Ammie, Come Home (14 page)

“It wasn't what you said, it was the way you said it.”

“They're too young to be thinking of—”

“Of what? If they're thinking about what I think they're thinking about, more power to them.”

“Oh, Pat! This is no time for—for—”

He waited, giving her plenty of time to find the word. When she did not he said softly, “You've got a problem yourself, haven't you? What—”

Sara came clattering down the stairs. She was wearing stretch slacks and a shirt, and, Ruth suspected, very little else. Her feeling that the slacks were too tight was confirmed by Pat's appreciative stare. The rich raspberry of the slacks and the pink and lemon striped shirt set off Sara's vivid coloring, but her expression was as bleak as the colors were warm. She brushed past Ruth without meeting her eye.

“I'll do the dishes,” she said, and vanished into the kitchen.

“She's angry with me,” Ruth said wretchedly.

“I don't blame her. Your voice was like ice water; and coming when it did, after a transcendental minute and a half—”

“I'm going to get dressed,” Ruth said. “Then I'm going to look at the closet shelves.”

But she knew, as she ascended the stairs, that he was staring speculatively at her; and she knew also that the confrontation she had been expecting had only become more imminent.

 

IV

By five o'clock Bruce had not returned, and Sara was vibrating nervously between the kitchen window and the tray of cocktails she had prepared.

“Come on in and sit down,” Ruth said, taking the tray. “He'll be along any minute.”

“You go ahead.” Sara was courteous but remote; it was clear that she had not forgotten the morning's episode. “I'm going to start dinner.”

Ruth found Pat in the living room lighting the fire. He looked up as she came sidling around the door; they had all started to adopt a circuitous route through the room, avoiding its street end as much as possible.

“Maybe we ought to sit in the kitchen,” Ruth said.

Pat took the tray of drinks and set it firmly on the coffee table.

“I don't think anything is likely to happen much before midnight, to judge by past events. Sit down. I'll sit on this side, just in case, and keep an eye on—things.”

“No, I'd rather keep my eye on them too.” Ruth sat down beside him, on the couch that faced the pertinent end of the room. “Pat, I think we ought to get out of here. At least for the night.”

“It's okay by me. But I doubt if Bruce will agree. He'll want to sit and observe manifestations.”

“And Sara probably won't go without him. Damn the boy; why doesn't he come home?”

“Tsk, tsk, such language,” Pat said comfortably. “What have you got against the kid?”

“Nothing, really. It's just—”

“The beard and the clothes and the supercilious air? I know; they gripe me too. But these things are only a superficial facade; underneath, the little devils are a lot more like the rest of the human race than they care to admit. Bruce is a very sound specimen; Sara could do a lot worse.”

“They aren't that serious about each other.”

“I don't know about her feelings, but there's no question about his. He's fighting for her, Ruth—tooth and nail.”

“Yes, I know…and I'm grateful…but, Pat, in a way he's enjoying this. It's a game to him—outsmarting you, and me, and the rational universe!”

“I still think you aren't giving him credit. We'll talk to him when he comes in and see if we can't convince him to leave. You and Sara can spend the night at my place, I've got plenty of room.”

“That's very nice of you, but….”

He met her quizzical look with one of amusement, but there was a subtle change in his expression.

“Don't worry, you'll be perfectly safe. If I had in mind what you think I have in mind, I wouldn't include Sara.”

Ruth leaned back, staring into the leaping flames, and feeling Pat's arm move along the back of the couch behind her. Middle age had its disadvantages, certainly, and one of the losses was the wild singing in the blood; but if one extreme had flattened out, so had the other. The anxieties were gone; the terrors had become only mild anxieties.

“Don't be coy,” Pat said softly. His fingers touched her chin. She turned her face toward him, smiling.

“I'm not coy, dear. Only tired.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

He was no longer smiling; his eyes moved from her eyes to her lips, and Ruth was aware of the mixed emotions which no woman with any feminine instincts can help feeling under such circumstances—triumph, mingled with a small, exciting touch of alarm.

“Men are so conceited,” she murmured. “They—”

His lips cut off the rest of the sentence. It was a cautious embrace, restrained on her side and exploratory on his; when he raised his head, neither had spilled a drop from the glasses they still held, and his hand had not moved from her shoulder.

Ruth let her smile widen just a trifle. He could control his features, but not his breathing; holding the glass was pure affectation, a little boy pretending to show off. Pat's eyes narrowed. He put his glass on the table and took hers from her hand. Without speaking, but with the same look of concentration with which, she imagined, he began a lecture, he took her into his arms.

