The Mask

to ring again.
    She dreaded having to answer it.
    She tried to work off her nervous energy by cleaning the house. She scrubbed the kitchen floor, dusted the furniture in every room, and swept all the carpets.
    But she couldn’t stop thinking about the call: the paper-dry, echo-distorted voice that had sounded like Leonard; the odd things he had said; the eerie silence when he had finished speaking; the disquieting sense of vast distances, an unimaginable gulf of space and time.
    It had to be a hoax. But who could be responsible for it? And why torment her with an imitation of Leonard’s voice, eighteen years after the man had died? What was the point of playing games like this now, after so much time had passed?
    She tried to get her mind off the call by baking apple dumplings. Thick, crusty dumplings—served with cinnamon, milk, and just a bit of sugar—were a suppertime favorite of hers, for she had been born and raised in Lancaster, the heart of the Pennsylvania Dutch country, where that dish was considered a meal in itself. But Tuesday evening, she had no appetite, not even for dumplings. She ate a few bites, but she couldn’t even finish half of one dumpling, though she usually ate two whole ones in a single meal.
    She was still picking disinterestedly at her food when the telephone rang.
    Her head jerked up. She stared at the wall phone that was above the small, built-in desk beside the refrigerator.
    It rang again. And again.
    Trembling, she got up, went to the phone, and lifted the receiver.
    “Gracie…”
    The voice was faint but intelligible.
    “Gracie… it’s almost too late.”
    It was him. Leonard. Or someone who sounded exactly like Leonard had sounded.
    She couldn’t respond to him. Her throat clutched tight.
    “Gracie…”
    Her legs seemed to be melting under her. She pulled out the chair that was tucked into the kneehole of the desk, and she sat down quickly.
    “Gracie… stop it from happening again. It mustn’t… go on forever… time after time… the blood… the murder…”
    She closed her eyes, forced herself to speak. Her voice was weak, quavery. She didn’t even recognize it as her own. It was the voice of a stranger—a weary, frightened, frail old woman. “Who is this?”
    The whispery, vibrative voice on the telephone said, “Protect her, Oracle.”
    “What do you want from me?”
    “Protect her.”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    “Protect her.”
    “Protect who?” she demanded.
    “Willa. Protect Willa.”
    She was still frightened and confused, but she was beginning to be angry, too. “I don’t know anyone named Willa, dammit! Who is this?”
    “Leonard.”
    “No! Do you think I’m a doddering, senile old fool? Leonard’s dead. Eighteen years! You’re not Leonard. What kind of game are you playing?”
    She wanted to hang up on him, and she knew that was the best thing to do with a crank like this, but she couldn’t make herself put down the receiver. He sounded so much like Leonard that she was mesmerized by his voice.
    He spoke again, much softer than before, but she could still hear him. “Protect Willa.”
    “I tell you, I don’t know her. And if you keep calling me with this nonsense, I’m going to tell the police that some sick practical joker is—”
    “Carol… Carol,” the man said, his voice fading syllable by syllable. “Willa… but you call her… Carol.”
    “What the hell is going on here?”
    “Beware…the…cat.”
    “What?”
    The voice was so distant now that she had to strain to hear it. “The… cat…”
    “Aristophanes? What about him? Have you done something to him? Have you poisoned him? Is that what’s been wrong with him lately”
    No response.
    “Are you there”
    Nothing.
    “What about the cat?” she demanded.
    No answer.
    She listened to the pure, pure silence, and she began to tremble so violently that she had trouble holding the phone. “Who are you? Why do you want to torment me like this? Why do you want to hurt Aristophanes?”
    Far, far away, the achingly familiar voice of her long-dead husband uttered a few final, barely audible words. “Wish… I was there… for the… apple dumplings.”
     
----
     
    They had forgotten to buy pajamas for Jane. She went to bed in knee socks, panties, and one of Carol’s T-shirts, which was a bit large for her.
    “What happens tomorrow?” she asked when she was tucked in, her head raised on a plump pillow.
    Carol sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought we might start a program of treatment designed to pry open your memory.”
    “What kind of