Audrey smiles even wider. “What clubs are you in at your school?”
“Uh.” Claire looks down at the cookies again. “I’m not really in any clubs.” She hesitates for a moment. “I won second place in the science fair, though.”
“Oh, that’s great!”
Claire feels pathetic. Back in Houston she was proud of the fact that she didn’t join any clubs. It made her one of the cool kids; Josh didn’t join any clubs either. But it’s clearly different here, and when faced with the prospect of this long, empty summer, she isn’t willing to alienate Audrey with her non-joining ways.
“Anyway,” Audrey continues. “I have a car, so if you ever need me to drive you anywhere, feel free to call. I stuck my number in the basket.” She points. “It’s on the welcome card. Oh, and I know you’re probably busy with unpacking and everything, but I’d be so happy to give you a tour of Indianola if you’d like.” She beams with pride. “I was the official tour guide when Governor Richards visited last year, so I’ve got practice.”
“Oh, okay.”
They stare at each other. The Gulf breeze stirs Audrey’s hair around her bare shoulders.
“Is that your bike?” she asks.
Claire glances down at it. “Yeah, well, it was my mom’s. I need to find an air pump—”
“I have one at my house. You can borrow it.” Another bright grin. Claire feels both welcome and unnerved.
“Sure, that would be great.” Claire shifts her weight. The basket of cookies is heavy. She looks down the driveway at Grammy’s house, squat against the pale sky. The rest of the afternoon stretches out in front of her, and the idea of spending it inside that hot, stifling house is not remotely appealing.
“Hey,” Claire says, and turns back to Audrey, who smiles at her again. “About that tour. We could do it now, if you like. I’m really not busy and I’d like to get to know the town and everything, since I’ll have to take care of my grandma.”
Audrey claps her hands together and lets out a delighted squeal. “Oh, I was hoping you’d say that.”
Claire slides the cookie basket up her arm and pushes the bike back into the garage. Audrey stands on the driveway with her hands on her hips, watching her. Still unnerving.
“Let me just drop the cookies off,” Claire says.
“Oh, I’ll come with you!” Audrey says. “I’d love to say hello to Mrs. Sudek. She’s such a sweet old lady.”
Claire doesn’t say anything. Sweet isn’t the word she’d have used to describe her grandmother.
They go into the house. The room swims as Claire’s eyes readjust to the darkness. She sets the cookies on the kitchen table. Audrey walks down the hallway like she’s been here before.
“Mrs. Sudek!” she calls out. “It’s Audrey Duchesne!”
Grammy’s sitting in the living room chair, the TV blaring. She looks up at Audrey and blinks like she isn’t sure what she’s seeing. “Ah,” she says. “Hello.”
“Claire and I are going on a tour of the town.” Audrey loops her arm through Claire’s, startling her.
Grammy doesn’t smile. “Very well. Be back by five.” But she’s looking at Audrey as she speaks, her eyes narrow and appraising. Claire can see the resemblance to her own mother, who’s certainly turned that expression on Claire plenty of times. Especially in the last few years.
But Audrey either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She swings around, taking Claire with her, and leads her outside. Claire feels like she’s caught up in a tornado that’s whirling her away from Grammy’s house. Audrey leads her down to the driveway to a little blue two-door, the glass in the windows coated with a layer of salt. Claire crawls into the passenger seat. The car is very clean. No sand, no crumpled receipts. It looks brand-new.
“Indianola’s not very big.” Audrey cranks the engine and the air-conditioning roars on with it, already set at full blast. “So this won’t take too terribly long.”
Claire nods. All Claire knows of Indianola is this neighborhood and the Days Inn on the highway and the convenience store where her father always stops to buy gas. They only come out here every other year at Christmas. Eight visits total, and even those visits were in and out, Claire’s mother corralling them back to Houston as quickly as she could. The town itself, then, is a mystery, nothing more than a name on her grandmother’s address.
