The Visitors, page 12
“I owe you two bucks, and not a nickel more. I win the bet he seen a ghost, so that knocks a buck off the three.”
Mother took a deep breath. “All right, then, two bucks,” he said. “Pay me.”
“Put it on the bill,” said Gloria, and tilted her head back and finished her drink.
Dorple was trembling with excitement when, that night, he parked his car at the edge of the cove. He had driven the last part of the way without headlights, and his eyes were accustomed enough to the darkness so he could see the beginning of the path that led down to the dock. There had been a moon earlier, but now heavy black clouds blotted it out, and the wind from the sea smelled of rain. The night was restless, and changing, like some giant animal stirring in its sleep, and Dorple had the feeling there’d be no diving tomorrow. In fact he wished he’d come a little earlier, when there still was a moon and the sea was calm. He put on his weighted belt and his tanks and then, with his mask on top of his head and carrying his flippers and a waterproof flashlight, he carefully picked his way down the path. The water in the cove was black, and oily, and he located it more by sound and smell than by sight.
Once on the dock he felt free to use his flashlight, and he put on his flippers and made the final adjustment with more than usual care. He knew that diving alone was risky, and that to do it at night was foolhardy, but there was no one he could trust with his secret, and the prize was well worth the risk. He estimated there was a hundred thousand dollars in that box, and he didn’t intend to share it with anyone. He pulled down the mask, took the rubber tube in his mouth, and breathed in and out until he had the flow of air regulated. Then, taking the flashlight, he let himself into the water and went under.
If it had been dark above the water, it was trebly dark below; he was suspended in an infinity of blackness, through which the beam of his light made only a small and feeble glow. He picked out a few meaningless details on the bottom and flippered toward them, forgetting as he did to blow out his ears and equalize the pressure. Suddenly his ears and sinuses felt tight and began to ache, and he stopped, blocked his nose, and blew hard. The pressure eased, and he cursed himself for being careless. This was the one time he couldn’t afford to be careless, and he resolved to go slowly, and think twice before he did anything. He got to the bottom and rested, playing his flashlight about in search of identifying marks. He knew the general direction of the cave, but the details looked different at night. Something touched him from behind, and his skin went cold and he whirled around and stared into the glowing eyes of a sea bass, which had been attracted by his light. The bass flicked its tail and disappeared, and Dorple breathed deeply to try to stop the hammering of his heart. Breathe deeply and regularly, he told himself. Deeply and regularly, or your air may stop and you’ll suffocate.
After a while his heart calmed down, and he moved in a slow circle to the left, looking for the cave. It seemed like an hour before he found it, and he had begun to have the unreal feeling he was living through a nightmare. The circular glow of his light against the rocks had hypnotized him, and if it hadn’t been for the distinctive shape of the cave he might very well have passed on by, turning in an endless arc out to sea. He reached inside and felt the box, and as he lifted it there was a quick flurry, and something closed like a trap on his wrist. He screamed into his mask and jerked his hand back, bringing with it the lobster that had clamped its needle-toothed claw onto him. Gasping and choking, Dorple hammered at the lobster’s head with his flashlight, then dropped the light and tried to tear the animal loose. It was like sawing his wrist with a knife, but it finally came off, and in slow motion he hurled it from him. He retrieved the light, seeing blood spreading like reddish smoke from his wrist, and he snatched up the box and kicked his way toward the surface. But after a while he couldn’t see the surface; the water was equally black in all directions, and the only way to tell which way was up was to watch his bubbles, and follow them. His ears were ringing and his heart was pounding, and he had the feeling he was about to lose consciousness, when finally he broke water and saw the night sky. He ripped off his mask, dropping the flashlight in his hurry, and drew in deep, roaring lungfuls of fresh air. He didn’t care what happened now; he had the box clutched to his chest and he was safe on the surface, and he didn’t even watch the light as it spiraled and twinkled down until it came to rest on the bottom. When at last he had his breath back, he flippered slowly toward the dock, noticing that the wind had risen and the waves were larger than before. He reached up and put the box on the dock, then hauled himself up and lay, exhausted, on his face on the planks. He had no idea how long he lay there; it might have been five minutes or it might have been an hour, but all at once he was surrounded by a foul-smelling wind that engulfed him and buffeted him and turned his stomach cold with terror. It seemed almost to be pushing him into the water, and he stood up, stumbled, and knocked the box off the dock. His only thought was to get away, to run, to fight off the force that was clawing at him. His skin crawled and he began to cry, and he ran, his frog-feet flapping and tripping him. He ran and scrambled and clawed his way up the path, sobbing and whimpering, and he flung himself into his car and, stamping the pedals with his flippered feet, he somehow got it started, and roared off into the night. At the bottom of the cove, the flashlight winked once, and then went out.
