The Thirteen

by Susie Moloney

  It was as if Izzy knew that Audra was keeping a secret. And she did have a secret by then.

  When had it started? Walter would come home complaining that his commute from the city was a killer. He would have a drink to unwind. One would turn into two. Two into four. She could see it happening, but it was such an easy thing to ignore. He would fall asleep in front of the TV—poor thing he works so hard. He would trip on his way upstairs to bed—I have to get that carpet nailed down properly. He would forget things, stay late in the city, arriving home in terrible condition. He slurred over the phone. He missed work. He got drunk at a company function, was the life of the party—then got demoted.

  At first she had begged him to stop. Then she refused to go to social events with him. It didn’t matter. By the time Paula was seven he was a full-fledged alcoholic, and there wasn’t one peaceful day in their marriage. Not that they fought. Audra was one to hold it in. She would give him the cold shoulder, turn away from him in bed.

  Izzy would say to her on particularly quiet days, If you could have anything you wanted, anything in the world, what would it be?

  She would say a diamond ring, a Dior gown, a Mercedes. She didn’t mean those things; she would say them because they were expected. In fact her needs were simple. A good life for her daughter. A husband who wasn’t a drunk.

  One bad, too quiet day she had told Izzy about waking up to find Walter sprawled on the lawn. About the long nights when he didn’t come home and she didn’t know where he was. How he would drink in front of Paula, who was probably too young to understand, but to Audra, who’d grown up with serene, conservative parents, it was tantamount to running naked through the streets. Grown people simply didn’t do that.

  She had wept. And Izzy had said again, What if you could have everything you wanted? She wanted that.

  What was involved in getting everything she wanted took some explaining, some finessing on Izzy’s part. In the end Audra agreed, if not wholeheartedly, then in deed.

  a sacrifice is required

  He requires flesh

  In the dark of night, when the knife slits you near your heart and all around you whisper the voices of another world, there is little room for disagreement. She had nodded yes and entered that world, holding on to Izzy’s promises. In that dark night it had all seemed like a pretend thing. Like becoming blood sisters, a thing she’d done with her best friend under a tree with a sharp pin when she had been a little girl. Blood sisters.

  Your husband or your child Izzy had told her.

  In the dark, in a whisper, while blood from her wound soaked into her sweater. She’d hesitated. But ultimately, what does a mother say?

  Walter

  It was over for Audra, she understood that now. She had only one thing to do before she succumbed to her bloody sins.

  The place under her left breast throbbed, as it did whenever sabbat was close. The wound did not open or bleed, but it recalled. Her mark.

  The claiming could come at any time, Izzy had told her. But Izzy had also grinned and said that nothing had happened to her yet. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe our allegiance is enough.

  And afterwards Walter stopped drinking. He got his position back. He was promoted. Life was good. Paula grew, as did the Riley children. They were happy. Very happy. She had everything she wanted

  After her own blood was spilled, Audra had met Aggie, Izzy’s first recruit. Together the three of them brought in Tula, Bella, Chick and others, faces that sometimes changed, sometimes through tragedy. They had tried to find thirteen, but it was harder than it seemed. And easy to forget why. There was always a normal veneer to what they did—got together and drank coffee, talked about their children, food, their husbands.

  How many had they been during the summer of Walter and David? Twelve? She couldn’t think. It was easy to let the days pass, to not think of hard times, when things were good. So good. There was time enough for more to come, they had thought. Audra had thought.

  Not so.

  Izzy fussed and worried during those days. She and Audra had been so close then, something the years had erased, and the group of them, the things they did, had eroded their friendship too. But back then it had been the two of them at the centre of things.

  We must make good on our promises Izzy had told her one day. We must make a sacrifice.

  Audra remembered laughing at that. It was so dramatic. Izzy’s expression had changed to one of wonder and then she smiled.

  Do you know why Aggie is a widow?

  Because her husband died? He’d drowned.

  Izzy nodded.

  Funny. Audra hadn’t known Aggie’s husband. Just that he was dead.

  We were nine then. Now we are twelve.

  What about—Audra hadn’t been able to remember the name of the new woman. She hadn’t been with them for very long after that.

  She tried now to remember what had become of her. What the woman’s name had been.

  Izzy had shaken her head. She’s not been made one of us. She’s being cultivated.

  The word, said like that, sounded like metal, tasted like copper. Cultivated.

  We’ll have to do something now Izzy had said. She reached out to Audra, patted her arm. We can kill two birds with one stone.

  Then the Rileys ordered their new roof and Izzy called Audra and invited them to watch.

  Three weeks earlier, Walter had started drinking again. She knew now that it was supposed to have been Walter that day in the Rileys’ backyard.

  Walter had become a sacrifice anyway, not long after David died. They had grieved together, she and Izzy, over their losses. But Izzy felt that losing a husband was not like losing a son. She talked crazily. She said she had brought Marla into the fold, and that made it thirteen. With thirteen it would be all right for awhile. Izzy hadn’t been herself those days. Who could blame her? Her son was dead. But then she began speaking of Paula. That one day they would have to

  (cultivate)

  bring Paula in. So Audra sent Paula away and never let her come back.

  She stayed in Haven Woods, though, because she didn’t know how not to. Chick had been stronger. When she wanted to break away, she had confided in Audra. They were both going to do it.

  What had been the first thing Audra said when they talked about getting away? We can go to Paula’s.

