Carol shook her head dismissively. “Marty knew everybody in town, just like all the rest of us. Besides, she always felt safe in that house, although God alone knows why.” Her eyes scanned the Lonsdales’ living room, and she shuddered slightly. “I’m sorry, but these old places always give me the willies.”
“Carol!”
“Honey, Ellen and I have been friends long enough so I don’t have to lie to her. Besides, I told her when she first started looking at this place that if she didn’t do something drastic to it within six months, I’d never visit her again. I mean, just look at it — it looks like some kind of monastery or something. I always feel that there ought to be chanting going on in the background. And what about the windows? All covered up with wrought iron — like a prison!” Suddenly running out of steam, she fell into a slightly embarrassed silence, then grinned crookedly at Ellen. “Well, it’s what I think.”
“And in a way, you’re right,” Ellen agreed. “Except that I happen to like all those things you hate. But I don’t see what it has to do with Marty.”
“It’s just that she always said that old fortress made her feel safe, and look what happened to her.”
“Honey,” Jim protested, “murders can happen anywhere. It didn’t matter where the house was, or what it looked like.”
Once more, Carol sighed. “I know. And I also know it looks as though Alan must have done it. But I don’t care. I just don’t think that’s the way it happened at all.”
Suddenly Lisa appeared in the wide archway that separated the living room from the foyer, and the four adults fell guiltily silent.
“Are you still talking about Mrs. Lewis?” Lisa asked uncertainly. Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Can I … well, is it all right if I sit down here and listen?”
“I thought you and Alex were listening to some records—”
“I don’t want to,” Lisa said, and the sharpness in her voice made the Lonsdales and the Cochrans exchange a curious glance. It was Ellen who finally spoke.
“Lisa, did something happen up there? Did you and Alex have a fight about something?” Lisa hesitated, then shook her head, but it seemed to Ellen the girl was holding something back. “Tell us what happened,” she urged. “Whatever it is, it can’t be so bad that you can’t tell us about it. Did you two have a fight?”
“With Alex?” Lisa suddenly blurted. “How can you have a fight with Alex? He doesn’t care about anything, so he won’t fight about anything!” Suddenly she was crying. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that but—”
“But it’s true,” Marsh said softly. He got up and went to Lisa, putting his arms around her. “It’s okay, Lisa. We all know what Alex is like, and how frustrating it is. Now, tell us what happened.”
Somewhat mollified, Lisa sat down and dabbed at her eyes with her father’s handkerchief. “We were listening to records, and I wanted to talk about Mrs. Lewis, but Alex wouldn’t. I mean, he’d talk, but all he’d say were weird things. It’s like he doesn’t care what happened to her, or who did it. He … he doesn’t even care that she’s dead.” Her eyes fixed on her mother. “Mom, he said he never even met Mrs. Lewis, and even if he had, it wouldn’t matter. He said everybody dies, and it doesn’t make any difference how.” Burying her face in her handkerchief, she began sobbing quietly.
There was a long silence in the room. Carol Cochran moved over to sit next to her daughter, while Marsh, his expression cold, gave his wife a long look. “It … it doesn’t mean anything—” Ellen began, but he cut her off.
“No matter what it means, he doesn’t need to say things like that. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut sometimes.” He turned and started toward the foyer and the stairs.
“Marsh, leave him alone,” Ellen protested, but it was too late. All of them could hear the echo of his feet tramping up the stairs. Ellen, her voice trembling, turned back to Lisa. “Really, Lisa,” she said again, “it doesn’t mean anything.…”
Marsh walked into Alex’s room without knocking, his breath coming in short, angry rasps, and found his son lying on the bed, a book propped against his drawn-up knees. From the stereo, the precise notes of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik echoed off the bare walls. Alex glanced up at his father, then put the book aside.
“Are the Cochrans gone?”
“No, they’re not,” Marsh grated. “No thanks to you. What the hell did you say to Lisa?” Then, before Alex could answer, he went on, his voice icily cold. “Never mind. I know what you said. What I want to know is why you said it. She’s down there crying, and I can’t say that I blame her.”
“Crying? How come?”
Marsh stared at Alex’s serene face. Was it possible the boy really didn’t know? And then, as he made a conscious effort to bring his breath under control, he realized that it was, indeed, quite possible that Alex didn’t know what effect his words would have on Lisa.
“Because of what you said,” he replied. “About Mrs. Lewis, and about dying.”
Alex shrugged. “I didn’t know Mrs. Lewis. Lisa wanted to talk about her, but how could I? If you don’t know someone, you can’t talk about them, can you?”
“It wasn’t just that, Alex,” Marsh said. “It was what you said about dying. That everybody dies, and that it doesn’t matter how they die.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Alex countered. “Everybody does die. And if everybody dies, why should it be a big deal?”
“Alex, Marty Lewis was murdered.”
Alex nodded, but then said, “But she’s still dead, isn’t she?”
Marsh took a deep breath, and when he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “Alex, there are some things you have to understand, even though they don’t have any meaning to you right now. They have to do with feelings and emotions.”
“I know about emotions,” Alex replied. “I just don’t know what they feel like.”
“Exactly. But other people do know, and you used to know. And someday, when you’re all well again, you’ll feel them too. But in the meantime, you have to be careful, because you can hurt people’s feelings by what you say.”
“Even if you tell them the truth?” Alex asked.
“Even if you tell them the truth. You have to remember that right now, you don’t know the full truth about everything. For instance, you don’t know that you can hurt people mentally as well as physically. And that’s how you hurt Lisa. You hurt her feelings. She cares a great deal about you, and you made her feel as though you don’t care about anything.”
Alex said nothing. Watching him, Marsh couldn’t see whether the boy was thinking about his words or not. And then, once again, Alex spoke.
“Dad, I don’t think I do care about anything. Not the way other people do, anyway. Isn’t that what’s still wrong with me? Isn’t that why Dr. Torres says I’ll never get well? Because I don’t have all those feelings and emotions that other people have, and I never will?”
The hopelessness of Alex’s words was only reinforced by the tonelessness of his voice. Suddenly Marsh wanted to reach out and hold Alex as he’d held him when he was a baby. And yet he knew it would do no good. It wouldn’t make Alex feel more secure or more loved, for Alex didn’t feel insecure, and didn’t feel unloved.
He felt nothing. And there was nothing Marsh could do about it.
“That’s right,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what’s wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.” He reached out and squeezed Alex’s shoulder, though he knew the gesture was much more for himself than for Alex. “I wish I could fix it, son. I wish I could help you be the way you used to be, but I can’t.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” Alex replied. “I don’t hurt, and I don’t remember what I used to be like.”