“Not really,” said Andrew.
“I think you were a very good son to her. Staying with her as you did. It’s not always easy for us to understand one another, especially parents and children. I know your life has not been an easy one.”
Andrew stared at the old man, wondering how he knew so much about it. He felt as if the old pastor could see inside their house, inside his brain. A chill ran through him. What if the old man suspected what had happened. Maybe the police had discussed it with him, and this was a trap they had set up. The old guy would try to pretend he was all sympathetic and get him to break down and confess. Andrew looked at him with steely eyes. He would not be conned by this kindly old pastor act. He was ready for any trick.
James went on, oblivious of Andrew’s suspicions. “I thought if you liked, we could just have a short graveside prayer service. I know that your mother had lost touch with many of the…friends she used to know. So we might not want to have a whole service at the church. But something, short and respectful. At the cemetery. How does that strike you?” James looked up questioningly at Andrew.
He doesn’t know anything, Andrew thought. He couldn’t or he’d be asking me a lot of questions about the accident
“Andrew?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I’ll take care of everything for you. Mr. Sullivan and I. Shall we say tomorrow? In the afternoon?”
Andrew nodded.
“Try to be strong, son. I know this is a difficult time for you.”
Andrew stared at him.
“And I also hope, now that Mother has passed on, that you may feel like coming back to the church. We all missed you, although we knew that you were abiding by your mother’s wishes—”
“Where’s Francie?” said Andrew.
James looked a little startled by the abrupt question, but he tried to mask his surprise. “Well, uh, Francie and her sister went down to Philadelphia for a day or two. Beth had some urgent business there. They should be back soon.”
“When?” said Andrew.
“I’m not sure,” said the old man. “Mrs. Traugott talked to Beth before they left. It might be today. Or tomorrow. I know they will be most upset to hear of your loss.”
“Probably today then,” said Andrew.
“Maybe.”
“I have to go,” said Andrew, getting up from the chair.
“Of course.”
Before James could get up, Andrew was on his feet and heading out of the office. “If you have any questions about the service—” said James, but Andrew had already slammed the door behind him. James heard a shout that sounded like a curse in the hall.
Andrew crossed the altar and stalked back down the center aisle of the church. As he reached the front doors he felt as if he were being watched from behind. He whirled around to confront the spy. The figure of Christ, wounded in the side, the thorns pressing into His forehead, hung on the cross above the altar, watching him.
Andrew stared back at it, feeling a band of pain gripping his own head and a sensation like a white-hot knife plunging through his body. For a moment he could see himself, hammered there, at the mercy of his tormentors. He tore his eyes from the icon and burst through the doors of the church, gasping for breath.
She had gone off on him without a word. His mind reeled at the thought. He staggered down the church steps and started off in the direction of his house. Her face filled his head, and she was laughing at him. Laughing, after what he had done to free them. He felt as if he were choking. His fists were clenched tight as he stumbled along, and he tried not to think of her, but the wind crooned her name, and he could not obliterate the sight of those ungrateful, stupid eyes dancing before him.
A mail truck was parked at the end of the driveway as Andrew approached the house. The uniformed driver got out and started toward him across the brown stubble of lawn as Andrew reached the porch. Andrew’s heart began to hammer as the man came near. It was a trap. The police had sent the mailman to get him. They knew about his mother.
“Andrew Vincent?”
“Why?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the mailman muttered. “I have an express package here for you.” His breath was visible in the chilly air. He thrust the envelope at Andrew. “Here.” He turned and began to walk away.
“I won’t sign anything,” said Andrew.
“You don’t have to,” said the mailman, heading back toward his truck. “It’s all yours.”
Andrew looked down at the large brown envelope suspiciously. The return address was from Philadelphia. Then, all at once, he realized whom it was from. He caught his breath and stared at it. With trembling fingers he worked the envelope open. Inside was another, smaller envelope. In the upper left a printed business address had been crossed out, and the name F. Pearson was carefully written. Andrew studied his name and address on the cream-colored envelope, examining her writing, which was unfamiliar to him. He ran his finger gently over it as his heart rose, and ballooned in his chest.
