The Thirteen

by Susie Moloney

  (when you knew you should be)

  For instance, they had math at ten, which was second period. Sister Persephone had tufts of hair growing out of her chin that she clearly tried to shave; they would disappear and then reappear looking like someone’s dad’s five o’clock shadow. Otherwise she was nice. When someone answered a particularly difficult question correctly, she would always say, “Aren’t you one of God’s special thinkers.”

  Rowan sighed. She was bored, and totally surprised by the boredom and its accompanying thought: even school would be better than this. Her mom had just got back from the hospital and didn’t want to say how her grandmother was doing. Rowan had asked if they could please go somewhere and Paula barely even looked at her. She said they would walk the dog later. Every now and then Rowan could hear her moving around inside the house.

  The weather was beautiful, more summer than spring, and the sun had been shining all morning. That was all there was to look at here. The sky and the porch and the street. Everywhere Ro looked there was a house. There were no buildings, no parking lots, no chain-link fences, no 7-Eleven store, no

  (no gang of boys squatting in a tight circle on the steps of the apartment block across the street)

  hey little girl c’mere I’ll teach ya some school

  no city at all. Just houses. All exhaustingly quiet, the people invisible.

  Across the street a brown car was parked in the driveway, which sloped upwards towards the house, and so it seemed almost that the car was part of a display. Check out my car. Two white cars were parked side by side in the driveways of nearly identical houses just up the street. Those were all the cars.

  Except for their second-hand Mazda with the rusted wheel wells, which her mom had bought with her severance cheque from the bar. It too was parked in the driveway on a slight incline. She supposed that, to people in the houses across the street, it looked as if their (piece of shit) car was on display.

  check out my pieceofshit

  aren’t you one of God’s special thinkers

  Nothing on the street moved. It was dead.

  Rowan gave the wind chimes one last swat and then sat down hard on the top step of the porch beside the big, hairy dog. She put her hand on his head and gave him a gentle scratch, and his tail thumped on the wooden floor. Thump thump thump. Then it stopped. The dog was good.

  His muzzle was flecked with coarse grey (like Sister Persephone’s chin hairs) and the tips of his ears were also grey. He smelled. It took him several minutes to get up from his lying-down position, and as he struggled up he grunted like an old man. But it had been love at first sight all the same.

  She scratched his head some more, tenderly. The dog thumped his tail some more, but he did not raise his head to look at her. Her mom said he was a mutt, but that he had some collie in him and probably some shepherd, which was why he was so big and hairy. His face was broad and kind and over each eye he had a small patch of black, like eyebrows. This furthered his old-man appearance, and also made him look intelligent, like a cartoon dog who might wear glasses. Another one of God’s special thinkers.

  She hadn’t been able to sleep last night in her mom’s old room. Sometime in the middle of the night she’d been woken by a tap-tap-tap at the window. She’d tried to sleep through it the way she slept through the sirens and yelling on the streets at home, but it didn’t work. Everything else was so quiet.

  Except for the intermittent tap-tap-tap.

  Half asleep, she’d gotten up to look. Too tired to really be frightened, she nevertheless felt something just as she pulled the curtain aside to look out

  (even though the real threats were not in places like Haven Woods but in gangs of boys who sat on apartment-block steps in the city)

  hey little girl c’mere I’ll teach you school

  A cat was on the porch railing, digging its claws into the wood. It stopped when Ro opened the curtains, and peered at her for a second with its yellow eyes. Then it cleaned a paw and jumped down to where Ro couldn’t see it. A cat. It had freaked her out. She’d crawled in with her mother.

  “Who’s got a cat?” she asked the dog. “Do you have a cat? Are you a good boy?” Tex thumped his tail.

  Rowan lay back on the porch, one arm draped across the old dog, her feet on the steps. A little breeze came up from somewhere and the chimes over her head swung and tinkled. The dog stuck out his tongue and licked her hand.

  She wished her mother would hurry (the F-word) up so they could walk the dog.

