Witch, page 6
Tim didn’t move. Ellen sensed Norman’s embarrassment, but there was nothing she could do about it. Later, she wondered how long they would have stayed in their various positions if Martha hadn’t come in.
“Dinner’s ready,” she began, and then exclaimed, “Tim! Look at that filth in the hall! You get right out of here and wash those feet. Wash your filthy hands, too. You aren’t fit to eat at a decent table. Now you just move and move fast, young man, or—”
“All right, Martha,” Norman said quickly. “Hurry up, Tim. Please?”
It would have been inaccurate to say that Tim obeyed. He left; but his walk, and his expression, got the point across—he was going because he felt like going, not because he had been told to go. Norman rose and offered Ellen his arm. He looked so unhappy she couldn’t help sympathizing, although she suspected he was not handling Tim very well.
“Adolescents are all monsters, aren’t they?” she said lightly. “I’ve been through it with four of them, and there were times when I thought I’d lose my mind.”
Her bluntness struck the right note. Norman brightened.
“They are all frightful, aren’t they? I guess I get upset too easily. I haven’t had your experience.”
“They like to upset you. Bland indifference to the most outrageous behavior is the only safe response.”
Norman seated her at the right of the high chair marking the head of the table and went to the sideboard, where he dealt expertly with a bottle of wine. The table was beautifully set, with fine old china and heirloom silver. Ellen had to admit it boggled her imagination to visualize Tim’s muddy feet under that table.
“It’s comforting to talk to you,” Norman said, as he poured the wine. “I don’t know what to do with Tim. I never was any good with children. I was horrified when I realized Bev and Joe had appointed me Tim’s guardian. But I could hardly refuse, could I? There are no other relatives.”
“Surely you underestimate yourself. They must have thought you capable or they wouldn’t have appointed you.”
“They had no choice,” said Norman. There was a note of bitterness in his voice. “Oh, I suppose Joe trusted me. I had been handling his business affairs, so I was a logical person to appoint as executor. But Bev never thought much of me. She used to laugh at me…. The thing was, she didn’t expect to die.”
“Nobody does,” Ellen said gently.
“I guess not. But Bev—she was so alive. More alive than anybody I’ve ever known. Everything was exciting to her—a new dress, an ornament for the living room, the first robin in spring. I couldn’t believe…”
During this speech Martha entered with the soup and began to serve it. She served Tim’s place as well, although he had not yet appeared. Ellen was surprised when Norman went on talking, despite the cook’s presence.
“I couldn’t believe she was dead. The police said it was the other driver’s fault, but she always did drive too fast…. They were both killed instantly, which was a merciful thing. Joe’s death was a shock, too, of course, but Bev…. She was so alive.”
“She was a sinner,” said Martha suddenly. “She broke her parents’ heart and she ruined that boy.”
“Now, Martha,” said Norman deprecatingly.
The cook left the room with a sniff and a backward look. Norman glanced at Ellen, who was finding it difficult to conceal her shock and disgust.
“I’m sorry, Ellen. Martha isn’t an ordinary servant; she’s been with me for ten years, and she helped raise Tim. Her ideas of discipline are as old-fashioned as her attitude toward alcohol, but she has a point. Bev was lax with Tim; she’d keep him out of school to go berrying, things like that.”
“I hope Martha doesn’t discuss his mother with Tim,” said Ellen, tight-lipped.
“So do I,” said Norman. He added pathetically, “I told you I was a wretched sort of guardian. If you can give me any advice, Ellen…”
Ellen was softened by the appeal, although she still itched to tell Martha a thing or two. With a faint smile she said,
“You don’t know me very well, Norman, or you wouldn’t say that. I’m only too free with advice. God knows I’m no expert, but I did work with disturbed children for some years, and I’m a pushover for young people. I can’t believe a boy like Tim is beyond help.”
“He’s not a bad boy,” Norman said. He looked at her anxiously, and Ellen’s tender heart contracted. She had heard that pitiful statement so often.
“He’s a handsome boy,” she said gently. “He resembles you strongly.”
