The Unforgiven Page 17

  Jess embraced her, and then held her at arm’s-length. “You’ll be fine,” he assured her.

  “Will I?” she asked.

  A tiny yelp from the vicinity of their feet distracted them. “Sure you will,” said Jess, bending down and picking up the puppy who had waddled over and was nibbling the cuff of his pants hungrily. “Willy says so too, don’t you, Willy?” He kissed the puppy on the top of the head and replaced him on the floor. Then he turned to Maggie. “Go get ready,” he said. “Everything will be okay.”

  Maggie turned uncertainly and started for her room. She stopped and looked back at Jess, who was heading for the kitchen door. He looked boyish and innocent in his plaid jacket, his hair standing out in unruly curls. She knew that up close there were many strands of gray in his thick hair, and that lines and creases surrounded his gentle eyes. But from across the room he looked young, like the farm boys she used to know, safe in the familiar fields and pastures that circumscribed their world. As she watched him he seemed unbearably distant from her. The secrets of her life whirled in the gulf between them. She stretched out her hand toward him.

  “I’ll let myself out,” he said, reaching the door and returning the gesture he mistook for a wave. She raised a hand, as if to stop him, but he closed the door behind him, and was gone.

  The night was cold and uncommonly clear. Jess breathed in the pure air hungrily as he climbed the hill to his house. He paused on the doorstep and listened to the loud, insistent murmur of the nearby sea for a few moments before he unlocked the door and let himself in. It was a good place to live, he thought, as he had many times before. Even the dark silence of the house seemed welcoming to him.

  Expertly skirting the furniture in the familiar darkness, Jess went directly to the kitchen and turned on the lights. He opened the refrigerator and found the coffee. Then he put some water in a kettle on the stove and returned to the refrigerator to find himself something for dinner. On the second shelf was a small crock of stew, the remains of a meal he had shared with Maggie several nights before. He smiled as he remembered her observing him as he carefully picked out the peas before he ate it.

  “If you don’t like peas, why do you put them in?” she asked.

  He looked up at her in surprise. “That’s the way my mother always made it,” he explained earnestly.

  “In other words, it’s not stew without peas?” Her incredulity dissolved into a giggling fit that resulted in his vowing “Nevermore” to the empty pea can he retrieved from the garbage bag.

  The kettle whistled, recalling Jess to his preparations. When he was done with his brief repast he put the dishes into the sink. The kitchen normally felt cozy to him, but tonight it seemed empty. He decided to have his pipe in the den.

  Jess switched on the lamp beside his favorite chair in the den and gazed around the book-lined room. During his marriage it had gradually become his favorite room in the house. Its utter stillness, save for the muffled roar of the ocean, was soothing to him, a relief from the distressing regularity of Sharon’s complaints. She never bothered him when he was in the den, put off by its introverted atmosphere, resentful of the volumes that provided Jess with an escape hatch from her discontent. It was his haven. Even after the divorce he retained a special fondness for the room.

  Jess looked around at the books and papers on his desk, lying carelessly unshelved. He had to straighten this up one of these days. With a feeling of surprise, Jess realized that the stillness of the room, which he had always savored, seemed tinged with loneliness. He had quickly become used to Maggie in the house, her voice calling him from another room, her presence in a doorway. He found himself looking up, expecting her.

  He tapped the bowl of his pipe impatiently against the ashtray and glanced over at the clock beside the television set. She’s not home yet, he thought. I’ll try her later. He stared blankly at the screen of the TV, thinking of her. Then, with a feeling of pleasant relief, he remembered that it was Monday night and nearly time for the football game. He turned on the TV, and then got comfortable in his chair.

  The noisy laugh track of a sit-com drawing to a close filled the room. He was halfway through a commercial for breakfast cereal when he became aware of a tapping sound, unsychronized to the enthusiastic voice of the pitchman. Jess turned down the volume on the set. He listened intently for a few moments, but the house was silent. He turned the volume up again, just as the opening credits for the football show were coming on the screen, and the announcers were beginning their spiel over the racket of band music. After a few moments the tapping sound started again. Jess frowned and turned off the TV. Leaving the study, he walked toward the front hallway, through the darkened rooms.

