Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  I catch the two of them on the back porch one night after dinner, sitting side by side, watching the sunset. They cut a beautiful silhouette and I watch them for a long time. Maybe there’s more to Beckan than the tough guy exterior. But then his shadow morphs, changes into Dad’s distinctive broad shouldered slouch, and I look away.

  Liam has come alive since moving to Port Braseham. Seeing the perma-smile on his face every day lifts a weight off my shoulders. Seeing my brother enjoying himself again is nearly worth being uprooted. And the happier Liam is, the more I begin to ignore the uncomfortable prickliness at the back of my neck whenever I’m in the house. If Liam is happy, that’s all that matters. He has a chance to recover from our parents’ divorce, to move on, and I’m going to help him do that any way I can.

  ***

  By the Sunday before school starts, the house actually feels more like home, and seeing our belongings spread around gives comforts me. As a reward for all our hard work, Mother wants to go out as a family. The cool morning gives way to a warm afternoon, and we decide to go on a picnic. There’s a park next to the church with picnic tables, a playground, and a cracked basketball court with weeds protruding all over. Mother insists the O’Dwyres join us, despite my repeated objections. Derry lets out his ape-grunt and retreats into the cabin, but Beckan gives in to Mother’s persistence and joins us.

  We enjoy a spread of sandwiches Mother and I made together, store bought potato salad and macaroni salad, kettle cooked potato chips, and my grandmother’s secret ambrosia salad recipe. Once we’ve eaten our fill, we break apart across the playground. Liam is at the top of a wooden castle, pretending to save a damsel in distress. Lady plays the dragon, barking wildly from below. Mother strolls along the edge of the park where a line of wildflowers flourishes, picking a few and putting a daisy in her hair with a wave back at Beckan and me, still sitting at the table. I grit my teeth and start cleaning up, throwing away our trash and putting leftovers in the basket.

  I take several sidelong glances at Beckan as he politely helps. I’m still trying to wrap my head around this guy. I’d initially pegged him as an uneducated ape. On the surface, everything about him is rough and uneven. His hair is shaggy and un-gelled, the opposite of the boys I dated back in Texas. He has a permanent five o’clock shadow and his eyes are deep-set like his father’s. I can see a younger version of bulldog Derry, but just barely. He must look an awful lot like his mother and I wonder what she was like. How did a delicate ballerina fall in love with a blue-collar type like Derry?

  “Somethin’ on my face?” Beckan asks, smirking.

  “Huh?” I’m embarrassed he catches me staring. “No, sorry. I was just thinkin’.”

  “‘Bout?”

  I shrug and change the subject. “So you and your dad,” I say, “what do you do around here besides work on the mountain? I mean, we don’t pay you, so how do you make a living?”

  “Pop and I are good with our hands,” he says as we sit back down at the picnic table, across from each other. “We do a lot of thins… make custom furniture, fix thins that need fixin’. If it’s a good yeeah for fishin’, then we make money doin’ that. Cahn’t count on that though.”

  “Seems kinda boring around here.”

  He nods. “I suppose it seems that way tah someone from a big city.”

  “Don’t you ever want to get away?” I ask. “Get out and see the world?”

  Beckan’s lips turn down at the edges. He shrugs, but doesn’t reply. Like maybe he does want to see the world , but he can’t.

  “College?” I ask.

  “Nah.” He looks down at his hands and picks at his cuticles. “I didn’t even get a diploma. School was nevah really my thin’. You?”

  “I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you gonna beeah senior?” I nod. “Isn’t that somethin’ you should be workin’ on?”

  “I guess,” I say. “But things were sorta turned upside-down for us just when I was startin’ to think about it. Between my parents’ fightin’, lookin’ out for Liam, and the move... It took a backseat to everythin’ else.”

  “What ‘bout now?”

