Convalescence by Maynard Sims Page B

Get up here this instant.”
    We all turned to the mouth of the trapdoor. Through the hatch I could see Uncle Thomas standing there holding a very large flashlight, a look of fury on his face.
    I was the first to climb the ladder, and he cuffed me on the ear as soon as I emerged.
    â€œGo and stand over there.”
    Amy was next. He grabbed her roughly and pushed her in my direction.
    After what seemed an age, Hughie climbed out of the hole and the look on my uncle’s face was almost comical. Disbelief mingled with something close to panic.
    â€œHughie? Does your mother know you’re here?”
    Hughie said nothing, but came over to stand by us.
    Uncle Thomas took a while to gather himself. Hughie’s presence had thrown him
    Eventually he turned to us. “Would you mind explaining yourselves? What do you think you were doing down there?”
    â€œWe know what you did!” Amy said.
    â€œWhat are you talking about, girl? Make sense.”
    â€œMichael O’Herlihy,” I said. “You killed him and buried his body under the summerhouse.”
    My uncle turned to Hughie. “And you, Hughie, are you going along with this madness?”
    For a moment Hughie stayed silent, and I wondered if he was about to betray us. A plethora of emotions was playing in his eyes.
    When he finally gave them voice, he said simply, “It could have been me, you bastard.”
    â€œBut, Hughie, I loved you. You must know that,” Uncle Thomas said.
    â€œThe same way you loved Michael and the others?”
    Something registered in my uncle’s eyes. “You know I would never have hurt you,” he said. “What we had was special to me. So special.”
    Both Amy and I turned to stare at Hughie. “Is that the real reason you left?” I said.
    Hughie Rogers’s face said it all. He was biting his lip and fighting back tears. “You made me feel dirty,” he said to my uncle quietly.
    Amy reached out and gripped his arm. “Oh, Hughie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t realize.”
    She wheeled on my Uncle Thomas. “You sick bastard! You sick, sick…fuck!”
    And my uncle punched her in the mouth.
    With a howl of pain, Amy dropped to the floor and lay there crying.
    Uncle Thomas took a step forward and drew back his foot to aim a kick, but stopped, his face suddenly draining of color and his eyes widening. “No! No it can’t be you.”
    He was staring beyond us. I turned and saw Michael O’Herlihy, oh-so familiar to me now, leaning against the glass wall of the summerhouse, with his one belligerent eye peeking out from around his curtain of fair hair.
    With a cry Uncle Thomas barged past us and ran from the summerhouse.
    Only then did Michael move away from the wall. He seemed to glide past us in pursuit of my uncle.
    By the time I reached the doorway, Uncle Thomas was almost at the tree line, with Michael following, his feet skimming the grass of the lawn but leaving no impressions.
    Without thinking about it, I ran from the summerhouse and followed them. I pulled up short when we reached the pond.
    Uncle Thomas was standing with his back to the water, while Michael stood barely six feet away from him, staring at him impassively.
    My uncle had his hands out in front of him, as if fending Michael off. He was gibbering, “No…please…you don’t understand…I had to do it…”
    And then an arm burst from the water of the pond and a bony hand gripped his ankle. For a moment he teetered on the edge of the pond, trying to keep his balance, but another hand broke the surface and grabbed him, and then another, and he fell backwards into the water.
    I ran forward and watched as three misty-white shapes seemed to envelop my uncle and drag him under.
    I turned back to Michael. He was smiling, and as I watched him, he simply faded away.
    A cold October wind blew across the cemetery, blowing leaves in our faces as