The Amulet

  “You could give it away,” said Sarah. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Ohhh, nooo!” exclaimed Becca, “you can’t give a wee-gee board away, because then the bad luck goes to some­body else, and it stays with you too. So then there’s two people with bad luck. There’s only two ways to get rid of a wee-gee board. One it has to be destroyed by accident, or two it has to get stole. And it can’t be accidental on pur­pose either, like putting it in the backyard barbecue, pre­tending it’s charcoal, or anything like that.”

  But Becca hugged Sarah for the gift anyway, and now Sarah had thought of it again. “What if it could tell us what really happened at the Coppages? What really caused that fire to start?”

  Becca looked shocked. “We know what caused the fire! We don’t need the wee-gee board for that!”

  “What caused it?” Margaret demanded. “How do you know, Mama?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Becca hedged, “but it was one of them things that people talked about today. Oily rags or something. What else could it have been? There’s nobody in Pine Cone that would want to burn up the whole Coppage family. It was a accident, and that’s all. That’s the important thing: that it was just a accident. We don’t need the wee-gee board to tell us what we already know . . .”

  It was evident to Sarah that her friend was genuinely afraid to employ the Ouija board, and because she was not sure that she really believed in it herself, she decided that she would not push the matter. But on the way home, across the moonlit patch of grass from Becca’s back door to her own, she wondered what the planchette would have spelled out on the board.

  Sarah noiselessly entered the house, and closed the door softly behind her, thinking that Dean and Jo were prob­ably asleep by now; but she heard Jo’s voice, loud and laughing, from the other end of the house.

  She tiptoed softly through the darkened intervening rooms, ashamed of her own curiosity, and approached the open door of the bedroom. She stood in the shadows and tried to hear what Jo was saying, what the woman was telling her unresponsive son.

  “. . . Wiring!” Sarah heard her fairly scream. “Wiring! D’you hear what Sarah said they thought it was, Dean? They thought it was the wiring!”

  Sarah entered the room suddenly, and Jo Howell’s laughter ceased abruptly. The woman pouted, and would not greet her daughter-in-law.

  Sarah glanced down at the figure on the bed; it was probably nothing more than the misleading shadows of the dim lights, but Sarah thought that the slit in the bandages was open a little wider, as if the faceless mask had been frozen in an inhuman laugh.

  Chapter 20

  James and Thelma Shirley lived in the house in which the policeman had been born and raised. The couple slept in the room in which James had been conceived, and in which his mother had died fifteen years before. James’ father had been killed in a collision with a Greyhound bus three months after that, and most people said it was suicide over the grief of having lost his wife.

  That bedroom was not much changed. It contained the same bed and the same dresser, the same carpets on the floor, the same pictures on the wall. It was one of the few things that James Shirley had insisted on in his married life: that he and his wife Thelma should stay in that room and that it should remain as it was when his parents were alive. Though it was old-fashioned, a little faded and a little cramped, it was comfortable and possessed a great deal more character than the rest of the house, which con­tained new, cheaper furniture that Thelma had thought more stylish.

  The night of the day on which Officer Shirley had talked to the insurance agents at the smoldering ruins of the Coppage house, he and his wife were talking as they pre­pared for bed. The only light in the room was from a small crystal lamp with a fringed shade that sat atop Thel­ma’s dresser; the illumination was soft and flattering. Thelma sat at the dresser, on a wicker bench with a flow­ered cushion, and was putting up her hair with bobby pins and tissue paper.

  The next day was Friday, Shirley’s day off, and he planned to get up early, and go off hunting by himself. The quail season had just opened. He sat on the edge of the bed, in his pajamas, lacing up a new pair of boots, purchased for the occasion. He was a large, loose, slow-moving man, with fair hair, light skin, and freckles on his neck.

  Thelma spoke to her husband. “Why you want to go hunting when you know it’s gone pour is a mystery to me.”

  James craned his neck, and glanced out the windows. Low gray clouds had already blown up from the south, masking the moon. “Quail don’t care what the weather’s like,” he replied softly.

