The Love Talker Part 11

Two miles down the road they found the mailbox. There was no house in sight, only an unpaved side road thickly enclosed by brambly bushes, formidable even in their winter barrenness.

"That's it," Laurie said. "Wilson."

"Pray we don't meet anybody," Doug said, and turned cautiously into the road.

There was reason for his concern. The track was only wide enough for one car, and it went up and around in blind curves. Fortunately it was not long. After about three quarters of a mile the track divided. One branch led into the woods; the other turned sharply and plunged into a hollow, where a single house stood. It had to be the Wilson house; there was no other habitation in sight. At a distance it appeared to be a singularly ugly version of the typical farmhouse of the area: two-storied, with a high, pointed gable in the center of the steep-pitched roof, and double-decker wooden porches along one side. It had been painted a depressing brown; except for a few scrawny bare-branched trees there were no shrubs or plants visible around the rough, mud-splashed foundation. By contrast, the barn behind the house was brilliant with fresh red paint.

Doug pulled up in front of the house, next to an old Jeep stationwagon. On close inspection the place was even more depressing. Paint was flaking off the wooden pillars of the porch, and one of the steps sagged, rusty nails protruding threateningly. The front windows were blank eyes, the shades within closely drawn.

"Maybe n.o.body's home," Laurie said hopefully.

"We can but try." Doug got out of the car and climbed the steps. Laurie followed.

There was no doorbell or knocker. A wooden screen door drooped on its hinges; the screen was torn in several places. After searching in vain for a piece of solid wood on which to knock, Doug opened the screen and banged on the door itself.

Hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched, Laurie shivered. It was chilly in the shade of the porch, but the temperature was only partially responsible for her feeling of cold. The house was forbidding-not sinister, just withdrawn and unwelcoming. She saw no animals, heard no birds. But as the silence descended again, after the reverberation of Doug's knocking had died away, she was aware of sounds within the house-music, m.u.f.fled but somehow lugubrious, even though faintly heard.

Doug raised an eyebrow and prepared for another a.s.sault on the door. Before he could knock they heard footsteps-solid, slow, ponderous. Laurie's scalp p.r.i.c.kled. Then there was a sound of rattling. A key turned, a bolt was drawn back; the door creaked, stuck, then opened.

Laurie would not have been surprised to see any monstrous version of humanity, from a withered crone to a cretinous giant in overalls. Instead she found herself facing a comfortably plump, smiling country housewife. Mrs. Wilson wore a dark print dress with a white bibbed ap.r.o.n over it. Ap.r.o.n and dress were both spotless and starched till they crackled. Her graying hair was wrapped in a braid around her head. It looked varnished. Not a hair was out of place. The unmistakable, unforgettable smell of fresh-baked bread accompanied this vision of old-fashioned domestic comfort.

Doug introduced them. Mrs. Wilson nodded, her chins wobbling.

"Well, it's nice to see you. I heard you was home. Come in. Sorry I took so long to answer, but most folks come to the back. I don't suppose I open this door onct a year."

The inside of the house was as neat as the outside was bleak and neglected. However, it could not be called cheerful. The hall floor was covered with drab-brown matting. The only piece of furniture in sight was a huge, hideous hall tree, with a box at its base and several coats hanging from the pegs. Through a door to the left Laurie caught a glimpse of the parlor. The furniture was lined up along the walls, and there was not a picture to be seen.

"Come on back to the kitchen," Mrs Wilson said hospitably. "We'd set in the parlor, only I'm jest in the middle of baking. Hope you'll excuse me."

If Laurie had been given her choice she would certainly have preferred the kitchen. It was equally lacking in ornamentation. The oilcloth on the table was plain blue-and-white check, the curtains were an even plainer solid navy. But any well-scrubbed kitchen is bound to look pleasant, and this one was no exception. The wooden chairs and cabinets were old enough to look quaint, and although the dishes in the corner cupboard were heavy country ware, they shone with cleanliness.

The music came from a small radio on the counter top. An unctuous, oily man's voice was crooning about the arms of Jesus. Mrs. Wilson switched it off, but it had given Laurie the clue she needed. The Wilsons must belong to some fundamentalist sect that frowned on vain adornment. The dark print dress, the absence of even the cheapest pictures . . .

Anyway, Mrs. Wilson looked pleasant. Laurie transferred her instinctive dislike of the house to the unknown, as yet unseen Mr. Wilson.

"You'll hev coffee and a roll, I hope," Mrs. Wilson said. She opened the oven door and skillfully transferred four crusty brown loaves onto the counter beside a row of others already cooling there. Into the oven went two lattice-topped pies and a pan of biscuits. Another ma.s.s of dough waited to be rolled out. Pallid white and shapeless, it sprawled obscenely on the top of the counter. Laurie saw a mouth-watering a.s.sortment of baked goods already done: corn m.u.f.fins, buns glistening with caramel topping and bristling with nuts, whole-wheat and white bread, a row of pies. She eyed Mrs. Wilson's immaculate ap.r.o.n with awe.

"Do you have a pastry shop?"

