Deep and Dark and Dangerous

by Mary Downing Hahn

  When I went up to my room, I found Sissy perched on my bed, holding Edith on her lap. I wasn't surprised to see her. It was obvious she wasn't done with us.

  "Did Dulcie tell the truth at last?" she asked.

  "She talked to her lawyer. He said she hadn't committed a crime. And then he told her she should forget the whole thing."

  Sissy sneered. "She's been doing a pretty good job of that all along."

  I bristled. "Dulcie's never forgotten a single detail of that day. Neither has Mom. In fact, Mom feels worse than Dulcie. In a way, it's ruined her whole life."

  "How about me? Don't you think they ruined my life?" Sissy asked plaintively. "Believe me, I feel a whole lot worse than either of them!"

  "I'm sorry," I said. "It was stupid of me to say that."

  "Yes, it was," Sissy agreed, clearly pleased I'd apologized.

  "After she saw her lawyer," I went on, "Dulcie talked to a reporter at The Sentinel. A photographer's coming here to take pictures, and they're going to interview lots of people, including Dulcie and my mother."

  Sissy smiled a real smile for once. "That's just exactly what I wanted. Everybody in Webster's Cove will know the truth at last."

  She watched me get ready for bed, and then crawled in beside me. Shivering, I moved toward the wall, giving her as much room as I could.

  "Just a few more nights," she whispered, "and then you'll never see me again."

  Once I would've been happy to hear that, but tonight I felt an unexpected twinge of sadness. Odd as it sounds, I was getting used to having Sissy around. Now that I knew so much more about her, it was easier to put up with her sadness and anger.

  20

  In the morning, Sissy was gone, but her pillow was damp and cold.

  Dulcie met me at the foot of the steps. She'd tidied her hair, washed off the paint, and changed her clothes, but she was still tense and edgy. Behind her, I could see Emma sitting at the kitchen table, coloring a picture.

  I looked at my aunt warily, braced for another outburst.

  Glancing at Emma, she spoke in a low voice, "I'm sorry for my behavior yesterday. I was upset. And Claire just fell apart. I needed her to be strong, so I could be strong." She reached out to hug me, and I felt myself begin to relax.

  "I never should have criticized your mother," Dulcie said. "She can't help being depressed. I know she's trying to get better. Please forgive me, Ali. I love you both, your mother and you. We're all the family we have."

  I returned her hug. "It's okay, I understand." That is, I think I do.

  Dulcie let me go and gazed at me thoughtfully. "Did you tell your mother about Teresa?"

  "You mean, Sissy? No," I said. "But even if we don't say a word, Sissy will figure out a way to let her know."

  "You really saw her?" Dulcie whispered. "It wasn't a kid playing a trick?"

  "It was her," I said. "Teresa ... Sissy ... whatever you want to call her. She's been hanging around all summer."

  Dulcie shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ali, but that's hard to believe, especially on a sunny day like this."

  A little later, I heard a car. Although it was way too early to be Mom and Dad, I ran to the door.

  Ms. Trent got out of her faded blue Volvo and waved to me. "I was driving past, and I thought I'd drop in. Is your aunt here?"

  I beckoned her to follow me inside. "Ms. Trent's come to see you," I told Dulcie.

  She looked up from the newspaper and made an effort to smile. "I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like a cup?"

  "I never turn one down." Ms. Trent followed Dulcie to the kitchen. I heard her say something in a low voice.

  Dulcie turned to me. "Weren't you going to make paper dolls for Emma?"

  "Yes, yes, you promised!" Emma grabbed my hand and towed me out to the deck. She'd left paper, crayons, and scissors scattered across the picnic table. "Make one like you and one like me and one like—" She stopped. "No, just make two. You and me. Best friends."

  Emma watched me draw, her face so close I could feel her warm breath on my hand. While she chattered on about the clothes she wanted for her doll, I strained to hear Dulcie and Ms. Trent's conversation. I picked up a word here, a word there, enough to know they were talking about Teresa. Or Sissy. Whichever she preferred to be called.

  Emma jumped up suddenly. "There's a cat. It's after a bird!"

  A big black and white cat was creeping across the grass, belly to the ground, eyes on a sparrow that was pecking at seeds spilled from the bird feeder.

  When Emma ran across the lawn to stop it, I moved closer to the kitchen window, hoping to hear better.

