The Grey Beginning, page 19
When I tossed the damned thing aside I saw that it had stopped raining. The skies were still swollen with clouds ready to release their burden, and a stiff breeze was blowing; the tops of the cypresses bowed and curtsied. I got my coat and went up to extract the prisoner from his cell. It would do both of us good to get out. If I could persuade him to practice kicking instead of tackling, we wouldn’t get quite so wet.
I was surprised to find Emilia with the boy, stuffing him into an assortment of outdoor garments that would have been more appropriate for a winter day in Montana. “He must have the fresh air,” she informed me, as I stood staring at the motionless bundle. Between the knit cap and the scarf covering his mouth Pete’s eyes blazed with rebellion.
“Oh, I agree, Emilia. A little wet never hurt anybody. You run along. I’ll finish—er—dressing him.”
She obeyed, shutting the door with a slam. Pete snatched off the scarf and threw it on the floor. “Eevan never wears a scarf. Even in the snow.”
“You don’t need it,” I agreed. “Haven’t you got a lighter coat?”
The coat followed the scarf onto the floor. “I will not wear a coat! It does not snow.”
I found a light jacket of waterproof material in the wardrobe, and we compromised on that. The cap would have gone the way of the scarf and the coat if I had not agreed to wear its mate. It was too small for me, and I had to tie it on with a babushka. My appearance sent Pete into spasms of laughter, and he forgot to argue about the gloves and the boots.
Joe emerged from under the bed; obviously he had been avoiding Emilia, which only went to show what an intelligent animal he was. He dragged the despised scarf into a corner and began chewing it. Pete was all for that, but I explained wool was not good for cats, and took it away. “He’s really getting handsome,” I said, stroking the sleek fur on his neck. “A few more weeks and he’ll be fat as a tub of butter.”
“I comb him every day,” Pete said proudly. “And catch the fleas. That is fun, to catch the fleas. They pop when you squeeze them.”
We sneaked out the door while Joe was investigating a ball Pete had tossed under the bed. Pete gravely rattled the door to make sure it was latched. He was taking his responsibilities seriously. The kitten had been a godsend. I had hoped it would entertain him—I hadn’t thought of the fascination of popping fleas—and increase his self-confidence and self-worth and all those other desirable attributes our school psychologist kept talking about. (I don’t disagree with the theory, but sometimes I get awfully tired of professional jargon.)
The boots made a satisfying clatter on the stairs. Pete went up and down a couple of times while I contemplated a problem I had overlooked, the problem of Joe. Pete would kick up a fuss if he had to leave the cat behind, wherever he was destined to go. And he’d be right to fuss. You don’t teach a child responsibility by allowing him to discard a living creature if it becomes an inconvenience. I had no idea what formalities were involved in transporting an animal across the Atlantic. There was no six months’ quarantine in the States, as there was in England, but Joe would probably need shots and a certificate from a vet. The ticket was no problem. I would happily shell out for Joe’s ticket.
You see, I had already assumed that Pete and I would be leaving together. Optimism is an incurable disease.
David didn’t want to leave his work. “It’s wet out,” he protested like a little old lady.
“A little wet never hurt anybody,” said Pete, who had a memory like an elephant’s for convenient clichés.
“Why don’t you come up here and help me?”
“I helped you before. It is boring,” said Pete, dancing up and down with impatience.
When David appeared with a shabby windbreaker as his concession to the chill air, I said, “Your work isn’t going well?”
“The damned scraps won’t dry in this weather,” David grumbled. “I promised her ladyship a show tomorrow, and I can’t use artificial heat, it warps the fabric.”
“Too bad,” I said.
“Ha,” said David.
“Come on,” called Pete.
We concentrated on kicking and going out for passes, but we got pretty wet all the same. Once or twice a feeble ray of sunlight tried to struggle through the clouds, but it was quickly vanquished. Thanks to the boots and the jacket, Pete didn’t get too soaked, but his pants were drenched, since he kept falling down in dramatic, unnecessary lunges for the ball. I called a halt earlier than I would otherwise have done and sent him in. “Ask Rosa for a cup of cocoa, or something hot,” I suggested.
