Nathaniel

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Michael followed his grandfather into the barn, then up the ladder to the loft, where the bales of hay-what was left of last winter's supply-were neatly stacked under the sloping roof. He stood back while Amos cut the wire from three bales, and when Amos handed him a pitchfork, he seemed reluctant to take it.

"It won't hurt you," Amos admonished him. "Not unless you get careless and stick the tines through your foot."

Michael took the fork gingerly, then made a desultory stab at one of the bales. A few pieces of hay came loose, but the fork stuck in the bale itself.

"I'll break 'em up, and you pitch it over the edge," Amos offered. He peeled off his shirt, and a moment later set to work, his powerful torso moving rhythmically as he quickly began breaking the neat bales down. Hesitantly, Michael began using his own fork to throw the hay down into the bin below the loft. As he worked, his head began to ache.

He tried to ignore the now-familiar pain, tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but it grew worse, radiating out from his temples and growing into a throbbing that seemed to fill his head. Then the light in the barn began playing tricks, fading away so that the loft seemed to disappear into a black void, only to come back with a brilliance that washed the color out of everything.

In his mind, filtered by the pain, he heard Nathaniel whispering to him, telling him to beware, warning him of danger.

And then he saw his father.

It was like last night, and though Michael worked on, doggedly forking the hay over the edge of the loft, he suddenly was no longer aware of himself. It was as if his mind had left his body and was now in the far corner, watching as some other being went on performing his tasks. But then, as he watched, something changed, and suddenly he was watching his father.

And his grandfather was there too, breaking up the bales for his father just as he had been for Michael himself.

And then the two men weren't working anymore, but were facing each other, and Michael could see the anger in both their faces. His father was staring at Amos, and there was something in his eyes that Michael recognized. And then he knew. His father's eyes had the same emptiness he'd seen in Nathaniel's eyes. And then he heard his father speak.

"You killed her, didn't you? You were there when she was born, and you took her away and killed her."

"No, Mark-"

"I saw it, Pa. I saw what you did. Nathaniel showed me, Pa. This afternoon, Nathaniel showed me."

Amos's eyes widened. "Nathaniel? There is no Nathaniel, damn you."

"There is, Pa," Michael heard his father say. "Nathaniel lives, and he showed me what you did. He wants vengeance, Pa. He wants it, and he's going to get it."

And then, as Michael looked helplessly on, his grandfather began moving forward, moving toward his father.

Michael knew what was about to happen.

He wanted to cry out, wanted to warn his father, just as he had wanted to warn him in the dream last night.

In the distance, as if from very far away, he could hear a dog barking. It was Shadow, and though Michael knew the big dog was nowhere around, he also knew that the shepherd was trying to help him.

Suddenly his voice came to him, and a scream erupted from his throat to fill the vastness of the barn and echo off the walls in a keening wail. The pain in his head washed away, only to be replaced by another pain, a searing that shot up through his body like a living thing, twisting him around so that suddenly he was facing his grandfather, his eyes wide, his face contorted into a grimace of agony.

Then, as he felt himself begin to slip into the darkness that was gathering around him, once again he heard Shadow. The barking grew louder. It sounded furious-as if Shadow was about to attack…

At first he was only aware of a murmuring sound, and was sure that Nathaniel was talking to him again, but slowly the voices became more distinct, and he recognized his mother's voice, and his grandmother's. And there was a third voice, not quite so familiar, but one that he recognized. And then he knew-it was Eric's mother. He opened his eyes to see Ione Simpson smiling at him. "Well, look who's back," Ione said. "Feeling better?" Michael tried to remember what had happened, but what he could remember made no sense. He'd seen his father, but that was impossible. And he'd had a headache, and Nathaniel had been talking to him, warning him about something. Slowly, he became aware of a throbbing pain in his right foot, and he struggled to sit up. Ione placed a gently restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Not yet," she told him. "Just lie there, and keep your foot up. Okay?"

