The Unloved (25 page)

“But—But what if she comes in the house?” Jeff asked plaintively as Ruby led him up the stairs. “Why can’t I sleep with you tonight?”

“She won’t come in the house,” Ruby assured him. “And you don’t need to sleep with me, do you? Aren’t you a big boy?”

Jeff bit his lip and let Ruby tuck him into his bed. “C-Can I leave a light on?” he begged. “Please?”

Ruby hesitated, then nodded. “Don’t see any harm in that.” She went to the closet, opened the door, and pulled the chain that hung from the bare bulb on the ceiling. Then she closed the door until only an inch of light spilled out of the closet to spread reassuringly across the floor. “How’s that?” she asked.

“O-Okay,” Jeff stammered.

Ruby moved back toward the bed and lowered herself into
the chair next to the bed table. “Maybe I’ll just sit here a minute,” she said. “No point hurrying back to bed, now I’m wide awake.”

Jeff, relieved at not being left alone but not quite willing to admit it, said nothing, and a moment later Ruby began to hum a soft lullaby. After a few minutes Jeff closed his eyes and let the quiet song soothe him.

Ten minutes later, when Jeff’s deep and steady breathing told her he was asleep, Ruby quietly turned off the light in the closet and left the room, closing the door silently behind her.

She paused in the wide corridor for a moment, then moved down to Marguerite’s door, where again she paused, this time to listen.

Silence.

Finally she went back downstairs, feeling the familiarity of the house around her. She moved quickly now, needing no light to guide her, knowing every inch of the house perfectly. But in the dining room she paused once more to look out the French doors toward the graveyard.

The ghostly figure was still there, moving strangely in the faint light of the moon, moving with a strange rhythm, almost as if it were dancing.

Ruby finally returned to her bed, but that night sleep did not come easily back to her. She kept wakening from strange dreams, dreams out of the past—the past she had hoped was long forgotten.

Julie lay in her bed the next morning, only a sheet covering her. She wasn’t certain what was causing the strange fogginess in her mind—the suffocating heat, or the pills the doctor had given her the day before and insisted she keep taking through today. She had awakened twice during the night, each time with the hideous specter of Mary-Beth hanging in the darkness, empty eye sockets staring accusingly at her. It had taken all of Julie’s willpower to keep from screaming out loud, and the second time it happened, just before dawn, she wanted to go down the hall to her aunt’s room. But she had decided it was a childish urge, and forced herself to stay where she was, finally falling asleep again only when the gray light of the rising sun washed the last remnants of the vision of Mary-Beth from the dark screen of the night.

Now she lay in the damp heat of the morning, a sticky film of perspiration covering her body. Outside she could hear a mockingbird singing, and every now and then there were footsteps in the hall. Her father had come in earlier, and her aunt, but neither of them had stayed more than a couple of minutes, telling her she should go back to sleep. But it was too hot to sleep, and besides, there was the dream of Mary-Beth. The memory still sent chills through her body, despite the enervating heat.

When she heard a car pull up the driveway, she automatically glanced at the clock.

Five minutes before ten.

Of course. There was to be a dance class today, and the girls were arriving.

She pushed the sheet away and sat up, swinging around to
place her feet on the floor. But even before she tried to stand, a wave of dizziness overcame her and she had to lie back down. She was just sitting up again when there was a soft tap at the door and she heard Jennifer Mayhew’s voice calling softly through the thick wood.

“Julie? Are you awake?”

“Come in,” Julie called back, surprised at the weakness of her own voice.

The door opened and Jenny, dressed for dance class, peered inside. Her eyes widened as she stared at Julie. “You look just awful,” she breathed, then flushed with embarrassment.

But Julie only smiled, though the smile felt as weak as her legs. “I don’t feel real good either,” she admitted. “When I heard you guys coming up the driveway, I thought I’d get dressed, but I can hardly even stand up.”

Jennifer came into the room and closed the door behind her. “Are you sick?”

