Captain Quad (12 page)

Or perhaps a thought. . .

I hope you're proud, Lowe. I hope you're proud.

THIRTEEN

The temptation to ask him inside was great. Almost overpowering. It was for that simple reason—the temptation, its unreasoning sweetness—that she resisted. After all, she hardly knew him. They'd met only a month ago, at Chevies, a fifties disco in the east end of town. Marti had introduced them. "Kelly, this is Will Chatam. He works at Nickel Ridge." Good old Marti, still trying after all these years to matchmake Kelly into wedlock. This had been her third date with Will. Dinner and a movie. Nice.

Now she accepted his kiss, which was bashful and dry, shifted on the seat of his mint condition—as he seldom failed to pridefully point out to her—'53 Buick Super, and let herself out into the cool September night.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" Will asked shyly.

Kelly shook her head, suspending the motion when she saw the look of disappointment on his face. Quickly, she added, "Can we make it Friday?" and Will's expression brightened, the boyish grin Kelly had fallen for four weeks ago splitting it almost in two. "It's early in the term," she explained, "and I've got a new dance class to prepare for. Gotta pick out the music, sort out routines. . .” She shrugged.

"Friday's great," Will said sincerely. He keyed the ignition. "Dinner and a flick?"

Kelly formed a circle with forefinger and thumb, then started up the walk. . . but as Will thunked the Buick into gear, she found herself on the verge of running back out to him and blurting, "Come on in, won't you? I don't want to spend another night alone in this house."

She let the words die in her throat. Plunging headlong into this thing would be a certain mistake. Since Peter, she'd done exactly that on two occasions, and both times she'd ended up regretful. Better to wait.

For what? that tempted voice objected. Until your hair turns white? Until God swoops down in a flaming chariot and says, "Okay, Peter. Walk"?

Will U-turned in the gravel turnabout in front of the house. Then, waving, he crept up the washboard hill. Wrapped in her own arms, Kelly watched him go, ignoring that final weak nudge which bade her give chase. She was a big girl now; she could sleep alone.

When there was nothing left but the receding purr of the Buick's eight cylinders, she turned her face skyward and gazed into the deepening night.

Stars like pinpoints wheeled high in the cosmic mystery, preparing to shift with the seasons. A restless breeze chattered in the trees, picking off leaves and stacking them into drifts against the house. A full moon twinkled like a distant headlight, and on the island far out on Ramsey Lake, gulls grumbled plaintively in their slumber.

Standing in the yard, letting the crisp September breeze frisk her body, Kelly recalled a proverb her grandfather had been fond of quoting—"Whatever goes around comes around"—and was struck by its aptness to the cycles of her life. The last place she'd anticipated ending up after Kingston was back here in Sudbury. Somewhere during the middle of that five-year stint, which had been tough but mostly enjoyable, Kelly had vowed to return home only for the obligatory seasonal visits. It wasn't that she no longer cared for her folks or for the friends she had made and stayed in touch with over the years. It was just that a part of her had died here, a large part, and it seemed both pointless and somehow morbid to return to the site of its burial. An almost blind doctrine of forward motion had ruled her in the south—her blurb in the graduate yearbook dubbed her the faculty's all-time workaholic—and unlike Marti, who had more or less cruised through the academia, Kelly had had her pick of at least a dozen prestigious high schools in the province, even a few choice spots outside the province. She hadn't even applied to the schools in Sudbury.

But on the very day that the first of the acceptances came rolling in, Kelly got a phone call from her old alma mater, from the principal, no less. Old stony-face Laughren had retired the previous year and had been replaced by a young-sounding woman named Cole. Ms. Cole—"Call me Nickie"—had gotten wind of Kelly through the academic grapevine. And like Kelly, the progressive new principal had a special interest in gymnastics and modern dance, two areas of endeavor which, regretfully, had fallen into disfavor with the members of the Regional Board, dinosaurs all. It was Ms. Cole's intention to recruit a teacher who could revive these flagging specialties and let the brass say what they would. Miss Gambling, the crotchety old broad who'd held the job for the past hundred years (or so it seemed to Kelly, who could recall her own mother telling her horror stories about "that wicked old gym teacher at Laurentian High"), had suffered a mild stroke while proctoring a midterm exam, and until a full-time replacement could be found, the job had fallen into the floundering hands of the substitutes, most of whom couldn't do a push-up or a pirouette if their lives depended on it.

