by Trinity Crow
We stood there, me staring, her waiting, and the silence stretched on too long. A response was clearly expected.
Do not blow this! I told myself, trying to think, but my mind was as empty as the ghost-less room before me.
“Haunted by what?” I gave in, unable to think of a single thing to derail the crazy train.
Mrs. Evers shook her head, her wispy hair trembling with the movement.
“Oh, chile,” she said “Such a sad story. A young woman named Julia who lived here long ago. She was the daughter of the original plantation owners. Some people, they never know she’s here, but others, she takes a liking to. They tell of the smell of flowers, or very faintly, the sound of singing.” she spoke in this weird, fond tone as if she and Julia had been besties before Julia kicked it. Surely she wasn't that old.
I glanced back into the "haunted" room. The sun must have slipped behind the clouds, but even dim, the room was no less welcoming. A big ass white dog had come in, though I couldn't see from where. He lay on his back in the middle of the room, wriggling in obvious enjoyment. The mutt caught sight of me over his shoulder as he squirmed and gave me a friendly considering look, his tongue escaping his smiling jaws. What a goofball. I shook my head at him as he begged. Nope. I like dogs, but of all my policies, the 'no attachment' one is ironclad.
I made up my mind. If this was haunted, I was in. After the crappy, even dangerous conditions of my previous homes, some potpourri, and light music sounded like heaven.
“Mrs. Evers,” I said, “I believe Julia and I will get along just fine.”
“Well! That’s just dandy.” she said, beaming at me, “And it’s just you, so if you had a mind to, you wouldn’t even need to use this room.” There was a slight pause and then she said, quite seriously, “But I do believe Julia likes the company.”
She leaned in, pulling the door shut. The dog sat up to watch.
“Mrs. Evers? What about him?” I asked, hurriedly.
“Him, who?” she turned quickly and her faded gaze sharpened as she peered up at me, the keys falling from her hand.
“Um, the dog,” I said, carefully, as I bent down to retrieve them.
How old was this lady? I knew old people sometimes wandered a bit mentally. I didn’t want to move in and end up some kind of old lady nanny.
“Should he go out? I mean, is he yours?” I thought of something, maybe why the price was so good. “He doesn’t live here, does he?”
Something like relief flickered in her eyes as she took the keys. Then Mrs. Evers laughed out loud, startling me as her freaky teeth flashed. I stepped back in case this was the moment she completely lost touch with reality. Like that movie where the grandma skitters across the ceiling and then rips the guy's throat out with her teeth, her freaky teeth.
“The dog!” she said. And that was definitely relief in her voice.
Who had she thought I meant? I wondered uneasily.
“Big white dog?” she asked as if he weren’t sitting two feet away…staring.
“Yes,” I said slowly, not sure where this was going, but not liking it just the same.
“Black nose, smiley-like?” she continued, her face all full of sunshine and Sunday school goodness.
I nodded even slower, watching the dog watch me.
Please be nearsighted, I thought, please be blind as a bat.
“Chile,” Mrs. Evers said, closing the door with a click “that dog’s been dead two hundred years or more.” She pealed with laughter at my confounded look. “Mercy me, you must have the touch if you can see old Corky.”
Dead. As in deceased? As in ghost? I made myself repeat Gabriel Garza, Gabriel Garza, Gabriel Garza as she leaned past me to open the door. Her eager expression stirred something close to fury inside me.
Gabriel Garza. Gabriel Garza.
The door swung open slowly. Sunshine flooded through the windows, showing clearly the empty room.
***
Mrs. Evers left me alone. To think it over, she said, but maybe because my teeth were starting to look a little freaky, stretched in a polite grimace at this bullshit. I borrowed the keys for another walkthrough, holding on to my temper only because homelessness was staring me in the face.
The downstairs search went pretty quickly. I found nothing the dog could have used to enter and exit. The windows were all shut and locked. There were only two doors, the one we came in and the one leading upstairs, which was bolted from the inside. I didn't know what to think. If she was crazy, then I was, too.
