Horrid

by Katrina Leno

  “Do you know that guy?” Jane said, leaning toward her mother. “Don’t turn around. At the end of the counter. He keeps looking over here.”

  “If I don’t turn around, how can I tell you if I know him?” Ruth asked, smiling.

  “I mean, look, but don’t make it obvious.”

  Ruth turned her body to the side and acted like she was reading the specials board. She took a quick glance behind her, then turned back to Jane. Her face had changed. She looked almost sad.

  “Dick Carrington. Dr. Carrington,” she said.

  “Was he your doctor?”

  Ruth didn’t answer for a moment. She flagged down a server and motioned for the check. “No. Not my doctor.”

  “Oh. Why do you think he keeps looking at us?”

  “Because you’re beautiful,” Ruth said. It was clear she was trying to keep her tone light. She winked. The server came back with the check and Ruth pulled some money from her wallet and put it on the table. “Let’s get out of here, okay?”

  They had to pass the man to get out of the restaurant, and when they were close enough, he lowered his newspaper and said, “Ruthellen North. I thought that was you.”

  “Dr. Carrington. How are you?” Ruth said, taking his outstretched hand.

  “Old,” he said, laughing. His gaze switched to Jane. His laughter died and his expression turned serious. “What a lovely girl.”

  “My daughter,” Ruth said. “Jane.”

  “Jane,” he repeated. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  He turned to Ruth. “Are you back in that house?”

  “Yes. Jane and I moved into North Manor,” she said. “It was nice to see you, but we really have to—”

  “It can’t be easy,” he said softly. “Being back there.”

  “Really nice to see you,” Ruth said pointedly. She put a hand on his arm and squeezed, then reached back and took Jane’s hand and led her out of the diner.

  Once they were outside, Jane tugged at Ruth to get her to stop walking.

  “What was that about?”

  “What was what about?” Ruth asked.

  “The creepy old man being creepy? ‘It can’t be easy being back there’?”

  “Oh, honey. He’s a hundred years old. Who knows what he meant.”

  “It seems like he meant he’s surprised you’re back in North Manor. Why would he be surprised you’re back in North Manor?”

  “Would you like to go ask him, sweetie? I’m not a mind reader. People are weird. Did you notice he was also holding his newspaper upside down?”

  “He was?”

  “Yes. Stop being such an alarmist.” Ruth smiled. “Look—there’s a bookstore across the square.”

  “Where?” Jane mumbled. She had the distinct impression Ruth was trying to change the subject, and she was annoyed that it was working.

  She looked around the town square. She didn’t think she had ever been in a town quite this tiny before, where you could turn in a circle and pick out the post office, the diner, the general store, the coffee shop, and the bookstore. Actually, these last two were connected, and the sign above their shared entrance said BEANS & BOOKS.

  “Fine. I’ll go in,” Jane said.

  “If I twist your arm?”

  “Maybe I’ll see if they’re hiring. If you can get a job, I can get a job.”

  “Honey, take some time and settle into things a bit. You don’t have to rush into anything like that.”

  “Nothing too bad. A few hours after school or something,” Jane said.

  “All right. Well, here, get me a coffee to go,” Ruth said, digging in her purse.

  “My treat,” Jane said, and took off before her mom could argue.

  The shop was deceptively roomy on the inside. The coffee counter was to the left, and there were a few scattered café tables in front of it. The bookshelves started to the right, five or six long stacks of them with places here and there to set your coffee while you browsed. The combined smell of coffee and used books felt like the intersection of all things good and necessary, as far as Jane was concerned. Any residual weirdness from the man in the diner melted away as she stepped between the first shelves of books.

  She did what she did in every bookstore she visited—she went to the mystery section and scanned the shelves for Agatha Christie books. She was pleased to find a fairly large collection of little vintage paperbacks, some of them even in individual protective sleeves. She picked up a copy of The ABC Murders—it was one of her favorites, and she owned multiple editions. She had never seen this one before, though. It had a purple cover, which she loved, with illustrations of various bits of the novel on it: a yellow stocking, a woman with a red scarf around her neck, a stack of letters addressed to M. Hercule Poirot.

  “Help you find anything?” said a voice behind her. She turned around to see a black guy a few years older than she was. He was cute, with jeans and a buffalo-plaid flannel rolled up to his elbows.

  “Oh, just browsing for now, thanks.”

  He peeked behind her at the shelf she was looking at. “Agatha Christie?”

  “Yeah. She’s great.”

  “I could never get into her,” he said, shrugging. “It’s impossible to figure out who the murderer is.”

  “That’s exactly why I like them. Once you get to the end, you realize that you should’ve known all along.”

  He smiled. “Well, let me know if you have any questions.”

  “Actually… you aren’t hiring by any chance, are you?”

  “You might just have perfect timing. We had a couple people leave at the beginning of the school year.” He paused, then held his hand out. “I’m Will. My dad owns this place, but I’m the manager.”

  “Jane.” She shook his hand. “I just moved here. I’m a senior, but I can work after school or on weekends. Or both. Anything you need, really.”