Audrey weaves through the neighborhood. The houses are spaced out, isolated, as if each wants to pretend the others don’t exist. They pass by a sprawling whitewashed suburban-style mansion and Audrey says, “That’s my house. You can come by whenever you like.”
Claire nods, although something niggles at the back of her thoughts. She swears she’s never seen that house before—
The thought vanishes, replaced by a memory of a walk after Christmas dinner two years ago, Claire and her mom strolling past a house twice the size of all the others on the street.
Claire rubs her forehead.
A few minutes later, they’re on the main road leading into town. No one’s out; Claire doesn’t blame them, not in this heat. They pass by a seafood shack and a shop selling cheap swimsuits and sunglasses.
“That road leads down to the public beach,” Audrey says, pointing. “It’s nice enough.” They drive along, past a strip mall and the grocery store, which is smaller than Claire expected. There’s a gas station, Alvarez Quick-Mart, the same name as the one on the highway where her father stops for fuel. They pass another one a few moments later, with the same orange-and-white sign. This one is next door to an exterminator. A big sad-looking cockroach lights up, its neon washed out by the sunlight. Alvarez Bros. Exterminators, the sign says, then below it, in smaller letters: All manner of vermin, no exceptions.
“Is this the same Alvarez who owns the gas stations?” Claire asks.
Audrey glances at her. “Oh yeah, they own half the stuff in town.” She turns down another side street. “They even opened up a video store last year, so we finally have a proper one. I used to have to rent videos from the grocery store. Does Mrs. Sudek own a VCR?”
“No way. It’s weird enough she has a TV.”
Audrey laughs. “Well, they rent them out. I can show you, if you like.”
Claire shrugs. The road narrows. It’s lined with old houses that have been converted to shops and restaurants. One of them has a painting of a pizza on the sign, and the word Arcade glowing in the window.
“Oh cool,” Claire says. “An arcade.”
Audrey glances at it and tosses her hair. “If you’re into that sort of thing. Here, there’s the video store.”
It’s attached to a motel, old-fashioned-looking, the NO in the vacancy sign switched on. The video store just says Alvarez Video and there’s a poster for the Twin Peaks movie in the window.
“Wow, awesome,” Claire says, and for the first time since her mother announced how she’d be spending her summer, she sparks with excitement. “They’ve got good stuff. The Blockbuster by my house just has popular crap. You know? Cartoons and rom-coms.”
“The Alvarezes are very successful,” Audrey says, a little primly. “Do you want to see the beach? It’s just a little ways down the road.”
“Sure.”
They drive on, and Claire starts feeling better about her summer in Indianola—making the best of the situation, the way her mother told her to do on the boring drive down. There’s an arcade and a beach and a cool-looking video store and Audrey, even if she is too perky. Maybe these three months won’t be entirely wasted.
The beach appears suddenly, the road diving off into the dunes. Audrey parks the car so that it faces the water and they sit in the air-conditioning, watching the waves roll in.
“This summer’s going to be wonderful,” Audrey says. “Don’t you think? The beach, the video store, the two of us! We’ll have such fun.”
“Yeah.” Claire nods. The roar of the AC covers the roar of the Gulf. She can’t shake the sudden feeling, stupid as it is, that Audrey was rooting around inside her
head. “Totally.”
CHAPTER
Two
CLAIRE
Cicadas whine from their invisible hiding places in the trees. Claire repositions the standing fan so that it blows directly on her like a blast of static. She found the patio outlet this morning while she was sweeping grass off the cement, and now that’s it the middle of the afternoon she’s grateful. It really is noticeably cooler out here in the sea breeze than it is trapped inside Grammy’s house.
Claire has been in town for three days. Audrey’s driven her to the grocery store to buy a few toiletries she left at home, but Claire hasn’t had time to go swimming at the beach with her or really hang out. The chores Grammy mentioned on the first day take a lot more time than Grammy led her to believe. Already Claire has cleaned the house from top to bottom, in addition to cooking Grammy’s meals, helping her in and out of bed, and bringing her the little white pillbox three times a day. No wonder Grammy refused to hire a nurse. What she really wants is a maid.
