by Dan Poblocki
Cassidy heard a soft humming. Low and barely perceptible. If she hadn’t been standing by the window, she’d never have noticed it. The humming was not melodious; more like the chanting of the Buddhist monks that Mrs. Mendez had played for her world-music class earlier that year. Cassidy listened closely. There were layers inside of it. Different notes. Discordant. Difficult. Like a song the moon might sing while dreaming.
She imagined Joey in the next room, wondering if he was asleep. Her heart sped up at the thought of confronting him the next day…. Not confronting, exactly. Talking. Acknowledging that something strange was going on between them. She hadn’t quite picked out the words she’d use, and in fact, had only hours earlier fallen asleep scripting fantasy responses to all the ways he might answer her questions.
Cassidy had just pulled herself away from the bookcase and the window when another sound echoed into the night. Something was moving out on the street, as if bits of gravel were caught underneath a heavy object that someone was dragging up the road toward the cul-de-sac.
Kneeling at the window’s edge, Cassidy leaned forward until her face met the taut screen. Though the half-moon had already dipped below the horizon, she could make out a dark shadow, human shaped, limping up the road. The figure wore a sort of shift or dress or nightgown. She moved stiffly, as though severely injured.
Cassidy grasped the window ledge, digging her fingernails into the wood, pinching the tips of her fingers so that she knew she wasn’t dreaming.
Why would someone be out so late, especially if they were hurt?
She wanted to run out into the hallway and pound on Joey’s door, to make him see what she was seeing, but she was frightened that the walker would hear her, peer up at her, see her face. That would be a bad, bad thing.
Screee. Screee.
The sound grated at her eardrums as the figure moved farther into the cul-de-sac, into the darkness of the trees that surrounded the old farmhouse where Ursula Chambers had died.
When the shuffling sound was an echo in her memory, Cassidy stood, moving slowly backward toward her bed, keeping the street in sight. Then, just as she reached the mattress, a barking exploded the new quiet. Short. Harsh. Angry. Like the barking she’d heard that afternoon coming from the backyard.
Another figure, the same shape and size that Lucky had been before he’d died, followed in the path of the first one, dragging its hind leg before it too disappeared into the darkness of the dead-end street.
I’ve read that you should never try to wake anyone who is walking in her sleep. To do so could be harmful to her. The thing is, I can’t find any information about what kind of harm. Will the sleepwalker immediately go insane? Will her brain explode? Will she lose her memory, or even worse, will she slip deeper into sleep and never wake up again? It all sounds silly to me. Impossible.
I think sleepwalking is probably more dangerous if you leave the person alone.
Janet and Benji told me a story about their teenage cousin, Flora, who lives on Long Island. Flora has been sleepwalking since she was really young. It started out kind of cute. Flora’s mother would find her going through her closet in the middle of the night. With the lights off. When Flora’s mother asked what she was doing, Flora said she was looking for an outfit to wear to her birthday party. Her birthday wasn’t for another six months or so.
Another time, Flora woke up while standing in the kitchen. The smoke alarm had gone off because she’d put a jar of peanut butter in the microwave for five minutes. The peanut butter had turned crispy and black. After the initial fright of being awoken by the alarm, the rest of the family came downstairs and opened the windows to clear the smoke. Everyone had a good laugh.
But as Flora grew older, her family began to worry about the sleepwalking. Flora started leaving the house in the night. She’d wake in the morning, her feet muddy and plastered with pieces of grass, with no memory of going outdoors. Flora’s mother responded by putting chain locks on all the doors.
It didn’t work.
One night, Flora’s mother woke up to find flashing lights out in the street. Someone was knocking on the front door. The police had found Flora way out on the Long Island Expressway, wandering in her nightgown along the shoulder of the highway. She’d almost been hit by a car.
Flora’s in some sort of sleep study now at a local hospital. She’s under constant observation. She might even be taking medicine. According to Janet and Benji, her doctors say she’ll grow out of it someday. Until then, they’re not taking any chances.
