The Vanishing Season

by Jodi Lynn Anderson

  “Have you gone to see him yet?”

  Pauline stood up and went to her mirror and put on a wool hat she said she’d bought in Milwaukee at a winter street fair. She shook her head.

  “He said you weren’t writing him.”

  Pauline tugged the hat this way and that to position it.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” Maggie said finally, when she didn’t reply.

  Pauline turned, looking uncertain for a moment. “Me too.” She knelt by the bed.

  “Pauline, what happened that night?” Maggie asked. “That night you got caught? Why were you out so late?” She’d never wanted to ask Liam. But now she wanted to ask Pauline.

  Pauline picked at her fingernails. She looked at Maggie. “We argued,” she said. Then she turned back to her suitcase. As if there were nothing more to say about it.

  Maggie crept into Liam’s window late that night, sneaking out after her parents had gone to bed. He woke with a start, then reflexively pulled her into his arms and kissed her, breathing into her hair.

  “Pauline’s back,” she said, after a while, low. His room smelled like new wood from where they’d patched up the roof.

  “I know.” His voice was so soft as he said it, as if it was a tender thing. Maggie must have stiffened, because Liam pulled her close. “This has been the best month of my life,” he whispered. “I just want you to know that, Maggie. I waited for this, and I didn’t even know what I was waiting for. You don’t have to worry.”

  Strangely she wasn’t worried. Not about him. She was worried though, about Pauline.

  She could hear Liam’s breath grow slow and steady next to her as he drifted back toward sleep.

  “I love you, Liam Witte,” she said to the ceiling, then sighed. “It turns out you’re my first love.” He didn’t respond. He just kept breathing soft and steady against her shoulder.

  Maggie felt her skin prickle with embarrassment, but then, thinking he must be asleep, she moved to climb back out of bed and sneak out the window. Just as she slipped the covers down to her legs, he tightened his hold around her in a firm grip and whispered against her neck. “I love you too, Maggie.”

  Elsa reopened the shop that weekend. Of course she exclaimed and howled and gave off the impression that the fact that a murderer had been working under her roof was the most awful thing that had ever happened to her and, at the same time, completely expected.

  “I don’t get how he did it,” Maggie said. “Physically, how could he do it?”

  “His wife was probably his accomplice,” Elsa said.

  Maggie had been shocked to see, on the news, that he even had a wife. She looked like Mrs. Claus. And sadly bewildered in front of the reporters who’d camped outside her door.

  Elsa spent much of the day going through Gerald’s antiques as if she thought she might find a body in the vintage metal tissue box or secreted in one of the Victrolas. Maggie stood at the cash register fighting a low, steady sense of uneasiness.

  Finally Elsa returned, empty-handed. She noticed Maggie staring out the window. She stood beside her.

  “You look like a sea wife,” she said.

  “What’s a sea wife?”

  “Someone who’s waiting for her sailor to come home but knows the sailor may be lying at the bottom of the ocean. You look pale.”

  Maggie pointed out the window to the low sky. “No sun makes Maggie a pale girl.”

  Elsa continued to look at her expectantly.

  “Pauline’s home.”

  “Well, aren’t you two thick as thieves? I’d think you’d be happy.”

  “She and Liam aren’t talking. Isn’t that weird?”

  Elsa placed her hand against her heart gently and shook her head. “Oh, honey, don’t get in between those two. They were destined for each other; they’re like two pieces of the same fabric, different as they are. They’ll live and die together, mark my words.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  18

  PAULINE WANTED TO SEE THE PLACE WHERE HAIRICA HAD BEEN KEPT CAPTIVE. James Falk insisted on tagging along, even though Pauline had planned it to be just her and Maggie. Maggie figured it was either because he wanted to impress Pauline with his fearlessness or because there was nothing else to do in Gill Creek this time of year.

