Treasure Box

by Orson Scott Card

  "Don't be mad," she said. "Please don't be mad."

  The expression on her face was so genuinely sad, so full of longing, that he felt himself melting with compassion in spite of himself. But no, no, he refused to be taken in.

  "Get out," he said.

  She was wearing a nightgown. She plucked at the hem. "Tin, please, I..."

  "Don't call me that. You sucked that out of my mind. Or Lizzy's—that name doesn't belong to you!"

  "No, it's your name."

  "It's my name when it's spoken by somebody who loves me. Not somebody who's trying to use me to open some... box." He got up and walked clumsily around the bed, out of the bedroom, into the kitchen. He got orange juice out of the fridge and poured a glass.

  She stood in the kitchen doorway. "Enough for me?"

  "No," he said. "You don't need it. And that's something I want to know. Since you're not really here, what did you do with everything you ate and drank? Where does it go?"

  Her face went cold and she walked back to the living room. "I see," she said. "Your note meant nothing."

  He followed her, the glass of juice in his hand. "So your real name is Duncan?"

  She whirled on him. "My real name is Madeleine Cryer Fears. Your wife. There's a license."

  "And how did you sign it? How did your name get on it? You can't really hold a pen."

  "I can hold a pen. I can hold a glass. I can hold you. Remember how it felt?" She reached for him. Her hand, reaching to brush against his cheek, to cup his jaw and draw him close...

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her even closer, then poured orange juice over her head. It dribbled down her hair, over her forehead. She covered her face with her hands and wept. "All I want is to love you, Quentin!"

  He stood there, looking at the juice, how real it looked. How it dripped from her hair onto her shoulders, some of it down onto the carpet.

  "No," he said. "You're not there, and when I poured out that juice it went straight down to the carpet. It didn't go into your hair because you... aren't... real."

  She took the glass and threw it against the wall. It shattered and fell. "Think the neighbors heard that?" she asked.

  The shards of glass sparkled in the light from the kitchen.

  She was crying. He was crying. "Madeleine," he said. "I'm so sorry, I'm—you wouldn't believe—these past few days without you—"

  She held him. Her body fit perfectly against his, as it always had. "You think it was easy for me? I shouldn't have run out of there, but Grandmother—she hates me so much. I should have remembered, my love for you, it's stronger than anything, stronger than her hate, stronger than... Oh, Quentin, don't ever be angry with me again, please, it scares me, it hurts me..."

  And as she spoke, he looked at the glittering bits of broken glass and remembered the shimmer of the perfect goblets on the table in the library. And then how bare and dirty the table looked, under its dustcover. The look of the water flowing out of the tap into the clean sink in the bathroom, and then the dirty dry sink with taps that didn't work.

  "Tin, please let me call you that, please, let me come back and be your wife the way I should be. The way we promised before God that we would."

  "You didn't want any cameras at our wedding, Mad," he said. "Why was that?"

  She was toying with his hair. "I wanted to imagine that I was the perfect bride, beautiful as snow in sunlight." Her words were simple, and her voice was like low music. Her hand touched his skin, the same touch that had wakened him a few minutes ago and it was awakening him again. "I didn't want to see pictures that might contradict my dream. Do you believe all those Kodak ads? That nothing is real unless you have a picture of it to prove it to yourself? Maybe I should be giving you a Hallmark card right now, or calling you on AT&T so we can have a really touching moment."

  He laughed. It was Madeleine, it was the woman he loved. The sound of her voice, the feel of her hair under his fingers.

  Her hair.

  And now suddenly her hair was sticky with orange juice. But a moment ago it hadn't been. His hand froze in place.

  She looked into his eyes. "What?" she said. "What?"

  He turned his face away. He thought of Lizzy. He thought of the false image of her, walking up to the townhouse that was rented to nobody.