“She’s probably baking,” David added encouragingly. “She said she meant to this morning.”
Pete ran off, promising to save a few cookies for us. “Come up and have a cup of coffee,” David said.
He had a small electric heater. We sat in front of it and steamed gently while we drank our coffee. It was instant, and tasted awful after the espresso I had become accustomed to drinking. But it was hot.
“Any news?” he asked, after a while.
“What about?”
“Your imminent departure. Are you really leaving this weekend?”
“I think so. Sunday, possibly.”
“What about Pete?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Oh, you are, eh? You look awfully pleased with yourself. What have you been up to?”
“I can’t tell you till I know for sure. But I am pleased. I think—I hope—something nice is going to happen.”
“Nice enough to make you forget your recent bereavement?”
The abrupt brutality of the question took my breath away. He went on in the same savage voice, “You don’t look like a grieving widow. What was he like, this husband of yours? Handsome, intelligent, sexy—”
“All those things.” I slammed my cup down on the table and stood up. “How dare you!”
“Wait.” His fingers wrapped around my arm as I spun toward the door. “I’m sorry, Kathy. Sit down.”
I had very little choice in the matter. He kept hold of me after I had seated myself, but the angry contempt had left his face. “Forget I said that, will you? You must know why I said it.”
“Innate boorishness, I assume. Let me go.”
“Not until you’ve heard me out. When you showed up that first morning I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was only half kidding when I said that about rubbing a magic lamp and getting a free wish. After you told me about your husband, I figured I had better take it slow. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that, slow or fast, it was all the same; I was never going to get anywhere. You’re still in love with him. You can’t get him out of your mind. He was everything I’m not.”
“Yes,” I said. “You aren’t…any of the things he was.”
“Then you do understand why I spoke out of turn? I didn’t mean it. It’s only a few more days, Kathy. I’ll probably never see you again. Can we go back to what we were, for those few days?”
“We can’t ever go back. But I understand.”
“It’s okay, then?”
“Yes. I think I’d better go now.”
“See you tomorrow?” His face was anxious.
“Yes. Sure.”
I headed for the kitchen door, so deep in thought I hardly noticed where I was walking. I was in the kitchen garden, treading blindly on baby lettuces and sprouting carrots when the door burst open and Pete came flying out. His face was as gray as his jacket.
He flung himself at me. “Joe. Joe is gone. Did you see him?”
“Why, no. He must be in the house somewhere, Pete. I’ll help you look—”
He was off, pelting down the path, water spraying up from the puddles struck by his flying feet. He was out of sight before I could collect my wits.
Then I heard him scream.
I reached the stableyard before the echoes of his cry had died. The kitten flew across the cobblestones like a ball of animated fur, hardly touching the ground. The dog was close behind, but Pete was closer, moving on an oblique line and running as I have never seen a child that age run. Without pausing he scooped up a stone. He pitched it underhand, wildly; instead of hitting the dog, it struck the ground several feet away. But the impact and the sound it made caused the animal to break stride, just long enough. Pete got through the gate into the garden and slammed it shut.
I didn’t stop running, but I was still twenty feet away when the dog crouched to jump. It is difficult to run and yell at the same time. I was trying to do both. Where the hell was David? Pete’s first cry should have brought him down from his room.
The dog didn’t make it on his first try. The second attempt succeeded. The gate was a wooden grille, I could see through it. My stiff fingers fumbled with the catch. Pete had pulled himself up into a tree. Joe was nowhere in sight. I kept wrestling with the gate, but my racing heart began to slow. They were safe. The cat must have climbed the same tree. My cries had been heard; there were voices, footsteps running.
