The View from the Cherry Tree (3 page)

“It's too nice a night to go in,” Darcy said, sounding dreamy, the way she did most of the time these days, except when she was screaming in a panic about something. “Let's sit here on the bench for a while.”

“Suits me. Almost anything you'd say suits me,” Steve told her.

Rob had the choice of dropping on top of them or staying where he was. He hoped they weren't going to get too mushy. He'd throw up all over them. It was an entertaining idea, he decided.

Their words were low, intended only for one
another, but they carried to Rob in the tree above them. He couldn't stand very much of it, and he picked an entire handful of cherries and dropped them, all at once, in a shower over the couple.

That ended the silly exchange of words. They looked up, laughing, although they couldn't see him in the dimness of the branches.

“Okay chum, we get the message,” Steve said. “We'll move along and leave you in peace.” They moved off, and Rob decided he might move, too.

He made to descend and caught a glimpse of Sonny streaking across the yard toward Mrs. Calloway's. Cripes. He supposed he'd better go get him; if he got into any more trouble they might really put him in a kennel for the weekend, and that would about kill old Sonny.

His sneakers hit the ground with barely a thud. He rounded the corner of the house next door, pausing to look around. It wasn't so light back here, but he could make out the big dark blob of fur . . . right on the old lady's doorstep, for cripes sake. Wouldn't that dumb cat ever learn?

When he got right next to the back porch, though, he saw what had drawn the animal. His resentment against Mrs. Calloway rose to a peak of indignation. She put bones and meat scraps in her garbage can, and when it was too full she just left the lid off. It was like she was setting a trap for a cat, for crying out loud, to leave meat scraps in the open like that.

“Sonny! Come 'ere!”

The cat had dragged something out of the garbage and was chewing on it with evident relish, paying no attention to Rob. He put one foot on the bottom step, reaching up for the cat.

It was at that point that total mayhem broke loose.

Three

He didn't know where she'd been hiding, but there was no doubt the old witch had been waiting for them . . . Rob and the cat. She pounced with a triumphant cry, and the broom crashed down on Rob's head. It scratched the side of his face, and then was lifted and brought down again and again, slashing at him, pounding, jabbing, and all the while she was yelling and screaming at him.

Sonny gave one startled yowl and vanished; it was a little longer before Rob, falling backward down the steps, could get out of the woman's reach. She stood panting above him as he sprawled on the cement with something sharp poking into his flank.

“That'll teach you to stay off my property,
you nasty little wretch! You and your confounded dirty cat!”

She spat at him, and the spittle struck him on the cheek, and then she brought the upended broom down one more time; he rolled aside, or she might have stuck it right through him.

Rob struggled for breath, unable to answer before she had taken her broom and gone back into the house.

He hurt all over, and something was ­trickling into his eyes.
Cripes, she might have killed me,
he thought, and managed to turn over and get to his feet.

He created quite a sensation when he walked into the house. For once they noticed him.

His mother sprang to her feet with a cry. “Rob! For heaven's sake, what's happened to you?”

They were all there; his father had come home, and Teddi and old Max, and Darcy and Steve, and even Derek was still there, all milling around.

“Rob . . . what happened, son?” Walt
Mallory swept the others aside as if they were a swarm of gnats, tipping Rob's chin so that he could see the damage.

He told them while his mother ran for a washcloth and got the blood out of his eyes.

“Why, that old witch! Wally, call the police! She might have put his eye out!”

Darcy was staring at him in dismay. “Good grief, how's he going to look in the wedding pictures? Mom, he's getting a
black eye
!”

“That's better than losing one,” her father pointed out. “Teddi, get some gauze and some tape.”

“Don't you think we'd better get him to a doctor, Wally? It's a nasty gash . . . maybe it should be stitched.”

“No, I don't think the damage is that serious. We can pull it together with tape, I think. Wouldn't you say so, Steve?”

Steve was an expert because he'd been a medic in the Marines. He looked the cut over soberly, nodding. “Yes, sir, I think so. It's not deep. Head cuts usually bleed pretty bad, but I don't think he needs stitches.”

Mr. Mallory plastered the washcloth against
the wound. “There, hold it there, son. You want to sit down?”

He was feeling sort of wobbly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Aren't you going to call the police?”

His father sighed. “No, I don't think so, Marge. After all, Rob was on her property. And he's been told to stay off it.”

