Comes the Blind Fury

“I’ll kill her,” Mandy whispered. “If she tells, I’ll kill her.…”

June settled Jennifer into her bassinet, carefully tucked a blanket around her, then turned to her easel, and surveyed the seascape. It was nearly finished. Time to start on something else. She opened the closet door, pulled the string that hung from the naked bulb just inside and reached for the closest canvas. Its size didn’t suit her, and she went further into the closet, rummaging through the tangle of frames and canvases stacked haphazardly at the back. Finally she saw one that suited her and pulled it loose from the rest.

It wasn’t until she had it out in the studio that she realized it wasn’t blank.

She stared at the charcoal sketch, frowning. She couldn’t remember having done the sketch, and yet she must have. She set the canvas up on the easel, then stepped back and looked at it once more.

It was strange.

The sketch, two nude figures making love, was not bad.

But it was not hers.

The style was wrong, and the subject matter.

Over the years she had sketched dozens of canvases, then, displeased with them, set them aside, intending either to do them over, or clean them off. Invariably, when she came across one of them, she remembered the picture, or at least recognized it as her own — her technique, or a subject that interested her.

But this was different. The strokes were bold, bolder than her own, and more primitive. And yet the figures were good — the proportions were right, and they almost seemed to move on the canvas. But who could have done them?

The work had to be hers. It had to! And yet, she couldn’t remember it at all. She was about to clean the canvas, when she changed her mind. Feeling strangely uneasy, she put it back into the closet.

Michelle began gathering her books together, keeping her eyes on the floor as the rest of the class hurried out into the corridor. The afternoon had been miserable for her: she had waited in agony for the recess period. She was sure Miss Hatcher would want to talk to her. But recess had come and gone, and Miss Hatcher had said nothing. Now the day had passed. She got to her feet, picked up her cane, and faced the door.

“Michelle? Would you wait a minute please?”

Slowly she turned to the teacher. Miss Hatcher was looking at her, but she didn’t seem angry. Instead, she seemed worried.

“Michelle, what happened at lunchtime today?”

“Y-you mean with Annie?”

Corinne Hatcher nodded. “I understand there was an accident.” Her voice sounded concerned, but not angry. Michelle let herself relax a little.

“I turned the rope too fast, I guess. Annie tripped, and the rope hit her leg. But she said she’s all right.”

“But how did it happen?” Miss Hatcher pressed. Michelle wished she knew what Susan Peterson had told her.

“It — It just happened,” Michelle said helplessly. “I guess I just wasn’t paying attention.” She paused, then hesitantly asked a question. “What did Susan say?”

“Nothing much. Just that she saw Annie get hit by the rope.”

“She said I did it on purpose, didn’t she?”

“Why would she say that?” Corinne countered. It was exactly what Susan had said.

“She said I was going to get expelled for it.” Michelle’s voice was quavering, and she was struggling to hold back her tears.

“Well, even if you’d done it on purpose, I don’t think we’d expel you for it. Maybe make you write ‘I won’t trip Annie Whitmore’ on the blackboard a hundred times. But since it was an accident, it doesn’t seem to require punishment, does it?”

“You mean you believe me?” Michelle breathed.

“Of course I do.” The last of the tension went out of Michelle. Things were going to be all right after all. Now she looked beseechingly at Miss Hatcher.

“Miss Hatcher, why would Susan say I did that on purpose?” she asked.

Because she’s a mean, nasty little liar, Corinne thought to herself. “Sometimes some people see things differently from others,” she said evenly. “That’s why it’s important to find out what other people say about things. For instance, Sally Carstairs said you didn’t do anything deliberately. She said it was an accident, too.”

Michelle nodded. “It was an accident. I wouldn’t hurt Annie — I like her. And she likes me.”

“Everybody likes you, Michelle.” Corinne reached out and patted her shoulder affectionately. “Just give everyone a chance, and you’ll see.”

Michelle avoided her eyes. “Can I go now?” she asked.

“Of course. Is your mother picking you up?”

“I can walk.” The way Michelle said it made Corinne think it was almost a challenge.

“I’m sure you can,” she agreed gently. Michelle started toward the door, but again Corinne stopped her.

“Michelle.” The child stopped, but didn’t turn around, forcing Corinne to talk to her back. “Michelle, what happened to you was an accident, too. You mustn’t be angry about it, or blame anybody. It was an accident, just like what happened to Annie today.”

“I know.” Her voice was dull, the words sounding like an automatic response.

“And the children will get used to you. With the older ones, it will just take a little while, that’s all. They’ll stop making fun of you.”

“Will they?” Michelle asked. But she didn’t wait for an answer.

By the time she emerged from the school building, the grounds were deserted. Michelle limped slowly along, half glad there was no one to see her, half disappointed there was no one to talk to. She had almost expected Sally to be waiting for her. But why should she? Michelle reflected. Why should Sally waste her time on a cripple?

She tried to tell herself that what Miss Hatcher had said was true, that soon her classmates would get used to her limp and find something else to talk about, someone else to laugh at. But as she walked, her hip hurting her more with each step, she knew it wasn’t true. She wasn’t going to get better — she was going to get worse.

She paused when she got to the bluff road and leaned on her cane for a while, looking at the sea, watching the gulls soar effortlessly on the wind.

She wished she were a bird, so she could fly, too, fly high above the sea, fly away, far away, and never see anybody again. But she couldn’t fly, she would never even be able to run again.

She started on, her limp more pronounced than ever.

As she passed the graveyard, she heard the voice:

“Cripple … cripple … cripple!”

Even before she looked, she knew who it was. She stood still, then finally turned to face Susan Peterson.

“Stop that.”

“Why?” Susan called, her voice mocking. “What are you going to do about it? Cripple!”

“You’re not supposed to be in the cemetery,” Michelle said, trying to put down the anger that was rising in her.

“I can go where I want to, and do what I want,” Susan taunted. “I’m not gimpy, like some people are!”

The words rang in Michelle’s ears, stinging, hurting, cutting into her. Her anger swelled inside her, and once more the fog began closing in around her.

But now, with the fog, came Amanda.

She could feel Amanda before she heard her, feel her presence next to her, supporting her. And then Mandy began whispering to her.

“Don’t let her say things like that,” Mandy said. “Make her be quiet. Make her keep her mouth shut!”

Michelle started into the cemetery, her feet tangling in the weeds, her cane more a hindrance than a help. But she could feel Mandy beside her, steadying her, urging her on.

And through the fog, she could see Susan Peterson’s face, her grin gone, her laughter dying on her lips.