The Fiend

(8)

It was the following noon that Kate Oakley received the letter. She was alone in the house; Mary Martha had gone to the playground with Jessie and Jessie’s brother, Mike, who was supposed to see to it that the girls stayed off the jungle gym and kept their clothes clean. Kate had promised to drive them to the Museum of Natural History right after lunch.

She liked to take the girls places and let people assume they were both her daughters, but she was dreading this particular excursion. The museum used to be — and perhaps still was — one of Sheridan’s favorite hangouts. He hadn’t seen Mary Martha for four months and Kate was afraid that if he ran into her now there would be a scene in front of everybody, quiet and sarcastic if he was sober, loud and weepy if he wasn’t. Still, she had to risk it. There weren’t many places she could take Mary Martha without having to pay, and money was very short.

She had received no check from Sheridan for temporary support for nearly two months. She knew it was Sheridan’s way of punishing her for keeping him away from Mary Martha but she was determined not to give in. She was strong — stronger than he was — and in the end she would win, she would get the money she needed to bring Mary Martha up in the manner she deserved. Things would be as they were before. She would have a woman to do the cleaning and laundering, a seamstress to make Mary Martha’s school clothes, a gardener to mow the vast lawn and cut the hedges and spray the poison oak. The groceries would be delivered and she would sign the bill without bothering to check it and tip the delivery boy with real money, not a smile, the way she had to tip everyone now.

These smile tips didn’t cost her anything but they were expensive. They came out of her most private account, her personal capital. Nothing had been added to this capital for a long time; she had been neither loved nor loving, she offered no mercy and accepted none; hungry, she refused to eat; weary, she couldn’t rest; alone, she reached out to no one. Sometimes at night, when Mary Martha was in bed asleep and the house seemed like a huge empty cave, Kate could feel her impending bankruptcy but she didn’t realize that it had very little connection with lack of money.

She was vacuuming the main living room when she saw the postman coming up the flagstone walk. She went out into the hall but she didn’t open the door to exchange greetings with him. She waited until he dropped the mail in the slot, then she scooped it up greedily from the floor. There was no check from Sheridan, only a couple of bills and a white envelope with her name and address printed on it. The contents of the envelope were squeezed into one corner like a coin wrapped in paper and her first thought was that Sheridan was playing another trick on her, sending her a dime or a quarter to imply she was worth no more than that. She ripped open the envelope with her thumbnail. There was no coin inside. A piece of notepaper had simply been folded and refolded many times, the way a child might fold a note to be secretly passed during class

The note was neatly printed in black ink:

She stood for a minute, half paralyzed with shock. Then, when her blood began to flow again, she reread the note, more slowly and carefully. It didn’t make sense. No one — not even Sheridan, who’d accused her of everything else — had ever accused her of neglecting Mary Martha. She was well fed, well clothed, well supervised. She was, moreover, rather a timid child, not given to taking dangerous risks or risks of any kind unless challenged by Jessie.

Kate refolded the note and put it back in the envelope. She thought, it can’t be a mistake because it’s addressed to me and my name’s spelled correctly. Perhaps there’s some religious crank in the neighborhood who’s prejudiced against divorced women, but it hardly seems possible now that divorce is so common.

Only one thing was certain: the letter was an attack, and the person most likely to attack her was Sheridan.

She went out into the hall and telephoned Ralph MacPherson’s office. “Mac, I hate to bother you again.”

“That’s all right, Kate. Are you feeling better today?”

“I was, until the mail came. I just received an anonymous letter and I think I know who—”

“Don’t think about it at all, Kate. Tear it up and forget it.”

“No, I want you to see it.”

“I’ve seen quite a few of them in my day,” Mac said. “They’re all the same, sick and rotten.”

“I want you to see it,” she repeated, “because I’m pretty sure it’s from Sheridan. If it is, he’s further gone than I imagined. He may even be — well, committable.”

“That’s a big word in these parts, Kate. Or in any parts, for that matter.”

“People are committed every day.”

“Not on the word of a disgruntled spouse... All right. Bring the letter down to my office. I’ll be here until I leave for court at 1:30.”

“Thank you, Mac. Thank you very much.”

She dressed hurriedly but with care, as if she were going to be put on exhibition in front of a lot of people, one of whom had written her the letter.

Before leaving the house she made sure all the windows and doors on the ground floor were locked, and when she had backed her car out of the garage she locked the garage doors behind her. She had nothing left to steal, but the locking habit had become fixed in her. She no longer thought of doors as things to open; doors were to close, to keep people out.

