Peyton Place (49 page)

“Come on, poky,” said Selena, rumpling his hair. “Get out the board. And when are you going to get that mop cut? If you don't hurry, Clement will chase you right down Elm Street one of these days, waving his shears and yelling for you to wait until he catches up with you.”

They drank cocoa and played checkers, and Joey beat Selena three games straight while she sat and groaned, apparently helpless to stop her brilliant opponent. Then they went to bed. It was much later, close to one o'clock in the morning, when the doorbell rang.

Selena sat up in bed with a start. Paul! she thought, scrambling around vainly in the dark, trying to find the button on the lamp next to her bed. Something has happened to Paul, and there is someone outside with a telegram. She knew what to expect. The yellow telegram with the one or two red stars pasted inside the glassine window which was the government's way of preparing people for the shock of learning that their loved ones were either maimed or dead. Almost unconsciously, her mind registered the fact that the wind was blowing fiercely, driving icy pellets of snow against the windows. She struggled with one sleeve of her robe while she put on the living room lights, and when she opened the door at last, the wind yanked it out of her hand, ramming it against the wall behind, and a sharp drift of snow struck her in the face. Lucas Cross stumbled through the open door, while Selena's shocked mind could think only of getting the door closed behind him.

“Christ, you kept me waitin’ long enough, out there in the cold,” said Lucas, by way of greeting.

Selena's mind began to function again. “Hello, Pa,” she said wearily.

“Is that any way to greet me, after I've traveled hundreds of miles just to see you?” demanded Lucas.

His smile had not changed, she noticed. His forehead still moved as if controlled by his lips. Then she realized that he was wearing a navy uniform, with a pea jacket, and a white cap placed firmly on his oddly square head.

“Why, Pa!” she exclaimed. “You're in the Navy.”

“Yes, goddamn it. Wish to hell I'd stayed in the woods, I can tell ya. Histin’ an ax is a lot easier than the things they can think up for a man to do in the Navy. Listen, I hitchhiked all the way up from Boston. You gonna keep me standin’ here all night? I'm froze.”

“You're nowhere near frozen,” said Selena acidly. “Not with all you've got in you. I see that the Navy hasn't managed to cure you of drinking.”

“Cure me?” demanded Lucas, following her into the living room. “Hell, honey, the Navy's taught me tricks I'd never heard of!”

“I can imagine,” she said, stirring up the embers in the fireplace and putting on another log.

“Say!” he exclaimed, taking off his jacket and tossing it into a chair. “There's been some changes made around here, ain't they? I didn't notice too good from outside. It's blowin’ up one helluva blizzard. But I can see there's been a lot of improvements inside. Christ, it's cold. Feller gave me a ride as far as Elm Street, and I hadda walk from there. Goin’ up to Canada, this feller was. Just passin’ through. You'd a thought he coulda given me a lift to the house, but no. He didn't like it ’cause I was sippin’ at a little insulation on the way up. The bastard.”

I knew it, thought Selena. I knew all along that things were too good to last. This is what I get for my ingratitude, for complaining when I had no grounds for complaint.

She turned to look at Lucas, who was drinking from a pint bottle. When he had finished and the bottle was empty, he threw it toward the fireplace, where it smashed against the hearth.

“Listen, Pa,” said Selena furiously. “You were right when you said that there had been some changes made around here. Furthermore the changes are going to remain. If you want to throw empty bottles around, you can get out and go do it somewhere else. You can't do it here. Not any more.”

A great deal of liquor, plus the quick change from extreme cold to warmth, made Lucas feel much drunker than he believed himself to be, and, as always, drunkenness made him ugly.

“Listen, you,” he snarled. “Don't go tellin’ me what to do in my own house. I don't give a shit what you've done to the place while I was gone. It's still my place, and don't you forget it.”

“Did you come back just to make trouble?” demanded Selena shrilly. “Haven't you done enough? Wasn't it enough what you did to me, and to Ma? You heard about Ma, didn't you? Killed herself. That's what you did to Ma. Isn't that enough for you?”

Lucas made a deprecating gesture with his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard about what Nellie done. A disgrace to the family, that's what it was. There's never been a Cross who killed himself before, ’til Nellie went and done it. She musta been crazy. But I don't give a damn about that,” he said, and began to smile. He stood up, swaying a little, and began to move toward Selena. “I never did give a damn about Nellie,” he said. “Not after I got to know you real good, honey.”

