Deadly Decision

by Regina Smeltzer

  “What’s happening to you, Bill? I never thought you would lose your faith.”

  “I haven’t lost my faith.” I wiped dust off my face, paced back and forth in the narrow kitchen. “At the first hint of a demon I—”

  “You admit they were demons?”

  “Not the ghost boys, later.”

  “You’ve got to get some help, Bill.”

  “I don’t need a shrink.”

  “You need a man of God. You’re being deceived.”

  Betsy was angry. I could sense her anger as easily as if she had been standing beside me.

  “I can’t talk about this. I’ll keep praying for you.”

  “I don’t need your prayers!” The line was dead before I finished.

  Hands shaking, I pocketed the phone.

  As if the day couldn’t get any worse, Mitch pulled his grinding truck into the drive. Trina stepped out the passenger side just as I opened the back porch door.

  Trina waved to me from the side of the truck. “Hey Dad, come check it out!”

  I walked toward the truck, brushing the dust off my hair and shoulders, creating a cloud of white. A visual of the shroud I was feeling.

  Ted untied the ropes and pulled off the blanket. Underneath stood an old oak table and a stack of chairs with grape vines carved in an oval above the slatted backs. “The table looks great, honey,” Ted said, running his hand over the smooth wood.

  Did I imagine it, or was Ted avoiding me?

  As we unloaded the furniture, Mitch needed constant instruction on what to do: fold the blanket, pick up a chair and carry it inside. There were boys like him at school, ones who pretended to be simple, but were street smart. That’s how they survived. Kids like that could sweet-talk anyone into anything, and then steal you blind. My fists clenched as I thought of what he could do to Trina. And Ted allowed Mitch to be here, in daily contact, sometimes alone, with the woman he supposedly loved.

  I grabbed the other end of the table, and Ted and I struggled to get it through the kitchen door and into the dining room. Trina went ahead of us, clearing away the cans and rags I had left on the floor. My back groaned under the weight. Leave it to Trina to pick the heaviest table she could find.

  “Looks like you’re almost done, Dad,” Trina said, running her hand down the newly sanded doorway. “It looks great, even better than I hoped.”

  She didn’t mention the mess.

  We lowered the table to the floor with a thump. I wiped the beads of sweat off my forehead. “As heavy as this thing is, I bet there’s hidden drawer.”

  Ted raised his eyebrows. “Why hide a drawer in a table? I thought hidden drawers were in desks.”

  “They made the drawers to keep the silver or linens handy, but not so handy as to let someone steal them.”

  Trina sneezed. “I doubt you’re going to find anything except dust and maybe a few dead bugs. You wouldn’t believe where I found this—way in the back of the building, buried under old rugs. I think it’s been there forever.”

  “Look honey,” Ted said, “the table legs almost match the dark spots on the floor where some other table stood in the past. I bet if we move…” Ted shoved the table from one side, then the next. “It fits!”

  Trina’s mouth gaped open. “What are the odds of that?”

  Regardless of Trina’s pessimism about a secret drawer, I promised myself to check the table later. Not that I expected a treasure, but it was the thrill of the hunt. I taught woodworking. If there was a secret compartment, I could find it.

  Back in the kitchen, Trina dragged her finger across the counter, leaving behind a trail in the powdery grime. She sighed. “Let’s take a break. I’ll bring some iced tea to the porch.”

  The front porch was my favorite place, and I settled onto the swing. If there was a breeze, you would feel it there. On the days when the air was still, the shade alone made it ten degrees cooler. And since the house still didn’t have air conditioning, a cool spot was appreciated.

  A jogger, bandana tied around his head, ran by. Sweat dripped off his chin. A young woman pushed a stroller holding a toddler. I nodded and she smiled back.

  The rhythmic motion of the swing was hypnotic. I closed my eyes. Sounds penetrated my lethargy: an engine rumbling and tires whirring by; and birds, always the sound of birds. Usually there were dogs barking, but now the dogs were quiet, probably sleeping in some shady spot.

