October Light (46 page)

The Mexican said, “Let me carry you, Mr. Page. It's steep and you've got no shoes on.”

Ed Thomas yelled down from the road, “Is he all right?” The minister waved. “He's fine! Few little cuts.” The Mexican was squatting like a frog-monster so James Page could climb up onto his back.

“I'm fine!” the old man yelled crazily, waving his trembling, boneless arms, his blue eyes aglitter, on fire with hatred: “I'm fine!”

4

They drew back from him in horror, eyes and mouths wide open, squeezing toward the edges of the kitchen. Estelle, at the table, unable to get up, yelled, “Oh! Oh!” Her canes went clattering to the floor.

The Mexican squinted, more Indian than ever; all you could see inside his eyeslits was midnight black. “Mr. Page,” he said, “give me the gun.”

“Dad,” Ginny said, “for the love of Christ!”

He stood firm, except shaking like a thrashing machine, shaking so badly he was afraid he'd pull the trigger by accident. He went on swinging the shotgun from side to side, warning them back, the whole room red, as if his eyes were full of blood. He was breathing hard and his lips were puffy, and his voice was so high he might have thought it was somebody else yelling. “Get out! Get out of my houth! All of you!”

“Mr. Page,” the Mexican said, taking a step toward him.

He jerked the gun up to his shoulder and aimed it straight at him. “You take one more thtep, you greathy bathtahd, and I'll blow off your black-eyed head.”

The Mexican considered and decided to believe him.

“Dad, for Christ's sake,” Ginny wailed, “you're crazy!” She had her arms around Dickey, who stood staring wide-eyed as if his lids were frozen open.

“He's not crazy,” Ruth Thomas said, “he's drunk.”

“Don't push him,” Sally's minister commanded, stretching his arms out to each side as if to keep the others back. “He's had a terrible experience. Once he's calmed down—”

Ed Thomas stood gulping for air, clutching his chest and groaning.

“Dear heavenly father,” Estelle whispered, violently trembling, “it's all my fault!”

“What's the matter?” the Phelps girl said, opening the door a little and timidly jumping, trying to see in.

“Stay outside,” someone barked.

Lewis Hicks said, “Get all the kids outside. Dickey, get outside!”

“I haven't got my coat on,” Dickey said.

“You get outside, you little bastard,” Ginny hissed, pushing him. Then, to her father: “Dad, what's the
matter
with you?”

“Nothin the matter with me,” he yelled, forgetting and swinging his eyes in her direction, then instantly snapping them back to the Mexican, the only one in the room he was afraid of.

“You should all go outside,” the Mexican said. He spoke without moving his eyes from James' face, peering intently as if to see into the old man's mind. “You people go,” he said. “Go quickly. Lane and I will stay and talk with him.”

“Nobodyth thtayin,” James yelled. “Partyth ovah!”

Lewis Hicks took a step toward him, and James swung the gun more or less in his direction.

“I'm just gonna try and help Estelle,” Lewis said. He looked at James, making sure the words registered, then continued over to the table to help her get up. The Mexican moved his hand and James swung the gun at him, fast. With his left hand James groped toward the table to knock off the plates and jack-o-lanterns, making sure Lewis got no ideas.

“Will you put away that gun if we leave?” Ruth asked. She was drawn up to her full height, and her eyes bulged with indignation, firing daggers.

“I already told you what I'm gonna do,” he yelled. “I'm gonna kill Thally.” He turned his head and yelled up the stairs, “You hear that, Thally? I'm gonna kill you.” He laughed, fake-crazy—or so he intended it. No one but the old man had any doubts that he was crazy.

“Then we're staying,” Ruth said.

There was a moment's silence. Then Dr. Phelps said, “That's not a good idea, Ruth. You better think about your husband.”

She jerked her head around and saw how Ed was clutching his chest and struggling to get breath.

