Peyton Place Page 13

  When the man who had been the town printer died, his family sold his business to a young man named Albert Card, a printer from Boston, and Mr. and Mrs. Card bought the house on Depot Street next door to Hester Goodale's.

  “Nice young couple,” said Peyton Place about the Cards.

  “Yep. A real go-getter, that young feller.”

  The young Cards joined the Congregational church and the Pine Hill Grange.

  “Real nice young man, Card,” said Jared Clarke. “Takes an interest. He and his wife are just pitching right in. We need more like them in this town. Real assets to the community.”

  “Say, listen,” said Albert Card one day shortly after he had bought his house. “Who's the old crone lives next door to me?”

  “That,” said Jared Clarke, pursing his lips, “is Miss Hester Goodale. She's loony as they come.”

  “Are you telling me? I don't see much of her, that hedge between her place and ours screens the property pretty well, but I hear her roaming around in her back yard. Well, not her exactly, but I hear that goddamn cat of hers. I can hear him meowing over there fit to raise the dead sometimes. She's loony all right.”

  “No doubt you also hear Miss Hester herself,” said Jared sourly, “as she goes back and forth to her outhouse.”

  “Well, I hear her cat anyway.”

  “Well, that torn is never anywhere that Miss Hester isn't. Oh, she's loony all right. Never goes out of that house except to go downtown for groceries once a week, and nobody ever goes to visit her, either. I'll bet no one's been inside her house since the time I went there with Ben and George to tell her about the pipes. Now there's a story for you. It was quite a while back, before we had town sewerage, and I was elected to go see Miss Hester about paying for the pipes to run in front of her house. Well I walked up on her front porch, bold as brass, and knocked on her door. ‘Look here, Hester,’ I said, ‘there's no two ways about it, but you're going to have to pay for your share of the pipes. Come on now, let's have no nonsense. Just write me out a check and I'll be on my way.’ Well, she began to cry and scream and carry on something terrible, so I told Ben and George right then that she was crazy, and the best thing for us to do was to just leave the poor old soul alone.”

  Later, after Albert Card had told this story to his wife Mary, she said, “This certainly must be quite a town for characters, what with the story about Samuel Peyton and now this one about Miss Hester Goodale.”

  ♦ 17 ♦

  Norman Page sat at the kitchen table while his mother poured out hot chocolate for him.

  “Did you have a good day, dear?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Norman absently. He was thinking of Allison and Miss Hester.

  “Tell me about it, dear.”

  “Nothing to tell. It was just like any other day. We're learning a little bit about algebra now. Miss Thornton says we'll need it when we get to high school.”

  “Oh? Do you enjoy Miss Thornton, dear?”

  “She's all right. She's not crabby like some teachers.”

  “How come you were walking with Allison MacKenzie, Norman?”

  “She just happened to be on this street and she walked along with me.”

  “But what was she doing on Depot Street? She lives on Beech.”

  This was the part of every day that Norman hated. Every afternoon he had to sit and drink hot chocolate, or milk, or fruit juice, which he did not want most of the time, while his mother quizzed him about the children with whom he had associated that day.

  “I don't know what Allison was doing here,” he said crossly. “She just happened to be on Depot Street when I came along.”

  “Do you like Allison, dear?” asked Mrs. Page.

  “She's all right.”

  “Then you do like her!”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I did not. I just said I thought she was all right.”

  “It's the same thing. Do you like her as much as you like Miss Thornton?”

  “I never said I like Miss Thornton, either!”

  “Oh, Norman! Your voice!”

  Mrs. Page sank down into her rocking chair and began to cry, and Norman, stricken with shame and guilt, ran to her.

  “Oh, Mother. I didn't mean it. Truly, I didn't. I'm so sorry.”

  “It's all right, dear. You can't help it. It is your father's blood in your veins.”

  “It is not! It is not, either!”

  “Yes, dear. Yes, it is. You are a great deal like your father and like Caroline and Charlotte.”

  “I am not.”

  Norman's eyes filled with tears, and he could not control his throat muscles enough to keep himself from sobbing.

  “I am not like them,” he cried.

