Bill didn’t return to the kitchen. Janice heard him go upstairs, where he spent several minutes before presenting himself at the kitchen door, dressed for the street and carrying Russ’ tape recorder.
“You really believe she’ll be well enough to travel?” Janice said with gloomy skepticism.
“I’m not ready to predict anything, Janice. If she’s okay, your tickets are there; if not, I’ll cancel them.” His voice shifted to a more lethal register. “One thing I will predict, though, it’s the end of the line for Mr. Hoover—we won’t be bothered by him again.” He held up the tape recorder for emphasis. “If you need me, I’ll be with Harold Yates.”
He left without kissing her.
Janice puttered in the kitchen another ten minutes, then fixed Ivy a large glass of orange juice and carried it upstaits.
Ivy was sitting up in bed, alert and active, cutting figures out of an old Vogue with Janice’s sewing scissors. Except for a slight headache, she was gay, buoyant, talkative, and, as in the past, seemed to have no memory whatever of her nightmare.
“I’m making a family,” she said with a lovely smile as Janice reached out and felt her head. It seemed a bit cooler. Perhaps Bill was right after all. Perhaps they would be able to make the trip.
Thoughts of the warm, clear, multicolored waters, the soft rain showers with their incredible rainbows, the balmy, sensuous nights beneath an impossibly yellow moon gradually quieted Janice’s restless spirit.
Ivy had to tell her, “The doorbell’s ringing.”
Janice descended the steps with a racing heart. The mail had been delivered earlier. No one came to the front door without first being announced—unless it was Carole.
“Who is it?’ Janice asked through the bolted door.
“It’s Dominick, Miz Templeton,” came the muffled reply. “I got a delivery.”
It was a potted plant, a hothouse chrysanthemum with tow large white blooms. The pot, a Mexican ceramic, was encircled by a red ribbon with a small envelope bearing the florist’s name attached to it. Janice thanked Dominick and brought the plant into the kitchen. She paused a moment, gazing grimly at the gift, before opening the envelope and extracting the card.
Tiny, precise handwriting covered both sides of the stiff cardboard, forcing Janice to seek a patch of sunlight in order to read it. The message was in quotes, and said:
Take the flowers. The blossom perishes as completely as if it had never existed; but the roots and bulb hold in subjective embrace the most minute details of that flower. When the cycle, the basic law, is fulfilled, the subjective entity thrills, expands, clothes itself again with the specimens of cells and reproduces the plant in all its former perfection and beauty. Thus do flowers reincarnate and express the same elemental soul of the plant. How much more reasonable is it that the intense individualization in man should also be conserved by subjective periods in his life history?
And below it was the credit line: “Esoteric Astrology, by Alan Leo.”
A shudder of superstition and fear went through Janice as she tore the card into small pieces and threw them into the trash can. Next, with a set face and trembling hand, she picked up the plant and all its green tissue and, holding it away from her body as if it were something loathsome, carried it out to the service hall incinerator and dropped it down the chute. It was the only thing to do, she thought, sensing a sudden power and mastery over her destiny, a perfectly normal, healthy reaction to a foe’s sneak attack.
The house telephone was ringing as she reentered the apartment. She closed the service door and bolted it, before taking up the receiver.
“There’s a Mr. Hoover on the line, Miz Templeton,” came Dominick’s high-pitched voice. Janice felt a leap of panic and was about to refuse the call when she abruptly changed her mind. She had acted resolutely and correctly with the flowers; what then had she to fear from the man who had sent them? He was the enemy, and the enemy must be dealt with.
“Connect him, please,” she said as her quivering hand went to her head and brushed a wisp of hair away.
“Hello, Mrs. Templeton?” Hoover’s voice bore a distinct note of anxiety.
“Yes,” replied Janice tremulously.
“Good morning, thank you for talking to me. I just called to find out how your daughter is.”
“Ivy is much better,” answered Janice very gravely.
“But not well enough for school. You’re very wise to keep her home.”
The statement required no answer, and Janice made none.
Hoover picked up the slack with: “I wonder if you’d mind my dropping in? I think we have a great deal to talk about.”
“You’ll have to ask my husband about that.”
“Would you put him on, please?’
“He isn’t here.”
“Oh?” Hoover seemed surprised. “His office said he was home ill.”
“He’s gone to see the doctor.”
“I hope it’s not serious.” Then, shifting mood: “By the way, have you had a chance to look at the books I sent you?”
“No. I haven’t the time for books. Besides, I’m not interested in the subject.”
“Oh?” said Hoover quietly. “I thought, after what happened last night, you might want to know more about … the subject.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Hoover.” Janice was finding a new strength in her voice. “Nothing happened last night to increase my interest in your books.”
“I don’t believe that, Mrs. Templeton. I saw the look on your face when”—he paused, seeking the right words to express his next thought—“when Audrey Rose sensed my presence nearby and made contact with me through Ivy. You had the look of a person who had just witnessed a miracle, as it surely was. Your husband was too overwrought to perceive it, but you certainly did.”
“The look you saw on my face, Mr. Hoover, was the look of a mother in despair over the health of her child. It is a look I often wear, as my daughter often experiences these attacks.”
“She does?” Hoover said, as if stung.
“Yes, Mr. Hoover, several times a month over the last nine years,” Janice lied. “What happened last night was not unique, nor was what you did to calm her. Her psychiatrist uses a similar technique to bring her out of these trances. It’s called suggestive hypnosis.”
“I didn’t know Ivy was under the care of a psychiatrist,” Hoover replied, as if berating himself for having failed to discover this fact in his research on them.
“Well, she is. And the cause of her problem has been fully defined and is well known. It relates directly to an accident she had when she was an infant—a milk bottle that was too hot burned her fingers and made a lasting impression on her mind. The ‘hot, hot, hot’ she babbles refers to the milk bottle and nothing else.” Janice could hardly believe the words were her own.
“Your psychiatrist approves of this theory?”
“Yes, she does.”
“I think she’s wrong,” said Hoover in a voice deflated of energy. “I think your daughter may be in far greater trouble.”
“You may think that, Mr. Hoover, but we do not. We believe in our doctor, have confidence in her training and experience, and trust her completely. Furthermore,” Janice continued, socking it home to him, “we believe in medical science, not in superstition.”