Chapter Twenty

The buggy disappeared and I was sitting behind the wheel of the Plymouth. I was Maggie Caine again, although I remembered everything that had happened. George Langley, the boy who lived with the Webers, was standing by the car door watching me solemnly.

“Why were you in the house?” he asked. “Did you want to see the meeting room again?”

When I was able to speak I said, “Yes, that’s right. Where were you?”

“Walking on the road. I saw you drive in here so I came home.”

“You saw me drive in?”

“Yes.”

“In this car?”

He studied me briefly, then nodded. “Yes.”

So there it was. I was losing my mind.

“Where are Mrs. Reddy and the Webers?”

“Mr. Weber went away a little while ago. Mrs. Weber and Mrs. Reddy were in the parlor when I went out.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About ten minutes ago. I just went out for a walk.”

How could they be in the parlor? Wouldn’t I have seen them? They would have prevented me going up the stairs, wouldn’t they?

“Did you see me go in the house too, George?”

“Yes, and then you came out a couple of minutes later.”

Was he lying? Had they sent him out to lie to me? But to what purpose? And how could they have managed the rest of it—causing me to see the house as it was. Even if they had brought in old furniture and put an actor in the upstairs bed, they couldn’t have made the car disappear, and changed the road, and put me in a black taffeta dress in a buggy. Or could they?

Could they have hypnotized me and made me see things that weren’t really there? But how could they have managed that if I hadn’t even seen the two of them first? Didn’t you have to look into a hypnotist’s eyes and listen to his voice in order to be put under his spell?

“Do you want me to fetch Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber?” the boy asked.

“No, thank you, George.” I wondered if they were watching me from the house. “Why aren’t you in school?”

“I don’t go anymore. Mrs. Weber gives me lessons.”

What kind of lessons? I wondered. “You ought to go to school. Do you have anyone to play with around here?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you ride your pony?”

“I don’t have a pony.”

“But I saw you riding one. The first day we came here. You were in the yard and you were on a pony.”

He nodded. “His name was Ginger. But I only had him for that day. Mr. Weber went and got him in a trailer and then took him back the next day.”

“But why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Mrs. Reddy told him to do it.”

I had a sudden thought. “Where did Mr. Weber get Ginger?”

“From Mr. Dobbs on the next road. He rents out ponies.”

Was Dobbs in on it too? I was terrified of waiting there any longer. Whatever power they had over me, it seemed obvious they could put it to work again.

“Do you know where I live, George?”

He shook his head.

“It’s a mile and a half or so down the road. It doesn’t look like a house. It looks more like a warehouse or a factory. If you ever have any trouble here, you can come and stay with me.”

“What kind of trouble would I have?”

“You’ll know when it happens.”

I backed out on the road, tires screeching, and then looked at the house again. I was half-­expecting one of them to come out, but it didn’t happen. The boy was still standing in the yard as I drove off.

It had been window dressing, the pony rented for George, I was sure. We were supposed to think they were a typically happy farm family. But how did Mrs. Reddy know we were coming the day we arrived from the East? The real estate agent in Ashland could have phoned her, but that wouldn’t have given her much time to arrange for the pony. I should have asked the boy what time of the day the pony had been delivered.

Still, no phone call might have been necessary. If she could make me think I was Margaret Dorn, she could easily have telepathic powers as well. And, on the plus side, if Mrs. Reddy was responsible, then I wasn’t crazy after all.

It seemed all the more urgent now that I find the remains of Margaret Dorn and the General. Whether or not Mrs. Reddy could use them in some supernatural way, if she believed she could use them, then they had better be destroyed before something worse happened to Duff or me.

By the time I reached home, however, I was in a state of terror and incapable of searching for anything. I ran from the car without even closing the door, went into the house and up the stairs, refusing to answer any of Jack’s questions, and locked myself in my room.

I heard him hobbling up the stairs around noon. He knocked on my door and then went back downstairs again. After a while I opened the door and found a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich on a tray. I made a deliberate effort to eat the sandwich and drink the tea, using my right hand, but it was impossible. My left hand kept grabbing the cup and the sandwich and I was powerless to stop it. After a while I quit fighting it.

