Memorymakers, p.4
Memorymakers, page 4
In Emily’s opinion the woman—she preferred to call Victoria “the woman”—spent a lot of time worrying about her appearance and nitpicking Emily and Thomas about every article of clothing they wore. As if that were the most important consideration in the world. And those little French words that Victoria scattered about like alms for the poor . . .
Emily felt anger building inside her. Something buzzed near her ear, and she swatted without seeing at what. The buzzing continued unabated.
Squick rose to his feet. “Good to talk with you, Victoria. Sorry to rush away, but I’ve a full schedule, lots of orders to fill.” His voice lowered, to a weaving of silk: “I’ll be in touch with you soon.” He leaned toward Victoria, then straightened suddenly and walked to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
Afterward, as Victoria returned to the kitchen, she hummed to herself. “Mmmm, isn’t that nice. Now I don’t have to worry about the arrangements.”
Emily turned in the opposite direction, mimicking her stepmother under her breath. “Mmmm, isn’t that nice—”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you hiding in the hallway eavesdropping, Little Miss Crazy Brat!” Victoria called out in a ringing tone from the kitchen.
Emily wanted to scream back but held her temper and shut the door.
You’re my bete noire, Emily thought, recalling a phrase from Victoria’s French-English dictionary. She chastised herself for the thought and searched for an English alternative. Bugbear, hate object, black beast. I like black beast. It has a riper, juicier sound. It rolls around on my tongue.
Something clattered in the kitchen, an angry noise.
Birthdays were always hard on Emily. The birth mother of the Harvey children had died in an accident on Emily’s fifth birthday. Emily wished she could enjoy birthdays the way other children did, but her therapist said it would take time, that one day she would no longer associate the day with death and it would come to signify life. It didn’t seem possible.
The children were a comfort for each other. Through some magic that they generated between themselves, they obtained information neither of the adults in their lives would give them. The children often played a game they called Seek, an unusual playing activity that Thomas, a child prodigy, had invented when he was only two. It was a game the children felt might have disturbed adults, so they never discussed it in front of them.
During the game Emily would sit quietly on the floor of her bedroom with the door shut, while Thomas sat in a similar position inside his own room. Each would write a question to the other on a sheet of paper. And, without speaking, each would answer the question asked by the other.
Initially their questions had been simple. Emily might write, “What animal has stripes?” And Thomas, who could read and write at a fifth-grade level then, would scribble, “Zebra.” The accuracy of their answers did not astound either child. Not then. It was, after all, only a game.
When their mother died, however, they searched their minds for the answers their father refused to give. That was when they played a new variation of Seek, one that frightened them into discontinuing the game. In their separate rooms each child asked what had happened to their mother, and then waited for an answer.
A few minutes later they compared notes. Both pieces of paper held the same statement, in the identical handwriting: “Mother died in a car crash at the intersection of 10th and Pine.”
“She’s not coming back,” said Thomas, and he began to cry.
“I don’t want to play the game anymore,” Emily said. She placed her arms around her brother.
Three years later came the wedding between her father and Victoria, another dreaded day in Emily’s life.
Emily envied her brother’s carefree manner of looking at life, and sometimes she resented the good things that fell into his lap. Why hadn’t the caterer discussed Emily’s birthday? She would be fourteen in a month. Almost a woman.
That evening, Emily lay in bed and thought about the visitor to her house, particularly about the way his eyes, luminous and strange, grated in their sockets. Real or imagined? She couldn’t tell.
In the quiet of night she heard another sound, a faint buzzing similar to the insect noise shed heard earlier while eavesdropping from the hallway. Now the buzzing was much weaker, but it remained irritatingly present, as if deep within her ears and intransigent. She felt an eye-stinging, muscle-sapping fatigue, but her mind would not release its hold on her consciousness and permit sleep.
