“What do you want with it?”
“Don’t ask foolish questions and shutup with your foolish ideas.”
Hector stares wide-eyed at Adelaide and points a finger at the top cupboard. Adelaide climbs onto the kitchen counter and Teresa seizes her ’round the knees.
“I’m warning you, Trese.”
“Addy, come on now —”
Woomph, a back-foot to the stomach. “I’m sorry, dear.” Adelaide fishes the rifle from on top of the cabinet. “Thank you, Hector.”
“That thing doesn’t even work any more,” says Teresa, still on the floor.
Adelaide fires it into the ceiling, Teresa screams.
“It works.” Adelaide hops down from the counter, calm the way people are when they’ve gone over the edge.
Teresa talks fast. “All right, Addy, we’ll get Wilf and we’ll drive till we find them, no point going out to their house, you’re right, she’s not there, she’s with him, so let’s calm down and go get a ride.”
By the time the Jameels left with their last load, James was stone-cold drunk. He climbed into his immaculate 1932 close-coupled Buick sedan and started it up. It’s a tan colour. Gangsters have black cars. He drove at a moderate speed back to New Waterford. He had decided not to bother finding a rifle. The best close-up killing is done with a bayonet. A rifle is really just an appendage, useful if the blade gets stuck in the ribs and you have to shoot free. But once you’ve been around for a while you know how to avoid making noise. Under and up.
“Stop.”
Pine branches bend and squeak against Ginger’s truck. This isn’t even a road. He cuts the engine.
“We have to walk from here,” Frances says. “Take my hand.”
He does. It’s necessary, after all she knows the way, he doesn’t and it’s such a dark night. Such a slim soft hand.
Mercedes is dusting the piano. She has taken all the figurines and doilies off it and she is about to apply the lemon oil when Daddy comes in, “Give me the keys to the hope chest, Mercedes.”
He reeks of liquor. Mercedes is scared.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” But she knows enough to have the keys in her outstretched hand while asking.
“Don’t worry, my dear, I won’t be long.”
He takes the stairs two at a time without hurrying. Mercedes screws the lid back on the lemon oil, wipes her hands and follows him up two flights to the attic. He’s on his knees with the contents of the hope chest scattered over the floor.
“What happened to The Old-Fashioned Girl?” he asks gently, holding it in his hand.
“I knocked her over while dusting, Daddy, I didn’t want to hurt you by saying so.”
“I’ll get you a new doll, Mercedes.” He goes back to rummaging. “I’m sorry about this mess.”
Trixie hops down from the window ledge and hugs the wall on her way out. Mercedes feels icy cold. He sounds so strange, just two inches off to the side of his normal self, how does it add up with how drunk he must be? The smell reminds her of how sick she always feels even when she’s feeling fine.
He finds what he’s looking for at the very bottom, “Ouch.” He was prepared to find it in need of a quick grinding, but it’s razor-sharp, though he remembers laying it in the chest dull with the war. Just as well, he thinks, as he sucks a bead or two from his fingertip.
“Where are you going, Daddy?”
He pats her heavily on the head, this man who never touches her. “You stay and look after your sister.”
“What are you fellas doing up there?” Lily from the bottom of the attic stairs.
“Go back to bed,” Mercedes orders.
James trots down the attic stairs, calling back to Mercedes, “I have to find Frances.”
“No!” Mercedes has shrieked it.
Lily is shocked — the sound is stranger than Daddy kissing the top of her head with a long knife in his hand. Mercedes leaps into the dark shaft of the attic stairway, catching and propelling herself by the palms of her hands against the walls. James seizes her by the wrists as she lands in the hallway, and nearly drops the bayonet, now at an angle. Lily doesn’t take her eyes off it.
“I’m not going to hurt Frances. I’m after the man who’s been at her, that’s all.” He’s starting to feel the liquor now. “My little girl….”
He wheels to face the top of the stairs leading down to the front hall and he puts his bayonet hand on the railing, “I’ll be right back.”
Mercedes puts a hand over Lily’s eyes. Then she pushes her father down the stairs.
The ground slopes sharply upward. They’ve reached the hill with the drift mine cut into it.
“There’s a bit of a climb,” says Frances.
“I’ll go in front.” He bends to the hill and they start up.
She gasps and her hand slips from his, he flings out an arm catching the sleeve of her uniform, “You okay?”
“Yes.” She gets up. “… Ow.”
“Wait now.” He lifts her into his arms. Light as a feather. She slips an arm around his neck of necessity and, with quiet dignity, “Thank you.” He carries her up the hill.
“There.” He places her gently on the ground before an arch of complete darkness.
“You can go now, Mr Taylor.”
He is nonplussed. He can’t just leave her here, in the dark, can he?
“Wait, Frances, don’t you have a flashlight, have you got a blanket or something in there?”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Goodbye.”
She turns, becomes pure shadow, then is swallowed by the mouth of the mine.
“Frances?”
But she doesn’t answer. He shifts his weight. He leans into the darkness, “Frances.”
He hesitates. He enters the pit.
Feeling his way with one hand along the damp wall, the other hand outstretched, walking slowly, slowly, listening for her steps, “Frances?” Why is he whispering, and why does she not answer? Step, step, step over the uneven floor. He lets go of the wall and lights a match — nothing but the dank shine to one side of him and below, his dusty boots looking up at him so trusting. The light goes out. Step. Step. Both hands outstretched now, he walks for two long minutes. He stubs his toe on a stone sending it scudding for an instant, then three counts of silence before a wet plonk. That sound is called cutting the Devil’s throat — no splash, deep water. His heart kicks, he claws for the wall but it’s farther away than he thought, which pitches him to the void in the opposite direction — he throws himself towards his feet, hurting his shoulder. The floor was closer than he thought. He lies curled on his side for a moment almost sick with relief. To fall into God knows how deep a flooded shaft in the dark — the first heavy sinking, then panicking, losing up from down, that’s how you drown even when you’re quite a good swimmer.
He takes a big breath and no sooner returns to his feet than “What if she’s fallen in?” He didn’t hear a splash, but then she slipped away so quickly, it could have happened before he stepped into the mine, either that or — he lights his last match, yes a wide pool, black water — she may have slid beneath the surface, intending all along to drown herself tonight. The match goes out. He lowers himself carefully to the floor, stretches out on his stomach and dips an arm down into the water, a prayer in his head, his heart full of dread, feeling around. Cold. Nothing. Something silky. Oh Jesus! He travels screaming over cinders, yanked along by a sudden vise grip round his wrist, down into the water, plunging head and shoulders, waist, his knees grab the lip as he clutches an unseen arm in both his hands, hauling her up along with himself, breaking the surface with a torrent the sound of a hefty rag mop.
She’s naked. He finds her armpits and lays her on the rough ground, she doesn’t answer, her eyes are closed, he can feel that, he fumbles for her mouth, opens it, gasps for his own breath — drowning people try to drown their saviours — slips a hand beneath her head and presses his mouth onto hers, opening the cut in her lip, he tastes blood and it reminds him of life, still warm, he breathes into her, she coughs and starts to cry.