The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane Page #5

Mario?

Rynn, how long has it been

for your mother?

October 17th.

I don't understand.

I mean, don't bodies...?

- Decompose?

- Yeah.

Well, you can put stuff on them.

So why don't you take

the tray in next to the fire, all right?

Yeah.

How do you know how to do that stuff?

I looked it up in the library.

In London we found out

my father was dying.

My mother had run away when I was 3.

He didn't want her to get her

red fingernails into me ever again.

We left England

without a word to anyone.

It was the end of the summer

when I came here...

and I knew this was the place.

But he said I should think

it over for a week...

to make sure I wanted to spend

the next three years of my life here.

The rent's paid up

for the next three years.

So three more years like this?

Almost all September, he looked fine.

If the pain was terrible,

he never said anything.

Then one Sunday evening...

we were sitting in this room...

and he whispered to me

in a very soft voice...

that I wasn't like

anybody else in the world...

that people wouldn't understand me.

They'd order me around,

tell me what to do...

and try to make me into the person

they wanted me to be.

Since I was only a kid,

I couldn't say anything.

I'd have to stay alone...

keep out of trouble and make

myself very small in the world.

All alone?

We worked out every detail.

We knew it wouldn't be easy.

Here's a letter from my father.

"Don't give in and play their game.

Fight them any way you have to.

Survive."

That's what he said.

Then he kissed me...

and walked off into the trees

and down the lane.

In that room, I found charts

of tide tables and waters...

in the sound and the ocean.

He'll never be found.

Did you cry a lot?

Depends what you mean by a lot.

No. I guess not very much.

Do you believe in God?

- It'd be nice.

- But you don't.

I don't know.

You know, it's all so goddamn wild.

I mean...

there's so many problems.

- How do you pay for stuff?

- Traveler's checks.

Yeah, kids can have them too.

I keep them in a safe-deposit box

in the bank.

I have to make them last

for three years.

- How'd your mother find you?

- By lying to my father's publisher.

She walked right in.

Fingernails as red as ever.

My God, the nerve of her.

She sat right over there.

Smoked her gold-tipped cigarettes...

went on and on about the

pollution in the Mediterranean...

and how marvelous it would be

to stay here.

I hated myself for doing it,

but I actually acted happy to see her.

She asked me for a drink, but I lied

and told her we didn't have any.

I gave her some tea

with the same almond biscuits.

They're very good.

My father had given me a small bottle

containing some white powder.

He said if she should arrive,

I should put it in her tea.

It would calm her,

make her less aggressive.

Well, it sure did.

But you didn't know what it was, huh?

No, not until after.

I looked it up based on its properties.

- Potassium cyanide.

- And that's what you put in her tea?

Father meant what he said about

doing anything you have to to survive.

How come you're not drinking yours?

Mine's still too hot.

I didn't put in any cold milk.

I can still see her red nails

holding up that cup.

After a few sips, she said

that the tea tasted of almonds.

"It's the almond cookies," I told her.

"They come from Fortnum's."

She loved that.

- How long did it take?

- Quite fast, actually.

You mean, like, first you can't breathe?

Yeah. Apparently.

What's wrong with you? You okay?

Yeah, now I'm okay.

I'm all right.

Listen.

It's just the wind.

Sounds like it's alive.

Look, about the telephone.

We better not call each other

from now on...

because somebody

might be listening, okay?

Okay.

Let's go.

I'm not gonna play their game.

Would that be so awful?

The game is pretending, you know?

It's like going through the motions

of living without really living.

But what about school?

School is having people

tell you what life is...

and never finding out by yourself.

Yeah, but kids have to go to school.

Why?

Okay, so your father taught you.

Everybody doesn't have

a father like yours.

Everybody can't be like you.

If I'd listened to them,

I'd be like them.

Damn. You keep saying "them"

like everyone's out to get you.

Maybe they are.

Well, you gotta trust somebody.

Mario!

Come on.

Mario.

Come on, Mario. Mario!

You all right?

I've got a tub waiting for you upstairs.

Hello?

Mr. Hallet?

Mr. Hallet, I know this is you...

because everybody else is at

the football game this afternoon.

I should warn you that the police

are watching our house...

right this very minute, Mr. Hallet.

I found a pair of your father's pajamas.

It's a pretty good fit.

Come on, you're shivering. Sit down.

- Who called?

- No one.

Rynn, who called?

Well, whoever called

didn't leave their name.

Was it Hallet?

- Yeah.

- That creep.

You're like ice.

Come on.

- Is that better?

- Yeah.

It's dark already.

Mario...

if you want,

I can get into bed with you.

- Is that better?

- Yeah.

Mario?

I know what you're gonna ask.

Have you ever?

Hundreds of times.

Do they expect you home for dinner?

Would it be so terrible

if you didn't go?

I mean, if your parents did

find out about us?

Your uncle Ron knows.

Look, Rynn, they'd wanna

know all about you.

Every goddamn thing.

And I'm not as good at lying as you are.

Here, take this. It's my father's.

Like your father said in that letter:

Since when do they let kids

do what they want?

- Come back after dinner?

- I'll try.

- Who is it?

- Ron Miglioriti.

Hi. I'm just making

my Saturday-night call.

Yeah, come on in.

- You all right?

- Fine.

- How are you?

- Fine, fine, thanks.

- Can I get you anything...?

- No, no. I can't stay, really.

Your pumped-up lady waiting for you?

Sorry. Does make me sound

like a smart-ass, doesn't it?

- You're all alone, huh?

- My father's here.

Rynn, I don't believe what you've been

telling me about your father.

No?

No, no, you're gonna tell me

that he's in there working, right?

He was this afternoon. Translating.

Then he was, and now he isn't?

That's it, huh?

No, he's resting upstairs.

I've been here three times.

And each time I notice

how good you are with words.

The way you speak, you're very careful.

You're too goddamn careful.

- You don't believe he's upstairs, then?

- No.

All right.

Father!

Father?

- He should be down in a minute.

- Yeah, sure.

Look, I understand, because I haven't

been telling you the truth all the time.

Because my father isn't a well man.

Maybe you don't understand about poets.

Edgar Allen Poe was a drug addict.

Dylan Thomas drank himself to death.

Sylvia Plath took her own life.

Rynn, we're talking about your father.

Yeah, well...

Sometimes my father goes

into his room and locks the door.

He keeps something in a desk drawer.

I don't know what it is.

But I know...

when he locks that door...

he doesn't want me to see

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