Estelle sniffled, and straightened up a little. She tried to smile at Constance, but the effort was too much for her. “Constance, are you sure you told us everything? Wasn’t there maybe something you didn’t want to say in front of Henry?”
Constance sighed heavily. “I wish there was. I wish there was something that would make sense out of the whole thing. But there isn’t. All I know is that I’ve told people time and time again, don’t let the kids play around that cemetery. It’s dangerous. But nobody believed me, and now look what’s happened.”
Estelle’s eyes met Constance Benson’s. For some time the two women simply gazed at each other, as if there were an unspoken communication going on between them. When at last Estelle spoke, her voice was low, and highly controlled.
“It was that girl, wasn’t it? Michelle Pendleton? Susan told me there’s something wrong with her.”
“She’s crippled,” Constance said. “She fell down the bluff.”
“I know,” Estelle said. “I don’t mean that. There was something else. Susan told me about it yesterday, but I can’t remember what it was.”
“Well, I don’t see that it matters much,” Constance sniffed. “It seems to me that what has to be done is see to it that everybody’s warned. I think we should warn everyone to keep their children away from that graveyard, and away from Michelle Pendleton. I don’t know what she did, but I know she did something.”
Estelle Peterson nodded.
It didn’t take long for the word to spread through Paradise Point. Constance Benson called her friends, and her friends called theirs. As the night wore on there were small family groups all over the village, huddled together in kitchens and living rooms, talking quietly to their sleepy children, warning them about Michelle. The older children nodded wisely.
But to the younger ones, it made no sense.…
At the Carstairses’, it was Bertha who talked briefly to Constance Benson, then murmured a few words of sympathy for Estelle Peterson before hanging up and facing her husband. Fred was watching her.
“A little late for phone calls, isn’t it?” he asked, pulling himself to a sitting position. He hated being disturbed in the middle of the night.
“That was Constance Benson,” Bertha said matter-of-factly. “She seems to think that Michelle Pendleton had something to do with what happened today.”
“Leave it to Constance,” Fred grumbled sleepily, but he looked wary, nonetheless. “What does Constance think Michelle did?”
“She didn’t say. I don’t think she exactly knew. But she said we ought to have a talk with Sally, and warn her to stay away from Michelle.”
“I wouldn’t warn a man to stay out of a beartrap on Constance Benson’s say-so,” Fred muttered. “She’s always yammering about that graveyard, too, but she hardly ever goes out of the house. Must be tough for that boy of hers.”
“Well, that’s between him and her, and nothing to do with us.”
Bertha was about to snap out the light when there was a soft tap at their door, and Sally came in. She sat down on their bed, apparently wide awake.
“Who was that?” she asked. “On the phone.”
“Just Mrs. Benson,” Bertha said. “She wanted to talk about Susan. And Michelle,” she added.
“Michelle? What about her?”
“Well, Michelle was with Susan today, you know,” Bertha pointed out. Sally nodded, but seemed puzzled.
“I know,” she agreed. “But it’s funny. Susan hated Michelle. Why would Susan have been with someone she hated?”
Bertha ignored the question. Instead, she posed one of her own. “Why did Susan hate Michelle?”
Sally shrugged uncomfortably, then decided that it was time she told someone how she’d been feeling.
“Because she’s lame. Susan kept acting like Michelle was some kind of freak—kept calling her retarded, and things like that.”
“Oh, no …” Bertha murmured. “How terrible for her.”
“And—and we all sort of went along with it,” Sally said miserably.
“Went along with it? You mean you all agreed with Susan?”
Sally nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t want to—really I didn’t. But then—well, Michelle didn’t seem to want to be friends anymore, and Susan.… Well, Susan acted like anybody who wanted to be Michelle’s friend couldn’t be hers. And I—I’ve known Susan all my life.” She began crying, and Bertha hugged her close.
“Now, honey, don’t you cry. Everything’s going to be all right …”
“But now Susan’s dead,” Sally wailed. A thought struck her, and she pulled away from her mother. “Michelle didn’t kill her, did she?”
“Of course not,” Bertha said emphatically. “I’m sure it was just an accident.”
“Well, what did Jeff’s mother say?” Sally asked.
“She said—she said—” Bertha floundered, then looked to her husband for assistance.
“She didn’t say anything,” he said flatly. “Susan must have tripped and fallen, just like Michelle did a while ago. Michelle was just luckier than Susan, that’s all. And if you ask me, I think what Susan and the rest of you kids did to Michelle is rotten. I think you ought to tell her you’re sorry, and that you want to be her friend again.”
“But I already told her that,” Sally said.
“Then tell her again,” Fred Carstairs said. “That child has had a bad time, and if Constance Benson is doing what I think she’s doing, things are only going to get harder for her. And I don’t want anybody to say my daughter was a part of it. Is that clear?”
Sally nodded silently. In a way, what her father had just told her was exactly what she wanted to hear. But what if Michelle really didn’t want to be her friend anymore? Then what could she do?
It was very puzzling, and when she went back to bed, Sally was still unable to sleep.
There was something wrong.
Something very wrong.
But she couldn’t figure out what it was.
