Spellbinder (10 page)

He was home.

All his life, he’d lived here, imprisoned.

He crossed the street, angling toward the small, one-story house where his mother lived. For a moment he didn’t recognize the house. She’d had it painted: an apple green with darker green trim, and white window sash. And then he remembered: a year ago, his Uncle Julian had written that he was having the house painted and the roof repaired.

As Carson came closer to the house, he began to notice details. The window shades were half drawn, all to a uniform height above the sill. Advertising circulars littered the small front porch. The grass around the house was ankle high.

He mounted the two wooden steps to the porch, and felt behind a doorstop, where a key was kept hidden. The key was gone. Still stooped, he heard a nearby window slide open. It was a sound that had dogged him throughout his childhood. Because, inevitably, the sound of a high, shrill voice would follow the sound of the opening window:

“James! James Carson!”

It was Mrs. Kerrigan, who’d always hated him. Turning, he saw her large, florid face framed in the open window of her dining room.

“You’re home, I see.”

It was an accusation, harsh and spiteful. For a long, silent moment he stood staring at her. Could she see the contempt in his eyes—the loathing he felt for her? He hoped so.

“Are you looking for your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well—” Her gap-toothed smile was malevolent as she crossed her fat forearms on the windowsill. He knew that mannerism. She was complacently settling herself to enjoy the effect of what she was about to say:

“Well, your mother ain’t here. About six months ago, they took her away to the asylum. Or maybe it was seven months ago, now. I forget.”

As he pressed the bell button, a low angry muttering of thunder sounded from the west, where ominous tiers of purple clouds lay heavy on the horizon. Almost immediately, a second rumble followed the first. To himself, he smiled. In high school English, in Miss Farnsworth’s class, he’d learned about Shakespeare’s use of sympathetic nature, when an angry nature reflected the dire deeds of men. So it was appropriate that thunder should sound as he pressed his Uncle Julian’s bell button. Because, sooner or later, dire deeds would follow.

From inside, he heard the sound of footsteps: light, quick footsteps. A small, white hand flicked aside the lace curtains covering the beveled glass of the tall, deeply carved door. Through the gap in the curtains he saw the narrow, anxious face of Barbara Carson, his cousin. He smiled at her, and nodded a greeting. The curtain suddenly fell back into place; the face disappeared. He knew that she could still see him through the curtain. So he kept smiling.

Finally the curtain parted again.

“My father isn’t home. He won’t be home for another half hour, at least.”

“Well, let me in. I can’t wait out here.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she was shaking her head. “I’m not supposed to, James. I’m not supposed to let anyone inside, until Daddy gets home.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s in Charleston. Grandma’s sick. Mom’s taking care of her.”

“Well, let me in, Barbara. I’ve just got back. And your father’s
responsible
for me. Just like he’s responsible for you. So let me in.”

“Responsible?”

“That’s right. Responsible.”

“He didn’t tell me about it. I didn’t even know you were coming.”

“He probably didn’t know when I’d be here. Not exactly. Now let me
in,
Barbara.”

Once more, the curtain fell. But now he heard a night chain rattling. Cautiously, uncertainly, the door swung open. Everything Barbara did was uncertain. She was frightened of everything. She was a mouse—a nothing.

But he remembered to smile again. “Thank you.” He walked past her, into the large, high-ceilinged living room that opened off the entry hall to the left. Uncle Julian lived in a restored Victorian house, one of Darlington’s historical landmarks. Uncle Julian was a grain broker who also dealt in real estate. Still not fifty, with a handsome wife and a spectacular house, Uncle Julian was one of Darlington’s most prominent citizens. When Julian Carson walked down the street, people smiled and nodded. Julian Carson was important. So, to his face, no one mentioned his sister—or his nephew.

He tossed the brown paper sack on a tufted, red velvet sofa, and sat beside it. The bag was wrinkled and torn. Soon his possessions would fall out—his comb and his toothbrush, what the officials called his “personal effects.” Somehow the image of his personal effects exposed in his uncle’s house seemed an obscenity.

Barbara edged onto a small, straightback chair, facing him with her knees pressed together, hands anxiously clasped in her lap. She was fourteen years old, just developing. Her body was slight, but finely formed. She was wearing tight-fitting white slacks that-clung to her thighs, and dove deep into the cleft of her crotch. A red sweater revealed small, budding breasts.

When she’d said she wasn’t expecting him, she’d been telling the truth. Because, dressed as she was, she’d never have let him see her. Not Barbara. Not if she remembered the time she’d let him touch her, so long ago.

“You’re fourteen,” he said. “Fourteen years old.”

She nodded—a single small, grave inclination of her head. Her hair was blond, long and finespun. A twist of red ribbon held the hair at the nape of her neck, pulled smooth over her head. Her hair would be silky and smooth, soft to the touch. Soft, and exciting. When she lifted her head, he saw her swallowing. Her throat was thin, delicately modeled, exquisitely layered and muscled.

Beneath his hand, her throat would feel like a wild bird, fluttering and wildly beating, struggling to escape. But, captured, birds couldn’t fly. So, crushed to death, they died. Pressed hard against his, he would feel her body buck and shudder: a doomed, desperate bird. Dying.

“You’ve grown, since I saw you.”

Once more, she nodded.

He let his eyes linger on her, watching a sudden flush stain the pale flesh of her face. Finally, softly, he said, “Say something to me, Barbara. Don’t just nod. Say something.”

“I—” She licked at her lips. “I don’t—don’t know what you want me to say. My father won’t be home for a half hour or so. I’ve already told you that.”

“Did Uncle Julian tell you I was—getting out?”

“He—yes, he did. But he didn’t say when. And my grandmother, she’s been so sick, lately, that—” She left it unfinished. Once more, her eyes fell away from his. In her lap, her hand still twisted. She was afraid of him—afraid of being there with him, alone. Watching her, he felt his genitals tightening. Beneath his clothes, he was suddenly perspiring. His throat had gone dry. It was, he knew, the first sign—the first warning.

But she mustn’t know—mustn’t suspect. Not now. Not here.

So, again—still—he was smiling as he said, “Your house is beautiful, Barbara. You’ve done a lot, since I was here the last time.”

She nodded. Then, with obvious effort, she said, “Thank you.”

“Don’t you know my name?”

“Yes, It—it’s James.”

Still smiling, he gently prodded: “Cousin James. That’s what you used to call me, when you were smaller. Do you remember?”

“I—yes—I …”

From the hallway, he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Instantly, she was on her feet, fleeing into the hall. He heard the sound of the front door closing, followed by the sound of hushed, anxious voices. A silence followed. Then Uncle Julian stood in the open archway to the living room. Behind him, Barbara was silently fleeing down the hallway—gone.

“As I understood it,” Julian Carson was saying, “you weren’t to’ve arrived until next week. Tuesday, to be exact.”

On his feet, facing his uncle squarely, he shook his head. “I don’t know. They just told me to go, and gave me a bus ticket. So that’s what I did. I left.”

“How long have you been in Darlington?” Julian’s voice was brisk, clipped. His eyes were hard. They were watchful eyes. Hostile eyes. The eyes of the enemy.

“About an hour.”

“Did you go home? To your house?”

“Yes. Mrs. Kerrigan—the neighbor—said that my mother’s in an asylum.” He was satisfied with his voice—calm, cool. In control.

“It’s not an asylum,” his uncle answered curtly. “It’s a sanitarium. A very good sanitarium, in fact.”

“Is it expensive?” His voice was still calm. He was still in control. Perfect control.

For a moment, Julian didn’t reply. Suddenly his eyes were guarded. Finally, cautiously, he said, “Yes, it’s expensive. Very expensive, in fact. But she’s got to be there, no question. No question at all. She’s a sick woman. A very sick woman.” Then, quickly, Julian raised his wrist, glancing at his gleaming gold watch. To steal the watch would be wonderful: a wild, dizzying rush of pure pleasure.

“Listen, James,” his uncle was saying, “I’ve just got time to shower and shave before I’ve got to go out. It’s business. Let’s see—” Still looking at the gold watch, Julian frowned. “Today is Thursday. You’ve got a job at the Chevron car wash, down on Bagley. It’s all set. Everything’s arranged. But it doesn’t start until Monday. Are you staying at home?”

“I don’t have a key. The door’s locked.”