“But he only went over to bring back the cat . . . and from what he says, she'd deliberately enticed Sonny over there.” His mother really looked mad. He was glad to see she still cared. He'd begun to wonder a little. “Wally, we aren't just going to let her get away with it, are we?”

“Do you really want to take on a major battle right now? This weekend? It will mean having a doctor check Rob over . . . although he's not seriously hurt . . . and having police all over the place, probably for hours. And eventually we'd have to go to court, testify against her . . .”

“Somebody ought to testify against her,” Max said sourly. “Boy, that woman's crazy!”

“She's a witch,” Rob said. “She eats raw
liver . . . I saw her. The blood ran down her chin.” It seemed to him that it really had. “She's a real witch.”

“Robbie!” Teddi protested. “She couldn't have eaten raw liver!”

“She did, tonight. I saw her. Is my eye really getting black?” It would be rather nice if it was.

Darcy moaned. “He's going to look terrible . . . he'll ruin my wedding pictures!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Darcy!” Mrs. ­Mallory scowled. “Naturally you want nice pictures, but he didn't do it on purpose, you know!”

“As a matter of fact,” Steve said, “I think Rob will add a good deal of interest to what will probably be a very dull afternoon. He'll be a conversation piece.”

“A dull afternoon!” Darcy cried. “Well, if that's the way you feel about it! . . .”

Steve smiled at her. “Darling, shut up. You hear me? Shut up.”

Shocked, for once she kept quiet.

“What's a conversation piece?” Rob asked.

“It's something people talk about,” Steve told him. “What happened to Sonny, Rob? Did he get clobbered, too?”

“I heard him yowl the first time she swung the broom. I guess he got away after that. I think he did. Should I go look for his body?”

“Not if it involves going back onto Mrs. ­Calloway's property,” his mother said quickly. “Better a dead cat than a dead boy.”

“I'm sure Sonny's quite all right,” Walt ­Mallory said wearily. “Look, Rob's okay. Go call the cat, if you want to, and make sure he's okay, too. But let's not start a ruckus right now with Mrs. Calloway. Not before the wedding. We've already got enough problems to handle.”

Mrs. Mallory looked at Rob uncertainly. “Are we just going to let her get away with it, then?”

“No. But we'll wait until we've got time to breathe. The old woman's getting dangerous, if she'll entice the cat and then attack it and anyone who comes after it. Maybe she ought to be certified, I don't know. I'll talk to Bill ­Sansome sometime next week, ask him what we ought to do. But not now, okay?”

“I think I'd better see if Sonny's still out there,” Rob said. He moved slyly to where he could see his own reflection in the mirror over
the buffet. There was a nice big mark around his left eye, although it didn't really hurt much anymore, and the assorted cuts and scratches would be impressive when he told the story to his friends. She was a real witch, eating raw liver and trying to spear him or beat him to death with the broom. “I want to make sure he's okay.”

“Wally . . .”

“It's all right. I'll go with him. Come on, let's find the big son-of-a-gun. I wish we had someplace to lock him up for a few days.”

“It wasn't his fault, Dad. She put meat scraps and stuff out where he'd smell it.”

“Yeah, well, let's get him inside and away from her for a while.” They went out into the yard together, squinting to see a darker mass among the shadows. “Call him, Rob. He's more likely to come for you.”

Sonny was there, in the cherry tree. Rob reached up and brought him down, cradling him as if he were a baby. “Mean old witch, did she scare you half to death? Dad?”

“Yes?” His father paused at the foot of the back steps.

“Is Uncle Ray going to jail?”

His father flinched slightly. “So you heard that, did you? Where were you? Up the tree?”

“Is he? Are they going to put him in jail?”

“I don't know what they're going to do to him. Nobody knows yet that he took the money. We tried to see French, but he wasn't home.”

“Will you be able to talk him out of putting Uncle Ray in jail, do you think? He's a friend of yours.”

“Yes. He's a friend. And for that reason I don't know if I have a right to ask him not to prosecute. He's got a right to do that. A right to be pretty mad, too. As far as Ray goes, it would probably do him good to see what happens to people who steal. On the other hand, it would hurt your mother very much if he went to jail. So I don't know what will happen.”

“Would they put him in jail for very long, for stealing twelve hundred dollars?”

“I don't know, Rob. Listen, this is just between us, understand? Not a word to anyone else, not until after the wedding. And then I'll tell your mother. You keep your mouth shut.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“Okay. Why don't you go on up and take your bath and go to bed, now.”