TWELVE
The storm that night turned into a whole gale. Powell, who had gone outside at the sound of Dorple’s automobile, saw the lights careening away and then looked up at the sky, which was black and loud with wind. He shivered and went back inside, where Kathryn was working on a needlepoint design. From the other room came the sound of Steve’s record player.
“Did you see who it was?” Kathryn asked, without looking up.
“No,” Powell replied. “I don’t know how long he’d been there, but he was certainly leaving in a hurry.”
“Probably some kids on a date.”
“Could be. Whoever it was, they’d better get home soon. We’re in for a storm.”
“Good. I like storms.”
“It’ll be interesting to see how the house holds up. Maybe we should get out some pans, in case.”
“There are plenty of pots and pans. Wait till a leak starts before we drag them out.”
“How about candles? Do we have enough?”
She looked at him and smiled. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You sound as though the place were going to fall apart.”
“I just like to be prepared,” he said defensively. “It’s easier to look for candles now than after the power goes off.”
“Who says it’s going to go off?”
“It just might, that’s all! Is there anything wrong in being prepared?”
Without a word Kathryn put down her needlepoint and went into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a handful of stubby candles. “There,” she said, putting them on the mantel. “Does that make you feel safer?”
Powell went over to her as she sat down. “Look,” he said, “I didn’t mean to snap. I’d just rather find the candles now than later. Is that wrong?”
She sighed, and thought a moment before answering. “No,” she said. “I guess everybody’s nerves are raw.”
“They’d be a lot better if we could get rid of Uncle George.”
“I’m aware of that. But beyond that, there’s—I don’t know how to put it—we seem to be operating on different levels, somehow. I wish I could get it straightened out.”
“You mean you wish you could get me straightened out.”
“I didn’t say that! I said ‘it,’ and by ‘it’ I meant our disagreement about lots of things. I hate it, and I wish it would stop.”
“I know.”
“Then let’s do something! It’s no good to sit here and snarl at each other when we both know it’s wrong!”
“O.K. What should we do?”
She thought for several seconds, her face knotted with frustration. “If you’d only be reasonable!” she burst out at last. “If you’d only see that—no, that isn’t going to do it. I’m sorry. You can’t help what you think, any more than I can.”
“Then what do we do?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
Powell hesitated, then said, “I’m going to talk to the librarian tomorrow.”
“Isn’t she a spiritualist?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But that’s the whole trouble! The more you get filled up with that stuff the worse it is!”
“This is different. It’s just an idea, but it might help.”
“Well, if it helps, I’m for it. Believe me, I’m tired of living like this.”
There was a rattle of rain against the windows, and from outside came the sound of a wind-blown chair careening across the porch. “Oh-oh,” said Powell. “Here she comes. We’d better start buttoning up.”
They secured the living-room windows, and had moved into the kitchen when there came the flap of feet on the stairs and Uncle George appeared, dressed in a nightshirt. “My goddamn ceiling leaks,” he said.
