“Cosmically interesting,” Lawrence says.
“Yeah.” She keeps squinting out at the dappled sunlight. It’s peaceful out here, quiet when the guns aren’t going off, and Julie remembers how Lawrence called it a sanctuary once, a place where he could escape his father. Maybe that’s why she works up the nerve to tell him the whole story. “We also found a dress that probably belonged to one of her relatives in the attic.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Lawrence asks.
Julie looks over at him. “There was a name on the box,” she says. “Abigail Sudek.”
He stares at her with his annoying cop’s intensity and she looks away, her cheeks burning.
“Sounds like a mystery,” he says at last.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She glances over at him again. “What with wanting to be a detective and all?”
Lawrence doesn’t say anything, just hoists his gun and fires off a couple of shots. Both of the remaining Coke cans fly up into the air. One of them disappears into the trees.
“Nice,” Julie says. She slips on her rifle’s safety and leans it up against a nearby tree. The cicadas whine louder, their chattering song rising and falling. “It’s just weird,” she says, “that we seem to have this connection.”
“You think it’s some kind of sign of true love?” Lawrence pretends to inspect his gun.
“Don’t make fun of me. Not when you’re taking freaking Audrey Duchesne out for pizza.” Julie sighs. “Apparently Mrs. Sudek claims the Sudeks used to own my house. Like a hundred years ago or something. Which is weird. I thought our family built it.”
Lawrence looks up at her, his brow creased. “Yeah, okay, that is a little weird. But you know you can probably research this, if the family names go back this far.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lawrence shakes his head. “Surprise. I say the word research and you completely shut down.”
“Shut up.”
“I mean that your parents have enough crap shoved in the attic, there are probably some old deeds up there. If the Sudeks really did own the house back in the day, that would prove it.” He shrugs. “Dunno why your parents would lie about it, though.”
“Maybe they had a feud.” Julie grins. “You know, Lawrence, sometimes you don’t have terrible ideas.”
“If you want to dig around in old boxes, have fun.”
Julie hardly hears him, though. A feud would make sense. Maybe that’s why she and Claire are cosmically interesting.
She can’t wait to call Claire with her latest hypothesis.
Julie calls Claire as soon as she gets back home, her heart thrumming. But when the phone clicks on, it’s Mrs. Sudek’s voice on the other end.
“Oh,” Julie says. “Hello. I’m calling for Claire.”
The line goes quiet save for the weird crackle that you hear on all Indianola phones.
“Who is this?” Mrs. Sudek snaps. “Audrey, that’s not you, is it?”
Audrey? “Um, no, it’s Julie, from the—”
“Claire can’t go out,” Mrs. Sudek says. “She’s doing chores.”
And then the line goes dead. Julie groans and tosses the phone on her bed. She was so excited to have another reason to see Claire—and one that had nothing to do with monsters. Now she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
She flings herself back on her bed, beside her phone. She hates her bedroom, with all its pretentious Victorian furniture, all picked out by her mom’s decorator. The only place she was allowed to add her own touch, as the decorator put it, was inside the closet, and Julie lined the walls with posters from her favorite bands, X and Bikini Kill and Heavens to Betsy. A little bit of the twentieth century hidden away behind closed doors.
She suspects the decoration issue was part of the reason her parents gave her free run of the attic, even if they said it was because they didn’t want her hogging the TV. She’ll give them credit for that much.
The attic is Julie’s space through and through, and that’s why she goes up there now even though she’s not in the mood to play SNES or watch movies. She can’t think in her bedroom. In the attic, she can. It’s like being inside her own head, instead of her mother’s.
She switches on the light, grabs a Coke out of the mini-fridge tucked in the corner, and sprawls across her couch. A distorted version of her reflection appears in the blank TV, her chin swelling out to hideous proportions. No wonder Claire doesn’t like her except as a friend.
Julie sighs and settles down into the couch’s worn cushions. She drops her head over the armrest so she can look at the attic upside down, something she used to do as a kid. From here she’s got a perfect view of the mirror, the gray dress still obscuring the reflection.
So Mrs. Sudek is being a jerk. That doesn’t mean Claire doesn’t want to see Julie. Still, doubt worms its way into Julie’s thoughts. Why did Mrs. Sudek think she was Audrey? Claire doesn’t even seem to like Audrey that much—
Enough. Julie knows she needs to distract herself. She can find the deeds herself, see if there’s anything to Mrs. Sudek’s claims.
She swings down from the couch and goes over to the old dollhouse, still hanging open from when they found the box with the dress. She stands with her weight on one foot, drinking her Coke, appraising the stacks of old junk. Even though Julie claimed the attic as her own, she never really went through any of the stuff that gathers dust up here. She just shoved it out of the way so she could set up her TV. All she knows is that this is stuff that’s been here since forever—most of her family’s Christmas decorations and other seasonal things are stored out in the shed.
She has no idea where to start.
Finally, Julie closes her eyes, spins around twice, and jabs her finger out at the stacks. When she opens her eyes, she decides she’s pointing at the third box in a stack half-hidden behind an old wooden chest.