I’m just thankful that Flora’s family cares enough to try to wake her up when she’s in trouble. Can you imagine what might happen if her mother wasn’t around to help?
I sure can.
THE NEXT MORNING, Cassidy woke to find that she had only a half hour to shower, devour a small breakfast of toast and jam, brush her teeth, and get dressed before they had to be on their way to the art class. She was so frantic that the previous night’s events sat squarely in the back of her mind.
After saying a quick hello to both Dennis and Deb, who were also running out the door, Cassidy tossed her backpack into the backseat of Rose’s hatchback and rolled in beside it. Rose sped through the hills with the windows down and the stereo turned up, playing an old Joni Mitchell album, nudging at Joey playfully every now and again to sing along with her. Cassidy felt a strange emptiness as she watched him lean his head against the window, obviously wanting nothing to do with what must have been an old ritual. Even though she didn’t know any of the words and could only discern bits of the melody, Cassidy opened her mouth and did her best to sing backup. Rose glanced over her shoulder, smiled and then held out a hand, palm up, toward the backseat. Cassidy gave her some skin, smacking her host-mother’s hand loud enough to rustle Joey momentarily from his reverie.
The campus of Western New Jersey State College was all green fields and brick buildings connected by sprawling concrete paths. Rose walked with Cassidy and Joey through the brightly lit halls of the art school until they came to what appeared to be the correct classroom. Inside, the tables were arranged in a circle, with a single desk in the center. Most of the tables were already occupied with other kids their age, all chatting with one another. A bearded man who looked young enough to be a college student welcomed them inside. He was dressed in a simple white collared shirt and paint-splattered khaki pants. He pointed Cassidy and Joey to a table by the far window. Joey huffed as he slid into his seat. Cassidy pressed her lips together and reminded herself that Joey would not become a Bad Thing. Maybe she’d have time during class to tell him what she’d seen the previous night. That might change everything between them, reforge their bond. Rose waved good-bye from the doorway and mouthed that she’d meet them out by the car when the class was over.
The young-looking man introduced himself as Vic. He explained that he was a graduate student at the college. On each table, he’d already set up a tray of pencils, erasers, and a few large scraps of thick poster board. Vic told them that since they were already intermediate-level students, he was skipping all the boring “talky-stuff” so they could jump right into drawing.
Vic asked that one person from each table bring something up to place on the desk in the center of the room. This pile would be the subject of the day. Some of the other kids took off a shoe, a hat, brought up a book, a wad of tissue, the wrapper from a hastily eaten breakfast snack. “What should we put up there?” Cassidy asked. Joey stared at the table and shrugged. Squaring her jaw, she got up and placed her backpack on the table. But as she sat down next to Joey again, she wished she’d removed her notebook first. She needed it closer now.
“Thank you, volunteers,” Vic said, heading to the still life, spreading out the items, leaning them against one another in a dynamic way. “Let’s get started.” He turned on a stereo that sat on a shelf by his desk. Quiet, ambient music filled the room, the sounds of bells and chimes and softly plucked guitar strings.
Watching from the corner of her
eye, after a few minutes, Cassidy noticed the lines on Joey’s page coming into a discernible shape; her own drawing looked like a blob of goop sitting on a cold stone slab. Vic strolled around the circle, commenting on various drawings, making suggestions. Cassidy was sure that when he came by her table, he wouldn’t be able to contain his laughter. But she didn’t care about that right now.
Joey was focused on what he was doing.
“That’s really good,” she whispered.
“Thanks.”
Cassidy sighed. “Is something wrong?”
“Nope. I’m fine.”
“That’s cool.” Seconds ticked by, every moment like a little bomb going off. “Hey, remember when your mom used to make us go up the hill in your backyard to find different shaped leaves? And we’d bring them back to her and we’d do rubbings of them with crayons? And that one time we picked poison ivy and she totally freaked out and made us both take showers?” She pushed out a laugh that sounded like a bark. Several students glanced up at her. “This kind of art is totally different than that, isn’t it? It’s harder. Maybe it’s ’cause we’re older now.” Joey breathed heavily, hunching over his paper. Cassidy waited for a response until her skin felt like it was on fire. “Listen,” she said finally. “I know you’re mad at me.” In her mind, she heard his voice from yesterday, wafting out into the backyard — the argument he’d had with his mother about her.
