Hanging up the phone, she sat down heavily in a kitchen chair and examined her hands. They were vibrating uncontrollably. She realized, after a moment, that her teeth were chattering. Maggie pushed herself up from the chair and bent down in front of a cabinet below the sink. There was a bottle of liquor hidden there. She recalled having seen it when she was cleaning. I need something for my nerves, she thought. She opened the cabinet door and looked in. The tall neck of the whiskey bottle caught her eye in the back. She reached in for it. As she did so, her hand grazed a white plastic bottle, nearly tipping it. For a second she hesitated, gazing at the blue and white label warning that it was disinfectant. She recalled the night she had poured herself a drink from just such a bottle, and the immediate, searing pain. Maggie frowned. She did not often let herself think of that night when she had tried to end her life.
Now, her hand traveled unconsciously to her throat. She massaged the area absently, her finger probing the spot where the tube had been which sustained her life. It was completely healed now; the only remaining sign was a tiny scar near the base of her throat. Tubes and bottles and bags of blood had restored her to a life which she had finally decided to live. In all the months and years that followed, it had been a struggle to keep going. She could not afford to slip back.
She thrust her fingers in, around the neck of the whiskey bottle, and pulled it out. Her eyes searched the room as she poured the whiskey unsteadily into a glass beer mug. She closed her eyes and cringed as she brought the mug to her lips. Trying to ignore the taste, she swallowed the liquor in greedy gulps. It felt hot, and numbing, going down.
Evy reached into the refrigerator and pulled out two cellophane-wrapped packages from the middle shelf.
“I might as well do this tonight,” she said.
Thin, transparent blood from the chicken parts wound through the creases and folds of the plastic wrapping where the package was sealed, leaking out over the girl’s fingers. She shook the packages over the sink and dropped them on the drainboard. “We’ll have chicken tomorrow,” she announced, then turned around to gauge the response. “You like chicken,” she said.
Harriet Robinson watched her granddaughter with eyes surrounded by deep circles, frightened eyes.
“Right?” Evy demanded.
The old woman blinked and continued to stare.
Evy peered at her for a moment and then seemed satisfied, even though there was no discernible reaction to her query. “I know what you like,” she said.
She picked up the first package on the drainboard, poking her finger into the plastic wrapping. After several pokes she managed to puncture it, her ragged fingernail sinking into the yellow folds of skin. She gathered up the edges of plastic and tore the wrapping off the chicken parts. The fowl’s watery blood ran across her palm.
“Ugh,” she grimaced. “I hate this. It’s so messy.” She picked up the various parts and examined them carefully before laying them on the counter. Then she turned her attention to the other package.
“I got a lot of chicken,” she observed. “Plenty of leftovers. Well, who knows,” she said, grasping the other package and turning to her grandmother. “Maybe we’ll have company!”
The old woman watched the girl intently.
Evy picked up a knife and used it to poke through the wrapping on the second package. “I know,” she sighed. “We never have company.”
A rasping sound came from the direction of the wheelchair. Evy wheeled around and eyed the old woman. “What’s the matter?” she demanded. Her grandmother did not appear to have budged. Satisfied, Evy returned to her chore.
“I honestly don’t see how you can expect me to take care of you and do everything else I have to do and have company too. I’m only one person,” she complained. Taking one half of a breast in each hand, Evy yanked at them. The bones cracked and the two halves separated. She placed the open breast on the cutting board and reached for a butcher knife. With one swift blow she whacked them apart.
“I know what’s bothering you,” she continued in a more sympathetic tone. “You know what happened to Jess.” She looked toward the old woman for confirmation. Harriet Robinson blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her eyes of a mote.
Evy removed one half of the breast from the cutting board, then searched in a drawer next to the sink until she produced a knife with a slender, pointed blade.
