"I got an A," she boasted, not offering any further information. Her eyes were large and very dark, and she had a pouting mouth. Her hair looked as though it had been artificially curled and colored a dark honey-blond.
"I try to encourage my kids to look into a lot of things," Richard Mifflin said proudly. He put his hand on John's head, ruffling his hair. "This fellow here is going to play basketball next year."
John continued looking down at his plate.
"
I'm
going to be a cheerleader when I go to high school," Martha bragged.
Annoyed at the girl's manner, which was beginning to give him a headache, Jacob Beck changed the subject. "Wasn't it terrible about that woman on Market Street hanging herself the other day?" he said, offering the first thing that came into his head, instantly realizing the mistake he had made.
"I thought it was just terrible," Janet Mifflin said immediately. At the hint of gossip she brightened.
Her husband smiled slyly at her. "You just like the fact that the woman turned your committee work down last year."
"Well it was terrible," Janet Mifflin said. "The way they found her and all." She glanced around the table, avoiding the children's eyes, trying to talk over them. "You know what I mean," she said, making a motion at the front of her dress as if she was taking her blouse off.
"Yes, it was terrible," Mary Beck said, her eyes on Billy.
"Julie Matheson swears she was having an . . . affair," Janet Mifflin went on, even the disapproving look from her husband failing to stop her now. "She thinks it was that man Allie Kramer's husband used to go fishing with. From Kipperton. They stopped going fishing together last summer, after they had a fight. Julie says the fight was over Allie."
Richard Mifflin said, "I think, with the children here, we should—"
"Well, it's
true
," his wife countered.
"It's not true. You don't know it is. From what I heard, Ralph Kramer and his Kipperton friend had a fight over a bank loan. And besides," he continued, caught up in the mild argument with his wife, "supposedly she killed herself because of all the credit she'd run up. Ralph found out about it and he was going to kick her out."
"Credit?" Janet Mifflin snorted. "She hanged herself in the bedroom, over the bed,
naked
, over credit?"
"I think . . ." Jacob Beck began, as Richard Mifflin turned to him.
"I'm sorry, Reverend," he said, a trace of anger still evident in his voice.
"There have been three suicides in this town in the past month," Janet Mifflin said, refusing to give up. "First that fag . . ." She hesitated, blushing. "Excuse me, that art teacher at the school, then that milkman who jumped from the Harris Building downtown, now Allie Kramer." She gazed around the table conspiratorially. "Isn't that strange?"
"Well, actually it is," Jacob Beck said carefully. "Suicide is a terrible thing. And sometimes it comes in waves. Around the holidays and such."
Mary Beck got up and went into the kitchen.
"That may be true," Richard Mifflin said, but this—"
"
I
heard in school that Mr. Monk liked to touch little boys," Martha said mischievously.
Janet Mifflin's eyes widened. "The art teacher? Who told you that, Martha?"
"Well . . ." she said noncommittally.
"I've never heard anything so disgusting in my life," Janet Mifflin said indignantly. "To think that no one checked into rumors like that. To think they had a man like that working with children!"
"It was probably just gossip," her husband said, sensing a chance to resume their argument.
"But to think"—she pointed at John, who quickly looked away—"that our boy might have been exposed to—“
"Now Janet—" Richard Mifflin interjected.
"Ah, dessert!" Jacob Beck announced. He indicated his wife, who stood grimly in the entranceway to the dining room with a huge platter of brownies. Beck took them from her and set them down near the Mifflin end of the table. In a moment the Mifflins were busy with them, and, as Jacob Beck had hoped, the conversation turned to more mundane things.
"I have to admit," Janet Mifflin effused, that having children is wonderful." She paused to put another brownie on her plate. "Especially"—she patted her stomach, making a face—"when you don't have to go through that nine-month business every time."
Beck noticed that the wine decanter, which had made its way down to the Mifflin end of the table near the beginning of the meal and had stayed there, next to Janet Mifflin, was now nearly empty.
"Janet . . ." Richard Mifflin warned.
"I'm just joking," she said waving her hand at him. "My little Martha is wonderful, but that pain—" She broke off, shivering. She paused to empty her glass. "And then you go through all that work, and they bring you the little baby, and it doesn't even look human at all. It looks like"—she gestured with her glass—"I don't know, a Martian or something. All shriveled up, with those little eyes." She shivered again.
"That's quite enough," Richard Mifflin said.
"I'm only joking, dear," his wife replied mildly. She looked lovingly at her two children. "I only meant to say thank God for adoption. It makes everything so much easier. And anyway, after you get past all that birth business, kids aren't the big problem they're supposed to be."
Jacob Beck said, smiling, "It's not all roses. I remember Christine filling the bathtub with Jell-O when she was three. It took Mary two days to get it out." He looked at his wife, who only managed a distracted smile.