  They entered Zippy’s Amusement Park through the side gate, which was crooked and half fallen down. The Ferris wheel loomed high and rusty above the park; the ground was covered in crunchy, hardened snow. Maggie had never been to an amusement park in winter; she wondered how eerie it would be at night, because already, in the middle of the day, it was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  James led the way, holding Pauline by the hand, his fingers entwined with hers like he was trying to physically pull her closer to him. When he wasn’t tugging her into his arms, he was gently grasping her waist or trying to put his hand on her lower back, basically touching her butt.

  “We used to come here when I was little,” he said. “I loved the strength game. You know, with the mallet?”

  Pauline trailed along behind him like a tetherball, as if her hand and arm were foreign parts only coincidentally attached to her body. They walked past an empty cotton-candy stand and a line of game booths. A Scrambler sat under a tarp that James lifted and replaced. Coming upon the bumper-car pavilion, which was empty of cars, James pulled Pauline into the middle of the floor and spun her around a couple of times. She spun away, laughingly pulling out of James’s arms.

  “She’s hard to pin down,” he said to Maggie with a faltering smile as they walked behind Pauline. The image of bugs pinned to a board in her old sixth-grade classroom popped into Maggie’s head.

  “Oh, here it is!” he said. They were standing in front of a tall, thin tower with a bell at the top, a metal plate at the bottom, and a round, glass face with the words “Pathetic,” “Is That All You Got?” and “You’ve Got the Power!”

  The mallet was still lying attached to the game. James picked it up. Pauline circled back to watch.

  “It won’t work,” Maggie said. “It’s supposed to be electric.” Not to mention, it was rusted and crooked-looking now. But James lifted the mallet and brought it down hard—so hard that the rusted metal plate flew sideways at impact. The bell rang out, echoing across the empty park.

  “See?” James said. “It wasn’t completely broken.” He kicked the metal plate with his toe. “Well, I guess now it is.” He grinned at Pauline, and Pauline gave Maggie an annoyed look.

  They followed Pauline back toward a shed covered in police tape. She broke the tape and walked into it, her back against the wall, her hair smushed around her face as she leaned her head against the cold metal.

  “Do you think this is where he kept her?” she asked.

  “Pauline, get out of there; it’s morbid,” Maggie said.

  Pauline stared around.

  “This place should scare me, but it doesn’t.”

  “I still think it’s totally creepy that you’re standing in there,” Maggie said.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack in the woods behind the shed, like a heavy, dead branch being stepped on. Pauline jumped. “What was that?”

  James went to the back of the shed and peered into the trees. “Must have been an animal. I don’t see anything.”

  “Okay, you’re right, it’s creepy in here,” Pauline said. Maggie was relieved. She knew the killer was caught; logically she knew they were safe. But she couldn’t wait to leave.

  She reached in, clasped Pauline’s hands, and pulled her out.

  * * *

  On the ride home, James kept fondling Pauline’s hair with his right hand while driving with his left, making Maggie feel slightly nauseated. She kept her eyes out the window and tried to ignore them.

  Coming down Water Street, she saw a figure halfway down the road, and her heart picke
d up a nervous beat.

  Bundled up in a navy-blue wool coat and his wool hat, he waved a hand to greet them, and they slowed to a stop.

  “Liam,” Pauline said, rolling down the window. Maggie rolled hers down too, feeling her face flush. Liam’s cheeks were flushed too, but from the cold. He looked at Maggie, then at Pauline. He glanced briefly at James, and the two nodded at each other. He leaned on the ledge of Maggie’s window. “We finished the roof. You should come over later to see it.”

  Maggie was about to respond when Pauline spoke up from the front.

  “Hey, Liam . . . ,” she murmured. “How’s it going?” Liam looked up at her, then back at Maggie as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t come by yet,” Pauline blurted out.

  “Not a big deal,” Liam said, turning back to Maggie. “Anyway, come over later if you want.” Then, he did something Maggie didn’t expect, even as it was happening. He leaned forward, put his hands on either side of her face, and pulled her in for a kiss on the lips.

