“You’re going back to work?”
“I can’t let it cool off.”
“But you already worked all day—”
“All I did was sit in a chair. I didn’t even move my fingers.”
“Do you want anything to eat? I could bring it to you.”
He shook his head. “You could bring me a thermos of coffee, though. Just don’t be hurt if I ignore you.”
“I’ll tiptoe. You won’t even know I was there.”
She did tiptoe, but he wouldn’t have noticed if she’d stamped her feet. It was all there, just as he’d said, and it flowed. At four o’clock he pushed himself away from his desk with thirty-two pages written and huge chunks of the rest of the book etched vividly in his mind.
He had made it a rule for many years now not to do more than twenty pages a day. But it was absurd to keep to that rule in a situation like this. The sooner he got it all down, the better it would be.
Thirty-two pages, and he didn’t have to look at them to know they were good.
And the dedication page was no longer blank.
Twelve
When Gretchen Vann strode into the Lemon Tree, Linda did not notice her immediately. It was a Friday night. The weather had been good all day, the sky clear and the sun not too hot, and the town was packed with tourists. The Lemon Tree had been getting its share all day. Now, while Olive was in the back room showing Central American wood carvings to a rather intense young couple, Linda was at the desk watching a long-haired boy contemplate shoplifting. There was a bracelet of polished bits of rose quartz which he kept picking up and putting down, and she was certain he was trying to decide whether or not he liked it well enough to drop it in his pocket.
She decided to approach him. Once it was in his pocket there wasn’t much she could do. Olive had told her not to bother much about minor pilferage; it wasn’t worth the nuisance of running for a policeman, and while she was thus engaged other more ambitious browsers could empty half the store. She had learned, though, that it was easy to stop most shoplifters in advance. If you just went up to them and gave a sales pitch for whatever you figured they were about to steal, it generally routed them from the store without making a scene.
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
The words, spoken sharply and bitterly, came just as she was about to step out from behind the counter. For an instant she thought she had said them herself, and the long-haired boy evidently had no doubt they were meant for him; he straightened up, dropped the bracelet back where it had come from and walked nervously away from it.
“You think you’re fooling me, don’t you?”
She turned toward the voice and saw Gretchen. The woman’s drab blond hair hung flat and lifeless, framing a face that was drawn and haggard. Her skin had the dull sheen of wax fruit. Her eyes were unlike anything Linda had ever seen, wide and wild, slipping in and out of focus, madness gleaming in them.
“You and Peter are not fooling me, not for one moment. You treacherous cunt.”
Conversation died throughout the shop. Some customers began edging toward the door. Others stayed to watch the show. In the hallway outside, a crowd began to gather.
“Gretchen—”
“First it was just you, and then you managed to steal Peter away from me. You trapped him between your legs.” She thrust a forefinger in Linda’s face, shook it vigorously at her. The nail had been chewed ragged halfway to the cuticle. “And now the two of you are conspiring against me. But what you don’t realize is that I’m on to you. I know!”
Out of the corner of her eye Linda saw Olive McIntyre halfway down the aisle, a questioning look on her face. But no, she thought, I ought to be able to handle this myself.
“There’s nothing to know, Gretchen,” she said reasonably. “There’s nothing between Peter and me. I don’t think I’ve spoken two words to him in the past week. We’re friends but it’s never been more than that.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“It happens to be the truth.”
A peal of harsh laughter, rising hysterically at the end.
“Gretchen—”
“Pretending to be working at the theater. But I know he’s with you instead. Do you know something?” She leaned forward, clutching her hands together, making nervous washing movements with them. “I could live with that. But not what you’re trying to do next.”
“What are we trying to do, Gretchen?”
“As if you didn’t know!”
“Tell me.”
Her voice dropped to a conversational tone. “You’re trying to take Robin away from me,” she said. “You see, I do know, don’t I?”
“What makes you think—”
“Peter can’t take her from me. He’s not her father. He may try to poison her mind but I won’t let him. Do you know what Robin means to me?”
Very little, as far as Linda had ever been able to determine. But she said, “No one will ever take Robin away from you, Gretchen.”
“They can’t!”
“Of course not. Now—”
“Because I’m going to tell you something that very few people know. Robin did not have a father.”
“I see.”
“I was never with a man for the entire year before Robin’s birth. I purified myself. I thought temptation for an entire year. And then Robin was born.”
“I see,” she said again. The shop was virtually empty now, the performance evidently too embarrassing even for those who had been delighted spectators at the onset. Olive stood with her hands planted on her solid hips, rolling her eyes expressively heavenward.
Gretchen said, “I suppose you know what that means.”
That there was a bright star over Bethlehem, Linda thought. Or, at the very least, Allentown. But she said, “I’m not sure I understand, Gretchen.”
“Oh, you think you’re so fucking smart.”
“I—”
“You think I’m crazy.”
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s part of the plan, isn’t it? You had to try something when the poison didn’t work. Oh, it would work if I took it. But I know better than to eat anything Peter cooks for me. I’m not a fool. So the next step is to get me locked up in an insane asylum where they can burn out my brain with laser beams.” She put a hand palm down on the counter, sighed. “I don’t blame you for this. It’s Peter’s doing, isn’t it? He’s managed to convince you I’m crazy.”
“Peter loves you, Gretchen.”
She didn’t seem to hear the words. “What I told you before. About Robin?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you remember what I told you.”
“Yes.”
“I know what you thought. That I meant that my daughter was fathered by the Lord God. Right? Right?”
“Well—”
“Do you really think I’m crazy enough to believe such a load of shit? Oh, Peter has poisoned your mind me, hasn’t he? Let me explain. It’s very important you get this straight once and for all. Robin is not the Christ child. And I am not the Virgin Mary.”
“I see.”
“There was a time when I wondered. After all, no man fathered Robin, so what was I to think? But then I worked things out in my mind. You know why the Lord God is not Robin’s father?”
“Why?”
“Because Robin is a girl. And the Lord God don’t want no daughters. You didn’t know that, did you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Not many people do. The Lord God wants a son in His own image, right? The Lord God’s a man, right? The Lord God’s got a cock, right? Well, figure it out.”