Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories Page 11

  She awoke with Michael’s name still on her lips and with Scott’s arms holding her tight. Scott’s tone was tender.

  “The same dream, darling?”

  “Yes, yes,” she sobbed. “Just the same. Peter and I—we killed him.”

  Scott shook her gently. “Marion, you’ve got to stop torturing yourself. Michael fell from a tree. It’s happened before and it will again—five-year-olds are natural climbers and sometimes they fall. But blaming yourself or Peter for the accident won’t bring Michael back.”

  “But Peter told me about that dead branch. If anyone else had, I’d have done something about it, but Peter was such a little pest.”

  She’d said it so many times before, just this way in just these words. She pulled away from Scott and got out of bed. “I’ll be all right in a minute. It’s just that today—”

  “I know,” Scott said quietly. “He’d be starting kindergarten. I haven’t forgotten.”

  Marion closed her eyes against the pain. “Why not say it?” she asked tonelessly. “I robbed you of your son. You always told me I was careless about attending to things that needed fixing.”

  Scott sat on the side of the bed and reached for his bathrobe. “My darling, Michael’s been dead three months. It was a tragic accident. You didn’t rob me of my son, but you are deliberately taking yourself from me. Each day you seem to escape me a little more. Can’t we accept our loss together?”

  Marion shook her head drearily. “If I’d only listened to Peter. He was always telling me what to do.” She laughed mirthlessly. “He was more like you than your own son.”

  Scott pulled on his bathrobe. “Marion, until you forgive yourself and Peter you’ll never get over losing Michael. Just as you shouldn’t blame yourself, you’ve no right to hate Peter so. He’s just a little boy, and God knows Michael loved him.”

  Marion mechanically brushed her hair back. “If it hadn’t been for Peter, he’d be alive today. If Peter hadn’t started to follow him out on that branch . . .”

  Scott stopped on his way to the shower. “When the real estate agent phones, tell him those people can have the house. Maybe if we go back to the city for a while, it will help.”

  It was true. If Marion looked out the front windows during the day, she could see children playing in the street. The left windows looked out on thick trees and hedge, but a corner of Peter’s house was still visible. The back windows looked over the terrace and the giant elm where Michael . . .

  She went down to the kitchen and started breakfast.

  Later, after Scott had left, she poured herself more coffee and went back to the dinette table. This was the time of day she’d once loved best, with Michael still in his pajamas, eager with the questions that seemed to store up in his mind during the night. It was the one time of day when he’d been hers alone, because right after breakfast the bell would ring and Michael would slide from his chair, joyously calling, “It’s Peter!”

  Marion glanced involuntarily at the kitchen door. She felt that if she opened it, Peter would be there—her son’s friend Peter, with his sandy hair that had seemed so drab next to Michael’s blue-black head; Peter, square and somehow squat-looking when compared with Michael’s slimness.

  The coffee grew cold as Marion wondered what on earth Michael had seen in Peter. From the day the child had come here to live with his great-aunt, he’d attached himself to Michael. Marion had felt sorry for him. He was surely a lonely child, orphaned and living with a sick old woman, and yet he could be so irritating.

  Whenever he and Michael had been out playing and there was an accident, it was always Peter who brought Michael home with a cut or bruise. “We were playing and he fell. I happened to jump on him. I didn’t mean to.”

  Marion had asked him one day: “Peter, do you ever once land on the bottom?”

  He had grinned at her, his hazel eyes shining, ignoring her annoyance. “Nope.”

  On rainy days when he and Michael had played indoors she could always be sure that at least one of Michael’s toys would be taken apart. Scott had refused to get upset when she told him about it. “Honey, the kid’s an engineer,” he had said. “He’s got to see what makes things tick. The trouble is he spends most of his time taking things apart. The next step will be to start putting things together. He’ll do it—wait and see.”

  Marion had replied, “In the meantime, Michael won’t have a thing left to play with.”

  Not that Michael had minded. He had adored Peter. Even though Peter technically went home for lunch, he was always back in no time and ended up having dessert with Michael.

  If he hadn’t been such a nuisance, Marion thought drearily. If he hadn’t always tried to tell me what to do. Peter always noticed when something needed fixing. “Mrs. Blaine, your toaster cord is getting worn out. . . . Mrs. Blaine, you shouldn’t tie Michael’s shoelace in a knot when it breaks. You should get him a new one. . . . Mrs. Blaine . . .”

  Inevitably, then, Marion recalled that Saturday in June when she’d been sitting on the terrace reading. The trees were blooming fully, gloriously, and Michael and Peter were playing in the backyard. They’d been getting excited about starting kindergarten in the fall and Michael had come over to ask her. “Are you sure they’ll let us in? How will they know we’re both five and a half?”

  She’d smiled into his serious gray eyes and given him a special, cross-my-heart promise: She would take them both to school and tell the teacher to be sure to let them in. She was deep in the book again before she realized that Peter was standing next to her chair.

  “There’s a dead branch, you know,” he had announced.

  “A dead branch?”

  “Right up there.” He had pointed toward the elm that shaded the terrace. “See?”

  He was right. One of the branches had no leaves on it. “Well, we’ll have to see about that.” She had tried to go back to the book.