Mrs. Wilson chuckled. "No, Mr. Wilson wouldn't stand for me to go out to work. I sell to a bakery in town, and to the neighbors. But Mr. Wilson is a good hearty eater himself, praise the Lord."

She poured coffee from a pot sitting on the back of the stove. Laurie accepted her cup with a murmured "thank you." When Mrs. Wilson offered a plate of sticky buns she shook her head.

"They look delicious, but I couldn't eat a bite."

"I could," Doug said greedily. "My great-aunt is no slouch as a cook, Mrs. Wilson, but it would be a sin to pa.s.s up anything as good as this."

Mrs. Wilson looked pleased. Clearly she approved of men with hearty appet.i.tes. But after a moment Laurie saw that although the woman continued to smile, her eyes had narrowed slightly, as if something in Doug's speech or appearance had disturbed her.

Certainly he was out of place in that prim kitchen. The leather jacket, the slightly too long hair, the expensive shirt with its pale stripes and tiny gold flowers . . . Her own tight jeans and T-shirt were just as incongruous. Not extreme, by modern standards, just incongruous. But Mrs. Wilson wasn't staring at her.

The woman turned away and waddled to the counter. Plunging her hands into the ma.s.s of dough she kneaded it briskly and then began to pat it out into a thick rectangle.

"Yes," she said, in response to Doug's comment. "Miz Lizzie is sure a good cook, but she don't bake much. How is she these days?"

Doug glanced at Laurie. She shrugged. This was a perfect opening, but she was d.a.m.ned if she was going to take the initiative. Let the young heir, the favored male, ask the first question.

"Fine," Doug said weakly. Mrs. Wilson's back was still turned. Laurie grimaced violently at her brother. Doug licked his sticky fingers. Then he said, "Actually, she isn't all that fine. The reason we dropped in, Mrs. Wilson, is-though your cooking is reason enough!-is-uh-we wanted to talk to your daughters about Aunt Lizzie's latest hobby. About- uh-er-um-"

"Fairies," Laurie said disgustedly. "Fairies in the woods."

Mrs. Wilson stood motionless for a moment. Then her hands came down on the dough with a loud smack. It sounded as if she had spanked a large, bare-bottomed baby. She turned.

"Don't tell me that foolishness is still going on! I told that child when she first come in here talking like that, it was a sin against Scripture. Her daddy is going to be real mad. He don't hold with such things."

"Wait," Doug said quickly. "I'm not accusing the girls of anything. I'm sure they obeyed-er-their daddy. We just want to find out how this business started."

"Oh, well," Mrs. Wilson said. "It was Baby that started it, I guess. Mind, I'm not blaming Miss Lizzie, but it was her that put it into the child's head, all them fairy tales and suchlike lies she told her."

Laurie was only too well aware of the fact that few people can relate a coherent narrative. Mrs. Wilson was not the most intelligent woman in the world- and, to be fair, she probably didn't know what they were driving at.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "Aunt Lizzie was telling-reading?-fairy tales to ... Baby? What is her name?"

"Betsy," Mrs. Wilson answered. "She's the baby, only five."

Betsy, Baby, Lizzie, . . . The diminutives were beginning to grate on Laurie's nerves. She decided that from now on she would only answer to Laura.

"Her and Miss Lizzie got to be friendly last summer," Mrs. Wilson went on. "Miss Lizzie is a good soul, I don't say she's not, even if the grace of the Lord isn't in her. She's soft about children. And the girls was always sneaking away from their ch.o.r.es, playing in the woods. Miss Lizzie used to run into them there. Betsy'd come home talking about little people, with wings an' all. I never paid her much mind, she's quite a one to talk, Betsy is. But one night at supper she started on about elves or whatever, and her daddy got real upset. He licked Mary Ella and Rachel real good."

"Wait," Laurie said again. "Wait. I don't understand, Mrs. Wilson. If Betsy was the culprit ... I mean, the one who was talking about elves-why did her father punish the older girls?"

"Why, they was supposed to be watching over Betsy. They ought to know better."

Laurie and Doug exchanged glances. Mrs. Wilson went on, "None of them has said a word about it since."

"I'll bet," Doug muttered.

"What about the photographs?" Laurie asked.

"What photographs?"

"Aunt Lizzie has some snapshots. Of-well-they look like . . . She doesn't have a camera. We were under the impression that one of your daughters had taken them."

Mrs. Wilson shook her head. "I don't know about no photographs."

Laurie gritted her teeth. Talking to Mrs. Wilson was like trying to run through her bread dough- slow and sticky.

"Do the girls own cameras?"

"Cameras? No. Their daddy don't hold with such things. Now what did I do with that biscuit cutter?"

"I wonder if we could talk to the girls," Laurie said desperately, wondering if Mrs. Wilson's children would be as slow-witted as their mother.

"No reason why not. They'll be home from school pretty soon." Mrs. Wilson found the missing implement and began cutting out biscuits. "Only don't get 'em started on that silly business again. Their daddy won't like it."

Doug had eaten three buns and was obviously fed up, in every sense of the word. He signaled to Laurie, suggesting retreat. She shook her head. He hadn't seen the photographs. She had.

