Ancient echoes quivered with each step across
the marble foyer. Dick didn't like coming home to an empty house and regretted
giving Smithers the night off. Nell’s
happy chatter usually filled the rooms, but she wouldn't be with him for three
hours. He had to let her go to the birthday party, she needed to play,
be with other kids, eat cake and ice cream.
He
poured himself a scotch, the leaded crystal decanter familiar in his hands.
Memories of afternoon drinks with his father surfaced. Quiet conversations, the
aroma of a good cigar, and a scotch always finished their day. Dick tilted his head draining the glass,
accepting the smooth burn as it caressed his throat. The pleasantness past when the scotch reached
his ulcers. They screamed. He didn't care. He stood a moment concentrating on
keeping the contents of his stomach where they belonged. He won.
“I've
lost so much,” he groaned, “Let me have this.”
The
echoes followed as he counted thirteen steps across the cold marble dismissing
a sense of foreboding that seemed to pierce his soul.
“Don’t
be an idiot. She’s locked in the mental ward 200 miles away.”
Dick
walked slowly up the stairs he walked as a child, loving each creak in the old
oak. Always the same creaks, always on the same stairs. He entered the library welcoming the room’s
cold kiss on his face. He rekindled the fire, staring at the flames as they
licked the grate, allowing the heat to warm him from the outside in.
His
childhood greeted him as he sat in the overstuffed chair. The same chair he sat
in with his father, the same chair he sat in with Nell. Dick was content when Nell sat with him by
this very same fireplace watching as shadowed flames danced across dark paneled
walls. He wanted her to read the very same books, and roam the very same halls
he did as a child.
“Just,
Nell and me. That’s good enough.”
Dick and Jane married within six months of
meeting. His dad warned him.
“She’s
like a trap set, just waiting for the rat.”
Dick didn't listen, which in after thought was odd, he usually listened
to his father’s advice, but he was enamored with Jane. She was tall, gorgeous,
and smart. She responded to his touch as
though she had been waiting for the conductor of her symphony. They blended
perfectly. He wanted her.
The
first years were all he had hoped. They spent hours walking the wooded paths
surrounding their estate, making plans, making love beneath the aged oak. Their
Ballet complete, he would watch the moons light as it danced across Jane’s
perfect skin.
The insanity crept in slowly, but soon Jane
spent hours wandering the halls, peeking into closets and spare rooms, calling
for him when she thought she saw something.
“What
did you see?” Dick would ask each time.
“It
moves so fast,” she cried, “I just see a blur.” He pleaded with her to get
help. Her reply was always the same,
“There
is nothing wrong with me!”
She
quit eating and got so thin her veins looked like road maps beneath her white
skin. Again he pleaded. Again her reply,
“There
is nothing wrong with me. Someone is trying to make me crazy.”
“Is
that why you don’t eat? You think someone is trying to poison you?”
“Someone is trying to drive me insane! I won’t
let them! Nothing from this house will touch my lips!”
Jane
vanished for days at a time and Dick began to think she was having an affair.
When he confronted her she told him,
“I
hide in the woods when it gets too close.”
“When
what gets too close?” He would ask.
“I
don’t know.”
He felt helpless. As the years wore on, Dick
began to see he couldn't save her, but he couldn't leave. He asked his father
why he loved an insane woman.
“Why
can’t I let her go? What’s wrong with me?”
“I
don’t know that there’s anything wrong with you,” His father replied, “You’re
still in love with her,” but thought to himself. At 35 you’re still looking
for the woman you lost when you were five.
Dick
begged Jane to get help. She begged him to believe her. After more years and
countless doctors, no hope remained that she would ever be anywhere near sane.
In her continued protests someone was after her, she refused any medication.
Shortly before Dick was to serve divorce papers, Jane told him she was
pregnant. If he hadn't had that one weak moment this would have been the second
Immaculate Conception or…. someone else’s child.
Dick
knew six months after Nell was born she was his. The likeness to his mother
cast away all doubts. Jane improved. Dick hoped. He didn't want to lose his
wife. He was raised without a mother, the only other woman he had ever loved,
and didn't want his Nell to have the same fate.
He
spent the next few years watching over this child, forever cautious, forever on
alert. By the time Nell turned three, Dick was beginning to think Jane was
somehow cured. She still ate little and refused any medication, but she seemed
to be holding her own. He felt like he had been holding his breath for three
years.
Dick
heard a familiar creak and for an instant thought his father was coming up the
stairs. Disappointment followed. His father had been dead five years. The
fireplace crackled, bits of embers floated to the stone hearth. Dick watched as
the cinders turned to ash. His eyes were drawn to the doorway. Anxiety’s mantle
suddenly gripped him. His spine stiffened.
“This is stupid,” he muttered as he got up to
turn on the radio. Beethoven’s glory filled the room. He refilled his scotch, winced, then poured
another.
The
day he came home to find Jane hiding under their bed, five year old Nell held
tight to her breast, was the day he knew she had to go. Dick was afraid of what
she would do. To him or Nell. Vague
memories plagued him. Shadows roamed in the back of his head, but he could
never bring them into focus. He wished his dad was still alive and wished he
had listened to him sooner.
He
served Jane with divorce papers, got her an apartment in town, and never saw
her again. He had no trouble convincing a judge she was unstable. Jane had
supervised visits, but soon never kept her appointments. He and Nell were
settling into a routine when he got the first call. He knew it was Jane…
although she never said a word. He knew she was stalking him… although he never
actually saw more than a red coat running away from him every time he turned
around.
“Beethoven’s
Fifth has been interrupted to bring a news bulletin. Three mental patients
overpowered guards, killing one, escaping from Holly Oaks mental hospital. Two
of the patients were captured in less than an hour. One still remains at
large.”
Dick
didn't need to hear the name of the patient not yet in custody.
Creak…creak…creak.
Panic captured him. He reached for the crystal
decanter; blood trickled down the etched glass as he tightened his grip. A
familiar ache knotted his gut, he fought for control. He lost. Dick leaned his head over the side of the
chair. Vomit splashed the Persian rug like paint from a can; the green puke
spread across the peacock’s tail, blending, merging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
A whispered call floated up the stairs.
“Ricky. Ricky.”
The
sound of her voice hurled him to his feet… the crystal shattered. Bile rose in
his throat. He refused it. Running across the library to a hidden panel, he
pressed firmly. It opened. Dick removed the loaded rifle. He shoved the overstuffed
chair till it faced the door, the fireplace roared at his back. He knew which
step she was on by the sound of the creaks.
Creak,
creak, thud. Creak, creak, thud.
“I
have a gun!” Dick hollered.
“I
have ammunition too.” She sang.
“Jesus
God. Jesus God.” Dick chanted.
Creak,
creak, thud. She was almost at the top of the stairs.
“I
don’t want to shoot you.” He rasped.
“I’ve
been dead for years.” She giggled.
Dick’s
dry eyes held the doorway. A woman entered, her red coat hanging loosely, her
shining eyes barely visible through wild hair. Lost shadowed images crowded
Dick’s brain.
“I
have something for you Ricky.” She held a rope in her hand, it hung slack… she
pulled it to her. A guttural laugh escaped her throat.
“I know you,” he whispered.
“Of
course you do,” she cooed.
Dick
sprang from his chair, the rifle firm against his shoulder. Stifled screams
punctured the chilled air as scarred wrists pulled the knotted rope. Grunts
escaped the graveled throat as she dragged her burden through the doorway. In
triumph she held the rope high, her shining eyes dancing.
“For
you,” she murmured, pointing to her burden on the floor. The
burden struggled… Jane lay at his mother’s feet… the rope tight around her
slender neck.
“Now do you believe me?” Jane gasped.
