by Peter Ponzo
Bryan slid off the bed.
"Liz, what do we do? I don't want to live in that - that apartment. It'll happen again." He paused and looked into Liz' eyes. "Liz? The others - in the apartment building. We've got to warn them. They - they -"
"It's okay. I've spoken to the officer who came to Mrs. Perkins' apartment. Do you remember him? Well, I told him about the willow tree, about the roots which still grow beneath the apartment building. He's going to evacuate the building."
"You mean he believed you? He actually believed you? He didn't think you were off your rocker? He actually believed that a willow tree -"
"Bryan ... the officer's name is Jaffre." She paused to let the name sink in. "He's the grandson of Inspector Jaffre. I didn't have to say anything. He just took charge and started to evacuate the building. There are only three other apartments renting and they'll move out, temporarily. He said he'll get city council approval for drilling and injecting a herbicide directly into the root system. He said the roots will die within a week. Even the roots which have invaded the building, the sewers and pipes. They'll be dead within a week."
Bryan collapsed onto the bed, stared up at the ceiling, sighed. "Thank God. Maybe this thing is over now." He pushed himself to his elbows and looked at the bed, grinning from ear to ear. "Guess I'll just have to stay here, in your bed, for how long? A week did you say? Sounds like fun."
Liz shoved him and he fell off the bed, hitting his head on the night table.
New Year's Eve: 1977
Bryan couldn't sleep. For most of the week something had bothered him, but he couldn't place it. It was as though a voice were speaking, whispering, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. He had slept fitfully most nights, had complained to Liz and had lost his appetite. She tried to cheer him up, saying that she would bring something special on New Year's Eve, something to whet his appetite.
He crawled out of bed early, wandered aimlessly about the apartment most of the morning, then, at noon, he turned on Bach and took a hot bath, laying the gray towel on the side of the tub. He lay with eyes closed, the steaming water lapping gently at his chin. Then began the toccata and fugue in D minor. He hadn't realized before; Bach was frightening. This fugue had always been cheerful, fanciful, one of his favourites - now it was sombre, scary. He felt the apprehension creeping up his leg, and he turned uncomfortably - and still, the creeping. He opened his eyes, lifted his foot. A hairy cord, wrapped about his leg, clinging, and he pushed himself upright and gasped and jerked his foot and the thing leaped wildly out of the steaming tub, up and down, reaching for him, flailing, gray and tortuous, and he pushed himself from the tub, over the side, falling to the floor, and the thing followed, sloshing, cleaving to his face and he couldn't breath and he twisted his head, banging against the tub - and everything went black.
When Liz arrived, she found the door unlocked and the record spinning silently. She placed her packages on the kitchen table and ran to the bedroom, then saw the bathroom door closed. She pushed it open. Bryan was lying naked on the floor, a wet, gray towel wrapped about his face.
"Bryan!" She pulled away the towel, stroked his cheek. "Bryan!"
He opened his eyes, quickly, and stared at Liz, confused.
"Why are you ... why ..." he stuttered.
"Oh Bryan, you gave me such a scare. You must have fallen while getting out of the tub."
"I was ... uh, the thing, something, it attacked me," he said, his voice cracking. "I was attacked!"
Liz held up the gray towel.
"This? Was this the thing that attacked you?"
She threw it over him and he fell back, bumping his head once again on the tub. He pulled the towel from his shoulder, gazed at it for a moment, gazed at himself, then lay the towel carefully across his naked loins, grinning.
"Woman, do you have no shame?" He waved toward the door. "Begone!"
Liz left, smiling, and closed the door behind her. Bryan got unsteadily to his feet, slipped out of the wet towel, stared at it, then into the tub, shook his head to clear it, then threw the towel onto the floor. "Wicked thing," he mumbled, but his voice was shaking and he couldn't stop his hand from trembling.
***
It was after nine o'clock and they sat in the living room. Bryan had feasted for over an hour on the pastries filled with crab, the cheese fondue and the white wine. Liz ate none of it, preferring to watch Bryan make a pig of himself.
