by Neil Olson
“Are we at the time in the cycle when the young people scatter?” asked Sam.
“I think we’re past that point,” said Margaret, a bit sadly. “I mean, yes, many have gone. William here, for one. My own children. You’re still around, aren’t you, dear? But you are the last of the true Halls. Doc and Sally Chester had no children. There are hardly any Branfords or Staffords left.”
“Still a few Browns,” Will couldn’t help but say.
“Yes,” the older woman conceded, “but they do themselves in at such an alarming rate, don’t you think? And, well, not to be too hard about it. But they don’t really embody the essence of what the seven families once were.”
Will knew that Muriel would be proud of that judgment, so he felt no need to dispute it.
“No,” said Margaret Price softly. “It’s all going away. The history, the sense of community. The families themselves.”
“What about the curse?” asked Will.
She held him in her gaze several long moments before speaking. Will thought her expression looked kind. Maybe a bit tired, but not at all haughty.
“The first thing we need to do is find you stronger guardians,” she answered.
He felt like he had missed a part of the conversation.
“The Duffys are troublemakers,” Margaret went on. “The whole clan, everyone knows it. You can put one in a police uniform but it doesn’t change anything. I’m sure the boy had coming whatever you gave him, but we can’t wait until it happens again. To someone else. You don’t want to end up hurting Samantha, for instance.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Will asked, baffled and alarmed.
“I worry about you, William,” said Margaret. “My mother does too. And generally speaking, she doesn’t give a damn about anyone.”
“That’s good of you, but there’s no—”
“It’s not about goodness,” she said sharply. “Some of us still remember our obligations, that’s all. We take responsibility for our own, whatever their behavior or affliction.”
“Is that what I am? Afflicted?”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t call it anything,” he shot back. “Except maybe superstition. Paranoia? Bad luck? Life is hard, stuff happens to people. We get worked up. Why does it need a name?”
“Why are you here?”
“Because my mother fell down the stairs.”
“Why are you here in my house?”
“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Price, I have no idea. Why did you invite us?”
She took a deep breath, her eyes hard. This was it, Will thought, now it would come out. Whatever she believed was amiss, whatever role she had assigned herself in fixing it. But then something changed. She released her breath slowly, without speaking. Her eyes became gentle again.
“Do I need an excuse to invite old friends for tea?” she said finally, and he knew at once that the moment had passed. There would be no point in pressing her now. “You should really try those sugar cookies. Old family recipe.”
* * *
“So was that useful?” Will asked, with only part of his attention. Most of it was focused on the small package in his lap. Margaret had handed it to him just before they left the house. From my mother, she said, tucking it into his arms.
“A little,” said Sam. She was driving. It had not taken much effort to convince Will that bad things happened when he drove. “Might have been more useful if you weren’t so rude.”
“I wasn’t rude.”
“You kind of were.”
“What, you’re going to play Miss Manners now?”
“I’m not rude to people,” she said, her voice uncertain. “Wait, am I?”
“The woman has been rude to you your whole life.”
“That’s no reason.”
“Look,” he said, squeezing the package’s blocky contents with his fingers. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. My social skills have abandoned me since I came back here.”
“It’s not about that.”
“She’s a blunt old battle-ax,” Will maintained. “If she can dish it out, she ought to be able to take it. I thought I might crack her cool. Make her say something she didn’t want to.”
“Well,” Samantha considered, turning on the windshield wipers. “It almost worked.”
“No, she’s too smart.”
“Actually, I think she was told not to say too much.”
“Told by whom?”
“What is that?” she asked, meaning the package.
“A book.”
“Just what you needed.” Her attempts at humor cheered him. “What book?”
Will undid the clasp and slid out the dense object. Gilded edges and no words or markings on the black leather cover. He turned the thin pages, unable to understand much at first. Except that the book was old. Two hundred years or more.
“It’s in Latin,” he said.
“Can you read that?”
“Only in theory.”
“There’s a dictionary at my house.”
Tom Hall had many books in Latin, Greek, French, German, and dictionaries in all those tongues. Will would have to rely on such help, because his mind was bouncing off the pages now, unable to absorb the words. Thinking of other things.
“She knew about Jimmy,” he said.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed.
“I didn’t think he told anyone what happened.”
Sam had heard about the incident in the woods before Will could tell her. The only thing she revealed to him was that Jimmy’s arm was hurt, but he was otherwise all right. And that he had not reported the encounter to anyone.
“He had to get the arm looked at,” she said now. “Somebody had to know something.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. His father.”
Kevin Senior. Who, when drunk, used to beat Brendan, though Will’s pal insisted he deserved it. Now the old man had cancer. His wife was gone. His youngest was fighting in Iraq, his oldest was in prison. And Will had just made his life a little harder.
“What did he say?” Will asked.
