Driveways sprouted cars that needed washing and polishing, clotheslines sprouted limbless creatures that flapped and resisted the wind, and once a week from June through August a silver and red chartered bus pulled up in front of the Shade Tree and took a handful of generally middle-aged people off to Atlantic City for a day’s gambling, or into New York or Pennsylvania for a day’s shopping. The county sheriff stopped by or sent one of his men to see what crimes had been committed during the week, unless such crimes had already been reported, and already solved. Piper Cleary would don his deerstalker and call Doug Muir to see if there was work, then take his favorite blue tick coon hound and her pups and disappear into the woods for a little off-season hunting, and a little training for those animals he intended to sell one day. Sitter McMahon cleaned his lawn chair with a chamois, made sure he had enough beer hidden behind the hedge, and staked out his spot on the highway for a good day’s waving.
In the distance, if you stopped long enough to listen and most people did, you could hear tractors and tillers and shredders working on the farms; you could hear hawks and crows overhead, jays and sparrows and starlings in the trees, dogs barking lazily in the shade, engines being tested, an argument or two if someone’s windows were open; you could hear the foliage shifting, traffic on the highway like the faint buzzing of mosquitoes, lawn sprinklers hissing, a call to children for lunch and children answering and not going.
This Saturday in Deerford wasn’t anything like that.
The bus drew up to the Shade Tree already more than half filled, and a few people stood on the pavement and complained about the company’s lack of adequate preparation; Gil was the only one around who worked a hose on a vehicle; there were no birds, no dogs, no traffic on the highway; the sheriff had other business, and the deputy at the substation wasn’t about to ride all the way in just to find out nothing had happened; Judy was worried about what her brother might say to someone who found him; Bernie Hallman was wondering what all the fuss was about just because Casey had gone on another bender, and was insulted that folks thought the idiot had either the skill or the luck to cut him with that toy; and Piper Cleary couldn’t find that goddamned stupid Dumpling, who was due any day now and he didn’t want the pups dropped in the almighty woods.
On the grass behind Winterrest a large boulder rocked.
2
The old, single-story brick building on the west side of Deerford Road was small, nestled between the Shade Tree restaurant and a high picket fence that separated it from a blue and white salt box devoted to antique glass and lamps. Two plate glass windows flanked an indented doorway, and in an arc across each of the panes were the words Parrish Realty. Passersby had to slouch a little to see the name through the low branches of an elm that had buckled the edge of a slate walk, but except for the name the windows were blank, backed by Venetian blinds which were open during the day and closed after five. The door itself had a shade that was raised during business hours, but reflections from the street prevented the curious from seeing anything but ghost images of themselves.
Directly inside the door was a single room, fifteen by fifteen. Two small, walnut desks facing each other on either side of the threshold had atop them neatly centered, leather-trimmed blotters, a marble-based pen and pencil set, a vase with a single flower to fit the season, a black telephone, and a series of large black notebooks in which photographs and details of properties were given.
No one in Deerford remembered ever seeing anyone in either of the black swivel chairs behind either of these desks; and no one ever commented on the tawny film of dust they saw undisturbed there.
Past the desks was a low wooden barrier carved to resemble a ship’s railing. Past the railing was a third desk, similarly outfitted, though behind it were two tall filing cabinets and a water cooler. Between the cabinets was a door, and it was assumed that this led to a tiny apartment where Eban Parrish spent his time after hours. It had to be, since he did not own a house, did not rent rooms, did not as far as anyone was aware own an automobile for commuting from a neighboring town. That the door was never seen open, or that he never invited anyone in, didn’t surprise anyone.
Eban Parrish sold real estate. Other than that, he was left alone.
On this Saturday, in the office, the air was still, a pocket of autumn twilight trapped by the shade and blinds. It was cool, and it was quiet. Not a sound from the outside penetrated the windows.
And Eban Parrish sat in his chair, behind his desk.
Of medium height, he favored three-piece blue suits with faint black pinstripes, a carefully done dark tie, and a flat white shirt. French cuffs with silver cufflinks, each embedded with a chip of grey stone. In the breast pocket a dark red handkerchief perfectly folded, seldom touched, never used. Black, patent leather shoes that tie. Dark blue socks.
His hair was a gleaming black and sufficiently thin to allow glimpses of his scalp, sufficiently stiff to keep breezes from unsettling its sideways combing; no sideburns; no strands tickling his collar. His face may have been round in his youth, but was thinning now, his cheeks slightly puffed at the ridges, his nose just this side of being fleshy. Thin, barely visible lines slanted down and away from pale and disturbing grey eyes. His lower lip was pressed forever upward, giving the impression that the corners of his mouth were drawn forever down. His hands were thickly veined, his nails straight and clean, and an occasional liver spot appeared just below his knuckles.
