Sheltered

by Debra Chapoton

  The other three were relaxing their frowns gradually. Ben knew he could save this by weaving a tale close to his own. “Yeah, that makes sense, now that I think about it. She must be keeping this place behind his back. Maybe she’s going to leave him someday and needed somewhere already set up. She couldn’t afford it without our rent, so . . .” The fiction was pulling them in; he had at least one of them convinced.

  “But what about her clothes?” Megan walked around Ben and into the hallway where she pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

  “You’ve been in her room?” Astonishment strangled some of his words. He followed Megan in and looked around as if he were viewing it for the first time. “What did you find?”

  Megan opened the closet door. “The clothes are different sizes. No shoes.”

  Ben thought hard. He had grabbed the first things he found at the Salvation Army store, never checking the sizes. “Huh. Maybe my theory is right. She doesn’t actually live here.”

  Chuck and Cori grouped up alongside him. “No duh, genius,” Cori scoffed. “We’re being used.”

  “What did you find out on the internet?” Ben asked.

  Megan brushed past him, squeezed his elbow as she did, and gave him a look. She led the little group back into the den and punched a key on the computer. “See?” she said, standing back.

  Ben slipped into the chair and looked at the page then used the back button to scroll through all of their searches. “So . . . nothing?” he guessed.

  “Nothing about this house or the Kremers or anything,” Megan said. “But I did find out that there was a murder in this neighborhood, probably in this very house, a long, long time ago. Well, two murders actually.”

  Ben glanced at Megan and caught a glimmer of something in her eyes. Was she trying to change the subject on purpose? “Show me,” he said.

  ***

  Emily finished her shift and waited while the owner counted the money and then, satisfied that neither Emily nor the other employee had cheated her, the owner dismissed them and locked the store. The other girl hurried off to her car and Emily stood close to the building and waited for Ben.

  What if he didn’t show up? What if he got so involved with Megan that he forgot all about her?

  A gentle snow began to fall, the flakes fat and wet. Emily lifted her face to the sky and questioned God. Why did everyone abandon her?

  A blue sedan pulled up to the curb and Ben honked.

  Emily got in and said nothing.

  “Sorry I’m late. I dropped Meg at work first,” Ben said. “Wanna get a burger and fries? We need to talk.”

  Emily tightened her seat belt and kept her eyes averted. “Sure.” She didn’t fail to notice how he shortened the new girl’s name. What was next . . . intimate pet names?

  “Good. You’re not gonna believe what’s gone on today.”

  Emily felt her face reddening and loosened her scarf. What kind of news was he going to soften with a burger and fries?

  ***

  Ben opened the door for Emily and asked her to snag a corner booth while he ordered the food. When he brought it to her he waited a second for her to lift her arms and head from the table. He noticed how slowly she was moving. Sundays were hard for her, he knew. Despite his efforts to help her find her mother and brother each week, it was turning out to be a lost cause.

  “Here, Em, I got you a milk shake, too.” His dimples weren’t quite as deep as he tried to lift her spirits with a smile.

  Emily yielded a short response and unwrapped her burger.

  Ben started on his fries and waved a few as he spoke. “So, I got back to the house this afternoon to find all the others in the den camped out around the computer. Talking.” He emphasized it by jabbing a fry into his mouth. “And guess what?” He waited for Emily to make eye contact. “They went in Mrs. Kremer’s room.” She gave him the surprised look he expected and he went on, “And we all think that she’s never around because she’s leading a double life.”

  Emily held his gaze with a sorrow that disrupted his train of thought. He understood then that she knew.

  “Oh, Em, I’m sorry. What?”

  “You’re so nice to me. I don’t want, you know, I don’t want to let you down or anything. But I know there isn’t a Mrs. Kremer. You own the house, right?”

  Ben decided he needed to be straight with her. Honesty was the best policy, his real father always told him. How had he gotten so far away from that standard? Reluctantly he confessed a tiny part of his plan to her and swore her to secrecy.