She usually handled her small car without thinking much about it, but now she drove as she had dressed, with great care, as though a pair of unfriendly eyes was watching her, ready to condemn her as an unfit mother if she made the slightest mistake, a hand signal executed a little too slowly, a corner turned a little too fast.

She headed for the school playground, intending to tell the girls that she would be late picking them up. She had gone about three blocks when she stopped for a red light and saw, in the rear-view mirror, an old green coupe pull up behind her. Kate paid more attention to cars than most women, especially since she’d been living alone, and she recognized it instantly as the car she’d noticed parked outside her house the previous afternoon.

She tried to keep calm, the way Mac had told her to: Don’t jump to conclusions, Kate. If you thought Sheridan was driving that car, why didn’t you go out and confront him, find out why he was there? If it happens again—

Well, it was happening again.

She opened the door and had one foot on the road when the light changed. The left lane was clear and the green coupé turned into it and shot past her with a grinding of gears. Its grimy windows were closed and she could see only that a man was behind the wheel. It was enough. Sheridan was following her. He may even have been waiting outside the house while the postman delivered his letter, eager to watch its effect on her. She thought, Well, here it is, Sheridan, here’s the effect.

She didn’t hesitate even long enough to close the door. She pressed down on the accelerator and the door slammed shut with the sudden forward thrust of her car. For the next five minutes she was not in conscious control either of herself or of the car. It was as though a devil were driving them both and he was responsible to no one and for no one; he owned the roads, let others use them at their own risk.

Up and down streets, around corners, through a parking lot, down an alley, she pursued the green coupé. Twice she was almost close enough to force it over to the curb but each time it got away. She was not even aware of cars honking at her and people yelling at her until she ran a red light. Then she heard the shrieking of her own brakes as a truck appeared suddenly in front of her. Her head snapped forward until it pressed against the steering wheel. She sat in a kind of daze while the truck driver climbed out of the cab.

“For Chrissake, you drunk or something? That was a red light.”

“I didn’t — see it.”

“Well, keep your eyes open next time. You damn near got yourself killed. You woulda spoiled my record, I got the best record in the company. How they expect a guy to keep his record with a lot of crazy women scooting around in kiddie cars?”

“Shut up,” she said. “Please shut up.”

“Well, well, now you’re trying to get tough with me, eh? Listen, lady, you’ll be damn lucky if I don’t report you for reckless driving, maybe drunk driving. You been drinking?”

“No.”

“They all say that. Where’s your driver’s license?”

“In my purse.”

“Get it out.”

“Please don’t—”

“Lady, a near accident like this happens and I’m supposed to check on it, see? Maybe you’ve got some kind of restriction on your license, like you’re to wear glasses when you’re driving, or a hearing aid.”

She fumbled around in her purse until she found her wallet with her driver’s license in it. On the license there was a little picture of her, taken the day she’d passed her test. She was smiling confidently and happily into the camera.

She saw the truck driver staring at the picture in disbelief. “This is you, lady?”

She wanted to reach out and strike him between the eyes, but instead she said, “It was taken three years ago. I’ve been — things have happened to me. When you lose weight, it always shows in the face, it makes you appear — well, older. I was trying to think of a nicer word for it but there isn’t one, is there? More aged? That’s no improvement. More ancient, decrepit? Worn out? Obsolete?”

“Lady, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I mean — oh hell, let’s get out of here.”

A crowd had begun to gather. The truck driver waved them away and climbed back into his cab. The green coupé had long since disappeared.

The two girls, on Mike’s orders, were sitting on a bench in an area of the playground hidden from the street by an eight-foot oleander hedge. Mike was lying face down on the grass nearby, listening to a baseball game on a transistor radio. Every now and then he raised his head, consulted his wrist watch in an authoritative manner, and gave the girls what was intended to be a hypnotic glance.

They had both been absolutely silent and motionless for seven minutes except for the occasional blink of an eye or twitch of a nose. Mike was beginning to worry about whether he actually had hypnotized them and how he was going to snap them out of it, when Jessie suddenly jumped off the bench.

“Oh, I hate this game! It’s not even a game, seeing who can stay stillest the longest.”

“You’re just sore because Mary Martha won,” Mike said airily. “I was betting she would. You can’t keep your trap shut for two seconds.”

“I can if I want to.”

“Yackety yak.”

“Anyhow, I know why you’re making us sit here.”

“O clever one, do tell.”

“So none of your buddies going past will see you baby-sitting. I heard you tell Daddy you’d never be able to hold up your head in public again if they saw you playing with two little girls. But Daddy said you had to play with us anyway. Or else.”