“My God!” she whispered, and turned her face back to James. She'd gone white. “You fucker!” she said in icy rage. “You
fucker!”
The gun would not have stopped her if she'd decided to come at him. He could have emptied both barrels right into her heart and still, before she was stopped, she'd have torn out his windpipe. But Ruth was moving in the other direction, toward Ed. “DeWitt!” she screamed, “come help me!” the kitchen door opened, shoving against people, and DeWitt was there, as ashen as the rest of them, staring at James. He helped Dr. Phelps and Ruth Thomas get Ed out the door. Others were moving toward the door now. He encouraged them, wagging the shotgun. Soon he was alone with Lane Walker and the Mexican.

“You too,” he said. “Out!”

They stood six feet apart, the minister by the door, the priest over by the sink.

Reasonably, gently, the Mexican said, “How will you shoot us both if we jump you the same time?”

“You won't,” he said, and smiled. “I'll tell you why. If you jump me, I'm gonna fire at you firtht, Meckthican.” He jerked his left thumb at Lane Walker. “It'll be the thame ath if he pulled the trigger.”

“Foxy old bastard, ain't he,” Lane said.

Out in the yard, a car started up, taking Ed Thomas to the hospital, perhaps, or going for the troopers. He'd never have a chance with just a shotgun against pistols and rifles. He saw in his mind's eye that picture on TV, the truck driver's head exploding when the policeman shot him, and the rage that had begun to flag was back full force.

“Get out,” he said. “I got no more time.”

Lane Walker looked up at the ceiling, in the direction of Sally's room. “Sally?” he called. There was no answer, and he called again. This time she called back, “I hear you.”

“Sally, can you get your bed in front of the door till this maniac calms down? Can you block the door?”

There was no answer.

The minister called, “Did you hear me, Sally?”

After a moment she called, “I hear you.”

“Can you do it? He's got a gun.”

Again, no answer.

“Thath enough,” James snapped. “Get out. I'll count to five. One!”

They hesitated, looking at each other.

“Two!”

“I think he means business,” the Mexican said. “Even if he doesn't, by
five
he'll have psyched himself into it.” He was looking around as if for something to throw. But his lip was trembling. For the first time, James Page understood that the man was scared to death.

“Three!” he said.

“What good will it do?” Lane Walker said. He was sweating like a blacksmith, and his voice was a whine.

“Four!”

“All right, all right!” the Mexican yelled, almost a squeal. He made a dash for the door. Lane Walker spun around like a basketball player, snatching at the doorknob, and was out ahead of him.

“Five!” he screamed, and for pure manic glee he let loose at the top of the door as it slammed shut behind them.

Up in her bedroom, Sally screamed.

5

“It's happened, Horace,” Sally said. “You always predicted it would and now it has. He's gone crazy.”

She'd screamed in terror when the gun had gone off, but she was over that now. Which one of them he'd killed there was no telling—she hoped not Ginny, not Dickey, not Estelle or Ruth, though she might not mind if it was what's-his-name (again when the old woman tried to think of the name of Ginny's husband, all that would come was that character in her novel, Mr. Nit). After her scream at the sound of the shot, her first full recognition that he indeed meant to kill her, a strange calm had descended on her, and if someone had been there to see her as she set about her preparations—for a plan had come to her—he might have been amazed at how tranquil she was, how logically her mind worked, how her movements and gestures were almost queenly.