  ***

  By 6 p.m. the winter night darkened the streets. Cori made herself and Chuck some soup and yelled downstairs to Adam to see if he wanted any. There was no answer above the loud music. She tried some curses. Still no answer. She and Chuck ate in silence though he stared or wiggled or spoon-tapped trying to get her attention. Her agitation with him grew as she sorted through a buffet of emotions, settling on indifference.

  She cleaned up the kitchen without comment or complaint and then went into the living room and turned on the TV.

  Chuck went downstairs. A few moments later Adam came up and politely asked Cori what she had left him for dinner.

  She flipped him off and raised the volume on the TV. Adam touched his hat in mock salute, grabbed his coat, and left. A morsel of regret mushroomed in her gut. It wasn’t Adam’s fault that she was tired of Chuck trailing after her, trying to catch her interest in unfortunate ways.

  As soon as his taillights diminished in the window reflection she got up and carried a kitchen chair up to her bedroom. She was more than vaguely interested in checking out the attic. With only Chuck in the house she assumed that she could do some sleuthing undetected.

  She stood on the chair and pushed up on the ceiling panel. A waft of gray dust and insulation feathered down on her head and shoulders. She took care to slide the panel over without dislodging too much more of the filth.

  The light from her room did not reach up into the black space, nor could she climb up from the chair; she would need a ladder and a flashlight. She thought she’d seen both in the utility room.

  Two honks of a car horn outside distracted her. Was it Jason? She had told him she’d see him tomorrow. Maybe it was a neighbor. She carried the chair back down to the first floor and set it in the kitchen right as someone pounded on the front door. Stupid ass. She peeked around the wall and saw the large head of this morning’s persistent “Marty Kremer”.

  And he saw her.

  Shit. She didn’t want to deal with this. “Chuck!” she yelled and headed for the stairs. “Chuck, it’s that guy!” She reached the bottom step and pushed his door open. “Chuck?” The room was empty; clothing was strewn around; a spaghetti smeared plate stared at her from the nearest corner.

  The pounding upstairs now came from the side entry thirteen unlucky steps above her. She looked toward the open doors of Ben’s room, the bathroom, and the utility room. No Chuck. She was alone. The door above swung open and the fat man broke in.

  Chapter 8

  First Ben and Emily checked the Women’s Shelter, then the Mission, then the Crisis Center, followed by a long drive to a suburban Oasis and finally the YWCA. They always started with the Women’s Shelter because that was the last place Emily had seen her mother and brother. At some of the places they had to be more like stalkers than visitors and wait as patiently as possible to talk with women who didn’t view the teens as a threat. So many of the women were victims of domestic violence that they suspected their abusers of trapping them even with teens as innocent looking as Emily.

  At most of the places, though, they were greeted by a gate-keeper who listened to Emily’s description of her mother and brother and then sadly shook his or her head.

  Six weeks ago they came close to an answer when a woman leaving the Crisis Center remembered Emily’s mother from the week before. But, she said, that particular woman and boy left in a van with three others to go to a farm in the south. The idea tha
t any mother could leave so swiftly and completely re-opened a wound that had failed to scab over. It was true enough that her mother encouraged her to go out on her own. That happened when Emily came back to the shelter from school with a letter – the letter from Mrs. Kremer offering her a place to live while her mother got back on her feet. At first her mother told her when she was changing abodes, moving to a church basement or a friend’s house. Then Emily had to hunt for her. Thankfully she had that option because of Ben. They found her twice and then . . . Homelessness tore apart her family.

  “I can’t think of anywhere else to try, Em,” Ben said. He signaled a left turn out of the Y’s parking lot and headed north.

  This was the part of their Sunday night ritual when Ben tried to be cheerful and Emily tried to hide her silent sobs by pretending to be coughing. One never fooled the other.

  But tonight was different. There was no joking and no crying. Emily had questions.

  “So . . . are you going to tell the others . . . what you told me?”

  Ben huffed. “No, I don’t see the point.”

  “Megan seems smart.”