It takes her a few minutes to drag the box out of the mess, and by the time she’s through, she’s coughing and hacking in the clouds of dust. She drops the box on the floor and something clanks inside it. Julie cringes and hopes she didn’t break anything.
She kneels down and slides the lid away, half holding her breath—but inside there’s only a tangle of candlesticks and silverware, all black with tarnish. Julie extracts a fork and rubs it against her shirt. She manages to clear a bit of the tarnish away, enough to see the silver underneath. Real silver, she supposes, since it tarnished.
She slides the box aside and selects another. This one is full of old clothes, dresses and blouses and things from the thirties. The next box is so heavy that Julie almost collapses under its weight; she lets it drop and then pushes it over to the investigation spot. Inside, she finds several thick leather-bound books. They look old. A hundred years old, even.
Her heart skips a beat.
She pulls one out and opens it. The page is filled with rows of writing, all in the same spidery, old-fashioned script. Across the top someone has written Register of Mr. Javier Alvarez, the Alvarez Motel.
The Alvarez Motel. The first stake in the Alvarez empire. She’s heard this story before, about how her great-great-grandfather bought the Alvarez Motel with his last fifty dollars. Her father told her when she was a little girl, trying to get her interested in the family business.
She runs her finger down the columns of text. Dates, numbers, names, amounts. Financial records. These are financial records of the Alvarez Hotel, all dated back to June 1901.
“Getting closer,” she murmurs.
Julie quickly flips through the four remaining ledgers, checking first the dates, then the names, to see if she can find any clues. All the dates are for the first few years of the twentieth century, and there’s no mention of the Sudeks.
Then, in the last ledger, as she’s flipping through the pages, a photograph falls out.
Julie stops for a moment, still clutching the book. The photograph fell facedown, and there’s something written across t
he back, in the same spidery handwriting as the ledger.
Abigail, 1892.
Julie glances over at the dress. The same Abigail?
Slowly, she turns the photograph over. It shows a young woman with fair hair and large dark eyes, a corseted waist, and a high-necked dress. She’s standing outside, beneath a palm tree, a house filling up the background.
Julie’s house.
Julie flips the photo back over. It still reads Abigail, 1892.
Hardly proof that the Sudeks used to own the house, though.
She looks at the woman again, studying her features closely, trying to find some hint of Claire in them. There is something about the shape of the woman’s mouth, the upward slope of her eyes, that suggests Claire, suggests that the two could be related.
Julie sets the photograph aside and riffles through the ledgers, trying to find something she missed. There’s nothing. She stacks them back in their box and goes over to where she found them originally, and picks up the two closest boxes. One contains some broken china and a crumple of silk handkerchiefs. The other contains little decoupage boxes, a jar of perfume, and knickknacks wrapped up in strips of muslin. Julie lifts each item out and lines them up on the floor.
At the very bottom of the box, tucked underneath a larger piece of that patterned muslin, is a bundle of letters.
Julie picks it up at the edges. The paper is old and thin and yellowed, and the writing on the front is faded, although not so much that Julie can’t read it.
The top letter is addressed to Javier Alvarez.
She flips through the stack. All of the letters are addressed to Javier, and all in the same slanted, neat handwriting, although none of them list an address or include a stamp. Julie pulls one of the letters out of its envelope. It’s addressed formally, Dear Mr. Alvarez. Julie skips to the name at the bottom.
Abigail Sudek.
Julie parks her car two houses down from Mrs. Sudek’s. It’s almost midnight, and she doesn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.
She drags out her backpack, stuffed with the letters, the photograph, and a flashlight, and slings it across one shoulder. Claire’s street is quiet and empty, the sea wind whistling forlornly through the trees. It’s late enough that the day’s heat has evaporated a little, and it’s almost pleasant out here in the silvery starlight.
She walks over to Claire’s house. All the lights are off, and the house looks like it’s been abandoned to the shadows. This is going to be the hard part. Julie’s not entirely sure which window is Claire’s. Fortunately, she’s been in houses in this neighborhood that have the same layout, and she’s pretty sure the master bedroom—Mrs. Sudek’s—is in the back.
Pretty sure.
Julie goes up to the first window and taps lightly on the screen, then jumps out of the way, pressing herself against the wall and peering over to the side to get a glimpse of whoever looks out. No one does. She knocks on the screen again. Same thing.
She takes a deep breath and goes over to the next window and tries the same thing, although she knocks a little harder, enough that the screen rattles in the frame. This time, a light switches on, and Julie’s heart starts thumping against her chest. She presses against the brick and waits.
Nothing happens. The light’s still on, a little bright spot behind the blinds.
Julie knocks again.
A second passes. The blinds split open. Julie sees a flash of Claire’s eye.
She leaps in front of the window and waves.
Claire blinks, then pulls up the blinds. Julie waves again, her breath in her throat.
Claire smiles and waves back. Her hair is mussed from sleep and she has on an old tank top with her pajama bottoms. She looks completely adorable. Julie’s heart sighs.
Claire pulls up the window a couple of inches and bends down to speak through the crack. “What are you doing here?” she whispers.