Francie. His very own obedient girl. Here she was, gone only one day, and already she had written to him. It was probably a love letter, apologizing for having gone off without telling him, promising to make it up to him when she got back. Relief filled him, warming him. Nothing had changed after all. Everything was fine again. She was still his.
He did not want to open it right away. He wanted to savor the triumph. It was his reward for all he had done. Stuffing the envelope in his pocket, he let himself into the house. He stopped in the cellar, took off his clothes, and put them to one side, making sure that the precious envelope was nowhere close to the water from the shower. Then he stepped under the shower head.
The lukewarm water felt voluptuous on his skin. He threw back his head and let it run over his eyelids, into his mouth. He felt the anxiety easing out of him. As he slid his hands down to his genitals, he imagined her kneeling piteously before him, pleading for his forgiveness. He massaged himself, imagining how he would withhold his pardon, making her wonder if she would ever be returned to the warmth of his good graces. The image was wonderful and exciting. And she deserved to beg a little, for having made him worry. She would have to learn her lesson. But just as he was about to accept her pleas, he lost control of himself. Shame spread all through him as he felt the filthy gush of his semen. He washed himself off quickly, loathing the smell and feel of his body. He put back on the dirty clothes which he had been wearing and, feeling for the letter in the pocket, hurried up the stairs.
Ripping the envelope open unceremoniously, he pulled out the single handwritten sheet inside and began to read it in the dim light of the foyer. The message was short. “Dear Andrew,” she wrote. “I have gone away for a few days with my sister. I was going to wait and tell you when I got back, but I decided to get this over with. I don’t know why you didn’t show up to get me last night. I waited where you said, and then I gave up. It was just like at the old man’s place. You said you would do something, and then you didn’t do it. I’m tired of you doing that. I don’t want to see you when I get back, so please don’t call me anymore. Don’t think this is just because I’m mad. I am a little mad, but mostly I think we might be wrong for each other after all. Please just leave me alone after this. Francie.”
Someone was knocking at the door.
Andrew reread the letter twice while a series of knocks was repeated on the front door. Then he crushed the paper in his hand. With wooden steps he walked to the door and opened it.
A plump woman in a green car coat stood on the porch, holding a large shopping bag. A late-model Ford station wagon was parked in the Vincent driveway. The plump woman looked up at Andrew as he opened the door, a sober but kindly expression on her face.
“Andrew?”
Andrew stared at her.
She smiled nervously. “I don’t think we’ve met. Well, maybe once, but anyway I know you from your picture. I’m Estelle Ridberg, Dr. Ridberg’s wife?” She looked for a sign of recognition in his blank red-rimmed eyes, but he seemed to be looking right through her. “Well,” she went on, “Dr. Ridberg and I heard about your mother’s terrible accident on the radio this morning. It is just a tragedy. I know you must be—well, she often spoke to the doctor of how close you and she were.”
Andrew stared out past the driveway. He saw something move behind a tree across the street. It was her. The blond hair. The glint of her glasses. She was watching him. It was all a joke. She wanted to see what he would do when he got the letter. It was her idea of a little fun. Then she was going to run out, laughing, and throw her arms around him. He squinted at the tree and saw that it was only the tall, bleached grass, rustling behind it, the weak gray light of the day reflecting off a broken bottle lying there.
“I thought,” said the plump woman, squirming slightly under the young man’s trance-like gaze, “I’d just make you a little something to tide you over.” She reached into the bag she had brought and began rummaging around.
No. It was impossible. Francie would never do this to him. She belonged to him. She would never leave him like this. She was going to run away with him. She had been all ready to. It had even said so in the letter. She had been waiting for him, until the sister took her away.
All at once the dark morass of unbearable feelings inside him was penetrated by a clear, bright beam of comprehension. That was it. Of course. The sister. It was the only possible explanation. Francie was taken away by the sister and forced to write that garbage. That’s what she was trying to tell him in the letter. It was a kind of code between them. A way of letting him know that the sister had taken her prisoner. Andrew felt a white-hot halo of rage begin to tighten around his head. That bitch. He should have known.