  “That sounds perfect. Where did you move from?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles, California, to Bells Hollow, Maine. An interesting trajectory.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” Jane said, laughing.

  “What do you think of it so far?”

  “So far it’s… fine.” She shrugged. “We just got here. I haven’t formed any huge opinions yet. I mean, the bookstore is nice.”

  “The bookstore is the best,” Will said, spreading his arms out. “Let’s go to the counter and I’ll get your number. Can I get you a coffee or something? On the house.”

  “Oh, thanks. That would be great. And I think I’ll take this book, too.”

  Will took the book from her and looked it over. “The ABC Murders, huh? Is it a good one?”

  “One of my favorites.”

  “All right. This is on me if you’ll let me borrow it first.”

  “Sure,” Jane said. “It’s a deal.”

  They walked over to the coffee counter. Will put the book behind the desk and got her a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote down her number as he poured a cup of coffee.

  “Do you have any barista experience?” he asked, fitting the lid on the cup.

  “I make a mean latte.”

  “That’s half the battle.” He laughed. “Well, welcome to Bells Hollow, Jane.” He slid the coffee across the counter.

  “Thanks. And thanks for the coffee. It was nice meeting you.”

  “You too.”

  Jane slipped a dollar into a tip jar with a sign that said SCARED OF CHANGE? LEAVE IT HERE, then found Ruth waiting on a bench outside.

  “Mmm, thanks,” Ruth said, taking the coffee. “How did it go?”

  “Cute barista.”

  “Not a bad little morning we’re having—good pancakes, cute barista.”

  “Free coffee,” Jane added.

  “Free coffee? Does life get any better than this?”

  But she said it with a sad half smile, and Jane knew exactly what she meant.

  Yes, life got a lot bett
er than this.

  If Greer were still alive, he’d have ordered the silliest thing on the menu. He unironically loved weird drinks, like marshmallow and crème brûlée and gingerbread lattes.

  Jane looped her arm through her mother’s and leaned into her and didn’t reply. She didn’t have to.

  After a quick trip to the mall to buy new winter coats and a little box that was supposed to make their phones work in the house, they returned home and spent the rest of the day cleaning. They focused on the downstairs while the window company worked upstairs, replacing the rest of the windows before doubling back to fix the one in the mudroom.

  “Let me know if you have any more trouble,” the foreman said as Ruth signed the invoice. Jane peeked over her shoulder and saw the price—what had been paid already and what was still left to pay. And on top of it all, an extra cost for the Saturday work. Who knew windows were so expensive?

  They had never been rich in California—not like some of the students at Jane’s school, who drove Porsches and Teslas to class—but Jane had also never really had to think about money before. Now, though, it was creeping up on her: the price of things.

  “Thanks,” Ruth said. “I will.”

  After the window people left, Jane installed the booster from the cell phone store. As soon as she plugged it in, her phone lit up with six messages from Salinger:

  Hello I miss you more today than I have ever missed anyone in the history of the world

  Janiieeeeeee

  are you dead

  WHERE ARE YOU

  You know that store near my house that sells the really good smoothies, they’re going out of business so not only is my best friend all the way across the country, now I don’t even live near a good smoothie place

  Are you actually dead I miss you

  “Tell Sal I said hi,” Ruth said. “I’m going to start dinner.”

  Jane collapsed onto a freshly vacuumed sofa and texted her back:

  RIP to the good smoothie place. I miss you more than I can possibly express in words

  my mom says hi

  it’s cold here

  ILY

  When Sal didn’t text back right away, Jane wandered into the kitchen. Ruth was finishing up the salad she was making; she placed the bowl down while Jane stared out the window, remembering the morning slaughter of the poor roses.

  “Set the table, will you?” Ruth asked.

  “Sure.” Jane got plates and silverware as Ruth took two potatoes out of the microwave. “Salad and baked potatoes. I think this is the most New England meal you’ve ever cooked.”

  Ruth shrugged. “When in Rome.” She put the potatoes on two plates and brought them over to the table. Jane sat down across from her and started dishing out the salad. “We can start cleaning upstairs tomorrow so we can finally sleep up there.”

  “It’ll be nice to get off the floor,” Jane replied.

  “Agreed. We’ll go to the outlets next weekend, maybe. They’re two hours away, but they have great stores. We can get new bedding, new pillows. A few things to make this place a bit homier.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Jane looked past her mother, out the windows again. The sky was already dark. She didn’t like this house at night, when the shadows grew longer, the air grew chillier.

  “Honey? Is something wrong?”

  “What? No. I didn’t know windows were so expensive.” She didn’t know what made her say it, but at least it was easier to explain than her sudden fear of the dark.

  Ruth laughed softly. “Of all the things I thought you might say, that wasn’t one of them.”

  “I saw the invoice.”

  “Oh, Jane. You do not have to worry about stuff like that.”

  “But you have to worry about money now. You have to, like, budget and stuff. Didn’t Dad do all the budgeting?”

  Ruth laughed—a short, bitter laugh that Jane didn’t like. “Your father did all the budgeting, yes. And look where that got us.” A long quiet. Ruth reached across the table and took Jane’s hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “But please, let me worry about money. You just worry about making friends and doing your homework. Okay?”

