Frosby went pale with anger. “It may be the law but it’s not human. It’s not fair.”
And a lot of good it did Frosby to say that!
Skipperton’s corn grew high as the scarecrow’s hips, and higher. Skip spent a lot of time up in his bedroom, binoculars and loaded rifle at hand, in case anything else belonging to Frosby showed itself on his land.
“Don’t hit me,” Andy said with an uneasy laugh. “You’re shooting on the edge of the cornfield there, and now and then I weed it, y’know.”
“You think there’s something wrong with my eyesight?” Skip replied.
A few days later Skip proved there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, when he plugged a gray cat stalking a bird or a mouse in the high grass this side of the stream. Skip did it with one shot. He wasn’t even sure the cat belonged to Frosby.
This shot produced a call in person from Frosby Junior the following day.
“It’s just to ask a question, Mr. Skipperton. My father and I heard a shot yesterday, and last night one of our cats didn’t come back at night to eat, and not this morning either. Do you know anything about that?” Frosby Junior had declined to take a seat.
“I shot the cat. It was on my property,” Skipperton said calmly.
“But the cat—What harm was the cat doing?” The young man looked steadily at Skipperton.
“The law is the law. Property is property.”
Frosby Junior shook his head. “You’re a hard man, Mr. Skipperton.” Then he departed.
Peter Frosby served a summons again, and the same judge ruled that in accordance with old English law and also American law, a cat was a rover by nature, not subject to constraint as was a dog. He gave Skipperton the maximum fine of one hundred dollars, and a warning not to use his rifle so freely in future.
That annoyed Skipperton, though of course he could and did laugh at the smallness of the fine. If he could think of something else annoying, something really telling, old Frosby might relent and at least lease some of the stream, Skip thought.
But he forgot the feud when Margaret came. Skip fetched her at the airport in New York, and they drove up to Maine. She looked taller to Skip, more filled out, and there were roses in her cheeks. She was a beauty, all right!
“Got a surprise for you at home,” Skip said.
“Um-m—a horse maybe? I told you I learned to jump this year, didn’t I?”
Had she? Skip said, “Yes. Not a horse, no.”
Skip’s surprise was a red Toyota convertible. He had remembered at least that Maggie’s school had taught her to drive. She was thrilled, and flung her arms around Skip’s neck.
“You’re a darling, Daddy! And you know, you’re looking very fell!”
Margaret had been to Coldstream Heights for two weeks at Easter, but now the place looked more cared for. She and Skip had arrived around midnight, but Andy was still up watching television in his own little house on the grounds, and Maggie insisted on going over to greet him. Skip was gratified to see Andy’s eyes widen at the sight of her.
Skip and Maggie tried the new car out the next day. They drove to a town some twenty miles away and had lunch. That afternoon, back at the house, Maggie asked if her father had a fishing rod, just a simple one, so she could try the stream. Skip of course had all kinds of rods, but he had to tell her she couldn’t, and he explained why, and explained that he had even tried to rent part of the stream.
“Frosby’s a real s.o.b.,” Skip said. “Won’t give an inch.”
“Well, never mind, Daddy. There’s lots else to do.”
Maggie was the kind of girl who enjoyed taking walks, reading or fussing around in the house rearranging little things so that they looked prettier. She did these things while Skip was on the telephone sometimes for an hour or so with Dallas or Detroit.
Skipperton was a bit surprised one day when Maggie arrived in her Toyota around 7 P.M. with a catch of three trout on a string. She was barefoot, and the cuffs of her blue dungarees were damp. “Where’d you get those?” Skip asked, his first thought being that she’d taken one of his rods and fished the stream against his instructions.
“I met the boy who lives there,” Maggie said. “We were both buying gas, and he introduced himself—said he’d seen my photograph in your house. Then we had a coffee in the diner there by the gas station—”
“The Frosby boy?”
“Yes. He’s awfully nice, Daddy. Maybe it’s only the father who’s not nice. Anyway Pete said, ‘Come on and fish with me this afternoon,’ so I did. He said his father stocks the river farther up.”