Michael let himself sink back onto the cushion that was under his head, and fought against the pain that seemed to be growing every second. He looked around, recognizing his grandmother's parlor. His mother was there, and so were his grandparents, and they looked worried.

"What happened?" he asked at last.

"A little accident," Ione told him. "It seems you aren't quite an expert with a pitchfork yet."

Michael frowned, and another fragment of memory came back to him: his grandfather, moving toward his father. But it hadn't been his father. It had been himself. "I-I didn't-" he began, but his mother interrupted him.

"Of course you didn't, sweetheart," she assured him. "It was just an accident. The pitchfork slipped, and went through your foot."

Now Michael raised his head just enough to gaze at his right foot, which was propped up high on a second cushion, swathed in bandages.

"It isn't nearly as bad as it looks," Ione Simpson assured him. "It looks like the fork went right between the bones, and it doesn't seem like anything's very badly hurt."

Michael stared at the foot for a long moment, then gazed curiously around the room. Something was wrong-if he was hurt, where was the doctor? He frowned worriedly. "Is Dr. Potter here?"

Ione's smile faded away, and her eyes left Michael. Then his mother was bending over him. "Dr. Potter couldn't come," she said. "But it's all right, honey. Mrs. Simpson's a nurse, and she knows what to do."

But Michael's frown only deepened. His mind was continuing to clear and as it did, another memory came back to him, a memory from the previous night. "Dr. Potter," he whispered. "Why couldn't he come? Did-did something happen to him?"

A silence fell over the room, finally broken by the gruff voice of Amos Hall. "He might as well know," he said.

"Amos-" Janet began, but the old man shook his head.

"Dr. Potter died last night, Michael," he said. Michael's eyes widened, and the color drained from his face. "Do you know what a stroke is?" Mutely, Michael shook his head. "It's a blood vessel bursting inside the head. That's what happened to Dr. Potter last night. They found him this morning."

In his mind's eye, Michael had a sudden vision of Dr. Potter, slumped in a chair in front of a fire, his face scarlet, his eyes filled with pain and fear. He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean to…" His voice trailed off, and his eyes met his grandfather's. There was a look in his grandfather's eyes that terrified him, and after only a second, he tore his eyes away and listened to his mother's voice.

"It's all right, sweetheart," she was saying. "No one thinks you meant to hurt yourself-it was just an accident. And you'll be all right. The foot will heal right up in no time at all."

Michael started to say something, but then, once again, he saw the strange look in his grandfather's eyes, and he changed his mind.

"Can you tell us what happened, honey?" Janet asked. "Do you remember any of it?"

Michael ignored her question. "Can we go home, Mom? Please?" Janet's encouraging smile gave way to a worried frown.

"Now?" Michael nodded.

"But Michael, you need to rest for a while."

"I don't want to rest," Michael said. "I want to go home."

Suddenly Amos's voice cut in. "Your mother has some things to do, and you need to rest. And you need to be looked after. You'll stay here."

Now a look of real fear came into Michael's eyes. "Can't I go with you?" he begged his mother. "I can stay in the truck, and my foot doesn't hurt much. Really, it doesn't."

"You need to rest, at least for a little while," Janet said.

"Of course he does," Anna declared, rolling her chair close to the couch. "He should just lie here and take it easy, and you should do your errands."

"But I don't want to stay here," Michael argued. "I want to go home."

"Hush, child," Anna told him. "Your mother has a lot to do, and she can't do it and take care of you, too. And Mrs. Simpson can't stay here all day either." Suddenly she smiled. "But just because I can't get out of this chair doesn't mean I don't know how to look after someone. In fact, I was thinking of making some cookies."

Michael turned his attention back to his mother. "I don't want any cookies," he said, his voice taking on a sullen tone. "I want to go home."

Janet wavered. She wanted to give in to Michael, wanted to take him home and give him all the attention she thought he needed. And yet, there was something that was holding her back, and she immediately knew what it was. It was that tone of voice he'd just slipped into, the tone of a spoiled child, which Michael had never been. She made up her mind.

