Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, two years ago or so?” Eileen thinks out loud.

  “Wow. That’s a long time to be so withdrawn.” I feel bad for him. “Is that why he’s so miserable?”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it,” Patty says, “but I think there’s more tah it.”

  “You mean about the house?” Letta says and Patty nods.

  I feel the pit reopening in my belly. “Please tell me you aren’t talking about my house.”

  “Sorry,” Patty frowns. “His grandmother tried tah burn it down back in the seventies.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised by the connection. “Enit or something like that right?”

  “Yeah, Enit O’Sullivan. She was a stranger ‘round heeah so far as anyone knew – until she tried tah burn the house down,” Patty explains. “Then, when they tried to commit her, her daughter, Adam’s mother, moved up heeah tah take care of her. The townspeople didn’t like that much. They wanted her out of town, but for whatevah reason, she’s been determined tah stay evah since.”

  “What about Adam’s dad?”

  Eileen shrugs. “He’s out of the picture.”

  “Huh.” I hug myself in my light jacket to keep the cold out. ”I wonder what Ol’ Enit’s story is.”

  “You could ask her,” Letta says and then nods across the street. “She’s over there, staring right at us.”

  I follow Letta’s eyes and to a strange old woman with milky eyes. With a gasp of recognition, I realize Enit O’Sullivan is the woman who stared at me that day in The Wharf Rat. She’s walking down the sidewalk across the street, back into town.

  “Can she see us?”

  “I doubt it,” Shane says. “She’s been blind for years. Even if she could, nothin’ lucid has made it out of her mouth since the fire. At least that’s what Pop says.”

  “She comes intah town all the time,” Eileen says knowingly. “Likes tah stop people and say crazy things.”

  “Like what?”

  “The end is nigh Rose Delaney!” Letta’s voice is low and ghostly, and she holds out her hands like a zombie. Then she laughs. “She just likes to stir up trouble. I feel bad for her though. I think she really believes she’s psychic somehow. That’s why they say she tried to burn the house down. She knew all the evil it had done and all the evil it would do.”

  The conversation dies down after that, and we walk on in silence. I don’t have to turn around to know Enit’s cloudy eyes are looking at my back. I can feel them looking right through me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s On

  The O’Dwyre cabin is dark and their truck is gone. When I reach the house, I see a shiny new deadbolt lock on the front door. Liam is at the kitchen table with a coloring book and a snack while Beckan kneels at the backdoor, installing another lock. He looks up and smiles when I enter.

  Seeing Beckan reinvigorates my frostiness as I remember how he insulted cheerleading this morning. Boy-crazy sheep painted up like prostitutes. Well, those weren’t his actual words, but that’s what he meant. His attack on cheerleading feels like an attack on me. The door I’d opened last night slams shut, and I shove the emotions I shared with him back down into the abyss where they belong. He insulted the only thing I’m any good at besides ballet, and I don’t see any ballet troops hanging around school. I haven’t even seen a dance studio around town.

  “Hey squiggle worm.” I say, tousling Liam’s reddish brown mop and glancing down at his coloring book. “What’re you coloring?”

  Liam shrugs. “I dunno.” Looking down at Liam’s messy colors outside the lines, I’m not sure what he’s coloring either. It looks an awful lot like Jesus holding Aladdin’s lamp. I flip the coloring book to the front and read the title.

  “The Parables of Jesus?”

  “They gave it to me at school.”

  “Of course they did,” I mutter. Haven’t these people heard of separation of church and state?

  “Did you manage to keep your food on your plate today?” Beckan calls over from the back door. A strong gust of wind pushes its way into the kitchen, slapping the screen door open and closed. “I heard the local royalty joined you for lunch again.”

  “You almost done?” I say impatiently, ignoring his question. “It’s freezing in here.”

  Beckan bristles and huffs into his five o’clock shadow. He picks up a few tools, sliding them back into his tool bag, and stands. “Your locks have been installed, your highness.” He slams several keys on the counter. “You’re welcome.” He looks me over, a little hurt and a little mad, but says nothing more. He waves goodbye to Liam before stalking out the back door.

