Deep and Dark and Dangerous

by Mary Downing Hahn

  I looked around, bewildered. Where had she gone? There was nothing here. Just pines and tall grass and tangles of wild roses and vines growing over outcrops of mossy stones.

  When I heard a car whoosh past, I ran through the pines to a road. On the other side, I saw a small yellow house with blue shutters and a curl of smoke coming from its chimney. A rock garden and beds of flowers bloomed around the porch, their colors brightening the gloom.

  I ran across and knocked on the door, sure I'd found Sissy's home. She'd be surprised to see me on her doorstep for a change.

  Inside, a dog began barking and someone said, "Hush, Chauncy." The door opened, and a woman peered at me. "Yes?"

  The dog kept barking. He was large and brown and had a plumy tail, but he didn't look especially fierce. Just noisy.

  "Is Sissy home?" I asked.

  "Sissy?" The woman shook her head, puzzled. "I don't know anybody by that name." Turning back to the dog, she said, "Be quiet!"

  Chauncy regarded her with mournful eyes and lay down, head on his paws, as if he were ashamed of himself. His tail thumped the floor.

  "That's better," the woman told him, and his tail thumped harder. "Now," she said to me, "you'd better come in and dry off. You're soaked."

  I hesitated a second, but I was cold, drenched, and worn out from chasing Sissy. The woman had a friendly look, and the dog was quite sweet now that he'd stopped barking. The room beyond the open door looked warm and cozy—and dry.

  "My name's Kathie Trent," the woman said. "But I don't believe I know you."

  "I'm Ali O'Dwyer. I'm staying with my aunt Dulcie at Gull Cottage."

  She nodded. "Jeanine Donaldson told me Dulcie was back."

  "Do you know my aunt?"

  "I haven't seen her since she was about your age, maybe younger." She looked at me closely. "You're shivering. Let's get you dried off before you catch pneumonia."

  I followed Ms. Trent to the bathroom. Handing me a towel, she said, "There's a robe on the back of the door. Put that on, and I'll toss your clothes in the dryer. Then you can tell me all about yourself—and Dulcie and Claire, too."

  Soon I was bundled up in a fluffy bathrobe, sitting near a small wood stove and sipping hot tea. Chauncy dozed near my feet, and Ms. Trent sat across from me in a rocking chair. She wore her gray hair in a long braid down her back, but her face was unlined and rosy. Her jeans were faded, and her gray sweatshirt was several sizes too big; however, I could tell she was as slim as Dulcie, even though she was older.

  She regarded me over the rim of her teacup. "No one here thought Dulcie or Claire would ever come back to the lake."

  Here we go again, I thought. Aloud I said, "I guess Mrs. Donaldson told you she came to see Dulcie."

  Ms. Trent nodded and waited for me to go on.

  "Dulcie didn't remember her, but she was friendly at first. Then Mrs. Donaldson mentioned Teresa, and Dulcie got upset. She said she didn't remember her, either, and went off in a huff." I tied the robe's belt tighter.

  "It was really embarrassing," I went on, "but Mrs. Donaldson was very nice about it—she even apologized for upsetting Dulcie."

  "Jeanine's a sweet person," Ms. Trent said.

  Unlike Dulcie, I added silently. "Mrs. Donaldson knew Teresa. Did you know her, too?" I asked.

  "Yes, I did." Ms. Trent took a sip of tea. "I hate to say it, but her older sister, Linda, and I spent a lot of time running away from the poor kid. Teresa wanted to tag along everywhere we went, but she was five or six years younger—a big difference when you're a teenager and your little sister is ten. If we left her out, she'd tattle on Linda just to get her in trouble."

  She leaned back in the rocking chair and watched the rain run down the windowpanes. "It's an awful thing to say, but I don't think anyone liked Teresa—kids or adults. She was just too difficult. Always mad about something. From what Jeanine says, she caused so much trouble between Dulcie and Claire that your grandmother used to send her home."

  She sighed. "After what happened, I've often wished I'd been nicer to her. She couldn't have been very happy."

  For a while we sat quietly. I thought about Caroline Hogan—in third grade everybody hated her, I don't remember why now. Then she got hit by a car. She didn't die or anything, but when I saw her on crutches, I felt terrible. If something bad happened to Sissy, I guessed I'd feel the same way. Maybe I'd try to be nicer the next time I saw her. Maybe.