At first she felt like laughing, there was such deliberation in his movements. She felt pleasantly relaxed, like a cat being stroked; and then, with a jarring realization, she felt her head turning, seeking the mouth which had avoided hers but was moving effectively elsewhere. Pat felt the movement too; his warm breath, then approximately under her left ear, came out in a gust of amusement. Annoyed, she tried to free herself, and found her hands ineffective.

For the first few seconds of the second kiss she was unaware of any emotion except gratification; this, then, was what men starving on a desert island experienced when confronted with their first full meal in months. Only for her it had been years…. The new sensation came gradually, insidiously. It was some time before she realized that pleasure had been replaced by terror, and that her body was stiff with revulsion. She tried to move and found she could not; the weight of his body forced her back onto the couch, the pressure of his hands was so painful she wanted to cry out, but could not, because his mouth was a gag, stifling sound and breath…. It was a nightmare, all the worse because it had happened before, and because she had not expected, from him, such ruthless contempt for her pain, physical and mental.

Then all the lights in the room went on, in a blinding flash that penetrated even her squeezed eyelids; and from some infinite distance a voice spoke loudly.

Pat was still a dead weight—almost as if he had collapsed—but his hands and body were passive now, no longer actively hurting. After a moment he sat up; and Ruth, blinking through tears of fright and pain, saw Bruce standing in the doorway, his hand on the light switch. He was wearing his coat, but no hat, as was his habit; and the expression on his face made Ruth want to shriek with hysterical amusement.

He's shocked, she thought wildly; poor child, they really are so conventional…. Then she realized that she was sprawled awkwardly and embarrassingly across the couch. She sat up and tried to rearrange her skirt.

Bruce gave Pat one quick, appraising look, and then vanished, without comment or apology—an omission which made Ruth think highly of his tact. She had not dared to look at Pat, but she was intensely aware of him. He was hunched over, his face hidden in his hands; but he must have been looking through his fingers, because as soon as Bruce left he turned to Ruth.

“Is there any point in asking you to forgive me?”

“My dear, there's no need—” Ruth's voice was a croak; she had to stop and clear her throat. “You didn't—”

“I hurt you; and that was unforgivable. Good God, I don't know what came over me!” His clenched hands went to his forehead, and Ruth reached over to pat his shoulder.

“Stop beating yourself. It's happened before—”

She had not meant to say that, nor had she anticipated what the impact of the words would be. They literally caught in her throat and left her staring dumbly at her glass of wine.

“I know it has,” Pat said quietly. “I knew something was wrong; it was unmistakable. That's what makes my behavior so viciously stupid.”

“How—how did you know?”

“I can't explain; I just—well, felt it. The first time I kissed you I felt it—a mixed-up combination of desire and fear. I knew that; I was so careful—and now I had the unforgivable effrontery to try to force you. Ruth, I'm not apologizing for my instincts, I'm proud of 'em; but I can't forgive myself for my stupidity and clumsiness.”

“It's all right.”

“No, it's not. But the situation is so fouled up now I might as well plunge on. It's your husband, isn't it? I know about that; he was killed in the Second World War, when you'd only been married a few months.”

“Harry….” She let the word linger on her tongue, wondering why, after twenty years, the taste of it should be so bitter.

“It was a tragedy, darling, I know. A terrible thing. But it's been twenty years, and more. You can't bury your emotions for the rest of your life out of some sickly romanticism, no one demands or deserves such distorted loyalty….”

“Loyalty?” She turned, staring at him; and the glass she had picked up began to shake, spilling white liquid, and her whole body shook with silent, painful laughter. “The day I got the telegram from the War Department I got down on my knees and thanked God.”

“Was it as bad as that?” he asked, after a moment of silence, in which the truth burst on him like a blinding light.

“It was—there are no words. I was only twenty—Sara's age—and I was so naïve, you wouldn't believe—none of these sophisticated modern children would believe—how dumb I was. At first I thought it was my fault. He called me a prig, and talked about middle-class morality. And I believed him; I was sunk in guilt at my own abhorrence. Oh, Pat, there wasn't a thing he missed!” She gave a choked laugh. The tears were pouring down her cheeks and she swiped at them with the back of her hand. “I read the books later, you know the ones I mean; there was hardly a page I hadn't known, firsthand.”

“Why didn't you divorce him?” Pat asked in a deadly quiet voice.

“I told you, at first I thought it was my fault, I thought I would learn…. Then, later, he was going away. They were talking about the big invasion, and we knew he would be in it. I couldn't—”

“Yes, I see.” Pat's fist beat a soft tattoo against his knee. “It's frustrating,” he said casually, “to want to kill a man who's been dead for twenty years. I hope he's rotting.”