“There,” said Estelle Ridberg, her rounded cheeks flushed pink. She held out a dish covered with aluminum foil and pressed it into Andrew’s hands. The warm dish seemed to startle him.
He stared at it as if it had dropped from outer space. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“This is a chicken and noodle casserole,” she said. “You just take off this foil and pop this in a moderate oven. Now there’s also some salad in the—”
“Who told you to come here?” said Andrew.
“Dr. Ridberg and I are concerned about you. You have to keep your strength up at these times. You have to be sure to eat.”
Andrew peered at her as if seeing her for the first time. He had to force himself to think, to figure out what was happening, even though his mind kept veering back to the letter. “I don’t know you,” he said.
“Well, as I said, we never met, but your mother—”
His mother. He knew it had to do with that. There were probably drugs in this food. The police would feed him drugs and then wait for him to confess. There was probably a tape recorder in that bag that they wanted to get into the house.
Andrew removed the aluminum foil and looked down at the yellowish chunks and strands in the bowl. “I don’t want your drugs,” he said. With that he overturned the bowl and dumped the contents into the bare bushes beside the steps.
Estelle Ridberg’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, and then she drew herself up indignantly. “Wait one minute. Look here—”
With one swift movement Andrew reached down and picked up the bag, drawing it back like a discus and hurling it across the yard. It landed on the hard, rocky ground and fell open. Paper napkins issued from the top and fluttered in the air like white paper birds.
Letting out a weak cry, the dentist’s wife hurried down the porch steps and retrieved the bag, picking up its littered contents as she went.
Andrew rushed after her. “Now stay away from me. Don’t bother spying on me. And tell the others too. Don’t try to pull anything on me.”
“Oh, my Lord,” mumbled the dentist’s wife. “What is wrong with you?” She hurriedly reassembled the things in the bag.
Andrew loomed over her. She reached out to pick up a head of lettuce, which lay, still wrapped, on the ground, but as her gloved fingers touched it, Andrew drew his foot back and kicked it viciously, sending it sailing out across the street.
Clutching the bag, Estelle scrambled to her feet, hurried to her car, and quickly locked herself inside. She switched on the ignition with shaking hands and stared out at Andrew, who was looking at her with a wild, unfocused look in his eyes. He shook his fist at her. “Get out of here,” he screamed.
As the engine turned over and the car began to roll, Estelle opened her window a crack. “Your mother would be so ashamed,” she cried.
He started toward her car, but she poured on the gas and was out the driveway before he could reach her. He turned and stalked back up toward the house. Estelle cradled the bag on the seat beside her almost apologetically, her pink cheeks quivering as she sped away.
THE OLD FAIRLANE SEDAN THUDDED TO A HALT
in the driveway, and Beth switched off the ignition with a loud sigh. “God, I thought we’d never get here. I feel like all we do is travel lately.”
Francie nodded. “It takes so long.”
“It’s changing planes. If there were a direct flight here, it wouldn’t be so bad. But as it is, it takes all day.” She looked out the window at the bare trees, black against the bleak sky. The clouds seemed to have settled in low on their side of the mountains, their variegated grays reminding her of a wash drawing in india ink. “What time is it?” she asked.
Francie looked at her watch. “About four.”
“Well, we’d better heave-ho. I’ve got a lot of phone calls to make before five o’clock. A lot of places will be closed tomorrow since it’s Saturday.”
Francie got out and pulled her pack from the car. She trudged up toward the front steps. Beth came up behind her and shivered in the chill as she waited for Francie to unlock the door. “I don’t mind admitting that I’m glad I’ve—we’ve only got to make that haul one more time,” said Beth.
“It’s kind of fun, though. The plane and everything.”
Beth groaned. “Flying is fun when you’re young.”
“What?”
“Did you ever hear that story about the kid who stowed away on airplanes?”