Nursery Tale (9 page)

He thought the Smith & Wesson Model 12 .38 Police Special he held on his open right hand now was quite a striking little piece of equipment. Small, blunt-nosed, easily concealed. He had fired it several dozen times, and it was loud, sure, but not nearly as loud as the damned long-guns, and the recoil was practically nonexistent. And he had found that, remarkably, his confidence with the gun had made him into a passable marksman. (He had been taught the bent-legged, straight-armed, two-handed method of firing; he thought it looked good on him.)

Marge, across the living room from him, looked up from her magazine. "Norm, I'm really very uncomfortable with that thing around." She had been toying with the proper words for half an hour, ever since Norm had gotten the gun from its hiding place ("You'd put a big hole in yourself, Marge, so to keep you from messin' with it, I'm gonna hide it. Okay?"), but, after the words came out, she thought she might have offended him, so she immediately attempted to amend the words: "I don't mean . . . please don't think I'm afraid of it."

He cut in, grinning, "Hey, listen, I know this weapon makes you 'uncomfortable,' and I wish I could help that, Marge, I really do. But you wanta know what makes me uncomfortable? I'll tell you what makes
me
uncomfortable, Marge. It makes
me
uncomfortable to think that while we're asleep up there"—he pointed with the gun to indicate their bedroom—"asleep and
vulnerable
, some lousy
trespasser
can just waltz in here and do whatever he wants. In
our
house!" His grin became a tight, malicious leer. "And you know what the law says I can
do
with that trespasser, Marge? That trespasser in
my
house! The law says I can't do a goddamned thing. The law says if I blow him away, if I hurt one little hair on his precious little head, Marge, then
I'm
the one who gets thrown in the cage, like
I'm
the one who's the goddamned animal. And that's why I got this goddamned gun, Marge. 'Cuz the fuckin' law is fuckin' wrong, 'cuz the next time
this
house gets broken into—"

"But, Norm, he was just a boy—"

He held his hand up to quiet her. She stopped talking abruptly. "I'm going to tell you something, Marge, something from when I was in 'Nam, something I've never told you—"

"'Nam?"

"Viet Nam. We fought a losin' war there, Marge. Remember?"

Marge nodded, embarrassed. "You never told me you were in Viet Nam." She tried to smile, as if suddenly proud of him.

"Yes, I was, Marge." It was a lie. "Saw three years of combat, and I want to tell you a story from those years, and if you'll stop interrupting me, I'll tell it." He paused; she said nothing; it was his cue. "Okay. We were in Khe Sanh, just outside Saigon—that was the capital of 'Nam, you remember that, Marge? And it was the closin' days of the war, the last few days, and we were all itchin' to get outa there 'cuz we knew the communists was on their way. And there I was with my buddy, Frank Thompson—I ever tell you about him?—and we were patrolling this street, you know, for snipers, and I was talkin' to Frank about one thing and another, and, all of a sudden, Frank grabs his chest, and falls straight to his knees. 'Norm?' he says, and then he falls flat on his face. Dead!" He paused for effect.

Marge said, "He had a heart attack, Norm?"

Norm rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Marge. What do you mean heart attack! In 'Nam, for Christ's sake?! He got shot right through the heart, just like 50,000 other guys, only he didn't get it from no Viet Cong, at least not from a grownup one. I know that, Marge, 'cuz when I look up, I see this kid, about 50 yards away, and he's maybe nine or ten—the same age as that kid who broke in here—and this kid has this sickening grin on his face, and this government issue rifle in his hands, and he says something like 'I got him, I got him!' And then he runs off."

Norm paused again for effect. Marge said nothing; she looked ill at ease.

"That's a true story, Marge, true as yesterday." He nodded at the Smith & Wesson still in his hand. "And it's one reason I got this little beauty, and one reason I'm going to use it, if I got to—if I'm forced to use it."

Marge's hands began to tremble. The magazine she had been pretending to read fell to the floor. "That's an awful story, Norm." She bent forward and picked up the magazine; a ludicrous, quivering smile appeared on her lips. "That's an awful story, Norm." She stood abruptly and put the magazine on a small table near her chair. "I'm going to go to bed now. I'm tired, Norm." She continued smiling; she made her way to the living room doorway; she paused. "Are you coming up, Norm?"

