The Love Talker Part 12

(How can I put this? his eyes asked Laurie. She shrugged. The girl isn't a baby or a moron, her eyes replied. Doug looked outraged.) "Well," he went on, "you know old people sometimes get funny ideas."

"Oh, yes, sir." Rachel had relaxed; her blue eyes were fixed trustingly on Doug's face. "Granny was like that, before she died. She thought she was a little girl. She called us by her sisters' names."

"Miss Lizzie is not like that," Laurie said. For some reason she felt outraged at the child's calm description of senility, and at her a.s.sumption that Lizzie was in that state. "She has photographs, Rachel. Do you know anything about them?"

"No, ma'am."

Rachel's rose-petal lips imprisoned her smile. Her lashes dropped, hiding her eyes.

"Do you have a camera?"

"No, ma'am."

"Their daddy doesn't hold with buying expensive toys for kids," Mrs. Wilson added. "Rachel, you tell the lady the truth, now. You didn't try to fool poor old Miss Lizzie, did you?"

"No, Momma."

Doug, torn between Betsy's squirming and the fascination of that exquisite, flowerlike face, said quickly, "Rachel, don't be upset. We believe you. We're just trying to figure out how Miss Lizzie got these notions about elves."

The girl's wistful face brightened a she looked at him. Before she could speak, Betsy, who sensed she was loosing Doug's attention, announced, "Betsy saw the faiwies. Miss Lizzie showed her."

"Betsy!" Mrs. Wilson frowned. "You know what your daddy told you. That's lies, that is, and you know what our sweet Jesus does to bad children who tell lies."

It was clear that sweet Jesus had a heavy hand with liars. Rachel flinched, as if at some unpleasant memory, and even Betsy looked daunted.

"It's not a lie, Momma," she said quickly. "Just a stowy. Miss Lizzie told me stowies. She tells lies, Momma, not Betsy."

"You didn't see no such thing, did you?"

"No Momma. Miss Lizzie told Betsy."

Laurie bit back an impatient exclamation. They weren't getting anywhere, except deeper into a mora.s.s of confusion. The girls were obviously afraid; and she had not helped the situation. Rachel didn't care much for her, and the other child, Mary Ella, might have been a block of wood for all the response they had gotten from her. It was as if her older sister had taken her portion of beauty and sensitivity, leaving Mary Ella none.

"We'd better go, Doug," she said.

"Just a minute. Tell me something, Rachel. When was it that Betsy came home talking about fairies? How long ago?"

"Last summer," Rachel said promptly. "August. She was-"

Mrs. Wilson made a sudden violent movement, so out of keeping with her usual slow style that they all jumped.

"Here comes your daddy," she said.

She might have been announcing the arrival of Beelzebub. The animation left Rachel's face. Mary Ella did not move, but she seemed to shrink, becoming at once smaller and more solid. Betsy slid down off Doug's knees and ran to the door. When it opened she flung herself at the man who came in and wound her arms around his knees.

"Daddy's home! h.e.l.lo, Daddy. I was vewy good in school today. I got a gold star."

Mr. Wilson filled the doorway from side to side. Laurie was not surprised at his bulk-she had seen how his wife cooked-but she realized it was not all fat. His shoulders were heavy with muscle and the hand he placed on Betsy's golden head looked like that of a gorilla, thick-fingered and sprouting black hairs. The brief caress was his only expression of affection or of greeting. Laurie wondered from what source Rachel had gained her delicate beauty. There was no trace of it in Mrs. Wilson's doughy, complacent face, or in her husband's heavy features. His eyes were a muddy, inexpressive brown, his mouth both fleshy and pinched. He needed a shave.

"You're home early," Mrs. Wilson said.

"It's raining." Wilson's growl made the simple statement into an accusation. "Had to quit. Now I've gotta finish the job tomorrow. Means I can't get to the Shotwells till Sat.u.r.day."

"That's too bad." . "Who's this?"

"This is the Mortons' great-niece and -nephew," Mrs. Wilson began. Doug rose.

"My name is Wright, Mr. Wilson. This is my sister. Glad to meet you."