“I can see now that he was sick,” Ruth said, fumbling in her pocket. “I can be sorry for him—now. I didn't realize myself how it had affected me, I just—never thought about it.”

“No wonder. All the same, it would have been better if you had proceeded to have a big noisy nervous breakdown and gotten this out of your system. You never had psychiatric help? No, you wouldn't. Excuse me just a minute while I go out on the front steps and shoot myself.”

“But—don't. How could you possibly know?”

“I should have known. What the hell are you looking for? Oh, take my handkerchief. Blow your nose. Have another drink. Ruth, I should have known because I love you. Love is supposed to give people insight, isn't it?”

“I think that's one of the sadder delusions of youth.” Ruth blew, loudly and satisfyingly. “Unfortunately, it seems to cloud one's vision instead.”

“You may be right,” Pat said, eying her nervously. “Is that any way to respond to my announcement?”

“I am sorry! I just—”

“I'm not expecting any enthusiasm, under the circumstances. Just think about it.” His hands clenched till the knuckles whitened and she knew it was with the effort of not reaching out to touch her. “You feel better now, I know. It was a beautiful catharsis. But it was only temporary; Ruth, you're not through this yet. Just let me try. I'll be careful. This won't happen again. I'll be damned if I know what came over me.”

THE PORK CHOPS WERE SIZZLING IN THE PAN
;
SARA
cooked them as Ruth had taught her, in bacon fat with plenty of garlic salt and pepper. She looked up at her aunt as the latter came in. Ruth had been upstairs to repair the ravages of the past half hour, but she knew her eyes were red, and she had never appreciated Sara more than now, when the girl greeted her with a smile which held no recollection of the morning's unpleasantness. It was Bruce, vigorously mashing potatoes, who avoided Ruth's eye. “Do you mind making the gravy, Ruth?” Sara asked prosaically. “I still can't do it without lumps.”

“Of course. It was nice of you two to get dinner. But, Bruce—I wondered…. I mean, it's after dark….”

“I agree,” Bruce said. “We'll leave as soon as we finish eating.”

He turned to the table and began ladling potatoes out onto plates.

“Bruce, for goodness sake!” Sara exclaimed. “Put them in a bowl.”

“Why get more dishes dirty?” Bruce said.

“Quite right.” Pat took the frying pan from Sara and forked chops out onto plates. “Let's eat and run. You girls are spending the night at my place.”

He handed the frying pan back to Ruth.

“Now you can make the gravy,” he explained.

“Men,” Sara said.

“Impossible,” Ruth agreed. They nodded solemnly at each other.

They ate hastily, and in silence. Ruth was occupied with her own thoughts; she was aware that Bruce seemed preoccupied and unusually quiet, but in the confusion of new personal ideas that had overwhelmed her she paid less attention than she might otherwise have done. Bruce finished before the others; he scraped his plate energetically into the sink and began clearing the table with such vigor that Pat had to snatch his plate, with his third pork chop, back.

“Wait a minute. What's the hurry?”

“Ruth is right.” Bruce reached for a glass. “We'd better get out of here. I was late getting back. I'd have suggested going then, only Sara had dinner ready…. Hurry up, will you? We can leave the dishes till morning; I'll help out then….”

The stammering voice was so unlike Bruce's that Ruth could only stare.

“You must have found out something today,” Pat said, studying the younger man curiously.

“Well, sort of. I mean, it doesn't…. Look, let's go! I'll talk about it at your place.”

Sara rose obediently; and in a quick, convulsive movement Bruce dived across the table and caught her arm.

“Not you—not that way!”

“What on earth—” Ruth began.

“Ruth, will you pack some things for her and get her coat? Then we can go out the kitchen door.”

“Why—of course.”

As she packed Sara's robe and nightgown and toothbrush, along with her own things, Ruth wondered what Bruce had discovered that frightened him so badly. For he was afraid, and not on his own account. What could be worse than the things they had already experienced?

 

II

During the drive Bruce continued to ramble, suggesting that the two women go to a hotel, offering to sleep on Pat's living-room floor, and being generally irrelevant. His conversation sounded like the noises people make to conceal the fact that they are not listening to themselves talk—that they are thinking about something else altogether.

Pat lived near Spring Valley, in a tiny house set in what seemed—and proved, by daylight—to be a neatly kept little garden.

“I like gardens,” he explained. “Otherwise I'd have taken an apartment. The house is a little large for one person, but I have a lot of books.”