“I think it’s the pills Dr. Adams gave me. They make me all woozy and put me to sleep, but every time I fall asleep, I dream about Mary-Beth. And it’s so hot.” She glanced at Jenny out of the corner of her eye. “Did … did everybody come?”

“Three of us did,” her friend replied, instantly understanding what Julie was really asking. “Me, Allison Carter, and Tammy-Jo.” She made a spur face. “Charlene said she couldn’t ever come to the island again. She came over to my house last night and carried on like it was the end of the world.”

“She was Mary-Beth’s best friend,” Julie pointed out.

“But she didn’t even
see
Mary-Beth,” Jenny retorted. “As soon as you started screaming, she went all to pieces, and she wouldn’t go anywhere near Mary-Beth when they pulled her out of the water. But the way she’s been carrying on, you’d think it was her that found Mary-Beth, not you!”

Julie shuddered as the memory suddenly came flooding back to her, and Jenny flushed again and wished she could take back her words. But before she could say anything else, the door opened and Marguerite appeared.

“Ten o’clock,” she announced to Jenny. “Time for you to
be getting upstairs.” Then she smiled affectionately at Julie. “And you should be asleep.”

“It’s too hot,” Julie replied. “Can’t I come upstairs and at least watch?”

Marguerite shook her head. “Dr. Adams wants you in bed all day today. But if you’re better tomorrow—”

“I’m not sick,” Julie reminded her aunt. “It just scared me, that’s all. And the pills make me feel strange—”

“If Dr. Adams wants you to have them, then I’m sure there’s a reason,” Marguerite interrupted with a sudden severity that Julie had never heard before. But before she could protest any further, Marguerite had left her room, beckoning Jenny to follow her.

“I’ll come back after class,” Jenny promised.

Then Julie was alone again.

A few minutes later she heard the faint sounds of the piano upstairs as Marguerite began to play.

The heat in the ballroom was nearly suffocating, though the French doors to the balcony stood wide open. Not a breath of air was moving, and the faded draperies hung limp, their thick, velvet folds only adding to the heavy closeness inside the large room. The three girls at the barre did their best to keep up the pace of their warm-up exercises, but Jenny Mayhew was beginning to think she might faint. And besides the penetrating heat of the morning, the class seemed wrong today.

It wasn’t simply that Julie wasn’t there. More than that, the girls were feeling Mary-Beth Fletcher’s absence. Mary-Beth had been absent from the class last week, too, but then there had been at least the possibility that Mary-Beth was still alive, even though no one really thought so. After yesterday even that possibility was gone.

Nor had Marguerite even mentioned Mary-Beth Fletcher. She had simply led Jenny up the stairs to the ballroom, where the other two girls were waiting, seated herself at the piano and had begun playing the music that always accompanied
the warm-ups. But as she played, Jenny was certain that the beat was faster than usual, and she was finding it difficult to keep up as she moved skillfully through the five positions.

“Right arm a little lower, Jennifer!” she heard Marguerite call as she turned into fourth position and felt the familiar ache in her legs as she moved her right foot forward exactly twelve inches, placing it precisely in line with her left, heel to toe. “That’s right. Fifth position!” Automatically Jennifer’s right foot moved back to touch her left, and her right arm swept upward so her fingers almost met above her head. “Straight!” she heard Marguerite call. “Keep your legs straight!”

“But it’s too hot,” Allison Carter complained, her arms dropping to her sides and her legs relaxing into a more normal position.

“It’s hot under the lights of the stage,” Marguerite replied, never skipping a beat. “Half of the dance is simple endurance, and if you can’t develop that endurance, you’ll never be a dancer.”

Now Tammy-Jo Aaronson let her arms drop, too, then collapsed into a chair, wiping her face with a towel. “But I don’t want to be a dancer,” she complained. “All I ever wanted to do was learn a little bit about it and have fun. But it’s not fun anymore!”