  Ben smiled; Emily noticed and watched him out of the corner of her eye as he pretended to adjust the rear view mirror before he answered. “Yeah, I think she is. She knows her way around the internet for sure. But I don’t know about that murder stuff.” He glanced at Emily when he checked traffic to the right. Then he asked, “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

  Emily kept her head from moving in any direction and turned the question back on him, “Do you?”

  “Course not. But I think maybe your nightmares are related to the stains on the laundry room floor. Have you noticed that you have bad dreams on the nights after you’ve done your wash?”

  Her face puckered in thought. She didn’t say anything right away. “Are the stains blood from the murders?”

  “Uh, we don’t know if there were murders in the house. That’s probably just old paint on the floor. It looks like blood, but it’s not. Okay?”

  He checked to see if she was nodding. His eyes scanned the dashboard.

  “Whoa,” he said. “We’ve got like ten minutes to make it to the Steak House Grill. I told Meg we’d pick her up after her shift.”

  Emily stuck her hands up opposing coat sleeves, rubbed her fingernails along the thin scabs, and wondered if she’d be asked to move to the back seat.

  ***

  Megan climbed into the back seat and chattered the short three blocks from the restaurant to the house. She leaned forward and touched Ben’s coat collar as they turned the last corner and tapped instead of pointing.

  “That’s the fat man’s car. The guy who said he was Marty Kremer.”

  Ben turned his head slightly to ask her, “Are you sure?”

  “I think so. And look, there aren’t any lights on. Where’s Cori?”

  Emily lifted her hand to point to the driveway, and Ben anticipated her thought. “Chuck’s car is gone. Still, it’s not likely that she’d go anywhere with Chuck. She won’t even let him drive her to school when it’s pouring.”

  He parked in the drive and they all got out. Emily stared up at the darkened bedroom window.

  “Do you hear that . . . chanting?” Megan asked. She was right behind Ben as he went to the door. Emily hung back.

  “The door’s not closed all the way.” The alarm in Ben’s voice spooked both girls. Emily pulled her coat sleeves tight across her chest, but followed.

  The little group poured through the entry and overflowed into the kitchen. Megan flicked on the kitchen light.

  “Who’s here?” Ben shouted. The girls froze, waited, stared at Ben. The humming was louder, coming from the basement. One note. One droning, breathless “Aaahhhmmm”. Five seconds long. A short break, like a gasp for air. Another whining note, the same syllable.

  Ben charged down the stairs.

  Emily shook her head at Megan and opened the silverware drawer. They both grabbed paring knives and started after Ben.

  ***

  Cori thought she was bad. Bad like tough, cool, wicked. A hard ass. A tough bitch. She loved a good cat fight. That was what had gotten her kicked out of regular school to begin with. Cori was irredeemable. Or so she liked to think.

  She didn’t feel so tough, though, when a bald man, more than twice her weight and size, busted into the house and stared at her from the top landing. Drunk, she thought, as she watched him grasp the handrail and weave to the left, stumbling down three steps before catching himself.

  The urge to scream was stilled by the same fear that created the terror. She was alone. She was trapped. Even if the boys had locks on their doors, even if she could barricade herself in one of their rooms, there was little chance that such a big man wouldn’t or couldn’t break down the door.

  She held her ground. It wasn’t bravery that glued her to the spot. It wasn’t fear or terror or panic. Something else came over her and as this stranger reached the bottom step she held out both hands, palms facing ahead, and she began to chant.

  “What?” this Marty Kremer laughed. “What are you doing? You stupid kid.” He lurched to the right and fell onto the cold concrete.

  ***

  Ben reached the bottom step and saw the folded form of Cori, crouched in the corner. Her eyes were bloodshot and teary, but the black make-up, still in place, accented the force and control that dominated her expression. She didn’t look afraid or troubled; her eyes did not yield their focus, her chants did not pause, and her body did not relax.