“I’m not mad at you,” Joey said, turning to look at her. His eyebrows were screwed up in anger.
“But you’ve been … acting different.”
“Things are different this summer.” Joey pressed against the page so hard, his pencil broke. “Fart,” he whispered, reaching for an eraser and a small sharpener.
Cassidy blinked, a gurgle of laughter creeping up her throat. Joey had always made the funniest exclamations. Maybe he wasn’t so different now after all. She bit her bottom lip so that she wouldn’t smile. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry. About what happened.” He groaned, and Cassidy’s humor was released like air from a popped balloon. “I know it was my fault. If I hadn’t suggested we go over to Ursula’s house —”
“Forget it,” Joey said harshly. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
Cassidy nodded slightly. A burning sensation crept up from her stomach. “Well … if you ever do want to talk about it, I’m here. I understand.”
“Right.”
“Yesterday, I noticed the drawings of him on your desk. You’ve been thinking about him a lot. I have been too. But I’ve also been thinking about you.”
“And now we’re supposed to be thinking about this.” He opened his hands over his page, presenting his work as if he were in an art gallery.
Cassidy blushed, and as she turned back to her own drawing, she felt her hand shake. She placed the pencil carefully on the desk. “So, even though I’m apologizing,” Cassidy whispered, those old feelings crawling up her spine, knocking the room off-kilter, “and even though I am really, really sorry for what happened, you’re telling me you just don’t care? That I can’t do anything to make things better?”
Joey closed his eyes and shook his head. “All I’m saying is that you have no idea what I’ve been dealing with since you left last year. None. Nobody does. And all of the apologies in the world, from you or my mom or dad — even from Ursula Chambers herself — none of it would change how I feel. Okay?”
“Okay,” Cassidy said. Her fingertips tingled, pins and needles caressing her arms, working their way up to her shoulders and neck. Her throat felt tight. She stuck out her bottom jaw, as if it were a lever to keep tears away.
Vic passed by their table. He praised Joey for his line-work. When his gaze fell upon Cassidy’s drawing, he bit his lip and nodded. “Keep going,” he said. “I like this.” Not what she’d expected to hear. It made her feel good. Strong. So once the teacher had moved on, Cassidy worked up the nerve to say what was really on her mind.
“I know you’ve seen Lucky.” She squeezed out the words. Joey froze. A statue. Clay. Dried and fired. So much easier to talk to this way. “I believe you because I’ve seen him too.”
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” Joey said, whipping his head toward her, a bright blaze in his eyes.
“I saw Lucky,” Cassidy answered. “Last night.” A couple kids at the next table glared at her. All this talking must be annoying them, but she finally had Joey’s attention. Cassidy pretended to concentrate on her paper, tracing some of the lines she’d already put down. She lowered her voice and shared what she’d seen in the middle of the night. As she spoke, she glanced up a few times to find his gaze glued to her. She went on about hearing the rattling sound, about the strange humming, about seeing the figure limping up the street toward the cul-de-sac. About the dog that followed.
When she finished, Joey’s face went blank. Then he stood, knocking his stool over. It tumbled to the linoleum floor, clanging out into the otherwise quiet classroom, a strange accompaniment to the music emanating from Vic’s speakers. He tossed his pencil at his paper, marking it through with a severe dark line and then he bolted for the door. Seconds later, he’d disappeared into the hallway.
Everyone was looking at Cassidy. She scooted her chair back, too shocked to speak. “Everything okay?” Vic asked, easing toward her.
