Witch, page 9
“No, ma’am!” The chorus sounded sincere.
“And you’ll come out to the orchard next week?” Joyce asked.
“If it doesn’t rain. I hate berry picking in the mud.”
“It won’t rain,” Joyce said, with a glance at the cloudless blue sky. “The almanac says no rain for a week.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ellen said soberly. “There’s a storm building up. It could be a bad one. I can feel it in the air; can’t you?”
Chapter 6
LUCKILY THERE WAS LITTLE TRAFFIC ON HIGHWAY 624. Ellen drove home in a fog, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to pay attention to the road. She regretted her final comment; the kids had no talent for symbolism, they would probably go home and tell their parents the crazy new lady at the witch’s house was setting herself up as a weather prophet. Absently she contemplated the sky and realized that her prediction might well come true. It was an unusually muggy day, and there was a slight haze in the air.
Selfishly, she cursed the incident that had spoiled what was otherwise a pleasant encounter. They were nice kids, most of them, and she was hungry for young companionship. Strange that the two least appealing members of the group were brother and sister….
But of course it wasn’t strange when she stopped to think about it. Mrs. Muller had struck Ellen as more pitiable than contemptible. No doubt her “sinful” husband was responsible for her beaten look, although Ellen had doubts about Mrs. Grapow’s definition of the word. A half-forgotten memory rustled in her mind and she frowned, trying to remember. Hadn’t the real estate agent mentioned a man named Muller who was a wife beater, drunkard, and all-around rat? She was almost sure that was the name. Maybe Mrs. Grapow was right, for once. Though surely nothing was more likely to incite a bully than that gray, doughy helplessness of Mrs. Muller’s. Why didn’t she leave her worthless husband, or hit him over the head with a rock?
Which brought her mind back to the real cause of her distress. All the way home she kept remembering Tim’s look and the tone of his voice when he said, “Lean on you?” It was as if the very idea of support, of help, were totally foreign to him. Which was ridiculous, of course. His uncle was ready and willing to help, if Tim would let him.
Ellen sighed. There was no use fighting it. Something had to be done about Tim. She sighed because she knew her symptoms. She had been through this sort of thing before, and it was never easy. The results were so unpredictable. An occasional heartwarming success was countered by a series of disappointments. There was Bernie. Bernie had been one of her first cases, the polestar that kept her working with disturbed kids through failure after failure. Big, lanky, frizzy-headed Bernie, “the worst kid in the neighborhood,” was now a successful law student, deeply involved with Legal Aid. And there was Hank, now married, with a baby, and assistant manager of the local gas station; Pat, whose new husband knew all about her unfortunate slip at the age of fifteen; Marian, who was on her way to moderate success as a model after using her extraordinary beauty to make money in a less socially acceptable profession.
And on the other side of the ledger were other names and faces, all burned indelibly into her heart by the pain of failure. Which would Tim be? He would be in her ledger; she was hooked, and she knew it.
Ellen stopped the car outside her house with a decisive jab at the brake. She would call Norman and invite him to her dinner party next day. It was short notice, but she owed him an invitation, and if she didn’t offer it soon he would think she had been offended by Tim’s behavior.
Little does he know, Ellen thought with a wry smile. He’s in for it now, as Jack used to say when I got interested in some youngster and nagged the parents till they did what I wanted them to. Jack always said…
Turning her mind firmly to the menu for the next day, she carried her groceries into the house.
Norman accepted her telephone invitation with such pleasure that Ellen felt ashamed of her delay. She had not meant to plunge into a lecture about Tim just then, but she felt it necessary to mention the rock-throwing incident.
Norman’s reaction was one of weary acceptance.
“No, he won’t tell me about it; he never tells me anything. It was nice of you to go to the rescue, Ellen.”
“What else could I have done? I was really scared, Norman. He could have been killed.”
“There would have been general rejoicing in town,” Norman said grimly.
“The rejoicing wouldn’t have lasted long. Not after I’d told the police what happened.”