  As I sipped my tea, I stared at the quilt hanging on the wall across from me. It was done in shades of blues and grays ranging from dark to light, and its patterns swirled like water. The quilt had a melancholy feeling, sad beyond words. It reminded me of Dulcie's lake paintings.

  Ms. Trent turned to see what I was looking at. "That's my interpretation of the lake," she said, "its colors, its currents, its depth. One of my best pieces, I think, but no one has ever offered to buy it. Several people say it's too depressing. The blues and the grays..." With a shrug, she tilted back in the rocker and drank her tea.

  "Is it true Teresa's body was never found?" I asked.

  "Did Jeanine tell you that?"

  "No, Sissy did—the girl I was looking for."

  Ms. Trent sighed. "The lake often keeps its dead. The water's deep, you know, and dark. The bottom's rocky. Bodies get caught under ledges...." Her voice trailed off. "Well, there's no sense dwelling on the morbid details. It was a sad end to an unhappy child's life."

  I tucked the robe around my feet and curled up as small as I could. I wanted to let go of Teresa, but I had more questions.

  "Sissy also told me Mom and Dulcie were in the canoe with Teresa the day she drowned. She said it was their fault—that they murdered Teresa."

  Ms. Trent set her teacup down with a tiny clink. "There was a lot of talk at the time. Teresa's parents were sure Dulcie and Claire were involved. They even got the police to talk to your mother and aunt, but nothing came of it." She paused. "In case you're wondering, I think Teresa took the canoe out on a whim, and that Dulcie and Claire had nothing to do with it."

  I reached down to pet Chauncy. Without raising my head, I asked, "Do people ever say they've seen Teresa's ghost?"

  "Of course not." Ms. Trent laughed. "Did Sissy tell you that, too?"

  "She scared my cousin, Emma, half to death." And me, too.

  "I wonder who that child is," Ms. Trent mused. "Do you know her last name?"

  "She won't tell me. I don't even know where she lives. That's why I followed her today." I frowned. "I want to find her house so Dulcie can talk to her mother. Sissy's a bad influence on Emma. She ought to stay away from us."

  A clock struck eleven times like a miniature Big Ben, startling us both. I jumped up, stricken with guilt. I'd walked off two hours ago and left Emma sleeping. Dulcie was probably furious. "Are my clothes dry? I have to go home."

  Ms. Trent disappeared into the laundry room and came back with my jeans and T-shirt and underwear, still warm from the dryer.

  "It's raining too hard to walk all the way back to Gull Cottage," she said as she handed them to me. "Why don't you call Dulcie? I'd love to see her. I'd drive you myself, but my poor Volvo's in the shop having yet another overhaul."

  As soon as I was dressed, I dialed Dulcie's number. Just as I'd feared, she was cross at me for leaving without a word to anyone. But she was also relieved I was safe.

  "I'll come right away. Where are you?"

  "At Ms. Trent's. It's a yellow house on Sycamore Road. She has flowers everywhere, more even than Mom has. You can't miss it."

  "What on earth are you doing there?"

  "I tried to follow Sissy home, but I couldn't keep up with her. I thought she must live in Ms. Trent's house, so I knocked on the door and she invited me in, but she doesn't know Sissy."

  "Sissy, Sissy, Sissy." Dulcie sighed into the phone. "I wish you'd never met that girl."

  After she hung up, I sat down on the sofa. My aunt wasn't the only one who wished I'd never met Sissy. Chauncy nudged my knee with his n
ose and looked at me hopefully. I petted him, and Ms. Trent laughed.

  "He'll expect you to keep that up for hours," she said. "I've never had a dog who needed more love than Mr. Chauncy."

  A few minutes later, Dulcie's car pulled into the driveway next to the cottage. I glimpsed Emma in the back seat, her face pressed against the window.

  Despite all attempts to silence him, Chauncy ran to the door and barked loudly, just as he had when I'd arrived.

  Ms. Trent greeted Dulcie. "Ignore that silly dog. He never bites."

  Dulcie carried Emma inside. "Don't put me down," Emma begged. "I'm scared of dogs."

  "His name's Chauncy," I told Emma. "He's an old sweetie pie. See?" I petted Chauncy and he leaned against my legs, huffing happily.

  "I don't like dogs," Emma said.

