by Jack Ketchum
“That’s how she brings in the bucks.”
“We not she. Team here, remember?”
She sips her scotch and types again.
“Gotta put her to bed. ’Night.”
Bloop. “Nobody in this damn bed but me.”
“Sad. Beans better not be a bust. See you on set.”
YrAgent is typing but she closes the app on his response.
Robbie’s sprung some traps in the shed and taken out a not-zombie with a pitchfork but that’s when they get him. He turns off the PC. Gets up and walks over to his bed and topples onto it like a felled tree. He plumps up the pillows and sits staring at the closet door, considering.
The closet is a spacious walk-in, well arranged initially by his mother and then kept that way, neat and relatively clean, by him. His shirts, pants, and jackets hang from a wooden bar dead center. There’s shelving on both sides for his shoes, sweaters, jeans, and sweatshirts, with two rows of favorite books he wishes to keep private just for himself, a row of CDs, another of DVDs, some old toys and games shoved way up top and a sprinkling of his earliest models. Easy, kid stuff. Pieces that aren’t good enough to show in the bedroom but which he can’t quite see his way to dump yet for some reason.
His tools are shelved there too. The ones he doesn’t use every day. Three deep plastic boxes full. He knows exactly what’s in each of them.
He stares at the closet and thinks about what’s in the closet aside from all this and waits for either sleep or what his father calls a second wind to come along, and one or the other will decide him.
Tonight? Maybe yes, maybe no.
He smiles.
Delia replaces the screen in her window and climbs over Caity’s sprawled body to get to her own side of the bed. She’s barely settled in with her book when the door opens and there’s mom, iPad in hand.
She sits down at the foot of the bed.
“I brought you some Caity pics,” she says. “Then I’m off to get some rest.”
“You could have just sent them.”
“I wanted to check in with my daughter. Problem with that?”
“No.”
“You all ready for tomorrow?”
“What’s to be ready, mom?” She sighs. “‘Chomp chomp, chip chip, stomp your feet, get those treats . . . yaaaay, Chomp Chips!’ It’s so lame.”
“Just keep thinking fun and tasty. That’s what you want to keep in mind.”
“Chomp Chips taste like lima beans.”
Mom laughs. “That’s why it’s called acting, dear. You inherited a gift. All you need to do is use it.”
“Yeah, mom. I know.”
“You’re gonna do great, kiddo. Scoot over. Let’s have a look at these. There’s one shot in particular. I think it’s your Christmas card.”
Delia shifts and makes room for her. Caity groans. They’ve disturbed her.
“Quit complaining,” Delia says. “This is all about you.”
The beans are kicking in after all. Between the Lunesta and the scotch she’s having a hard time navigating. Beneath the track lighting the polished wooden floor gleams unnaturally bright. She turns toward their own room and among the stills of Delia from age two all the way up to the present—commercial and fashion shoots—which line the walls on either side of her daughter’s door, her eye is caught by one of them.
Delia was probably all of four years old at the time—Pat thinks this is about right—posed seated, leaning against the stage prop of an old wonderfully gnarled tree, legs pulled up in front of her and arms clasped around them, smiling off somewhere into the distance. The costume is an elf’s costume, kelly green, complete with jagged-cut sleeves, pointy shoes, and a peaked cap around which her hair—permed into curls for the occasion—rises merrily.
It’s a department-store Christmas ad—Come Meet Santa’s Elves!—but every time she looks at it what it brings to mind is not that particular shoot but her own childhood and staying up late with her parents one lovely, magical night to watch Mary Martin in Peter Pan. And the song skips fleetingly into mind.
I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow u-up—not me!
Her daughter as Peter Pan.
And something of herself as well.
She steadies herself against the wall and then proceeds down the too-bright corridor.
She awakens to an unfamiliar scent.
She knows this house, her nose knows every inch of this house, the history of this house and the tale it tells her daily. From the floorboards in the downstairs hallway where eleven months ago Bart spilled a glass of wine on his way to dinner to the spot at the base of Robbie’s mattress when, as a pup, startled by the sudden flap of wings outside his bedroom window, she peed a few shameful drops of urine.
