Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  I’m so lonely, Rose.

  Mr. Lindsay notices the seat change with an arched eyebrow, but says nothing. Of course – of course! – he’s going to talk about the earthquake history of Maine. What else would we talk about the day after such a strange and important event?

  “You know, the earthquake history of Maine, though short, is really quite interesting,” Mr. Lindsay says, pulling down an ancient map of the state from a roll screwed to the top of the chalkboard.

  Mary, sitting in the middle of the room with her friends, mutters something I can’t hear, and they erupt with laughter, glancing openly at me over their shoulders.

  “Mostly,” Mr. Lindsay continues, undeterred by our total lack of interest, “we feel earthquakes from other places, like Canada or Massachusetts, but we do have our own history.” He picks up an old pool cue he likes using to point at his maps and jabs happily away as he orates. “The first earthquake reported with an epicenter in Maine happened in May of 1817. Historians think the epicenter was probably here in the center region of the state since reports of the earthquake came from all over.

  “The next recorded earthquake was almost a century later, in 1904. This stronger one was felt by the whole of New England and would be nothing particularly special to Maine were it not for damage to three popular churches; one in Eastport, one in New Brunswick, and of course, our own Saint Perpetua, Our Lady Martyr.” Mr. Lindsay jabs at another dot on the map.

  Mr. Lindsay’s enthusiasm starts to pull me out of my stupor, and I begin listening despite myself. The earthquake closest to Port Braseham came in 1912 when an earthquake hit the Bangor coast, the mainland closest to Mt. Desert Island. There was a 7.2 in 1929 triggered by a submarine. January 1943 in Delaware. Damage in Portland from an offshore earthquake in April 1957.

  “And that would be it,” Mr. Lindsay says importantly, tugging on the map and allowing it to shoot back up with a loud snap, waking a couple of students who’ve nodded off. “Except for,” he says in the plot-twisting tone I recognize, “an earthquake that happened in the summer of 1932. And why, you might ask, is this earthquake so special?”

  Mr. Lindsay’s question is rhetorical and I know the answer.

  “Because,” he continues eagerly, “the epicenter was right here in Port Braseham. It’s the only earthquake to ever hit our town directly until –”

  “Last night,” I say. I didn’t mean to say it out loud, much less loud enough for the rest of the room to hear me. The room is filled with a heavy silence broken only by the creaks of desks as my classmates turn to look at me.

  “That’s right, Rose,” Mr. Lindsay says evenly. “The earthquake in 1932 was not particularly strong by comparison, registering as a 4.3. Nothing much was damaged. In fact, most of the damage was limited to Wolfhowl Manor because it’s a rather old and delicate piece of construction that hasn’t been updated like the rest of our older buildings, Saint Perpetua for example.”

  I wish Mr. Lindsay would stop talking now. Some of my classmates are trying not to be so obvious, but Mary is looking straight at me in the most unfriendly way yet. Did Ronan confess what happened at the party? Did Adam follow through on his threat and tell her?

  “And last night’s?” Adam asks from his usual perch against the window, in his usual melancholy tone, and with his usual glum expression. “What did last night’s earthquake register? I think it must have been stronger because there’s been a lot of talk about damage around town.”

  Jackass.

  “Well you’re partly right, Adam,” Mr. Lindsay says, leaning his short backside against his desk and pushing his thin framed glasses higher up on his nose. “There’s been talk of damage, but it’s a little early to be certain of how much. I missed the news this morning, so I’m not sure of the Richter reading –”

  “5.9,” Mary offers helpfully, winking at me.

  “Yes, thank you Ms. Donovan. So it was stronger then. 5.9 is pretty remarkable, much stronger than the one in 1932 of course. It’s likely there’ll be damage to some of the older buildings around town, but a 5.9 isn’t strong enough to swallow up Port Braseham. It was just a healthy jiggle to make sure we’re paying attention.” Mr. Lindsay smiles.

  “Too bad that blight on the mountain’s still standing,” Mary says, looking at me. “I thought for sure we’d finally be rid of it. And you,” she adds, too low for Mr. Lindsay to hear.