Powell took a dishpan and followed Uncle George up to his room, where a brown spot was spreading on the ceiling. He waited for a couple of drops to fall, then set the dishpan in place, and the next drop hit it with a musical clang.
“That’s great,” said Uncle George. “How am I supposed to sleep with that noise?”
“There’s going to be a lot more noise than this,” Powell replied. “If I were you I’d plug my ears.”
“Why don’t you call your caretaker? Isn’t he supposed to fix this kind of stuff?”
“On a night like this, I doubt if I could get a doctor. The caretaker would laugh in my face.”
“Not in mine, he wouldn’t. He’d damn well get over here.”
Powell started to say something, then cut it short and went downstairs, leaving Uncle George to climb, cursing, back into bed. Kathryn had locked the kitchen windows, and was putting towels along the sills where water had already started to bubble through the cracks. “This is going to be a beaut,” Powell said. Instinctively he looked at the cellar door, and pushed the bolt to make sure it was tight. “If we’ve got one leak already, I hate to think what we’ll have by the time the storm is over.”
The lights flickered, and dimmed, then came bright again. “I apologize for anything I said,” Kathryn remarked, as she opened a drawer for more towels. “You may have as many candles as you please.”
“I guess I’ll light one,” said Powell. He started for the living room as the lights flickered again, and went out. Somewhere, a door banged. “Damn,” he said, and groped his way in the darkness. His neck felt cold, and for the first time he felt the icy fingers of panic beginning to clutch at him. Take it easy, he told himself. You’re supposed to be the man in the house, so get a grip on yourself.
He found the candles, and when he lighted one he noticed that his hands were shaking. He lighted another from the first, then went back and gave one to Kathryn. She saw his trembling, and looked at him. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
He turned away, searching for a candlestick. “Of course. I’m fine.”
“Do you feel all right?”
“I feel great! Where the hell are the candlesticks?”
“On the top shelf of the closet,” she said quietly. “And there are more in the living room.”
He felt better once he had lighted and set up the candles, but an uneasy fear continued to gnaw at him, and he wished the night were over. Normally he liked storms as much as Kathryn did, but this one was different; he had the feeling that more than the usual elements were involved, and he was alone and lost. It was like a dream he had whenever he was sick, a dream in which something infinitesimally small, like an electric spark, was contrasted with something overwhelmingly large, like a tidal wave, or the side of a mountain. It was a terrifying dream, and he invariably woke up burning with fever. His sensation now was that he was the small element, at the mercy of a dark, towering tidal wave, which could be seen coming from a great distance, its foaming top almost lost in the sky. “What about a drink?” he said to Kathryn. “Would you like one?”
“A fine idea,” she said.
Steve came out of his room and looked around. “What happened to the lights?” he asked.
“The storm knocked them out,” Kathryn replied. “Take a candle.”
“Some crummy setup, when a little rain knocks out the lights,” said Steve. “Am I supposed to play my record player with a candle, too?” Powell turned on him and started to say something, and Steve hurriedly added, “Only kidding, Pop. Only kidding.” He took a candle and returned to his room.
There was a crash upstairs, and the sound of bare feet pounding on the floor, and Uncle George shouting curses. Powell took a candle and ran for the stairs, and the minute he hit the staircase a gust of wind blew out the candle. The banging and cursing increased, as he went back for another. “It’s all right!” he shouted. “I’ll be right there!” This time he shielded the candle with one hand and climbed the stairs into an icy wind, with Kathryn following. They reached Uncle George’s room in time to see him stamp into the water-filled dishpan, lose his balance, and fall heavily against the foot of the bed.
“Son of an everlasting, spun-glass BITCH!” he shouted. “Get me out of here before they kill me!” His window was wide open and rain was pouring in horizontally, making the curtains billow out like sails on a windjammer. Kathryn ran to the window and closed it.
“Who are you talking about?” Powell asked. “There’s nobody here.”
“I don’t know who did it, but somebody threw water on me when I was in bed,” Uncle George snarled. “Hit me right on the forehead.”
