“Barbara...” she called uncertainly, and knocked on the glass portion of the door. No one answered and the prickling sensation intensified.
She looked back at the yard, hoping Jim would appear from the ring of trees with a stack of windfalls for firewood, but he didn’t and she turned back to the door.
The Rileys did not have a mudroom; the door opened right into the kitchen. The white eyelet curtains were open and Lucy looked in. Her own face loomed in the glass, with the tips of the trees around the yard behind her. She cupped her hands around her face to kill the reflection and saw a couple of piles of rags covered with dark red paint that also splashed the counter, cabinets, floor, and walls. It took a second for her to register what she was looking at, then she tried to scream but only made a hoarse gasping sound that tore her throat. She threw herself back from the door, then staggered wildly down the stairs to the grass, trying to get her voice to work.
“This time, get a lawyer,” Meg said.
Eve didn’t answer.
“Evie, are you listening to me?”
“Lawyer,” Eve said, and thought scars, scars, scars.
The word had been at her all night and day, like a dripping faucet or that Oriental water torture designed to drive you mad.
Scars, scars, scars...
“Eve!”
“I’m listening, Meg. I should get a lawyer.”
“I mean it, Eve. You’re too rich to play it half-assed.”
Scars, scars.
Eve blinked against the word and the sun shining in her face. They were in the back yard of Grayson, Meg’s house. Calling the ten or so acres of lawn behind the mansion the yard was a conceit of Meg’s mother, who claimed she had the common touch. “Accent on common,” Frances had said once in a rare display of bitchiness.
Scars, scars, scars...
They were drinking gin and tonic, light on the tonic, and Eve had already had one, hoping to get high enough to stop the word. Her tongue felt a little thick, her upper lip was getting numb, but the word kept at her. Scars, scars, scars...
And this time, she got a flash of that kitchen back at Raven Lake with the white bulge in the ceiling and tried to figure out where the word and picture came from. Scars could be anything, everyone had scars, especially Ken Nevins, but she knew they were someone else’s. Maybe her own from scratching the chicken pox scab next to her eye, or the time she dove into the freezing bay in Maine and slashed her chin on a rock. The reason for the kitchen vision was a total mystery. “There’s money at stake,” Meg said.
“Money? You think Sam’s after my money?” Maybe arguing with Meg would distract her.
But Meg shook her head. “Be better if he were, then we could bitch about him and you could feel abused. This way’s a dead loss.” Scars.
Meg stirred the ice in her glass with her finger and asked, “Did you tell Frances?”
“I told them all at breakfast. Mrs. Knapp burst into tears and fled to the kitchen, leaving dirty dishes all over the table. Larry looked like he’d just heard someone had died and took himself off to do something to the cars, and Frances ostentatiously did not react.”
“Dear Frances,” Meg said.
“It was not dear,” Eve snapped. “Talking to her was like talking to a refrigerator door.”
“What’s the right reaction?” Meg asked gently.
“I don’t know. Yours... telling me you’re sorry, telling me to see a lawyer, getting me drunk.”
Meg grinned. “For drunk, you need a refill.”
She took Eve’s glass.
“Oh, Frances invites you and Tim for dinner and bridge tonight,” Eve said, leaning back in the chair.
“Great, can’t let anything like the end ot your marriage put a crimp in Saturday night bridge.”
Eve smiled for what felt like the first time in days. “That wouldn’t be the Tilden way.”
Meg carried the glasses back into the house, and Eve turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes.
Scarsscarsscarsscars... the words ran together like a snare drum and there was that bulge in the ceiling again. Dave had said it was a pulley but it didn’t look like anything except a giant carbuncle ready to burst.
Horrible image; she sat up and opened her eyes and Meg came back with two frosted glasses with lime slices stuck on the rims. She handed one to Eve, Eve reached for it, thought scarsscarsscars, and the glass slipped through her fingers and fell on the grass. It tipped, spilling ice and liquor, but didn’t break. She slid out of the chair, picked it up, and tried to grab the ice cubes with bits of grass stuck to them.
“It’s okay, Evie, the ice’ll just melt, it’s okay.”
The little lime slice that had looked fresh and perky a second ago was torn and limp and Eve’s eyes filled with tears. She bowed her head and turned away so Meg wouldn’t see them, but Meg knew her too well and she slid down on her knees next to her and put her arm around her. “Eve? Oh, Evie... I’m so sorry...”
“S’okay,” Eve mumbled.
“No it’s not.” Meg sounded angry. “It is definitely not okay. They’re making hamburger out of you and I hate them for it. You’re psychic, not incontinent; you don’t fill your pants at the dinner table and I’m sick to death of them acting as if you did. It’s a gift, a power that could be fun and useful... my God, useful.”
Dave Latovsky thought it was useful too.
“My Christ, think of it, Eve! Think what you could do with it. What your mother could have done if she hadn’t been so... morbid. She was the only woman I ever knew who could look at a field of flowers and think about funerals. And your husband—forgive me, Eve, he’s a nice guy, and all that, sweet and handsome and I guess he’s sexy if you like the type—but he’s another one who’s made you hate what you can do. He’s let himself be emasculated by something that should thrill him, and between him and your mother, they’ve made you believe a gift is a handicap, power’s a curse... and they make me sick! You’re psychic; you can go places, see things no one else can... and that’s fabulous and awesome and most of all useful.” She stopped herself suddenly, grabbed Eve’s empty glass, and said, “Sorry. But I’ve been wanting to say that for a long time. You can tell yourself that it’s just the gin talking if you want. But I think you know better.’
She hauled herself up, took the glass back into the house, and Eve watched her go, surprised by the outburst. Meg meant well; so did Dave. But they couldn’t imagine what it had been like to grab a swing chain and watch a woman bleed to death, or stand in the doorway of Bunner’s office and watch his face blow away and not be able to stop it. Or to see that terrified little boy on the swing go to the woman waiting to do God knows what to him and not be able to protect him. Scarsscarsscarsscars...
They didn’t know the dread that ate at her since she’d touched Bunner’s recorder and seen those dead eyes in the mirror... scars-scarsscars...
Meg came back with the fresh drink.
Eve was late leaving Meg’s. She had to hurry to shower and try to sober up before Tim and Meg and the Adamses and Raskins got there at seven.
She jumped into the LeBaron. A wave of dizziness caught her and she belched and tasted gin. Dr. Rubin would be very unhappy with her. She should probably go back and ask Meg to have George drive her home. But it was Saturday and she didn’t see the big Mercedes; George must be in town doing the week’s shopping or waiting while Meg’s mother, Lila Grayson, visited friends. Meg’s mother was very disorganized and George always had more than enough to do on Saturdays without having to cart Meg’s drunk friends home.