by Dian Cronan
The best part of this move by far is the large canopy bed in the middle of the room. Mother said she’d bought me a new bed since most of our furniture had been left behind to reduce moving costs. I’ve always dreamed of having one for the same reason I’ve continued with ballet all these years – it makes me feel like a princess.
Running, I leap onto the bed and almost launch myself off of the other side. Up close I can see a moth-eaten hole in the canopy and feel the springs in the mattress in my back; it’s used, but so what! I sigh to myself and stop fighting the grin that’s been struggling to contort my face all afternoon.
Reluctantly, I get up, remembering I’d come for a sweatshirt. If I don’t resurface soon, Mother will be even more annoyed with me. I do a quick scan for my belongings, but don’t see any. There’s a door opposite the turret. When I open it to reveal a large walk-in closet, I discover, as with the rest of the room, I’m in love.
***
I help Liam with his room while Mother unpacks the kitchen things we’d need right away. As Liam starts to complain of death by starvation, Beckan shows up with some milk, sandwiches, and a big bag of Cape Cod kettle cooked potato chips for our dinner. Mother fawns over his thoughtfulness and invites him to stay with a light touch on his arm, but he declines with a simple smile and a “No thank you.” I watch him from the top of the stairs. He doesn’t put one foot inside the foyer, but leans over the threshold to hand Mother his food delivery.
After dinner, Mother disappears to “investigate this quaint little town,” which means she’s checking out the local bar scene. Liam and I are left to our own devices in our dark new house. We spend the time together, getting the rest of his room unpacked before I announce it’s time for bed. We’ve just finished bedtime stories and I’m pulling his covers up to his chin when Liam says, looking very serious, “Rosie? Do you miss Daddy?”
“Um…” My voice catches in my throat, Dad’s face floating before my eyes. “Yeah... yeah, squiggle worm, I do.”
“Do you think he misses us?”
“Of course!” I hug Liam tightly. “Of course he does!” Pulling back, I look straight into his baleful eyes. “Every minute you’re thinking of him, he’s thinking of you. I promise. Okay?”
“Yeah.” He frowns. “Rosie?”
“Liam?”
“I’m thirsty.”
I laugh. “Of course you are.” This is Liam’s routine, a last ditch effort to avoid bedtime for a few minutes more. I’m about to let him out of bed when I see a full glass of water sitting on his bedside table.
“Hold it, trickster! What’s this right here?” I hand him the glass of water.
“That’s not mine,” he says, selling his confusion with furrowed eyebrows.
“Yeah, sure.” I shake my head. “You almost got me. Alright, back to bed you go.” I let Liam take a few sips of water and then set the glass on his nightstand. I leave his room in the warm yellowy glow of his nightlight, and his comforting silhouette under the quilt stays on my eyes an extra few seconds. I feel my way down the hall to my room in near pitch blackness and I feel the yawning expanse of the foyer on my left rather than see it.
At night, my new room has a different feel. A small lamp on my nightstand spreads its cheery warmth in a tiny circle of light before being swallowed up by the heavy darkness of the rest of my room. It’s chilly and still. The floorboards groan with each step and echo throughout the empty rooms of the rest of the house.
I stifle a shiver and slip under the covers of my new bed in an old t-shirt and warm socks. Sitting close to the light, I grab my worn copy of Pride & Prejudice. I’ve read it a dozen times at least. The story is familiar and comforting. Handsome and arrogant Mr. Darcy and flippant, reckless Lydia will let me forget my troubles for a while. I sink into my pillows and begin reading.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife...
***
I’m sitting straight up in bed, clutching my book, still open in my hands, against my chest. I must’ve fallen asleep reading.
But why am I awake? Why is my heart trying so hard to break my ribs? Did I hear something? Yes… I heard something.
I listen intently to the unsettling silence. Then, from somewhere very near the house, I hear the wild lament of a wolf, howling at the moon. His cry is answered by another mournful howl, even closer to the house, and then a third.
