Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "Don't bother." Meg was more annoyed than frightened; in fact, the strongest emotion Applegate inspired was disgusted contempt. Still, he was very large and very drunk; she kept a wary eye on him as she tried to fit the key into the lock.

  Applegate leaned closer. "Hey, give a guy a chance, willya? I said I had a good reason—"

  "Stuff it," Meg said, wrinkling her nose against the stench of his breath. "And get lost. You're in no condition to—dammit! Let go of me!"

  She twisted, trying to free herself, but his hands held her pinned against the door. He wasn't trying to hurt her—what could he do, really, in broad daylight and on Main Street? All she had to do was yell. . . . Reluctant to make a spectacle of herself, or admit her inability to handle the situation, she didn't scream, but she did raise her voice. "Go home and sober up. I mean it, Rod—take your sweaty hands off me or I'll—"

  "You'll do what? Call a cop? You better listen to me, Miss High and Mighty. You think you're better'n the rest of us, but there are a few things you might not like the cops to find out—"

  The door against which Meg was leaning opened, and she stumbled back, into Riley's arms. He set her aside, as easily as if she had been a doll. "Sorry. I was in the shop, working. What can I do for you, Mr. Applegate?"

  Applegate drew himself up and tried to suck in his stomach. "I'd tell you what you could do to yourself if there wasn't a lady present."

  Riley glanced at Meg. "Did he hurt you?"

  She brushed a loosened lock of hair from her face. "No. I'm all right."

  Riley considered her for a moment, then nodded and turned his attention back to Applegate. "Excuse me," he said coolly, and started to close the door. Applegate shoved back. Riley retreated a step.

  Meg approved his desire to avoid a vulgar public brawl, but she was surprised at Applegate's bravado. He had always bullied children smaller than himself, but had been quick to back off when someone his own size stood up to him. He was almost as tall as Riley and twice as broad, but most of his bulk was fat. Yet he was provoking a fight, and his anticipatory grin suggested he expected to win it.

  One more step and Applegate would be inside the store; he was on the threshold now, poised, more lightly than one might have expected, on the balls of his feet. He didn't so much as glance at Meg. Riley, too, appeared to have forgotten her very existence. Typical, Meg thought with a silent snort of rage. Macho caveman mentality. . . . She had been about to reach for the telephone. She changed her mind. There was an easier, better way.

  Her sudden movement took both of them by surprise and caught Applegate off balance in the middle of a step. One hard shove, powered by a healthy surge of adrenaline, was enough. In fact, it was more effective than Meg had expected. Instead of simply staggering back, Applegate stubbed the toe of one shoe on the heel of the other, swayed back and forth, arms flailing like the sails of a windmill and toppled over backwards.

  For a horrible moment Meg feared he was really hurt— bones broken, head smashed against the concrete. Then a long shuddering intake of breath was followed by a stream of profanity, much of it directed at a feminine object. He started to get up. As his crimsoned face turned in her direction, Meg said clearly, "I'd rather not call the police, but I will if you don't leave immediately. If you bother me, or the store again, I'll swear out a warrant."

  Several pedestrians had paused, moved more by curiosity than by concern, but there was one Good Samaritan among them. A frail little old lady, silver-haired and bespectacled, started tugging at Applegate's arm. "Poor man," she quavered. "I do hope you didn't break anything. I've always said the town council doesn't take proper care of the sidewalks. I have stumbled myself, not once but a number of times. Perhaps you ought to lie down until an ambulance can be summoned."

  It may have been the ludicrous spectacle they presented— the tiny woman and the big, snorting man—rather than Meg's threat that made Applegate anxious to fade away. He had good cause to know that the undamaged victim of a pratfall provokes more amusement than sympathy. Brushing the old lady rudely aside, he pushed through the snickering crowd and disappeared, but not before he had favored Meg with a glare of pure malevolence.

  Meg closed the door and flipped the sign around so that it read "Open." "He's not even limping," she said with a laugh? "I didn't want to put him in the hospital, but I hoped I might cripple him a little."

  Then she turned to confront her partner.

