by Tom Reamy
Now here he was. Two years in the army, four years in college, his second year of teaching, married to Lana Redwine (Carter’s cousin and one of the nicest girls in town) with a baby due in a couple of months. You never can tell. You just never can tell.
“Well, Leo,” Miss Mahan asked bemused, “what did you think of Twilla Gilbreath?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She seems very intelligent—at least in algebra. Quiet and well-behaved—unlike a few others. Dresses kinda funny. Seems to have set her sights on my cousin-in-law.” He grinned. “Fat chance!” Miss Mahan wouldn’t say Leo was handsome—not in the way Carter Redwine was—but that grin was the reason half the girls in school had a crush on him.
“Oh? You noticed that too? I imagine she may have a few surprises up her sleeve. I don’t think our Twilla is the fairy tale princess she’s made out to be.” She began another square.
“You must be mistaken, Miss Mahan,” Loretta said wide-eyed. “The child is an absolute darling. And the very idea: a baby like that running after Carter Redwine. I never heard of such a thing!”
“Really?” Miss Mahan smiled to herself and completed a shell stitch. “We shall see what we shall see.”
The norther hit during the ninth grade English class, bringing a merciful, if only temporary, halt to the sufferings of Silas Marner. The glass in the windows rattled and pinged. The wind played on the downspouts like a mad flautist. Sand ticked against the windows and the guard lights came on in the school yard. Outside had become a murky indigo, as if the world were under water. Miss Mahan switched on the lights, making the windows seem even darker. Garbage cans rolled down the street, but you could hardly hear them above the howl of the wind. And the downtown Christmas decorations were whipping loose, as they always did at least once every year.
The sand was only temporary; a cloud of it blown along before the storm, but the wind could last all night or all week. Miss Mahan remembered when she was a girl during the great drought of the thirties, when the sand wasn’t temporary, when it came like a mile-high, solid tidal wave of blown away farmland, when you couldn’t tell noon from midnight, when houses were half buried when the wind finally died down. She shuddered.
“All right, children. Settle down. You’ve all seen northers before.”
Leo and Loretta were right about one thing: Twilla was intelligent. She was also perceptive, imaginative… and adaptable. She had already dropped the Little Mary Sunshine routine, though Miss Mahan couldn’t imagine why she had used it in the first place. It must have been a pose—as if the child had somehow confused the present and 1905.
The temperature had dropped to eighteen by the time school was out. The wind hit Miss Mahan like icy needles. Her gray tweed coat did about as much good as tissue paper. She grabbed at her scarf as it threatened to leave her head and almost lost her briefcase. She walked as fast as her ageing legs would go and made it to her six-year-old Plymouth. The car started like a top, billowing a cloud of steam from the exhaust pipe to be whipped away by the wind.
She sat a moment, getting her breath back, letting the car warm up. She saw Twilla, huddled against the wind, dash to a new black Chrysler and get in with her parents. The car backed out and moved away. Miss Mahan wasn’t the least surprised that little Miss Gilbreath wasn’t riding the school bus. The old Peacock place was a mile off the highway at Miller’s Comers, a once-upon-a-time town eight miles east of Hawley.
Well, I guess I’m not much better, she thought. I only live four blocks away—but I’ll be darned if I’ll walk it today. She always did walk except when the weather was bad, and, oddly enough, the older she got, the worse the weather seemed to get.
She pulled into the old carriage house that served equally well with automobiles, and walked hurriedly across the yard into the big, rather ancient house that had belonged to her grandfather. She knew it was silly to live all alone in such a great pile—she had shut off the upstairs and hadn’t been up in months—but it was equally silly not to live there. It was paid for and her grandfather had set up a trust fund to pay the taxes. It was a very nice house, really; cool in the summer, but (she turned up the fire) a drafty old barn in the winter.
She turned on the television to see if there were any weather bulletins. While it warmed up, she closed off all the downstairs rooms except the kitchen, her bedroom, and the parlor, putting rolled up towels along the bottoms of the doors to keep the cold air out. She returned to the parlor to see the television screen covered with snow and horizontal streaks of lightning.
