Chapter 15

Meredith drove. She let impulse set her route, meandering through the peaceful streets of neighborhoods, turning off when the boulevards became crowded with stoplights and shops, taking a ramp to follow the highway for a few miles, then looping back to enter avenues crowded with apartments and corner groceries. She watched the gas gauge drop and paused on a street near Mabton State to fill the tank. She thought of stopping to see Gus, but got back in the car and kept driving.

The aimless wandering did not make her peaceful, but it was better than staying at home. It was better than struggling for words to make Gus understand. No words could express the bone-chilling loneliness that fell over her when Arthur Watson’s car drove away. No words could explain why she could not bring herself to enter her own living room.

She had fought against it for a while. She hardened her will and managed to tag a few more items in the pantry. She fixed a light lunch but found she could not eat, then thought of going upstairs to make the bed. She rejected the thought because she would have to pass through the living room and because the rumpled sheets carried reminders of last night’s dream. Loneliness followed her, with a sigh at the close of every gesture, like a cold black cloth draping each object she touched. She had grabbed her purse and jacket, then hurried to the car.

Rain blurred the windshield and left tear traces along the path of the wipers. One wiper caught at each stroke, letting out a small, weeping cry. The loneliness sat beside her, a silent passenger who refused to meet her eye but inwardly blamed her for letting him go.

Meredith tried to ignore it, playing the radio loud, then shutting it off in a rage at the disc jockey’s stupid chatter. She focused on driving, but the turns and stops came automatically, leaving too much of her mind free to want him. Now she concentrated on memorizing the scenery, reading the name in front of each store, thinking of what might be sold inside.

Brenner’s Delicatessen had signs advertising sourdough rolls, baklava, and pickled herring. The sign on Sunny Day Cleaners promised In and Out—Only Four Hours. Top Stop Tavern sold beer, wine, and sandwiches. The street looked familiar, as if she had been there before, and she recalled the stoplight at the corner. Meredith eased on the brake as the light changed.

The sidewalks were lined with stone steps leading up to apartment buildings. She remembered the name of a film playing in a neighborhood she had passed, and glanced up to see it advertised on a marquee half a block ahead. The sign on the corner said Dimont Street. Dimont. Surely she had come past this intersection of Thirty-second and Dimont three or four times already. The light changed and she pressed down on the accelerator.

She was driving in circles. How had she gotten here? The neighborhood was to the east of Mabton State, but she had never been here before today. Suddenly she remembered. One hand guided the wheel as the other fumbled beneath her jacket.

The slip of paper rustled loose in her overall’s pocket. Small printing at the bottom of the deposit slip said 3225 Dimont, and she leaned forward to stare through the windshield before pulling to the curb in the middle of the block. Number 3225 was painted in white on the side of a red brick building across the street.

Meredith leaned her forehead against the rim of the steering wheel. So this was where the drive was leading to, as if she had been deliberately searching for him. The realization felt strange, but no more strange than the dreams. Now that she had found Arthur Watson, given that all the reasons for finding him were mad, sitting in an idling car across the street from his apartment felt sane. It made crazy sense.

Meredith looked through the windshield at the neighborhood. Soot-blackened brick buildings and small shops suggested the area was poor, but it hardly looked dangerous. The flower bed outside 3225 was well kept, and in the windows of the three-story structure a few flower boxes stood in front of clean white curtains. Meredith watched an old woman ease a shopping cart down the front steps. The woman reached the sidewalk and, pulling the cart behind her, headed toward Brenner’s Delicatessen. Perhaps Arthur Watson would soon walk through that door. Meredith wondered how she would react.

If he did not appear, she could invent a question about the things he had brought, and then go inside and look for him. She shuddered at the thought of being alone in his presence again, this time not even in her own home. What would she say? Could she hold back the impulse that insisted she reach out to him, pull him into her arms and press his body close?

She could not go. She had only come to see him again, to make sure Arthur Watson was actually the man. Her excuse felt weak, but it allowed her to stay and she accepted it. The loneliness was real and present in the car, throbbing like the idling engine, a steady beat beneath each of her thoughts. Meredith turned the key and the engine died. Somehow being on streets that he walked each day, among people who possibly knew him, she felt as if they were together. The windshield wipers gave a final, weeping complaint as the engine died, then came to a rest while fat drops of rain filled their paths. Meredith leaned back in the seat and looked out the side window. Sooner or later Arthur Watson had to appear on the steps across the street.

After two and a half hours, the view from the front windshield had faded behind a fog of condensation. Using a tissue that had been made damp from many wipings, Meredith swabbed a porthole clear on the side window. She could see the side mirror, part of the street, the steps, and the doorway of the red brick building.