They’re right under my window.
The final howl resounds throughout the house, a hollow, lonely sound.
Only when the wolves are finished howling do I lean back on my pillows, shivering from the very chill in my bones.
Chapter Five
The Flatlander
The start of the school year is still a few weeks away. I’m bored the second I crawl out of bed, escaping a fitful night of sleep. It was hard to fall asleep after the chilling howls of the wolves echoing through the halls of this mausoleum. Then I couldn’t sleep because I was waiting for Mother to come home, smelling of booze and cigarettes – as usual – which happened around 2 a.m. When I finally did sleep again, I had strange dreams. Dreams about my old friends melting away. Dreams about Dad, about a strange, dark presence hovering over me, watching me sleep.
It’s early, but I know there’s no going back to bed, so I take a shower and wash off the accumulated film of a sweaty car trip and a night of heavy lifting. I’m impressed by the bathroom, which is down the hall between Liam’s room and the fire room. Everything is pristine, white, new. The rising sun filters in through a large bay window with sheer curtains. It’s so bright and cheery in here that I almost forget about the blackened scar of a room behind the mirror. Almost.
Looking through the window, I can see clear down the steep hill to the O’Dwyre’s cabin. A thin spire of smoke wafts from the chimney and there’s movement on the shaded porch. Thinking about Derry and his intense stare makes me shiver, but thinking about Beckan’s handsome green ones warms me again. I pull the shade down and turn on the water. It’s lukewarm and low on water pressure, but it feels so good to rinse away the grime and creepy feelings.
I dress quickly with barely a glance at my pale skin in the mirror. I’ve got my long, nearly black hair in a bun and a bike under my feet while Liam still sleeps and Mother snores away her hangover.
I venture into Port Braseham proper to see what it’s all about. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll find a hidden KFC or an old-fashioned Wendy’s in some hole-in-the-wall shopping center. My stomach complains loudly at the thought of an ice cold frosty.
I realize why Wolfhowl Mountain is called a mountain instead of a hill. It hadn’t looked so vertical from the safety of the station wagon yesterday, but my bike reaches such a high speed near the bottom that I’m afraid my wheels will roll right off. However, the wheels remain attached and I have the perfect momentum to coast through the curvy, tree-lined main drag into town.
After a mile of monstrous pine trees and the smell of cedar and juniper, downtown Port Braseham explodes before me. The streets are lined with tall Victorians painted in bright teals, yellows, and lavenders. White trims fly around the turrets and French windows. Green grass surrounds stone walks and short picket fences. Most of the Victorians downtown have been converted into businesses with names like Murphy’s Estate Law, Doyle’s Taxidermy, Port Braseham Bait & Tackle, Downeast Cah Shop.
I scoot around town for a few hours, gawking at how different Port Braseham is from Texas. Aside from the massive trees, everything else is so quaint and tiny. Trees are everywhere, but cars and people aren’t. Trees dot yards and side streets, separating neighbors from each other. Houses are more than ten feet apart on large tracts of land. I haven’t seen a single apartment building, movie theater, or Starbucks. I guess tiny towns like this hold some kind of Andy Griffith charm, but I’m still not sure if a place like this is going to work out for me. What the heck do these people do for fun around here?
At eleven a.m., I�
��m drawn toward the peal of a bell ringing from a steeple high enough to see the tip above the treeline. Following the sound, I finally encounter some locals. As I sail by them, observing, I notice they’re also observing. And while I’m looking at them with mild curiosity, they stare at me with piercing, scrutinizing eyes. Are they hostile? Am I trespassing? Can it be this town is so small that they know I’m an outsider at first glance?
Everyone is heading for the building with the bell. Women and girls wear conservative dresses and skirts, and I’m suddenly self-conscious in my light pink tank top and tight capri pants. The men and boys wear suits and shiny shoes. A small girl fiddles with her hairbow. A mother bends down to help her son with his tie. This is obviously their Sunday Best, and as I come to a break in the trees, I see the source of the bell: church. Of course. They’re staring at the heathen’s cleavage as she heads away from the church instead of toward it.