Was Kelly interested?

A huge and bellowed no had risen to her lips. . . but something had stifled it. Afterward she had tried to convince herself it was the deal the principal was offering—the money was standard, but the academic freedom she'd be allowed would take her years to achieve under normal circumstances, and might never materialize at all.

But it had been more than the enticing deal, something she'd been unable—or had simply refused—to acknowledge at the time.

Standing here now, cocooned in the night and suddenly cold to the marrow, the reason she'd returned to Sudbury poked her in the heart like an intrusive finger—and that reason was quite simply that she'd had no choice in the matter. Free will had not been a factor. Some force—call it fate, for want of a better word—had drawn her back with the insistence of a giant's outreaching hand. It had been a summons from a higher court. . . and she would die here.

Disturbed at the turn of her thoughts—and a little afraid—Kelly started inside. As she mounted the path to the winterized cottage she rented, something crunched stealthily across the gravel behind her. Her heart was on its way up to her throat when a dog's cool muzzle pressed itself into her palm.

"Chainsaw!" Kelly scolded, her dark contemplations forgotten. "How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?" She dropped to one knee and scratched the shepherd's thick ruff. The dog lapped happily at her wrist, its big tail thrashing the hedge. "You want to see a grown woman pee in her pants?"

The dog belonged to Kelly's landlord, a mostly absent accountant named Haas who owned the sprawling, Tudor-style home cresting the hill leading down to the cottage. Chainsaw wasn't the dog's real name, but that was what Kelly liked to call him. It had to do with his bark, which had frightened the daylights out of her until she'd been forced to confront the big lunkhead one late night in July, coming home from a walk.

The big dog panting at her heels, Kelly recalled that night with an unpleasant shiver. She'd come scuffing up the lane the two homes shared, absorbed in the gloom of her thoughts, when suddenly the shepherd had released a volley of barks. Kelly froze, her throat half shut, her ears tuned to the tread of the dog's thick paws as it bounded toward her, the scrape and whip of its chain as it stretched to full length—

Hold, oh, Jesus hold!

But it hadn't held, and the big dog had come charging across the yard, a twenty-foot length of chain snaking angrily through the gravel behind it. Kelly had braced herself for the killing leap—

And suddenly this big goofy pup had its forepaws propped against her chest, not driving her down to rip out her throat but lapping at her face until she'd begun to giggle through her terrified tears. From that night on, she and Chainsaw had been the best of pals. Haas had even complained to her once that the dog no longer answered to its proper name, which was plainly, boringly, Herman.

"'Night, big fella," Kelly said as she let herself into the house.

Once inside, she glanced back and saw the poor mutt gawking lonesomely in through the sidelight. As she turned away, Peter's face flashed briefly in her mind, like a single subliminal frame in a low-budget horror flick, and she remembered how alone he'd looked the last time she'd seen him—

Out of habit, Kelly trampled this line of thought. As she hung up her coat, she marveled at how time lost its meaning wherever Peter Gardner was concerned. Six whole years had gone by since the accident. She was twenty-four now. She had an honors degree in phys ed, taught grades eleven and twelve at her alma mater, and was finally banking some money. She enjoyed excellent physical health—

But the arm still acts up sometimes, doesn't it? The arm you broke in the accident—

"Enough!" Kelly said aloud, derailing her thoughts and earning a green-eyed glance from her cat, an all-black tom named Fang.

In the living room, she slipped a disc into the disc player and, after adjusting the volume to low, crossed to the big picture window overlooking the lake. Gazing out, she let Mozart soothe her hurting heart. This same sort of sentimental crapola always got started whenever she met a new fella. Not that she'd dated that many since Peter. A half-dozen maybe, and she'd slept with only two of them.

Mistake. Mistake.

But this guy. . .

Will Chatam was different. Not different from the others so much—she liked clean-cut, easygoing, reasonably articulate men—as he was different from Peter. With her usual damnably keen insight, Marti had pointed this out with each of the others. . .

