Further Tales of the City (28 page)

P
RUE CROUCHED THERE IN THE BLACKNESS, THE SOUND
of her own breathing roaring in her ears like a hurricane.

The twins were already fast asleep, snuggled in the corner with their rabbit skins. Luke’s footsteps receded into the night.

Prue counted slowly to sixty, then pressed her ear to the door of the shack.

Nothing.

She eased the door open several inches and peered out into the darkness. She could see very little, only the fresh footprints in the sandy slope that marked Luke’s exodus. Overhead, in the eucalyptus trees, the wind made a sound like tissue paper being crumpled.

She tugged the door shut again, wincing as it creaked, then knelt by the children and shook them gently. “Anna … Edgar … wake up, darlings.”

The little girl stirred first. “What’s the matter?” she asked loudly.

“Shhh,” said Prue. “We’ve got to whisper.”

Edgar sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

“Uh … he’s out for a while.” She found the little boy’s jacket and helped him into it. “We’re going for a little ride. Won’t that be fun?”

“Where?” asked Anna.

“To my house,” said Prue. “You’ve never seen my house.”

Edgar began whining. “I don’t want to! I’m sleepy!”

Prue felt around in the shadows for Anna’s coat, her dread mounting every moment. Short of gagging the children, there was not much she could do about the noise. “We’ve got to be quiet, darling. Can you do that for Prue?”

Edgar persisted. “Why do we have to go?”

“Well … it’s a surprise … for Dad.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“You’ll see,” whispered Prue.

The whimpering continued.

“Don’t you want to see your mommy?” asked Prue.

Edgar fell silent.

“Don’t you?”

“Is she at your house?” asked Anna.

“She will be,” whispered Prue. “Very soon. C’mon now … let’s see how quiet we can be.”

She guided them up the slope into the dell, jumping at the sound of every twig that cracked underfoot. Once they entered the thicket of rhododendrons the darkness was so total that she was forced to find the way from memory.

“I’m scared,” said Anna, clutching at Prue’s hand.

“It’s all right, darling. It’ll only be dark for a little bit.”

The child began to cry noisily.

“Anna … please, darling … everything’s O.K. Edgar, tell your sister not to be scared.”

Silence.

“Edgar?”

No answer.

“Edgar!
My God … Edgar, where are you?”

Anna broke into a full wail. Prue knelt and scooped her into her arms, stroking her hair. “Shhh … it’s O.K., darling … it’s O.K. We’ve just got to find Edgar, that’s all.” She rose,
holding the child against her chest, and retraced her steps along the invisible path.

“Edgar!” she called, shouting in a whisper.

“Where are you?” came a tiny voice.

“Over here,” she said. Not the most useful piece of information, she realized.

“Where?” cried the child.

“Walk towards my voice, darling.”

She was relieved to hear something moving through the underbrush, until she noticed the speed with which it was approaching. A branch cracked, then slapped her brutally across the face. She and little Anna shrieked together as an unseen form lunged through the bushes, knocked her to the ground and thrust a huge wet tongue in her ear.

“Vuitton!”

The wolfhound barked excitedly, grateful to be reunited with his mistress. In her consternation over Luke, Prue had completely forgotten about him.

“It’s just my puppy,” she told Anna. “Are you all right, darling?”

“I wanna go back,” sobbed the child.

“It’s gonna be all right … I promise. Edgar … is that you?”

A tiny hand was clutching at her leg.

“Is that your dog?” asked Edgar.

“Yes, darling. He’s a nice dog.” She staggered to her feet, holding the children’s hands. “We’re gonna be just fine now.”

Where was the nearest telephone, anyway?

The de Young Museum?

If Luke was on his way to Halcyon Hill, somebody should warn Frannie Halcyon.

I
T WAS ALMOST NINE P.M. WHEN EMMA TOOK STOCK OF HER
mistress and realized that something was wrong.

“Miss Frannie?”

The matriarch looked up with heavy-lidded eyes—a symptom that Emma had long ago learned to recognize. “Yes … Emma, dear?”

“I brought you some hot milk,” scowled the maid. “I thought you might need some help gettin’ to sleep.”

“Oh … no, thank you, Emma.”

The maid set the tray down on the dresser and moved closer to the bed. “You been takin’ them pills again?”

Silence.

Emma’s lower lip plumped angrily. “You answer me that, Miss Frannie!”

The matriarch looked away. “Miss DeDe told me to!”

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The bottle. How many you take?”

“Only three … like aspirin.”

“That ain’t aspirin, Miss Frannie! You gimme that bottle, hear?”

The matriarch made a fluttery gesture towards the bedside table. “That was the last of ’em. I’m all right … really. Don’t you worry, dear.” Her pathetic little smile was belied by the tear that rolled down her face.

Emma blinked at her for several seconds, then sat down on the edge of the bed and took her mistress’ hand. “What’s the matter?” she asked sweetly.

“Emma … I can’t …”

“Yes you can. You can talk to Emma ‘bout it. If you don’t know that, you don’t know nothin’.”

