The Thirteen

by Susie Moloney

  He towered over her. She looked up, then turned towards the house. Sanderson followed.

  Rowan liked Mr. Keyes’s house way more than her grandma’s. It felt new inside. The walls were just walls; there was nothing on them. He probably had stuff he was going to put up, but he hadn’t done it yet and so it seemed … new. And it was such a relief to have real TV. She liked his house and him.

  She was disappointed when she heard them come in through the patio doors. Already? Her mom probably thought it was time to get her home to bed, and this created a hard stone in her belly. She didn’t want to leave. She felt good here.

  While they made noises with dishes and things in the kitchen, Rowan went to the table where his phone was. Using a pencil from the cup beside it and a piece of the newspaper that had been on the sofa, she wrote down the number on the phone. His number. 782-3314.

  Just in case. Then she took the pink plastic crucifix out of the pocket of her St. Mary’s blazer, wrapped the folded paper around it and put the whole thing back in her pocket. It bulged a little bit and she liked that. If she wanted to, she could feel it anytime.

  The two of them showed up in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Her mom’s face was pink and happy. Mr. Keyes’s face too. Rowan felt as if she’d missed something.

  “Ro, we have to go now,” her mother said.

  Gusto ran in through their legs, bumping her mom sideways so that she grabbed at the doorway. Mr. Keyes steadied her with his hand, even though he didn’t have to.

  cripe

  Old Tex followed, limping a little on the hardwood floors. The nails of both dogs sounded loud in the big, empty room. When Old Tex saw Rowan, his tail went up and started swinging back and forth. She crouched and he tucked his head into her arms.

  (against her leg when she bent down she could feel the stuff in her pocket and that felt good felt safe)

  She mumbled dog-love words into his ear. “Hey boy, good dog.”

  (what’s out there boy?)

  “Let’s go, Ro. It’s getting late.”

  On the front porch Rowan clipped Tex’s leash to his collar. Her mom stopped one last time on the porch. “Thanks again, Sandy. That was a wonderful dinner. I hope you’ll let me return the favour.”

  Rowan turned away, rolling her eyes, when her mother started batting her damn eyelashes. On the porch railing was a glass pop bottle full of gunk and feathers. She picked it up. “What is this?” There was a faded ribbon around the neck of the bottle. It was dirty and worn, old.

  “What is it?” Paula echoed.

  Sanderson took it from Rowan, holding it up so they all could see it. “It’s called a witch bottle. It came with the house.”

  “It’s really for witches?” Rowan asked.

  “I think it’s for good luck or something. A lot of places around here have them.”

  “Why did you take it down?” Rowan asked.

  He pointed to the overhang of the porch roof. They all looked up. Dangling from the single hook was a multicoloured square made of sticks and yarn.

  “Oh,” Paula said.

  “That’s a God’s eye,” Rowan said. “We made them at school.”

  “My mother practically begged me to hang it up.”

  “They keep away evil,” Rowan said shyly.

  He made a ghostly sound, wiggling his fingers at the two of them. Her mom laughed, but standing on the dark porch with the dark neighbourhood still to walk through, Rowan didn’t think it was that funny.

  “So I have a witch bottle and a God’s eye to keep me safe,” Sandy said. “Lucky me, huh?”

  They said good night again, and to Rowan’s disbelief, Paula refused his offer of a ride home, even though it was dark as pitch out and people had witch bottles on their porches. As one of God’s special little thinkers, Rowan thought, WTF?

  Paula sent Rowan to bed as soon as they got in the house. The girl went with a minimum of complaint, and Paula was grateful for small mercies.

  Old Tex’s nails clicked on the floor. Paula turned to him, realizing she had forgotten to unclip his leash.

  silly me red bathing suit huh imagine that crush on—

  She crouched to take it off him, the dog anxious to move away. No sooner had she unclipped him than Old Tex pressed forward, a low growl in his throat, the sound menacing in the dark house.

  Rowan!

  “Rowan?” Paula called down the hall, but it came out as a whisper. Her cell—where was her cell?