  I shrug, imagining myself dancing on a large stage at the University of Arizona, or Oklahoma. In my wildest dreams, Juilliard. Then I’ll move to New York City and find a loft and a job with one of the top theaters... But that’s just a dream. “It’s a nice day,” I say. “You don’t see many afternoons like this in Texas. Too sticky.”

  “Well, we won’t see but a few more like this, even ‘round heeah,” he says. “We’ll hit the rainy season in the next few weeks. You won’t see the sun again ‘til May.”

  As if waiting for Beckan’s permission, the sun dips below the tree line. Mother comes back over, Liam trailing behind her.

  “You know,” Mother says, “it’s odd.”

  “What is?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s a nice Sunday afternoon, the last one before school starts,” she says. “You’d think there’d be more people here. There should be more kids enjoying their last day of freedom. I was kinda hoping to meet a few of Liam’s classmates or their parents. Maybe ask them what the school is like.”

  There are a few seconds of silence as we all look at each other, the only sound the rising chorus of crickets and cicadas.

  “Well,” Beckan says to Liam, “we bettah get you back home. We don’t want you ovahsleepin’ and missin’ the first day of school! C’mon – race you tah the cah.”

  Beckan and Liam take off running. Liam pumps his arms at full speed and Beckan trails right behind him, letting him win. I sigh, feeling relaxed. Why can’t every day feel like this?

  ***

  September

  I look at the old-fashioned red brick building uncertainly. It looks like it came in sections and was cemented together by a local church group over a hot summer weekend. It’s boxy like a factory, all purpose and no fashion.

  I feel claustrophobic. My old high school back had more than four thousand students enrolled in grades nine to twelve. Port Braseham’s schoolhouse holds less than a third of that – in all twelve grades. In a town where everyone knows everyone, the students are sure to know everything about everyone, a thought that makes me break out in a sweat. Gossip’s a mean machine when you’re just a number. How much worse is it when you have a name and a face, especially when you’re the new outsider living in a cursed house?

  I felt like a character out of a sitcom getting ready for school this morning. Mother and I got up and ready about the same time. I took the task of getting Liam together while Mother made breakfast for the three of us. We sat and ate together at a leisurely pace. As far back as I can remember, this has never happened in our family. Back in Texas, mornings in the Delaney household were hectic. Mother was always working and never around when it was time to get ready for school. I was out of the house by six thirty. Dad just managed to get Liam ready and dropped off at day care on his way to work.

  In Port Braseham, since all students go to the same school, all classes start at the same time. Mother got a normal nine to five shift at the hospital to allow her a little more time to get settled into the house. The hospital is far enough away that it’s going to be a stretch getting us to school on time, which is why, at this moment, I’m in Beckan’s loudly idling truck sitting at the curb by The Catholic School of Port Braseham. We let Liam out by the kindergarten doors along the other side of the building. That that it’s my turn, I’m hesitating.

  “Are you gettin’ out or not?” Beckan asks.

  I look at the building again and then back to Beckan. “I guess.” I make no move to get out.

  Beckan sighs and reaches over me for the old-fashioned chrome door handle, tugging stubbornly on it until it releases. I melt into the seat to avoid direct contact with him. I feel his body heat as he leans over me. He shoves the door of the old Ford open, making an ear splitting crrreeeeaaaak, and several students catching up on the manicured lawn t
urn to stare.

  “Off you go, girl.” Beckan smiles at me and nods at the open door.

  I glare. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll walk home.” I slide out of the high seat, keeping my hands on the back of my short pleated skirt to prevent a free show. It’s impossible not to slam the door of his pickup, but I try anyway. I slam the door. The churn of the diesel engine driving away earns more stares. I let my long, dark hair fall in front of my face and hug my bookbag tightly to my side. Where’s a wall to melt into when you need one?

  I look everywhere except into the eyes of the other students. The campus grounds are nice. Each healthy green spread of grass is dotted with dogwood trees and flower bushes all the way around the building. There aren’t any busses, but several parents are dropping kids off in a designated drop off zone.

