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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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M
arch merged into April. Since Adam's body had not been recovered, a memorial service was held for him at the small Presbyterian church in which generations of Pancoasts had been Christened, married, and memorialized. Gradually Susanne began to realize that her suffering was harming her children. For their sakes, she determinedly weaned herself from her tranquilizers. Mildred's nervous condition, on the other hand, steadily worsened. Mrs. Doyle noticed a tremor in her hand whenever she lifted a glass or cup, and a quiver in her voice whenever she spoke, which was seldom.
The flamboyant costumes she formerly favored had given way to an old, stained raincoat. Wrapped in this drab garment, she had taken to sitting on the boardwalk, alone, for hours at a time.
One day, Mrs. Doyle was taking a brisk walk on the boardwalk (following Dr. Fenimore's prescription), when she spied
Mildred emerging from a shabby storefront which bore a sign reading:
MADAM ZORA
—PSYCHIC—
TAROT & PALM READINGS
$5.00
“Madam Zora is open early this year,” said Mrs. Doyle.
“She's open all year round,” Mildred said. “She lives upstairs.” She sat down on a bench, facing the ocean.
“May I join you?” asked Mrs. Doyle.
Mildred turned a glassy stare on her. “No charge,” she said.
Mrs. Doyle sat down. After a few moments of watching the green and white waves rush under the boardwalk, she asked, “What did Madam Zora have to say?”
No response.
“Were her predictions good?” She raised her voice to be heard over the noise of the surf.
No answer.
“It's a bit chilly.” Mrs. Doyle drew her wool coat more tightly around her. Mildred was dressed even less warmly—in a thin raincoat and sandals with no stockings. “Why don't you come back to town with me and have a cup of tea?” she said.
“What?”
“A cup of hot tea?” Mrs. Doyle felt as if she were talking to a deaf person. “Would you like to have one with me?” she shouted.
“You don't have to shout.” Mildred frowned. But as Mrs.
Doyle rose to leave, Mildred rose too and followed her along the weathered wooden boards to the street.
The tea shop, like Madam Zora's, stayed open all winter. It felt cozy and warm after the chill of the boardwalk. Mrs. Doyle found a table for two near a window and ordered, “A pot of tea and a plate of cakes, please.”
While they waited for their order, the nurse didn't attempt to make conversation. Mildred fiddled with the menu, the silverware, and her napkin. Suddenly she looked directly at Mrs. Doyle. “I'm surprised you aren't afraid to drink tea with me.”
Mrs. Doyle was taken aback.
“It has to be one of us.” Mildred's tone was flat. “Emily, Judith, Susanne, or me. We're the only ones left. Who do you think it is?”
It was Mrs. Doyle's turn to be silent.
“You must have some idea!” Her voice rose.
“I wish I did, Mrs. Pancoast, but—”
“Aren't you afraid I'll slip some poison in your cup?”
The people at a neighboring table glanced their way.
Mrs. Doyle smiled. “Not at all. I'm a natural-born risk taker.”
“Aries?”
She nodded.
“Well, I'm Gemini. And I'm scared shitless.”
“Why don't you and the children come up to the big house and stay for a while,” suggested Mrs. Doyle. “It must be very lonely—”
“You must be kidding.” Her eyes blazed. “I'll never set foot in that death house again.”
The waitress set down a pot of tea and a plate of cakes and hastily left them.
Mrs. Doyle poured the tea. She took a sip before she spoke. “How are your children?” she asked pleasantly.
“Well enough—considering.” She paused. “They miss their dad.”
Mrs. Doyle nodded sympathetically. “Of course they do.”
Mildred's eyes suddenly filled. “So do I.”
Mrs. Doyle reached across the table to press her hand. Mildred snatched it away and began picking her paper napkin to shreds. Finally she said, “I think Madam Zora saw something. Something … she was afraid to tell me. That's why she—”
“Now listen to me, Mildred”—in her anger Mrs. Doyle used the younger woman's first name—”Madam Zora is a charlatan. She knows no more about the future than you or I—”
“That's what you think!” Mildred jumped up, almost knocking over her chair, and stalked out of the restaurant.
Mrs. Doyle threw some money on the table and hurried after her, leaving a room full of gaping customers.
