Nursery Tale (4 page)

The McIntyres, the Meades, and the Wentises came to Granada in pursuit of a dream. They believed what the brochure had told them about "open spaces and room to breathe—all within the framework of a secure, planned community" because that was what modern living was all about. It was their birthright, wasn't it, to seek out what was most comfortable, and easy.

That was the dream, after all.

And all of them were dreamers.

September 25

T
he creature had passed this way weeks before, when there had been rain and wind; the combination had produced a sharp, numbing coldness.

Today, the sun was bright, and warm, and a very slight breeze played sensuously with the fine, light brown hairs on the creature's arms and legs.

The creature was alive.

He had been alive, as well, in the rain and wind, when the numbness had crept over him, and he had felt pain; and a round, aching darkness had formed at the front of his consciousness.

He remembered the pain now, and his muscles tensed as if that time were the present. The darkness—his ignorance of what was happening to him—formed once more.

And almost before it started, almost before the creature had time to realize it had started, it ended.

And the warm sunlight and playful, sensuous breezes made his nerves and muscles sing.

He was new to the earth. He had much to learn, much to experience, and very little time to do it before the killing winter came. Thousands had sprung up before him, over the span of half a thousand years. Most had withered and died before a season was through. Those lives and those deaths dwelt within him; if he looked, he would see what those who had gone before had seen, and feel what they felt, and he would find knowledge, and power in that.

But he did not bother to look.

Because, for now, he was being caressed—the earth was caressing him. Just as it had nursed him, and had given him life. And pain. And dizzying pleasure.

T
he bedroom was large, tastefully decorated. The walls were a very passive, and consequently restful, light green; the two narrow windows—one faced east, the other south—were covered by heavy, cream-colored curtains. The furniture included a king-sized pedestal bed, fashioned from oak, a matching six-drawer chest, a four-drawer chest (the six-drawer's "feminine" counterpart), and an antique cherry wood vanity, with oval mirror. The vanity stood against the east wall, about five feet from the foot of the bed. And Janice McIntyre, naked, stood in front of the vanity. She had placed her right hand gently on her abdomen. She wondered if her husband, Miles—stretched out in expectation on the bed, blankets covering him to the middle of his chest, hands behind his head—had noticed the slight swelling of her abdomen, and, if so, if he had guessed the truth.

"You seem troubled," he said.

Janice grinned slightly, pleased by his unusual sensitivity. Tonight was to be a celebration, unplanned and unverbalized, of their first night in Granada. The celebration had begun with dinner, when she had appeared at the table dressed only in white nylon panties. She sat, leaned forward, studied his plate a moment. "Sir," she said, smiling coyly, "I
do
hope you enjoy the eggplant," which made him laugh, and which, despite their seven years of marriage, had made her blush. The game continued until now, when she pretended to primp, naked, in front of the mirror—for his benefit. But the spirit of the evening, the celebration, was rapidly leaving her; and she noticed a small embarrassment beginning, because his eyes were on her, and he was enjoying her charade. Because, as far as she was concerned, the charade had ended seconds before.

"Yes," she said, "something's troubling me." She turned, faced him, saw his gaze lower quickly to her right hand—still on her abdomen. She took the hand away and saw his gaze linger on her breasts. She screwed up her mouth a little in annoyance and whispered, "Miles, please–"

"You have a marvelous, lean, and appealing body," he said, as if explaining himself. He grinned boyishly.

"Well, Miles," she began, still at little more than a whisper, "this marvelous, lean, and appealing body is pregnant."

His grin froze. He said nothing for a long moment, and her breathing halted in anticipation. Then—she sighed—his grin broadened, "Janice, that makes me very happy."

She moved slowly, and with much grace, around the foot of the bed to the side. "Thank you, Miles." She leaned over, and with one quick, exquisite movement threw the blankets off the bed.

He put his hands on her hips and gently pulled her onto him. "Thank
you
," he said.