The dog was snuffling around the trunk of the tree. He jumped again. He missed the boy’s feet by a good yard, but Pete lost his head and tried to climb higher. His hands slipped on the wet bark and he fell, landing across the limb on which he had been standing, his legs dangling down.
I could see the drops dripping from the leaves, the quiver of the muscles in the dog’s haunches as it crouched, the white terror on the boy’s face as he struggled to draw himself up. I could even see Joe, half camouflaged by the leaves where he crouched on a branch high in the tree. All my other senses cut out. I couldn’t feel my hands or my feet, I couldn’t hear anything except a high, distant ringing. I couldn’t hear my own voice; but I must have called to the dog, because it turned to look at me.
The gate opened and I walked into the garden, slowly, not running. The dog stared at me. It knew my voice; but mine was not the voice it had been trained to obey. The words were not the right words of command. I stooped and picked up a fallen branch. With a sudden pop my hearing came back, the way it does when you swallow hard at a high altitude. I heard myself say, “Good dog. Sit. Stay. That’s a good boy…. Pete, just take it easy. You got up there once, you can do it again…. Sit, good boy. Stay.”
The dog’s hindquarters sank down. It was not sitting; it was getting ready to attack.
The mind works oddly at moments like that. I felt as if I had all the time in the world to decide what to do. I doubted that I could make it to the gate. Better to stand and face what was coming. One arm over my throat, one shielding my eyes. Try to get the stick in its mouth.
The dog was in mid-leap when the shot cracked like a thunderclap. The shock was so great I staggered, feeling as if the bullet had hit me. The dog twisted and spun, and fell in a tangled heap.
I stood as if rooted to the ground, too scared even to faint. My ears rang with the echo of the shot—or had there been several shots? Pete had dropped down out of the tree and was running toward me. When his frantic arms went around me my legs gave way and I sank gently to the ground.
Chapter
9
OUT OF THE CHAOS, FACES SLOWLY TOOK SHAPE. ALBERTO, cradling the rifle and smirking with pride; David, staring not at me but at the twisted body of the dog; Rosa, wringing her hands and invoking a pantheon of saints; Emilia; Francesca, her ashen face contrasting bizarrely with the lacquered perfection of her hair.
Having assured himself I was unharmed, Pete stood up. “I am going to be sick,” he announced.
I sat there like a broken doll, my legs doubled up under me. It was David who lifted the boy and held him close. “No, you aren’t,” he said. “Take deep breaths. You’re okay, I’m okay, Kathy is okay. So what’s to worry about?”
From the face pressed against his shirt came a muffled voice. “Joe.”
“Joe?”
“Joe,” I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like mine, “is also okay. But I doubt that he’ll want to come down out of that tree in the near future.”
“I can’t say I blame him,” David muttered. “Well, Pete, Joe isn’t in any danger now. Suppose I carry you up to bed and then I’ll come back and—”
“No. Joe will run away.”
David looked inquiringly at me. I looked dumbly back at him. My brain had gone as limp as my legs. I just wanted to sit.
Francesca touched my shoulder. “Kathleen. The dog did not…”
“Never laid a tooth on me. Thanks to Alberto,” I added grudgingly. He had saved me from serious injury, if not worse, but I found it hard to acknowledge his services. Killing the dog had been the kindest thing he had done to it.
“How did the dog slip its chain?” Francesca demanded. “The whole business is unaccountable. I cannot believe—”
A babble of voices interrupted her. Alberto displayed the end of the chain, with its torn link; Emilia praised his quick thinking and superb marksmanship; Rosa raised her hands to heaven and praised the saints and the Holy Mother of God. I leaned toward her interpretation. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one had been hurt.
Francesca ended the uproar with a sharp command and gave orders all around. Rosa took Pete to her ample bosom. David shinnied up the tree and retrieved Joe, and we all went to the house for first aid and sympathy. David was the only one who needed first aid. Joe had not wanted to come down.