  Jane shrugged. “Okay.”

  “How’s the potato? You know Maine is famous for potatoes, right?”

  Jane took a bite of the potato, chewed, and swallowed. “What a weird place,” she said.

  Ruth snorted softly. “You’re right about that, sweetie.”

  That night, after dinner and a game of Scrabble, after brushing her teeth and washing her face, Jane slid into her sleeping bag for what she hoped would be the last time in a long time. Maybe it would be the last time ever. Maybe, tomorrow night, they would burn the sleeping bags in a ceremonial bonfire in the backyard, along with the maps that had gotten them here in the first place, along with the entire car and the greasy fast food they’d eaten and the clothes they’d worn that, Jane imagined, would never not smell faintly of gasoline.

  In her own sleeping bag, Ruth was already breathing heavily, a faint rattle in the back of her throat as she left Jane alone in the quiet, too-big house.

  Even closing the pocket doors didn’t really help to lessen the feeling of being lost in a vast forest. They’d taken the sheets off all the furniture, but the antique high-backed chairs and tall lamps and bookcases and fancy hutches seemed to tower over Jane, casting strange shadows across the room. It didn’t help that the only light source was the fire, which seemed to have a mind of its own, its flames dancing wildly every time a draft blew across the floor.

  Jane stared into those flames and tried to turn off her brain. The day had seemed to pass in a blink of an eye, and Jane felt tired and achy from so much cleaning. Not just tired—exhausted, really—but it was the type of exhaustion that didn’t lend itself to immediate sleep. It was the type of exhaustion that inexplicably kept you up, that kept poking and shaking you awake, just to remind you, again, of how tired you were.

  Jane rolled over, away from the fire, trying to get comfortable. She hit her pillow with the palm of her hand and stretched her legs out, long…

  Something grazed across her bare foot.

  The tag of the sleeping bag?

  No, this was too soft for that. This was something velvety and smooth and small.

  Jane sat up and reached inside the sleeping bag, leaning forward to find it.

  Her fingers closed around whatever it was, and she pulled it out of the bag and held it up so it caught the light of the fire.

  For a long moment, she just stared at it, her brow gently furrowed in confusion, her mouth slightly open.

  She didn’t know what to make of it. It was so out of place, so confusing to find it here, and her brain struggled to make sense of it, struggled to understand the path it had taken to end up in her sleeping bag, of all places.

  It was a single rose petal, a large one, about two inches in length. It was a deep red, and when Jane could finally move and brought it up to her nose, it smelled fresh and rich, like she had just plucked it off the flower.

  Am I dreaming? she wondered, because she honestly couldn’t tell; she might have fallen asleep without even realizing it. But what a strange dream this was. What did it mean?

  Sleepily, she thought of the flowers from Through the Looking-Glass, the tiger lily and the rose that mistake Alice for a flower herself. Was Jane a flower? Was this petal from her own body? Was she turning into a rose?

  She closed her eyes and opened them again when she swayed dangerously.

  Lie down, she instructed herself, and she did, slowly lowering herself back into her sleeping bag, her brain half–shut off already, her thoughts confusing and slow.

  She laid the rose petal on the floor next to her, eye-level, and it was the last thing she saw before she fell asleep, three seconds later, and dreamed her skin grew thorns.

  When she woke in the morning, the petal was gone, and its existence at a
ll was so muted in Jane’s memory that she could hardly even recall it as a dream. Probably it was a dream, but Jane only knew that she’d slept like the dead, falling deeply asleep and not waking up again until morning.

  After a breakfast of coffee and toast, Jane and Ruth headed upstairs. It was Jane’s first time seeing the second floor, which was basically just one long hallway with doors on either side of it.

  “Nothing up here but bedrooms and bathrooms,” Ruth said.

  There were eight bedrooms in all, four at the back of the house and four at the front. Two of these were locked—the master bedroom, where Jane’s grandparents had slept, and the room right next to it, which Ruth said had been used for storage.

  “Let’s stay out of those for now,” Ruth said. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to tackle them.”

  “You mean I only have six bedrooms to choose from?” Jane complained.

  “Ha-ha.”

  Jane stuck her head in one room after another and settled on one at the front of the house, with a private bathroom and a four-poster bed and two enormous windows. There were sheer white curtains to match the white bedspread. There was even an empty bookshelf—plenty of room for her mystery novels.

  “Good choice,” Ruth said. “I think I’ll be just down the hall.”

  “Your old bedroom?”

  “Nope. Starting fresh.”

  Jane went downstairs to get her boxes, which were stacked neatly in the foyer. She carefully carried each one upstairs and into her new bedroom. The last one was the heaviest; it contained all her journals and a few dozen Agatha Christie paperbacks. She hoisted it into her arms and started slowly upstairs, putting one foot in front of the other, groaning with the effort.

  She’d just passed the first landing when the bottom of the box gave out. Books tumbled out in a heavy cascade; one particularly large journal landed on Jane’s foot. She almost lost her balance, but she managed to drop the box and grab onto the railing before she fell backward.