The Door to January

by Gillian French

  “You should’ve listened.” Grace spoke barely above a whisper. She took in Natalie’s incredulous expression and slowly shook her head. “To what I didn’t say.”

  “What?”

  Grace’s mouth quirked humorlessly. “I tried telling you.” She rested her chin on her folded arms and seemed to sink into a doze.

  Natalie stood there. The phone calls. Of course it was Grace—those small sounds could’ve been made by anyone, but she could only hear Grace in them now, the quiet gasp, the swallowed need to speak.

  “So tell me now. Grace . . . ? Hello?”

  She wouldn’t answer.

  Natalie walked away, her steps gradually speeding up. She couldn’t get far enough away from the girl, from her sharp junipery odor of liquor and sweat and melancholy. She went behind the counter, shaken.

  It wasn’t some sweet old lady who came for Grace. It was Jason. Natalie found it hard to imagine anyone’s grandmother entrusting him with their flesh and blood, but there he was, stone-faced, jerking Grace’s elbow as if she’d embarrassed him. Jason turned his glare, all 500 watts of it, on Natalie as he guided Grace to the door.

  In the same moment, Natalie felt Teddy by her side. She’d never even heard him coming.

  In the parking lot, Grace pulled free and shouted something at Jason that couldn’t be understood through the glass. Jason tossed up his hands and got into his truck, revving the engine.

  Grace watched him drive to the exit with her arms folded over her chest, seeming shrunken, somehow, and terribly young. The truck idled, and Grace ran to catch up, barely climbing in and shutting the cab door behind her before Jason gunned out into the street.

  CHAPTER 21

  Inside the house, ice had spread from the walls to the floor. Natalie found frost in a fine colorless fur over the metal fixtures and doorknobs. The kitchen sinks held a solid heart of ice; in one, the drain plug hung suspended. She closed her eyes as the lights came for her.

  #

  Winter 1948

  They were close enough to touch, but Irene knew he wouldn’t. She sat on the floor in the attic room, listening to him breathe.

  She’d awoken to find the door standing open. She’d sat up, fearing a trap, and gradually sensed him waiting out there in the room beyond. After an endless time, she’d moved toward the dim light.

  Irene considered drawing herself to him now, begging. She could make herself do that. Please, mister. Please. She began to cry in small wheezing sounds. “Please.” What was left of her voice sounded like a stranger’s, tiny and cracked. “Let me—”

  Fabric wafted over her face. She gasped, waiting for him to wrench it around her throat, but he didn’t. Gradually, she found a neck hole, and then put her arms through. It was the pink dress she’d worn to the dance a hundred years ago.

  He dropped her shoes into her lap; she’d hated wearing them that night because the heels were scuffed, but Ma had said everybody would be too busy worrying about themselves to look at her feet. Irene lifted her gaze to his face and was directed back down, his large hand cupping the top of her head.

  He helped her to her feet. It was over. He’d grown tired of her and now he was letting her go. He steered her out of the room. Behind them, the crawl-space door stood ajar.

  A narrow staircase led down to a landing. Squares of dusky light spilled out of open doorways. The house had the feeling of being very large and very empty. Irene knew she had to be good, resist the urge to run, let him do this his way. She didn’t want to spoil it, please God, no she didn’t.

  They came to a landing before the main staircase. From the corner of her eye, she saw someone. A slender girl standing in the last doorway with her hand resting on the frame. Irene opened her mouth. She might’ve burst with it—He has another girl; I’m not the only one—but in a moment that shape became less like a person and more like light settling over a piece of furniture, a certain angle of perspective. The peculiar rushing within her guttered and died.

  Downstairs, they stopped in the foyer. He pulled on a coat, lit a cigarette behind his cupped hand. She spoke again in her rough whisper, “Are you taking me home now?”

  The pause hung so long she believed he was going to ignore her as always. But then—“Yes.”

  #

  That evening, while drying the supper dishes, Teddy said, “Anybody up for some poker? We haven’t played since Nat got here.”

