let's get an older home,' I'll have to tell you that—"

  Janice's interruption was pitched just slightly above a whisper, but it was tight and urgent, and it made Miles stop talking in midsentence: "My parents will welcome me in a second, Miles!" And she closed the suitcase hard and walked over to the phone on the nightstand near the bed. She put her hand on the receiver. "It's up to you, Miles."

  He said nothing for a long moment, his mind darting from one possibility to another. "Yes," he said finally. "We'll sell the house. I'll call Mr. Jenner in the morning. I think we can get a buyer in about a month—"

  "That's not good enough, Miles." She picked up the receiver, began to dial.

  He rushed over, grabbed the receiver from her, put it back on the cradle. "A compromise, Jan," he pleaded. "Two weeks. That's all I want. It's what I'll tell Jenner. And if there's no buyer by then, okay—we'll go to your parents', or to a motel—"

  "You think I'll change my mind, don't you, Miles?"

  "Yes," he admitted. "But if you don't, I promise you we will leave. Okay?"

  She moved silently to the closed suitcase, opened it, withdrew the maternity smocks. She looked over at him. "Miles," she said, "I do love you, you must know that. Otherwise—" And she carried the maternity smocks to her chest of drawers and put them away. Her gaze settled on the window. She wondered what was causing the wildly shifting red glow on the closed drapes.

  The fire had been building for some time; now Malcolm watched, awestruck, as it played hotly and brightly inside the house; for the moment it was contained by windows, and doors, and insulation. After another few minutes, the windows would implode from the heat and partial vacuum behind them, and the flames would erupt crazily into the chill evening air.

  Norm stared blankly at the fire.

  Malcolm dropped the Weatherby 20 gauge. He wanted desperately to know the time. Because, if he and Norm hadn't returned by ten o'clock, Shelly and Serena were going to go back home. And if it was past ten, then that's where they were, now. At home. And if they were at home, they were de
ad.

  Because it was his house that was burning so fiercely.

  Part Five

  THE STORM

  From The Penn Yann Post Gazette, December 6:

  FIRE DESTROYS GRANADA HOME

  Fire last night leveled a home at 22 Morningside Way, Granada. The fire, which, according to fire investigators, started in the kitchen of the big, eight-room luxury home, was discovered only after it had apparently gutted the interior of the house.

  The home belonged to Malcolm and Shelly Harris, who were visiting friends in Granada when the fire began. The only person hurt in the fire was volunteer fireman Coby Pinkins, Jr., who was treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation, at Myers Community Hospital, and released.

  According to investigators, arson has not been totally ruled out as a possible cause . . .

  Chapter 27

  December 10

  "You know," Sam Wentis said, "if you squint"—he squinted severely, as if to demonstrate—"it looks like nothin' happened, like you could walk right in and sit down and have your supper. Don'tcha think it looks like that?" He looked questioningly at Timmy Meade. "I mean, if you squint?"

  "Yeah," Timmy Meade answered. "I guess." He squinted briefly. "Yeah. 'Cept for 'round the windows"—where the flames had blackened the yellow vinyl siding and twisted it into grotesque shapes. "Anyway, they're gonna bulldoze it. That'll be fun to watch. I guess they're 'gonna do it next week."

  Sam Wentis said nothing.

  "Don't you think it'll be fun to watch, Sam?"

  "What if they kept right on goin'," Sam Wentis said, and he turned his head slowly so his gaze swept over all of Granada.

  "Why would they wanta do that, Sam?"

  He said nothing.

  "Sam?"

  "Where you wanta go to, Timmy? You wanta go into the woods? You wanta go over to Riley's Glen?"

  It was a cold, clear morning. A Sunday. And Granada seemed very quiet and empty. From far to his right, Timmy heard the Gellises' new dog begin barking rhythmically (the dog seemed to bark, he thought, for no reason at all, which was okay, because it was kind of a lazy, soothing bark, especially from far away, and it was good to have a dog in Granada).