The Cypress House (22 page)

    "Hey,
Arlen," Paul said.

    "Yeah?"

    "Who
was Edwin Main?"

    Rebecca
looked up at that, too, looked Arlen in the eyes for the first time since that
afternoon.

    "Nobody,
Paul. He was nobody."

    Silence
overcame them quickly. Arlen's mind was lost to the sudden appearance of smoke
in Paul's eyes, and Rebecca was quiet, with Paul trying too hard to lure her
back into conversation. She went upstairs early, but not without first giving
his arm a squeeze and telling him to take care of his forehead. He stuttered
out something about not being able to feel a thing, giving her the tough-guy
routine, but she was already moving up the stairs.

    The
two of them sat there in silence for a while, and then Paul went out to the
porch. Arlen could see him through the windows, leaning on the rail and staring
out at the dark water. He went to the bar and poured two glasses of whiskey,
one tall and one quite short, mixing a touch of water in the short glass to
level them out. Then he took the two glasses and went out on the porch.

    "Here,"
he said, handing the watered-down whiskey to Paul. "After a man gets in a
fight, a man deserves a drink."

    Paul
stared at the glass for a moment and then a smile slid over his face and he
nodded and took it from Arlen's hand.

    "Thanks."

    Arlen
drank his whiskey and pretended not to notice when the boy's eyes began to
water after his first sip. They stood there together and listened to the waves
breaking.

    "What
do you think those guys are doing out here?" Paul said eventually.

    "I
don't know, and like I told 'em tonight—I don't care. It's got nothing to do
with us."

    "Well,
I do care. Because they're —"

    "Yeah,"
Arlen said. "Because they're bothering her. I get it."

    Paul
frowned and fell silent.

    "You
been gone from Flagg for a while," Arlen said. "Your mother know
where you are? You written her?"

    Paul
blinked at him. "What?"

    "Does
she think you're still in Alabama, son?"

    "I,
uh, I don't know. I told her I was going to try to get down to the Keys."

    "Well,
shit, if she's been reading about that hurricane, she's probably worried. Show
some respect; sit down and write a letter."

    "She
doesn't do much writing herself," Paul said, "and I doubt she's real
concerned about me."

    There
was bridling resentment in his voice.

    "But
is she counting on your CCC checks?" Arlen said. "I bet she is."

    "Sure
she is. And the first time I'll hear from her is when she notices the money's
stopped coming in."

    Arlen
took a sip of the whiskey and said, "You're not making money here, son.
You need to find your way back to a camp and do another CCC hitch."

    "No."
Paul shook his head. "I'm staying."

    "It's
time we leave."

    "You
know I'm not going to do that."

    "Paul,"
Arlen said, "I don't think you understand….You need to leave this place.
It's just like the train, son. I can feel it."

    Paul
lifted his head and stared at him. "What?"

    Arlen
nodded.

    "You
mean right now? You can see it in me right now?"

    "Not
now. Before. When they were here."

    Paul
was quiet for a moment before saying, "Well, it was probably that fight.
Maybe he would have cut me or shot me or something."

    "It
was after the fight. When Wade touched your shoulder."

    Paul
frowned.

    "You
know I'm not lying," Arlen said. "You know it's the truth, Paul. You
saw what happened to those men from the train."

    "When
he touched my shoulder?"

    Arlen
nodded.

    "Well,"
Paul said after a lengthy pause, "it's gone now, right?"

    "Yes,
but that's not the point."

    "Sure
it is. Whatever was there, it passed. It's gone now."

    "Paul,
that's not how it —"

    "Stop
it," Paul said. "I don't want to hear it. It's gone, okay? It's
gone!"

    He
turned and stomped back inside the Cypress House.

    That
night Arlen spent some time lying in the dark, watching the patterns of shadow
shift as the moon rose, sipping from the flask and adjusting his position
constantly on the bed, as if sleep were just one angle-change away. By now he
knew the routine too well, though, and gave up earlier than usual, got to his
feet and dressed again, walked downstairs and topped the flask off before going
outside.

    For a
time he stood just below the porch and smoked a cigarette and watched the
waves. Their tops sparkled as they broke. When the cigarette was gone he began
to walk, heading south. He walked for a long time, sticking close to the
waterline, his hands in his pockets and his mind dancing among Solomon Wade and
Edwin Main and his father. Paul was in there, too, and Rebecca Cady, and every
now and then someone else would slip through those chinks that even the whiskey
was unable to caulk. When an unusually strong wave drove far enough up the
shore to catch his feet, he finally came to a stop, looked around to see that
the moon was much higher and the Cypress House was nowhere in sight. The
coastal forest had encroached quietly around him, the stretch of beach much
narrower here, the trees leaning close to the sea. He turned and started back.

    Eventually
the silhouette of the Cypress House showed. He had the passing thought that he
needed to finish the widow's walk, and then he saw something moving along the
beach and everything else faded from his mind.

