by Sandy DeLuca
The only satisfaction I had was knowing my stash was hidden from my father.
He said, “Dreamers only end up with dreams. Hard workers get what they want in life.” He changed jobs a lot and collected unemployment whenever he could. It angered me that my hard earned money was being pissed away because my Dad didn’t deny his own dreams.
I dreamed a lot about Ken. We’d be driving to the lake, holding hands as the sun set. The drummer sat between us, lifting his hands up and down, his beats getting louder and louder. I saw Belle clawing her way out of a shallow grave. Three old women kneeled beside a screaming woman. They sliced open her belly with kitchen knives and then removed a mass of slimy flesh from the hole they’d made.
Nightmare images were everywhere, but somehow it seemed normal and as though I was part of the horror.
“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” I asked Ken.
He didn’t answer. He just kept driving past graveyards and on deserted roads flanked by lakes of blood and fire.
There came a time when I dreaded sleep, but I’d always give in to it.
While at work I went to the toilet more than usual, checking my underwear, looking for telltale splotches of blood.
I told myself my period would come any day and things would be alright.
I’d jotted down the phone number in back of Ken’s truck, called it once. It rang—twenty times or more. I figured he was on the road. I’d try again. I’d get to tell him what was going down.
I deceived myself a lot back then.
* * *
Flora’s room is like mine except she’s got a spider plant hanging on a hook by her window. The Ouija board box is on her bed. A green sticker is on the upper right corner.
$9.99. A Special From Woolworth’s Toy Department.
Flora bites her lip as she presses her fingers on the plastic planchette. I can feel her knees shaking against mine.
“We’ll only speak to spirits of light,” she says to the board. “We won’t allow evil.”
“That ought to do it,” I say, thinking of the dream I’d had and then wondering how something bought at Woolworth’s could conjure anything but dust and neglect.
I think about the ghost girl Linda saw. Will she speak to us? Appear outside the window with sooty hands clawing on glass as smoke pours from her lips?
Flora sighs. “You ask it something.”
Why not? “Will I ever see Ken again?”
The planchette moves beneath our hands, flies across the board and points to YES.
“Cool,” Flora smiles. “Are you in Heaven?”
NO
“Where are you then?” She leans forward as though a voice will suddenly erupt from the board.
H-E-R-E
“This is freaky,” she says.
The planchette moves again—slowly from letter to letter. Flora and I say them aloud.
“I-D-I-E-D-H-E-R-E”
“Ok, that’s it,” I say as I shove the board and then stand. The planchette slides across the board and then stops with a quick jolt.
Flora’s face whitens. She quickly stands, shoves board and planchette back in the box. “I’ll put it back. Don’t want to mess with it anymore. Marcy Long told me her aunt stayed here back in the forties. Lost her baby. Told me lots of girls died here.”
“I heard that too, but it’s not the old days. This is a silly board game somebody bought at Woolworths. Besides, Marcy was probably just trying to freak you out.”
“No, sometimes she gets scared like the rest of us. One night I got up to pee. I was heading to the bathroom down the hall. Marcy was sitting on the stairs. She was crying. Sobbing like a little kid. She had a knife in her hand. I think if I hadn’t come along she might have done something bad to herself. I sat down next to her and she grabbed my hand. Told me how much the house spooked her and then she told me about her aunt.”
“Scared or not, Marcy has issues. I wouldn’t believe anything she says. Especially after the shit she’s done to you.” Something tells me otherwise, but still I try to calm Flora. “Maybe we made that thing move with our subconscious minds. I heard someplace that’s what happens with Ouija boards.” I flinch when the box falls off Flora’s bed and onto the worn braided rug.
“No, it’s haunted here. I know it.” Flora has tears in her eyes.
“There’s something wrong here. I’m not sure what, but I’ll find out. Don’t be afraid. I doubt it’s evil spirits who eat eyeballs, or if Count Dracula’s coffin is in the basement.” My attempt at humor fails and Flora sobs loudly. “Look, it’s an old house. The floors are uneven. The pipes, or any kind of vibration can set things off and make stuff fall.”