"I want you to stay here," she told him. "I won't be gone very long, and you'll be fine. Just stay here, and keep your foot up on the cushion. That way it won't throb so much. I'll be back as soon as I can, and then we'll get you home. Okay?"

Michael hesitated, but finally nodded.

A few minutes later, he was alone with his grandparents.

Janet left the drugstore, then turned the battered green truck away from the square and drove the two blocks to Laura and Buck Shields's house. She parked the car in the driveway and was starting toward the front door when she heard Laura's thin voice calling to her from the upstairs window.

"It's unlocked. Let yourself in and come upstairs." A wan smile drifted across her face, then disappeared. "I'm afraid I'm still not quite up to coming down."

Janet found Laura dressed, but propped on the bed, resting against several pillows.

"I should be in bed, but I just couldn't stand it anymore," Laura told her. "So I got dressed this morning, and I'm spending the day on bed. At least I don't feel quite so useless this way." She patted the mattress. "Come and sit down and tell me what's happening. I feel like I've been cooped up here forever."

Janet sighed, and lowered herself gratefully onto the bed. "I suppose you've already heard about Dr. Potter."

Laura's gentle eyes hardened. "The only thing I want to hear about him is that he's dead," she half whispered. "I hate him, Janet-I hate him so much…"

Janet reached out to touch Laura's hand. "He-Laura, he is dead."

The other woman paled, and a tear suddenly welled in her eye. "Oh, God, Janet. I didn't mean-"

"Of course you didn't." She shrugged helplessly. "It was a stroke, I guess. They found him this morning."

Laura fell silent for a moment, then slowly shook her head. "I should be sorry, shouldn't I, Janet? But you know something? I'm not. I just feel sort of-sort of relieved, I guess. After what he did -"

"No," Janet interrupted her. "Laura, stop torturing yourself. Please?"

But Laura only shook her head again. "I can't help it. I believe what I believe, and I believe they killed my baby." Then, seeing Janet's discomfiture, she decided to change the subject. She made herself smile. "Where's Michael?"

"And that's the rest of the news," Janet replied. Briefly, she told Laura what had happened.

"Is he all right?" Laura asked when Janet was done.

Janet nodded. "But it just seems so stupid. And Michael's always been so good with things like that."

"It was stupid," Laura agreed. "But I'll bet it won't happen again-one thing about farms: you usually only make a mistake once. After that, you know better. And how are you doing? Is the house all in order?"

"Hardly, but I guess some progress is being made. And last night Michael and I cleaned out the attic."

"The attic? I thought it was empty."

Janet frowned. "You mean Anna was right? You and Mark never went up there?"

"Mark did, once," Laura told her. "Dad gave him a beating he never forgot. Or anyway, one I never forgot. I guess it was one time I learned by someone else's mistake."

"Amos beat Mark?"

Laura gave her a puzzled look. "Of course he did. He'd told Mark never to go up there, and Mark disobeyed him."

"So he beat him?" Janet pressed. "Not just spanked him?"

Laura chuckled hollowly. "I wouldn't call a razor strop an ordinary spanking, but it's amazing how effective it was."

"It's no wonder Mark got out as soon as he could," Janet observed, making no attempt to hide her disapproval.

"That wasn't it at all," Laura said quickly. "That had something to do with the night mother had her last baby. By then, Dad hadn't given Mark a beating in-well, it had been a while. What did you find in the attic?"

Janet made an instinctive decision: what Anna Hall wouldn't talk about, her daughter might. "Among other things, I found Abby Randolph's diary."

Laura stared at her. "You're kidding, of course."

Janet shook her head. Then as casually as she could, she said, "Anna told me that the house has been in your family since the day it was built."

Laura nodded. "The old family homestead, and all that sort of thing. But there was never any mention of Abby having lived there. In fact, if I remember right, we were always sort of led to believe that her house had burned down. If it ever existed at all. Personally, I was never sure there ever was an Abby Randolph. And I certainly don't believe she did all the things she's supposed to have done."

