Dreamthorp

by Williamson, Chet

  People continued to listen and heard a sound that was either many voices talking at once or the rush of waters, a sound unknown in Dreamthorp. Then the actress playing Blanche began to read her line, tentatively at first, then with more conviction, and slowly the attention in the room turned back to the stage and the story of violence and passion told in voices.

  A few minutes more and the act was over. As the house lights came up over the clatter of chairs sliding back, everyone heard the siren, real this time, not a siren of dreams, but real, a siren of nightmares. Like some great protozoan, the audience moved en masse to the doors, down the steps between the massive wooden pillars, onto the carpet of pine needles, looking with one intelligence toward the Ice Cream Shoppe a hundred yards away, where an ambulance and a Chalmers police car were parked, their red lights whirling like lighthouses seen through blood.

  "Come on," Tom said to Laura. He took her hand and led her down the sylvan path lit by iron-framed lights staked in the ground. As they drew near the Ice Cream Shoppe, they could see that the action was centered on the large, outside deck, which held more than thirty square tables and four times as many cane-backed chairs, a number of which, Tom noticed, were lying where they had fallen, perhaps when the patrons, alarmed by whatever had caused the scream Tom and Laura had heard, pushed them back and rose quickly. The yellow bug lights that rimmed the deck cast a sickly glow upon the pale faces of the onlookers, and among them Tom saw Charlie Lewis standing next to Sam Coffey.

  "Charlie," Tom said as he and Laura came up to the two older men. "Charlie, what happened?"

  Tom didn't think that Charlie heard him at first. He just kept watching the activity on the deck, where a group of men were down on their hands and knees. Tom could not make out what they were doing, for only the upper parts of their bodies were visible above the heads of the crowd, but it looked as though they were exerting great, if carefully controlled, force upon something hidden from Tom's view.

  "Charlie," Laura said, tugging at the man's arm.

  Charlie Lewis turned, his mouth half open, pain in his face. "Oh. Laura. Tom. Hello."

  "Charlie, what is it? What happened?" Laura asked.

  "Another . . . accident," Charlie said, his voice hollow. "The Warfel boy. You know him? Cute little kid. Parents live on Fuller. The green cottage near the post office." Tom nodded dumbly, but Charlie took no notice and went on like a man recounting a bad dream. "Sam and I were sitting a few tables away from him and his folks—right by the railing there. I was having a butterscotch cashew sundae, and Sam . . . What were you having, Sam?"

  "A, uh . . . a grape rickey," Sam Coffey said. He too sounded drugged.

  "A grape rickey," Charlie repeated. "And Petey—that's the boy's name, isn't it?" he asked Sam Coffey. "Petey?"

  "Petey," Sam said, nodding. "That's what she yelled."

  "That's right. That's right, she did. So Petey went running inside from the deck for something, a drink of water, maybe, and he came running back out, and . . . and he just went through the floor."

  "Through the floor?" Tom said.

  "Yeah. We couldn't see real well, like I said, we were a few tables away, but we looked when we heard this cracking sound, and we saw the boy—Petey—just disappear, sink down."

  "Like he fell," Sam said, "Straight down. Like a trap door opened."

  "Which was what happened," Charlie said, his eyes suddenly alight. "I mean, that must have been precisely what happened. The floor boards split apart right where he was, and he fell right through."

  "We heard the cracking," Sam said.

  "And then . . . then they closed back up again," Charlie said, turning his gaze back onto the deck, from where banging sounds were now coming, horribly loud in the night.

  "They closed back up?" Laura said. "You mean they trapped him down there?"

  "No," Charlie said, and when he turned back toward them, Tom saw tears in his eyes. "They . . . they caught him. They caught his neck. Jesus, they nearly took his head off . . . and the blood. My God, there's blood everywhere."

  "Everywhere," Sam agreed in a whisper.

  "Now wait a minute," Tom said. "You mean the boards broke and this boy fell through, and then the boards closed up again . . . while the boy was there in the gap?"