Wilson eyed the extended hand as if it were a dead fish but finally took it grudgingly and let it go almost at once. He did not greet, or look at Laurie.

"What are you girls doing, standing around here?" he demanded, turning on his daughters. "If you ain't got no work to do I'll find you some in a hurry."

"These folks wanted to talk to them," Mrs. Wilson explained. "Set down, Poppa, do, and I'll get you something to eat."

Wilson hung his damp jacket on a peg and thumped his ample posterior into a chair. He turned an inimical eye on Doug, who was still standing.

"What do you wanna talk about? They been in trouble?"

"No," Doug said. "No trouble. We just--"

"It's about them elves again," Mrs. Wilson said.

Taken in isolation the statement might have sounded funny, Mrs. Wilson's flat, matter-of-fact voice contrasted so oddly with the key word. Laurie had no desire to laugh, however. Wilson's face could hardly have been more forbidding; its normal expression was a dark frown; but now his eyes narrowed and an angry flush rose in his cheeks.

"Again? I thought I fixed that the first time. Guess I didn't make it hard enough, huh? You, Rachel, you come over here and-"

"Wait a minute," Doug interrupted. "Rachel hasn't done anything. Nor have the other girls. It's our aunt who has this idea, and we just wanted to ask your children how it all started. No reason for you to punish them."

The speech would have had the desired effect if Doug had not added the last sentence. Laurie knew he was, in fact, controlling himself considerably. The pallor of Rachel's face had aroused all his knight-errantry. All the same, the direct defense was a mistake. Wilson's flush of anger had started to subside. Now the dark blood returned to his face.

"I don't need n.o.body to tell me when I should chastise my children, mister. The Scripture says 'Spare not the rod,' and I don't, neither. The female is a vessel of iniquity. Lyin' is a abomination unto the Lord. A man is master in his own house, an'-"

"Hev some coffee, Poppa." Mrs. Wilson put a cup and a plate of rolls in front of her husband. He crammed one of the pastries into his mouth and glowered at Doug.

"I wouldn't presume to interfere with your outre notions of discipline," Doug said coldly. "All I said was-"

Wilson didn't know what outre meant, but he knew he was being insulted. He swallowed, with a repulsive gulping sound, and banged his fist down on the table. The veins in his neck bulged. High blood pressure, Laurie thought. No wonder. All that hating is a strain on the system.

"I heard what you said, mister," he shouted. "An' you heard what I said."

Laurie stood up and took Doug's arm. It felt like stone.

"We must be going," she said. "Thank you for the snack, Mrs. Wilson. It was delicious."

"I'm gonna give you a couple loaves of bread for the old ladies," Mrs. Wilson said placidly. "Like I said, Miss Lizzie's no hand at baking. But they're good neighbors."

She glanced casually at her husband. Having engulfed another roll, he had been about to burst out again; but as his piggy little eyes met those of his wife he closed his mouth.

"Thank you." Laurie accepted the neatly wrapped loaves. They were still warm. "Sorry to have bothered you."

"Yeah," Wilson growled. "Folks who don't have to work for a living stick their noses into other folks' business ... You girls still here? Git." The girls got. Mary Ella didn't seem capable of quick movement, but it was amazing how suddenly she left the room. Rachel followed, her eyes downcast. Wilson turned his beady eyes back to Doug. "An' you, better go home an' tend to your own business. That crazy old lady is your business. Lock her up."

Doug appeared to have been rooted to the spot. Laurie held the bread in one arm; the other hand, on Doug's sleeve, felt his muscles quiver and knot. She nudged him with her shoulder. Finally, he moved.

CHAPTER 7.

It was raining hard. They had to circle the house to reach the car. Laurie had propelled her infuriated brother through the nearest door rather than remain in the house a moment longer. Oh, well, she thought; maybe the rain will cool him off.

Doug didn't speak until they were in the car. His lean face had remained calm and expressionless throughout the conversation with Wilson. It was still impa.s.sive when he raised his fist and brought it down on the steering wheel with a crash.

"Feel better?" Laurie inquired.

"Not much. My G.o.d! That monster ought to be locked up. He's sick!"

"He's probably a hard worker and a pious member of the church."

