Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Miranda said nothing. Simply waited for Mom to continue.

  “I don’t know how else to describe it, just that he’d get . . . weird about things. Like when Teeta and I would have our hearts set on going somewhere. And at the last minute Daddy would tell us we couldn’t go, that something bad had happened there, and he’d forbid us to even step foot near the place.”

  “So . . . what’d you do?”

  Mom gave a rueful smile. “We didn’t go. No matter what Daddy said, no matter how irrational he sounded, and no matter how much Teeta and I argued—Mother would put her foot down, and we’d stay home.”

  “Had anything bad happened in those places?”

  “Who knows? Daddy never explained how he knew about these so-called ‘bad’ things. Or where—or who—he got his inside information from.” Mom’s sarcasm was tempered with sadness. “Whatever the reasons, he completely believed them. And Mother completely believed him.”

  Chills raked at Miranda’s spine. She didn’t want to hear any more about Grandpa or his warnings, yet something held her tightly in her seat. Something that compelled her to keep listening.

  “There was one time though.” Mom’s brow furrowed in thought. “I remember Teeta and I were going to a carnival in the next town. But sure enough, at the very last second, Daddy said we couldn’t go. We were devastated. I wouldn’t speak to him for days. Then about two weeks later, we found out five girls had been raped at that carnival.”

  The chills were growing steadily worse. Miranda could feel herself starting to tremble.

  “Apparently every night this carnival worker would pick out a certain girl in the crowd to follow. He’d go up to her, looking very upset, and say he was worried about his wife—that she’d gone into one of the public restrooms but hadn’t come out again. He’d say he’d been waiting for a long time, and he’d ask the girl to go in and check on her. Well, of course, all the girls wanted to help. He’d take each of them back to the very farthest shelter, back where nobody else was around. Then he’d pull a knife. And when it was over, he’d threaten them—tell them he knew where they lived, and if they ever said a word, he’d find them and kill them and kill their families, too.”

  “My God, those poor girls. They must have been so terrified.”

  “Thank goodness one of them finally found the courage to talk. She and her parents went to the police. But the carnival had left town by then . . . and the guy had left the carnival.”

  “Did they ever find him?”

  "Yes. But ...” Mom looked slightly incredulous at the memory. “After the news got out, Daddy walked over to the police station one morning and said he knew where the rapist was. Told them the guy was in River Camp—a town about five hundred miles from here. He gave them a physical description, down to the missing ring finger on the guy’s left hand. The trailer park where he was staying, the color of the trailer, and the backcountry road where the park was located.”

  “Well, that was good, right?”

  “Except that Daddy’d never been to River Camp. Never in his life.”

  “So…” No. I can’t ask. I won’t ask. “How did Grandpa know?”

  “That’s what the police wondered—along with everyone else in town. Daddy said he’d stopped at the gas station and overheard a man talking on the pay phone outside. And that when the man saw Daddy watching, he jumped in his car and took off before Daddy could get the license number.”

  Kind of lame. But kind of believable, too. Miranda’s hands clenched together on the tabletop. She couldn’t even look at her mother now. She could barely choke down the fear in her own throat.

  Intent on the story, Mom didn’t seem to notice. “But after Daddy went to the police, I heard him and Mother talking in their room that night. I didn’t mean to listen—I was right outside their door, on my way downstairs. I think . . . Daddy was crying. I’d never known him to show that much emotion before, and it scared me. Mother was trying to comfort him, I guess, talking real quiet. I heard Daddy say something about another victim, and a hayfield, and that’s how he’d known where the rapist was. That one of the victims told him.”

  Stop, Mom, please stop, don’t say these things, don’t make them true, don’t make them real—

  “I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I thought Daddy was very sick—mentally sick—that Mother had just been protecting him and not telling us the truth. And then . . .” Pausing, Mom drew a deep, shaky breath. “And then, a few days later, there it was in the newspaper. The police found a girl’s body dumped in an old hayfield on an abandoned farm. Only a mile from where the carnival had been. They said she’d probably been there about three weeks.”

  Without realizing it, Miranda reached across and touched her mother’s hand. “So you believed him then, right?”

  It was a heartfelt plea. But one, Miranda knew at once, that her mother couldn’t recognize.

  “Of course I didn’t believe him.” Mom’s tone bordered on regret. “Because things like that are impossible. When Daddy was in one of his moods, we never knew what he might say—what he might make up.”

  “But . . . the rapist. Did they catch him in River Camp?”

  Mom’s lips pressed into a grim line. “They caught him, convicted him, and sent him to prison for life.”

  "And ...” Miranda paused, her heart fluttering out of control. “And the girl in the hayfield. Did he kill her?”

  A long silence fell between them. And even before her mother spoke, Miranda knew what the answer would be.

  “Yes,” Mom said at last. “He confessed to everything.”

  For an instant, Miranda felt the kitchen receding around her—she felt a thousand different emotions battering her from all sides. She was shivering violently now; she didn’t know what to say. Argue? Defend? Confess? Explain? Clamping her arms tight around her chest, she fought to keep her voice level.

