"I wish I could stay, Frau Drossel. You and your husband are like a family to me." The lights were flashing and bursting behind his eyes. His low-hanging shoulder throbbed from the damp cold. "I shall truly miss you. But life takes each one of us along a different road."
"Yes, what a pity," she exclaimed, while he envisioned the hell-bright glare at the end of her road. He nearly giggled. But he maintained his pious expression as she patted him. "But I understand that you must locate those who are dear to you."
"Yes, and I'm close now. It will be soon."
"Good night, Herr Dayton," Drossel called as Bent climbed the narrow little stair. Closing the garret door, he heard Drossel's parting remark. "You are a good man."
Instead of preparing for bed, he donned his coat again, then wrapped a long wool scarf around his neck. He pulled his valise from under the bed and examined the contents. He did it every night, a kind of superstitious ritual to guarantee success.
The rolled-up painting lay in the bottom under a few dirty garments. He groped down among the clothing until his fingers touched the teardrop earring.
Smiling, he shut the valise and snapped the clasps. From a corner shelf he took the soiled plug hat stolen to replace the one lost in Lehigh Station. He put the hat on, then drew on mittens with most of the fingertips missing. He sat fully dressed on the edge of the bed while the awl of pain bore deeper into his skull, and the imaginary lights burst and dazzled.
Below, he heard the clock in the old couple's bedroom chime half after twelve. Time.
He crept down the stairs and slowly turned the knob of their door. He opened the door, listened to the regular breathing from the two sleepers. He stepped in and shut the door, which clicked faintly. A moment later muffled cries filled the house.
The rain had passed, but a residual damp remained. Bent was shivering as he hobbled out of the dooryard of the farm. He turned left into the westbound road, a rutted mire of standing water and wet brown soil. His boots went in and out of the mud with sucking sounds.
He walked a quarter of a mile before feeling safe enough to stop and look back. He kept his left hand in his pocket, the fingers stroking and caressing the huge lump of cash taken from Herr Drossel. His excited manhood pushed against the lump from the inner side of the pocket.
"Ah —" A beatific sign. The farmhouse was no longer merely a white blur in the night. Rosy light glowed behind smoking curtains in upstairs windows. As he watched, the curtains ignited.
Bent huddled at the roadside, anticipating the delicious sound that he heard a moment later. The old couple. Bludgeoned unconscious, then securely lashed to their bed with strips of sheet. They were waking up. Feeling the heat of the fire he'd set in the downstairs parlor. Feeling it scorch and cook the floor under their bed — the bed they couldn't escape from.
They had thought him such a good man. They should have learned it was dangerous to trust appearances, or take strangers at their word, in this shit-hole world.
An upper window burst, then another. Flames shot out. Behind the roar, he heard screaming.
Bent turned his back on the brilliance and crouched over his valise. From it he took the teardrop earring in its setting of filigreed gold. He passed his fingertips over the pearl several times, each time with an exquisite sexual thrill. The memory of Constance's gashed throat was vivid.
Small foamy bubbled on his lip burst as he screwed the post of the earring into his left lobe. Wearing the memento of his punishment of George Hazard pleased and amused him.
He set the plug hat on his head and hobbled westward. The bobbing pearl caught the light of the burning farmhouse; it was as if an iridescent drop of coagulated blood hung from his left ear.
Slowly the firelight receded to the horizon and he hobbled in darkness, keeping himself warm by squeezing the great lump of cash and imagining his next victim and thinking, Soon. Soon.
LESSON XI.
Boys at Play.
Can you fly a kite? See how the boy flies his kite. He holds the string fast, and the wind blows it up. ...
Boys love to run and play.
But they must not be rude. Good boys do not play in a rude way, but take care not to hurt any one.
When boys are at play they must be kind, and not feel cross. If you are cross, good boys will not like to play with you.
When you fall down, you must not cry, but get up, and run again. If you cry, the boys will call you a baby. ...
MADELINE'S JOURNAL
October, 1868. Civil authorities can find no culprit for the murders of May and Ridley. Why did I assume they would? Justice might be done if the military investigated, but they cannot. S.C. is "reconstructed." ...
Theo bought an old ship's bell in C'ston. I rubbed off the tarnish and nailed it up beside the front door to sound an alarm if it's needed. We now have our own Ashley District militia — all Negroes, most from M.R. — organized to prevent interference at the polls. The Klan is seen frequently in the district. Tensions remain very high. So a man stands guard over this house each night. In a civilized country, a country at peace, it seems unimaginable. Yet I hear the watchman patrolling, his bare feet rustling the mat of pine straw on the ground, and I know the peril is real ...
M-L growing listless because of her confinement here. Her education is neglected. An unsatisfactory situation. Must do something. ...
November, 1868. To town, on the second-to-last day of the campaign. Saw a soldier's parade — marching unit calling themselves "Boys in Blue for Grant" Posters by Thos. Nast, the N'Yorh cartoonist, render the Gen'l with a marble elegance. But Badeau's and Richardson's campaign biographies go begging in a bookshop.
Seymour, Grant's opponent, poorly regarded here, but Blair, his running mate, is a darling of white citizens. Blair calls the Reconstruction gov'ts "bastard and spurious," offers broad promises of restoring the Southern "birthright," and openly declares the white race "the only race that has shown itself capable of maintaining free institutions of a free government." No wonder Yankees say, "Scratch a Democrat and you will find a Rebel under his skin." Judith said she feared to scratch Cooper lest she learn the truth. I saw great anxiety behind the weak jest; C. is rabid for Blair. ...
... All over, with no surprises. Grant is elected. In Dixie, Seymour carried only Louisiana and Georgia. So much for Blair's promises to "disperse the carpet-bag state gov'ts and compel the army to undo its usurpations." Every eligible man at M.R. voted, of which I am very proud ...
Theo here for supper. Left just before I sat down to write this. For the first time, he and M-L raised the subject of marriage. I do not oppose it, but she is Cooper's child. How far do I dare go to abet something sure to inflame — Must stop. Noise outside —
In single file, the riders turned into the lane from the river road. A sickle moon set white highlights flashing along the barrels of their weapons.
They proceeded slowly under the arch of trees and rode around the white house quietly. They drew up in a line at the front door. In the moonlight their shimmering robes and hoods had a black cast. The eyeholes reflected no light at all.