“I know,” she went on. “You liked him. ‘Hello Harriet. How are you feeling today?’ He was always so sweet to you. He was too sweet,” she muttered. “To everybody.” She held the knife poised over the fleshy breast. “Originally I didn’t intend for him to be involved,” she admitted defensively. She poked the tip of the knife into the ball of her forefinger. A tiny drop of blood squeezed out, but she did not notice it. “But that’s what happened.” She sank the knife into the fresh meat of the breast, close to the bone, and drew it along. Suddenly she stopped and looked up sharply at her grandmother, who watched her every move as if Evy were a stirring cobra. At the sudden movement of Evy’s head in her direction, the old woman started.
“Listen,” said Evy. “I have a bone to pick with you.” She laughed at her own joke, then instantly resumed her stern demeanor. “Not really a bone to pick,” she corrected herself. “But you do have to promise me something. If anybody asks you anything about… you know, downstairs, you’d better not tell.”
Evy peered down at the pocket of flesh she had created with the blade. Then she slipped the knife into it and began to worry it across. “We can’t let anyone find out. So if anyone asks you anything, where I was tonight, or anything, you just pretend you don’t know anything about it. As far as you’re concerned, I was here with you all the time. It’s important,” she said, eyeing the old woman seriously. “You have to promise.” She scrutinized her grandmother’s face to see if she understood and agreed. The old woman’s fearful gaze troubled her, and she shook her head.
“Don’t worry,” she assured her. “Nothing’s going to happen. No one will probably even ask you anything. There’s no way they will find out. Now I’ve got you worrying over nothing. Believe me, it’s almost over. Just a little while longer and we’ll be back to normal.”
She dropped the knife on the counter with a clatter and picked up the breast, slipping her finger impatiently between flesh and bone. “I know you wished it hadn’t of been Jess. I wished it too. But it had to be that way. It had to be. He brought it on himself. He should never have taken up with her. Anybody could tell just by looking at her what she is.” As she spoke her voice rose, and she jabbed her fingers into the chicken breast.
“He was sleeping with her. Just like my father did. You told me that yourself,” Evy cried out. She ripped the flesh away from the brittle bones. “Well, that’s what he gets!” The bones cracked between her fingers as she squeezed them.
With a strength summoned from every ragged nerve and limp fiber in her ruined body, Harriet Robinson lurched forward, out of her wheelchair. For a moment it seemed as if she would actually stand, her frail form arched briefly above the leather chair seat that usually imprisoned her. Then she dropped, with a crash, to the linoleum floor of the kitchen.
Evy spun around and stared at her grandmother, the slick, dripping chicken flesh in one hand, the broken bones crushed in her other palm.
The old woman lay huddled there, her cheek pressed to the cold linoleum, unable to look up at her granddaughter. Her senseless, flannel-draped limbs were splayed out with only her left arm bent crookedly beneath her. She gasped for breath with the nostril and corner of her mouth that were not squashed against the floor. Her eyes wide, she stared ahead at the legs of the kitchen table.
Slowly, Evy turned back to the counter and puzzled over the chicken, as if she could not remember what she had been doing. Then she recollected herself. She picked up another breast from the drainboard and began to wash it off under the faucet.
“That’s right,” she murmured. “You told me all about it. I remember everythin
g you said. He slept with her and then she killed him and got away with it. She was so jealous of Mommy and me, right? And all she got for it was a few years in prison. That’s all. Remember? These days, you can get away with murder, you said. Remember?”
The old woman’s body ached as she lay helpless on the floor. Her eyes darted around the room like mice trapped in a maze as her granddaughter’s voice droned smoothly on, reminding her of her own words. She heard the words dripping now from her granddaughter’s lips into her own ear, like venom from a serpent’s fang.
17
With each desultory movement of the sleeping woman slumped over the table, the empty bottle edged closer to the table’s rim. She groaned and flopped her head over, resting her cheek on her upper arm. The bottle teetered, then fell to the floor with a crash.