  Old Tex turned into the kitchen, still growling. Goosebumps formed up and down her back. She followed the click-clicking nails into the dark. She could hear him growling, but nothing else. Paula swallowed. There was a phone on the wall in the kitchen—gold, the same phone they’d had when she was a girl.

  Directly across the lane she could see the yellow glow of Gabe Newton’s bug light. Old Tex stood at the patio door, his nose pressed against the glass, still growling intermittently. He turned his head to Paula and wagged his tail unhappily.

  Look.

  Paula clapped a hand to her chest, feeling suddenly foolish

  —a home invasion in Haven Woods? not after nine—

  Obviously a skunk or raccoon had found its way onto the deck and Old Tex wanted out.

  “You’re not going out there,” she said, and flicked on the back porch light.

  It wasn’t a raccoon or a skunk. It was a cat. It took her a second to realize what it was doing.

  The cat’s face was buried deep in the belly of something. Tufts of fur were scattered in a tight area around the poor dead thing. A rabbit, a big one. The cat’s head bobbed meditatively up and down in the middle of it, purple and black strings of intestine draped on the deck. It raised its head, its white and grey muzzle slick and shiny. It sat back on its haunches and licked its lips. Its tail flicked back and forth. A bit of something hung from its jaw.

  Flesh.

  She gagged.

  It took Paula half an hour to get over her revulsion and go outside. The cat was gone, but the body of the poor wretched creature was still there. She felt a helpless urge to

  Help!

  call someone—Sanderson—to do it for her. That was out of the question. But she couldn’t let Rowan wake up and see that … horror … on the porch.

  Paula got a garbage bag from under the sink, then went out the side door and through the gate into the backyard to get the garden spade. When she was done, she hosed off the spade and the deck as best she could. The cleanup took less than twenty minutes, including hauling the sad thing in the bag to the garbage can. She shoved the lid down hard. She didn’t want anything getting in there.

  As she stepped over the wet spot on the deck to shoo Tex inside, she had an odd feeling of … not strength exactly, but … substance. It felt good.

  And gross. The whole thing had been entirely gross.

  NINE

  THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Rowan got up, she heard her mother humming. She knew what the humming was about. She wasn’t dumb. Her mom had a crush.

  She was watching the crap TV, flipping between two shows. One was an old episode of Bewitched in which Samantha’s cousin Serena turned Darrin into a dog, and the other was the talk show with Joanna Shaw. This episode was about a mother whose daughter had been murdered. The mother figured the son-in-law had done it for sure. Whenever the son-in-law talked, the screen would fill with crime-scene pictures; they had black bars over some of the worst parts, like where her throat had been cut, but you could still see the blood and tell that it was a woman, because of her hands being up around her face. To protect it, Rowan bet. It was really gross. She flipped back to Bewitched whenever the crime-scene pictures came up.

  Beside her Old Tex slept fitfully, jerking sometimes and growling a little. Rowan put her hand on his head and stroked lightly during the boring parts. The crucifix was still in her pocket, the paper with the phone number wrapped around the base. She touched it absently.

  When the show went to commercial, it was almos
t always to advertise that the Joanna Shaw Show was going national on Monday. WHETHER YOU’RE US OR THEM—YOU WATCH JOANNA SHAW! MURDER, MAYHEM, MADNESS—AND THE WEEKLY SERIAL-KILLER UPDATE! STAY ON TOP OF THE BREAKING NEWS MONDAYS—

  The cat had been on the windowsill in the night. Rowan had been wakened from a hard sleep by the tap tap tap of its paw on the glass. Every time it tapped, the pane rattled a little in its frame. She sat up and looked at the cat, then tried to shoo it away. It sat there and stared at her without moving for a long time, then jumped down.

  Rowan wondered a little if she’d dreamed it, especially since she’d already had one bad dream. She was in the school cafeteria, facing a long table with piles and piles of food on it. There were other people there but she couldn’t see them. The food was exotic, including whole (gross) pigs, roasted, the way they always show them in cartoons, with their heads and feet still on. They were small, and their skin was blackened and mottled. It was (gross) scary.