  “Are you fighting?” Liam asks without looking up from his book, his voice sullen.

  “No,” I reply in a clipped voice.

  “You’re both mad,” he says. “I can tell.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about.” I hug him loosely from behind his chair. “We’re not fighting. I promise.” It’s not really a lie. It isn’t a real fight until someone starts yelling or throws something; at least that’s how fights work in the Delaney family.

  There’s still a few hours until Mother gets home (unless there’s another “happy hour”). I drop my backpack, still slung over my shoulder, into one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Mind if I join you?” I slide out the chair across from Liam and set to work on some Latin conjugations.

  I work intently, moving on to English and then math. I’m doing everything I can to get cheerleading off my brain, although Beckan keeps popping up more than cheers and pom-poms. I hardly notice when Liam disappears to watch television and don’t hear Mother come in.

  “Hi honey.”

  I jump and turn to see Mother setting her purse on the counter. Glancing at my watch, I see she’s home right on time, and my muscles loosen. If Mother’s home instead of at the bar, she probably had a good day.

  My customary behavior toward Mother after an argument like last night’s is an icy silence and dirty looks, but tonight I want something, so I force a smile and play nice, testing the waters.

  “How was your day?”

  “Okay,” Mother says, sighing. For a minute, she puts her head in her hands and closes her eyes.

  “Really?” I ask, an eyebrow raised.

  “Another headache.” She smiles at me wearily. “How was your day?”

  So, Mother’s choosing to forget about last night. Fine by me. “Fine. Plenty of homework to keep me busy.” I motion to the papers and books spread across the table.

  “Well, let’s do something about dinner, shall we?” Mother brightens up. “I’m feeling some homemade pizza tonight. How ‘bout it?”

  “Sure.” I gather my things and slide them back into my bag. “I’ll help.”

  Mother and I work in the kitchen, rolling the dough and making the sauce. Liam, drawn by the aroma, comes in and helps too. He giggles as Mother, in a rare moment of silliness, throws the dough into the air a few times. She doesn’t even get angry when she drops it on the floor. She just picks it up and dusts it off with a light “Oops!” The air in the house is so light and happy. I almost change my mind about cheerleading just so it can stay that way.

  As we sit for dinner, I’m trying to decide what to bring up first, cheerleading or Friday night.

  “So, um, Mother,” I say as I chew a bite of pizza. She looks at me with a smile, waiting. “I was invited to a party on Friday.”

  “Oh?” Mother sounds pleased her disgruntled daughter has made friends. “That’s good news!”

  I stare at Mother and she stares back. I don’t want to ask her if she’ll be out on Friday. The implications are obvious; Mother’ll be out at a bar if she’s out at all. I don’t want to offend her, but I don’t want to invoke my own anger if Mother does plan to be out drinking. And what about Letta and the others coming over? I can’t snoop around if Mother’s home. I flick my eyes to Liam, happily playing with his food.

  “Well, as it happens, I
’ve been invited out on Friday as well.” Mother puts her arm around Liam. “What are we going to do with you, kiddo?” She tickles his neck lightly, trying to keep him from realizing his whole family will be out without him. Since Dad died, we’re always careful to make sure Liam never feels alone or abandoned.

  “Actually, my friend Letta,” I say, “lives at the bottom of the hill. She said her parents like kids and maybe they could take care of Liam on Friday.”

  “Oh, so you’ve planned this all out already, have you?” Mother’s irritation is carefully hidden inside the lightness of her voice, her arm still around Liam’s shoulders. I don’t reply.

  “Well,” she says, “I’ll have to meet Letta’s parents. We can’t leave Liam with perfect strangers.”

  But it’s totally okay to leave him for hours with the O’Dwyres, two people we barely know, one of them an incoherent ape, and the other an inconsiderate jerk.