She knew it. The aerial had blown down again. She turned off the set and put on a kettle of tea.
The wind had laid somewhat by the time Miss Mahan reached school the next morning, but still blew in fitful gusts. The air was the color of ice and so cold she expected to hear it crackle as she moved through it. The windows in her room were steamed over and she was busily wiping them when Twilla arrived. Although Miss Mahan had expected something like this, she stared nevertheless.
Twilla’s hair was still the color of spun elfin gold but the drop curls were missing. Instead it fell in soft folds to below her shoulders in a style much too adult for a thirteen-year-old. But, then, this morning Twilla looked as much like thirteen as Miss Latham. All the physical things were there: the hair, just the right amount of makeup, a short, stylish skirt, a pale green jersey that displayed her small but adequate breasts, a lovely antique pendant on a gold chain nestling between them.
But it wasn’t only the physical things—any thirteen-year-old would have appeared more mature with a similar overhaul—it was something in the face, in her bearing: an attitude of casual sophistication, a confidence usually attainable only by those secure in their power. Twilla smiled. Shirley Temple and Mary Pickford were gone; this was the smile of a conqueror.
Miss Mahan realized her face was hanging out, but before she was forced to say anything, several students, after a prelude of clanging locker doors, barged in. Twilla turned to look at them and the moment was electric. Their inane chatter stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. They gaped. Twilla gave them time for the full effect, then strolled to them and began chatting as if nothing were new.
Miss Mahan sat at her desk feeling a little weak in the knees. She waited for Carter Redwine to arrive as, obviously, was Twilla. When he did, it was almost anticlimactic. His recently acquired worldliness and sexual sophistication melted away in one callow gawk. But he recovered quickly and his feelers popped up, testing the situation. Twilla moved to her desk, giving him a satisfied smile. Wanda O’Dell looked as if she’d eaten a bug.
Miss Mahan had to admit to the obvious. Twilla was a stunning beauty. But the whole thing was… curious… to say the least.
The conversation in the teachers’ lounge was devoted almost exclusively to the transformation of Twilla Gilbreath. Mrs. Latham had noted it vaguely. Loretta McBride ceded reluctantly to Miss Mahan’s observations of the previous day. Leo Whittaker expressed a masculine appreciation of the new Twilla, earning a fishy look from Loretta. “I never saw Carter act so goofy,” he said grinning.
But neither they nor any of the others noted the obvious strangeness of it all. At least, Miss Mahan thought, it seems obvious to me.
That day Miss Mahan set out on a campaign of Twilla-watching. She even went upstairs to her grandfather’s study and purloined one of the black journals from the bottom drawer of his desk. She curled up in the big chair, after building a fire in the parlor fireplace—the first one this year—and opened the journal to the first page ruled with pale blue lines. She wrote Twilla, after rejecting The Twilla Gilbreath Affair, The Peculiar Case of Twilla Gilbreath, and others in a similar vein.
She felt silly and conspiratorial and almost put the journal away, but, instead, wrote further down the page: Is my life so empty that I must fill it by spying on a student?
She thought about what she had written and decided it was either unfair to Twilla or unfair to herself, but let it remain. She turned to the second page a
nd wrote Tuesday, the 5th at the top. She filled that page and the next with her impressions of Twilla’s first day. She headed the fourth page Wednesday, the 6th and noted the events of the day just ending.
On rereading, she thought perhaps she might have over emphasized the oddities, the incongruities, and the anachronisms, but, after all, that was what it was about, wasn’t it?
It began snowing during the night. Miss Mahan drove to school through a fantasy landscape. The wind was still blowing and the steely flakes came down almost horizontally. She loved snow, always had, but she preferred the Christmas card variety when the big fluffy flakes floated down through still, crisp air like so many pillow fights.
She knew there had been developments as soon as Carter Redwine entered the room. His handsome face was glum and sullen and looked as if he hadn’t slept. He sat at his desk with his head hunched between his shoulders and didn’t look up until Twilla came in. Miss Mahan darted her eyes from one to the other. Carter looked away again, his neck and ears glowing red. Twilla ignored him; more than that—she consigned him to total nonexistence.
