“Stuff. And I’ll give you first crack at buying it and then I’ll try the jewelry store down the block and maybe the antique store. And if they don’t bite I’ll look for a pawn shop or sell these on E-bay.” She held up a large antique ring. “Whaddaya think?” She tossed it to Jason.
“Cool.” He slipped it on his middle finger and off again. The stone was similar to a cat’s eye marble, but dull. There were engravings along the sides in a foreign language that Jason couldn’t determine. Three symbols were deeply cut on the underside. “What else ya got?”
Cori lifted out a heavy book. The title was Astrology, Chiromancy and Physiognomy. She placed it on the counter and carefully opened it. She put her nose an inch from the yellowed page and sniffed the staleness. It made her think of her grandmother’s musty shelves of old paperback books – a memory from her nicer life. “It’s very old. Look at the date.” Jason’s eyes widened upon seeing the numbers in the middle of the page: 1549.
“Dude! You probably shouldn’t have carried it in a snowstorm. This has got to be worth some serious cash. What’s chiromancy?”
Cori shrugged.
“And physiognomy? Isn’t that some class in high school?”
Cori shrugged again. “I’ll check on the internet later.”
Jason smirked and slipped his phone out of his pocket. “No time like the present. It’s not like we’re busy here.” He checked the window. Snow was falling thickly, cars were creeping by. He googled chiromancy. “Dude, it’s palm reading, fortune telling.”
Cori flipped gently through the pages. “I thought so, look at these charts.” She held it open to a set of drawings that showed right and left hands with lines, symbols, numbers, and definitions. “Maybe we could add palm reading to our list of services: ear piercing, tattoos, and Madame Corinne’s fortune telling.”
“Yeah, and you don’t have to only be a palm reader you could be face reader, too,” Jason said, still studying the screen on his phone. “According to this, physiognomy, or however you pronounce it, is figuring out someone’s personality by the lines on his face, how heavy his brow is, if he has a square jaw, small or large nose, and so on.”
“Well, this book is full of astrological charts, lists of symbols, pictures and stuff. It’s a gold mine of fortune telling information. Do you believe in horoscopes? I’ll bet half this town does. Maybe we could sell star readings, too.”
“I think that’s more of a girl thing.”
Cori screwed up her face then relaxed it. She realized she was feeling light-hearted. It was so much better here than in that house where things were happening that she couldn’t explain. She had almost brought the Ouija board. Should she tell Jason about her new skill? She was half tempted to hold her hands out and try to levitate him, but she didn’t want that dark affliction to dominate her now; she was happy.
“Here’s another book,” she said. She opened the bag and presented him with Manuale Exorcismorum.
“What’s that about?”
“Exorcism.” She chilled as the word passed her lips. Was exorcism something that needed to be done to psycho-Chuck, nightmare-Emily, floating-Megan . . . or . . . herself? The light mood was growing heavy.
Jason set the book down, stepped around her, and opened the bag to see what else she had brought. He scooped out more jewelry and placed the items on the counter: pentacle beads, charm bracelets, goddess pendants.
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the lot.”
“Somehow I think I’ll get more somewhere else.”
“How about a hundred twenty-five? . . . and you can live here with me.”
“Let me think about it,” Cori said. She started putting everything back into the bag, tried to feel light again, and checked the wall clock. She had enough time for a smoke even if her appointment showed up early.
***
Chuck drove to work for a change. The snow was blowing hard, but it still only took him two minutes to get to the video store. Twice as long as it took the owner to hand him his paycheck and tell him that his hours had been cut back. Way back. He only needed him on Saturdays. Chuck left without responding as to whether he’d come in on Saturday or not. Maybe he’d send Adam in his place, he thought. Then he could stay home and watch after Cori. Follow her to work, wait for her, see that she got home all right. Then watch over her. Over her. Literally.
He hopped back in the car and sped home, deciding that since he had the house to himself this evening he could work on his project, maybe add some footholds in the passageway so he wouldn’t have to scrape himself so badly to squirm up into the attic.