“Shame on you, hitting at my vanity like that. Tim looks a lot like his father; and when we were small, people used to think Joe and I were twins. But it takes a keen eye to see the resemblance, with that perpetual scowl of Tim’s.”
Ellen’s offer of a sympathetic ear had been genuine, and she was honestly curious; but she didn’t want to discuss Tim now, when he was apt to appear at any moment.
“This is wonderful consommé,” she said. “You didn’t exaggerate Martha’s talents.”
The soup was an unsuccessful attempt at divertissement, for Tim’s bowl remained untouched. When Martha came in to change the plates, she took Tim’s full bowl without glancing at her employer. When she brought in a superb roast, with its accompanying vegetables, she looked at the empty chair and shook her head.
“You ought to cut off his food for a few days. A little starving might teach him to appreciate good food.”
“Now, Martha—”
“You’re too soft,” the woman grumbled. She gave Ellen a provocative glance, and Ellen knew she had been eavesdropping. She met Martha’s hostile eyes with a look so coolly contemptuous that Martha turned away without further comment. As she left the room, Tim entered it. The timing was too perfect. Tim lurking at one door, and the cook at another—heavens, Ellen thought, what a house this is!
Tim had washed his hands. Literally. The line left by soap and water stopped an inch above his wrists. Ellen wondered about his feet. They were now covered by worn old sneakers, but Ellen suspected the mud was still there.
Tim began to eat in silence. Norman’s attempts to draw him into the conversation won only grunts.
Ellen would have enjoyed the meal if it had not been for Norman’s discomfort. After the first moment of surprise she had not been disturbed by Tim. She had seen too many like him and had learned that Norman’s self-conscious good cheer was the worst possible tactic. She ignored Tim with perfect equanimity and chatted about abstract subjects; in fact, as the meal progressed she almost forgot about him. It was something of a shock, therefore, when the silent figure opposite her suddenly addressed her.
“You’ve got a cat, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” Ellen said amiably. “A Siamese. Do you like cats?”
“No,” said Tim. “No, I don’t like cats. Do I, Norman?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Neither one of us likes cats. But I don’t dislike them as much as Norman does. Do I, Norman?”
Norman’s face was pale. Watching him in helpless sympathy, Ellen knew he was afraid—but not of the object of his phobia. He was afraid of the same thing that sent a shudder down her backbone—the blaze of hate in his young nephew’s eyes.
“Ailurophobia is a painful thing to have,” she said. “I’ve never heard that it was hereditary, though. I wonder if anyone has researched the subject?”
Tim’s eyes dropped to his plate. He began wolfing down a masterpiece of the pastry maker’s art—strawberry tart with a crust like air. Norman relaxed with an audible sigh. Ellen felt a little like an animal trainer trying to calm a leopard by talking soothingly to it. So far it seemed to be working. She went on in the same level voice.
“They say children acquire prejudices against animals, food, and the like from their parents. I’ve always doubted that. My kids love the vegetables I loathe, and vice versa. But of course ailurophobia is more than a prejudice; it’s a physical illness. Perhaps a chemical imbalance—”
“No,” said Tim, without looking up. “It’s hereditary, all right. We’ve had it for a long time. Haven’t we, Norman? It goes back to our ancestor that was killed by the witch’s cat. She hexed him, and he murdered her. Didn’t he, Norman? Then the cat clawed—”
“Tim!” Norman’s pallor disappeared under a flush of anger. “Let’s not have that crazy story, at least not while we’re eating.”
“I’m through.” Tim pushed back his chair and stood up. Then he did something that shook Ellen more than anything he had yet done. Bowing in an ugly parody of courtesy, he said in a high-pitched voice,
“Please, ma’am, may I be excused? Pretty please?”
Ellen was spared the necessity of finding an adequate response. Tim swung abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room.
