by Etta Faire
It wasn’t signed, but I could guess who it was from. Crooked mile, crooked man, a crooked stile. This was all very familiar, like a poem I’d heard somewhere but had long forgotten. I wiped the dust off my phone and punched it into the browser. It instantly came up, first search.
There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house
An old 19th century nursery rhyme that shouldn’t have meant anything to me, yet my hand shook holding my phone as I read it. I was connected somehow. Henry Bowman had been a crooked man who walked a crooked mile. And we were definitely living together in a crooked house. But what did it mean?
I felt a twinge of guilt looking at the hole in the wall, the piles of dust and debris around me, and all for a postcard.
“At least Geraldo had been paid to bust into that vault,” I said, kicking myself. Damn it. I needed that seance. And now I had a broken wall I needed to pay to fix.
I fanned myself with the postcard then read the words again: “I am not who you think I am.”
Maybe, it was time I knew who I was too.
Chapter 13
No Place Like Home
Rosalie slumped over her cash register, eyes barely focused when I said “good-bye” to her that Thursday. It had been a few days since I told her about our seance replacements, and she still hadn’t snapped out of it.
I knew it wasn’t about the money. A hundred dollars a piece wasn’t anything. She was depressed because she’d thought she had the upper hand in the negotiations with Paula, and we’d been easily replaced.
I almost felt like I shouldn’t leave her.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“That’s not a ‘fine’ people use when they really are fine,” I said.
“I guess I just thought people liked us.” She stared off at an empty hippie store. “The ladies at the country club… the rich people on the lake. Apparently, there’s no difference between us and any other mediums.”
“Why don’t you come with me?” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t close up shop for a couple of days,” she said, like business was booming. “Go. Your mom misses you.”
I kissed her cheek and told her I’d call her every night to check on her, then I left.
Jackson appeared as soon as I turned my car on. “Well, that was dramatic,” he said.
I stared at him a second before pulling out of the parking lot of the strip mall the Purple Pony was located in. “Who asked you to come?”
“Let’s be honest with ourselves, shall we?” He looked out the window. “Today is Thursday, the day Mrs. Harpton inspects the house again. And there’s still a three-foot pile of drywall sitting in the hallway. We both know that’s why you’re leaving.”
I stared at the steering wheel. “And that’s why you’re leaving too, I suppose.”
“Of course. I can’t be around for that. No one has ever touched Gate House. I am not going to be around to find out what happens. Plus, I need a break from our houseguest. She was a suffragette, you know, not sure if you heard that yet. When are we returning?”
“Sunday. I don’t want to be in town for the seance either.”
He looked at me, his transparent beard almost fading into my dark upholstery. “Sunday. You got that much time off from the house?”
I didn’t answer.
“You did put in a formal vacation request, didn’t you?”
I sucked my lips in. “Should I turn around?”
“Just drive,” he said. “I’m probably not returning at this point anyway. At least your mother doesn’t talk nonstop about marching in a corset.”
I ignored his sarcasm and told him all about the channeling and the case itself. We had a lot of time to kill, and even though I hated to admit it, I was glad to have the company on such a long drive out to Indianapolis.
“So Sir Walter lied to the police?” he said when I got to that part.
I nodded. “According to the report, he told them he lost his hat when Bessie begged him to come back. I didn’t see the report myself, though. Paula has it. But, none of that happened. I know because I was there. Bessilyn didn’t beg. He did. And he threw a wine glass out into the parking lot, not his hat.”
“Interesting.”
“I was going to confront him at the seance, but that’s not happening now.”
I looked off at the highway in front of us, trying to think of a way to still make that happen.
A rooster weathervane creaked on its pole above my mother’s red brick townhouse, making me realize just how perfect everything was at her place. From the dark green trimmed windows to the little black mailbox, it all screamed of my mother’s motto in life: Don’t touch anything; I just Windexed.
I wiped my sticky-with-Dr.-Pepper hands on my already-stained sweatshirt and tried to unlock the door but couldn’t. I inspected the key, too tired for this. Too tired for anything, really. I’d just driven eight hours straight with my annoying ex-husband, and my body couldn’t decide if it was having a caffeine rush or a nervous meltdown.
I knocked with one shaky hand while ringing the bell with the other.
Myrtle, my mother’s tabby, hissed at me from behind the door.
“Geez, Louise. I’m a comin,’” said a woman’s voice that was not my mother’s. I almost checked the address even though this had been my home for all of my life outside of my marriage.
A woman in her 60s with unusually red hair flung the door open and gave me a large welcoming smile. My mother’s friend Brenda. She told me to come in out of the cold. It was close to 70 degrees outside.
The inside of my mother’s house looked similar to the outside. No dust dared to sit on the drill sergeant’s kitty cat knickknacks. No coffee cups meandered on random coasters, wondering if they were done being used for the day. Nothing but straight-off-the-showroom perfection allowed here.
“Marlene!” Brenda yelled toward the back of the townhouse. “Carly’s here.”
My mother waltzed into the living room like she was making an entrance in a Polident commercial: large smile, just the right amount of lipstick, and a bounce in her step.
She kissed both my cheeks. “Why’d you ring the bell?” she asked.
“My key doesn’t work.”
“Of course it does. We’ve only had the one key.”
“Yes, I remember the day you finally gave me a copy when I was fifteen, after I swore on the Bible I would never lose it.” I held it up. “And I haven’t.”
Brenda leaned in and whispered in her ear.
“Oh, that’s right,” my mother said, pushing a loose gray strand behind her ear. “Brenda lost her keys so we had the locks replaced.”
I sat down on a perfectly fluffed, leather couch. “Brenda lost her key? Wait a second… Brenda has a key?”
My mother didn’t let me finish. “The ladies will be here for some Hand-and-Foot in about half an hour. They’re all excited to see you. I’m making sandwiches. You want tuna or chicken?”
“Tuna for me,” I said. Hand-and-Foot was my mother’s favorite canasta-type card game, and “the ladies” meant the group of retired women who got together once a week to brag about their children, and their grandchildren. I was already suspicious of my mother for hosting. She probably wanted me to hear firsthand what the competition was up to so I’d step up my game.
I opened the door that led down to the basement, lifting my rolling suitcase over the familiar orange-carpeted stairs. My mother followed me down. “I put a mattress down here for you, but let me know if it’s too crowded. I’ve kind of set up shop down here.”
What did that even mean? I peeked around the corner. It smelled like fresh paint and fabric. My jaw dropped. Three different kinds of sewing machines were sitting on tables with fabric hanging off of all of them. L
arge wooden, half-painted boards were propped along each of the walls except for one where, right next to the litter box, was an air mattress with a folded sheet set on it.
My mom was right behind me. “Isn’t this great? I was asked to make costumes and set designs for the Christmas play this year. Gotta start early. It’s a big job.”
“You know how to sew?” I asked, mouth still open. My mother had been an engineer.
“It’s really not that hard. All you have to do is follow a pattern.”
I nodded. No wonder. Following a pattern was never my strong suit in life.
She continued. “I could set up something upstairs in my office, but I still do consulting for Stellaplex, and I have all sorts of files and things…”
I wheeled my suitcase around a rack of clothes. It dragged slowly through the shag carpet. “No, this is fine. It’s fine. I’m only here two days, anyways.”
Brenda called down the stairs after us. “Did your mom tell you about Gordon the dentist?”
I shot my mom a look. “Gordon the dentist?”
My mother dug one of her perfectly white Reeboks into the carpet. “Midwest Singles dot com. Brenda and I made you a profile after you called to say you were coming. It just makes sense. You seem lonely.”
I ran a hand along my aching eyes.
“Do you want to see your profile? You’re picking up lots of hits.”
“Oh God no. I mean, maybe. I mean, no.”
“Don’t worry. We made sure to weed out the dodos. We put in that you were only seeking professionals. And absolutely no smokers.”
“Sounds very selective,” I said.
“I hope you don’t mind that I made you dinner plans tonight with the dentist. We’ll have dinner together tomorrow night.” She looked me over. “You should probably clean up.”
“I don’t want to go out to dinner with a non-smoking professional tonight. I just drove eight hours and I’m tired.” I sat down on the saggy air mattress, my butt touched the floor. She handed me her phone and I saw a dark-haired man laughing at a golf course.
“He plays golf,” she said, pointing to the man.
“I see.”
“Just like you.”
“In high school. And I only joined the team because it was easy to get a letter.” I flopped onto the mattress. I hated to admit it, but the dentist was cute, and I was, technically, desperate.
I scrolled over to my profile picture, a picture of me pretending that my root beer was alcohol with a group of friends from golf, in high school. “Speaking of high school, this photo is from high school.”
“It is? No wonder I never see you in that cute blouse anymore.”
“Yeah, because it was cute fourteen years ago.” I handed her phone back. “Long walks by the lake? And it says here I’m a teacher. I’m not a teacher. This whole profile’s a lie, and a cliche. And I don’t need your help dating.”
My mother headed back up the stairs, apparently finished with our conversation. She paused on a step and turned around. “About the teaching part. It’s not a lie. I looked into it. You already have a master’s degree. If you joined an accelerated program, it would only take you another year to get your teaching credential,” she said like I should be excited to hear I was only a year away from making her proud.
I knew my mother was just being my mother, a person who saw a logical solution to every problem. And, I had a lot of problems. I needed a better job, so I should go into an accelerated teaching program. I needed a boyfriend, so I should set up a dating profile.
Logic was ruining my life.
Jackson appeared by my side on the mattress as soon as she headed back up the stairs. He gestured around the basement at the props and sewing machines. “And they say you can’t go home again.”
“Shut up, “ I whispered, very aware of how it would look if anyone noticed me talking to him. I left him hover-sitting on the mattress and went up the stairs after my mother. The queen of distractions wasn’t going to get away that easily. Now was as good a time as any to ask her the many questions I came here to ask.
