Ryerson felt awful about having Creosote here, making his abominable noises in the midst of this poor couple's grief. He apologized often, but he also felt relieved that getting the dog away from Rochester had, in a manner of speaking, brought him back to life.
"She ran away?" Ryerson asked Will Curtis, who was seated across from him at the aluminum and glass dining table. The man's wife, Frances, sat with Ryerson and her husband. Each of them had a cup of cocoa to drink and a plate of D'Oro Cookies to pick at, but though the Curtises had told Ryerson "Eat, please eat!" several times, they had all let their cocoa get cold and hadn't touched the plate of cookies.
"Yes," said the man, his voice weary with several kinds of pain, "as many children do today, Lila ran away." He paused and smiled, though it was a smile as weak and pain-ridden as his voice. "But she came back, Mr. Biergarten. Lila came back."
"And she was…" Ryerson paused; he could sense the anguish in the small, memorabilia-cluttered dining room; it was an anguish, he knew, that had grown not only from loss but from confusion and, as well, from a strange, lingering fear. "She acted… oddly when she came back?"
The woman, Frances, nodded slowly. She had her small, pale hands clasped on the tabletop in front of her cup of cocoa, and her gaze was lowered, as if she were looking somewhere between her hands and the cup. She said, "Lila was sixteen, and I know that sixteen-year-old girls are full of the devil-" She stopped and appeared unable to go on. A tear slid down her cheek; she swiped at it, continued, "I was when I was sixteen. But Lila-" She stopped again.
Her husband took over for her. "Lila was a very confused girl, Mr. Biergarten. Maybe it was because we were… older when we became parents. Frances was well into her thirties, you see-"
Frances cut in, a little sharply, "Our age has nothing to do with it, Will. Lila was confused for her own reasons; we were good parents, damnit, we were the very best parents we could be."
Creosote cut loose with a lengthy bout of snorting, belching, and benign growling. "I'm sorry, forgive me," Ryerson pleaded. He got Creosote's soft plastic duck from the pocket of his cream-colored bulky-knit sweater and stuck it in the dog's mouth. Creosote began working at it happily.
Will Curtis waved Ryerson's words awry. "Nothing to forgive; I had four Boston bull terriers when I was growing up, Mr. Biergarten. Fine animals. Noisy, sure, but still fine animals. Smart as a whip, and loyal as your shadow-"
"Lila was cursed," Frances cut in.
Ryerson studied the woman's eyes for several seconds; he saw the same anguish in them that filled the room, but he saw resolve, too, and an almost painful sort of honesty. He said, "How was she cursed?"
Frances nodded again, slowly, as if it were a nervous habit. Her gaze lowered. "I've read about what's happening up north. In Rochester."
"Yes?" Ryerson coaxed.
"And if I didn't know that Lila was lying in her grave-"
"Shut up," her husband cut in sharply. "You shut your mouth, woman-"
"Don't you speak to me in that tone, Will Curtis-”
“I'll speak to you in whatever tone I please; you can't talk about my Lila that way-"
" Your Lila?! Your Lila?! Good Lord, she was our daughter, she was our mistake-"
"Goddamnit, she was a beautiful, beautiful child who ran away and got… corrupted -"
Ryerson felt embarrassment flooding into him like hot soup. He stood, tucked Creosote firmly under his arm, said "Excuse me, please, I'll be in here," and nodded toward the living room. Then he went and sat on a big overstuffed blue couch and waited for the argument to subside.
" Corrupted? " Frances screeched. "Our daughter was corrupted by your cloying, smothering, overprotective-"
"Not that again. My God, woman-"
"Stop calling me 'woman'! My name is Frances, or did you forget? Did you want to call me 'Lila'?"
And so it went.
After ten minutes Ryerson got the idea that this sort of thing went on quite a lot, that it was a way the couple had of putting their grief and confusion and fear aside, if just temporarily, if only until both of them became exhausted and, in all probability, Ryerson thought, fell sobbing into each other's arms.
After fifteen minutes he got up from the couch and went outside, onto the wraparound, screen-enclosed porch. He closed the door firmly behind him, which shut him off well enough from the sound of the argument inside. He inhaled deeply of the fresh, clean country air, found a white rattan rocking chair halfway down the porch toward the east end of the house, and sat in it with Creosote on his lap. He scratched idly at the dog's ears, rocked, picked out the Big Dipper above the northern horizon, the constellation of Orion to the east.
