Wicked Angel (16 page)

He became aware at last that little Miss Whythe, for whom he had a tender spot as he had for all small young things whether human or animal, was not present. He had met her but once, a shy little creature with dark brown eyes and a mass of lighter brown curls, a pointed, elfin face and a smile that was too serious for her twenty or so years. She was the youngest teacher in the school, and had appeared only last September, and Miss Simmons had remarked that even at her early age she had her master’s in English and English literature, and would, next year, have her PhD. Miss Simmons considered her school fortunate to have Miss Whythe on its staff, and, as she herself was old enough, and older, to be the girl’s grandmother, she was unusually fond of her.

Mark went over to the table and smiled at Miss Simmons, and her stern, uncompromising face relaxed, and she smiled in return. “How nice to see you, Mr. Saint,” she said. She handed him the large sherry bottle; to his regret, he saw it was domestic and not of excellent quality.

But Miss Simmons was not one to spend money lavishly except on her school. He began to help with the pouring of the murky brown liquid. “Not very good,” said Miss Simmons cheerfully, “but how many people know a good sherry from a poor one these days? It wasn’t like that when I was young, but, ah me! the uses of democracy and what the politicians call ‘our constantly expanding and dynamic standard of living’!”

Mark laughed a little. He poured carefully. He said, “Where’s Miss Whythe tonight? I particularly wanted to ask her how Angelo is coming along in her class.”

“Oh, the poor child. She fell and broke her arm two weeks ago. That doesn’t prevent her from coming to class, but she isn’t up to parties. Besides, she lives with her old grandmother, and the dear child thinks she mustn’t leave the old lady alone in the evenings very often. She supports her, you know. Girls like Jane can’t be found very often; these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear about her arm,” said Mark, with true sympathy. “How did it happen?”

“Really, I am sometimes very vexed when I think about it,” said Miss Simmons. “She saw all those big boys practicing football and racing and yelling around the schoolyard, and diving and tackling and all the other things they do at that time. They’re like wild horses,; especially in the spring. I had just had a load of special, porous stones delivered for a rock garden in a spot near the wall where nothing else would grow, and the fool of a man dumped them, not at the spot near the mound of waiting soil, but about fifteen feet away. Jane always takes a shortcut across the schoolyard, to get home faster and catch the bus, but the other teachers are more discreet when they see the bigger boys running and yelling and-kicking at practice, or playing baseball. They avoid the schoolyard then and so do the younger children. Of course, it was after four o’clock, and all the other teachers had gone, but Jane had remained behind to talk with a boy.” Miss Simmons’ face changed subtly. “The boy was leaving the school—at his own request—and he was heartbroken and so was Jane, and she was trying to change his mind.

“Really,” continued Miss Simmons, slapping down a plate, “it was the most stupid thing. I’ve forbidden the boys to practice so roughly like that at long after four in the afternoon after this, and have put the football team out of bounds for two weeks as a punishment. Poor little Jane was hurrying; she doesn’t know, herself, just what happened, except that she was just crossing in front of that big heap of stones, which are odd-shaped and some of which have sharp edges to fit into the soil, when all at once the team stampeded in her direction like wild ponies. The boys weren’t looking of course; they didn’t see Jane until they were almost on her, and they were pummeling each other, as well as running, and diving at each other’s legs, heads bent, and tackling, and heaven knows what else, and shouting like mad. It had been a rainy day, and the light was not very clear. Jane stopped, thinking that the big heap of rocks would give her some protection as she stood in front of them, for naturally the boys would see them and swerve in time. And so they did, barely missing her. But one or two were pounding ahead like mad, wild animals, and they didn’t swerve fast enough, and either one or two hurled into Jane. You know, she’s so very small, not as tall as many of her own students, and she was just thrown like a feather onto the stones.”

“Why, that’s bad,” said Mark, with honest concern. “And she broke her arm?”

“Fortunately, that was all, and some contusions. Except that her head was hurt, too, but not too seriously. My doctor says that if she hadn’t instinctively thrown up her right arm to protect her face and head as she was thrown into the air and then onto the stones, she might very possibly have been killed. As it was, she had to have eight stitches taken in her scalp, slightly above her right ear. But what a brave little thing she is. She was back at school in two days, in spite of my insistence that she remain home for at least a week. Naturally, the school paid her bills, and her income wouldn’t have been cut if she had stayed home.”