"Oink," she muttered.
"Well ... what did you expect," he complained, stuffing the last crab pastry into his mouth and wiping his lips with a napkin. "You brought enough for six. If I had eaten just a little, it'd be insulting. Right?" He got up from the chair which Liz had placed next to a small table, and moved to the sofa next to Liz, with his glass of wine and dirty napkin, collapsing beside her, his wine glass held aloft.
"No!" she cried, but it was too late. Bryan moaned, then flourished the napkin and began to wipe the wine from Liz's blouse. "No!" she cried, but it was too late. Bryan stared silently at the dirty napkin, then at the streaks of crab and cheese fondue on her blouse.
"Gee, Liz, I just wanted to - to -"
"Yes, my dear," she wailed, "you just wanted to feed me." She sighed and lay back on the sofa. "Or perhaps to check out the merchandise." Bryan dropped his napkin on the floor, next to the wine glass, and lay beside her. They were silent for some time, then Bryan drew a deep breath.
"Liz? Do you know what day this is? I mean, do you know it's significance?"
Liz had closed her eyes and answered softly, without looking up.
"It is the last day of the last month of the calendar of Augustus and -"
"No, I mean, do you know what happened this day, in this place?"
Liz opened her eyes, stared straight ahead, then at Bryan.
"Do you mean ..."
"Yes, precisely, exactly, the ... the death of all tenants of Willow Towers, every one, attacked ..." He sucked in his breath. "Like I was attacked, in the tub ..."
"Silly, that was your towel. You were dreaming, again." Liz closed her eyes.
"Well ... it seemed real enouth. Liz, I don't think we should be here, in this place, not tonight, not on New Years' Eve."
"How many last days of the last month have you spent here? Have you ever, ever had a problem ... discounting, of course, vicious towels that -"
"But what about Mrs. Perkins? She was attacked. You know it and I know it. And tonight is the night when all those tenants were attacked."
Liz sighed. "Bryan, the willow is gone, dead, departed. The roots have been destroyed and the danger is also gone, dead and departed." She leaned against him. "But, of course, if you're afraid, we can always spend the rest of the evening at my mother's house." She kissed him gently on the cheek. "Of course, she would be there, constantly, watching our every move, seeing that you behave like a perfect gentleman." She put her arms about his neck, fluttering her eyelids. "No funny business, no signs of effection, passion, wild and erotic lust ..." She pulled him to her and he fell into her lap.
"Okay, okay, I give up," he moaned. "Take this naive and virtuous child and do with him as you will ... but please be gentle."
And they stayed, and New Year's Eve turned uneventfully to a new year, and the subject never again arose - not for a long time.
CHAPTER 15
Sophie Brenner: June, 1983
The party was winding down and the guests were starting to leave, slowly, talking constantly all the way to the closet where they each in turn sifted through the coats, all the way to the front door and all the way down the walk to the cars parked at the curb. When the last guest had left, Sophie Brenner fell backwards into the sofa and groaned loudly. She looked around at the room; bottles and glasses everywhere. Tomorrow. She'll clean up tomorrow. Better still, she'll phone the agency and get a cleaning lady in for an hour or two.
She closed her eyes. Too much talking had given her a headache. Brenda talked too much, so
did Brenda's sister ... what was her name? Billy? Funny name for a girl. And that guy with the moustache, what made him think he was master of ceremonies? Well, now it was over. She had given the party for the staff as she had promised and now she could relax. No more entertaining for a while. She looked at the floor, covered in crumbs and potato chips. Some people were slobs. Most of them were slobs.
Derek was nice though, quiet. He had even offered to help with the serving. He was very nice. Where did he work? In the advertising department? Can't think now - time for bed.
She walked slowly around the room and turned out the lights then stopped and looked out the window. It was a warm night and the sky was clear and sprinkled with stars. She stepped out onto the back porch and looked up. That was surprising. Normally the city lights made it impossible to see many stars but tonight was different. She looked over the back fence, over the small tree with its branches rising, curiously distorted against the glow of the city in the distance.