Flora still doesn’t look convinced.
Now the door creaks. The knob turns. The door slowly opens.
There’s nowhere to run or hide in this tiny room. I hold my breath as the door opens a bit more. Flora gasps, presses close to me.
The door creaks again. Someone—or something sighs. A shape is now evident as the door opens wider. The hall light brightens and I realize it’s Marcy Long. Arms dangling at her side. Knife glimmering in her hand. “They took my first baby. They’ll take this one too,” she says. She slides a finger over her knife, caressing it almost lovingly.
She takes a step backwards. The light flickers and then dies. Marcy is swallowed by darkness.
“Damn creepy chick. What the heck was she talking about?” snaps Flora.
“I’m not sure. Just trying to freak us out.”
Now we sit here on Flora’s bed, holding hands, shuddering each time we hear an unfamiliar sound. I’m keeping the baby. I don’t have much else. I don’t have anything at all, but a tiny bit of cash hidden away. Not enough so I can start a new life, but I got options.
Something taps at the window. I turn slowly to look. Dark streaks stain glass. Finger marks.
Child laughter erupts. First one voice. Then two and then a chorus of many.
“They died here,” Marcy is still standing in the dark. Is she taunting us? Or is this a warning?
“They all died. And so will we.”
5
Snow is clumped on windows and the sitting room is chilly. There are copper vases with dusty fake flowers sitting on the mantle. There are logs in the fireplace, but no one ever lights a fire. The wallpaper is gray with black swirling designs and there are cobwebs stretched across the ceiling.
My sister Jen waits for me on a couch. It’s the first time she’s visited since Dad brought me here. She’s staring at the painting of Amelia Leech. She smiles when I sit across from her.
“Frumpy painting,” she laughs. “I could do a modern version of her—make her more hip.”
“Your portfolio is still in your old room back at the house,” I tell her. “I liked looking through it. I wish I had your talent.”
“I wanted to be an artist, move to New York, but Dad told me I’d starve, that marrying Jack would be best.” Jen’s eyes are sad.
“You have regrets?”
“Sometimes.” She looks to the floor. “But Daddy looked out for me the best way he could. Besides, Jack’s real good to me. We always have what we need. Isn’t that enough?”
No, it’s not enough, I think.
She’s staring at me now. Blue green eyes move from my face to my swollen belly and then she tells me, “You’ll find somebody, too.”
I wave my hand. I know my father sent her here. I know she’d never step foot in this place if it were not for his persuasion. “I’m keeping the baby. I don’t care what people will say.” Maybe she’ll support my free spirited decision since her dreams were squelched by our father.
“You can’t. Where’s the father?” There are tears in her eyes.
“Trucker I met at Luke’s.”
“Does he know?” Her face reddens just like our father’s when he’s about to scold.
“Never saw him again.”
“Ever think about finding him? Do you even know how to? Dad is heartbroken, Meg
. He cried when I visited him this morning. Sometimes I think you’re the only one he really loves.”
“That’s not true. How could you think that?”
“It was always you, Meg. I used to hear you guys talking late at night after he came home from wherever the hell he goes.”
“I don’t remember much of it. I think it was because I was the only one who was up.”
Her voice softens. “No matter. You made a mistake. It’ll be water under the bridge in a few months. Then you can get on with your life.”
I hate Jen now. Years of listening to my father, of being crippled by his old fashioned views have made her who she is.
“You’ll change your mind once reality hits.” Jen rises from her seat. She buttons her coat and then moves towards me. She leans down and wraps her arms around me. “Poor, poor Meg. The kid will be fine, have good adoptive parents.” She pats my back, pulls away slightly. “Jack is taking us to Martha’s Vineyard on Memorial weekend. You’ll come with us. It’ll be good for you.”