  "Nothing's a secret in Webster's Cove," Ms. Trent was saying. "Ed Jones, the reporter you talked to, has a wife with a big mouth. She called Jeanine Donaldson and told her the whole story. Jeanine didn't waste a second spreading the news. By the time she told me, the whole town knew, including Teresa's sister, who lives a few miles away in Lakeport—which was news to me."

  "Ali, come help me!" I turned to see Emma holding the small brown bird in her hands. "It's still alive."

  While the cat watched from the bushes, I ran to Emma's side. The sparrow flapped its wings feebly. Its yellow beak opened and closed slowly. While I watched, its eyes lost their luster, and it stopped moving.

  "Can we save it?" Emma asked.

  I took the sparrow from her as gently as I could. "The poor little thing," I whispered. "It's dead."

  Emma began to cry. "I hate cats. I hate them!"

  The old stray lurked under the bush, twitching its tail. It was clear it felt no remorse. Given the opportunity, the cat would have snatched the bird and run off with it.

  Emma bent down to pick up a stone. Before she could throw it, I grabbed her arm. "No," I said. "Cats can't help killing things. It's their nature."

  Emma dropped the stone and touched the bird's body sadly. "Can we bury it?"

  I went inside to find a large spoon to dig a grave, and Emma followed me, still crying for the bird. "Why do things have to die?" she cried, burrowing into her mother's arms. "It's not fair."

  I showed the dead sparrow to Dulcie and Ms. Trent. "A cat killed it. We're going to bury it."

  "Do birds have ghosts?" Emma asked Dulcie.

  Over Emma's head, Dulcie and Ms. Trent glanced at each other. Ms. Trent shook her head, and Dulcie said, "Of course not, darling. There's no—"

  Emma straightened up and looked Dulcie in the eye. "Don't say there's no such thing. Ghosts are real. You know it, and I know it, and Ali knows it." She hesitated a second. "And Sissy knows it."

  Emma stood there gazing at her mother, daring her to argue.

  "We came in to get a spoon," I told Dulcie, "so we can dig a grave for the bird."

  While Dulcie selected an appropriate spoon, I ran to my room for a tissue box I'd thrown in the trash that morning. We wrapped the bird in an old handkerchief and laid it in the box. Then Emma and I took turns digging a hole under a lilac bush, and gently placed the box in the ground.

  While we said a few words over the bird, I felt my neck prickle, as if someone was watching us. Uneasily, I glanced over my shoulder. Almost hidden in the shade of a tall oak, Sissy peered at me. When she realized I'd seen her, she ducked out of sight.

  I returned my attention to the pile of earth heaped beside the small grave and spooned some onto the box. Emma followed my example. With Dulcie and Ms. Trent helping, we filled the hole and tamped it down firmly to keep the cat from digging up its victim.

  Before we returned to the house, I looked at the oak tree. Sissy was gone.

  Dulcie filled two coffee mugs for herself and Ms. Trent and poured lemonade for Emma and me. While my aunt and Ms. Trent sat at the table, they chatted quietly about quilting and painting. Ms. Trent said a small gallery had just opened on the main road. Dulcie asked about an arts and crafts shop she'd noticed on a side street. They both deplored the crowded roads and beach. It was comforting to hear them talk about ordinary things.

  After
Ms. Trent left, I sat on the deck, watching for Dad's car. It was almost five thirty. The sky had clouded over, promising rain once more, and daylight was already fading. Inside, Dulcie was preparing a special seafood dinner, and Emma was playing with the paper dolls I'd made.

  Dulcie came to the window and looked at me. "It's about to rain," she called. "Aren't you cold?"

  I shook my head. "It's nice out here."

  Dulcie shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  As she turned away, I heard a car coming toward the house. I jumped up and ran to meet my parents as if we'd been apart for years instead of weeks. I hugged Dad tight and then threw my arms around Mom. She cried, wetting my face with tears, and turned to Dulcie.

  "I never thought I'd see this place again." Mom looked around, her face worried. "It's just as I remembered. Nothing's changed."

  "Except us," Dulcie threw her arms around Mom. "It's good to see you, Claire."

  As she hugged Dad, I glanced at the oak tree. Sissy watched from the shadows, her pale face expressionless.

  Emma saw her, too. I grabbed her arm to stop her from running to meet her, but I needn't have bothered. Sissy was already gone.