  In the meantime, Ms. Trent was introducing herself to Dulcie. "I'm Kathie Trent," she said, "but you'd have known me as Kathie Miller. My folks worked at Lake View Cabins, way back when the Abbotts owned the place."

  Dulcie ran her fingers through her rain-dampened hair, but nothing she did could tame it. "I'm sorry but—"

  "It's been a long time," Ms. Trent said.

  "My memory's terrible." Dulcie looked around the cottage, her eyes caught by the quilts. "These are beautiful. Did you make them?"

  "Yes, I did." Ms. Trent smiled. "Ali tells me you're a painter. I'd love to see your work someday."

  Dulcie shifted Emma so she could reach into her purse for a business card. "I'm in the studio every day, a converted boat-house down on the shore. It's a lovely spot to work."

  "That's the lake." Emma pointed at the blue and gray quilt. "All deep and dark and scary."

  "What a perceptive child," Ms. Trent said, clearly impressed.

  "What's perscective mean?" Emma asked.

  "'Perceptive' means you understand stuff," I told her.

  "I do understand stuff," Emma agreed. "Lots of stuff."

  "We'd better go," Dulcie said. "Thanks for sheltering my errant niece. I hope she wasn't a nuisance."

  "Ali's welcome anytime," Ms. Trent said, "as are you and the perceptive Emma."

  As soon as we were in the car, Dulcie let me have it. "It was extremely irresponsible to go off and leave Emma alone. If you do anything like that again, I'll find someone else to take care of my daughter. Someone who's more mature than you are."

  "I'm sorry," I mumbled. "But Sissy—"

  "Stop blaming Sissy for everything," Dulcie cut in. "You're thirteen years old. Act like it."

  Stung into silence, I slumped in the front seat and gazed out the rain-streaked window. Dulcie stared straight ahead, her face closed, her hands tight on the wheel.

  Strapped in her child seat in the back, Emma was unusually quiet. The only sound was the slappity-slap of the windshield wipers and the hiss of rain under the tires.

  14

  Gradually, Dulcie got over being angry at me, probably because Sissy stayed away. I read to Emma, played games with her, and, when the sun finally came out, took her swimming. We painted pictures and made things with clay—lopsided pots, oddly shaped animals, dishes and cups that Dulcie fired in the kiln. I tried making my shell-and-stone displays, and Dulcie liked them. She said I was an artist, too—it obviously ran in the family.

  After more than a week had passed without Sissy, I began hoping she was gone for good. Moved, found someone else to torment—I didn't care where she was or where she'd gone. Just so she didn't come back.

  One afternoon, Emma and I were sitting at the picnic table, fooling around with clay. The sun was hot. Perspiration soaked the hair on the back of my neck. Bumblebees buzzed and hummed to themselves in the hollyhocks. A mosquito whined in my ear, and another bit my arm.

  Just as I was about to suggest a swim, Emma turned to me, her face thoughtful. "I wonder what Sissy's doing now."

  "After the way she acted last time, I don't care what she's doing. Not one bit. Not even a teeny tiny smidgen of a split atom."

  I exaggerated to make Emma laugh, but she didn't even smile. Bending her head over her clay pot, she said, "Sissy promised she'd come see me today."

  "How could she tell you that? We haven't seen her for over a week."

  Ignoring me, Emma concentrated on rolling a coil of clay between her hands, making it long and smooth like a glistening snake.

  I lifted her chin and forced her to look at me. "Has Sissy been here?"

  Emma jerked away from me. Dropping the coil of clay, she flattened it with her fist. "Squish," she said. "Squash. No more snake."

  With a Sissy smirk on her face, she ran into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind her. A squirrel, frightened by the sound, scurried up a tree trunk and disappeared into the leaves. From somewhere in his green hiding place, he chitter-chattered his outrage.

  Emma hadn't answered my question, but she didn't have to. The way she acted told me she'd managed to see Sissy without my knowing. But how? I was with her all the time—except when she took her nap and went to bed at night. I doubted Sissy was allowed out after dark, so she must be sneaking into Emma's room in the afternoon.

  If that's what was going on, I'd soon put a stop to it. The sneaky little brat wasn't welcome here—and she knew it. Leaving my clay cat baking in the sun, I went inside to talk to Emma.

  She was lying on the couch, her face bored and sulky—in a Sissy mood, for sure. "Has Sissy been sneaking in here while you're supposed to be taking a nap?"