***
Ben took a deep breath as he put a little more space between them. He turned the heater down a notch and began.
“It’s not totally bad, but it’s not good, either.”
“What is it? That you’re not actually on the honor roll?” Megan kept her face as serious as possible though there was mischief in her voice. She was so relieved by Ben’s reaction to her having a baby that she could have laughed or cried or both.
“Did you check?” Ben’s eyes flashed.
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Don’t bother. I messed up my grade point when I started playing hockey at midnight. But maybe my name will be there next semester.” Ben dialed down the heater another level and asked Megan if she was still warm enough. Then he began.
“I haven’t told you the real truth about myself, actually. I told you my dad was killed in Iraq and my mom was in rehab. Half true. My dad was killed there, but my mom isn’t in rehab, though I think she should be. I have a home, a big one, in a really nice subdivision, where I live with my step-father and my mom.” He started to slow his speaking. “She’s great, but she does have a problem. It started after my dad died. I guess she’s an alcoholic because she can’t control it.
“Anyway, she remarried the year after my dad died and my step-dad turned out to be a real jerk. He takes her out drinking and doesn’t do shit, pardon my French, he doesn’t do anything to help her with her problem. He’s an enabler, I guess. I asked him once if he thought she should go to rehab and he told me to go to hell. He’s rich and arrogant and about as opposite from my real dad as you can get. I don’t know why she married him.”
Megan removed her gloves again and put both hands over one of Ben’s. He turned the corners of his lips up, but not enough to earn her a dimple. She had a question already. “Tell me about your real dad. How did he die?”
“Helicopter crash.”
“How old were you?”
Before Ben could answer there was a pounding on his window that made both of them jump. A beam from a powerful flashlight pierced the interior of the car. Ben hit the wipers and an inch of snow flew both ways. He could see someone standing near the front of his car, another man right at his window. He rolled down the window and the man shined his light back on his own jacket just long enough to make his badge sparkle.
“What are you doing here, son?” the officer asked.
Ben recognized the cop from the night before. “Hello, officer. I’m just dropping off my girlfriend. She works here at the Steak House.”
“You’ve been parked here for quite a while.” He cast a beam on Megan’s face and she squinted. “You all right?”
She nodded.
“What school do you two go to?”
They both answered at the same time and the officer smiled, satisfied. “All right. You know you’re parked in the bank’s lot? Next time pull in the restaurant’s lot or parallel park on Main.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said. “I’m sorry. We had a bunch of time to kill so . . .”
“It’s all right, son. And be careful on these roads. We’re gonna get six inches tonight. If you’re lucky you won’t have school tomorrow.” He winked and left.
“So . . . where were we?” Ben said.
“Um, I want to know why you’re living on Elm instead of with your mom.”
“Well, technically I am living with m
y mom. That’s part of what I wanted to tell you. I go back and forth between places.”
“And your mom and step-dad don’t care?”
“Well, they don’t know . . . in fact, the house on Elm is owned by my step-dad’s company and I, uh, I sort of rented it under the fictitious name of Mrs. Kremer.”
Megan’s eyes narrowed unconsciously and she drew back both of her hands.
“What are you thinking?” Ben pulled one of her hands back into his own.
“I don’t get it. Why would you do this?”
“Lots of reasons. For one, I’m kind of screwing with my step-dad. Renting this under his nose is kind of perfect. And I wanted a place to bring my mom to if I can ever get her into rehab and make her realize she should leave Ed. I also needed a place I could store some stuff I inherited from my dad that I didn’t want Ed to get his greedy hands on.” He felt her hand relax into his. “And I knew some kids who needed a place, too, and I thought this might be a great college essay that would get me into a good school . . . with a scholarship maybe.”
“I really like you, Ben, but this is all so complicated. I don’t want to mess up getting custody of Simon.”