Maggie leaped up, shocked into consciousness by the noise. Confused, and with her heart pounding, she looked around and saw the broken bottle on the kitchen floor. She sank back into the chair, aware now of the painful cramp in her side and a throbbing headache above her right eyebrow. She lowered her aching head back onto her crooked arm.
She turned her head sideways on her arm and stared ahead. Outside the kitchen window the gray, brooding sky was streaked with the palest strands of weak, silvery light. Beside the sink was a glass beer mug still holding about half an inch of whiskey. Maggie’s stomach turned over as her eyes fell on the glass. Slowly, she sat up, pressing her fingers to her eyes. She turned around and looked at the luminous face of the clock hanging on the wall. It read 5:45. Maggie winced, then idly kicked at the fragments of glass on the floor.
Her throat was so dry that she found swallowing difficult. A vile taste lingered in her mouth. She looked at the phone. She had called Jess a few times while she was swilling down the liquor in the glass. There was no answer. The last thing she remembered was gulping down a mouthful of whiskey directly from the bottle.
“I should clean this up,” she muttered, looking down at the hunks of glass on the floor. She leaned over to start picking up the pieces, which seemed to be everywhere. The pointed corner of one large piece jutted up, like an iceberg, out of the milk that remained in Willy’s bowl. Maggie’s stomach rolled over, and nausea suddenly overcame her. She stood up unsteadily, her hand over her mouth, and ran for the bathroom. She reached the bathroom just in time as the whiskey surged up, geyserlike, from her revolting stomach.
The siege of vomiting left her feeling weak but more stable. She looked at her face in the bathroom mirror with a feeling of unreality. She looked tired and pale, but not much worse than usual. It surprised her that her face concealed so well the evidence of her night’s despair. Practice, she thought wryly.
She pulled the mirrored door of the cabinet toward her, and grasped, with a shaking hand, the bottle of aspirin. She shook out four tablets and swallowed them down with a gulp of water. Then she shut the chest and shuffled slowly toward her bedroom. For a moment she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes closed against the weak, gray light of the dawn. She considered returning to the kitchen, and calling Jess now, but decided that he would not want to be awakened, especially since he had been out late. Where? she wondered. Her pillow looked like a cloud to her. Gingerly she lowered her head and pulled a blanket up over her aching, still fully clothed body. The alarm clock on the table beside her bed was set for 7:00 A.M. but she decided not to pull out the alarm. There was no reason to get to the paper on time. She would just tell Jess she was leaving, and be on her way. You don’t have to be on time to quit, she thought.
It was nearly 11:30 when Maggie entered the Cove News offices on the cobbled streets of town. The irony of her actions struck her as she placed her suitcases in the hall, just as she had on that first day, two weeks ago. She strode deliberately past the room she shared with Grace and Evy and headed for the door to Jess’s office. As she passed by she heard Grace yelp, “Hey, wait one minute.”
Ignoring Grace’s injunction, she kept on walking until she was in front of Jess’s door at the end of the corridor. She began to knock sharply on the door as Grace appeared in the hall and insisted, “Just a minute there. I’m talking to you.”
Maggie turned her head and stared coldly at her. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, feeling a thrill of satisfaction at her own boldness. “I want to talk to Jess.”
“Well, Jess is not here,” Grace shot back. “And furthermore, I would like to know where he is.”
Maggie’s face sagged. She stared at Grace. “He’s not here?” she repeated.
Grace drew herself up indignantly. “Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t know that?”
Maggie shook her head, mystified.
“Well, don’t look so innocent. I naturally assumed, after what’s been going on between the two of you, that he was at your place. Or vice versa. I figured you would show up together, when and if you decided to show up,” said Grace pointedly.
“Why didn’t you call?” Maggie asked.
“I didn’t want to disturb the two of you,” Grace snapped.
“Jess wasn’t with me. I don’t know where he is. Do you mean he hasn’t even called?” Maggie asked.
“I notice you didn’t call.”