  He pushed her away and walked to the wall where the glass had fallen. He bent down and picked up a shard of glass and drew it along the wall. A scratch appeared in the wallpaper. Suddenly, without planning it, without knowing he was going to do it until he did, he jabbed the glass into the skin of his abdomen. Jabbed twice, three times. Only then did the pain come. He doubled over, it was so bad. Fell to one knee. But he knew it was a lie. He looked down at his belly. Blood was coming out, but there wasn't enough of it.

  And then, suddenly, there was more. Too much. He hadn't hit an artery. There wasn't anything there that could bleed so much. In fact, he knew that there was no wound there to bleed. Nothing. No reason for pain. There wasn't even a piece of glass in his hand.

  He still held the shard in his fingers.

  Hadn't Lizzy told him he was stronger than most people? Why couldn't he fight off these illusions of hers?

  On one knee, he sliced through the skin of the other. Sliced deeper and deeper. The glass cut deep. But all he could think of, all he let himself think of, was dissecting a frog in science class. The musculature of the leg when he peeled back the formaldehyde-soaked skin. And for the moment he thought of that, his leg was also a frog's leg. He peeled the skin off just as he had the frog's leg.

  "No!" cried Madeleine.

  There was no wound in his leg at all. No shard of glass in his hand. No stab wound in his belly. The orange juice glass lay on the floor where he must have dropped it when Madeleine made him think she had taken it out of his hand.

  On all fours, he moved to the spot where she had been standing when he poured the orange juice over her head. There it was, a single puddle, spattered, but only one stream of juice had fallen, uninterrupted by a human body. He had recovered reality.

  Which meant that he had lost her again.

  "Madeleine," he whispered.

  From the couch, her voice sounded cold and angry. "I'm still here."

  He recoiled, fell back onto the carpet, looked at her. She was on the couch primping her hair, looking into a small vanity mirror. "So your dead sister told you that you were strong," said Madeleine. "Bully for you."

  "Who are you really?" he said. "Just be honest with me, can't you? Who are you and why did you pick me?"

  "I'm Madeleine Cryer Fears," she said. "I'm your wife."

  "You don't exist and you never did."

  "Oh? Then who have you been making love to in beds all over America?"

  "A lie," he said. "I've been loving a lie."

  "Wrong answer, Quentin," she said. "I am the truth. I am the deepest truth in the most secret places in your heart. I am all your dreams come true."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "What every wife wants. Someone to love. Someone who'll love me. Trust. Faith. A future. Your babies."

  "Shut up!"

  "Do I take it this means you've changed your mind about children? Men are like that, so changeable. But I can wait. I won't trick you—no babies till you're ready to be a daddy."

  "You never let up, do you?"

  She leaned forward until she was spread like a lizard on the couch, leaning over the arm so they were nearly face to face. "Let me tell you a secret, my darling," she whispered. "I'm as real as any wife. What do you think marriage is? It's all pretense. Your mother pretending that your father's temper doesn't scare her. Your father pretending that he doesn't hate it when she gets him all riled up about something and then suddenly can't understand why he's upset. Pretending to be happy with each other when they're both so desperately lonely because along about week three of their marriage they realized that they didn't really know each other and they never would, they'd be strangers together for the rest of the
ir lives. But they couldn't live with that, nobody can, I've seen thousands of marriages and they can't face it that they're paired up with a stranger and so the decent ones, the ones who want to be good, they pretend to be whatever they think their partner wants them to be, and then they pretend that they believe in their partner's pretense. The only difference between them and me is that I'm so good at it. When I pretend to be exactly the wife you really want, I am that wife. I am. It is my whole existence. And when I pretend to love you exactly as you are, I do. I'm totally focused on you, I'm witty when you want witty, sexy when you want sexy, weepy when you want sentimental, beautiful when you want to show me off. I am your true wife."

  "You don't know anything," said Quentin.

  "I know you."

  "You know how to get power over me. And it worked, yeah, you had me dancing. Eating out of your hand. Give the boy exactly what he dreams of and he'll sit up and beg."

  "I'm the one who's begging now," she said.

  "You're the one who doesn't leave footprints in the snow," he said. "You're the one that orange juice pours right through."

  "You think you don't believe in me."