“That Jimmy hurt his arm struggling with someone. That he was taking a short leave of absence to recover.”
“Didn’t mention my name?”
“When are you going to accept that people here know things,” she said, exasperated. The rain intensified, and Sam leaned closer to the windshield. She drove slowly and cautiously, unlike him. “Those old women knew when I got my first period. They knew which boys I liked. Your face tells them things. Just sitting in front of them, they can read your whole life.”
“I hope you’re exaggerating,” he said after a moment.
“Not a lot.”
“I need to get out of this town.”
“That won’t help,” she said quickly. Urgently, it seemed.
“How do you know?”
“Weren’t you seeing that shadow before you came here? Back in New York?”
Had he told her that? He must have—he had told her so much.
“I think you just like having me around,” he said with a smile. She did not smile back.
“I do,” said Sam quietly. “I never thought you would leave.”
“When? Like, go to college?”
“I mean, I knew you would. On some level I had to know that’s where your life was headed. College, job in the big city. Anybody could see that was for you. But on another level, it wasn’t real. That you would leave here. Leave me.”
“Sam. We weren’t even close anymore by the time I went.”
“Is that how it felt to you?”
Yes was the only honest answer. But he had forgotten or misremembered so much else about his life, why not this also?
“Maybe you’re the one who needs t
o get out,” he said.
“Hah,” she laughed. Like it was a ridiculous idea.
“Why not? What’s keeping you?”
“I can’t leave,” Samantha said in dismay, glancing over at him.
“Of course you can. Unload that mausoleum and hit the road. Lucy Larcom is making generous offers, I hear.”
“Your mother isn’t selling, is she?” There was panic in her tone.
“She hasn’t even mentioned it.” Muriel had assured Will that no deal was imminent, and suggested it was better not getting Abby riled up by asking. “Has Lucy been after you too?”
“She cannot sell that house,” Sam insisted. “Not yet.”
“For God’s sake, why not?”
“Because everything started there. This...thing, with you. You have to be living in the house until we figure it out. It’s critical.”
“Oh man,” he sighed. “Should I also sleep in a pine box full of native soil?”
“I’m serious, Will.”
“That’s the thing, I know you are. I swear, you need to get out of here more than I do. I might have to kidnap you.”
“I cannot leave this town,” she said flatly. “There’s some of us who are meant to stay. Everything I am is tied to this place, these people. You must know that.”
He did not know any such thing, but the certainty in her voice stopped him from saying more. That, plus the fact that he had reached the first woodblock illustration in the book. It was primitive work, but compelling, and his eyes could not look away.
“Her mother wanted me to have this,” he said. “What does that mean?”
“If it’s from Evelyn, there’s a message in it.”
“What message?”
“I don’t know,” Sam replied, “it depends on the book. You figure out what it is yet?”
“Yeah,” Will confirmed. Gazing at the shadowy, crosshatched figure hunching in the billowing flames. “It’s a demonology.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
The wine was good, Saul had not steered him wrong. Abigail wasn’t up to more than a glass, and Sam hardly had a sip. Which left Will and Muriel to kill most of two bottles, but somehow they managed. Will made a variation on his mother’s Bolognese sauce. More onion, less meat, a healthy splash of wine. They all seemed to enjoy it. Even Muriel, who never liked anyone’s cooking but her own.
“Of course she liked it,” Sam whispered, as the two of them carried empty plates to the kitchen. “Her little boy made it.”
The tone might have annoyed him another time, but Will was in too good a mood to be thrown. Muriel and Sam did not like each other, and there was nothing to do about it. Except not invite them to the same dinner, but tonight he wanted things his way. Wanted his favorite people around him. He only poked Samantha’s arm, then kissed the top of her head. It was an odd thing to do, but he was buzzed and there it stood at chin level, her hair warm and summery. She did not move away. He squeezed her arm and she tipped her forehead against his collarbone. They stood that way for several moments.
Abby’s raucous laugh startled them, and Sam stepped back. Will could not see the dining room from where they stood, but he could hear Muriel’s voice. Talking low and fast, the way she did when telling a comical tale. Abby laughed again. He had not heard that sound in a couple of years, and it filled his chest with good feeling. The tension between the old friends seemed to have vanished, which was the main thing Will had hoped to accomplish this night. He was pleased. Something had gone right.
“Sorry,” said Sam. It wasn’t clear what for. Her comment? Being startled? Letting him touch her?
“Sounds like we’re missing a funny story,” Will said.
“Probably about me.” It surprised him how much Muriel got under her skin.
“I’ll do the dishes later. Let’s go back in.”
“Do I have to?”
“No,” he said, disappointed. “I’ll walk you home, if you like.”
“Come with me,” she said eagerly.
“I’ve got to play host.”