Sally Abbott could say truthfully that she had never in her life been afraid of death, though she minded pain and was glad to know her death, if her plan failed, would be a quick one. Nor did she hesitate to admit to herself that, if her death must be by violence, she was glad to have her friends and relations out there, sitting in their cars, anxiously looking up through the rain toward her window, witnessing it. She'd always had, she knew—and Horace had often mentioned—a truly outrageous theatrical streak. Born in another time and place, she might well have been a Broadway actress. She'd been beautiful in her youth, she had photographs to prove it—though with a beauty not fashionable in the present age. She'd worn ringlets and high-necked, floor-length dresses, and had been forced, for the most part, to play demure, though she knew tricks, never doubt it, tricks with her hands, with her eyes and eyelashes, tricks of posture and of voice. Oh Lord but she might have been a wanton, as her father would say, if she'd only had the luck to be born in her own proper time! She regretted now that she hadn't been a good deal more wanton than she was. Years and years ago, when she was seventeen, and the juices flowing so that sometimes she had thought she would simply faint … well, never mind. She had had her good times, there was no denying it, though never such times as she might have had. What she wouldn't give to be growing up now, when a girl might go anywhere she pleased and do anything she liked! Those things in that novel, now, how incredible to realize that they were all, in a sense, true! Hundreds of people smoked pot every day, though she'd never gotten a chance to—she could count herself lucky she'd got a bit of sherry!—and hundreds of people had sex orgies. She'd read stories in magazines, seen movies and plays on television. There were even special magazines that brought “adventuresome adults” together—magazines kept locked behind the counter in grim old Vermont. She, Sally Abbott, had missed all that, such were the cruel mechanics of the universe, as her novel would say. Her body—once so beautiful that when she stood in her bedroom, gazing in the mirror, she had thought it tragic that she must cover it with clothes, deny it to men's eyes—that once lovely body was withered away to pure horror now, and virtually unused, unexploited. Not, heaven knows, that she was dissatisfied with her life with Horace, in general. But to think that she had never had the chance to make love with a single, solitary other man, except the Beeman boy—and that (she had to smile) hardly counted. She'd waited too long—it was out in the granary beyond the cowbarn (torn down long since)—and before he could even get it out and into her he'd gone off all over himself, poor silly, and was so embarrassed he wouldn't even touch her though she lay there panting and perspiring and almost dying. It had been a ghastly time, those “good old days” she'd grown up in. Walking home from school with the other boys and girls, she'd see a bull mount a cow, or often a cow mount another cow, and she must stare like an idiot at the ground and say nothing—even if some boy made so bold as to mention it—must bury her talents, hide her light under a bushel. She might have made up for it. She might have had a lover almost anytime she pleased, if she'd chosen to. There had always been attractive young men available—Horace's assistants, people who made deliveries, neighbors, friends—even Estelle's handsome Ferris. He'd eyed her more than once, don't think he hadn't, and she'd smiled, head tilted, not exactly saying “yes” but certainly not saying “watch yourself, buster!“—considering the matter from every angle, watching developments; and in the end, for Estelle's sake, or so she'd always told herself—but more likely, she thought now, because she was tyrannized in a world of unwitting male chauvinists and old fashioned jealous wives—she had neglected to bring that suggestion in the air to a reality. No one was troubled with such scruples nowadays, not the youngsters, anyway. She thought of the party in San Francisco that was mentioned in the book. Incredibly enough, there
were
such parties; one heard of them often, or anyway read of them in magazines. And perhaps there had always been such parties, if it came to that. Ancient Rome, France, England … She'd read something somewhere about a Prime Minister in England, many years ago, who'd even had orgies with young boys. Even United States Presidents did it—all of them, probably, except possibly Wilson. Certainly Grover Cleveland and John F. Kennedy, probably Teddy Roosevelt—she'd heard something of the sort, if she wasn't mistaken—and didn't Thomas Jefferson have a beautiful Negro mistress whose name was Sally? God bless you, Sally, she thought, casting her blessing back through time, and smiled. She'd always liked Jefferson—she and Horace had visited Monticello once, and Horace, as usual, had taken wonderful slides. She hoped Thomas Jefferson's Sally was very, very dark, and beautiful and kind. “Would you have minded terribly, Horace?” she whispered to the bedroom's shadows, and thought sadly, “Yes, you would.” Well, never mind. The lives she might have lived, the lovers and children she might have had (Horace had gone through World War I and was afraid to have children; the world was, he thought, too dark a place), the career she might have had as an actress on the stage, or even as a prostitute in New Orleans—why not? why not? the young people were right!—she'd missed them all for all eternity, and no use regretting it. Horace had dozens of women, he'd told her. Prostitutes in France. It had hurt her terribly, fool that she'd been. She was glad for him now. Perhaps even then what she'd felt, really, was that his having prostitutes and her having no one but Horace—dear as he was—was bitterly unfair.

It was curious, now that she noticed it: she hadn't thought of sex in quite some time, and here it was rising in her mind almost as strongly as it did when she was young. For that she could thank her trashy novel, and, by heaven, she
did
thank it. Shame was for old biddies! The reawakening was not just in her mind, in fact. Her whole body felt younger, sexually aglow, the girl rediscovering herself in the dry old woman.