Although no one had called the Pendletons that evening, Cal could feel a tension in the air. Coming to Paradise Point, he sometimes felt, had been a mistake. What had it gotten him? Up to his ears in debt, a starvation-level practice, a new baby, and a daughter who would be crippled for the rest of her life.
But the problems would be solved, all of them. For as the weeks had gone by, Cal had come to a realization. For some reason, a reason he only vaguely understood, he belonged in Paradise Point. He belonged in this house, and he knew he wouldn’t leave it. Not for anything. Not even for his daughter.
But she wasn’t his daughter, not really. They’d adopted her. She wasn’t a real Pendleton.
As the thought struck him, Cal shifted in bed, his guilt at even entertaining such an idea making him even more restless. And yet, it was true, wasn’t it?
Of all his probems, why should the worst come from someone who wasn’t even his daughter?
He turned over and tried to think about something else.
Anything else.
Images began to flow through his mind, images of children. Alan Hanley was there, and Michelle, and now Susan Peterson as well. Faces. Faces twisted in fear and pain, blending one into the other, all of them staring at him, all of them accusing him.
And there were others. Sally Carstairs, and Jeff Benson, and the little ones, the ones Michelle had been playing with—when? Yesterday? Was it really Just yesterday? It didn’t matter, not really. They were all there, and they were all looking at him, asking him.
Are you going to hurt us, too?
Sleep began to swirl over him, but it wasn’t an easy sleep. Always they were there, helpless, appealing.
And accusing.
During the night, Cal’s confusion grew, and his anger grew with it. None of it was his fault. None of it! Then why were they accusing him?
The night, and his emotions, exhausted him.
The moon, going into its last phase, had reached its crest as Michelle awoke
, and her room was filled with its ghostly light. She sat up in bed, sure that Amanda was with her.
“Mandy?” She whispered her friend’s name, then waited in the stillness of the moonlit night for an answer. When it came, Amanda’s voice was faint, faraway, but the words were clear.
“Outside. Come outside, Michelle …”
Michelle got out of bed and went to the window. The sea sparkled in the moonlight, but Michelle only glanced at it, then shifted her gaze to the lawn below her, searching the shadows for a flicker of movement that would tell her where Amanda was.
And then it came. A shadow, darker than the rest, suddenly moved out onto the lawn.
Her face tipped back, catching the strange light of the fading moon, Amanda beckoned to her.
Michelle slipped her bathrobe on and crept from her room. She paused in the hall, listening. When she heard no sound from her parents’ room, she started down the stairs.
Outside, Amanda waited for her. As Michelle approached she could feel her friend’s presence, pulling at her, guiding her.
She moved down the path, then along the bluff to the studio.
Letting herself in, Michelle made no move to turn on a light. Instead, knowing what Amanda wanted, she went to the closet, and took out a canvas.
She set it up on the easel, picked up a piece of her mother’s charcoal, and waited.
Whatever Amanda wanted to see, Michelle knew she would be able to draw it.
A moment later, she began.
As before, her strokes were bold, quickly drawn, and sure, as if an unseen hand were guiding her. And as she worked, a change came over her face. Her eyes, her brown eyes that had always seemed so alert, grew hazy, then seemed to glaze over. In contrast, Amanda’s milky pale, blind eyes came alive, flickering eagerly over the canvas, darting around the studio, drinking in the sights so long denied her.
The picture emerged rapidly, in the same bold strokes she had used the night before.
Only tonight, Michelle drew Susan Peterson, her face twisted in fear, at the edge of the bluff. Susan seemed to be suspended in mid-air, her body pitched forward, her arms flailing.
And on the bluff, her mouth curving in a mirthless smile, there was another girl, dressed in black, her face all but covered by her bonnet. It was Mandy. She seemed to be suspended in midair, her body pitched arms extended, not in fear, but as if she had just pushed something.
Her smile, though joyless, seemed somehow victorious.
Michelle finished the drawing, then stepped back. Behind her, she could feel Amanda’s presence, Peering over her shoulder at the canvas, breathing softly.
“Yes,” Amanda’s voice whispered in her ear. “That’s the way it was.”
Almost reluctantly, Michelle put the canvas back into the closet, obeying Amanda’s whispered command to hide it deep at the back of the closet, in a far corner, where it wouldn’t be found.
Then, leaving the studio as it had been when she came in, Michelle started back toward the house.
As they crossed the lawn, Amanda whispered to her.
“They’re going to hate you now. All of them. But it doesn’t matter. They hated me, too, and they laughed at me.
“But it’s all right, Michelle. I’ll take care of you. They won’t laugh at you. They’ll never laugh at you.
“I won’t let them.”
And then Amanda disappeared into the night.…
BOOK THREE
THE
BLIND
FURY
CHAPTER 19
The day had been an ordeal for everyone. Corinne Hatcher glanced at the clock for what must have been at least the sixtieth time. All day, the children had whispered among themselves, their eyes constantly coming to rest, if only briefly, on Michelle Pendleton, then shifting guiltily elsewhere when they realized Miss Hatcher was watching them.