At least Claire has this afternoon to herself. Finally.
She switches on her Walkman and arranges a sheet of stationery on the old encyclopedia she’s using to write on. She found the stationery in her bedroom, buried deep in the desk. It’s old, with swirls of blue flowers and a yellow tint to the paper. She thinks Josh will appreciate it. He likes old things.
Josh, she writes, leaving off the Dear because it sounds too girlfriend-y. I’ve been listening to the tape you gave me. It’s great! I really
She stops and lifts her head and stares out at the empty backyard, keeping one hand pressed against the stationery so it doesn’t blow away. The music doesn’t quite cover up the hum of the fan. She doesn’t know how to describe this music. She has to make it clear that she appreciates it, but not that she thinks it’s too heavy or dark (which she kind of does).
She turns back to her letter.
like the fourth song (“Prelude to Agony”). The lyrics really speak to me.
She reads over what she wrote and feels revolted. She scratches out speak to me, digging the pen in so deep, the words completely disappear.
captures what it’s like to
Claire sighs. She thought it would be easier to write to Josh, since then she could think about what she’s going to say before she says it, but it turns out that she thinks too much. Maybe she ought to call him. But then Grammy would ask about the charges, and she’d probably tell Claire’s mother about them, and it would be a whole big thing and just not worth it. Plus, what if Josh doesn’t want her calling anyway? Definitely not worth it, then.
The wind picks up, smelling of the sea. Claire can’t hear it over the music, but she can see it knocking the palm trees around. Something ripples in the grass—a shadow, a dark quick movement.
It stops.
That’s when Claire knows that it’s not some trick of her eye. She stays still, watching the dark spot in the grass. It’s too big to be a rat. A rabbit, maybe? A little thrill of excitement goes up her spine. She never sees wild animals in Houston. Well, not anything interesting, just birds and maybe a nutria if she goes to the park.
The shadow twitches again. Claire reaches down and turns off the cassette. She pushes her earphones down so they loop around the back of her neck. The fan pushes her hair away from her face.
Out in the grass, the shadow lifts its head.
At first Claire isn’t clear what she’s seeing. The head is reptilian, gray scales glittering in the sun. But it’s too big to be a lizard or a snake—
An alligator? Are there alligators around here?
She freezes. The excitement evaporates. She remembers a school trip she took last year, out to the Big Thicket, and how the guide warned them about alligators as they were racing down the banks to the river. “Don’t get too close,” he shouted over the shrieks and giggles of delight. “If you hear it hiss, you need to back away!”
Claire isn’t sure if she’s too close right now. Slowly, she gathers up the encyclopedia and her stationery and pen. Maybe she can dart inside and call animal control. Grammy probably won’t want an alligator in her backyard.
She stands up, moving slowly, not taking her eyes off the alligator.
It hisses.
Claire drops the encyclopedia. Her letter to Josh flutters across the patio.
And then the alligator stands up.
Those are the only words Claire has for it—the alligator stands up, on two hind legs, like a person.
It’s about two feet tall, its body covered in thick, glossy gray fur, the scales of its head scattering around its shoulders. A tail curls around its legs, flicking out at the end, catching the light of the sun.
A red scarf is draped around its neck.
Claire doesn’t move. She considers the possibility that she’s hallucinating. But then the creature lifts one hand, the fingers too long and curving in arthritically at the last joint. It points at Claire.
“Girl,” it says, in a low hissing voice.
Claire screams. Blind with panic, she runs into the house, where she slams the door shut and jams the lock into place. The window beside the door is still open, the wind stirring the curtains. She can see the creature—the monster—staring at her through the mosquito screen.
She shrieks again and bangs the window shut. The monster still stares at her. She knows she has to close off the rest of the house, but her fear has her rooted in place.
“What’s going on out here?” Grammy shambles into the kitchen, her hair mussed from her nap. “Screaming and carrying on—I need my rest.”
“Look!” Claire shouts, jabbing her finger at the window. “Look.”