  Riley wasn't laughing. His eyes had darkened till they looked as black as hers, and his mouth was a white-lipped slit. "Thanks," he said.

  "What's wrong? I just—"

  "Saved the day. Defended your helpless partner. Thank you very, very much."

  He turned on his heel and walked away, with that same slow arrogant stride. Recovering, Meg made a rude childish face at his retreating back; but after the door had closed behind him she shook her head and smiled ruefully. He had come riding to her rescue, sword drawn and banners flying, only to have her turn the whole episode into farce. But damn it all, she argued with herself, how could I have known his macho pride would be so delicate? He doesn't have to prove he's tougher than a fat slob like Rod Applegate, anybody would know that by looking at him. Surely he must realize that I understand why he wanted to avoid a brawl, and that I admire him for it? Maybe if I told him. . . .

  No. If she had made a mistake—and obviously she had!—it was too late now. Apologies would only rub salt in the wound. Best to leave him alone till he got over it—or not, as the case might be. She had acted thoughtlessly, but he had reacted like a sulky little boy.

  Riley continued to sulk, or work, or both, for the rest of the day. Meg found plenty to do; she wrote out new price tags for some of the jewelry and had the satisfaction of selling an expensive pair of early Victorian earrings to one of Dan's out-of-state customers, who had made a special trip from Rhode Island to express her sympathy and find out what was going to happen to the store. Mrs. Adamson was well bred, well informed and well intentioned; her kindness gave Meg's spirits a much-needed lift. Not only did she fail to accuse Riley of murder, rape or fraud, she didn't seem to find it at all surprising that Dan would reward such a fine, conscientious worker. Obviously unaware of the intercom, she added pleasantly, "He does excellent work. A little shy, isn't he? But I'm sure he will be an asset to the business, and I wish you the best of luck."

  Riley shy? It was the funniest thing Meg had heard all day.

  She sold two other pieces of jewelry and coped, politely but firmly, with more curiosity seekers. The time she spent in the office going over the records wasn't wasted in terms of learning the stock and the business, but it told her nothing she didn't already know about Riley—except that his latest raise had brought his salary to the munificent sum of eighteen thousand a year, plus the apartment over the store. As Meg remembered it, it consisted of two and a half tiny rooms plus bath, the half being a kitchen the size of a pantry. Dan might have gotten three hundred a month for it—along with the risk of having a burglar for a tenant. There was nothing between the apartment and the store except floorboards and acoustical tile. All things considered, it was a moot point as to who was doing whom a favor.

  When the hands of the clock reached 5 p.m. Meg turned to the intercom. She didn't care whether the sound of her voice startled the artist into a false move; in fact she rather hoped he would singe some nonessential part of his anatomy. "It's five o'clock," she announced. "I'll lock the door when I leave. See you tomorrow at nine."

  She switched off before he could reply—or not, which was more probable.

  Meg had breakfasted with her grandmother, avoiding both Cliff and his father; when she returned home that evening she was surprised and relieved to learn that Cliff was gone. George gave her a hard-enough time about her latest scheme.

  "I suppose Gran told you," Meg said, sneaking a watercress sandwich and rearranging the plate so Gran wouldn't notice. Tea did not properly begin until she had taken her place. In deference to Meg's new schedule, t
eatime had been postponed until five-thirty, and Gran wasn't down yet.

  "Yes." George eyed the plate of sandwiches wistfully, but did not emulate Meg's bad example. "I'm glad you had the courtesy to tell her where you were going."

  "Courtesy was exactly what prompted me to do so. I owe her that."

  "I know you don't owe me anything," George began.

  "Oh, Uncle George, of course I do. I'm sorry if that sounded rude, and I'm sorry I avoided you this morning—I did, I admit it—but I didn't want an argument with you and Cliff. Where is he, anyway?"

  George smiled faintly. "I reminded him that he has a job, such as it is. I told him he could come back this weekend, but if you'd rather he didn't—"

  "Oh, come on, Uncle George. You don't think I would try to kick your son out of the only home he's ever known just because he gets on my nerves sometimes! It's like having a bossy older brother; we'll work it out, Cliff and I." She hesitated, reluctant to criticize her uncle, but he and she had things to work out as well. If she was going to stay—it was the first time she had made even that much of a commitment, even in her own thoughts—her uncle would have to stop treating her like a child.