“I don’t—Frankly, Maggie, I don’t want you associating with the Frosbys!”
“There’s only two.” Maggie was puzzled. “I barely met his father. They’ve got quite a nice house, Daddy.”
“I’ve had unpleasant dealings with old Frosby, I told you, Maggie. It just isn’t fitting if you get chummy with the son. Do me this one favor this summer, Maggie doll.” That was his name for her in the moments he wanted to feel close to her, wanted her to feel close to him.
The very next day, Maggie was gone from the house for nearly three hours, and Skip noticed it. She had said she wanted to go to the village to buy sneakers, and she was wearing the sneakers when she came home, but Skip wondered why it had taken her three hours to make a five-mile trip. With enormous effort, Skip refrained from asking a question. Then Saturday morning, Maggie said there was a dance in Keensport, and she was going.
“And I have a suspicion who you’re going with,” Skip said, his heart beginning to thump with adrenaline.
“I’m going alone, I swear it, Daddy. Girls don’t have to be escorted any more. I could go in blue jeans, but I’m not. I’ve got some white slacks.”
Skipperton realized that he could hardly forbid her to go to a dance. But he damn well knew the Frosby boy would be there, and would probably meet Maggie at the entrance. “I’ll be glad when you go back to Switzerland.”
Skip knew what was going to happen. He could see it a mile away. His daughter was “infatuated,” and he could only hope that she got over it, that nothing happened before she had to go back to school (another whole month), because he didn’t want to keep her prisoner in the house. He didn’t want to look absurd in his own eyes, even in simpleminded Andy’s eyes, by laying down the law to her.
Maggie got home evidently very late that night, and so quietly Skip hadn’t wakened, though he had stayed up till 2 A.M. and meant to listen for her. At breakfast, Maggie looked fresh and radiant, rather to Skip’s surprise.
“I suppose the Frosby boy was at the dance last night?”
Maggie, diving into bacon and eggs, said, “I don’t know what you’ve got against him, Daddy—just because his father didn’t want to sell land that’s been in their family for ages!”
“I don’t want you to fall in love with a country bumpkin! I’ve sent you to a good school. You’ve got background—or at least I intend to give you some!”
“Did you know Pete had three years at Harvard—and he’s taking a correspondence course in electronic engineering?”
“Oh! I suppose he’s learning computer programming? Easier than shorthand!”
Maggie stood up. “I’ll be eighteen in another month, Daddy. I don’t want to be told whom I can see and can’t see.”
Skip got up too and roared at her. “They’re not my kind of people or yours!”
Maggie left the room.
In the next days, Skipperton fumed and went through two or three pipe stems. Andy noticed his unease, Skipperton knew, but Andy made no comment. Andy spent his nonworking hours alone, watching drivel on his television. Skip was rehearsing a speech to Maggie as he paced his land, glancing at the sow and piglets, at Andy’s neat kitchen-garden, not seeing anything. Skip was groping for a lever, the kind of weapon he h
ad always been able to find in business affairs that would force things his way. He couldn’t send Maggie back to Switzerland, even though her school stayed open in summer for girls whose home was too far away to go back to. If he threatened not to send her back to school, he was afraid Maggie wouldn’t mind. Skipperton maintained an apartment in New York, and had two servants who slept in, but he knew Maggie wouldn’t agree to go there, and Skip didn’t want to go to New York either. He was too interested in the immediate scene in which he sensed a battle coming.
Skipperton had arrived at nothing by the following Saturday, a week after the Keensport dance, and he was exhausted. That Saturday evening, Maggie said she was going to a party at the house of someone called Wilmers, whom she had met at the dance. Skip asked her for the address, and Maggie scribbled it on the hall telephone pad. Skip had reason to have asked for it, because by Sunday morning Maggie hadn’t come home. Skip was up at seven, nervous as a cat and in a rage still at 9 A.M., which he thought a polite enough hour to telephone on Sunday morning, though it had cost him much to wait that long.
