The Genocides

TWELVE Ghosts and Monsters

You’d better hide, she thought, and that was how she got lost.

Once, when Blossom was seven, her parents had gone to Duluth for the weekend, taking the baby, Jimmie Lee with them, leaving her alone in the big two-story house on the outskirts of Tassel. It was their eighteenth wedding anniversary. Buddy and Neil, both big boys then, had gone away—one to a dance, the other to a baseball game. For a while she had watched television, then she played with her dolls. The house became very dark, but it was her father’s rule never to turn on more than one lamp at a time. Otherwise, you wasted current.

She didn’t mind being a little scared. There was even something nice about it. So she turned off all the lights and pretended the Monster was trying to find her in the dark. Hardly daring to breathe and on the tips of her toes, she found safe hiding places for all her children: Lulu, because she was black anyway, in the coal bin in the basement; Ladybird, behind the cats’ box; Nelly, the oldest, in the wastebasket by Daddy’s desk. It got scarier and scarier. The Monster looked everywhere in the living room for her except the one place she was—behind the platform rocker. When he left the living room, Blossom crept up the stairs, keeping close to the wall so they wouldn’t creak. But one did creak, and the Monster heard it and came gallumphing up the stairs behind her. With an excited shout she ran into the first room and shut the door behind her. It was Neil’s bedroom, and the big horned moosehead glowered down at her from his place over the chest of drawers. She had always been afraid of that moose, but she was even more afraid of the Monster, who was out there in the hall, listening at every door to hear if she was inside.

She crept on hands and knees to Neil’s closet door, which was ajar. She hid among the smelly old boots and dirty blue jeans. The door to the bedroom creaked open. It was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, but she could hear the Monster snuffling all over. He came to the door of the closet and stopped. He smelled she was inside. Blossom’s heart almost stopped beating, and she prayed to God and to Jesus that the Monster would go away.

The Monster made a loud terrible noise and threw open the door, and for the very first time Blossom saw what the Monster looked like. She screamed and screamed and screamed.

Neil got home first that night, and he couldn’t understand what Blossom was doing in his closet with his dirty blue jeans pulled down over her head, whimpering like she’d been whipped with the strap, and trembling like a robin caught in an April snowstorm. But when he picked her up, her little body became all rigid, and nothing would content her but that she sleep that night in Neil’s bed. The next morning she’d come down with a fever, and her parents had to cut their trip short and come home and take care of her. No one ever understood what had happened, for Blossom didn’t dare tell them about the Monster, whom they couldn’t see. Eventually the incident was forgotten. As Blossom grew older, the content of her nightmares underwent a gradual change: the old monsters were no more terrifying now than the moosehead over the chest of drawers.

Darkness, however, is the very stuff of terror, and Blossom, running and creeping through the roots, descending depth after depth, felt the old fear repossess her. Suddenly all the lights in the house had been turned off. The darkness filled itself with monsters, like water pouring into a tub, and she ran down stairs and down hallways looking for a closet to hide in.

All through these last, long days of her father’s dying, and even before, Blossom had been too much alone. She had felt that there was something he wanted to say to her but that he wouldn’t let himself say it. This restraint humiliated her. She had thought that he did not want her to see him dying, and she had forced herself to stay away. Alice and Maryann, with whom she would customarily have passed her time, had no concern now but the baby. Blossom wanted to help them, but she was too young. She was at that age when one is uncomfortable in the presence of either birth or death. She haunted the fringes of these great events and pitied herself for being excluded from them. She imagined herself dying: how sad they would all be, how sorry they had neglected her!

Even Orville had no time for Blossom. He was either off by himself or at Anderson’s side. Only Neil seemed more upset at the old man’s death. Whenever Orville’s path had crossed Blossom’s he looked at her with such deadly intensity that the girl turned away, blushing and even slightly scared. No longer did she feel she understood him, and this, in a way, made her love him more—and more hopelessly.

But none of these things would have caused her to take flight, except into fantasies. It was only after she had seen the expression on Neil’s face, the almost somnambulistic cast to his features, when she had heard him speak her name in that particular tone of voice—it was then that Blossom, like a doe catching scent of a hunter, panicked and began to run: away, into the deeper, sheltering dark.

She ran blindly, and so it was inevitable that she would go over one of the dropoffs into a primary root. It could happen, in the dark, even if you were careful. The void swallowed her whole.