  Mr. Lindsay ignores the girl drama playing out in front of him and turns back to the board. “Well, that was a wonderful extra little lesson for us today! Now, let’s move on to today’s real lesson: the Abenaki Indians!” At the sound of his melodious voice, most of the eyes in the room finally turn away from me. All sets of eyes except for one.

  Adam glares at me, as if he thinks his eyes can get beneath the surface, read my insides like a book. And then a venomous smile slides across his thin lips. It’s so creepy it makes me shiver.

  I tune Mr. Lindsay out and try to think about what he said. When was the earthquake in Port Braseham? Summer of 1932. I close my eyes to concentrate and picture the words in Emily Lenore II’s diary in my head. I’m certain her last entry was in 1932, but when? Was it in the summer?

  I’m obsessed all through study hall, blocking out all the sneers and jeers from the other students. It certainly doesn’t take anyone of marked intelligence to make the connection between the earthquake and Wolfhowl Mountain. But my classmates are prejudiced. They want to believe the earthquake has something to do with my house because they want to believe I’m some sort of ghoul who’ll play her part in the superstition about the damn mountain, like everyone else who’s lived there. They just want another ghost to talk about at parties.

  I make the connection between my house and the earthquake because I know the truth. No one else in town knows a child was hidden away up on Wolfhowl Mountain for fifteen years; it certainly would be part of the lore of the place otherwise. I think the 1932 earthquake probably occurred the very day Emily Lenore II managed her escape – if she’d managed it.

  I scour the halls for Letta between bells and in the cafeteria at lunch, but I can’t find her anywhere. Shane and Patty are sitting at our usual lunch table, but they’re hunched close together with their heads bent, deep in conversation. I feel awkward intruding, so I don’t. Instead, I stare around the cafeteria looking for somewhere else to sit, but every other seat seems to be taken. Eileen sits with Ronan and Mary’s table again, and a crazy idea pops into my head, and I almost walk over to join them – but then I remember how Mary looked at me in history class and come to my senses.

  I take my lunch out of the cafeteria, through the hall, and into the bathroom. Then I do the one thing Texas Rose never did; I eat my lunch by myself, sitting on a porcelain throne and fighting back tears.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Fight

  I suffer through art and creative writing, doing my best to be invisible. At least Adam and Mary aren’t in either class, which leads to minimal enjoyment. I just don’t feel like myself anymore. Moving across the country from a big city to a small town, and into the most cursed house since Amityville Horror, has a way of changing you.

  I alternate between worrying about Letta, Liam’s increasingly strange behavior, and how I’m going to save my family. By the time the last bell rings, I’m so distracted I forget Beckan is picking me up.

  I’m putzing around at my locker, delaying my return to Wolfhowl Manor a little longer. I hate to admit that I’m terrified of what’ll happen when I get home.

  Suddenly, my locker slams shut, barely missing my hand as I snap it back. For a split second, I think the house’s dark magic followed me to school, but then I see Mary Donovan standing there, radiating the kind of heat that can only be produced by unadulterated fury.

  For the first time since I’ve met her, Mary looks ugly. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows press down over her wide, dark eyes, which are ringed like a raccoon’s by her smudged mascara. She presses her dainty lips together so tightly the
edges are white. The faint remains of tear tracks are visible as she glares at me. For once she’s alone, but that doesn’t comfort me; without her cronies to keep her grounded, Mary is only more dangerous.

  “You.” Her voice is menacingly quiet.

  She’s caught me off guard and my mind whirrs with possibilities. Mary’s dislike for me has always been clear and followed a predetermined path – one queen bee will always be the rival of the other queen bee. But this passionate hatred etched on her face is a new dynamic between us, and I can only think of one explanation: Ronan.

  “Me?” I finally manage to say, aware many of our classmates are slowing their exits out of the building to eavesdrop. I almost expect someone to start chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  “You –” Mary snarls again. “You slut!”

  The surge of anger is immediate, uncontrollable. My hands become tight fists as the heat of rage bubbles under my skin. I fight the urge to smack Mary across her perfect cheeks as hard as I can. “Excuse me?”

  “Everything was fine until you and your idiot family moved here,” Mary shouts. “I hate you!”

  “Yes, well, no shit,” I say, measuring my tone. “I don’t like you either. Thanks for relationship status reminder.” I try to walk past Mary, try to take the high road, and hear the disappointed sighs around me. I’m not backing down from the fight I tell myself, I’m walking away.

