The Woman Next Door (22 page)

"Greg, are you away from the door?"

It was all probably true, Greg thought now. But that smile! She had used it on him several times before, and he remembered that soon afterward—because, in one way or another, he had displeased her—he had hurt. Bad.

"I'm going to try to break it down now, Greg. Stand away from the door."

No!
Greg wanted to cry out.
No!

He heard a heavy, muffled thud. He saw the door shiver.

"No, Daddy, please don't. Mommy said—"

"Greg? Are you okay, Greg? Stand back. I'm going to try it again."

"No, Daddy!"

Brett hit the door again. The top hinge burst free of the jamb. He hit it once more, with the heel of his foot. The door fell wide open, leaning at a steep angle on its one, bottom hinge.

Greg stared a moment at his father, saw him hold his hands out.

"It's okay." Brett got down on his haunches. "It's okay, son."

Greg's eyes widened. Brett saw, confusedly, that he was apparently focusing on something in the hallway behind him.

"Greg, what's the matter?"

"Mommy, don't! Mommy, please!"

Brett turned his head quickly, saw the glint of the raised club head. "Oh, Jesus!" Saw the impossible, animal grin on his wife's face, heard her high screech—"Bastard!"

He rolled to his right, saw the club head hit the floor where his head had been just a second before, heard a grunt come from him, found himself scrambling to his feet, saw the club head being raised high once more, heard the pleading, disbelieving voice of his son—"Mommy, don't!"—saw the club head coming down, felt a slice of pain near his left temple.

B
ecky Foster's manner disturbed Christine; it was almost proprietary.
I found you first
, it told her,
and Marilyn Courtney's not going to butt in
.

Becky went straight to the kitchen, started some coffee. "Let's talk," she called.

Christine wheeled herself from the living room to the kitchen doorway. "Sure. What about?"

"About friendships."

"Anyone's in particular?"

"Uh-huh. Ours." She got some cups and saucers out of a cupboard, set them on the counter. "Cream, no sugar—right?"

"Right."

"You don't mind if I help myself to your kitchen, do you?"

"I don't mind." Christine noticed a coolness in her tone and regretted it. "Of course I don't mind." She paused. Then: "You were saying, Becky, about friendships . . . ."

"Actually, I wanted to talk about the responsibilities of one friend to another."

"Yes?"

"My responsibility to you, to be precise."

"Yes?" Christine repeated.

The coffee was ready. Becky poured two cups, handed one to Christine. They went into the living room. Christine wheeled herself to the window that overlooked the Courtney house. Becky sat in the wicker chair across the small room.

"I wanted to tell you, Christine, that Marilyn Courtney is using you. I wanted to tell you that I don't like it."

Christine sipped her coffee. She wondered what expression she was wearing—annoyance? pleasure? Or was she merely blank? She had guessed, in substance, what Becky was going to say, but now that it had been said, she had no idea how she felt about it. "Go on, Becky."

"And I can't believe you don't
know
she's using you."

"That's a pretty loaded statement, Becky. If she were using me, would I continue the friendship?"

Becky thought a moment. Then: "I don't know," she answered. "Would you?"

"What's
that
supposed to mean?"

Becky looked suddenly, genuinely confused. "Damn it!" To herself. At herself. "I have no idea, Christine. It was impulsive. Two and two put together to equal . . . I don't know. I've lived in Cornhill for six years and I've seen what Marilyn Courtney is capable of. I think I know her, what she's all about. The world is full of people like her. Sometimes they end up in jail, sometimes in mental institutions. Some of them become wives or husbands, grandmothers and grandfathers, and they live their lives out more or less peacefully, because—happily for everyone else—things tend to go the way they want them to. Call them amoral, psychopathic, whatever, they're very strong. They know how to make things happen the way they want them to happen, and if somebody's in the way, too bad.

"Marilyn Courtney is one of those people. You aren't. You care about other people. You care a lot—maybe as much as you care about yourself. And I think you know what Marilyn is. You're very intelligent and very sensitive, but you're naive, too. You think you can help her. You have this idea that you can turn her thinking around. You can't As much as you might want to, you can't. When she's done with you—when she's done showing off her new, crippled friend—she'll toss you aside. But I think you know that. I think you know everything I've been telling you."

Christine raised an eyebrow, then slowly turned her chair so that her back was to Becky. "Are you done with your coffee?"

"Christine, I—"

"If you're done with your coffee, please leave my house."

"I didn't want to upset you, Christine. I'm sorry."

Christine said nothing. She listened as Becky got out of the wicker chair, heard her move across the room to the wheelchair, felt her hand on her shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Christine."

Moments later she was gone.

M
arilyn listened to her pulse in her ears. Jesus, half an hour of pulling and tugging and pushing and she had gotten him only to the base of the attic stairs! How in the hell was she going to get him up the stairs? She looked back at the erratic trail of blood that led from Greg's doorway to the side of Brett's head. She'd have to clean that up before Greg saw it, or else he'd start again: "Mommy, why did you hit him? Why did you hit him?" Thankfully, he had shut up almost as soon as she'd told him to.

"That's a good boy. Go in the other room until I can get your door fixed, okay? We'll move your bed in later. I've got something to do now."

She opened the attic door, looked up the stairs. She thought the attic would be a good place for him—the useless with the useless, the dead with the dead.