The matriarch’s lips parted in a silent sob. Then she pressed her palms to her face and rocked slowly back and forth, never making a sound. It was only when the maid leaned forward and hugged her that a low animal moan escaped from somewhere deep inside Frannie Halcyon.

“You go right ahead,” said Emma. “You just go right ahead and cry.”

So Frannie wept for several minutes, cradled in the old woman’s arms.

Then she said: “DeDe thinks Jim Jones has got them.”

Emma pulled away and stared at her mistress. “What you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Jim Jones,” repeated Frannie. “From Guyana.”

“That’s crazy talk, Miss Frannie! Jim Jones is dead!”

Frannie shook her head lethargically. “Miss DeDe … she thinks … she says he didn’t die … she says …”

“You hush now. You get some sleep.”

“No … you should know this, Emma. Somebody else died in Guyana. Mr. Starr …
he’s
Jim Jones. He …”

“Shhh.”

“Those poor little babies! I gave them away to Jim Jones, Emma. I just gave them …”

“Now you listen to me, Miss Frannie! You
saw
Mr. Starr, didn’t you? He didn’t look like no Jim Jones, did he? Any fool could recognize Jim Jones in a minute! Jim Jones is
dead,
Miss Frannie!”

“No … he had plastic …”

“Hush, now.”

“… plastic surgery … he had … Emma …”

And then the matriarch passed out.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

Emma picked it up in the kitchen. “Halcyon Hill.”

“Oh … is this Edna?”

“Emma.”

“This is Ms. Giroux, Emma. It’s urgent that I speak to Mrs. Halcyon.”

“I’m sorry, Miz Giroux. She’s asleep.”

“Emma, I must speak …”

“I’ll give her the message, Miz Giroux. She’s dead to the world.”

“Emma … please … you must wake her up …
immediately!
Tell her that the children are at my place and they’re safe …”

“Praise the Lord!” exclaimed Emma.

“But she’s got to leave the house immediately. Mr. Starr is heading that way.”

“Here?”

“Any minute, Edna! He’s crazy … he’s lost his mind completely. I’m so afraid he’ll … just get out of there, please. Does Mrs. Halcyon have her car there?”

“Yes’m, but I don’t think …”

“Tell her not to get dressed or anything. Just
leave … get out of that house!
Do you understand me, Edna?”

“Yes’m.”

She understood only too well.

W
HEN JON AND MICHAEL RETURNED TO MICHAEL
’
S
apartment shortly after ten o’clock, Michael was considerably more relaxed.

“Frankly,” he said, dropping onto the sofa, “I was surprised you took it so well.”

“What?” asked Jon, choosing the armchair.

“You know … Bambi-in-the-basement.”

The doctor shrugged. “I lived here, remember?”

Michael smiled. “Nothing’s changed, huh?”

“Not much. I was prepared for almost anything.”

“That’s sound thinking.”

A long silence.

“So,” said Jon, “the nursery’s working out O.K.?”

“Great … terrific, in fact.”

“It’s been … how long?”

Michael thought for a moment. “Over three years … three years at the same place. God … is it time to call the Guinness Book?”

The doctor smiled. “I’m glad you like it. That’s important.”

Michael nodded. “It’s the only way. Doing
anything
over
and over again is boring enough as it is.”

The doctor regarded him for a moment. “Or any
one
, huh?”

“Hey …”

“Sorry. That was low.”

“I’ll say.” Michael was stinging worse than he might have expected.

“Is Ned still running the nursery?” asked Jon, obviously attempting a retreat to the impersonal.

Michael nodded. “He’s been talking about making me a full partner.”

“Good. That’s good to hear. You should be putting some money away.”

“I know,” said Michael. “Don’t nag.”

Jon smiled beseechingly. “Did it sound like that?”

Michael shook his head, smiling back. “It’s just … you know … a tender spot.”

“It always was,” said Jon.

Michael drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Well … that’s not something you have to worry about anymore, is it?”

Jon said nothing for a moment, then shook his head slowly in amazement. “It’s still so damned convincing, you know.”

“What?”

“You and that brave-waif-in-the-storm routine. Little Michael against the world. You’ve even got Mrs. Madrigal buffaloed. She thinks
I’m
the one who left you.”

Michael stiffened. “I never told her that.”

“You didn’t have to,” said the doctor. “You just ducked your eyes and looked pitiful, as usual. Someday he’ll come along tra la. I’ve got news for you, Michael: he
did
come along and you tossed him out on his butt, because you didn’t have the balls to get past your fantasy.”

“What
fantasy?” Michael was almost speechless.

“You tell me. Young Dr. Kildare, maybe? I don’t know … whatever it was, I couldn’t live up to it anymore … and you couldn’t stand the thought of being loved by just another guy like yourself. You’re tough, Michael—despite all that sad young man bullshit—but you’re not tough enough to handle that one!”

