When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  “What were you doing in that boat?”

  “Spyin’.”

  “Well, you had no business there. You—you don’t belong here. Where do you belong?”

  “I belong at th’ store. I mean, that’s where I’m suppos’ta be, but my ol’ lady, my Ma, she’s so busy she ain’t got time to watch after me and I go just ’bout wherever I wanna go—” She paused, peering up at me. “I know you,” she said. “I remember you. You’re Miss Em’lynn, ain’t-ja?”

  “That’s right. Do—do I know you?”

  “You usta live here, right? ’N you usta sometimes come to th’ store ’n buy groceries, before the old lady was chopped up. You bought a chocolate bar one time ’n then pretended you didn’t want it and gave it to me. My ol’ lady didn’t like that. She clouted me on the side of the head, but I kept the chocolate.”

  I was calmer now, the fright gone, the anger gradually disappearing. A few minutes ago I would have gladly tossed the creature into the water and thrown rocks at her as she tried to climb out, but now I felt slightly more gracious. I took her hand and dragged her out of the boathouse. The sunshine was blinding after the dim green glow inside. I examined the child.

  She was a tiny thing, scrawny, with long legs and thin arms, a young colt covered with dirt. Her white-blonde hair was cut in short ragged locks that framed her perfect heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a lively brown, with long curling lashes, and golden freckles were scattered across the bridge of her turned-up nose. Her mouth was bow-shaped, vividly pink. Beneath the streaks of dirt I could see that her thin cheeks were rosy. She wore tennis shoes and a pair of tattered blue jeans that bagged a little in the rear and a red and white striped T-shirt that had obviously belonged to someone else at one time. She looked the rugged little tomboy, but she was an appealing little waif just the same. Her brown eyes sparkled, and there was a hesitant smile on her lips. She stood with her hands jammed in her jeans pockets, her chin tilted defiantly. My anger melted away, but I was determined to be firm nevertheless.

  “Do you always go around spying on people?” I said sharply.

  “Sure. That’s my hobby. You see, we ain’t got television ’n there ain’t nothin’ else to do around here. I see lots of things. I know more ’n anyone around here. I see things. It’s better’n television any day!”

  “You should be spanked,” I snapped.

  “Ain’t no one I know who’s big enough,” the child said nastily.

  “I am,” I retorted.

  “You ain’t either. ’Sides, you’re too pretty.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, you sure are. Particularly now. You used to be just as pretty, ’course, but you wore your hair all pulled back and fastened in a bun, and you didn’t ever wear anything like what-ja got on now. The old lady would have busted a gut if you’d-a worn a skirt that short.”

  “What do you know about—about her?”

  “Plenty. I know plenty.”

  “How?”

  “I told-ja. I spy. Plenty of times I usta look in the windows, ’n I’d watch both of ya. She run me off once—I was hidin’ behind a chair on th’ veranda and lookin’ in the window. She was primpin’ in the mirror, makin’ faces at herself and smilin’, ’n I couldn’t help but laugh. She saw me and screeched like she’d been stuck with a pin. Then she came tear-in’ out after me. I ran like hell!”

  “Nice little girls don’t use words like that.”

  “I ain’t a nice little girl. Where’d-ja get that idea?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten and a half.”

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “It’s Saturday. ’Sides, I play hookey all the time. They can’t keep me there.” She paused, her head cocked to one side. “I hate school,” she added.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause Old Barney—Miss Barnes—is always payin’ attention to Priscilla Sue ’n bein’ sweet to her ’n not givin’ a damn about me. She says I’m a bad influence on Priscilla ’n all the other kids.”

  There was something plaintive in the child’s voice, and for a moment she was sad and vulnerable, all the pretentious wickedness gone. Her mother was a widow and ran the local store, I knew, and Widow Murphy was probably much too busy to give the child proper care and attention. Betty reminded me of a little lost kitten, but I knew if I tried to cuddle or stroke her she would screech and claw like an alley cat.

  “Are you really so mean?” I asked.

