Comes the Blind Fury (25 page)

“Did you hear anything?” June asked.

Michelle thought a moment, then nodded. “There was something—sort of a scream. I guess Susan must have tripped or something.”

My God
, June thought.
She doesn’t know
.
She doesn’t even know what happened
.

“I see,” she said slowly. “And after you heard Susan scream, what did you do?”

“Do? I—I came home.”

“But, darling,” June said. “If the fog was so thick, how could you find your way home?”

Michelle smiled at her. “It was easy,” she said. “Mandy led me. The fog doesn’t bother Mandy at all.”

It was only by the sheer force of her will that June kept from screaming.

CHAPTER 18

Supper that evening was nearly intolerable for June. Michelle sat placidly, apparently unbothered by what had happened that afternoon. Cal’s silence, a silence that had begun as Michelle told them what had happened that afternoon, hung over the table like a shroud. Throughout the meal, June’s eyes flicked from her husband to her elder daughter, constantly wary, constantly vigilant, on the watch for something—anything—that would lend the atmosphere a hint of normality.

And that, she realized as she cleared the table when the meal was finally over, was the problem—the situation appeared
too
normal, and it seemed as though she was the only person aware that it was not. As she stacked the dishes in the sink, she found herself beginning to question her own sanity. Twice, she started to leave the kitchen, and stopped herself. Finally, the tension was too much to bear.

“I think we have to talk,” she said to Cal, coming
into the living room. Michelle was nowhere to be seen: June assumed she was in her room. Cal was holding Jennifer in his lap, bouncing her gently and talking to her. As June spoke, he looked up from the baby and regarded his wife cautiously.

Talk about what?” Cal stared at her, and June could see a wall go up in front of his eyes, a wall that threatened to shut her out entirely. He frowned slightly, the skin around his eyes crinkling into deep lines. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. “I don’t know that there’s anything to talk about”

June’s mouth worked for a moment, then she found her voice. “Don’t know!” she exclaimed. Then she repeated the phrase, louder.
“Don’t know?
My God, Cal, we have to get help for her.” What was he doing? Was he shutting everything out? Ignoring everything that was happening? Of course he was. She could see it in his eyes.

“I don’t think anything’s so terribly wrong.”

And there it was. That was why he’d been so silent since Michelle had told them her version of the afternoon—he was simply blocking it all out. But she had to find a way to get through to him. “How can you say that?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm and reasonable. “Today Susan Peterson died, and Michelle was there—she
saw
it, or at least she
should
have seen it. If she really didn’t, then we’re in more trouble than I even thought. She hasn’t got any friends, except Mandy, who’s a doll, for God’s sake. And now there’s this thing with the fog. Cal, there
wasn’t
any fog today—I know, I was here all day, and the sun was out. Cal, she must be losing her vision! And you say you don’t think anything’s terribly wrong? Are
you
blind?” June stopped suddenly, realizing her
voice had risen and become shrill. But it didn’t matter. Cal’s eyes were icy now, and she knew what he was going to say before he spoke.

“I won’t hear this, June. You want me to believe I’ve made Michelle crazy. I haven’t. She’s fine. She had a shock this afternoon, and blocked it. That’s a normal reaction. Do you understand? It’s
normal!”

Stunned, June sank into a chair, and tried to gather her thoughts into some kind of coherency. Cal was right: there was nothing left to talk about—something had to be done.

“Now listen to me,” she heard Cal saying, his voice calm, his words maniacally reasonable. “You weren’t there this afternoon, and I was. I heard what Constance Benson had to say, and I heard what Michelle had to say, and it doesn’t make much difference whom you believe—Michelle had nothing to do with what happened to Susan. Even Mrs. Benson didn’t say Michelle
did
anything—all she said was that Michelle didn’t react to what happened. Well, how could she have? She must have been in a state of shock. So how
could
she react?”

Half of June’s mind was listening to what Cal was saying, but the other half was screaming in protest. He was twisting things, forcing things to sound the way he wanted them to sound.

“But what about the fog?” she asked. “Michelle said there was fog, and there wasn’t! Damn it, there wasn’t.”

“I didn’t say there was,” Cal said patiently. “Maybe Michelle did see what happened to Susan, and her reaction—the reaction Mrs. Benson said wasn’t there—was simply to shut it out of her mind. Her mind could
have invented the fog, to screen out what she didn’t want to see.”

“Just like your mind is screening out what you don’t want to see?” June regretted her words as soon as they were out, but there was no way to recover them. They seemed to hit Cal with a physical force: his body shrank into his chair, and he raised Jenny just slightly, as if the baby were a shield.

“I’m sorry,” June apologized. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“If that’s what you think, why not say it?” Cal countered. “I’m going up to bed. I don’t see much point in going on with this.”

June watched him go, made no move to try to stop him, or to continue the conversation. She felt glued to her chair, unable to summon the strength to get up. She listened as Cal climbed the stairs, then waited until his footsteps had faded away toward their bedroom. Then, when the house was quiet, she tried to think, tried to force herself to concentrate on Michelle, and what was to be done for her. Steeling herself for whatever might be about to happen, June made her decision. She would not be dissuaded.

Time seemed to have stopped for Estelle and Henry Peterson. Now, near midnight, Estelle sat quietly with her hands in her lap, saying nothing. She wore a slightly puzzled expression, as if she were wondering where her daughter was. Henry was pacing the floor, his florid face flushed a deep red, his indignation growing every minute. If Susan was really dead, someone was to blame.

“Tell me again, Constance,” he said. “Tell me once
more what happened. I just can’t believe you haven’t left something out.”

Constance Benson, perched uncomfortably on one of Estelle’s better chairs, shook her head tiredly.

“I’ve told you everything, Henry. There just isn’t anything more to say.”

“My daughter would not have run over the edge of a cliff,” Henry stated, as if by saying it he could make it true. That girl must have pushed her. She
must
have.”

Constance kept her eyes firmly fixed on her hands as they twisted nervously in her lap, wishing she could tell Henry Peterson what he wanted to hear.

“She didn’t, Henry. I suppose she must have said something, but I couldn’t hear it from my kitchen. And she wasn’t even very close to Susan, It was—well, it was very strange, that’s all.”

Too damn strange, if you ask me,” Henry muttered. He poured himself a shot of whiskey, bolted it down, then clapped his hat on his head. “I’m going to talk to Joe Carson,” he said. “He’s a doctor—he should know what happened.” He stalked from the room. A moment later the front door slammed, and a car engine raced.

“Oh, dear,” Estelle sighed. “I hope he isn’t going to do anything rash. You know how he can be, Susan gets so upset with him sometimes.…” Her voice faded away as she realized Susan would never get upset with her father again. She looked beseechingly at Constance Benson. “Oh, Constance, what are we going to do? I just can’t believe it. I just keep having the feeling that any minute Susan’s going to walk through that door, and it will all turn out to be a dream. A horrible dream.”

Constance moved over to the sofa and drew Estelle
close to her. Only now, with Constance’s large and comforting arm around her, did Estelle give in to her tears. Her body trembled, and she dabbed ineffectually at her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief.

“You just let it out,” Constance told her. “You can’t keep it all bottled up, and Susan wouldn’t want you to. And don’t worry about Henry—he’ll calm down. He just has to make a fuss, that’s all.”

Estelle sniffled, and straightened up a little. She tried to smile at Constance, but the effort was too much for her. “Constance, are you sure you told us everything? Wasn’t there maybe something you didn’t want to say in front of Henry?”

Constance sighed heavily. “I wish there was. I wish there was something that would make sense out of the whole thing. But there isn’t. All I know is that I’ve told people time and time again, don’t let the kids play around that cemetery. It’s dangerous. But nobody believed me, and now look what’s happened.”

Estelle’s eyes met Constance Benson’s. For some time the two women simply gazed at each other, as if there were an unspoken communication going on between them. When at last Estelle spoke, her voice was low, and highly controlled.

“It was that girl, wasn’t it? Michelle Pendleton? Susan told me there’s something wrong with her.”

“She’s crippled,” Constance said. “She fell down the bluff.”

“I know,” Estelle said. “I don’t mean that. There was something else. Susan told me about it yesterday, but I can’t remember what it was.”