  “Yes you are, dear. Yes, you are. Ah, well, maybe you'll be happier when I'm dead and you can go to live with your half sisters.”

  “Don't talk like that, Mother. You're not going to die!”

  “Yes, I am, Norman. Someday soon I'll be dead, and you'll have to go to live with Caroline and Charlotte. Oh, my darling son, even in Heaven I shall weep to see you in the clutches of those two dreadfully evil, wicked women.”

  “No! Oh, no, no, no!”

  “Oh, yes, dear. I'll be dead soon, and perhaps you'll be better off.”

  “You're not going to die. You are not. What would I do if you did?”

  “Oh, you'd have Caroline and Charlotte, and Miss Thornton and little Allison MacKenzie. You'd get along without your mother.”

  Norman collapsed on the floor at his mother's feet. He sobbed hysterically and tugged at her skirt with both his hands, but she would not look down at him.

  “No, I wouldn't get along! I'd die myself. I love only you, Mother. I don't love anybody else.”

  “Are you sure, Norman? There's nobody else you love?”

  “No, no, no. There is no one else, Mother. Just you.”

  “Don't you like Miss Thornton and little Allison, dear?”

  “No. No, I hate them! I hate everybody in the whole world except you.”

  “Do you love Mother, Norman?”

  Norman's sobs were dry and painful now, and he hiccuped wretchedly.

  “Oh, yes, Mother. I love only you. I love you better than God, even. Say you're not going to leave me.”

  For a long time Mrs. Page stroked her son's bowed head which rested now on her knees.

  “I'll never leave you, Norman,” she said at last. “Never. Of course I am not going to die.”

  “Atta boy, Kenny,” said Henry yawning. “Let's you and me get us a little drink and then go back to sleep.”

  “You're my friend, Henry McCracken,” said Kenny, “my one and only true friend.”

  He looked around him sadly. “I ain't got one other friend in this whole cellar, you know that, Henry? Not one.”

  Kenny indicated the sleeping Lucas with a jerk of his thumb.

  “See him?” he asked. “See that drunken bum? Told me to go to hell not two minutes ago, right here in my own cellar. How do you like that?”

  “Terrible,” replied Henry, nodding his head in woeful agreement. “Well, that's the way things are in this world. You get the idea that you got a friend, and then he tells you to go to hell. Awful. Wonder if Lucas ever got rid of all them bugs that was botherin’ him.”

  “Dunno,” said Kenny. “Seems we'd see some, if they was still here. Gray, they was, and green, and crawlin’ all over the walls, so Lucas said.”

  “He musta got rid of ’em,” said Henry, looking fearfully at the cement walls. “Don't see none now.”

  “Good thing,” said Kenny sanctimoniously. “I don't hold with insects. Never did. I don't want no goddamn insects crawlin’ around in my cellar.”

  “I thought you was gonna get a bottle,” said Henry.

  “Yep. I'll find one. Must be one around here somewheres.”

  Kenny began to gaze around the cellar floor. His eyes shifted slowly from one spot to anothe
r, but they did not fall upon anything that could be mistaken for a full bottle of liquor. At last, with a supreme effort, he swayed away from the wall which had been holding him up and began to shuffle groggily around the cellar. He picked up one bottle after another and stared mournfully into the empty depths of each one.

  “Them bastards drunk it all up,” he told Henry. “That's what they done.”

  He moved slowly to the Franklin stove and peered down into its blackness, and then, sighing mightily, he reached down into it and rummaged around thoroughly.

  “ ’Tain't no use, Henry,” he said, almost in tears. “Them bastards drunk it all up.”

  Suddenly Henry gave a glad cry. “Kenny! Look at all them barrels! Look at ’em, lined up against that wall over there, just as pretty as a line of girls at a county fair.”

  Kenny turned to look at his twelve cider barrels. A remembered perfume came to him, of apples and wood smoke, and he could see again the streams of juice pouring into his barrels.

  “Christ, yes,” he said, moving almost quickly toward the cider barrels. “I worked like a nigger fillin’ the goddamn things. How the hell could I forget a thing like that?”

  He leaned his hand against the first spigot, while Henry crawled over to him on his hands and knees.