Back outside, I ran up the circular steps to the kitchen. The crippled crawfish welcomed me. I stared at them, stepping closer for another look. They weren't crippled. They had umbrellas and were doing a second line. It was ridiculous and…perfect. And that did it for me. I was renting this place, spooks or not. The price was right, the location perfect. Besides, the place had everything I needed upstairs. If things got hairy, I could leave the spook door bolted and go in and out on the outside stairs. It was cheap, it had second line crustaceans, and it was all my own.
I stood there, pretty jazzed, then from below, I heard a whine. The dog was back.
I went down the hall, unbolted the sturdy wooden door and swung it open. The dog, the ghost dog, my brain insisted, pranced into view. I watched him wag his tail so hard that his whole body twisted, smiling the whole time.
What to do? The dog seemed friendly and Julia had been a no-show both walk-throughs. While the idea of a vague presence seemed do-able, a large, un-ignorable dog was another matter.
“What the hell.” I said, peering at the mutt rushing back and forth, begging me to come and play, “I've always wanted a dog.”
Chapter 2
I left Mrs. Ever's place with a good feeling. In two days, I was done with school. I was graduating, but barely. And I was stuck with a summer English project to make up a state requirement I had missed while jumping from school to school. The geniuses at the St. Martin Parish school district hadn't discovered it until this month. The assignment was to make a genealogy chart and essay on our ancestors' influence on our lives. I didn't know my ancestors, my heritage or even what my real name was. I was stuck with the description someone had scribbled on the form at the hospital. At 18, I was still Child Female Lost and that about summed up everything there was to know about me. I wasn't sure if I cared enough about a diploma to even try it or not. For a long time, I'd found it hard to care about grades and stuff when I couldn’t see a future. All that crap the guidance counselors told you about how you could be anything you wanted? Who actually believed that? Nobody I knew.
My job at the bakery was the real reason I had straightened up in the past two years. Before that, I was always getting in trouble, failing classes, and getting moved from home to home. I was probably headed for juvie or worse. Working at the Delicata's Bakery changed everything. It was more than just a paycheck, more than just free cupcakes and cookies. It meant something to me, to be good at my job. I'd never had that before. Walking the line was the only way to remain at the Krapinski's house and keep my job.
Delicata’s Bakery is a funky little building, it used to be the old county jail, weirdly enough. But now everybody in town knows Delicata’s means amazing food. The DiMaggio's, the old couple who owned the place, didn’t do regular advertising, but every cake, cookie or loaf of bread that left the shop was better than a TV commercial. I couldn’t count the people who came in and said “I had dinner at my friend's and they served these rolls…”, or it was a cake at a birthday or baklava at a party. All of them came to Delicata’s, desperate for one more taste. People who used to live in LaPierre drove all the way back from New Orleans or Baton Rouge just to get our stuff. The recipes we used were old, handed down from Mr. D’s grandfather to his father to him. I was kind of in awe of something that had survived in spite of everything I knew families to be. The DiMaggio’s could have been like family, but I'm not that kind of girl. Over the two years I worked there, they had invited me to dinner every single m
onth and I always said no. They offered to rent me a room in their house and I said no.
But working for the D's was the reason I had been able to rent the Ever's place with no references and no rental history. So I kind of owed them and I didn't like it.
School ended with a last bell and not much fuss. I didn't get a yearbook, no one invited me to senior pool parties or begged me to keep in touch, which was how I wanted it. The only one who said anything to me all day was Mrs. Richter who was still at me about that final project I needed to graduate. Only, I didn't have time for it now. With school out, I could work more hours and I needed every penny I could get.
Between finishing school, my job, and hiding out at the library until closing, I managed to avoid Deena, aka Mrs. Kraptastic, who I refused to call my foster mom, and the brats for three days. Mark, the male half of my state-funded parentals, was a trucker and we barely ever saw him. But my luck ran out the day before moving day.