He could have been a trim fifty, or a well-preserved seventy, but only the fog knew exactly how old he was.
The sun rose higher, just to the right of the Antique Bazaar, caught the gold cross on the steeple of the First Methodist Church, and flared into the street. The chrome on the ambulance brightened. The cornfields and pastures beyond the town lost their shadow-blankets, and what livestock there was began the day’s grazing.
The air in the office stirred warmly. Dust floated from the ceiling, danced, and settled.
A faint but perceptible shudder began at Parrish’s shoulders, drifted down his arms, his chest, to his legs and feet. His hooded eyes blinked once, slowly, and he pushed back his chair, rose effortlessly, smoothed his lapels, and touched a straightening finger to the knot of his tie.
Walking soundlessly to the door, he raised the shade with one hand, reached around to either side, and opened the Venetian blinds. Then he stood with his hands clasped behind his back and watched the street.
Though the Depot was closed, he could see to his right a shirtless Gil Clay in the empty parking lot, hosing down the ambulance, polishing the lights and siren cone, standing back every so often to admire his work, stroke his thin mustache thoughtfully, and scowl when he located an elusive, stubborn smudge. Judith Lockhart, her shirttails tied in a knot just below her breasts, called to him from her porch; he turned, motioned lazily toward the back of the tavern and shrugged. Her sigh was almost audible, so expressive was the disappointment on her face before she returned inside.
Directly opposite him, the door to the Antique Bazaar opened and Ollie West poked out her head, took a deep breath, and started choking. She looked inside, then leaned down to shove an iron doorstop into place. She rubbed her stomach and was gone, replaced a few minutes later by Bud Yardley, who carried two plastic garbage bags down to the curb. He called to GO, laughed, dumped the bags, and hurried back into the shop.
Farther up the street Bernie Hallman came out of the Mogas garage office, unlocked the pumps, and pushed up the two repair-bay doors. He turned when Gil shouted to him, waited as the bartender ran up the sidewalk and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him to the antique store. Bernie shook his head. Gil argued. Bernie lifted his shirt and pointed to his side, rolled up his sleeves and pointed again. Then he tapped a temple with one finger and broke Gil’s hold, said something shortly and went into his office and slammed the door. Gil stood there, shaking his head, started back and paused at the Bazaar’s walk, shook his head again, and kept on walking.
Parrish nodded
.
He waited to see if there would be any more tiny dramas, then returned to his desk and opened the center drawer. He did not sit. He looked in, cocked his head as if listening intently to someone whispering over his shoulder, and pulled out a ribbon-tied packet of small, square, ivory-tinted envelopes. He tapped the packet several times against one palm, then shuffled through it, reading the names so painstakingly hand-printed on each face, nodding to himself, once allowing himself a vague smile. Then he very carefully divided the packet in half, put each half in each inner jacket pocket, and sat in his chair.
The air continued to warm; the dust continued its dancing.
For the next hour he did not move, did not blink, did not once tap his black shoes against the bare oak flooring.
At precisely eleven he shuddered, from shoulders to feet, and flipped his desk calendar over to the present day. He touched briefly the dimpled space between his upper lip and his nose, and took a deep breath. His lips pursed, and he sigh-whistled tunelessly while he rose and turned to the door behind him. He took hold of the knob and pulled, pulled several times more before he was satisfied it was locked. Then he patted each side of his jacket to make sure the envelopes were still there. A glance at the telephone, and he pushed open the railing gate, walked to the door, and closed the Venetian blinds, pulled down the shade.
He stepped outside and blinked in the sunlight fragmented by the elm.
Parrish began delivering the envelopes at the last home on Deerford Road and worked his way forward.
He walked up to whatever served the house as mailbox and placed one envelope in each. The proper name, of course, the envelope’s flap folded in, not sealed, in case the recipient was in a hurry.
He spoke to no one; it wasn’t the time.
He did have occasion to nod politely to those he knew, to manage a paternal smile for an inquisitive child, to wait at the curb and lift a hand to a passing car or pickup, but he neither initiated nor encouraged anything remotely resembling conversation or prolonged greetings. The dogs didn’t bother him, and the cats kept their distance.
And when he was finished with Deerford Road and its sidestreets, he headed for the highway. He walked slowly, on the shoulder, and not a speck of dust lightening his suit; he walked without feeling the slightest bit tired. When he checked the sun and saw it was after noon, he quickened his pace, though the difference wasn’t noticeable to anyone’s eyes.
By two o’clock he was finished.
All the envelopes were delivered, and he was back in his office, the blinds and shade up, sitting at his desk and not moving a muscle.
Eban Parrish was patient. He would wait there all day.
Saturday had begun, and Winterrest was waking.
TWO
1
Olivia avoided Bud as best she could. She made breakfast in a hurry, and told him she had to take another shower before joining him downstairs to open the shop. He grumbled but said nothing beyond a grudging declaration that it seemed to him her brain was turning into some kind of mush.
