Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

Crystalbell nudges her. “Maybe if you say something he’ll feel better,” she whispers. “You know, like you made a mistake about the watch.”

Mrs. Hucklebee’s heart knocks against her ribs. She moistens her lips. “I’m sorry, Wolf,” she manages in a small voice. “I’m sure I was mistaken about the watch.”

“Sure,” Crystalbell chimes in. “It’s going to show up, I bet.”

The big old room is silent. After a moment, Wolf’s head turns. Mrs. Hucklebee wants to close her eyes against those black pools facing her, but she forces a smile. He’s wearing a sweater that belonged to Mr. Hucklebee, and for a moment Mrs. Hucklebee wants to cry. Then he stands and walks slowly from the room without looking back. Footsteps on the stairs, then a door closes somewhere up there. Pacing, the sound of footfalls back and forth above their heads.

Mrs. Hucklebee clenches her hands. “When is he going to leave?”

Crystalbell pats her. “I’m working on it. Trust me, Mrs. H. And, honest, he really likes you. Now can I see your collection?”

After only a few moments, Mrs. Hucklebee is lost in the comfort of the scrapbook’s pages. Crystalbell seems interested in the X marks.

“So how do you do it — know which ones will work and which ones won’t?”

“The eyes,” Mrs. Hucklebee responds wisely. “Everything a person is — it’s all there in the eyes.”

The girl is bent low over a page. For a moment she’s silent. Then, “Of course, you could be wrong.”

Something amiss in her voice, an edge, a barb of amusement. Mrs. Hucklebee pauses, a page half turned. Then the young face lifts, eyes clear and guileless under the ragged bangs.

“I mean, you don’t really know what happens after, do you?”

Mrs. Hucklebee relaxes. “I know,” she answers a trifle smugly. “I’m very good at reading eyes.”

Crystalbell smiles, leans back, arms flung along the sofa’s back. “Well, that’s good, Mrs. H,” she says softly. “Real good. That must be a handy talent to have.”

Mrs. Hucklebee is too absorbed in the pages to hear. Everything else, the rain outside and the overhead footsteps, has faded away.

As Thanksgiving approaches, Crystalbell begins to plan a holiday feast.

“Turkey. Yams. Oh, and oyster stuffing, Mrs. H, we have to have that. Pumpkin pie. All that good family stuff, won’t it be fun?”

“Wouldn’t you rather be home with your real family?” Mrs. Hucklebee asks plaintively. “Where are they? How long have you been away from them?”

Crystalbell hugs her. “There you go again with nosy questions,” she chides, and darts away to the backyard to tell Wolf of the meal to come.

Mrs. Hucklebee looks after her helplessly. Crystalbell can’t seem to do enough for her. The old house preens from top to bottom, but she wants her old life back. Quiet days alone in her comfortable home, walks in the park, meals in her kitchen without a sinister blind-eyed boy sitting close beside her.

He has taken to walking the house at night. On several occasions she’s risen to find him standing at the head of the stairway or walking stealthily through the upstairs hall. The shadowy sight of him in the darkened house always sends her fleeing back to her bedroom, where she lies awake for hours, hands pressed flat across her thumping heart.

Once Mrs. Gambrelli comes to invite her over for coffee. Mrs. Hucklebee answers the door and suddenly he’s there, close to her shoulder, just out of sight behind the archway, his whole body rigid. Mrs. Hucklebee is so frightened that she hears herself saying, “No, thank you, my granddaughter is still here and I’m so enjoying her company. Maybe some other time.”

And coins are missing that were left to her by her father, rare old coins that have rested in a little wooden box since she was a child. The box is empty now, but Mrs. Hucklebee is too afraid to mention it. Only Crystalbell stands between her and the boy.

But it can’t continue. She must do something. After Thanksgiving, she promises herself fiercely. Then we’ll see.

Crystalbell is learning how to cook. She makes a cheese omelet for breakfast one morning and it turns out nicely. The sun is shining, thin and bright. Before Wolf goes outside to dig he sits for a while in the living room, watching marble rainbows creep across the floor. As Mrs. Hucklebee rises for more coffee, he looks through the hall at her and smiles, a white flash of sharp teeth before she looks away, trembling.

“Mrs. H,” Crystalbell whispers, leaning across the table, “tomorrow’s Wolf’s birthday. He’ll be sixteen. Why don’t we fix something special? What’s that thing you make with the apricot stuff? That’s his favorite — he told me.”

“Just pork roast with apricot glaze,” Mrs. Hucklebee answers.

Crystalbell leans back triumphantly. “That’s it. And I’ll make a cake. It’ll be fun.”

All Mrs. Hucklebee feels is dread.

Crystalbell makes the birthday cake, then leaves the kitchen to Mrs. Hucklebee to prepare the main course. Wolf is digging. Mrs. Hucklebee doesn’t like to look outside anymore — there are deep holes all over her backyard.

The weather is dark and cloudy, threatening rain or snow. By three in the afternoon the kitchen grows dim, but Mrs. Hucklebee is so intent on trimming the roast with one of her newly sharpened knives that she delays turning on lights until she’s finished. The pork is a good cut, rich and red. The long butcher knife easily pares marbled fat away from succulent lean.

The kitchen is quiet and cozy, apricot glaze simmering on the stove. Mrs. Hucklebee is feeling almost content when something suddenly brushes against her arm.

Startled, she begins to turn. There’s a hand on her arm, a thin pale hand. She hears a sound in her throat before she lifts her eyes to see him close behind her, touching her, his free arm reaching. Dead black glass where his eyes should be, teeth bared inches from her face, and Mrs. Hucklebee doesn’t realize she’s moving, pushing at him, until she feels the knife hesitate, meet resistance, then break through and slide easily to its hilt. She removes it, looks at it, then uses it three more times before she stops herself, arm hanging limply at her side.

Wolf crumples slowly, sagging against her. Mrs. Hucklebee backs away, and he continues gracefully to the floor, settling finally on his back. She hears something like a sigh; otherwise he makes no sound.

Her next awareness is of Crystalbell on the floor beside him. The girl feels for a pulse, a heartbeat, then looks up at Mrs. Hucklebee with wide eyes.

She doesn’t ask what happened. She only says in her clear little voice, “He’s gone, Mrs. H. Wolf’s gone.”

Joints creaking, Mrs. Hucklebee plunges to her knees beside him. Her hands shake as she snatches away the black glasses. No use, no use! His eyes are closed.

“He touched me, Crystalbell. He touched me!”

Crystalbell reaches across the body, takes the glasses from her, and gently replaces them over Wolf’s eyes. Then she takes the bloodied knife from Mrs. Hucklebee’s hand and slowly settles back on her heels.

“Me and Wolf sure been a lot of places together,” she says. Their eyes meet. “He was only going to hug you. I told him about the apricot pork and he wanted to give you a hug.”

Mrs. Hucklebee regains her feet with difficulty and sinks into a kitchen chair near his shoulder. She sits for a while, watching blood pool on her freshly waxed floor.

“What am I going to do?” she asks in wonder.

“Well, they’ll put you away for it, that’s for sure,” Crystalbell says. “Let me think.”

“Away?” Mrs. Hucklebee echoes.

After a few moments Crystalbell goes down to the basement and returns with arms full of plastic dropcloths from the last time Mr. Hucklebee painted the house, years before.