"This weapon needs cleaning, Marge. I practiced with it today, so now I got to clean it. Guns are just like pets, Marge. You got to tend to 'em all the time."

"Yes," she said, in a monotone. "I understand that." And she left the room.

Norm listened as she padded up the stairs. Her steps were slow and deliberate. She sounded very old and very tired.

B
y midnight, the still, ragged line of chimney smoke was gone, pushed off by a sudden strong wind. Several poorly installed roofing tiles on one of Granada's not-yet-completed houses were whisked away by the wind. The smallest of the four flowering dogwood trees in the McIntyres' backyard was partially uprooted. At the Harris home, some empty garbage cans, still awaiting the white aluminum sheds that sheltered all garbage cans in Granada, rolled noisily across the side yard and into the Harrises' new Mercury Bobcat.

From their bedroom window on the second floor of the Graham house next door, Robin and Robert Graham fell into fits of nervous giggling. Rolling garbage cans were hilarious things, as far as they were concerned. At the end of one giggling fit, Robert (Rob) Graham said to his brother, "It's a good thing they weren't fulla banana peels and melon rinds," which set them both up for another fit of giggling.

"Yeah," Robin managed.

"Banana peels and melon rinds," Rob said again, suddenly aware that the words felt good rolling off his tongue. "Bo-no-no peels," he sang, to no particular melody, "and melon rinds." Then he felt his brother elbow him hard in the ribs. "Hey, that hurts!"

Robin pointed urgently at the front of the Harrises' yard, "Looka that!"

Rob looked. He saw only the line of shrubs that the landscapers had put in the week before. Granada's three streets boasted a half-dozen street lamps—the far half of the line of shrubs was bathed now in the light from one of them.

"I don't see nothin'," Rob said, and he made a show of massaging his ribs.

"Well, they hid or somethin'," Robin said. "They hid behind the shrubberies." He looked questioningly at his brother; another giggle burst from him, but it was short-lived and anxious. "Some kids, Rob. Three of 'em. And one was a girl, and they didn't have no
clothes
on!" He paused to relish what he was saying. "They didn't have no clothes on," he repeated wonderingly, as if in fascination. "And they were just standin' there—the three of 'em—just standin' there looking up at me." He turned quickly, ran to the tall walnut bookshelf he and his brother shared, got a pair of binoculars off one of the shelves.

And the door burst open.

Lorraine Graham, still wrapping a short, white terrycloth robe around herself, moved quickly to the window and drew the curtains closed. "What in the
hell
are you boys doing?"

Rob, the twin still at the window, began to explain, "Robin said—"

And Robin interrupted hurriedly, "We weren't doin' nothin', Mom. We were watchin' trash cans blow around, that's all." He put the binoculars away, confident she hadn't seen them. "Just watchin' trash cans blow around," he repeated.

Lorraine Graham looked suspiciously at him. "Uh-huh," she said and nodded briskly to indicate their beds. "I'll give you five seconds!" she ordered. They obeyed instantly, and moments later she left the room.

"I don't know," Robin said breathlessly from his bed, as if in answer to a question his brother hadn't asked. "I guess she was thirteen or fourteen. And you know"—he grinned and made cupping motions in the dark with his hands at his chest—"she had these great little boobs, like Mom has," which made his brother very uncomfortable because he wasn't sure he liked the idea that his mother had breasts at all, let alone that Robin would talk about them. "You'll see," Robin went on, still grinning, still awed by what he'd seen.

Outside, Granada was quiet. The wind had died as quickly as it had come up.

And those that watched were sleeping. In their way.

November 1

M
anny Kent hit the brake pedal. The old Chevy pulled hard to the right and came to a halt on the soft shoulder, its back end out in the middle of the narrow dirt road.

"Friggin' brakes!" Manny hissed. "It was just like the friggin' battery, all the time leakin' acid, and the friggin' gas lines! Damned friggin' old hunka junk!"