Few people passed. The old woman had returned an hour ago, limping, her shopping cart a heavy load to be lugged up the steps. Cars passed, but none of them were the yellow compact Meredith remembered seeing in the driveway that morning. The clock on the dash said 4:10. Arthur Watson had neither come in nor gone out.

Meredith reached for the key to start the engine, but the gesture broke off in futility as it had each time she tried to leave. If she went home, she would find only the emptiness she had come here to escape. Besides, if she waited until Richard came home, perhaps the house would feel safe once more. She set the damp tissue down and glanced at the side mirror. The street seemed sodden with neglect or sadness, not with rain.

The street reflected the delicatessen window and the blinking red sign above the doorway to the Top Stop Tavern. The sign flashed like a warning or like a beacon to souls who endured evenings by drinking through the afternoons. A figure was coming through that door, and as she watched, he turned to shake hands with another man. The two men waved to each other, and then one broke away and began walking in her direction. Meredith recognized the black raincoat and widebrimmed hat. Arthur Watson, his shoulders hunched against the rain, approached on the far side of Dimont.

Meredith’s hand closed automatically on the door handle. She yanked it down, but suddenly the figure in the side mirror stumbled and lurched toward the side of a building. He caught his balance on a stair railing and walked on unsteadily.

Before she knew what she was doing, Meredith heard the engine roar to life. She slammed the car into gear and felt a jerk as the tires squealed from the curb. The windshield was a blur, and she swabbed at it madly. She accelerated past an amber light, which went red as it disappeared at the top of the windshield. Buildings and signs raced past, shimmering reds and yellows that rippled in the rain.

He was drunk. The man was drunk and he would hurt her. Hands would rip her clothes, and the stench of alcohol would press against her mouth as surely as a man’s body would force itself into her. That wasn’t possible, because this was the man in her dreams. At the same time the drunkenness sent its own terrifying message. She had to get away before his face, terrifying and ghoulish as some grotesque rubber mask, came up to the side window. She had to escape before his hand closed on the door of the car. The vision of him reaching out for her, tearing at her clothes, taking her against her will, flooded her mind.

A horn sounded beside her, but she did not hear. She saw a red light, signaled, and swung into a right turn. She had to escape. In the instant before the car had started, she felt a clear premonition of a man—Watson maybe, or any man—yanking the car door open and pushing his way inside. Her wrists had been pulled from the wheel and a weight forced her down. She could not see his face—his face was distorted and horrible—but his mouth closed over hers, smelling of alcohol. His tongue pressed her lips open and she tasted sweet sickliness.

Meredith saw two red lights flashing at a railway crossing. She pressed the brake and hurtled forward as the car bucked and lurched to a stop. The engine died. In the sudden silence she heard the deep-throated groan of a train whistle and the rattling of cars. An instant later, a silver engine roared past, followed by a bleary rainbow of passing cars.

She must go home, she realized. She must do that or drive to Mabton Electronics or call Richard; find him somehow. She could no longer live alone with this madness. She would wait for him at home, and when he arrived, no matter what it cost, she would tell him what had been happening. If she could find the courage to explain, he would understand.

The last car of the train rumbled past. The guardrail lifted as the bell stopped clanging, and Meredith pressed her foot to the accelerator.

Her legs were trembling, her whole body shaking with fear. She took a deep breath and scanned the street signs for the highway turnoff that would take her home.

That evening, after the dinner dishes were washed and put away, Meredith returned to the unfinished work in the pantry and admitted that some decisions were easier imagined than carried out. She had seen it happen a hundred times with her clients, men and women who left her office week after week resolved to change jobs, discipline children, or ask for the divorce that had been postponed for years. Week after week they returned, mute and discouraged, unable to muster strength to make the decision a reality.

Tonight she knew how they felt. Her reasons were a lot like theirs, and no doubt equally tissue thin. Tonight did not seem the right time, a Friday when Richard’s tired face and distracted silence showed his exhaustion after a week’s work. The truth should probably wait until he returned from the trip out of town. Perhaps it would be wrong to tell him at all—especially now, when they were thinking of having a baby. She could think of nothing more cruel than suggesting love with a complete stranger.

Except that when Richard was near, she did not feel that way at all. Sometimes it seemed that two women lived inside her mind. The first woman, Meredith, was deeply in love with her husband. The second woman, a timid girl, was charged with every kind of emotion there was when it came to Arthur Watson.

The list of reasons to postpone speaking was as long as her arm, and probably just as weak, she thought, lifting a box of old clothes from the pantry shelf. She could wait for the perfect moment forever, and it might not appear. Yet one reason felt stronger than all the others, and now, thankful that she had a moment alone, Meredith examined that one.

Until a moment ago, when the doorbell rang, Richard had been helping her in the pantry. They were not expecting anyone. Richard had gone to answer the doorbell, assuming it must be the paperboy. Now Meredith listened to the sound of voices from the front room and debated whether her best excuse was merely an excuse, or if it made sense.

Her best excuse for keeping silent about Arthur Watson was that things had seemed different when she returned home. The loneliness was gone. She had pulled into the drive only a minute before Richard. The twin beams of his car’s headlights caught her as she turned her key in the lock. She waited, entering the house beside him. The darkened rooms were chilly and damp, but no more dreary than a rainy evening might make them. She glanced through the patio doors and saw Arthur Watson’s cartons still there, then walked through the house, turning on lights and straightening the half-made bed upstairs. The blankets and sheets no longer suggested her long night at Mantazilla. In fact, in the pleasant lamplight, the dream itself seemed rather silly. The empty rooms of the house felt perfectly sane, tidy from Thursday’s cleaning and reassuringly calm.

Now she listened as the voices in the living room broke off and the front door closed. She remembered how her lover’s presence had always faded before Richard came home. When Richard was with her, she never felt like that shy young girl; frightened and without will. Now she and Richard had two days together, a weekend of safety that might allow her time to figure things out. Relief washed over her. Meredith pressed a price tag to a sweater and folded it into a box. All the other excuses were lame, but not this one. Arthur Watson’s appearance, and even the terror of seeing him drunk, seemed like recollections from another world. She would say nothing about it unless the right moment arrived, because for now at least she had peace of mind.

“Guess who that was?” Richard’s lanky frame filled the doorway to the pantry. He held a thick sheaf of papers.

“How many guesses do I get?” Meredith smiled and pushed the carton of clothes to the back of the shelf.

“It was Gus Halburton. He says hello, but he didn’t have time to stop. You can guess what he came by to drop off.”

Meredith’s heart sank. She should have known Gus would not leave last night’s discussion unfinished. “Papers from the conference,” she said flatly. “That British report.”

“Bull’s-eye.” Richard loosened a rain-spattered plastic sheet from the papers and separated printed sheets and pamphlets. “He needs it back Monday. I promised we’d read it over the weekend. He says you aren’t required to analyze the statistics, since you hate them so much. Would you look at these numbers?” Richard held up a legal-size sheet thickly stripped with columns of numbers. “They’re all explained. He said to check out the case histories. “

“I haven’t got time right now.” Meredith gestured toward the array of half-finished projects spread over the pantry. The mess was deceptive, since most of the work was done, but she would gladly do it over again rather than read about ghosts.

“Gus seemed to think you’d find them interesting,” Richard said. “He seems worried, and I think he’s worried about you. He wondered aloud if I really need to make the trip.” Richard’s concern was so obvious that it made her fear for both of them. One word from her and he would cancel the trip.

She could not have that. Seven years of happy marriage came at least partly because she was as independent as Richard. He was the kind of man who would sacrifice a job, a house, or anything else for her. He did not realize how much she already depended on him. She had to keep the balance right between them.

“Gus and I are working something out,” she said honestly. “It has to do with the move to a new town, with work, and us having a baby. I’ll get it sorted out.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never lied to you.” She hesitated. Maybe concealing things was a way of lying. “There’s some relevant information, supposedly, in that material Gus gave us. I don’t think I need it, but he thinks I do.”

“You work,” Richard said, “I’ll read. That way we both get to hear.” Meredith wanted to protest, but stopped. Richard skimmed the titles of the pamphlets. “Case histories,” he announced. “Seventy-one Interview Summaries Correlated with Alpha-Wave Divergence. Don’t worry, I’ll just skip the dirty parts.” Richard joked to cover his concern for her.

Meredith smiled. “Three. I’ll listen to three. But nothing too scary—it’s close to bedtime.”

Richard’s fingers flipped pages until he reached the middle of the bound yellow volume. “Case forty-three. No, that looks dull. Try forty-four. ‘Alpha-wave divergence persistent and significant, see appendix,’” he began reading. “’Decedent, a fourteen-year-old female, pregnant out of wedlock, infection resulting from nonsterile abortion.”

“Richard, that’s grisly.”

“I’ll skip that part. Here we go: ‘Family members complained of hearing movements in the daughter’s room at night. Investigated to discover toys moved and a previously open window closed. The room was cold. Mother experienced repeated dreams in which the girl asked to talk to her father. Father concealed grief beneath anger at the daughter’s pregnancy. They had argued the day of the daughter’s death. The girl would not reveal who had gotten her pregnant. In dreams, the daughter told mother that the father should not seek identity of the man, and he definitely should not seek revenge.’”

Meredith wanted Richard to stop, but she also respected Gus. She knew that she must hear this. The case history was impassive enough, without half the violence she saw regularly on television. “Could you read one without a dead child in it?” she asked. “That makes me sad.”

“Me, too.” Richard skipped ahead, glancing rapidly through the pages. He stopped two-thirds into the book. “This looks easier to take, death from natural causes. ‘Deceased was an eighty-three-year-old male who died in his sleep.’ Sound bearable?”

Meredith nodded. She scribbled a price on a carton of records instead of pricing them separately. If the work got done quickly, perhaps they could go up to bed.

“Okay: ‘Family living in the house at the time of death consisted of son, daughter-in-law, and three grandchildren. Alpha divergence weak and unstable in adults, growing stronger as ages of children decreased. Youngest child, age seven, believed that the grandfather was angry at the father about a red tractor. He claimed grandfather came into his room every night and told him this. The father owned no farm equipment, but recollected after questioning that thirty years before, when he was an adolescent, he had ruined his father’s tractor. Of special interest is the mental condition of the grandfather at time of death, diagnosed two years earlier as dementia praecox.’” Richard sounded the words out and glanced at his wife. “Brain disease?”

“Schizophrenia. It’s an old word.”

“Schizophrenia, two years before, huh?” Richard read on. “’Deceased had become obsessed with the idea that his son should be punished for numerous imagined evils. Deceased apparently tried to persuade the child to hate his father.’”

Richard looked up and shook his head slowly. “Spooky. I mean, about punishing, and then the kid knowing about the tractor. Of course, there could be an explanation, old scrapbooks, grandpa telling the kid. Still it’s spooky.”

Meredith slipped past him, carrying her dust cloth to the sink. The case histories gave her chills, but Gus was right about their fascination. She wanted to believe and disbelieve them at the same time.

Richard skimmed ahead. “You said three. Read one more?”

Meredith nodded mute assent.

“I’ll skip the gruesome details,” Richard said. He explained that the case was a suicide by a woman twenty-three years old. “’Subject lived with her parents and had been depressed by home situation, caring for both parents’ chronic alcoholism. Numerous absences from work had caused her to lose her job. The mother ceased drinking at the time of the death, and had continued sobriety to the time of the interview, one year later. She said the daughter became confused on the day of death, insisting there was no difference between love and hate, life and death. Daughter complained she did not know which was which anymore.’”

“Sad,” Meredith put in. “So young and so hopeless.”

“Apparently she wanted her parents to stop drinking,” Richard went on. “Mother’s alpha pattern showed no divergence. Father’s pattern diverged on one occasion, when he was interviewed and later tested out as blood alcohol level point one-oh. He said the daughter would not leave him alone, kept whispering curses to him whenever he drank. Subject appeared disoriented, belligerent, confused . . . Whoa, here’s a kicker.” Richard scanned the rest of the case study. “When the man finally dried out, the daughter began whispering about guilt. The father eventually was a suicide, too.”

Meredith sank into a chair at the kitchen table. The case histories sounded cold and impersonal, yet she could easily imagine how the subjects had felt. Her own visions and nightmares suggested what it was like to feel truly haunted.

“I’m sorry, I just got interested.” Richard closed the volume and laid it on top of the others, then stepped closer to knead the muscles above her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“It’s all right.” This was the moment, Meredith realized, if there was ever going to be a right moment. The descriptions of hauntings made her own experiences seem almost plausible. Perhaps Richard would understand.

Meredith fought to make her voice calm and to choose the right words. “This stuff bothers me more than it ought to. I’ve, well, been having a bit of emotional upset myself. Gus helps.”

Richard’s hands moved from her shoulders to massage the nape of her neck. She felt the skin pull tight against a hard knot of tension.

“You should have told me. I got involved with the new job and wasn’t paying attention.”

Meredith leaned her head back and looked up. His eyes were warm and concerned, filled with the love she knew she would find there. A troubled look darkened them. Richard was feeling guilty, taking blame on himself.

“It’s what we talked about, isn’t it? I mean having a baby. I’ve been pushing too hard, and then to hear stories of teenagers dying of abortions, old men haunting children. Damn, I’m sorry.”

Meredith opened her lips to speak, but he hurried on.

“Darling, you should go back to work if you want to. If you’re not ready, I’m not. I pushed, and I apologize.”

Meredith’s head fell forward. She gave in to the gentle pressure of his fingers, and her resolve failed. Richard lived in a world filled with real things, with having or not having children, with doing jobs, earning money and spending it. His world did not include obsessions, terrifying dreams, or visions that came out of nowhere.

And it should not. Richard had a right to the predictability of his world. She loved him, but love did not give her the right to turn his world upside down. The secret made her lonely, but she was glad she had said nothing.

“Let’s go to bed,” she said, covering his hands with her own. “I feel like cuddling up next to you.”