"You're doing it again, kid."

"Doing what?"

"Just look at this dude. Do those twinkly sand-colored eyes remind you of anyone?"

Or "That thick shock of beach-blond hair?"

Or "That jaunty, hip-shot way of walking?"

Well, this one was different. In every way. Even Marti had conceded that much. She had, after all, introduced them.

"He's nice, Kelly," Marti had said after they'd left Chevies that night. "Not overly bright, not stunningly handsome. But nice. And he likes you. He'll be steady; you wait and see."

Nice. Yeah, he was nice.

Kelly went back to the disc player, expelled Amadeus, and slipped in Joe Cocker, tracking ahead to her favorite cut: "You Can Keep Your Hat On."

Damn! She should have invited him in.

And she shouldn't. . .

She had used the others, she knew. For solace, for simple human companionship, and, during her two brief sexual flings, as surrogates, however inept, for the one she truly desired. Will was too. . . nice for her to do that to him.

She'd wait. And see.

"Abed," she said to Fang, who'd taken to twining in and out between her ankles, his customary feed-me ploy. "That's where I ought to be."

The big tom trailed her out to the kitchen, mewling around a yap full of spit, pawing at her shoes as she scooped out a wet glop of Tuna Surprise. Extinguishing the light on the cat's noisy dining, Kelly decided to forgo a bath and, after turning off the stereo, padded tiredly upstairs.

In her lake-facing bedroom she peeled oil her clothes and let them puddle at her feet on the floor. Usually sloppiness disgusted her, but tonight she was too damned tired to care. As she crossed to the bed, her naked reflection in the bureau mirror caught her eye and she turned self-consciously to face it.

She had a teenager's body still—full breasts, a flat tummy, long, lean legs that met and made an ass of themselves that Penthouse would probably pay dearly to put on display—and the sight of it pleased her. It was a good body. . .

And a voice unmistakably like Marti's said, But it won't be forever, kid. Nothing is forever.

She had a sudden wild urge to phone Will Chatam, pretend she was calling from a neighbor's house and that she'd locked herself out, what a nit. . .

Then she flopped into bed. She kept seeing Will's boyish face, lighting up like a birthday cake when she told him she'd see him again this Friday. She fell asleep wondering how things would work out between them.

Later, as she slept, Fang came in and assumed his favorite snoozing position, in the V of Kelly's gently spread legs.

FOURTEEN

Sam was studying when the hospital called. Comparative anatomy. His application to medical school for the 1989 session had been politely rejected this spring past. On the fourth of September, undaunted, he had begun his third year in the biology program at Cambrian University. He would apply to medicine again this year, and the year after that if need be. He'd come close this time—very close. The dean himself had told him as much, in a handwritten letter. His marks had been good, the impression he'd made during his interview excellent.

But close didn't count. He'd have to really buckle down this term. Sleep less, study more. Maybe even give up one of his jobs. The professor who'd interviewed him had expressed some surprise at Sam's reluctance to apply to med schools outside of the city. In response, Sam had only shrugged and said, "Guess I'm just a home town boy."

Because he hadn't relished trying to explain to this reed-thin, bespectacled microbiologist that his mother was a lush and his brother a quad. He hadn't wanted to admit to his fear that without him they would both probably wind up dead.

Sam had long since abandoned the notion of finding a cure for Peter's shattered spine. A little reading and even less common sense had brought that childish notion sharply into focus. The vow he had so somberly taken on the Paris Street bridge six years ago had been a sorry kid's promise, a small boy's desperate attempt to wish all the hurt away. But naive or not, that vow had been the catalyst which had started him on his way. By hook or by crook, he would become a doctor—about this there was no trace of doubt in his mind—and although discovering a cure was improbable, a life in medicine would bring him that much closer to his brother. As it was, he'd missed only about twenty days of visits since the accident, most of those due to out-of-town hockey games.

In the low light of his bedroom, Sam glanced at the digital alarm clock on his desk—l:04 a.m. Yawning hugely, he slapped his textbook closed. He had to be up at five-thirty, have the boxcar at Carrington's Lumber off-loaded by nine, then be back at the university by—