Bag of Bones Part 33

'Yeah. She was on her way to Sara Laughs and wanted me to meet her there. She told me to park in the driveway if I got there first, not to go in the house . . . which I could have; I know where you keep the spare key.'

Sure he did, in a Sucrets tin under the deck. I had shown him myself. 'Did she say why she didn't want you to go inside?'

'It'll sound crazy.'

'No it won't. Believe me.'

'She said the house was dangerous.'

For a moment the words just hung there. Then I asked, 'Did you get here first?' you get here first?'

'Uh-huh.'

'And waited outside?'

'Yes.'

'Did you see or sense anything dangerous?'

There was a long pause. At last he said, 'There were lots of people out on the lake - speedboaters, water-skiers, you know how it is - but all the engine-noise and the laughter seemed to kind of . . . stop dead when it got near the house. Have you ever noticed that it seems quiet there even when it's not?'

Of course I had; Sara seemed to exist in its own zone of silence. 'Did it feel dangerous dangerous, though?'

'No,' he said, almost reluctantly. 'Not to me, anyway. But it didn't feel exactly empty, either. I felt . . . f.u.c.k, I felt watched watched. I sat on one of those railroad-tie steps and waited for my sis. Finally she came. She parked behind my car and hugged me . . . but she never took her eyes off the house. I asked her what she was up to and she said she couldn't tell me, and that I couldn't tell you we'd been there. She said something like, "If he finds out on his own, then it's meant to be. I'll have to tell him sooner or later, anyway. But I can't now, because I need his whole attention. I can't get that while he's working."'

I felt a flush crawl across my skin. 'She said that, huh?'

'Yeah. Then she said she had to go in the house and do something. She wanted me to wait outside. She said if she called, I should come on the run. Otherwise I should just stay where I was.'

'She wanted someone there in case she got in trouble.'

'Yeah, but it had to be someone who wouldn't ask a lot of questions she didn't want to answer. That was me. I guess that was always me.'

'And?'

'She went inside. I sat on the hood of my car, smoking cigarettes. I was still smoking then. And you know, I did did start to feel something then that wasn't right. As if there might be someone in the house who'd been waiting for her, someone who didn't like her. Maybe someone who wanted to hurt her. Probably I just picked that up from Jo - the way her nerves seemed all strung up, the way she kept looking over my shoulder at the house even while she was hugging me - but it seemed like something else. Like a . . . I don't know . . . ' start to feel something then that wasn't right. As if there might be someone in the house who'd been waiting for her, someone who didn't like her. Maybe someone who wanted to hurt her. Probably I just picked that up from Jo - the way her nerves seemed all strung up, the way she kept looking over my shoulder at the house even while she was hugging me - but it seemed like something else. Like a . . . I don't know . . . '

'Like a vibe.'

'Yes!' he almost shouted. 'A vibration. But not a good vibration, like in the Beach Boys song. A bad bad vibration.' vibration.'

'What happened?'

'I sat and waited. I only smoked two cigarettes so I don't guess it could have been longer than twenty minutes or half an hour, but it seemed longer. I kept noticing how the sounds from the lake seemed to make it most of the way up the hill and then just kind of . . . quit. And how there didn't seem to be any birds, except far off in the distance.

'Once, she came out. I heard the deck door bang, and then her footsteps on the stairs over on that side. I called to her, asked if she was okay, and she said fine. She said for me to stay where I was. She sounded a little short of breath, as if she was carrying something or had been doing some ch.o.r.e.'

'Did she go to her studio or down to the lake?'

'I don't know. She was gone another fifteen minutes or so - time enough for me to smoke another b.u.t.t - and then she came back out the front door. She checked to make sure it was locked, and then she came up to me. She looked a lot better. Relieved. The way people look when they do some dirty job they've been putting off, finally get it behind them. She suggested we walk down that path she called The Street to the resort that's down there - '

'Warrington's.'

'Right, right. She said she'd buy me a beer and a sandwich. Which she did, out at the end of this long floating dock.'

The Sunset Bar, where I had first glimpsed Rogette.

'Then you went to have a look at the softball game.'

'That was Jo's idea. She had three beers to my one, and she insisted. Said someone was going to hit a longshot homer into the trees, she just knew it.'

Now I had a clear picture of the part Mattie had seen and told me about. Whatever Jo had done, it had left her almost giddy with relief. She had ventured into the house, for one thing. Had dared the spirits in order to do her business and survived. She'd had three beers to celebrate and her discretion had slipped . . . not that she had behaved with any great stealth on her previous trips down to the TR. Frank remembered her saying if I found out on my own then it was meant to be - que sera que sera, sera sera. It wasn't the att.i.tude of someone hiding an affair, and I realized now that all her behavior suggested a woman keeping a short-term secret. She would have told me when I finished my stupid book, if she had lived. If.

'You watched the game for awhile, then went back to the house along The Street.'

'Yes,' he said.

'Did either of you go in?'

'No. By the time we got there, her buzz had worn off and I trusted her to drive. She was laughing while we were at the softball game, but she wasn't laughing by the time we got back to the house. She looked at it and said, "I'm done with her. I'll never go through that door again, Frank."'

