The Corn Maiden: And Other Nightmares Read online

  I am falling into pieces, shreds. Like something brittle that has been cracked.

  The day after the luncheon, Lyle had returned to the woods behind his house to look for the mysterious fungi; but he had no luck retracing his steps, and failed even to locate the gigantic beech tree with the snaky exposed roots. In a rage he’d thrown away The Amateur’s Guide to Fungi Edible & Inedible. He’d thrown away The Fanny Farmer Cookbook.

  Since the failure of the Amanita phalloides soup, Lyle found himself thinking obsessively of his brother. As soon as he woke in the morning he began to think of Alastor, and through the long day he thought of Alastor; at night his dreams were mocking, jeering, turbulent with emotion that left him enervated and depressed. It was no longer possible for him to work even on projects, like the book design for Poe’s “William Wilson,” that challenged his imagination. Though he loved his hometown, and his life here, he wondered despairingly if perhaps he should move away from Contracoeur for hadn’t Contracoeur been poisoned for him, by Alastor’s presence? Living here, with Alastor less than ten minutes away by car, Lyle had no freedom from thinking of his evil brother. For rumors circulated that Alastor was meeting with local real estate developers though Gardner King’s widow was still insisting that her property would remain intact as her husband had wished; that Alastor was to be the next director of the King Foundation, though the present director was a highly capable man who’d had his position for years and was universally respected; that Alastor and his aunt Alida were to travel to Europe in the fall on an art-purchasing expedition, though Alida King had always expressed a nervous dislike, even a terror, of travel and had grown frail since her husband’s death. It had been recounted to Lyle by a cousin that poor Alida had said, wringing her hands, “Oh, I do hope I won’t be traveling to Europe this fall, I know I won’t survive away from Contracoeur!” and when the cousin asked why on earth she might be traveling to Europe if she didn’t wish to, Alida had said, starting to cry, “But I may decide that I do want to travel, that’s what frightens me. I know I will never return alive.”

  Cocktail service at poolside had ended at 9 P.M.; the pool was officially closed, though its glimmering synthetic-aqua water was still illuminated from below; only boastful Alastor and his somber brother Lyle remained in deck chairs, as an eroded-looking but glaring bright moon rose in the night sky. Alastor in swim trunks and a terry cloth shirt trotted off barefoot for another drink and Lyle, looking after him, felt a childish impulse to flee while his brother was in the cocktail lounge. He was sickened by the story he’d been told; knowing himself sullied as if he’d been present in Alastor’s suite the previous night. As if, merely hearing such obscenities, he was an accomplice of Alastor’s. And perhaps somehow in fact he’d been there, helping to hold the struggling girl down, helping to thrust the gag into her mouth.

  Alastor returned with a fresh drink. He was eyeing Lyle with a look of bemusement as he’d done so often when they were boys, gauging to what extent he’d shocked Lyle or embarrassed him. After their father’s death, for instance, when the brothers were eight years old, Lyle had wept for days; Alastor had ridiculed his grief, saying that if you believed in God (and weren’t they all supposed to believe in God?) you believed that everything was ordained; if you were a good Christian, you believed that their father was safe and happy in heaven—“So why bawl like a baby?”

  Why, indeed?

  Alastor was drunker than Lyle had known. He said commandingly, his voice slurred, “Midnight swim. Brother, c’mon!”

  Lyle merely laughed uneasily. He was fully dressed; hadn’t brought swim trunks; couldn’t imagine swimming companionably with his brother, even as adults; he who’d been so tormented by Alastor when they were children, tugged and pummeled in the water, his head held under until he gasped and sputtered in panic. Your brother’s only playing, Lyle. Don’t cry. Alastor, be good!

  Enlivened by drink, Alastor threw off his shirt and announced that he was going swimming, and no one could stop him. Lyle said, “But the pool is closed, Alastor”—as if that would make any difference. Alastor laughed, swaggering to the edge of the pool to dive. Lyle saw with reluctant admiration and a tinge of jealousy that his brother’s body, unlike his own, was solid, hard-packed; though there was a loose bunch of flesh at his waist, and his stomach had begun to protrude, his shoulders and thighs were taut with muscle. A pelt of fine glistening hairs covered much of his body and curled across his chest; the nipples of his breasts were purply-dark, distinct as small staring eyes. Alastor’s head, held high with exaggerated bravado as he flexed his knees, positioning himself to dive, was an undeniably handsome head; Alastor looked like a film star of another era, a man accustomed to the uncritical adoration of women and the envy of men. The thought flashed through Lyle like a knife blade It’s my moral obligation to destroy this man, because he is evil; and because there is no one else to destroy him but me.

