The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror

by Charles L. Grant

  “Now what?” Liz said when they were back outside.

  “Ollie,” he said. “We can’t avoid it now.”

  The Bazaar was closed, and they exchanged worried glances before he knocked, as loudly as he dared. Liz shielded her eyes with a hand and peered inside, and after a long minute saw Ollie weaving her way through the furniture toward them.

  “She seems all right,” she said, and stepped back as the door opened.

  Ollie was dressed in white, all white, from the satin ribbon wound through her single braid to the leather sandals on her feet. Her eyes weren’t puffed or red, nor was there despair in her expression. She greeted them lovingly and asked them inside.

  “Can’t Ollie,” Doug said before Liz could accept. “We’re on a hunting expedition.” A jerk of this thumb over his shoulder. “Have you see Parrish today?”

  “Nope. Guess he’s making the salad, huh?” She laughed.

  “I take it, then, you’re going?”

  “Oh sure! Why not?”

  Liz looked pointedly around her and into the shop. “Is Bud coming too?”

  “I don’t know,” she said stiffly. “He’s locked himself in that stupidass Retirement Room and won’t come out. I tried half the night, but he doesn’t even answer me. Charles Yardley, for all I care, can eat shit for dinner.”

  Doug kept silent; he was suspicious of her bright eyes and her too-perfect smile.

  But he couldn’t deny that she was stunningly beautiful, her cheeks shining, her lips moist, her arms when revealed alabaster and unblemished.

  Her white muslin top was voluminous, with wide sleeves beautifully embroidered in floral reds and golds; around her neck was a fine gold chain, which dangled hanging between her breasts a small brass sunburst medallion. She fingered it absently, and gave them both another smile.

  “I want you to know I’ve decided you’re right, Liz. What’s happened to me isn’t normal, but it isn’t all that unusual, either. It took me a while, but I’ve pretty much put my head on where it belongs, and I’m not going to baby Bud. Either he believes me or he doesn’t. And if he chooses not to, I’ll put his ass in the street.” The smile broadened. “See you this afternoon, okay?”

  And she shut the door in their faces, gently but firmly.

  “Well,” said Liz as they walked back to the Jeep. “Well, feature that, will you.”

  “What do you think?”

  “You’re kidding!” She examined his face closely. “No, you’re not kidding. Jesus, she’s miserable, can’t you see that? She’s probably depleted half their stash. If her eyes were any bigger, they’d pop out of her head.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “No kidding.”

  She groaned and shoved him into the driver’s seat. Then she reached out and held his arm. “Doug, you’ll be careful?” She took a deep breath. “Take care, please. You . . . well, hell, you mean a lot to me.”

  He didn’t think about it. He kissed her hard, long, and held her close while he took her back to the house. Then he kissed her again and watched as she walked inside without looking back.

  He drove past Hollow Lane and stopped on the shoulder, at the Winterrest gate.

  There were no cars in the drive, no tables on the lawn, no sign at all there was a party that afternoon.

  He slid out and walked through the grass to the wall, looked down, and punched the stone. He kicked it. He shoved it. He leaned his full weight on it.

  Nothing happened.

  Then he looked at the house and whispered, “Who are you?”

  TWO

  1

  4:00

  There was no blue left to color the sky.

  The sun was gone, interred as it westered without leaving a shadow.

  The overcast had become less of a haze, more of a cloud that was shading to pale grey, spotted with black, smooth and lowering and defining a new horizon. The hills were smoked with drifting fog, the air was autumnal, and the grass almost brittle.

  There was only a light breeze, infrequent and tepid.

  The crows that had perched on the sagging telephone lines lifted one by one, silently circling, forming an ebony flock that wheeled south over the highway. They made no calls; there was only the muffled flutter of their large black wings.