  Natalie said, “I’ll get the change.” Any distraction was welcome; the memories of Irene’s last walk and Grace’s cryptic words at the Grill ran through her head endlessly. You should’ve listened to what I didn’t say. Followed by, Are you taking me home now? And Vsevolod had told Irene that he was. That was over sixty years ago. What had really happened?

  Natalie set the change jar and the deck of cards on the table. “Let me grab my stuff from the summerhouse before I forget.” She pointed at Teddy. “Then I’ll be back to kick your butt.”

  “Keep on telling yourself that.”

  Natalie crossed the backyard, passing the bird hotel. Something on the periphery of her vision made her turn back.

  There was a dark, smeared fingerprint on the lower left-hand corner of the birdhouse roof.

  She stared at it, feeling her heartbeat swing into a low, bludgeoning pace. She reached out and lifted the lid.

  In the dusky light, the object inside was indistinct, a bundle wrapped in fabric that might’ve been torn from an old T-shirt. Natalie poked it—it felt solid—and she lifted it out. Unwrapping flap after flap, compelled by some awful fascination to hurry as the fabric became saturated and the smell hit her nose, metallic and ripe, until she reached the moist center. Her gift was an assortment of small, veined organs in a jelly of blood.

  The cop car in Cilla’s driveway brought the neighbors outside to water their yards in the near-dark, craning their necks and whispering to each other.

  Bernier was too small to have its own police department, so an officer had been dispatched from Bucksport, a young guy with a crew cut and a shave so clean it looked raw.

  After the officer saw the bloody pile on the fabric and the fingerprint on the bird-hotel roof, he said, “You folks have any idea who might want to leave something like this?”

  Natalie looked at Teddy. He’d stayed silent while they waited for the officer to arrive, but now he nodded to her. “Tell him, Nat. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Cilla’s mouth opened in disbelief as Natalie explained. By the end of it, her aunt’s arms were tightly crossed, and every few minutes, she’d shake her head, looking off at the street.

  The officer poked through the entrails with a pen.

  “Well, it’s not human, but you knew that. Looks to me like somebody gutted a small animal, woodchuck or raccoon, maybe. Miss, you’ve been sleeping in the summerhouse up until last night?”

  Natalie nodded.

  “Excuse me.” He went back to his cruiser and spoke into his walkie-talkie.

  On the verge of tears, Natalie looked at her aunt. She felt colossally stupid, a little kid who’d been gloating over her secrets. “Cilla, I am so, so sorry.”

  Cilla turned back, then pulled her into a hug. “Don’t worry about being sorry right now. Let’s just get this figured out.”

  The officer came back. “I’ve notified Dispatch to send some help.” He scratched the side of his nose, looking around. “We’ll bag what we need, see if we can’t get at least a partial print off the birdhouse roof. It’s pretty smeared, but I wouldn’t rule it out. We’ll need statements from all three of you. Once we get a report written up, we can go from there.”

  “Are you finally going to arrest Jason Morrow?” Teddy said.

  “I plan to have a conversation with him, yes.” The officer nodded toward the summerhouse. “Anybody checked that out yet?”

  “No.” Cilla rested her hands on Natalie�
�s shoulders. “I told the kids not to touch anything. Wasn’t that the right thing to do?”

  “You did fine.” The officer went over to the summerhouse door and pushed it open, peering through the gap, and then jumped slightly when the three of them stopped right behind him. “Uh, folks, if you could stand back—” He hesitated, looking down at the step. “We’ve got some glass here.” The bulb screwed into the exterior socket over the door had been smashed. The light didn’t work anyway, but Jason didn’t know that. Natalie gripped the hem of Cilla’s cardigan. He’d wanted to leave her blind.

  The officer opened the door the rest of the way. They all got a look at the inside, and Natalie groaned, covering her face. “Oh my God.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The cops didn’t leave until nearly ten. Teddy went up to bed early and Cilla was on her way, dumping coffee dregs down the sink.