  With the showy ebullience of a twelve-year-old boy, Alastor dived into the pool at the deep end; a less-than-perfect dive that must have embarrassed him, with Lyle as a witness; Lyle who winced feeling the harsh slap of the water, like a retributive hand, against his own chest and stomach. Like a deranged seal, Alastor surfaced noisily, blowing water out of his nose, snorting; as he began to swim in short, choppy, angry-looking strokes, not nearly so coordinated as Lyle would have expected, Lyle felt his own arm and leg muscles strain in involuntary sympathy. How alone they were, Lyle and his twin brother Alastor! Overhead the marred moon glared like a light in an examination room.

  Lyle thought I could strike him on the head with—what? One of the deck chairs, a small wrought-iron table caught his eye. And even as this thought struck Lyle, Alastor in the pool began to flail about; began coughing, choking; he must have inhaled water and swallowed it; drunker than he knew, in no condition to be swimming in water over his head. As Lyle stood at the edge of the pool staring he saw his brother begin to sink. And there was no one near! No witness save Lyle himself! Inside the Inn, at a distance of perhaps one hundred feet, there was a murmur and buzz of voices, laughter, music; every hotel window facing the open courtyard and the pool area was veiled by a drape or a blind; most of the windows were probably shut tight, and the room air conditioners on. No one would hear Alastor cry for help even if Alastor could cry for help. Excited, clenching his fists, Lyle ran to the other side of the pool to more closely observe his brother, now a helpless, thrashing body sunk beneath the surface of the water like a weighted sack. A trail of bubbles lifted from his distorted mouth; his dyed hair too lifted, like seaweed. How silent was Alastor’s deathly struggle, and how lurid the bright aqua water with its theatrical lights from beneath. Lyle was panting like a dog, crouched at the edge of the pool, muttering, “Die! Drown! Damn your soul to hell! You don’t deserve to live!”

  The next moment, Lyle had kicked off his shoes, torn his shirt off over his head, and dived into the water to save Alastor. With no time to think, he grabbed at the struggling man, overpowered him, hauled him to the surface; he managed to get Alastor’s head in a hammerlock and swim with him into the shallow end of the pool; managed to lift him, a near-dead weight, a dense body streaming water, onto the tile. Alastor thrashed about like a beached seal, gasping for breath; he vomited, coughed and choked, spitting up water and clots of food. Lyle crouched over him, panting, as Alastor rolled onto his back, his hair in absurd strings about his face and his face now bloated and puff y, no longer a handsome face, as if in fact he’d drowned. His breath was erratic, heaving. His eyes rolled in his head. Yet he saw Lyle, and must have recognized him. “Oh God, Lyle, w-what happened?” he managed to say.

  “You were drunk, drowning. I pulled you out.”

  Lyle spoke bitterly. He, too, was streaming water; his clothes were soaked; he felt like a fool, a dupe. Never, never would he comprehend what he’d done. Alastor, deathly pale, weak and stricken still with the terror of death, not hearing the tone of Lyle’s voice or seeing the expression of impotent fury on Ly
le’s face, reached out with childlike pleading to clutch at Lyle’s hand.

  “Brother, thank you!”

  The world is a beautifu1 place if you have the eyes to see it and the ears to hear it.

  Was this so? Could it be so? Lyle would have to live as if it were, for his brother Alastor could not be killed. Evidently. Or in any case, Lyle was not the man to kill him.

  A week after he’d saved Alastor from drowning, on a radiantly sunny July morning when Lyle was seated disconsolately at his work bench, a dozen rejected drawings for “William Wilson” scattered and crumpled before him, the telephone rang and it was Alastor announcing that he’d decided to move after all to Aunt Alida’s house—“She insists. Poor woman, she’s frightened of ‘ghosts’—needs a man’s presence in that enormous house. Brother, will you help me move? I have only a few things.” Alastor’s voice was buoyant and easy; the voice of a man perfectly at peace with himself. Lyle seemed to understand that his brother had forgotten about the near-drowning. His pride would not allow him to recall it, nor would Lyle ever bring up the subject. Lyle drew breath to say sharply, “No! Move yourself, damn you,” but instead he said, “Oh, I suppose so. When?” Alastor said, “Within the hour, if possible. And, by the way, I have a surprise for you—it’s for both of us, actually. A memento from our late beloved uncle Gardner.” Lyle was too demoralized to ask what the memento was.