“I hope the boy, or boys, were punished,” said Mark, with some anger.

“Oh, you know how boys are. They were all confused. In fact, they didn’t know that one or two of them had run into Jane, until they were far back in the schoolyard, and had stopped for breath, and then heard her screaming. They carried her into the school. They were terribly sorry and bewildered; none remembered running into Jane, and I can credit that, considering their boisterousness, and boys’ obliviousness in hard play, and the light, and Jane’s smallness and her childish weight. They couldn’t do enough for Jane; they stayed around until the doctor came, and took turns holding her hand and wiping the blood and tears from her face, and fanning her, for she’s a great favorite with them. I believe one or two actually cried, and the others looked like crying. And none could have been kinder and more concerned than your own boy, Angelo.”

“Angelo?” Mark carefully put the bottle down, and that infinitesimal cold finger touched his heart.

“Yes. And I was very vexed with Angelo. The boys on the team are all thirteen and fourteen and he had no business practicing with them. Oh, he’s a big boy, almost as big as some of them, and a great leader even among the older boys in the last form, and he excels in sports as he does in everything else. Why, only a month ago, a delegation of boys”—and she smiled—“who are part of the football team came into my office and begged me to allow Angelo to be with the team, as he is a marvelous tackler, they said. I refused, of course, for, for all his height and strength, he’s too young. I expressly told Angelo, in private, that I did not approve of him even practicing with the boys, and he assured me he would not in the future, and would be content with basketball and baseball until he was older. I suppose I’m old-fashioned in this, for I see children of five and six playing football, but I don’t approve of younger children on a team with much older and larger boys than they are. It’s dangerous.”

“And,” said Mark faintly, “Angelo was with them that day. Does he—does he—know who ran into Miss Whythe?”

“No. Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned that part of it anyway, Mr. Saint. Angelo is about the most popular, most obedient, most serious, and, perhaps, the most intelligent boy in the school, and this was his first infraction. Please forget about it; he was punished, and now it’s forgotten. The boys took up a collection for Miss Whythe to buy her a nice gift, to show her how sorry they were, and…”

But Mark was not listening. His gray face was even more ashen than usual. He was thinking of Jane Whythe, who was not even as tall as Angelo, and who weighed much less. He was thinking she might have been killed—Mark wet his lip cautiously with his tongue, as if blood were there, and his lip had a taste of acid on it.

“Does Miss Whythe know who the boy, or boys, were who ran into her?”

Miss Simmons had bent to examine the shrimps Newburg which were bubbling in the chafing dish. From this crouched position, she looked up across the table at Mark, and her wide blue eyes were abstracted and a little startled, as if she were surprised to see him still standing there. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say, Mr. Saint?”

Mark repeated his question. Did the old lady hesitate a little too long before she straightened up, and did she linger too long over the dish? Mark did not know that his hands were clenching the lace-covered edge of the table. He did not hear the murmurs and laughter and voices of the others across the room. He saw only Miss Simmons. And now she was gazing at him, sincerely puzzled at his expression and gray pallor.

“Does she know? Mr. Saint, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself for two weeks. Of course, it was an accident, and nothing can undo it. But Jane is such a loving and devoted little thing; she isn’t many years older than what she calls ‘my boys.’ Even if she knew—and I think she knew—she wouldn’t tell. I don’t blame her, in a way. It was all a stupid accident. All the boys were equally responsible, I suppose, for not watching where they were running, though they all swerved, except that one or two, when they were almost upon Jane. What good would it do, Mr. Saint, for Jane to tell? It would only cause the boy more embarrassment and more wretchedness. And it’s very possible that he didn’t know himself, in the boisterous excitement. If he had known, he would have stopped immediately, I’m sure, instead of running off with the rest, for everyone loves Jane.”

“Of course,” said Mark. The cold finger had become a clutch of ice around his heart. “It was an accident.”

