Spellbinder Read online

  “I know. I was just thinking the same thing.”

  For a moment they walked in silence down the steep, gravel-slippery path. A month ago, after a party, Peter had slipped and fallen on this same path—hard.

  “Cy and I had lunch a couple of weeks ago,” Peter offered. “He said that Ann wants to get pregnant. He’s not so sure he likes the idea. I’ll bet that was the problem, tonight. I’ll bet they’re fighting about it.”

  “Once they had a baby, Cy would love it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” he answered. “Cy’s very self-centered, you know. And he’s determined, too. Very, very determined. First and foremost, he thinks of himself as a conceptual artist. That’s his self-image, and he’s deadly serious about it. Everything else—being a husband, being a father—that comes second, with Cy.”

  Like you, she was tempted to say, teasing him. But, to Peter, his determination to succeed as a film writer wasn’t a joking matter. It was a lesson she’d learned early in their relationship—and always forgot, to her sorrow. Peter was thirty years old, and time was beginning to torment him. For thirty-two hours a week, from ten at night to six in the morning, he worked on the docks, loading cargo. Thirty hours a week, to the hour, he spent writing scripts. In the two years they’d been together, Hollywood had called twice. Both times, his enthusiasm and blind faith had been pitifully, ruthlessly betrayed by glib shoestring producers who promised to make Peter rich and famous—provided he’d agree to give them a year’s option on the script for almost nothing. The second time it happened, he’d vowed to give it all up. But, the next day, he’d come home from the docks, as usual, at six-thirty A.M. And, as usual, he’d started writing at seven, stopping only to make a pot of coffee. If she was home, she never disturbed him until eleven o’clock, when he went to bed. On the days he didn’t work on the docks, he wrote eight hours a day. It was a long, discouraging struggle. And, at age thirty, the outcome was still in doubt. Peter never admitted to discouragement. But she could sense the doubts he sometimes felt in the small things he said—and didn’t say.

  So, instead of teasing him, she decided to say, “Ann’s determined. If she wants a baby, I’m willing to bet that, this time next year, they’ll have a baby.”

  For several long, gravel-crunching strides, they walked in silence. Without looking at him, she could sense that, for Peter, it was a somber silence. So she wasn’t surprised when he quietly said, “What about you, Denise? Ever think about a baby?”

  It was, she knew, a tricky question—a loaded question, despite Peter’s effort to speak casually, without inflection.

  “Everyone thinks about babies.” It was a careful-sounding answer. Too careful, maybe. As she spoke, she stole a look at him. Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his favorite blue pea coat, shoulders hunched, head bowed, he was looking down at the pathway at his feet. She couldn’t see his face. But she could feel him frowning.

  “You’re twenty-eight years old. That’s about the time most women think about babies, put up or shut up.”

  Now she, too, was staring down at the pathway directly in front of her. She knew that the evening had made Peter gloomy; she knew he might be bordering on one of his black moods. And she knew, therefore, that she should change the subject.

  Instead, though, she heard herself saying, “Are we talking about Ann and Cy—or us?” As she said it, they turned the last corner. The parking lot lay ahead. In unison, the rhythm of their walking had slowed. It was as if, by common consent, they’d agreed that this conversation couldn’t be interrupted. Before they got into the car, they must finish it.

  Beside her, still walking with his head down, she heard him sigh. “I’ve got one kid, Denise. Every time I see him, it tears me up. I just couldn’t face that again.”

  “You couldn’t face another failed marriage. Isn’t that what you’re saying? It’s not that you don’t love David. It’s because you love him too much that you’re reluctant to have more children.”

  “Yeah,” he answered heavily, “maybe that’s what I’m saying. And when I hear myself say it, I realize that I’m talking about me, not you. I mean—” He broke off. Glancing at him quickly, she saw him shaking his head. It was a dogged, mutely defeated mannerism. In the pale glow from the parking lot’s overhead light standards, she saw his face. His expression was somber, saddened. Whenever Peter talked about his son, she could always see anguish, deep in his eyes.

