The Twisted Window (21 page)

The world began to spin, and his legs buckled under him. Sinking to his knees, he covered his face with his hands, and against the blackness he again saw the setting. The yard in front of their house had clumps of brown grass sticking through an anemic layer of half melted snow. Gavin's Jaguar stood out by the curb, highly polished and perfect. His own car, the blue Chevy, was parked in the driveway.

It was winter. It was December.

It was Mindy's second birthday.

Gavin had arrived at noon to attend the celebration.

"This is crazy!" Brad told his mother. "This guy's not your husband! You've divorced the creep, so why is he hanging around here?"

"It's Saturday," his mother reminded him. "You know Gavin gets visitation on the weekends. I'd rather put up with him here at Mindy's party than have them go off and celebrate her birthday without me."

The accusation hung, unvoiced, in the air between them.

"Dad would have had the heart attack anyway," Brad said defensively, feeling his stomach tighten with old, familiar nausea.

"We can't know that," said his mother.

"The doctors told us—"

"He lay in the woods for three hours without medical attention. If the two of you had stayed here at home as I begged you to, we could have summoned an ambulance in a matter of minutes." She sighed. "Well, it's behind us now. What's done is done. The men in my life may desert me, but I'll always have my children."

To Brad's relief, she did not pursue the subject further.

Mindy was still too little to understand why the day was so special, but she reveled in her position as center of attention. The house was filled with a combination of Christmas and birthday decorations; a tree with lights and tinsel, mistletoe hanging over the doorway, multicolored balloons, and a birthday cake with two legitimate candles and a third one "to grow on" set off to the side.

The birthday presents were wrapped in pastel paper to distinguish them from the Christmas gifts under the tree. There were a Raggedy Ann, a jack-in-the-box, a xylophone (Brad had gotten her that), and a dollhouse half a foot taller than Mindy herself.

What Brad had not been prepared for was the bear.

Until that appeared, he had prided himself on the fact that he was managing to keep his animosity under wraps. For his mother's sake and Mindy's, he had made an effort to be congenial, making casual conversation, dishing out ice cream to serve to the four of them, answering Gavin's awkward questions about how school was going.

But when Gavin was ready to leave, he had insisted they all walk out to the car with him, and from the back seat he had lifted a big, soft package. He had presented it to Mindy with a dramatic flourish, and a brown toy bear had emerged from the fluff of pink paper.

That was the point at which Brad's self-control deserted him.

"Mindy already has a bear!" he exploded. "In case you've forgotten, I gave her Bimbo a year ago today!"

"This isn't just any old teddy bear," Gavin assured them. "Pinch him, Mindy baby, and see what he does."

Mindy glanced uncertainly from her brother to her father. Then she reached out tentatively and touched the bear's paw.

Gavin guided her hand to the furry arm.

"Give him a squeeze!" he said, and Mindy giggled.

With Gavin's hand over hers, she squeezed the bear's arm, and from somewhere deep in its chest a hidden music box began to play "Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly."

Mindy let out a shriek of surprise and grabbed the bear with both hands to pinch it again. Immediately, the tune it played changed to "Jingle Bells."

The little girl threw her arms around her father's neck.

"'Dinkle Bells'!" she squealed in delight. "'Dinkle Bells'!"

"He plays twenty different songs," Gavin informed her proudly, as self-satisfied as though he had programmed the creature himself. "I guess this beats old Bimbo, doesn't it, baby?"

Those were the words that had opened the emotional floodgate. The rage that had swept over Brad was so all-consuming that it had been all he could do to keep from striking the man. If he had been more heavily built he might actually have done so, but knowing he was no physical match for his former stepfather, he had stood in wretched silence, shaking with unconsummated fury, his fists clenched so tightly his fingernails sliced into his palms.

Exactly what happened next, he had never been sure about. He did recall the fact that the phone had rung inside the house and his mother had left the yard to go in to answer it. The stupid bear was now playing "Silent Night," and Gavin was going through the ritualistic good-byes with hugs and kisses for Mindy and a token handshake for Brad.

Brad had glared at the man and turned away, unable to bring himself to take the proffered hand. Instead, he had jumped into the Chevy and started the engine. Cunning the motor, he had thrown the car into reverse, and a moment later had been flying down the road to Jamie's.

Had there been a thump as the car roared out of the driveway? When he thought back now, he knew of course that there had been. At the time, he had been too furious to focus on anything but his anger, and he had driven away without a glance behind him.

Now, in the terrible blackness of his two cupped hands, he saw the nightmare through from beginning to end.

"It was an accident," he whispered. "I didn't mean to. Mom says it's the same as murder, but it was an accident!"

"Of course it was an accident," Jamie said softly. "That's why you weren't indicted; it was an accident."

The pain of the realization was so intolerable that Brad did not think he had the strength to survive it.

"I killed my sister," he moaned, "and I can't bear it."

"Yes, you can," Jamie told him, "because I'll bear it with you."

Her hands seized his and pulled them down from his face, forcing him to look straight into her eyes. When he did, he saw his agony reflected there and knew she had taken half of it for her own.

She put her arms around him and drew him against her, so the curve of her breast was a pillow for his face. The tears came then, in a rush that almost drowned him, and with the storm of weeping, the great release.

"Why is that boy in there crying?" asked Cricket.

"He was scared," Tracy told her. "When that gun went off by accident, he thought the bullet hit you and knocked you down."

"My foot got caught on the chair when I ran for Monk-Monk."

"I know, but Brad was outside and couldn't see that. He thought he'd hurt you, and that made him feel just awful."

She and the child were walking together along the bank of the stream below the cabin. The sun had now slipped behind the hill, creating an artificial twilight in which nothing appeared to be exactly what it had been. The meadow beneath them was lost in mysterious shadows, a fairyland or a breeding place for devils. The stream could have been a gush of blue-black liquid from a witch's cauldron or a mirror reflecting the high, sweet curve of heaven.

It's however I choose to see it, Tracy thought suddenly, as she gazed at the painful but glorious world that surrounded her.

"Are we going home now?" asked Cricket, tugging at her hand.

How strange that the word brought with it a vision of Winfield!

"Yes," Tracy told her quietly, "we're going home."

The End