by Ellen Datlow
Annoyed, she wiped it away, this time with ammonia.
To get away from the smell, she went into the living room and pulled books from the shelves, piling them on the sofa. She’d been in a foul mood since running into Jeanette. It was getting harder and harder to maintain a placid public face for these people. That’s why the book drive was such a godsend. The books were one less thing to worry about when she finally escaped to wherever the brochures would take her.
* * *
The next morning the mold patch was back on the wall, larger and thicker than ever. It spread out in all directions, like the branches of a tree. The mold was thickest where the branches separated, with bulges and little hillocks. Looking at the foul mess was like gazing at a toxic cloud in the sky. Roxanne could almost make out shapes in the filth. The sight of it made her feel queasy.
She pulled a bucket and scrub brush from under the sink and got the bleach from the pantry. She mixed it with scalding hot water and tried to wipe the mold off the wall. Where before it had come off easily, this time she had to scrub as hard as she could to dig down through the rancid tree trunk to the wall beneath. Eventually, the mold disappeared under her insistent brushing, but Roxanne saw that she’d damaged the wallpaper. Where two sections met, they now pulled apart, trailing glue like a scab coming off a wound. Worse yet, she found that some of the mold had worked its way into the drywall. Furious, she scraped at it with a butcher knife. When it didn’t come off immediately, she threw open the cupboard looking for something stronger than the bleach and ammonia she’d tried earlier.
And then she saw it.
It was a small glass spice bottle labelled “Garlic Salt.” But what it contained was much stronger stuff. She stared at it and thought of Sean and the kids. She was certain she’d disposed of the poison, yet here was the concoction she’d used that night, in a bottle of the one spice she wouldn’t ever use in a million years. Roxanne took the bottle off the shelf and held it in her hand.
I forgot the date the other day and now this. Things have gone so well up to now. What is it that people say? That some murderers want to be caught? No. I don’t want that, she thought, wondering in a mild panic what else she might have forgotten.
She looked back at the wall, at the shapes in the mess, like silhouettes of animals and people. There were definitely faces forming in the moldy tree branches. Roxanne stared at one in particular.
Sean, she thought.
Now angry as well as scared, she twisted the top off the garlic salt.
Why won’t you stay dead?
She shook the bottle, throwing some of the poison directly onto the moldy face. It bubbled briefly and began to shrink and dissolve. When it was almost gone, Roxanne scrubbed the spot with bleach again. When she was done, she carefully threw the bottle into the kitchen trash and shoved it all the way to the bottom of the bag. Exhausted and sick to her stomach, she went into the living room and pushed the books off the sofa so she could lie down.
She knew she had to be more careful from now on. She’d waited months for people’s obsession with her tragic story to die down. She couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not when she was so close to finally escaping this stupid town and these ridiculous people.
To relax, she looked through the brochures and decided on Paris as her first destination. Between the family’s life insurance and what she would get when she sold the house, Roxanne was sure she’d be able to have a grand life there.
Feeling more relaxed, she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of chamomile tea.
In bed, she dreamed of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées. As happy as Paris made her, dark skies dampened her mood. It always looked as if the city was on the verge of rain. Worse, she saw things in the scudding clouds overhead. Silhouettes of animals. A neighbor’s dog. A horse she’d ridden as a child. Human faces, too—some familiar—their features constantly changing in the roiling mist. Their mouths moved as if they were trying to speak, but all Roxanne heard was the rushing of the wind.
* * *
The next morning, mold covered almost the whole wall behind the sink, reaching to the ceiling. Twisted bodies and faces were clearly outlined in thick patches. Her children’s faces. A gnarled mass at the lower corner thrust out like a hand reaching for her.
Her heart was beating so hard that she had to sit down at the kitchen table and catch her breath. She wanted to run from the wretched house. Better yet, burn it to the ground. In her head, she calculated how much insurance she had left in the bank. It wasn’t enough. If she simply left and abandoned the house, the money wouldn’t last for more than a year or two. Besides, simply running would raise suspicions. She’d worked so hard to tamp down gossip, she didn’t want it to start now. No, mold or not, she had to sell the house. Be patient and play the shattered widow and mother for a while longer. But to do so, she’d need a useable kitchen. Between the mold and the damage she’d done to the wall, that was impossible without help.
Roxanne spent half an hour leafing through the phone book before settling on a repairman named Jameson. She called and arranged for him to come by the next morning.
Before retreating to the living room, she reached up and tapped at the mold with a polished fingernail. A few wet bits of it fell away. She reached up and touched her son’s face, then drew her nails across it until his features were unrecognizable. Sean and her daughter’s faces were too high to reach, so she gave up on them. On her way to the sofa, she found bits of the mold stuck to her fingertips. She wiped them clean with a rag, threw it in the trash, and put the bag in the garbage can sitting at the end of the driveway.
* * *
Mr. Jameson arrived at nine the next morning. After a brief, polite greeting, Roxanne led him straight into the kitchen. When he saw the wall, he set down his toolbox and whistled. The mold now crept across the ceiling over the sink.
“I wish you’d called me earlier, ma’am. I might have been able to help before it got this bad.”
“Can you fix it?” Roxanne said.
Jameson frowned for a moment, put on a pair of rubber gloves, and approached the wall. He pinched some of the mold between his fingers, tearing off a narrow section of her son’s corrupt leg, and letting the mess fall into the sink. He pressed his fingertips to the wall and pushed gently. It gave a little. Jameson shook his head.
“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to save the wall right above the sink. It’ll have to get replaced.”
Roxanne swallowed a stab of panic. She didn’t like the idea of a stranger creeping around her house, especially now that she could plainly see her family staring down on her. She wondered what Jameson saw in the mold.
“Are you sure?” she said. “Isn’t there anything else you can do?”
“I can knock some of this down with a chemical wash I have in the truck. But that doesn’t fix things. You see, ma’am, if the mold is this bad by the sink, it’s likely it’s spread. You might have to replace the whole wall.”
No, no, no, no, no, she thought, but said, “How long would that take?”
“If I do it myself, a few days. If I call in a crew, one or two.”
The panic returned, a cold wave that washed through her body. She looked at her dead family and said, “A crew? No. I can’t have people trampling through the house. I need to think.”
“Take your time,” said Jameson. “I’ll get some things from the truck. See if I can clear up some of the mess. You don’t need to be breathing that stuff.”
When he returned, Roxanne sat at the kitchen table and watched him work. Whatever cleaning supplies he had were much stronger than hers. The mold quickly disappeared under the mop he used on the wall and ceiling. Seeing her family vanish from the kitchen, she began to feel like herself again.
She said, “Oh my. That’s much better. Maybe you won’t have to do the whole wall.”
Jameson looked around. “We’ll see. Let’s let this dry for now and I’ll come back tomorrow. This stuff is strong. If anyt
hing is going to handle that mess, it’s this.”
Roxanne leaned her elbows on the table, suddenly tired. Still, the clear wall made her smile.
“What do I owe you for today?” she said.
Waving a hand at her, Jameson said, “Nothing. Let’s see where things stand tomorrow.”
“Do you do that with all your customers?”
He shrugged. “It’s a nice town. Why not?”
“Aren’t you afraid someone will cheat you? I mean, you cleaned my wall already. What if it stays clean and I didn’t let you in tomorrow?”
Jameson smiled for the first time since he’d entered the house. “You wouldn’t do something like that. You’re a good person, Mrs. Hill.”
She looked at the man, concerned. “How do you know that? What do you mean?”
As he gathered up some tools, Jameson said, “You don’t remember me, but we were in high school together. You, Sean, and me. It’s how I know you’re a good person. You were nice to me when you didn’t have to be.”
Roxanne wracked her memory and then it came to her. “You’re not Billy Jameson, are you?”
He took off his hat and did a small bow. “Billidiot the Idiot,” he said. “Dumbest kid in our year. I thought it might be why you might have called me. You recognized the name.”
“I didn’t. I’m sorry,” said Roxanne, relaxing. If he was the Billy she remembered, he was as thick as tar. “But now I’m glad it was you. If I’m going to have someone in my home, it should be an old friend.”
Jameson nodded as the picked up his equipment. “See? A nice person.”
Roxanne walked him outside and they agreed for him to come by the next morning.
“With luck, that will be the end of it,” Jameson said.
She waved to him as started the truck. “Thank you, Billy.”
Back inside, she examined the kitchen. There were black smears here and there where the mop had wiped away the mold but, aside from that, the wall didn’t look too bad at all.
She sat down at the table again and flipped through the phone book to the Realtors section until she found the company that had originally sold them the house. She circled the name and decided to call them tomorrow afternoon about putting the place up for sale.
With the excitement over, Roxanne wanted a cup of tea. She put the kettle on, but when she opened the cupboard to get the teabags, she knocked over something leaning against the box—the jar labeled “Garlic Salt”. Her breath caught in her throat. She was positive she’d thrown the stuff away yesterday. But, no, that had been yet another mistake. No longer in the mood for tea, she turned off the burner and took the bottle to the garbage can and, again, pushed it to the bottom of the trash bag. She put the top of the can on firmly before going back inside.
That afternoon, Roxanne went to see a movie. She couldn’t bear being stuck in the house right then.
When she got home, the wall was still clean. She made tea and called a travel agent to set an appointment over the weekend to talk about Paris. Tea in hand, she took her brochures upstairs to bed with her and stayed there for the rest of the day.
* * *
The mold was back in the morning, along with the taunting faces of her family. When Jameson arrived and saw the state of the wall, he set down his toolbox and made a grunting noise.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill. I’ve never seen a mold patch like this before. I’m going to have to replace the drywall.”
She stood behind him, hands clasped nervously. “The whole wall?”
“I won’t know till I take down the worst of it over the sink.”
“All right,” she said. “But I’d like you to do the job yourself. I couldn’t bear to have the house full of strangers and noise right now.”
“Okay then. I’ll pick up some drywall sheets and can start tomorrow morning.”
