Lady Afraid

by Lester Dent

  A cheek laid to the wind, Sarah watched the lumpish dark mass that was the Lineyack winter home. There were a few windows bright from light inside. There had been voices and the hollow clicking of billiard balls on a table. A record player had come on loudly, then dropped its volume. The scullery section of the house was nearest her, and she could hear kitchen sounds, and she had heard the mechanical throat of an intercommunicator in the butler’s pantry demanding service from another part of the house.

  Once, several minutes ago, she had thrown rigid attention at a large picture window. This was when she had glimpsed Lineyack himself for a moment. The barrel shoulders, the thick-naped neck, and slick goatlike white hair were her father-in-law’s. It was then that she found surely that her capacity for contempt of the old man was far from exhausted…. For nearly two years she had thrown her hate hard at the old man, until she had imagined that her ability to so feel was blunted, exhausted, helpless. But no. When she had seen him a while ago a sick taste like sugared vinegar had come, and it was still with her.

  A hand touched her. Out of the darkness. Fingers with skin that was rubbery, like a bat’s hide.

  Both her hands flew up, startled and wild, and her purse slipped to the rain-sodden grass. “Oh!” she said chokingly.

  “Mrs. Lineyack! Shush!” It was Brill. He had drifted to her side as quietly as a barracuda in deep water. He wore dark clothes.

  “You got the note with you, Mrs. Lineyack?” the lawyer asked without other preliminary.

  “I—you frightened me.”

  “Let me have the note. I want to read it.”

  “But—”

  “I want to know just where we’re going, Mrs. Lineyack. You give me the note to read.”

  Sarah passed him what she had composed, all four copies. When Calvin Brandeis Brill had them in his hand, he asked, “You got your getaway fixed, Mrs. Lineyack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Taxi?”

  “A car. One I rented.”

  “Let’s go sit in it a minute. It’ll be a good place for me to read this.”

  His hand fell on her arm but she shrugged it off. She said sharply, “The car is in the side street here,” and walked out with long strides. He moved beside her, and while her heels clacked on the sidewalk, his were silent.

  “You’re pretty bold, Mrs. Lineyack. You walk out like you owned the neighborhood. You’ve got nerve.”

  “What could be more suspicious than skulking?” she asked.

  Sarah yanked open the door of the rented car. It was a black coupe, and it stood in a little lake of the day’s rain. Brill got in. A chrome flashlight case glinted in his hand, then spouted light at the floor boards. He was bending over nearly to the floor to read. Backglow from the light, shooting upward, gave to his face the angle of illumination that photographers call horror lighting.

  She watched him read. He was a mouth-reader, and his lips shaped each word. I, Sarah Lineyack, it began, am the physical mother of Jonnie Paul Lineyack. My maiden name was Sarah Beth Pash, and I was married to Paul Lineyack three years and eight-months ago, on Independence Day, in a little church within sight of Bunker Hill Monument. The Rev. Alvin Corbello officiated. The marriage is on record in Suffolk County. My husband was twenty-nine years old. Legally he did not need the consent of his parents, the Ivan Spellman Lineyacks. He did not have such consent, and I think it was the first move of Paul’s life that the old man had not dominated.

  The lawyer threw his head up, frowning, and said, “What is this, a novel you’re beginning?”

  Sarah gave back a cold silence plus the dislike she had for this small, sly man. He saw her mood; his large teeth glinted briefly, not in a smile, and he resumed reading.

  The death of my husband, the statement continued, is of record in a coroner’s inquest in the State of Maine, County of Hancock, City of Ellsworth, one year and eleven months ago. Brill seemed to stop reading again here, and Sarah watched him. She’d written other sentences before that one and her emotions had piled up behind the words until she had wanted to scream out. In the end she had compromised on this statement—it hinted at the bitter story, and if they wanted it, and the police probably would, they could get it in all its ugly legality. It was at this time that my son, Jonnie, was illegally and wrongfully and without my consent removed from my custody by the grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Ivan Spellman Lineyack.