Her bent knees first entered the pulp of the fruit, then her body pitched forward into the soft, yielding floss. She sank deep, deep into it. She landed unhurt, only a few inches away from the broken but still breathing body of Alice Nemerov, R.N.

He had delayed, had Jeremiah Orville, altogether too long. He had meant to revenge, and he had instead assisted. Day by day he had observed Anderson’s death, his agony, his humiliation, and he knew that he, Jeremiah Orville, had had nothing to do with them. It was the Plant and mere happenstance that had brought Anderson low.

Orville had stood by, Hamletlike, and said amen to Anderson’s prayers—had deceived only himself by his subtleties. He had been so greedy that all Anderson’s sufferings proceed from himself alone and none from the Plant that he had led the old man and his tribe to a land of milk and honey. And now his enemy lay dying by the merest accident, by an infected bite on a vestigial toe.

Orville brooded, alone, in that deep darkness, and an image, a phantasm, took shape in the vacant air. Each day, the apparition took on greater definition, but he knew even from the first white shimmering that it was Jackie Whythe. But this was a Jackie who had never been: younger, lither, sweeter, the very essence of female grace and delicacy.

She made him, by all her familiar wiles, declare his love for her. He swore he loved her, but she was not satisfied, she would not believe him. She made him say it again and again.

She reminded him of the nights they had been together, of the treasures of her young body… and the horror of her death. Then she would ask again: Do you love me?

I do, I do, he insisted. I do love you. Can you doubt it? He was in an agony of desire to possess her once again. He craved a final kiss, the slightest touch, a breath merely, but he was refused.

I am dead, she reminded him, and you have not revenged me.

“Who will you have?” he asked aloud, grabbing up the axe, which he had been whetting on the palm of his hand all this while. “Give me the name, and with this same axe…”

Blossom, the phantasm whispered eagerly, not without a hint of jealousy. You’ve abandoned me for that child. You court an infant.

No! it was only that I might betray her. It was all for the sake of you.

Then betray her now. Betray her, and I will return to you. Then, only then, will I kiss you. Then, when you touch me, your hand will feel flesh. With those words she disappeared.

In the same instant he knew she had not been real, that this was, quite possibly, the inception of madness. But he did not care. Though she was not real, she was right.

Immediately he went in search of his victim. He found her standing on the edge of a group gathered about her father’s corpse. Alice Nemerov was lying bound near the corpse, and Neil Anderson was there too, raving. Orville paid no heed to any of this. Then Blossom, as though sensing his purpose, ran madly into the dark tunnels of the Plant. He followed her. This time he would do what must be done—do it neatly, expeditiously, and with an axe.

Pressing the hard, crisp pulp from the rind of the fruit between her palms, Blossom was able to squeeze out a few oily drops of water. But it was so warm at this depth—eighty degrees or more—that she could hardly hope to revive Alice with it. She began again to massage the old woman’s thin hands, her cheeks, the sagging flesh of her arms. Mechanically she repeated the same few words of comfort: “Alice dear, please…. Try to wake up, try…. Alice, it’s Blossom…. Alice?…. It’s all right now…. Oh, please!” At last the old woman seemed to be conscious, for she groaned.

“Are you all right? Alice?”

Alice made a noise verging on speech, which was terminated by a hissing intake of breath. When she did speak, when she could speak, her voice was unnaturally loud and strangely resolute. “My hip. I think… yes, it’s broken.”

“Oh no! Oh, Alice! Does it… does it hurt?”

“Like hell, my dear.”

“Why did he do it? Why did Neil—” Blossom paused; she dared not say what it was that Neil had done. Now that Alice was conscious, her own fear and agitation settled over her again. It was as though she had revived Alice only that she might be able to tell her, Blossom, that the Monster wasn’t real, just something she’d imagined.

“Why did he throw me down here? Because, my dear, the bastard murdered your father, and because I knew it and was fool enough to say so. And then, I fancy, he never has liked me very much.”

Blossom said she would not believe it, that it was absurd. She made Alice tell her how she knew, called for the evidences, refuted them. She made her, suffering as she was, repeat each detail of the story, and still she would not believe it. Her brother had faults, but he was not a murderer.

“He murdered me, didn’t he?” It was a difficult question to answer.

“But why would he do such a thing? Why kill a man who’s almost dead? It makes no sense. There was no reason.”

