Cover

Thomas Cullinan

THE BEDEVILED

VALANCOURT BOOKS

BOOK ONE

Book One

1

Chapter One

I spend much of my time lately watching Franny, and wondering what she’s thinking about. If she’s in bed when I visit the nursing home, she just stares at the ceiling. If she’s in her chair, she stares at the wall.

Is this a good way to begin a journal? As good as any, I suppose. The motel manager gave me an unused ledger. I presume he thought the work might persuade me to turn off his television set that has been on day and night when I’m in my room. I don’t watch the programs, but I’m hoping the sound will cause certain people to think I’m taking an interest in life.

I went to the farm a few days ago, although Father Jackson disapproved. He loaned me his car to drive out there, but he didn’t offer to go along. I’m sure he was afraid to go. I was afraid myself, more so after I got there, and I didn’t stay after dusk.

I don’t know what to do with the place. There seems to be plenty of money—all that Franny and I will need for years, since my husband, Jack, had a lot of insurance—but I’m just not ready to make any definite plans to leave. One of the reasons, I guess, is the fact that two members of my family are buried in the graveyard behind the Caine house.

New beginning. I suppose it was Jack’s second heart attack that started it all, that followed by the loss of his job at Marks and Chapman. They gave him a year’s salary and maybe that was generous enough, since he’d been creative director for only three years.

Then in the middle of June the real estate man telephoned. The four of us were having a late breakfast—one of the advantages of Jack’s unemployment and the kids’ school vacation—when Jack took the call.

“Does anyone here realize that we’re living in a ninety-­five-­ thousand-­dollar house?” he asked after hanging up.

“Far out,” Franny said and continued eating her grapefruit. Duff was reading a new flute score, I remember, and he didn’t even look up.

“It’s probably worth more than that,” I said. “You haven’t been reading the ads. But where would we live if we sell? We’d need ninety-­five thousand and maybe more to buy another house around here.”

“We could move to that farm of Dad’s in Ohio,” Duff said. He mentioned it first, I remember, although I’m not sure that’s of any significance. He still didn’t look up from his flute score.

And Franny said, “Why not?”