“How can this mess it up? You’re proving you can live on your own. It’s like you’ll have a support system . . . me and Emily anyway. I guess you wouldn’t want to put Cori or Chuck on a resume,” he tried to laugh it off.
“I’ve got to get to work.” Megan reached for the door handle.
“Hold on. I’ll take you right up to the door.”
“Don’t bother.” Neither one added a smile to their goodbye.
Ben sat there a while longer thinking. Maybe, if his mom wasn’t too drunk, he could get the advice he needed.
***
Chuck walked over the pile of dirty clothes that was accumulating on the floor totally unaware of the faint odor; laundry was something he had Adam do once a week. He opened his closet and pushed aside several hangers. Two months ago he had pried away some boards, looking for a place to hide his weapons, and discovered what he first thought was a laundry chute. Further exploration negated that theory. The narrow shaft went to the attic with spy holes conveniently drilled near the floors and ceilings of Mrs. Kremer’s bedroom and Emily’s bedroom. If there had been a mechanical or useful purpose for the passageway, which must be as old as the house, he couldn’t figure it out.
He started climbing, slithering in spots or using his feet and hands for leverage. He didn’t bother to stop and spy this time, there was nothing to see tonight. He made it to the attic and pulled himself up between the crib and the child’s rocker. He took the candle he had left in the crib, a little tea light that Emily had set out at Christmas, and lit it. His eyes adjusted to the gloom; the single flame was sufficient to get his bearings.
The square lid that he’d pushed off two months ago lay against an old Christmas tree stand, bent nails protruding at three of its corners. He set it out like a table across the arms of the rocker and put the candle on it. Three eight-foot boards were sandwiched between adjacent rafters. Chuck picked one up and started to lay out his path to Cori’s ceiling. He usually stretched out over her light fixture. There was a neat little hole right on the brass plate that gave him a view of her entire room. His favorite thing was to watch her wake up on the weekends.
He set the first board down and carefully carried the other two to its end. Then with the second board he bridged several more rafters. Finally he placed the last one and stood on it. He noticed that the group of boxes that had been spaced around the attic trapdoor appeared rearranged. Had he moved them that time he hung down head first into her closet? That had been a close call. If it hadn’t been for Adam’s warning he wouldn’t have pulled himself up in time and gotten the door replaced.
Something was missing. Wasn’t there a trunk here before? Chuck’s memory felt hazy, blurred. He remembered arguing with Adam about looking in the trunk. Adam won. They left the trunk and boxes alone and even put the boards back – Adam’s insistence. What a pain it was to have to make this walkway every time.
You should thank me, Chuck. Look, she’s been up here. She took the trunk out. See? The attic door is sitting next to the opening. Be careful you don’t fall through. And look, she draped Christmas lights over everything.
Chuck stepped carefully around the boxes and reached for the door lid. He shoved it back into its spot though the string of lights kept it from fitting back entirely.
No, you idiot. Now she’ll know you were up here.
Shut up, Adam. I’ll do what I want.
Chuck settled himself lengthwise on the board and peeked down into her room. He saw the trunk open on the floor, the Ouija board next to it, the planchette scuttling from letter to letter on its own.
He felt Adam kneeling on his back, stretching out the length of his body and pressing harder against his frame, as if he were trying to steam-roll himself right into being Chuck.
Get off!
. . . no . . .
***
Snowplows were already scraping the main streets and Ben followed one until he had to turn into the subdivision of his legal residence toward the luxury home his step-dad was so proud of. Already the maintenance crew that tended all the lawns in the summer had several well-bundled men out shoveling sidewalks while the crew boss plowed the driveways. They would undoubtedly be back when the snow stopped to re-plow and charge double. Ben wondered how long before his step-dad canceled the service and demanded that Ben himself do the job. He parked in the street, hopeful that the city plow wouldn’t get to the subdivision until morning. The signs looked good for a day off from school tomorrow. He couldn’t think of a better way to get to spend some time with Megan. They had a lot of talking ahead of them; he worried about her reaction to his confession.