“I tried to call,” Julie whispers back. “But your grandmother said you were busy. I figured—”
“She was lying?” Claire smiles. “She totally was, I’ve been bored all day.” Then she glances over her shoulder. “I’m not sure it’s the best idea—”
“I found something.” Julie holds up her backpack. She doesn’t want to say goodbye to Claire, not right now. “Letters from Abigail Sudek.”
Claire’s eyes go wide. “The same name as the dress!” she whispers.
“Yep. She wrote them to someone named”—Julie pauses dramatically—“Javier Alvarez. Who I know for a fact is my great-great-
grandfather.”
“Oh, wow, really?” She glances around her room, then back at Julie. “Wait there. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Julie nods. Claire closes the window and the blinds and Julie sits down in the grass beside the house, the backpack resting on top of her knees. The night sings around her. It’s all very romantic.
She knows she shouldn’t think that way.
A few minutes later, Claire skitters around the side of the house. She’s changed out of her pajamas and into a fluorescent pink tank top and a pair of shorts, although she’s barefoot.
“Where’s your car?” she asks, still whispering.
“Down the street. I didn’t want her to hear me in the driveway. Where’s a good place to talk?”
“That side of the house. It’s the complete opposite end from where her bedroom is.” Claire points in the direction she appeared. “And no one can see us from the street.”
Julie’s not particularly worried about random passersby spotting them outside, but she figures it’s better to be safe than sorry. She stands up and follows Claire over to the side of the house. Claire keeps glancing back over her shoulder, and smiling, and looking like she’s having the greatest time.
A warmth spreads through Julie’s stomach, up into her chest.
The side of the house is lined with big oleander bushes, but they find a clean spot of grass where Julie can lay out all her discoveries. She pulls everything out and lines it up on the backpack, then switches on the flashlight and holds it on her shoulder.
“So what’d you find?” Claire asks. She picks up the photograph. “Oh my God, is this her?”
“That’s what it says on the back. I mean, I’m assuming it’s the same Abigail.”
Claire nods, transfixed.
“But the really cool thing is the letters,” Julie says, spreading them out on the grass. “So these are definitely from Abigail Sudek, you can see on the envelopes. But some of them say Abigail Garner on the return address, which is”—she shuffles through the letters until she finds one—“the same address as my house. Look!”
Claire picks up the envelope and squints down at it.
“The only thing I can’t figure out is why your family name has been Sudek instead of Garner, if this really is your relative.”
“Oh, I think I know the answer to that,” Claire says. “My mom, when she took my dad’s last name, caused this big scandal in my family. Supposedly the women in my family never took their husband’s name.”
“That’s kind of badass, actually.”
“I guess. But it looks like it didn’t start with Abigail.” She pauses for a moment. “So Abigail must have gotten married and moved into your old house. But she didn’t marry Javier. I thought the house was always in your family?”
“That’s what my parents said, but this was all happening a hundred years ago,” Julie says. “Check out the dates.”
“Eighteen ninety-three,” Claire reads.
“Right. So the house was definitely in my family by the twenties, because that’s when my grandmother was born, and she grew up there. But before?” Julie shrugs. “Anyway, none of this is even the interesting part.”
“What do you mean?” Claire leans in close to Julie, her features elongated in the glow of the flashlight.
“So I didn’t get to read through all of the letters,” Julie says. “I thought we could do that now. But I think Abigail and Javier were having an af
fair.”
Claire’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
Julie nods, grinning a little.
“What did they say? Like, was it a torrid affair—”
The excitement in Claire’s voice sends a thrill racing up Julie’s spine. “I didn’t get super far. You want to help me read?”
“Absolutely!”
“Okay, awesome.” Julie sets down the flashlight and divides the letters into two stacks. “Let’s divide and conquer.”
Claire grins. Then she scoots over beside Julie, so close their knees touch. Julie goes rigid all the way through, but Claire just opens up her first letter. “So we can share the light,” she says.
“Oh yeah. Of course.” Julie smiles, tries to act nonchalant. She holds the flashlight beam between them and Claire leans in close with her eyes on the letter, the light spangling in her eyes.
They read.
It’s peaceful, being out here in the balmy night, the only sounds the distant chirping of insects in the trees, and the rustle of century-old paper, and the quiet exhalation of Claire’s breath. Whenever they finish a letter, they set it in a neat stack on top of Julie’s backpack.
In the letters that Julie reads, it becomes clear that Abigail and Javier knew each other well. Somehow, they met. On the beach, at the grocer’s in town: It’s not clear from the letters. But one did woo the other, and Abigail began to write to Javier. The third letter explains that much. I told you I would write, and write I shall.
What Julie is able to glean from her reading is this: They were both living in Indianola at the time, Abigail in Julie’s house, Javier in the old row houses that used to be where the fish supply shop is now. In her letters, she tells him of her daily activities, how she lunched with Rose on Wednesday and saw Marjory’s new baby at Mass. At the end of every letter she answers questions he posed to her, and so Julie is left only with answers, flowery and obscure.
“You have to look at this,” Claire says, breaking the silence. “I think you’re totally right about the two of them having an affair.”
Forget This Ever Happened Page 11
