Spawn of Hell (30 page)

He heard laughter, childish giggles from afar. Were they out in the yard? He went to the window, toothbrush still in hand, gobs of bubbly toothpaste dripping down his chin. “Teddy? Is that you? Gladys? Martin?” No answer. He must have only thought he’d heard laughter; it probably had only been the water in the faucet, tricking him. Everyone seemed to delight in playing tricks on him.

He went back to the sink and stared dolefully into the mirror. His face seemed to be crumbling into itself; was it the liquor doing that, or merely age? The marks of failure? The weakness of his chin was more pronounced by his shrunken cheeks, the heavy stubble on his face. His forehead seemed to stretch up endlessly before it met his receding hairline. He combed the hair straight back; it looked better that way. More appropriate for a man his age. His small eyes, so close together, peered at the reflection, and back at him, without mercy. Hazel in color, some might say they were penetrating; others, beady.

He turned off the faucet and listened carefully, trying to detect some kind of aural clue as to the children’s whereabouts. Nothing. Were they all right? That would be fitting, the perfect way to cap his life’s pathetic demeanor—having his kids die when they visited their daddy. Now and then he thought of the burglary— massacre actually—at the Harper house down the highway.

Worried in spite of himself, he went into the kitchen, scouting for traces. They had assembled some sort of breakfast, that much was obvious, but it was now nearly evening. He saw lunch’s residue, too. They liked to have sandwiches, and most of the bread was gone. Where the hell had they gone off to?

He looked into the backyard. Except for some toys scattered here and there, there was no sign they’d ever been there. He told them never to go off without him, to stay within sight of the house. He would be blamed, he knew. Blamed for this. He had been asleep upstairs, drunk, a shiftless no-account bum of a father. They’d never take into consideration that he had gone to the party at the Evanses’ because Mimsy Evans had told him that several producers would be there, people he ought to get to know. He was just trying to make a living for himself, to better his pathetic life, but no—they wouldn’t see that. All they’d see would be a contemptible, middle-aged man running off to get bombed at cocktail parties, living it up while his children stayed home with babysitters, sleeping to all hours while the children went off God-knows-where by themselves. They wouldn’t see his side of it, just the way his wife, Patricia, had never seen his side of it. He would be to blame, always be to blame.

Then he heard the voices, the laughs. Were they laughing at him, the little brats? He’d teach them. He was not to be laughed at, especially not by
her
children. He’d teach them but good.

They had been in the garage all the time, too busy talking and playing to bother answering his calls. He found them in there, huddled behind the car, playing jacks or some such foolish inanity. When he’d been their age he’d had far less frivolous things on his mind, things like hunger, and weeping, hard-working mother, and an alcoholic father who beat his children mercilessly for the slightest offense.

Knowing, but not caring, whose crimes he was re-enacting, he menacingly removed his belt from his pants and advanced steadily upon them.

Anna and David got up at the crack of dawn, it seemed. Actually it was later than that, but David had been used to getting up so late (and even Anna had had times in the past few weeks when she’d been able to sleep past noon), that the hour of their awakening seemed positively wholesome in comparison. They’d gone to bed, if not to sleep, quite early the night before. Anna had spent the morning and early afternoon resting up from her bus trip and capturing some badly needed sleep. David had seen his father and Mr. Bartley. Then during the late afternoon, David had taken them for a leisurely drive around the town in the Chrysler. There wasn’t much to see in the way of landmarks—the quarry, the apple orchards, Bannon Mountain Drive— but Anna enjoyed it just the same, breathing deeply of the fresh country air, enjoying the solitude and quiet to its fullest. And all the time, she and David got to know each other better, to feel more secure and comfortable beside one another. They had decided that today they would go back to the quarry for a swim. Lots of townspeople used it, although the wealthier ones had built their own pools and some used the pool in the motel for a small fee. (Since it had so few customers, the management figured it was a way of bringing in some added revenue.)

David had so far refrained from discussing the whole George Bartley incident with Anna; it was not a part of her life, nothing to concern her with. But
she
was becoming part of his life, and if he couldn’t share things with her, then who could he share them with? He brought the whole business up while he was making an early morning omelet, filled with mushrooms, tomatoes and peppers.