I went to the mirror occasionally to see who I was, but I remained Maggie Caine, at least in appearance, for the rest of the day. (I brushed my hair several times, using my left hand, and remembered that I had been doing it that way for several days.) When they returned from school Duff and Franny came to my door, but I ignored all their rappings and pleadings.

That night I became Margaret Dorn again in body. I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know it. My face became longer, my cheekbones more pronounced, my breasts swelled, and my fingers became thinner and more tapered. And the General came to me again.

In the morning I was awakened by Jack hammering on my door. He was yelling, “Get up, Maggie! You have a visitor!”

I found my watch on the dresser. It was nine-­thirty. I calculated that I had slept fourteen hours or more. I hadn’t done that in years—not since college, and then only after a couple of all-­night pre-­exam sessions.

“Your priest friend is here to see you,” Jack shouted. “Your children are disgusted with you, Maggie, and I am too. Locking yourself in a bedroom like this. Have some consideration for your family!”

“Fuck my family,” I said, but not loudly. Then I was horrified. How could I have even thought anything like that?

“Tell Father Jackson I’ll be down in five minutes.”

I waited until I heard Jack clumping away before going to the bathroom. Then I dressed quickly and was downstairs in not much more than my announced time.

“I’m sorry to break in on you like this,” Father Jackson said. He was wearing his Roman collar.

“I invited you, didn’t I? Or at least I knew you were coming. Have some breakfast with me.”

I steered him out to the kitchen and into a chair while I prepared an enormous breakfast—bacon, eggs, sausage, five or six pieces of toast. Jack came to the doorway a couple of times to look in on us suspiciously, but I didn’t speak to him and the second time I thumbed my nose at him. Father Jackson was embarrassed, so I went over and ruffled his hair and kissed him. Then he was even more embarrassed.

“Are you going to eat all that food?” he asked.

“I am if you’re not going to help me.”

And I did. He had a cup of coffee and watched me gorge myself. Then, when I had eaten all I had cooked, I went to the refrigerator and polished off some cold roast beef and a bowl of tapioca pudding.

“Now I feel better,” I said. “I’m ready to go out and do some digging.”

“It’s illegal,” Father Jackson said.

“Nonsense. This is private property. Our graveyard belongs to us.”

I left the dishes on the table and went out to the barn, Father Jackson following reluctantly. As a matter of fact I knew what I proposed to do was foolish. I was sure I wasn’t going to find anything. However, I was enjoying Peter Jackson’s discomfort.

I found two long-­handled shovels and a pick among the rusting tools. The blade was half gone on one shovel and the handle was cracked on the other.

“These will do,” I said. “There isn’t much clay in this ground.”

I led him to the graveyard and the place where Dr. Tully had said Margaret Dorn was buried. Without preamble I went to work, driving my shovel into the earth.

“You’d better take off your coat if you’re going to help,” I told him.

He didn’t know what to do. He stood by the fence for a while, watching me and growing more agitated. Finally the gentleman in him prevailed. He took off his coat, draping it carefully over a tombstone, picked up the shovel with the broken blade and lifted about a tablespoonful of earth.

“We’ll be here ’til dark at your rate,” I said, shoveling at a speed of which I would never have dreamed I was capable. I was a good two feet down by that time. At about four feet, I found a couple of rusty nails and a piece of rotting board that could have been part of a coffin.

Jack came down the path shortly after that, limping along with his cane.

“What in the name of God are you doing?” he yelled.

“Getting some exercise,” I said, not pausing. Father Jackson grinned feebly.

“This is desecration, Father! I’m surprised that you’d take part in it.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Father Jackson threw away his shovel and climbed out of the hole.

“Maggie, for God’s sake, a member of my family is buried there.”

“Not here. There’s no one buried here.” I was ready to quit anyway. “And apparently there’s no treasure chest either,” I added as I threw out the shovel and reached up to let Father Jackson pull me out of the hole.

“What treasure chest?”

“I found a letter upstairs that said General Caine had buried some money here.”

That grabbed my husband. “How much money?”

“I don’t know. There’s supposed to be a box or chest with a lot of gold coins in it, but it’s not here, as you can see.”

“Where’s the letter? Let me see it.”

“I’ll show it to you later. Go back to the house now. And don’t say anything about this to Duff or Franny. We don’t want them out here desecrating your graveyard.”

He went. Father Jackson stood watching me unhappily as I began to fill in the hole.

“Why couldn’t you have told him the truth?” Father Jackson asked.

“Too complicated. Also, he wouldn’t have believed it. Are you going to help me or stand there and criticize?”

He picked up his shovel again and in a few minutes we had the hole filled and leveled. Then we took the tools back to the barn. I showed Father Jackson the ladder to the loft.

“Climb up and see what’s up there,” I told him.

“Will that thing hold me? It looks shaky.”

He went up cautiously, hesitating a couple of times. I had to keep urging him on, but he finally made it into the loft. He disappeared for a couple of minutes and then came back.

“There’s nothing up here but a lot of mice and a few more old tools,” he said.

“All right, come down.” He did and then I added, “I knew there wouldn’t be any coffins up there.”

“How did you know?”

“I just knew. What’s left of General Duffin Caine and his mistress, Margaret Dorn, is at the Weber house. They were in the cellar, but I think they’re in the meeting room now.”

I looked at my fingers. They were growing longer. I felt my cheeks. The bones were more prominent. Couldn’t he see the difference? Then I was completely Margaret Dorn and I could no longer remember Maggie Caine.

I reached for him and he yelled and ran out of the barn. I knew he would return, so I sat on the floor and waited for him. In a minute or two he came back wearing his stole around his neck and carrying a prayer book. Then he stood some distance away from me, reading from the book and raising his hands occasionally to make the sign of the cross while I shouted obscenities at him. At least I know now my words were obscene. Then I thought they were amusing.

After a while I went up the ladder to the loft and invited him to come with me. I had it in my mind to seduce him and then afterward kill him. I was sure I was strong enough to strangle him. However he paid no attention to my repeated invitations, and after a while I stretched out on the loft floor and went to sleep.

When I awakened, it was much darker and for a moment I couldn’t remember where I was. Then I looked over the edge of the loft and saw Father Jackson. He was seated on a wheel­barrow, still reading his prayer book.

“Hi,” I called softly. He looked up cautiously. “It’s me, Maggie.” I came down the ladder. “What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “Four-­thirty.”

“God. Are the kids home from school yet?”

“Your daughter is. She looked in here a while ago, but then she went away again without saying anything.”

“Did she know I was up in the loft?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I didn’t think you wanted her to see you. Did you?”

“Maggie Caine didn’t.” He didn’t reply. “Do you believe me now?” I asked.

“I believe there’s something wrong with you,” he said carefully. “Maybe you’re the one who’s a multiple personality.”

I was angry, but then I thought, maybe he’s right. My God, I hope he’s right. At least it would be something treatable.

“I don’t suppose your brother would want to see me.”

“I could call him. I don’t think he’d want to come here again, but we would drive up to see him.”

“No, I’ll go alone.” But then I thought, what if I get halfway to Cleveland and find myself in the buggy again.

“I don’t think I ought to go anywhere, Peter. I ought to be guarded and not let out of the house.” Then I told him what had been in my mind when I was up in the loft and also what had happened when I went in the Weber house.

“Don’t tell me again I’m not Margaret Dorn.”

He smiled wanly. “Well, you’re not now at any rate.”

“Didn’t I really change this time?”

“Your personality surely changed.”

“Goddamn it, my features, my hair, my body. My complexion is lighter, I’m shorter, my tits are smaller than hers!”

“That’s what you see. I saw only a person who seemed demented.”

“Goddamn it!”

“Maggie, what difference does it make? I agree there’s something wrong with you.”

“And will you agree that it could be caused by an outside source?”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“Peter, how could such things possibly happen to two persons in the same family at the same time? Wouldn’t the odds be astronomical on the same thing happening to Duff and me?”

“Well, we have only your word about things happening to Duff.”

“Goddamn you, Jackson, go to the high school, go to the police in Ashland! Go and ask his father!”

“Still, no one but you has seen the General!”

I flew at him and hammered his chest. He caught me and held me tightly. He was stronger than I had expected him to be. After a while I was exhausted, and then I just stood there sobbing and letting him hold me.

“Stay with me. I mean stay in the house tonight, Peter.”

“But I can’t—” He hesitated and then said, “All right. If it’s all right with your husband. I’ll have to think of some excuse to give Father Fogarty.”

“Tell him the truth. Tell him I’m possessed.”

“He’d love that. That’s what he’d like to hear. Why do you want me to stay tonight?”

“I just feel that something might happen and someone who knows about me ought to be around. I haven’t been able to talk to Jack about it.”

“I think you should.”

“I can’t. You’re the only one I can trust, Peter.”

He realized he had been holding me for a long time and he released me then. Was there still something of Margaret Dorn in me? I think even when she wasn’t in complete control of me, she had begun by that time to influence me greatly.

We went into the house and I told Jack that Father Jackson was going to spend the night. His bedroom at the rectory was being painted, I said, and paint fumes always made him ill. Peter looked uncomfortable during this but he didn’t protest.

“Where will he bunk?” Jack asked. “Maybe you could move downstairs with me, Maggie, and Father Jackson could have your room.”

“The sofa here is good enough,” Father Jackson said. “I’m small. I can manage all right for one night.”

“It could be more than one night,” I said. “It takes a while for a newly painted room to air out.”

Duff and Franny came downstairs then. I was wondering how Duff would react to the priest, since it was supposedly he who had stopped Duff after the first church incident.

“Do you know Father Jackson, Duff?” I asked casually.

“No, I don’t think so,” Duff said and shook hands. He didn’t react either to the news that Father Jackson was spending the night.

“Do you play Scrabble?” Franny asked. “I’m afraid that or poker is all we can offer you for entertainment, since we don’t have a TV set.”

“I’m a champion Scrabble player,” Father Jackson assured her.

“You have to watch Dad. He makes up words that you can never find in a dictionary. And Duff uses four-­letter words.”

“Untrue,” Duff said and smiled at me.

I didn’t pursue it, and I silenced Franny when she wanted to give us some examples. And we did play Scrabble after dinner—a dinner over which I labored somewhat more than usual, partly because we had a guest, but mostly because I was afraid of night coming on and prolonging dinner seemed to be keeping it at bay.

Then the Scrabble game. All of us except Duff played. I don’t know whether it was because of Franny’s remark or not, but he refused to participate, although he stayed in the dining room and kibitzed to an annoying degree.

Father Jackson didn’t seem to mind and had more fun than any of the rest of us. I suppose it was a welcome change from his usual evening at the rectory. Jack enjoyed himself too—mainly because Duff was helping him, suggesting words when Jack was stumped and supplying longer and better-­scoring words in place of Jack’s often feeble ones.

After a while I began to lose control. The first indication was when I picked up letters to build on a word of Franny’s. I had intended to spell “Jacobin,” but after I had picked up a “J” and a “C” to build on Franny’s “A,” it was impossible to pick up any more letters with my right hand. Instead my left hand picked them up and spelled out “jackass.”

“I guess that shows what Mother thinks of me,” said Franny.

“Jackass is male. She must be thinking of someone else,” murmured Duff.

Then on my next turn I wanted to add “history” to a word of Father Jackson’s. Instead my left hand spelled “him.” Father Jackson was watching me closely. I winked at him.

“You’ll never pile up points that way, Mother,” Franny told me.

The next time I built on Jack’s “initial” to spell out “incest.” My right hand wanted to prevent it, but it couldn’t.

“Mother,” Duff said reprovingly and grinned.

“This is a stupid game,” I said. “I’m going to quit.”

“No, don’t,” Father Jackson said sharply. “Play a while longer.”

“That’s right,” said Jack yawning. “Scrabble usually gets more interesting as it goes along.”

“When all the players have learned to spell at least simple words,” I said. He had just reversed the “I” and the “E” in “receive.”

On my next turn I added “kill you” to his word. I wasn’t disturbed by it any longer. I just smiled.

“Single words only, Mother,” said Franny.

“Who will?” Father Jackson asked softly.

My left hand put down an “M” and then an “E.” Then I swept the board and all the letters off the table and ran upstairs. I locked myself in my room and sat on the bed. At that moment I did want to kill Jack. I wanted his death more than anything else, even more than I wanted General Caine.

After a while I went and sat in front of the mirror. I couldn’t wait to become Margaret Dorn and fulfill whatever mission was destined for me. I believed completely now in the General’s Master, and I was willing to serve that Master as he had.