“Well, I don’t see that it matters much,” Constance sniffed. “It seems to me that what has to be done is see to it that everybody’s warned. I think we should
warn everyone to keep their children away from that graveyard, and away from Michelle Pendleton. I don’t know what she did, but I know she did something.”

Estelle Peterson nodded.

It didn’t take long for the word to spread through Paradise Point. Constance Benson called her friends, and her friends called theirs. As the night wore on there were small family groups all over the village, huddled together in kitchens and living rooms, talking quietly to their sleepy children, warning them about Michelle. The older children nodded wisely.

But to the younger ones, it made no sense.…

At the Carstairses’, it was Bertha who talked briefly to Constance Benson, then murmured a few words of sympathy for Estelle Peterson before hanging up and facing her husband. Fred was watching her.

“A little late for phone calls, isn’t it?” he asked, pulling himself to a sitting position. He hated being disturbed in the middle of the night.

“That was Constance Benson,” Bertha said matter-of-factly. “She seems to think that Michelle Pendleton had something to do with what happened today.”

“Leave it to Constance,” Fred grumbled sleepily, but he looked wary, nonetheless. “What does Constance think Michelle did?”

“She didn’t say. I don’t think she exactly knew. But she said we ought to have a talk with Sally, and warn her to stay away from Michelle.”

“I wouldn’t warn a man to stay out of a beartrap on Constance Benson’s say-so,” Fred muttered. “She’s always yammering about that graveyard, too, but she
hardly ever goes out of the house. Must be tough for that boy of hers.”

“Well, that’s between him and her, and nothing to do with us.”

Bertha was about to snap out the light when there was a soft tap at their door, and Sally came in. She sat down on their bed, apparently wide awake.

“Who was that?” she asked. “On the phone.”

“Just Mrs. Benson,” Bertha said. “She wanted to talk about Susan. And Michelle,” she added.

“Michelle? What about her?”

“Well, Michelle was with Susan today, you know,” Bertha pointed out. Sally nodded, but seemed puzzled.

“I know,” she agreed. “But it’s funny. Susan hated Michelle. Why would Susan have been with someone she hated?”

Bertha ignored the question. Instead, she posed one of her own. “Why did Susan hate Michelle?”

Sally shrugged uncomfortably, then decided that it was time she told someone how she’d been feeling.

“Because she’s lame. Susan kept acting like Michelle was some kind of freak—kept calling her retarded, and things like that.”

“Oh, no …” Bertha murmured. “How terrible for her.”

“And—and we all sort of went along with it,” Sally said miserably.

“Went along with it? You mean you all agreed with Susan?”

Sally nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t want to—really I didn’t. But then—well, Michelle didn’t seem to want to be friends anymore, and Susan.… Well, Susan acted like anybody who wanted to be Michelle’s friend couldn’t be hers. And
I—I’ve known Susan all my life.” She began crying, and Bertha hugged her close.

“Now, honey, don’t you cry. Everything’s going to be all right …”

“But now Susan’s
dead,”
Sally wailed. A thought struck her, and she pulled away from her mother. “Michelle didn’t kill her, did she?”

“Of course not,” Bertha said emphatically. “I’m sure it was just an accident.”

“Well, what did Jeff’s mother say?” Sally asked.

“She said—she said—” Bertha floundered, then looked to her husband for assistance.

“She didn’t say anything,” he said flatly. “Susan must have tripped and fallen, just like Michelle did a while ago. Michelle was just luckier than Susan, that’s all. And if you ask me, I think what Susan and the rest of you kids did to Michelle is rotten. I think you ought to tell her you’re sorry, and that you want to be her friend again.”

“But I already told her that,” Sally said.

“Then tell her again,” Fred Carstairs said. “That child has had a bad time, and if Constance Benson is doing what I think she’s doing, things are only going to get harder for her. And I don’t want anybody to say my daughter was a part of it. Is that clear?”

Sally nodded silently. In a way, what her father had just told her was exactly what she wanted to hear. But what if Michelle really didn’t want to be her friend anymore? Then what could she do?

It was very puzzling, and when she went back to bed, Sally was still unable to sleep.