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 remarkable 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:
“James! James Carson!”
It was Mrs. Kerrigan, who’d always hated him. Turning, he saw her large, florid face framed in the open window of her dining room.
“You’re home, I see.”
It was an accusation, harsh and spiteful. For a long, silent moment he stood staring at her. Could she see the contempt in his eyes—the loathing he felt for her? He hoped so.
“Are you looking for your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well—” Her gap-toothed smile was malevolent as she crossed her fat forearms on the windowsill. He knew that mannerism. She was complacently settling herself to enjoy the effect of what she was about to say:
“Well, your mother ain’t here. About six months ago, they took her away to the asylum. Or maybe it was seven months ago, now. I forget.”
As he pressed the bell button, a low angry muttering of thunder sounded from the west, where ominous tiers of purple clouds lay heavy on the horizon. Almost immediately, a second rumble followed the first. To himself, he smiled. In high school English, in Miss Farnsworth’s class, he’d learned about Shakespeare’s use of sympathetic nature, when an angry nature reflected the dire deeds of men. So it was appropriate that thunder should sound as he pressed his Uncle Julian’s bell button. Because, sooner or later, dire deeds would follow.
From inside, he heard the sound of footsteps: light, quick footsteps. A small, white hand flicked aside the lace curtains covering the beveled glass of the tall, deeply carved door. Through the gap in the curtains he saw the narrow, anxious face of Barbara Carson, his cousin. He smiled at her, and nodded a greeting. The curtain suddenly fell back into place; the face disappeared. He knew that she could still see him through the curtain. So he kept smiling.
Finally the curtain parted again.
“My father isn’t home. He won’t be home for another half hour, at least.”
“Well, let me in. I can’t wait out here.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she was shaking her head. “I’m not supposed to, James. I’m not supposed to let anyone inside, until Daddy gets home.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She’s in Charleston. Grandma’s sick. Mom’s taking care of her.”
“Well, let me in, Barbara. I’ve just got back. And your father’s responsible for me. Just like he’s responsible for you. So let me in.”
“Responsible?”
“That’s right. Responsible.”
“He didn’t tell me about it. I didn’t even know you were coming.”
“He probably didn’t know when I’d be here. Not exactly. Now let me in, Barbara.”
Once more, the curtain fell. But now he heard a night chain rattling. Cautiously, uncertainly, the door swung open. Everything Barbara did was uncertain. She was frightened of everything. She was a mouse—a nothing.
But he remembered to smile again. “Thank you.” He walked past her, into the large, high-ceilinged living room that opened off the entry hall to the left. Uncle Julian lived in a restored Victorian house, one of Darlington’s historical landmarks. Uncle Julian was a grain broker who also dealt in real estate. Still not fifty, with a handsome wife and a spectacular house, Uncle Julian was one of Darlington’s most prominent citizens. When Julian Carson walked down the street, people smiled and nodded. Julian Carson was important. So, to his face, no one mentioned his sister—or his nephew.
He tossed the brown paper sack on a tufted, red velvet sofa, and sat beside it. The bag was wrinkled and torn. Soon his possessions would fall out—his comb and his toothbrush, what the officials called his “personal effects.” Somehow the image of his personal effects exposed in his uncle’s house seemed an obscenity.
Barbara edged onto a small, straightback chair, facing him with her knees pressed together, hands anxiously clasped in her lap. She was fourteen years old, just developing. Her body was slight, but finely formed. She was wearing tight-fitting white slacks that-clung to her thighs, and dove deep into the cleft of her crotch. A red sweater revealed small, budding breasts.
When she’d said she wasn’t expecting him, she’d been telling the truth. Because, dressed as she was, she’d never have let him see her. Not Barbara. Not if she remembered the time she’d let him touch her, so long ago.
“You’re fourteen,” he said. “Fourteen years old.”
She nodded—a single small, grave inclination of her head. Her hair was blond, long and finespun. A twist of red ribbon held the hair at the nape of her neck, pulled smooth over her head. Her hair would be silky and smooth, soft to the touch. Soft, and exciting. When she lifted her head, he saw her swallowing. Her throat was thin, delicately modeled, exquisitely layered and muscled.
Beneath his hand, her throat would feel like a wild bird, fluttering and wildly beating, struggling to escape. But, captured, birds couldn’t fly. So, crushed to death, they died. Pressed hard against his, he would feel her body buck and shudder: a doomed, desperate bird. Dying.
“You’ve grown, since I saw you.”
Once more, she nodded.
He let his eyes linger on her, watching a sudden flush stain the pale flesh of her face. Finally, softly, he said, “Say something to me, Barbara. Don’t just nod. Say something.”