  “Don’t you never want to sleep late? Crack of dawn, and you’re . . .” She stuck two bobby pins in her mouth, and didn’t bother to finish the sentence. She glanced down at the lace runner that covered the shelf of the dresser. On it lay the necklace and amulet that Mary had brought that morning from the Coppage house. She pondered it a moment.

  “James,” she said.

  “Hmmm?” He was still lacing his boots, and did not look up.

  “James, you think I ought to keep this thing?”

  “What thing, Thelma?”

  “This thing, James.” She didn’t touch it. “This necklace Mary picked up this morning. She really find this thing at the Coppage place?”

  “That’s what she says. I didn’t see her pick it up. But I guess I hope she got it there, ’cause I’d hate to think she was picking up things out of people’s houses and pockets and purses.”

  “Mary wouldn’t do that. She must have found it at the Coppages. So should I keep it?”

  “Well,” said the policeman, “won’t do the Coppages no good.”

  “Must have belonged to Rachel, you think?” said Thelma, and moved the chain around with her bobby pin. “She had fat ankles, you remember that, and she was always wearing short dresses, like she was showing ’em off.” Thelma had never cared much for Rachel Coppage, and it was strange now to have something that had belonged to her—the only thing, in fact, that was left of Rachel Coppage. Thelma continued to stare at the amulet. “Didn’t have any people of her own, nobody that ought to get this. Larry’s people got money to throw down the well, and I’d hate to see them get it. They didn’t like Rachel any more than I did. Won’t nobody claim it. Probably nobody knows anything about it.”

  James had set his boots down by the side of the bed, and noted with satisfaction that all the clothing he would need in the morning was set out so that he could dress as quickly as possible. Now he turned himself under the white sheet and chenille bedspread that was almost too much protection in the warm Alabama weather. “You bring me some water, Thelma? I don’t want to wake up thirsty in the middle of the night.”

  “You wait a minute, James. I want to see how this thing looks on me.”

  Thelma didn’t know why she was so hesitant about trying the amulet on; probably it was because it had be­longed to a woman who had burned to death only the previous night. When Mary had handed it to her that morning, she had thought at first it might simply be a child’s bauble, and during the activities that afternoon at the church, she had forgotten about it entirely. But now that she looked at it again, she saw that it had obviously belonged to Rachel Coppage, and not to one of the little girls. That morning, also, she had not seen a catch in the chain; she wondered if she would be able to pull the thing over her head.

  But when she looked down at the amulet now, the chain was separated. She picked it up, and examined the ends of the length of gold; it still appeared that there was no catch at all, simply two unconnected links. This puzzled her, for she could not determine how it had got broken. Obviously a link had snapped and fallen away, leaving the chain in two pieces, but that didn’t make real sense either because there still was no clasp or hook, and how were you supposed to get it over your head? Thelma was even a little relieved that now it was broken; she wouldn’t have to wear it. With that consolation she didn’t feel so badly about the thing, and she lifted it up by the ends of the chain and held them
around the back of her neck, spreading her elbows apart so that she could see how it looked on her in the mirror. She couldn’t decide. It was a nice enough piece she supposed, and it just might be worth something—though likely as not it had been picked up at Loveman’s in Montgomery, which she knew was where Rachel Coppage used to shop a lot—but Thelma wasn’t sure that it became her.

  Thelma was about to put it back down on the dresser, when she found that the chain had unaccountably at­tached itself at the back, and when she withdrew her hands, she felt the amulet drop heavily into place on her breast. She felt again for the catch but still found none. That was very strange, she told herself, and had to imag­ine that by the dim light on the dresser, she had some­how just not seen the catch—after all, it had to have been there. She shrugged, and then turned toward her husband.

  “You like that, James?”

  He opened his eyes wearily, and glanced at his wife. “Don’t go with a nightgown, Thelma.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that,” said Thelma peevishly, annoyed with her husband for being so obtuse, and probably as much annoyed with herself for having accepted this property which was not hers. “I mean,” she continued, “how does it look on me, James? I’m not gone wear it to bed at night, James.”

