Sitter felt the ache in his eyelids, snapping them open when he realized Mr. Parrish had stopped talking and was waiting for his questions. That was all, then. He didn’t have to go into the house where the witches lived. All he had to do was look around and pick up the litter. Today he was going to be a litter collector. That would be easy. That would be all right. It wouldn’t take awfully long, and he wouldn’t miss much of the news. That’s okay, then.
He nodded.
Parrish rose, climbing through the shadows, and Sitter knew better than to rise with him. He sat obediently in his chair and stared intently at the blank television screen until, at last, he heard Mr. Parrish reach the front door.
“Oh. One thing, Mr. McMahon.”
Oh no, he thought, panicked and sweating; oh no please no please no please don’t make me go in there.
He turned his head slowly, blinking against the sudden flare of light that erupted behind Parrish when he opened the door. He was dark now, darker than he was before. When he spoke, Sitter wasn’t even sure his lips were moving.
“Are you listening, Mr. McMahon?”
“Yessir, I’m listening. I’m listening.”
“You are to say nothing to anyone—anyone!— about the tea party tomorrow. If they ask, you may say you know about it, but you are not going. That’s not a lie, Mr. McMahon. You can say that without angering me.”
“Yessir, I will. I mean, I will say that so you don’t get angry.”
“And Sitter.”
“Yessir?”
“Watch out for the witches.”
5
For the fifth time in as many minutes Liz looked up at the kitchen clock and brushed an impatient hand back through her hair, gathered it in a fist, and pulled it over her shoulder. She stroked it absently, then looked at what she was doing in faint disgust. A snap of her wrist sent the hair back to her spine.
Damn, she thought.
“Damn,” she said aloud.
Fifteen minutes; he absolutely promised me he would be here in fifteen minutes. She checked the clock again. Over an hour since they had spoken. She had tried calling his number three or four times, but no one had answered. He was gone, then, on his way, and after the third try she decided that someone had probably waylaid him and he hadn’t been able to extricate himself. The odds were it was Piper Cleary, angling for work and going on, and on, and insufferably on about the magnificent new strain of hounds his bitch was producing this year.
As if Doug really cared; as far as she knew he hated dogs, tolerated cats, was comfortable only with Maggie.
That, she believed, was a fair portion of his trouble—he was too damned polite, too considerate of other people’s feelings. A smile parted her lips, an eyebrow raised in affectionate tolerance. He was indeed an odd sort of man. She had seen him talk to a pair of dowdy, militant Jehovah’s Witnesses for over an hour because he didn’t have the heart to order them from his house, finally easing them out by purchasing a handful of their publications and promising he would think seriously about what they had said; she had watched him in the bar listening to Casey Lockhart spill out his woes both drunk and sober, without telling the young man to stop feeling so damned sorry for himself, get off his butt, and get himself to work.
She, on the other hand, had no patience with those who wasted what they had because what they wanted wasn’t handed to them on a silver platter. Which, she supposed, accounted for no small part of his attraction—she couldn’t understand why he was so kind when others returned that kindness with what she believed was imposition.
Sudden loud voices in the backyard startled her into half rising from the chair. Keith and his sister were arguing, and she was too upset to go to the door and tell them to either shut up and play nice, or take their silly battles elsewhere.
Easy, counselor, she admonished when she sat down again; easy, take it easy.
Her right hand drifted to her side, and she winced in anticipation. But there was nothing left there now but a faint scratch, one so miniscule she could barely see it even when she leaned in as close as she could. Yet she knew she had felt the blade sliding in.
Her fist truck the table.
She rose and walked to the counter, looked at the slices of white and rye bread, Swiss and American cheese, baked Virginia ham all artfully arranged on a wooden tray. The ham made her mouth water. Her stomach gurgled, reminding her that she hadn’t fixed herself breakfast. Yet another look at the time and she decided that Douglas Muir could go straight to hell; she wasn’t going to wait a second longer. And to think she believed him so considerate of others, when he hadn’t even bothered to call to tell her he’d be late.
