The Unforgiven (4 page)

Maggie scanned the field and rise behind it, covered with scrubby bushes of bittersweet. Her eyes rested on the naked upper branches of a clump of crab-apple trees, just visible over the rise. A few wizened apples still clung to the thin, gray branches. Maggie headed toward the trees, wading through the tall grass and climbing up the rise. She saw that it fell off steeply on the other side, to the bank of a brook below.

Maggie stood on a flat rock and surveyed the area. The icy water burbled over the stream’s rocky bed.
Across the brook Maggie spotted a tree frog squatting gingerly on a slick-surfaced stone, staring at her with lazy black eyes. She held her breath, so as not to scare it off. A sense of peace tinged with loneliness settled over her. She felt at ease here. The land was an undreamed-of luxury.

The sudden roar of an engine broke the spell. The frog leaped off the rock and into the rushing stream. Maggie turned and started back toward the garage, picking her way through the grasses.

“Got her going,” said Blair, beaming, as Maggie entered the garage.

“Great,” Maggie assured him.

“Let’s have a look through the house now,” he said, getting out of the car and switching off the engine.

It was not a large house by island standards, but it was clean and well kept. All of the living area was on the first floor with an attic above and a cellar below. Blair guided Maggie through the rooms, pointing out the genuine antiques among the odd assortment of furniture, which appeared mismatched but comfortable.

“Everything you need here,” he said, opening the door to a linen closet off the bedroom. “Bathroom’s a little old-fashioned, but everything works.” Maggie looked in and noted the deep, claw-footed bathtub and the pull-chain toilet.

“Fireplace works,” Blair observed as he passed through the living room. “And the kitchen has all the utensils you’ll need.”

“It’s perfect,” Maggie interrupted his inventory. “I’d like to rent it.”

“Sure you won’t be too lonely out here?” asked the old man.

Maggie pursed her lips and looked away from him. “No. This is fine.”

“Well, a pretty gal like you is sure to make friends before too long. Now, I’ll just need some references, and we’re all set.”

Maggie stared at him. “References?”

“Where you lived before, something like that?”

Maggie could feel beads of sweat popping out at her hairline. She groped around for an answer. “I’d give you my parents, but they’ve passed away.”

“An employer, anyone like that,” Blair replied patiently.

There is no one,
Maggie thought, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Anything wrong?” asked the old man.

“No,” said Maggie sharply. “No. How about Mr. Emmett? He can give me a reference.”

“Bill Emmett? Oh, sure, that’d be fine.”

Maggie sighed with relief. “He’s out of town right now on business, but when he gets back?”

“That’s soon enough,” Blair agreed. “Now come on back to town and you’ll sign some papers, we’ll have the lights turned on, and you can move in today if you like.”

Maggie nodded gratefully. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve made this so very easy.”

“My pleasure,” said the old man, tipping his captain’s hat. He headed for the back door. Maggie took a hopeful look back at the darkened rooms of her new home before she followed him.

•   •   •

That evening, Maggie stared down at the contents of the worn leather suitcase which lay open on the chenille bedspread.

What a collection,
she thought, shaking her head.
I really need some clothes.
One by one she lifted the few faded blouses and threadbare sweaters from the bottom of the bag. She carried them over to the dresser and placed them in the open drawer of the bureau, which was lined with white shelf paper.

She ran a finger over the collar of a cotton blouse with blue flowers on it that had been her favorite in high school. She had found it in the boxes of her belongings salvaged by a neighbor, Mrs. Bellotti, when the farmhouse was sold for back taxes, three years after her mother’s death. At first, Maggie had not wanted to keep any of the clothes she had found there. They were too young for her, long out of style, and most of them had unhappy associations that clung to them, like a musty scent. But common sense had won out. She had very little money, and she was starting a job. She had to wear something.

Maggie closed the drawer slowly and opened the one above it. Then she returned to the bed and the other, smaller, suitcase, which held her underwear, a few scarves, and some gloves. In less than twenty minutes she had unpacked both suitcases and organized the bedroom just as she wanted it. She closed the empty suitcases and shoved them on the top shelf of the closet. Then she sat down on the edge of the sagging double bed.
All moved in,
she thought.