  James mumbled from the bed, “Real good, Thelma, looks real good on you.” Sleepily, he turned over on his side, away from the light. But suddenly, he turned back over and said, with his eyes still closed, “Thelma, will you get me that water? I’m not never gone get to sleep if I keep thinking about waking up thirsty in the middle of the night.”

  “James,” she said, not quite in reply, “you think it’d be real tacky if I was to wear it to the funeral?”

  James Shirley did not reply. Thelma looked over at him, and saw that he was impatient to get to sleep. She sighed, and rose. “I’m getting it now,” she said, and passed out of the room.

  Every night for the past ten years, James Shirley had asked his wife to fetch him a glass of water, so that he wouldn’t wake up thirsty in the middle of the night. He never got it himself, and the fact was, that he never even thought of it until he had already got beneath the covers. At first Thelma had taken exception to this, complaining that he ought to get it himself before he had got into bed, but she had given this up because it did no good and she realized that he wasn’t doing it on purpose to annoy her. And it had not bothered her again for years, really, be­fore tonight.

  Now she hated the man for it, despised him for this silly ritual, which she must suppose would be carried out every night for the rest of their lives. She thought: If I were to drop dead tonight, he wouldn’t last till Mon­day morning, because there wouldn’t be anybody to get his water for him!

  Thelma knew it was a small thing, fetching a glass of water, but she had done it thousands upon thousands of times, and got no more than a mumbled thanks for it, and half the time James was already asleep by the time that she got back from the kitchen with it. That was all she ever got, for all the things she did for him, in fact—mumbled thanks.

  Thelma paused as she passed the open door to little Mary’s bedroom. The child had been born in pain, and since then, Thelma had had her daughter beside her ev­ery day of the child’s miserable little life. Every single day for the past eight years, Thelma had had that little girl hanging on to the hem of her dress, whining. And out of little Mary, Thelma hadn’t even got mumbled thanks. She had got nothing at all.

  Thelma stamped into the room, and turned on the overhead light.

  Mary woke suddenly, blinked her eyes open, and stared at her mother. “Oh, Mama, what you want?” she cried. “What’s wrong?”

  Thelma didn’t answer, but stared hard at the child, with undisguised loathing.

  With a hard swipe with the side of her hand, Thelma Shirley knocked the light switch off, and said, “Don’t let me catch a sound out of you for the rest of the night, you hear me, girl? Not a sound.”

  Mary was bewildered by the harshness in her mother’s voice, and wondered if perhaps she had been screaming in the course of a nightmare. But she couldn’t remember one. She could only repeat helplessly, “Mama, what’s wrong?” But her mother was in such a bad mood that little Mary was thinking to herself that she really didn’t want to know what the matter was. And she certainly hoped that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with her.

  “Go to sleep!” Thelma cried viciously, stepping back out into the hallway, and slamming the door shut. Little Mary cowered beneath the covers for a few moments.

  In the darkness, Mary wondered if she were dreaming now. In the moonlight, she had caught the gleam of the necklace that she had found in the burned-down house that morning. Her mother had said that she didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Maybe her dream was really about the necklace, and not about her mother at all. Little Mary had fallen back asleep before she could decide whether she had been dreaming all the time or not.

  The kitchen was dark, now that the moon had fallen behind the clouds, and Thelma turned on the overhead light. She blinked in its glare, went to the refrigerator, removed the water carafe and poured a glass of water for James. She started to go out again, but with her finger on the switch, about to go through the door, she suddenly paused and retraced her steps. Placing the glass on the counter, she opened the drawer in which all the kitchen utensils were kept and extracted two handfuls of them. She placed a large rubber band round them so that she could carry them in one hand. Then with the glass of water, she started back.

  She paused again for a few moments at the door of little Mary’s bedroom, beating the kitchen utensils angrily against her thigh, but at last she moved on and returned to her own bedroom.

  The glass of water she placed carefully on the table next to her husband. He gave incoherent thanks, and settled himself into his pillow. Already he was asleep.