But this scent is new. It is still in the process of being created, in fact, as Delia—her Person, her First Person—shifts beside her in her sleep.
It’s not a pleasant scent. It is not welcome in a room that smells of Delia, of her clothes in the open closet and her laundry on the floor, of seven pairs of shoes, of the night-dew on the breeze through the window, of books and bedclothes and toiletries and a dish of melted ice cream.
It itches the insides of her nose.
It’s faint. But acrid, bitter. She is reminded of the old railway ties they once encountered on their walks through town. Of cans stacked high for disposal in the garage.
Metal.
But its source is the dollhouse. Between the bed and the closet.
Wood.
She’s nervous now. More so as a breeze ruffles the fur along her neck. It’s not coming from the window. It’s coming from the dollhouse.
That’s wrong. No breeze should come through there.
Delia’s shirt, draped crookedly over the top of it, flutters.
Caity stands. Resists the urge to pace. Her person is sleeping. But the urge to pace is strong.
Her left front paw rises from the bed and then falls. Apparently, the paw has a will of its own. Then the right paw. Then the left again. And yes, to her chagrin, now she is pacing. And a whimper escapes her too.
Beside her, Delia wakes.
“Whaaa . . . ?”
She looks to Caity. Wipes sleep from her eyes. Then looks to where Caity’s looking, her eyes glued to the dollhouse, tail slicing through the moonlight.
The dollhouse shudders. She detects a thin rattle, as of knives in a sink.
Delia’s arms wrap tight around her. She smells of ice cream and deep sleep.
The house shudders again and the shirt slips quietly off the roof and whispers to the floor. Delia’s embrace tightens across her shoulders.
“Caity . . . ?” she says.
At the very top of the house a window vibrates. And now she knows that Delia can hear it too. A buzzing sound—an insect in a jar. She can smell Delia’s fear, sweaty and sharp as old cheese. Her own body trembles with excitement. Delia’s hands grip the scruff of her neck. Delia gasps.
Inside the window, a tiny light flashes. Twice, three times. It holds. Bright and shimmering.
And slowly, slowly, dims.
Delia has backed up all the way to the headboard. Caity stands between her and the house. She feels strong and courageous now. This is her duty. To protect her Person. She sits. She waits and watches.
As the night draws slowly down.
Finally, huddled beside her, Delia sleeps. Her breathing speaks of peace. The danger, if there ever was any danger—if this was not just some curious new aspect of the home she has known for so long and so well—has long since passed. Only then does she allow her eyes to close and her body to sink into the warm nest of blanket, sheets, and bed.
Only then will she dismiss mystery. And sleep.
TWO
How anybody can be so peppy in the morning is totally beyond her. She sure can’t match her mom for energy. She’d dragged her butt through breakfast, a hot shower, and getting herself dressed, and now here she is sitting in a chair in the dining room while
her mother brushes her hair like there was no tomorrow, all bright and sunny and smiling, while she can still barely keep her eyes open. That it isn’t even dawn yet doesn’t help matters any. The sky is about as gray as she feels.
She’d better shake it. Because here it is, her big day according to her mom. A national broadcast commercial shoot and a meeting with the sitcom’s producers afterward, who’d be there watching her work the shoot. So she should be feeling some sense of urgency, some nervousness, some pressure. But all she’s feeling is the urge to crawl back in bed and curl up next to her smelly mutt.
She’s been trying to tell her mom about last night. But mom isn’t having any.
“Now you know why I say no ice cream before bed,” she says.
“The light was red, mom. It kept . . .”
She sighs. “There are no lights in the dollhouse, Deal. Gramma had it made when I was a baby. It’s not wired for that.”
“I saw it. Caity saw it.”
“Oh, well, if Caity saw it, it must be true.”
Robbie’s standing in the doorway, wiping sleep from his eyes.
