Nursery Tale (5 page)

And, he realized at last, that it was their absence, the silence here, that was making him itchy uncomfortable.

Tense
, he thought suddenly. He was feeling tense. As if, while he was lying here in the dark and the quiet, in this new place, something waited very, very patiently—something that was a
part
of
this
place, and had been a part of it for years and years—like the big, gnarled oak tree close to the main gates.

"Damn!" he whispered, angry that he could so easily frighten himself.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. He inhaled deeply. He reached to his right and switched on the bedside lamp.

He grinned, relieved.

The room was empty.

The house was quiet.

September 26, Early Morning

M
arge Gellis gave Deputy Sheriff Peters the cup of coffee he'd asked for; she noticed her hands were trembling, that some of the coffee had spilled over onto the saucer. "Oh," she said, "I'm sorry." She noticed her voice was trembling, too. "I'll get you another cup."

"No," the deputy said, "this is fine—"

Norm Gellis hunched over on the couch, hands folded in front of him (like his wife, he had put a robe on over his pajamas), cut in, "Marge, go back downstairs. You're not gonna be any good to no one the way you are."

"I'd rather she stayed," said the deputy.

Norm Gellis looked up at him, surprised. "She didn't see nothin',
Sheriff
!" He nearly spat the word.

"I'd rather she stayed," the deputy repeated. He was a short, dark, and very solidly built man in his early forties; it was clear from his tone and manner that he was accustomed to obedience. "It happens, Mr. Gellis, that people sometimes don't know for certain what they've seen until after the shock wears off and they've had a chance to calm down. Do you understand that?"

Norm Gellis shrugged as if the entire matter had suddenly become distasteful to him. "Hey, if she wants to stay . . ."

"Thank you," said the deputy. He seated himself in a La-Z-Boy opposite the couch and leaned forward. "How old would you say the child was, Mr. Gellis?"

"I told you before—"

"Please tell me again."

Norm rolled his eyes. "About ten—he was about ten. Eleven, maybe."

"About ten or eleven. And you say he was dark-skinned; could he have been black?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"It was hard to tell. The room was dark."

"Would you say the boy was white?"

"Yeah, sure." A short pause. "He was white."

"Can you be certain of that, Mr. Gellis?"

"I don't know. He could have been a damned spic, for God's sake!"

"Sorry? I don't understand."

"A Puerto Rican, a spic, Sheriff. You comprehende?" He chuckled.

"Do you believe he was Puerto Rican, Mr. Gellis?"

"Christ, no—I was only joking!"

"Oh?" The hint of a smile appeared and disappeared quickly on the deputy's lips. He turned his head and addressed Marge Gellis. "Can you add anything to what your husband has told me, Mrs. Gellis?"

Marge, standing a few feet to the left of the couch, looked suddenly ill at ease. She said nothing for a long moment, then, "I really didn't get a very good . . . look at him."

The deputy quickly turned his entire body toward her. "Just tell me what you saw, Mrs. Gellis. Just let it come back to you slowly—I think you'll be surprised at . . ."

"He wasn't black," Marge cut in. "I know he wasn't black."

"But your husband said the room was dark, Mrs. Gellis."

"I thought you didn't see nothin', Marge!" There was anger in Norm Gellis's tone. "You told me—"

"Mr. Gellis, please, I've explained—"

And Marge interrupted, "He was running from me, toward the top of the stairs, and there was a light on in the bathroom . . ." She stopped, remembered. "And I could see his face pretty clearly, just for a second, less than a second, really." A short pause, then, "And I saw his . . . eyes, his expression—" She stopped; she seemed suddenly confused. Her gaze fell slowly from the deputy's face to her hands, clasped tightly in front of her. Her confusion grew harder, more obvious. "My God," she murmured, "My God!"

"Mrs. Gellis, are you all right?"

"My God!" She looked up. The confusion was gone—a stark and knowing fear had replaced it. "Sheriff, he . . . that boy, I mean, he . . ."

The deputy stood quickly, went to her, put his arms around her shoulders to steady her. "Come over here, Mrs. Gellis." He coaxed her gently to the La-Z-Boy and helped her into it. She sat with her hands flat on the arms of the chair, her head down.

The deputy knelt on one knee beside the chair. He put his hand on her hand and spoke softly, reassuringly. "Now, Mrs. Gellis, I want you to take a few deep breaths . . ." He paused, hoped for some response, got none. "A few deep breaths, Mrs. Gellis. You're obviously in some kind of shock—" She lifted her head suddenly. Turned it. Looked him squarely in the eye. "Mrs. Gals?" he said. Her looked unnerved him. The fear had vanished; now great relief was obvious around her eyes and mouth. "Mrs. Gellis, do you have something you'd like to add to what you've already told me?"

She answered quickly, "Norm's right."

"I don't understand, Mrs. Gellis."

"I said Norm's right. I didn't see anything."

The deputy heard Norm Gellis change position on the couch. He turned his head and looked at him. Norm was smiling oddly. The deputy turned back to Marge. "The boy was running away from you," he began, in an attempt to coax her, "and in the light from the bathroom, you say you–"

"I'm sorry," she cut in, "but I can't tell you a thing. I really can't."

Deputy Peters studied her face. He saw that she actually believed what she was telling him now. At last, and reluctantly, he said, "Yes. Forgive me." He stood, took a small, Sony cassette recorder from a pocket on his belt. "Mr. Gellis," he began, "I'd like you to repeat everything you've told me, for the record, please."

Norm Gellis said, "No, I don't think so. It was her idea"—he nodded quickly at his wife, as if embarrassed—"to call you in the first place. And the more I think about it, the more I think I shouldn'ta gone along with her. It ain't real important, is it? I can handle it. Just some goddamned kid playin' around, and if he comes back, I'll take care of him." He smiled again; the deputy saw hostility in that smile and he wondered at whom it was directed, exactly. "I'll take good care of him, don't you worry."