  “Jeez, Kenny, put something under that faucet! Don't let the stuff run all over the floor.”

  Kenny picked up an empty whisky bottle and held it under the spigot. Nothing happened.

  “How do you like that?” he demanded of Henry. “Those bastards went and drained a whole goddamn barrel of my cider.”

  “Try the next one.”

  “All right. Hold this bottle under the spigot.”

  Kenny pressed every spigot on every barrel while Henry held the bottle hopefully each time, and when they had finished there was not a single drop of cider in the empty whisky bottle.

  “Well, I'll be a dirty pile of horseshit, if those bastards ain't drained every drop!” yelped Kenny, enraged beyond endurance.

  He began tipping the barrels so that they fell onto their sides and rolled creakingly on the cement floor. He kicked at each one hard and viciously and cursed until he was exhausted and Henry began to cry.

  “’Tain't no use, Kenny,” wept Henry. “There just ain't no more cider. ’Tain't no use at all.” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Come on, Kenny, ‘tain't no use carryin’ on like that. Let's make Lucas wake up. It's the only way. Time for Lucas to make another trip to White River.”

  Henry dragged himself toward Lucas, and when he reached the sleeping man's side, he began to kick him with both heels.

  “Wake up, you pig,” commanded Henry. “Wake up and move your ass. Time you went to White River. Wake up, I say!”

  Lucas moved protestingly against the sharp heels which dug into his back and buttocks.

  “Go to hell,” he mumbled.

  Henry went on kicking and Kenny came to help him.

  “Wake up, you drunken bum,” yelled Henry. “Wake up, you cider-drinkin’ pig!”

  “Go to hell,” murmured Lucas.

  “Hear that?” demanded Kenny shrilly. “What'd I tell you? Tellin’ a man to go to hell, right in his own cellar.”

  “It's insultin’, that's what it is,” sympathized Henry. “Kick him harder, Kenny.”

  At last Lucas groaned, turned over on his back and attempted to focus his eyes on the wooden beams of the cellar ceiling.

  “What got into you fellers,” whined Lucas, “kickin’ at a feller fit to rupture his guts?”

  “We're out of booze,” said Henry. “Time for you to take another trip to White River.”

  “Like hell,” said Lucas. “Just shut up and gimme another drink.”

  “There ain't any,” yelled Henry, in a rage. “Didn't you hear what I said? It's time for you to go over to White River. There ain't nothin’ left to drink. Get up.”

  “All right,” sighed Lucas and tried to raise himself to a sitting position. “Oh, Christ.”

  His last two words were a groan, uttered more as a prayer than a curse, and he collapsed flat on his back.

  “Oh, Christ,” he moaned. “They're back.”

  He began to cry and covered his eyes with gray, crusty hands.

  “Where?” asked Kenny. “Where they at now, Lucas?”

  Lucas kept his eyes covered with one hand, and with the forefinger of the other he pointed to the opposite wall.

  “Right there next to you. Behind you. All over the place. Oh, Christ!”

  Kenny fixed his eyes on the cellar wall. “I don't see nothin’,” he quavered. “I don't see nothin’ at all.”

  “They're there,” sobbed Lucas. “All gray and green. Millions of ’em, crawlin’ all over!”

  He spread two of his fingers apart and stared out through this small slit.

  “Watch out!” he screamed and began to slap at his thighs. “Watch out! They're comin’ right at us!”

  “I don't see nothin’,” cried Kenny.

  “You crazy bastard,” yelled Lucas. “You're drunk, blind drunk, that's why you can't see nothin’. You're drunker than hell. Watch out!”

  Lucas turned over on to his stomach and covered his head with his arms, but almost immediately he jumped to his feet and ran to a corner of the cellar where he crouched, panting.

  “They was under me,” he wept, terror stricken. “Right under me, waitin’ for me to lay down so's they could start feastin’.”

  Kenny and Henry bent to examine the spot where Lucas had been lying.

  “There's nothin’ there,” they agreed. “Nothin’ at all.”

  “Drunken bums!” screamed Lucas. “Blind drunk, both of you!”

  Two of the other four sleeping men were aroused by Lucas’ screams. They looked about with dull, uncomprehending eyes.