  Sam Coffey nodded. "I know it's hard to believe, Tom. But we were there. We saw it or saw it after it happened. There were a lot of other people there too. We all saw it. Don Henderson over there, talking to that cop? He saw it as it happened, he told us about it. He said the boards split and went down, and then after the boy was in the hole, they came back up again. Like a garage door. That's just what he said. Like a garage door."

  "We saw it," Charlie added. "It's the only way it could have . . ." Suddenly he stopped, and inhaled sharply.

  "What is it, Charlie?" Tom asked.

  "I knew there was something," Charlie said quietly. "Something that I couldn't think of, and now I know." He turned on them almost savagely. "The pillars!" he said. "In the playhouse. It was the same thing, don't you see? The wood did what it wasn't supposed to do—what it couldn't do. But still it did."

  "Charlie . . ."

  "Torn, listen. Sure, it was possible for the boards to break and the kid to fall down through, but it wasn't possible for the boards to pop up again and cut through his neck."

  "You don't know that. There could have been stresses, pressure . . ." Tom trailed off weakly.

  "Not that great. I'ma goddam structural engineer, Tom—or at least I used to be—and I know what the hell I'm talking about when it comes to stress. What happened now—and what happened at the playhouse—was simply not possible according to the laws of physics."

  "But it happened, Charlie," Laura said, "laws of physics or not."

  "I know," Charlie said, less frenziedly now. "And that's what bothers the hell out of me."

  The death, on the heels of all the rest, brought only more fear to Dreamthorp. Although there were witnesses to claim that what had happened to young Petey Warfel was an accident, the hideousness of the tragedy cast still another layer on the already thick pall that covered the village, and those who were close to leaving were pushed over the edge. Five more families moved out before the next weekend and the two deaths that happened on Saturday.

  In the intervening days, Tom Brewer and Laura Stark became lovers. It was a natural consequence of their relationship, occurring almost as an afterthought, but nonetheless momentous for all its unexpectedness.

  On Thursday evening, Laura invited Tom to her cottage for dinner. Afterward, they took their coffee out on the porch and listened to the music coming from Charlie Lewis's place. It was bluesy and romantic. Early Coltrane, Tom thought. They talked quietly as they sipped their coffee, and when it was nearly dark Laura asked Tom if he wanted to watch a movie.

  "I don't think so," Tom said. "I'd rather do something else."

  "What?" she said, looking at him curiously, and knowing.

  He set his coffee mug on the floor, leaned over, and kissed her, his mouth partially open. She gave herself to the moment, and tasted the coffee, a touch of mint from the dessert she had made, and something else that was distinctly and pleasantly his. When the kiss was over, he drew away from her and looked at her. "Don't you think it's time that we made love?" he said, no trace of a smile on his face. She wondered if the thought of it made him sad.

  "I think I'd like that," she said. It was not entirely the truth. She felt close to him and, wanted to be closer, but she was also afraid, afraid that she would not respond the way the wanted to, afraid that the excitement she felt when he kissed her and held her would diminish when it came time For the act itself, unsure if the affection and even love that the thought she felt for him could be translated and extended into the realm of the purely physical.

  "You're shaking," he said, a look of concern crossing his face. She clenched her jaw, furious at herself for letting it show. "Don't be afraid," he said, and she marveled like a schoolgirl at how well he se
emed to know her, how he could tell what she was thinking, and she knew then that there could never be anything purely physical with Tom, that behind that physical joining would be a psychic joining as well, and she grew so anxious to experience it that she grasped his hand and held it hard.

  "I'm not afraid," she told him. "Let's go inside. Take me to bed. I want you to."

  They undressed each other tenderly, smiling as each piece of clothing was removed, like explorers coming upon previously undiscovered landscapes in a new world filled with mysterious beauty. Their bodies fit together as if ordained, and when, after long flights of kisses and touches, they joined, it was not as though she had been occupied, but rather as though she had been filled and fulfilled, made complete and whole. She felt healed.

  At the end, lying tired and happy in the web of each other's arms, Tom had spoken first. "I love you, Laura," he said. "I do love you." And she fell asleep, hearing those words in her dreams, dreams that she finally experienced and remembered when she woke up next to him in the morning.

  More than twenty years ago, I saw two men executed, and the impression then made remains fresh to this day.

  —Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp

  They were together when the next deaths occurred, and although they did not see the actual event, they saw the aftermath and the victims. It was on Saturday, and the day was hot and humid, the sky a flat, dull blue, filled with moisture that refused to fall as rain. The cloying heat that bathed Dreamthorp seemed to mirror the fears of its inhabitants, clinging to the skin in tight beads that could be brushed away, but only momentarily, returning in an instant, a constant reminder of the tyranny of the skies and the fates.

  Tom and Laura watched the finals of the Dreamthorp tennis tournament for most of the morning, and agreed that the fortyish yuppies who participated did surprisingly well on the two clay courts despite the sweltering heat. After a particularly grueling match, Tom and Laura went back to his cottage for lunch.

  "I've found a place for my mother," he said as he carried the tuna salad to the table. "It's on the other side of Harrisburg near Camp Hill. Nice. Out in the country, a lot of trees. I think she'll like it." He sat down and sighed. "As much as she can like anything, I suppose."

  Tom's mother had been cleared of the death of his father. Forensic evidence had proven that, from the angle of the wounds, the force with which they were driven, and a number of other contradictory details, it was highly unlikely that she could have been responsible. What the authorities had not mentioned was that it was highly unlikely that anyone could have been responsible. To say that the medical examiner was perplexed would have been an understatement. In private, he told his associates that he had seen nothing to equal the uniqueness of this attack in thirty years, and it would take him another thirty to figure it out. Detailed reports had been sent to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the M.E. was awaiting their response, though he expected no solutions.

  The local and state police were as baffled as he was. The whole county was crying out for whoever was responsible for the series of murders, but there was no physical evidence—none at all—to indicate that a person or persons unknown had even been present when most of the deaths occurred. "We're gonna have to wait," the detective in charge of the cases told his men, "until this bastard slips up. He'll make a mistake. They always do." And in the meantime, the police gathered what evidence they could, going from cottage to cottage, asking questions, traipsing the woods, slipping debris into glassine envelopes.

  Although Frances Brewer was cleared of the crime, her mind remained muddied. She had not spoken a word since her husband's death, and slept fitfully, awaking with starts and unintelligible screams. Tom had only briefly toyed with the idea of taking care of her himself, realizing that she was in desperate need of the kind of special care he was incapable of giving. Still, his guilt at forsaking her was deep, particularly when added to that which he felt over his son's and father's deaths.

  "When is she going in?" Laura asked.

  "Next week. It'll be good to get her some decent care. The hospital's all right, but they can't give her the kind of attention she needs."

  They ate in silence for a while, then Laura asked, "So what have you been doing this week besides looking for a place for your mother?"

  He shrugged. "Not much."

  "Carving?"

  "Some."

  "How are you coming on that large piece?"

  "It's coming," he said, and changed the subject to the tennis matches. Tom didn't want to talk about the carving, especially not to Laura, not yet. In a way he felt guilty about that too, as though he had stolen something from her by using her experience, personal and painful, with Gilbert Rodman as a subject for sculpture. He hadn't decided how and when he would tell her about it, but he thought he would wait until the piece was finished, then talk to her about it and describe it in detail before he let her see it.

  And if she didn't want to, if the memories were too strong, too vivid, that would be all right too. Still, knowing Laura the way he did, he knew that she would want to see it, would want to face the symbolic embodiment of her fears. She was a brave woman, braver, he felt, than he was.

  After lunch they went back down and watched more tennis, then went over to the gift shop, formerly the chautaqua caretaker's cottage, across the road from the Ice Cream Shoppe. It had recently been painted a pale yellow, except for the white columns that surrounded the broad, shady porch. Some new Christmas tree ornaments had arrived, and Laura chose several, one of which was a small, but beautifully carved bellschnickle.