  "That's for me to know and you to find out." Emma's voice sounded just like Sissy's, mocking and spiteful.

  I grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. "I don't want her in this house. And neither does your mother!"

  Emma pulled away from me. "Sissy's right. You're jealous because I like her better than I like you."

  Disgusted with Emma, I stalked off to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of iced tea. Just as I sat down to drink it, Dulcie came in. She didn't say hello. She didn't smile. In fact, she didn't even look at me. She went straight to the coffeemaker and started a pot brewing.

  While she waited, she turned to me. "Where's Emma?"

  Annoyed by her tone of voice, I kept my eyes on the New Yorker I'd been reading. "She's sulking in the living room."

  Dulcie sighed in exasperation. "What's going on between you two? Why can't you get along with each other?"

  Like bad weather, I sensed blame coming my way again. "It's not my fault—"

  "Oh, no, it's never your fault. It's Sissy's fault or Emma's fault. Maybe it's the weather's fault—it's too hot, too cold, too rainy. But it's not your fault. You aren't to blame for anything."

  Hurt by her sarcasm, I started to cry. At the same moment, Dulcie reached into the cupboard for a coffee mug and dropped it. It shattered on the kitchen floor.

  The noise brought Emma running. "What was that?" she asked from the doorway.

  Dulcie was down on her knees gathering up bits of china. "I broke a cup. That's all."

  "Why's Ali crying?"

  Dulcie looked at me, her face stricken. Getting to her feet, she gave me a quick hug. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that." She looked past me at the lake, darkening now under a parade of clouds drifting across the sky.

  "Everything's wrong," she muttered as she dumped the remains of the cup in the garbage. "You and Emma quarrel constantly, I can't sleep, I..." Finishing the sentence with a shrug, she reached for another cup and filled it with coffee.

  I felt like saying she probably drank too much coffee, but I bit my tongue. She was already on edge, jumpy and jittery. It wouldn't take much to make her angry again.

  "Your mother was right," she went on. "Coming here was a mistake. My paintings are terrible, too bad to show. I do the same thing over and over again—the lake, the fog.... They're hideous, but I can't paint anything else, just the dark water, the dark sky, and the—"

  She broke off, sat down at the kitchen table, and covered her face with her hands. Emma patted her m
other's shoulder, stroked her hair, and whispered, "Mommy, Mommy, don't cry. Everything will be okay."

  Emma sounded like herself again, sweet, comforting, all traces of Sissy gone.

  Keeping her face in her hands, Dulcie muttered, "I'm beginning to think we should close up the cottage and go home. Maybe I'll paint better in New York, in my own studio, away from all this water and wind and rain."

  Emma drew back. "We can't leave," she cried, her voice suddenly shrill in the quiet kitchen. "We can't, we can't, we can't. Sissy—"

  Dulcie seized Emma's shoulders. "Do you know how sick I am of hearing that child's name? Ever since you met her, there's been nothing but trouble between you and Ali. I don't want her coming here. I don't want you playing with her. Do you understand?"

  Emma shrank away from Dulcie's angry face. I thought she'd cry, but her lip jutted out and she looked at her mother, defying her. "Sissy's my friend! I won't stop playing with her! You can't make me!"

  Dulcie leapt to her feet and drew back her hand. I cringed, sure that she was going to slap Emma. Emma must have thought the same thing because she raised her arm to protect her face. "Don't hit me," she cried. "Don't hit me!"

  Dulcie threw herself back down in the chair and began to sob. Emma looked at me, clearly frightened by her mother's behavior. Scared myself, I took Emma's hand. I was used to my mother behaving like this, but not Dulcie.

  In a moment or two, Dulcie managed to control herself. Wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, she pulled Emma into her lap. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Sometimes I don't know what gets into me."

  With a sigh, she pushed her hair back from her face. "Why don't we get dinner started? Spaghetti, maybe. How would you two like that?"

  In a voice so low that Dulcie didn't hear, Emma muttered, "I'm sick of spaghetti, and I'm sick of Ali, and I'm sick of Mommy."

  I looked at her, but she turned away, hiding her face.

  Making cheerful noises with pots and pans, Dulcie and I began fixing the meal. I boiled water and dropped in spaghetti. Dulcie whipped up tomato sauce, and Emma got out the bread and butter. My job was tossing spaghetti noodles at the wall. If they stuck, they were ready. Mom would never have let me do something like that.