  From somewhere down the street she heard a car coming, slowly, slowly.

  The suburbs were deadly boring. And there were too many cats.

  Paula let water run into the kitchen sink over the tiny pile of dishes. A teacup, her and Ro’s breakfast things, some cutlery. She didn’t have to do them, but wanted the distraction. It was easier to think when she was busy.

  She’d gone to visit her mother right after breakfast. She’d tried to talk Ro into going, but her daughter had not slept well. When Paula shook her awake for breakfast, she’d rolled over with a groan, mumbling a sleepy not yet. She’d decided to let her sleep. Kid was likely as stressed as she was.

  So she’d gone alone, hoping to talk to the doctor and to have a longer, private visit with her mother. It was not to be.

  There hadn’t been anyone at the reception desk in the lobby, and when she got to the second floor, it was just as deserted as it had been yesterday, except for Tula at the nurses’ station. The minute the elevator doors opened, the woman was on her like ugly on an ape. She followed her to her mother’s room, jabbering the whole time, barely taking a breath so that Paula could answer her.

  She followed her right into her mother’s room. “Oh, I just have to take her vitals, you know. Might as well do it now,” she’d said and grabbed her mother’s arm to take her pulse before Paula could even say hello.

  Tula fumbled the blood pressure cuff around her mother’s arm—which seemed very thin to Paula—and never took her eyes off them. When she was done, she fussed with the curtains and sheets. When subtle hints didn’t work, Paula finally asked Tula if she would please go and find the doctor. She eventually said she would, and on her way out propped the door open.

  Paula had made the obvious joke to her mother. “Well, I thought she’d never leave.”

  But Audra hadn’t even smiled. As soon as Tula’s footsteps had faded, she’d insisted again, “Paula, you can’t stay long in Haven Woods.”

  She’d protested, said they would stay as long as Audra was in the hospital. But now they could hear the murmur of Tula’s voice, probably on the phone at the nurses’ station.

  Her mother had said, “There isn’t time to explain,” and “I’m fine, I’ll be fine—”

  And then Tula was back.

  Paula had asked for a few more minutes alone with her mother, her voice as sweet as pie, but Tula had said, “I’m afraid your mother has to rest. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Where is he, then?” Paula had asked, exasperated. “Why can’t I talk to him myself? And when is he going to check on my mom?”

  But Tula had insisted that he couldn’t be reached for the rest of the day, and then she stood there like a statue. So Paula wrote her name and her mother’s home phone number on a piece of paper for Tula to give to the doctor when she saw him next. Underlined twice was I must speak to you. Tula shoved it in her pocket.

  And then her mother had said she did need to rest, and there was nothing for Paula to do but leave. She pecked Audra on the cheek and gave her hand a gentle squeeze and it was over. The visit had lasted less than twenty minutes. She had a firm impression that not only Tula but her mother also had wanted her to leave.

  As she’d headed back to her car, she didn’t know whether to feel put out or hurt or panicked that everyone was being so evasive. Maybe her mother was more ill than she let on. Terrible words dashed in and out of her head, the stiffness in her mother’s joints becoming some kind of paralysis, the drooping eyes and diff
iculty with speech becoming a stroke. And when she thought of the raspy throat, the worst crossed her mind. Cancer.

  Paula stuck her hands into the soapy water with a vengeance and fiercely scrubbed dishes that hardly needed it, unable to keep her mind off the fact that something just wasn’t right. Not just her mother being ill, but something else altogether.

  A car stopped in front of the house, not parking in the driveway behind her mom’s

  (pieceofshit)

  car but just pulling up to the curb. A woman got out; she was wearing big sunglasses, and as she rounded the car to the sidewalk, she pushed them up on her head just like a celebrity. Her hair was long and dark and she wore a little lavender suit. It was like something women wore on TV. Stylish.

  She was smiling at Rowan, and though her teeth were blindingly white and really even, there was some quality in the smile that distracted from her beauty, something that to Rowan looked … hungry.