  He smiled at her, then turned and started walking up his driveway. Maggie swiveled back in her seat to look at Pauline, her heart lodged thickly in her throat.

  Pauline was staring out at Liam, her mouth open, speechless. She had her hands rested on the dash, knuckle side down, palms open, as if asking for something or begging or as if something had been taken out of her hands.

  That night Maggie saw the circle of a bonfire out at the edge of the lake. She trudged across the field and down to the water, Abe barking somewhere deep in the woods. She stood near the fire Pauline had made and held up her hands to the heat.

  “Wanna sit?” Pauline asked.

  Maggie squinted at her in the dark. Pauline had cleared a big patch of snow off the beach and laid a camping lamp and a bag of Cheetos on a blanket there, then squeezed her legs into a sleeping bag. “My mom is driving me nuts. I almost want to sleep out here.” Abe came jogging up to the fire, out of breath.

  Maggie sank down on the edge of the blanket, and Pauline unzipped her sleeping bag and unfolded it, covering Maggie’s legs. A plane passed overhead. Abe growled at the woods, and Pauline petted his snout. The light from the windows of the Boden house winked at them through the bare branches of the trees. Maggie pulled the sleeping bag tight against her chest and scootched a little closer to the fire.

  “Are you a good flier?” Pauline asked.

  Maggie nodded. She’d flown a lot—to her grandmother’s in Boston, to Disney World as a kid, and once to London for a family trip, back when their finances had been better.

  Pauline sighed. “I’m always scared the plane will fall out of the sky.”

  “I thought I was the one with phobias.”

  Pauline shook her head. “You’re pretty brave, I think. You just think what could happen. You don’t just rush into stuff stupidly.”

  Maggie knew she wasn’t as brave as Pauline thought. Pauline smoothed back her long hair where it spilled out under her hat, leaning her wiry body forward against her legs for warmth. “I always change my mind. I’m flighty.” Pauline looked over at her appraisingly. “You’re the kind of person who does what you say you are going to do. I mean, you say it, and then you do it. I really admire that. You probably have a really great life ahead of you.”

  Maggie shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “Yep, I’m perfect,” she said drily, poking fun at herself. “Pauline, you have a great life ahead too.” Pauline didn’t look convinced. They stared out at the dark lake as Maggie worked up to an apology.

  “I’m happy for you and Liam,” Pauline said suddenly, running a stick through the snow, scratching back and forth, poker-faced. She shifted her weight to the left.

  “Pauline, I wanted to tell you, but . . .”

  “Do you love him?” she asked.

  Maggie felt her face flush. She nodded.

  “Oh.” Pauline’s voice sounded thin and frail. “That’s really good. You both deserve it. I mean it.”

  Maggie wanted to divide herself in half. She wanted half of herself to make everything right for Pauline. And the other half wanted to go to Liam’s window, float into his bed, and hear him breathe. It thrilled her a little, looking at how beautiful Pauline was, and knowing that Liam loved her, Maggie.

  “Do you think people watch over you after they die?” Pauline asked.

  “Not really,” Maggie said, trying to be honest. She wasn’t a VW-Bus-driving-level atheist, but she wasn’t much of a believer either.

  “I do. I think you go on. I don’t think you disappear. I think my dad watches over me, like my guardian angel. Only sometimes I feel like if I leave here, or if I change too much, he won’t come with me, and he won’t recognize me anymore.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say.

  They sat awhile longer, but it felt like there was nothing more really to say, at least not tonight. Finally Maggie stood and brushed off her jeans under her coat. She left Pauline and Abe sitting there by the lake, still wide-awake and looking for planes.

  Back inside, her mom had the news on again. Maggie was just thinking that she’d never known her mom to be such a TV hound when she turned through the archway and saw the screen.

  “Can you believe it?” her mom was whispering.

  On the screen was a live shot of Gerald Turner, giving a press conference, having just been released from custody on lack of evidence.

  Maggie’s first thought was that she wished they hadn’t gone to Zippy’s. It felt, now, like they’d been waking the dead.

  * * *

  Over the amusement park, I watch the watcher.

  He’s come back looking for something, and he’s seen them. His eyes are stuck to Pauline, sticky as flypaper.

  He’s a shadow; a bulky, bad man. He keeps his face down as if he knows even God is watching. He is collecting up his things and planning his next steps, and I can only watch him like a movie.

  I know that I’ve come to love these people beneath me when the sight of him gets my soul shaking and the moths scattering. They return, but their tiny shapes shiver with my anger.

  The cellar pulls me toward home.

  Everywhere, recently, I see glimpses of other spirits, peeking out from behind bushes, giving off a faint light from under porches, glowing mournful faces as they stare out of dark windows or sit by old graves, waiting. It’s like they let me see them now, as if I’m becoming one of them. I don’t know what any of them are here to do, but I think maybe at the end of it they’ll each go through their own terrifying bright holes, just like I will.

  I check on the teenagers on Water Street, asleep in their beds:

  Liam, with an arm slung under his head, a vague smile on his lips because he’s thinking about a girl. Maggie, curled tight in her comforter, knowing she’s the girl he thinks about. And Pauline.

  Pauline is lying on her right side, Abe tucked in a ball against her belly. She’s holding something in her right fist, crumpled up and tight, close to her cheek. A postcard of Pesta.

  * * *

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  19

  MID-FEBRUARY. THE GILL CREEK VALENTINE SOCIAL WAS HELD AT THE Clipper, a sweeping, white Victorian hotel with a wraparound porch hovering above a green lawn that raced down to the lake. Maggie had driven past the hotel before but had never been inside, though Liam sometimes worked there for his catering job. He’d said he might be assigned there tonight, and if he was, he’d sneak out to see her.

  As she and Pauline and James crossed the parking lot, clouds slid across the sky, the sun going dim and bright again. It was heavy-coat weather but not freeze-your-nose-hairs frigid. The warmish front was supposed to last for a couple of days. The weather had turned strange: layer upon layer of clouds moving slowly inland, white puffs piled on lighter gray piled on blue.

  “We may get one of those crazy midwinter t
hunderstorms,” James said. He knew a lot about the weather. Pauline said he got As in everything.

  Inside, they peeled out of their coats. Pauline was wearing a dress she’d bought online from Barneys in New York—eggshell white and thin and drapey, with one strap on her left shoulder and the other shoulder bare. She wore a comb with tufty, delicate, tiny feathers in her dark hair. Everyone else looked overdone compared to her. The thin dress was barely visible on her shivering frame; it contradicted the elaborate corsage James had slipped on her wrist.

  Maggie’s own dress was one she’d had for two years: emerald green, simple, and structured. She’d worn it last year to a dance in Chicago, on a date with a guy who’d bored her the whole night, saying things like “Really? Really?“ over and over again, thinking it was clever. She’d drunk three disgusting swigs out of the flask of cheap whiskey he’d brought in his coat just to power through the ennui.

  The Gill Creek dance had been pushed into one of the three main ballrooms, which was packed. It was an Under the Sea theme; there were blue and white balloons arranged along the ceiling to look like waves and buxom, retro paper mermaids pasted to the walls and fake starfish and shells dotting the refreshments table.

  “I suspect these mermaids have been surgically enhanced,” Maggie said.

  “No, I’m pretty sure 39-18-32 is a totally realistic measurement for mermaids,” Pauline offered sarcastically.

  “I don’t think they have pelvises. Oh, we women and our huge, unattractive, structurally necessary pelvises.”

  The room was stuffy, and the dancing had already started. Maggie felt her face flushing with heat. James took their coats and told them he’d grab them some food and drinks. He wore a slim suit and, Maggie thought as she watched him, he moved like this was his place, like every place was his place.

  “It’s nice to have five minutes when he’s not trying to touch my ass,” Pauline said, sighing forlornly and watching him. “You should see it when we’re alone. It’s like kissing the giant squid; he tries to get everywhere at once.”