“Well, I wish I’d taken the or else,” Mike said in disgust. “Anything’d be better than looking after a pair of dimwitted kids who should be able to look after themselves. I didn’t need a baby-sitter at your age.”

Jessie blushed, but the only place it showed was across the bridge of her nose where repeated sunburns had peeled off layers of skin. “I don’t need one either except I’ve got sore hands.”

“You’re breaking my heart with your itty bitty sore hands. Man, oh man, you get more mileage out of a couple of blisters than I could get from a broken neck.”

“If I won the game,” Mary Martha said wistfully, “may I move now? There’s a bee on my arm and it tickles me.”

“So tickle it back,” Mike said and turned up the volume of the radio.

“My goodness, he’s mean,” Mary Martha whispered behind her hand. “Was he born that way?”

“I’ve only known him for nine years, but he probably was.”

“Maybe some evil witch put a curse on him. Do you know any curses?”

“Just g-o-d-d-a-m, which I never say.”

“No, I mean real curses.” Mary Martha contorted her face until it looked reasonably witchlike. Then she spoke in a high eerie voice:

“Did you just make that up?” Jessie asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s very good.”

“I think so, too,” Mary Martha said modestly. “We could make up a whole bunch of them about all the people we hate. Who will we start with?”

“Uncle Howard.”

“I didn’t know you hated your Uncle Howard.”

Jessie looked surprised, as if she hadn’t known it herself until she heard her own voice say so. She stole a quick glance at Mike to see if he was listening, but he was engrossed in the ball game, his eyes closed. She said, “You won’t ever tell anyone, will you?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. Now let’s start the curse. You go first.”

“No, you go first.”

Mary Martha assumed her witchlike face and voice:

“I don’t like that one very much,” Jessie said soberly.

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s play another game.”

From the street a horn began to blow, repeating a pattern of three short, two long.

“That’s my mother,” Mary Martha said. “We’d better wake Mike up and tell him we’re leaving.”

“I’m awake, you numbskull,” Mike said, opening his eyes and turning down the volume of the radio. Then he looked at his watch. “It’s only a quarter after twelve. She’s not supposed to be here until one.” He rolled over on his back and got up. “Well, who am I to argue with good fortune? Come on, little darlings. Off to the launching pad.”

“You don’t have to come with us,” Jessie said.

“No kidding? You mean you can actually walk out of here without breaking both your legs? I don’t believe it. Show me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Yes, you shut up,” Mary Martha added loyally.

The two girls went out through the stone arch, arm in arm, as if to show their solidarity against the enemy.

Mike waited a couple of minutes before following them. He saw Mrs. Oakley standing on the curb talking to them, then Mary Martha and her mother got into the car and Jessie turned and walked back to the playground, alone. She was holding her head high and her face was carefully and deliberately blank.

Mike said, “What’s the matter?”

“We’re not going to the Museum today.”

“Why not?”

“Mrs. Oakley has some errands to do in town. Mary Martha didn’t want to go along but she had to.”

“Why?”

“Mrs. Oakley won’t leave her at the playground alone anymore.”

“What does she mean, alone?” Mike said, scowling. “I’m here.”

“I guess she meant without a grownup.”

“For Pete’s sake, what does she think I am? A two-year-old child? Man, oh man, women sure are hard to figure... Well, come on, no use hanging around here anymore. Let’s go home.”

“All right.”

“Aren’t you even going to argue?”

“No.”

“You’re sick, kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Kate Oakley repeated for the third or fourth time. “I hate to disappoint you and Jessie but I can’t help it. Something unexpected came up and I must deal with it. You understand that, don’t you?”

Mary Martha nodded. “But I could have stayed at the playground with Jessie while you were dealing.”

“I want you with me.”

“Why? To protect you?”

“No,” Kate said with a sharp little laugh. “You’ve got it all wrong, sweetikins. I’m protecting you. What on earth gave you the silly idea that I need your protection?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sometimes your mind works in a way that truly baffles me. I mean, really, angel, it doesn’t make sense that I need your protection, does it? I am a grownup and you’re a little girl. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary Martha said politely. She would have liked to ask what her mother was protecting her from, but she was aware that Kate was already upset. The signs were all there: some subtle, like the faint rash that was spreading across her neck; some obvious, like the oversized sunglasses she was wearing. Mary Martha didn’t understand why her mother put on these sunglasses when she was under pressure, she knew only that it was a fact. Even in the house on a dark day Kate sometimes wore them and Mary Martha had come to hate the sight of them. They were like a wall or a closed door behind which untold, untellable things were happening. If you threw questions at this wall they bounced back like ping-pong balls: what on earth do you mean, lamb?