Low light filtered into the room from the edges of the drawn window shade and through her open door. Thomas, in his bedroom across the hall, had begun the familiar, neatly rounded rumbling that tugged him in a somnolent chain deep into his own private dream world. Talking in his sleep, probably. Emily heard only edges of sound, not words.
The buzzing faded.
Thomas didn’t have nightmares, or at least he never spoke of any, and secretly Emily envied him. She thought again of the fancy catered party he would have. “Lucky Boy,” she called him frequently, but only in her thoughts. She didn’t wish him any ill will, didn’t even want him to feel guilty for his good fortune. But often she wished that she might have just a little luck of her own to even things out. Why did she have to struggle so hard for the good things that happened to her? All head winds, it seemed, and no tail winds.
Something grated, like the stranger’s eyeballs in their sockets, and Emily’s heart went out of rhythm for a few seconds.
Light filled the room from the hallway, and she saw her father’s silhouette in the doorway, identifiable in part from the way his long, curly hair puffed out at the temples.
“Still awake, Em?” he whispered.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I just got home. Had to work late tonight—open-heart surgery on an ex-baseball player. Rick Sewell. He was a pretty well-known pitcher in his day. Rifle Rick, they called him. He’ll be okay.”
“I’m glad.”
Her father moved close by her bed, bringing with him a familiar antiseptic hospital scent. Dr. Patrick Harvey was a surgeon who frequently put in long hours for which he didn’t receive extra pay. Quite often he attracted patients who didn’t have medical insurance, and as a consequence he charged them only what they could afford, a circumstance that continually irritated Victoria. Lately he’d been talking about a sojourn in Mexico—he and other medical personnel would volunteer their services to peasants who couldn’t afford doctors. He’d done this before in other countries, but this time he would be gone longer, several months perhaps.
This was one point of agreement between Emily and her stepmother. Emily wished her father didn’t have to go on such trips. But Emily understood her father’s need to perform humanitarian services, and she didn’t think Victoria did. Victoria spoke in private to the children about how horrid it must be in such places, and insisted she’d never go to any of them because of the dirt and “all those diseased, animal-type people.”
“They live in such ugly circumstances,” Victoria said once. “What kind of a vacation would that be for me?”
Emily thought her father, a rugged, strong-chinned man with an oval face, the most handsome male she had ever seen. She paid little attention to the hole in one sleeve of his tan cashmere sweater or his mismatched socks, one blue and the other brown. But it concerned her that Victoria would nag him if she noticed.
Dr. Harvey knelt by the bed and kissed Emily on the cheek. “Victoria said you were disrespectful to her today.”
“I wasn’t!”
“She said you slammed your bedroom door.”
“I didn’t! At least I don’t think I did. I was mad, but tried not to show it. The woman called me a name, so I went in my room to get away from her, to avoid an argument.”
“She didn’t mention that part.”
“Little Miss Crazy Brat, that’s what she called me. I didn’t deserve it.”
“I wish you could get along with her the way Thomas does. If only things could go smoother between you.”
“I don’t like her. Never will.”
“Well, I know Victoria is difficult at times, but you’ve got to try, Em. You’ve both got to try.” He shrugged his shoulders, said good night and left.
Exasperated with her father, Emily wondered why he couldn’t see what she saw in Victoria—a fraud of a woman whose every pore oozed black bile. He was blinded by Victoria’s charms, caught in the web of a finishing-school spider.
Emily curled into her blankets and closed her eyes. She drifted into a half sleep.
Just at the threshold of sleep, a familiar visitor appeared. As always he came without announcement, a creature Emily never spoke of to anyone except Thomas.
The Chalk Man’s arrival always followed the same pattern. The shadows in Emily’s room would grow deeper and blacker and more threatening, and the creature would emerge from wherever it lived and begin to sketch itself.
She watched as the white-gloved hand appeared in midair. Clenched in long, slender fingers, it held a large piece of white chalk which it moved soundlessly across the darkness, drawing a face, ears, eyes, nose and mouth. The mouth bothered Emily most. An oval of black edged in white, the mouth writhed and opened and closed with a chilling, high wail, like fingernails scraping slate. The words were unidentifiable.