  “Where's the bottle?” asked one man.

  “Watch out!” cried Lucas. “Put your head down!”

  “Where's the goddamned bottle?”

  “There ain't none,” shouted Henry, exasperated with all the sudden confusion.

  “I don't see nothin’,” said Kenny. “Not a bloomin’ thing.”

  “Where's the friggin’ bottle?”

  “Ain't none.”

  “Not a bloomin’ thing.”

  “They're covered with slime. Green slime.”

  “I'll go after some,” said Henry. “I'll go myself, and to hell with Lucas. Gimme some money.”

  Henry began to feel through his pockets. His fingers searched every possible hiding place in his clothing, but he found nothing.

  “I ain't got no more money,” he told Kenny.

  “I got some, Henry,” said Kenny, rummaging through his pockets. “Always got money for my friend Henry McCracken.” But after a few more minutes of searching, he said, “Reckon I'm as bad off as you, Henry. Not a cent on me.”

  “Maybe he's got some,” said Henry, indicating the gibbering Lucas.

  Together, Henry and Kenny approached Lucas and began to search him, but his pockets, too, were empty. The men who had awakened began to search themselves, but finding nothing they began to feel in the pockets of the two men who still slept.

  “Gotta get somethin’ to drink,” said Kenny. “Come on, empty your pockets, boys. Wake up. There ain't a goddamn thing to drink.”

  When the men had searched themselves thoroughly, they began to search one another.

  “You got some,” each accused the other. “You're keepin’ it hid. Come on, now, dig it out. All for one and one for all. Put up your money.”

  In the end, they collected six cents.

  “There, by God,” said Henry McCracken. “I'll go over to White River myself. To hell with Lucas, I'll go myself.”

  He stood up and lurched against the wall. “Yep, you can count on me, boys. I'll go right now.”

  Carefully, he put the six cents into one of his pockets.

  “I'll get whisky and a coupla cases of beer,” he said to Kenny. “T
hat should hold us until tomorrow.”

  “Watch out!” screamed Lucas. “Oh, Christ!”

  “Where's the friggin’ bottle?”

  “Come on, Henry. I'll give you a boost out the window.”

  “I'll get three cases of beer. That'll be better.”

  “Better get one apiece,” advised Kenny.

  “Chase ’em out the window,” ordered Lucas. “Quick!”

  When Henry had gone, all the men except Lucas sat down to await his return. Lucas still crouched in the corner, whimpering, and peeking out from behind his fingers once in a while. Every time he uncovered his eyes he screamed, “Watch out!” then hastily covered them again.

  “Takin’ Henry one godawful while,” said one man.

  “Prob'ly gonna stay in White River and get drunk,” said another.

  “If there's one thing I hate, it's a sonofabitch who won't share.”

  One man, sitting a little apart from the others, began to move carefully toward the end of the cellar. This was Angus Bromley, and he vaguely remembered having hidden a bottle on top of one of the low rafters. He made his way slowly further away from the others, and they did not notice his movement. They still discussed the fickleness of Henry McCracken who had been gone, now, perhaps eight minutes.

  “Greedy sonofabitch, that Henry.”

  “Prob'ly havin’ a big time over to White River.”

  “Met some whore, that's what he done, and he's showin’ her a big time. On our money.”

  “Oh, Christ!” moaned Lucas. “Oh, Christ, help me!”

  “That sonofabitch McCracken. Gone out to get drunk.”

  “His whole goddamn family drinks. Every last one of the McCrackens is a drunk.”

  “On our money.”

  Angus Bromley managed to reach a spot under a beam, and now contemplated the wide rafter over his head. Slowly, he raised himself up on his toes, his hands sliding carefully over the top of the beam over his head, and at last his fingers wrapped themselves around the neck of a quart bottle. He lowered this treasure painstakingly and held it before his eyes.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, caressing the shoulders of the bottle as if they had been those of a perfumed woman. “Beautiful, beautiful.”

  He sat down abruptly on the floor and hastily broke the seal on the top of the bottle. The cap rolled, unheeded, across the floor while Angus raised the mouth of the bottle to his lips.