  "Why did she run away?" Emma whispered. "Is she still mad?"

  "It's got nothing to do with you and me," I told her. "Sissy wants to see our mothers. But she doesn't want them to see her."

  Taking her hand, I led my cousin into the house. For once, she didn't argue.

  While the adults chatted, Emma and I set the table for dinner. No one mentioned Teresa Abbott—not then and not during dinner. Emma and I talked about swimming and drawing and Webster's Cove. We complained about the rain and the fog and the mosquitoes, and my parents complained about the heat and humidity at home.

  Mom told me the kid next door had broken his ankle skateboarding. My friend Julie got a hideous permanent and was threatening to shave her head. Mrs. Burgess had named her new baby girl Meadow, of all things. We laughed and talked and enjoyed the flounder-and-scallops extravaganza that Dulcie had invented.

  After we'd cleared the table and washed the dishes, Dad built a fire. Dulcie produced marshmallows for Emma and me to toast. It had begun to rain while we were eating, and it was coming down harder now. The wind had risen, too. Thunder boomed, and lightning flashed. Emma and I abandoned the marshmallows and curled up with our parents.

  "I hate storms," Mom said.

  "I love them—the wilder and fiercer, the better!" Dulcie jumped to her feet and ran to a window to watch the lightning. I wondered if she were putting on an act for Mom, striking a pose, trying to convince us she was fearless. She didn't fool me. I knew her too well now, maybe even better than Mom did.

  "Come away from the window," Mom pleaded. "Lightning might strike you."

  Dulcie laughed. "Don't be silly, Claire. The chances of that are a billion to one."

  Emma ran to her mother and tugged at her hand. "Sit on the couch with me, Mommy."

  Suddenly, Dulcie gasped and backed away from the window.

  "What did you see?" Emma pressed her face to the glass. "Is it Sissy?"

  Dulcie ran her hands through her hair, tugging it back from her face. "Come away, Emma. No one's there."

  "Sissy," Emma persisted. "Sissy's out there." She pressed her face against the glass and peered into the rain.

  Mom looked up from her magazine, her face anxious. "Was someone at the window?"

  "Of course not," Dad said quickly. "Who'd be out in a storm like this?"

  I could have said, Someone who doesn't mind being wet. But I didn't.

  "Who was it?" Mom asked Dulcie. "Don't lie. Tell me, tell me now!"

  Alarmed by her rising voice, Dad moved closer to her. "No one was there, Claire."

  Mom ignored him. Her attention was fixed on her sister and the window behind her. "It was her, wasn't it?"

  "Calm down, Claire," Dad begged. "Breathe slowly, deeply. Relax. You'll give yourself a headache if you get upset."

  Dulcie stayed by the window, holding Emma tightly. "Do you really want to know?" she asked Mom. Her voice was calm, but her face was flushed, her eyes bright as if she had a fever.

  Dad looked from Dulcie to Mom and back to Dulcie. "What kind of game are you playing now?"

  "No game." Dulcie smoothed Emma's hair. "I grew out of games a long time ago."

  Emma squirmed free of her mother and ran to Mom. "Don't worry. Sissy won't hurt you. She just wants to see what you look like now."

  Mom shuddered and drew back. "Sissy?"

  "Teresa," Dulcie said. "She's been calling herself Sissy. The girls have seen her, played with her." She hesitated a moment. "They even went out in the canoe with her."

  Mom looked at me, pale and wide-eyed, like someone waking from a nightmare and finding it's not a dream after all. "You saw Teresa? You got in a canoe with her?" Shaking with anger, she turned to her sister. "Oh, Dulcie, Dulcie, how could you let them do it? I knew you wouldn't watch them. I knew it!"

  "If you'd been here instead of moping in Maryland, afraid of everything—"

  Emma spoke up loudly enough to get her mother's attention. "Sissy showed us how Mommy threw Edith in the water." To demonstrate, she made a throwing motion. "She wanted me to get Edith, but she fell in, too. I thought she was going to drown all over again. And then the canoe got upset and I was afraid me and Ali would drown."

  Mom gasped and leaned against Dad's side. For a second, I thought she was going to faint. "See what you've done?" she asked Dulcie. "You've brought it all back. Why couldn't you have let things be?"

  "So you could have headaches all your life?" Dulcie asked bitterly.