He said, “Miss Simmons, I’d like to talk with you at moment about Angelo—” But Miss Simmons had lifted a large elephant bell and was shaking it vigorously and nodding and smiling to the parents and teachers across the room.

Mark found Kathy, with a bevy of admiring friends about her. She was, naturally, talking about one of Angelo’s latest exploits. He took her arm, and she turned her shining blank eyes upon him and hardly recognized him for a moment. “Kathy,” he said, “I’ve just remembered. I had a flat tire today and left it at the service station three blocks from here. I want to get it before they close in half an hour.”

“Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?” asked Kathy impatiently. “We’re going to have supper now.”

Yes, why couldn’t it wait? Why couldn’t it wait until tomorrow, or, better still, forever? Mark did not know why he should be in such an inner frenzy, and why the terror was now stronger in him than ever before. He only knew that he could not wait, not even for an hour, to know, finally.

“One of the other tires is doubtful,” he said. “Look, I’ll be back before you know it. Save me some of those shrimps.” And he left her, almost running toward the door. I’m out of my mind! he told himself as he found himself in the empty, shining hall and looked about him for the telephone booth he vaguely remembered having seen before. “I’m out of my mind!” he repeated aloud. “What good will it do if I know, or don’t know?”

He found the booth; his steps echoed as he ran to it. and he opened the telephone book to look for Jane Whythe’s number. Somewhere, dimly, something was crying a prayer that she would not be listed, that a number would not be found in the book. But the name jumped at him from the page, and he fumbled for a coin in wen fingers, dropped the coin in the box and dialed thee number. It rang. The prayer changed to a pleading that Jane would not answer, that she would be asleep, though it was only a little after half past nine. But there was click, and the gentle, almost childish voice answered.

“Miss Whythe,” said Mark quickly. “This is Mark Saint. We’ve met a few times; you know, I’m Angelo’s father.”

There was a little pause. Did the voice become fainter? “Oh. Yes, Mr. Saint.”

“I hope I didn’t disturb you; I hope you weren’t in bed.”

“Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Saint—” Her tone was constrained. Or was it? His hand clutched the receiver so tightly that his fingers whitened. “Miss Whythe. You live not too far from here. I want to talk with you. I can be there in ten minutes or so, driving fast.”

“Tonight?” She sounded a little shrill. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Saint. My granny is in bed; she isn’t well. And—I was thinking of going to bed myself, right away. In fact, I have a sedative right here near my hand as I am talking to you now.” She paused. “You—you heard about my arm? You are at the party?”

“Yes. May I come, Miss Whythe?”

She was silent so long that he thought she had left him. Then she said, and her voice was frightened—or was it?—“Can’t it wait until another time, Mr. Saint?”

“Such as tomorrow? Shall I come to the school?”

Again she was silent. And then he knew. She had not asked him why he wished to see her. She had shown no curiosity at all, no surprise.

“If I have to wait a week, a month, a year, I’ll have to see you,” he said, almost inaudibly.

Then she faltered, “You make it sound important—I don’t know—I’m tired—”

“I know,” he said. “I know, my dear. And it is important, extremely important.”

“Very well,” she said, and hung up abruptly, and he felt the familiar cold sweat on his back again. He ran into the cool night, not stopping to find his coat and hat. He found his car, wedged between others, and savagely he threw the car forward against the bumper ahead, and then back against another bumper, and was finally free. The streets were quiet; he exceeded the speed limit. Within ten minutes or less he was in the quiet fringe of his own suburb, a much poorer fringe, of duplexes crowded together behind the smallest of lawns, with no garages for the little, old cars at the curbs. Jane Whythe lived in a white duplex. A light was shining in the living-room window; he saw the usual white lamp with ruffled pink shade on its table just behind the glass, and a glimpse of the tiniest of living rooms. Jane, herself, opened the door for him, and he saw how pale she was under her mass of riotous brown curls: he saw her right arm in its splints and sling. She looked like a little girl of ten, not a woman of twenty or slightly more. She led him into the living room without speaking, mutely indicated a cheap but brightly chintzed chair, and sat down on a brown mohair sofa across from him. Her pretty features had a withdrawn look, and her colorless mouth was carved and still and her eyes fixed themselves on him like a stricken child awaiting punishment.