Now the Chalk Man drew its torso, arms, legs and feet. More detail followed, with expert, artistic shadings. A rumpled white suit appeared with white shoes, and on the other hand, a white glove. Thus outfitted, the Chalk Man walked the blackboard of night, around and around the walls of Emily’s room. Occasionally the thing smiled, and Emily wasn’t sure she liked that either, though she guessed it was trying to be friendly. It didn’t smile insincerely in the manner of the caterer-salesman, but she found something troubling there, something she could almost recognize, but not quite.
In a vague way the Chalk Man bore a crude resemblance to Emily’s father—a similar oval face and white shoes like the golf casuals her father wore on Wednesdays and weekends.
The Chalk Man paused its restless march, stared at Emily with blackboard eyes. He reminded her of a snowman in outline form. She wondered if he was cold to the touch, and wasn’t certain she wanted to find out.
Sometimes when Emily thought about the Chalk Man during daylight hours, when her thoughts were clear, it bothered her that the creature intruded on her private space, her dreams, her room. But it never harmed her and this time, as always, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 4
The Ch’Var who intermarries with a Gween wastes the precious Ch’Var bloodline, for the union of these races cannot produce children. Ch’Vars with Ch’Vars; Gweens with Gweens. Thus it has always been.
—Ancient saying
During breakfast the Harvey children listened halfheartedly while Victoria lectured them about manners. The volume of the kitchen television was on low, and the morning news flashed across the screen. Whenever Victoria looked away, Emily turned the volume up little by little. Something about a mysterious childhood ailment, and Emily wanted to hear it.
“Turn that down,” Victoria snapped after a while. “I’m trying to tell you something.”
When Emily complied, Thomas said, “I heard buzzing, like I’ve been hearing all over the house. Little flies or bees or mosquitoes, I don’t know.”
Emily nodded. “I hear it, too.”
“You know what’s weird, though?” Thomas said, holding a piece of raspberry jam-smeared toast near his mouth. “I haven’t seen any bugs. Not one. It’s like they’re moving around just out of sight.”
Victoria glowered at Emily. “Now you’ve got your brother imagining things.”
“We’re not imagining!” Emily said. “Listen! You can hear them.”
“You’re both crazy!” Victoria said. But she grew quiet.
Now Emily heard the buzzing quite distinctly—a definite burr of sound. She tried to place its direction.
Her brother pointed at the back door. “Over there, I think.”
Victoria arched her brows. “Nothing buzzing around here but your heads.”
Thomas went to his lips with a finger. “Shhh!” he cautioned. He saw his stepmother’s withering glance and closed his mouth, but only for a moment.
“An infestation of invisible insects!” Thomas said. “They got tired of being swatted and came up with a new breed. We’ve been studying about entomological selection in school.”
“Ridiculous!” Victoria said. “No one’s ever heard of invisible insects!”
“Doesn’t make them impossible,” Emily said. She spread peanut butter on a piece of fifty-grain toast, took a bite and chewed slowly. Anything to avoid the bowl of cereal Victoria had poured for her. Grown-up cereal tasted awful.
“I’m going to talk with your therapist about this, Emily,” Victoria warned.
Therapist—the word bore dark connotations for Emily, as if anyone going to such a person had a straitjacket reserved. It was one of Emily’s buttons that Victoria liked to push when Dad wasn’t around, a provocation that boxed the teenager in. If Emily flared back, it would be distorted and described as craziness. And if Emily said nothing, her silence “proved” mental debility.
This time Emily smiled, and the maneuver disarmed her adversary.
Victoria looked away uneasily, then continued her lecture. “No time to discuss other subjects today. I have a tennis date in a few minutes and my hair appointment after that, and I need something new to wear before your dad and I take off this afternoon for the San Margarita Golf Tournament. You can’t begin to understand the energy it takes to do all these things.”