"Well, apparently she did exist, and if I read her diary correctly, it seems that she did exactly what the old stories claim she did."

Laura's face paled. "I-I can't believe that."

"It's in the diary," Janet said gently. "Would you like to see it?"

Quickly, Laura shook her head. "And I don't want to talk about it, either. The whole idea of it makes me sick."

Janet wished she'd never brought the subject up. "Well, none of that matters now anyway," she said quickly. "Whatever happened, it's ancient history. But there was a lot of other stuff-china and silver-and I thought we ought to split it between us. I've talked to Anna about it, and she insists it wasn't hers. In fact, she said if it was in the house, it must be mine, since the house is mine. But that just doesn't seem fair."

Laura looked at her curiously. "But if it wasn't hers, then whose was it?" When Janet made no reply, she suddenly understood. "Oh, God," she groaned. "You're not thinking-" Then, seeing that that was exactly what Janet was thinking, she shook her head. "I could never use it. I couldn't look at it, or touch it, let alone eat off it! And anyway, I've got loads of china and silver of my own, which I never use. It came from Mother's mother, and it's all stowed up in the attic. Limoges china, and the most garish silver you've ever seen."

"Limoges?" Janet repeated. "But that's what was in my attic. Maybe it's from the same set."

"I don't see how-"

But Janet was on her feet. "Can I go up and look? Please?"

"Well, if you want to-" Laura told her where the china and silver were stored, and a few minutes later, Janet was rummaging through the Shieldses' attic. She found the trunk Laura had described, opened it, and felt a pang of disappointment. The china and silver were there, all right, but these things bore no resemblance at all to the things she'd found in her own attic. Slowly, she closed the trunk, and was about to go downstairs when something in the far corner of the attic caught her eye.

It was a crib, and though it was not new, neither was it an antique. Indeed, it seemed barely used. And it was not the crib that Laura had set up in her bedroom in preparation for the baby who had died-that crib was still downstairs, a lonely reminder of Laura's loss. Curious, Janet moved toward the crib. Only when she was near it did she see the rest of the nursery equipment.

A tiny rocking chair, painted pink, and hardly used.

A bassinet, used, but, like the crib, in nearly new condition.

Behind the crib, there was a small chest of drawers, just the right size for a three- or four-year-old. Hesitantly, Janet opened one of the drawers. Inside, clean and neatly folded, she found several stacks of clothing, all of it in infant sizes. Tiny dresses, playsuits, blouses, and pajamas, much of it in pinks and whites.

And then, in the bottom drawer, she found an album. Bound in white leather, it was thin and, like the rest of the things in that far corner, barely used. Frowning slightly, she opened it. On the first page, beneath a blank space neatly outlined in green ink, there was a neatly lettered caption:

REBECCA-HER FIRST PICTURE

Janet stared at the odd page for a moment, then quickly flipped through the book. Where the pictures had once been, now there was nothing. Someone had gone through the album, taking out the photographs, leaving nothing but the eerily hollow captions.

She stared at the album for several seconds, wondering what could have happened to the pictures. Should she take it downstairs and ask Laura about it? Then, before she could make up her mind, she heard Buck's voice, his furious tones carrying clearly into the attic.

"She's up there? By herself? For God's sake, Laura, what are you thinking of?"

Startled, Janet closed the album and hurriedly slipped it back in the dresser drawer. Then she moved quickly toward the attic door, opened it a crack, and listened. Now she could hear nothing except indistinct mutterings, muffled by the closed door to the master bedroom. Janet reached up and pulled the light cord, plunging the attic into darkness, then started down the steep stairs to the second floor. Only when she reached the landing, though, could she hear Buck's voice once again.

"But what if she does see it? What if she wants to know where it came from, and why it's there?"

"She won't," Laura's terrified voice replied. "It's way back in the corner, and there's so much other stuff, she won't even notice it. And even if she does, I'll just say we're storing it for someone. Ione-I'll say we're storing it for Ione Simpson. She has a little girl."