In one terrible flash, the memory of her day with Dr. Swain returned to Selena. She could feel the heat of the July sun on her back, bringing out the sweat, and the doctor's probing hands. She could hear his gentle voice, and she remembered the pain when she had awakened and it had been over with. She remembered Nellie's blue, swollen face, and the doctor lying, telling her that Nellie had had cancer. Selena's hand tightened on the fire tongs which she had not put down after fixing the fire.

“Don't come near me, Pa,” she said, and fear and revulsion made her choke on her words.

“Still a little wildcat, ain't ya, honey?” said Lucas softly. “Ain't had a man around since I left who could tame ya. I can see that.” He walked closer to her, until he was standing directly in front of her. “Be nice to me, honey,” he said in the old whining voice she remembered so well. “Be good to me. It ain't like I was your real pa. There ain't nothin’ wrong in you bein’ good to me.” He put his big hands on her shoulders. “Be nice to me, honey. It's been a long time.”

Selena threw back her head and spit square in his face. “You dirty old bastard,” she said, her voice furiously low. “Take your crummy hands off me.”

Lucas raised one hand and wiped her spittle away. “Little wildcat, ain't ya,” he said, smiling his smile. “I'll fix ya. Same's I used to fix you long ago. Comere.”

And then Selena realized that she was fighting for her life. In his effort to subdue her, Lucas’ hands had fastened about her throat and she began to feel the lightheadedness which comes with the lack of sufficient air.

“Little bitch,” he spat as her knee came up to hit him in the groin. “I'll fix ya!”

His face was congested with blood as he reached for her again, and in the quick second before his hands could touch her she brought the fire tongs around with both her hands and smashed them with all her strength against the side of his head. He fell to the floor at once, almost at her feet, and in fear lest he gather his strength and stand up, Selena brought the tongs down again and again on his head. Blood gushed up in a fountain and bathed her face.

He must not stand up! If he stands up he will kill me! I must not allow him to stand up! He must be dead.

But Selena dared not uncover her eyes to look. She felt two thin arms from behind, pulling her, pulling her away from the thing at her feet, and still she dared not uncover her eyes. It was not until she felt a sharp blow against her chin that she lowered her hand and looked straight into the eyes of her little brother Joey. Behind her the fire made a crisp, crackling, friendly sound as the log she had placed across the andirons began to burn.

So quickly, she thought numbly. In just the short time it takes for a log to catch fire and begin to burn.

She raised her left hand and wiped it across her mouth. It came away smeared with blood. She licked her lips and tasted blood.

“I cut my lip,” she said stupidly.

Joey shook his head. “It's from
him,”
he whispered. “It's all over you. You're all covered with blood.”

All Selena wanted to do was to lie down somewhere and go to sleep. She felt as if she had not slept for weeks, and she shook her head now, against the weariness which was on her. I must not go to sleep, she thought sleepily. I must stay awake and think. With an effort, she finally thought of what it was she must do. She walked toward the telephone as if she were wading through mud, and her hand was on the receiver before Joey reached her. He slapped her hand away, viciously.

“What're you doin’?” he demanded. He had wanted to shout, but the words came out in a hoarse whisper.

“Calling Buck McCracken,” said Selena, and reached again for the telephone receiver.

“Are you crazy?” whispered Joey, his fingers around her wrist. He coughed. “Are you crazy?” This time the words came out in a normal tone which seemed too loud. “Are you crazy? You can't do that. They'll arrest you, if you call the sheriff.”

“What else is there to do?” asked Selena.

“We'll have to get rid of him,” said Joey. “I heard you talkin’. Nobody knows he's here. We'll get rid of him, and nobody'll ever know.”

“How can we get rid of him?”

“We'll bury him.”

“We can't. The ground's frozen. We could never dig a hole deep enough.”

“The sheep pen,” said Joey, and the two of them stood still, thinking of the sheep pen. Neither of them looked at the body in front of the fireplace.

“The ground ain't frozen in the sheep pen,” said Joey. “I've had that infra-red lamp goin’ for two days in there, on account of the lambs. It'll be soft, the ground will. Just like it is outdoors in the summertime.”

“We'll get caught,” said Selena. “There's blood all over the place. We'll get caught.”

“Listen, we
can't
get caught. If we do, they'll arrest you and put you in jail. They'll put you in jail and then hang you.” Joey sat down and began to cry. “Selena!”

“Yes, Joey?”

“Selena, they'll hang you! Just like Ma went and hung herself. They'll hang you by the neck ’til you turn blue and die!”

“Don't cry, Joey.”

“Selena! Selena!”

As if Joey's sobs were a stimulant, Selena began to think. She forced herself to look at Lucas, and then she swallowed the vomit which the sight of him raised in her mouth.

“Get a blanket, Joey,” she said calmly.

A moment later, after he had handed her a woolen blanket taken from the foot of her bed, she said: “Go let the sheep out of the pen,” in the same calm voice.

She wrapped the blanket around the crushed thing that had been her stepfather. Only his body was recognizable. When she and Joey dragged him out of the house, the wind caught at the skirts of her robe and nightgown and wrapped them tightly around her legs. Lucas’ blood seeped through the blanket and left a red trail in the drifting snow.

Selena and Joey buried Lucas in a grave three feet deep, and when it was done, Joey let the sheep back into the pen. At once, they began to wander around, as was their fashion, and in minutes the newly dug grave was tamped down and covered with small hoof prints. But the digging and burying was simple in comparison with the work involved in cleaning the living room. It was daylight, with the wind still blowing and pushing the icy flakes of snow, when they finished. They stood together and looked out one of the front windows. The walk from the house to the sheep pen was completely drifted over, so that it looked as if no one had passed that way at all.

Soon after the first of the new year, Joey Cross contacted a man by the name of Enrico Antonelli who owned a pig farm on the outskirts of town and who also operated as the local butcher. Mr. Antonelli had been born in Keene, New Hampshire, and had come to Peyton Place as a child with his parents. Yet, he was generally referred to by the town as “that Eye-tye over on the Pond Road.” He had the curly black hair, the bright, dark eyes and the generous belly of a comic opera Italian, and it was a source of continual pride to Mr. Antonelli to know that he spoke better English than most of the townspeople who had been born of ancestors who had been living in America during the 1600's.

“It is a bad time of the year to slaughter, Joey,” he said. “How come you are in such a hurry?”

“I'm just sick of sheep is all,” replied Joey. “I'm thinkin’ of puttin’ in chickens in another month or so. I want all the sheep gone before then.”

“Even Cornelia?” asked Mr. Antonelli, referring to Joey's three-time blue ribbon winning ewe.

“Yes,” said Joey, not without an effort, “even Cornelia.”

“Joey, you are making a mistake. Keep the sheep for another couple of months. Fatten them up. Meat will be bringing a much better price by then.”

Joey, terrified of creating even the slightest suspicion that all was not as it should be at the Cross house, tried to keep his voice calm and dispassionate. “No, I don't think I'll do that, Mr. Antonelli,” he said. “I don't wanna take care of ’em no more.”

Mr. Antonelli ran his fingers through his thick, curly, comic opera Italian hair and shrugged eloquently. “Isn't that odd,” he said. “I always had the idea that you loved those sheep as if they were your brothers.”

“I did,” admitted Joey, trying to imitate Mr. Antonelli's shrug, and failing. “But I don't no more.”

“Well,” sighed Mr. Antonelli, “I'll try to get over to your place in the morning. If Kenny Stearns is sober enough, perhaps I can get him to help me.”

“I'll be home,” said Joey. “It don't do to count on Kenny to show up for nothin’.”

It was just as well that Joey absented himself from school in order to remain at home to help Mr. Antonelli, for Kenny Stearns was certainly in no condition to help the butcher the next morning.

“I told you it didn't do to count on Kenny,” remarked Joey as he helped Mr. Antonelli load sheep into the Italian's truck.

Mr. Antonelli shook his head. “I saw him last night,” he said, “and he promised me faithfully that he would be at my place at six this morning.”

How Kenny Stearns managed to reach the schools in town, let alone being able to find his way to Antonelli's in the outskirts, was a mystery, for he was so drunk at seven o'clock that morning that he could not have read a steam pressure gauge accurately had his life depended on it. He put his hand gingerly against the plump sides of the school furnaces and knocked experimentally on both boilers, then, satisfied that the fires were hot enough and the boilers had enough water, he made his way staggeringly, down Maple Street toward Elm and to his own home. Upon reaching his house, Kenny immediately locked himself in the back woodshed for the rest of the day, and the efforts to rout him out of his retreat by his wife Ginny and the few townspeople for whom Kenny was supposed to work that day were futile.