Mrs. Wilson began to sing. She had a low, rather pleasant voice.

"When I see His holy blood Then happiness does flood Into my joyful heart when day is o'er; When I see His grievous wounds Then my loving spirit swoons-"

Laurie never learned the last line of this gem; the back door swung open and Mrs. Wilson broke off.

"Well, here she is," she said. "Here's Baby. You can talk to her if you want."

Laurie stared.

Baby Betsy could have doubled for Baby Shirley Temple in her youthful prime; but Shirley's early movies had not been in living color. Betsy had bouncing taffy-blond curls, dancing blue eyes, dimples- the works. She wore a snowsuit of a vivid robins'-egg blue and matching cap lined with bunny fur. The top of her curly head-Laurie calculated-would just about reach her own hipbone.

"This here is Miss Lizzie's great-niece and -nephew," Mrs. Wilson said precisely. "Say h.e.l.lo, Baby."

"h.e.l.lo," said Baby. She examined them and then, with the unerring instinct of the female, young or old, trotted over to Doug. "Help me take off my snowpants," she said, putting a soft, mittened hand on his knee.

"Oh. Sure." Doug looked blankly at her. "How?"

Baby Betsy giggled. "Funny man."

"Come here, Baby," Laurie said. "I'll help you."

Betsy shook her head. Taffy-colored curls bounced.

"No. Betsy wants nice man to he'p her."

Doug was looking fatuous, if helpless. Laurie seized the infant charmer and had her out of her snowsuit before she could protest.

"There," she said, returning Betsy's hostile stare.

"Thank the lady," said Mrs. Wilson. "Betsy, have you been-"

Before she could finish the question they heard footsteps on the back porch.

"Here's the girls," Mrs. Wilson said. "You can talk to all of 'em at onct."

Of course, Laurie realized-the older girls would take a different school bus. Betsy, though not as babyish as she liked to appear, was probably in kindergarten. The others ...

Junior high school-at least. No wonder Betsy was so spoiled. There must be seven or eight years between her and her closest sister.

They stood in the doorway staring shyly at the strangers. Unlike their little sister they wore dark, drab clothing and ugly, home-knit stocking caps. Their faces were bare of the slightest hint of makeup. The younger of the two, sallow-skinned and pimply, had long dark braids and a heavy face. The older was a miracle.

Even the shapeless coat could not hide her grace. Ma.s.ses of tumbled curls, the color of primroses or pale scrambled eggs, spilled out from under the knit cap. Her eyes were blue and long-lashed, her mouth a soft pink.

Laurie glanced sideways at her brother. He looked like a feeble-minded owl. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open. It dropped even farther when the golden-haired maiden removed her coat. Her long-sleeved blouse and simple dark skirt somehow managed to display a figure which was, to say the least, precocious.

Laurie kicked Doug. He continued to stare.

"Hang your coats up, girls," Mrs. Wilson ordered, in a brisk tone quite unlike the softer voice she had used to Betsy. "Then get back in here. These is Miss Lizzie's folks, that you've heard her talk about. They want to ask you some questions."

The golden-haired beauty-Cinderella in a cheap dark skirt-looked apprehensive. The other girl glowered. Neither spoke. They went obediently into the hall and did as they were told. Betsy leaned across Doug's knee and reached for a bun.

"I wanna gla.s.s of milk, Momma," she whined.

Mrs. Wilson produced the milk. The older girls returned. Betsy leaned more heavily.

"Can I sit on your lap?" she asked Doug, batting her lashes at him.

"Why, sure, you can," Doug said. He lifted her up. An expression of pain crossed his face as Betsy's sticky fingers clutched his jacket.

"Go ahead," Mrs. Wilson said. "They got homework to do, so if you wouldn't mind-"

"Wead Betsy a stowy." Betsy picked up a battered book and shoved it against Doug's nose.

"Maybe later," Doug said.

"Wead a stowy now!"

"Not now," Laurie said.

Betsy, who had long since recognized her as an enemy, not to be seduced by dimples, pouted, but shut up.

"Now, girls." Laurie turned her attention to the older children. They stood side by side, hands clasped; their stiff poses and wide, apprehensive eyes made Laurie feel obscurely guilty. "Look, there's nothing to worry about," she a.s.sured them.

Her smile won no response from the girls. She tried again.

"My name is Laurie. You are-Rachel?"

A nod from Cinderella.

"Then you must be Mary Ella," Laurie said to the dark, sallow child. "We just wanted to ask you how Miss Lizzie got interested in ... in . . ." (Weird! She would have found a four-letter obscenity as easy to p.r.o.nounce.) "Fairies," Doug said jerkily. Betsy was wriggling on his lap and he was beginning to look disenchanted. "You girls know Miss Lizzie; you like her, don't you?"

Mary Ella mumbled, shuffling her feet; but Rachel, after a long survey of Doug from under preposterously long lashes, smiled shyly and suddenly. Her pretty white teeth were just a little crooked. The disharmony gave her smile an elfin enchantment.

"Yes, sir, we sure do. She's a nice old lady."

"She likes you too, I'm sure."

"I hope so, sir," Rachel said modestly.

"Well . . ."