  Natalie sat in the living room with her knees drawn to her chest, watching TV without seeing it. She listened to the sound of her aunt moving around in the next room, and then went to the doorway and said, “I’ll clean it up tomorrow. All of it.” She dragged her big toe over the linoleum, tracing the pattern. “You’ll never know anything happened.”

  “It’s not important tonight.” Cilla put away the sugar bowl. “And I don’t want you touching any of that stuff without gloves. It carries disease, and we don’t know where . . .” She gave her head another one of those stunned, helpless shakes.

  Natalie blinked back tears. “But . . . Teddy’s dad . . . I know he built the summerhouse and everything, and . . . I’m just really sorry.”

  “Oh, hon.” Cilla pressed her palm over her eyes, seeming to mentally count to ten. “I wish you kids had told me what was going on. I don’t know what made you think keeping something like that to yourselves was a good idea.”

  “Are you going to tell Mom and Dad to take me home?”

  Looking conflicted, Cilla came over and smoothed Natalie’s curls down with both hands, cupping her cheeks. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

  TV was no comfort, and Natalie pulled the afghan over her legs even though it was too hot for it. She tried not to think about Raisa’s things, which had been hidden inside a grocery bag underneath the cot and were probably smashed to bits now. Some darning needle she was. Some caretaker.

  She wanted to be out on the nighttime roads with the breeze ruffling her hair, washing everything away, at least for a while. She didn’t believe Jason would come roaring out of the dark to chase her down. Why end the game so soon, when he had them right where he wanted them, feeling small and scared, cat and mouse and all that? It would almost be a relief to deal with him face-to-face at this point.

  Natalie went to the guest room and turned on the AC, shutting the door behind her. Hopefully it would look like she was inside, asleep. She knew where Cilla kept the house keys. Turning the lock on her way outside made this feel like less of a betrayal.

  The grass was dewy, soaking her feet. She retrieved her bike from the shed and switched on the light between the handlebars, then took off down Bailey Street.

  The ride did everything she’d hoped. The tension sloughed off as she pushed up hills and took corners, passing only two cars on the road the entire time. Main Street was a slumbering snake curving down to the harbor; many of the streetlights had burned out, but she caught a glimpse of the Quik Stop sign and realized that she must have a destination in mind after all. This was no aimless ride.

  Loop Road wasn’t far. It had to be nearly eleven o’clock by now, but the Emerick house was lit up, and there was music coming from the backyard. She’d only intended to pass by, take a look at the place, maybe think a little about the boy inside. But her desire to see Lowell surprised her. It made her walk her bike up the junk-strewn fieldstones and knock on the door.

  Lowell came, the expression on his face softening as he recognized her. “Hey.” He pushed the screen door open. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Is it too late?” Sliding her hands in her pockets, she glanced around. “I wouldn’t have stopped, but it sounded like everybody was still awake.”

  “Oh, yeah. We’re tearing it up tonight.” His dry tone made her smile. “Dad’s got some buddies over. Cold cans of PBR and horseshoes in the backyard. Kick-ass. Come on in.”

  She did.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said as they went down the hallway, and then shrugged. “Ah, hell, you’ve seen the place. You know we’re pigs.”

  They went into the living room. The local news was on TV.

  Natalie sat on the couch, Lowell to her right, and the confession spilled out of her. “You were right. Jason’s trying to scare me away.” When she’d told him about the bird hotel, Lowell angled himself back, his gaze intense. “The summerhouse is trashed. More blood on the walls, and other stuff, gross stuff. Everything was thrown around and the sheets were ripped up.”

  “But the cops are going after him, right?” Lowell’s tone was curt. When she nodded, he threw his elbow back on the cushion, saying under his breath, “Shit, Jase. You’ve done it now.”