  Certain lies were told me at the time by the Lineyacks and attorneys in their employ to the effect that custody of my son had been given legally to Lineyack. I have been advised by my attorney, Calvin Brandeis Brill, Suite 1040, Biscayne Center Building, Miami, Florida, that full search has shown that the Ivan Spellman Lineyacks have illegal custody of my son, and that in the true intent of the law I am entitled to have him.

  I love my son. The Lineyacks have refused, in the coldest way possible, to permit me to take Jonnie, or even to see my son. This is a wrong in the eyes of the law and of God.

  I am taking my son.

  (Signed) SARAH LINEYACK

  Brill folded the sheets and handed them back to Sarah. He took out a cigarette and matchlight yellowed his face. He puffed twice, then said through the smoke, “Not bad. Dramatic and flowery. Anyone will know a woman wrote it. But that’s all right.”

  Sarah creased the sheets and placed them in her dark purse. Impatience was at her now. She said, “I’ll leave these where they will be found, as you instructed.”

  “What if the old lady has a breakdown over this? If they come up with a doctor and he says her health is imperiled?… That’s something that may influence the judge.”

  “Why!… But that’s ridiculous!”

  “Uh-huh. But from what I hear, this kid is their god. That applies particularly to the grandmother—Alice Mildred is her name, isn’t it? Well, what if Alice Mildred goes to pieces?”

  Sarah said bitterly, “I want a mother’s share of Jonnie. They are his grandparents. They can have a grandparents’ share—I don’t believe I hate them that much.”

  “Hey now! Wait a minute, Mrs. Lineyack!” Brill had bolted upright. “You don’t want to make any statement like that to anybody. You may think you’re being human and generous. But to anybody else it’ll look like you’re not sure of your ground and are trying to compromise.”

  “But—”

  “We don’t compromise one inch, Mrs. Lineyack! If they thought you wanted to compromise, if they had the least inkling of it, they’d be all over you and shoot the works at you. This generous notion is a confession of weakness you can’t afford.”

  “But if Mother Lineyack—”

  Brill shook his head violently. “Let the old lady paddle her own canoe, lie in her own bed. No matter what happens, even if they claim she’s having the goddamnedest nervous breakdown any old woman ever had, you sit tight. You won’t let them even see the kid.”

  Sarah thought he was unduly upset about the point. “I can’t see myself being unnecessarily cruel,” she said.

  “You better get used to the idea,” Brill snapped. “If you bend one inch to them, you’re going to be a sorry woman.”

  Sarah nodded wearily.

  “Is this all?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Brill blew out his breath sharply. “The detectives, Maurice and Black, found out where the kid sleeps. The boy is put to bed at eight-thirty. You go in the side door by the swimming pool. That lands you in a sun parlor with a door on the left. You go through that, up the stairs, and the first door on your left again. The nursemaid is off tonight.” He hurled his cigarette away; its red coal spun into the night, was gone swiftly. He chuckled and stated, “She’s got a date with Detective Black.”

  “Oh!”

  “You still leaving town with the kid, Mrs. Lineyack?”

  “Yes.” Sarah hesitated. “Do you want to know where I’m going, Mr. Brill?”

  “No. I may have to tell plenty of people I don’t know from nothing where you are. It won’t hurt for it to be the truth.”

&nbs
p; Sarah opened the car door. She found it difficult to say, “Thank you for everything, Mr. Brill.”

  He seemed to have the same sourness, because he said curtly, “Don’t thank me. You’re paying for it.” And then, a moment later, he added, “You’re a purposeful woman, Mrs. Lineyack. I can see how your contempt would bother a man.”

  Sarah gave no answer, but walked rapidly away and turned into the estate at the witchlike cluster of palm and palmettos where she had met Brill. Traveling quietly now and purposefully, she found the pool, and then the door that Brill had told her of. She eased open the door and stepped into a sunroom where there was dark-plaid-and-bamboo furniture. In a moment the stairs going upward were under her feet. The stairs were not wide, so she knew there must be another staircase somewhere else. Nothing creaked under her footfalls, and it came to her that the house was as solidly built as old Lineyack’s life, but considerably more sanely proportioned.