She stood and crossed to the center of the room, pausing before the still life display. She reached for her backpack, and then realized that if she snatched it away, she’d ruin the assignment for the rest of the class. But she would not leave the bag here, not with the notebook inside. Her stomach clenched. She didn’t have time to be careful. Joey was who-knew-where thinking who-knew-what about her.
“This is … mine,” she whispered as she lifted the backpack from the table, disrupting the still life. The hat and the shoe fell to the floor. Vic’s jaw dropped in shock, and he choked out a weird croaking sound. Cassidy hastily reset the objects. “Sorry. I just really have to …”
Everyone stared at her, their eyes blazing with uncomprehending fury.
She rushed to the door, clasping the backpack’s strap in her sweat-slicked palms, and slipped out into the hall as quietly as possible.
She found Joey sitting on the floor in front of the boys’ room in the art center lobby. His head was tucked between his knees. His shoulders hitched and shook. When she realized that he was crying, she ground the toe of her sneaker into the floor, preparing to spin around, leave him alone. She wasn’t used to seeing other people cry, especially not boys. Especially not Joey. She didn’t know what to do, so she stood in the hall and stared at the floor.
After a minute, he said, “You’re being creepy.”
Her sneaker squealed against the tile and Cassidy cringed. No running away now. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t, like, jump out a window or anything.”
Joey sniffed sharply. She couldn’t tell if he’d just laughed or if he’d scoffed at her bad joke. He wiped his nose with his wrist.
“Are you coming back to class?” Cassidy asked.
“Uh, no.” He scrunched his feet closer to his butt and squeezed his ankles. “It’s a nice thought, what you said. About last night. But you really don’t need to make up stories just to make me feel better.”
“I didn’t make anything up. I really saw someone out on the street last night. She had a dog with her.”
“Just stop!” he shouted. Joey shook his head. “That girl, Ping … She thinks she knows what she’s talking about because we live next door to each other. She keeps telling everyone how much of a freak I am.”
“That’s not how she put it.”
“She thinks she’s helping, but she’s not.”
“Ping is nice.” It was a lame thing to say, Cassidy knew. She’d only just met her. Besides, this wasn’t about Ping.
“For the past year, all the adults have been telling me: There’s no such thing as ghosts. Especially not ghost dogs. It’s all in your head.” He stood up, crossed his arms, and sl
ammed his back into the bathroom door. “Don’t say a word about Lucky to my mom, or she’ll sign you up to talk to a doctor about it too.” The door swung open behind him, and he slipped inside.
There was no way she was following him in there. Especially not after this conversation.
Cassidy thought of her notebook and the bad things it contained. Maybe later she’d tell Joey about it. Maybe she’d share her secret about the night she’d met her neighbor, Levi Stanton, so Joey would truly understand. Then, maybe he could make a notebook for himself.
“Hey,” a voice called from the other end of the hall. Cassidy turned to find Vic peering out from the door to the stairwell. His mouth was puckered tight with what might be annoyance or concern. “I fixed the still life, but we could really use your bag again. You two coming back to class?”
Cassidy’s entire body burned with embarrassment. Still, she shook her head. “I’m really sorry about that, really, but we just … can’t,” she said, loud enough for Joey to hear her through the door. “Not today.”
OF COURSE, Vic called Rose on her cell phone. She was there in moments. She barely glanced at Cassidy as she ushered Joey out of the boys’ room, apologizing to Vic several times before the three of them made it out the art center door.
“Well, that was disappointing,” she said to Joey. “You maybe want to explain yourself?”
“I just didn’t want to be there anymore.” Joey climbed into the front seat of the hatchback.
“Did you think about what Cassidy wanted?” Rose asked, her voice trembling as she sat behind the wheel. “You know, not everything is about you, young man.”
If Cassidy could have folded herself into an envelope, she’d have tucked herself deep inside her backpack. Instead, she slunk down in the seat, trying to make herself invisible. What if Joey revealed that Cassidy had ruined the still life? Or what if he changed his mind and mentioned what she’d said about Lucky, about what she’d seen last night? Rose would be even more furious. This time with her. “I think you owe her an apology.”