  I’m ambling along in the direction of the main doors as if I’m heading to the electric chair when suddenly, something small and cold grabs my wrist.

  “OMG! Girl, did you just get out of Beckan O’Dwyre’s truck?” The small thing is a frail looking girl about my age with short black hair. The cold thing is her tiny hand on my arm.

  “Um?”

  “You’re going to get the rumor mill going before school even starts. Well, who am I kidding? The rumor mill started the second that eyesore was sold!”

  The small girl turns out to be one Letta Bauer, another Port Braseham transplant. She moved from Maryland with her parents a few years ago and I’m glad to finally meet someone who’ll talk to me and can understand. I shake Letta’s eager hand and introduce myself.

  “Oh honey, I know who you are!” Letta laughs. “We all do.”

  “Great.” Back in Texas I was popular, but in a good way. I’m pretty. I was on the cheerleading team, and I’m a talented dancer. I had my pick of dates on Friday nights. I was invited to all the parties, threw a few of my own, and incited a little more girl drama than was necessary. Sure, there were people who disliked me, but I was important and they weren’t, so I didn’t really care. But in Port Braseham, I can tell things are going to be very different.

  Letta leads me toward the building. I notice I’m at least a head taller than her. Letta talks the whole way, barely stopping to breathe unless she’s asking me a question, and even then, the pause is short. Apparently, everyone knows my name, that I have a younger brother, my mother is a divorced nurse and designated “hot M.I.L.F.”, and we’re the newest owners to take possession of the blight on the hill.

  “And they know you’re from Texas, so don’t expect them to be too friendly on that account,” Letta says. “Southerners aren’t too highly regarded up here, trust me.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say. “I was kicked out of a restaurant for Pete’s sake!”

  “Pfft. That’s nothing,” Letta says. “At least you’re Catholic. That’s about the only thing that’ll save you around here.”

  I roll my eyes. “Is anyone in this town not Catholic?”

  “Me.” Letta smiles. “I’m Jewish, which doesn’t exactly make me popular either, but I’ve managed to survive and you will too. Trust me, not everyone in this town is as judgmental as some of the old fogies around here. You’ll get used to it.”

  I sigh with resignation – or anxiety, I’m not sure which – as we enter the building. The inside of the school looks like what I expect of a high school. There are halls of brightly colored lockers, wooden windowed doors, and students bustling around and catching up. I feel a pang in my stomach. I wonder how my friends back in Texas are doing. They have a couple more hours of sleep, but then they’ll go to school and catch up and flirt with the boys... and I’m here. In the smallest town on the planet. Branded with the scarlet letter of haunted houses. God I miss Texas.

  I ignore the heads turning in my direction, and continue talking to Letta. “Well what’s the big deal about arriving with Beckan? How’s that any worse?”

  Letta explains, “Well there’s the obvious reason – he and his father take care of your house. The O’Dwyres have handled the property for generations since no one else around here will touch it because of the curse.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Is there a less obvious reason?”

  “Well... a few years ago Mr. O’Dwyre had a disagreement of sorts with Seamus Quinn, the head of the town council and President of the Port Braseham Historical Society. I’m not sure what it was about because it was before I moved here, but rumor has it that it was pretty nasty. Mr. Quinn’s son, Ronan, is the most popular kid here. It seems you’re either on Ronan’s side or Beckan’s – and Beckan’s is the wrong side to be on.”

  “Why should it even matter?” I ask. “Beckan isn’t even a student here. He’s what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

  “I think he turned twenty a few weeks ago.”

  “Really?” Does that matter to me? I’m not sure. But I’m curious to know how Letta knows Beckan’s birthday.

  “Anyway, he dropped out his freshman year, but it doesn’t matter. This is a small town and you run into everyone everywhere. Beckan and Ronan had it out near the end of the school year last year down on the docks. It was a huge fight. Beckan nearly knocked Ronan unconscious and they had to fish him out of the water. But man, was it awesome! Ronan deserved a good kick in the teeth. And Beckan looks pretty hot all sweaty and breathing heavily in a ripped shirt.” Letta’s eyes go glassy.