  So far it had not been as hard as she had imagined it might be. Some anxious thoughts of the penalty for this, and the Lineyacks would certainly try to see the penalty was extreme, were with her, of course. But this fear was familiar. She’d had it before. It had driven nightmares through sleepless nights, and it was a familiar terror and she knew how to push it away before it ate her nerve away.

  In the upstairs hall it went wrong. She met a man.

  He was a round little man and he came striding along the hall with a hand up before his chest and a lighted cigar resting neatly between the V of two fingers.

  He was Mr. Arbogast… It was hard to accept this. But he was Arbogast, who had ordered Vameric. Mr. Arbogast here! Sarah was startled for a long time before she had the caution to turn her head, partially hiding her face.

  Swiftly, purposefully, Sarah walked on. It was all she could do. There was no direction to go but past Mr. Arbogast, and so she went on briskly by Arbogast. He, as rapidly, passed her and she continued walking. Now her whole body felt tight and she seemed on air. But Mr. Arbogast apparently had not given her enough notice for recognition.

  Sarah slowed her steps as the end of the hall came nearer. Here there was nothing but closed doors, no place to go. She was sacked. Arbogast’s footsteps had whispered for a moment behind her, then had seemed to suspend. She could feel Arbogast’s eyes were on her. She could even visualize what Mr. Arbogast’s eyes were like: they had black pupils and the eyeballs were quite large and nicotine brown from rich living. Faced finally by the end of the hall, Sarah wheeled about…. But Arbogast was not there. Arbogast had gone on. Arbogast had failed, miraculously, to recognize her.

  Sarah hurried back to the first door to the left of the small stairs. This was the one Brill had said would admit to her son’s nursery. She threw the door open and entered. It was a big room, pastel green in theme everywhere that she stepped. She closed the door softly, already hating the room—she did not like this shade of green, nor did she feel little boys should sleep alone in great spaces such as this.

  There was a bed. A little boy slept on it. My son won’t know me. And then she crossed slowly to the bed. There were green blankets and the linens were tinted green; the monotony of the pastel green was not broken anywhere.

  The little boy had browned-gold hair. He was not asleep, either. His eyes were open, but only a little, and he was playing that he slept.

  “Jonnie…” Sarah said gently. “Hello there, Jonnie.”

  At her words he closed his eyes slyly. He did not know her. He was still pretending to be asleep. He didn’t know her, and this suddenly was taking a great deal out of her.

  “Jonnie!” Sarah sat on the edge of the bed. “Jonnie… do you know who I am?”

  The child smiled a little and then he opened his eyes. He had smiled, so it was all right—it was wonderful, and her hands wanted to go out to her son, to touch him. But she must not alarm him.

  “Jonnie, I like you,” she said.

  The little boy’s smile played more widely. He pushed the bedclothes back and sat up. “I’m not sleepy,” he said.

  Her head lowered. After nearly two years, to hear his voice. Dear God, don’t let me break apart now. The wonder of hearing the boy’s voice and clearly formed words was a thing hard to control.

  “I’m… I’m not sleepy either, Jonnie.”

  “Are you the new nurse?” he asked.

  She took that barb and smiled, and told him, “I’m Sarah…. I like you, Jonnie. I’m not sleepy either, not a bit. Would you like to get up?”

  He squealed with delight. He shot erect on the bed like a chubby jumping jack. She was unprepared for the firecracker reactions of a small boy, and she was badly taken.

  “I wanta play!” he yelled.

  “Shush! Goodness!” she said, a finger to her lips. “We must be quiet, dear. Quiet like a mouse.”

  Jonnie giggled, and he brought a small finger to his lips as she had done. He teetered excitedly on the blankets.

  “Sh-h-h-h!” Jonnie said.

  Sarah nodded. “That’s it. Quiet like a mouse, just you and I. And I’ll play with you. But first, where are your clothes? We must put on your clothes.”

  The little boy jumped off the bed, ker-splatt! like a frog, and fell down, and got up and ran to a closet door which he began trying to open. His ideas of silence were astoundingly noisy.

  Sarah joined him. She opened the closet door, and there were his small things.

