Part 26 (1/2)

There was a squeaking noise from the front of the shop. Marjorie and Mimi turned to see Sarah Peel staring at them with her mouth open.

”That's her,” whispered Marjorie. ”That's the very one I was talking about.”

Mimi looked at Sarah sternly. This particular bag lady had been forbidden to enter the Porcelain Parlor. She was the most dangerous one of the lot, because her stroller bristled with appendagesa”an umbrella, a bulging plastic bag, a pillow, a pile of clothing, a blanket, an overflowing basket. There was even a folding chair.

”No,” cried Sarah, ”you can't do that to Pearl.”

It was the last straw. ”Out,” cried Mimi, striding forward. ”Out with you! Out, out!” Grasping Sarah by the arms, she turned her around and dragged her out the door. Sarah fought back. There was a furious tussle. The golden eagle rocked on its pedestal, and fell, and smashed on the floor, followed by the ballerina. The Coha.s.set couple were spattered with chips of broken china. Sarah's stroller, abandoned in the middle of the floor, rolled this way and that.

It was at this moment that Jack Markey walked in, carrying a pink plastic bag. Dodging the stroller, he put the bag on the counter, then turned abruptly and walked out again, tripping over the stroller, which sailed across the floor and slapped against the counter. The pink bag fell off the counter into the stroller and nestled between Sarah's umbrella and the folding chair.

Regaining his balance, Jack marched out to the street, ignoring Mimi Pink, who was standing on the sidewalk shouting angrily after the shambling figure of Sarah Peel.

Mimi didn't notice his departure. She was too angry. She tramped back into the shop, crunching underfoot the splintered pieces of the porcelain eagle. Her breast heaved, adrenaline coursed through her body. She stared at the stroller. It was a hideous blot, a foreign object in her glittering store. One hand grasping the handle, she rushed it through shop and office and back door into the alley beside the Mill Brook, where a dumpster was parked. Violently she hurled the contents of the stroller into the dumpster. By the time she had tossed the stroller in after the basket and the umbrella and the folding chair and the coats and the blanket and the pillow and the pink plastic bag, she was shaking, she felt really ill. She stood for a moment, gasping for breath, and then she stalked back into the shop to apologize to the couple from Coha.s.set.

They were gone. Marjorie Bland was gone.

It was typical, absolutely typical of the chilling effect those homeless troublemakers were having on local trade. The time had come to take the case to court.

*55*

I am like a feather floating in the atmosphere; on every

side is depth unfathomable. a”Journal, February 21, 1842

Charlotte Harris woke up at five o'clock in the morning to find herself alone. The other side of the bed was not sagging under her husband's weight. The room was gray with dawn light. Where was Pete?

It wasn't like him to be late. Whenever he had night duty at the hospital he came home exactly at four in the morning and ate a dish of Wheaties and came to bed, making a lot of noise, talking to Charlotte, waking her up so completely she couldn't get back to sleep.

Charlotte got out of bed and looked out the window. Pete's car was not parked at the edge of the driveway. She called the hospital. ”May I have the kitchen? Mrs. Heppleman? This is Charlotte Harris. Is Pete still there?”

”Why, no, Mrs. Harris. He left at his usual time. You mean he hasn't come home?”

”I suppose he stopped off for breakfast somewhere. Well, thank you.”

But they both knew there was no place in the neighborhood to get breakfast in the middle of the night. Charlotte hung up, aware that Mrs. Heppleman would a.s.sume the Harrises were having marital troubles.

She called the police.

”How long has he been missing, Mrs. Harris?” said the sleepy voice of the officer on duty.

”Well, he left the hospital at quarter of four, and it's five-thirty now. He always comes straight home.”

There was a pause. Once again Charlotte knew what the man was thinkinga”marital problems. ”Tell you what, Mrs. Harris. If your husband is still missing tomorrow morning at this time, call us back. We don't usually issue a missing person bulletin until somebody's been gone for several days.”

”Well, all right.” Charlotte put down the phone and took a deep, shaky breath.

A mile away from Pond View in Oliver Fry's house, just up the street from the police station, Ananda Singh came downstairs at seven-thirty and saw a letter lying open on the table. The heading at the top was clearly visible, and he couldn't help reading it: TO THE VOTERS OF THE TOWN OF.

CONCORD FROM THE COMMITTEE TO.

ELECT ROGER BLAND.

Ananda was not an American citizen, not a voter, and therefore the letter was not addressed to him. But he didn't think he would be invading the privacy of Hope and Oliver Fry by reading it. After putting a kettle on the stove, he sat down at the table and looked at the sheet of pale green paper. Behind him the shrews scrambled in their cage. The snakes writhed in the aquarium.

The letter too was a snake, and it bit his hand. At the end of the printed text was a list of Eland's supporters. At the head of the list was the name Hope Fry. Ananda closed his eyes in pain.

Hope came running into the kitchen. She was cheerful and excited. She threw open the refrigerator door. ”Isn't this the day we're going to Gowing's Swamp? I'll make a picnic lunch. There'll be four of us, right?”

Ananda stood up in torment. ”Only three, I'm afraid. I cannot go. I am nota”feeling very well.”

Hope turned in surprise. ”Oh, I'm sorry.” She watched as he crumpled a piece of paper, threw it in the wastebasket, and left the room in silent dignity.

At once she went to the wastebasket, extracted the paper, recognized it for what it was, and read her own name at the top of the list of Roger Bland's supporters. Overcome with misery and shame, she sank into a chair.

From his bedroom window Ananda watched her open the back door of Homer Kelly's car. She was carrying a bag of sandwiches and a pair of rubber boots.

”Where's Ananda?” said Mary, smiling at her from the front seat.

”He's not feeling very well today,” said Hope stiffly.

Looking down from above, hearing his own falsehood, Ananda winced. He watched them drive away and murmured good-bye to Hope Fry. The girl who had attracted him so strongly with her open face and lovely smile was not the person he had thought her. That person had never existed.

He was alone in the house. When the phone rang, he picked it up with a sense of desolation.

”Ananda?”

It was Bonnie Glover. Ananda cringed and muttered, ”h.e.l.lo.”

Bonnie was in tears. ”She fired me. I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't pay my rent.”

”Oh, I'm sorry.”

Bonnie's sobs stopped, and her next words were perfectly clear. ”So I'm moving in with you.”

”No, no, you can't do that!”