“But it's only nine thirty!”

“That's late enough, considering we've all got to be up early and get a lot of things done. Please, Rob. If you don't feel like sleeping, watch TV or read something. But get out of everybody's sight for a while, let 'em cool off, will you?”

He felt sort of resentful about that.
Let them cool off,
as if he'd done something terrible. It wasn't
him,
it was Mrs. Calloway, or even Sonny. They'd have been madder yet if he'd just let the cat go over there and not tried to stop him, he thought, climbing the stairs.

His window was over the porch. He could hear Teddi down there with old Max, giggling. Cripes. Now that Darcy was almost gone, was it going to start all over again with Teddi?

He began to undress in front of his own mirror, leaning close to check, once more, the injuries inflicted on him by that witch next door.

“She could have killed me,” he said to his image, scowling. “For all she knows, she did. She didn't even wait to see if I was able to get up.”

He stood there, his shirt halfway off; it seemed to him that, as he watched, the bruise around his eye deepened in color. Cripes, she could have put his eye out, blinded him for life. He pulled up his T-shirt and inspected his flank, where he'd taken a solid jab from the broom handle. That was turning purple, too. It's a wonder she didn't break his ribs. For such a little woman, she sure packed a wallop.

It would have served her right if she'd killed him and they'd put her in jail for life. Only probably she'd have pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. He guessed anybody would believe that, that she was insane. Only a nut would eat raw liver and let the blood run off her chin and attack people with a broom.

He wondered if you could get off on a charge of stealing by pleading not guilty by reason of insanity. He supposed not, or his father would have thought of it.

Would they still have had the wedding if she'd killed him? Boy, that would really have made Darcy mad if they'd had to call off the wedding.

A little blood was seeping through the
bandage they'd put on his forehead. Cripes, if she'd knocked him out, he might have laid there until he bled to death. For all she knew, he was still out there at the foot of her steps, bleeding his life away.

He stared at his reflection, and gradually a grin began to spread over his face. He'd fix her. By golly, he'd fix her. Maybe he'd even scare her into having a fit.

Four

It wasn't difficult to arrange, really. He knew they used ketchup for blood, in the movies. He'd seen a show about how they did it. There was plenty of ketchup in the kitchen. That was about all the props he needed.

The time to do it was right at seven o'clock in the morning. The paper boy delivered her
Chronicle
between 6:50 and 6:55 every day. Most people got their papers on their front porches or lawns, but Mrs. Calloway didn't because she said the neighbors stole it when it was left out front. Her paper boy was Matt Papovich, and he'd just as soon not have delivered any paper to her at all, because she complained no matter what he did and he always had to come back three times to get paid. Three times, every month. She insisted that he
put the paper on her back porch, and he couldn't throw it from the alley, either, because then he knocked down her chrysanthemums or something. He had to walk right up and put the paper on the porch.

At exactly seven o'clock, Mrs. Calloway would come out for her paper. And today, Rob thought with a sense of delight, she would find a dead boy on her steps . . . a murdered boy. He wondered if he'd dare keep his eyes partway open so he could see the look on her face when she found him. He hoped he scared her bad enough so she'd have a fit.

He almost forgot to take the bandage off his head. That would really do it, he thought disgustedly, wincing as the tape came off. It was disappointing-looking this morning, not nearly as nasty as it had looked last night. He wished the kids could have seen it last night.

He couldn't very well put the kethcup on until he was lying down, or it would run in all the wrong places. And he should be sure the paper was there ahead of time, so that Matt wouldn't find him first. He didn't want anybody to see him except Mrs. Calloway.

He hoped Matt wouldn't be late with the paper.

The house was quiet as he made his way down the stairs. It was going to be hot today; it was already warm, at a quarter of seven. He considered taking time to fix something to eat, then decided it would take too long. This was a split-second operation, and it had to be done this morning. After today, it wouldn't work. Not as well, anyway; she wouldn't think she'd done it herself unless he was there when she came out this morning.

He let himself out onto the porch, ketchup bottle in one hand, and waited, watching the back alley. And there came Matt . . . not late, but a few minutes early. He walked up and put the paper on the back porch. Then, as an afterthought, he picked it up again, spit on it, and put it back.