"I told you to get rid of it." There was a silence; then, again: "Didn't I tell you to get rid of it?"

"Y-yes."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I-I couldn't."

"You will," Buck said, his voice holding an implacability Janet had never realized was in him before. "As soon as you're strong enough, you'll bring all that stuff down from the attic, take it out back, and burn it."

"Buck, don't make me-"

"It has to be done," Buck said. "Not today. Not until you're well again. But you have to get rid of that stuff. Do you understand?"

Then, as Janet shrank back against the wall, the door to the bedroom opened, and Buck emerged, his face set with determination. Without seeing Janet, he turned the other way and disappeared down the front stairs. A moment later she heard the front door slam.

For a long time, Janet stood where she was, wondering what to do. At last, forcing herself into a composure she didn't feel, she returned to the bedroom, where Laura, still on the bed, was blotting her face with a Kleenex.

"Was Buck here?" Janet asked. "I thought I heard his voice."

Laura nodded. "He just came by to see how I was doing. Wasn't that sweet of him?"

"Yes," Janet agreed. Then: "The china's all different from what I found, and so's the silver. But I found some stuff in the corner. Some nursery furniture." She watched as Laura swallowed hard, then seemed to search for words.

"It-it's Ione Simpson's," she said at last. "It's been there for a couple of years now. She didn't have any room to store it."

Janet hesitated only a moment, then nodded. Laura had lied, just as she'd told Buck she would.

Michael woke up, and for a moment couldn't remember where he was. Then the room came into focus, and he recognized his grandmother's parlor. Drifting in from the kitchen, he could smell the aroma of fresh-baked cookies. Tentatively, he sat up and lowered his bandaged foot to the floor. The throbbing had eased, and when he tried to stand up, he found that the pain wasn't bad at all as long as he kept his weight on his heel. Slowly, he began hobbling toward the door that would take him into the hall and then back toward the kitchen. But when he came to the dining room, he heard his grandfather's voice, and stopped. His grandfather was talking about him.

"There's something about him, Anna. Something in his eyes. I'm sure of it."

There was silence for a moment, and then his grandmother spoke. "Don't, Amos. Don't start. Not on Michael."

"But what about the headaches? He's having 'em, you know. Just like Mark did. And this morning-"

"What about this morning?" Anna demanded, when Amos showed no sign of going on.

"It was in his eyes," Amos finished. "The same look I saw in Mark's eyes. It's Nathaniel. There's the mark of Nathaniel on that child. They told me when I was a boy-"

Suddenly his grandmother's voice grew loud and angry. "They told you a bunch of lies and stories. They ruined your life and my life and Laura's life. The only one who got away was Mark, and now all those old stories have killed him, too!"

"What happened to Mark was an accident."

"If that's what you believe, then believe it. But I don't believe it. I believe you might as well have killed him with your own hands."

Now his grandfather sounded as angry as his grandmother. "Don't say that, Anna. I've always done what I had to do, and nothing more."

"And look at me," Michael heard his grandmother say. Her voice was trembling now, as if she were starting to cry. "Just look at me. Five babies, and all I have left is Laura. And look at her-she's going to wind up just the way I am, and it's going to be on your head. So help me, if you start trying to see your unholy family curse in Michael, I'll see to it that Janet takes him and goes right back to New York. They're stories, Amos! None of it is anything but stories."

"Abby Randolph was no story. And neither was Nathaniel. It won't end, unless I end it."

"Leave it alone, Amos," his grandmother said after another long silence. "There's nothing wrong with Michael."

"We'll see," his grandfather replied. "When Janet's baby comes, we'll see."

Slowly, Michael backed away from the kitchen door, then turned and made his way back to the parlor. With his heart pounding, he lay down on the sofa again and carefully propped his foot back up on the cushion. Then he closed his eyes and tried to make his breathing come evenly, but he couldn't control the terror in his soul; He knows, Michael thought. Grandpa knows about Nathaniel, and he knows about me.