    It
was a shimmering white shape that seemed to emerge from the waterline, and for
one short, frozen-heart moment he had visions of all the stories of ghosts and
haints that he'd heard in his boyhood. Then the figure turned, and he saw that
it was Rebecca Cady. She was wearing a white gown, and she'd walked all the way
down to the water's edge and was now wading into the surf.

    He
advanced slowly, grateful for the sand that allowed silent steps. He could see
that she was holding something in her hands but couldn't make out what. She
stood for a moment as if in hesitation, then backed out of the water and set
the object down in the sand. It looked like the cigar box Wade had given her.

    She
dipped her hands and grasped the hem of her gown and lifted it up her body and
over her head and then it was off and she was standing naked on the sand. Arlen
felt his breath catch, a flush rising through him. She was a tall woman, and
somehow both soft and absent of fat, each curve sublime and sculpted. Even in
the moonlight, her body was enough to numb his brain. He stood dumbly and
stared as she picked the box up and went back into the sea.

    She
paused when the water reached her knees, as if adjusting to the temperature,
and then stepped out deeper, lifting the box as she went. When the water
reached her breasts, she stopped and, for just a moment, stood with the box
over her head and the waves breaking high enough to drench the ends of her
hair. Then she pivoted back toward the shore and whirled out to sea again,
flinging the box away from her.

    She
didn't get it far. The wind was working against her, and her motion was
awkward. The box tumbled maybe fifteen feet out into the sea and landed flat,
barely making a splash. For a few seconds it floated, riding back toward shore
with the swells, almost all the way to where she stood, and then it began to
sink and disappeared from sight.

    Rebecca
Cady stayed in the water and watched it. She looked for a long time at the
place where it had vanished, and then she turned and waded back out of the sea
and onto the beach.

    For a
while she stood on the sand, her head bowed, letting the wind fan over her body
and dry her skin. Arlen's throat felt thick, watching her. He didn't move, just
stood where he was until she'd picked up the gown and pulled it over her head
and walked up to the house.

    Only
when he was sure she would be back in her room did he slip off his shoes and
remove his shirt and trousers and venture into the water in search of the box.

    It
was past midnight when he found it. He'd seen the spot clearly enough where it
entered the water, marked it the best that he could, but it was a big ocean and
things shifted as they sank. He went up and down the short stretch of shore
where it had to have ended up, walking carefully, dragging his feet through the
rough sand, waiting for the telltale feel of the wooden box. He didn't like
being out in the dark, with so many unseen creatures circling the waters around
him. Sharks were like alligators, prehistoric beasts that had somehow managed
to last through one world and into the next. At least you could see their fins
in daylight. Out here in the dark, one of them could be at his side and he
wouldn't know.

    He
looked for more than an hour and didn't find anything. Tired, he went back to
the beach and sat in the sand. The air was warm, but the breeze chilled the
moisture on his skin and soon had him ready to return to the water.

    He
was still searching but the expectation of success was dimming in his mind when
the side of his right foot thumped against something solid. He paused and
dragged his foot back and felt the impact again, dipped and let a wave slap
over his head, drenching him, as he felt with his hands. As soon as his fingers
made contact, he knew this had to be it. He pulled it from the sand and broke
the surface again, then waded out of the surf.

    There
was a book of matches in his pants pocket, and he went back up and sat in the
sand again and took them out. The twine was still there, and Rebecca had used
it to secure a flat stone to the box, ensuring that it would sink. He untied
it, lit a match, and opened the lid. He was kneeling in the sand now, and when
the match light caught the inside of the box and revealed its contents, he
stumbled upright and backward. The match dropped into the sand and snuffed out.
He stood where he was for a moment, then took a deep breath, lit another match,
and bent for a second look.

    Inside
the box was a pair of hands.

    They'd
been severed just above the wrists, cut with a clean chop from a cleaver or an
ax, not sawed away. What blood had been in the hands had long since drained,
maybe before they were put into the box, maybe once the seawater found its way
inside; what was left was swollen gray flesh with strings of muscle and shards
of bone exposed at the bottoms. They were a man's hands, but the decomposing
flesh hid any clue as to what kind of man; details like calluses or scars or
carefully tended fingernails were now impossible to detect.

    The
match burned down and scorched his fingers, and then he dropped that one, too,
closed the lid of the box, and sat down heavily in the sand. He found his flask
and took a long drink and then fastened the cap and sat staring at the box as
the wind drove hard across the water. He stared for a long time and then got to
his feet and walked to the house and found the shovel.

    Back
at the beach, he gathered the box, feeling a prickle of horror as he heard the
contents slide around inside, and then walked down the shore with the box in
one hand and the shovel in the other. He walked until he found a tree that had
been broken in half by the hurricane, and then he carefully marked five paces
out from it and began to dig. When the hole was about three feet deep, he
dropped the box into the center and filled it back in with sand. He smoothed
the surface with the underside of the shovel's blade, then spent some time
walking back and forth over the top, until he was satisfied that the disturbed
ground would be nearly impossible to spot.

    When
he was done, he walked back to the house and replaced the shovel. He paused on
the porch and smoked a cigarette in the dark, and then he opened the door and
went inside to find Rebecca Cady.