  "I don't."

  "Then why am I still here?"

  "You're not," he said.

  He got to his feet. At first, for just a moment, he limped on the leg he had carved with the shard of glass. Except he hadn't cut it, there was no injury; he forced himself to walk without a limp.

  "Even when you aren't looking at me, I'm here," she said.

  She followed him as he walked through the doorway to his bedroom. He slammed it and it passed right through her. She stood there on the inside of the slammed door.

  "I don't like it when you do that," she said.

  "Slam doors?"

  "I think that on the whole I've been pretty decent about this."

  "You!" He climbed back under his sheets. "You're an indecency."

  "I didn't have to come to you with love, you know."

  He looked away from her, leaned over and switched off the light. Now only the faint light slanting in through the mostly-closed blinds illuminated the room.

  "I can find other things in your mind," she said.

  Suddenly he threw the bedclothes off him. A half-dozen huge shiny spiders were skittering rapidly along the sheet, over his legs. He flung himself off the bed onto the floor.

  "I know those spiders aren't real," he said, panting.

  A man's voice answered him, a bleak-sounding whisper. "What is reality?" And then a vast hand clamped him around the throat and picked him up and flung him back onto the bed. As he sprawled on his back, the huge, white, slimy figure with a pus-filled wound for a face raised its other hand and smashed it down into his groin. Quentin screamed in agony until the monster squeezed his throat shut.

  This isn't happening, he told himself. The trouble was believing it.

  If I believe it, he thought, she can kill me with my own fear. I have to stop fighting it because it isn't there. Like the broken glass wasn't there. Like the wounds in my leg. My throat is shut by my own panic, not by any hand because there is no hand.

  Breathe slowly, let the air out a little, then bring in a little. There's nothing in the room with me. I'm alone here on my bed.

  He opened his eyes. The monster was gone.

  But Madeleine was lying on him, her head on his chest, her waist between his legs, her hair spilling onto the bedsheet. Her body felt warm. He could feel her heartbeat. And despite himself, he was filled with longing. He raised his hand to caress her. But he stopped himself. It would not happen. He brought his hands up and tucked them behind his head, fingers interlocking. Just like the monster, this image, too, would go away.

  "Aren't you the strong one," she whispered. "Aren't you brave, to insist on reality. You never could face your own dreams."

  She rose from his belly. But not as a normal woman might, raising herself up on her arms. Rather she rose like a marionette, pulled by strings. And yes, she was a marionette, with Madeleine's face, her naked body, but the joints were mechanical and her jaw moved on a string.

  "Please. Someday, if I'm really good, can't I be a real girl?"

  And then she was gone.

  He lay there, panting, exhausted physically and emotionally.

  "Oh, Lizzy, I did it," he whispered.

  He rolled to one side, then onto his stomach, one leg drawn up, his fist doubled under his chin, the way he always slept, the way he had slept as a boy. But his eyes stayed wide open. Seeing nothing. Seeing everything.

  12. Believer

  "Sorry, Quentin, but he must have seen our surveillance team," said Wayne. "Doubled back twice and we lost him."

  "Him?" That was something, Quentin figured, to know it was a man.

  "A guy in a messenger service uniform. So you were right, she didn't just use a stamp."

  "Guys from messenger services don't double back to avoid surveillance."

  "Yeah, well, they assumed he was a messenger and the real quarry was whoever he brought the message to. And then he pulled his maneuver and he was gone."

  "Well, the message arrived," said Quentin.

  "You got a call?"

  "A visit."

  "And?"

  "I learned nothing," said Quentin bitterly.

  "How can you learn nothing? Who came?"

  "Madeleine."

  "So she's not dead?"

  "Wayne, it wasn't the Madeleine you believe in, the flesh and blood one. It was the Madeleine who doesn't leave footprints."

  "Quentin, how can I help you when you won't help me back?"

  "Keep on believing I'm crazy if you want, Wayne. But don't let up on the investigation."