"Creosote," he said, "this is a world of pain and confusion, I'm afraid." And Creosote belched, snorted, belched, and snorted again, all as if to say, Yes, but I'm feeling good, thank you!
And then, for half an instant, as he scratched idly at his dog's ears, Ryerson saw The Park Werewolf in his mind's eye as clearly as he could see the Big Dipper above the northern horizon, and feelings rushed into him, feelings of need and compulsion and hunger, feelings so vile and intense that they made his stomach turn over and pushed bile high into his throat. Then the image and the feelings dissipated and he felt breathless, exhausted, and vaguely panic-stricken, as if he had just nearly been run over by a truck.
Creosote fell silent.
"Jesus!" Ryerson whispered. "He's… he's…" But he could think of no words that exactly fit the awful creature his mind's eye had just shown him.
~* ~
The argument between Frances and Will Curtis ended half an hour after it began, and they both came out to the porch, where Ryerson was sitting, and looked rather sheepishly down at him.
Frances said, "We are very sorry, Mr. Biergarten," and she smiled a quick, broad smile. "How is your little dog?"
"He's fine," Ryerson said.
"We've both been quite tense," Will Curtis offered. "Ever since Lila's… passing, we've both been irritable, and tense, and I'm afraid we…"-he searched for the right word,-"sub mit to it on occasion."
"Yes," Ryerson said, "I understand that. Please don't feel that you need to apologize."
And Frances suggested, "Why don't we go to the grave now."
"Sorry?" Ryerson said, confused. "It's-" He checked his watch, which was difficult to do on the darkened porch.
Will Curtis cut in, "Eight forty-five. Not too late, Mr. Biergarten, not too late."
"Not too late at all," Frances said. Ryerson thought they sounded almost enthusiastic, as if it were a bright midsummer's day and someone had suggested they go on a picnic. Frances hurried on, "She likes us to visit her at night, under a full moon." Her voice rose in pitch, and apparently in expectation, as she added, "She talks to us then."
Will Curtis nodded meaningfully. "Yes, Mr. Biergarten. She does talk to us."
Ryerson was still confused, and uneasy, too, but he said, "Yes, of course; whenever you're ready."
Will Curtis shrugged. "We're ready now. We're always ready."
The cemetery where Lila was buried was a short drive from the Curtis home, half a mile down a narrow, unpaved road that had an old two-wire fence running on both sides down its entire length. The wire was just visible in the moonlight, like a long, meandering, thick strand of silk, because the evening dew was on it.
"Electric fence," Will Curtis offered. "Least it used to be, when they had horses in there." He nodded at the field of chickweed and clover creamy in the moonlight, beyond the fence.
Frances, who was driving the couple's vintage Chevrolet, said, "Nothing in there now. No horses, anyway." Then she slowed the car and brought it to a stop. "Here it is," she said. "Will, you can get the gate this time."
Will said, "Sure," opened his door, got out slowly because of his arthritis, and opened the wrought-iron gates to Edgewater Cemetery, its name wrought in Gothic lettering above the gates. "We're in Edgewater," Frances said. "This is Edgewater."
"Yes," Ryerson said.
Frances drove through while her husband held the gate open.
It had been only two months since Lila's burial and the ground had yet to settle, so there was still no stone to mark her grave, just a wreath at its head and a small pot of freshly watered chrysanthemums below it. "Got a nice stone picked out," Will said. They'd been standing at the graveside for ten minutes or more, Ryerson thought. The Curtises had their hands clasped in front of them and their heads lowered.
"It'll be a while," Frances said.
"Yes," Ryerson began, and Frances interrupted, "Until she starts to talk to us, I mean."
"Oh," Ryerson said, still confused and still uneasy around this grieving middle-aged couple who were probably taking him on an eerie stroll through their most profound fantasy. Creosote was deathly still in his arms, the soft plastic duck sticking out of one corner of its mouth. Several times Ryerson had actually felt the dog's chest to be sure it was breathing.
"Sometimes it's a half hour or more," Will said.
"And sometimes it's an hour," Frances said.
"Sometimes you can understand her," Will said.
"And sometimes you can't," Frances said.
"Sometimes it's gibberish. It sounds like…" Will faltered.
Frances suggested, "Birds. It sounds like birds sometimes."
Will nodded. "Bluejays," he said. "It's raucous. Like bluejays are."
"Yes, of course," Ryerson said, distractedly. He was thankful for the full moon. He could see well enough by its light, but if a cloud covered it, he'd be all but blind here, he realized.
Lila's grave was at the extreme northeast perimeter of the small cemetery. Just a couple of yards beyond it, the six-foot-high wrought-iron fence stood straight and dark, its pitted and rusted surfaces reflecting the moonlight dully. Beyond the fence, the same fields of chickweed and clover stretched to a horizon that, at the northeast, was a light bluish-green; Erie, Ryerson supposed, sketching a quick map of the area in his mind. Where Greta Lynch came from, he reminded himself. He said, to either of the Curtises who might answer him, "Could you tell me something about your daughter's friends?"
"Boyfriends, you mean?" Will asked, a small tremor of suspicion in his voice.
Frances offered sharply, "She had lots of boyfriends, Mr. Biergarten."
"None that mattered," Will maintained steadfastly.
"Not boyfriends, particularly," Ryerson said. "I'm talking more about… friends -girlfriends, teachers." He paused only briefly, went on, "Did she have any women friends?"
"Sorry," Frances said, "I don't understand that," and her tone announced clearly that she hoped he wasn't asking what she thought he was asking.
Ryerson shook his head urgently. "No, not that kind of woman friend. I'm sorry. I mean, an older woman friend. A woman in her twenties, for instance. Someone she… talked to; like a big sister." His uneasiness doubled.
Will and Frances fell silent for several moments. Then Will said, "Yes," and Frances said, almost at the same time, "She had a friend named Joan. Near Erie."
"Joan?" Ryerson asked. "Do you remember her last name?"
And there was movement in the dirt over the grave. "Good Lord," Ryerson breathed.
Will nodded urgently. "She's gonna talk to us, Mr. Biergarten. Lila's gonna talk to us." He looked at his wife. "Frances, our Lila's gonna talk to us."
"Yes," Frances said matter-of-factly. "I can hear her humming."
"She hums first, Mr. Biergarten," Will said.
"Like a singer warming up her pipes," Frances said, smiling slightly, as if pleased with the image.
The ground quieted. Ryerson heard, from within the grave, what sounded for all the world like someone humming. But it was strained and tight, like air being let out of a balloon.
The humming stopped.
And Ryerson saw, for the first time, that the ground over the grave was quite a bit more disturbed than it should have been. He asked, "How long ago did you say it was that your daughter was buried?"
"Two months," Will answered.
While Creosote whimpered raggedly in his arms-because the dog wouldn't let go of his treasured soft plastic duck-Ryerson knelt over the grave and touched the earth. It was moist, as if it had been freshly turned. He looked up at Frances and Will Curtis, who were looking quizzically down at him. "I…" he began, and wasn't sure what to say next. He looked quickly, anxiously back at the grave.
Will Curtis said, his voice tentative and unsure, "That ground's not settled yet, Mr. Biergarten."
The humming started again, lower in pitch, as if the balloon were running out of air.
"There," Frances said, "Lila's talking to us."
Ryerson glanced at her, shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No, I'm sorry, no," and he looked yet again at the grave and cocked his head to one side to get a better fix on the source of the humming noise. He looked again at Frances and Will Curtis. "I assume that Lila was embalmed."
Frances shook her head. "No, she wasn't. Joan said not to, and the medical examiner in Erie said that was okay if her coffin was closed, which it was-"
"My God," Ryerson breathed; he held Creosote in his left hand and stuck his right hand six or seven inches into the sort earth. He touched something. It felt like the skin that forms on Jell-O that's allowed to harden uncovered. He recoiled, reached into the earth again, let his fingers linger on the thing he was touching there. He kneaded it experimentally and heard the same high, humming sound he'd heard moments earlier, like air escaping from a balloon.
"She's talking to us," Will Curtis cried happily.
"No, I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, I'm sorry-”
“She's talking to us, our Lila is talking to us!"