  Then she noticed that the one in the middle was still alive. Its mouth was opening and closing as if it was trying to eat the pig next to it. She tried to scream to tell someone it wasn’t dead and a woman said, We need them to be alive. And young. And then she realized it wasn’t the school caf but her grandmother’s dining room.

  Bad, bad dream. Then the cat.

  Today she was supposed to go with her mom to see her grandmother. At least it was something to do. Outside of this house.

  Paula had slept in. The room seemed oddly dark, then she realized the curtains were closed. Rowan must have closed them. She got out of bed and, first thing, pulled back the curtains to let the light in.

  Nice day. She put on the T-shirt from the day before. The green jacket was draped over the chair. She was thinking she might wear it Friday when she went to Marla’s.

  Bits of the Bon Jovi song were running through her head, and she was humming it when she went into the kitchen. She could hear the television: a woman’s voice with an irritating, preachy edge was declaring something, emphasizing every third word or so. Paula could hear only, “… believed … killer … definitely … knives …”

  She frowned

  what the hell is she watching

  then decided to make coffee before she dealt with her daughter. The bottom half of the patio door was smeared where Old Tex had pressed his nose against it in his attempt to get out. Across the outside bottom of the window was a trace of dried … something. And the deck was still damp where the sun had yet to hit.

  Paula’s stomach turned. She thought, I have to go see my mother today.

  Rowan yelled, “Doorbell!” and Paula was yanked back to normal. She went to answer it.

  Paula couldn’t immediately place the woman at the door. She was attractive, about her mother’s age, and she held a bag.

  “Good morning,” the woman said. “Sorry to just pop in on you like this. You’re Paula?”

  Paula nodded.

  “I’m Anne Keyes,” she said. “Lonnie and Sanderson’s mother. Do you remember me at all?”

  “Yes, of course,” Paula said. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I dropped by Sandy’s new place this morning and he mentioned he’d seen you. I haven’t seen your mother—the whole crowd, really … Izzy, Chick, Aggie … well, in years.” She trailed off.

  “My mother’s not well,” Paula offered.

  “Sandy told me. I hope she’s feeling better soon. Do you know what’s wrong with her?” Then she added, “You know, I’ve just heard that Chick Henderson died in a fire. Terrible.”

  “Yes, just awful.” Paula smiled politely and avoided answering the question about her mother. She looked beyond Anne Keyes to the street outside. “Wow, what a great day.”

  There was just a light wind, the sort of breeze that defines early summer: fragrant and blameless. For a moment Paula was carried away by the simplicity of it. Then she said, “It was so good to see Sandy again. I haven’t kept in touch with anyone from Haven Woods—”

  Mrs. Keyes all but cut her off. “You haven’t? You don’t live here anymore?”

  Paula shook her head. “Not since I was sixteen. I came back to see my mother.”

  “Oh well, I’m not here anymore either, so I don’t hear much of the gossip. We left Haven Woods as soon as the boys graduated high school.” She smiled for the first time with what seemed to be genuine warmth. “Sanderson was so determined to move back here …” She shook her head.

  Then Mrs. Keyes opened her bag and pulled out a dark green glass pop bottle, the old kind. She laughed. “I brought this over for you. I’m not sure why.” She handed it to Paula, who held it up. Inside were leaves and bits of cotton. There was fluid in the bottom that caught the sun.

  “A witch bottle?” Paula asked, amused. “Sandy had one on his porch.”

  “Yes, I’d made this one for him,” Mrs. Keyes said. “We used to make them … some of the women in the neighbourhood. But I gave him the God’s eye instead. You can hang it up, if you like, with the chimes.” She looked up at the wind chimes moving lightly in the breeze. “Although traditionally it should be hidden. Do you know the legend?”

  Paula shook her head.

  Mrs. Keyes took a breath, as if slightly embarrassed. “They’re supposed to attract evil spirits and spells. You put a little salt water in the bottom, some earth for grounding, pins or needles, and cotton for purity.” She laughed. Paula smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  “It was a thing we did, you know.” She shrugged. “But anyway, the spell or the evil spirit would be attracted to the bottle—drawn into it—and then be impaled on the needles and drowned and clarified by the salt water. The cotton is supposed to keep it clean or something.”