I went upstairs to change clothes. My teeth were chattering, not only with cold, and I accepted Francesca’s offer of a warm robe, since mine was lightweight cotton. Hers was velvet. Real velvet, not polyester, in the pale ivory she favored, trimmed with what appeared to be mink.
I trailed my mink hem up the stairs and pounded on Pete’s door. Rosa had put him to bed and was trying to coax him to eat. The tray held enough food for three people, every dish steaming—soup, spaghetti, milk, rolls.
“Momentito, momentito,” Pete said irritably. He was at work on Joe, rubbing him with a towel and trying to get the tangles out of his tail. Joe was not cooperating.
“That’s good,” I said. “He can finish the job himself now, Pete. I’ll bet he’d like some of your milk.”
“Yes, he would.” Pete snapped an order at Rosa. He sounded just like his grandmother. She grinned and poured milk into a saucer. Steam rose from it. Rosa blew on the milk so vigorously the surface ruffled into white waves.
“Eccolo,” she said, putting the saucer on the floor. Joe sailed into it and Rosa chuckled, her fists on her broad hips.
Before I left I had the satisfaction of seeing Pete eat his lunch with a hearty appetite, having apparently suffered no ill effects from his adventure. I didn’t mind leaving him with Rosa. He seemed to like her, and his autocratic attitudes only amused her. It was a pity she couldn’t look after him, instead of Emilia.
I exchanged Francesca’s gorgeous robe for my suit—the only warm garment I had—before I went downstairs. Francesca exclaimed in surprise when I walked in. “I was about to send Emilia to you with a tray. You ought to rest.”
I had forgotten my condition. “I’m fine,” I assured her.
“You appear to have taken no harm.” She shook her head. “A shocking experience of that nature would have left me completely prostrate.”
“I doubt it,” I said, before I thought, and then added, “That was meant as a compliment, Francesca, even if it didn’t sound like one.”
“Thank you, Kathleen.”
“I’m sorry about the dog. I hope you won’t think I’m impertinent if I suggest you ought to entrust its successor to someone other than Alberto.”
“You don’t like Alberto. Why?”
“What’s to like? He’s ignorant, sadistic, crude…. I’m sorry. But the dog wouldn’t have been so dangerous if he had not mishandled it. A guard dog is a potentially explosive weapon; in my opinion, animals like that shouldn’t be in any house where there are children. Proper training and handling can minimize the danger, but the dog wasn’t getting it from Alberto. How did it get loose?”
“Apparently there was a weak link in the chain. Seeing the cat, the animal struggled to free itself—”
“And how did the cat get out?” I had no right to quiz her, but remembering Pete’s near escape I got queasy all over again. When I feel queasy I yell.
“The child forgot to close the door of his room.”
“He didn’t. I was with him. I watched him test the latch.”
“What are you implying?”
“Someone let the cat out. Oh, it may have been an accident—the cat could have slipped through the door when the tuttofare went in to clean. Or someone may have let it out deliberately, hoping it would run away.”
“Is it Emilia you are accusing?” she asked coolly.
“I’m not accusing anyone. The culprit won’t confess now, when the consequences were so nearly disastrous. I’m only pointing out that you ought to make certain it won’t happen again.”
“And I might point out that giving Pietro a pet was not a good idea, since it led him into danger.”
“You needn’t remind me,” I said wretchedly. “Don’t you suppose I thought of that? But it’s part of living, Francesca—at least, that’s how I look at it. You take chances every time you give someone, or something, a piece of your heart. They, or Fate, may smash it. But what’s the alternative? Not taking risks, not caring—not feeling?”
“I did not intend to accuse you, Kathleen. Your point of view has been argued by others more eloquent than you.” She fell silent, her face remote.
I forced a laugh. “This is turning into a morbid discussion. I didn’t mean it to. All’s well that ends well, after all.”
“Trite but true.”
“I think I will rest this afternoon,” I said. “It’s starting to rain again; my room is so pleasant, with the fire and everything.”