  “I’m mean as hell.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  She looked startled. “You don’t?” she said. She sounded disappointed, staring up at me with incredulous brown eyes.

  “I think you just pretend to be so people will pay attention to you,” I said, my voice severe.

  “You got any kids?” she asked saucily.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then don’t be so smarty ’n try to figure me out. Dr. Smith tried to. He is one of them—whatjacall ’em? Counselors? He talks to kids at school ’n I had several sessions with ’im ’n he said I was really a sweet little girl who needed love and a stable home life. Know what I said?”

  “What?”

  “I said crap! I got ten demerits for that,” she added proudly.

  I stared at her, trying hard not to laugh. “If you’re such a horrid little girl, I don’t need to waste time talking with you. You’d better go home. I’ll find someone not quite so wicked to talk with.”

  Betty frowned, her brown eyes showing first resentment, then disappointment. Her shoulders drooped and she looked like she had just been slapped. Her ragged blond hair hung limply about her face, and she reached up to wipe a streak of dirt from her chin. “Maybe I’m not so wicked,” she said quietly, “least not to people who’re nice to me. You usta be nice. I remember th’ chocolate bar. I’m sorry I scared-ja, Miss Em’lynn. I heard you’d come back ’n I wanted to see if it was true so I sneaked off and came here first thing this mornin’, just to see you. I didn’t mean to scare ya.” She looked up at me with that hesitant smile.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I wanted to take a walk this morning. Why don’t we walk down the beach towards your house? Your mother is probably worrying about you. Is it far?”

  “The store? We live behind th’ store. No, it’s ’bout a mile if you go along th’ beach. If you’re drivin’ it’s twice as far.”

  “Come along then,” I said briskly.

  We walked down the beach, away from the boathouse. Betty scampered in the sand, a little ahead of me, stopping now and then to examine a shell or a piece of driftwood. The breeze blew my hair and whipped my skirt, and the water swept over the sand and shingles. I wanted to take off my shoes and stockings and wade in the water, but I knew I had to maintain a certain dignity with the child. Soon we were far away from the boathouse, walking along a desolate stretch of beach that seemed to extend for miles and miles with no sign of human habitation. The beach was flat, the white sand glittering in the sunlight, and the ground beyond it rose up in huge dunes that were covered with tall brown grass. A sea gull circled over the water and cried out loudly. Betty was several yards ahead of me. She stopped to let me catch up with her.

  “Mind if I ask you somethin’?” she said.

  “Of course not,” I replied.

  I stopped to take off my shoe and shake the sand out of it. Betty sat down on a large piece of driftwood, hesitant about asking her question. She dug the toe of her tennis shoe in the sand, not looking at me.

  “Are you crazy?” she asked.

  I was dumbfounded. “Why—no! Why do you ask that?”

  “I just wondered—” She picked up a small rock and sent it sailing out over the water. “I didn’t think you were, but they said you couldn’t remember nothin’, and people who can’t remember are looney. Everybody knows that. They say you don’t remember bein’ here. Is that true?”

  I nodded.

  “You didn’t remember me, and you used to
be so nice. You were always smilin’ at me and speakin’ soft ’n all. I didn’t want to believe you were crazy. I’m glad you’re not. Even if you can’t remember, I’m glad you’re not crazy. I kinda wanted a friend.”

  “I’d kinda like a friend myself,” I replied, my voice quite serious. “Everyone needs to have someone to talk to—even when they grow up and get to be as old as I am.”

  “What about that man?” she asked. “Can’t you talk to him?”

  “What man?”

  “Th’ one you were kissin’. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that?”

  “I—uh—I’m afraid not,” I said carefully. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

  “It was a long time ago, before th’ old lady was killed. It was late ’n I’d been makin’ my rounds and was goin’ home. I saw you standin’ on the beach, lookin’ real lonely, and then the man came out and and you talked for a long time ’n then he kissed you and you put your arms around him. I was hidin’ behind a sand dune and I stepped on a rock and made a noise and you two jumped and looked around real nervous like and then I ran away. Ya didn’t ever see me.”