  A shrill bell rings, a real honest to goodness bell, not an electronic counterfeit.

  “There’s the warning bell. I better show you where you’re going.” Letta grabs my arm and pulls me to a poster on the wall with a list of letters and room numbers. “There’s your homeroom with Mrs. Brennan, the crazy old bat. Her room is right around the corner.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime. Hey, maybe we can sit together at lunch. If you make it that far.” Letta smiles.

  “I’m already cursed,” I say. “How much worse can it get?”

  “You’ll see.” Letta winks and disappears into the throng of students hustling by.

  Right as I turn toward Mrs. Brennan’s room, a group of large boys run by me, pushing everyone in their way and leaving destruction in their wake. I’m knocked into a wall and fall on my butt. Several students watch it happen and stare at me with uninterested, crossed arms. When my supplies spill out of my backpack, several sets of feet stomp all over them, and no one stops to help me.

  I. Hate. This. Town.

  I grit my teeth, gather my belongings, and go off to begin what will be my worst day in Port Braseham yet.

  Chapter Nine

  Humble Pie

  Mrs. Brennan must be the oldest active teacher in the United States. Her salt and pepper hair lays in a long braid down her back. Despite the late summer heat and lack of air conditioning, she’s dressed like a nun. Her dress starts at her chin and goes all the way to her skinny wrists and ankles with tiny buttons all the way up the front. I try guessing her age from the angle of scoliosis in her back and wonder how she got all those buttons done up with her long brittle nails. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she sleeps in it. Maybe her husband used to help her with the buttons, but he died and she’s been stuck in it ever since, and she just spot cleans it as necessary. I look forward to tomorrow with mild curiosity.

  One other student, a brooding blonde boy, sits in a desk by the windows, deliberately ignoring the rest of the room. You and me both, brother, I think with solidarity.

  I choose a desk at the back, an old contraption with the desk and seat welded together. I can’t keep my feet under the desk and my bag out of the aisle at the same time so I set my shoulder bag next to my feet and do my best to keep it out of the way.

  More students file in and take seats. The goody two-shoes collect in the first row while the rest fill in from the back. Though there’s no school uniform in the clichéd blue, red, and green plaid skirts and jackets, I notice everyone is dressed conservatively. Boys wear collared shirts with little embroidered alligators or tiny men on tiny horses. There are no bare
shoulders in sleeveless shirts for the girls, and all of their skirts fall to just above the knees. I pull at the hem of my short skirt self-consciously, wishing it were longer for the first time in my life. I know with my body type, my skirt is a shade shorter than my fingertips, which is possible to get away with at a city school back in Texas. Here, my outfit makes me stand out and, although that’s something I usually enjoy, I have a feeling it’s going to get me noticed in the wrong way.

  The other students smile and chatter at each other, still catching up on the first day jitters. However this doesn’t stop them from noticing the stranger in the back of the room. Some of them glance back at me politely, but without smiling. Others stare without embarrassment. I might be the new kid in town, but Letta’s right – they know exactly who I am. I’ve never wanted to blend in so badly in my life.

  Last to enter is the obligatory model, tall and gorgeous. Everyone greets her by name (“Hey Mary!”) and try to get her to notice them. A wave, a smile, a loud “Hey! Over here!” and a motioning hand. Her smile gleams with perfectly whitened and proportioned teeth, a dentist’s dream. Long legs strut gracefully beneath a pair of cropped khaki capris and a form fitting pink polo shirt hugs her shapely torso. Girls glare at her with veiled jealousy and boys tell her how great she looks. This girl is exactly who I used to be, pretty and popular, stylish and important. An uncomfortable – and unusual – pang of jealousy turns my stomach.