  Mary blocks me. “You’ve stolen everything from me!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I snap.

  “Ronan is mine,” Mary says, baring her teeth. “He’s always been mine, he will always be mine.”

  “Yeah, well you’ll have to have that conversation with him, won’t you?”

  “He dumped me at lunch,” Mary says, “for you. Cheap, redneck, trashy you.”

  “What?” I’m shell-shocked. Is Mary telling the truth or is this some kind of trick, a game? “You don’t know me,” I say, “and because you don’t know me, I’ll warn you that you had better watch what you say before I knock out those perfect teeth and add them to my ass-kicking collection. I didn’t steal Ronan from you. I don’t even want him. He dumped you, so what? You make up and break up all the time from what I hear. What’s that got to do with me?”

  Mary doesn’t reply. Her face is red and she’s sweating. Her manicured nails dig into her palms as she curls them into fists.

  “Whatever.” I shake my head. “Let me know when you think of a comeback.” I push by Mary, knocking her with a shoulder as I do. I make it about ten steps before Mary shouts again.

  “It wasn’t enough for your slut mother to steal my father from my family,” she screams, growing more irrational with each word. “Now you have to have my boyfriend too? When is it enough, Rose? Destroying families, relationships, this town? When’s it going to be enough for you and your spooky slut of a mother?”

  The hallway echoes with the low ooohs of the gathering crowd.

  I turn around slowly and look at Mary, trying to gauge her. “What?” I’ve had enough surprises in the last twenty-four hours for a lifetime.

  “Oh, didn’t know that did you?” Mary says angrily. “Didn’t know Doctor Donovan and Nurse Delaney were spending so much time together? What’d your mother tell you? Working late? Busy night at the hospital? Happy hour?”

  I have no response. My brain is overloaded. I think about how happy Mother’s been each morning as she skips along to work. I’d assumed she just was glad to get out of the house. Is this the real reason?

  “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mary says, seeming to gain control of herself again. “Like slut mother like slut daughter.”

  I hear the snap in my head, the switch being flipped. My vision goes white for a second, the anger overpowering. My body moves forward and the hard smack of my hand hitting Mary’s pretty little face that reverberates through me is satisfying. Mary is stunned and I take advantage of it, hitting her again, square in the eye, knocking her to the ground.

  The chants I envisioned before are suddenly real, and Mary and I are rolling around on the ground in a tangle of hair and girl fight.

  ***

  An hour later, I’m sitting in Principal Flynn’s office with Mother, who sits perfectly straight in the stiff wooden chair next to me, prim and stern. I slouch in my own chair, hair ripped violently from my bun and sprayed around my face like I’ve been electrocuted. I have a welt on my left cheek from the one swipe Mary managed to get in, and I’m holding a wad of paper towels up to my nose, stemming the blood flow caused by an errant elbow.

  “As you know, Mrs. Delaney,” Principal Flynn says in a clipped tone, her hands clasped in front of her on the giant mahogany desk she reigns from, “we take fighting very seriously. Rose’s records from Texas show this is a pattern of hers.” A finger taps the manila folder under her hands. “Given this record, I’m not sure this school is the proper placement for your daughter.”

  My stomach cramps with anxiety. The last thing I need is to be expelled from school my senior year. I can kiss all hope for a future away – not that it matters because Mother will kill me the second we get home anyway. Principal Flynn remains quiet, her plain face unreadable.

  “I certainly understand your concern,” Mother begins softly, more softly than I’ve heard in a long time, “but I don’t believe expelling Rose is the right solution. Please try to understand that our family has been through a lot this past year, and we aren’t quite out of the woods yet. I brought my family here for change, for a chance at healing. What Rose did was wrong, but she needs the strong routine and morals you provide here. Please give her the opportunity to change. I know she’s trying, even if it doesn’t seem that way right now. It’s only been a few months. We need more time to adjust.” Mother’s practically begging Principal Flynn to give me another chance. It makes me sick. I glare at her, feeling a churning sea of mixed emotions. Here’s my angry Irish mother being softer and gentler than I’ve ever seen her, trying to save my educational career. But all I can think about is Mary’s angry allegation. All I can picture is Mother wrapped in the embrace of some remarkably handsome doctor with Mary’s perfect teeth, and her perfect tiny nose, and her long, delicate fingers. I’m nauseous.