Then she wondered if he was dead. From her standing position over him, she saw that his chest was still, and the bleeding near his temple had stopped. Weren't those sure signs of death? She imagined going to her bedroom, getting a mirror, holding it up to his nose. If the mirror stayed clear, he was dead. She decided, at last, that it wasn't necessary. Any fool could see that he was dead: He had that taut and waxy look about him. (An image of her mother laid out primly in the dark mahogany coffin flashed through her mind.) She grimaced, incredulous. Christ, had she really lived with this . . .
thing
for sixteen years? Had she really let it violate her? Now here it lay in its own pee threatening to ruin the smell of her house.

She leaned over, grabbed both of Brett's hands, and started backing up the attic stairs with him. Each time his head flopped backward and hit the edge of a step, she grinned—as if at a small victory.

S
he hadn't really hit him, Greg told himself. It had been a kind of joke. No, not a joke; a warning—
Stay away from my son!

She hadn't really hit him. That would be stupid. Nuts. Because they were married. They loved each other; they had to, or they wouldn't be married. And they wouldn't have brought him—Greg—down from heaven to live with them.

But she had looked so angry with that golf club raised high over her head. And happy, too. Angry and happy at the same time.
There, now, you see? That's nuts. Angry and happy at the same time is impossible
.

Greg smiled at the revelation. Everything was better now. He had figured it out. She couldn't have hit him, because it was impossible to be angry and happy at the same time. And that is what he had seen. So, he wasn't seeing things right. He was scared and didn't know what was going on.

He heard a groan beside him on the bed. He froze. The groan was repeated. Greg's breathing stopped.

"My
fuckin
' balls!" he heard. And then a soft, mature laugh—a laugh he remembered hearing once before, a million years ago. His mind attached a face to that laugh—an angular, intelligent face, and straight blond hair, and lively blue eyes.

"My
fuckin
' balls are
fuckin
' killing me," he heard. His breathing restarted.

He rolled over, onto his left shoulder. The boy's face was silhouetted against the
curtainless
window.

"Hi," the boy said, though he didn't turn his head to look at Greg. "Long time no see."

Greg could think of nothing to say.

"Cat got your tongue?" said the boy. "Cat got your tongue, cat got your tongue?"

Greg watched, fascinated, frightened, as the silhouette of the boy's lips moved slightly when he talked. "Or did she take it?"

"Who?"

"
Who?
Her! That goddamned cow that locked you in here, that bitch's bitch, that maniacal mania of yours—
her
!"

"Don't . . . don't . . ." Greg faltered.

"Yes?"

"Don't you say those things about her."

"How old are you?"

"Nine.
Older'n
you, I bet."

The boy laughed aloud. "Hell, I'm ageless, yeah. Didn't you know that? All us vampires are ageless. Wanna know my name? Ask me my name."

"How'd you get in here?"

"My name's Little Rat. Did I tell you that before? Yeah, it's Little Rat. Good name, huh? Uh-oh, maniacal mama's coining." He got out of the bed, crossed quickly to the window, stepped to the right of it. And was hidden by the darkness.

A moment later the door opened. Marilyn poked her head into the room. She said nothing. She had heard a child crying. But Greg, she could see, was asleep.

H
e guessed it was morning. Or dusk. It depended, he knew, on the window he was seeing. If it was an east-facing window, then it was morning; a west-facing window, dusk. The light alone was too diffuse, too colorless for him to tell. That fact told him he was in trouble, that his vision had been affected, because the image of the window was not so much an image as a yellowish-white blotch on his eyes and consciousness. And it was growing very slowly, but noticeably, dimmer.

It was dusk.

So, he had a grasp on the time of day.

But not, he realized instantly, on the day itself—on whether it was a Tuesday or a Wednesday—or, to any extent at all, on how long he had been here.

In the attic!

And a grasp on the place she had put him.

She? he wondered.
She?

Who?

No grasp on who. Or why. Only a feeling of urgency, as if someone were calling to him:
Help me!

And he had an awful need for sleep.

Because there was far more comfort in that than in watching himself die.

"I
had a dog once," Greg said. "A puppy."

Little Rat looked interested.

Greg continued: "My dad said he was a Dalmatian, 'cause he was white with little black spots." He grinned a small, sad grin. "But I think he was really just a mutt. He had long hair all over his nose, and one green eye and one brown eye." He paused. "His left eye was the green one, I think. Or maybe it was the right one that was green." He stopped. He didn't want to go on, because he knew that Little Rat wanted to know everything about the puppy, and he wasn't sure he could tell him everything without crying. This part was okay; it was the nice part.

"How old was he?" asked Little Rat.

Greg wondered how he'd known that that was what he was going to talk about next. "My dad said he was about eight weeks old. He wasn't a big puppy. My dad said he'd never get
real
big. He said, he'd just be average size, but that he was a real smart breed." Another pause. "My dad said he needed a home and that I could give him as good a home as anyone."

Little Rat glanced around the room. "Did he sleep in here, with you?"

"No," Greg answered, his voice low. "He slept in the garage. My mom didn't want him in the house. She said he was dirty. She said he'd pee on everything."

Little Rat waited for Greg to continue.

"My dad made a little house in the garage for him, wrote his name over the door and everything."

"Yeah?" said Little Rat. "What was his name?"

"Charlie. I named him. I thought it fit. He looked like a Charlie, know what I mean? He was real friendly, friendliest pup I ever saw. He
woulda
been a great dog, my dad said." Greg could feel the tears starting.