Stillwater

by Mary Jo Hazard

  Maggie snorted, and milk shot out of her nose. She grabbed a paper napkin from the wicker holder on the table and wiped her face. “Oh my God! I am so not looking forward to that.”

  “Well, Mar-gar-et,” Louanne said, batting her long eyelashes. “It’s only a matter of time before you get your friend and some boobies too.”

  “Louanne, what is wrong with you? You’re disgusting,” Maggie said, wiping the milk off of her face. She threw her dirty napkin on her plate. “Nothing is private with you. You’re just like Grace.”

  “What’s not private with Grace?” Louanne said, taking the rubber band off of her ponytail and shaking her hair out. “Spill; clue me in.”

  I clenched my jaw and waited.

  “Well, big mouth Grace told about something that happened at school after I specifically told her not to. We got in big trouble with Sister John the Baptist.”

  “What happened?” Louanne said, raising her eyebrows. “Grace, come on. Tell.”

  “No,” I said, rubbing my blister. “Nothing really happened.” I thought the whole thing was over and that Maggie was okay with it, but obviously she wasn’t.

  “Yes, it did,” Maggie said, glaring at me.

  “Aren’t we best friends? No secrets.” Louanne leaned forward. “I tell you everything—like when I stuffed tissue in Aunt Michelle’s black bra and wore it to church.”

  “Big deal,” Maggie said. “You wore it under a sweater. It was winter, and nobody even saw it.”

  “Pretty please,” Lou said, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. “Come on, Grace, you have to tell me.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, giving her the gory details.

  “No way,” she said after I filled her in. “That Mr. Kutter’s a creep.”

  “Right,” Maggie said. “But he didn’t get in trouble—we did.”

  “How?”

  “Grace has a big mouth—as if we all didn’t know,” Maggie said, pointing her finger at me. “She told her mother, and her mother told my mother, and they told Sister John the Baptist.”

  “Maggie, shut up. I just told the truth.”

  She stiffened.

  “Grace is right,” Louanne said, scowling at Maggie. “Sister J the B was wrong.”

  “Don’t take Grace’s side,” Maggie yelled. “Next year that sister will be our eighth-grade teacher. She hates us.”

  “Lou is not taking my side,” I said, trying to convince Maggie.

  “I’m not, Maggie,” Louanne said, holding out her hands. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “None,” I said, remembering Sister saying I was going to hell like my father. “And there’s no way I’m ever going back to Saint Mark’s.”

  Maggie’s mouth dropped open. “Some friend you are. What about me?”

  “If I were you, Maggie, I wouldn’t either,” Louanne said, trying to convince her. “Seriously, go to the public school.”

  “My father would never let me,” Maggie said, lowering her voice. “He says the nuns teach you character and respect—things the public schools don’t.”

  “Like the way Sister John the B respected us?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Louanne fished a tube of lipstick out of the back pocket of her plaid Bermuda shorts. “Hey, forget that nun. This color is fabulous—fuchsia!”

  She walked over to the toaster and squinted at her reflection. Making a big O with her mouth, she applied the lipstick on her top and bottom lips and blotted them with a paper napkin.

  “It’s Hazel Bishop nonsmear lipstick. You put lipstick on from the middle out—never do it from the outside in,” Louanne said, pointing to her mouth. “And don’t forget to put on a second coat.”

  Lou should give my mother lessons—she was a pro. Her lipstick looked perfect.

  Maggie grabbed the tube and rubbed some lipstick on her bottom lip. She pressed her lips together and made a funny face. “Feels sticky,” she said, wiping it off on the back of her hand. “I don’t like it.”

  “Seriously, Maggie, you are a real party pooper,” Louanne said, holding out her hand. “Give it back.”

  Aunt Michelle walked into the kitchen, and her eyes widened as she took in Louanne’s bright fuchsia lips. “Honey,” she said, cocking her head to the side, “that’s a beautiful color, but don’t you dare wear any lipstick outside this house. If your mother could see you, she’d have a heart attack.”