They had reached the center of town by this time. Kate drove into the parking lot behind the white four-story building where Mac had his office. It was the first inkling Mary Martha had of where her mother was going and she dreaded the thought of waiting in Mac’s outer office, listening to the rise and fall of voices, never hearing quite enough and never understanding quite enough of what she heard. If the voices became distinct enough, Miss Edgeworth, Mac’s receptionist, started talking loudly and cheerfully about the weather and how Mary Martha was doing in school and what a pretty dress she was wearing.

When her mother got out of the car Mary Martha made no move to follow her.

“Well?” Kate said. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I can wait here.”

“No. I don’t like the look of that parking-lot attendant. You can’t trust these—”

“Or I could go to the library and maybe start on one of my book reports.”

“I don’t think a nine-year-old should be wandering around downtown by herself.”

“The library’s only a block away.”

Kate hesitated. “Well, all right. But you’ve got to promise you’ll go straight there, not loiter in the stores or anything. And once you’re there, you’re to stay. No matter how long I am, don’t come looking for me, just wait right there.”

“I promise.”

“You’re a good girl, Mary Martha.”

Mary Martha got out of the car. She was glad that her mother called her a good girl but she couldn’t understand why she said it in such a strange, sad voice, as if having a good child was somehow harder to bear than having a bad one. She wondered what would happen if she turned bad. Maybe Kate would give her to Sheridan and that would be the end of the fighting over the divorce terms. Or maybe Sheridan wouldn’t want her either, and she’d have to go and live with a foster family like the Brants and be Jessie’s almost-sister.

Once the idea occurred to her, the temptation to try being bad was irresistible. The problem was how to begin. She thought of loitering in the stores, but she wasn’t sure what loitering was or if she could do it. Then she heard her mother say, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mary Martha,” and the temptation died as suddenly as it had been born. She felt rather relieved. Loitering in stores didn’t sound like much fun and probably the Brants couldn’t afford to feed another mouth anyway.

Kate went in the rear entrance of the building and up the service stairs to avoid meeting anyone. After the bright light of noon the stairway seemed very dark. She stumbled once or twice but she didn’t remove her sunglasses, she didn’t even think of it. By the time she reached Mac’s office on the third floor she was breathing hard and fast and the rash on her neck had begun to itch.

Miss Edgeworth was out to lunch. Her typewriter was covered and her desk was bare of papers, as though she’d tidied everything up in case she decided never to come back.

The door of Mac’s office was open and he was sitting at his desk with his chair swiveled around to face the window. He was eating a sandwich, very slowly, as if he didn’t like it or else liked it so much he didn’t want to reach the end of it. Kate had known him for over twenty years and it seemed to her that he hadn’t changed at all since she first met him. He was still as thin as a rake, and his hair was still brown and curly and cut very short to deny the curl. He had the reddish tan and bleached eyes of a sailor.

“Mac?”

He turned in surprise. “I didn’t hear the elevator.”

“I used the back steps.”

“Well, come in, Kate, if you don’t mind watching me eat. There’s extra coffee, would you like some?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured some coffee into a plastic cup. “Sit down. You look a bit under the weather, Kate. You’re not dieting, I hope.”

“Not by choice,” she said grimly. “The support check’s late again. Naturally. He’s trying to make me crawl. That I’m used to, that I can stand. It’s these — these awful other things, Mac.”

“Have you seen him today?”

“About half an hour ago, on my way here. He was driving that same old green car he drove yesterday when he was parked outside the house. When I saw it in the rear-view mirror, something terrible came over me, Mac. I... I just wanted to kill him.”

“Now, now, don’t talk like that.”

“I mean it. All I could think of was chasing him, ramming his car, running him down, getting rid of him some way, any way.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I tried.”

“You tried,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Tell me about it, Kate.”

She told him. He listened, with his head cocked to one side like a dog hearing a distant sound of danger.

“You might have been killed or seriously injured,” he said when she’d finished.

“I know that now. I may even have known it then, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t thinking of myself, or even, God help me, of Mary Martha. Just of him, Sheridan. I wanted to — I had to get even with him. This time he went too far.”

“This time?”

“The letter, the anonymous letter.”

“Have you got it with you?”

“Yes.”

“Show it to me.”

She took the letter out of her handbag and put it on his desk.

He studied the envelope for a minute, then removed the wad of paper and began unfolding it. He read aloud: “Your daughter takes too dangerous risks with her delicate body. Children must be guarded against the cruel hazards of life and fed good, nourishing food so their bones will be padded. Also clothing. You should put plenty of clothing on her, keep arms and legs covered, etc. In the name of God please take better care of your little girl.”