Marguerite stopped playing and slammed the lid of the piano shut. The loud report of the heavy piece of wood startled Jenny Mayhew, and she felt a sharp twinge in her Achilles tendon as her left leg jerked reflexively. She dropped to the floor and immediately began massaging her ankle.

“Fun?” Marguerite demanded, her voice growing strident. She rose from the piano bench and limped toward the three girls, who were now exchanging worried glances. “Who ever told you dancing was fun? Ballroom dancing is fun, and I suppose for some people dancing to rock music is even fun. But the ballet is not fun! It is an art, and it takes years of discipline to perfect. Years! Do you think I enjoyed it when I was your age?” She paused for a split second, her eyes flashing. “Of course not,” she went on. “But I knew why I
was going through it. I knew why my legs hurt and my feet were sore and my ankles swollen. But I never complained. Never!”

Jenny Mayhew, her ankle forgotten in the face of Marguerite’s sudden wrath, scrambled to her feet and instinctively moved closer to Allison and Tammy-Jo, who were watching the teacher with frightened eyes. But Marguerite seemed not to notice.

“I worked when I was your age,” Marguerite went on, her voice echoing shrilly in the expanse of the ballroom. “It didn’t matter how hot it was, or how tired I was, or how much my legs hurt. I kept dancing, because I had to! I had to!”

“Well, I
don’t
have to!” Tammy-Jo said, her voice breaking as her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to be a dancer, and I never did. I only came because of my friends. And look what happened. Mary-Beth’s dead, and Charlene won’t come anymore, and I don’t blame her! It isn’t any fun anymore, and I’m going home.”

Marguerite froze, her face pale as she stared at the girls. “But you can’t—” she began, her voice dropping to a whisper. Before she could finish, Allison Carter was on her feet too.

“She can too,” she said. “And so can I.” Her face stormy, she turned to Jenny. “I’m going with Tammy-Jo,” she said. “It’s too hot, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to stay.” She untied the ribbons of her dancing shoes, pulled them off, and shoved them into her tote bag. A minute later she was lacing up her sneakers and shrugging into the T-shirt she’d worn over her leotard that morning. By the time she was done, Tammy-Jo Aaronson, too, was ready. “Are you coming?” Allison asked Jenny as she and Tammy-Jo started toward the door.

“I—I don’t know.…” Jenny stammered, her eyes shifting unhappily between her friends and Marguerite.

Marguerite, her face ashen now, her whole body trembling, reached out toward Jenny, as if trying to touch her. But there was something in her eyes—a strange burning light—that made Jenny shrink away. “I—I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I
have to go with them.” Her voice took on a pleading note, as if she were begging Marguerite to understand. “They’re my friends,” she finished, her own voice trembling now. “I have to go—” Her voice broke, and she felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes as she pulled her dancing shoes off and shoved her feet into a worn pair of loafers. Then, feeling ashamed of what she was doing, she hurried out of the ballroom, catching up with Allison and Tammy-Jo when they were halfway down the stairs. When they came to the second-floor landing, she looked uncertainly at the closed door to Julie’s room. “Shouldn’t we say good-bye to Julie?” she asked, but Tammy-Jo shook her head.

“I just want to get out of here. I knew Charlene was right—we shouldn’t have come at all today.”

Turning away from Julie’s room, the three girls hurried down the last flight of stairs and out the front door.

In the ballroom Marguerite stood perfectly still, staring at the empty chairs where only a few moments ago her students had been sitting. “You can’t,” she breathed, her voice barely audible. “You can’t leave me … you can’t.”

She blinked, and felt a wetness that made the room blur around her, so that she was forced to shut her eyes tightly against the tears. When she opened them a moment later, her vision had cleared.

Everything had changed.

A cool breeze floated in from the open windows, and the sheer curtains, snowy white and freshly pressed, billowed gently. The room sparkled with light, and around her people were dancing. But there was no music.

Drifting as if in a trance, she moved over to the old phonograph and took a record from the top of the stack next to it. A moment later, as the needle began scratching its way through the worn recording, Marguerite heard the room fill with the clear strains of an orchestra.