When she caught up with Mildred, the nurse apologized. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Everyone has a right to their beliefs. Won't you come up to the house for dinner at least? Judith is such a good cook. And she always makes more than we can eat. We could pick up the children on the way—”
To Mrs. Doyle's surprise, Mildred acquiesced. “Never mind the children. I'll call the sitter and ask her to stay on.”
The woman's moods were as erratic as the spring weather.
As they made their way up the hill, the wind died down and the little seacoast town was bathed in a warm yellow light. The light that often precedes a beautiful sunset, or—a sudden
storm. Sure enough, as they walked, the sky behind the Pancoast house turned pink, lavender, and gold. The turrets and cupola and lacy gingerbread were etched vividly against the changing sky. It was a peaceful moment.
Mrs. Doyle opened the front door with the key Emily had given her. The hall was dark. The aunts had forgotten to turn on the lights. She found the switch. The vast hall seemed even larger—with the dollhouse gone. She turned to take Mildred's coat and was startled by her stillness. Her eyes were fixed on something on the platform where the dollhouse had been. Mrs. Doyle followed her gaze. Something small and white, like a scrap of paper, rested there.
Mildred moved toward it.
Mrs. Doyle followed.
Mildred bent to examine it. She clutched her throat. “No.” She backed into Mrs. Doyle. “No.” She clawed at the front door knob. The door fell open. “No, no, no,” she moaned as she ran down the hill.
Mrs. Doyle turned to look at the object. A small, porcelain bathtub—one of the few things which could have survived the dollhouse fire. It was full of water. On the bottom lay a clothespin. Beside the tub, as if casually tossed there by its occupant, lay a tiny volume which bore the intriguing title
Astrology Comes of Age.
I will get a doll dressed like a policeman!
 
—
The Tale of Two Bad Mice
by Beatrix Potter
M
rs. Doyle did not know what to do next. Run after Mildred? Wake the aunts? They usually took naps at this time. Call the police? Call Dr. Fenimore? Her quandary was resolved by the sudden appearance of Emily at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, it's you, Mrs. Doyle. I thought I heard someone.” She drew nearer and saw Mrs. Doyle's face. “Is something wrong?”
Mrs. Doyle pointed to the bathtub.
Emily descended the stairs slowly, one at a time. When she saw the tub and its contents, her hand went to her throat too. But her “No!” was softer than Mildred's.
Mindful of her heart condition, Mrs. Doyle helped her to a chair and went to look for Judith.
Unable to find her, she came back to ask Emily if she had seen her sister.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. She took the afternoon bus to Ocean City. She needed some spices for some exotic new recipe she's trying.”
She wished Judith had stayed home. She could have used her help.
Assured that Emily's heart had withstood this latest jolt of bad news, Mrs. Doyle went to telephone Dr. Fenimore. When she had told him everything, she asked what she should do.
“Call Mildred's house. Make sure she made it home safely. Call the police and ask them to come get the bathtub. Don't touch it. And don't let anyone else touch it.”
“Of course not.”
“And, Doyle, after the police have gone, I want you to go and stay with Mildred for the night.”
“Right, Doctor.”
“And for God's sake don't let her take a bath!”
“Oh, I'm sure she'll stick to showers for the rest of her life.”
“It's up to you to make sure she has a long one.”
“Shower?”
“No.” Pause. “Life.”
 
The police took longer than Mrs. Doyle expected. The fuss was over the tiny water-filled bathtub. If they picked up the tub to empty it, they might smudge any fingerprints adhering to the outside. The question was—how to remove this evidence with the water still inside? Mrs. Doyle came to the rescue. She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a plastic syringe, the kind for basting a turkey. Deftly, she sucked the water out and, with the tip of the syringe, shoved the miniature tub into a string shopping bag. Satisfied, the officers left, swinging the bag between them.
“Wait—” Mrs. Doyle had a sudden thought and ran after
them. “Could you send an officer to guard Mildred Pancoast's house this evening?”
They nodded.
“And another one up here to guard the Misses Pancoasts?”
They looked uncertain. “It's still off-season,” one officer said, “and we're understaffed.”
“Well, do what you can.” Mrs. Doyle waved them on.
After they left, Mrs. Doyle told Emily that Dr. Fenimore wanted her to spend the night with Mildred. “Do you mind staying here alone until Judith comes home?”
“Not at all,” Emily said. “Judith will be back in an hour or so.”