He turned, got Clyde's 30.30 from the back seat, a box of cartridges from the glove compartment! Then, because the Chevy's driver's door wouldn't open—the lock had broken closed several years before—he slid across the seat, opened the passenger door, and climbed out, cartridges in one hand, rifle in the other.

He shivered, set the rifle against the car, buttoned the top button of his denim jacket. "Jesus!" he murmured. He blamed Sarah, his wife, for the fact that he was out here on this godawful, cold November day. It was her damned nagging, wasn't it, that had driven him from the house an hour before (because, he knew, if he'd stayed and tried to listen to her he'd sure as hell do something stupid, like let her have it—
whammo!
—right in the chops. And nothing good would come of that, only a couple days in John Hastings's lousy jail).

He picked the rifle up and looked about. He thought briefly of getting back in the Chevy and letting his anger cool at The Playground (Penn Yann's only combination bar and pizza parlor), then decided, no, what he really wanted to do was some serious thinking. About himself. And Sarah. And their marriage. And whether it was worth all the grief it gave him. He knew it wasn't, that what he'd really come out here to think about, while his anger cooled, was the best way of telling Sarah that their marriage was on the shit pile.

He tucked the butt of the rifle under his right arm—barrel pointing at the ground—and walked off the road, into the stunted grass and weeds, toward the Empire fence a hundred yards away. He realized at once that his anger had cooled tremendously in the last few minutes. He didn't know why exactly. Maybe it had something to do with being alone, with the gun, and the idea that, with a little luck—which was way overdue—he'd get that deer he'd missed a month ago, the day he and Clyde found what was left of the colored man. (He put the next thought out of his head immediately. He feared Clyde, and Clyde had warned him again and again about even mentioning the colored man's pure silver bracelet to anyone, let alone picking it up and trying to get a mortgage payment paid with it.) And so, when he passed within a couple of feet of the spot, he turned his head slightly, saw the "white rock" and quickened his pace.

And soon found that he was running. Away from the white rock. And the pure silver bracelet tucked beneath it. And the murder that had been done there. And the ghost of the colored man, which had surely fallen into stride just behind him, and was surely grinning, and stretching out its long arms, reaching madly for him . . .

As if in a panic, Manny tossed the gun over the Empire fence, failed to note where it had fallen, scaled the fence in seconds, jumped to the other side. And stood panting breathlessly, eyes on the white rock, fifty yards away, and on the fence that separated him from the thing—the ghost of the colored man—that guarded it.

After a moment, Manny cursed. Jesus, it was okay to scare yourself. Lots of fun. But to go and throw your brother-in-law's 30.30 into the damned bushes as a result, and maybe to lose it—that was just plain dumb. He cursed again. He looked to his right, his left, tried to put himself mentally back in the same spot and in the same stance he'd been in moments before, when he'd tossed the rifle over the fence. Once more, he cursed. Because his memory failed him. Because the thickets were too dense—incredibly dense. And he pictured himself crawling around on his hands and knees for a week of Sundays looking for the goddamned

He saw it then, just an arm's length away, barrel up, half-concealed in the thickets. He sighed, withdrew it from the thickets. And decided that the damned buck he'd seen a month ago was going to be his. He deserved it!

He put the butt of the rifle under his arm; he walked quickly along the fence. Within minutes, he came upon a clearing in the thickets. "Yes, sir!" he muttered. "Yes sir!" he said aloud, and he stepped into the clearing.

He stopped immediately so his eyes could adjust to the sudden dim light here, at the perimeter of the small stand of woods. He thought he was probably trespassing, that if he bothered to look he'd see a dozen posted signs to that effect. But heck, who was to know? And while he thought of this he watched, only a little puzzled, as the trunk of an oak nearby moved rhythmically, in and out, as if it were breathing, and he decided that a person's eyes played tricks on him when they were coming in from the light to the darkness. Like he just had. Then he saw that what he'd thought was part of the tree trunk was really a smooth, naked, dark back, and long, dark hair, and the side of a wonderfully rounded buttock.