The Mill River Recluse Page 6

  She had carried the ring with her for only a few days, feeling secretly glamorous at having possession of it, telling herself each day that she would return it the next. She had never intended to keep it. But now, the old widow was dead. If she didn’t return it, she really would be stealing, and the thought of taking anything from a dead woman disturbed her. Jean resolved to return the ring to the marble mansion after her shift on Monday.

  From the kitchen, the sound of breaking glass seized her attention.

  “Mom! Jimmy busted a glass!”

  “Liar! It was Johnny, Mom! He knocked it off the counter and now he’s blaming me!”

  Jean sighed and again reminded herself how wonderful her boys were, how lucky she was to have them.

  Chapter 6

  Mary stood in front of her dresser mirror, staring at herself. The long blue dress she wore just matched the color of her eyes. She had curled her hair as best she could manage. Her beige stockings were tight and itchy and only encouraged the unease she felt every time she looked in the mirror. It was almost five o’clock, and Patrick would soon arrive to take her to dinner with his family.

  She couldn’t believe she had agreed to the date. Her father had been ecstatic when she told him of Patrick’s invitation and her acceptance. In fact, he had driven to Rutland to buy the blue dress and shoes as a surprise for her. She knew that her father wanted so much for her to be able to interact with people. If only she could spend the evening with Patrick alone, she thought, knowing that her deepening feelings for Patrick would do nothing to prevent her anxiety from surfacing.

  Mary looked out the window toward the driveway. A black Lincoln had just pulled up beside the barn. Patrick would be at the door in a few minutes. Mary swallowed hard as a great swelling rose up into her throat. Feeling faint, she sat down on the bed.

  She felt the familiar knot in her stomach, the fear that began to spread upward, raking her insides. It surged down her arms to her fingertips until her hands were ice cold and trembling. Fighting a strong current of nausea, Mary lay down and closed her eyes. Since her first bout with severe anxiety three years ago, it had been the same every time. In its grip, she was powerless.

  Taking deep breaths, Mary tried to calm herself. She remembered well that day late in her junior year of high school when this torment had taken hold of her. There had been a new English teacher, an older man who had immediately focused his attention on her. He’d called on her often. He developed a seating chart and assigned her a desk at the front of the classroom. Mary had often felt him staring at her, even though she dared not look up at him. She began to dread English class.

  Mr. Snee had preyed on her increasing discomfort. He asked to speak to her after classes ended one Thursday afternoon, waited for her in his classroom. He’d smiled as she entered, closed the door behind them, locked it. Told her in an unsteady voice that she was so bright and beautiful, that he so enjoyed having her in his class. That he loved her. Caught her by the wrist when she tried to move past him to the door, pushed her against the blackboard, stifled her scream with his wet mouth. Pinned her against the cold linoleum as he took her innocence. Threatened to kill her if she told anyone of their secret.

  In shock, she’d picked herself up from the floor, wiped her eyes, denied to herself that anything serious had happened. She vaguely remembered walking home, staying in bed the next day, telling her father that she didn’t feel well. During the weekend, she busied herself with the horses, helping to break a new filly and taking Ebony on long rides in the evenings.

  On Monday, though, everything changed.

  As she stepped again into Mr. Snee’s classroom, she began to tremble. She felt his stare as she took her seat and fumbled with her notebook. She refused to look at him when he announced that he had completed grading the compositions turned in the previous week. She shuddered when he announced that he had selected a few of the better ones to be read aloud.

  “Miss Hayes,” Mr. Snee said, leaning forward and placing her graded composition on her desk, “you earned the highest grade on this exercise, so you’ll go first.”

  Finally, she glanced up at him. He was so close that she could see the pupils of his dark, beady eyes and the shimmer of sweat on his upper lip, could smell his sickeningly familiar musk tinged with aftershave. Mr. Snee took a step backward, beckoning her to stand. With hesitation, she had risen and turned to face the other students.

  “Now, don’t be shy, Miss Hayes. Step up a bit more, to the center here, so that everyone can see and hear you.” Mr. Snee settled himself behind his desk as Mary edged away from hers. He smiled again and waited for her to begin.

  Feeling her cheeks redden under the stares of her teacher and classmates, Mary had looked down at her composition and tried to focus on her own handwritten words.

  “Frankenstein’s monster: a lesson in humanity,” she read. “A primary theme of the novel Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, is the failure of man to recognize the humanity in a being of his own creation.”

  Mary remembered how, at that point, she had begun to feel dizzy. She had stopped a moment, knowing that everyone was waiting for her to continue. She had tried.

  “Victor Frankenstein, a young scientist obsessed with the miracle of life, assembles a creature using a myriad of discarded body parts. He is successful in animating the monster but finds its physical appearance so disturbing that he abandons it. In doing so--” She paused, trying to steady her voice. “In doing so, he sets in motion a chain of events whereby a kind, innocent creature is mistreated...mistreated and misunderstood by almost everyone who encounters it.”

  Mary stopped reading to look over at Mr. Snee. The teacher had been watching her intently. She felt again his hot breath on her neck, the suffocating pain of him pressing on her and in her. Her hands began to shake. She gazed from student to student, from one face to another, each frowning at her, or smirking, or smiling nervously. She dropped her gaze and focused on the floor. With a start, she realized that she had lain precisely where she now stood, struggling and screaming into Mr. Snee’s large hand clamped over her mouth. She gasped as the room began to spin.

  For the first time, she’d felt the icy fist of anxiety closing around her stomach. From somewhere in the room, she heard Mr. Snee’s voice asking, “Miss Hayes? Is there a problem, Miss Hayes?” But at that point, she had cared only about getting out of the classroom, away from the raw memory of violation reflected in the taunting eyes of her teacher.

  “I have to leave,” she said, and burst out of the classroom. She remembered turning left and sprinting down the hallway, past the lockers and closed doors of other classrooms. She needed to be alone, in a dark place, where no one could hurt her again.

  At the end of the hallway, she’d frantically turned the doorknob on the janitor’s closet. There, among the mops and brooms and buckets, she felt safe. The pungent odors of the cleaning solutions masked the smell of her own fear, while the darkness protected her from seeing anything else that might upset her. She cried then, muffling her sobs with her hands and feeling the warmth of her tears on her fingers.

  It had taken them nearly an hour to find her. The school called her father, who rushed over to pick her up. She would never be able to forget the tortured expression on her father’s face once she finally revealed what had happened. She’d had no way of knowing, though, that the panic that had driven her from Mr. Snee’s classroom had taken root and would force her to suffer through fits of fearful agony for the rest of her life.

  ~~~

  Patrick walked up the footpath, reviewing a plan in his head. Tonight he would begin in earnest the process of acquiring Mary. She was the final piece in the puzzle—the last thing he needed before he could ascend to his rightful place in society. He knocked on the door of the old house, and Mr. Hayes opened it.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hayes,” Patrick said. “Is Mary ready?”

  “Hello, Patrick, come in. I think she’s almost r
eady, ‘least she was a few minutes ago. I’ll go up an’ check, though. Why don’ you have a seat for a minute?” He motioned toward a brown, moth-eaten davenport.

  “Of course,” Patrick said. The thought of his suit touching that upholstery displeased him, but he did as he was asked. Mr. Hayes smiled, then turned and practically ran up the stairs. He found Mary on the bed, curled into a fetal position.

  “Mary! Mary, he’s here. What’s wrong?” he said, bending over her.

  “Papa, I can’t go with him. I feel sick. Please tell him for me.”

  “Mary, I thought you were goin’ to be all right with this. You were so excited when you told me about it earlier, an’ he really cares about you, you know.” He paused. “Mary, you’re nineteen years old, an’ you can’t go on like this. You need to be with other people, especially people your own age. I know you like Patrick. You went ridin’ with him all summer. You should spend more time with him. I’m not goin’ to be here forever, an’ you can’t be by yourself for the rest of your life.”

  Mary remained motionless on the bed.

  Mr. Hayes sighed. “Patrick’ll be disappointed, you know. I’ll tell him you’re not able to go, but I wish you would try, Mary. You know I only want the best for you,” he said, and went back downstairs.

  Patrick jumped to his feet as Mr. Hayes reached the bottom of the stairway. He suspected that getting Mary out of the house would be difficult, and one look at the farmer’s face confirmed his suspicion.

  “She’s too nervous, isn’t she?” Patrick asked before Mr. Hayes could say anything.

  “Well, you know how she is,” he replied. “When she freezes up like she does, I jus’ don’ know what to do. I tried to talk her into comin’ down, but I don’ believe she will.”

  “Perhaps I could go up?” Patrick offered. “Maybe if I talk with her a little, reassure her, she might relax.”

  “That’s good of you, Patrick, but I don’ think it would do any good. She’s pretty upset. I asked her to go tonight, but....” Mr. Hayes’s voice trailed off, and he and Patrick stood awkwardly in the old living room.

  Patrick struggled to mask his frustration. “Well, please, tell Mary that I’m sorry she couldn’t make it this evening,” he said as he turned to leave. “I’ll try to come out to visit after work one night this week, and--”

  The wooden stairs were creaking behind him. Mary stepped hesitantly into the light of the living room. She stopped on the bottom step and faced him, trembling and clutching a dainty black pocketbook. There was no color in her face.

  “Mary,” he said. He would have an opportunity to work on the first obstacle after all. He rushed over to her, took both of her hands in his. “Your father said you weren’t feeling well. Do you think you’re up to this evening?”

  “I suppose so,” Mary replied, looking up at him. Only then did she realize he was holding her hands, and she blushed. She glanced over at her father, but he was smiling with approval.

  “We won’t be out late. Don’t worry,” Patrick told Mary and Mr. Hayes. “But we should be going. Mother’s expecting us by six-thirty.”

  Mary felt herself cringe when Patrick mentioned meeting his mother, but she allowed him to take her arm and lead her to the door. Her father patted her on the shoulder as she left.

  “You two have a good time,” Mr. Hayes called to them as they headed down to the car.

  Patrick opened the passenger side door of the Lincoln for Mary, then ran around to the other side and got in himself. Mary occasionally rode into Mill River with her father in their old truck, but riding in the Lincoln was a completely new experience. The smooth hum of the engine was nothing like the rough idle of the pickup. The tan leather seat was buttery-soft, and it cradled her. Mary folded her hands over her pocketbook in her lap, afraid to touch anything lest she leave a smudge on the polished interior of the car.

  Patrick smiled down at her. She was sitting calmly, but her face betrayed the anxiety she felt. She continually looked out the window of the car. Mary reminded him of a little bluebird, perched and ready to fly away. Not this evening, not ever, he thought.

  They were a few miles outside Rutland when Mary started to shake uncontrollably. She faced forward in her seat and whispered to him.

  “Patrick, I can’t do this. Please go back. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  Patrick reached over and placed his right hand over both of hers. At the same time, he stepped more firmly on the accelerator.

  “Mary, please try to relax. It’s only my family, and I’m sure they’ll like you.”

