The Fiend by Margaret Millar Read Free Book Online Page B

whore who treats him like little Jesus. Does he actually expect me to allow Mary Martha to associate with that?”
    Lying on her stomach on the floor of the upstairs hall, Mary Martha suddenly pressed her hands against her ears. She had eavesdropped on dozens of her mother’s conversations with Mac and this was no different from the others. She knew from ex­perience that it was going to last a long time and she didn’t want to hear any more.
    She thought of slipping down the back stairs and going over to Jessie’s house, but the steps creaked very badly. She got to her feet and tiptoed down the hall to her mother’s room.
    To Mary Martha it was a beautiful room, all white and pink and frilly, with French doors opening onto a little balcony. Beside the balcony grew a sycamore tree where she had once found a hummingbird’s tiny nest lined with down gathered from the underside of the leaves and filled with eggs smaller than jelly beans.
    It was the cat, Pudding, who had alerted Mary Martha to the possibilities of the sycamore tree. Frightened by a stray dog, he had leaped to the first limb, climbed right up on the balcony and sat on the railing, looking smugly down on his enemy. Mary Martha wasn’t as fearless and adept a climber as either Pudding or Jessie, but in emergencies she used the tree and so far her mother hadn’t caught her at it.
    She stepped out on the balcony and began the slow difficult descent, trying not to look at the ground. The gray mottled bark of the tree, which appeared so smooth from a distance, scratched her hands and arms like sandpaper. She passed the kitchen window. The hamburger was thawing on the sink and the sight of it made her aware of her hunger but she kept on going.
    She dropped onto the grass in the backyard and crossed the dry creek bed, being careful to avoid the reddening runners of poison oak. A scrub jay squawked in protest at her intrusion. Mary Martha had learned from her father how to imitate the bird, and ordinarily she would have squawked back at him and there would have been a lively contest between the two of them. But this time she didn’t even hear the jay. Her ears were still filled with her mother’s voice: “He’s got what he wanted, that fat old gin-swilling whore who treats him like little Jesus.” The sentence bewildered her. Little Jesus was a baby in a manger and her father was a grown-up man with a mustache. She didn’t know what a whore was, but she assumed, since her father was interested in birds, that it was an owl. Owls said, “Whoo,” and were fat and lived to be quite old.
    Mr. and Mrs. Brant were in the little fenced-in patio at the back of their house, preparing a barbecue. Mr. Brant was try­ing to get the charcoal lit and Mrs. Brant was wrapping ears of corn in aluminum foil. They both wore shorts and cotton shirts and sandals.
    â€œWhy, it’s Mary Martha,” Ellen Brant said, sounding pleased and surprised, as though Mary Martha lived a hundred miles away and hadn’t seen her for a year. “Come in, dear. Jessie will be out in a few minutes. She’s taking a bath.”
    â€œI’m glad she didn’t get blood poisoning and convulsions,” Mary Martha said gravely.
    â€œSo am I. Very.”
    â€œJessie is my best friend.”
    â€œI know that, and I think it’s splendid. Don’t you, Dave?”
    â€œYou bet I do,” Dave said, turning to give Mary Martha a slow, shy smile. He was a big man with a low-pitched, quiet voice, and a slight stoop to his shoulders that seemed like an apology for his size.
    It was his size and his quietness that Mary Martha especially admired. Her own father was short in stature and short of temper. His movements were quick and impatient and no matter what he was doing he always seemed anxious to get started on the next thing. It was restful and reassuring to stand beside Mr. Brant and watch him lighting the