Comes the Blind Fury

But Lisa still backed away from her. Just before the gray mists surrounded her, Michelle saw her turn and begin running.

As Susan Peterson had run.

CHAPTER 21

They held Susan Peterson’s funeral on Saturday.

Estelle Peterson sat in the front pew of the Methodist Church, her head bowed, her fingers twisting compulsively at a limp handkerchief. Susan’s coffin was only a few feet away, banked with flowers, its lid propped open. Next to Estelle, Henry stared stoically ahead, his eyes fixed on a spot high above the coffin, his face carefully impassive.

A low murmuring began moving slowly through the congregation. Estelle tried to ignore it, but when she heard Constance Benson’s voice cut through the unintelligible sounds, she finally turned around.

Michelle Pendleton, wearing a black dress and leaning heavily on her cane, was making her way slowly down the aisle. Behind her were her parents, with June carrying the baby. For a split second, Estelle’s eyes met June’s. Estelle quickly looked away. Again, she heard Constance Benson’s voice.

“Of all the places for them to turn up …” she began, but Bertha Carstairs, sitting next to her, jabbed her with an elbow, and Constance subsided. As the Pendletons seated themselves in a pew halfway between the door and the altar, the service for Susan Peterson began.

Michelle could feel the hostility around her.

It was as if every eye in the church was on her, watching her, accusing her. She wanted to leave, but knew that she wouldn’t be able to. If only she weren’t crippled — if only she could get up and slip quietly out. But if she tried, things would only be worse. Her cane, tap-tapping along the hardwood floor, would echo through the church, and the minister would stop his prayers, and then they would all stare at her openly. At least while she sat still they tried to pretend they weren’t watching her, even though she knew they were.

June, too, had to force herself to sit still, to keep her face impassive, to endure the endess service. It had been a mistake, coming to the funeral. If Cal hadn’t insisted, she would never have come. She had argued with him, but it hadn’t done any good. He had stonily insisted that Michelle had had nothing to do with Susan’s death; therefore, there was no reason for them not to go to the funeral. June had tried to reason with him, had tried to make him see that it would be hard for Michelle, miserably hard, for her to sit in the church, surrounded by all the children who had been her friends, and listen to the service. Couldn’t Cal see that? Didn’t he understand that it didn’t matter that Michelle had done nothing to Susan? It was what people thought that counted.

But Cal would not be budged. And so they had come. June had heard Constance Benson, and she was sure that Michelle had heard her, as well. She had seen the look in Estelle Peterson’s eyes — the look of hurt, and accusation, and bewilderment.

Finally, the service came to an end. The congregation stood as the casket was borne slowly down the aisle, followed by Estelle and Henry Peterson. As they passed the Pendletons, Henry glared at Cal, his eyes hard and challenging, and Cal felt a tightening in his stomach. Maybe, he thought, June was right — maybe we shouldn’t have come. But then, as the pews began emptying into the aisle, Bertha Carstairs stopped and took his hand.

“I–I just want you to know,” she stammered. “My family and I—we’re so sorry about all of this. It seems like ever since you came to the Point things have — well.…” Her voice trailed off, but she shrugged eloquently.

“Thank you,” Cal said softly. “But it’s all right. Things are going to be all right now. Accidents happen—”

“Accidents!”

It was Constance Benson, with Jeff’s hand gripped tightly in her own. “What happened to Susan Peterson was no accident!” Then, as Cal’s face turned deathly pale, she swept out of the church.

Suddenly, the Pendletons were alone. June looked helplessly around, searching for a friendly face, but there was none. Even the Carstairses had disappeared, lost in the crowd around the Petersons.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Please? We came. We were here. Now can’t we go home?”

Next to her, Michelle stood quietly, tears streaming down her face.

Corinne Hatcher had slipped out of the church with Tim and Lisa Hartwick just before the service ended. It hadn’t occurred to Corinne Hatcher not to go to the funeral, but it had occurred to her that, if she stayed after the service, she might be put in an untenable position. She would be expected — indeed, forced — to recognize that there were many people in Paradise Point who felt that Michelle had “done” something to Susan. Further, she might have to align herself either with the Petersons or the Pendletons. But at last it was over.

“I wonder if Michelle killed Susan,” Lisa said from the backseat of Tim’s car.

“Don’t be silly,” Corinne began, but Lisa promptly interrupted her.

“Well, I think she did. I think the kids are right-she’s crazy.”

“I’ve told you before, Lisa,” Tim said calmly. “Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about.”

“But I do know about her.” Lisa’s voice began to take on the familiar whine that so irritated Corinne. She turned to look at Lisa.

“You don’t even know her.”

“I do too! I talked to her the other day, out at that old cemetery next to her house.”

“I thought I told you not to go out there.” Tim’s voice was mild, but Lisa did not ignore the reprimand.

“I didn’t go to her house,” she said. “I only went to the graveyard. Can I help it if she was there?”

“And what makes you think she’s crazy?” Tim asked.

“Just the way she talked. She thinks the ghost that’s supposed to be out there is her friend. She said I could meet her, if I wanted to.”

“Meet her?” Corinne frowned. “You mean Michelle thought she was actually there?”

Lisa shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything. But when I told Michelle that Amanda was a ghost, she got real mad.” Lisa began to giggle. “She’s crazy.” She began repeating the word in an odd sing-song voice: “CRAA-zy, CRAA-zy, CRAA-zy!”

Corinne had heard enough. “That’s enough, Lisa!” she snapped. As if she’d been struck, Lisa fell silent. Tim glanced at Corinne reproachfully but said nothing until they were in his house and Lisa had gone to her room.

“Corinne,” he said when they were alone, “I wish you’d leave the discipline to me.”

“She’s spoiled,” Corinne shot back. “And you know it. If you don’t do something about it soon, she’s going to wind up in trouble.” The sadness in his eyes made her retreat. The subject of Lisa was just too painful to Tim. And right now, there was a subject of more immediate concern. “I want you to talk to Michelle about this imaginary friend of hers,” she said.

Tim was thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “An imaginary friend at her age — wherever it comes from — is certainly abnormal. I don’t want to use Lisa’s words, but Michelle could be very disturbed.”

“Tim,” Corinne said slowly. “Suppose Michelle isn’t — disturbed, as you put it, and suppose she hasn’t really made an imaginary friend? Suppose Amanda really is a ghost?”

Tim stared at her.

“But that’s impossible, isn’t it.” His tone left no room for argument.

Michelle closed her book and set it aside. Try as she would, she couldn’t get her mind off the funeral. The way people had stared at her. It had made her feel like a freak. She was tired of feeling like a freak.

She rose awkwardly from her chair, stretched, then limped over to the window. The fall twilight, fading quickly, colored the sea an iron gray, and the sky, its reddish tinge fading to the dark blue of dusk, seemed low tonight. Below her, its outlines blurred in the gathering darkness, was her mother’s studio. Michelle stared at it, almost as if she expected something to happen. And yet, what could happen? The studio was empty — she could hear her parents downstairs, their voices low, punctuated occasionally by Jennifer’s happy squeals.

Jennifer.