  “Did your mother believe your dad?”

  Mom wasn’t looking at her now. Instead, she twirled her coffee cup slowly between her palms. “Oh, Mother always stood by him, no matter what. But things just got worse after that.”

  “How?”

  “Well, maybe I should say, Daddy got worse after that. Or his moods got worse after that. Or maybe they’d been that bad all along, but till that night when I heard him and Mother talking, I just didn’t realize how bad.”

  “Did you ever tell Aunt Teeta what you heard?”

  “Of course. We started watching Daddy more, and he started having more moods. We’d hear him talking to himself— sometimes for an hour, sometimes even longer—except it was like . . . like he was talking to another person. Of course, there wouldn’t be anybody else there. And especially after Mother died—then we’d hear him having long conversations with her.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “Well, it was obvious he was having a breakdown. But you didn’t talk about things like that in St. Yvette; families kept personal things to themselves. Even though all our neighbors knew about it. Something like that’s pretty hard to hide.”

  “Small town?”

  Miranda was getting used to the cliché. Mom gave a faint smile.

  “Small town,” she agreed. “And Daddy became the small-town eccentric. People pretended not to notice the glazed look in his eyes, or the way he’d walk down the street, discussing things with invisible friends. Everyone considered him fairly creepy, but harmless. And naturally, Teeta refused to put him away. And naturally, I couldn’t stand knowing what other people thought of him—and of us. The stares, the gossip, the jokes. I was embarrassed. And ashamed.”

  Briefly her eyes met Miranda’s. As a wistful look passed over her face, she cleared her throat and pushed away her half-empty cup.

  “I wish I could have been like Teeta. Maybe if I’d tried to understand Daddy more . . . help him more...”

  It must have been so hard for you, Mom . . . so hard being Grandpa’s daughter. A million questions rose up in Miranda’s mind, but she recogni
zed the fragile edge to her mother’s voice. Biting hard on her bottom lip, she resisted the urge to keep nagging.

  “But at the time,” Mom continued tonelessly, “all I wanted to do was get away from him. Away from here. As far away as I possibly could. And then I met your dad . . .” She hesitated, drew a ragged breath. “And I did get away.”

  Her mother’s eyes had gone distant now. Tears trickled down her face. “Honey, I loved your dad so much. And then you came along, and things were even more perfect. I never dreamed that anything bad could happen to us—to your dad. That someone so young could have a heart attack . . . could be here one minute, so full of life, then be taken from us the next.”

  “Oh, Mom . . .”

  “No, honey, I’m okay. When your father died, your grandpa and Aunt Teeta begged me to come back here. They wanted to take care of us. To help us and watch you grow up. But I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t come back to all the gossip and staring and everything else I’d put behind me. All I could see were the same things happening all over again. I didn’t want you to grow up the way I had.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

  “I guess . . .” Mom ran a weary hand over her wet cheeks. “It was just easier not to. Not to involve you in things you couldn’t possibly have understood. Children shouldn’t have to carry their parents’ burdens.”

  “But maybe I could have helped you.”

  A wan smile touched her mother’s lips. “You help me just by being you. And by being happy. That’s all I could think about after the hurricane—keeping you safe and happy. But we had to come here, Miranda; we didn’t have a choice. And I was scared. And I’m still scared, but I’m ashamed of myself, too.”

  "Mom, why?”

  “Because you didn’t get to meet your grandpa, and all he ever really wanted was for us to be a family.”

  Miranda felt tears on her own face now. “And do you really believe that? That we can be a family again? A happy family?”

  “Yes. I do.” Mom’s voice was firm. “And I want you to believe it, too, Miranda. I tell your dad every day how proud I am of you, and how brave you are, and what a great life you’re going to have.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, of course. Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I never . . . I guess I never realized you thought about him. I mean, you never talk about him. Not to me, anyway.”

  Now it was Mom’s turn to be surprised. “Oh, honey, how can you say that? Your dad was my whole world—and I know he was yours, too. And I thought if I brought up memories, it would just make both of us too sad. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make everything like it used to be, when he was here and everything was good. But I can’t. And someone had to be strong. Had to be strong then and now, to hold you and me together.”

  Miranda felt another wave of emotions surge through her. For the moment, every suspicion, every bad thought, was forgotten.

  “I’m here,” she insisted. “You have me.”

  “Thank you, honey.” Bending forward across the table, Mom tenderly kissed her brow. ”I know that. And I promise I’ll try to be better.”

  “Me, too, Mom. Me, too.”

  14

  AFTER HER MIDNIGHT TALK WITH MOM, Miranda slept peacefully the rest of the night, even waking up much later than usual. She spent most of Sunday at home, meeting and greeting more neighbors, making room in the refrigerator for more food, jotting down more names for thank-you notes. From time to time she caught her mother smiling at her, giving an appreciative nod. Since Aunt Teeta was too upset to be of much help, Miranda was glad to give Mom some much-needed support.