“I—” She licked at her lips. “I don’t—don’t know what you want me to say. My father won’t be home for a half hour or so. I’ve already told you that.”
“Did Uncle Julian tell you I was—getting out?”
“He—yes, he did. But he didn’t say when. And my grandmother, she’s been so sick, lately, that—” She left it unfinished. Once more, her eyes fell away from his. In her lap, her hand still twisted. She was afraid of him—afraid of being there with him, alone. Watching her, he felt his genitals tightening. Beneath his clothes, he was suddenly perspiring. His throat had gone dry. It was, he knew, the first sign—the first warning.
But she mustn’t know—mustn’t suspect. Not now. Not here.
So, again—still—he was smiling as he said, “Your house is beautiful, Barbara. You’ve done a lot, since I was here the last time.”
She nodded. Then, with obvious effort, she said, “Thank you.”
“Don’t you know my name?”
“Yes, It—it’s James.”
Still smiling, he gently prodded: “Cousin James. That’s what you used to call me, when you were smaller. Do you remember?”
“I—yes—I …”
From the hallway, he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Instantly, she was on her feet, fleeing into the hall. He heard the sound of the front door closing, followed by the sound of hushed, anxious voices. A silence followed. Then Uncle Julian stood in the open archway to the living room. Behind him, Barbara was silently fleeing down the hallway—gone.
“As I understood it,” Julian Carson was saying, “you weren’t to’ve arrived until next week. Tuesday, to be exact.”
On his feet, facing his uncle squarely, he shook his head. “I don’t know. They just told me to go, and gave me a bus ticket. So that’s what I did. I left.”
“How long have you been in Darlington?” Julian’s voice was brisk, clipped. His eyes were hard. They were watchful eyes. Hostile eyes. The eyes of the enemy.
“About an hour.”
“Did you go home? To your house?”
“Yes. Mrs. Kerrigan—the neighbor—said that my mother’s in an asylum.” He was satisfied with his voice—calm, cool. In control.
“It’s not an asylum,” his uncle answered curtly. “It’s a sanitarium. A very good sanitarium, in fact.”
“Is it expensive?” His voice was still calm. He was still in control. Perfect control.
For a moment, Julian didn’t reply. Suddenly his eyes were guarded. Finally, cautiously, he said, “Yes, it’s expensive. Very expensive, in fact. But she’s got to be there, no question. No question at all. She’s a sick woman. A very sick woman.” Then, quickly, Julian raised his wrist, glancing at his gleaming gold watch. To steal the watch would be wonderful: a wild, dizzying rush of pure pleasure.
“Listen, James,” his uncle was saying, “I’ve just got time to shower and shave before I’ve got to go out. It’s business. Let’s see—” Still looking at the gold watch, Julian frowned. “Today is Thursday. You’ve got a job at the Chevron car wash, down on Bagley. It’s all set. Everything’s arranged. But it doesn’t start until Monday. Are you staying at home?”
“I don’t have a key. The door’s locked.”
“Yes. Well—” He reached into his jacket pocket, for a long alligator wallet. “Well, I don’t have time to look for the key. Not now. So why don’t you take this—” He extended three twenty-dollar bills. He held them gingerly, as if to avoid the contamination of finger-to-finger contact. “Take this, and get yourself a room downtown. Get yourself settled. Give me a call over the weekend. We’ll get together, and I’ll fill you in on what’s happened.”
“Where’s my mother? What sanitarium?”
Glancing again at the watch, Julian said, “It’s the Prospect Sanitarium, out north of town. But I’m not sure you should see her, James. That is, I’m not sure it’ll do much good, for you to see her.”
“I’d like to see her, though, Uncle Julian. I’ve got some business to talk about. Important business.”
His uncle’s small, narrow-set eyes came suspiciously alive. “Business? What kind of business?”
He paused a moment. Then, speaking in the same slow, calm voice, he said, “Money, Uncle Julian. I need money.”
“Well—” Julian’s round, smooth cheeks puffed out. He was a short, fat man with a round face and thick, stubby arms and legs. Once Carson had seen him swimming. His round white body had looked like a big, bloated frog.
“Well, you’ll have money, James. I mean, I’ll give you some—a stake, to start. Then, if you work hard, you won’t have anything to worry about. Nothing at all.”
“Still, I’d like to see her.”
“Yes. Well, that’s only natural, I suppose.” Fussily, Julian nodded. “And there’s no harm, I guess. But now, I’ve got to go. Call me over the weekend, James. We’ll get together. Maybe you can come over for dinner.”
But, as he picked up the wrinkled brown bag and walked past his uncle to the front door, he knew there’d never be a dinner invitation. He could see it in his uncle’s eyes.