I stop and stare right back at the townspeople as they disappear inside the church. I wait until the last righteous coattail is inside before pedaling off to find a comfortable place to sit, think, and pout.
I find a small beach access at the bottom of a stony cliff. I sit on a bulky rock and let my bare feet dangle in the cold, wet sand. The beaches here are so different than those on the Gulf. The sand is full of tiny pebbles of various size and color. It’s more pebble than sand really, and it reminds me of a scene Seurat might have painted, dotted with grays, blues, and muted reds. Large rocks pop out of the ground everywhere, surrounding this perfect little clearing resting between them.
The whitecapped waves roll in. There’s no one else on the beach, no swimmers in the choppy water. There are a few fishing boats in the distance, coming inland for lunch. It’s quiet here in this spot, and I enjoy it as long as I can before I’m so desperate with hunger that I have to eat something or die.
I shake the sand off my feet and slip them back into my sneakers. I haven’t seen a single fast food restaurant I recognize since getting off the ferry. There isn’t even a ubiquitous McDonald’s, but there’s an old-fashioned diner car across from the beach access called The Wharf Rat. I throw a glance on either side of it, but I’m met with mere ghosts of buildings, former sentinels watching over the empty boardwalk. Hunger draws my heavy feet across the street. I take a deep breath and slink through the door in my best attempt to be invisible, keeping my eyes on the ground and shrinking into my shoulders, trying to look small.
The small diner is crowded, the atmosphere close and humid. There’s one open stool around a dingy white bar. I squeeze between two fishermen who smell like they just walked off the boat before anyone else can take it. While I put away my invisibility cloak and wait for the waitress, I take a chance and walk my eyes around the room.
Most of the customers are fisherman or early birds here for the dinner special (grilled mystery fish and biscuits with ambiguous looking gravy). The restaurant has the usual hum of several conversations going on at once and the tinkling of dishes and silverware. Music pours from a jukebox near the door, but I can’t make out the tune. I eavesdrop on some of the nearby voices, but they all sound like ol’ Derry. I can’t understand any of their slack jawed warbling and I feel like I’m all alone in a foreign country. I miss the honeyed southern drawl of my friends.
There’s an old woman with wrinkles deeper than Derry’s in one of the booths at the end of the dining car. Her white hair is pulled into a tight bun, but several strands have come loose, giving her a wild look. Her two milky blue eyes stare blankly, like she has a bad case of cataracts. Then the old woman’s eyes shift, and it’s like she’s looking right at me. Her stare is vacant but intense. It makes me uncomfortable and I shrink back on my stool so the fisherman next to me blocks the old woman and her strange eyes.
“What can I do ya fah?” The waitress comes up on me suddenly and I’m startled.
“Oh, um…” I look around and realize I don’t even have a menu. “Can I see a menu?”
The waitress, a heavyset redhead with long, manicured red nails and a nametag reading ‘Flo’, stares at me. “A menyah?”
“Yeah, you know,” I struggle to come up with another word, but can only repeat, “a menu?” with more emphasis.
“Theyuh ain’t no menyah heeah deah,” Flo says. “Fish. Burgah. Chicken sahlad.”
“What’s in the chicken salad?”
Flo rolls her eyes.
“Never mind. I’ll just have a basket of fries please. And a bottled water. To go.”
Flo huffs a strand of crimson from her eyes with a hand on her hip.
“A glass of water?”
Flo stomps off to shout at the kitchen staff and I put my head in my hands. I hate this place.
“Flatlandah, eh?” The fisherman to my right asks.
“Huh?”
“He means yah ain’t from heeah ah ya?” says the fisherman to my left.
“Oh. No.”
Silence between the three of us endures. I look left, and then right. Both hairy geezers stare at me in an expectant, friendly manner.