Norman began to apologize, but Ellen scarcely heard him. She was trying to figure out why the bizarre little performance had been so disturbing. Malice—yes, that was a source of distress, particularly since she hadn’t given Tim any cause to dislike her. Another disconcerting element was her awareness of Tim’s masculinity as he moved, for once, without a slouch or a shuffle. He might be retarded emotionally, but physically he was almost a man, and he could move with a young man’s animal grace. Ellen had a habit of speaking without premeditation when she was strongly moved, and now she said,
“What a devil he must be with the girls!”
“Don’t say that!”
Norman’s voice was harsh. Ellen stared at him.
“I’m sorry, Norman. That was stupid of me. He hasn’t—I mean, there haven’t been any—”
“Not yet. Nothing serious…yet. Oh, my God, what am I going to do?”
Norman covered his face with his hands.
“Now,” Ellen said gently but firmly, “that won’t help. I’m sure you are worrying unnecessarily, Norman. Tim is going through a difficult stage—”
“He’s almost eighteen.” Norman took his hands from his face. He was flushed, but there were no traces of tears. Ellen was glad of that; she wasn’t used to dealing with masculine weeping. She suppressed a sudden unfair memory of the way Jack had been accustomed to deal with the malefactions of his young.
“How long do these stages last?” Norman went on. “This one has been going on for seven years.”
“But what has he actually—” Ellen stopped as Martha came in with the coffee. If Norman wanted to discuss Tim in front of Martha she couldn’t stop him, but she had no intention of joining in the critical chorus. She felt sure the woman had overheard the entire episode. Her face was pursed with the nasty satisfaction of a Puritan who has just discovered a sinner sinning, as expected.
Norman answered the unfinished question as Martha gathered up the dessert plates.
“He’s done a lot of things. Malicious mischief, vandalism, cruelty to animals—”
Ellen let out a low exclamation and Martha eyed her severely. The woman balanced the heavy tray as if it had been empty. She had arms like a stevedore’s.
“Better watch that cat of yours,” said Martha.
“Now, Martha—” Norman began.
“You gotta tell her. You’re too soft with that boy, always have been. Tell her about the squirrel he cut the tail off, and the baby rabbits—”
“Martha!”
“All right, all right,” Martha muttered. “But you tell her. Doesn’t matter what he does to varmints like squirrels, but some people set store by animals. Those fancy cats cost money. Some folks carry on about them as if they was human.”
She marched out with the tray. Norman patted Ellen’s hand.
“I’m sorry, my dear. Why, you’re as pale as a ghost!”
“My phobia,” said Ellen, trying to smile. “I can’t stand stories about cruelty to children or animals. I’m a sentimental fool.”
“There’s nothing foolish about that attitude. But Martha is right, it wouldn’t be fair not to warn you about Tim’s habits with animals. When he was small I thought pets would be good for him. But he—well, the only animals I can keep are the dogs. They are too big and too dangerous for Tim to hurt, although he torments them as much as he safely can. They detest him, and I’m always afraid they’ll do him an injury.”
“It was Tim yesterday, wasn’t it—at my house, when the dogs barked and then rushed off into the woods?”
“I’m afraid so. But don’t worry about any danger from Tim. He’s a solitary creature; spends a lot of time roaming about the woods. But he’s never attacked anyone. At least—not an adult.”
“You don’t mean he attacks children!”
“I mean he fights,” said Norman, with a sudden grin. “He used to, at any rate. When he was ten or eleven I got an average of two calls a week from outraged parents whose kids Tim had beaten up. I’m afraid I discounted that. You know how boys are.”
“That kind of aggressiveness is often a sign of trouble, though,” Ellen said. “The sudden death of his parents—”
“That’s right,” Norman said eagerly. “It was a normal reaction, wasn’t it? He was ten when Joe and Bev were killed. I expected the boy to be disturbed.”
“It’s normal in a sense,” Ellen said cautiously. “But often children need help to adjust to a loss as severe as that.”
“He had help. He saw three different psychiatrists over the next five years. It didn’t do any good. He doesn’t fight now, but only because the other boys leave him strictly alone. They learned not to provoke him.”
“Is he seeing a psychiatrist now?”
“Not at the moment. The last man I consulted said he couldn’t do anything without some cooperation from Tim. He wasn’t getting it.”