After listening to him relate the story behind George’s appearance in New York, and his father’s explanation for the kiss-off attitude when David phoned, Anna said, “Sounds like he’s trying to cover something up. All you can do is wait until George gets in touch with you in a few weeks.”

“If he ever does. I wish there were some way of getting in touch with him. I don’t buy his father’s impersonator story for one minute.”

She giggled. “Perhaps the man at your apartment was a
clone
of George Bartley.”

He handed her a plate full of omelet, a look of mock dismay on his face. “Shut up and eat. That’s all I need. Clones. Mad scientists. I’m still recovering from that business in Milbourne—” He stopped short and put his plate down on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry.” They had agreed some time ago not to discuss what happened in Milbourne; it was too strange, too upsetting. Anna reached out and touched him. She said softly, “It’s all right. I think about it myself sometimes. Those men disappearing. Harry London going into shock over something that he couldn’t verbalize to anyone. It haunts me. But there’s nothing I can do about it.” She straightened up, pulled her hand away, managing a bright expression. “Ummm. This is quite good. Now why don’t we forget about old mysteries, and see if we can solve this new one.”

He didn’t remind her that the mystery over George predated the death of her brother. “I keep thinking. Why would Mr. Bartley lie? If he had disowned his son and didn’t care about him, why didn’t he simply say so, why didn’t he say, ‘The affairs of my son are no longer my concern; a good day, David.’? Why cover up the way he did?”

“Maybe he’s ashamed. What father would want to admit that he knew his own son was penniless and unbathed bumming around New York in dirty clothes, and that he wouldn’t do anything to help? I think that George must have done something to anger his father, to really infuriate him. When you called, and the maid relayed your message, he was still angry. How did he know George was that badly off? How did he know that his son hadn’t
fed
you your lines—y’know, the old sympathy routine? Now, weeks later, he and George are back together and Dad is ashamed of what happened, ashamed of the message he had the maid relay to you: in effect, ‘Get lost.’ So, he says it wasn’t George. Some crazy army buddy. Nothing to worry about. If George is a good little boy he’ll go along with the deception, you wait and see.”

“Not George. He wouldn’t do that. He’s too honest, too independent.”

“Ah, but think how embarrassed he’ll be when he sees you. He’ll be remembering what he looked like, how desperate he was, the humiliation of it all. Who would want to admit that they’d once been a tramp cluttering up your living room? Uh, the mere thought of it! I would have had the place fumigated.”

David was about to tell her that fumigation cost money and that a friend was a friend, after all, but stopped himself in time. No use nitpicking. “Still, George would
know
that I know the truth. He might come clean, no pun intended, because of that. Then again, I also know how poverty can affect a person, how it can change their whole character around.”

Anna smirked. “ ‘Let him go,’ said the judge, ‘he hacked the old woman up because he was underprivileged!’ “

“No, that’s not quite what I mean,” David said, annoyed, rushing out the words too quickly. He paused, recovering lost ground, not wanting to offend her. “I mean, if his father offered George a good job—and I assume he’s in the position to now—as much as George might have once hated the idea of working for the man, the thought of being penniless would still be fresh in his mind. So if his father said, ‘Don’t shame me, son. Tell no one about your desperate life as a bum in New York or I’ll cut you off without a penny,’ would anyone blame George if he kept his mouth shut?”

Anna seemed to be preoccupied and he wondered if she had heard him. He sensed she was inwardly reacting to something he had just said. He was about to repeat himself when she looked at him again, acknowledgement in her eyes.

“Uh, yes,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I suppose no one would blame him. I guess you’ll find out what the story is when you see him.”

“If I see him. His father may not give him my message, which would be understandable if what we’ve surmised is true. And George may not particularly feel like facing me again anyway. I guess I should forget about it. According to Mr. Bartley, George is alive and well and running his errands and probably wants to forget about New York. I’d only remind him of it, of his humiliation, like you said.”

He lifted a glass of tomato juice. “Here’s to George Bartley, wherever he may be. May we never meet again.” He drank the juice down, wiped his lips and smiled.

But the thought of George stayed with him.

The quarry was deserted except for Anna and David. The day was not very hot, true, but still they had expected to see a few teenagers, at least. It seemed so much more desolate than ever before. Sometimes when David was a boy the kids used to come here at night and it had been so spooky and eerie that none had dared stay there alone. Now even in daylight and years later, that ominous quality remained. David looked down at the water and wondered what might be beneath the surface.

“How long has this place been abandoned?” Anna asked, while they took a few towels and accessories out of the car. She looked around for a good spot to lay claim to. Not that she’d have to fight for one.

“Decades, I guess.” For emphasis he pointed over to an area a few yards distant, where the empty remains of old buildings stood out against the grass. The spot where they had parked the car was gray and packed with gravel, but woods surrounded the quarry on the other three sides. Trees had been cleared for about three yards all around the water, and weeds and bushes sprang up everywhere. Anna carried a picnic basket over to a patch that seemed relatively flat and brush-free. “This looks good,” she shouted to him as he locked the car; an unnecessary gesture—no one was around and they could easily see the auto from any point around the quarry.

“Kids have been swimming here for as long as I can remember,” David continued. “This operation was shut down even before I was born.”

She had placed a blanket over the grass and was stretching out on it. “Ummm, the sun feels good.” She sat up and grabbed for a sweater. “It is a little chilly, though. In fact, I feel kind of silly in a bathing suit.”

“You may feel silly, but you look terrific. I never knew a one-piece could be so voluptuous.” It was light blue, and showed off her figure to maximum advantage.

She laughed appreciatively. “Bikinis are going out of style, haven’t you heard? The latest fad is designer one-pieces. The designers got sick of putting their names on everyone’s ass, so they switched from jeans to bathing suits. Next it’ll be designer bras. Too bad. I burned mine long ago.”

David eased down next to her. “Maybe it’ll get hotter later on.”

“Was that a proposition?”

“Entirely innocent, unless you decide to take it otherwise.”

“Speaking of bathing suits, you fill yours out nicely too, young man.”

David felt self-conscious. “I’m skinny,” he said, fiddling with some grass at his feet. Anna was being kind. He’d lost a lot of weight and muscle tone while in the hospital, and his body was awkward and scrawny.

He knew lie had to gain a few pounds in the right places. He’d have to start on a new exercise routine, too.

Anna laughed. “Not where it counts, you’re not.” She turned around and lay down on her stomach. “It’s so lovely here. So peaceful. I could just fall asleep right now.”

“Better not. I’ll be lonely.”

“Just let me know when you go in the water and I’ll join you.”

“I took a dip the other day. It was too cold. Didn’t stay in long. It made my leg feel strong again, though.

“Your leg?”

He suddenly realized that he had broken new ground absentmindedly, that he’d blindly dived into uncharted territory. He was so sensitive about his leg, how could he have just brought it up like that? Well, there was no backing out now. Surely she had noticed his limp anyway, even seen the leg itself. God, maybe she found it unsightly, hideous. He swallowed his embarrassment, steeled himself, glad she was facing away from him now. “Yeah, my right leg. The one I limp on. I hurt it in an accident awhile ago. Before I met you.” As if she hadn’t realized that, fool!

“It’s not that noticeable,” she said, trying to make light of it without sounding unsympathetic, not an easy trick. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nah,” he said, in a similar tone. His face must have been bright red. He felt it burning. The silence stretched out between them and for the first time he felt discomfort. He wondered what was going through her head. What a relief that they could not see each other’s faces! He hoped he had not offended her. He searched in his mind for something to say. Only by saying something could he dispel any impression she might have that he was hurt or angry. “Feel like eating yet?” he asked finally. “I make great tuna sandwiches.”

“Maybe later, honey.”

Honey. She hadn’t called him that before. Was it an expression of endearment or one of sympathy, of pity? He looked at his leg. He knew there was really nothing there to see. No obvious disfigurement, although he could swear it seemed patchy and red in places. Did the bone stick out at a funny angle? Was he a freak? He knew he was going on about nothing, dangerously close to a jag of debilitating self-pity. He got up and walked over to the water.