  “I mean,” he said finally, “I’m being selfish. I know it. I realize it.”

  Standing beside Peter’s battered pickup now, she waited for him to unlock the door on her side.

  “Let’s talk about it later,” she said softly. “In bed.”

  Suddenly he guffawed: a spontaneous eruption of strong, simple, Italian-style humor.

  “Are you saying that we should make a baby? Tonight? Just do it, without further philosophizing?”

  She dug her elbow sharply into his hard, flat stomach. “I’m saying that some things are better talked about in bed, that’s all. Like babies. Now come on—open the door. I’m cold.”

  As she opened the apartment door, the phone was ringing.

  “Christ,” Peter said, looking at his watch as he switched on a living room lamp and crossed quickly to the phone. “It’s after midnight.” Then, curtly: “Hello. Who’s this?”

  Bolting the door, she turned toward Peter, standing beside the sofa, phone in hand. As he listened, she saw his thick black eyebrows raise sharply. Peter was surprised—genuinely surprised. It didn’t often happen. Now he covered the mouthpiece, saying softly, “It’s for you. It’s someone named Flournoy. He says that your father wants to talk to you, for God’s sake.”

  “My father?” As she said it, she felt herself go suddenly hollow at the center. It was her mother. Something had happened to her mother. She knew it. She could feel it.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she took the phone from Peter.

  “Hello? Dad?”

  “Hello, Denise. I’m sorry to be calling so late. How are you, Denise?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s your mother, Denise. This afternoon, she—” He hesitated. It was, she knew, a pause calculated for effect. Automatically, instinctively, he was building the suspense. His voice lowered to a more somber, more dramatic note as he continued: “She left the house when she wasn’t supposed to, alone. She got the Mercedes, and drove to a shopping center. She was—she’d been drinking, and she had an accident. A bad accident.”

  “She’s hurt.”

  Hurt …

  Or dead?

  She was mutely searching Peter’s face, looking for strength enough to survive the next few moments.

  “No, Denise. She’s not hurt. She’s fine. But she hit a young mother and two children—backed into them, by mistake. The children are hurt. Badly hurt. One of them is in a coma. She—she might not live, Denise.” As he said it, his voice caught. It was another orator’s trick—wasn’t it?

  “How are you, Dad? How’s your—” She paused, deciding to say, “How’s your health?”

  Instead of How’s your heart?

  “I’m fine, Denise. Just fine, thank you.” It was an almost pitifully formal reply. Except for the obligatory Christmas phone call, they hadn’t spoken for more than two years. They were strangers now. Total strangers. She could hear it in his voice. And he could hear it, too. Whatever his faults, he’d always been perceptive, always sharply tuned to even the smallest, most subtle nuance.

  “Is Mother—” Once more she paused. “Is she in—in jail?” As she said it, she looked again at Peter. He stood in the doorway of the living room, frowning worriedly as he looked at her. She covered the phone, saying quickly: “It’s a traffic accident. Mother was drunk, and hit a little girl.”

  “No, she’s not in jail,” her father was saying. “We managed to get a quick hearing, and had the matter put over. I don’t understand the legalities of it. But she’s here now, Denise. And she’s upset. Very upse
t. She’s asking for you. That’s all she can think about, or talk about—just you. Just seeing you.”

  “Do you want me to come down there? Is that what you want?” She said it slowly, regretfully. She was conscious of the dull, leaden dread she felt, asking the question.

  Could she do it?

  Could she return to the house that held so many bitter memories? Could she face her father, whom she couldn’t respect? And Elton, whom she’d never liked? Could she watch her mother suffer, killing herself as she tried to dull her pain?

  No, she couldn’t do it.

  Suddenly the thought of entering the Holloway mansion and facing the huge spiral staircase that led up to her old room was more than she could bear. Even for her mother, as much a victim as she was, she couldn’t do it. The effort of breaking away had cost her too much. Going back would risk it all. And, as she sought Peter’s eyes once more, she saw him almost imperceptibly shaking his head—pleading with her, please, don’t risk it. For her sake. And his sake, too.