Rob waited until he'd gone, then eased open the screen door. The grass wasn't even damp, the air was so dry. He heard Sonny's cry and looked up to see the cat on the edge of the roof, looking ready to jump off into the cherry tree.

“Shut up, stupid, you'll wake somebody up,”
Rob told him softly, and continued across the yard to the back of the Calloway house.

He'd intended to be found sprawled on the steps, because it seemed more dramatic that way, but he found that it was horribly uncomfortable. A guy could cripple himself forever, lying on his back on the steps for very long.

It would have to be on the sidewalk at the bottom, then. Maybe he could just have his legs up on the steps. Rob squirmed around, trying out several positions, wishing he could think of some way to do it so it would look like his legs were broken. He couldn't, not without really hurting them.

Finally he thought he had it. He took the top off the ketchup bottle and liberally laced his face with it. Then, for good measure, he poured some on his shirt-front, too. He'd worn a white shirt, so it would show up better. The old woman had attacked him in the dark; she wouldn't know what he was wearing last night.

As a final step, he threw the ketchup bottle as far as he could. He'd forgotten to put the cap back on and its contents spewed across the grass, but maybe she wouldn't
notice that. She'd be too busy seeing the body in front of her.

He didn't have a watch to check the time, but it must be pretty close to seven. He hoped she'd come out pretty soon; it was hard to lie still, and the ketchup was running sort of close to one eye. He didn't know if he could wipe it without messing up the whole effect.

Something touched him on one ear and he almost yelped aloud before he recognized Sonny.

“For pete's sake, you dumb cat, get out of here!”

Sonny surveyed him with great unblinking yellow eyes only inches from his own. Rob pushed at him with one outthrust hand. “Beat it! Go on! Scat!”

And then he heard her coming, heard her shuffling footsteps beyond the door, and he froze, trying to look pale beneath his bloody wounds.

He couldn't resist opening one eye just a little, to see how she reacted. Maybe she'd have a heart attack, and fall right down on top of him . . .

The door swung inward, and Mrs. Calloway stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing a
ratty-looking bathrobe and slippers that must have belonged to her husband before he died. They almost fell off her feet when she moved. She stooped to pick up her paper, and then she saw him.

For a few seconds she was poised in mid-stride, as if she were in a movie someone had brought to a stop. The only thing that moved was her jaw, which dropped.

And then, before she could have a fit or a heart attack or anything interesting, someone began to scream from his own house next door.

He'd counted on scaring Mrs. Calloway and getting back home before anybody else got up. How could he have guessed that Darcy wouldn't be able to sleep, that she'd get up and look out her window and see him?

Nobody was dressed. They all came pouring out of the house in their nightclothes, with Darcy reaching him first because she'd been the one to spot him. She was wearing a short nightgown of pale blue nylon. She stopped a few feet away, her eyes wide, chest heaving, and gradually her horror was replaced by an
expression of fury so intense Rob thought she was going to throttle him then and there.

Probably she would have, if their parents hadn't arrived right behind her.

“It's ketchup!” Darcy shrieked. “You rotten little beast, I thought you were dead!”

Across the alley Mr. Wentworth called out sleepily, “What's going on out there?” Nobody answered him.

Rob sat up. It was all spoiled, everyone running out like that, Darcy yelling her fool head off. As he sat up, the ketchup began to run and he didn't have anything to wipe it with except his hands, so it got pretty messy.

“Rob, what's got into you!” His father jerked him to his feet, propelling him toward the house. “Get back inside! All of you, and Darcy, stop that racket before I smack you!”

Rob twisted his head, trying to see what Mrs. Calloway was doing, but his father wasn't allowing him any time for that. The hand that grabbed his arm was strong enough to tear the arm off, and for a moment he thought that was what might happen.

His mother had only come as far as the
back steps; she stood holding the door open, and they were all hustled inside, beyond the view of the neighbors who were beginning to filter out of their houses.

Walt Mallory's face was white. “Confound you, Rob, I ought to beat the tar out of you!”

“I thought he was dead!” Darcy exploded, letting the screen slam behind her. “What a rotten thing to do! Scaring us all half to death!”

“Your screaming was a big help,” her father informed her, pushing them all ahead of him into the kitchen. “Rob, get that mess washed off yourself, and then we'd better have a little talk.”

“What were you doing?” Teddi demanded. “Boy, you really look awful. No wonder Darcy screamed.”

He was allowed to go into the bathroom and wash; he stripped off his shirt and his T-shirt, because there wasn't much he could do about them. Cripes. He might have known something would go wrong. He didn't even know how Mrs. Calloway had reacted.

They were all there in the kitchen when he came out, still standing around waiting for
him. His mother was making coffee. His father looked very tired, as if he hadn't slept well.

“You want to tell us, now, what you thought you were doing?”

Rob tried to explain. It seemed perfectly reasonable to him, but he didn't see any signs of understanding on any of their faces. Only Teddi showed some sympathy, but even most of that seemed to be for Darcy, who had “discovered” him.

“Rob, can't you get it through your head? We don't want any more trouble with Mrs. Calloway. We've got problems enough already. We want you to stay strictly away from her. Is that clear? Stay off her property, don't look in her windows, don't speak to her,
stay out of her sight!”

Rob stood perfectly still. He hadn't made up his mind yet what to say. He thought they were being completely unfair. Cripes, nobody did anything when she attacked him, but when he tried to get even a little, wham! Everything hit the fan.

The telephone chime drew Darcy in a swirl of blue nylon. Rob still hadn't thought up any reply to his father that wouldn't be mad or resentful, and from the looks around him it
didn't seem the time to be either. And then he didn't have to say anything, because the telephone call took all the attention.

Darcy cried, “Oh,
no
!” her voice climbing as if she were in pain.

“Now what?” Mrs. Mallory demanded. “Go on, all of you, get dressed.”

“I wasn't planning to get up this early,” Teddi protested.

“Well, you're up now, so get dressed and let's get this show on the road,” her father ordered. “You've got a list of stuff we still have to do today?” he asked turning to Mrs. Mallory.

“A mile long,” she answered, her mouth forming a flat line.

From the dining room Darcy's voice rose in an anguished wail. “What am I going to
do
?”

Her father paused in the doorway on his way upstairs to dress. “For starters, you might stop waking up all the neighbors. And get some clothes on.”

It was as if she hadn't heard him. Her blue eyes were wide and filling with tears. “Daddy, Nancy's got the measles!
Measles
!”

“Well, I'm sorry, but she's only one of the
bridesmaids, isn't she? You've still got three other ones.”

“You don't understand! We've got four ushers, too, and there have to be the same number! The
measles
!” Her face crumpled as her father took the phone out of her hand and put it down.

“The rehearsal isn't until 7:30 tonight,” Mrs. Mallory said briskly, assuming control. “You'll just have to find someone to take her place.”

“But where will I find anybody who can wear her
dress
? Mother, you know how skinny she is! There's nobody else in town who'll fit into that dress!”

“How about Ellen Anderson?” Teddi suggested. Rob began to ease backward toward the door, hoping he could escape to the hall before anybody noticed he was going.

“Oh, Teddi, you know I haven't spoken to her since that fight last fall!”

“Maybe now would be a good time to start speaking again, if she's the only one in town who can wear the dress,” Mr. Mallory suggested.

Rob made it to the hall door, then sped up the stairs, leaving them discussing the problem. He stood at his window, looking out over the
side lawn, hating the old woman next door. It wasn't fair that she should be able to attack him that way and then they should all be mad at
him
for trying to get just a little bit even.

He put on a clean shirt, absently licking off a bit of ketchup he'd missed on his forearm. He'd be better off staying up here, but he was hungry. Maybe they were all in such a mess down there, with the new crisis, that they would forget about him.

Sonny came through the window from the roof, landing on the bed without a sound. Rob glowered at him.

“It's all your fault. If you weren't so stupid, and didn't get into her garbage can . . .”

The cat began to wash himself, uncaring, and Rob sighed. “I guess it's really
her
fault . . . but nobody will do anything about
her.”

By the time he got back down to the kitchen, the wedding crises had multiplied. There was a telegram from Aunt Sylvia, which Teddi read aloud in dramatic accents.

“Sylvester doesn't have to work after all, so we're
all
coming.”

Mrs. Mallory paused in the midst of
pouring pancake batter onto the griddle.
“All
of them? All
seven
of them? But I was only expecting Sylvia . . . good grief, where am I going to come up with beds for an extra six people on such short notice?”

Her husband had dressed and was helping out by setting the table. “Get out all the sleeping bags. Put the kids on the floors.”

“But that still leaves Sylvester left over . . . you know how he'd react to being put on the floor!”