  Thelma sat herself again at the dresser, thoughtfully removed the band from the implements she was carrying, and then slowly laid them out on the shelf of the dresser. There were two meat forks, a couple of knives, one of them sharp, the ice pick used by Gussie earlier that morn­ing, a long teaspoon, a small eggbeater, a spatula, and a can opener. She stared at them all for a moment or two, and then touched them one by one, testing the tines and the points of the pieces.

  “Thelma,” her husband grumbled from the bed, “when you gone finish with your hair and turn that light out?”

  Thelma rose from the little wicker bench, grasping the ice pick in her right hand. Her knuckles were white from the pressure of her grip round its wooden handle. Unhesi­tatingly, she moved over to her husband’s side, leaned down over him, and let the point of the pick slide into his ear. She twirled it round just the slightest bit, so lightly that James did not even move with the sensation of it. But then Thelma pushed the point toward her husband’s brain. She was much surprised how difficult this was, how much resistance there proved in the operation. The pick wouldn’t go very far in, and she had to place one palm on top of the other, over the end of the handle, and lean on it with all the pressure that she could bring to bear.

  James flailed with the surprise of the assault, and knocked over the glass of water in the process. It smashed to the floor. In the last second of consciousness, he glanced at his wife. There was not even a flicker of knowledge, or remorse, or even intent in her eyes. The expression on her face was the same as when they had breakfast to­gether each morning, across the table from one another. She bore a small, unselfconscious smile.

  There was a satisfying crack when the point of the ice pick penetrated James Shirley’s skull. Thelma pulled her hands back and crossed them above the amulet.

  James was staring at her, but then the pain hit him, a point of screaming pain, that had only begun to expand when he was dead.

  Thelma had jammed the pick into her husband’s brain, up to its wooden handle. His body buckled at the waist and slid off the bed. A thin stream of blood bubbled out of his ear. Thelma leaned down to try to lift
him back onto the sheets, but she slipped in the spilled water. Her legs shot out backward from under her, and she fell flat on her face. The jagged-edged base of the broken water glass caught against her throat, slicing through her jugular vein.

  The blood filled her throat so quickly that there was not even time for Thelma to cry out before she too was dead.

  Chapter 21

  When Gussie arrived on foot the next morning at the Shirleys’ at about seven, she was surprised to see that the car was still in the driveway. Thelma had told her it was impossible to pick her up because of one car’s being at the repair shop, and the other being taken out by James on his hunting trip. Well, said Gussie to herself, she just wanted me to walk because she knows how much I hate it. No sidewalks half the way on over here and the gravel just eating up the soles of my shoes, which don’t fit proper anyhow.

  The back door was locked, which was strange as well, because usually Thelma got up early just to leave it open for Gussie on those days when she didn’t come to pick her up. She knocked and there was no answer. The black woman walked round the house, peering in one window after the next; all was dark and motionless. When she came to the room belonging to Mary, she glanced inside, and saw the child asleep, only a few feet from the window, but hesitated to knock, fearing to frighten her. Besides, she liked the child, and had no wish to disturb her sleep. It would be much more pleasant to wake Miz Thelma, and make her get out of bed to open the door.

  Gussie peered in between the curtains of the first bed­room window and could see, to her surprise, that Thelma was not in bed. That side was empty. She moved to the next window, and looked in. The sightless eyes of James Shirley stared directly into hers. Gussie jerked out of the way, instinctively avoiding that gaze and only then real­ized that the man was dead. She drew her breath in quickly, threw her hands up over her face and squinted, between the crossed fingers of both hands, back through the window again. She ducked a little and tried not to look back into James Shirley’s eyes. Then it was she no­ticed the wooden handle sticking out of his ear. Why! she thought to herself, Miz Thelma done that, done gone and left and locked the door behind her and done gone and left that child to find the body! When she dropped her hands in anger for Thelma’s supposed conduct, she sud­denly saw the woman’s crumpled body, hidden a little behind James’, and realized that the murderess was dead too.