I swear I hear laughter coming from Amelia Leech’s portrait.
“Bye, Jen,” I tell my sister. Nobody’s going to tell me how to live my life.
My sister moves away from me, wet boots sloshing on the rug, her expensive coat dappled with moisture. I don’t walk her out. I merely sit here, listening to the radiator hiss and ghost sounds in the walls.
* * *
In November my clothes were tight around my stomach. I was lost in a fantasy world and thought I was either sick or stressed out from working too many doubles at Lou’s.
I went to Westminster Mall with my sister Beth when she came home for Thanksgiving break. I donned an oversized coat and slid on a pair of flats. My ankles were swollen. The tight high heeled boots I liked to wear on shopping treks were out of the question.
Always one to head straight for form fitting sweaters and skinny jeans, on that day I checked out warm socks and gloves. Beth checked out the miniskirts at Shepard department store.
“You gaining weight?” She asked when I began thumbing through size eight cords with elastic waists. I’d never weighed more than a hundred five pounds. I’d been a size four since I was sixteen.
“I don’t get a chance to eat right anymore. I work long hours, gobble fries and burgers in between. And let’s not talk about Luke’s homemade pies.”
Beth eyed me suspiciously. “You ate stuff like that before. Never gained a pound.”
“Maybe my metabolism changed or something.”
“Maybe. Why bother working so much? Dad just takes most of it.”
I shrugged. I thought about money I’d stashed. I bit my tongue. Dad had a way of finding out things from my sisters.
Beth tugged on the wool scarf around her neck. “Thank goodness I got into college with scholarships. I mean, maybe I’d be working with you if it weren’t…” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“It’s alright. You were the smart one. You deserve to be in college—to have a good job later.”
She touched my arm. “You’re smart, too. You just have to believe in yourself a little more. Maybe
this summer we can sit down and go over options. See what kind of financial aid is out there. You’d have to start at junior college, but it’ll work out.”
“Beth, I think I might be sick—or something worse.”
“What’s wrong?” She yanked my arm, pulled me out of the store and into the entrance of a tiny tearoom next door. We sat on a bench beneath a Mary Cassette print; a woman cradling a fat-cheeked child.
“I haven’t had a period since August. I mean, I’ve gone two or three months before, but it’s different this time. I’m scared.”
She leaned back on the bench. “You still seeing that Berle kid?”
“No, not in a while. He got drafted.”
“Anyone else?” Her voice was a whisper.
Holiday shoppers whisked by with bundles and children scurried to see Santa who’d just arrived at The Outlet Company store.
“Around the middle of August I was with this guy, a trucker, but it was one time. I couldn’t be pregnant from just once.”
Her eyes flared. “Yes, you could.” She sighed deeply. “You’re in trouble and you’re pretending like life is going to go on like nothing is happening. This isn’t like you. You were the tough one.”
“I just got lonely, Beth. I got close to somebody who wasn’t straight with me.” I told her when a woman holding a toddler’s hand walked by us.
“Why didn’t you get checked out?” Beth’s eyes were filled with tears. Her hand trembled when she touched my fingers.
“I couldn’t get to the clinic downtown. Did you know they stopped the bus run? I mean, I couldn’t ask Dad.” I let out a tiny sob and then told myself not to break down.
We sat there in silence. Beth sobbed like a child and I stared at Christmas decorations hanging around the tearoom arch. Silver angels sparkled and snowflakes shined. For a moment it looked as though an angel’s eyes mocked me, that blood dripped from its white halo, but it was just lights reflecting.
Reality hit me on that November day as I held my sister’s hand, as we watched mothers wheeling babies in strollers and toddlers skipping towards a fat man dressed in red. I longed for that innocence, for that unquestioning faith, but I’d lost it and it was time to move on to the truth.
* * *
It’s early evening and I’m still pissed at my sister Jen. Her life would have been different if she’d followed her heart.