  When he arrived at the Black River Inn, there was Alastor proudly awaiting him at the front entrance, drawing a good deal of admiring attention. A tanned, good-looking youthful man with a beaming smile, in a pale-pink-striped seersucker suit, collarless white shirt and straw hat, a dozen or more suitcases and valises on the sidewalk; and, in the drive beneath the canopy, a gleaming-black chrome-glittering Rolls-Royce. Alastor laughed heartily at the look on Lyle’s face. “Some memento, eh, brother? Aunt Alida was so sweet, she told me, ‘Your uncle would want both you boys to have it. He loved you so—his favorite nephews.’”

  Lyle stared at the Rolls-Royce. The elegant car, vintage 1971, was as much a work of art, and culture, as a motor vehicle. Lyle had ridden in it numerous times, in his uncle’s company, but he’d never driven it. Nor even fantasized driving it. “How—did it get here? How is this possible?” Lyle stammered. Alastor explained that their aunt’s driver had brought the car over that morning and that Lyle should simply leave his car (so ordinary, dull and plebeian a car—a compact American model Alastor merely glanced at, with a disdainful look) in the parking lot, for the time being. “Unfortunately, I lack a valid driving license in the United States at the present time,” Alastor said, “or I would drive myself. But you know how scrupulous I am about obeying the law—technically.” He laughed, rubbing his hands briskly together. Still Lyle was staring at the Rolls-Royce. How like the hearse that had borne his uncle’s body from the funeral home to the church it was; how magnificently black, and the flawless chrome and windows so glittering, polished to perfection. Alastor poked Lyle in the ribs to wake him from his trance, and passed to him, with a wink, a silver pocket flask. Pure scotch whiskey at 11 A.M. of a weekday morning? Lyle raised his hand to shove the flask aside but instead took it from his brother’s fingers, lifted it to his lips and drank.

  And a second time, drank. Flames darted in his throat and mouth, his eyes stung with tears.

  “Oh! God.”

  “Good, eh? Just the cure for your ridiculous anemia, brother,” Alastor said teasingly.

  While Alastor settled accounts in the Black River Inn, using their aunt’s credit, Lyle and an awed, smiling doorman loaded the trunk and plush rear seat of the Rolls with Alastor’s belongings. The sun was vertiginously warm and the scotch whiskey had gone to Lyle’s head and he was perspiring inside his clothes, murmuring to himself and laughing. The world is a beautiful place. Is a beautiful place. A beautiful place. Among Alastor’s belongings were several handsome new garment bags crammed, apparently, with clothing. There were suitcases of unusual heaviness that might have been crammed with—what? Statuary? There were several small canvases (oil paintings?) wrapped hastily in canvas and secured with adhesive tape; there was a heavy sports valise with a broken lock, inside which Lyle discovered, carelessly wrapped in what appeared to be women’s silk underwear, loose jewelry of all kinds—gold chains, strings of pearls jumbled together, a silver pendant with a sparkling-red ruby, bracelets and earrings and a single brass candlestick holder and even a woman’s high-heeled slipper, stained (bloodstained?) white satin with a carved mother-of-pearl ornament. Lyle stared, breathless. What a treasure trove! Once, he would have been morbidly suspicious of his brother, suspecting him of theft—and worse. Now he merely smiled, and shrugged.

  By the time Lyle and the doorman had loaded the Rolls, Alastor emerged from the Inn, slipping on a pair of dark glasses. By chance—it must have been chance—a striking blond woman was walking with him, smiling, chatting, clearly quite impressed by him—a beautiful woman of about forty with a lynx face, a bold red mouth and diamond earrings who paused to scribble something (telephone number? address?) on a card and slip it into a pocket of Alastor’s seersucker jacket.

  Exuberantly Alastor cried, “Brother, let’s go! Across the river and to Aunt Alida’s—to our destiny.”