"I
t's very quiet here, isn't it?" said Norm Gellis, making it clear by his tone that the quiet annoyed him.

His wife, sitting up in bed and reading a romantic novel, said, "But isn't that one of the reasons we came here, Norm?" The question was genuine, but her naturally loud tenor gave it a false edge of sarcasm.

Norm Gellis had been looking out one of their bedroom windows; he stepped back now, and eyed his wife suspiciously. "Tell me something, Marge. Tell me one thing. Tell me what
happens
in the quiet." He paused, although not, she knew, to give her a chance to answer, but because his question, the line of thought he'd latched onto, seemed very ingenious, and he was proud of himself for having come up with it. He stepped back to the window. "I'll tell you what happens in the quiet, Marge.
Nothing
happens in the quiet. Nothing constructive, anyway. Wars don't happen in the quiet, do they? And I'm not talking about that Vietnam thing—that was no war! I'm talking about the good wars. The big wars!" He turned his head and smiled self-importantly at her. "Huh?" he said, his big square head bobbing quickly. "Am I right? Am I right?" He turned back to the window. "And I'll tell you something else, Marge—progress don't happen in the quiet, either. Bulldozers and power shovels and jackhammers—they all make shitloads of noise. And you wanta know another thing, Marge? The only thing that
does
happen in the quiet is
rot
! And decay. Yeah." A brief pause for effect. "Rot and decay. That's all!"

"Those are good thoughts," Marge said. She dog-eared a page of the novel to mark her place and put it on an end table near the bed. She smiled at her husband. It was a pleasant gesture, because she was essentially that kind of woman. "Maybe you should go into politics someday." She saw a conspiratorial grin appear on his face.

"Even lovemaking, Marge," he said, his voice a tight, hard whisper. "Even lovemaking."

Marge didn't understand. She stayed quiet.

"Because if you're any kind of man at all you make love like a damned banshee. Know what I mean, Marge?"

Marge said nothing; she was getting a little nervous.

"You shake the goddamned house off its goddamned foundation, Marge! Like a banshee!" He stepped back from the window, put his hand on the ties of his pajama bottoms, worked at them. His gaze was still out the window. "You got yer thing on, Marge? Yer diaphragm? You got that on?"

"Uh-huh," she managed.

Norm Gellis let his pajama bottoms fall. "That's good, Marge." He turned, faced her proudly. "'Cuz this man here is all set, and nothin' in the world's gonna stand in his way!"

"I
think we've got an exhibitionist next door," Dora Meade said.

Her husband—inside their walk-in closet, selecting a suit, shirt, tie and shoes for the following morning—called, "What have we got, Dora?"

She kept her eyes on the lighted window a hundred feet away. "An exhibitionist," she repeated, though only a smidgen louder. "An
exhibitionist
!"

Her husband, dressed in a crisp, white T-shirt and jockey shorts, appeared from the closet. He was a tall, well-muscled man with dark, receding hair, unusually large, dark eyes, a small nose, and a general air of bemusement and sensitivity about him that Dora Meade had, years before, found appealing. Now, she thought, it was merely annoying and childish. "I'm sorry, Dora," he said. "You're going to have to repeat yourself. I really couldn't—"

"I
said
that the guy next door—What's his name? Gellis?—I said he was exhibiting himself in his bedroom window."

Larry Meade came over and stood by the window with her. He peered out. After a moment, he said, "I can't see a thing, Dora."

She shouldered him away from the window. "Well of course you can't. He turned the damned light off."

"Oh." Larry went to his twin bed, checked the alarm clock. "Don't let me oversleep in the morning, Dora. That appointment tomorrow is super critical . . ."

"I don't
believe
you," Dora cut in. "I really do not believe you! There's some guy next door who gets his kicks out of showing his cock off to any female eyes within sight of it, and all you can say is, 'Don't let me oversleep'?!"

Larry sat heavily on the bed; he looked apologetically up at his wife. "It was probably some kind of accident, Dora."