  “My mother’s a thousand miles away, and I know exactly what she’d say—no respectable young lady wears makeup until she’s sixteen!” Louanne stood up and pushed her chair back from the table. “Let’s go up in the attic and dress up. We can wear all the makeup we want up there.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Michelle,” I said, getting up. “Those rolls were really good.”

  “Why, Grace, you’re so welcome,” she said, smiling. “It’s my pleasure. I love baking for you girls.”

  I hurried upstairs after Louanne and Maggie and followed them down the hall. We passed the room Lou stayed in when she was visiting. Her old teddy bear, Sir Lawrence Olivier, was lying on the bed; she never went anywhere without him. I bent down to tie my shoe and plowed into Maggie.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I said. “Don’t do that.”

  Maggie moved her index finger across her neck like she was slitting her throat. “Dum de dum dum,” she whispered, pointing down the hall. “We’re dead.”

  “Stay Out!!!” was painted on Uncle Tony’s door in gigantic red letters. The paint had dripped down the door like blood oozing out of a fresh wound. He’d taped some papers to the door under the sign, and below them he’d taped a brown manila envelope with an American flag sticking out of the top.

  “Creepy,” I whispered, as a chill went through my body. “What the heck?”

  “It wasn’t here last year, Louanne,” Maggie said. “Right?”

  “No, Uncle Tony has started using his door as a bulletin board,” Lou said shrugging. “Aunt Michelle said his doctors want him to express himself in writing.”

  My father used to paste notes on our kitchen wall. When my mother found them, she’d rip them into little pieces and throw them in the trash.

  “My brother has a ‘No girls allowed’ sign on his door,” Maggie said, “but this is nuts.”

  “It scared me when I saw it the first time,” Louanne admitted. “It takes some getting used to.”

  “Are you sure his doctors are right?” Maggie asked. “Seriously, this looks like the room of a murderer.”

  “Shut up, Maggie,” Louanne hissed. “Aunt Michelle wouldn’t let me visit if there was anything to worry about.”

  “Louanne’s right,” I said, trying to convince myself. “Aunt Michelle would die before she let anything happen to Lou. You know that.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Okay if we read the notes?” I asked.

  Louanne nodded.

  The first list was written in black ink:

  Michelle and Mother want to control everything I do.

  O’Malley wants to arrest me—he’s full of shit.

  People hurt me—don’t go near them.

  People lie—never believe anything they say—they spy on me.

  Another list, written in purple, was about UFOs. He had past, present, and future columns for his sightings. The last list was labeled “Commitments.” It was divided into two neat columns—hospital admission dates were written in green, and hospital discharge dates were written in blue. Uncle Tony had had four admissions already this year. I leaned in closer to see the actual dates and pulled back when something jumped against the other side of the door.

  “That’s Gabriel,” Louanne whispered. “Be quiet.”

  The Dodds called him Gabriel, but most people in town called the black cocker spaniel “Uncle Tony’s familiar,” a demon sent to do his bidding—on an Easter Sunday, of all days. The parishioners had been outside the church saying goodbye to Father Flanagan after Mass and showing off their Easter finery when Louanne’s uncl
e rode by on his bicycle. One of the Moore boys hurled a rock at Uncle Tony, knocking him off the bike. A little dog came out of nowhere, raced up the street, and licked the blood off of Uncle Tony’s forehead, freaking everybody out. The churchgoers tried to shoo the cocker spaniel away, but his eyes turned red, his fur stood up, and he snarled like a wolf.

  Doc ran over and helped Uncle Tony to his feet. He calmed the dog down and steadied Louanne’s uncle while he climbed back on the bike. The little dog followed Uncle Tony home and moved right in.

  The parishioners were afraid of the black dog and that’s when they started calling him “Uncle Tony’s familiar.” Doc said they were all damn fools, and he was glad Tony finally had a friend—even if it did have four legs and a tail. Aunt Michelle didn’t like dogs, but she agreed with Doc. Uncle Tony named him Gabriel, which means “warrior of God.”

  Louanne grabbed Maggie’s hand and pulled her toward the attic stairs. “Come on, before Gabriel wakes up Uncle Tony.”

  “Are you sure Uncle Tony can’t hear us up here?” I asked, taking one last look at the notes. “I don’t want to wake him up.”

  “Don’t worry,” Louanne said. “Just shut the attic door. He won’t hear a thing.”

  “If you say so,” I said, tiptoeing up the stairs just in case.

  The attic had low ceilings and was really hot; in fact, it felt a bit like a tomb, but it was nowhere near as hot as Mr. Kutter’s furnace room. Nobody had taken off the storm windows, and the place smelled musty, like old books and dust. There was an exhaust fan, but it wasn’t working. Spiderwebs hung down from the beams, and the wooden floorboards creaked when you walked. One whole corner was filled with old toys and stacks of board games that we used to play with. The four steamer trunks were in a semicircle in front of the mirror—right where we left them last summer.

  Louanne’s grandmother, Mrs. Dodd, loved her old clothes, and she kept most of them. When something went out of style, she put it in the attic for safekeeping. She’d say, “Eventually it will come back in style. Things always do.” But they hadn’t yet, and the trunks were filled with her fancy gowns, big hats, and high heels. A small white leather trunk lined with pink silk held her unmentionables—corsets, padded brassieres, and silk stockings. I couldn’t imagine old Mrs. Dodd wearing any of them, but Doc said back in the day she’d been a looker.

  Louanne took off her shirt and shorts and grabbed a black corset. She wriggled herself into it and smoothed the front with both hands. “They didn’t have pointy bras back then,” she explained. “Men liked flat breasts and no hips—just like Maggie.”

  “Are you out of your tree?” Maggie said. “Drop dead.”

  Louanne and I laughed.

  “I’m just telling the truth,” Lou said.

  “I’m telling you perverts now,” Maggie said, putting on one of Mrs. Dodd’s long lamb coats. “I’m not taking my clothes off. I’m wearing this coat over them.”

  “Fine with me,” Louanne said, pulling a blue velvet gown out of the trunk. “Grace, put this on. It goes with your eyes.”

  “It does?” I asked, holding the dress up in front of me to check in the mirror. Not bad, and if I walked on my tiptoes, I wouldn’t have to cram my feet into a pair of Mrs. Dodd’s high heels—she had real small feet. I put on the gown, and Maggie fastened the long line of buttons on the back. Louanne handed me a cigarette holder—no cigarette—but it upped my outfit. I pretended to take a long drag on it, the way Audrey Hepburn did in her movies.

  Louanne walked over to the old radio that sat on top of the highboy and turned it on. She fiddled with the channels until she heard “The Tennessee Waltz.”

  “Hey, you two, pretend we’re Patti Page,” she said. “I love this song.”

  “I can’t hear it good,” Maggie said, turning the volume up. “That’s better.”

  I clapped a hat with an ostrich feather (that had looked much better on the ostrich) on my head and walked over to the mirror. The poor bird had lost its life for nothing; Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t have been caught dead in that hat. I adjusted the veil with both hands and checked the mirror again. I tilted the hat to the left to see if it looked better that way, but it didn’t. I pushed the veil up over the hat and checked the mirror again to see if that made me look any better and saw Uncle Tony standing right behind me.

  This is what it feels like when you’re dying of fright, I thought, feeling the hairs on my arms and legs stand up. Why did Maggie have to turn that radio up? Of course the noise would wake up Uncle Tony. Louanne and Maggie hadn’t noticed anything; they were singing and carrying on like everything was okay.

  Uncle Tony locked eyes with me. He was taller than I remembered, the top of his head just missed hitting the beams. There was a small scar on his forehead, and he looked dazed—not from the scar, but like he just woke up. His skin was pasty white—which made sense because we knew he only went outside in the dark of night. He wore plaid pajama bottoms and a red shirt—a pack of Camels stuck out of his front pocket. His hands were as white as his face. They hung down by his side, and he kept opening and closing his fists like he wanted to strangle something. Gabriel leaned against Uncle Tony’s leg and yawned.

  Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.

  “Louanne,” I said in a low voice, hoping she’d hear me. “Um, your uncle…”

  “What, Grace?” she yelled over the music. “Talk louder.”

  “Louanne!” I screamed. “Stop! You woke—”

  “What?” she said, whirling around so fast that she caught her heel in the carpet. She fell against the highboy, the radio crashed to the floor, and the music died. It got so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat.

  Maggie backed up a few steps and covered her mouth with both hands.

  Uncle Tony turned and walked slowly toward Louanne. His mouth was open slightly, and he looked at her like he had something he wanted to say. He took a few more shuffling steps, picked up a shawl that had fallen on the floor, and held it out to Lou.

  “I forgot you were sleeping, Uncle Tony,” she said, pulling the shawl around her. “I’m sorry…”

  The four of us and the dog stood there staring at each other for what seemed like forever; then, Gabriel licked Uncle Tony’s hand, and Uncle Tony’s lips split into a little smile. He nodded at us, and the two of them walked out of the attic.

  “He scared the bejesus out of me,” Louanne said when we heard the attic door close.

  “I thought he was going to kill us,” Maggie said in a shaky voice.

  “That crossed my mind,” I said, taking a deep breath.

  “Good thing he was in a good mood,” Lou said, peeling off her corset, “and didn’t have a meltdown.” She grabbed her shirt and shorts and put them on as fast as she could. “Let’s clean up and get out of here.”

  And all things considered, I guess his mood wasn’t that bad. Once we stopped shaking, we put everything back in the trunks like we always did, but this time we didn’t sing and fool around while we were cleaning up.

  None of us realized it, but that was the last time the three of us ever played dress up in the attic. Our childhood games would soon be memories—part of our innocent past.

  CHAPTER 8

  The night the arsonist set the first fire, we were jumping rope on the sidewalk in front of my house. Maggie and I twirled because as always, Louanne demanded firsties. Her verses tended to be romantic in nature, always featuring her in the starring role, and she belted them out like she was performing for a full house at the Moulin Rouge.

  Across the street, the Thompsons were sitting in their rocking chairs on the porch, watching us, so technically, we were onstage. Mrs. Thompson almost fell out of her chair when Louanne chanted, “Down in the valley, where the green grass grows, there sat Louanne sweet as a rose. She sang, she sang, she sang so sweet, along came Billy and kissed her on the cheek. How many kisses did he give her, one, two, three, four, five, six…”

  “How many kisses” signaled hot pep
pers. Maggie and I twirled the rope as fast as we could, working together to get Louanne out. The faster she jumped, the harder her blond braids slapped her shoulders. Whack! Whack! Whack! Her face turned red, and she looked like she was having trouble breathing.

  At that exact moment, the fire alarm went off, and she startled. Her feet got all tangled up in the rope.

  “I hate that stupid alarm,” she said as Maggie and I dropped the rope and laughed. “Stop laughing; I could’ve made one hundred, honest.”

  “Don’t blow your top, Louanne,” Maggie said, tossing the jump rope on the porch. “Come on. I’ll race you to the firehouse.”

  We grabbed our bikes. The firehouse was only one block over, and we took the shortcut through the vacant lot next to the Methodist church. A few years ago, the church had been renovated, and their construction crew had used the empty lot as their personal dump. It was full of bricks, old boards with rusty nails, broken bottles, and weeds. Once I found a fifty-cent piece on the ground.

  The last time Denny and I went over there to see if there was anything we could use for our tree house, he stepped on a nail. My mother almost had a heart attack, and my brother had to have a tetanus shot. She forbade us to go there anymore, so of course that’s where I always went. I’d be in big trouble if my mother caught me, but this fire thing was kind of an emergency, and I figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  “Hurry up, or the truck will be gone when we get there,” Maggie yelled over her shoulder.

  When Louanne and I rode into the parking lot, Maggie was there next to the fire truck. A few of the neighbors, including the Thompsons, had walked over to see what was going on.

  Stillwater had a volunteer fire department. The firemen came from all over the countryside when the siren went off. Sometimes, when they’d get to the firehouse, Captain Steele and some of the firemen would have already left on the truck, so the latecomers would end up driving themselves to the fire.

  The driver started up the truck; he flashed the lights and turned on the siren. Mr. Howe hurried out of the station door wearing bunker pants and a fireman hat. He threw his canvas coat over his shoulder and hopped on the truck as it pulled away.