  “Are you quite sure about this?”

  “’Course.”

  “Who—who was the man?”

  “Well, it was gettin’ dark, and his back was to me ’n I never saw his face, but he had broad shoulders, ya know? ’N muscles, ’n he was wearin’ blue jeans and a T-shirt. I wouldn’t let no one kiss me. I’d knock their teeth out if they even tried.”

  We were silent for a while. Betty had picked up a stick and was making pictures in the sand. I stood looking out over the water, watching the blue gray waves sweep over the sand. Far away, along the horizon, the water was darker, merging into a deep purple line against the misty sky. I wondered what else this child might have seen in her “spying.”

  “I got somethin’ to show you,” Betty said.

  She reached into her pocket and took out a tiny piece of wood, holding it carefully in the palm of her hand. She held it up for me to examine and I saw that it was a small dog, beautifully carved in miniature, every detail perfect. It had been done by a craftsman, an artist. I asked her where she got it, and Betty looked sad. She was silent for a moment, looking at the carved dog, and I thought she might cry. Then she frowned and put the piece of wood back into her pocket.

  “He gave it to me,” she said, “th’ one they said done it. I told him gee I wish I hadda dog ’n he sat right down and took out his knife and made it for me then ’n there. He made a boat for Sean, too—Sean’s my brother. He was such a nice old man. I played checkers with him lots of times in his cottage, but he cheated. I was just a kid ’n he didn’t think I’d catch him, but I did. He just grinned ’n said I was too smart for ’im.”

  “You—you’re talking about Burt Reed?”

  “Sure. He was always promisin’ to take me fishin’ with him. He was goin’ to, he kept sayin’, ’n I bet he would of it they hadn’t taken him off to jail like that.”

  I held my breath. I didn’t move. She continued to speak.

  She spoke quite calmly, her voice almost philosophical. “He wasn’t a bad man,” she said. “I know that. I know he wasn’t—” She looked up at me, her eyes suddenly grave. “I know somethin’,” she said. “I wanted to tell it before, but I was ’fraid to—” She hesitated. “Then he died and there wasn’t any need to—”

  My heart began to pound slowly. Betty frowned.

  “That night—” she began, her voice hesitant.

  “What—what do you know?” I whispered.

  I must have seemed too anxious, too eager to know. Betty paused, and she searched my face. I knew she had been on the verge of telling me something important, but I could see her drawing back now. She tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes, and her tiny hands clutched the edge of the piece of driftwood she was sitting on.

  “Please tell me,” I said. “What do you know?”

  “I know plenty,” she said, nodding her head, “but I ain’t gonna tell. I didn’t then, ’n I sure as hell ain’t goin’ to now.”

  “Betty—”

  “I seen somethin’—”

  “Don’t you trust me? Can’t you tell me?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I’m ’fraid. That man tried to get me to talk—his son. He knew I was always hangin’ around and he tried to make me talk, but I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut. I’m afraid of ’im. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’—Ma told me not to.”

  “You told your mother?”

  “Sure, ’n she was scared, too. She said it wouldn’t do no good to go ’round blabbin’ ’bout somethin’ you couldn’t prove, ’n I’m just a kid and everyone’d think I was lyin’ because he was my friend and gave me the dog. He was a nice old man, though. I’ll tell you that. He didn’t—”

  She paused. Her face was pale, the brown eyes enormous. She seemed to be remembering something.

  “Betty—” I said quietly, trying to contain my excitement. “If—if you know something, and you could prove he was a nice old man and didn’t do what—what” they say he did, you should tell the police. It could mean a great deal.”

  Betty got off the driftwood and kicked her heels in the sand. “Yeah, I could be chopped up just like th’ old lady. That’s what it could mean, ’n I ain’t about to run that risk.” She looked at me sharply. “I shouldn’t-a said nothin’. Ma warned me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust no one. You mighta done it yourself.”

  “Betty!”

  “I—I’m sorry, Miss Em’lynn. I didn’t mean that.”

  I knew I would get no more out of her at the present time.