“Well?” Kate said.

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s a curious document. The writer seems sincere and also very fond — if fond is the correct word — of children in general.”

“Why in general? Why not Mary Martha in particular? Sheridan’s never particularly liked children; he’s crazy about Mary Martha because she’s an extension of his ego, such as it is.”

“This doesn’t sound like Sheridan’s style to me, Kate.”

“Who else would accuse me of neglecting my daughter?”

“I don’t read this as an accusation, exactly. It seems more like a plea or a warning, as if the writer believes he has advance knowledge that something will happen to Mary Martha unless you take preventative steps.” Alarmed by her sudden pallor, he added quickly, “Notice I said he believes he has such knowledge. Beliefs often have little relationship to fact. My own feeling is that this is from some neighborhood nut. Have you or Mary Martha had any unpleasantness with any of your neighbors recently?”

“Of course not. We mind our own business and I expect other people to mind theirs.”

“Perhaps you expect too much,” Mac said with a shrug. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about the letter if I were you. It’s unlikely, though not impossible, that Sheridan wrote it. If he did, he’s flipped faster and further than I care to contemplate.”

“Will you find out the truth?”

“Naturally I’ll try to contact him. If he’s pulling these shenanigans he’s got to be stopped, for his own sake as well as yours and Mary Martha’s. Meanwhile I’ll keep the letter, with your permission. I have a friend who’s interested in such things. By the way, was it folded half a dozen times like this when it was delivered?”

“Yes.”

“Kid stuff, I’d say. Just one more question, Kate. Did you manage to get the license number of the green car?”

“Yes. It’s GVK 640.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I should be,” she said harshly. “I rammed his license plate.”

“Kate. Kate, listen to me for a minute.”

“No. I can’t. I can’t listen any more. I want to talk, I’ve got to talk to somebody. Don’t you understand, Mac? I spend all my time with a child. She’s a wonderful girl, very bright and sweet, but she’s only nine years old. I can’t discuss things with her, I can’t burden her with my problems or ask her for help or support. I’ve got to put up a front, pretend that everything’s all right, even when I can feel the very earth crumbling under my feet.”

“You’ve isolated yourself, Kate,” he said calmly. “You used to have friends you could talk to.”

“Friends are a luxury I can’t afford any more. Oh, people were very kind when Sheridan first moved out. They invited me over to cheer me up and hear all the gruesome details. One thing I learned, Mac, and learned well: the only people who really enjoy a divorce are your best friends. All that vicarious excitement and raw emotion, all the blood and guts spilled — why, it was almost as good as television.”

“You’re being unfair to them.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I didn’t have the right kind of friends. Anyway, I stopped accepting invitations and issuing them. I didn’t want people coming over and feeling sorry for me because I was alone, and sorry for themselves because I couldn’t afford to offer them drinks. You want to lose friends, Mac? Stop buying liquor. No money down, results guaranteed.”

“What about Mary Martha?” Mac said.

“What about her?”

“She needs some kind of social environment.”

“She has friends. One friend in particular, Jessie Brant. I don’t especially care for the Brants — Ellen’s one of these pushy modern types — but Jessie’s an interesting child, free-wheeling and full of beans. I think she’s a good influence on Mary Martha, who’s inclined to be overcautious... That’s another thing about the letter, Mac. It was inaccurate. Mary Martha doesn’t take dangerous risks, and I certainly wouldn’t call her delicate. She’s the same age and height as Jessie but she outweighs her by eight or ten pounds.”

“Perhaps the ‘risks’ mentioned didn’t refer to a physical activity like tree-climbing, but to something else that Mary Martha did. Say, for instance, that she was a little reckless while riding her bike and one of the neighbors had to swerve his car to avoid hitting her—”

“Mary Martha is very careful on her bicycle.”

“Yes. Well, it was only a suggestion.”

She was silent for a minute. Then she said in a low bitter voice, “You see? It’s happened the way it always does. I was talking about myself, and now we’re suddenly talking about Mary Martha again. There is no me any more. There’s just the woman who lives in the big house who looks after the little girl. I’ve lost my personship. I might just as well have a number instead of a name.”

“Calm down now, Kate, and get hold of yourself.”

“I told you, myself doesn’t exist anymore. There is no me, there’s nothing to get hold of.”

In the outer office Miss Edgeworth had come back from lunch. As soon as she’d found out that Mrs. Oakley had made an appointment with Mac, she’d gone out and bought two chocolate bars to give to Mary Martha. When she saw that Mrs. Oakley hadn’t brought Mary Martha along after all, Miss Edgeworth was so relieved she ate both of the chocolate bars herself.