My skin first chilled, then p.r.i.c.kled.

'I asked her what was wrong, what she'd found out. I knew she was writing something, she'd told me that much - '

'She told everyone but me,' I said . . . but without much bitterness. I knew who the man in the brown sportcoat had been, and any bitterness or anger - anger at Jo, anger at myself - paled before the relief of that. I hadn't realized how much that fellow had been on my mind until now.

'She must have had her reasons,' Frank said. 'You know that, don't you?'

'But she didn't tell you what they were.'

'All I know is that it started - whatever it was - with her doing research for an article. It was a lark, Jo playing Nancy Drew. I'm pretty sure that at first not telling you was just to keep it a surprise. She read books but mostly she talked to people - listened to their stories of the old days and teased them into looking for old letters . . . diaries . . . she was good at that part of it, I think. d.a.m.ned good. You don't know any of this?'

'No,' I said heavily. Jo hadn't been having an affair, but she could could have had one, if she'd wanted. She could have had an. affair with Tom Selleck and been written up in have had one, if she'd wanted. She could have had an. affair with Tom Selleck and been written up in Inside View Inside View and I would have gone on tapping away at the keys of my Powerbook, blissfully unaware. and I would have gone on tapping away at the keys of my Powerbook, blissfully unaware.

'Whatever she found out,' Frank said, 'I think she just stumbled over it.'

'And you never told me. Four years and you never told me any of it.'

'That was the last time I was with her,' Frank said, and now he didn't sound apologetic or embarra.s.sed at all. 'And the last thing she asked of me was that I not tell you we'd been to the lake house. She said she'd tell you everything when she was ready, but then she died. After that I didn't think it mattered. Mike, she was my sister. She was my sister and I promised.'

'All right. I understand.' And I did - just not enough. What had Jo discovered? That Normal Auster had drowned his infant son under a handpump? That back around the turn of the century an animal trap had been left in a place where a young Negro boy would be apt to come along and step into it? That another boy, perhaps the incestuous child of Son and Sara Tidwell, had been drowned by his mother in the lake, she maybe laughing that smoke-broken, lunatic laugh as she held him down? You gotta wiggle when you wobble, honey, and hold that young 'un way down deep.

'If you need me to apologize, Mike, consider it done.'

'I don't. Frank, do you remember anything else she might have said that night? Anything at all?'

'She said she knew how you found the house.'

'She said what what?'

'She said that when it wanted you, it called you.'

At first I couldn't reply, because Frank Arlen had completely demolished one of the a.s.sumptions I'd made about my married life - one of the biggies, one of those that seem so basic you don't even think about questioning them. Gravity holds you down. Light allows you to see. The compa.s.s needle points north. Stuff like that.

This a.s.sumption was that Jo was the one who had wanted to buy Sara Laughs back when we saw the first real money from my writing career, because Jo was the 'house person' in our marriage, just as I was the 'car person.' Jo was the one who had picked our apartments when apartments were all we could afford, Jo who hung a picture here and asked me to put up a shelf there. Jo was the one who had fallen in love with the Derry house and had finally worn down my resistance to the idea that it was too big, too busy, and too broken to take on. Jo had been the nest-builder.

She said that when it wanted you, it called you. She said that when it wanted you, it called you.

And it was probably true. No, I could do better than that, if I was willing to set aside the lazy thinking and selective remembering. It was certainly certainly true. I was the one who had first broached the idea of a place in western Maine. I was the one who collected stacks of real-estate brochures and hauled them home. I'd started buying regional magazines like true. I was the one who had first broached the idea of a place in western Maine. I was the one who collected stacks of real-estate brochures and hauled them home. I'd started buying regional magazines like Down East Down East and always began at the back, where the real-estate ads were. It was I who had first seen a picture of Sara Laughs in a glossy handout called and always began at the back, where the real-estate ads were. It was I who had first seen a picture of Sara Laughs in a glossy handout called Maine Retreats Maine Retreats, and it was I who had made the call first to the agent named in the ad, and then to Marie Hingerman after badgering Marie's name out of the Realtor.

Johanna had also been charmed by Sara Laughs - I think anyone would have been charmed by it, seeing it for the first time in autumn suns.h.i.+ne with the trees blazing all around it and drifts of colored leaves blowing up The Street - but it was I who had actively sought the place out.

Except that was more lazy thinking and selective remembering. Wasn't it? Sara had sought me me out. out.

Then how could I not have known it until now? And how was I led here in the first place, full of unknowing happy ignorance? Then how could I not have known it until now? And how was I led here in the first place, full of unknowing happy ignorance?

The answer to both questions was the same. It was also the answer to the question of how Jo could have discovered something distressing about the house, the lake, maybe the whole TR, and then gotten away with not telling me. I'd been gone, that's all. I'd been zoning, tranced out, writing one of my stupid little books. I'd been hypnotized by the fantasies going on in my head, and a hypnotized man is easy to lead.

'Mike? Are you still there?'

'I'm here, Frank. But I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I know what could have scared her so.'