The kids were squabbling in the backyard when I rode up to the house after work. They knew better than to be too loud, Deena was a real bitch when someone interrupted her TV watching. Within seconds, they came barreling around the house, alerted by some kind of kid radar that I was home and had food. Nathan, the whiny one who threw a fit if he wasn't first or in charge was, predictably, first. Emily, the real leader and the brains of the outfit wasn't far behind towing Nikki by the hand. Nikki was autistic or something, and she came lurching behind Emily like a wind-up doll. She never spoke or laughed or even made real eye contact…which made her hands down my favorite.
“Me first” Nathan yelled, elbows out to prevent the girls from getting past.
I frowned at him and he immediately yelled “Sorry!” over his shoulder.
No manners, no food and they knew it. It saved me listening to a lot of crap.
“Ladies first tonight.” I said.
Nathan opened his mouth to protest, but a stare was enough to shut him down. I didn't care if the kids ate bakery stuff instead of dinner. They weren't my kids and at least it was made with real food. Deena had no interest in the kitchen or in us kids. She “cooked” hotdogs, frozen dollar pizza, fish sticks and chicken by-product nuggets. They were all served up with the same side dish, potato chips, the cheap kind that tastes like rancid oil and chemicals.
Once, Nathan had asked for grilled cheese and she told him it was too much trouble. I guess because you actually have to use the stove. Everything we ate was microwaved. The first morning I was there, I woke up to her asking the kids if they wanted Fritos or Doritos with their breakfast. A PTA mom, she was not.
Today I had brought back sausage kolaches and the kids stuffed themselves.
“Is that all there is?” Nathan demanded. He swiped sweat off his forehead with one grubby hand, while the other shoved the last bite into his already full mouth.
I could not believe what a pit he was. The kid had just downed two kolaches and was still hungry?
“He means sweet stuff.” Emily said, wiping Nikki's hands with a napkin.
“Yeah!” Nathan said, “Zoom zooms and wham whams!”
Nathan's dad was in some Texas prison and before his mom had been arrested for check fraud, he had picked up a lot of slang from visitations, especially for food.
I dug a paper bag out from my backpack. Three giant cookies were inside, all the same kind because one thing you don't do with kids is offer them choices. Quickest way to a lot of unwanted noise and fighting.
“Mint chocolate chip,” I said.
“Hell yeah!” Nathan nodded in approval.
I ignored his mouth. He knew enough to keep it clean in school and around Deena. Survival skills are what foster care was all about. I had learned to keep my face blank and do emotions on a mental level only. Nathan had developed a sneakiness that kept him from getting busted. Emily just tried to be good and the sucky thing was, she wasn't going to get anywhere but hurt, trying to see the good in people. So what did I care if Nathan loved curse words as much as candy? He snatched the biggest cookie, wolfing half of it down in seconds. Though it looked a lot like greed, that wasn't his real problem. So much crap had happened to Nathan that he couldn't control, he was determined to hang on to what he could. Being a control freak made Nathan feel safe, and I could relate.
Emily's square, little face was also smiling in approval of my cookie choice. Much of Emily was square, her sturdy, six-year-old body and her mini mom attitude. She was more of a parent to the other two than Deena was, keeping Nathan out of trouble and Nikki clean and fed. Emily took a cookie and broke it carefully in two, putting one half in each of Nikki's hands. Then she took the last one and bit off a ladylike mouthful. For the entire two years, I had known them, Emily had filled Nikki's plate, picked out her clothes, and protected her from bullies. Nikki, eyes vacant as ever, ate the cookie mechanically. It could have been amazing or sawdust, her expression never wavered.
The kids sat in the skimpy shade, eating the cookies happily. They weren't so bad with their mouths full. I had done my level best not to get involved with them, but this was the first time I had been the oldest in a foster home and a couple of times, I had had no choice but to step in. I had been roped into crappy science projects, fixing boo-boos and making lunches for field trips. What these kids needed was a real mom, but no one had volunteered or was likely too.
Did they know I was leaving? I worried. Then I pushed that crap out my head. They would be fine. Deena was a shitty mom, but the fact that all three of these kids had been in the same home for 2 years was unusual, in my experience. And if you can't have love and bedtime stories, a safe place to sleep at night was doing pretty damn good. The kids finished off the cookies, and then Emily nudged Nathan.
“Hey, watch it!” he snapped and she jabbed a finger at his pocket, exaggeratedly.
“What?” he said, looking down, confusion written all over his face. “Ohhhhhh!”
“What is it?” I asked, knowing this would be the last fix-it before I was gone.
Nathan pulled a plastic bag out his pocket. It jingled.
“We know you have to get out tomorrow,” Nathan said matter-of-factly. “We got you this.” He shoved the bag at me.
“So you can get a house,” Emily added, her eyes anxious. She patted my leg with one chubby hand.
I took the bag with a super crappy feeling. I did not want this. It was a large collection of change and a few stray dollar bills.
“We've been stealing change from Deena!” Nathan said proudly, hopping up and down in excitement.
Emily frowned at him.
“And we found some on the way to school,” she said, doing her best impression of a 1950's schoolmarm.
The thing is it's really hard to maintain a strict policy with some grubby kids hell-bent on ripping it to shreds. I shrugged. I couldn't be their mom and if I was really a friend, I'd teach them now that people aren't kind. People can't be trusted. People will always let you down and screw you over. I pushed the bag back at Nathan.
“That's pretty cool of y'all, but I already rented an apartment. I'm moving in tomorrow morning.” My voice was steady. “You guys go see a movie or something. Okay?"
Nathan took the bag, his eyes confused. “You did?” He looked back and forth from me to Emily, his face wrinkled.
“That's good,” Emily said, poking him.
“Yeah.” Nathan looked down, then twisted his head up at me, eyes hopeful. “We can come visit right?”
I stood up and started walking to the house.
“Can't we?” I heard Nathan ask Emily.
“It'll be okay.” Em's voice was her mommy voice. The one she used when she tried to fix things. Things that weren't fixable. Things like me.
I hurried inside and to my room. I shut the door behind me and leaned my head against it, closing my eyes. There was a sour taste in my throat and I wanted to be far away. Tomorrow, I would be.
Chapter 3
Happy birthday to me. The sum total of my possessions was
two boxes of clothes and three of books, which took four gruesomely sweaty trips. I could have asked Mr. D, he would have been over the moon to drive me or I could have paid a cab-or what passes for a cab in this town, old Mr. Guilliot and his '80's station wagon. But being stubborn and independent has seen me through every rough time in my life. Why change now?
The angry squirrel was, thankfully, absent as I pedaled my way up the drive, a box of books strapped to my handlebars with bungee cords. When the house came into view, I went left down my own rutted drive, the hedge that separated my place from Mrs. Evers blurring past on my right. I was grateful to whoever planted that thing because there's no such thing as too much privacy.
I wrestled the box of books free and headed up my new circular stairs, quickly finding they added way more steps than necessary. The turns were ridiculous to maneuver with a carton of dead weight. There was a real shit for kicks moment on the way up, when I nearly lost my balance and went over backwards. Panting heavily, I unlocked the door and dumped the box on the kitchen floor. I stood for a moment, enjoying my crawfish party people and then headed back down for round two. On the second trip, I passed up the shorter route through town, in favor of the longer, shadier one. June in LaPierre was already hot as hell. Even with the shade, I was hot and sweaty when I reached the house. Weighing the box of books against the wrought iron monster, I gave in. I mean, I paid rent, dammit! I would go through the haunted room and not kill myself on those hell stairs.
The room was warm and sunny, and there was no sign of the ghost dog or Julia. I figured I could handle the dog, but if I looked up and saw some dead girl in bloody rags, I was going to scream loud enough to scare her ectoplasm off and exorcise her right back to glory. Perfume and music, my ass. I might not be a much of a screamer, but I could fight fire with fire.