Grammy doesn’t answer right away, and for one terrifying second Claire is certain that Grammy doesn’t see it, that she’s having a breakdown, that maybe this is the reason her parents shipped her out here, she’s having a breakdown and they know and don’t want to deal with it because it would interfere with their perfect, modern lives—
“Oh, hell,” Grammy says. “They aren’t supposed to get this close to town. You’ll need to call the exterminator.”
Silence.
“What?” says Claire.
Grammy inclines her head toward the window. “The monsters. Probably not the most accurate term, but it’s what we call ’em. They’re a nuisance around here. Not dangerous really, not unless you provoke them.” Grammy narrows her eyes at Claire. “You didn’t provoke it, did you?”
“I don’t—I don’t think so?”
Grammy peers out the window. “Oh, probably not. It’s just staring at the house. Damn things. Call the exterminator, they’ll come clear it out for us. The number’s next to the phone. I’m going back to my nap. My joints are hurting too much for this excitement. Wake me up when you’ve got dinner ready.” She moves to go back to her bedroom. Stops. Looks over her shoulder. In the sunlight her skin is chalky and pale. “You probably want to stay inside until the exterminator gets here. We try to keep our distance from the things.”
“Planning on it,” Claire says shakily.
Grammy nods and leaves the kitchen. Claire turns back to the window. The monster is where she left it, standing amidst the yellowed overgrown grass, swaying like it’s being blown by the wind. She stares a few moments longer, waiting for something to change. Waiting for something to make sense. Nothing does.
She goes to the kitchen phone.
A list of phone numbers is written on a piece of paper with an oil company’s logo plastered on the bottom, the handwriting faded and old. The exterminator is four numbers down.
Claire steals another glance at the monster. It’s still there. Hasn’t moved.
She dials. The phone rings two times.
“Hello, Alvarez Exterminators. How may I help you?” The woman on the other end sounds bored. Claire takes a deep breath.
“I have a, uh, a monster”—she cringes as she says it—“in my backyard and, uh, I was told to call—”
“How big is it?” the woman asks.
“What? Oh, I dunno, I—two feet, I guess?”
“Did it speak?”
“Um.” Claire leans up against the wall. She wonders if she fell asleep out in the heat and this is all some weird nightmare. “Yes? It pointed at me and said girl.”
The woman makes a clucking sound. “And the address?”
Claire tells her.
“Very well. I’ll have someone out there in about ten minutes.” She hangs up before Claire can say anything more.
For a moment, Claire listens to the dial tone, hoping it will wake her up. But it doesn’t.
She sets the phone back in the receiver. Then she goes to the window, and her heart leaps: The monster’s vanished. But no—after a second she sees that it’s just crouched down in the grass again. Her letter to Josh is still out there, her pen and papers scattered across the patio. She’ll have to start over. And figure out some way to tell him about the monsters that doesn’t make her sound insane.
She digs her nails into her palms, even though she doesn’t really think she’s dreaming. Her dreams are never this vivid. They tend to happen in black-and-white.
Claire closes the blinds. Then she goes around to all the other doors in the house and locks them. She turns on the TV with the sound down low so that it won’t disturb Grammy. There are only two stations out here, both local stations that crackle with static. Neither show anything interesting, but she leaves The Golden Girls on to have some noise in the house. Her head buzzes. She’s come to this house every other Christmas for the past seventeen years and not once has she seen a monster. Not even heard someone talk about them.
She thinks about her mother during those trips, fussing in the car as her father drove the family down the highway. Her brother would turn on his Walkman right away, but Claire didn’t always feel like listening to music, and sometimes she listened to her parents’ conversation instead. I hate going to this place, her mother would always say, flipping through the magazine in her lap. You know how it is.
Her father grunted in reply.
You know how it is. Claire always took that to mean that Indianola was dull and backward, a time capsule stuck in the 1960s. Or that her mother hated the way Grammy insulted their life in Houston, complaining that Claire’s mother had to be the breadwinner, that she didn’t have time to maintain a proper home.
Forget This Ever Happened Page 2