Mrs. Doyle threw a few things into an overnight bag and hurried out.
When Mrs. Doyle reached Mildred's house, Mrs. Perkins was waiting in the hall, with her hat on. “I didn't like to leave her alone,” she whispered. “She's in such a state.”
“Don't worry.” Mrs. Doyle put down her overnight bag. “I'll take care of her.”
The children were asleep. Mildred was huddled in a chair, wrapped in a blanket, although the night was mild. She was studying some Tarot cards, which were spread out on a card table.
Mrs. Doyle asked Mildred where she would like her to sleep.
She shrugged, never lifting her eyes from the cards.
Mrs. Doyle made her way through the one-story house, looking for a spare bed. She found one in the baby's room. The baby was sleeping peacefully. She set her bag on the end of the
bed and went back to the living room. Mildred was poised exactly as she had left her.
Mrs. Doyle settled into a comfortable chair. She took out her knitting, suspecting it would be a long night. She had barely completed one row when the telephone rang. Mildred made no move to answer it. Mrs. Doyle lifted the receiver. Emily. Judith had not returned on the six-thirty bus. Mrs. Doyle looked at her watch. After seven. Although she admired the spunk and independence of elderly people today, sometimes she wished they would stay home with their knitting as her grandmother used to do.
“Have you called the bus terminal? Maybe there was a delay.”
“Yes, I called. They said the buses were running on schedule.”
Mrs. Doyle frowned. “I don't like you up there by yourself.” She glanced at Mildred. “But I can't leave now. Could Susanne come stay with you?”
“Susanne took the children to the dentist and out to dinner in Ocean City. They won't be back until late.”
Mrs. Doyle sighed. “Well, the police did say they would try to send someone along. Stay close to the phone and if anything unusual comes up, call me. I'm sure Judith will be on the next bus.” As she hung up, she felt uneasy.
Mildred still brooded over her cards.
“See anything interesting?” Mrs. Doyle asked, referring to the cards.
Mildred looked at her as if she had never seen her before.
“You look tired, dear. Why don't you go to bed. I have a
sedative here for you.” Mrs. Doyle patted her pocketbook. “Dr. Fenimore prescribed it.”
“No, thanks.” Mildred spoke shortly.
“Why not?”
“No sedatives. I have to stay awake. I have to be on guard. I have to see them coming … .”
“That's why I'm here,” Mrs. Doyle adopted her most soothing nurse's tone. “I'll do the watching while you sleep.”
“How do I know
you
won't fall asleep?”
“I'm a nurse. It's my job to stay awake. I'm used to it.”
“I don't trust you. The minute I go to sleep, you'll go to sleep too.”
Mrs. Doyle was not used to being distrusted. “Mrs. Pancoast, I promise you. I'm a night owl. A late-night-TV junkie.” She got up and flicked on the set. “I promise, I will not blink an eye until you and the children get up in the morning.”
Mildred said no more, apparently absorbed in the family sitcom on the screen. It was too stupid even for Mrs. Doyle—who loved sitcoms. She concentrated on her knitting. The next show was a little better. A thriller. During a commercial break, she noticed Mildred was dozing. As if feeling her gaze, Mildred woke with a start and disappeared toward the back of the house. Mrs. Doyle assumed she had gone to bed, until the hammering began.
Mrs. Doyle dropped her knitting and followed the sound. It was coming from the bathroom. She looked in. Kneeling beside the bathtub was Mildred. A piece of plywood lay across the top of the tub. She was trying to secure it with nails. Unfortunately, the tub was made of a slippery plastic and the nails slid or bounced but refused to penetrate.
“Please, Mrs. Pancoast. Come to bed. We can get someone to take care of that in the morning.”
“No!” she shouted. “I have to do it tonight.”
“Shhh. You'll wake the children.” As if on cue, the baby began to cry and the two older children appeared in the doorway.
“Mommy, what are you doing?” Tommy Junior asked sleepily.
Molly stared, heavy-lidded, her thumb in her mouth.
“I'm saving my life,” she yelled. “I'm trying to save your mother's life!” Once again she tried to force the nails into the plastic and watched helplessly as they skittered to the floor.
Simultaneously both children began to cry.
Mrs. Doyle went quickly to her overnight bag and took out a syringe. Thank heavens she had thought to bring it. She went back to the bathroom. As she approached, Mildred screamed, “Get away from me. Look at that needle, children. She's trying to kill me!”