Michael stared at him, stupefied. “You’re so wrong it’s not even …”

“Am I? How’s the cop working out, by the way?”

Michael’s mouth fell open. “What
didn’t
Mrs. Madrigal tell you?”

“She told me about the cop,” said Jon. “And the movie star. And the construction worker. You’re not having a life, Michael—you’re fucking the Village People, one at a time.”

“Now wait a minute!”

“It’s the truth,” said Jon.

“What business is it of…?”

“It
isn’t
my business. You’re right about that. It hasn’t been my business for a long time … and I shouldn’t have said anything. Except that Mrs. M. asked me to … and I wanted to … and I’m tired of hearing this crap about how nobody wants you. Somebody wants you, Michael … as if you didn’t know it. And he knows the very worst there is to know about you.”

“Jon … I’m sorry if …”

The doctor rose. “There isn’t anything to apologize for.”

Michael sat in silence as he headed for the door.

“I’ll stay through the wedding,” said Jon. “There won’t be any scenes, I promise you.”

“Do you …? Is Burke’s room O.K.? Do you need clean sheets or anything?”

“Thanks. Mrs. M. took care of that.”

“I love you,” said Michael.

“I know,” said the doctor. “Isn’t that the hell of it?”

H
ARDLY BELIEVING HER EARS, EMMA SET THE RECEIVER
down, then hurried back upstairs to her mistress’ bedroom. Frannie Halcyon was out cold and snoring, one arm dangling inelegantly off the edge of the four-poster.

“Miss Frannie,” whispered the maid, bending over the matriarch. “Wake up, Miss Frannie!”

No response.

“Law’, Miss Frannie,
you wake up now.’”
Emma grasped her mistress by the shoulders and shook gently. “He’s comin’, Miss Frannie … Jim Jones is comin’!”

Still no response.

“Sweet Jesus!” murmured Emma. Those unholy pills, she realized, had done their job but good.

She fetched a glass of water from the bathroom and tossed half of it onto the matriarch’s face. Frannie Halcyon’s features contorted momentarily. Then she uttered a half-hearted groan and rolled over on her stomach.

“Please … oh Lord,
please.
Miss Frannie … you gotta wake up! Jim Jones is comin’!”

Ripping off the bedclothes, Emma rolled the matriarch
over again and pulled her feet off the bed. Then she hoisted her into a sitting position.

The matriarch’s head hung slack. She mumbled something unintelligible into her own cleavage.

“Do you hear me?” asked Emma.

“Grdlarmarelup.”

“You just sit there,” panted Emma. “I’ll get you out of here.”

She dashed to the closet and conducted a frantic search for her mistress’ floor-length black mink. Finding it, she rushed back to the bed and began pulling it onto the matriarch’s arms.

“C’mon now … c’mon, Miss Frannie … we gotta walk. Can you do that for Emma now? C’mon …” Facing her mistress, she slid her hands under the mink-sheathed arms and lifted with all her might.

“Herpledarnover.”

“Help me, Miss Frannie … you can do it. Stand on them feet for me….”

For a moment, the matriarch seemed to be doing just that.

“Good,” said Emma. “That’s real good. Now just start walkin’. It’s O.K. Emma’s got you.”

Seconds later, Frannie toppled like a felled bear, pinning Emma painfully against the Chinese carpet. The maid somehow managed to dislodge herself, gasping for breath.

“Miss Frannie,” she wept. “God help us both.” She stared at her mistress in despair before taking a pillow from the bed and sliding it under Frannie Halcyon’s head. The matriarch snorted noisily, rolled over and fell asleep.

Emma went directly to the bathroom and removed the bottle of rum that her mistress kept hidden in the toilet tank. She took two burning swigs, then returned it to its hiding place.

She had never done that before, but she knew what would soon be required of her.

The matriarch kept her pistol in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. It was a recent acquisition, Emma knew—purchased
only days after Mrs. Reagan announced her own reliance on a “tiny little gun.”

The maid lifted it gingerly by the butt and crept out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Then she moved from room to room downstairs, turning off the lights as she went.

She checked the lock on the front door.

Then the one in the kitchen.

Then the one on the sunporch.

As she crossed the sunporch, heading for the living room, she heard a noise in the garden.

She ducked behind a big wicker chair, peering over the edge long enough to see a man push his way through the shrubbery and cross the lawn.

He stood in the middle of the lawn, assessing the house, looking from left to right.

Emma made a dash for the kitchen, then let herself out into the garage. The garage door was still open, so she slipped into the darkness, ran across the front lawn, and crept through the arbor in the side yard until the intruder was once again in view.

This time she was behind him.

The man moved closer to the house.

Then he tried to open the door to the sunporch.

“You!”
shouted Emma.
“Jim Jones!”

The intruder spun on his heels, locking eyes with the rail-thin old woman who stood on the lawn with a pistol in her hand. He raised his arms in a gesture of supplication and uttered his last word in a surprisingly placid tone of voice.

“Sister,” he said.

Then Emma shot him between the eyes.