The tole lamp beside the dresser threw a warm light over the room as Maggie looked around. She had a real bed to sleep in. Her own kitchen. A living room, with a fireplace. A job to go to in the morning. As she counted up these assets, she felt a flurry of happiness. The realtor had been amiable this morning, and the rental had gone smoothly. Everything except that part about the references. Maggie grimaced, remembering how it had thrown her. Things that were so natural for other people seemed like insurmountable obstacles for her.

Enough,
she thought.
Everything has worked out fine, and you’re settled in here. You have a home now.

Abruptly, Maggie stood up and went toward the kitchen, leaving the tole lamp burning.
Damn the electric bill,
she thought. She wanted light around her. Light and comfort. She had spent so long in the dark.

She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of juice. She poured it into a glass and drank from it, reveling in the luxury of having her own refrigerator that she could fill with whatever she pleased. She leaned back against the sink and thought about tomorrow, her first day on the job.
It will be all right,
she told herself.
You’ll do fine. Just don’t panic. Keep your head.
She glanced up at the kitchen clock. It was getting late.

Her neck felt stiff from the tensions of the day. “A shower,” she said aloud, “and then to bed.” With a purposeful nod of her head, she put the empty glass in the sink and returned to her bedroom for a bathrobe. Then she went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub.

At first the perforated metal disk on the ancient
shower head let out only a trickle, but gradually the pressure worked up to a breezy shower. Maggie hoisted herself over the high rim of the tub, pushing aside the shower curtain which crackled with age. She pulled it closed again and put her face up to the shower head. Torrents of water soaked her hair and plunged down over her body. She could feel all her muscles relaxing under its steady pressure. For a few moments she just stood there, luxuriating in the heat of the water and the privacy. Then she groped for the soap in the clamshell on the window-sill and began to languidly work up a lather.

Suddenly she gasped and dropped the bar of soap as if it had burned her. She gazed first at her lathered hands, then down at the frothy bar, which had slithered and skipped down the side of the tub and now rested inches from her toes. She had forgotten to check. For the first time in years she had not remembered to examine the soap.

Maggie stared down at her body. In the bright bathroom light, the network of thin, hairlike scars, intersecting diagonally on her sides, were clearly visible. Her mind drifted helplessly back to that awful night. She could feel a weakness in her knees as she remembered.

She had removed the soap from her meager grooming kit and stepped under the lukewarm prison showers in the group stall that smelled of mildew and Lysol. She was late, having worked an extra shift as punishment for the fistfight she’d had with one of her tormentors. The matron stood outside, waiting impatiently for her to finish. Maggie closed her eyes and let the water rain down
on her aching body. Slowly she began to soap herself on her sides and under her arms.

“Hurry up in there,” the matron barked.

The water seemed to sting her all over. For a moment she thought it might be a rash of some kind. Then she looked down.

Blood streamed down her sides. Scarlet rivulets ran where the water trickled. Bloody orange scallops billowed where the shower blasted.

Too horrified to even scream, she was transfixed by the sight of her mutilated body. Her eyes darted to the soap, which she grasped in her trembling hand. As she moved, she saw a glint. She looked again. The razor’s edge was shining now, the menacing blade glaring out at her from where it hid, embedded in the bar of soap.

Despite the heat of the shower, Maggie shivered at the memory. Then she bent over and gingerly retrieved the sticky cake of soap. Sprays of water bounced haphazardly off her back as she picked it up. Slowly she began to work up a lather again.
You don’t have to check it anymore,
she reminded herself.
You’re safe.
She rubbed the bar of soap thoughtfully between her palms.
There’s nothing to be afraid of now.

Outside, the storm had fled, chased by a wind which still gusted, rattling the panes in the desiccated windowframes of the Thornhill house. Lengths of clouds, like gray rags, trailed over the moon. A few scattered stars pierced the sky. The air was infected by a damp, autumn chill.