“Yes. Well—” He reached into his jacket pocket, for a long alligator wallet. “Well, I don’t have time to look for the key. Not now. So why don’t you take this—” He extended three twenty-dollar bills. He held them gingerly, as if to avoid the contamination of finger-to-finger contact. “Take this, and get yourself a room downtown. Get yourself settled. Give me a call over the weekend. We’ll get together, and I’ll fill you in on what’s happened.”

“Where’s my mother? What sanitarium?”

Glancing again at the watch, Julian said, “It’s the Prospect Sanitarium, out north of town. But I’m not sure you should see her, James. That is, I’m not sure it’ll do much good, for you to see her.”

“I’d like to see her, though, Uncle Julian. I’ve got some business to talk about. Important business.”

His uncle’s small, narrow-set eyes came suspiciously alive. “Business? What kind of business?”

He paused a moment. Then, speaking in the same slow, calm voice, he said, “Money, Uncle Julian. I need money.”

“Well—” Julian’s round, smooth cheeks puffed out. He was a short, fat man with a round face and thick, stubby arms and legs. Once Carson had seen him swimming. His round white body had looked like a big, bloated frog.

“Well, you’ll have money, James. I mean, I’ll give you some—a stake, to start. Then, if you work hard, you won’t have anything to worry about. Nothing at all.”

“Still, I’d like to see her.”

“Yes. Well, that’s only natural, I suppose.” Fussily, Julian nodded. “And there’s no harm, I guess. But now, I’ve got to go. Call me over the weekend, James. We’ll get together. Maybe you can come over for dinner.”

But, as he picked up the wrinkled brown bag and walked past his uncle to the front door, he knew there’d never be a dinner invitation. He could see it in his uncle’s eyes.

A
T THE DOOR, SHE
heard a knock. It was the jailer, coming for her. Or was it the devil, rattling the gates of hell? Or an angel, striking a golden gong?

Or her mother, coming to punish her—to flay her with a whip until her legs ran red?

Again it came: three short, sharp blows on the white wooden panel. It was a signal. So she could be ready.

So, quickly, she moved back until her back found the wall. Then, eyes still on the door, fingertips light against the wall on either side of her body, she moved to her right—two steps, three steps. The fingertips were her eyes. Because the eyes must look, mustn’t leave the door.

One more step. The fourth step. It could have been the title of a song—of a poem set to music, played by a fiddling fool.

One more step—the final step. She’d found the corner. Without eyes, she’d found the corner. It was the place of power, her secret triangle. Kings had crowns and pyramids. Clowns had wands and waggles. But she’d found her corner.

As, slowly, the door opened.

As, slowly, she was sliding down the wall to the floor. Crouched. Ready. Watching.

Yes, it was the devil. The costume could change, and the face could smile. And the walk and the talk and drop and dangle and drabble could sniggle and slide …

But never the dross-downer.

And never the snake’s eyes, or the vermin mouth, with pointed teeth behind red-painted lips. Moving now. Talking. And smiling, too. Saying:

“You have a visitor, Mrs. Carson. Your son. James.”

But if the devil had knocked, then the son wasn’t Christ’s. Because where Christ could come, no devil dared ever walk.

And none could the son come. Never more.

The son

The son

And none could ever believer deceiver receiver the son from the Christ dramble.

But—yes—it was the son. The sound of his voice was the same. And, the face-shape and color of hair, brown, with eyes the same, so crystal cruel. Christ’s eyes.

Because Christ had been cruel, too. Ripping and tearing into her, to give her the son with the crystal eyes …

… the crystal-cruel eyes.

“Hello, Mother. I’m back.”

Yes, he was back. No one else could speak in that soft, dead voice. So he was back.

So she must remain crouched, protected. Especially from him. Her mother had bloodied her legs. But he had bloodied her soul.

Too.

Too many times.

Too too many times.

“Talk to me, Mother. I want you to talk to me.”

From outside, she heard the distant roll-wooly loudsounds of an airplane above, somewhere far in the sky beyond.

And that was her answer. She could open her mouth and the engine sound of distant thunder could speak for her. Magic.

Magic.

But to believe it might make her cry.

Why?
Why?

Alone in the corner, crouched down, she heard her thunder-voice answering him. And, yes, she was crying. Because her face was wet beneath her eyes. Her fingers told her so.

She could remember that song: a Sunday school song, every stanza ending:
Because the Bible tells me so.