  “Maybe we can take a walk down the hill when I get home tomorrow if it isn’t too cold.” Mother forces a tight smile. She doesn’t like what I’ve arranged, but it doesn’t’ bother her enough to cancel her plans – or mine. “Make introductions and such.”

  “Well, actually...” I hesitate. I’ve already scored one win; is it worth trying for two? Do I want to be on the cheerleading team badly enough to risk another fight and upset Liam again? I decide I do. I’ve been dragged to this stupid town, but that doesn’t mean I have to give up who I am or what I enjoy.

  “Out with it,” Mother says, and this time Liam perks up, looking at me instead of his plate.

  “Cheerleading try outs are tom –”

  “No.” Mother interrupts. “Absolutely not.” Her sharp look tells me arguing is useless, but I’m not giving up so easily.

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean why not, Rose?” Mother says incredulously. She sets her pizza slice down so she can properly lecture me. “Have you forgotten what happened?”

  “Of course not,” I say as my cheeks get hot. “But that was different. It was a fight. It wasn’t about cheerleading.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it was about, Rose. You knocked a girl to the ground and stomped on her head over a boy. Just thinking about it reminds me how ridiculous it was. The poor girl was in the hospital with a serious concussion for nearly a week. I had to pay her medical bills!”

  Actually, it wasn’t just about a boy. It was about Jack Sterne, the quarterback, my desire to be his prom queen, and that slut, Isabella Brown, I’d had to compete with for what was certainly my right as head cheerleader. Isabella was the one who made a pass at Jack right in front of me at a party the night before The Incident, shooting me a coy smile and winking her fake eyelashes at me. Isabella started the cattiness and she deserved what she got as far as I’m concerned. Also, I’m the one who paid the girl’s medical bills from the small savings I’d made teaching ballet at the community center. I don’t have a dime left – but now isn’t the time to point out these distinctions.

  “Mother,” I plead, “I don’t disagree that my behavior was...regrettable.” I’ve always regretted the consequences of that famous stomp, but I still feel a certain satisfaction when I remember the sensation of Isabella’s skull under my sneaker. It’s an impulse my anger management counselor said was unhealthy, and I should do my best to quash it, but in this moment, I allow myself this one small satisfaction. “You can’t keep holding that against me. It was one incident totally separated from cheerleading. A mistake. It just happened to occur at a cheerleading event, and the other girl just happened to be a cheerleader.”

  “That may be, but I’m not letting you get back into that whole scene,” Mother says. “Those cheerleaders were snotty, selfish drama queens who liked making you squirm. And you were the same way. You’ve always been drawn to drama, and cheerleading fed that. The point in coming here, to this,” she rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, “this pinhead of a place was for you – for all of us – to start fresh. And I’m not risking that just for you to shake your butt around at football games.”

  “Mother –”

  “Rose, this isn’t a debate. The answer is no.” She sighs and forces a smile. “Why can’t you get back into ballet? You’re such a beautiful dancer. It’s every bit as athletic as cheerleading, but without all that drama. Why don’t you do that?”

  I laugh. Mother doesn’t know any more about ballet than she does about cheerleading. “And where exactly should I do that, Mother? There aren’t any dance studios in this hellhole!”

  “Watch your language.” For a moment, I see the old Mrs. Delaney trying to take over the cool calm of the new Mrs. Delaney. I watch Mother’s finger twitch and begin tapping, like she’s stifling the urge to reach out and slap me. She probably is. “Maybe there’s a studio in a neighboring town.”

  “And how would I get there?” I’m struggling to control my voice and my anger. “You plannin’ to give me the keys to the car?”

  “Not with that attitude, young lady.” She sighs again, calming herself. “This discussion is over. I’m sorry, but my answer is no to cheerleading, and that’s final. Maybe if you weren’t such a hothead, and were more responsible with your decisions, you wouldn’t be in this mess. Food for thought, honey.” Mother picks up her pizza slice and nudges Liam with an elbow. “How was your day, kiddo?”