“Hola.” He waved to the guy who was finishing his porch. That was the extent of his Spanish vocabulary other than to order at Taco Bell.
“Mom?” he called as soon as he opened the door. “I’m home!”
He hoped he wasn’t too late. The Molly Maids came on Tuesdays and his mom hovered around them all afternoon, watching, directing, following them as they cleaned and scrubbed and vacuumed a house that was barely lived in. She didn’t pour herself a drink until they were out the door.
“Mom?”
“Oh, Ben, I thought you had hockey tonight. You’re home?” She came toward him from the kitchen. Sober footsteps. Fashionable pant suit. “You’ll never guess what I did this morning.” She smiled and threw her arms around her son for a warm hug.
Ben sniffed for booze, but smelled only the rich flowery scent of her perfume.
“What, mom?”
“I interviewed for my old job. I’m pretty sure I’ll get it, too. Isn’t that great?” Her dimples were a close match to her son’s, her short hair several artificial shades lighter. She stepped back and waited for his congratulations.
“Great, mom, but . . . you know . . . you’ll have to stop drinking.”
“Ben! Don’t be silly. Why do you keep saying stuff like that? I drink because I’m bored. As soon as I go back to work I’ll be happy as a clam. I’ll have some focus.” She pinched him on the shoulder and added, “You don’t need a stay-at-home-mom to drive you to school and hockey practice and the dentist anymore. This’ll be good for all of us.”
“Sure, mom.” Ben followed her toward the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” His stomach had already forgotten the small square of lasagna he’d had earlier.
His mom took some steaks out of the refrigerator and set them on the polished granite counter next to the glass of wine she had poured before he came home. “Porterhouse steaks. We’re celebrating. If I start next Monday I’ll be getting up early like you and we can have breakfast together.”
Ben tensed, turned toward the family room, and stared out the picture window at the snow. An automatic light blinked on next to the sofa and turned the window into a mirror, reflecting back a conflicted boy and a woman with a win
eglass at her lips.
He was glad for his mom; a job might help her a lot. But breakfast every morning? He’d have to spend less time at the rooming house and confess to the others what he had told Megan.
He turned back around and watched his mom as she prepared salads. He started re-thinking his plan. There were a lot of “ifs”. If only his mom could keep a job, if only she could stop drinking, if only she could leave Ed, if only she would move into the rooming house, if only she could help him with all the problems there . . .
“Does Ed approve of you going back to work?” Ben neglected to phrase his question correctly, but his mother allowed the hint at her marital oppression.
“He knows I had an interview. He didn’t get mad at all this time. I think the company is stretched a little thin and any money I can earn will help around here.” She gave a little laugh as she tore the lettuce. “I don’t want to give up the Molly Maids, let alone this gorgeous house.”
“I liked our old house,” Ben stated. He was taking a risk reminding her of the little ranch house where he was born, where he had played in the fenced yard with his dog, where they had received the devastating news about his father.
His mother stopped chopping carrots and took another sip of wine. “I know,” she said softly. “We were so happy then.”
“Mom,” Ben pulled at his thumb knuckle, “do you believe in ghosts?”
She took another sip before answering. “I think I see your dad sometimes . . . but . . . no, I don’t believe in ghosts. Neither did your dad, so . . .” She left the implication hanging.
“Well, do you believe in extra-sensory stuff like mind-reading or levitation or, like, demon-possession?” Ben slipped in the last part with an accentuated finger-quoting gesture.
His mother’s short laugh and raised eyebrow preceded another sip of wine. “You need to talk to your grandma and grandpa Kinlaw about that stuff. I know your dad believed in every part of the Bible and he told me once,” she paused, remembering, “he told me about an experience he had with a crazy man they came across in a cave in Afghanistan. He thought the man was demon-possessed. He told me that it reminded him of the stories he learned as a child – that everywhere that Jesus preached he would cast out demons.” She turned back to finish up the salads and mumbled, “I really should read the Bible.”
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