“It was on your account, my dear.”

Blossom could almost feel the Monster breathing down her neck. “What do you mean?” She grabbed Alice’s hand almost angrily. “Why on my account?”

“Because he must have found out that your father was intending for you and Jeremiah Orville to be married.”

“Daddy intended—I don’t understand?”

“He wanted Jeremiah to be the new leader, to take his place. He didn’t want it, but he saw that it would have to be that way. But he put off telling anyone about it. That was my doing. I told him to wait. I thought it would keep him going. I never thought…”

Alice talked on, but Blossom had stopped listening. She understood now what her father had wanted to tell her and why he had hesitated. Grief and shame flooded over her: she had misjudged him; she had left him all those days to suffer alone. And he had only wanted her happiness, the happiness she wanted for herself! If only she could return to beg his forgiveness, to thank him. It was as though Alice, by those few words, had turned on all the lights in the house and restored her father to life.

But Alice’s next words dispelled this illusion. “You’d better watch out for him,” she said grimly. “You dare not trust him. Especially you.”

“Oh no, no, you don’t understand. I love him. And I think he loves me too.”

“Not Orville. Of course he loves you. Any fool can see that. It’s Neil you’d better watch out for. He’s crazy.”

Blossom did not protest this. She knew, better than Alice, though less aware till now, how true this was.

“And part of his craziness has to do with you.”

“When the others know what he’s done, when I tell them…” Blossom did not have to say more than this. When the others knew what Neil had done, he would be killed.

“That’s why I told you. So they would find out.”

“You’ll tell them yourself. We’ve got to get back. Now. Here—put your arm around my shoulder.” Alice protested, but Blossom would not listen. The old woman was light. Blossom could carry her, if need be.

An agonized cry parted the old woman’s lips, and she tore her arm away from Blossom. “No! no, the pain… I can’t.”

“Then I’ll get help.”

“What help? Whose help? A doctor? An ambulance? I couldn’t help your father recover from a rat bite, and this is—” The sound that intruded upon her speech was more eloquent than any words she might have intended.

For a long while, Blossom bit her lip to keep silent. When she felt Alice was ready to listen, she said, “Then I’ll just sit here with you.”

“And watch me die? It will take a while. No more than two days, though, and most of the time I’ll be making these awful noises. No—that would be no comfort to me. But there is something you can do. If you’re strong enough.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“You must promise.” Blossom’s hand tightened over hers in assurance. “You must do for me what Neil did for your father.”

“Murder you? No! Alice, you can’t ask me to—”

“My dear, I’ve done it in my time for those who have asked. Some of them had less reason than I. A hypodermic of air, and the pain is—” She did not, this time, cry out. “—gone. Blossom, I beg you.”

“Someone may come. We’ll make a stretcher.”

“Yes, someone may come. Neil may come. Can you imagine what he would do if he finds me still alive?”

“No, he wouldn’t—” But immediately she knew he would.

“You must, my dear. I’ll hold you to your promise. But kiss me first. No, not like that—on the lips.”

Blossom’s trembling lips pressed against Alice’s that were rigid with the effort to hold back the pain. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you like my very own mother.”

Then she did what Neil had done. Alice’s body twisted away in instinctive, unthinking protest, and Blossom let loose her grip.

“No!” Alice gasped. “Don’t torture me—do it!”

Blossom did not let loose this time until the old woman was dead.

The darkness grew darker, and Blossom thought she could hear someone climbing down the vines of the root overhead. There was a loud terrible noise as his body came down into the fruit pulp. Blossom knew what the Monster would look like: he would look like Neil. She screamed and screamed and screamed.

The Monster had an axe.

“Return soon,” she begged.

“I will, I promise.” Buddy bent down to his wife, missing her lips in the darkness (the lamp, by Neil’s authority, was to remain with the corpse) and kissing her nose instead. She giggled girlishly. Then, with an excess of caution, he touched one finger to the tiny arm of his son. “I love you,” be said, not bothering to define whether he was addressing her or the infant or perhaps both. He did not know himself. He only knew that despite the terrible events of the last months, and especially of the past hour, his life seemed meaningful in a way that it had not for years. The somberest considerations could not diminish the fullness of his hopes nor dampen the glow of his satisfaction.

In even the worst disaster, in the largest defeats, the machinery of joy keeps on grinding for a lucky few.