“What’s the word for what mom’s doing right now, Robbie?”
“Patronizing you?”
“That’s it. Patronizing me.”
“Let the dog in, Rob,” her mom says.
He opens the door to the patio and Caity slides inside.
“So what are you doing up so early,” mom says. “Ghosts in your room too?”
He snags a box of cereal off the counter.
“What? No. Hungry.”
“C’mon, mom. Honest. This was really weird . . .”
She finishes brushing. “Get Caity her leash, Deal. Let’s get to it. Got your sides?”
Delia digs into her back pocket, pulls out the stapled pages and waves them at her. Her dialogue for the TV show. The audition isn’t until tomorrow but with the producers at the shoot today, mom wants her ready to fend off any questions about the character or whatever. She already has them mostly memorized.
“I’ll grab my purse and we’re outta here.”
Robbie pours some cereal as she walks briskly away. Delia takes the leash off its hook and clips it to Caity’s collar. The dog wiggles her butt. Adventure time.
“Ghosts, huh?” he says.
“In mom’s crappy dollhouse. It’s alive.”
“Alive? Oh yeah?”
“The window. It was . . .”
Her mom reappears, big purse slung over her shoulder.
“Robbie, try and wake your dad before you catch the bus, okay? C’mon, Deal.”
“See ya, Robbie,” Delia says.
“See ya.”
Break a leg, he should have added.
He does wish her well. Today could mean a lot to her.
He stands in the doorway, cereal bowl in hand, watching through the screen as his mom’s Suburban pulls out of the driveway and through the open courtyard gate. He watches until the gate closes up again behind them.
Break a leg, sis, he thinks. Go do your thing. You too, mom. I’ll just stand here eating my Wheaties and then I’ll wake up dad and then I’ll get on the damn bus for the damn school and piss away another day on whatever. And that’s my day, isn’t it.
Break a freakin’ leg.
Pat knows them immediately. A man and a woman in sharp tailored business suits wending their way through the cables, reflectors, lights, and huge mounted silk and sheet-metal flags overhead, which litter the immaculately manicured botanical garden. Today’s set. They’re followed by another man in shirtsleeves. She pegs him as the writer.
Kristy, the production assistant, leads them along, catches her eye at their video village and waves.
They’ve just finished a take. A botched take. Delia was fine, ably holding the center spot amid the Busby Berkley–type rows of dancing extras wearing giant toothy grinning foam mouths—Chompers—lip-synching their way through the ridiculous guide track. One of whom has just missed his mark and damn near taken down an entire line.
It’s been a rough morning. The gusting wind is playing hell with the dancers’ costumes for one thing and the sun keeps pulling in and out from behind the clouds. They’ve yet to get a useable take for the master shot. It’s an amiable crew, though. Thus far tempers are fine. She hopes it remains that way.
“Caity? Sit. Stay.”
She pats the dog’s head, loops the leash around the spindle top of the canvas director’s chair, stands, and smiles.
“Mrs. Cross? These folks are here to meet you?”
“I know. Thank you, Kristy.”
“No problem. But we’re about to roll again in five. So if you could . . .”
“We’ll keep it down. Thanks.”
She turns to her guests as the girl walks away, talking into her headset.
“Hi there. I’m Patricia Cross.”
She holds out her hand. The woman takes it first.
“Polly Hendrix. Thanks for inviting us.”
“You kidding? Thanks for taking the time. And you must be Sean.”
“Sean Morrison. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cross.”
“Pat, please.”
“Pat.” He shakes her hand. His grip is easily the lighter of the two. “And this is Abe. Abe Joplin. Creator of the show.”
Abe’s shake’s just shy of limp.
“Really fine to meet you, Abe. The script is amazing.”
“Is it? What draft did you read?”
Sean laughs. “Abe’s a bit sore. Story conference this morning. He’s feeling a little beat up around the edges.”
“More like bludgeoned. Where’s the girl?”