  “Can’t go, please stop, I’m going to be sick—” She pulled one of her hands free of his and clutched at the passenger’s side window.

  “Mary, we’re almost there. Take a few deep breaths. You have nothing to fear from this evening. It’s only dinner, and I’ll have you home before you know it. Do you trust me?”

  She was curled against the door, whimpering. Patrick focused on keeping his voice calm.

  “You’ll be with me. If you start to feel anxious, squeeze my arm, and we’ll try to get away for a few minutes until you feel better.”

  Mary’s cries quieted a little as she listened.

  “That’s better. I won’t leave your side, I promise,” he said, gently rubbing her hand.

  Mary remained silent as they drove into the city of Rutland. Patrick pointed out several of the more prominent buildings, including a complex comprised of the tall structures of McAllister Marbleworks. “Here’s the downtown district,” Patrick said as Mary stole a glance out the window, “and here’s Main Street Park. The house is just up ahead.” The Victorian-style homes were growing larger and larger. The house at the end of the street was the grandest of them all, a great yellow Victorian set against a backdrop of autumn maples. Patrick pulled into the circular driveway.

  Mary looked around. There were at least six other cars parked around the house. Several young men stood on the porch, talking over drinks and cigars. The wide front door of the house was open, leaving only a screen door that did nothing to conceal the voices of other guests already inside. The windows and door spilled light into the evening. Mary fought to keep from retching. The house was a great gaping monster from which she might not emerge.

  “I thought you said this was only a family dinner.”

  “It is. Everyone here is family.”

  Mary’s face lost all trace of color, and her hands suddenly became so clammy that her fingertips ached. Her violent trembling returned, and she seized Patrick’s arm before he could open the driver’s side door.

  “Please, Patrick, I can’t go in there,” she said, her voice rising to a fevered pitch. “I’m not ready for this, I--”

  Patrick glanced at her, and, for just a second, his green eyes flashed a strange hostility. His voice, though, was as soothing as ever.

  “Mary! Mary, you are ready, and everyone is expecting us. Don’t worry. It won’t be as bad as you think.”

  He extricated his arm from her grasp and quickly got out of the car. When he came around to her side to help her out, she again grabbed his arm and squeezed it as hard as she could. Patrick gasped in surprise and shook his head as if she were a naughty little girl. “Now now, I told you not to worry,” he said, patting her hand and pulling her toward the house.

  Waves of nausea washed over Mary.

  “Hey, Patrick!” said one of the men on the porch through a cloud of cigar smoke. “We were beginning to think you weren’t comin.’ Yeah, we thought you mighta got lost out there in the country, if you know what I mean.” The men sniggered, and the speaker winked and elbowed the man standing next to him.

  “Right,” Patrick said. He patted Mary’s hand again. “Fellas, I’d like you to meet Mary Hayes. Mary, these are two of my cousins, Phil and Donovan Leary.” The cousins nodded to her. “The loudmouth is my brother, Jacob.”

  Mary took a deep breath and looked up at the three. She managed to smile. Immediately, the faces of the three men lit up
with dopey grins.

  “Call me Jake,” the younger McAllister said. “And if I’m a loudmouth, it’s only because I’ve had an older brother to set a great example for me. Isn’t that right, Patrick?”

  Patrick scoffed and guided her into the monster’s mouth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mary,” Jake called after them.

  A butler held open the screen door for them, and Patrick and Mary walked through the grand foyer of the McAllister home. They made their way into a large sitting room in which people were gathering. Patrick proceeded to make the rounds, introducing Mary to more cousins, aunts, and uncles. Patrick noticed his father across the room, pouring himself a brandy. As he glanced proudly down at Mary. Stephen followed his son’s gaze and promptly overfilled his glass.

  Through all this, Mary looked up only occasionally, and gripped Patrick’s arm with such ferocity that her knuckles turned white. She was thankful that Patrick moved between introductions quickly enough to prevent anyone from saying much to her. When the arm supporting Mary finally began to ache, Patrick bent down and whispered in her ear.

  “Would you like to take a break?”

  “Please, yes.”

  They turned to exit the great room, but were blocked by two stunning redheaded women. They wore different gowns and hairstyles, but their faces were mirror images.

  “Patrick, we’ve been looking all over for you,” one of them said.

  “We’ve been dying to meet your little friend,” the other chimed in.

  “This is Mary Hayes,” Patrick began. “Mary, meet my sisters--”

  “--Sara,” one of the twins said.

  “--and Emma,” the other finished.

  They smiled together.

  “Hello,” Mary said.

  “That’s a lovely dress,” Sara observed, looking wistfully at Mary. “The color’s good on you.”

  “Much better than it would have been on us,” Emma agreed. “We saw that very dress in the window at Carolyn’s downtown several months ago. Both of us wanted it, but the store had only one left.”