"He's a monster. What he is doing to those kids-"

"Vessels of iniquity, you mean."

"I guess that's why he's so much tougher on Rachel than on the others," Doug said, in a calmer voice.

"I guess. Oh, he's sick all right, by your definitions and mine. In Puritan New England he'd have burned witches. In biblical times, he'd have been a bosom buddy of Saint Paul's. Some men feel threatened by women. And Rachel is a woman, physically, if not legally. That's why people like Wilson turn to religion; it's so nice to be able to justify your neuroses by means of Scripture."

"You can justify almost anything by means of Scripture," Doug said. "It is a compilation, after all. He sure has those women beaten down "

"He seems to have a sneaking fondness for Betsy."

"G.o.d, what a revolting child! The way she fawned on him-"

"I agree, she's awful; but you can't blame her for b.u.t.tering up to Daddy. It's a defensive strategy. Mary Ella defends herself by becoming a lump. s.a.d.i.s.ts don't enjoy torturing victims unless they respond. And Mrs. Wilson-"

"Thoroughly cowed," Doug said.

"I'm not so sure. She's got more control over that gorilla than even he realizes. Did you notice how he shut up when she made that remark about what good neighbors the Mortons were?"

"Hey, that's right. Wilson wouldn't shut his big mouth to keep on good terms with neighbors; there must be some other factor. Do you suppose Mrs. Wilson meant 'landlords'?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Laurie glanced uneasily out the window. "Let's go, Doug, before we get trapped by floodwaters. I'd hate to spend any more time here."

"Okay." The car swung in a circle, skidding in the mud. "I hope Wilson doesn't beat those kids."

"Why use the plural? You're worried about Rachel."

"I wonder how old she is," Doug muttered.

"Young enough so you could get arrested for what you're thinking."

"I do not know which is worse, your grammar or your low, vicious, evil-"

"I'm sorry." Laurie slid down in the seat. The dismal, soggy, gray landscape matched her mood. "She is lovely, and she is pathetic. I feel very sorry for her. I'm depressed. Do you realize we didn't learn anything? What a waste of time."

"I wouldn't say that."

"You mean that Rachel denied taking the pictures?"

Doug's face was still bedazzled. Laurie chose her words with care. "I wouldn't blame her for lying, Doug. She's terrified of her father. Where are you going? The house is-"

"I know where the house is. We're overdue for a conference, and it's impossible to have a private conversation in that place."

"Where are we going?"

"There's a little place down the road-"

"It's too early for a drink," Laurie said.

"Never too early for a beer, my dear. Vi's will be empty this time of day; the good buddies don't come in till after work."

As Laurie had surmised, the "little place" was a tavern-a tacky-looking, gaudily painted cinderblock structure on the outskirts of the small town that was the nearest metropolis to Idlewood. The interior was a decorator's nightmare of cheap plastic and outhouse-humor posters; but at least it looked fairly clean and was, as Doug had promised, virtually empty. Vi, a big, gray-haired woman with a prominent red nose, greeted Doug by name.

"Early for you, isn't it? And who's your friend?" She winked.

"My sister," Doug said quickly.

"Your . . . Oh-oh, yeah. I heard you was here on a visit, Miss-uh-"

"Make it Laurie. Good to meet you, Vi."

"Likewise," Vi said heartily. "I remember you, from years back; my dad owned the grocery store in town, and your Uncle Ned used to bring you with him sometimes. I sure wouldn't have known you."

They had to chat for a few minutes before Vi let them retire to a booth. The only other patron was at the far end of the room, in a semirec.u.mbent position. His eyes and mouth were open, but it was obvious that he was totally disinterested in the outside world.

"Good beer," Doug said, after a moment.

"Not bad. What do you want to talk about?"

"Aunt Lizzie, of course. I'm beginning to think we got on our horses and rode off in all directions on a wild-goose chase."

"Talk about mixing your metaphors-"

"Oh, you know what I mean. What have we got, really? A sweet little old lady, who has never been known for her logical mind, showing signs of senility. At her age that's not surprising. The only problem I can see is what steps we ought to take to make sure she doesn't hurt herself wandering-"