“Police?” Norman repeated sarcastically. “Weuns don’t call the cops about our little troubles, Ellen. This community is the most anachronistic, hidebound…. But I shouldn’t complain. Tim would have a record as long as my arm if my fellow citizens weren’t amenable to settling out of court.”
“I see why you feel that way, and in a way I agree with you. But you can’t keep the police away if someone is seriously hurt. You minimized the severity of the problem—for my benefit, I know. But after what happened today—”
“Well, accept my thanks for your help. I daren’t hope you got any thanks from Tim.”
“Quite the contrary.”
“Oh, my.” Norman’s voice was so depressed that Ellen had to laugh.
“My dear man, I’m too bullheaded to be put off by bad manners. You can’t expect a boy to accept feminine fussing gratefully. My nephews would have cussed me out for babying them in public. They’re very conscious of their masculinity at that age.”
“You are a good woman, Ellen.”
“I’m a nosy busybody,” said Ellen cheerfully. “And I’ve got several ideas about Tim. But we won’t discuss them now. See you tomorrow?”
“Wonderful. Oh…I hate to mention it, but the cat…?”
“Will spend the day in the nice fresh out-of-doors.”
“I thought you had decided it was wisest to keep her in. I’ll never forgive myself if she should come to harm because of my nutty phobia.”
“If it worries you, Ishtar will languish in the woodshed. Now you are fussing, Norman. Stop it.”
Ellen spent the rest of the afternoon cooking, which she enjoyed. As a busy mother of four, she had seldom had time for the slow, complicated recipes that are the most challenging. Now she could grate lemons and melt chocolate and mince onions to her heart’s content. She had even bought a small kitchen scale so she could try some of her hoarded European recipes without having to translate their weight measurements into the American equivalents.
By late afternoon she had baked a Sacher torte of dangerous richness and was chopping the vegetables for the daube that was to be the main course. Peeling and cutting up fresh tomatoes took a long time. The recipe also called for chopped carrots and bacon, black olives, and top sirloin marinated in wine overnight and larded with salt pork. When Ellen finally had put it together, she sealed the earthenware casserole with a strip of dough and heaved a sigh of self-congratulation. Six hours in a slow oven, and that concoction would put Martha in her place.
She had planned a late-afternoon walk, but, absorbed in her work, she had not noticed the withdrawal of the sunlight. Now, glancing out the window, she realized that she was a better prophet than she had realized. The sky was overcast with rain clouds.
So she spent the rest of the day cleaning the kitchen, which was in need of attention. Even that chore was fun; the kitchen was now a charming room with natural-pine cabinets and pale-yellow counter tops. Copper and chrome gleamed when Ellen finished. She read for the rest of the evening, and when she retired she saw no shadows but the ones cast by her reading lamp.
The rain held off, but the next day was dark and threatening. As she frosted her cake and made salad and rolls, Ellen kept glancing anxiously out the window. The threat of bad weather did not deter her guests; they arrived on time, with scathing comments about the condition of her driveway and the inadequacy of her directions.
When Norman’s car drove up, Ellen realized she had forgotten about Ishtar. Snatching the cat from the lap of a guest who was wearing a dark suit—Ishtar preferred those fabrics on which cat hairs stood out most effectively—she had only time for a hasty explanation to her guests before rushing Ishtar off to the woodshed.
The party was a success, and Norman was a social sensation. Even the men seemed to like him and the two women kept giving Ellen meaningful looks. Dot Gold was more direct, when she came into the kitchen to help Ellen serve the meal.
“He’s a nice guy and a good neighbor,” Ellen said, cutting short a flood of questions. “And that’s all, Dot. I wish you’d stop trying to marry me off. I’m perfectly happy the way I am.”
“I’ll stop; you seem to be doing all right by yourself. He’s much nicer than the ones I’ve shoved at you over the years. And rich…!”
Ellen changed the subject.
As they lingered over second cups of coffee, Dot’s husband Peter drew their attention to the weather. It had worsened; the clouds over the mountains hung like gray sacks bulging with rain.
