“Scared the hens nearly to death, I can tell you that! They don’t like a lot of commotion. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.” He glanced slyly at the Salter residence; then asked, “What did happen last night? I figured if anyone knows what went on it would be you. You’re our neighborhood policeman... er, woman, that is.”
Mariel felt her chest expand with pride. “Come on,” he waved her forward, “we can feed the hens while you tell me all about it.”
Forster turned and began to walk back up his drive without a backward glance and Mariel followed. When they reached the backyard he took up a pan of feed and handed it to her and she began to scatter it for the hens. Within moments they were busily scratching away at the soil around her feet.
“So what did happen, Mariel?” Forster asked after a period of contented quiet.
Mariel felt herself beginning to smile and tried to suppress it. “Mr. Salter came in my room,” she managed by way of explanation, while gauging her chances of seizing one of the glossy black hens.
“He did?” Forster gasped. “Why on earth would he do that?”
Mariel’s small lips twisted uncomfortably. “Don’t know,” she said at last.
“Hmmm,” Forster hummed, then added, “Maybe he was trying to steal something... what do you think?”
Mariel shrugged and said nothing. The pale sun, sinking ever lower, cast lengthening shadows across the wooded backyard.
Forster leaned toward Mariel and asked in a confidential tone, “You haven’t told anybody about that necklace, have you?”
Mariel’s small, pale eyes flashed up and back down again; then she shook her head, causing her curls to bounce in agreement.
“Good,” Forster assured her. “That’s very good... not even your mom, though?”
Again she shook her head.
“How about some hot cocoa, what do you say? It’s getting chilly out here and the hens will be all right for a while.” Again he turned and walked away from Mariel without looking back. At the top of the steps he held the door open for her and patted her on the shoulder reassuringly as she passed within. Mariel felt his fingers run over the necklace beneath her pullover as the slightest pressure — a fly walking across her neck.
He crossed to the stove where a kettle was already pumping steam into the fussy, overheated room. “Lots of sugar?” he inquired brightly.
Mariel nodded enthusiastically even as small beads of sweat formed along her hairline — the heat was a palpable force. There was also a peculiar, not altogether pleasant smell in the house.
“Sit... sit.” He waved at the round table that was placed within the arch of the bow window. Between the gingham curtains Mariel could see the backyard with its chicken coop and the darkening woods beyond. Ripper flashed through her memory and then was gone.
“It’s for the birds,” Forster called to her as he spooned cocoa mix into a mug and poured the hot water. “They can’t take the cold, you know... the songbirds. Most of them are from South America.” He swept an arm toward the ceiling of the room and Mariel saw them for the first time: dozens of cages mounted at various levels within the kitchen and continuing on into the rest of the house. Forster whipped off the parka he had been wearing and slung it onto a nearby chair. He wore a T-shirt beneath as mute testament to the hothouse atmosphere of his home.
“They’re always quiet when a stranger comes in... but they come around when they get used to you.”
As if on cue, first one, then another began to sing and the house soon filled with their tropical chorus. Mariel thought she had never heard anything so beautiful and rose as if on strings. She gripped the cage nearest her and peered in at the tiny, vibrant creature. The colors of its plumage, brilliant blues and reds, shimmered with the rise and fall of its delicate breast. Forster was still busy making the hot chocolate, taking far more time at it than her mother ever had, and Mariel lifted the little latch to its cage to reach in and...
“Don’t!” Forster screamed, spilling some of the cocoa from the mug he had in his hand. “Don’t touch them, Mariel!” The birds, all of them, went instantly silent.
Mariel started and drew her hand back but not out. It was not her nature to surrender the initiative without good cause. The tiny bird regarded her sticky, chubby fingers without alarm.
“They’re very delicate,” he added, while looking for an uncluttered surface to set the mug down on, then added under his breath, “Not that you would know anything about that, you little Neanderthal.”
Mariel didn’t know anything about that, nor did she know the meaning of the strange word he had used, but she did know when she was disapproved of; this was something of which she was keenly aware. But of far more importance, she recognized Sailor’s handiwork from the night before.
Forster caught her gaze and looked down at the long, festering scratches that ran down his arms, then back up at Mariel. “I despise cats,” he hissed very much like one. His pupils shrank to tiny dots as his neck tendons distended. “I just wanted the necklace, Mariel... that’s all. I have my reasons, as I’m sure you know.”
Mariel said nothing and the room filled with a thick, clotting silence.
Forster nodded, as his face rearranged itself into something less savage. “If you give it to me now, we can still be friends,” he promised quietly, “you can still have your cocoa. It’s just that the necklace is important, it might be recognized if you wear it around. It’s not really worth anything otherwise... it’s cheap, paste jewelry... something a whore would wear — something a whore did wear.” He set the mug carefully down and took a sudden step across the slight distance that separated man and child.
“You killed Ripper,” Mariel pronounced clearly, seizing the songbird with surprising rapidity.
Forster froze in midstep. “Don’t,” he gasped, even as he watched the bird’s tiny, futile struggles within Mariel’s pudgy grip. “Please... don’t.”
Mariel withdrew her fist with the bird firmly in her control. Backing up to the door, her sweaty free hand groped for the handle while Forster watched her every movement, his eyes sliding back and forth as the heat-swollen door resisted her efforts.
As she turned slightly to gain more leverage, he eased a step closer, taking advantage of Mariel’s distraction, his long fingers reaching out for her nest of curls.
Mariel’s fist shot up, the tiny head of her captive swiveling this way and that in its panic, its black, shiny eyes blinking and blinking.
“Okay,” Forster halted once more, his hands coming up palms outward, “okay, please... please, don’t hurt him, Mariel... please.”
At last, she succeeded in throwing open the door to the outside world, letting a cold wind rush through the stifling kitchen.
“Maybe,” she answered enigmatically, backing out onto the porch, her eyes never leaving his as she pulled the door slowly closed behind her. The latch snapped into place like a hammer blow in the now-silent room. From the porch Forster heard a muffled giggle and the sound of clumsy footsteps.
He took a long step, then had to grasp the edge of the table to keep from falling, his legs grown too weak to support him. He slumped down onto the nearest chair. After several moments there came the ratcheting of a bike bell. “Oh God,” he moaned into his hands, “Oh God, what am I going to do?”
Finally, as his breathing quieted, he looked up and around him as if just awakening. Lifting the mug he had prepared for Mariel, he drank its contents down in one scalding gulp, then walked from room to room turning on every light. All around him the air began to fill with the song of a new and sudden day.