That, Ruth decided, was an understatement. Her first impression of Pat's house was that it was built of books. Every wall in the downstairs rooms that was not otherwise occupied was lined with bookcases. There were books on tables, on chairs, on Pat's desk in his study. There were more books on beds and on night tables, and books on every flat surface in the bathroom, including the floor.

Ruth's second impression was that it was the grubbiest house she had ever seen.

Pat surveyed his living room with mild astonishment.

“It's sort of messy, isn't it? I guess what's-her-name didn't come this week.”

He leaned over and blew the dust off the coffee table.

“What's-her-name being the cleaning woman, I gather,” Ruth said. She picked up a sock from the back of a chair. “It wouldn't be so bad if you wouldn't leave your clothes lying around—and would pick up the newspaper instead of leaving it spread out on the floor—and take out your used coffee cups—and empty an ashtray occasionally….”

She suited the action to the words, and finished by handing Pat the overflowing wastebasket into which she had forced the contents of the ashtrays.

“Amazing,” Pat said. Clutching the wastebasket to his chest he looked around the room. “Looks better already.”

“Where's the vacuum cleaner? Do you have a vacuum cleaner?”

“Certainly I do. But it's none of your business.” Pat put the wastebasket down in the middle of the floor. “You can be housewifely tomorrow, if you insist, but tonight we're going to talk. Don't you want to hear what Bruce has to say?”

“Yes, of course,” Ruth said absently.

Even in its present clutter and dust, which had been barely touched by her efforts, the room was a pleasant place, with that air of comfort which comes when a basically well-decorated room is inhabited by someone who cares more for comfort than for elegance. She suspected that Pat's mother had donated the furniture; the chintz on the chairs and couch, with its delicate pattern of lilac and delphinium, in soft blues and lavenders, had certainly not been Pat's choice, but it suited the room, with its low-beamed ceiling and brick fireplace. The rug was a soft textured blue that repeated one color of the flowered print. Coffee table and lamps looked like Pat's contributions; they were of heavy cut glass and their simple, modern lines went surprisingly well with the traditional furniture.

Pursuing her investigations Ruth rounded the corner of the couch and stopped with a nervous squeal. Lying on the floor behind the couch, unmoved by their entrance, was what appeared to be a dead dog.

Pat rushed to join her, to see what had prompted her yell. Then he relaxed, eyeing the recumbent form—which was that of a very big, brown German shepherd—with disgust.

“That's Lady,” he said.

Lady opened one eye and regarded him with remote interest. She let out a short unemphatic bark and closed the eye again.

“Laziest damn' dog I've ever seen,” Pat said gloomily.

Sara dropped to the floor and began to rub the dog's head.

“Pretty girl,” she crooned. “Nice Lady. Poor thing; how old is she, Pat?”

“Two years old,” Pat said. “It's not her age, it's her disposition. She spends half her time lying in front of her food dish where I fall over her every time I go in the kitchen and the rest of her time lying in front of the fireplace waiting for me to make a fire. I've made more fires for that stupid dog.”

He was building another one as he spoke, crumpling newspapers and jamming them under the waiting logs. Lady roused, and rolled over from her front to her side. She gave Pat a look of weary approval and he paused long enough to scratch her stomach. “Stupid dog,” he muttered. Lady's mouth opened in a grin of affectionate contempt.

“You understand each other,” Ruth said, laughing.

“Too true. All right, you stupid dog, there's your fire. Now perhaps I may be allowed to tend to my guests. Coffee? Brandy?”

“Both, please,” Ruth said, and went along to help. When they finally settled down, she gave a sigh of contentment. The atmosphere was so restful that she felt completely at home. All of them might have been old inhabitants. Sara was squatting, with black boots crossed, on the hearthrug, and Lady had condescended to shift her big head into the girl's lap, where she lay snuffling and sighing in the throes of an exciting dream. Bruce had propped himself in a somewhat self-conscious pose against the mantel and was staring off into space and displaying his handsome profile to good effect. His close-fitting dark trousers and gaudy waistcoat might have been the doublet and hose of a medieval squire; they suited Bruce's lean height and long legs.

Pat was sprawled out in what was evidently his favorite chair; its cracking leather folds had molded themselves to the shape of his body. He smiled lazily at Ruth and lifted his glass in salute.

“I hate to dispel the mood,” Bruce said waspishly.

“Then don't,” Pat said.

“Time's running out. In fact, it's run. Forty-eight hours, remember?”

“Oh, that.” Pat shrugged.

“You're awfully goddamn' casual about it!”

“I'm sorry,” Pat said patiently. “I merely meant to remind you that you don't need to worry about deadlines.”