  2

  A gold and green canvas canopy was centered directly in front of Winterrest’s back door, and beneath the second-story window. It was easily twenty feet on a side, its corners held eight feet above the ground by smooth, arm-thick posts wrapped in gold and. green streamers; its edges were scalloped and fringed in pale yellow, its center hoisted to a circus tent peak. At the tops of the poles, and hanging from single linked chains from the inside supports, were brass and teak carriage lamps already lighted, kerosene flames filtered through the amber glass. Beneath the vaulted center were three fifteen-foot buffet tables covered in white linen—two were laden with china plates of hot and cold meats, breads of all descriptions, cheeses, candied and glazed vegetables, and four huge crystal bowls filled with salad greens. The third table held coffee urns, punch bowls, teapots, the plates, glasses, and silverware needed by the guests.

  Beyond the tent, arranged haphazardly, were white wrought iron tables open to the sky. The chairs were white as well, filigree and standing slightly unevenly on the uneven ground.

  The guests had treated their invitations in an almost formal manner; the women were all in airy summer dresses, many in white gloves and hats, not a single one wearing a pants suit or anything provocative or remotely revealing; the men, though none wore a hat, wore their Sunday best suits of pale colors to white, sharkskin to polyester; more than a few surreptitiously polished their shoes on the backs of their trouser legs.

  Their milling and strolling covered the lawn, but the mansion itself seemed oddly deserted, almost aloof from the activities building in its backyard. Its six upper-story windows were blinded by drawn curtains of undetermined color, the four lower ones reflected fragments of the assembly, and the colors of the open-sided tent in darkly muted shades.

  Doug stood off to one side, dressed in a green corduroy jacket and sharp-creased tan slacks, glass in hand, eyes narrowed in a thoughtful squint.

  He had been among the last to arrive, though he had arrived on time; the gate had been wired open, the front lawn dotted with automobiles, bicycles, and a few newly washed pickups. A delicately hand-lettered sign on the locked front door directed him to the back. Once there, he took several moments to reluctantly admire the studied courtliness of the arrangements and the lavishness of the food. Filling his glass, then, with what tasted like rum punch, he drifted off to the left, away from the hundred or so others who were eating, drinking, and trying to find something else to do.

  He was angry.

  From the moment he had seen to Maggie and had left the house, he had felt the manipulation, the intimidation, but by the time he had emptied his glass and refilled it halfway, he knew that most of it was directed at himself.

  He had wanted Liz with him, to support him, and she wasn’t here. Her fearful unease had made her protective of her family, and his own doubts had prevented him from seeing it.

  Now he was alone, ashamed he had not been more sensitive, simmering because he was unsure what he should do next. As for his nerves, the house itself was doing a perfect job of setting them on edge.

  From the front, Winterrest seemed perfectly innocuous. It was a large stone house, nothing more and nothing less. But here, in back with the others, he felt something else, an undercurrent that linked the guests in a way he did not understand, in a way that let him out.

  And even as he watched, that link grew stronger.

  The party, though somewhat subdued at the start, seemed now to be a success. Stage-whispered gossip flowed, greetings were pleasant and enthusiastic, and suddenly he was caught up in passing conversations that courtesy dragged him into, and polite smiles pulled him out of. Wilbur and Nell Cleary, who had evidently catered the affair, spent most of their time
bustling in and out of the house to replenish the plates and urns; Gil Clay, in a pink polo shirt and blinding white slacks, hovered around the last table, sipping at the punch and smacking his lips for all the world like a baffled wine taster; Wanda Hallman, unashamedly obese and bleached a platinum bouffant blond, stalked around the fringes, cornering everyone she could to ask if they had seen or had word of her ne’er-do-well husband. Farmers’ families tended to stick together; those who lived in town split up almost as soon as they arrived.

  Only Piper Cleary and Sitter McMahon were conspicuous by their absence.

  Go home, Doug, he thought then; go straight back to the wall, climb over, and go home.

  It was a thought so tempting his hand began to tremble, but it was also one he could not obey. He had knowingly opened the door behind which something lurked, not because he was stupid (though he might be, at that), but because if he didn’t, he would have to start running. And once started, there was, as he’d told Liz, no guarantee he would ever be able to stop.

  Or that he would ever be able to get away.

  He heard a familiar voice then, high-pitched and laughing. For a moment he couldn’t place it and turned sharply to his right, to the lawn that spread westward. Punch slopped over his hand, and a chill that had nothing to do with the clouds overhead stalked his spine, touched the edges of his lungs.

  It was Keith, and the Mohawk Gang, and Heather was with them.

  The glass almost fell from his hand. He looked back to the crowd, blinking his confusion, not seeing Liz until she was almost upon him.

  She wore a plain, pastel green blouse opened two buttons down, and snug designer jeans that flattered her hips, and were unceremoniously tucked into the tops of new, pointed tan boots. Her hair was ribbon-tied in a loose ponytail, accentuating the high forehead, and the eyes that were at once enraged and dark with fear.

  She stopped at his side and stared across the grass at the children. Her lower lip was pulled between her teeth, and her chin thrust out when she tried to swallow. When he touched her wrist, the skin was cold.

  “What happened?” he said quietly.

  The children swerved and swirled like a school of bright fish, and others swept quickly around to join them, yelling, laughing, arms high and swinging. Goaded by the Mohawk Gang and anxious to escape the stringent bounds of party etiquette, they started a ragtag game of touch football, their shouts and groans, cheers and escaped curses considerably louder than the adults’ conversation.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she said.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “And you,” she said bitterly, “are still going to play Gary Cooper, right?”

  “I thought you understood.”

  “I do,” she replied with a sad shake of her head. “God, I do now. When I got inside, I didn’t see the damned note.”

  Doug frowned.

  “On the kitchen counter,” she told him as if he should have known. “They’re supposed to put their messages on the fridge with the ladybug. It was on the counter and I didn’t see it until fifteen minutes ago.” From her jeans pocket she pulled out a wrinkled sheet of yellow, lined notepaper. He took it and, after a glance to the children, read it.

  Mom, I really like parties. Heather does too. Summer is very boring. We’re going to have fun. Please come.

  It almost sounded like a command.

  After he’d read it a second time, she took it back and jammed it into her pocket. She started forward, her mouth open to call Keith and Heather. He took her arm gently. She hesitated, started to pull away, then walked with him reluctantly, her head turned to watch her son who, when he caught her eye, waved and grinned and punched his sister’s side.

  “I’ll strangle him,” she said.

  “Is it that bad?”

  Her expression began as disgust, then wavered into the unease he had seen earlier, on the porch. “He’s not the same.”

  He almost stopped. “Huh? What are you talking about, Liz?”

  She looked back again. “He’s . . . I don’t know. Not literally different, I don’t mean that. But he’s like Ollie. That wasn’t really her we saw this morning, you know that, don’t you. She wasn’t the overgrown flower child who’s supposed to marry Bud Yardley. That was an Ollie I’ve never seen in my life. Keith, he’s . . . he’s never done anything like this before. He’s never deliberately disobeyed me, and then flaunted it. Never. Ever since the other night I don’t know him anymore.”

  Her hand became a fist, and he took hold of the wrist until the fingers relaxed. “Liz—”

  “I want to get them out of here, Doug. I want to get them home. And you,” she added without pause. “You can’t stay here either. I’ll bet you don’t even have a gun or anything.”

  He could feel the tension in her arm, could see her eyes widen and dart from side to side, like Maggie when she saw lightning and didn’t understand, knowing only the fear.

  He lit a cigarette and smiled politely at those who saw them and waved, nodding at those who nodded to him. A stout man in a charcoal grey three-piece suit was orating by the house’s far corner, his audience mostly men who jeered and slapped their thighs. Gil was still puzzled by the punch. An impromptu barbershop quartet began singing east of the tent and drew most of the crowd there. The others sat, or wandered, but no one entered the house.

  “Douglas, help me.”

