Suffer the Children (32 page)

She finished her cigarette and lay down on the bed, turning off the light. She lay still for a long time, keeping her breathing even and forcing her tense muscles to relax. She tried to sort out her thoughts, and when that failed decided to drift with them and see where they led.

Thirty minutes later, she was still trying to relax her muscles, and her mind was as chaotic as it had been when she lay down. She decided to get something to eat.

She padded into the kitchen and turned the light on. She listened for a minute and heard the rhythmic snoring of Mrs. Goodrich in the next room. She crept to the refrigerator and opened it.

She thought she heard the click of a door opening as she poked among the leftovers neatly packaged on the shelves of the refrigerator, but it wasn’t until she felt a draft on her legs that she turned around. The back door stood open.

A stab of fear ran through her, and she instinctively moved toward the drawer where the knives were kept. Then she saw who had opened the back door.

Sarah, her flannel nightgown soaking wet and covered with mud, her dark hair glistening with the rain, stood by the knife drawer, as if trying to decide whether to open it or not.

“Sarah?” Rose breathed, her heart pounding and a terrible fear rising in her. “Sarah,” she said again.

She approached the child and knelt down. She reached out to touch Sarah, very gently, for fear that her daughter was sleepwalking and not wanting to wake her if she was. But at the touch Sarah turned around and stared at her mother. She blinked a couple of times, and Rose was sure she was awake.

“Sarah,” she said quietly. “What is it? What were you doing outside?”

Sarah peered blankly at her mother, and Rose didn’t know whether she had been heard or not. Then a large tear formed in one of Sarah’s eyes and slowly ran down her face, streaking the mud in its path. It collected on her chin, than, when it was too heavy to hang on any longer, fell to the floor. Rose gathered the girl into her arms. Sarah did not resist.

“Come on,” Rose said. “I’ll take you upstairs and put you to bed.”

She picked the little girl up and closed both the back door of the house and the refrigerator door. Snapping off the kitchen light and crooning to the child who shivered in her arms, she made her way upstairs to the bathroom. She set Sarah down and began running a tub of hot water. Then she went to get towels.

When she returned, Sarah still sat where Rose had left her, unmoving, as though she were thinking about something. But her eyes, the huge, beautiful brown eyes, still seemed vacant, staring at the tub of water. Rose undressed her and placed her in the tub.

When she finished bathing Sarah, Rose put her to bed. She tucked the child in carefully, then sat with her till she was sure Sarah was asleep. Finally she left Sarah’s room, leaving the light on, and went downstairs. She knew she would not sleep if she went back to bed; knew she would not sleep until her husband came home. She wished he were home now, or at least
had told her where he was going. She sat in the study and waited. Above her the little girl who looked so much like Elizabeth smiled down at her. The picture comforted Rose, and made her waiting easier.

Jack drove fast through the storm, the pounding of his heart echoed by the beating of the windshield wipers as they fought vainly to keep the glass clear in front of his eyes. He didn’t need to see, really; he was so familiar with the Point Road that he felt he could have driven it blindfolded, navigating by the bumps and chuckholes.

He drove automatically, his mind racing, his thoughts chaotic. Then he saw the lights of Port Arbello glowing dimly ahead in the rain, and he knew where he was going.

He pulled the car into Sylvia Bannister’s driveway, and left it there for anybody who wished to see. The house was dark, but he didn’t consider going elsewhere. Instead, he walked up to the front door and knocked loudly. When there was no response, he knocked again, louder. Finally he saw a light flash on and heard feet coming toward the door.

“Who is it?” Sylvia’s sleepy voice called.

“It’s me. Jack.”

He listened as she unfastened the chain and threw the bolt. Then the door opened, and she squinted out at him.

“Excuse me,” she said, and flipped the switch for the porch light. “I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark.”

“It’s all right,” Jack said, grinning crookedly. Seeing her made him feel better. “I seem to be in the dark a lot these days anyway.”

She pulled the door open and let him step inside before she closed it again, and fixed the chain and dead-bolt. “I suppose it’s silly,” she said. “But they make me feel safer.” Then she looked at him closely, and concern
came into her face. “Are you all right?” she said. “Let me get you a drink. You look like you need one.”

“I do,” Jack said. “I suppose I shouldn’t but I could really use one.”

“She’s got you convinced, hasn’t she?” Sylvia said as she led him to the kitchen.

“Convinced?”

“That you’re an alcoholic,” Sylvia said, pouring them each a drink.

“I suppose I am.” Jack accepted the glass she handed him.

“No,” Sylvia said definitely. “You’re not. Martin Forager is an alcoholic. You’re not. At least not yet. But I suppose if you wanted to you could become one. Do you?”

“I’m not sure sometimes. But yes, sometimes I do want to become one. Sometimes I’d like to stay drunk all the time. I would, except I suffer from terrible hangovers. They don’t show, but God, do they hurt.”

“Well, I suppose as long as you’re suffering you’re safe. At least, that’s what my mother taught me. Do you want to sit here, or shall I build a fire?”

“This’ll be fine,” Jack said, settling into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “It makes it different from home. Mrs. Goodrich does not tolerate any Conger sitting in the kitchen. I think she thinks it’s beneath our dignity. Not that we have any dignity left, after tonight.” He told Sylvia what had happened at home.

“It must have been awful,” she said when he had finished.

He swirled his drink and smiled wryly. “Well, it wasn’t pleasant. So I took off, and here I am.”

“I meant the remembering. It must have been terrible.”

Jack nodded. “It was. In a way, I wish I hadn’t remembered. Not knowing what I’d done was bad enough. I think knowing what I was trying to do is even worse.”

“Nonsense,” Sylvia said. “You seem to be forgetting something. You didn’t rape her, and you didn’t kill her.”

“But I wanted to,” Jack said miserably.

“Wanting to do something and doing it are two entirely different things. If I had to feel badly about all the things I’ve wanted to do, I’d be a mess. And this town wouldn’t be in very good shape, either. I can think of at least three people right off the bat that I’ve wanted to kill. I mean really kill. Complete with fantasies of doing it, and getting away with it. So stop feeling bad.” She glanced at his drink, then held her own glass up. “And fix us both another. I’m not your secretary now, you know. I’m a woman, and I want to be waited on.”

“You can kick me out if you want to go back to sleep,” Jack said. “But I hope you don’t.”

“Kick you out? Not much chance of that. You might fire me in the morning, when you’re my boss again. Besides, I happen to like you.”

“Do you, Sylvia?” Jack said seriously. “Do you really? I guess I haven’t been feeling particularly likable lately.”

“And it hasn’t occurred to you that that might have something to do with the way Rose has been treating you? It’s hard to feel good about yourself when someone you love is making you feel bad about yourself.”

“I’m not sure I love her,” Jack said slowly.

Sylvia glanced at him, and the corners of her mouth flickered upward. “I suppose I could read a lot into that, if I wanted to, but I won’t. You love her, Jack, even if you don’t believe you do. You’re used to her, and a lot of love is nothing more than habit.”

“I thought love had something to do with passion,” Jack said, trying to keep his voice light.

“Passion? I’m not sure passion has anything to do with it at all. Look at me, for instance. I’ve loved you for a long time.” She smiled at his expression of surprise.
“You didn’t know? Well, why should you? It wasn’t the kind of love that demands attention. It was the kind of love that’s comforting. I knew it was there, and it helped me. If you didn’t know it was there, or nobody knew it was there, it didn’t matter. It was my love, and I liked it. And it had nothing to do with passion.”

“And what about the other afternoon?”

“That was passion,” Sylvia said softly. “And I liked it. But it scares me.”

“Scares you?”

“Yes. I keep wondering—after the passion dies, will I still have my love? Or will that fade too? I don’t want it to, Jack. I want to be able to go on loving you.”

Their eyes met, and Jack reached out to touch her hand.

“And I want you to go on loving me, Sylvia. I want you to very much.”

Together they walked to Sylvia’s bedroom and closed the door. Their drinks sat forgotten on the kitchen table, and the ice in the glasses slowly melted.

Rose heard the car grinding up the driveway and glanced at the clock. He’d been gone almost three hours. She wondered if he’d notice the light under the study door when he came in, or whether he was too drunk. She heard the front door open, and her husband’s footsteps in the hall. They stopped, then started again, and she heard him coming toward the study. He’d seen the light.

She waited till the study door opened before she spoke.

“I hope no children disappear tonight,” she said coldly. “I won’t be able to vouch for your whereabouts.” She looked at him icily, but he didn’t flinch. She realized he was sober.

“If it becomes necessary, Sylvia Bannister can tell
anyone who’s interested where I’ve been tonight. And what I’ve been doing.”

“I see,” Rose said quietly, absorbing what he was telling her. “I suppose I should have known. She’s been in love with you for years. I didn’t know it was mutual.”

“I didn’t either, until recently,” Jack said. “Are we going to have a fight about it?”

“Do you want one?” Rose countered.

Jack smiled and sat down. “No, I don’t I’ve had enough of fighting, Rose, with you, with everything. If you really want to know, I didn’t want to come home tonight Sylvia sent me.”

“Sent you?” Rose asked, her brows arching. “Was she afraid the neighbors would talk?”

“No. She was worried about you. She likes you, you know.”

“And I like her. But not so much that I’ll let her take my place.”

Jack chuckled. “It wasn’t very long ago that you were thinking about leaving me.”

“A woman has pride. If I left you it wouldn’t be so that you could marry Sylvia Bannister. You’d be so broke that you wouldn’t be able to marry anyone.”

“I see, Jack said, standing up.” Somehow this conversation seems to have gotten out of hand. I have no intention of asking you for a divorce, at least not right now. So I think “I’ll go to bed.”

“Not yet,” Rose said. She realized that it sounded like a command, and that Jack wouldn’t respond to a command. Not tonight She softened her voice. “Please,” she said. “Something happened tonight, and I don’t know what it means or what we should do about it.”

Jack sank back into the chair he had been occupying. “You mean after I left?”

Rose nodded. “I couldn’t sleep, and after a while I decided to get something to eat. I went down to the kitchen, and while I was there Sarah came in.”

“So?”

“I’m sorry. She came in from outside. She was dripping wet and covered with mud. Needless to say, I haven’t the slightest idea where she’d been, or why.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I took her upstairs, bathed her, and put her to bed. I waited till she fell asleep, then came down here. I’ve been here ever since, trying to figure out what she could have been doing.”

“Did she do anything in the kitchen?”

“If you mean, did she make one of her scenes, no. But I had the strangest feeling. I was burrowing around in the fridge when she came in, and I didn’t hear her. I didn’t realize there was anyone there till I felt the draft from the open door. When I realized there was someone in the room, my first thought was to grab a knife. And that’s when I saw Sarah. She was standing by the knife drawer, and it seemed like she was trying to make up her mind about something.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know,” Rose said uncomfortably. Then: “Oh, yes, I do know. It seemed to me that she was trying to choose one of the knives. I’m probably wrong, but that’s the way it seemed.”

Jack considered it, turning everything over in his mind, but he could come up with no answers.

“Is she still in her room?” he asked.

“Yes. I’d have heard her if she’d come down.”

“Well, I don’t see what we can do tonight. Let’s go to bed, and look in on her. Then I’ll call Dr. Belter in the morning. I doubt if it’s anything serious, though. She was probably sleepwalking.”

“No,” Rose said definitely. “She wasn’t sleepwalking, I’m sure she was awake, and I’m sure she knew what she was doing. And I’m very much afraid of what it might have been.”

She was thinking of Kathy Burton and Jimmy Tyler, and Jack knew it. But he saw no reason to try to talk
to her about it. It would be better to let Dr. Belter handle it in the morning.

“Come on,” he said gently, “let’s go to bed.”

As he led her upstairs, he realized that Sylvia was right. He did love his wife. He loved her very much. He hoped it wasn’t too late for them.

The next day, Columbus Day, dawned bright and cold, with a north wind rattling the house at the end of Conger’s Point. By nine o’clock the brightness was gone, and the gray skies blended into an almost invisible horizon with the leaden sea. There was a heavy swell running, and the surf pounded at the Point with a winter strength.

“I know it’s a holiday,” Rose heard Jack saying into the telephone as she came down the stairs. “But I think it’s pretty important. She seems to have been sleepwalking.”

Fifteen miles away, in his cramped apartment at White Oaks, Charles Belter was stifling a yawn. He came awake at the word and his brows knit into a frown. Sleepwalking? It didn’t fit the pattern. “Just what do you mean by sleepwalking?” he inquired. He yawned again, covering the mouthpiece of the telephone, and reached for his coffee. He was glad Jack Conger was at least aware it was a holiday, even if he didn’t intend to respect the fact.