When he stomped down the stairs, she ignored him.
As soon as she was sure he was gone, she went into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, leaned over the toilet, and threw up until there was nothing left in her stomach.
Then she stripped shakily, turned on the shower, and stepped into the stall, thinking as she did that she had to talk to someone. Maybe Liz wouldn’t be out with Clark today, not after last night. Maybe she’d be home, and maybe she could advise her.
It wasn’t until she’d wet her hair and reached for the soap that she looked down and saw her abdomen.
Her hand clamped over her mouth as the soap bar thudded to the stall’s tiled floor, and her scream was muffled by the water, by her palm, as she fell back against the wall.
She had grown.
Overnight, her stomach had grown twice as large.
2
Doug awoke in jarring stages, like an elevator too old and trying to find its level—smoothly at first, sliding out of a deep exhausted sleep that abruptly altered and thumped him into partial wakefulness. Minor aches penetrated the night’s fading haze—a stiffness deep in his legs, ringing his neck, yoking his shoulders until he stirred to ease it all. He groaned softly once and shifted in the chair; his head lolled, the elevator lurched again, and his eyelids began to flutter, admitting flashes of light he attempted to drive off with one hand; a series of small settlings, and by inches he became aware he was climbing out of sleep, by inches felt the discomfort in his limbs, by inches reluctantly grasped the chair’s armrests and hauled himself upright.
It was dawn.
He was looking into the charred mouth of the fireplace, frowning until he recognized it while sensation returned and he swallowed, coughed, and staggered to his feet. He didn’t want to think, refused to allow himself to remember anything at all. Instead, gripping the chair’s back with one hand, he passed a knuckle from eye to eye while his tongue tried to clear the fuzz from his teeth. He had to use the bathroom but when he looked up at the gallery, he wasn’t sure he could make it. A deep breath made him dizzy, and he lurched to the stairs. The bannister felt slippery and he pulled himself up with both hands, palmed open the bathroom door and fell in. He caught himself on the edge of the basin counter, opened his eyes as wide as he could and was amazed that the man there in the mirror had any resemblance to anything human.
The miracles of nature, he thought as he stripped, turned on the shower, and let it run hot.
The sound of water drumming on the porcelain made him think of spring rains that lasted all night.
The steam made him sleepy again.
And through the steam from the pebbled window over the tub he saw the first light of day, and paused with one foot on the tiled floor. The light was soft, almost bronze; and if he could slant the panes of that damned greenhouse, frame them in . . .
Maybe. Just maybe.
The owner’s original demand had been nearly impossible—give me a passive solar greenhouse on the south side of a weatherbeaten colonial, and make it look as if it belonged. Doug had had the commission for just over three weeks, and had done little on it save a preliminary sketch or two after checking out the cost range within which he was working, and taking a dozen photographs of the house itself, from as many angles as possible. He had been stalling because he didn’t think it would work; but now . . .
He showered quickly, and while he was drying off an image came of the Branchville house, the design almost fullblown, and he snapped eagerly at it, held it until he was sure he wouldn’t lose it, then threw on a tartan bathrobe and, still in his bare feet, hurried down to the living room. There he put on several cassettes at random, mostly episodes of Lorenzo Jones and Our Gal Sunday, background noise to keep his mind on track. Then out to the stable to feed Maggie and open the paddock, back into the study where he pulled out the stool, his materials, and stared at several sheets of blank paper until, just before eight, his right hand moved.
He smiled until his cheeks ached. It was the first time in a long time that he’d done anything remotely resembling difficult work. Designing houses these days wasn’t all that hard since most people could see only the uninspired styles prevalent in developments; anything else was out of their league. On the other hand, grafting solar technology onto the early nineteenth century was a challenge, and he loved it.
He felt today as he had years ago, when the wunderkind was in full swing and the ideas were flowing.
It was a small thing, of course, this slanted wood and glass structure, but a step ahead just the same. A major step because it had sparked the necessary impetus for the Branchville place, yet another commission to prove he was still able to put dreams on paper and translate them into something solid, something he could point to and mark as his own no matter who lived there.
He was frustrated that he couldn’t use one hand for each project; and was exhilarated that when he was finished he would not be ashamed of what he saw
on paper.
When the rush ended four hours later, the radio tapes long since over, he sagged on the stool, dropped the sketching pencil and applauded himself loudly. Magnificent it wasn’t; stunning, far from it; but it was good. It was pretty damned good. No ego involved; just appreciation for recognizably decent work, and it felt so damned fine he applauded himself again and shook his head at the giddiness that made him start to giggle.
Then he looked up over the top of the slanted board and saw Maggie kicking up her heels, denying her age, actually chasing a squirrel foolhardy enough to invade her paddock when she was feeling queenly.
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