A moment later, a thick sandwich in hand, she hovered at the back door, watching the children perched on the back fence. They were almost comically intent in whatever they were discussing, and she wondered if they were talking about what had happened last night.
She wouldn’t have been surprised.
After all, she had nearly taken Keith’s head off when he had appeared out of her bedroom, scaring them all half to death. His absence had so frightened her, she hadn’t bothered to find out until much later that he’d come home while Heather was still at Mary’s, and had gone into her bathroom to the shower since it had the massage attachment he loved so much. When he was done and Heather still wasn’t home, he’d fallen asleep on the floor, listening to her radio while he waited for his hair to dry.
It was perfectly reasonable; he had done it a hundred times before and it had evolved into a standing family joke.
Last night, however, the joke had lost it edge. Last night she had caught herself just in time to keep from slapping his head off his shoulders.
Then Clark had left with a “Have a drink to help you sleep, I’ll call you tomorrow,” and the kids were jabbering at her, about her, around her until she’d chased them off to bed.
For another hour she had sat on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap. Once in a while an icy tremor would make her whimper. Once in a while she would pull at her blouse to see if the blood was still there, dried, caking, drifting in tiny flakes to the carpet. She got up only once, to make herself a Scotch, no water, and had left it on the coffee table, untouched.
Fright does curious things to people, Clark had said at the front door. Lord knows you’ve seen it yourself a hundred times, when you’ve questioned witnesses, right? When she’d nodded reluctantly, he had patted her shoulder. Well, he explained, the same applies here. She had seen the fight at the tavern door, had been frightened when she spotted the knife in the guy’s hand, and when the jerk leapt off the steps in her direction she feared the worst, and it had happened. In her mind, it had happened. Then he had touched her bandaged head tenderly, kissed her forehead, and left her alone.
But she had sat there, on the sofa, and could not believe a single word he’d said.
She reached up now and probed the edges of the dressing, tense as she waited for pain to spark another headache, realizing only when the examination was done that her head was still resting quite safely on her shoulders.
Keith and Heather were still talking.
The air sifting through the screen door was April-cool and lulling.
She finished the sandwich without recalling its taste, poured a glass of soda, and stood at the table, facing the front of the house. Her fingers snapped at a revelation: Judy! Judy had called Doug about her brother, and he had detoured there to see what he could do. Of course he would. All Judy had to do was crook her little pinky and Doug would salivate like a dog faced with a kennel packed with prime, ripe bitches. Sure; he was comforting the barmaid sister of an addle-brained barfly while she was still here, slowly going insane.
“God, you’re a bitch,” she murmured at herself then.
She couldn’t help it. She learned how much she really cared for Doug when she’d called him for help instead of Clark, Clark who had not once contacted her today.
So much for the proposal.
So muc
h for her patience with Douglas Muir.
He was at Judy’s and she needed him here, and what are you going to do about it, stand here like a jackass and talk to yourself?
The handset was up and poised by her ear, her finger touching the first button, when the doorbell rang. It wasn’t Doug; he would have come around the back, climbed loudly up the steps to the redwood deck and called in through the screen door. When it sounded a second time, long and insistent, she stared down the hall and saw Olivia West waiting on the stoop.
“Hey, Ollie, hi,” she called. “Come on in.” She hung up the telephone and went to the counter. Doug could wait now, the sonofabitch. “I was just having lunch. Nothing gourmet, just a sandwich or two. You want something?” She turned around the tray in her hands to show what she was offering, and almost dropped it. Ollie was already at the table, a tie-dyed shirt hanging out of her jeans, and tears streaming down her face.
“Jesus, Ollie,” she said, hurrying to the woman’s side, “what happened? Are you all right? Is it Bud? You want me to call—”
Ollie shook her head vigorously and mumbled something she only partially heard.