“Texas,” I say.
“Ayuh, ayuh.” Both men nod knowingly. “Vacation?” One of them says.
I shake my head and stare into my lap. “No. Just moved here. Yesterday.” It’s a struggle not to add “Unfortunately.”
The silence between us continues. When I look up again, the old fishermen are pointedly looking away from me, sipping away at their coffees.
“You know, the mountain?” I say as Flo brings my fries and a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm water.
“The Mountain?” Flo says loudly enough for most of the customers to hear, and I can tell by her tone there’s something wrong in those words, something unwelcome. Those in the immediate vicinity turn and stare. Others simply turn an ear.
“Yeah,” I say uncertainly. “Wolfhowl?”
The only perceptible noise for several long seconds is the clinking of glass and silver. It’s a silence heavy with meaning I don’t quite understand and it takes a loud “Order up!” from the cook to bring everyone back to Earth. Flo disappears to grab the order and the patrons return to their late lunches and early dinners.
“Yah ain’t welcome heeah.” It’s my new friend on the left.
“What?”
“Yah heard him.” The fisherman on my right says. “Git.”
Git? Seriously? Who says that to a person? I look around the diner and see that, although the other patrons have gone back to their meals, their voices are lower and they keep sneaking glances at me. But why? What did I do? I feel the heat rising on my cheeks and it’s too much. The weight of their judgment on me makes it hard to breathe. Shoving myself off of the stool, I scoot for the door, feeling their stares burning a hole in my back as I do.
As I slink away from the dining car, I look over my shoulder. There, in the back window, are the old woman’s clouded eyes. And they’re looking right at me.
Chapter Six
It’s the House
I haven’t shaken off what happened at the diner by the time I reach the base of Wolfhowl Mountain. Dragging my bike along beside me, I go over the conversation for the hundredth time. Did I say something wrong? Did I offend them somehow? You aren’t welcome here... Why the hell not?
I stop at the incline of the long drive and sigh. It was easy breezing down it. Going up is another matter. My body is tired from heat and hunger. I’d skipped breakfast and I left my fries at the diner in my hasty escape. I’m not sure I have the energy to climb all the way up the hill just to deal with Mother’s wrath because I disappeared without leaving a note. Hopefully she woke up in time to do something about breakfast for Liam. I feel a fresh pang of guilt for not considering that before I left.
The loud roar of a diesel engine emerges behind me. Beckan stops his rusting blue pickup beside me, the brakes protesting loudly. Looking through the open passenger side window, he asks, “Need a lift?”
I almost say no. I’m not in the mood to talk, much less to this strange ape
who tackled me yesterday. But I also don’t want to walk all the way up that damn hill, and there’s something alluring about Beckan’s crooked smile. “Sure. Thanks.”
He jerks his head toward the bed of the truck. “Toss your bike in the back.”
I bring my bike around to the bed of the truck, but it’s higher than I realized. The bumper is three feet off the ground and my bike is heavy and awkward. Beckan watches me struggle for a minute or two in the rearview mirror before getting out to help me with a chuckle. Taking the bike from me, he hoists it into the truck bed with one arm.
“Explorin’?” He asks once we’re both in the cab.
“Yeah.”
“I guess it’s pretty different up heeah.”
“That’s an understatement.”
It’s awkwardly silent and I stare straight ahead, watching the tall pines jog by. I feel his green eyes on me and find myself wanting to look at him, but I’m stubborn and let the thundering rumble of the engine drown out my thoughts.
Beckan parks with a lurch on a small patch of gravel at the top of the slope toward the cabin. He takes off his seatbelt, but doesn’t get out. Instead, he turns toward me. Instinctively, I press my body into the passenger door.
“Want tah talk ‘bout it?”
“About what?” I snap.
“Whatevah it is you’re so fired up about,” he says, waving a hand in my direction.
I glare. He’s smirking, which only irritates me more. “I am not fired up.”