  "Quentin, really. I'm trying to believe you. And you know me, I'm a lawyer, I can act like I believe my client whether I do or not. I learned that from watching the O. J. trial."

  "OK, Wayne. It's cool."

  "What is?"

  "Madeleine visiting me. You not believing me no matter how hard you try. The investigators losing the messenger. Even if they don't find anything, I need them to keep going after everything."

  "By the way, the deed to that house is in the name of a certain Anna Laurent Tyler. Seems she inherited from her mother, Delia Forrest Laurent, who got it from her late husband's will. It was originally built by a Laurent, though, back in the early 1800s."

  "Any address for Anna Laurent Tyler?" Quentin was writing down the names. He remembered that in the graveyard there had been a Delia Forrest Laurent, Devoted Wife, sharing a headstone with Theodore Aurelius Laurent, Beloved Husband.

  "Sure," said Wayne, "but it's the address of the house in the deed."

  "Anna Laurent Tyler. That's something. The police chief in Mixinack said that she had a married daughter. Probably she didn't really marry a Duncan, but maybe we can get the true name out of the local papers. From the wedding announcement. A Tyler being given away by her mother, Anna Laurent Tyler."

  "When?"

  "I'd start about three years ago and work backward. How would I know? If I find out more from Chief Bolt today, I'll let you know."

  "Today?" asked Wayne.

  "I'm going back up to New York. To Mixinack."

  "Why? Hair of the dog?"

  "Yeah, well, this dog follows me around anyway, I might as well head for the doghouse."

  "So you aren't missing the little woman as much as you thought."

  "Let's say that last night's interview was painful."

  "You have my sympathy, Quentin."

  Chief Bolt's police department was in a graceful old city building, the kind made of huge stones with classical-looking pillars and lions in front. There were two police cars parked in back, in reserved stalls. Quentin pulled his rented Taurus into one of the Visitor spaces, went inside, and began wandering around in search of the police department. Apparently this was one of those small towns that lived by the principle that if you didn't know where something was, you had no business finding it. He would have as
ked for directions, but the place was deserted. Somewhere, though, somebody was typing. He finally found the source of the sound in the basement, behind an unmarked door. He knocked.

  "Come in," said a woman.

  He stuck his head in the room. "Just looking for the police department, ma'am."

  "You found it."

  "This? Right here?"

  "Said so, didn't I?"

  "I have an appointment with Chief Bolt."

  She pointed toward a closed door behind her, then went back to her typing. Quentin hadn't realized that New York manners extended so far north.

  Quentin knocked on the chief's door—which also had no sign. This time a man's voice told him to come in.

  Bolt was a burly man with military-short hair, but he didn't have the air of rigidity about him that Quentin had always associated with that look. His uniform was a little tight on him, a little rumpled. And his face looked to have some warmth, as if he might just have a sense of humor. Not usually a cop thing.

  "Hi, I'm Quentin Fears."

  Bolt nodded, but didn't look up from the form he was filling out. So much for the warmth.

  After a moment, Quentin realized that it wasn't a form at all, it was a crossword puzzle.

  "Five-letter word for anxiety, has a G in the middle," said Bolt.

  "Angst," said Quentin instantly.

  "Spelled?"

  "A-N-G-S-T."

  "Oh, angst," said Bolt, pronouncing the A to rhyme with the vowel in rang.

  "Need help with any others?" said Quentin.

  "I would've got it eventually." He looked up at Quentin. "Younger than you sounded on the phone."

  "No, I sounded like a guy my age," said Quentin. Once again, as he had on the phone, Quentin picked up Bolt's offhand manner, his bantering style.

  Bolt grinned. The warmth Quentin had seen wasn't an illusion. "I figured I'd never see you, we got off to such a good start on the phone."

  "Yeah, well, once you visit Mixinack, you keep on coming back."

  "We ought to have that as a slogan. Put it on a sign out at the city limits."

  "I got a million of 'em."

  "Sit down, Mr. Fears." His tone was friendly now. Quentin's instinct had been right. Bolt liked a man who gave as good as he got.