She was glad to have moved to the suburbs. It was quiet and she could do without the constant ringing of the telephone and honking of horns and screeching of brakes. She would sleep well tonight. She walked back into the house, past the bottles and potato chips and crumbs and smiled. Tomorrow she would call the agency: send a cleaning lady. That was good.
***
By the time she awoke the sun had been warming her bed covers for an hour. She lay in bed, thinking. What to do today? It was her day off and she didn't need any groceries. There was lots of stuff left over from the party and she could live off that for at least a day, maybe two. She hadn't been to the Farmer's Market for months. She would go today, look over the handmade dolls and homemade jams and the needlework and quilts. She ran her hand over the bed cover. A quilt, handsewn, with brightly coloured squares; she needed one. She jumped out of bed, dressed and was just about to leave the house when the phone rang. How she hated it when the phone rang. It rang twice more and she wearily walked back and picked it up after the fourth ring.
"Hello," she said cheerily, her eyes closed, a grimace advertising her annoyance.
"Sophie? Just called to say that was a smashing party last night." It was Brenda. God, this was going to take an hour.
"I saw how you were looking at Derek, you can't fool me you know. I can tell these things. I was telling Billie that you had eyes for Derek. Just wait, I said to Billie, she has that look, I said. They'll be dating in less than a week, I said, and then watch out, I said, and before you know it they'll be engaged, I said, and -"
Sophie leaned against the wall, stared at the ceiling, eyes still closed. Brenda went on - and on. Sophie opened her eyes, smiled, then waited for a pause in the stream of words then said:
"Brenda? Guess what? I just -" then she hung up the phone and quickly left the house.
She heard the phone ring and climbed into her car. That was a good trick. Brenda would think the phone had been cut off. Sophie smiled and drove down Kaiser Street to the Market.
It was crowded but she enjoyed the noise and confusion. Strange. Why would I enjoy this confusion when I live in the suburbs just to get away from it all? She jostled her way down the aisles and stopped to watch the man carving wood. He had several small jewel boxes in rosewood, 3 or 4 wooden clocks with a rich umber grain and a shelf full of wicker baskets.
"I bought a wicker basket a few years ago," she said. "It came apart in less than a month. Do your baskets come apart?"
"No ma'am. I guarantee these baskets. They'll last a lifetime. You kin pass them on to your gran chillun." He smiled, a broad smile full of off-white teeth, more like yellow teeth she thought. "You didn't buy the basket from me?" he added, suddenly frowning.
"No. I bought it in New Bamberg. A furniture manufacturer was going out of business. He was selling everything at half-price. It seemed a good buy at the time." She ran her hand over the wicker baskets, then smiled and left.
Where had she put that old wicker basket?
She looked at her watch. Better get home and call the cleaning agency.
When she got home Brenda was waiting on the front porch.
"We got cut off!" she cried angrily as Sophie leaned out of her car. "I called back but there was no answer. Don't know why you moved way out here. Lousy phone service if you ask me. Happens all the time." Then she grinned. "You were about to tell me something. What was it? I'm dying to hear about it, whatever it is. I told Billie, I said, Sophie was about to tell me something then we got cut off, I said, -""
While Brenda went on, and on, Sophie tried to remember what she had said just as she hung up the phone. What exciting bit of gossip could she invent, to tell Brenda?
"Wicker baskets," said Sophie triumphantly. "I wanted to tell you about the wonderful wicker baskets at the Farmer's Market."
"Wicker baskets? I drove all the way out here for wicker baskets?"
"Brenda, you won't believe how beautiful they are. I was going to buy you one. I still remember how much you liked the basket I bought in New Bamberg."
"What! I hate wicker baskets! And that old thing ... it was coming apart at the seams. You threw it in the yard, it was so ugly."
Sophie's eyes opened wide.
"Brenda! That's it! You're an angel. I was trying to remember where it was, where I had put it."
Sophie walked to the back yard and Brenda followed, complaints punctuating each step. Sophie stopped quickly and stared at the small tree by the fence.