  I squeezed onto the sofa beside Mom and clasped her hands in mine. "Don't you see? Dulcie had to come here. She had to tell the truth so Sissy—Teresa—"

  "Don't say her name." Mom started crying. "I can't bear to hear it."

  "Sissy won't hurt you, Aunt Claire." Emma climbed into Mom's lap and wrapped her arms around her. "She just wants you and Mommy to tell what really happened."

  Dulcie gently pulled Emma away from Mom. "That's enough, sweetie," she said softly. "It's time for bed."

  Emma started to protest, but the look on her mother's face silenced her. Meekly, she let Dulcie carry her out of the room.

  Dad looked at Mom as if he feared she was hallucinating. "What are you so upset about, Claire? You told me Teresa drowned years ago. How can she be here now?"

  Mom didn't answer. She was watching the window as if she expected to see Sissy's face.

  Turning to me, Dad said, "Can you please tell me what's going on?"

  Before I could answer, Mom pressed her fingers to her temples and said, "I can't stay here a minute longer, Pete. Please take Ali and me to Webster's Cove. Find a motel, a bed-and-breakfast, whatever. I'll sleep in the car if I have to—any place but this cottage."

  Dad stared at her, shocked. "We can't walk out on your sister. What will she think?"

  "My head aches so badly, I don't care what anyone thinks, least of all Dulcie," Mom said. "I'll lose my mind if I don't get out of here."

  "I don't understand," Dad said. "What is it about this cottage? You'd think it was haunted or something—"

  "It is haunted," I said. "Weren't you listening to what we said?"

  "That's crazy, absolutely crazy," Dad said. "I thought you had more sense, Ali." Giving me an annoyed look, he went to the door and peered into the darkness as if he expected to see a little girl outside—a real little girl who'd laugh and admit she'd played a trick on us. Of course, he saw no one.

  Shaking his head, he sat down beside Mom again. "It's a hoax," he said. "Someone with a grudge is behind the whole thing. Maybe Teresa has relatives who blame Dulcie and you for what happened. They could have a daughter who looks like Teresa." Dad sounded as pleased as if he had solved a tricky math problem. "They got her to pretend to be Teresa's ghost."

  I looked at my father and almost pitied him—reasonable Dad, the man who depended on logic and common sense. There w
as no room in his world for the supernatural. No matter how much proof I gave him, he'd never believe me.

  "Please," Mom said. "Let's leave, right now, before—"

  "Before what?" Dulcie watched us from the shadowy hall. "Before Teresa drags us into the lake and drowns us? Is that what you're scared of?"

  Mom got to her feet and faced Dulcie, her fists clenched as if she wanted to punch her sister. "I won't stay here another second!"

  Dad put his arm around her. "Claire," he said softly, "it's after ten. We'd never find a room at this hour. And, as much as I love you, I'm not going to sleep in the car."

  "Pete's right," Dulcie said. "There aren't many motels, and you can bet they're all filled by now. Why don't I make up the sofa bed?"

  Dad yawned. "One night, Claire. We'll go home tomorrow."

  Mom turned to Dad, suddenly tearful. "I want to leave, but I'm so tired, I ache all over." Her eyes strayed to the window and the darkness pressing against it.

  "How about a glass of warm milk with honey?" Dad asked. "That always helps you relax."

  "Can we keep the light on all night?" Mom asked.

  Dulcie laughed. "You sound just like Emma."

  I braced myself for another quarrel, but before Mom could object, Dulcie added, "I might keep my light on, too."

  After I kissed Mom and Dad good night, I gave Dulcie an extra-big hug for admitting she was scared. Maybe there was hope for her and Mom after all.

  I climbed the stairs wearily, hoping to fall into bed and sleep till noon, but I should have known better. As usual, Sissy was waiting for me.

  21

  "I saw you bury that bird today," Sissy said. "It had a nice funeral. You sang a song and said the right words. All that fuss for a bird."

  "Emma saw a cat kill it. She wanted to—"

  "A bird shouldn't get better treatment than a person," Sissy said. "Or am I wrong about that?"

  "I know what you're thinking," I said, "but you have a memorial in the cemetery. There must have been a funeral and flowers and the right words and lots of people crying,"

  "But I'm not buried there, am I?" She held Edith a little tighter. "So none of it counts."