Evil Friendship (6 page)

Martha put the paper down on the desk, and Rush took it from there, stuffing it back in the box. As she did so, she said, “Do you know who wrote it?”

“Miss Nicky, I suppose.”

“And wouldn’t you call it a love letter, Martha?”

“It’s years old. The paper’s ready to crumble.”

“But it
is
a love letter, Martha, written to me when I was new here like yourself. Miss Nicky was in love with me. She would be still, if her position had allowed it. Now she’s in love with Miss Fragland, the dietician.”

Martha said, “It all disgusts me!”

“Oh,
does
it?” Rush said. She walked up to where Martha stood, and looked down at her, the shock of black hair across her forehead, her dark brows raised above the flashing dark eyes. “Does it? There were others too, plenty of others. My trophies, Beth calls them, and Beth should know, because she’s one of them.” She touched Martha’s arm. “What about you? Are you going to be one, too?”

“No,” Martha said.

“You don’t pull away from my touch, Martha.”

But Martha did then, and turned her back on Rush. “You’re crazy. I still don’t believe any of it either! These crushes!”

“You’re right, they’re worthless. And silly! Don’t you think I know that!”

“Then why do you talk about them?”

Rush said, “To make my point. I’ve never been like them — never. I’ve never been in love with them. Do you know, I’ve actually made fun of them with their silly drooling? Do you believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Martha,” Rush said. Martha Kent could feel the girl’s long fingers on her shoulder.
“You
confuse me. I swear you do. Even today, before you came here, when I knew you
would
come, I wondered how I would talk to you. Oh, I’ve made a mess of it. I know that. I’m not a braggart. I just wanted some way to tell you how I feel.” She slipped her hands down to Martha’s arms, and Martha whirled away from her grasp. “Stop it!”

Rush’s eyes had a pained expression, “I’m sorry.”

“I have an appointment.”

“Don’t go — not yet. I won’t touch you.”

Martha felt slightly ill by it all; more bewildered than physically sick. “I have to go,” she said.

“To see Mary Drew?”

“No!” Martha snapped.

“You are fond of her, aren’t you? You’ve lied to hide it, but you needn’t have. I know it.”

“Know
what?
You disgust me!” Martha’s hand reached for the door, when suddenly Rush caught her by the arm and flung her back to the center of the room.

“Know,”
Rush said, “That’s all! I know!” She gave Martha a push to the bed. Then she fell across her, pinning her arms back. “Won’t you let me talk? Are you afraid to let me?”

“You’ve gone crazy!”

“Yes,” Rush said. “You’ve made me a little crazy. Since I first set eyes on you, sitting on the bench at gym that day. Yes.” Then Rush set her mouth firmly across Martha Kent’s. Martha squirmed beneath her, pulling away. “Now who’s like a military parade!” she said. But when she raised her angry eyes to Rush’s she saw bright tears there, stared at them incredulously.

“My God, your face,” Rush mumbled, “your hair, and your skin. If I could love you now, before vacation. If I could have you, Martha.”

Martha lay there, and above them, in the window, St. Thomas looked down at them. Then for the first time, Martha was frightened. And oddly, for the first time, Martha was aware of what Rush had been talking about; of what Miss Nicky’s note had meant; of some uncertain, strange variety of love that Beth Dragmore felt — that gave all of it a dimension that had been, up until this moment, beyond Martha Kent’s grasp.

“I’m in love with you, Martha,” Rush said.

Martha said something which in her most preposterous imaginings she would never have taken recourse to: “If you don’t let me go, I’ll tell Miss Pierce-Morgan!”

Instantly, Rush got up.

“Get out of here!” she shouted. She had her face toward the wall; her voice was choked. “Get out of here, and don’t think I don’t know about you and Mary Drew! Don’t think I’m not going to blister some ears telling what I know about the two of you!”

Martha began to run toward the door.

“Get out, get out!” Rush roared after her.

The woods near Chillam were The Weer Woods, the woods of Weerdale; but Chillamites had long ago dubbed them “Werewolf Woods.” The new girls were told of the werewolves who lived among the oaks and firs in that dense darkness; and it was off limits to all Chillamites, though Chillam owned the property. Handymen cut wood for the fires in there, gathered leaves and flowers for decoration; and took an occasional shot at rabbits, rats, or squirrels. Their well-worn path was cut through the center of the woods, and where it began, Mary Drew Edlin stood waiting for Martha that afternoon at five.

After she had finished making the Christmas wreaths, Mary Drew had taken the bus home to get the red jacket. It was Tony’s prize jacket, bright red wool, too crass for the University, so he wore it only on vacation. It was far too big for Mary Drew, but she loved it and did not care. Wrapped warmly in it against the bracing dusk winds, she stood waiting for Martha, glancing nervously now and then at her watch. Five, and then five-ten, with no sign of her.

Another thing Mary Drew had done since finishing the wreaths and going home for the coat was to cut her hair. It would kill her mother! But Mary Drew liked it. She had more or less bobbed it; but really, it was an Italian-style cut — not too short, but almost gamine style. It gave her face all the more a Puckish look, and with Tony’s black wool scarf wrapped around her neck, it made her feel romantic, slightly daring, and good-looking. Besides, she planned to use the scarf for a hood during the Druid ritual. Both she and Martha had read up on the Druid rites in the encyclopedia, and it had explained that the Arch-Druid always wore a black hood for the ceremony of cutting the mistletoe. Between them they had planned everything.

They were to greet each other in silence, walk hand-in-hand into the center of the forest, then place the mistletoe on the ground. Mary Drew was to say, “Oh, hail, we come as servants to the black,” place the hood over her head and kneel. Then Martha would kneel and say, “We two are dedicated to the Druid’s egg.” Then both would hiss, while Mary Drew cut the mistletoe with the knife she had wrapped in cloth in her pocket — the long, carving knife she had sneaked from the kitchen.

After cutting the mistletoe, they would kiss solemnly and pronounce together the words: “So be it; promised in the heart, pledged with the lips. Oh, hail, we two are dedicated.”

It was going to be exciting, and Mary Drew was eager to start. Again she looked at her watch; again, down the road for a sign of Martha. How she loved Martha and the way they were alike — the way they both adored ritual and ceremony and secrets shared together! Everyone else seemed so dull; duller than ever now that she’d met dear Martha. Dear Moly. Last night she had written in her diary:

Then she saw Martha. She watched her come, unable to control the smile that came to her lips, though this was to be very solemn. Her brown eyes sparkled as she looked at Martha Kent’s beautiful face, and she made her smile go when she saw that Martha’s face was grave, very nearly sad. Dear Martha! She was so shockingly perfect at everything they undertook.

When she reached for Martha Kent’s hand, Martha said, “Hello.” But she did not give her hand. She looked back over her shoulder, as though she were afraid someone was watching them.

In keeping with the occasion, Mary Drew whispered her words: “Moly, what if we do go into the woods. We’re day girls. The out-of-bounds rule doesn’t apply to us. Come on.” She reached down and took Martha’s hand. “Remember, we can’t talk until we reach the center of the forest.”

The pair walked slowly past the large trees with the darkness growing, the wind rising. It would be hard to keep the candle lit, but that would make the whole affair even more mysterious. Marv Drew held hard to Martha’s hand, which seemed somehow limp. Martha wouldn’t be scared, though!

When they had reached a clearing midway in the forest, Mary Drew stopped. In the semidarkness, she could see Martha’s face, still very solemn. Sad too? No, Martha was a screamingly amusing actress! Mary Drew placed the mistletoe on the ground, pulling the scarf up over her head. From her left pocket she took the candle and handed it to Martha, with matches. From her right pocket, she took the knife, unwrapped it, and then nodded to Martha. Martha pretended to look terribly grave. It almost made Mary Drew laugh. But she didn’t.

She said, “Oh hail, we come as servants to the black.”

She knelt on the cold earth, feeling her knees above the red knee-socks scrape the twigs and hard dirt.

Then Martha knelt. Martha stammered, “W-w-we two are de-de-dedicated to the Dru-Druid’s egg.”

Probably Martha forgot that she was to hiss at that point, because there was only Mary Drew hissing as she cut the mistletoe. Her hands were chilled, but the blade was sharp and cut well. She left the knife there and turning, stood with the mistletoe. Martha stood too. She walked toward her, placed the mistletoe in her hand, looking deeply into her eyes, and then leaning forward was about to kiss her when suddenly Martha Kent threw the mistletoe to the ground.

“Oh, no, Druid! No!”

Mary Drew stared at her. “What?”

“Nothing!” A long sigh. “Nothing, I’m sorry!”

“But what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“No.” Sighing again. “Just not up to it.”

The candle flickered, and looking down at it Martha Kent shook its light out with her hand. “I’m sorry, Druid,” she said again. “Let’s not stay here.”