An adolescent boy’s voice said that Maggie had been there, yes, but she had left pretty early.
“Was she alone?”
“No, she was with Pete Frosby.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” said Skip, feeling the blood rush to his face as if he were hemorrhaging. “Oh! Wait! Do you know where they went?”
“Sure don’t.”
“My daughter went in her car?”
“No, Pete’s. Maggie’s car’s still here.”
Skip thanked the boy and put the phone down shakily, but he was shaking only from energy that was surging through every nerve and muscle. He picked up the telephone and dialed the Frosby home.
Old Frosby answered.
Skipperton identified himself, and asked if his daughter was possibly there?
“No, she’s not, Mr. Skipperton.”
“Is your son there? I’d like—”
“No, he doesn’t happen to be in just now.”
“What do you mean? He was there and went out?”
“Mr. Skipperton, my son has his own ways, his own room, his own key—his own life. I’m not about—”
Skipperton put the telephone down suddenly. He had a bad nosebleed, and it was dripping onto the table edge. He ran to get a wet towel.
Maggie was not home by Sunday evening or Monday morning, and Skipperton was reluctant to notify the police, appalled by the thought that her name might be linked with the Frosbys’, if the police found her with the son somewhere. Tuesday morning, Skip was enlightened. He had a letter from Maggie, written from Boston. It said that she and Pete had run away to be married, and to avoid “unpleasant scenes.”
. . . Though you may think this is sudden, we do love each other and are sure of it. I did not really want to go back to school, Daddy. I will be in touch in about a week. Please don’t try to find me. I have seen Mommie, but we are not staying with her. I was sorry to leave my nice new car, but the car is all right.
Love always,
Maggie
For two days Skipperton didn’t go out of the house, and hardly ate. He felt three-quarters dead. Andy was very worried about him, and finally persuaded Skipperton to ride to the village with him, because they needed to buy a few things. Skipperton went, sitting like an upright corpse in the passenger seat.
While Andy went to the drugstore and the butcher’s, Skipperton sat in the car, his eyes glazed with his own thoughts. Then an approaching figure on the sidewalk made Skipperton’s eyes focus. Old Frosby! Frosby walked with a springy tread for his age, Skip thought. He wore a new tweed suit, black felt hat, and he had a cigar in his hand. Skipperton hoped Frosby wouldn’t see him in the car, but Frosby did.
Frosby didn’t pause in his stride, just smiled his obnoxious, thin-lipped little smile and nodded briefly, as if to say—
Well, Skip knew what Frosby might have wanted to say, what he had said with that filthy smile. Skip’s blood seethed, and Skip began to feel like his old self again. He was standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and feet apart, when Andy reappeared.
“What’s for dinner tonight, Andy? I’ve got an appetite!”
That evening, Skipperton persuaded Andy to take not only Saturday night off, but to stay overnight somewhere, if he wished. “Give you a couple of hundred bucks for a little spree, boy. You’ve earned it.” Skip forced three hundred dollar bills into Andy’s hand. “Take off Monday too, if you feel like it. I’ll manage.”
Andy left Saturday evening in the pick-up for Bangor.
Skip then telephoned old Frosby. Frosby answered, and Skipperton said, “Mr. Frosby, it’s time we made a truce, under the circumstances. Don’t you think so?”
Frosby sounded surprised, but he agreed to come Sunday morning around eleven for a talk. Frosby arrived in the same Cadillac, alone.
And Skipperton wasted no time. He let Frosby knock, opened the door for him, and as soon as Frosby was inside, Skip came down on his head with a rifle butt. He dragged Frosby to the hall to make sure the job was finished: the hall was uncarpeted, and Skip wanted no blood on the rugs. Vengeance was sweet to Skip, and he almost smiled. He removed Frosby’s clothes, and wrapped his body in three or four burlap sacks which he had ready. Then he burnt Frosby’s clothing in the fireplace, where he had a small fire already crackling. Frosby’s wristwatch and wallet and two rings Skip put aside in a drawer to deal with later.