  Principal Flynn turns her carefully impassive stare on me. “Rose,” she says, “have you anything to say for yourself? Letting your mother speak for you isn’t going to do you any favors.”

  I look at Principal Flynn. She’s in her fifties. Her dark brown hair is slowly turning salt and pepper, and she’s embracing it. Her hair is styled and soft, but not dyed. She wears a navy pantsuit and a perfectly ironed white collar pokes out at the top. Her nails are painted pale pink, but her lips and face are blank slates. She exudes the kind of natural beauty a lot of women her age would be jealous of. I don’t know much about her, haven’t even seen her, until today. I have no idea if she rules with an iron fist or if she’s pliable under the right apologetic words.

  I sit up straight and pull the paper towel away from my nose, which has finally stopped bleeding. I have no idea what to say and quickly search for something that’ll save me.

  “I tried to walk away,” I say. “Mary confronted me, and I tried to walk away, but she wouldn’t let me. She was spewing ugly things about my family and I couldn’t let it go. I’m not going to say fighting with her was a good idea, but I’m not going to apologize for defending my family either.”

  “Rose!” Mother’s horrified, but Principal Flynn holds up a hand.

  “What exactly was this fight about?” she asks.

  “Yes, what is it you and this Mary argued about that was so serious?” Mother says, eyeing me as if I couldn’t possibly provide a valid reason for fighting.

  “Mary Donovan and I,” I say, watching Mother stiffen out of the corner of my eye, “have never gotten along. She accused me of stealing her boyfriend, which isn’t true, and then she said some very nasty things about my family. When I tried to walk away, she blocked me and baited me wit
h words I’d rather not repeat, if that’s alright.”

  “Yes,” Mother says tightly, “I don’t see how airing dirty laundry in here will solve anything.”

  “Very well,” Principal Flynn says after examining me for a long time. “Rose, I’m going to suspend you for two days starting with tomorrow. Consider this me cutting you some slack – and know it won’t happen again.”

  A protest rises inside me, but I stifle it, reminding myself I’m catching a break. Principal Flynn says nothing more, and we understand we’ve being dismissed. I follow Mother to the parking lot. Although I should be relieved, I’m filled with dread. How am I going to survive two days inside Wolfhowl Manor alone?

  The silence in the car is deafening. It’s filled with my own raging thoughts. Isn’t Mother going to say anything? Doesn’t she understand that I know? It’s clear by her reaction to Mary’s last name that Mary’s allegations are true. I have to say something. I have to acknowledge what she’s done or I’m going to start screaming.

  Mother sighs as we near the mountain. “Rose, I –”

  “Like to destroy families,” I spit. “You’re getting so good at it.”

  For a moment Mother’s mouth is frozen in an O of shock. She stutters, “Rose – you – I – how dare –”

  “How dare I?” My fury sparks into an inferno inside my chest. “How dare you, Mother! After everything that happened back home, you went to bed with another married man! You lied to me about it! And now everyone in Port Braseham knows! Did you even stop to think about what would happen if the truth came out? This isn’t big city Texas! We’re in podunk gossip central where everyone knows everything about everyone! And you had to hook up with the father of the girl who has made it her mission to make me miserable here. No Mother, not how dare I. How dare you.”

  Mother turns the car into Letta’s driveway, gritting her teeth so loud I can hear them grinding against each other. We park outside Letta’s house, but don’t get out. We glare at each other, both angry and stubborn. There’s some kind of role reversal going on. By all rights, Mother should be lecturing me from here to eternity for getting into yet another fight at school and then mouthing off. Instead, I’m lecturing my own mother on her moral failure as the head of our family. Instead of leading us out of the darkness created by Dad’s death, she’s lead us straight into the heart of it. Somewhere deep down, I know I should cut her a little slack. After all, she lost someone too. But I can’t find it in me to forgive Mother, to play the role of understanding daughter. Not this time. She’s the one who brought us here, who moved us into a real life Hell House. Our family is falling apart and it’s all her fault.