“But I don’t understand!”

“I know you don’t. I don’t expect you to.”

“Moly, you’re angry with me.”

“Not with you, particularly.”

“What happened?” Mary Drew said. “I’ve never seen you behave this way.” “I’d like to get out of the woods, if you don’t mind.” “You mean, go
now?”

“Immediately.” And she began to walk slowly back down the path they’d come.

Mary Drew bent and picked up the knife and the cloth, then ran to catch up with her.

She said, “Moly, please tell me.”

“Don’t call me that name. I won’t call you Druid either.”

“What?”

“It’s silly, don’t you see? That’s all.” And She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her long black coat, her head lowered, the long black hair blowing about her face in the new wind.

“I can’t imagine what’s happened to you. Has Roddy upset you, or your mother?”

“I haven’t even been home.”

“Won’t you tell me?”

There was silence save for the crunch of the twigs and leaves underfoot as they walked along slowly. Lights beyond them on the horizon were beginning to show evening, and a tower bell at Chillam off in the east sounded the half-hour.

Mary Drew Edlin felt on the verge of tears, but said nothing, could think of nothing to say. Then Martha spoke. “What would you say, Mary Drew, if I told you I’d been with a man?”

“Martha!
When?
Oh, don’t hold off,
when?”
Mary Drew’s voice changed back to the light tone of excitement that always preceded their secret-telling.

But Martha’s was still very somber. “Recently. Very recently.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Heavens, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wondered what you’d say.”

“I think it’s absolutely remarkable! Martha, tell me about it? Who is he? Not Roddy — oh, heavens, your mother would
die!”

“I can’t tell you who it was.”

“Is it someone I know?” Mary Drew was bubbling with the news; sure, too, that Martha would tell her. That was like Martha — to make it very dramatic and serious; that was what she adored about her. There was always something new, some huge news or idea.

“I’m really not going to tell you, Mary Drew.”

“And you’re never going to call me Druid?” Mary Drew teased. “Never again?”

Martha stopped walking and looked at Mary Drew. “You’ve never been with a man, have you?”

“Heavens no!”

“Nor ever wanted to be?”

“No! No! Now, tell me!”

“Don’t you think it’s peculiar that you don’t like men?”

“Why?” Mary Drew couldn’t keep from smiling, anticipating some great joke.

“I mean it,” Martha said angrily. “Don’t you think it’s peculiar that you’d rather be with me than a man?”

“Martha — what
is
the matter?”

“I like men. I don’t think they’re boring or silly, or any of it! I’m going to get married one day, and have children!”

“You are?” Mary Drew stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“Don’t you know what it means if you don’t like them? Don’t you know what it means if you’ve never wanted to be with one? Well, don’t you?”

“Moly — ”

“And don’t call me Moly! I don’t want to have anything to do with Chillam!” Her voice caught, and tears came to her eyes. “Or
you!”

“Moly, Moly — ”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Martha Kent shouted. “I — hate you!” and in a sudden, impulsive gesture she flung the candle’s butt at Mary Drew, and it hit her across the cheek before it fell to the ground. Mary Drew stood dead still, dumb-struck, her legs and arms trembling.

“And when I marry,” Martha Kent said, “I’m going to take my marriage seriously. I’m going to be in love with the man I marry!”

Then she turned and ran from the woods, leaving Mary Drew behind her.

J
UNE
8, 1956

I work for the Weerdale City Council as a laborer. I live at Jenning Road, Weerdale. I am an assistant of Douglas Tullett at Southwark Park. About four-thirty on 8 June last I was working near the tool and supply shack, just south of the tearoom. I was going toward the shack when I saw Douglas Tullett running toward the tearoom, yelling at me to come there. I went and waited outside, as I did always. A man holding an ice cream cone in his hand said there was a murder.

Then Douglas Tullett came out of the tearoom and ran down the path toward the valley. I ran after him. We found the body of a woman on the path there. She was on her stomach. She looked to be dead. (Exhibit A photos 1 and 2 handed to witness.) These pictures show where the body was when I arrived. I noticed the round stone on the path by the body. The red knee-sock was on the bank. I adjusted the woman’s skirt, pulled it down. I did not touch the body in any other way.

I stayed with the body when Tullett ran back to the tearoom and was still there when the ambulance man came. I stayed with the ambulance man until Sgt. Cudahy arrived with the constable.

I did not speak to either of the accused at any time.

(Signed)

MICHAEL LEWIS STOKE