  “No, Denise. That’s not what I was thinking.” As he said it, she could hear calculation come into his voice. And instantly, before he said it, she knew what he wanted of her:

  “I was thinking,” the deep, rich voice continued, “that it would be better if she came there for a while. To you.”

  To get her away from the reporters, Dad, she should retort. To save your skin—your hypocritical hide, goddamn you.

  But instead, dully—she was repeating: “To me?”

  “Yes, Denise. Can you take her in, for a week or so?”

  “Dad, I—”

  “She’s all packed, Denise. I’ve taken that liberty. All day—all evening—we’ve been trying to reach you. During that time, your mother’s come to believe that she’s going up there, to San Francisco—that you’ll take her in, Denise. I just couldn’t bear to tell her differently. I didn’t have the heart.”

  “You should have talked to me first.” She spoke quietly, coldly, as she searched Peter’s face for some solution—some way out. Peter was helplessly shrugging, unable to put the conversation’s pieces together, listening only to her. So, abruptly, she put her hand over the receiver. Saying: “He wants me to take her in. Here. Now. What’ll we do?”

  Striding quickly to her side, Peter said, “Do whatever you want—whatever you have to do. I can go to Mendocino for a while. You decide.”

  Still searching Peter’s face, she spoke into the phone: “Let me talk to Mother, Dad.”

  “Denise—” The single word was a rich, rolling tremolo, eloquently evoking his deep regret. Now he was performing—doing what he did best. All the stops were out. “Denise, I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone. She’s, ah, indisposed. You know what I mean.”

  “You mean she’s drunk. You got her drunk. You gave her more than she could handle. Didn’t you?”

  “Denise—”

  “Didn’t you?”

  For a long moment, the phone buzzed as her father fell silent. Then, speaking softly and reproachfully, he said, “I can’t argue with you, Denise. I—I’m not up to it. All I can tell you is what I’ve said already—that your mother is terribly, terribly unhappy. She’s afraid that she might be a murderer, Denise. She’s shocked. Terribly shocked, and terribly afraid. And she wants to see you. That’s all I can tell you. I’ve got to go now, Denise. I’ve got to lie down, and rest. I’m going to let you talk to Howard. You can tell him your decision. Goodnight, Denise. God bless you.” The phone clicked dead. He’d left her hanging. He’d left her to struggle alone with whatever guilt he’d decided to lay on her, as he’d done so often in the past. And all in God’s name, with God’s benediction. Whatever he did—whomever he harmed—the blasphemous old bastard always evoked God. All her life, she’d never displeased her father directly. It was always God to whom she must answer.

  Again, the phone clicked.

  “Denise? Are you there?” It was Flournoy, his voice as cold and metallic as a computer’s. God, how she hated him.

  God God God

  Blasphemy Blasphemy Blasphemy

  “How bad is my mother?”

  “She’s gone to pieces, Denise. All she can talk about is you.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “That’s your choice.”

  As always, he was one move ahead of her.

  “You want to get her out of town, that’s all. Away from the reporters. Out of harm’s way, so she can’t embarrass you. That’s what this is all about. Isn’t it?” She realized that her voice was rising, half hysterically. She was laying it all on Flournoy: all the frustration her father had left her with, and all the sudden, searing hatred she felt for him.

  “If that was it,” Flournoy was saying coldly, “we’d simply send her to a sanitarium. We’d have Miss Fletcher take her to a sanitarium. That would be safer, you know. Much safer, for us.”

  And, of course, he was right.

  So, sinking suddenly onto the couch, she surrendered: “All right. Send her up.”

  “Thank you, Denise. You’re doing the right thing. She and Mitchell will be there early tomorrow morning. He’ll help you—give you anything you need.”

  “Money, you mean.”

  Silence. Then, politely thanking her again, Flournoy broke the connection.

  “God—damn.” She slammed down the phone in its cradle, hard.

  Seven

  SHIFTING THE BROWN PAPER BAG to his left hand, Carson dropped fifteen cents into the fare box and turned toward the rear of the bus.

  “Hey, buddy.” It was the bus driver’s voice, behind him. Aware that nearby passengers were staring, he turned back to face the driver.

  “It’s twenty-five cents, you mind?”

  “I—I’m sorry. I—thought it was fifteen.”

  “The sign says twenty-five.” As the bus lurched forward, the driver jabbed a finger toward black letters stenciled on the bulkhead over the windshield.

  “I’ve been away.”

  “For two years?” the driver jeered. “That’s how long it’s been since it was fifteen cents.”

  Not replying, he walked past the rows of smugly staring passengers. Already, it was starting. Less than a half hour back in town, and already eyes were following him—watchful, hostile eyes.

  He tossed the bag on an empty seat and slid in beside it.

  The wrinkled paper bag was all he had—the paper bag, plus the twenty-five dollars they’d given him at the institution, plus the clothes he was wearing: a jacket, slacks, a shirt and a tie. They were the same clothes he’d worn at his trial, the same clothes he’d worn when he entered prison, four years ago.

  He’d always been careful about his clothes. He’d always studied the ads, to memorize the latest styles. His mother had sent him a newspaper clipping, written about his trial. The reporter had described him as “the dapper defendant.” He still had the clipping, carefully Scotch-taped along its cracked-open creases.

  The dapper defendant …

  He settled lower into his seat, allowing his eyes to lose focus as Darlington’s familiar landmarks slid by beyond the grimy windows beside him.

  It was only the beginning, that cracked, yellowed clipping. Because it was inevitable—absolutely inevitable—that other reporters would write other stories about him. Someday he would be famous. He would be rich, and powerful—and therefore famous. He was an exceptional person. Therefore, he’d made exceptional plans for himself—plans that only he, a gifted person, could carry out. Every day during the last four years, he’d refined the plans, testing and retesting, calculating and recalculating. With his superior IQ—near genius, the prison psychiatrist told him—he’d been able to plan his future, step by step. Nothing had been left out—nothing left to chance.

  His mother was the key—the first key—that would open the first lock that held the first door closed and barred against him. Because, since he’d been a small boy, listening to her wild, incoherent ramblings, he’d heard her say that he was the remark
able son of a remarkable father: a rich and powerful man, famous throughout the world. He’d always known she was half mad, so he’d always assumed that his rich, powerful father had been a creature of her demented imagination. But, during the past four years, imprisoned with his thoughts and memories, he’d come to realize that there was a consistency to her descriptions of his father.

  His father wasn’t a figment of his mother’s imagination.

  His father was real. He existed.

  And the money existed, too—his father’s riches. The envelopes that arrived each month were the proof.

  He swung down from the bus and stood on the curb, looking up and down the block. In four years, nothing had changed except for the worse. The houses were even smaller and more dingy than he’d remembered. The yards were unkempt, littered with the remnants of discarded playthings and broken-down cars. Overhead, the late afternoon sky was low and threatening, promising rain before nightfall. The air was heavy and oppressive. In a nearby house, a child was screaming. Now a woman’s voice bawled out, adding her frenzied shouts to the din.

  He was home.

  All his life, he’d lived here, imprisoned.

  He crossed the street, angling toward the small, one-story house where his mother lived. For a moment he didn’t recognize the house. She’d had it painted: an apple green with darker green trim, and white window sash. And then he remembered: a year ago, his Uncle Julian had written that he was having the house painted and the roof repaired.

  As Carson came closer to the house, he began to notice details. The window shades were half drawn, all to a uniform height above the sill. Advertising circulars littered the small front porch. The grass around the house was ankle high.

  He mounted the two wooden steps to the porch, and felt behind a doorstop, where a key was kept hidden. The key was gone. Still stooped, he heard a nearby window slide open. It was a sound that had dogged him throughout his childhood. Because, inevitably, the sound of a high, shrill voice would follow the sound of the opening window: