999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [153]
Elizabeth picked up the jar with the bright red, plumb strawberries—I forget because I don’t like strawberry jam—and dropped it into the sink.
“Oops.”
“What was that?”
“I dropped the jam, Mother. I’m sorry.” The jar of marmalade felt cool against her palm as she carried it, the rolls and butter back to the table. “I’ll pick some more up tomorrow. And don’t worry about the kitchen, I’ll clean it up after dinner. Would you like me to butter you a roll, Mother?”
Her mother glared at her from across the table. “How could you be so clumsy?”
Elizabeth ignored the question and spooned a large dollop of the honey-gold marmalade onto a roll.
“Mother, have you ever heard of a grave out in the woods?”
“What?”
“A grave … a child’s grave in the woods. Near the stream. Have you ever heard mention of it?”
“Of course not,” her mother said, ignoring the offered rolls and butter as she returned her attention to the stew. “There are no graves in the woods. Why would you ask such a thing, Elizabeth?”
“No reason,” Elizabeth answered as she brought the marmalade-laden roll toward her lips. “I heard a rumor.”
“Rumors are just that,” her mother growled. “I’m surprised you paid it any notice.”
The chill in Elizabeth’s womb reached up and touched her heart.
“I am, too, Mother.”
Her mother had stayed up past her usual ten o’clock bedtime just to be difficult—puttering around the house in her robe and slippers and refusing to go to bed when Elizabeth suggested it.
A good mother would have gone to bed when she was supposed to. A good mother would have known when to leave her child alone.
“I’ll know,” Elizabeth said as she carefully unfolded the mud-stained handkerchief that had been tucked away in the bottom of her purse. “I’ll be a good mother.”
“Isn’t that right? My Precious One.”
The tiny skull, with its brittle fringe of dark brown hair and patina of leathery flesh, fell onto its side when Elizabeth lifted it toward her face. Presenting a cheek to be kissed.
So Elizabeth did. The way a good mother would.
The grave in the woods had been old, very old; its tiny occupant all but gone to dust. Elizabeth had tried to be gentle, but the moment her trembling hands touched the stained baby blanket (pink, for girls) the body beneath crumbled.
She’d only managed to save the skull. Nothing else.
But that was enough.
“Poor little thing,” Elizabeth whispered, and watched the baby hair tremble under her breath like summer wheat. “You’ve been alone for so long.”
She kissed it again, to let it know it was loved. The feel of the dried skin against her lips wasn’t that unpleasant, no more so than any other kiss she’d ever had to give; and away from the confines of the grave and stench of decay, her Precious One only smelled a bit musty … like a well-loved book.
But still it wasn’t a baby smell. Babies weren’t supposed to smell like books, they were supposed to smell sweet like candy, like flowers, like …
Elizabeth smiled as she stood up and hurried them both to her dressing table. Cupping her Precious One gently in one palm, she began to dig through the mounds of white panties and bras for the tiny indulgence she’d treated herself to. And hidden. Years ago.
The bottle of perfume was still sealed, still perfect; the price sticker still attached. Untouched, until now. Unloved. Until now.
Her mother didn’t approve of perfume, but her mother wasn’t going to be the one wearing it.
The scent of gardenias filled the room the moment Elizabeth lifted off the white cap. Unlike the day of her father’s funeral, the fragrance made her happy. Humming softly, she held the bottle over her Precious One’s forehead and let a crystal drop fall. It clung like dew to the sparse hair, but then a second drop, larger than the first and not expected, missed its target and fell onto the linen dresser scarf.
Leaving a mark. Leaving