into her mouth. Jimmy was gobbling at the food with the hunger of a small child not used to going without.
The nausea hit both of them simultaneously, and suddenly both of them were lying on the floor of the cave, retching furiously. The sandwiches, the wonderful gift from above, were stuffed with sand. Sand, and seaweed.
From above they heard the awful, maniacal laughter, and they knew that it was Elizabeth up there, holding the light steady, watching them puke. Instinctively Kathy and Jimmy squirmed away into the protective darkness, like subterranean animals creeping away from the sun. When they were completely out of the pool of light, the beam of whiteness suddenly disappeared, and they heard the sounds of Elizabeth creeping away toward the surface. Kathy and Jimmy cried quietly, clutching each other’s hands.
20
The following Sunday was one of those leaden, gray days when fall seems to take a perverse pleasure in giving a preview of the winter to come. In Port Arbello the weather only accented the depression that hung over the town, and the tavern did a brisker business than usual. On an ordinary Sunday morning, only Marty Forager could be counted on to step over the threshhold, announcing that he was there for “services.” He would then stay through the day, and shuffle out only after he had finished “vespers.” But on the Sunday following Jimmy Tyler’s disappearance, the churches of Port Arbello found their pews packed for the early service, and the tavern found its stools packed for Marty Forager’s services.
The Congers did not go to church that Sunday morning, nor did they show up at the tavern. They wouldn’t have gone to the tavern anyway, and they had omitted church by mutual consent, neither stating why they chose to stay home, neither wanting to hear the reasons voiced. It was as if they sensed something coming, and hoped they might be able to avoid it by staying in their house. They were observing their morning coffee ritual, silently, when the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” they heard Elizabeth call from upstairs. A moment later they heard her call down again. “It’s for you, Mother. Mrs. Stevens.”
“Barbara,” Rose said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. She had, indeed, been growing as depressed as anybody else in Port Arbello, but was able to hide it by using her “professional” voice. “I was beginning to think you people had—” She’d been about to say “died” when she thought better of it. She didn’t bother to try to find a better word. “That was a hell of a thing to say, wasn’t it Well, I guess that’s what’s on all our minds these days.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” Barbara Stevens replied. “I’m tired of the only topic of conversation in Port Arbello, and I should imagine you are too. And the weather’s too lousy to work on the house, so Carl thought a game of bridge on a wet afternoon might be in order. Do you play?”
“I’d love to,” Rose said. “What time and where?”
“Here, about one-ish. And bring the girls.”
“Let me check with Jack. I’ll call you right back.”
She hung up the phone and returned to the dining room.
“That was Barbara Stevens. She and Carl want us to come to their place for a game of bridge this afternoon. With the girls,” she added as Jack looked doubtful.
“I don’t know. You know how Sarah can be in a strange place.”
“Then well leave than home with Mrs. Goodrich,” Rose said promptly. Jack saw that there was going to be a bridge game and decided to go along with it gracefully, even though he hated the game.
“Why don’t we play here instead?” he suggested. “Unless there’s some reason why the Stevenses want us at their place?”
“Fine,” Rose said, smiling. “Barbara said one. Is that all right with you?”
Jack glanced at his watch automatically. “I can’t see any reason why not,” he said.
Rose grinned at him. “Except that you hate the game, right?” Without giving him time to answer, she continued. “Well, at least it will give us something new to think about. After this week, you might even find you enjoy it.”
The same thought had occurred to him, and he smiled at Rose, then watched her leave the room. He listened to her talking to Barbara Stevens, but didn’t really hear what she was saying. He was, instead, trying to decide why it was that ever since the afternoon with Sylvia, which had been wonderful, he had been feeling better