Maggie ignored the sarcasm. “Doesn’t he usually get in touch with you if he’s delayed?”
“Yes,” said Grace defensively. “But I told you. I was expecting you to come in together.”
“I understand that, Grace. But I haven’t seen Jess since about seven o’clock last night,” she said earnestly. “I tried to reach him myself, but he wasn’t there.”
“He wasn’t?” Grace’s indignation began to crumble into ill-concealed anxiety. The two women stared silently at one another. Finally, Grace spoke. “It’s not like Jess not to call. I’d better try his house.” She backed away from Maggie and then turned and hurried into her office.
“What’s going on?”
Maggie jumped, startled by the sound of a voice just behind her. She turned and saw Evy leaning against the wall, her head cocked quizzically to one side.
“It’s Jess,” Maggie mumbled. “He didn’t show up for work today.”
Evy smiled thinly. “Playing hookey.”
Maggie shook her head and stared straight ahead. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“How come?” Evy asked.
“He would have mentioned something. He wasn’t home last night either.”
Evy shrugged. “I’m sure he’s okay,” she said. “Jess can take care of himself.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“’Scuse me,” Evy mumbled, avoiding Maggie’s eyes as she brushed by her and headed down the hall. Watching her pale, guarded face, Maggie suddenly realized that she hadn’t seen the girl since the incident at the fair. A feeling of shame came over her as she recalled her outburst.
“Evy,” she said.
The girl stopped and looked back at her.
“I… I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Sunday. Are you okay?”
Evy touched her nostril reflexively. “I’m fine,” she said.
“I think I owe you another apology,” Maggie began.
“It’s all right,” said the girl. “You couldn’t help it.”
Maggie bristled slightly. “Well, that’s not really true. I was wrong to blame you for what happened. And for hurting you like that…”
“It was a mess,” said Evy, as if to dismiss the subject.
“Yeah,” Maggie murmured.
“He doesn’t answer,” Grace announced shrilly, coming out into the hall. Her concern was evident in her tone.
“Where could he be?” Evy asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Grace, “but I’m not going to stand around imagining a lot of farfetched possibilities.”
Evy sighed in agreement.
“For that matter, where’s Mr. Emmett? We still haven’t heard from him. What kind of a business trip is that when you never tell anyone whether you’re coming or going?”
Grace snorted. “I’m getting the police.”
“The police?” Maggie whispered.
“Unless you’ve got some good idea of where he’s gone to,” said Grace angrily.
Maggie looked at her helplessly. “I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t think.”
“Never mind,” Grace snapped. “I’m going to tell Jack Schmale. Evy, get in there and finish that work on your desk. We’ve got plenty to do.”
Evy aye-ayed her, then disappeared into the office door.
“You’d better come, too,” said Grace to Maggie. “He’ll probably want to know a few things from you.”
“You’re going to the police station?” Maggie asked weakly.
“Certainly,” Grace ejaculated.
I cannot go to the police station, she thought. I cannot. She began to feel dizzy at the prospect, and was seized with the sudden conviction that if she stepped over the threshold of the police station she would faint.
“Don’t you want to find him?” Grace asked accusingly.
“Of course,” Maggie cried.
“Well, come on then.”
“Grace, it’s just that I don’t feel too well. I’m afraid I might get sick,” she admitted. “Why don’t you call and ask him to come over here? It would save time.”
Grace peered at her. “What’s the matter with you? Have you been drinking?”
Maggie seized the excuse. “I did have a drink or two last night, for my… for a toothache. It upset my stomach. I may have a touch of the flu.”
“All right,” said Grace. “I’ll call him.”
Grace rushed past Maggie and went back into the office. She picked up the receiver and began to dial the number of the Heron’s Neck police station.
“All right, ladies,” Jack Schmale commenced, as soon as he arrived at the Cove News offices, “I would like you to tell me all the facts of this matter.”
The Unforgiven Page 19
