Nathaniel

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Janet opened her eyes and stared without comprehension at the unfamiliar face that loomed over her. But then, as she came totally awake, she remembered what had happened. She struggled to sit up, but the stranger put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"Don't," he said. "Just lie there, and try to take it easy. You very nearly lost your baby a little while ago. You didn't, but you're not out of danger yet. I'm Dr. Marsden," he added.

A small groan escaped Janet's lips, and she sank heavily back onto her pillows. "Amos," she whispered. "Did they find Amos?"

Marsden nodded. "He's downstairs." But then, as Janet sighed with relief, he went on: "They found him by the river, Mrs. Hall. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but your son couldn't have had anything to do with it."

Janet gazed at the doctor for a moment, then looked away, her eyes fixing on a point somewhere near the ceiling. "You mean he's dead?" she asked, her voice hollow.

"It looks like a heart attack. His gun was right next to him, and one of his hands was still on the stock. He must have been shooting at something, but whatever it was, it doesn't look like he hit it. Anyway, the men didn't find anything out there except Mr. Hall. In the morning, they'll look again."

"But Michael said-"

"I know what the boy said," Marsden interrupted. "Mrs. Simpson told me. But you heard the shots yourself, didn't you? Wasn't your son here at the time?"

"But you said they found him down by the river. That's where Michael said-"

"That's where the shots came from, Mrs. Hall. Now, I want you to rest. If I have to, I'll give you something-"

"No! I don't want anything, Dr.-" She struggled to remember his name, but couldn't. "I'll be all right. But I want to see Michael. Can I? Please?"

Marsden hesitated, then finally nodded. He left the room, and a minute later Michael appeared in the doorway. "Mom? Are you okay?"

Janet beckoned him over to the bed. "I'll be all right," she assured him. She reached out and took Michael's hand. "Honey, what you said just before I fainted. About killing Grandpa?"

"Uh-huh," Michael mumbled.

"What did you mean by that?"

"I already told you," Michael replied. "It was me and Nathaniel. Nathaniel told me I should wish him dead, so I did. And he died."

Janet fought the wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. "But that's not possible," she told him, her voice unsteady. "You can't wish someone to death. You were here when Grandpa died. You were with me."

Michael shook his head. "I was with Nathaniel," he said. "I had to talk to him tonight. Grandpa wanted to hurt us. He wanted to kill us, just like he killed Daddy, and Aunt Laura's babies."

"No, Michael," Janet wailed. "Grandpa didn't do any of that."

Michael's face set stubbornly. "Yes he did," he replied. "I saw him. Nathaniel showed me. And besides, the night Aunt Laura had her baby, I saw them. I saw them kill the baby, and then I saw them out in the field. They were burying Aunt Laura's baby. I was with Nathaniel that night, and we both saw it."

"But Michael, Grandpa was home that night, remember? When you came home, Grandpa was there."

"I don't care," Michael said. "I know what I saw, and I'm not lying."

Suddenly Janet wanted to shake Michael, as if somehow she might physically shake his impossible ideas out of his head. Where had they come from? What did they mean? Then her weakness overcame her, and she collapsed back onto the pillows. "Tomorrow," was all she could say. "We'll talk about it tomorrow…"

Michael got off the bed and started toward the door, but then turned back.

"Mom?"

Janet opened her eyes. Michael was studying her with an intensity so great she had to look away.

"Everything's going to be all right now," he said softly. "I don't think I'm going to have my headaches anymore. I think they only came when Nathaniel was showing me things." He paused for a moment, then went on. "We had to make him die, Mom. He was going to kill the baby. Even if he didn't kill me, he would've killed the baby."

Janet's head turned, and she stared at Michael. "Stop it," she whispered. "Just stop saying those things." Her voice rose to the edge of hysteria. "They're not true, Michael. They're not true!"

Michael returned her gaze, his face suddenly angry. Then he left her alone, closing the door behind him.

Anna Hall was dozing in her chair, her ever-present mending on her lap, her head lolling on her breast.

In the hall, the clock began to strike, and Anna came half awake, certain that Amos had finally come home.

"Amos? Is that you?"

There was no answer, but even as silence settled once more over the house, Anna had a strange sense that she was no longer alone.

She tried to clear the fogginess from her mind, and opened her sleepy eyes to peer around.