  Like a man in a dream Lyle took his place behind the wheel of the Rolls; Alastor climbed in beside him. Lyle’s heart was beating painfully, with an almost erotic excitement. Neither brother troubled to fasten his seat belt; Lyle, who’d perhaps never once driven any vehicle without fastening his seat belt first, seemed not to think of doing so now as if, simply by sliding into this magnificent car, he’d entered a dimension in which old, tedious rules no longer applied. Lyle was grateful for Alastors passing him the silver flask, for he needed a spurt of strength and courage. He drank thirstily, in small choking swallows: how the whiskey burned, warmly glowed, going down! Lyle switched on the ignition, startled at how readily, how quietly, the engine turned over. Yes, this was magic. He was driving his uncle Gardner King’s Rolls-Royce as if it were his own; as he turned out of the hotel drive, he saw the driver of an incoming vehicle staring at the car, and at him, with frank envy.

  And now on the road. In brilliant sunshine, and not much traffic. The Rolls resembled a small, perfect yacht; a yacht moving without evident exertion along a smooth, swiftly running stream. What a thrill, to be entrusted with this remarkable car; what sensuous delight in the sight, touch, smell of the Rolls! Why had he, Lyle King, been a puritan all of his life? What a blind, smug fool to be living in a world of luxury items and taking no interest in them; as if there were virtue in asceticism; in mere ignorance. Driving the Rolls on the highway in the direction of the High Street Bridge, where they would cross the Black River into the northern, affluent area of Contracoeur in which their aunt lived, Lyle felt intoxicated as one singled out for a special destiny. He wanted to shout out the car window Look! Look at me! This is the first morning of the first day of my new life.

  Not once since Alastor’s call that morning had Lyle thought of—what? What had it been? The death-cup mushroom, what was its Latin name? At last, to Lyle’s relief, he’d forgotten.

  Alastor sipped from the pocket flask as he reminisced, tenderly, about the old Contracoeur world of their childhood. That world, that had seemed so stable, so permanent, was rapidly passing now, vanishing into a newer America. Soon, all of the older generation of Kings would be deceased. “Remember when we were boys, Lyle? What happy times we had? I admit, I was a bit of a bastard, sometimes—I apologize. Truly. It’s just that I resented you, you know. My twin brother.” His voice was caressing yet lightly ironic.

  “Resented me? Why?” Lyle laughed, the possibility seemed so far-fetched.

  “Because you were born on my birthday, of course. Obviously, I was cheated of presents.”

  Driving the daunting, unfamiliar car, that seemed to him higher built than he’d recalled, Lyle was sitting stiffly forward, gripping the elegant mahogany steering wheel and squinting through th
e windshield as if he was having difficulty seeing. The car’s powerful engine vibrated almost imperceptibly like the coursing of his own heated blood. Laughing, though slightly anxious, he said, “But, Alastor, you wouldn’t have wished me not to have been born, would you? For the sake of some presents?”

  An awkward silence ensued. Alastor was contemplating how to reply when the accident occurred.

  Approaching the steep ramp of the High Street Bridge, Lyle seemed for a moment to lose the focus of his vision, and jammed down hard on the brake pedal; except it wasn’t the brake pedal but the accelerator. A diesel truck crossing the bridge, belching smoke, seemed then to emerge out of nowhere as out of a tunnel. Lyle hadn’t seen the truck until, with terrifying speed, the Rolls careened up the ramp and into the truck’s oncoming grille. There was a sound of brakes, shouts, a scream, and as truck and car collided, a sickening wrenching of metal and a shattering of glass. Together the vehicles tumbled from the ramp, through a low guardrail and onto an embankment; there was an explosion, flames; the last thing Lyle knew, he and his shrieking brother were being flung forward into a fiery-black oblivion.

  Though badly injured, the driver of the diesel truck managed to crawl free of the flaming wreckage; the occupants of the Rolls-Royce were trapped inside their smashed vehicle, and may have been killed on impact. After the fire was extinguished, emergency medical workers would discover in the wreckage the charred remains of two Caucasian males of approximately the same height and age; so badly mangled, crushed, burned, they were never to be precisely identified. As if the bodies had been flung together from a great height, or at a great speed, they seemed to be but a single body, hideously conjoined. It was known that the remains were those of the King brothers, Alastor and Lyle, fraternal twins who would have been thirty-eight years old on the following Sunday. But which body was which, whose charred organs, bones, blood had belonged to which brother, no forensic specalist would ever determine.