  “You ought to call the man to cut that branch off. It might fall down and hurt us.”

  Marion had felt her temper slowly warm. “Peter,” she had said finally. “I’ll call the man when I get good and ready, but be sure of one thing—if that branch does fall, with your luck you’ll be a hundred miles away.”

  He’d smiled that accepting smile and had gone back to Michael. Afterward she’d glanced up. The branch certainly did look dry, and a local tree-surgery outfit was working across the street. She’d seen the truck. If she called them over . . .

  Then she’d picked up her book firmly. No five-year-old was going to give her instructions. That branch had been dead all winter. If it hadn’t come down when the winter ice was on it or in the March winds, it certainly would last a few days more.

  And then the next day the branch had snapped from the tree when Michael climbed out on it.

  She couldn’t erase the scene from her mind: Michael’s still form on the terrace; the branch sprawled beside him; Peter, his foot still on the part that hadn’t snapped, clinging to the trunk of the tree.

  It had been her fault, but Peter’s too. Michael had climbed out on the dead branch, but if Peter hadn’t followed him—Peter, who knew the branch wasn’t safe—maybe it wouldn’t have snapped. Maybe . . .

  Michael was in a coma when they took him to the hospital. He opened his eyes just once and spoke. He stared at her and smiled and then said weakly: “Peter and I have a very good secret. Peter . . .”

  Peter. It was his last word.

  • • •

  Marion got up and mechanically began clearing the table and tidying the kitchen. Then she went upstairs and dressed. She’d dismissed her cleaning woman, hoping that the physical work of scrubbing and waxing and vacuuming would wear her out and help her to sleep at night. But without Michael the house stayed unnaturally neat.

  She dressed slowly, but it was only quarter past eight when she finished. She twisted her black hair into a French knot and went downstairs.

  She wandered out onto the front porch and then wished she hadn’t
. The neighborhood children—freshly scrubbed and combed, miraculously neat in new clothes and shiny shoes—were hurrying past, excitedly discussing the opening of school. The ones starting kindergarten were obvious. They looked half eager, half fearful, and were clinging to their mothers’ hands.

  We’d be leaving too, Marion thought dully, and she gripped the porch railing. She didn’t have the strength to walk the few steps to the door and go inside. She stood staring as the children passed, in twos and threes and larger groups, until at last they all seemed to be gone. All except one. He was coming down the block alone and was a little late. It was quarter of nine now.

  Peter! She tore her eyes from him, looked down and saw the knuckles of her hands turn white as she gripped the railing. Then she forced herself to look back again.

  She hadn’t seen him since the day of the funeral. He’d been in bed for three days after the accident in deep shock. But when they had come back from the cemetery he was waiting. “Mrs. Blaine,” he’d said, “Michael . . .”

  She’d heard her own voice—ragged, out of control. “Get him away from me! Get him out of my sight!”

  And she had not seen Peter again all summer. He and his ailing great-aunt had gone to a resort.

  Peter seemed to have grown taller. He hadn’t seen her yet but was walking slowly, staring at his feet. He looked forlorn and alone. She kept her eyes on him, whispering to herself: “I hate that child.” But as she said it Peter looked up, met her gaze and smiled. He smiled as though he’d been expecting her but was afraid she’d be late. She could hear Michael’s voice saying: “Peter is my friend.”

  • • •

  Without thinking about it she walked down the steps of the porch and along the flagstone path to the sidewalk. She felt as though she were being dragged, the way she used to feel when Michael tugged insistently at her hand when he wanted her to hurry. She felt that he was reminding her of the cross-my-heart promise to take Peter and him to school on opening day.

  She’d keep that promise. She’d go with Peter. No matter how you felt about a child, you couldn’t let a little boy face his first day alone.

  She was in front of him. Her lips felt dry and cracked. Scott had said she’d never get over losing Michael till she forgave this child. “Hello, Peter.” It was scarcely audible.

  His “hello” was matter-of-fact, ignoring the last three months.

  “I’ll walk you to school,” she said.

  He nodded and started trotting beside her. “I know, Michael said you promised to.” His voice faltered over the name, and she realized with unwilling compassion that Peter must have had a lonely summer too.

  Marion glanced down at his empty hands. “Didn’t you bring a snack or milk money?” she asked. “The card from school said you were supposed to.”

  “I know.” Peter’s voice was resigned. “I reminded my aunt last night but she forgot. She always forgets things.” Then his tone became anxious. “I won’t be hungry, but do you think I should have brought a leaf?”

  “A leaf?” Marion asked.

  “Yes. The kids who were in kindergarten last year told Michael and me that if you bring in a leaf or something you can talk about it in Show and Tell. Michael was trying to get a great big one when he fell. I told him there was lots of time, but he wanted to.”

  Michael had been reaching for a leaf.

  Marion closed her eyes, seeing again the scene in the backyard. Then she stopped abruptly and turned to face Peter. “But why did Michael climb on the dead branch? It didn’t have any leaves.”

  Peter looked up at her, puzzled. “He didn’t fall off the dead branch. He was on the one above it. When he fell I got scared and I started out on the dead branch to catch him, and that was when it snapped off. But I was still holding onto the tree.”