The little boy threw himself against Mrs. Doyle, pummeling her with his small fists. But she managed to plunge the needle into his mother's arm.
“Oh, my God, she's killed me. Oh, my God,” Mildred wailed. The children gaped in horror as their mother slumped forward on the plywood and the hammer fell with a smack on the tiles.
 
It took Mrs. Doyle over an hour to quiet the children and settle the baby down. The next step was to get Mildred into bed. Not a simple task. She was a tall, big-boned woman. Mrs. Doyle half dragged, half shoved her in stages, pausing frequently to
catch her breath. Thank heavens the house was on one level. When she reached Mildred's bedroom, she raised her slowly, inch by inch, until her torso was resting on the counterpane. With a tremendous effort, she lifted her legs and swung her lower half up onto the bed. With a sigh, Mrs. Doyle sat down on the end of the bed and took several deep breaths. She was really too old for this kind of thing. If it hadn't been for the karate classes, she would never have been able to do it. She tucked a blanket around Mildred and slowly made her way back to the living room.
Despite her exhaustion, she was determined to stay awake all night. She had promised. And Mrs. Doyle did not take her promises lightly. Speaking of promises, where was that police officer who was supposed to come guard them? When she felt herself growing drowsy, she got to her feet and moved around the living room, tidying up. She threw away empty soda cans and picked up stray toys. She gathered astrology magazines into neat piles and dusted the New Age crystal on its pedestal above the TV. When she came to the card table, she glanced at the cards Mildred had laid out. The only one turned face up was captioned the Tower. There was a picture of a brick tower being struck by lightning. Mrs. Doyle went to the bookcase. The shelves were full of books on the occult. She pulled out a small volume entitled
Tarot
and flipped to a picture of the Tower.
“The Tower,” she read, “represents unexpected upheavals and reversals. It illustrates the sudden intervention of fate in our lives, which can turn everything upside down … .”
She put the book away and swept the Tarot cards into a neat pack. She was about to close the spiral notebook which lay open
on the table, when her eye was caught by today's date and the scribbled words:
Dear Diary,
 
I'm next.
She felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the tormented woman down the hall.
Letterman had barely begun his opening monologue when a neighbor's dog began to bark. Mrs. Doyle decided to check the windows and doors to make sure they were locked. They weren't. People in small towns didn't believe in locking up. Even today. One window was wide open. The bathroom window. Funny. She hadn't noticed that before. But then, during Mildred's hysterical scene, she couldn't trust her memory of anything.
At midnight, Emily called. She apologized for calling so late, but she thought Mrs. Doyle would like to know that Judith had come home. (Good heavens, during all the uproar, she had forgotten about Judith.) She had missed the last bus from Ocean City, Emily told her, and had taken a cab. She was very sorry she hadn't called.
In some ways, thought Mrs. Doyle, the elderly were like children.
A few minutes later the doorbell rang. “Who is it?” she called out.
“Seacrest Police.”
She opened the door a crack. A young man in uniform stood
on the front step. “Better late than never,” she said.
“I would have come sooner,” he apologized with a lopsided grin. “I was tied up with some rowdy teenagers on the beach.”
He looked like a teenager himself. But not rowdy. Mrs. Doyle let the young man in.
The two of them played pinochle until dawn.
Before anyone stirred, Mrs. Doyle called Dr. Fenimore. He made the necessary arrangements to have Mildred committed to a sanitarium for observation. When the attendants arrived, Mildred was too groggy to resist them. Kindly and efficiently, they bundled her into their van. After she had gone, Mrs. Doyle called Mrs. Perkins. Fortunately, she was free and could take care of the children for an indefinite period. It was after ten o'clock when the nurse finally arrived back at the aunts' house. She crawled into bed and fell into a deep sleep.
She awakened to the sound of Judith's voice telling her gently that dinner was ready. She had prepared a special dish. (The reason for the spice trip, no doubt.) How is it, she wondered, that through all the fear and turmoil and deaths, they still managed to eat? Our instinct for survival was very strong, she decided.
Eagerly, Mrs. Doyle made her way down to the dining room.
But the nurse said, “I will set a mouse-trap.”
 
—
The Tale of Two Bad Mice
by Beatrix Potter

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