Then, at the window, she saw it.

A face, a face she recognized.

It was Mark's face, but younger than he'd been the last time she saw him, almost as young as he'd been when he ran away so many years ago.

And yet it wasn't Mark's face. It was a face like Mark's, but different.

Then she heard the voice.

"He's dead, Mama. He's dead."

The words struck Anna almost like a blow. For a moment she wasn't certain she'd heard them at all. There was a flat atonality about them that made her wonder if the face at the window had spoken the words, or if she'd only imagined them.

Then the voice came again. "He's dead, Mama. You must not be frightened anymore."

Then the face disappeared from the window, and once more Anna felt the solitude of the house.

She sat for a long time, listening to the soft ticking of the clock, amplified by the night, trying to decide what had really happened to her. Had it been real, or had it only been a dream?

Then, as the hours wore on, a sense of peace slowly settled over her, a sense of peace she hadn't felt in years, not since before the night so many years ago when she had given birth to her last child. Suddenly she smiled. That was who the face had reminded her of. The face at the window had looked like her last son, just as she'd always imagined he would look-if only he had lived.

And with the sense of peace came something else.

It was Amos of whom the boy had spoken. As the night wore on, and Anna waited, she became increasingly sure that Amos was not coming home that night, that he would never come home again.

At last, as the clock was striking two, she heard a car pull up the drive. She rolled herself over to the window and stared out into the night, squinting against the darkness as she tried to make out the face of her visitor.

And then, as the figure of a man emerged from the pickup truck in front of the house, Anna gasped.

It was Ben Findley.

Trembling, Anna slowly backed away from the window. Her eyes searched the room as if looking for a place to hide. But there was no place to hide, and in the end she let the chair drift to a stop in the center of the room. A moment later she heard the front door open, and then Ben Findley stood framed in the doorway, his gaunt figure looking like a ghost from the past.

"Hello, Anna," he said at last.

The seconds ticked by, and Anna felt the color draining from her face, felt her whole body, even the legs that had been lifeless so long, trembling.

"You," she breathed at last.

Ben Findley nodded. His eyes left Anna for a moment and drifted slowly over the room. He nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned back to Anna. "Amos is dead, Anna. Leif Simpson and I found him down by the river."

"The river?" Anna asked blankly, her mind reeling not only at the confirmation of her strange sense that her husband was dead, but at the presence of Ben Findley in her house. "What was he doing down at the river?"

Findley shrugged. "I called him today. I saw you and the boy this afternoon, and I told Amos I didn't want anyone poking around that field."

Anna's eyes narrowed. "What happened, Ben. Did you kill him?"

Findley shook his head; then, without asking Anna's permission, he came into the room and lowered himself onto fhe sofa. Slowly he told Anna what he and Leif Simpson had found. When he was done, Anna fell into a reflective silence for a few moments. Then her head came up, and her eyes roved to the window and the blackness of the night. "Perhaps it was the children," she said in a voice that was only partially audible. "Perhaps the children finally got their revenge." Suddenly she looked at Ben Findley. "Ben, do you believe in ghosts?"

Findley looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I don't. Why?"

Anna shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind. "I don't know. I just thought I saw one tonight, that's all." She paused, then went on. "I knew Amos was dead, Ben. I wasn't waiting for him to come home. I was waiting for someone to come and tell me what I already knew."

Findley's body tensed, and his hooded eyes darkened. "How?" he asked. "How did you know?"

Anna shrugged. "I told you-a ghost."

"Nathaniel…" Findley said softly.

Anna's head came up angrily. "Nathaniel!" she echoed, her voice suddenly regaining its strength. "Don't be a fool, Ben. There is no Nathaniel. There was never a Nathaniel. All my life, since I married Amos Hall, I've heard of nothing except Nathaniel. He doesn't exist, Ben. He was never anything but a fantasy of Amos's."

"No, Anna-"

"Yes! He killed my children, Ben. He killed my children, and somehow, in his twisted mind, he managed to blame it on his holy Nathaniel. But it was a lie, Ben! Amos was insane, and a murderer. I could never prove it, but I knew. I always knew."

"How?" Ben Findley suddenly demanded. He rose to his feet, towering over Anna, his blue eyes blazing. "How did you know, Anna?"