Maryann seemed more aware than he that their charmed circle was of very small circumference, for she murmured, “Such a terrible thing.”

“What?” Buddy asked. His attention was taken up with Buddy Junior’s teeny-tiny toe.

“Alice. I can’t understand why he.”

“He’s crazy,” Buddy said, moving reluctantly outside the circle. “Maybe she called him a name. She has—she had a sharp tongue, you know. When he gets back, I’ll see that something’s done. There’s no teffing what rotten thing he’ll do next. Orville will help, and there are others, too, who’ve let a word drop. But in the meantime he has a gun and we don’t. And the important thing now is to find Blossom.”

“Of course. That must come first. It’s just that it’s such a terrible thing.”

“It’s a terrible thing,” he agreed. He could hear Neil calling to him again. “I have to go now.” He began to move away.

“I wish the lamp were here, so I could see you one more time.”

“You sound like you don’t think I’ll return.”

“No! Don’t say that—even as a joke. You will come back. I know you will. But, Buddy—?”

“Maryann?”

“Say it one more time.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you.” When she was quite sure he was gone, she added: “I’ve always loved you.”

The several members of the descending search party threaded their way through the labyrinth of divergent roots on a single slim rope, braided by Maryann from the fiber of the vines. When any member of the party separated from the main body, he attached the end of his own reel of rope to the communal rope that led back to the tuber where Anderson was lying in state beside the vigilant lamp.

Neil and Buddy descended the farthest along the communal rope. When it gave out, they were at a new intersection of roots. Buddy knotted one end of his rope to the end of the main line and went off to the left. Neil, having done likewise, went to the right, but only for a short distance. Then he sat down and thought, as hard as he could think.

Neil did not trust Buddy. Never had. Now, with their father passed on, wouldn’t he have to trust him still less? He thought he was so smart, Buddy did, with that brat of his. Like he was the only man in the world ever had a son. Neil hated his guts for other reasons too—which his mind shied from. It would not do for him to be too consciously aware that the presumable Neil Junior, if he existed at all, existed most probably as a result of other seed than his own. That was a thought that he had best not think at all.

Neil was worried. He sensed in several of the men who’d gone out on the search a resistance to his authority, and this resistance seemed strongest in Buddy. A leader can’t afford to let his leadership be challenged. Their father had always harped on that. It didn’t seem to make any difference to Buddy that Anderson had wanted Neil to take over for him. Buddy had always been a wild one, a rebel, an atheist.

That’s what he is! Neil thought, astonished at how perfectly the word defined everything dangerous in his brother. An atheist! Why hadn’t he realized that before?

One way or another, atheists had to be stomped out. Because atheism was like poison in the town reservoir; it was like…. But Neil couldn’t remember how the rest of it went. It had been a long time since his father had given a good sermon against atheism and the Supreme Court.

On the heels of this perception another new idea came to Neil. It was, for him, a true inspiration, a revelation—almost as though his father’s spirit had come down from heaven and whispered it in his ear.

He would tie Buddy’s line in a circle!

Then, when Buddy tried to get back, he’d just keep following the rope around and around the circle. Once you grasped the basic concept, it was a very simple idea.

There was one hitch, however, when you thought about it carefully. One part of the circle would be here at this intersection, and Buddy could feel around, maybe, and discover the end of the main line where it was still knotted to Neil’s.

But he wouldn’t if the circle didn’t touch this intersection!

Chuckling to himself, Neil unknotted Buddy’s rope and began following Buddy, winding the rope up as he went along. When he figured he’d taken up enough of it, he turned off along a minor branch of the root, unwinding the rope as he crawled along. This small root connected to another equally small, and this to yet another. The roots of the Plant were always circling around on themselves, and if you just kept turning the same direction, you usually came back to the point you started from. And sure enough, Neil soon was back in the larger root, where he caught hold of Buddy’s line, stretched taut, a foot off the floor. Buddy was probably not far away.

Neil’s trick was working splendidly. Having nearly reached the end of the length of rope, he knotted it to the other end and formed a perfect circle.

Now, Neil thought, with satisfaction, let him try and find his way back. Let him try and make trouble now! The lousy atheist!

Neil began to crawl back the way he had come, using Buddy’s rope as a guide, laughing all the way. Only then did he notice that there was some kind of funny slime all over his hands and all over his clothing, too.