John Saul - Comes the Blind Fury

Before any of them could make a reply, Michelle stalked away. Across the playground, she could see a group of younger children playing jump rope. A moment later she had joined them.

“I wonder what’s wrong with her?” Susan Peterson said when she was sure Michelle was out of earshot. Now her friends were staring at her.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong with her?” Sally Carstairs asked. “Nothing’s wrong with her!”

“Really?” Susan said, sounding annoyed at the contradiction. “She tattled on you yesterday, didn’t she? Why do you think Miss Hatcher changed the seating around? It was because Michelle told her what you did yesterday morning.”

“So what?” Sally countered. “She just didn’t want you to be mad at her, that’s all.”

“I think she’s sneaky,” Susan said. “And I don’t think we should have anything to do with her.”

“That’s mean.”

“No, it’s not There’s something really strange about her.”

“What?”

Susan’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, I saw her with her parents the other day, and they’re both blond. And everybody knows blonds can’t have a dark-haired baby.”

“Big deal,” Sally said. “If you want to know, she’s adopted. She told me so herself. What’s so strange about that?”

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Well, that settles it.”

“Settles what?” Sally asked.

“Settles her , of course. I mean, nobody knows where she really came from, and my mother says if you don’t know anything about somebody’s family, you don’t know anything about the person.”

“I know her family,” Sally pointed out. “Her mother’s very nice, and her father treated my arm, along with Uncle Joe.”

“I mean her real family,” Susan said, looking at Sally contemptuously. “Dr. Pendleton isn’t her father. Her father could be anybody!”

“Well, I like her,” Sally insisted. Susan glowered at her.

“You would — your father’s only a janitor.” Susan Peterson’s father owned the Paradise Point Bank, and Susan never let her friends forget it.

Hurt by Susan’s meanness, Sally Carstairs lapsed into silence. It wasn’t fair of Susan to dislike Michelle just because she was adopted, but Sally wasn’t sure what she should say. After all, she’d known Susan Peterson all her life, and she’d only just met Michelle Pendleton. Well , Sally decided, I won’t say anything. But I won’t stop being Michelle’s friend, either .

June finished her lunch, and put the dishes in the sink. For now, she would go back to the studio, and try to finish sketching in the seascape.

She left the house, but as she walked to the studio, she found herself glancing north, and thinking about what Constance Benson had told her that morning. And then something struck her.

If Constance Benson was worried about that part of the bluff collapsing into the sea, why hadn’t she told June to keep Michelle off the beach as well? And why didn’t she keep Jeff off the beach? Better to be on top of the cliff when it went, than underneath it.

With sudden determination, June started along the path toward the cemetery. As she walked, another thought occurred to her: If it’s unsafe, why did Mrs. Benson use the path herself? Why didn’t she come down the road? June’s pace quickened.

She stood on the path, staring at the old graveyard. It would make a wonderful painting. She could use moody colors, blues and grays, with a leaden sky, and exaggerate the collapsed fence, the dead tree, and the overgrown vines. Done properly, it could be positively frightening. For the life of her, she couldn’t see why Michelle and Sally would have wanted to come here.

Curiosity, she decided. Just plain curiosity.

The same curiosity that had drawn the children to the graveyard now drew her. She left the path and picked her way carefully over the collapsed fence.

The old gravestones, with their antiquated inscriptions and their odd names, fascinated her immediately, a succession of markers that told a tale. She began tracing the history of the Carson family as they had lived and died on the bluff. Soon she forgot entirely about the condition of the ground, and was only aware of the headstones.

She came to Louise Carson’s grave.

DIED IN SIN—1880

Now what on earth could that mean? If the date had been 1680, she would have assumed the woman had been burned for a witch, or some such thing. But in 1880? One thing was certain: Louise Carson’s death could not have been a happy one.

As she stood looking down at the grave, June began to feel sorry for the long-dead woman. She was probably born too soon, June thought. Died in Sin . An epitaph for a fallen woman.

June chuckled at her own choice of words. They sounded so old-fashioned. And unfeeling.

Without quite realizing what she was doing, she lowered herself to her hands and knees, and began pulling the weeds from Louise Carson’s grave. They were well rooted. She had to tug hard at them before they reluctantly gave way.

She had almost cleared the weed growth from the base of the headstone when the first pain struck her.

It was just a twinge, but the first wrenching contraction followed immediately.

My God , she thought, it can’t be .

She struggled to her feet, and leaned heavily against the trunk of the dead oak.

She had to get back to the house.

The house was too far.

As the next contraction began, she looked frantically toward the road.

It was empty.

The Bensons’. Maybe she could get to the Bensons’. As soon as the pain let up, she’d start.

June lowered herself carefully to the ground and waited. After what seemed like an eon, she felt her muscles begin to relax, and the pain eased. Once again, she started to get to her feet.

“Stay where you are,” a voice called out. June turned, and saw Constance Benson hurrying along the path. Sighing gratefully, June sank back to the ground.

She waited there, lying on Louise Carson’s grave, praying that the baby would wait, that her first child would not be born in a cemetery.

Then, as Constance Benson knelt beside her and took her hand, June lay back.

Another overwhelming contraction convulsed her, and she could feel a spreading dampness as her water broke. Dear God , she prayed, not here .

Not in a graveyard.

The three-ten bell rang. Michelle gathered up her books, shoved them into her green canvas bag, and started out of the room.

“Michelle?” It was Sally Carstairs, and though Michelle tried to ignore her, Sally took her arm and held her back.

“Don’t be mad,” Sally said plaintively. “Nobody meant to hurt your feelings.”

Michelle stared suspiciously at her friend. When she saw the concern in Sally’s eyes, she let her guard down a little.

“I don’t see why everybody kept insisting I saw something I didn’t see,” she said. “I was asleep, and I had a nightmare, that’s all.”

“Let’s go out in the hall,” Sally said, her eyes shifting to Corinne Hatcher. Understanding Sally’s glance, Michelle followed her out into the corridor.

“Well?” Michelle asked expectantly.

Sally avoided her gaze. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Then, staring at the floor, she said so quietly that Michelle could barely hear her, “Maybe you did only have a dream. But I’ve seen Amanda, too, and I think Susan Peterson has.”

“What? You mean you’ve had the same dream I had?”

“I don’t know,” Sally said unhappily. “But I’ve seen her, and it wasn’t a dream. That day I hurt my arm? Remember?”

Michelle nodded — how could she forget? That was the day she, too, had seen something. Something Sally had tried to pass off as “just the elm tree.”