  Another step forward and into the basement and Ben saw the miraculous thing that Cori was centering on: a heavy set man floated waist-high in the air as if strung from invisible marionette wires. His head hung a few inches lower, eyes closed, a string of drool reaching to the floor. His jacket was open; the zipper tip fluttered. Ben’s mind could hardly wrap itself around the reality. Each little detail burned itself into his mind – the smell of beer, the ashy scent of smoke-permeated clothes, a sour whiff of sweat.

  Behind him Megan and Emily’s soft steps hammered like thunder; he heard their hearts pound to match his own.

  He looked again at Cori and then back at the hovering lump. He felt tourniquet squeezes on both of his arms as each girl in sequence gasped, swore, and grabbed him tighter. No words would form in his mouth; he felt compelled to join Cori’s chant, but he resisted. The pressure on his right arm lessened and Megan’s voice was soft by his ear.

  “Cori, Cori,” Megan gently repeated, “Cori, you’ve got to let him go. It’ll be all right. Cori?”

  The sound from Cori’s lips sharpened and then stopped. The man drifted to the floor, puddled, and didn’t move.

  “Tell us what happened,” Megan whispered. She remained clutching Ben’s elbow with her left hand, holding the knife ready in her right.

  “I don’t know . . . exactly.” Cori cursed repeatedly, shook her head from side to side, and rose up. “Check his pockets.” She pointed. “See who he is. I got him . . . to tell me that he found out about us . . . about a group of teens living here without adults . . . he heard it from some woman . . . some woman at a bar on Friday.” She swore again and leaned back against the wall, held her hands up in front of her face, and stared at her palms.

  Ben wet his lips. “Mrs. Kremer, you mean?”

  Cori ignored him. “He thought he could come here and threaten us . . . use us . . . live here even.” She turned her palms outward, stretched her arms out, and levitated the body again.

  Ben took a step forward. Megan and Emily released him and he continued on toward the body. Two more steps and he stopped.

  “Check his back pocket for ID.” Cori moved her hands and the body tilted toward Ben.

  “Is he dead?” Ben asked. He could see no sign of life; he heard no breath.

  Cori lifted her hands and the body bounced up to the ceiling, hit it hard, and fell back to its last suspended spot. The man groaned.

  “Check him!”

  B
en did as ordered and pulled a wallet from the back jean pocket.

  “Says he’s Marty Muscott,” Ben read from the license. He snooped through the rest of the wallet and found nothing but a five and six singles, a car registration, a couple of gas receipts, and a post-it note with a phone number. “Nothing else.” He looked at Cori for direction.

  “We have to get rid of him.”

  Ben chilled at the thought. “We could check him out on the internet first.” He stepped back and handed the wallet to Megan. “Hurry,” he said. Both girls fled up the stairs.

  “How are you doing this?” Ben kept his eyes on the man, but spoke to Cori, moving like a cat closer to her.

  Cori didn’t answer. She began to chant again.

  ***

  Megan couldn’t get the computer to obey her commands. A white fog covered the screen and she had to bring up the task manager to quit the Google search. She started over, searched through the Norton toolbar, and began with his name.

  Emily sat in the corner chair and watched the door. She held her knife and Megan’s in her lap, ready, deadly, hushed.

  “Look at this,” Megan broke the silence. “He’s on parole.” She turned to Emily, saw her white knuckles, and rose up to give her a hug.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said as she sat back down. “I have an idea. And if it doesn’t work we’ll call my friend’s dad.” She went back to the keyboard and did a search of the phone number that was on the note. She wrote down a name and address and then checked out that person. Apparently it was Marty Muscott’s parole officer. She did a search to see what constituted a parole violation that would get Marty sent immediately to jail, do not pass go.

  “Okay, Emily, this says he’s in big trouble if he crosses the state line or leaves the country. Or if he has a gun. Or if he commits another crime.” She stood up and held her hand out for the second knife. She kept the wallet and her notes in her left hand and led the way back down to the basement. But Emily didn’t follow.

  ***

  Cori curled her lip into a smirk. She liked this control. There was a measure of nausea that surged through her gut every few seconds, but it was outweighed by the power, authority, and supremacy that she felt.