  “Look,” she said, “there’s Sean. He must be comin’ after me.”

  I turned to peer down the beach.

  The boy was walking slowly towards us. He was perhaps fourteen, tall and lanky with deeply tanned skin and unruly hair that was not quite blond, not quite red. He wore tennis shoes and a pair of blue jeans cut off above the knee. His sleeveless brown and yellow jersey was ragged. As he came nearer I could see the grave expression on his young face, a crease between his brows, his brown eyes solemn. He was a handsome lad, but there was something disturbing about him. It was as though he had never had a childhood, as though he had been forced into manhood before he had had a chance to be a boy.

  Betty seized my hand. “Don’t say nothin’,” she pleaded in a hurried voice. “I—I was fibbin’. I didn’t see nothin’. Don’t mention it. Sean will tell Ma ’n she’ll give me a hidin’—”

  The boy stopped a few feet away from us. He did not even look at me. He was frowning deeply. Betty released my hand and went over to him.

  “Here I am,” she said brightly. “You lookin’ for me?”

  “Ma’s been worried. I told her you’d just gone out to play, but she was worried. You know why.”

  “I was just makin’ my rounds.”

  “I’ve warned you about that,” he said grimly. “You’re going to get into serious trouble one of these days.”

  “I wasn’t hurtin’ nothin’—” Betty protested.

  The boy took her hand, and he looked at me for the first time. “What lies has she been telling you?” he said.

  “Why—she’s told me nothing.”

  He looked down at his sister, apparently satisfied.

  “Come on, then,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”

  The children walked on down the beach, away from me. Betty turned to give me a quick wave before they disappeared behind a sand dune. I felt my pulses leap. I pressed my fingertips against my temples and tried to drive the ugly thoughts from my mind. The waves crashed loudly. A sea gull cried overhead, and it sounded like a scream of anguish. I looked around at the barren sand and the bleak sand dunes. The sun was hot, burning down on this emptiness. I felt like I was the lone survivor after a world catastrophe, and I was afraid. I turned and began to hurry back the way we had come. I hurried away fro
m the desolate stretch of beach, away from the emptiness, away from the terror that had gripped me as I listened to the words spoken so earnestly by that highly unusual child.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS ALMOST noon. I wandered among the gardens at the side of the house. They had once been lovely, no doubt, but now they were overgrown with weeds and thorns, only a few of the rose bushes blooming. A gray flagstone path wound around flowerbeds, clumps of shrubbery, ending at a pond in the middle of the gardens. It was white concrete, cracked, and dead leaves floated on the surface of the dark green water. A white marble nymph stood in the center of the pond holding aloft a broken jug from which water must once have poured. There was something melancholy about these gardens, enclosed by thick black trees at back and side. The nymph stood lonely sentinel, her dead white eyes peering out over tangles of dark green leaves that hid most of the white and yellow roses.

  I stood by the pond and looked up at the towering old house. The blue roof sloped and rose in several levels, the turrets and gables throwing dark shadows over the blue shingles. The windows stared down darkly like evil eyes. It was a hideous monstrosity of a house with its weathered gray sides, jutting corners and spreading wings crouching beside the ocean and guarding so many dark, ugly secrets. I wished I was in Clive’s studio, helping him photograph bizarre models against bizarre backdrops. I wished I was in noisy crowded London with its fog and confusion, and its raucous celebration of life. Here there was only silence and gloom, and an evil pall that hung over the place even now when the sky was blinding white and sunlight poured down in wavering yellow rays.

  It’s just a house, I told myself, just a place. The evil is in your mind. I could not shake the fear that lurked inside me. It had been there from the very first, but it had grown even stronger since I had listened to the child talking in her fierce little voice. She had seen something, she said. She knew something. She was afraid to tell. What could it be? Why did I feel a chill as I walked over the cracked gray flagstones and touched the dark green leaves and watched a small brown lizard scurry over the path and disappear in the black soil? It would be best to leave now, to give the whole thing up. I had thought myself strong enough and brave enough to go through with it, but now I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t think I could spend another night in the house.