  "Bell-what?" Tom asked her.

  "Bellschnickle," she said. "See? It's a German Santa C1aus."

  "He looks mean," Tom said, taking and examining the three-inch figure.

  "He was mean," Laura told him. "You see those sticks he's holding? They were to beat bad children."

  "What happened to coal in the stocking?"

  "Teutonic temperament, I guess." Laura laughed. "You better be good."

  Tom looked more closely at the gaunt face, the severely pointed beard. "This is not the man I'd want coming to my house on Christmas Eve."

  "Then be a good boy." She smiled at him. "And get good things."

  "I've already got one," he told her, taking her hand. Laura paid for the three ornaments, and was receiving her change from the elderly woman who owned the store, when a tremendous crash of wood shook the small building. Laura's coins went rolling and scattering across the floor, the shelves staggered, pieces of pottery and glassware fell and burst like shells on the hardwood floor.

  Jesus, oh Jesus, now what? thought Tom as he grabbed Laura's arm and ran toward the door. If the building was collapsing, or if it was an earthquake—unheard of in this area—they were better off outside. The owner looked around in panic, then apparently decided her life was worth more than her wares, and followed Tom to the wooden screen door.

  But that door, as Tom quickly learned, refused to open. It was blocked by one of the two columns that had fallen across each other and across two people who were sitting in the cane rockers on the porch, one on either side of the door. Tom had recognized them when he came in as the two violinists in the Dreamthorp String Quartet, a chamber music ensemble that played two concerts a week in the Hall of Culture.

  He looked through the screen to see the white columns, each a foot thick, splashed with red. Only the one body was visible. It was that of the first violinist, and lay on its side, arms pressed into its torso so deeply that they seemed to be all one piece. Only the right hand stuck out loosely, in the manner of a flipper. The eyes bulged, and the mouth was a cavern filled with blood which bubbled with the man's labored breathing.

  Suddenly Tom heard a ripping sound from above and looked up to see that part of the porch roof directly over the door, now unsupported by the fallen columns, was swaying downward. "Out the back," he said sharply to the two women, and the owner led the way through a storeroom and out through a door on the other side
of the building.

  "Oh my goodness, oh my goodness," she muttered as she scuttled around the front of the shop, where a crowd had now gathered, some of whom were trying to shift the columns off the man and woman who lay beneath. The would-be rescuers kept looking up, leaping back and away as the roof continued to sag in lurches, then moving in cautiously once again, pulling at the columns that seemed far heavier than they should have been.

  At last several men managed to move the columns enough for others to grab the musicians and pull them away from the building, unheedful of the edict about moving accident victims. Had they let them remain where they were, the porch roof might have fallen on them. As it was, it did not, but continued to shift and sway and moan with a voice of wrenched and torn wood for hours before it finally subsided.

  By that time, barriers were erected around the entire building, and both of the victims were lying dead in the Lebanon County Hospital morgue. The woman had died instantly, and the man had expired just before the ambulance arrived.

  After answering the necessary questions, Tom and Laura went back to her cottage, where they had stiff drinks and sat for a long time with their arms around each other. Charlie Lewis joined them for dinner that night as planned. He had heard the crash that afternoon, had come down from Emerson, and had helped get the people out. Now, over soup, he nodded sagely and determinedly. "One more thing," he said. "One more thing that couldn't have happened."

  "The building is old, Charlie," Tom said with some exasperation. "It must have been wood rot or something."

  Charlie shook his head sadly. "Wood rot. It amazes me that you won't believe your own eyes. You saw that wood, you helped lift it, you felt how solid and heavy it was. And you saw it afterward. That was strong, seasoned white oak, not a damn thing wrong with it, not a trace of weakness where it split. You know wood, Tom, you could see that."

  "But Charlie," Laura said, "how can that be? There must have been a flaw there . . . something that we couldn't see."

  The older man raised a finger. "There you are," he said with satisfaction. "Something we couldn't see. Just like all the rest of these deaths."