People of the Dark (18 page)

"I called the police, Jack."

"You did
what
?"

He sighed, realized that he had overstepped his bounds, though it was hardly the first time. "I called the police. I was worried about her. I still am. You should be, too. They asked if she had a history, you know—a history of taking off unannounced. And she does, of course, which is what I told them. And they said to sit tight. That's what they said, Jack. 'Sit tight.' Stupid, huh?"

"Christ, Will, I wish you hadn't done that. I know she's coming back."

"So do I, Jack. Of course. We both know she's coming back."

M
y room at the Dansville Hospital had one window. It faced south and looked out on an abandoned farm. I knew the farm was abandoned because one of the orderlies told me it was: "This man and woman worked it for a few years, then they split. It happens all the time around here—the soil's not much good for nothin' but grapes."

I got used to seeing people there—around the farm—during the seven days I spent in the hospital. It was a quarter mile from the hospital, but at the top of a gradual slope, bare of trees. From that distance, the farmhouse looked sturdy and freshly painted—white especially when the sun was shining on it, although the same orderly told me, "It's a
fuckin
' disgrace. Christ, they
oughta
burn the damn thing to the ground."

I got into the habit of watching people come and go from that farmhouse. Always the same people: a man in green overalls, a woman in a long blue coat, a woman in white, a man in a dark suit, a woman in a green dress and beige jacket who always seemed to lag behind the others. They had a routine. They arrived at the farmhouse at around 9:00 in the morning and milled about (several of them looked my way a couple of times). Then the man in green overalls wandered off, away from the house; the woman in the long blue coat wandered after him several minutes later, and the others went into the house, though briefly. When they came out, they moved off in the same direction as the first two.

The orderly saw this once. He watched the man in green overalls move down the slope, watched the woman follow minutes later, watched as the others went into the house, left it, went in the same direction as the first two. "Who's those assholes?" he said to himself.

I said, "They've been doing that for a week now."

"What the fuck for?" he asked.

"I don't know. Do they need a reason?"

He smiled at this, as if he'd caught on that I was being philosophical with him and he wasn't going to have any part of it. "People got to have reasons for what they do, you know."

M
ost of my time at the hospital was spent trying, through Will, to find Erika. He agreed to check on the house as often as possible. This turned out to be a daily thing because he got a motel room in North Cohocton for the length of my hospital stay. I asked him why he didn't simply stay at the house.

"Because it spooks the hell out of me, Jack," he answered, which was a phrase I never expected to hear from him.

"What do you mean, it spooks the hell out of you?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Christ, Jack, I don't know." A brief pause. "It
talks
; that's what I mean. The damn house talks."

And I said nothing.

W
hen I was discharged from the hospital, I talked Will into giving me a ride back to the house. He was quiet for most of the thirty-minute drive, which was unlike him. He was dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit and sat very erect in the driver's seat, eyes straight ahead, as if he wanted me to be quiet, too.

He broke his silence when we were halfway back to the house. "Do cars scare you now, Jack?"

"No," I said. "Should they?"

He shrugged. "No. I suppose not. It was just a thought."

We turned onto Hunt's Hollow Road, three miles from the house. He said, "I cleaned things up for you. I got rid of the graffiti. I put the parts to your clock in the spare room. In a box. I think you'll be able to fix that clock. It's a nice clock; you should try to fix it. There wasn't much I could do with Erika's desk. I left it for you to take care of. I suppose you'll throw it out, right? Seems a shame."

"What's on your mind, Will?" I cut in. It had always been very clear to me when something was bothering him. "Is it Erika?"

A group of people were walking on the shoulder. He slowed the car, went halfway into the left-hand lane to avoid them.

He went back into the right lane, glanced in the rearview mirror. "I've always liked Erika. I guess you know that."

"I know that. I like her, too."

"But you're giving up, right?"

"No." I said, and I meant it. "I'm not giving up."

He slowed the car again. A young woman in a white dress had appeared from thickets that crowded the shoulder here and was crossing the road just a hundred feet or so ahead of us. "Who the hell is that?" I said.

"I don't know," Will said matter-of-factly. She finished crossing the road and disappeared into the thickets on the other side. Will speeded up. "I think you are," he said.

"Are what?"

"Giving up on Erika."

"The shit I am. Jesus, Will, you've always had the wrong fucking idea of me, haven't you?"

"There's no need to get upset, Jack. I know we have different . . . outlooks—" Again he slowed the car, this time for two people, a man and a woman, who were walking well into our lane. He went into the left lane, glanced again in the rearview mirror, muttered "Jesus!" and then turned the car into my driveway, stomped on the accelerator—also unlike him—so the rear tires spit gravel and mud onto Hunt's Hollow Road. The car shot forward. He brought it to an abrupt halt in front of the house, behind the bare privet hedges, and scared the hell out of Orphan, who'd been sleeping near them.

I asked angrily, "What was
that
all about?"

"Sorry," he said. "Let's go inside, Jack, okay? We'll talk there. I really don't like staying out here too long."

"Why the hell not?"

He gave me a flat, sardonic grin. "You'll see," he said.