“Like the udders of big gray cows,” said Dot poetically. “How beautiful!”
“Beautiful, hell. I’ve got to drive through that stuff,” her husband replied unappreciatively. “I hate to break up the party, Ellen, but I think we can outrun this if we get started right away. The sky to the east doesn’t look bad.”
“I should have warned you,” Norman said with a smile. “Our local weather prophet has predicted a bad storm.”
He indicated Ellen, who stared openmouthed. She had forgotten about her comment.
Dot laughed.
“Is Ellen up to her old tricks? She’s always predicting rain, Norman. In this climate that’s an easy way to build a reputation.”
“But I wasn’t…” Ellen began, and then broke off. She could hardly explain the real meaning of her statement in front of her guests. “What a town,” she added. “Do you mean they are gossiping about that already?”
“They don’t have much to talk about in these places,” Peter said with city-bred tolerance.
“Little do you know,” Ellen muttered.
Reluctantly she accompanied her guests to the door. She had to admit that if she had been in their place, she would have fled. As the station wagon pulled away, the first drops of rain began to fall. Norman said,
“Better close the windows, Ellen. Before I leave I’ll look around the yard to make sure you haven’t left anything outside. Thanks for a fantastic meal. I’m planning an underground campaign to get rid of Martha so I can offer you the job.”
“But won’t you stay for—”
“I’d better get the car home. Will would never forgive me if it got wet. Don’t come out, dear; I’ll have a quick look around and then take off.”
Ellen hurried in. The curtains at the front windows were flailing as the wind rose. As she ran from room to room, closing windows, she thought gratefully of Norman’s help, and of what he had said. That “dear”—unthinking, of course. Endearments were common currency these days. People used them as casually as first names.
She heard the car drive off, though she did not see it; the view from the upstairs window was blocked by foliage, now weaving wildly in the wind. As she wrestled with a bedroom window, she suddenly remembered the cat. Ishtar hated storms; she would be terrified out there in the woodshed.
Snatching up a scarf, Ellen ran down the stairs and out through the kitchen.
The shed was concealed from the house by an arbor, now thick with roses. Its door was never locked, but it was kept shut by means of a wooden bolt that turned on a central swivel. Ellen pushed the bolt up and opened the door. She was mildly surprised not to hear any sounds from within, but she was not alarmed until she called the cat’s name and got no response. A search of the shed soon convinced her that Ishtar was not sleeping in a retired corner. Then her stomach started to feel funny. It was hard to believe that the bolt could have turned accidentally. It was stiff, and required strong fingers to move it. Neither could she believe that Ishtar had left the shed and refastened the door. Someone had let her out.
Ignoring the rain that turned her coiffure into a mass of wet curls, she ran around the yard calling. There was no reply. Ishtar would respond if she were close by, but she would not venture out through the rain if she had found a dry hole somewhere in the woods.
The alternative was one Ellen hated to contemplate. Tim had asked about the cat. Once before, to her knowledge, he had prowled around the house, and he would have been unobserved if it had not been for the dogs.
Ellen ran back into the house and went to the telephone. It was six o’clock; the sky was dark with storm clouds. The line buzzed ominously when she dialed, and Ellen could hardly hear the answering voice. She started to shout, as if sheer volume could cross the distance.
The incoherence of her alarm added to the difficulty of communication, but finally she made Norman understand. She could hear the concern in his voice, despite the bad connection. He sounded quite shaken.
“I closed the shed door,” he said. “It was open and banging when I went out there, so I latched it. God, Ellen, I’m sorry; I should have looked around, but you know how I am about cats…”
“It’s not your fault. I was in a hurry when I took her out there. Maybe I didn’t bolt the door securely. The wind could have blown it open.”
“I hope that’s the explanation.” There was a pause. “I’ll go out and look for her, Ellen.”
“No, no, not in this weather. She’ll come home eventually…. Norman, where is Tim?”
“I don’t know.”