  Paula met her eyes with a wry gaze, then looked inside the bottle. She could see a needle sticking up through the clump of earth in the bottom. She swished it, and the liquid it contained shifted the dirt. The cotton was dirty and wet. It was an odd gift. Unsettling.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You could just put it behind the post here,” Mrs. Keyes said, taking the bottle from Paula and placing it there. She straightened up. “I won’t keep you any longer, Paula. It was nice to see you again. I haven’t seen you since one of the Rileys’ parties, I imagine.” She pushed her purse further up on her shoulder, readying herself to leave.

  The woman glanced around the porch and at the house. Paula realized she could see some of Sanderson in his mother—she really was quite attractive. Mrs. Keyes reached up and flicked the bottom of the wind chimes. The glass rods tinkled musically. Then she went down the stairs and Paula followed, to walk her to her car, the chimes singing behind them.

  Her gold Buick was parked on the street. There was rust around the front wheel wells and a small but noticeable dent in the rear passenger door, the sort that you get hitting something in a parking lot.

  “How long are you staying in Haven Woods?” Mrs. Keyes asked. She searched her purse for her car keys.

  “I’m not sure,” Paula said.

  “It’s hard to raise a child out here, so far from … everything.” She found the keys and unlocked the door. She started the car, and Paula was about to head back up the walk when she heard the window roll down. “You know the church closed?” Mrs. Keyes said.

  “I hadn’t heard,” Paula said. “We’re not religious.”

  “Don’t rule anything out.” Mrs. Keyes smiled at her again, but the worried expression never left her eyes. She rolled her window back up, then waved and drove away down the empty street.

  Paula waved back as the car turned the corner. Odd woman.

  She noticed as she headed back up the walk that the teal blue porch had been repainted recently. It was fresh and unmarred by scuffs and gouges. Her mother’s car was in the driveway: a newish sedan, very nice, expensive. Her mother hardly ever drove, but she had a new car. Mrs. Keyes didn’t look to be doing so well. Paula vaguely remembered hearing that her husband had died; maybe he hadn’t been as good a
provider as Dad had been. She couldn’t help but wonder how she and Rowan might be doing if she’d stayed put in Haven Woods. A pretty dream. Paula went inside, glancing at the bottle tucked behind the post. She called Rowan as she slipped into her coat and readied herself for another cryptic visit to her mother. She hoped the nurses had changed shifts.

  Izzy ignored the ringing phone for as long as she could, hoping that whoever it was would just give up. Marla or Bridget, maybe Ursula. They were the few she hadn’t heard from.

  Glory … Audra … Bella

  And worse, Aggie. She could hardly bear to think of her, so she put the thought out of her mind. She’d been fine at Chick’s funeral. Then, last night, she had dropped over. Izzy hardly recognized her.

  Aggie had been a friend of Izzy’s grandmother. When Izzy had moved to Haven Woods, her grandmother had told her to get in touch with Aggie, who’d become a mentor of sorts. She looked to be in her seventies now, maybe mid-sixties. She’d taken care of herself, stayed young. But last night she’d been hunched over, slow, barely able to speak above a whisper. “It’s happening to me,” was all she had said.

  Izzy had moved far beyond Aggie’s tutorship, but her decline stung nonetheless. It was all exploding. As though Chick had lit the match to a pack of dynamite.

  But it hadn’t been a match, it had been a Zippo lighter. The fire department had found it embedded in the drywall across from the bed.

  The phone kept ringing and still Izzy stood at the long table in her special room in the basement, listening. In front of her was a wide leather apron, well-worn and stained. It seemed that no matter how clean you thought you’d got something, there was always a bit left on it.

  While the phone rang on, Izzy picked up a thin knife and began to drag it rhythmically back and forth over a strop. It made a good sound with every stroke: throa-k throa-k throa-k.

  It wasn’t Audra calling, of course. Or Chick. So it would be one of the others. They were all feeling besieged these days. Tula, Aggie, Esme, Glory, Bridget, Ursula, Marla even. And the new ones—Joanna, and the younger one, rescued from obscurity and a life of drugs or some such sob story.