  Ted came onto the porch, followed by the familiar shuffle of Mitch’s feet. The front door creaked, then banged. Trina had arrived with the tea.

  “I want to try out the table and a couple of my new recipes,” Trina said, handing each of us an icy glass, “so I invited Sandra for supper. Besides, she wants to see what we’ve done with the house.”

  Condensation mixed with the plaster dust still clinging to my fingers, and trickles of mud soon ran down the side of the glass.

  From the gleam in Trina’s eye, I knew she was up to her old trick: matchmaking. She must have decided Barbara was history. Since coming back to Darlington, I had only seen Sandra in church, and I had avoided her by doing things like walking out the back door if I saw her headed for the front. She had to hate me; I had crushed her hopes by telling her Jimmy was dead. She didn’t believe I had seen his soul any more than Ted, but the whole attic-experience must have meant something to her, because she had accepted he was gone.

  More than having to sit all evening with a woman who hated me, I dreaded the thought of being unable to retreat to my room right after supper. The time I spent alone in my room was like desert: a reward for eating my broccoli, a reward for getting through the day. The room had become a source of comfort, rather than cold and frightening. Strangely, once I started to actually sleep, the fatigue got worse. The act of resting consumed as much energy as running a marathon. It didn’t matter. I would easily trade the fatigue I experienced for the companionship of the room. I resented anything that robbed me of that time.

  “Why supper?” I questioned. “Couldn’t she come and see the house during the day?”

  “You have something going on tonight?” Trina questioned.

  “No, it’s just that…well…the house is a mess, and you know how I like our quiet evenings alone.”

  “You disappear to your room right after dinner,” Ted said.

  “Gives you two some privacy.”

  “We don’t need that much privacy, Dad. I wish you would watch television with us, or just hang out and talk like you used to. And I plan to get to work on the dust right after our break.”

  Mitch’s head bobbed back and forth, as though he were caught up in a ping pong match. I wondered what was going through his mind. I kept forgetting to ask him about the attic, why he had gone up there, and what he had done. And why he seemed afraid of me.

  Trina stood and stretched. “Time to get to work.” The night would be a disaster, long hours talking about death and loss.

  

  I put on my favorite pair of khaki pants and comfortable shirt, and found as many reasons to linger in my room as I could. Sandra arrived promptly at six. After greeting both Ted and me, she headed to the kitchen.

  During dinner, I found myself staring at Sandra, my fork mid-air, food un-chewed in my mouth. Her voice was lilting, and her laughter kept the conversation anything but morbid.

  She wore her grief well. It had only been three weeks since I had told her about Jimmy, and already she could smile. I don’t think I smiled for a year after Nancy died.

  Sandra reminded me of Aunt Hazel, who, when Uncle Pete died, pulled her own life together and carried on. She said you have to make your own happiness.

  “Bill, do you want to say anything?” Sandra asked. She chuckled and added, “I guess we women have been doing most of the talking.”

  “Just trying to follow along,” I mumbled, stuffing more food into an already bulging mouth.

  “Do you share recipes, Trina? This tenderloin is wonderful. I thought I knew how to fix pork every way known
to man, but this is a new one.”

  Trina beamed. “This is the first time I’ve made it. I was nervous it wouldn’t turn out.”

  “I like trying new recipes, don’t you?”

  “Some people don’t like their food changed,” Trina stated, looking my way.

  I raised my hands in defeat, and swallowed. “I know who you’re talking about. I admit it. There are things I like, and when I like them, why mess them up?”

  “Well Bill,” Sandra drawled, “we may have to work on you if you’re to become a true southern man.”

  I had no intention of becoming a southern man, but I let it slide.

  Ted, who had been mostly quiet at dinner (maybe by choice, maybe from lack of opportunity) suggested we take dessert to the porch.

  When Sandra sat on the swing, I stiffened, knowing I would have to sit beside her.

  Trina and Ted had already taken the wicker chairs, which I had recently painted light blue. I thought Ted had been out of his mind when he had suggested the color, until he directed me to paint the porch ceiling blue as well.

  “You liked my story,” Sandra said, glancing at Ted.

  “And Ted convinced me,” Trina said.

  I looked from one to the other. “I must have missed this story.”

  “You didn’t fill in your dad, y’all?” Sandra asked. “How can he feel safe if he doesn’t know the story?” Laughing, she turned to me. “There is an old southern myth that if you paint the ceiling of your porch blue, it confuses the evil spirits who are trying to enter your house. The spirits think the blue paint is sky, and move on.”

  The last piece of key lime pie stuck in my throat, and Sandra patted my back as I choked it down.

  Sandra trapped graham cracker crumbs in her fork tines, and lifted them to her mouth. “Bill, I know I’ve seen you somewhere. Have you been in the south before?”

  “No. never. I have one of those faces.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  My heart thumped.

  “And I have seen you before. It’s in here somewhere,” she laughed, pointing to her head.

  “What about you?” Ted asked. “Have you been to Ohio?”

  “You may not believe this, y’all, but I have never been farther north than Virginia. I guess I’m a home-body. And speaking of home, I really should be going.”

  I continued to gently push the swing.

  The sky had turned from pink to orange to gray.

  “You haven’t seen the upstairs!” Trina stated. “We’ve been working mostly on the downstairs, but we have two of the guest bedrooms done. You need to see them!”

  We followed Trina into the house.

  “I love the color you painted the hall,” Sandra said once we reached the top of the stairs. “It really lightens it up.”

  “It’s called spun gold,” Ted said.

  “Who thinks these names up, anyway?” I asked. “It looks more like honey-butter.”

  Trina giggled. “And that sounds so much better?”

  Sandra drifted toward one of the several small paintings that spanned the length of the hall. “Ted, are these yours?”

  I laughed to myself. They couldn’t be Ted’s; they looked like real pictures.

  “How did you know? Just a guess?”

  “Not a guess. You have a unique brush stroke: long and bold.”

  “You know something about art.”

  “Art was my major in college. University of South Carolina. Good ol’ Game Cocks. But I got married right after graduation and never did much with it.”

  “Come out to the shop sometime. I have plenty of supplies. I use mostly oils, but I have some acrylics too, and some charcoal.”

  Sandra’s gaze lingered on the pictures. “I might take you up on that.”

  Trina led the way into the first bedroom, the one Ted had used for his workshop. The sagging wallpaper had been replaced with warm blue paint. The wood had been partially covered with an old floral wool rug. The antique white furniture was accented with old floral wall hangings.

  “Oh my, y’all! I can’t believe this! I would love to sleep here. And it’s only been what, a month since you moved in?” Sandra’s eyes roamed around the room, seeming to soak in all the changes. “You’re going to totally transform this old place. It’s beautiful; it gives me the shivers.” She approached the bed. “May I?”

  Trina beamed. “Feel free.”

  Sandra sat on the edge of the bed and fingered the white knobby cover. “This looks familiar too,” she said with a laugh. “First Bill, now the bedspread.”

  “It was on one of the beds when we moved in. I had a hard time getting rid of the yellow stains, but it was worth it, don’t you think?” Trina ran her hand over the cotton cover.

  “It’s amazing. Was all this furniture here? I don’t remember the armoire.”

  “The armoire’s new. I got it at Scarlet’s Antiques.”

  We explored the second bedroom, my old room which now sported gray walls and black furniture.

  “Trina, this feels so calm, and yet elegant. I love the splashes of color you added. It keeps it from being cold. I may have to hire you to decorate my house!”

  After looking at the remaining bedrooms, we heading back up the hall. Sandra hesitated, and stopped in front of the attic door. My breath caught in my throat.

  Glancing at Ted and Trina, I saw they were looking at each other. Neither of them had been in the attic since the police investigation.

  The silence felt awkward, but I didn’t know how to make it better. Jimmy was dead. He died in this attic. There wasn’t much I could say to soften that.

  “Someday, if y’all want,” Sandra murmured, staring at the attic door, “you can go through the trunks. There might be something in them you can use for the house.”

  Trina’s eyes misted over. “We haven’t been able to go up since…”

  “I know,” Sandra whispered.

  “When we moved in,” Trina said, “we did go through a couple of the trunks and found some linens. There were old pictures, too. You might want them.”

  “I may not know anyone, depending on how old they are. This was my husband’s family, not mine. I’d still like to see them though.” She brushed away a tear. “I just can’t do it right now. Not yet”

  “The pictures aren’t going anywhere.” Trina put her arms around Sandra’s shoulders. “When you’re ready, we’ll send the guys up after them if you still don’t want to go up.”

  My heart ached for this lonely woman. Most likely, she did her crying when no one was around. I understood that.

  “I really need to go this time,” Sandra murmured.

  “If you want to help her to her car, Dad, Ted and I can finish cleaning the kitchen.”

  “Let me help you with the dishes first,” Sandra exclaimed.

  “No way. Trina and I can do it.” Ted said.

  The night air was warm.

  “Mmmm. Smell those flowers,” Sandra said. “I didn’t realize flowers could smell so good at night.”

  “Night blooming phlox,” I murmured. “My grandfather planted some along his porch for my grandma. I remember the smell from when I was a boy. I noticed them when I was weeding.”

  “I need to enjoy this for just a bit,” she said, settling on the swing. “If you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.” The swing rocked wildly as I lowered myself onto it.

  I maintained a comfortable rocking motion. The nighttime walkers had already completed their course. Squirrels that played in the yard during the day were gone. The stars were hidden by the blue porch ceiling, but I knew they were out there. They had to be on a night like this.

  When she was ready, I walked Sandra to her car, and helped her in. Before I shut the car door, I impulsively leaned over and kissed her. The softness of her lips sent a shiver up my spine. The darkness hid the blazing color of my face as I slipped into the house and ran upstairs, glad not to have to face Trina or Ted.

  15

&
nbsp; Now convinced that the ghost boys were the souls of the children, the fact that they might still be in the house no longer frightened me. Actually, I had come to the conclusion the ghost boys were sharing my bedroom with me. I had become the living father they no longer had.

  But something else lurked just outside my vision, something evil, close enough I could feel its presence, but elusive enough I couldn’t find it. Barbara’s demon. I knew it was still here. How could I battle something I couldn’t see? More importantly, how could I protect Trina from it? I was responsible for the demon. Guilt waved over me in flashes of hot and cold.

  As I pulled myself out of bed, thoughts of demons were supplanted by a different reflection. Memories of three nights ago with Sandra caused me to smile then squirm with regret. She was a lady and I had acted like a fool. The kiss had been an impulse. The night had been warm, the food good, the company…well… the company was out of my reach. Now I lived with the embarrassment of a kiss that had been spontaneous and based on an unreciprocated emotion.

  As I shuffled down the hall in search of morning coffee, I heard unusual banging coming from the main floor. I raced down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Trina lay on the floor twitching! Each time her body jerked, the wooden handle of the broomstick clutched in her hand hit the back wall by the built-in hutch like a hammer pounding nails into a coffin.

  A seizure! It had to be a spider bite. There had been those webs…

  “Trina!” I bent over her stressed body.

  She rolled onto her back and smiled up at me. “Hi, Dad. Ready for breakfast?”

  I ran my eyes up and down her body. “Are you all right?” I stammered, my heart still trying to fly out of my chest.

  As I helped her up, she dusted off her shorts and propped the broom against the hutch. “There was dirt in the kitchen again this morning,” she explained. “I thought if I beat on the wall, the bugs would fall out and I could trap them.”

  No spider bite, no seizure. I noticed the empty jelly jar sitting on the floor, ready to scoop up the unsuspecting creatures.

  I collapsed into a chair. “Why the walls?”