  “I mean . . . what if I’d been in the summerhouse last night, like he thought? What would he have done then?” She swallowed. “Doesn’t matter. I’m probably going home now, anyway.” She was getting choked up and fought it, embarrassed, angry at herself. “It’s scary, being here. Not like I remember. Or maybe Bernier was always like this, and it took Peter getting killed for me to see what was underneath.”

  She shut her eyes, picturing the hallways of the house on Morning Glory Drive, vaulted doorways opening into darkness, morphing into trees, black columns of forest twisting on and on. “I thought coming back here was something I had to do. Like a responsibility. I was an idiot. This place doesn’t need me.” She opened her eyes. “I can’t change anything.”

  “I don’t think you can change a place,” Lowell said slowly. “It is what it is. All you can do is take yourself out of it.”

  She smirked. “You really want me gone, huh.”

  “No,” he said without hesitation. “I don’t. I think it’d be safer, yeah. But what I think you should do and what I want are two different things.”

  She stared back at him, warmth rising in her cheeks. “Thanks. I guess.”

  The music ratcheted up another notch outside, and he said, “Hold on.” He went off down the hall, and moments later, she heard him yell “Guys. Shut. Up,” out the back door.

  He was answered with whooping and laughter. The back door shut, then creaked open again, followed by an older guy saying, “What’s up your ass?” He sounded gruff, drunk.

  “I got somebody over. That’s all.”

  “Girl?”

  “Yeah, Dad. A girl.”

  When Lowell got back to the living room, Natalie was on her feet.

  “I should probably go. I kind of snuck out. Cilla doesn’t know.”

  He walked her out. She started down the steps, but he stopped her.

  “You call me before you leave town. Okay? We’ll hang out or something. Don’t take off again without letting me know.”

  Natalie looked into his eyes, for the first time noticing gold flecks around his pupils. “I won’t.” She lingered a moment, taking another step.

  “Want a ride?”

  “Nah. I’ll be okay.”

  “You better.”

  Once she was biking down Loop Road, she glanced back. He still stood there, under the porch light.

  CHAPTER 23

  Natalie could hear them shouting behind her as the hunt began. The gun would go off any minute. The bullet would tear through her and she’d fall. But for now, she’d use every second.

  She charged through branches and down an embankment. Teddy—why hadn’t she followed him? Where was he now?

  She hooked a left on a whim and ran, hearing Jason’s cries of “Time’
s up! Gonna get you! Gonna get you!”

  She’d been so sure she’d hear Teddy’s footsteps or find the path he’d taken. There was nothing but trees. Someone crashed through the underbrush behind her, not far off, sending her racing in a different direction. She didn’t know it, but she was zigzagging deeper into the wilderness.

  There was a whispering sound moving through the air around her, filtering through the trees like a building gale. Maybe it was Jason and the rest, sneaking up on her? She pressed her back against a tree trunk and slid down into a crouch, gasping, straining to hear.

  Footsteps. Drawing closer. Tears ran down her face. Someone cursed.

  The whispers rose. Soft, feminine, unfamiliar. It was as if there was a chorus of voices around her, people she couldn’t see. Even in her panicked state, she was able to glean one word, repeated over and over—

  “Hide. Hide. Hide—”

  Natalie broke from sleep. The dream had been so detailed, so immediate. How had she forgotten hiding among the trees like that, crouching and listening to the sounds of whispers and footsteps?

  A tangle of spidery blue light flashed in the window. She gasped. When it didn’t come again, she scrambled across the bed and looked out. There was nothing to see but the dark backyard.

  Could someone have been shining a flashlight in at her? Jason, skulking around again? But the light had been too pulsating and strange for that, more like a cluster of fireflies. The yard remained still. Maybe it had only been some residue from her dream, a trick of her senses.

  Natalie sat back, her thoughts turning unexpectedly to Lowell. Somehow, being with him for only a short while had helped to put things into perspective, helped stop that feeling of the ground sliding away beneath her feet. Funny, they’d sat together in his living room only a few hours ago. Felt like days.