“You’re what?” she said, kneeling on the floor beside her chair.
“I said I’m pregnant!” Ollie blurted, hiccoughed, and cried even harder.
Liz was on her feet instantly, dropping into the opposite chair and staring.
“Oh hell,” Ollie said. “Oh hell, hell, hell!”
She scrabbled in her pockets with both hands, and came up empty. A pleading look, and Liz gratefully left for the hall bathroom. She grabbed a tissue from the container on the toilet tank, grabbed another, then threw them both down and grabbed up the box. On the way back she took her time, to give Ollie a chance to get composed, and to give herself a chance to figure out what to say.
Judging from the woman’s distress, congratulations were obviously out of the question; both she and Bud had made it clear from the first day they had moved here that kids were not part of their immediate, if ever, future. Kids were things other people had, were nice for an afternoon as long as they didn’t tag along home at the end.
This then had all the ingredients for a major catastrophe, and the first thing she said while Ollie was blowing her nose was, “Does Bud know?”
Ollie shook her head. “Not yet. I haven’t . . . aw, shit, Liz, what the hell am I going to do?”
“Then this isn’t . . . it isn’t common knowledge?”
When Ollie told her no, that Liz was the first one she had said anything to, she checked the back yard and noted with relief that the kids were gone; no unauthorized ears picking up gossip. A short delay to get her thoughts together, and she returned to the counter, put on the kettle, and began fixing them both lunch. Ollie protested, and Liz told her she probably hadn’t eaten all day and as of right now there was a moratorium on talk about anything having to do with babies and men until they were finished. Don’t argue. Just sit there.
Ollie pouted but acquiesced, and they ate in silence. Liz was ashamed of the appetite that assailed her while Ollie just nibbled at the bread and sipped at the instant coffee. But only when the table was clear and the kettle simmering again did she take her seat, fold her hands in front of her, and nod. Once.
“From the beginning,” she said. “And whatever you don’t want to tell me, don’t. Okay? Sort of . . . sort of lawyer and client stuff.” And she smiled.
The smile she received in return was heartening, however tremulous it was, and she leaned back, brusqueness gone.
Ollie snatched up a tissue, just in case, and the muscles at the sides of her neck stood out in the effort to prevent the tears from interrupting. “I don’t know what to say.” Her face contorted in confusion and fear; she looked to the ceiling, and to the remains of her lunch. “I . . . I’m pregnant. At least I think I am.”
“You think? What do you mean? Haven’t you been to see a doctor?”
A quaking nod as the tissue crumbled in Ollie’s fist. “Well, okay, right? I am. I am. And I’ve been sick every morning since last Monday. You know, throwing up and everything. And I can’t look food in the lace anymore. I just want to be sick and die.”
“Believe me,” Liz told her lightly, “I remember that all too well. It’s one of those things those guys who write the books can’t really prepare you for.” She kept smiling gamely, though she couldn’t help thinking of what Bud would say when he found out, how his lamed ill temper would surely trigger an explosion. To keep Ollie from thinking the same, at least for now, she asked about her breasts (were they sensitive?), about cravings (fruit? juice? things loaded with sugar?), about anything else she could remember.
Ollie’s answers, given through half-swallowed dry sobs, were all affirmative.
“Then I guess you are, all right,” she declared, thinking that perhaps the younger woman for some odd reason needed further confirmation, this time from someone who had already been through it all.
“But,” she added when the woman’s eyes filled again, “you still haven’t told me what the dotor said. I mean—”
Ollie forced a harsh laugh, daubed at her puffed eyes, and took a deep, trembling breath. She was calmer, and the tension in the kitchen eased considerably, though Liz could not yet understand the reluctance to talk about her visit to the doctor. Then she snapped a finger.