H
e'd found some snapshots of Erika, had bought frames for them, and had set them up on the piano in the dining room. Some of the photographs were a few years old and showed Erika with short hair and various scarves tied around her neck. I used to kid her that this was her "preppy period." The other photographs were quite recent. One showed her standing in front of the house, beneath the big window, with her hands behind her back and a broad, apparently pleased smile on her face. I remembered that she was smiling like that only because I'd been tickling her.

I couldn't help but see these newly framed and newly exhibited photographs as a kind of shrine to Erika, and it made me angry. I began taking them off the piano as soon as I saw them.

"Please leave them there, Jack," Will said half angrily, half in hurt.

"For Christ's sake, Will! You said that I was giving up—"

"I thought you'd be pleased." His tone had changed; now it was apologetic. "I thought you'd like them."

My left arm was still in a cast, and I couldn't carry all the photographs in my right hand. I nodded at the extras. "Bring those, would you, please?" I asked Will.

"Sure," he said.

We took them into the music room and put them in a chest of drawers that Erika stored sheet music in.

"She's coming back, Will," I said. "God, I believe that. I really do believe that." We went back to the dining room.

"I know she's coming back," Will said, but he sounded unconvinced and unconvincing. He shook his head quickly. "Jack?" He looked away, toward the window that faced the side yard. "You probably shouldn't stay here," he went on. "It's probably not wise for you to stay here."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because there are . . . people—"

I took the last photograph of Erika down from the piano. It showed her feeding a black, lop-eared goat at a place called Wildwood Farms, a couple of miles away. I looked at the snapshot a moment, remembered that it was I who had framed it and put it on the piano, so I put it back. "You mean those people we saw on the road, Will?" I asked. "Who are they?" I tried to sound unconcerned. In the hospital I had heard a little, from Will, about "strangers around the house," but most of the times that he'd telephoned or had come in to see me, I'd been coming out of or going into the effects of painkillers or tranquilizers and most of what he'd told me had gone all but unheard. "Are they supposed to be dangerous?"

"No one knows," Will said.

"No one knows? That's a pretty odd thing to say, isn't it, Will?" I sat on the piano bench; the ride from the hospital had tired me out. "Have they hurt anyone, threatened anyone? What's the big deal?"

Will pulled a dining room chair out, sat down noisily, and folded his hands on top of the table. "No," he said. "They're just . . . there. And as long as they don't trespass, there's not much that can be done about them." He paused. "They're just there, Jack." It seemed to confuse him.

"Well, my God, Will," I said, "this is stupid! What are they doing? Where do they stay? I mean, they must stay
some
place."

"I guess they do," Will said. He unfolded his hands, sat back and folded his arms over his stomach. "Of course they do. I'm sure there are lots of places they can stay. And what's-his-name, Whipple, has been watching them. He's even arrested a few of them for trespassing, but he's let them go because no one wants to press charges." He looked earnestly at me, his hands still folded across his belly. "Jack, they're everywhere. I mean, they're on the main roads; they're on the dirt roads; they're out in the fields—on posted land, of course. But I guess Whipple and his hired cretins can't be everywhere. And I've seen them around this house, too."

"Yes," I said. "So have I." He didn't seem to hear me.

"And I can't help but think, Jack, that they had something to do with Erika's . . ." He faltered.

"That they had something to do with her disappearance," I coaxed.

"Okay," he said. "That's okay. I'll accept that." He stopped, shook his head again. "This is all very strange, Jack. This is very, very spooky. I loved Erika; I
love
Erika—"

"Christ, don't you think I realize that, Will? I love her, too. I've been married to her for six years. We bought this house together, and by God, we're going to live in it—" And then I stopped because I saw a man standing at the window. "Good Lord," I whispered. I got up quickly from the piano bench, ran to the side door, pushed the screen door open, went outside and looked to the right. The man was walking slowly off, toward the front of the house. I yelled to him to stop. He turned his head slightly. "Damn you!" I yelled after him, and stepped off the porch. A light rain had started. "Get off my property!" I yelled, and felt immediately foolish for it, as if the man were merely a salesman or a Jehovah's Witness and I was being incredibly rude to him.

I caught up with him near Will's car and put my hand on his shoulder to pull him around. He turned voluntarily. He was tall, dark, had magnificent blue eyes. And when he turned he gave me a broad, disarming smile. He was dressed casually, in brown corduroy pants, faded blue shirt, a worn-out brown tweed jacket. He said, "I'm sorry. I lost my way." I realized from his tone that it was the truth.

"You certainly did," I said, but my anger had been tempered by his honesty and by his smile. "What were you looking for?"

"I don't know," he said.

"What do you mean, you 'don't know'?"

He shook his head, was clearly confused. "I was born here," he announced.

"Do you mean at this house?"

He looked at the house for a moment. His confusion seemed to lessen and his smile broadened, as if in recognition. "I don't think so," he said. "I'm not sure." He looked quizzically at me. "Do you know me? Have you seen me before?"

"No," I answered.

"Oh." He seemed to think about that. Then he asked, "And you don't know my name?"

"Of course I don't know your name."

"But I was
born
here!" He had suddenly become agitated. He swept his arm wide to indicate the landscape behind me. "I remember this."