  He reached the front door and opened it, peering out into the night. There was no one in sight. Jess frowned and was about to close the door, when a movement in the bushes near the foot of the steps caught his eye. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  A figure emerged from the darkness.

  “Evy,” he exclaimed. “Hello!”

  The dim light from the foyer cast shadows on the girl’s pale, pinched face. In the gloom of the night her eyes were like dark holes. “I wasn’t sure you were here,” she said. “You didn’t answer the door.”

  “I had the TV on,” Jess explained. “I couldn’t tell if someone was knocking. Come on in.”

  “No,” she said. “I can’t stay. I just came over to borrow something.”

  “Well, you can come in for a minute. What do you need?” Jess asked.

  “There’s a pipe leaking in the cellar, and I need a wrench to fix it,” said the girl.

  “Fix it? Do you know how?”

  Evy shrugged. “I guess I can figure it out.”

  Jess gave her a wry smile. “You’ll probably end up with a flood.”

  “It can’t be that hard to do,” she protested.

  Jess shook his head. “You’re stubborn,” he said. “I’ll say that for you. Come on in and wait for me. I’ll get the wrench and go over and have a look at that pipe for you.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  Jess smiled to himself, suspecting that she had come calling in the hope that he would offer his help. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Just let me get my keys.”

  “No, you don’t need them,” she objected. “I’ll drive you.”

  “How will I get home?” he asked.

  “I’ll bring you back. I’m glad to get out of the house,” the girl assured him. “I’d like to.”

  Jess smiled ruefully, suspecting that the ride home would necessitate his inviting her in for a soda. Oh, well, he thought. It’s company. “Okay,” he agreed, opening the door to the hallway closet and pulling his jacket off a hanger. “Let’s go. The tools are out in the garage.”

  Evy followed him to the garage and held the flashlight that he handed to her as they went in the side door. “I’ve got to put a light in here,” he grumbled as he ransacked the toolbox, extracting two different wrenches. “These ought to do us,” he said, straightening up.

  On the ride to Evy’s house she gripped the wheel and drove cautiously, keeping her distance from the few other cars on the road, and answering Jess’s attempts at conversation in monosyllables. She pulled into the Robinson driveway and sat rigidly, staring ahead of her after she turned off the ignition. Jess glanced at her immobile face before opening the car door. He wished, briefly and guiltily, that he was back in his quiet den. The prospect of spending the evening in her moody, laconic company suddenly seemed wearisome.

  He stretched up toward the stars and forced out a cheerful groan. “What a night,” he said. “Look at those stars!”

  Evy slid out of the car and slammed the door. “Come on,” she said impatiently.

  Jess looked at her in surprise. “What’s the hurry?” he asked.

  She stared blankly at him for a second. Then she spoke. “It’s the leak,” she said. “It’ll get bigger.”

  Jess followed her up the path to the
house and into the front door. The girl looked straight ahead and marched toward the cellar door, but Jess paused in the living room. Harriet Robinson lay on the couch, propped up by pillows, her arms hanging lifelessly by her sides.

  “Hello, Harriet,” he said kindly. “How are you feeling tonight?”

  The old woman moved her lips in a feeble, fishlike motion. Jess walked over to her and patted her hand. “Evy told me about the leak in the basement. We’ll fix it up in no time.”

  “It’s this way,” Evy interrupted.

  Jess smiled sadly at the stricken woman and turned to Evy. “See you later,” he said.

  “Give me those,” Evy commanded as he approached the door. She gestured toward the wrenches he held in his hand, offering him the flashlight in exchange. “You can take a look at it, and I’ll hand you what you need.”