He reiterated his apologies. Ellen cut him short. She went from door to door, hoping to find a drenched and angry animal crouched outside one of them; but the evening darkened and there was no sign of Ishtar. Unable to sit still, Ellen got a raincoat and a flashlight and went around the yard, shining the light up into trees and calling. The rain was falling so heavily she could hardly breathe. If the cat was out in this…
There was nothing more Ellen could do. She went back to the house and forced herself to tackle the dishes. The kitchen was a mess; seeing Peter’s anxiety, she had refused help with the washing up. It was a relief to have something to do, but her mind continued to fret at the problem. It was bad enough to think of Ishtar being lost in such a storm, but the alternative was worse.
The weather didn’t help. Not only did it make a search impossible, but it pounded and howled like some creature trying to break in. Ellen was pacing the floor when she heard a sound, over the roar of the rain, that made her skin prickle. Had Norman sent the dogs out to search for the cat? He couldn’t be so stupid!
Pressing her face to the window, she tried to see out. It was useless; rain and starless night produced a blackness such as she had never seen. The baying of the dogs had stopped, but that didn’t mean they had turned homeward. Normally they were a silent pair. Then the howling broke out again, closer, and Ellen whirled as she heard another sound. The screen door of her front porch had slammed.
She ran to the door. The porch light was on; she had left it lit in a forlorn hope of attracting the cat. She did not open the door. Instead she looked out through the glass pane set in the upper panel.
Against the blackness of the storm-swept night, the enclosed porch was like a stage set. The sole actor was upstage and center. He was crouched by the screen, his back to Ellen. His posture was that of a man who is suffering from a painful wound, or from cramps. The soaked condition of clothing and hair made him look stripped for action, and brought out the fine lines of bone and muscle. Despite his hunched posture he did not look at all pathetic; a leopard might have held that pose just before it sprang.
Ellen’s hand went to the doorknob, but she did not open the door. She had gone to Tim’s rescue once before and he had not appreciated her efforts; it would be stupid of her to let him into the house when she was alone and probably cut off, even by telephone. If he sought shelter from the rain, he could sit on the porch.
Then her fingers closed like clamps over the knob, as the dogs’ renewed howls burst out. She didn’t have to see them to know where they were, or to sense what they were after. Even as the realization came to her, the darkness beyond the porch condensed and hurled itself against the outer door. The screen bulged and tore. Ellen had a brief, nightmarish glimpse of blazing eyes and long white fangs.
Tim sprang up and away, toward the house door. It was to Ellen’s credit that she was already turning the knob before she saw what Tim held tightly in both arms. The screen door wouldn’t hold, not against a hundred pounds of canine fury, and she couldn’t stand there and watch the boy torn to pieces before her eyes. Tim’s arms were clasped across his chest; his shirt was torn and his brown skin streamed with blood. For a moment she thought the dogs had already been at him. Then two sharp brown ears rose up above the torn bloody sleeve of his right arm; and Ellen flung the door open as the dog’s heavy body hit the screen and ripped it from top to bottom.
One leap took the boy through the door. He tripped, or fell, face down on the floor, and Ellen slammed the door shut. It quivered as she shot the bolts. The dog let out a last howl of frustrated fury. She heard its claws shred her brand-new paint.
Shakily, Ellen turned. Tim was prone, his head pillowed on his bent arm. Beside him, like an Egyptian goddess surveying the sacrifice, sat Ishtar. She was as wet as if she had been fished out of a bathtub. With a snort of disgust she began to lick herself.
The dog was still scratching at the door, but Ellen knew it couldn’t get in. The thick oak panel would hold. As she stared, too shocked to move, Ishtar stretched out a long neck and began licking Tim’s wet hair. The long locks got tangled up with her tongue; she spat and returned to her personal toilette.
Tim’s back was heaving up and down like a bellows. Clearly he had been running for his very life. The blood on his breast and arms was probably Ishtar’s contribution. She would not be in any mood to distinguish between rescuer and enemy, with the hounds on her trail. But the dogs had left their mark too. The left leg of the boy’s jeans was ripped to the knee and there was a mangled wound on his calf.