“You’re frightened, aren’t you,” she said, and smiled at a sudden memory. “Scared the hell out of me, too, when I found out I was carrying Heather. Not of her being born deformed or anything, but scared for me. The deed was done, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure I believed in that instinctive motherhood stuff. I mean, I was going to be a mother, for god’s sake, and there wasn’t anyone in the world who could tell me what to do every step of the way. I tell you, I was ready to either throw Ron off a cliff for doing this to me, or slit my throat.” Then she grinned. “But that lasted only about ten minutes. After that, I was impossible to live with, I was so damned happy.”
A look, and she saw that she’d missed the point. There was still something about all this that Ollie would not, or could not yet, tell her.
And suddenly, she knew she had it.
“Who’s the father?” she asked quietly.
Ollie sniffed. “Liz, you have to believe me when I tell you that ever since I met Bud I have not slept with another man. Not one. Damnit, not a single damned one!”
She backed away from the vehemence of the denial, and was on the brink of believing her when she stopped in midthought. “Wait. What are you saying?”
“I told you you didn’t get it.”
Exasperation was beginning to wear her temper thin, but she would not lose it, nor would she lose her patience. Instead, she poured herself another cup of coffee, and sipped at it until she could speak without shouting.
“Ollie, listen to me. If you haven’t slept with anyone else, and I’m sure you haven’t if you say so, then the father has to be Bud, right? That’s the way it works. Logic—”
“Logic?” Ollie stood so quickly her chair tipped over and clattered against the wall. She strode to the back door, whirled, and stood in front of her, leaning over, red eyes glaring. “Don’t tell me about logic, Liz Egan. Don’t you dare give me all that lawyer shit about logic and evidence.”
“Now wait, Ollie—”
Her shoulders were grasped so hard she gasped. “Liz, I swear I have not slept with another man since I started living with Bud. I have been so damned old-fashioned and faithful it’s sickening. And this is not Bud’s child! It can’t be!”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because,” Ollie shouted into her face, “nobody gets this pregnant this freaking fast!”
Liz grabbed her hand for fear the woman was going to hit her, held it, and told her mutely she still didn’t understand.
“The doctor—”
“That frigging doctor out there doesn’t know a goddamned thing,” Ollie said wearily, all violence gone, only confusion remaining. She wiped a
hand slowly over her face, and down across her breasts where it settled on her stomach before jerking abruptly away. “Look,” she said, stopped, and shook her head. “Look, okay? Every six months Bud and I have complete checkups because, he says, we have to keep an eye out for cancer, right? Every six months we go to the hospital clinic and get the whole works. We get poked, needled, X-rayed, all of it. The last time we went, Liz, was three weeks ago.”
Liz waited, head tilted in question.
“Liz,” Ollie whispered, “three weeks ago I wasn’t pregnant.”
She wanted to laugh until Ollie pulled her other hand free, dug into her hip pocket and tossed a crumbled mass of papers on the table. “Forms. All the goddamn so-called scientific results of the last visit straight from the freaking computer’s mouth. Take a look. Go ahead. According to these I was not pregnant on July second.”
Liz refused the dare. Instead, she leaned back and waited.
“You don’t believe me?” Ollie said, and stood back. “No?” She pulled up her shirt. “Take a look. Take a good look.”
She did. The top button of the jeans was undone, the better to accommodate the slight swelling of her stomach. A small bulge but unmistakable—it was the gentle protrusion of a woman somewhere around five months pregnant.
My god, that’s impossible, she thought with a chill. She remembered seeing Ollie in shorts and a halter only last week and wishing her own stomach were as proudly and as solidly flat. And when Ollie jerked away, she realized she had spoken the thought aloud.
“See? See, I told you.”
“Well, there’s got to be an explanation,” she said lamely. “I mean, surely you must have had symptoms before this week.”
“Nope,” she said, and smoothed the shirt down over her waist. “Not a single damned one.” Then she began to tremble and grabbed for the nearest chair, sat heavily, and put her hands to her face. “Liz, this isn’t happening, you know. This just isn’t happening.”
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