“Deadlines! I'm worried about what we're going to do. Or do you expect Ruth to live with that chunk of fog indefinitely?”

“Don't loose your cool,” said Pat, and looked idiotically pleased with himself for remembering this gem of modern idiom. “Naturally we'll have to do something. Let's talk about it. Have a Socratic dialogue.”

He smiled at Ruth with the same lazy charm which seemed, at the moment, to be slightly tinged with alcohol. She shared his mood, however, and knew that he was not drunk, except with reaction. One simply did not realize how unnatural the atmosphere of the Georgetown house had become until one got out of it.

Bruce flushed with anger or frustration. Then he took a grip of his beard with both hands, and nodded.

“Okay. Geez, you make me mad,” he added plaintively.

“I really am sorry, Bruce. Suppose you do the talking.”

“I never refuse that invitation.” Bruce's cheerful grin reappeared. “Okay, we'll have that dialogue. Answer Yes or No. We all agree that Sara is not psychotic, and that the manifestations we have seen are, in fact, from the realm which is called supernatural or paranormal.”

“Right,” Pat said.

“Then let's summarize what we've got. Sara, there's some blank paper in that hodgepodge on the table, you'd better jot this down. If anyone disagrees, or has a point to add, feel free to interrupt.”

“Okay,” Pat said meekly. If there was a gleam of amusement in his eye Ruth did not see it, but Bruce gave him a sharp glance before going on.

“Point one, a personality has on three occasions taken over Sara's body. Technical term: possession, or, as the English sometimes call it, overshadowing. This entity—whom we will call, for purposes of identification, A—has been pretty damned vague. Its only contribution has been the reference to the general, and a reiteration to the effect that It is not dead.”

“Added comment,” Pat said. “The accent was not Sara's normal one, but I could not identify it.”

“Okay, that's a good point.” Bruce sounded mollified. “I couldn't identify it either, except that it sounded softer and broader.”

“What we need is a speech expert,” Ruth said.

“We can't bring an outsider into this,” Bruce said. Then he smote himself heavily on the brow. “Damn it; that's the trouble with us, we just aren't organized. We ought to have had a tape recorder going. We could let someone listen to a tape without giving away the circumstances.”

“Thinking about what we should have done is futile,” Pat said. “Go on, Bruce. Apparition A is not very helpful.”

“Apparition B isn't either. That's what I propose to call that—unspeakable darkness. Yet we respond a lot more strongly to it than we do the
other. I do, anyhow. The entity that overshadows Sara bugs me, I'll admit, but I think mostly because it's not Sara. At the same time it is diluted, so to speak, by being contained in Sara. Whereas the darkness—appalls. The cold which accompanies it is a traditional manifestation of the supernatural, just about the only classic ghostly feature we've encountered. The cold is unnaturally violent and enervating. But the apparition is worse. It is evil.”

The dog chose that moment to groan heart-rendingly, and Ruth shivered.

“We all agree on that, don't we?” Pat said. “The impression of active, condensed evil—which is interesting. How do we know it's evil? That's a word and a concept which is out of fashion. Is there really such a thing as spiritual evil, and is there a human faculty, a seventh or eighth sense, that can smell it out?”

“You're getting into theology,” Sara murmured. “Pretty soon you'll be asking, ‘What is the good, Alcibiades?' and then I'll go to sleep.”

“Yes, we're getting too philosophical,” Bruce agreed. “Though I'd love to go into the problem if we didn't have more pressing matters on hand. All right. Apparition B is evil but otherwise without distinguishing characteristics. Now we come to Apparition C, if you can call a voice an apparition. The Voice. Capital V.”

“You're too young to find that amusing,” Ruth said, with a chuckle. “Remember, Pat?”

Bruce gave her a glance of dignified disdain.

“Apparition C, if you prefer that, seems to me the most potentially hopeful clue. It has been heard by all of us and it says definite words. ‘Come home—Sammie.'”

“Query,” Pat's drawl interrupted. “Name uncertain, if it is a name.”

“Okay, query Sammie. The voice is indeterminate in terms of sex—”

“Or anything else,” Pat muttered. “Direction, location, sense—”

“Or accent. It sounds,” said Bruce, with unconscious poetry, “the way the wind would sound if it could speak. Rushing, hollow, immense.”

“Good or bad?” Sara asked.

“Neutral, I'd say; wouldn't you?”

“I guess so. It's scary, but just because it is unnormal.”

“Right. If Saint Peter himself appeared to me I'd scream and run, just from the unexpectedness of him. Anything else?”