  "It would be easier all around if you'd stop worrying about it," she went on. "Stop apologizing for Cliff, stop trying to protect me. I'm not—"

  The sound of a door opening on the floor above heralded the approach of her grandmother. George leaned forward, speaking softly and quickly. "Fair enough. I am overprotective and I'll try not to be. But when I see you doing something so foolhardy as you did today—"

  "It wasn't foolhardy," Meg interrupted. "Supposing Cliff is right about Riley—which I don't believe—there couldn't be a safer place for me than the store. Half the population of Seldon knew I was there. Do you think Riley would be stupid enough—"

  She stopped herself just in time. George's face underwent a sudden transformation, from distress to smiling welcome. He got to his feet. "Mary, dear. How lovely you look."

  Yards of pale aqua chiffon floated around her and formed an Elizabethan ruffle that framed her face and soft white hair. Her jewels, of course, were aquamarines and pearls. The deep blue-green gems in her ears were the size of quarters. Posing in the doorway with innocent pleasure, she looked at Meg and allowed an almost imperceptible frown to wrinkle her forehead. "Meg, darling, have you been a bad girl?"

  The gentle reproach wiped out fifteen years. Meg shifted guiltily from one foot to the other, cursing her temper and her unruly tongue. She began, "It's not what you think, Gran. . . ."

  "I know you must be hungry, dear, but I've told you time and time again that it is rude to begin eating before everyone has taken his or her place."

  She was looking at the plate of sandwiches. Meg burst out laughing. Her grandmother shook her silvery head. "And then to rearrange the remaining sandwiches in an effort to deceive me. . . . That is tantamount to telling a falsehood, Meg, darling."

  "I'm sorry," Meg murmured.

  Her grandmother floated toward her in a cloud of chiffon. "I know you are, sweetheart, and we won't say another word about it. I just want you to remember that honesty is the best policy, and ladies do not tell lies."

  She enveloped Meg in a soft, sweet-scented embrace. Over her shoulder Meg saw Henrietta Marie walk regally into the room. Henrietta was definitely sneering.

  What must it be like to live shielded from reality as Mary Mignot had been? Like living in a cage of glass, Meg thought. The invisible walls gave an illusion of freedom, but harsh reality never entered and the barriers muffled cries of pain from without. When ugliness came too close, someone drew a curtain, embroidered with flowers and pretty little birds.

  Dan had been custodian of the cage and the curtains for almost fifty years. Now they were guarding it—Meg and Uncle George, Frances and Cliff. It's a good thing cats can't—or won't talk, Meg thought. They know what goes on outside the cage. They kill pretty little birds. Not that Henrietta Marie would ever commit the crashing faux pas of presenting such a trophy to Gran. She knew which side her kitty biscuits were buttered on.

  When Meg informed her grandmother of her intention of continuing to work at the store, she was prepared for an argument, or worse, for the hurt disapproval that was Gran's method of protest. To her relief Gran took it well; in fact, she proceeded to explain the situation to George. "In my day, of course, a lady didn't tend store. But one must move with the times, mustn't one? Daniel explained it all to me, that until she finds a nice young man to manage her affairs for her, she must carry on and do her duty. He was so pleased—"

  The nice young man was bad enough; when Gran started talking about Dan as if he had just stepped into the next room, Meg's amusement died a quick death. George could talk all he liked about true faith and harmless eccentricities; Gran was behaving erratically and her delusion might not be so harmless. What if she decided to go for a stroll with "Daniel" during a blizzard, or followed him into the path of a car? If she was seeing things that weren't there, she might fail to see dangers that did exist.

  Her face must have shown some of her inner turmoil, for Mary turned a concerned, curious look upon her. Meg forced a smile.

  "Gran, could I have another sandwich?"

  "Certainly, my dear. Just so you don't spoil your dinner."