  To her surprise, Ashley, Roo, and Parker dropped by together, bringing a perfectly arranged tray of gourmet hors d’oeuvres from Mrs. Wilmington’s favorite deli, a fresh pot of jambalaya from the girls’ mother—Miss Voncile—and a homemade pie from Roo.

  “We don’t know what kind of pie exactly,” Parker said, his face perfectly composed. “But I’ve heard it’s the thought that counts.”

  A slight frown settled between Roo’s brows. She’d changed the streaks in her hair from dark purple to bright orange.

  “It’s something I haven’t tried before,” she said solemnly. “It’s made with cottage cheese.”

  Ashley instantly looked alarmed. “You didn’t use the cottage cheese in the fridge, did you?”

  “What other cottage cheese would I use?”

  “For God’s sake, Roo, that’s been in there for weeks. It’s nasty by now.”

  “Well, I’m sure the cooking part must have killed the bacteria, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Despite Parker’s vivid portrayal of death by poisoning, Miranda made a special point of exclaiming over the pie. Then she dumped it in the trash can as soon as they left.

  By late afternoon, she was beginning to feel trapped. The steady stream of visitors had finally dwindled, so she went out onto the veranda and sat in the porch swing, swaying back and forth, lulling herself into a doze. When she heard her name being spoken, she jumped guiltily, only to find Gage seated beside her.

  “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

  “You didn’t.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I was just . . . thinking.”

  “Do you always snore when you think?”

  “I was not snoring.”

  “I could hear you all the way down the street.”

  Despite his insistence, she saw the teasing in his eyes. She looked around for the rest of the group, but he appeared to be alone.

  “Feel like getting away?” he asked her.

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “The Tavern has the best burgers in town, if you don’t mind walking.”

  “Just let me grab my purse.”

  After a quick check-in with Mom, Miranda was ready to go. The Tavern was at the opposite end of the Brickway and mostly uphill, but in spite of the heat, she welcomed the fresh air and exercise. Gage seemed in no particular hurry to get there. Side by side, they settled into a leisurely stroll, discussing various points of interest along the way.

  “You know, I never thought much about St. Yvette before this project,” Gage confessed.

  “I never thought about my own town either. I guess when you live in a place, you just take it for granted.”

  “Now that I’ve started doing some research, there really is this whole dark-history thing going on. Bad stuff behind closed doors. Buildings that look so normal from the outside . . . but terrible tragedies inside.”

  “You have been doing research.” She waited for him to bring up the gallery, but he didn’t.

  “It’s interesting. Sad sometimes . . . scary sometimes . . . but definitely interesting.”

  I can certainly agree with that. Once again she toyed with the idea of confiding in Gage. Once again, she kept quiet.

  “You just never know about people, do you?” Gage went on seriously. “You think you know somebody so well. Then it turns out you don’t know them like you thought you did. Maybe we never really know anybody at all. Even the people we’re closest to.”

  “Or maybe, especially the people we’re closest to.”

  His lips hinted at a smile. “Maybe that’s because we’re so used to seeing certain people a certain way. The way we want to see them. It sort of gives us tunnel vision.”

  Now it was Miranda’s turn to grow thoughtful. “Have you ever been disappointed? By people you thought you knew?”

  “Wow. There’s a loaded question.”

  “Or . . . have you ever trusted your instincts, and then found out you were completely wrong?”

  “I let Roo talk me into playing doctor once when we were little.” Gage sighed. “Unfortunately, she really meant play doctor. She decided my mosquito bite needed surgery and cut my knee open with a pair of blunt scissors.”

  Miranda’s expression flinched between pain and laughter.

  “I still have the scar.” Gage cast
her a sidelong glance. “But that’s not what you were asking, is it? I’m guessing this has something to do with your grandfather.”

  Reluctantly, she nodded. “I just wish . . . can you tell me anything about him?”

  “I didn’t really know him.”

  “But you must know something about him.”

  Was Gage deliberately hedging? She couldn’t tell.

  “Why don’t you ask your mom?” he suggested. “Or your aunt?”

  “I just couldn’t, especially not now. Not with what they’re both going through.”

  “Then talk to Etienne. He spent time with your grandfather.”

  And confided in him, too, Miranda thought uneasily. “How did they get to be friends?”

  Gage’s only answer was a shrug. Miranda decided to keep trying.

  “How is Etienne, anyway? About my grandpa, I mean. Has he gotten in touch with you yet?”

  “No. He’ll come out when he’s ready.”

  “Are you close to him?”

  “You mean, where we live?”

  “No, Roo told me that you and he are cousins. I just wondered if you’re close to him.”

  “Nobody’s close to him,” Gage said matter-of-factly. “But if anybody were close to him, then I guess it’d be me.”

  “So where does he live?”

  “He and his mom have a little place down on the bayou. About a mile or so from the Falls.”

  Should she admit that Roo had told her about Etienne’s past? “What about his dad?”

  “He died.”

  Gage was facing forward, yet Miranda still caught the subtle change in his expression. The slow, rigid set of his jawline. The carefully fixed stare. Almost as though he were watching something too distant for her to see.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “That’s too bad.” Then, after a split-second pause, she took a chance. “How did it happen?”