I make my way down the stairs and hear Marsha speaking softly to someone in the hall. The words are muffled by Davika singing in the kitchen and Mr. Greely hammering in one of the offices.
A few more steps and I realize my father is here. I hear his voice, low and measured. I guess the news of Jen’s failed attempt at reasoning with me reached him. He’s here to scold me. I wonder what engages him in conversation with Marsha.
I reach the bottom stair and see my father seated in the main hall. Marsha crosses her arms when she sees me approach. Her voice is menacing. “Oh, Meg, I was just about to come up to get you.” She sighs, looks to my father and then cringes when Davika sings louder than before. “I’ll leave you two to chat.”
She moves away. There’s something off about the way she walks. As though she floats away, casting elongated shadows on the furniture and walls. I swear I hear bones creak and low hissing as she enters her office and slams the door.
Suddenly Davika is silent. The hammering has stopped as well.
Now I look to my father. He’s haggard. I know he hasn’t sleep in days. His clothes smell fowl. He gazes up at me and then his eyes drift to my belly.
“What’s going on? Your sister Jen is upset.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“I don’t want to stay here. It’s a bad place. You can’t make me stay.”
I expect an argument and deep rage, but my father remains calm. Too calm as he tells me, “There are lots of bad places. Lots of dark things. Sometimes you think you’re doing the right thing. Offering yourself to the light, but it blasphemy. It’s a lie and that lie gets you in the end.”
He rises.
“I’m keeping the baby, Daddy.”
He smiles at me, but his eyes are vacant, as though his soul—his vibrant persona—has deserted him. “I’m not sure how it’ll all end up, but you pray, kiddo?”
“I’m not sitting around praying.”
His smile chills me this time. I notice there’s blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. His teeth are tinged with something brown. “Talk to the angels, not like I did, but just talk. Maybe they’ll help. Just maybe...” He reaches into his pocket, removes car keys. “I used to carry around cards. Platonic symbols painted on cardboard. I thought they were magic. I don’t think angels want to make it that complicated.”
At that moment Mr. Greely enters the hall. He doesn’t speak, just nods at my father, winks at me and then makes his way up the stairs.
My father watches until the old man is out of sight. and then speaks again. “Bye, Meg.”
“Daddy, my prayers don’t get answered.”
“If you look hard enough you’ll see angels. I want to believe my girl will see them.”
Now I’m convinced my Dad has lost it. “Angels can’t get in here.”
“They’re closer than you think.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then we’re all doomed, aren’t we, Meg?” He bows his head, slips his hands in his pockets and leaves me.
I hear Marsha laugh as my Dad slams the door. I know I won’t see him again. He’s on his way to Hell and he just came here to tell me goodbye.
Alone now.
Always alone.
* * *
I’m sitting on a faded brown sofa in the upstairs den. My feet are propped on a lopsided coffee table. A small TV sits on a worn wooden stand. The volume is turned down. The news is on. Grainy scenes from Viet Nam flash before me. There’s several overstuffed chairs scattered around the large room. There are windows to the right and left. Small watercolor paintings of flowers and birds hang on the walls. There’s a payphone in between. I tried calling Ken on it a few times. No answer.
I hear somebody running in the hall. A door slams in the distance. The furnace kicks in. I swear something floated past the windows.
The running sounds are closer. I see a shadow stretch across the threshold, a low sinister laugh and heavy breathing. I grip the edge of the sofa.
I touch my belly and feel the baby move as Flora bursts through the door. Relief fills me, but fear is etched across Flora’s face. Her cranberry maternity top hangs to her knees. She’s wearing bright pink stretch pants underneath, white sneakers and her hair is tied back with a tie dyed scarf. She joins me on the sofa; sitting down heavily and then crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes dart to the door and then at me.
“I put the board back where I found it,” she tells me. “I heard something in the library—a girl—she was saying, ‘Help me, help.’”
“Probably Marcy Long busting your balls.” Wind beats against the windows. I shiver