  "We are all proud of Meg," George said, with an approving smile. "But I don't want her to sacrifice herself, even for the store. How did it go today, honey?"

  Meg's mouth was full, which prevented her from replying immediately. The momentary pause gave her time to think. "It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be," she said thoughtfully. "In fact, I rather enjoyed it."

  Her uncle looked skeptical. "No, really," Meg insisted. "I've forgotten a great deal, but it started coming back to me. And Riley—George, Gran—I saw some of his work today. It's marvelous! I had no idea he was so talented."

  "Daniel thinks very highly of the young man," Mary said. She covered her mouth with a dainty hand and gave the little cough that heralded a negative comment. "Rather gruff in his manners, of course. A rough diamond, so to speak."

  "Don't you like him?" Meg asked.

  "I've seen very little of him," Mary said coolly. "He seemed to be a trifle uncomfortable on the few occasions when he was here. Quite understandable. Artistic persons often lack the social graces. I expect Michelangelo preferred his studio to the palazzi of the Medici."

  Meg choked on her sandwich. "I expect you're right, Mary," George said, his eyes twinkling. "But the comparison isn't really accurate. This young man is no Michelangelo."

  "No, his manners are even worse," Meg said, recovering herself. "But oh, Uncle George, you ought to see what he's doing. There's a necklace. ... I couldn't possibly describe it, but I'll show it to you. I bought it."

  "You bought it?" George exclaimed.

  "I had to have it." Meg turned to her grandmother. "You know the feeling, Gran—you're afraid that if you don't snatch it, that instant, someone is going to come along and take it away from you?"

  "Oh, yes, my dear, I know exactly what you mean." Her grandmother's fingers caressed the brilliant stones of the necklace she was wearing.

  "Well, I can't say I do," George admitted. "But I'm delighted that you aren't finding this duty a painful one, Meg."

  "I'd rather you went on thinking of me as a martyr," Meg said with a smile. "Pity me, coddle me, sympathize with me. It isn't so much enjoying it, Uncle George; it's more than that, it's pure excitement to discover a talent like Riley's. Like Howard Carter, discovering King Tut's tomb! Of course Dan was the first to spot it, but I didn't know—I mean, I knew he thought well of Riley, but I wasn't influenced by that, I honestly wasn't. It was . . . oh, I can't explain." Embarrassed by her own enthusiasm, she looked away, in time to see Henrietta's tail disappear under the sofa. She had taken Meg's watercress sandwich with her.

  Meg was early the following morning, arriving at the store before Riley had opened up. The recessed entryway was cool and shady and the
morning sun had been bright in her eyes; it was not until she had inserted her key in the lock that she saw the crumpled paper bag. Recognizing the insignia of a fast-food chain, she assumed some lout had tossed his trash into the doorway, and she stooped to pick it up. It was much heavier than she had expected; before she could tighten her grasp it slipped from her fingers, spilling the contents at her feet.

  Meg screamed and stumbled back. The rat was dead, most emphatically so, stiffened in a grotesque and futile posture of defense. Its gaping jaws bared yellow fangs, and its filthy fur was rank with dried blood.

  The door burst open. Riley took in the situation at a glance. He kicked the rat into a corner and pulled Meg inside. "I'll take care of it," he said. "Unless you prefer to be a heroine again."

  Meg was on the verge of a furious reply when she realized that she had just been given a chance to redeem her mistake of the previous day—and furthermore, that she had absolutely no desire to be heroic about rats. Without replying she retreated into the store, face averted, and left Riley to do what was necessary. When he came back, empty-handed, he brushed past her without speaking and went into the washroom. The sudden, excessive explosion of water into the sink was his only demonstration of disgust; he scrubbed his hands for several minutes before emerging.

  Meg followed his example. She had touched only the paper bag, and that briefly, but she felt contaminated. When she came out, Riley was leaning against the counter. "I suggest," he said carefully, "that if you mean to continue this routine, you come in half an hour later. I didn't expect you so early."

  "You mean—you mean this wasn't the first. . . ."

  "It was my first rat. Or should I say your first rat?"

  "What else has happened?"