“Come over later, then.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice as her words became more urgent. “We have to look at that book.”
He had left Evelyn Price’s demonology with Sam. Knowing he would need the Latin dictionary, but also because he did not want it in his mother’s house. He had not forgotten the book for a moment, but resented having to think about it just now.
“I’m curious too, but—”
“It’s not about curiosity,” she pressed him. “It’s important.”
“So is spending time with my mother. Which I haven’t done nearly enough of.”
“Yeah, well.” Sam tipped her head toward the other room, the laughing voices. “Good luck with her here.”
“She’ll clear out soon,” Will said. For all Sam’s talk of knowing him, there was an awkwardness between them. It was Muriel who knew what he needed at any given moment, without his having to say. Did Sam see that? Was it the reason she resented the woman?
He took her by the hand and walked back into the dining room.
“Shhh,” said Abby, noticing them. She leaned into Muriel’s shoulder, both of them giggling. Maybe they were talking about Sam. Or him. Or telling dirty jokes the children shouldn’t hear. The flickering candlelight made them look conspiratorial. He watched both women’s eyes focus on the space between Sam and himself. Saw a cool appraisal on Muriel’s face, and a warm smile from his mother. He looked down and saw that he was still holding Samantha’s hand. At that moment, Sam tightened her grip, as if he might try to shake her loose. Her fingers dug into his knuckles, and she glared defiantly at Muriel.
“I need a cigarette,” Muriel said.
“Me too,” Sam replied.
“Yeah?” Muriel looked both suspicious and amused. “Well, come on, then.”
“Outside,” Abigail commanded.
“Yeah, yeah, we know.”
Sam’s hand was suddenly gone. Then the front door shut behind the two women, and just like that he was alone with his mother. He sat down next to her, the chair still warm from Muriel’s fidgeting ass.
“You look happy,” Will said.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Abby put her hand over his, so recently abandoned. “You were sweet to do this—it was fun.”
“It’s been a while since you had friends over. I mean, when I’ve been around.”
“It’s been forever,” she said wistfully. The buzz cut had grown out a little, beginning to hide the scar. She was still too thin, but her skin was pink and glowing. And the lack of hair and flesh brought out her cheekbones and dark eyes. Candlelight danced in those eyes; her smile was playful. She looked good, if not quite like herself.
“You used to have people here all the time.”
“I know that’s how you remember it,” said Abby. “But after Johnny died, there wasn’t much of that.”
“No?”
“My friends still stopped by. The real friends, the ones who stuck with me. The rest of them moved on to the next thing. It was about having a good time in those days, and this house was bummersville.”
“Maybe they were scared,” Will suggested. Her eyes met his for a moment, darted away.
“Maybe,” she said. “Death does scare people.”
“I didn’t realize. That they abandoned you.”
“That’s a heavy word. Abandoned. I’m sure they didn’t see it like that.”
“Is that how it felt?”
“I guess,” she admitted. “But you know, I wasn’t keen on seeing them either. Made me have to think about that night. We lived through quite an ugly thing there, you and me. We needed that time together. That was our special time.”
Will nodded, betraying nothing. He wasn’t even angry, which had to count as progress. It was just strange how two people c
ould remember the same thing so differently. She had filed it away as special time. He remembered her as a ghost. Huddled in a blanket on the sofa. Crying every time she saw him, until he hid from her gaze. Or simply comatose on sedatives, her friends coming over to cook for them. Who was right? The heavily medicated adult or the traumatized five-year-old? Both. Neither.
“Muriel was one of the true friends.”
“Muriel,” she said, almost scornfully. “The queen of your youth.”
“She was good to us.”
“God knows,” Abby conceded. “There were times I never would have made it without Mure.” Murr. “But that happened later.”
“She wasn’t part of the spirit circle?”
“No, she was what? Eighteen, nineteen? A kid. I guess she sat in once or twice. Even then, even that young, you could sense how contemptuous she was of it.”
That fit the woman he knew, but Will was still taken aback. Muriel was always around, as far back as he could remember. He had assumed she was part of the gang.
“Also,” Abigail said, reclaiming her hand to rub her tired eyes. It seemed like she might not complete the thought, though the words finally came. “She had a thing for Johnny.”
“Muriel did?”
“Yeah. Needless to say, she wasn’t coming by right after that went down.”
“A thing for him, or...”
“More than that. They were a couple, I suppose. Although Mure was so young.”
She shook her head at some memory. Will’s fingers drummed the table until he made himself stop. He upended the dregs of a wine bottle into someone’s glass. His own or Muriel’s, though he did not drink the murky stuff. So many revelations, so many things he had not cared about until now. So hard to fit each piece into its place.
“When did you two become pals?” he asked.
“It happened slowly. We bonded when we were taking those art classes together. She was always looking over my shoulder, trying to copy my style.”