Sentimental Journey

2

"I see on the news that it's worse in Buffalo," Ricky said, talking more for its own sake than because he thought the other two would be interested. Sears was driving his Lincoln in extremely Sears-like style: all the way to Edward's house where they had picked up Don, and now back to the west side of town, he had hunched over the wheel and proceeded at fifteen miles an hour. He blew his horn at every intersection, warning all comers that he did not intend to stop.

"Stop babbling, Ricky," he said, and blasted his horn and rolled across Wheat Row to the north end of the square.

"You didn't have to blow the horn, that was a green light," Ricky pointed out.

"Humpf. Everybody else is going too fast to stop."

Don, in the back seat, held his breath and prayed that the traffic lights on the other end of the square would turn green before Sears reached them. When they passed the steps to the hotel, he saw the lights facing Main Street flash to amber; the lights switched to green just as Sears put the entire palm of his hand down on the button and floated the long car like a galleon onto Main Street.

Even with the headlights on, the only objects truly visible were traffic lights and the red and green pinpoints of illumination on the Christmas tree. All else dissolved in swirling white. The few approaching cars appeared first as streamers of yellow light, then as shapeless forms like large animals: Don could see their colors only when they were immediately alongside, a proximity Sears acknowledged with another imperious blast of the Lincoln's horn.

"What do we do when we get there, if we ever do?" Sears asked.

"Just have a look around. It might help." Ricky looked at him in a way that was as good as speaking, and Don added, "No. I don't think she'll be there. Or Gregory."

"Did you bring a weapon?"

"I don't own a weapon. Did you?"

Ricky nodded; held up a kitchen knife. "Foolish, I know, but…"

Don did not think it was foolish; for a moment he wished that he too had a knife, if not a flamethrower and a grenade.

"Just out of curiosity, what are you thinking about at this moment?" Sears asked.

"Me?" Don asked. The car began to drift slowly sideways, and Sears turned the wheel very slightly to correct it.

"Yes."

"I was just remembering something that used to happen back when I was a prep school student in the Midwest. When we had to choose our colleges, the staff would give us talks about 'the East.' 'The East' was where they wanted us to go-it was simple snobbery, and my school was very old-fashioned in that way, but the school would look better if a big proportion of its seniors went on to Harvard or Princeton or Cornell- or even a state university on the East Coast. Everybody pronounced the word the way a Muslim must pronounce the word Mecca. And that's where we are now."

"Did you go East?" Ricky asked. "I don't know if Edward ever mentioned it."

"No. I went to California, where they believed in mysticism. They didn't drown witches, they gave them talk shows."

"Omar never got around to plowing Montgomery Street," Sears said; Don, surprised, turned to his window and saw that while he had talked they had reached the end of Anna Mostyn's street. Sears was right. On Maple, where they were, hard-packed snow about two inches deep showed the treads and deep grooves of Omar Norris's plow; it was like a white riverbed cut through high white banks. On Montgomery, the snow lay four feet deep. Already filling up with fresh snowfall, deep indentations down the middle of the road indicated where two or three people had fought through to Maple.

Sears turned off the ignition, leaving the parking lights on. "If we're going through with this, I see no point in waiting."

The three men stepped out onto the glassy surface of Maple Street. Sears turned up the fur collar of his coat and sighed. "To think I once balked at stepping into the two or three inches of snow on Our Vergil's field."

"I hate the thought of going into that house again," Ricky said.

All three could see the house through the swirls of falling snow. "I've never actually broken into a house before," Sears said. "How do you propose to do it?"

"Peter said that Jim Hardie broke a pane of glass in the back door. All we have to do is reach in and turn the knob.

"And if we see them? If they are waiting for us?"

"Then we try to put up a better fight than Sergeant York," Ricky said. "I suppose. Do you remember Sergeant York, Don?"

"No," Don said. "I don't even remember Audie Murphy. Let's go." He stepped into the drift left by the plow. His forehead was already so cold it felt like a metal plate grafted onto his skin. When he and Ricky were both on top of the drift they reached down to Sears, who stood with his arms extended like a small boy, and pulled him forward. Sears lumbered forward and up like a whale taking a reef, and then all three men stepped from the top of the drift into the deep snow on Montgomery Street.

The snow came up past their knees. Don realized that the two old men were waiting for him to begin, so he turned around and began to move up the street toward Anna Mostyn's house, doing his best to step in the deep depressions made by an earlier walker. Ricky followed, using the same prints. Sears, off to the side and stumping through unbroken snow, came last. The bottom of his black coat swept along after him like a train.

It took them twenty minutes to reach the house. When all three were standing in front of the building, Don again saw the two older men looking at him and knew that they would not move until he made them do it. "At least it'll be warmer inside," he said.

"I just hate the thought of going in there again," Ricky said, not very loudly.

"So you said," Sears reminded him. "Around the back, Don?"

"Around the back."

Once again he led the way. He could hear Ricky sneezing behind him as each of them plowed on through snow nearly waist-high. Like Jim Hardie and Peter Barnes, they stopped at the side window and looked in; saw only a dark empty chamber. "Deserted," Don said, and continued around to the rear of the house.

He found the window Jim Hardie had broken, and just as Ricky joined him on the back step, reached in and turned the handle of the kitchen door. Breathing heavily, Sears joined them.

"Let's get in out of the snow," Sears said. "I'm freezing." It was one of the bravest statements Don had ever heard, and he had to answer it with a similar courage. He pushed the door and stepped into the kitchen of Anna Mostyn's house. Sears and Ricky came in close behind him.

"Well, here we are," Ricky said. "To think it's been fifty years, or near enough. Should we split up?"

"Afraid to, Ricky?" Sears said, impatiently brushing snow off his coat. "I'll believe in these ghouls when I see them. You and Don can look at the rooms upstairs and on the landings. I'll do this floor and the basement"

And if the earlier statement had been an act of courage, this, Don knew, was a demonstration of friendship: none of them wanted to be alone in the house. "All right" he said. "I'll be surprised if we find anything too. We might as well start."

Sears led as they left the kitchen and went into the hall. "Go on," he said-commanded. "I'll be fine. This way will save time, and the sooner we get it over with, the better." Don was already on the stairs, but Ricky had turned questioningly back to Sears. "If you see anything, give a shout."