  He was about to turn, to agree, when Olivia came around the corner from the front, spotted them, and waved gaily as she headed without pause for the tent and the buffet. She was still dressed in white, the breeze filling her blouse now, catching the sleeves and pulling them back along her arms. Her hair was un-braided, tangling itself, weaving, flowing like a sable banner that made half the men stop to stare.

  “It isn’t polite to drool in public,” Liz said dryly.

  He grinned and poked her side, relieved she seemed not about to lose control, at least not yet. She poked him back and shook her head. “Douglas, for god’s sake, don’t you feel it?”

  He did, and was relieved it wasn’t his imagination. Now if he only knew exactly what it was, he might be able to do something about it.

  “Doug, let’s go home.”

  His answer was delayed when Judith appeared in the doorway.

  She wore a loose-fitting peasant blouse that exposed a generous portion of her lightly freckled chest, and a dark blue skirt stiffly pleated and girdled by a wide-ribbon gold sash. A dark green ribbon wound through her black curls like a laurel wreath; her feet were bare.

  He waited; she didn’t look.

  “Doug,” Liz said, “let’s go home, please? Let’s forget all this and get the kids and go home.”

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said instead, extending a hand. “Don’t worry about the kids. They’ll be all right for the moment. Come on.”

  She took the hand without arguing, and they strolled away from the party, away from the house toward the back of the estate. The flat of the lawn ended fifty yards along, where it began lifting into low swells separated by troughs running with twilight, swells that eventually merged with the slope of the hill behind and the hollow where Douglas lived and Maggie waited. They stopped at the first rise, and he pulled her down gently to sit beside him. He raised his knees and wrapped his arms around them; Liz stretched her legs out and leaned back on her palms.

  “View from the top,” he said, though they weren’t that much higher than the lawn they faced.

  She didn’t smile. She only said, “Well?”

  When he didn’t respond immediately, she reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes; when she had one, he lit it without moving his gaze from Judy in the doorway. She appeared to have recovered from the night before, he thought; yet she still made no attempt to establish eye contact with him even when she looked in his direction. She appeared not to be in the slightest bit of trouble. It wasn’t an act. She was perfectly normal, just looking for someone else, and all others had been blocked out
until she located who she wanted.

  The Mohawk Gang, led by Keith and a red-faced Heather, sprinted toward the open-sided tent, only pausing long enough to wave at them and pantomime a starving man eating before running on again.

  “I swear to God I’ll kill the little bugger,” Liz said, almost rising. “If his father were alive—” She cut herself off, and lowered her head.

  He ran a gentle hand along the plane of her back, and decided that she was right and he was wrong. Whatever was here, whatever had brought them here, wasn’t worth the pain; it certainly wasn’t worth the pain he heard in her voice. And startled by the value he had suddenly given her feelings, he almost laughed with delight. He was about to grab her shoulders, turn her around and tell her, “I love you,” when she said, sharply and without warming, “Look!” and pointed down at the party.

  When he did he saw nothing out of place. The singing was still in full flourish though not always on key, the buffet was still under attack, and the white lawn tables were filled now with animated conversation. Staring, he searched for a face, saw neither Clark nor Bud—but Ollie was in the midst of a group of young men, laughing and tossing her hair as she let out all the flirting stops.

  “Try harder,” she said.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Try!”

  “But Liz, I don’t even know what—” And he saw it.

  It was in the movement of the guests.

  Before, they had been stilted, almost timid, their voices low and respectful in the shadow of the all too familiar house; now they were shifting about in abrupt, oddly static stop-and-go patterns, rarely remaining at ease in one place for more than a few seconds at a time. Conversations were interrupted or broken off in mid-sentence, plates and glasses were returned to the tables half-empty, hardly touched. The voices carrying in the still, warm air were tinnier, louder, the laughter more explosive, more raucous, and once in a while couples and singles would hurry through the back door, and return a minute later with strained smiles on their faces and their eyes averted. A word or two, and they headed for their cars.