EQMM, July 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  On the rare occasions when Myron looked directly into her eyes, Florence noticed that his were ever so slightly crossed. “You really mean that?” he asked.

  “I really do.”

  “Perhaps that might be arranged,” said Myron. It pleased Florence that he was capable of teasing.

  “I'm afraid my position is only temporary. But I shall dream about this place. I've always been a dreamer. My mother used to scold me about it. ‘Missy,’ she'd say, ‘if you don't learn to keep your feet on the ground you'll end up drowning in a sea of dreams.'”

  At this they both looked down into the water, deep enough at that spot for swimming. Impulsively, hoping it might encourage Myron to do the same, Florence pulled off her shoes and dangled her bare feet in the cold water. With a squeal of pleasure, she looked around only to find that Myron had vanished.

  * * * *

  It was late on the afternoon of the fifth day that Florence first became aware of a subtle, indefinable wrongness about the situation in which she had so rashly involved herself. From the moment of Professor Merryman's arrival, the atmosphere seemed to change, to become charged with a peculiar mixture of smoldering excitement and constraint. At the dinner table the man's conversation seemed to strike a false note, as if he were doing his utmost to create an air of normalcy with a stream of banter which flowed as smoothly as the trout stream while not quite concealing an undercurrent alive with darting activity. One might almost have suspected him to be in a state of mild intoxication, the effect of which provoked from Myron repeated glances of sly, reproachful amusement. It was as if the pair of them shared a secret from which Florence was excluded.

  And then later, as she was in the kitchen doing the washing up, she heard Professor Merryman's voice raised in a tone of wheedling expostulation. Curious, Florence moved to the door, which was slightly ajar. Only when she heard Myron's voice, precisely enunciating each syllable in a quietly pacifying tone, did she realize they were speaking in French. Boldly, she pushed the door open and walked in on them.

  Abruptly, they went silent, Myron's angelic features palely composed, a deep flush darkening the professor's plump cheeks.

  “A trifling argument over the subjunctive,” explained Merryman with a faint titter. “Our lad is an accomplished linguist, but he still has trouble with the subjunctive.”

  “Merry, I suggest you be a good fellow and finish what you started,” said Myron, “or it'll be dark before you get back to Hillcrest.”

  “I was just about to take Myron's picture,” said Professor Merryman, reaching for a Polaroid camera on the table. “To send to his folks, you know. I promised.”

  Myron picked up the copy of The Wall Street Journal Merryman had brought with him into the house, sat down on the sofa, and held the paper as if he were reading it.

  “Oh, that should tickle them,” said Florence. “Their little boy pretending to read The Wall Street Journal."

  “It happens to be my favorite newspaper,” replied Myron coolly.

  “He's not joking,” said the professor.

  The salubrious effect of the country air had made it unnecessary for Florence to resort to her sleeping pills to ensure a good night's rest—the first unmedicated slumber she had enjoyed since moving to Wildwood. Tonight, however, uneasiness threatened to keep her awake, although she could not pinpoint what it was that troubled her mind. If she'd heard Myron and the professor conversing in French it was clearly to keep her in the dark. Hadn't Myron made a point of discovering if she understood French?

  With the arrival of dawn, Florence was inclined to dismiss these night thoughts as the product of an overheated imagination, yet as time went on that suspicion of wrongness persisted.

  * * * *

  The next two days passed slowly, Florence noticing that Myron seemed more withdrawn and preoccupied than usual.

  “Feeling a mite bored, dear?” Florence inquired. “Anxious to get back to school and your classmates?”

  Myron regarded her with a bland half-smile, an arrogant tilt to the head which was like a pale flower on a reedlike stem. “Frankly, I find the prospect less than enthralling.”

  “A bright lad like you? I'm sure Professor Merryman wouldn't be pleased to hear such talk.”

  “Merry? We're of the same mind where school is concerned.”

  When Professor Merryman arrived late the following day, he made no effort to hide his excitement. Taking Florence aside, he laid a spongy hand on her arm and announced a change of plans. “I've been granted a brief holiday for myself before school reconvenes and I thought I might take our lad on a little excursion. Needless to say, you shall be amply compensated for any inconvenience.”

  “Don't give it a thought, sir,” replied Florence with more relief than she dared express.

  By now she realized that the bliss of those first few days in the country had been as self-deceiving as the fugitive raptures of a dream and she was already feeling more than a trace of guilt at the rashness of her behavior. Guilt, but not regret. If nothing else, the escapade had restored her confidence in her ability to make her own decisions—and her own mistakes.

  That night sleep eluded her, but rather than take a pill she decided a breath of fresh air might make her drowsy; with this thought in mind she slipped out of her room after midnight, crept silently down the stairs, and was crossing the hall when she noticed a light beneath the living-room door and heard the murmur of voices. Stealthily, she advanced to the door and put her ear to the crack.

  “Squeamish, Merry?” she heard Myron say. “She said herself she'd like never to leave this place.”

  “But if someone should make inquiries—”

  “Like who? She told you she couldn't provide references, that she was absolutely alone in the world and would never return to wherever she came from. It'll be easy. She can't swim. One tap with a rock while she's sitting on the bench and, plop, she's in the water. An aged Ophelia.”

  “The thought of murder—”

  “Was your idea, Merry, old man. All because you thought I needed a babysitter.”

  “You know I couldn't leave you here alone.”

  “Then now isn't the time to lose your nerve, or risk losing everything. No villa in the south of France. No trips to Morocco and the Greek islands. And no more career, needless to remind you.”

  “All right, all right. I suppose we've no choice.”

  “Mother and Daddy will be glad to accept your invitation to take me to Europe. Anything to get me off their hands. And we'll never come back. Never.”

  “Well, at least not until the money runs out, dear boy. Faking your kidnapping was a brilliant idea.”

  “And didn't I tell you they would do exactly what the ‘kidnappers’ demanded? Not tell the police, and allow you to collect the ‘ransom money.’ I know the poor dears so well. That satchel full of dreams in the woodshed will make us kings of our own destiny!”

  Moments later, back in her room, Florence sat on the edge of the bed compulsively twisting and untwisting a fine linen handkerchief, the only visible sign of extreme inner perturbation. Only gradually, as panic receded and her natural common sense took charge of her thoughts, did she begin to consider a possible alternative to instant flight.

  While the two conspirators slept, Florence rose early to prepare a breakfast more fit for kings than murderers: fresh juice, hot coffee, scrambled eggs and sausages, toast and marmalade.

  When Professor Merryman and his pupil appeared, Florence greeted their approval with a modest smile. “As long as we're leaving, I thought I might as well empty the larder.”

  “Splendid, dear Florence,” agreed the professor. “And afterward, we shall all spend a jolly day together before it's time to push off.”

  It soon became clear, however, once man and boy had greedily filled their bellies, that neither felt inclined to exercise his body, a consuming listlessness appearing to overcome them soon after leaving the table. Each professed no other desire but to return to his bed, where
both were soon deep in a comalike slumber.

  Florence monitored their condition with a genuine anxiety; undeserving creatures that they were, still she had no wish to be the instrument of their deaths, and it had been chancy, deciding how many of her potent sleeping pills with which to dope their food and beverages. Only when she felt confident neither was on the verge of expiring did she prepare for flight.

  Florence prided herself now upon the inspired lies she'd told the beastly Merryman when applying for the job. He knew nothing about her real life, nor even her real last name or where she'd come from. Oh, what an adventure! And it wasn't over yet, no, not by a long shot.

  Carrying her own bag in one hand and that “satchel of dreams” she'd retrieved from the woodshed in the other, she trudged along the dirt road in the late summer heat, soon so exhausted she gratefully accepted a lift from a young woman in a pickup truck who felt obliged to scold Florence: “Don't you know there are all sorts of bad people roaming around the countryside? Anything could happen to you.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Florence drily.

  She rather enjoyed the ensuing bus ride to Endfield, catnapping for much of the trip. She was debating whether to stop for a cup of tea before hiring a taxi to take her out to Wildwood when she was accosted on the sidewalk by two husky policemen.

  “Ma'am,” said one of them, “might your name be Florence Marie Crosscutt?”

  “So what if it is?” she retorted smartly.

  The younger officer grinned. “Told you it was her, Pete. Ma'am, what are you doing wandering around by yourself? Don't you know folks have been worried sick about you? Making off like that without so much as a by-your-leave?”

  “I'm not exactly a prisoner, young man.”

  “Well, you just hop in the car and we'll have you back where you belong, all safe and snug. Here, let me help with your bags.”

  Florence was prepared to adopt a more chastened attitude by the time her niece Joan and Joan's husband Arthur arrived at the Wildwood Care Facility.

  “You're a wicked, wicked lady, Auntie Flo,” Joan scolded. “Walking off without a nod to anyone. For all we knew you might have been lying dead in a ditch.”

  “Wicked? Look who's talking. Who was it sweet-talked me into putting my lovely house in your name—temporarily, so you said—then sold it out from under me to finance some harebrained scheme of Arthur's and dumped me in a nursing home?”

  Joan exchanged a tight-lipped glance with the silent Arthur. “We did you a favor, you ought to be grateful.”

  More than you'll ever know, thought Florence, thinking of all that money in the satchel. Although what to do about that she hadn't even begun to decide.

  Joan insisted on knowing where Florence had been in her absence. Florence touched her forehead with a tremulous hand. “You know, I've clean forgotten. You know how it is with us oldsters. Over the hill? Around the bend? I guess that's all I can tell you about where I've been. Over the hill and around the bend.”

  Copyright © 2012 with the permission of the Estate of Donald Olson.

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