Faerie Tale (28 page)

She came close and looked up at him. “You’re a dumb shit at times, Cole.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Why do I put up with you, anyway?”

All anger fled as he put his arms around her. After a moment he said, “So what am I to do?”

“What do you want to do?”

He was silent for a while. “How about we get married?”

She clutched at his shirt as she rested her head on his shoulder. Then her arms slipped around his waist and she hugged him tightly. Tears came to her eyes. “It works for me.” She kissed him long and hard and said, “I love you so very much.”

He held her close. “I love you too, Gabbie.” He was silent for a while again, then said, “You know, I was getting pretty frantic about your heading back to the coast. I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“Like I said, you’re a dumb shit at times. It’s the tenth of September. Classes at UCLA begin in two weeks. I’d have to be out of here next week if I was going back. Have you seen any sign I’m getting ready to leave? I’ve already written to UCLA telling them I’m staying here. And it’s all because of you, idiot.” She paused. “But maybe I should write again and tell them I’m coming for Winter Quarter.”

“Why?”

“Look, if you’re going to write a screenplay, we’ll have to go to the Coast and find a place for you to work.”

“Wait a minute.” He looked troubled. “I’ve got to finish my dissertation and get my Ph.D. I can get us on the list at Graduate Housing, or we can both stay at Aggie’s, but I can’t afford to support a wife in L.A. while I’m trying to get a career started in screenwriting.” He paused. “Besides, I’m not sure if I really want that. But if I try, I’d be an idiot not to let your dad help me if he’s
willing, which means staying here. Look, this is all coming on so damn fast.”

She started to say something, then stopped; Jack was on the verge of saying something important, she was certain. At last he said, “When I graduated at UNC, Ginger and I were full of plans.” He paused, remembering. “Well, mostly she was full of plans. But … well, I got timid. Maybe I wasn’t really in love with her.” He looked down into Gabbie’s eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t. Or maybe I just wasn’t willing to open up and take what she had to offer. But the thought of marrying her just scared me silly. Anyway, I came here and she went to Atlanta and after a while we just sort of weren’t going together anymore. I guess it was mostly my fault. I didn’t want the responsibility, I guess, of taking care of someone else.”

Gabbie smiled. “You
are
a dumb shit, Jack.” She said it with a mixture of affection and irritation. “I mean it. You don’t have to take care of me. I’m a tough kid and I’ve got resources. What you’re going to have to learn is to let me take care of you … if your southern male ego can handle it.”

“Why? You going to work while I write?”

She shook her head. “Let’s see how liberated you are, boy. How about you write and I go to school while we live off my money.”

“Look, I can’t let your dad support us—”

“I didn’t say a damn thing about Dad’s money, Jack! I said my money.” She looked away, uncertain about how he’d react to what was coming next, but at last plunged in. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, you’re probably not going to without my telling you.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’m rich. Buckets of money rich.” When he looked uncomprehending, she said, “Remember when we first went riding, I told you the Larkers were serious money? We’re talking
major
serious money. And when Grandma Larker died, I got it all. She cut my mother out of the will. Except some money she left to charity and Arizona State University, every penny comes to me. It’s tied up in a funny trust; the trustee has to approve any amount over an allowance I ask for—he
gives me whatever I want, anyway—but when I marry or turn twenty-five, the trustee goes away, and I get everything without strings. I don’t think we could spend it all if we tried.”

Jack looked astonished. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. We’re going to get many, many millions on our wedding day, sport.”

He whistled. Then he grinned. “I always wanted to marry a rich girl.”

She returned the grin. “Well, you will. Can you handle having me pay the bills for a while?”

He nodded. “I think. But even if this writing thing does work out, I’m still going to get my doctorate and teach part-time, okay?”

“Okay. But let’s not worry about that now.” She hugged him and kissed him. “Let’s go tell the folks, then get out of here and go somewhere so we can be alone.”

“Aggie’s in New York for the weekend. There’s no one at her place.” He looked deep into her eyes. “You sure?”

“Damn sure,” she said, her eyes shining.

They returned to the house and shortly had Gloria in tears and Phil breaking out a bottle of chilled champagne. Phone calls to distant friends and relatives were made and Tommy Raymond insisted on taking everyone out for dinner before he dashed off to the wilds of Erie. But eventually Gabbie and Jack stole away, taking her dad’s car to drive over to Aggie’s.

A loud noise woke Gloria. She listened for a moment in sleepy disorientation before she sorted out what the racket was. Somewhere below, Bad Luck was barking loudly, while inquiring voices from the kids were beginning to fill the night. She glanced at the clock while Phil was already rolling out of bed. The luminous dial said 3:10
A.M.

“What the hell is this?” Phil said.

“Be careful,” she urged as he slipped his bathrobe on. For an odd moment she considered the quirky nature of the human mind. Phil might be going down to confront a prowler, but he refused to do it naked. His pajama bottoms were tossed somewhere in the corner, the result of some enthusiastic lovemaking earlier that night.

Phil hesitated. “What are we supposed to do? Call the police?”

“I don’t remember. Make noise or something. Scare them away, I guess.”

“I don’t want to scare the kids. Sean and Patrick would want to capture the guy and hold him until the sheriffs posse got here.”

A dull thump came from downstairs and Bad Luck continued to bark. Gloria started at the sound. “Well, do something.”

“I’ll go look. You call the cops.”

Gloria began dialing while Phil moved cautiously down the hall. Passing Gabbie’s room, he noticed her standing at the door, an anxious look on her face. “Stay here, honey,” he cautioned as he passed her. Her worried look spoke volumes about her concern for her father. The boys were outside their own door, Patrick armed with their baseball bat. Phil relieved them of the would-be cudgel, saying, “I’ll take that. You two guard the stairs.” Patrick seemed on the verge of protest when his father said, “Take care of the women.” Sean and Patrick both positioned themselves resolutely at the top of the stairs, arms folded, daring any invader to attempt to pass them.

Phil slowly crept down the stairs, listening. Nothing alerted him to a prowler’s being close, as the only sound was Bad Luck’s barking. He absently hefted the bat, holding it as one would a quarterstaff, ready to swing or thrust. He felt a little silly, but somehow more confident for having some sort of weapon.

A snarl and yowling sound, followed by a loud thud, caused Phil to jump. Instantly Bad Luck resumed barking at an even more furious pace. The Labrador was standing before the door to the basement, barking and
whining to get in. The sounds of movement and banging came from below, as if someone was knocking things around. Then came a yowling cat cry. Phil laughed selfconsciously as he moved toward the door to the basement. It sounded as if Hemingway had encountered a trespasser in the basement and was discussing issues of feline territoriality and rights of passage. Another thump was followed by a painful screech, rising to a pitch of agony. Phil flung open the door to the basement, while questions came from above.

Bad Luck charged down the stairs, barking loudly, while Phil flipped on the light and hefted the bat. If something besides a stray cat had wandered into the basement, Hemingway might need rescuing. Phil had vague recollections of Jack or Gabbie or someone telling of a raccoon that was a terror in the area. Phil hurried down the steps.

Something black and agile, and damn big compared to the cat, leaped from a stack of books to a high basement window and vanished outside before Phil could get a good look at it. Bad Luck leaped after it, scrambling up a fallen pile of books to the worktable below the window. He stood on hind legs, barking in outrage at whatever had escaped. Phil shouted, “Bad Luck! Shut up, hero! Get down!” After a last bark, the dog ceased his racket and jumped down from the workbench with a defiant snort. Phil glanced around and said, “Hemingway?”

A weak, pitiful meow answered him as he located the cat beneath a tilting bookcase. Dozens of books lay strewn across the floor as the case leaned forward over three trunks. The cat lay amid the confusion. “Hemingway?” said Phil softly, reaching in. He touched something wet and warm, and a screech of pain erupted and claws struck the back of Phil’s hand. Snatching away his hand, he swore. Hemingway had never scratched anyone in the family. Phil pushed up the tilting bookcase and Hemingway lay revealed in the glow of the bare light bulb above.

“Oh God,” whispered Phil. The cat lay atop a pile of bloody magazines and books, his stomach ripped open
from forelegs to hind legs. What seemed an impossible length of intestine was spilled below Hemingway’s stomach. Gloria came to the top of the stairs. “Phil?” she asked.

“Don’t come down!” said Phil. The cat looked up at him. Hemingway’s expression seemed to be asking Phil to make things better. His tiny tongue darted out, licking his nose, and he seemed disoriented. As much as anything, he looked distressed to be found in such an undignified state. Hemingway tried to mew, and it was a strangled, pitifully weak imitation of his usual tomcat yowl. The cat’s head tilted to the side slowly, lowered until it touched a green-covered book, then lolled to one side at an odd angle. Glassy eyes stared blindly up at Phil. Hemingway was dead.

Gloria ignored Phil’s instruction and came down the stairs. At the bottom, she glanced at the mess and for a moment seemed unsure of what she was seeing. Then she said, “Oh shit,” softly.

“Something got in and Hemingway tried to chase him out. Whatever it was … gutted him.”

Gloria turned as the twins appeared at the door. “You two,
stay out of here!”
Her tone said in no uncertain terms how much the twins could get away with: nothing. They backed out of the door, and Gabbie came to the landing.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Something big got in and … killed Ernie,” answered Gloria.

Gabbie’s eyes welled with tears. “Ah no,” she said softly. “Poor Ernie. What was it? Another cat?”

“No,” said Phil. “It was too big. Maybe a weasel or fox or something. I couldn’t get a look at it. It was too fast. Looked sort of like a big black tomcat. Maybe it was that raccoon Jack told the boys about. Anyway, it was huge.”

The boys heard from the hall and silently exchanged glances. They knew. They nodded as wordlessly they said,
The Bad Thing.

Gabbie came down the stairs as Phil used an old news
paper to cover Hemingway. “Christ, what a lot of blood,” she said. She glanced at the mess. “How’d they knock over that bookcase?”

Phil looked and shrugged, “Hemingway was next to it.”

“I don’t think a cat could knock that over.” She glanced around. “Jack and I spent a day stacking all this.” She left unvoiced the complaint that they would have to do it again. Hemingway had been her dad’s cat, and she knew he was deeply feeling the loss, despite his outward calm.

“We’ll bury Ernie,” announced Sean.

“By the apple trees,” agreed Patrick.

Gloria said, “All right, in the morning. Early. School day tomorrow. Now, back to bed.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Jesus! I better call the police back and tell them it was a cat fight. They’re sending a car out this way.”

As Gloria herded the twins ahead of her up the stairs, Gabbie said, “Look at this.”

Phil came over to his daughter, who was peering at something behind the bookcase. “It’s a door.”

Gabbie said, “What’s it doing hidden behind the case?” She climbed atop a trunk and leaned forward, putting her right hand on the wall. She reached over with her left and tried the knob. “It’s locked.”

Phil said, “Maybe that key Mark found will open it. Let’s try tomorrow.”

Excited, Gabbie said, “At least go get it and let’s try now.”

“You’re going to have to move all that crap before you can get the door open.” Glancing around, as if unable to decide what to do first, he added, “And it’s pretty nasty right here. I don’t think we should be shoving things around until we clean up.”

Gabbie turned to face her father. “Okay, but if we try the key in the lock, we can see if it’s worthwhile moving all that crap.”

Conceding the point, Phil went upstairs and fetched the key from where Gloria had put it in the dresser
drawer. As he came downstairs, Gloria was just hanging up the phone; she said, “What?”

He explained as they returned to the basement. Phil passed the key along to Gabbie, who hadn’t left her perch. Gabbie leaned over and put the key in the lock. “It fits!” she announced. She gave it a turn. “It works!” The door opened a few inches and she said, “I can’t see anything.”

Gloria said, “Come on, then. You can putter down here tomorrow. You and Jack can dig around all day if you want. But now let’s clean up this mess, then back to bed.”

Gabbie nimbly jumped down from the trunk. “All right. But I’m dying to know what’s in there.”

“Probably more junk,” muttered Phil as he gently gathered together the papers around Hemingway. Gloria and Gabbie retreated up the stairs, leaving Phil alone with his cat. Phil ignored the wet, sticky softness beneath his fingers and carried the cat over to an empty cardboard box. Lowering the bloody mass into the box, he said, “Just like Papa himself. You thought you could do anything, take on anybody, didn’t you? Well, you dumb shit, you finally overmatched yourself.” He sighed, not fighting back the tears that gathered in his eyes. “Well, you were pretty good company for a lot of years, Hemingway.” He sighed and left the box by the door on the top landing, so the boys could bury him in the morning. Without another word, Phil wiped away the tears in his eyes and flipped off the light.