  “Okay,” Jess agreed, mildly surprised at the girl’s authoritative tone. It occurred to him that she felt confident, being on her own territory. He watched her face as she examined the wrenches he had handed to her. She ran her hand over their heads and then gripped the handle of the larger one tightly. Jess recalled the awkwardness of his last visit to this house, when he rebuffed her timid advances in her bedroom. Perhaps her brusqueness was an attempt to dispel the memory of that embarrassing incident that hung between them. Evy lifted her head. “Ready?” she asked.

  Jess nodded and opened the cellar door. The smell that assailed him forced him to step back from the door. “God,” he breathed, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “What have you got down there? Dead dogs?”

  “Some garbage and stuff. I guess I should clean it out,” Evy apologized.

  “Yeah,” Jess agreed. He thought to himself that at least he knew now why the house smelled so bad. For a moment he looked skeptically at Evy. She was normally so tidy. He wondered if there was a side of her he didn’t know. A side that was dirty and careless.

  The girl looked at him helplessly. “Maybe you’d rather not help me.”

  Jess sighed. “No. I’ll have a look. But you’ve got to promise me that you’ll get at that basement sometime soon. It’s not healthy to have food rotting down there. For either of you.”

  Evy bowed her head in apparent contrition at his scolding. “I will,” she promised in a low voice.

  Satisfied, Jess switched on the flashlight, drew in a breath, and started down the stairs. He could hear Evy on the step behind him.

  “One more down,” she directed him. “It’s there, on the ceiling to your left.”

  Jess beamed the light at the pipe Evy indicated. “I don’t see anything,” he said, peering up at the rusted metal. “They’re not in great shape, but they look dry. Are you sure this is where it was?” He flashed the light on the pipe joints above him, then shook his head. “I don’t see anything,” he repeated.

  The clatter of a falling wrench distracted him. He looked up at the girl.

  It took him a few seconds to comprehend what he saw. Evy glared down at him, her white, skeletal face distorted by a sneer which bared her teeth. Above one shoulder she held the larger wrench tensely, prepared to strike.

  This is a joke, he thought. She’s only kidding. This isn’t real. He tried to speak but his throat was constricted.

  “What are you doing?” The furious intensity of her eyes incinerated his frantic hope.

  Jess’s heart froze for an instant and then began to thud wildly. “No,” he cried out as he saw her arm start to move, like a scythe, through the air. He raised a clammy hand to shield his face. “Evy, don’t!”

  She ignored his plea. The last thing he heard was her guttural cry as she swung the wrench down on him. There was an instant of crushing pain. Then, darkness.

  15

  Owen hesitated, his hand on the inside handle of the car door. Should he go to the door, or simply honk the horn? he wondered. In the interest of appearing as casual as possible, he finally decided to remain in the car, motor running, and beep.

  A few seconds after the second blast the lights went out in the house, and Maggie appeared on the doorstep. The yellow porch light created an aura around her slim figure which gave her a ghostly appearance. She stepped off the threshold and into the darkness. Owen lost sight of her until she opened the car door and sat down beside him.

  “I would have come in,” he explained, “but we were running a little late.”

  Maggie nodded but did not reply.

  “So,” he continued, making conversation as he turned to back out of the driveway, “I hear you’re having a little car trouble. Damned cars. You can’t rely on them.” He straightened his jeep out on the road, then glanced over at Maggie who sat silently, not responding to his remarks.

  “Damned nuisance if you ask me,” he went on. “This old Scout of mine here is pretty good, but when one thing goes, everything else seems to shut down in sympathy. I take it over to Marv there at the Shell station. You know Marv? Great guy. Take your eyeteeth any day and tell you ‘you look better without them.’”

  He could sense that she had turned her head to look at him. Owen began to hum an aimless tune.

  “Actually,” she said quietly, “my car’s fine.”

  Owen ceased his humming and frowned, but he kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  “It was me,” she went on. “I didn’t want to go alone. I was afraid to.”

  Owen squirmed in his seat and screwed his mouth into an impatient expression. He did not look at her but continued to peer out at the white line in the road. “That’s ridiculous,” he said gruffly.

  Maggie did not flinch at his observation. “I suppose so,” she murmured.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Owen cleared his throat but said nothing. A sigh escaped from Maggie. She kept her face, furrowed with anxiety, turned away from him.