“And it will take a couple of days, you said?”
He looked at the wall. “That depends on the damage.”
“Of course.”
Throughout their conversation, Roxanne’s attention was pulled back to the edges of the mold. She could swear that it pulsed and changed shape, as did the large mounds of filth that were her family’s bodies, so that it looked as if they were writhing in pain.
Am I crazy or has it always been moving and it’s something else I missed?
Then a dark thought hit her. If she could see the movement, could Jameson? Was he able to make out Sean and the kid’s contorting bodies and was keeping it a secret? She looked at him. He didn’t seem any different, but she had to be sure.
She pointed to a patch on the side and said, “It’s strange how the mold is like clouds. Full of shapes. Do you see the arm over there?”
Jameson looked where she pointed for a moment, then scratched his chin. “You’re right. It’s an arm. Isn’t that funny?”
“And a leg over there.”
“I see it.”
Roxanne pointed to where the mold touched the ceiling. “And up there. It’s almost like a face. A man’s face, don’t you think?”
“It’s funny you mention that one,” he said. “I actually noticed it earlier but didn’t mention it on account of it being sort of strange.”
“Strange how?”
Jameson tilted his head up and looked again. “Well, it looks a little—and I feel funny saying it—but it looks kind of like Sean. I swear those are his eyes.”
Roxanne felt a cold weight in her stomach. She wasn’t hallucinating. They were there. Her whole family looking down on her. Spying on her. And now Jameson had seen them too. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what it meant and what she might have to do about it. But she couldn’t think of a thing.
Jameson frowned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just, I was surprised. It wasn’t right, though, me bringing up bad memories like that.”
“Don’t worry,” said Roxanne. “I was the one who brought it up.”
“I guess,” he said, still frowning. He picked up his toolbox and headed back out of the house in a rush. Roxanne followed him to the truck.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she said.
“I’ll be here. And, like I said, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t think anything of it.”
As he drove away, Roxanne thought, He knows what happened. If he doesn’t go to the police now he will soon. I’m going to have to kill him.
She went into the kitchen and looked around, hunting for just the right implement. Rummaging through the drawers she found the butcher knife, a large pair of shears, and a hammer. But none of those would do. She would be caught instantly. She needed something subtler.
Maybe the skillet? I could say that he attacked me. No. She recalled that Brainless Billy had always been a good boy. If he’d done anything inappropriate with anyone else in town, she would have heard about it.
Roxanne put down the skillet and went into the living room and stood by the front window looking over the row of houses she hated. Same lawns. Same mailboxes. Children’s bikes on the lawns. It made her sick.
Later, she wondered if she might be overreacting to Jameson’s words. Even if he suspected something, all he had for evidence was some strange mold. And he wouldn’t have said anything about that if she hadn’t prodded him. After going over it in her head a few more times, she thought, No. He’s no threat.
Later, she called the travel agent’s office and bought a one-way ticket to Paris on a flight leaving at the end of the month. Her mood lifted instantly. When the wall was repaired, she could let the realtor handle everything else. She didn’t need to be here. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. It would be her first time on a plane.
I’m doing it. I’m really, finally doing it.
Though her mood was light when she went to bed, her dreams were troubled. One by one, each member of her dead family stepped from the wall and fed her the same poison she’d used on them. Jameson held her and let it happen.
Roxanne woke early and went into
the bathroom. While washing up, she found small patches of mold under her nails and on her fingertips. She scrubbed her hands clean with alcohol and hot water.
* * *
Knowing she wouldn’t be in the mood to cook later, Roxanne took the stew from the freezer and left it out to defrost. Jameson arrived at nine, his truck weighed down with gray slabs of drywall. In the kitchen, he carefully measured the area over the sink, making notes on a pad he kept in the breast pocket of his overalls.
“Would you like some tea?” said Roxanne, watching his every move, waiting to see if he reacted to the figures protruding from the mold. Her family moved all the time now. Hands grasped at the air. Mouths gaped as if screaming. Yet Jameson didn’t appear to notice any of it.
“No thanks,” he told her. “I’m more of a coffee person.”
“I have that too. It’s instant, but I could put on some water.”
As he spread out a tape measure across the wall, he said, “Thank you. That’d be real nice.”
She went to the cupboard for the Folgers. When she opened the door, it was there again. The little bottle of garlic salt. It felt like there was a frozen lump in her stomach. She put a hand on the counter to steady herself and took out the coffee. Roxanne smiled, but inside she was screaming.
Someone is doing this to me. I threw this away. Twice. I know it. Someone keeps putting it back.
She glanced at Jameson. He had his back to her.
Besides me, who else has been in here? Who else has seen the faces? No one but idiot Billy. What kind of game is he playing?
As she heated water on the stove for coffee, she glanced at the skillet. He still had his back to her.
I could do it. Right now. Scratch my face. Tear my dress. Tell everyone it was self-defense. I could do it.
Jameson turned then and, seeing his face, Roxanne’s courage flagged. No. There had to be another way. Some way to be absolutely sure.