She laughed suddenly, sarcastically, the kind of hard and unamused guffaw he heard from her once or twice a day. He thought, now, that it was beginning to bother him.

"You can't be serious, Larry. Do you actually want me to believe that that man's pants fell down accidentally! I suppose his erection was an accident, too. Is that what you're going to tell me?"

"Isn't it kind of a long distance to tell if he had an erection or not?" Larry said, smiling uneasily.

Dora stared incredulously at him for a long moment. Then she went to her bed, climbed under the blankets, and turned off the bedside lamp.

T
he creature very tentatively put his fingers to the wall, as if the wall might be hot, or cold, or as if it might be an enemy of some kind. This was the first time he had entered one of the houses, and he sensed hostility—a kind of deep and unnatural tension.

He found the wall warm, and smooth, and hard. Like live skin over flat bone. He disliked the feel of it and he pulled his hand away.

He moved very slowly about the dark room, his gaze passing quickly from here to there, uncomprehending. He was new to the earth and most of what he saw he had no choice but to accept without question.

But, like the walls of the room, the room itself and its furnishings made him feel strangely out of place and, suddenly, his usually slow, deep, and even breathing became erratic, as if the air were being forced from his lungs, as if, somehow, the house itself wanted to take his life from him.

And then—although he was unable to verbalize it—he knew that, in this house, within these walls,
he
was the enemy. Because he had sensed the other living things in the house, had sensed their fear quivering deep inside them, like a rabbit quivers deep in its burrow.

That fear gave the creature incredible strength and courage. It excited him, made his muscles tense.

He stopped very briefly at the bottom of the stairway.

And something which might, in a human being, pass for longing, or hunger, settled into his huge, exquisite, pale blue eyes.

And then he started up the stairs.

I
t probably was better here than in the city, like his father had told him, Timmy Meade decided. Sure, there were people in the city (like Tony and Sheila and Mike) that he probably wouldn't see ever again, but there were kids here he could be friends with, too. Sam Wentis, for instance, who was a little strange, sure, but that was okay. And besides, it wasn't as if this was the first move of his life; it probably wouldn't be the last, either. So, he knew what the word "adjustment" meant. He even thought he was pretty grown up to "adjust" as well as he had. But, damn (it was the only curse his parents allowed him), he really would miss Tony and Mike. And especially Sheila.

He rolled to his back. Sam Wentis, he thought, wasn't just a little strange, he was a lot strange. He had a screw loose somewhere, he wasn't playing with a full deck, he had toys in his attic. Why else would he try to walk across the damn swamp on the other side of the woods (and almost drown in the damn smelly green water while he was at it), and why else would he go chasing a damn raccoon all over the place, grunting all the while like some damn pig? That wasn't funny. That was just dumb. It was no wonder the raccoon bit him.

Timmy Meade let his eyes open. He realized, suddenly, that it would be a long time before he adjusted completely to this place. Losing old friends, getting new ones—that was pretty easy (not real easy, not like fallin' off a log, for sure, but easy enough). Getting adjusted to a new place, though, was something else again. He wasn't certain why. Maybe, he considered, it was because the
place
was always there, always around him. Like a new skin. When snakes got their new skins, they probably itched for a while until they got used to them. Timmy Meade thought that that was what he was doing now. Itching. Because this new place scared him a little. Uh-uh, he corrected himself immediately. Not scared, really. Just itchy uncomfortable. Because in the city, there was always something going on—car horns blasting, people talking loudly in the next apartment, sirens of one kind or another blaring away, jets going over. And it was funny, but while he was living there, in the city, he'd never really noticed those noises, and all the others. He supposed now that somebody could have said to him, "Hey, you lying there in that city bed, tell me what you hear," and he would have said, "I don't hear nothin'." And it would have been the truth. Because the loud talking, and the horns blasting, and the sirens blaring were all a
part
of the
place
.