  Jonnie knew what he wanted. A cowboy suit. He jumped for it. It fell down from the hanger, and the little conchas on the chaps clattered slightly before Sarah caught them. She started to help Jonnie put them on. But he said, “No!” and pulled away.

  He wanted to dress himself, and so she let him do it. He did a fair job of it after going into the closet…. He already understands modesty, she thought.

  When Jonnie came to her, Sarah said, “Sh-h-h! Quiet like a mouse, remember.” And then she said, “Let’s go outdoors to play. I would like that.”

  Jonnie started to shout his pleasure, but caught himself. He giggled. This was a nice game.

  Sarah put one of her notes on the table. She put another on the floor at the door.

  She breathed, “Quiet. Let’s play we’re sneaking up on an Indian.” And she left the third note in the hall, the fourth in the sun parlor downstairs. She could hardly believe she was to get her son this simply…. He was such a nice little boy; the tears were troubling her eyes greatly.

  “Jonnie,” she whispered. “Jonnie, be very quiet, darling, and we’ll go outdoors. Sh-h-h. I don’t think the old Indian is around, but let’s go and see.”

  Presently they were outside in the night. Jonnie at first kicked at the dew-wet grass with his tiny cowboy boots. Then he stopped doing this and he drew close to her, and she sensed that his child fears were aroused by the darkness. She knelt at the little boy’s side. “Want me to be pony, Jonnie?” she said. “Ups-a-daisy with you, cowboy.”

  Her son was on her shoulder now. Her hands held his chubby warm legs. She carried him that way to the car and put him inside and got in with him.

  “Well go for a ride,” she told him. “Won’t that be fun, cowboy?”

  Jonnie laughed delightedly and crowded close to her. His round delicious face was near hers and his breath was a sweet warmth on her cheek. Suddenly she kissed him…. And then, in a moment, he kissed her back. It was a funny little thump of a kiss, like a puppy butting its head at her.

  Now her tears came; she could not keep them back, did not wish to do so. She bent her head and her arms went convulsively about her son, holding him close.

  Later Sarah drove through the still streets with the boy, drove in the silvered moonlight and in the shining pools of water. Jonnie wanted to steer. He sat on her lap, and she let him play at running the car. “You’re a good driver, honey,” she said.

  The boy wriggled closer to her and confided, “I like you, Sarah.”

  Now seemed like the time for doing a thing that she had to do. And so she said, “Jonnie… I am your
mother.”

  He lay very still against her for a while. He does not know what the word mother means. She drove silently, her heart bound with pain and taking fewer breaths than she needed.

  “Mother?” the little boy said unexpectedly.

  Much later, when she trusted herself to speak, she told him, “That’s right, big fellow. Mother. You can call me that. Or Sarah, if you wish. Whichever you like better.”

  She was verging on hysteria, she suddenly realized; she wanted that much for him to call her mother again. But he did not. He pounded the steering wheel excitedly with his small hands, yelping like a little Indian, wanting to go faster.

  Driving a trifle more swiftly to please him, she asked, “Would you like to go with me, Jonnie? Take a little trip?”

  “Could I?”

  “You bet. We’d have fun, fellow. We’ll do all the things you want to do.”

  “I’d like that,” he said joyfully.

  Later Sarah swung the car in to the curb before her apartment building. The boy was now asleep on her lap. The swift cycles of his two-and-a-half-year-old life were new and amazing to her. He leaped, he played, he wanted this, he wanted that, he slept—all as fast as leaves drop in the fall of the year. Of this and many things about her son she would have the joy of learning.

  Jonnie whimpered a bit when she lifted him from the car. He was still baby enough for that. She was glad. She did not want to be robbed entirely of his babyhood. This alone, she thought, is worth all the horror the old man gave me. She carried Jonnie into the building and rode upward in the elevator. It was a self-service elevator. There was no doorman on duty at the entrance of the apartment house at night. She had thought of that.

  Sarah bore her son proudly along the fourth-floor hall to her apartment door and worked the lock with her key. She entered and closed the door. She snapped on the lights. She took Jonnie into the bedroom and placed him on the bed carefully so as not to awaken him.