"Brenda? Do you remember that tree? Have you ever seen that tree before?"
"No. You must have planted it recently. Listen Sophie, about that phone call. Is that really what you were going to say, just about stupid old wicker baskets?"
"What kind of tree is that?" asked Sophie.
Brenda stopped talking and stared at the tree, leaning forward and straightening her glasses.
"A willow tree," she muttered.
***
Sophie bought the shovel after work and put it into the trunk of her car. She started to dig out the tree as soon as she got home and had changed into her jeans. It was getting dark when she stopped. The roots seemed much too extensive for such a small tree and she had to hack away with the edge of the shovel. She looked at her watch, then dropped the shovel. She hadn't eaten and was hungry. There were still some roots in the hole, but most of the tree had been removed. Tripping over the branches lying on the ground, she grunted, kicked the small tree. It rolled to the edge of the hole. She kicked it back again, away from the hole.
"No you don't," she muttered. "Keep away from that hole. After supper I'll just make a wee fire and that'll be the end of you. I don't want a willow tree in my yard. I never asked you to grow here."
It wasn't until after supper that Sophie heard the scraping at the window. It was dark and she couldn't see anything in the yard. It probably wasn't a good idea to be out at night, even in her own backyard. There had been talk of a gang of young kids that were stealing from empty homes on the street. It seemed that many of her neighbours had moved to the city, leaving their country homes for the realtors to sell. Crazy. Noise, cars, smog … why would anyone move to the city?
The willow tree … maybe she should wait to burn it. By morning it would be dead anyway and by tomorrow evening it would burn quite nicely. It was too dark to do it tonight.
The scraping continued. She should phone the police. The phone was on the wall by the window that faced the back yard. She waited. The scraping stopped, there were no street noises, no wind, just dead silence so she walked slowly to the phone, staring intently at the dark window. She stood back from the wall and reached out gingerly to take the phone off the hook.
The window exploded, a violent eruption of shattered glass, the hairy branch leaping through, wrapping itself about her wrist, she screamed and more black and twisted coils spiralled through the window and spun about her waist, gnarled, distorted, and Sophie Brenner was dragged screaming through the br
oken window, triangles of glass cutting through her dress, her feet vanishing into the night.
Then the screaming stopped.
CHAPTER 16
Mr. and Mrs. Laker: June, 1983
Bryan was on the sofa, dreaming of the wedding.
He and Elizabeth had been married April 7, 1982; more than a year. It was a small wedding with some friends from the college, and Liz's parents. Bryan's parents had died years ago, but his brother Chuck had flown in from the west coast. Bryan rarely talked to his brother. They didn't get along that well and usually got into an argument within minutes of beginning any conversation. Having him out on the coast was perfectly okay with Bryan, but Liz had insisted that an invitation be sent to him and he had actually come. During the reception the two brothers shared memories about endless trips about the county with their father, collecting data for his History. When Bryan admitted that he was trying to finish the work, leaving a Laker legacy, he imitated his father so well that Chuck laughed and Bryan joined him, and they drank and got a little tipsy. When it was over Bryan was pleased. Maybe Chuck wasn't so bad after all.
Liz's parents had made up a guest list that went on to over a hundred names, but Bryan and Liz had insisted that they bear the cost of the wedding and reception and that had determined the size of the guest list: small.
They had spent many hours debating whether to move out of the run down apartment building, but there had been no other strange willow occurrences since the death of Mrs. Perkins: the roots had been injected with a herbicide, the tenants had all moved back in and everything was going well. It was also agreed that financial considerations came first. Most of their income went into the bank so that, one day, they would have a house of their own. The rent at Willow Towers was minimal and that made the decision to stay more palatable. Besides, it was close to the college where they both taught. At Liz's insistence, however, they did buy some bedroom furniture and, in June 1983, they bought a new sofa.
That was where Bryan was now; dreaming on the new sofa.
"Bryan? Did you read this article in the Gazette? The one about the lady just outside of Cambridge?" Bryan opened one eye and grunted. Liz straightened the paper neatly in her lap and started to read:
