Chapter 5
The kitten woke her up, licking her face. It was hungry again. Abigail found a can of tuna in the cabinet, refilled the milk saucer and the creature gobbled every morsel and drank every drop. “Hungry little mite, aren’t you?” she spoke to the kitten as it ate. Yet the cat did look half-starved and Abigail felt sorry for it.
Outside the rain had ended and the sun was shining. Abigail got dressed and tugged on boots. The woods would be muddy, but at least there’d be no more water coming from the sky.
The Fourth of July picnic was only two days away and she was looking forward to it. Barbeque chicken was one of her favorite foods and she loved picnics, especially the ones with the carnival rides. She used to love holidays, any holiday, with Halloween her favorite and Christmas second. The Fourth of July brought back poignant memories of being a child, of hot nights, cold watermelon and multi-hued sparklers lighting up the dark with whiffs of fireworks burning in the air. Her family had never had much money but every holiday her parents scraped together every penny they could to give them those happy times. They’d had a lot of love.
She ate a bowl of cereal and picking up the kitten, headed out the door. Frank had said to go straight behind the house through the woods to get to Evelyn’s so she began walking in that direction. The whole way two phantom children skipped around her among the trees, laughing and whispering secrets. Since Frank had mentioned sitting so long ago at Emily’s kitchen table with the kids outside playing she’d had this image of them out there twirling sparklers, laughing and running through the mist. She’d go to the window, peek out, and be surprised they weren’t there.
Abigail was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her. This morbid fascination with a past she had nothing to do with and could never change was nagging her. Why were these children haunting her? And when Myrtle had mistaken her for Emily in the street and Frank had compared her, as an artist, to Emily, why had it bothered her?
Evelyn Vogt’s house was a sprawling estate with a dilapidated structure which passed for a house on it. Abigail noted the peeling paint and the grimy windowpanes, each one filled with some animal or other making faces at her. Cats and barking dogs romped all over the grounds and she had to be careful of where she stepped. What a portrait it all would make. Crazy Animal House.
She marched up to the front door and knock-knock-knock, the kitten asleep in her arms. She was glad to be getting rid of it before its tiny claws got hooked into her heart. A woman most likely in her late seventies or early eighties, stringy and as tall as Abigail, answered the door dressed in a bright ruby dress. She had jewelry at her throat, ears, and on every finger; red lipstick smeared awry on thin lips and eyeliner on her eyes, as if she were about to go to a party. She looked like a surprised squirrel. In her arms was the smallest, fattest bulldog Abigail had ever seen. The dog growled at her.
“Now, now, sweetie, be nice,” party lady cajoled the dog, caressing its ugly head.
“Mrs. Vogt? Hello, I’m your new neighbor, Abigail Sutton.”
“Well, well, I know all about you child. You bought that haunted Summers’ house. Poor thing. Come on in for tea and we’ll talk. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Mrs. Vogt, I have found one of your kittens and I’m returning her.”
“Keep her if you wish. I could do without her, I have others.”
“No, thank you. I don’t need a cat.”
“Who ever really needs a cat, dearie? They need us. Come inside.”
Abigail moved into the house. Before her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom she nearly tripped over a huge sheepdog. Once the house must have been beautiful but now it was shabby and dirty, over run by animals and apathy, streams of dried water stained the walls and there were missing tiles in the ceilings. The smell of mold and animal was heavy. Urine. Bugs.
Abigail put the kitten down and it scampered off. Her eyes followed its path, and she felt a twinge of regret. “You have an awful lot of animals living here with you. How do you feed them all?”
“Last count? Over fifty something. And you spend what you have to for your children. They love me and I take care of them. Animals live in another reality than ours, you know. There’s a network where they tell each other which humans can be trusted to care for, love and feed them. That’s how a cat or dog knows which house to go to for shelter.”
“Oh,” was all Abigail could think to say. She hoped she wasn’t in that network now.
Tea was a grand affair with sandwiches and cookies, and gossip. Evelyn’s body might have been old, but her mind was sharp. She was very entertaining and eager for company.
“That house you’re living in is full of ghosts,” Evelyn confided as they were sipping tea. “It’s probably Emily and those kids. Not Edna, though, she was too ornery to be a ghost.”
“So you knew Emily and her children then?”
“I surely did. You know,” she squinted her eyes at her, “you look like Emily. My, my. She was so special. Nothing like that sister of hers. Now that Edna was a hateful woman. She hated people. She hated animals. I can’t prove it, but I think she poisoned some of my poor little pets over the years. When Edna was alive I found dead carcasses everywhere. That kitten which wandered over to your house must have known it was under new ownership. Well, anyway, back to Emily. Edna despised her younger sister and wanted that house.”
“But it belonged to Emily, didn’t it?”
“Yes. It did. Now that wasn’t widely known. Edna kept it secret. How did you know?”
Abigail explained about finding the legal papers.
“Well, I’m glad Edna’s dead, but she took all the rest of her secrets to the grave, I’m afraid, and she had secrets. Heaven knows.” She shook her head and went on. “Jenny and Christopher used to come over here that last summer, it seems like yesterday not thirty years ago, and have meals with us and do odd jobs for extra money because they never had any. They never had anything. And they came over here to get away from Edna while their mom was at work. They were always hungry and needing this or that, like two little orphans. Their lives were dismal. My husband, Abner, was alive then and, oh yes, Myrtle Schmitt, my big sister, was living with us that summer, too. She knew them. She loved Emily and the kids, despised Edna.”
Wagon Myrtle was Evelyn’s older sister? It figured. Both were sweet old ladies but neither woman’s wick went to the bottom of their candle; no surprise they were related. “I’ve met your sister.”
“You should talk to her about the Summers family. She was closer to them that summer than I was. She’d go over there and tell Edna off when she thought the woman was neglecting or frightening those kids. Which was all the time. The two had a few heated go-rounds, I’ll tell you that. Myrtle can be formidable when she wants to be.”
“Was there anyone else the kids were afraid of?”
“One of Emily’s boyfriends, I think. She had a few unwanted admirers like the old Sheriff Cal. Emily seemed to attract the wrong sort of men. I tried to get the kids to tell me who was bullying them, but they were too afraid of whoever it was to squeal. One boyfriend drank too much, I recall, and Myrtle was sure he was married or something. It explained the secrecy.”
The lost kitten which Abigail had brought back had returned with friends and all of them were tumbling crazily through the rooms meowing, swatting at each other and playing.
“Ah, it was all so long ago.” The woman gave Abigail a wistful smile, staring out the window. Then she said, “I heard a fight over there one night. I heard a man shouting. Sometimes the woods carry sound in the queerest fashion. If there’s no wind and no other outside noises you can hear for miles. I told the sheriff at the time, Cal Brewster, the present sheriff’s daddy, but he never put much store to it. He said it was probably cats fighting and never checked it out. Which was unusual because he was always looking for an excuse to go and pester poor Emily. He had a thing for her, married as he was.”
“Sheriff Cal didn’t sound like
much of a sheriff.” Abigail huffed.
“Enough of ancient news,” Evelyn said. “Not very neighborly yakking only about the past with a brand new neighbor. Tell me, what have you done to your house so far?”
Abigail told her and they ended up discussing wallpapering, birdhouses and Abigail’s wish to be a freelance artist. By the time she left Evelyn’s house, she had another commission to draw Evelyn’s long dead childhood cat, when it was still alive of course, posed next to a vase of lilacs. The old lady even gave her a photograph of the feline next to a vase. Abigail took the photo, said goodbye and went home.
She wanted to paint the porch before the daylight was gone so she gathered yellow paint and the painting materials, slipped into her old clothes, and got to work. Within hours the porch was done and so was the swing. It looked good. Later the swing would be dry enough to rehang and then she could decorate the porch with the birdhouses.
She sat in the grass of her front yard, leaned back, and proudly regarded her work, then her eye caught by stray trash, she peered under the porch. The shiny object glinted from a corner deep beneath the foundation. Fetching a broom, she used the handle end of it to dig the glass Mason jar out. There was a rim of wax, which looked as if someone had melted a candle and let it drip around the opening, sealing the lid to keep out water and air. And the jar, partially caked with mud and dust, had something in it. She took it inside through the rear door, scraped off the wax with a knife and pried off the lid.
Her heart was racing. The finding of the notes had become an intriguing game. With each new message another part of the past slid into place. Emily’s fate was becoming a mystery Abigail ached to solve. In the jar were pieces of paper, one was a child’s drawing of a galloping horse done in crayons and the other was a scribbled note similar to the other two she’d found.
The horse was well drawn, the proportions perfect, the colors intense. The artist had had talent. It was signed Jenny. No telling how good she would have been when she’d grown up.
The letter was composed in blue crayon, lower and upper case this time. Some of the words were misspelled and it was easy to guess a ten-year-old had written it.
Last nite Mom and HIM had a bad fight. Then Aunt Edna and Mom screamed at each other. Aunt Edna don’t want to sell the house. Christopher spent the night hiding under the porch he was so afraid. I hate HIM. But Mom says Dad is coming to see us next month. I cain’t wait. I want him to take me and Chris away from here, but I know he wont. Dad gets so mean when he drinks too. I said a prayer to GOD to help us. We’re leaving this note for posterity. Christopher’s idea. Like leaving a time capsule. My brother sure is nutty. Maybe when we grow up, he says, well dig them up for laughs. Ha, ha. Were going to the picnic tomorrow and I can’t wait to ride the ferris wheel. Mrs. Vogt gave us money for cotton candy and cherry bombs. I told Chris he’s gonna blow his fingers off, he don’t care, though.
Abigail tucked the papers back in the jar and almost called Frank. But she’d see him in the morning so it could wait. What she felt like was crying. Those poor kids.
She spent the next hour searching for more letters in the nooks and crannies beneath the porch but, weary, finally gave it up. Enough is enough for today, she told herself.
I told Chris he’s gonna blow his fingers off, he don’t care, though.
Kids never changed, did they? She’d said about the same thing to her younger brother, Jimmy, on a long ago Independence Day. Jimmy lived in California now with his family and she rarely saw him. How she missed him and her two sisters, Carol and Mary, sometimes. She’d have to call. Find some way for the four of them to get together and catch up on their lives.
She put off hanging the swing and putting up her birdhouses until the following day. And in the morning, bringing the birdhouses out one at a time and unwrapping them, it was like rediscovering old friends she hadn’t seen for a long time. She remembered where she and Joel had bought or found each one as she hung them along the rim of the porch. There weren’t so many that it looked gaudy. She was appreciating her birdhouses from the swing when she glanced down and saw the white kitten bounding up onto the porch.
“Oh, no, you again!”
The kitten leapt into her lap and clawed its way up to cuddle at her neck, purring the whole time. She laughed and hugged it. “I can see you’ve adopted me and I’m not going to be able to get rid of you, am I?”
She took the cat into the house. “First thing for you, if you’re going to stay with me, is a bath. You stink and if you’re going to live here, you have to be clean. Only clean kittens allowed in my house.” The cat didn’t protest and seemed to enjoy playing in the water.
Abigail had to go into town for cat stuff. The tuna had run out. And if the kitten was going to live with her, she had to have a litter box and, of course, cat toys. When in town buying cat necessities at the General Store, John Mason inquired on how her artwork was progressing.
“I have another commission, which comes first, and then I hope to get the time to gather some of my older drawings and paintings together. I’ll bring them in soon, I promise,” she told him. “Hopefully by Saturday.”
That seemed to make him happy.
On her way home, she came up with a name for the kitten. Snowball. Well, so much for getting rid of the little pest. Once you named an animal, it had you.
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