Emily stared at a cobweb on the ceiling.
“We’ll be back tomorrow evening,” Victoria said.
“If you won’t be here, can we go see Return of the Killer Couch?” Thomas asked. “I hear it snuffs people with pillows.”
“Nonna and P’no—P—oh, whatever. Your grandfather called, and he’ll be by with Nonna this morning to take you somewhere.”
“Great!” Thomas said.
Emily smiled.
“Stay home all day tomorrow and do as Mrs. Belfer says,” Victoria said as she lit a white nicotine tube.
The children made long faces.
Victoria set the nicotine tube down in a ashtray and took a large spoonful of her fortified cereal. She alternated spoonfuls with nicotine puffs, and as she ate, smoke curled from her nostrils.
You look like a fire-breathing dragon, Emily thought.
Victoria pointed at Emily. “Do you realize that without manners or nice clothes a person is nothing . . . nobody? Look at you, Emily, uncombed hair and elbows on the table. Thomas, your T-shirt ought to go in the garbage. What people must be saying! This is a fine house, with a housekeeper, you know. Mrs. Belfer keeps everything nice and clean, and there you children are looking so nasty and dirty.”
Nice and clean? Emily thought. The paucity of work Mrs. Belfer did wasn’t done well, and now the house was infested with invisible insects.
“What’s written on that shirt, Thomas?” Victoria asked.
“Tom-Tom the Atom Man,” answered Thomas with good humor. He puffed out his chest to display. “Emily drew it because I’ll be a microbiologist when I grow up.” The shirt was white, with bright red, orange and yellow letters, each letter a smooth blending of color.
“You’ve made your brother look like a vagabond,” Victoria said, taking a drag of nicotine. “You did it because you don’t understand values, the importance of presentable behavior and appearance.”
“People ought to feel relaxed at home,” Emily protested. “Mrs. Belfer says so.”
Victoria frowned. “Without nice clothes and your hair and nails done at the best salons—the necessities of the haut monde—life as an adult is very difficult.”
“Daddy gets by without all that,” Emily said, and with the words out she was afraid she had created trouble for her father.
Victoria’s frown became a scowl, with deep lines that would have horrified her had she seen them. “Live in the proper neighborhood,” she said tersely, “frequent the proper establishments, associate only with proper people.” She took another drag on her nicotine tube.
“If you do all that, you can join the tennis club, right?” Emily said, her tone sarcastic.
“And what’s wrong with that?” Victoria’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her expression icy.
Emily stared at the television, which showed a female reporter in front of a hospital emergency room entrance. Children were being wheeled in behind her.
On the screen, the reporter began her nightly news broadcast. Emily kept her eyes and her attention on the television monitor. Any news was better than Victoria’s mouthings.
The reporter wore a strained expression as she spoke. “The mystery disease continues to strike children in this area. Joining us later tonight, county health officials will give us more information about what they believe is a new and virulent strain of an old disease—meningitis.
“The onset of the infection is abrupt, and young children appear to go directly into a coma. It is believed that adults are not susceptible because they may have developed immunity to a less dangerous strain earlier in their lives.
“Please stay tuned for further details.”
“Mon Dieu!” shrieked Victoria.
Her shrill cry startled Emily. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve broken a fingernail on the edge of the table. Just what I needed. Now I have to see if I can get in the salon without an appointment. One problem after another!”
Emily stared at her stepmother’s artificial lavender nails and saw one dangling like a broken talon.
“Turn that depressing news off, Emily,” Victoria said as she carefully pulled away her broken nail fragment. “Well, I’m off now.”
She stood, reached in her purse and withdrew a handful of money, which she gave to Thomas. “Buy yourselves some candy,” she said. “The sugarless kind that won’t rot your teeth. Before you leave, Emily, comb your hair, and Thomas, change your shirt.”