Powell looked at the bed, and at the ceiling over it, and saw a dark stain above the pillow. A drop of water formed, then fell with a small plop onto the bed. “That’s what hit you,” he said. “There’s a leak right over your head.”
“Then who turned out the lights?” Uncle George demanded. “Who turned out the lights and opened my window?”
“The storm knocked out the lights,” Powell replied. “And I assume you opened the window.”
“You think I’m crazy, opening a window on a night like this? You think I want to catch my death?”
Powell said nothing, and looked at Kathryn. “We’d better move him to the other room,” he said. “He’ll never get any sleep in here.”
“I’ll never sleep anywhere, in this house,” Uncle George retorted. “This is the most bitched-up house I’ve ever seen. Why don’t you spend a little money and fix it?”
“I’m told there’s a good hotel in town,” said Powell. “Completely watertight, and twenty-four-hour maid service. Why not give it a whirl?”
“Come on, Uncle George,” Kathryn said quickly. “I’ll make up the bed in the spare room and you can sleep there.”
“That’s the one Estelle used,” said Uncle George. “She said it was like concrete.”
“Then sleep in with us,” said Powell. “I snore and Kathryn kicks, but you shouldn’t mind a little thing like that.”
Uncle George looked at him sourly. “Don’t talk so fast, or I might,” he said.
Powell pushed the bed out from under the leak, while Kathryn made up a fresh bed in the spare room. Then, with Uncle George once more settled down, they went into their own room and closed the door. The house shook and rattled, and the wind made a low, periodic whistle in the eaves. A door banged again.
“I’d better find that door,” Powell said. “That, if nothing else, will keep us awake.” Shielding his candle, he went into the hall and listened. For a while he heard nothing but the noises of the storm, the buffeting of the wind, and the rattling slash of the rain, and then he began to hear other noises. A stair creaked, a floorboard groaned, and the whole house seemed to be writhing under the attack. There was a crash as more porch furniture blew over, and then, once again, a door slammed. Damn, thought Powell. That’s downstairs. His skin began to itch as he descended the stairs, checked carefully to see that the cellar door was locked, then tested the door to Steve’s room. Everything was tight, which left only the door to the study, off the living room. He went around to it, and arrived in time to see it slowly swing open, and his candle went out. Then the door slammed, hard, and Powell turned and fled upstairs, bumping into furniture and slipping on rugs as he ran. Kathryn was in bed when he returned, and he closed the door and leaned against it for a moment.
“Did you find it?” she asked.
He nodded, and took a deep breath. “I think there’s something wrong with the catch,” he said. “I’ll fix it in the morning.”
“Put a chair against it,” she suggested. “That’ll keep it for tonight.”
Powell shook his head, and began to undress. “It’s closed now,” he said. “We’ll just hope it stays that way.” The door banged again. “The hell with it,” he said. “Let it bang.”
Kathryn got out of bed, and took her candle. “There’s no point in that,” she said. “I’ll go down and fix it.”
Powell started to say something but the words wouldn’t form themselves, and he waited, listening, as Kathryn went down the stairs and around to the study. He heard her drag a chair to the door, and then heard the soft padding of her returning footsteps. He continued to undress, feeling slightly ashamed and glad he hadn’t said anything.
When they were both in bed, and the candles were out, they lay and listened to the storm. The house shook with each blast, and the whistling in the eaves had reached a high shriek, but aside from the few leaks there seemed to be no trouble. The house had stood for more than a hundred years, and had weathered worse storms than this, so there was no reason to expect more than routine trouble tonight. But Powell still couldn’t rid himself of the nagging fear, the inability to relax, and he listened to every sound and analyzed it carefully. The muscles in his shoulders and neck ached with tension, and the more he tried to relax the more tense he became. His insteps were perspiring, and he could feel little puddles of perspiration beneath his shoulders and buttocks. Kathryn moved closer, and reached out and held his hand.