Corinne knew no more than anyone else. She had heard all the speculations. She had been called by several women the night before, all professing their desire to be sure their children’s teacher knew “the truth,” all eager to tell her that they hoped she would “see to it” that Michelle Pendleton was “separated” from the class immediately. Finally, in desperation, she had called Josiah Carson for the true story of what had happened, then left her phone off the hook.
And now, as three o’clock approached, she was still trying to decide whether or not to mention Susan Peterson. But as the last few minutes of the school day ticked slowly away, she knew she would not—there just wasn’t anything she could tell them, and there was certainly nothing she wanted to tell them with Michelle Pendleton present.
Michelle.
Michelle had arrived that morning, as every morning recently, just in time to slip unobtrusively into her seat at the back of the room. Of all the children, she seemed to be the only one capable of concentrating on her lessons: while the others exchanged glances and whispers, Michelle sat calmly—was it stoically?—at the back of the room, as if unaware of what was going on around her. Michelle’s reaction to the situation had set the example for her own. If Michelle could act as though nothing had happened, so could she. God knows, she rationalized to herself, it won’t make any difference to Susan, and maybe, if I ignore the situation, the children will too.
Corinne heaved a silent sigh of relief as the final bell rang, and sank into her chair to watch the children scurry out into the hall None of them, she noticed, spoke to Michelle, although she thought she saw Sally Carstairs pause for a second, hesitate as though she was going to say something, then change her mind and leave with Jeff Benson.
When no one was left in the room but the two of them, Corinne smiled at Michelle.
“Well,” she said as brightly as she could. “How was your day?” If Michelle wanted to talk about it, Corinne had given her the opportunity. But Michelle didn’t want to talk.
“All right,” she replied, her voice listless. She had gotten to her feet and was gathering her books. Just before she started out of the room, she smiled briefly at Corinne. “See you tomorrow,” she said. And she was gone.
As she left the classroom, Michelle glanced down the corridor and, seeing Sally Carstairs and Jeff Benson talking together near the front door, turned the other way.
She emerged onto the back stairs and let herself relax for the first time that day: none of her classmates was in the schoolyard. Annie Whitmore was there, playing with her friends, but today they had given up their jump rope in favor of hopscotch. Michelle watched them for a moment and wondered if perhaps she could do it, jumping on her good leg. Maybe, after the children were gone, she’d try it.
She started down the stairs, intending to leave the schoolyard by the back gate, but as she passed the swings, one of the second grade boys called to her.
“Will you push me?”
Michelle stopped and looked at the little boy.
He was seven years old, and small for his age. He was perched on one of the swings, wistfully watching his friends as they pumped themselves back and forth. His problem was immediately obvious. His legs didn’t reach the ground, and he couldn’t get the swing started. He watched Michelle with large and trusting brown eyes, the eyes of a puppy.
“Please?” he begged.
Michelle set her bookbag on the ground and, with effort, took up a position behind the little boy. “What’s your name?” she asked as she gave him a little push.
“Billy Evans. I know who you are—you’re the girl who fell off the bluff. Did it hurt?”
“Not much. I got knocked out.”
Billy seemed to accept this as perfectly normal. “Oh,” he said. “Push me harder.”
Michelle pushed a little harder. Soon Billy was swinging happily, his little legs kicking out, his childish squeals echoing across the playground.
Sally Carstairs and Jeff Benson walked slowly down the front steps, reluctant to start home, prolonging their comfortable companionship. A bond had formed between them—nothing spoken, but something nevertheless there.
If asked, neither of them could have explained it—indeed, neither of them would even have been likely to admit to it. Yet, as they reached the front yard, they lingered.
A car pulled up, and the two children watched as June Pendleton got out. Self-consciously, each of them muttered a faint hello as she passed them, but June didn’t seem to hear them. They watched her disappear into the school.
“I don’t think Michelle had anything to do with it,” Sally said suddenly. They had not been talking about Michelle or Susan, but Jeff knew immediately what she meant.
“My mother said she was there,” Jeff replied.
“But that doesn’t mean she did anything,” Sally countered.
“Well, she didn’t like Susan, that’s for sure.”
“Why should she have?” Sally demanded, the first touch of heat coming into her voice. “Susan was mean to her. From the first day of school, Susan was always mean to her.”
Jeff shuffled uncomfortably, knowing that what Sally said was true, but not wanting to agree with her.
“Well, all of us sort of went along with it.”
“I know. Maybe we shouldn’t have.”
Jeff looked at Sally sharply. “You mean if we hadn’t, Susan wouldn’t be dead now?”
“I didn’t say that!” But Sally silently wondered if that’s what she had meant. “Is it all right if I walk home with you?”
Jeff shrugged. “If you want to. But you’ll just have to walk back to town again.”
“That’s all right.” The two of them started along the sidewalk, then turned the corner onto the street that would take them past the playground. “Maybe I’ll go see Michelle,” Sally said tentatively.
Jeff stopped and looked at her.
“My mother says we shouldn’t have anything to do with her. She says it’s dangerous.”
“That’s silly,” Sally replied. “My parents told me I should be friends with her again.”
“I don’t see why. She can’t do anything anymore. If you ask me, her leg wasn’t the only thing she hurt when she fell. I think she must have landed on her head!”