As I opened the basement door, I heard the ladies already there for cards. She was queen for a reason.
“Don’t worry,” Jackson said, appearing by my side again. “I’ll merely be a fly on the wall when you go on your date. With a golfing dentist, I hear. My, my. I’m very impressed.”
Gordon the dentist had the kind of hair-to-head ratio that makes you stare, mesmerized by whether he had hair plugs or just oddly spaced follicles. He looked a lot different than his profile picture, but then so did I.
I pulled on the spaghetti straps of my halter dress, trying to minimize the amount of cleavage I was showing and took a sip of water, pretending to be interested in what the man was saying when the only thing I could think about was my mother. She hosted cards and sent me on this date on purpose, so I wouldn’t have time to ask her about the adoption. She’d known all along. That sneaky woman was good.
Gordon set his menu down, folded his hands over it, and smiled. “So, you’re a teacher. What’s that like?”
I didn’t see the fly on the wall yet, but I knew Jackson was here somewhere, laughing. I decided lying was easier than explaining how we came to this lie. “Teaching. It’s just as rewarding as you’d think it’d be. Kids are the future, you know. And I help them get that way.”
Gordon stared deeply into my eyes. “That’s so authentic. I think so many people are fake nowadays. I truly believe the only way to find real love is to be authentic right from the beginning.”
Stretching his arms across the table, he touched the tips of my fingers with his, and I held in the urge to scream. I wasn’t expecting that kind of authenticity.
He lowered his voice. “I’m going to be super-authentic right now. I feel a connection with you I don’t normally feel. What do you say we ditch this place and go for a ride? You wanna see my BMW? My house? I have a wine cellar.” He winked.
And this is why you don’t use party-girl profile pictures from high school…
I drew my hands away. “It’s my turn to be super authentic with you, Gordon. I’m not really a teacher. I work retail at a hippie store and I live with my ex-husband.”
His face dropped.
“He’s dead. A ghost. I see ghosts all the time. I talk to them, too. They’re some of my best friends, the most interesting and authentic people around. There are probably some here in this restaurant that will come out if we call them. Should we call them?”
He was right. Being authentic felt amazing.
Gordon’s lip curled in a kind of concerned-yet-disgusted expression. He turned his head to the side. “If you weren’t interested, you could just have told me. You didn’t have to pretend to be weird. I prefer honest people.”
An older woman appeared by his side. She had thinning gray hair and a thick face. “My Gordy-pie. He’s a nice boy, but I don’t approve of what he’s doing. He can’t pay for this dinner so he tries to get girls to leave with him before they bring the wine. He’s a dentist, but he’s got so much debt. I worry.”
He got up to leave.
“Your mother doesn’t approve of what you’re doing here, Gordy-pie.”
His face dropped. He threw his napkin onto the plate and looked all around the restaurant. “Wait, what? What did you call me?”
“Gordy-pie, your mother says hello. She also says you’re a nice boy,” I coughed on the word boy, and nice. “But you do this all the time. Leave before the wine is served because you can’t afford it. She wants you to be truly authentic, by living within your means and being honest with yourself and others.”
I was ad-libbing, and I was on a roll.
He practically fast walked into the waiter on his way out. I chugged my water and wiped my mouth with the fine cloth napkin in front of me. Maybe we all had disapproving mothers in life. Sir Walter’s didn’t approve of Bessie. Gordy-pie’s hated his debt. And mine wanted me to be a teacher.
Jackson appeared
on my way out. “I heard what you said back there about ghosts being the most interesting and authentic people you know.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I only said that for shock value. Let’s go,” I said, not even caring that the restaurant was staring at me now. “It’s time I dealt with my own sneaky and disapproving mother.”
Chapter 14
Distractions
Even though I’d moved the litter box so it wasn’t right by my head, I tossed and turned all night. The air mattress sunk and squished in weird ways whenever I turned, but that wasn’t why I couldn’t sleep. I hated confrontations with my mother.
My mother woke me at 8:00 for breakfast, but once I made it upstairs, I realized there was more to this than just eggs.
She handed me my agenda for the day, printed out and highlighted in two different colors. I sat at the breakfast bar and pretended to be impressed.
“You’ll see, in yellow, that I made arrangements for you to talk to a counselor at eleven,” she said, pointing to my schedule. “But, you’ll need to leave here at ten to get there fifteen minutes early, which is just common courtesy.”
She and Brenda were both in the kitchen. Brenda was frying eggs, humming to herself over the pan, looking right at home with an apron around her thick hips. I was just about to ask if she lived here when I replayed my mother’s words in my head. “Wait. What kind of counselor are we talking about?”
“A career one.”
“Is this about teaching?”
“Or editing. Or nursing. Or anything.”
Brenda smiled up from the eggs. “Is this done enough for you, dear?”
I nodded. “Thanks, Brenda.”