Nightshade by John Saul
It hadn’t happened. Instead, as each day crept by, he felt the tension between his parents growing. They tried to hide it from him, but even though they weren’t exactly fighting, he knew they weren’t getting along.
And tonight his father had left.
Matt had watched him from the window, seen him stow his suitcase in the trunk of the Audi, back the car out of the garage, then look up at the house for a few seconds, and drive away. At first he told himself that his stepfather would come back. He was just angry, and when he got over it, he’d return home. But as the minutes had turned into hours and he’d listened as the big clock at the foot of stairs tolled midnight, he knew his dad wasn’t coming back.
Not my dad, Matt reminded himself as he paused outside the closed door to his grandmother’s room. He’s only my stepfather. But the words did nothing to make him feel better: no matter what he called him, Bill Hapgood was the only father he’d ever known. Even now, ten years later, he could still remember how frightened he felt the night after his mother had gotten married and they’d come to live here. The house had seemed so huge, with so many rooms, that at first he was afraid to sleep by himself in his own room. For as long as he could remember he’d had nightmares at night — terrifying dreams that he could never quite remember in the morning — but at least in his grandmother’s house he had known his mother was right in the next bed, ready to hold him if he got too scared. But in this house his mother would be way down the hall, and he’d be all by himself in a room that was bigger than his grandmother’s living room. But that first night his stepfather had come in and told him about how this used to be his room, and that there was a special knight — named the Night-Knight — who always protected him while he slept. Matt had lain in bed listening as his stepfather told him all about the Night-Knight, and finally fell asleep.
And it had worked. The Night-Knight had kept the nightmares at bay, and the next morning while they were eating breakfast, Matt looked shyly up at his stepfather.
“Will you be my dad?” he’d asked, doing his best not to let anyone see how scared he was. What if his stepfather said no?
But his stepfather hadn’t said no, and from then on, everything had been fine. He’d never been frightened again, during the daytime or at night. And even when he’d gotten old enough to understand that the Night-Knight existed only in his imagination, the nightmares had never come back.
But tonight his dad had left, and everything about the house felt different.
He went downstairs to the kitchen, poked around among the leftovers, and finally ate a dish of ice cream. It was weird sitting by himself in the kitchen, because usually when he was worried about something and couldn’t sleep and came down to get something to eat in the middle of the night, his dad would show up too, and the two of them would sit there talking until they’d worked out whatever was bothering him.
But tonight he was by himself, and there was no chance his dad would come to talk to him.
Shit!
Leaving the empty ice cream dish on the sink, he started back up the stairs. When he got to the top, he paused, listening. Behind the closed door to her room, Matt could hear his grandmother muttering to herself. Though the words were indistinct, her voice droned on and on, and he had the feeling that even though he couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying, she was talking to someone.
His mother?
He moved closer.
But it wasn’t from his grandmother’s room that he was hearing the voice — it seemed to be coming from the room next door.
He made his way silently to the room adjoining his grandmother’s.
The old woman’s voice was clearer now, but he still couldn’t distinguish the words.
Reaching out, he placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it.
He pushed the door open just far enough to peer into the room.
Though none of the lamps were on, the moon was glowing just brightly enough to let him see the interior of the room. His grandmother was standing in front of the fireplace, staring up at the portrait of his aunt.
Her lips were moving, and though her voice was low, Matt could distinguish some of her words: “. . . time to come home . . . need you . . . help me . . . come home, Cynthia . . .”
“Gram?” Matt asked uncertainly. “Are you okay?”
No response.
He hesitated. Should he say something else? But then, as he was trying to decide what to do, his grandmother slowly turned and her eyes, barely visible in the moonlight, fixed on him.
“Joan’s bastard,” she whispered. She took an unsteady step toward him, her eyes flashing venomously. “Damn you . . .”
Recoiling from his grandmother’s curse, her words ringing in his head, Matt pulled the door closed and hurried back to his room.
He shut his own door too, against the sound of his grandmother’s muttering, but it was still audible from the room down the hall, and he couldn’t deafen himself to the last words she had spoken to him.
Joan’s bastard . . . Joan’s bastard . . . The words resounded in his mind, taunting him.
Dropping his robe on the chair in front of his desk, he slid naked into his bed and pulled the covers tight.
Still his grandmother’s voice tortured him: Damn you . . . damn you . . .
Her curse echoed in his mind and he clutched the covers tighter still, willing the hateful words away.
At last, hours later, he slept.
Once, he awoke, and for a moment thought he smelled a strange scent in the air, a scent that seemed to trigger some deep memory from his childhood, from before he had come to live in this house. But even as the strange, musky aroma filled his nostrils, he dropped back into his restless sleep.
That night, for the first time since he left his grandmother’s house when he was five years old, the nightmares of his childhood came back to torture him.
Nightmares from which neither his stepfather nor the Night-Knight could now defend him.
* * *
THE CLOUDS HANGING over granite falls were nearly as dark as Matt’s mood, and the morning looked every bit as cold as the house felt. Turning away from the window, he eyed his bed — still rumpled and tangled from his restless night — and felt an uncharacteristic urge to creep back into the warmth and comfort of the blankets. They had offered no solace last night, though, and even as the impulse flitted through his mind, he knew that retreating to the bed would accomplish nothing. After pulling on his clothes, he put his books in his backpack, added what little homework he’d managed to get done last night, and went down to breakfast.
Except there was no breakfast.
The kitchen was as cold and cheerless as the rest of the house.
The coffee maker — the one he’d given his dad for Christmas last year, that measured the beans, ground them, then brewed the coffee to be ready at whatever time was required — hadn’t been set last night. Matt reached out to push the manual start button but stopped short of actually pressing it. As he turned on the gas burner under the old teakettle, he told himself that the coffee maker would take too long, and that there wasn’t that much difference between fresh-ground and instant, anyway. But once again he knew the words weren’t quite true.
It was his dad’s coffeepot, and he should have been there to start it himself.
Fuck him! Matt thought, shutting off the burner and starting the coffee maker. If it was so easy for him to just walk out, why should I care?
The machine came to life, gears turning as it shifted beans into the grinder, blades clattering as the beans were pulverized. While the coffee began to brew, Matt rummaged through the refrigerator. Usually they had bacon and eggs for breakfast, but as he stared at the slab of bacon and the dozen fresh eggs, he had no appetite for any of it.
Cold cereal was a much better match for his mood this morning.
He had a cup of coffee, ate the cereal, and was just putting the bowl and spoon into the dishwasher when his mother finally appeared. Her skin
Mother and son eyed each other, both waiting for the other to speak, neither quite sure they wanted to know what the other was thinking or feeling.
The silence built like a wall between them. It was finally Joan who breached it. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice betraying the fragility of her nerves.
“Are you?” Matt countered, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
His mother hesitated, then shook her head. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Matt’s eyes shifted from Joan to the coffee maker. “Do you think Dad’ll come home this afternoon?” he ventured as he refilled his cup and poured one for his mother.
Once again the chasm of silence widened until it threatened to engulf them while Joan tried to decide what to say. Her first impulse was to try to reassure him, as she had when Bill Hapgood first came into their lives eleven years ago. But then she remembered that he was not a little boy anymore. “I don’t think so,” she admitted. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”
Suddenly Emily’s voice could be heard drifting down from the floor above. Though her words were indistinct, both of them heard the anger in her tone. Joan flinched, and the hot coffee slopped out of the cup onto her hands. “I’d better go up and see what she wants.”
His mother started toward the door. “Maybe Dad’s right,” Matt said, and though his voice was soft, his words stopped Joan short. “Maybe Gram shouldn’t be here. Maybe you should let Dad find a place for her.” He saw a flicker of something in his mother’s eyes. Fear? Anger? He couldn’t be certain, and it was gone as quickly as it had come.
“No,” she said. “She’s my mother and I have to take care of her.” Then she was gone and he could hear her hurrying up the stairs as his grandmother called out again.
Matt drained his coffee, picked up his backpack, and went out into the cold morning, walking quickly down the long driveway. Kelly Conroe was waiting for him by the mailbox, just as she always did, but as he came out the gate her usually sunny smile faded.
“Matt?” she asked, unknowingly echoing the words he’d asked his mother a few minutes earlier. “Are you all right?”
He fell in beside her, taking her hand in his own. They’d been going to school together almost as long as they could remember, first waiting for the grade-school bus at the stop halfway between the Hapgood house and the Conroes’, then riding their bikes, and then, when they got to high school, walking. It wasn’t until last spring that they started holding hands, and though neither Matt’s parents nor Kelly’s had said anything, both of them were sure that their mothers, at least, were already speculating on the future possibilities, happily ignoring the fact that since Kelly was planning on going to medical school and Matt was toying with becoming a lawyer, whatever “future possibilities” there might be were at least eight or ten years away.
“My dad left last night,” Matt told her.
Kelly stopped short. “What do you mean, he left?”
Matt suddenly felt annoyed with Kelly. “You know — left?”
“But why?” Kelly asked.
“Why do you think?” Matt demanded, his voice harsh. “Because of my grandmother moving in.”
“But he’s coming back, isn’t he?”
Matt dropped Kelly’s hand. “How should I know?” He hesitated. Then, as the rain that had been threatening began to fall, all the feelings that had been building in him through the night poured out. “It’s not like he told me if he’s coming back or not! He didn’t say anything at all. There wasn’t even a fight, or anything.” The whole story of what had happened the night before tumbled from his lips.
“He’ll come back,” Kelly decided when Matt was finished. They were in front of the school, and the first bell rang as she spoke. “I mean, your dad’s not going to leave just because — ”
Matt’s eyes, as stormy as the sky, fixed on her. “He’s not my dad, remember? He’s only my stepfather. So who cares if he comes back? I don’t!” Turning his back on her, he hurried up the front steps and into the shelter of the school.
Kelly, oblivious to the rain, watched him go.
You care, she thought. You care if he comes back.
CHAPTER 4
“THAT DOESN’T GO there! why can’t you do anything right?”
Joan’s hands tightened on the dress she was holding. Pale blue, the bodice covered with seed pearls, the satin dress had been her mother’s favorite. But that was years ago, and even though the dress had been kept carefully hung in the closet since the one time it was worn, the color had begun to fade and the material to rot. In fact, it should have been given away years ago, while someone could still use it. Now it was beyond repair — not that it would be worth repairing, since the seed pearls were plastic and the satin was made of rayon instead of silk. But in her mother’s eyes the dress was still beautiful.
As beautiful as it had once been . . .
* * *
JOAN STOOD AT the door to her sister’s room, her eyes fixed on the large gray cardboard box on cynthia’s bed. She knew what was in the box, for it was all her mother and sister had been talking about for weeks.
The dress.
The dress Cynthia would wear tomorrow night when she went to the prom with Marty Holmes.
The dress that Cynthia and their mother had started planning weeks ago, on the day Marty asked Cynthia to the prom.
The dress that Mrs. Fillmore had made, making Cynthia come over for fittings day after day.
“I’m starting to hate that dress,” Cynthia had whispered to her last week. “I can never stand still enough for Mrs. Fillmore, and she always sticks pins in me, like I’m some kind of voodoo doll or something.”
“But Mom says it’s going to be the most beautiful dress anyone’s ever seen,” Joan said. “If she finds out you don’t even like it — ”
Cynthia, four years older than her twelve-year-old sister, fixed her eyes on Joan. “Why would she find that out?” she asked. “I’m not going to tell her — if she wants me to wear the stupid dress, I’ll wear it. What do I care?”
“Don’t you even want to go to the prom?” Joan asked wistfully. Since the moment she’d heard about the prom, she thought everything about it sounded wonderful. All the boys would be dressed up in dinner jackets, and the girls would wear beautiful dresses, but none of them as beautiful as Cynthia’s. The wonderfully soft and smooth satin from which Mrs. Fillmore was making the dress was the exact same blue as Cynthia’s eyes, and the dressmaker was even letting Cynthia wear a string of her own pearls.
“They’re not quite real,” she’d admitted to her mother when she brought them over. “But they match the seed pearls on the bodice perfectly.”
Joan had stared longingly at the pearls, wishing she could try them on, but knowing she shouldn’t even ask.
Maybe in four years, when it was time for her own prom . . .
“I don’t care if I go or not,” Cynthia said, finally answering the question that had begun Joan’s reverie. “And I sure don’t want to go over to old Mrs. Fillmore’s again.” She cocked her head then, her eyes fixed on her younger sister. “Why don’t you go to the fitting tomorrow?”
Joan’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“Why not?” Cynthia countered, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“But it won’t fit — ” Joan began.
Cynthia didn’t let her finish. “It won’t matter if it doesn’t fit perfectly, because she’s only doing the hemline tomorrow! Stand up.”
Joan scrambled off Cynthia’s bed.
“Stand next to me.”
Joan moved next to her sister, who was standing in front of the full length mirror on her closet door.
“See? It’ll be perfect!”
Joan gazed at the two images in the mirror. There was no resemblance at all. Cynthia’s figure was almost perfect — Joan’s own chest looked completely flat compared to
She didn’t have a waist, and she didn’t have hips, and she didn’t have a bust.
Even her hair — dark and straight — paled by comparison to Cynthia’s wavy blond tresses.
“See?” Cynthia said. “We’re exactly the same height! So you can go to the fitting tomorrow, and I — ” Abruptly, she fell silent.
“You can what?” Joan had asked.
Cynthia smiled. “Never mind. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
So she went to the fitting instead of Cynthia, and Mrs. Fillmore had lowered the dress over her head, and she’d turned to look into a mirror, certain the dress would somehow transform her into as beautiful a creature as her sister.
It hadn’t.
Instead of seeing the fairy princess she’d let herself imagine — even hoped for — she was still the same gawky girl she’d been before.
“It’s just not your color,” Mrs. Fillmore had tried to reassure her, reading her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them out loud. “When it’s time for your prom, I’ll make you a red dress. It wouldn’t be right on Cynthia, but red will be perfect for you. You’ll see.”
Joan had made no reply, because even though she was only twelve, she was already sure no one would ever ask her to the prom. But she’d stood perfectly still, and Mrs. Fillmore hadn’t stuck any pins in her, and that night when their mother asked Cynthia how the fitting had gone, her sister lied so smoothly that even Joan almost believed it had been Cynthia who went to Mrs. Fillmore’s that afternoon.
And then the dress arrived, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper and packed into the gray cardboard box. And even though Joan knew she should wait until Cynthia got home and tried it on, she couldn’t contain herself. The unfinished dress had looked so beautiful that she could hardly even imagine what it must look like now.