  Dismissing me like that only makes me angrier. I listen to Mother coax Liam out of his pout without actually hearing her words. And that’s final. Those words keep appearing in front of my eyes as red mist. Final. Something about those words flips a switch somewhere deep inside me. The heat of my anger wells up and I think, Final my ass. I’m going to those tryouts, dammit. I’m going to make the team and show these small town snots what real cheerleading looks like.

  Oh, it’s on, Mother, I think as I push a piece of pepperoni around my plate. It’s so on.

  I leave Liam and Mother at the table and stomp up to my room, making as much noise as possible, and slam the door behind me. I almost forgot about my tornado-damaged room, and now I moan in frustration.

  I bend down to pick up some clothes and slowly begin putting my room back together, hoping it’ll distract me. I have the great desire to vent, but I’m not going to call Letta from the hall phone and risk being overheard. I know Beckan would have something encouraging or reassuring to tell me, but I’m also certain he’s in no mood to say it, and I don’t care to hear it from him anyway. I desperately wish I had my cell phone. The desire is almost strong enough to make me wish I hadn’t knocked Isabella down and smashed her face into the squeaky clean wood of the basketball court. Almost.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Some Days Just Aren’t Your Day

  Mother gives Liam his bath and puts him to bed because I refuse to leave my room or even open the door when she knocks. After they’re both in their rooms, I walk through the darkened house and triple check that everything’s locked up tight, especially the front doors. I slide the stiff new deadbolt into place myself, and turn off the porch lights. When I go up to bed, there’s only the faint glow of the light over the stove in the kitchen to show me the way.

  I have the dream again. This time the house is larger, more imposing on my antlike size. The rumble of the thunder is a freight train in my ears and the explosion of lightning burns my retinas.

  The red doors invite me closer, pull my feet up the mountain. The porch light winks on and beckons to me. My tangled black hair is thrown back in a burst of wind, and suddenly I’m standing before the glaring red doors, bathed in the black and white light of the porch light.

  Let me in, Rose.

  My hand reaches for one of the gleaming handles.

  Open the doors, Rose. Let me in.

  I start awake, sitting up in bed and looking around. As my eyes adjust, I see everything is as it should be. In my room...

  I get up and go into the hall, the rough wood floors cold on my bare feet. Peering down into the foyer, I see the front doors are still closed, th
e deadbolt keeping the inside in – and the outside out. As I’m about to retreat to my room, I hear Liam’s sweet voice from behind his door. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I hear his laughter clearly.

  “Liam?”

  Beckan had also installed a new door on Liam’s room while we were at school. It’s a lighter wood and it doesn’t match the rest of the aged interior of the house. I now find myself tapping lightly on it. It sounds hollow, less sturdy than the solid oak of my door. “Liam, are you awake?” I call, opening the door.

  Liam’s marshmallow shape is tucked neatly under the covers. He lays on his side, his back to the door. I can barely make out the rise and fall of his breaths as he sleeps. Although everything seems normal, I have the distinct feeling I’ve just missed something. Like maybe Liam was sitting up in his bed right before I opened the door, and is only feigning sleep now. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Are his breaths too close together for sleep? Are his covers pulled a little too tightly under his chin? With the uneasy feeling dogging me, I close the door and return to my room.

  I lay awake for the next hour, trying to sleep and failing, and a terrible feeling creeps over me. My anger tightens in my throat and weighs down my heart. A wave of depression comes over me and with it the fleeting image of my father, lifeless under a tub full of bloody water, fills my eyes. I cry myself to sleep.

  ***

  I can’t shake sleep off the next morning. My eyes feel swollen. My tongue is a dry beached whale on the sands of my mouth, and my muscles protest with aches and pains, like my body was up to no good while I was asleep. I don’t budge when my alarm goes off and it’s Liam who eventually rouses me.

  “Rosie!” He yanks my covers. “Rosie, get up!”

  “Go get ready,” I slur and pull a pillow over my head. “Ask Mommy to get you breakfast. I need a few more minutes.”

  “Mommy isn’t here.”

  “What?” I squint in the light coming through the windows. “Why not?”