  Marion sank to her knees before Peter and put both her hands on his shoulders. “Peter, please,” she said, “this is terribly important. Are you sure that Michael didn’t fall from the dead branch? Are you very, very sure?”

  Peter looked even more puzzled. “But I told you—he was trying to get a leaf.”

  She pulled his head against her neck. “Thank you, thank you,” she sobbed, and thought: I did not kill my child. I did not kill my child. Oh, Michael. And for the first time since his death the sound of his name brought peace. She felt about him the way she used to when he was asleep at night—warm, tucked in, cared for, without further need of her.

  Peter pulled back a little. “Michael and I had a very good secret. I’d better tell you about it.”

  With his last breath Michael had tried to tell her about that secret. “What is it?”

  “Well”—he looked a little proud, a little anxious—“it’s just that Michael said that next to you and his daddy I was his very best friend. And if you’re not mad at me anymore, can I still be? Because you can be best friends with Mr. Blaine, but I just had Michael.”

  • • •

  Marion was suddenly conscious of the bony hardness of Peter’s shoulders. He’d got terribly thin over the summer.

  “I haven’t been much of a friend to Mr. Blaine or anyone,” she said unsteadily. “But, Peter, of course you’re still best friends with Michael—and with Mr. Blaine and me too, if you want. I’ll tell you what—after school I’ll be waiting for you and we’ll ask the other boys to come back to play with you.” She smiled into his shining eyes. “Would you like that?”

  Michael’s toys were packed in the storage room in the basement. She’d have to dig them out—Peter had always had such fun taking them apart. She gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll bet anything,” she told him, “that by now you’re wonderful at putting things together again.”

  Voices in the Coalbin

  It was dark when they arrived. Mike steered the car off the dirt road down the long driveway and stopped in front of the cottage. The real estate agent had promised to have the heat turned up and the lights on. She obviously didn’t believe in wasting electricity.

  An insect-repellent bulb over the door emitted a bleak yellowish beam that trembled in the steady drizzle. The small-paned windows were barely outlined by a faint flicker of light that seeped through a partially open blind.

  Mike stretched. Ten hours of driving for the past two days had cramped his long, muscular body. He brushed back his dark brown hair from his forehead wishing he’d taken time to get a haircut before they left New York. Laurie teased him when his hair started to grow. “You look like a thirty-year-old Roman Emperor, Curlytop,” she would comment. “All you need is a toga and laurel wreath to complete the effect.”

  She had fallen asleep about an hour ago. Her head was resting on his lap. He glanced down at her, hating to wake her up. Even though he could barely make out her profile, he knew that in sleep the tense lines vanished from around her mouth and the panic-stricken expression disappeared from her face.

  Four months ago the recurring nightmare had begun, the nightmare that made her shriek, “No, I won’t go with you. I won’t sing with you.”

  He’d shaken her awake. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s all right.”

  Her screams would fade into terrified sobs. “I don’t know who they are but they want me, Mike. I can’t see their faces but they’re all huddled together beckoning to me.”

  He had taken her to a psychiatrist, who put her on medication and began intensive therapy. But the nightmares continued, unabated. They had turned a gifted twenty-four-year-old singer who had just completed a run as a soloist in her first Broadway musical to a trembling wraith who could not be alone after dark.

  The psychiatrist had suggested a vacation. Mike told him about the summers he’d spent at his grandmother’s house on Oshbee Lake forty miles from Milwaukee. “My grandmother died last September,” he’d explained. “The house is up for sale. Laurie’s never been there and she loves the water.”

  The doctor had approved. “But be careful of her,” he warned. “She’s severely depressed. I’m sure these nightma
res are a reaction to her childhood experiences, but they’re overwhelming her.”

  Laurie had eagerly endorsed the chance to go away. Mike was a junior partner in his father’s law firm. “Anything that will help Laurie,” his father told him. “Take whatever time you need.”

  I remember brightness here, Mike thought as he studied the shadow-filled cottage with increasing dismay. I remember the feel of the water when I dove in, the warmth of the sun on my face, the way the breeze filled the sails and the boat skimmed across the lake.

  • • •

  It was the end of June but it might have been early March. According to the radio, the cold spell had been gripping Wisconsin for three days. There’d better be enough coal to get the furnace going, Mike thought, or else the real estate agent will lose the listing.

  He had to wake up Laurie. It would be worse to leave her in the car, even for a minute. “We’re here, love,” he said, his voice falsely cheerful.

  Laurie stirred. He felt her stiffen, then relax as he tightened his arms around her. “It’s so dark,” she whispered.

  “We’ll get inside and turn some lights on.”

  He remembered how the lock had always been tricky. You had to pull the door to you before the key could fit into the cylinder. There was a night-light plugged into an outlet in the small foyer. The house was not warm but neither was it the bone-chilling cold he had feared.

  Quickly Mike switched on the hall light. The wallpaper with its climbing ivy pattern seemed faded and soiled. The house had been rented for the five summers his grandmother was in the nursing home. Mike remembered how clean and warm and welcoming it had been when she was living there.