Caity gets up, takes one long look at the writer, then steps over and licks his hand. He pulls it away.
“Caity! Stop! Bad dog!”
Her ears flatten.
“Your dog?” he says.
“Delia’s. Sorry.”
Joplin clearly isn’t a dog person. He looks down at the hand as though she’s smeared it with dead fish.
“I need to wash this,” he says.
He turns and walks away.
Bludgeoned, maybe. Definitely anal.
Caity barks once and with her front paws on the chair seat, gets up on her hind legs and shakes her leash up and over, shaking it free of the loop. She hits the ground running and barks again. Then runs off across the set toward Delia and the milling Chompers.
“Dammit, Caity!”
“Do we go after her or what?” Polly says.
“No, no. She won’t go far.”
“Don’t worry about Abe. His reaction. He’s . . . emotional, you know?”
“More like a big baby if you ask me,” says Sean. “But you gotta love him, damned if he can’t write great dialogue.”
“He’s very interested, though. Delia’s cattle call is the only tape he didn’t fast-forward through,” Polly says.
“That’s . . . well, glad to hear it,” says Pat.
We’re in, she thinks. I can taste it.
Standing to their left the assistant director has his hand in the air.
“Okay! Quiet people! Picture’s up!”
Production assistants parrot him into their headsets. Then, but for the gusting wind, the set falls silent.
“Roll sound!” he says.
Sometimes you just know, she thinks. That was the magic of the thing, or part of it. Sometimes you could feel it going just right. And terminally silly as this spot absolutely, positively is, this is one of those times.
The choreography’s cheerleader-simple. Her dance teacher would have a good laugh. But there are twenty dancers in the troupe besides her and they were having a heck of a time seeing through their clumsy Chompers costumes—she’s glad she isn’t wearing one—and getting their maneuvers right. This time though, from her initial perfect high-step kickoff straight on through, they were hitting their rhythm, hitting their marks, and you could feel it sweep through the whole bunch of them. This is going to be a take.
And then
the end, just as she raises her head for that final salute so that her face will read better for the camera and falls ever-so-gracefully into the arms of a pair of the Chompers, a gust of wind goes whistling wildly through the banners and the big twelve-by-twelve silks and sheet metal mounted above them, to terrific effect she can tell, blowing through her hair—which doesn’t hurt any either—and then on the final chord of the track, dies abruptly. It’s one of those things you couldn’t have planned in a billion years but which she knows will add really neat energy to the entire shot.
“. . . and cut!” yells Curt, their AD. You can tell by his voice he’s excited. “Okay, our first usable take, people! Great job, everybody. Great job, Delia. Wasn’t Delia great?”
Applause from cast and crew. Cheers. It’s embarrassing. She does her best to smile.
”That’s lunch,” Curt says. “Chompers, please check in with wardrobe before you get pasta sauce all over your costumes.”
She walks over toward her mom, standing with some people she doesn’t know over at the video village. They meet her on set halfway.
“Hi,” she says, breathless. She looks around. “Where’s Caity?”
“Probably begging chicken strips off the grips again,” says her mom. “Delia? This is Polly and Sean. They’re producing . . .”
“Lip-Lock!” she says. “I love the title. Makes me laugh every time.”
“Glad you like it,” says Polly. “You were very good just now, Delia. Very good indeed.” Beside her Sean nods assent.
“Thanks,” she says.
A man ambles up to join them. Tall, thin, balding.
“Deal, this is Abe,” her mom says. “Writer and creator of the show.”
They shake hands.
“The script said ‘Abraham,’” she says.
“That’s right. Actually, I prefer it.”
“Abraham, then. Abraham it is.”
“I watched you,” he says. “You were good.”
“So what did you think of the script, Delia?” says Sean. “We’re still finessing it, so any suggestions are fair game, right Abe?”
The tiny daggers Abraham shoots at his producer are not at all lost on Delia.
“I wouldn’t change a thing,” she says.
“Really?” says Polly.
“Well, there was one part I didn’t get.”