"
I
once did that," Martha Mifflin interjected.
"No you did not!" her mother said with a gasp as she set the now empty wine decanter on the table.
"Yes. When you were away. I did it to Mrs. Breckenridge, the housekeeper."
Janet Mifflin put her hand to her chest. "My little Martha did that? It must have been that Breckenridge woman's fault. We were always having trouble with her. I remember—"
"Richard," Jacob Beck said brightly, "what do you think of the football season so far?"
"I don't quite know." Mifflin frowned, and Beck remembered that Mifflin was a basketball fan and didn't follow football.
There was a lull in the conversation. The afternoon hung around them. Even Janet Mifflin was silent, rolling her empty wineglass between her fingers. Beck was about to say something when Martha Mifflin blurted out, "Billy left the school yard Friday, at lunchtime."
"Really?" Jacob Beck said, realizing as he spoke that it was an impolite thing to say, an extension of the fact that he had been about to speak and hadn't been able to hold his tongue. Everyone had unconsciously turned toward Billy.
"Is that true?" Mary asked the boy quickly.
"I really don't think this is the time—" Jacob began.
"I bet he went to do something bad," Martha continued smugly.
"Answer me," Mary persisted, suppressed anger in her voice. "Did you leave the school yard on Friday?"
Billy pushed back his chair and stood. He walked from the room.
"Come back here!" Mary Beck exclaimed hysterically, but Jacob held up his hand and said, "Let him go."
"Well
I
saw him," Martha Mifflin said.
"Would anyone like more coffee?" Jacob Beck offered, a little too loudly.
The room was dark when Beck opened the door. A reflection of light from the hallway showed Billy in his chair, facing the window. A chill went through Jacob. He ignored it and closed the door behind him, leaving it open a crack to let a line of illumination into the room.
He sat on the bed and said softly, "I want to talk to you."
Billy didn't turn toward him, and again a chill wanted to take over Reverend Beck, but he pushed it away.
Silence stretched in the darkness. Beck said, "Billy, I had a talk with John's father. He says that you and John were at the same adoption home and that this woman Melinda took care of both of you. He says that John is very upset that you're here. John thinks you're bothering him for some reason."
Billy stared into the darkness.
Beck gripped the boy's arm and turned him until Billy faced him. He hesitated for a moment, afraid of what he might see, but when the boy faced him, it was with his somber visage and blank, calm copper eyes.
"Are you bothering John Mifflin?" Beck asked.
Billy said, in a steady voice, "He came to me in the school yard and told me to stay away from him."
"You haven't gone near him?"
"No."
Beck relaxed his hold on the boy's arm, realizing that he had been gripping it. "Did you have any trouble with John when you were at Melinda's house?"
"Yes."
"Was there a reason?"
"No."
"Billy, did you follow John Mifflin here?" The boy stared levelly through Jacob. "Tell me, Billy."
Silence.
A flash of rage passed through Beck. He wanted to take the boy by the shoulders and shake him, or bring his hand across Billy's mouth. This frightened him momentarily; he had never raised a hand to his own daughter, never mind any other child, but then he realized that the source of his anger was the same as that which had made him smash his fist against the pew in the chapel that Saturday night. It was emotional impotence. He wanted badly to reach Billy, but the boy would not let him.
The moment of anger passed.
"Listen to me," Beck said gently. "John's father told me about Melinda, where the house was and who to locate about her records. I want you to know that I have to look into this. Since you won't tell me, I have to find out where you're from and who, if anyone, you belong with. It's the law, Billy, and it's also the right thing to do. I want very much for you to stay here, but I have to do these things. You're sure there's nothing else you want to tell me?"
It was as if he wasn't there; the boy was staring out into the darkness, his small back straight against the chair, his hands unmoving in his lap.
Another wave of anger passed through Beck, but he held it in check. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and got up. "I was going to talk about smoking cigarettes, but that can wait."
He left the room, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
Billy turned toward the window. And, in the darkness, his eyes turned into two deep, black wells.
Satan
.
The night was chilly. Mary Beck drew her shawl up around her shoulders. She considered going back for her jacket, but the fear that she might lose him made her tighten the shawl around her and block the cold from her mind.
Her steps echoed thinly down the path.
She opened the front gate slowly, because the grinding noise its old hinges made might alert him that he was being followed. She left the gate open.
He was a block ahead of her, across the street, standing by one of the tall brick pillars at the entrance to the park. There was a lit cigarette in his hand. He brought it up to his mouth and drew deeply on it, blowing out the smoke slowly in a practiced way. A shiver went through Mary, making her draw the shawl even closer about her.
Satan. The way Satan would smoke.