Anna cowered in her chair, her burst of strength suddenly deserting her. "I knew," she whispered. "That's all. I just knew."

"And is that why you stayed with him?" Findley asked. "Is that why you stayed with him all those years, Anna? Because you knew he'd killed your children? It doesn't make sense. If you truly knew, you'd have left him, left him and gone away. If you truly thought he'd killed your children, you never would have stayed with him."

Anna shook her head helplessly as her eyes flooded with tears. "No," she protested. "You don't understand. I-I couldn't walk, Ben. I couldn't walk, and I couldn't prove what he'd done." Suddenly she looked up at him imploringly. "Don't you understand, Ben? Don't you understand at all?"

Findley ignored her question. "And what about our child, Anna?" he asked softly. "Did Amos kill our child, too?"

Anna recoiled from his words. "No…"she whimpered. "No, don't talk about that. Please…"

"Tell me, Anna," Findley pressed, his voice relentless. "Tell me what you think you know about our son."

"Dead," Anna whispered. "He was born dead. That's what Amos always told me. But I never believed him, Ben. I never believed him. Amos killed our baby that night, just like the other two. He killed him, and they buried him in Potter's Field."

"No, Anna," Findley told her. The anger drained out of his voice, and Anna responded to his sudden gentleness, gazing at him with frightened eyes. "He didn't die, Anna. He wasn't born dead, and he didn't die. Potter brought him to me that night. He brought him to me, and I've had him ever since." He paused, then, "I named him Nathaniel, Anna. That's who you saw tonight. You saw Nathaniel, and he's our son."

A terrible silence fell over the house as Anna tried to comprehend Ben Findley's words. The room seemed to turn around her, and her mind reeled as twenty years of her life shattered into meaningless pieces.

And then, gathering her strength, Anna Hall grasped the arms of her wheelchair. "No," she breathed. "No. None of if true!" Her voice pitched to a scream, as slowly, supporting herself on trembling arms, she began to rise from the chair. "Why are you lying to me?" she wailed. "Why? Why?" She took a halting step toward him, and suddenly her fists came up. "Lies," she screamed. "It's all lies! I know the truth, Ben. I know it!" She began pummeling at his chest, her legs wobbling, but still somehow supporting her.

Ben Findley's arms went around Anna, and he held her tight. "No, Anna, I've told you the truth. It's all over now. Amos is dead, and he can't hurt you anymore. It's all over. Amos is dead, and our son is alive, and it's over."

But Anna shook herself loose. "It's not over," she hissed. "I wasn't wrong, Ben. I wasn't! You're lying to me, but I'll find the truth! So help me, I'll find the truth!" Then she turned, and with an effort of sheer willpower, she walked slowly across the room and disappeared into the tiny room that had been her private retreat for the last twenty years.

A moment later, when Ben Findley tried to follow her, he found the door locked. When he called to her, Anna Hall refused to answer him.

The next morning, Anna began to hear the rumors. People called-nearly everyone in town-to express their sympathies, and Anna listened to them, and made all the proper responses. But some of them didn't stop with condolences about Amos's death. Some of them made oblique references to Michael:

"Such a terrible thing for a boy his age-"

"Of course, losing his father must have been a terrible trauma for him, but to blame his grandfather-"

"Of course, he couldn't have seen a ghost, but he must have seen something-"

"Of course, I can't believe it's true. Why would a little boy want to do a thing like that-"

Anna listened to it all, and slowly pieced it all together. Finally she turned to Laura, who had arrived during the night, after Ben Findley had left. She hadn't seen Laura last night, but she'd told her through her closed door that she was all right and that she needed to be alone for a while. Laura had accepted it, as Laura always accepted everything. Only this morning, when Anna had slowly and shakily walked out of the tiny room, had Laura tried to confront her.

Anna smiled grimly at the memory. Laura had stared at her, speechless, then finally opened her mouth to protest. "Mother-you can't-"

Anna had silenced her. "Obviously I can," she'd said. "Since I am."

"But-but-how?"