  Owen began to hum again, then stopped abruptly. They rode the rest of the way to the school without speaking.

  “America, America, God shed his grace on thee…”

  A chorus of straining, childish voices perforated the closed windows of the school and then dissolved in the night air as Owen and Maggie pulled up into the parking lot. Owen got out and reached back behind the seat where he had placed his camera equipment.

  “God shed disgrace on thee,” he boomed out in his basso profundo.

  Maggie, grateful for his attempt to relax her, smiled.

  “Ready?” Owen asked, slinging one camera around his neck and drawing a leather bag up over his shoulder. “Here,” he said. “Take these.”

  Maggie accepted the film containers he held out to her.

  “Hold onto them,” he instructed her. “I’ll need them later.”

  Owen began trudging toward the door of the auditorium. He looked back after a few steps and saw Maggie standing rooted beside the car. “Will you come on?” he called back, a note of irritation in his voice.

  She roused herself to join him, clutching her reporter’s pad tightly in one sweaty hand. “I thought this was a meeting about school business,” she whispered as Owen threw open the door of the auditorium. From inside she could hear the young vocalizers launching into their next tune, a poorly coordinated round of which none of the words were distinguishable.

  “Oh, they have a little music recital first. It puts all the proud parents in a mellow mood,” he explained. He poked his head in and then entered the back of the room. Maggie slipped in beside him and stood in the shadows. A few feet to her left Maggie noticed an empty chair pushed back against the wall. She quickly sat down in it and lowered her head to examine the blank first page of her pad.

  Owen dropped the leather satchel beside her and strode up the center aisle between the rows of metal folding chairs peopled by parents and other residents of Heron’s Neck. He planted himself about halfway down the aisle and held a light meter above his head. Curious eyes around the room turned to observe him as he raised the camera to his face and squinted into the viewer. Familiar with the sight of Owen and his camera at local eve
nts, most members of the audience quickly turned their attention back to the choir. Owen shifted his weight as he focused and began clicking. After a few shots he squatted down and tilted his camera upward at the crowded risers.

  Maggie raised her eyes from the safety of her notebook and looked around the room. A basketball hoop hung above the heads of the singing children in the room which was ordinarily a gymnasium. The maize-colored walls were papered with riotous crayon drawings depicting pilgrims of peculiar proportions and turkeys with brilliant green and purple plumage. The vivid, innocent images made Maggie smile. By contrast, the parents were a drab-looking lot, seated upright in their uncomfortable folding chairs, dressed mostly in dull earth tones. Maggie recognized some of their plain faces, which were upturned in rapt attention toward the children stumbling gamely through their song to the accompaniment of a plunking piano that Maggie could not see from her seat at the rear.

  She felt a sad fondness for the nameless children as she watched them singing. They concentrated earnestly on the unseen teacher at the piano who led them, but their exuberance caused each little voice to take a path of its own, poking out of the choral unity like awkward elbows and knees. And those who sang the loudest, with greatest zeal, would probably be scolded, she thought.

  As her eyes swept the room she noticed that Owen appeared to be gesturing in her direction. She lowered her eyes hastily to her notebook and hoped that she was wrong. Then, unmistakably, she heard him call her name in an impatient whisper.

  Maggie looked up to see him nodding at her and pointing to his leather bag. A few people seated in Owen’s vicinity swiveled around to stare at her. Reluctantly, she leaned over and picked up the bag. She dreaded the walk down the center aisle and silently cursed Owen for forcing her to leave her seat in the shadows. Slowly she got up and started toward him.

  As she reached the passage between the seats, the piano and its player became visible to her. Maggie recognized the frizzy, blond head of the woman at the fair who had screamed at her after the boys’ accident. Maggie stopped short, disinclined to expose herself by getting any closer. She heard Owen whisper her name again and looked up to see him glowering at her, jerking his hand impatiently toward her. She looked dumbly from Owen’s extended hand to the bag, then slowly shook her head. She took a step back.