Faerie Tale (2 page)

When no answer was forthcoming, she left the large living room and shouted her husband’s name up the stairs. Again no reply. She walked back along the narrow hallway to the kitchen and pushed open the swinging door. The old house presented its kitchen to the east, with hinged windows over the sink and drainboard admitting the morning light. It would be hot in the mornings, come July, but it would be a pleasant place to sit in the evenings, with the windows and large door to the screened-in back porch left open, admitting the evening breeze. At least, she hoped so. Southern California days might be blast-furnace-hot at times, but it was dry heat and the evenings were impossibly beautiful. God, she wished to herself, what I’d give for an honest patio, and about half this humidity. Fighting off a sudden bout of regret over the move, she pulled her sticky blouse away from herself and let some air cool her while she hollered for her husband again.

An answering scrabbling sound under the table made her jump, and she turned and uttered her favorite oath, “Goddamnitall!” Beneath the kitchen table crouched Bad Luck, the family’s black Labrador retriever, a guilty expression on his visage as he hunkered down before a ten-pound bag of Ken-L-Ration he had plundered. Crunchy
kernels rolled around the floor. “You!” she commanded. “Out!”

Bad Luck knew the rules of the game as well as the boys and at once bolted from under the table. He skidded about the floor looking for a way out, suddenly confounded by discovering himself in new territory. Having arrived only the day before, he hadn’t yet learned the local escape routes. He turned first one way, then another, his tail half wagging, half lowered between his legs, until Gloria held open the swinging door to the hallway. Bad Luck bolted down the hall toward the front door. She followed and opened it for him, and as he dashed outside, she shouted, “Go find the boys!”

Turning, she spied the family’s large, smoky tomcat preening himself on the stairs. Philip had named the cat Hemingway, but everyone else called him Ernie. Feeling set upon, Gloria reached over, picked him up, and deposited him outside. “You too!” she snapped, slamming the door behind him.

Ernie was a scarred veteran of such family eruptions and took it all with an unassailable dignity attained only by British ambassadors, Episcopal bishops, and tomcats. He glanced about the porch, decided upon a sunny patch, turned about twice, and settled down for a nap.

Gloria returned to the kitchen, calling for her husband. Ignoring Bad Luck’s mess for the moment, she left the kitchen and walked past the service porch. She cast a suspicious sidelong glance at the ancient washer and dryer. She had already decided a visit to the mall was in order, for she knew with dread certainty those machines were just waiting to devour any clothing she might be foolish enough to place inside. New machines would take only a few days to deliver, she hoped. She paused a moment as she regarded the faded, torn sofa that occupied the large back porch, and silently added some appropriate porch furniture to her Sears list.

Opening the screen door, she left the porch and walked down the steps to the “backyard,” a large bare patch of earth defined by the house, a stand of old apple trees off to the left, the dilapidated garage to the right,
and the equally run-down barn a good fifty yards away. Over near the barn she caught sight of her husband, speaking to his daughter. He still looked like an Ivy League professor, she thought, with his greying hair receding upward slowly, his brown eyes intense. But he had a smile to melt your heart, one that made him look like a little boy. Then Gloria noticed that her stepdaughter, Gabrielle, was in the midst of a rare but intense pout, and debated turning around and leaving them alone. She knew that Phil had just informed Gabbie she couldn’t have her horse for the summer.

Gabbie stood with arms crossed tight against her chest, weight shifted to her left leg, a pose typical of teenage girls that Gloria and other actresses over twenty-five had to dislocate joints to imitate. For a moment Gloria was caught in open admiration of her stepdaughter. When Gloria and Phil had married, his career was in high gear, and Gabbie had been with her maternal grandmother, attending a private school in Arizona, seeing her father and his new wife only at Christmas, at Easter, and for two weeks in the summer. Since her grandmother had died, Gabbie had come to live with them. Gloria liked Gabbie, but they had never been able to communicate easily, and these days Gloria saw a beautiful young woman taking the place of a moody young girl. Gloria felt an unexpected stab of guilt and worry that she and Gabbie might never get closer. She put aside her momentary uneasiness and approached them.

Phil said, “Look, honey, it will only take a week or two more, then the barn will be fixed and we can see about leasing some horses. Then you and the boys can go riding whenever you want.”

Gabbie tossed her long dark hair, and her brown eyes narrowed. Gloria was struck by Gabbie’s resemblance to her mother, Corinne. “I still don’t see why we can’t ship Bumper out from home, Father.” She said “Father” in that polysyllabic way young girls have of communicating hopelessness over ever being understood. “You let the boys bring that retarded dog and you brought Ernie. Look, if it’s the money, I’ll pay for it. Why do we have to
rent some stupid farmer’s horses when Bumper’s back in California with no one to ride him?”

Gloria decided to take a hand and entered the conversation as she closed on them. “You know it’s not money. Ned Barlow called and said he had a jumper panic aboard a flight last week, and they had to put him down before he could endanger the crew and riders, and he almost lost a second horse as well. The insurance company’s shut him down until he resolves that mess. And it’s a week into June and Ned also said it would be four or five weeks before he could get a reliable driver and good trailer to bring Bumper here, then nearly a week to move him, with all the stops he’d have to make. By the time he got here, it would be almost time for you to head back to UCLA. You’d have to ship him right back so he’d be there to ride when you’re at school. Want me to go on? Look, Gabbie, Ned’ll see Bump’s worked and cared for. He’ll be fine and ready for you when you get back.”

“Oooh,” answered Gabbie, a raw sound of pure aggravation, “I don’t know why you had to drag me out here to this
farm
! I could have spent the summer with Ducky Summers. Her parents said it was all right.”

“Stop whining,” Phil snapped, his expression showing at once he regretted his tone. Like her mother, Gabbie instinctively knew how to nettle him with hardly an effort. The difference was that Gabbie rarely did, while Corinne had with regularity. “Look, honey, I’m sorry. But I don’t like Ducky and her fancy friends. They’re kids with too much money and time on their hands, and not an ounce of common sense in the whole lot. And Ducky’s mom and dad are off somewhere in Europe.” He cast a knowing glance at his wife. “I doubt they have a hint who’s sleeping at their house these days.”

“Look, I know Ducky’s an airhead and has a new boyfriend every twenty minutes, but I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, hon,” answered Phil, “but until you’ve graduated, you’ll have to put up with a father’s prerogatives.” He reached out and touched her cheek.

“All too soon some young guy’s going to steal you away, Gabbie. We’ve never had a lot of time together. I thought we could make it a family summer.”

Gabbie sighed in resignation and allowed her father a slight hug, but it was clear she wasn’t pleased. Gloria decided to change the subject. “I could use a hand, you guys. The moving elves are out on strike and those boxes aren’t going to unload themselves.”

Phil smiled at his wife and nodded as Gabbie gave out a beleaguered sound and plodded toward the house. When she was up the steps to the porch, Phil said, “I’m probably selling her short, but I had visions of having to fly back to bail her out of jail on a drug bust.”

“Or to arrange for her first abortion?” queried Gloria.

“That too, I suppose. I mean, she’s old enough.”

Gloria shrugged. “For several years, sport. I hadn’t when I was her age, but I was raised with the fear of God put in me by the nuns at St. Genevieve’s.”

“Well, I just hope she has some sense about it. I expect it’s too late for a father-daughter talk.”

“From the way she fills her jeans, I’d say it was about six or seven years too late. Besides, it’s none of our business, unless she asks for advice.”

Phil laughed, a not altogether comfortable sound. “Yes, I’d guess so.”

“Sympathies, old son. Instant parent of teenager was tough. But you’ve done a good job the last two years.”

“It’s no easier for you,” he countered.

She grinned up at him. “Bets? I’m not her mother, and I remember what it was to be a teenage girl. Look, Gabble’s not going to be the only one around here throwing temper tantrums if I don’t get some help with those boxes. After combative twins, that clown in a dog suit, and a smug alley cat, it comes down to you, me, and Miss Equestrian of Encino.”

Phil’s face clouded over a little. His dark brown eyes showed a flicker of concern as he said, “Having second thoughts about the move?”

Gloria hesitated, wondering if she should share her doubts with Phil. She decided the homesickness would
pass once they settled in and made new friends, so she said, “No, not really. Just about unpacking.” She changed the subject. “I had a call from Tommy about an hour ago.”

“And what does Superagent allow? Another movie offer?” he asked jokingly.

“No.” She poked him in the ribs. Tommy Raymond had been her agent when Gloria worked off-Broadway and in Hollywood. She had quit acting when she and Phil married, but over the years Tommy had stayed in touch, and she counted him among her few close friends in the business. “He called to say Janet White is opening a play on Broadway in the fall. They’re reviving
Long Day’s Journey.
”

“Getting the itch again?”

She smiled. “Not since the last play I was in bombed in Hartford.” Phil laughed. She had never caught on in New York or Hollywood, where she and Phil had met. Phil had taken to calling her “the Oscar winner,” and it had become a family joke. She didn’t regret her choice, as she had little desire for fame, but she did occasionally miss the theater, the challenge of the work and the camaraderie of other actors. “Anyway, we’re invited to the opening.”

“Rented tux and all, I suppose.”

She laughed. “I suppose. Assuming Janet can survive the out-of-town run.” Tugging on her husband’s arm, she said, “Come along, handsome. Give me a hand, and once we get things under control, you can run out to McDonald’s or the Colonel’s for dinner, and when the kids are in bed, I’ll scrub your back, then show you a few things I didn’t learn from the good sisters of St. Genevieve’s.”

Kissing her cheek, Phil said, “Just as I suspected. Scratch a good Irish-Catholic schoolgirl and underneath you’ll find a dirty old woman.”

“Complaints?”

“Never,” he said as he kissed her on the neck. Giving him a hug, Gloria put her arm through his and they walked toward the old house that was their new home.

Sean and Patrick marched along the little stream, wending their way among the rocks as they followed the tiny rivulets of water. The gully deepened and Sean, the more cautious of the two, said, “We’d better go up there.” He pointed to where the bank began to rise on the right.

Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greeting. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the ground.

“Why?” asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything resembling caution.

“’Cause we could get caught down there,” Sean answered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water’s merry gurgle. “Besides, Mom said not to go too far.”

“That’s dumb; she always says stuff like that,” was Patrick’s answer as he tugged on Bad Luck’s ear and set off to follow the water. His catcher’s mitt hung by a thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesitated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins they might be, but Sean just didn’t seem to have Patrick’s natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and rocks.

Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of
Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to the right. “Patrick?” Sean yelled.

“Over here,” came the reply. Sean hurried along, rounding the bend to halt next to his brother.

In one of those moments the boys shared, they communicated without words. Silently they voiced agreement,
This is a scary place.

Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge, spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the presence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge and began again only after having passed beyond its boundaries.

The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil.

Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles coming up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as he was about to charge under the bridge. “No!” he shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck stopped, though he whined to be let loose.