Miss Mahan was dumbfounded. What on earth…? Had Carter made advances and been rebuffed? That wouldn’t explain it. Surely he had been turned down before. Hadn’t he? Of course, she knew he had. Leo, who viewed his cousin-in-law’s adventures with bemused affection, had been laughing about it in the teachers’ lounge one day. “He’ll settle down,” Leo had said, “he just has a new toy.” Which made her blush after she’d thought about it a while.
Surely, he hadn’t tried to take Twilla… by force? She couldn’t believe that. Despite everything, Carter was a very decent boy. He had just developed too early, was too handsome, and knew too many willing girls. What then? Was it the first pangs of love? That look on his face wasn’t lovesickness. It was red, roaring mortification. Then she knew what must have happened. Carter had not been rebuffed, maybe even encouraged. But, whatever she had expected, he had been inadequate.
Twilla had made another error. She had failed to realize Carter, despite the way he looked, was only fifteen. Then the ugly enormity of it struck her. My God, she thought, Twilla is only thirteen. What had she wanted from Carter that he was too inexperienced or naïve to give her?
Friday, the 8th
Billy Jermyn came in this morning with a black eye. It’s all over school that Carter gave it to him in Gym yesterday when Billy teased him about Twilla. What did she do to humiliate him so? I’ve never known Carter to fight. I guess that’s one secret that’ll never penetrate the teachers’ lounge.
Twilla is taking over the class. I’ve seen it coming since Wednesday. It’s subtle but pretty obvious when you know what to look for. The others defer to her in lots of little ways. Twilla is being very gracious about it. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. (Wonder where that little saying came from? —doesn’t make much sense when you analyze it. )
I also wonder who Twilla’s got her amorous sights on, now that Carter failed to make the grade. She hasn’t shown an interest in anyone in particular that I’ve noticed. And there’s been no gossip in the lounge. The flap created by Carter has probably shown her the wisdom of keeping her romances to herself. She’s adaptable.
Sonny Bowen offered to put my TV aerial back up for me. I knew one of them would. Bless their conniving little hearts.
TGIF!
Miss Mahan closed the journal and sat watching a log in the fireplace that was about to fall. The whole Twilla affair was curious, but no more curious than her own attitude. She should have been scandalized (you didn’t see too many thirteen-year-old combinations of Madame Bovary and the Dragon Lady—even these days), but she only felt fascination. Somehow it didn’t seem quite real; more as if she were, watching a movie. She smiled slightly. Wonder if it would be rated R or X, she thought. R, I guess. Haven’t seen anyone with their clothes off yet.
The log fell, making her jump. She laughed in embarrassment, banked the fire, and went to bed.
The snow was still falling Monday morning, though the fierceness of the storm had passed. There was little wind and the temperature had risen somewhat. That’s more like it, Miss Mahan said to herself, watching the big soft flakes float down in random zig-zags.
The bell rang and she turned away from the windows to watch the ninth grade home room clatter out. The Gilbreaths must have been out of town over the weekend, she observed. Twilla didn’t get that outfit in Hawley. But she was still wearing that lovely, rather barbaric pendant around her neck. She sighed. Two days away from Twilla had made her wonder if she weren’t getting senile; if she weren’t making a mystery out of a molehill; if she weren’t imagining the whole thing. Twilla was certainly a picture of normalcy this morning.
Raynelle Franklin came for the absentee report looking more like a frightened chicken than ever. She followed an evasive course to Miss Mahan’s desk and took the report as if she were afraid of being struck. There were only two names on the report: Sammy Stocker and Yvonne Wilkins.
Raynelle glanced at the names and paled. “Haven’t you heard?” she whispered.
“Heard what?”
Raynelle looked warily at the senior class shuffling in and backed away, motioning for Miss Mahan to follow. Miss Mahan groaned and followed her into the hall. Students were milling about everywhere, chattering and banging locker doors. Raynelle grimaced in distress.
“Raynelle, will you stand still and tell me!” Miss Mahan commanded in exasperation.
“Someone will hear,” she pleaded.
“Hear what?”
Raynelle fluttered her hands and blew air through her teeth. She looked quickly around and then huddled against Miss Mahan. “Yvonne Wilkins,” she hissed.
“Well?”
“She’s… she’s… dead!”
Miss Mahan thought Raynelle was going to faint. She grabbed her arm. “How?” she asked in her no-nonsense voice.
“I don’t know,” Raynelle gasped. “No one will tell me.”
Miss Mahan thought for a moment. “Go on with what you were doing.” She released Raynelle and marched into Mr. Choate’s office.
Mr. Choate looked up with a start. He was already wearing his three o’clock face. “I see you’ve heard.” He was resigned.
“Yes. What is going on? Raynelle was having a conniption fit.” Miss Mahan looked at him over her glasses the same way she would a recalcitrant student.
“Miss Mahan,” he sighed, “Sheriff Walker thought it best if the whole thing were kept quiet.”
“Quiet? Why?”
“He didn’t want a panic.”
“Panic? What did she die of, bubonic plague?”
“No.” He looked at her as if he wished she would vanish. “I guess I might as well tell you. It’ll be all over town by ten o’clock anyway. Yvonne was murdered.” He said the last word as if he’d never heard it before.
Miss Mahan felt her knees giving way and quickly sat down. “This is unbelievable,” she said weakly. Mr. Choate nodded. “Why does Robin Walker want to keep it quiet? What happened?”
“Miss Mahan, I’ve told you all I can tell you.”
“Surely Robin knows secrecy will only make it worse? Making a mystery out of it is guaranteed to create a panic.” Mr. Choate shrugged. “I have my instructions. You’re late for your class.”
Miss Mahan went back to her room in a daze, her imagination ringing up possibilities like a cash register. She couldn’t keep her mind on Macbeth and the class was restless. They obviously didn’t know yet, but their radar had picked up something they couldn’t explain.
When the class was over she went into the hall and saw the news moving through like a shock wave. She accomplished absolutely nothing the rest of the morning. The children were fidgety and kept whispering among themselves. She was as disturbed as they and made only half-hearted attempts to restore order.
At lunch time, she bundled up and trounced through the snow to the courthouse. It was too hot inside and the heat only accentuated the courthouse
smell. She didn’t know what it was, but they all smelled the same. Maybe it was the state-issue disinfectant. The Hawley courthouse hadn’t changed since she could remember. The same wooden benches lined the hall; the same ceiling fans encircled the round lights. No, she corrected herself, there was a change: the brass spittoons had been removed some twelve years ago. It seemed subtly wrong without the spittoons.
She was removing her coat when Rose Newcastle emerged in a huff from the sheriff’s office, her heels popping on the marble floor, sending echoes ringing down the hall. Rose was the last of the three Willet girls, the daughters of old Judge Willet. People still called them the Willet girls, although Rose was considerably older than Miss Mahan. She was a widow now, her husband having finally died of insignificance.
“Hello, Rose,” she said, feeling trapped. Rose puffed to a halt like a plump locomotive.
“Oh, Miss Mahan, isn’t it awful!” she wailed. “And Robin Walker absolutely refuses to do anything! We could all be murdered in our beds!”
“I’m sure he’s doing everything he can, Rose. What did he tell you?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! If my father were still alive, I’d have that man’s job. I told him he’d better watch his step come next election. I told him, as a civic leader in this town, I had a right to know what’s going on. I told him I had a good mind to organize a Citizens Committee to investigate the whole affair.”
“Give him a chance. Robin is a very conscientious man.”
“He’s a child.”
“Come on, Rose. He’s at least thirty. I taught him for four years and I have complete confidence in him. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m here to see him myself.”
“He won’t tell you anything,” Rose said, sounding slightly mollified.
“Perhaps,” Miss Mahan said. Rose echoed off down the hall. “He might have if you haven’t put his tail over the dashboard,” she muttered and pushed open the door.
Loreen Whittaker, Leo’s aunt by marriage, looked up and smiled. “Hello, Miss Mahan. What can I do for you?”