"I don't know," Anna admitted. "Something happened to me last night. I'm not sure what it was, and I won't talk about it. But after I found out your father had died, something inside me changed." She'd smiled sadly at Laura. "Maybe I've stopped punishing myself. Or maybe I could have done it long ago," she said. "Maybe my chair was nothing more than my own way of running away from things. I've been thinking about it all night, Laura, and that's the only thing that makes sense. Charles told me that years ago, you know. From the very beginning, he told me there was nothing wrong with my legs, that I'd just decided I didn't want to walk." A tear welled in her eye, then ran slowly down her cheek. "And it worked, you know," she whispered. "Your father used to beat me, years ago-"

"Mother!"

"He did, Laura. But then he stopped. When I couldn't walk anymore, he stopped."

Then, with a strength she hadn't felt for years, Anna had begun taking charge of her own life, a task she'd ceded to Amos on the day she'd married him.

"I want to go to Janet's," she said now.

"But mother, Janet's in bed. The doctor's ordered her to stay in bed for at least a week."

"Then she'll need help," Anna replied. "I can at least take care of the cooking. I won't have my grandson rummaging around eating God only knows what."

"Mother, no one expects you to do anything right now. Ione Simpson's looking after her, and Michael can spend the nights with us, if it's too much trouble for the Simpsons."

Anna's face set. "Laura, I know you're trying to do what's best for me, and I appreciate it. But I'm not senile, and if I have to sit here listening to idle gossip about my grandson-"

Suddenly Laura's expression turned wary. "Gossip? What gossip?"

"It seems," Anna replied, "there are some people in town who think Michael might have had something to do with Amos's death."

Laura paled. "I know what they're talking about, but it isn't true, mother. It isn't possible-"

"I'll decide for myself what's possible and what isn't," Anna snapped. "Now, will you take me over there, or do I have to learn to drive again the same day I have to leam to walk?"

"Mother, you really should stay home-what will people think? And Father-think of Father."

Anna made no reply. Instead, she simply began making her slow way to the front door, then out onto the porch. She was starting down the steps when Laura finally decided that she was not bluffing. "All right, Mother," she said, and followed the older woman out to her car.

Ione Simpson looked up in shocked surprise, then got quickly to her feet as Anna Hall, leaning heavily on Laura's arm, walked slowly into Janet Hall's small living room. "Anna! What are you-" She paused, floundering, then recovered herself. "I'm-I'm so sorry about Amos."

Anna nodded an acknowledgment, and quickly scanned the room. "Is Michael upstairs?"

Ione hesitated, then shook her head. "He's in the kitchen, I think."

Wordlessly, Anna turned toward the kitchen. Laura moved quickly to help her, but Anna brushed her aside. "I want to talk to him alone." Slowly, but with remarkable steadiness, Anna walked out of the living room.

She found Michael at the kitchen table, staring sightlessly at a bowl of cold cereal. As if coming out of a trance, his eyes suddenly focused, and he looked at her. "Aren't you going to give your grandmother a kiss?" she asked.

With obvious reluctance, Michael got up from the table and approached her. "I-I'm sorry, Grandma," he whispered. Anna put her arms around him.

"It's all right, Michael. I know it's hard, but he was an old man, and whatever happened, it wasn't your fault." Then she held him at arm's length and looked directly into his eyes. "It wasn't your fault, was it?"

Michael trembled slightly, then nodded his head.

"I see," Anna breathed. She let her hands drop from Michael's shoulders and moved to the table, where she carefully lowered herself into a chair. "Sit down, Michael," she said softly. "Sit down and tell me what happened. Can you do that? Can you tell me all of it?"

Slowly, Michael recounted his story of the night before, and when he was done, Anna slumped tiredly in her chair. "You wished him dead," she whispered. "You and Nathaniel wished him dead."

She reached out then, reached out to comfort the sobbing boy who sat across from her, his head buried in his arms. At her touch, he looked up.

"I'm sorry, Grandma. I'm sorry!"

"Michael," Anna said almost fearfully. "There's something you haven't told me."

Slowly, Michael's sobbing subsided, and at last he looked up at his grandmother, his eyes red, his cheeks splotched with tears.

"Who is Nathaniel?" Anna asked. "You haven't told me who Nathaniel is." She hesitated, then asked the question she'd been dreading. "He's-he's a ghost, isn't he?"

Michael's eyes widened, and for a long moment he stared at his grandmother in silence. At last, he shook his head.

"No, Grandma," he said softly. "He's real."