  As she came up the walk, the woman’s eyes were on Rowan, the whole time the smile plastered there

  (like the smiles on the two church women who sometimes came to their apartment door on Sundays, smiling just like that and holding out booklets with titles like God Misses You and Won’t You Come Home to God?)

  The woman stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.

  have you found Jebus Mrs. Wittmore?

  When she spoke, her voice was musical, warm and rich, like … barbecue.

  “Well, hel-lo!” The woman actually winked. “You must be Rowan.” A (musical) laugh spilled out of her perfectly pink lips. “You look just like your mother.” The syllables of your mother were drawn out. The woman kept smiling, the smile practically stuck there, for a full half-minute. It didn’t reach her eyes. Briefly those eyes flicked over Rowan’s whole self, from hair to toes, and then back up to her face.

  “You look like … your mother,” she said again, and finally she lost the smile.

  Rowan didn’t know what response she should make to that sort of declaration, especially said twice. Obviously this woman wanted her to say something. So finally she said, “Oh.” At her feet Old Tex had begun his lurching rise. Beneath the grunts and groans Rowan thought she heard him growl. She put her hand on his head when he was all the way up.

  “You’re going to be a real beauty,” the woman said, the words tumbling from her pink lips that showed her perfect white teeth, and this time Tex really did growl, though so quietly probably only Ro heard it. She scratched behind his ear.

  “Rowan. Such a pretty name. Do you know what it means?”

  “It’s a tree,” Rowan said. The dog pushed his head against her hand.

  state yer bidness stranger

  “That’s right!” the woman said.

  Weirdo number two. “Um, can I help you?”

  “I’m an old friend of your mom’s. I was her best friend in school. Her very best friend.”

  “Oh.”

  The woman continued to smile, the sun glinting off the sunglasses propped on her head.

  And?

  As if she’d heard Rowan’s thought, she purred, “I’m just dying to say hello.” She looked up at the house, and just the tiniest hint of a frown wrinkled her otherwise perfect forehead.

  Rowan decided she disliked this woman, even if she didn’t really know why. “I’ll get her. She’s just in the kitchen.”

  “No!” the woman said, and laughed again. “Let me do it.” She bent low, swooping like a bird, and scooped up a handful of gravel from beside the walk. It was an oddly elegant gesture. She winked again at Rowan. Taking a couple of steps closer to the house, she made a pretty show of picking out a tiny stone from her palm, lined up and tossed it at the door. It hit the window with a glassy ping. She giggled like a kid, and for a second Rowan warmed to her.

  There was no response from inside.

  Her mother’s best friend shook her head and picked out another pebble. She tossed it as expertly as the first. It too hit the window. Louder this time.

  Rowan started to say, “I’ll just get—”

  And then the door pushed open and her mother came out in her T-shirt and scruffy jeans, her face screwed into an annoyed frown.

  “Rowan, what the heck—”

  Rowan pointed at the woman on the sidewalk. “It was her.”

  Paula looked at the best friend completely blankly, and then her head made a shocked dip of recognition.

  “Paula Wittmore, as I live and breathe,” the woman said, hands on her hips now.

  The screen door swung shut behind Paula with a slam. Old Tex jumped and lowered his head. Rowan stroked his neck. It’s okay.

  “Oh, my god!” Paula was off the porch at a run and threw her arms around the dark-haired woman. “Marla! Marla Riley! Look at you! Cripes—it can’t be Riley, though? You must be married.”

  “Married.” Marla grinned and wiggled a huge ring on her left hand. “But I’m hyphenated, very chic: Riley-Moore.” She pulled Paula into another hug, then held her at arm’s length. “I have to take a good look at you.”

  She did. Rowan saw her mother blush under the scrutiny and she understood why. This time, instead of feeling embarrassed

  I heard your mom’s a stripper

  she wanted to chase the woman away. Beside her on the porch, Old Tex was tense too.

  Marla pronounced Paula beautiful. “You’re even better looking that when I last saw you!” she said. “When was that, exactly? Hmmm? It has to be about twelve years ago …”

  Paula shifted awkwardly in her grasp. “Well, we’ve been home once since then, but Rowan got sick and we didn’t stay long enough to see anyone. So it’s actually a little longer, I think.”

  “Mom.”

  It was clearly an interruption, and two sets of eyes turned questioningly towards the girl. Marla grinned with only one side of her mouth.

  “What?”

  She swallowed. “We were going to walk Tex, remember?” It came out more petulant than she’d intended.

  Her mother frowned. “Ro, please! This is my old friend Mrs. Riley-Moore. Marla, this is my daughter, Rowan.”

  “Oh, we introduced ourselves, didn’t we, Rowan?” Marla clasped her hands together. “I was so happy when Izzy told me you were here. It’s a blast to see you again! I hope you’re staying.”

  The two women were grinning idiotically at each other.

  “I don’t know how long we’re staying, actually. You know my mom’s sick?”

  Marla’s face went sombre for a moment and she nodded. “I heard. My mom was the one who called the ambulance. How is she?”

  Paula shrugged. “She just seems … sick, I guess. I still haven’t talked to the doctor. I tried to find him this morning but apparently he’s a ghost.”

  Marla made a sympathetic noise, then brightened again. “Now that you’re back, we have to do it up right. I’m going to reintroduce you to the wonders of Haven. Come to my house on Friday and meet the girls.”

  Paula smiled gratefully. “Oh, Marla, that sounds great. Can you stay a minute or two now? Cup of coffee?”

  “I wish I could. But here’s my address.” She dug in her purse and brought out a small card. “I’m on Proctor,” she said. “By Mom’s place. Remember?”

  Paula took the card and nodded. “Oh,” she said, and glanced back at the porch, where her daughter was pointedly waiting with the dog.

  Rowan took the opportunity to hurry things along. “Mom? Are we going?”

  Marla tinkled her laugh and put a hand on Paula’s arm. “You’d better get going. I know the scene—I have two of my own.”

  Then the two of them were off again, talking about children, blah blah. Rowan sighed and retreated into the house, taking Tex with her. On their way through the door—her mu-ther didn’t even notice she was leaving—Old Tex swung his head back for another look. Rowan fantasized that the old guy was broadcasting a warning. Go home.

  In her mom’s old room she parted the curtains just wide enough to peer out at the two of th
em on the walk. They were still gabbing, gabbing, dark heads bent together like crows

  (pecking at something interesting and dead)

  She went from the window to the closet, found her school blazer with the St. Mary’s crest

  (Semper Vigilans)

  and put it on. She felt a little better. Then she pawed through her school bag and from the bottom fished out her pink plastic crucifix; they had all got one as a prize in the Lives of the Saints spelling bee the week before she got suspended. It was crappy and cheap, and as she pulled it out she hoped the little white Jesus hadn’t fallen off.

  Jesus was still glued to his cross. Rowan put it in the pocket of her blazer. Then she went into the living room and turned on the television, settling in for the short term at least. A rerun of the Jerry Springer Show came on. A big fat lady picked up a chair and threw it across the room at another lady, screaming obscenities that were bleeped out.

  She sat watching, sticking her hand into her pocket now and then, keeping track of the cawing and gabbing outside.

  Marla was so beautiful now, Paula thought. The awkward teen she had been was entirely erased. Her hair, her eyes—there was no mistaking it was Marla, but it was as though someone had retouched her, narrowing her jawline, lengthening her legs, scooping in her waist.

  “I think you’ll like the girls I’m hanging out with,” Marla said. “You’ve probably heard of one of them—Joanna Shaw?”

  Paula was impressed. Shaw was a popular talk-show host. “She lives here?”

  “Yes, and she’s a good friend. You know her show is going national next week?”

  Paula did know that. “How did you get to know her?”

  “Oh, I did a little consulting work for her,” she said. “But anyway, I’ll invite Joanna and a few of the other girls over, and I promise you’ll have fun.”

  “Well, it’ll be nice to see people, whether I know them or not.”