The light from the lamp inside the Thornhill house
shone through the windows and threw squares of weak, lemon yellow light on the brown, matted grass below the sills. Inside the house, the solitary figure of a woman was visible, seated on a bed, then moving through the rooms to the kitchen for a drink, and finally to the bathroom where she pulled off her robe, preparing for a shower.

Behind the dense cover of a fir tree, just beyond the strip of light-patched lawn, a pair of eyes watched Maggie’s progress from room to room. Their gaze did not waver. One might have thought that those eyes could see through the walls themselves, incinerating beams and clapboards with their fierce intensity.

The hands of the watcher curled around a low-lying branch of the shielding tree, gripping it so tightly that the knuckles seemed to glow in the darkness, like bare bone.

The breathing of the rigid figure came in short, feverish pants, almost like a wolf’s, as the eyes, hooded and unblinking, followed their subject. The only other sound, made virtually inaudible by the gusting wind, was the relentless grinding and grinding of the watcher’s teeth.

3

Maggie hesitated, standing in the dim, drafty hallway outside the editor’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the murmur of voices coming from the lighted room. She felt like a prowler at a window, shivering there, the papers rattling in her hand. After two days she was still overcome by a sense of awkwardness whenever she entered a room, as if her limbs might suddenly splay out, betraying the discomfort she tried to hide.

She had not made an exceptional number of mistakes in her first few days on the job. She had misjudged the length of a headline, misfiled the mayor’s speeches, and called the printer several times more than was necessary. Maggie reflected that her work on the prison newsletter had served her well. Even Grace, who made it plain that she was watching for slip-ups, had been forced to inflate her complaints with bluster. But this did not quell Maggie’s uneasiness. On the inside she had learned that errors, even small ones, incurred punishment. It was a simple code, really. And it had a way of keeping her off-balance, even now, when the gates were locked behind her.

Maggie strained her ears to listen for a lull in the
conversation. She was reluctant to interrupt. But there was no good time. Tentatively, she knocked.

“Come on in,” Jess called out.

As she entered, Jess and Evy looked up. Jess leaned forward on his desk, folded his hands, and smiled at her. Evy hunched down in the chair which was pushed up close to the desk. She screwed her mouth up and began to chew the inside of her cheek absent mindedly.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Maggie apologized. “I just finished editing this fishing column, and I thought you’d want to take a look at it.” She handed the manuscript to Jess.

“Do you want to sit down?” Evy asked, rising halfway out of her chair.

Maggie shook her head and motioned Evy to stay seated.

Jess riffled the pages of the manuscript. “Everything you ever wanted to know about quahogs,” he said wryly.

“And more,” Maggie conceded.

He laughed and shook his head. He began to peruse the typed pages, nodding and making an occasional mark on them as he did so. Maggie tried to think of something to say to Evy in the silence. Before she had a chance to speak, Evy glanced up at her.

“Do you know what time it is?” the girl asked.

Maggie showed her empty wrists. “I don’t have a watch.”

“Quarter to twelve,” said Jess, looking up. “Nice work, Maggie. You’ve managed to make Billy Silva’s nautical prose resemble English.”

Maggie flushed with pleasure at the compliment.
“He has a rather unusual style,” she said, smiling at her feet.

“Barnacle Bill’s Chronicles,” Jess added.

“Jess,” said Evy, “I need to know how many columns for letters this week.”

He looked at her in vague surprise. “Oh, I guess the usual, three above the fold.” He picked up the fishing column on his desk distractedly. “Here you go, Maggie.”

Maggie reached for the papers the editor had placed on the edge of his desk.

All at once, Jess leaned over and grasped her hand in his. “What a lovely ring,” he said, peering at the glimmering violet stone on her finger. Maggie looked up at him, startled by his touch.

“Thank you.”

“Where did you get it?” he asked without releasing her hand.

“Jess,” Evy interrupted, “do you want to tell me about these changes?”

Jess frowned. “Let’s do it later, okay?”

Evy barely nodded, then stood up. “Let me know when you’re ready,” she said stiffly.