“Whom did you see?”
The names Norman recited made Ellen’s eyebrows lift.
“You went to the best, all right. How on earth did you get Abrahamson to take you on? He’s usually booked up ten years ahead.”
“I was ready to do anything by that time,” Norman said. “You do agree that I’ve tried?”
“My dear man, you certainly have. There are no better names in the field.”
“I can’t help being fond of the boy,” Norman said forlornly. “Even though he hates me…. Oh, yes, he does. I have to recognize that, though it hurts me. Ellen, I’ve been incredibly inconsiderate, depressing you with all this. Let’s talk about something else. I wouldn’t have gone into it if Tim hadn’t behaved so badly. I’m such a stupid optimist; every time he meets someone new I hope he’ll respond, be pleasant…. And I hope the newcomer won’t start out with a prejudice against him. That happens, you know.”
“I know exactly what you mean. If you expect a boy to behave badly you increase his propensity to do so. But I’m not prejudiced, Norman. I wish I could help Tim.”
“Even when you know about his cruelty to animals?”
“He couldn’t get near Ishtar, she’s too cautious.”
“But if he did?”
“What did you just say about prejudice, and expecting the worst? Norman, believe me, I’ve worked with children who had worse problems than Tim.”
“Thank you, Ellen. And now we really will talk about something else.”
He still looked depressed, and as they walked toward the living room Ellen was moved to make a gesture she was normally wary of making. Slipping her arm through his, she said lightly,
“Don’t you know I’m psychic? My crystal ball tells me you’ve no need to worry. Tim will turn into a model citizen.”
“Are you really psychic?” Norman asked with interest.
“Of course not. I don’t really believe—”
“In that sort of thing? I sincerely hope you don’t, Ellen. You’re in the wrong house, if you’re at all susceptible.”
“Oh, Norman, not you, too! Ed Salling almost refused to sell me the house. Do I strike everyone as a feebleminded female?”
“I didn’t mean that….”
“Then tell me about my witch and your ancestor. Or was Tim making that up?”
Norman cocked his head and looked at her speculatively. The pose made him appear almost as young as his nephew. After a moment he smiled.
“You’re all right. It isn’t morbid curiosity, is it?”
“Just curiosity, plain and simple. I told you I was a busybody.”
“Can’t blame you for being intrigued. Ghost stories are always fun, aren’t they? It’s true that my ancestor, Peter McKay, was one of the first settlers in this area. He was a tough character and a Bible-toting fundamentalist. Did Ed tell you anything about our local church?”
“He warned me against it, but he warned me about a lot of other things, too.”
“He would. But the church is something of a curiosity. It’s an unusual sect—unique, so far as I know. No, don’t get any wild ideas about Devil worship or Black Masses. It’s nothing like that, just an extreme form of pessimistic Calvinism. Infant damnation, predestination, prurient Puritanism—the works. Peter McKay became a convert and an elder. It is quite possible that he came into conflict with Mary Baumgartner, if the stories about her are true. But that’s as far as I can logically support the legend Tim mentioned. Mary’s death was officially suicide, and her cat is probably apocryphal. Cats are the conventional familiars, aren’t they?”
Ellen sipped the brandy he had served as he talked.
“Black cats are conventional, but a white, blue-eyed Angora, at that period, is distinctly unusual. However, that’s a side issue. How did your ancestor die?”
“Who knows? He died in 1756, which was the period of the French and Indian Wars, so maybe his demise was violent. But there are no reliable records.”
“And the ailurophobia? Is it really hereditary?”
Norman showed signs of impatience.
“Again, who knows? My father hated cats, but a lot of people do. Men of the old school wouldn’t admit to such a weakness if they had it.”
His mouth had a wry twist, and Ellen decided she had better not pursue the subject.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, considering its inauspicious beginning. Norman played some of his favorite records, and they were still talking about music when he drove her home. The conversation had wandered so far from the subject of ghosts and hallucinations that Ellen’s conscious mind was free of any such associations. It was therefore a considerable shock when she saw the shadow again.
