Carlene Thompson - Don

The next day they'd eaten lunch in an open-air restaurant by the lake. They'd walked along the shore, holding hands and talking about everything that interested her. Then Papa had driven her to a giant old house. She'd been afraid of it at first, but Papa said the house had belonged to a brave and beautiful lady who would protect her when she was inside.

That was when she had first heard the saga of Ariel Saunders. Papa talked about how Ariel had run down to the beach and pulled Captain Winthrop from the freezing water and how later they had married and Zebediah changed the name of the town to Port Ariel in honor of his beloved bride. And best of all, Ariel was Alison's very own great-great grandmother!

Even then Ariel's house was not in good shape, but Papa had carried her through every one of its damaged rooms, talking in his sonorous voice, conjuring up the splendor that had been Saunders House. Mama said he had a way with words because he used to be a novelist. A strange look always came over Papa's face whenever she said "used to be."

Lots of times he got out legal pads and pens and called for quiet in the house, but he usually ended up only with pages of crossed-out words. Then he would listen to sad music and drink brandy and Mama would look disgusted and not speak to him, which made everything worse. But today Papa was happy and Alison was ecstatic. She loved Papa and she loved Ariel Saunders's house, the house overlooking the lake, the house of romance and legend.

By late afternoon Alison was still in a joyful daze, lost in the world of Ariel and Zebediah, posing and preening in front of Mama's full-length mirror, pretending to be Ariel. Papa had passed the doorway, smiling. He carried a laundry basket. "Want to help me do the washing?"

Alison looked at him in surprise. "But Mrs. Krebbs comes and does it every week."

"I'm in the mood. I used to help my mama with the laundry when I was a little boy. Come on, bunny ears, it'll be fun."

So Alison had gone with him to the basement where the washer and dryer sat. Alison rarely visited the basement. She didn't like places full of shadows and she worried about spiders and mice and all kinds of terrors that might be lurking. But she was with Papa and he wouldn't let anything bad happen.

There were windows high in the walls that let in some daylight, but Papa still flipped a switch and a fluorescent bulb hummed to life. Then they descended the steps and he groaned, looking at water flowing across the floor. "Dammit, we just had the washer fixed two weeks ago. I knew that repairman didn't know what he was doing." He sighed. "I'm going to fix this myself."

"Do you know how?" Alison had asked, wanting to run away from the water that looked dark and scary like snakes or alligators might lie in its depths.

"It's probably just a hose on the washer that fool didn't tighten," Papa said. "I think I can fix something that simple. Sit on the stairs, honey."

So Alison had sat down and Papa had placed the laundry basket beside her. Then he had waded into the water. His shoes made squishy sounds and he muttered and fussed and uttered words Alison knew he wasn't supposed to say in front of her. She twisted a lock of her silky white-blond hair around her finger the way that always annoyed Mama.

"Okay, you infernal beast," he said dramatically to the washer, making Alison giggle, "let's see who's boss."

Papa stepped behind the washer, facing her, and leaned on the machine. Abruptly blue-red light flared around him. The fluorescent light dimmed. Papa went rigid. A small, agonized sound escaped the rictus in his face, his body shook, and his eyes looked as if they were going to explode from his head. Alison heard a clicking sound nearby. The fluorescent bulb shut off. Papa fell on the concrete floor, his head making a sickening thud as his skull fractured and skin split. Blood rushed out and mixed with water swirling around his motionless body.

Slowly the world went fuzzy for Alison. She felt as if a heavy, swirling fog enveloped her. She loved the fog because it shut out the awful sight of Papa.

A day later, when Viveca returned from her trip, she found her husband in full rigor mortis, a stiffened corpse collapsed beside the washing machine. Her little girl sat on the basement stairs, rocking back and forth, twisting her hair around her finger. She'd soiled her clothes and her lips were chapped from dehydration. But the worst, what had choked off Viveca's horrified scream, was the child's eyes-wide, vacant, unblinking. Viveca had rushed her to the hospital. Alison remained unresponsive for nearly a week. Afterward came years of psychiatric care-clinics, medication, endless analysis, even hypnotherapy. But Alison had never been the same since that day in the basement when Papa had tried to fix the washer.

"Are you going to wear black to Tamara's funeral?"

Viveca looked up from the magazine she'd been staring at blindly. Whenever Alison mentally left this world, Viveca sat patiently waiting for her to return. Sometimes it took a few seconds. Sometimes it took hours. Today it had been fifteen minutes.

"I think I'll wear navy blue."

"I'm wearing black. Even black jewelry. My marcasite and onyx brooch that belonged to Ariel."

The brooch had not belonged to Ariel, but Alison could not be convinced of this. It didn't matter. It made her happy to think she owned a piece of Ariel's jewelry. But Alison's train of thought was disturbing.

"Dear, I've been thinking," Viveca said carefully. "Tamara's funeral might be too depressing for you. Perhaps you should stay home."

Alison looked outraged. "Stay home! I can't. Warren will need me."

Viveca had been increasingly aware of Alison's interest in Warren. At first she'd been pleased. Alison had hated all of her doctors. Then through Oliver's daughter Tamara she'd met Warren Hunt and wanted to be treated by him. Viveca didn't like Warren, but Alison violently refused to continue with her present psychiatrist or any other. Viveca realized she would either have to relent about Warren or send Alison off to a clinic once more.

Alison seemed to improve for a while. Then Alison began talking about Ariel again. After her father's death, she talked incessantly of Ariel and even believed she was Ariel. Time and drugs seemed to alleviate the delusion and finally she had completely stopped talking about Ariel. Until lately. First Alison had found a brooch in Lily Peyton's antique shop she was certain belonged to Ariel Saunders and insisted her mother buy it. Last week Viveca had found a book on reincarnation in Alison's room.

Now there was her preoccupation with Warren Hunt. There was something in the way she said his name, an almost caressing quality, that tripped alarm bells in Viveca's mind. And in the last few months Alison had grown cooler toward Tamara. In fact, cool was too mild a word. Almost hostile was more like it. Hostile and-Viveca cringed at the word-competitive.

"Dear, Warren will have plenty of moral support," Viveca said soothingly. "He wouldn't want you to go. Funerals are so sad."

"You mean like Papa's?"

"Yes."

"And Eugene 's?"

Viveca's face tightened. "You were not supposed to attend Eugene Farley's funeral. You did that against my strict orders."

"I think it's terrible that you didn't go. After all, he was one of your boyfriends."

"Alison!"

"Why do you keep squawking 'Alison!' at me? He was your boyfriend. What are you so embarrassed about? That he was young enough to be your son or that he got convicted of embezzlement and killed himself?"

"He was not young enough to be my son," Viveca said tiredly. "And his death was tragic, but we were no longer together. I really don't want to talk about that sad time."

"No wonder. You deserted him. I didn't. I loved him."

"I know. He was like a brother to you."