The deputy put the tape recorder back on his belt. "You know, Mr. Gellis, that the laws regarding trespass do not allow—"

"I know all about the law, Sheriff." He paused for effect. "And so will that boy if he ever shows up here again." He nodded at the door. "Thanks for coming by, Sheriff."

J
ohn Marsh stopped the pickup truck just to the left of the big, ornate, black iron gate. The word GRANADA, done in what looked, in the glare of the headlights, like stainless steel, stretched across the gate; GRAN on the left side, ADA on the right. He had noted the other signs weeks ago—crisp, black capital letters on large, white, rectangular backgrounds, spaced like Burma Shave signs down the length of the road:

REYNOLDS ROAD. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS OR VEHICLES ALLOWED.

He supposed now that he should not have come here again. But, for the first time in a decade, he was very drunk. And when he got drunk he got especially nostalgic and sloppy. And when that happened, he did foolish things—which was why, he considered, he so rarely got drunk.

"Granada," he mumbled, "Granada," he repeated, as if the word were a ball of phlegm he'd managed to cough up. And then he did start to cough in earnest a liquid, gurgling kind of cough. The very sound of it made him queasy. The coughing continued for several minutes, then it stopped abruptly. And he realized that Matt Peters was tapping on the driver's window.

Marsh grinned stupidly and rolled the window down. "Hello, Matt. Whatcha doin'? You tuckin' these people in?"

"John, do you have business here?"

"At this hour of the damned morning? Shit no."

"Then do you mind telling me . . ." The deputy paused a moment. "Are you
drunk
, John?"

"Uh-huh. Sick, too. You got some Bromo?" he chuckled softly. "I could really use some Bromo."

"Christ, John, I wish you hadn't done this! We've got special orders from the sheriff himself about this place—"

"
Shit
on this place, Matt!"

The deputy put his hand on the door handle. "You're going to have to come back with me, John. I'll drop you at your place—"

"You like what they're doin' here, Matt?" Marsh nodded in the general direction of the iron gate. "You really like what they're doin' here?"

Deputy Peters opened the door slowly. "I haven't given it a lot of thought, John. Now do you want to climb out of that truck, please."

"You don't remember the Griffins, do you, Matt?"

"No, John, I don't. That was before my time. Now I'm going to have to insist that you get out of the truck. I've got a report to file, and I'm very tired—"

"Real . . . fine people, Matt." He was beginning to slur his words badly; the deputy had trouble understanding him. "Stupid, foolish . . . people, for sure, but fine people, too, and they had fine dreams, Matt."

The deputy shook his head slowly. "John, will you please–"

And John Marsh fell very heavily and quickly from the driver's seat to the road. He lay face down, vomit trickling from his mouth. The deputy leaned over, rolled him to his side. "Christ, John!" With great effort he pulled and prodded and pushed the man to a sitting position against the driver's door. "John, are you all right?"

A slight, sad grin appeared on Marsh's face. He burped several times in quick succession, then put his hand on his stomach. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, I'm okay." He nodded slightly to indicate the iron gate and the massive, dark shapes of the houses—many were still in various stages of construction—beyond it. He saw a light wink on in one of the houses. "I'm fine," he repeated. A half mile west of the farthest houses, the small, deciduous forest was silhouetted against a pale sky. Directly overhead, a few of the brighter stars still were visible. "But I'll tell you something, Matt." His voice was steady now. "Kind of a secret—between you and me, I mean."

"John, why don't you just try standing up. I'll give you a lift home and tomorrow we can—"

"'Cuz I been comin' here from time to time in the last couple weeks, Matt, and I been seein' things, and I wanta share this secret with you. I wanta tell you that these people here, behind that godawful fence, in those goddamn houses, Matt—" He closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. "These people ain't all right, Matt. I don't know why, for sure, not for sure." He pressed his hand hard into his stomach. He grinned again. "But I know this, Matt—I know they're gonna learn to regret ever comin' here. I know that for a fact. And if there was somethin' I could do about it, I would. But I can't."

And he passed into unconsciousness.

Fifteen Years Earlier

I
t was all much better now, Rachel Griffin told herself

She leaned against the living room doorway and folded her arms across her stomach. It hadn't taken much, she thought, to make it better—just a few odds and ends of furniture: a white wicker chair, hers; a red winged-back chair, Paul's; a small cherry wood table; a rolltop writing desk, very old; a brightly colored rug; and, more importantly, plans to erase the awful damage done to the house. That wasn't much. In time it would be quite a beautiful little house. One day, she might even be able to call it home.

She felt something tickling her ankle. She looked. "Hello, cat," she said. She'd have to think of a name for the animal, of course. She couldn't go on calling it "cat," although Paul seemed to feel it was all that was required. "It's not like it's a bona fide member of the family," he'd told her. "It's just a cat, and it's supposed to be quite a mouser. God knows this house needs one."

She stroked the cat, pleased by the upward-thrusting motions of its huge gray head. "I don't care what Paul says," she cooed. "You're going to have a name, like everyone else."

October 1

"W
hen's fall start?" Sam Wentis asked.

"I don't know," Timmy Meade answered. "I guess whenever it's good and ready to start—when it gets colder, I guess."

"Naw, my mom says it starts in September sometime," Sam Wentis said, and he pointed suddenly, enthusiastically, to the middle of an acre-size, malodorous swamp they'd just come upon. "Hey, looka that! Turtle stuck his nose right up outa the water! You see that!?"

Timmy Meade looked quizzically at him. "Big deal," he said. "How are they gonna breathe unless they stick their noses up outa the water?"