'She mentioned one other name I remember: Royce Merrill. She said he was the one who remembered the most, because he was so old. And she said, "I don't want Mike to talk to him. I'm afraid that old man might let the cat out of the bag and tell him more than he should know." Any idea what she meant?'

'Well . . . it's been suggested that a splinter from the old family tree wound up here, but my mother's people are from Memphis. The Noonans are from Maine, but not from this part.' Yet I no longer entirely believed this.

'Mike, you sound almost sick.'

'I'm okay. Better than I was, actually.'

'And you understand why I didn't tell you any of this until now? I mean, if I'd known the ideas you were getting . . . if I'd had any clue clue . . . ' . . . '

'I think I understand. The ideas didn't belong in my head to begin with, but once that s.h.i.+t starts to creep in . . . '

'When I got back to Sanford that night and it was over, I guess I thought it was just more of Jo's "Oh f.u.c.k, there's a shadow on the moon, n.o.body go out until tomorrow." She was always the superst.i.tious one, you know - knocking on wood, tossing a pinch of salt over her shoulder if she spilled some, those four-leaf-clover earrings she used to have . . . '

'Or the way she wouldn't wear a pullover if she put it on backward by mistake,' I said. 'She claimed doing that would turn around your whole day.'

'Well? Doesn't it?' Frank asked, and I could hear a little smile in his voice.

All at once I remembered Jo completely, right down to the small gold flecks in her left eye, and wanted n.o.body else. n.o.body else would do.

'She thought there was something bad about the house,' Frank said. 'That much I do do know.' know.'

I drew a piece of paper to me and jotted Kia Kia on it. 'Yes. And by then she may have suspected she was pregnant. She might have been afraid of . . . influences.' There were influences here, all right. 'You think she got most of this from Royce Merrill?' on it. 'Yes. And by then she may have suspected she was pregnant. She might have been afraid of . . . influences.' There were influences here, all right. 'You think she got most of this from Royce Merrill?'

'No, that was just a name she mentioned. She probably talked to dozens of people. Do you know a guy named Kloster? Gloster? Something like that?'

'Skuster,' I said. Below Kia Kia my pencil was making a series of fat loops that might have been cursive letter my pencil was making a series of fat loops that might have been cursive letter l l's or hair ribbons. 'Kenny Auster. Was that it?'

'It sounds right. In any case, you know how she was once she really got going on a thing.'

Yes. Like a terrier after rats.

'Mike? Should I come up there?'

No. Now I was sure. Not Harold Oblowski, not Frank, either. There was a process going on in Sara, something as delicate and as organic as rising bread in a warm room. Frank might interrupt that process . . . or be hurt by it.

'No, I just wanted to get it cleared up. Besides, I'm writing. It's hard for me to have people around when I'm writing.'

'Will you call if I can help?'

'You bet,' I said.

I hung up the telephone, thumbed through the book, and found a listing for R. MERRILL on the Deep Bay Road. I called the number, listened to it ring a dozen times, then hung up. No newfangled answering machine for Royce. I wondered idly where he was. Ninety-five seemed a little too old to go dancing at the Country Barn in Harrison, especially on a close night like this one.

I looked at the paper with Kia Kia written on it. Below the fat written on it. Below the fat l l-shapes I wrote Kyra Kyra, and remembered how, the first time I'd heard Ki say her name, I'd thought it was 'Kia' she was saying. Below Kyra Kyra I wrote I wrote Kito Kito, hesitated, then wrote Carla Carla. I put these names in a box. Beside them I jotted Johanna Johanna, Bridget Bridget, and Jared Jared. The fridgeafator people. Folks who wanted me to go down nineteen and go down ninety-two.

'Go down, Moses, you bound for the Promised Land,' I told the empty house. I looked around. Just me and Bunter and the waggy clock . . . except it wasn't.

When it wanted you, it called you. When it wanted you, it called you.

I got up to get another beer. The fruits and vegetables were in a circle again. In the middle, the letters now spelled:

lye stille

As on some old tombstones - G.o.d grant she lye stille G.o.d grant she lye stille. I looked at these letters for a long time. Then I remembered the IBM was still out on the deck. I brought it in, plonked it on the dining-room table, and began to work on my current stupid little book. Fifteen minutes and I was lost, only faintly aware of thunder someplace over the lake, only faintly aware of Bunter's bell s.h.i.+vering from time to time. When I went back to the fridge an hour or so later for another beer and saw that the words in the circle now said

ony lye stille

I hardly noticed. At that moment I didn't care if they lay stille or danced the hucklebuck by the light of the silvery moon. John Shackleford had begun to remember his past, and the child whose only friend he, John, had been. Little neglected Ray Garraty.

I wrote until midnight came. By then the thunder had faded away but the heat held on, as oppressive as a blanket. I turned off the IBM and went to bed . . . thinking, so far as I can remember, nothing at all - not even about Mattie, lying in her own bed not so many miles away. The writing had burned off all thoughts of the real world, at least temporarily. I think that, in the end, that's what it's for. Good or bad, it pa.s.ses the time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE