“What’s happened, Leon?”
“I don’t know, Doctor. One day she’s retarded, the next day she’s not.”
“Can’t you tell me anything else? Did something happen?”
Leon kicked at some stones in the driveway. He was suddenly ashamed.
“Have you been staying here?”
“Yes.”
“Before and after?”
“Yeah.”
“And you have no idea what happened?”
“No . . .”
“Come on, Leon. Do you have any idea what importance this has? That woman has been hopelessly retarded for years. Since birth, I believe, although I’ll have to check on that. And now all of a sudden, at fifty-four years old, she’s regained intelligence, looks like to a normal level. Something happened. Something between you two?”
“Well . . . we slept together one night.”
“Had sex?”
“Not exactly, I mean, I didn’t . . .”
“No penetration?”
“No.”
“But cuddling and caressing and loving?”
“Yes.”
“Well, God knows she didn’t get any of that with Harry. That might have been all it took.” He put his bag in his van. “I’m going to come back and bring some people, Leon, and have Martha take a few tests, okay?”
“Sure. I mean . . . okay.”
“Keep her in the house. Let’s not let her out at the mercy of the townspeople just yet, okay?”
“Okay.” This coincided just fine with Leon’s feelings.
“Can you stay on? Want me to talk to your folks?”
“No, that’s okay. They know where I am. I’ve been fixing this place up some, and told them . . .”
“What about your apartment?”
“That’s okay. Rent’s paid.”
“Might want you to stay on here for a couple of months.”
Leon kicked some more stones around.
“Okay, Leon? Listen, this is really important to that lady in there.”
Leon looked up, intent. “She is a lady, isn’t she?”
“She sure is.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “I’ll stay. No problem.”
“Good.”
They shook hands, and Dr. Withins was on his way. Leon wandered around the yard for a while, then went back inside where Martha waited to continue her reading.
“Leon?”
She broke his reverie. He looked up. She was smiling at him, a soft, gentle smile.
“What’s roguehouse?”
“Let me see. Roughhouse. It means to play hard. Wrestling and that.”
“Oh.” She returned to her book.
She’d lost weight. She was working in the yard, learning how to plant trees and bushes; her arms had gotten a little tan. She helped paint the trim around the house and handed Leon tools when he fixed the plumbing. And they talked. She was insatiable for knowledge. They talked about everything Leon knew. She asked questions incessantly—about Morgan, about politics, about how things worked. When they weren’t talking, she was reading.
He finished his beer and stood up. “I’m ready for bed.”
“You go ahead. I’m just going to finish this chapter.”
He slid between the sheets and turned out the light. Hands behind his head, he looked at the ceiling. Dr. Withins was coming by tomorrow and bringing his tests and some other doctors. Leon was a lot more nervous about it than Martha was. He felt responsible, after all. And protective.
His eyes were beginning to close when she came in and slipped into bed, turning on her side away from him. He put his arm around her and drew her close, cupping her breast in his big hand. They nestled together like two spoons and went to sleep.
CHAPTER 14
Harry came home the next morning, offering no explanation of where he’d been all night. Fern smelled the stench of stale whiskey as he passed by her to the bedroom. Martha was tucked into their bed. He gave the child barely a glance as he changed his clothes, then went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
“Harry, sit down.”
“I gotta get to work.”
“The fields can wait. This can’t.”
He sat, blowing on his steaming coffee, not meeting her eyes.
“Something happened to Martha last night while I was gone. I came home and found the barn door open and the kitchen door open and you gone and Martha under the haystack. This morning she won’t talk. Now what happened?”
“I told you she wasn’t to go into the barn.”
“I have no idea how she got into the barn. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I left to go help at an accident. When I left, she was in her room, and she was fine. Now, she’s . . .”
“She’s what?”
“I don’t know. She won’t respond. I’m going to take her to see Doc Pearson this morning.”
“Why don’t you heal her?”
“Because she’s not sick, Harry; it’s something else. Like she got scared or something. She’s just like a little doll, won’t talk, won’t walk, just stares.”
“Hmmm.” Harry picked up his coffee cup and headed for the door.
“Harry, Harry!”
“What?” His exasperation was evident.
“Where were you last night?”
“Out,” he said, and the screen door slammed behind him.
Fern put her face in her hands and cried. Am I that bad a wife? Am I a terrible mother? Why would this happen to my baby while I’m out doing God’s work? She shook her fist at the ceiling. “Why?”
She cleaned up the breakfast dishes and went back to the bedroom. She sat down next to Martha, whose eyes were closed; she was apparently sleeping. Slowly she moved her right hand along the girl’s length, feeling the energy. Her hand stopped at Martha’s forehead. Here was a spot that was supposed to feel warmer, alive. Instead, it was cold, dead. The crown of her head was the same. Nothing.
Fern placed her right hand on the child’s forehead, and rested her left palm up in her lap. She waited for the forces to course through her body, to discover the problem with Martha, and to correct it. She waited patiently for a long time. Nothing.
She stood up and walked around the room, loosening her back and legs. Then she sat down again, closer, and put her hand on the top of Martha’s head and concentrated, hard. Get inside, get inside the head and find out what’s wrong.
The sinking feeling started in the pit of her stomach. It was slightly nauseating, but familiar. She went with it—let’s get inside, gently, please, gently, this is my baby, my only baby, what’s wrong here, let me find out what’s wrong. She felt herself in a dark tunnel, like a mine shaft, with roughhewn walls. Light from an indeterminate source glinted along the chips and ridges in the walls and ceiling. She passed wooden doors, each one locked securely with solid wrought-iron hinges and handles. She pulled and tugged and tried to find locks on each one as she passed, but nothing. They wouldn’t budge.
She continued down the corridor, perplexed, looking for an answer; she found herself amazed that the mind held such hallways, such rooms. What on earth was behind the doors?
Then she heard the noise, or felt it more than heard it. A deep, throaty rumbling, so low as to make the floor of the tunnel vibrate. Just ahead she could see a larger door, and the light seemed to come from its translucent surface. Got to get there, got to get that open to release my daughter. She kept on, carefully, the vibration growing as she progressed.
The rumbling increased. She suddenly identified it as a growl, and she stopped, heart pounding, as the nastiness spread toward her. The protective growl increased in volume, a warning to stay away, go away, leave it all alone. She took one more step, and a snarl, an open-mouthed, teeth-bared snarl, made her flesh crawl. The thought of teeth biting into her flesh made her shiver; her next thought—of those teeth rending her daughter’s mind—strengthened her. She stepped out again.
Out of the darkness charged a giant animal, yellow eyes bright with fury. Pure-white canine teeth flashed in the light, as foamy saliva flew in all directions. She fell back in surprise, in terror, and the jaws snapped shut on air just a fraction of an inch in front of her.