He had decided that broad daylight was the best time to carry out his idea, better than night when an oddly playing flashlight that he would have had to use might have caught someone’s eye. So Skip put one arm around Frosby’s body and dragged him up the field towards his scarecrow. It was a haul of more than half a mile. Skip had some rope and a knife in his back pockets. He cut down the old scarecrow, cut the strings that held the clothing to the cross, dressed Frosby in the old trousers and jacket, tied a burlap bag around his head and face, and jammed the hat on him. The hat wouldn’t stay without being tied on, so Skip did this after punching holes in the brim of the hat with his knife point. Then Skip picked up his burlap bags and made his way back towards his house down the slope with many a backward look to admire his work, and many a smile. The scarecrow looked almost the same as before. He had solved a problem a lot of people thought difficult: what to do with the body. Furthermore, he could enjoy looking at it through his binoculars from his upstairs window.
Skip burnt the burlap bags in his fireplace, made sure that even the shoe soles had burnt to soft ash. When the ashes were cooler, he’d look for buttons and the belt buckle and remove them. He took a fork, went out beyond the pig run and buried the wallet (whose papers he had already burnt), the wristwatch and the rings about three feet deep. It was in a patch of stringy grass, unused for anything except the goats, not a place in which anyone would ever likely do any gardening.
Then Skip washed his face and hands, ate a thick slice of roast beef, and put his mind to the car. It was by now half past twelve. Skip didn’t know if Frosby had a servant, someone expecting him for lunch or not, but it was safer to assume he had. Skip’s aversion to Frosby had kept him from asking Maggie any questions about his household. Skip got into Frosby’s car, now with a kitchen towel in his back pocket to wipe off fingerprints, and drove to some woods he knew from having driven past them many times. An unpaved lane went off the main road into these woods, and into this Skip turned. Thank God, nobody in sight, not a woodsman, not a picnicker. Skip stopped the car and got out, wiped the steering wheel, even the keys, the door, then walked back towards the road.
He was more than an hour getting home. He had found a long stick, the kind called a stave by the wayfarers of old, Skip thought, and he trudged along with the air of a nature-lover, a bird-watcher, for the benefit of the people in the few cars that passed him. He didn’t glance at any of
the cars. It was still Sunday dinnertime.
The local police telephoned that evening around seven, and asked if they could come by. Skipperton said of course.
He had removed the buttons and buckle from the fireplace ashes. A woman had telephoned around 1:30, saying she was calling from the Frosby residence (Skip assumed she was a servant) to ask if Mr. Frosby was there. Skipperton told her that Mr. Frosby had left his house a little after noon.
“Mr. Frosby intended to go straight home, do you think?” the plump policeman asked Skipperton. The policeman had some rank like sergeant, Skipperton supposed, and he was accompanied by a younger policeman.
“He didn’t say anything about where he was going,” Skipperton replied. “And I didn’t notice which way his car went.”
The policeman nodded, and Skip could see he was on the brink of saying something like, “I understand from Mr. Frosby’s housekeeper that you and he weren’t on the best of terms,” but the cop didn’t say anything, just looked around Skip’s living room, glanced around his front and back yards in a puzzled way, then both policemen took their leave.
Skip was awakened around midnight by the ring of the telephone at his bedside. It was Maggie calling from Boston. She and Pete had heard about the disappearance of Pete’s father.
“Daddy, they said he’d just been to see you this morning. What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I invited him for a friendly talk—and it was friendly. After all we’re fathers-in-law now . . . Honey, how do I know where he went?”
Skipperton found it surprisingly easy to lie about Frosby. In a primitive way his emotions had judged, weighed the situation, and told Skip that he was right, that he had exacted a just revenge. Old Frosby might have exerted some control over his son, and he hadn’t. It had cost Skip his daughter—because that was the way Skip saw it, Maggie was lost to him. He saw her as a provincial-to-be, mother-to-be of children whose narrow-mindedness, inherited from the Frosby clan, would surely out.
Slowly, Slowly in the Wind Page 8