  It was Audra who had set this in motion. Her fault. She had to conserve her energy, gather her strength. One last thing to do. She was a mother. And a grandmother.

  Izzy had dropped into the big chair in the living room when she arrived home and just sat there. She had napped a little, she thought. But now she was smoking a cigarette. Of course it was a vile habit, but sometimes she just did it. It was the least of her sins.

  She flicked her ashes into a saucer. There hadn’t been an ashtray in the house since Roger died. He had smoked cigars. She’d liked the smell.

  She was still wearing her soiled suit. She kept telling herself she would get up and change, but not yet. The skirt was ruined. She drew smoke into her lungs and contemplated it. It was garbage. What a shame, it was a good suit. She’d spent a lot on it, but she had others. She had lots of clothes. Lots of things.

  She’d been thinking about Audra. Beside her on the little occasional table that she’d had for nearly twenty years, that had survived when so many other things hadn’t, was her phone. It blinked with unheard messages: green, black, green, black. She’d scrolled through the calls—the usual roster. Esme, Marla, Tula, Bella, Bridget, the superstar-in-waiting Joanna Shaw, Glory. Even Ursula had called, and that was almost unheard of. They were terrified of her. She had only to look askance at Glory and she would wet her pants. Ugh, but fun. And funny.

  She pressed Play, half listening.

  Esme had got her boy-thing back into her house. She was trying to snap him out of it. Wasn’t working. She was panicking. For Esme, that involved screeching and demanding that Izzy do something.

  Bridget was crying, and Iz
zy could hardly understand what she was saying. She couldn’t work, had a project, blah blah …

  Tula’s arthritis was very bad. That didn’t surprise Izzy. Arthritis was how Izzy had brought her in. Sad story: the poor thing couldn’t get a twist tie around a bag of peaches at the supermarket. Izzy had said, How would you like to be free of that pain forever? Such good intentions.

  With Bella it was her eyes. Her degenerative eye disease was back. She couldn’t find the glasses she hadn’t worn in seven years. She too was crying. Could Izzy help?

  Sharie, the new girl, the one who hoped to be a professional dancer, had not called. She had asked Glory to call for her. Glory sounded stoned, or maybe drunk. Her voice tilted in and out of the receiver, far away, then close. She giggled at intervals, and Izzy could hear her chewing. Sharie can’t reach Marla. She says her leg is the size of an elephant’s.

  Bella had called twice. The second time was about Aggie. Poor Aggie, who was aging rapidly. Izzy wondered how old the woman really was. She had been an old, old woman when she found her, at her grandmother’s suggestion. Was she 110? Older even? Aggie, of all of them, had known best what she was getting into.

  She didn’t listen to every message. They would all be the same, a litany of trauma and fear. They should have thought things through, and they hadn’t. Now they were suffering. She was doing her best for them, as if they were her children. She supposed they were her children. Without Izzy they would not be who they were now. Because of her sacrifices. She had, after all, given up her

  (only begotten)

  son for them. For this—for the cigarette, the twenty-year-old table, the high ceilings in her living room, the silver, the china, the good and comfortable life she led.

  (she was not a stupid woman)

  Why did she feel so defeated? All the crackerjack work she’d done to put things to rights, the night she’d had, and she was feeling defeated. It was unconscionable.

  Izzy butted out the cigarette and leaned her head back against the chair. It was still light out.

  She had given a son to Him—her only begotten—and a daughter too. If she didn’t keep things as they were, it had all been for naught.

  She had given her daughter. Audra, for her sins, could give hers.

  The night David was killed, Izzy had woken up, even though the doctor had given her pills that promised relief—however temporary—from her grief. She’d sat there in the dark, smoking cigarettes as she was doing now, but then it was in the dark bedroom. Roger was sleeping beside her, dead to the world. If only. He’d been given a shot by their family doctor at the time, Dr. Deedes. Funny the things you remember. Deedes. Dark Deedes.

  She’d asked him for pills so she could minister to herself. She wanted to control her oblivion. She had said, I don’t like needles. Please, Dr. Deedes, give me some pills. I promise I’ll—Of course he hadn’t wanted to do that. Mothers who lose children should not be given enough sedatives to kill themselves, especially not in the first hours after, when reason and logic are subjugated by pain and emotion. But in the end he did.

  You’re a strong woman he told her.

  She was. And she wasn’t stupid. That had been proven.

  But then—

  She’d been awake in the dark and it had been time to go. She’d put her robe on. What time had was it? It had been after midnight by then, surely. Hours after the ambulance had left, hours since the house had emptied of people. Audra had stayed, but she’d sent that worthless-bastard-drunk-waste-of-space home to drink on his own.

  It should have been his turn.

  On bare feet she slipped through the house, out the back door and into the yard, where the blood of her son had soaked into the earth. She relished the cool, sticky feel of it

  (him)

  on her soles. Of course she wept. Maybe through all of it.

  And because it was required, she fell to her knees. To give thanks. For her life, the one she had asked for and received. And paid for that afternoon. She fell and prayed.

  Laus aliis qui audiunt meam causam

  (praise be to others who hear my plea)

  (praise be)

  As it had been told to her when she received His mark, she prayed. Laus aliis qui audiunt meam causam

  there will be a reckoning

  I will require flesh

  this is my mark

  She’d fallen on her knees and, in the great abyss of grief and pain, she did what was expected of her, she gave praise to her Maker, to Him. She pulled off her robe and, naked to the moon, swayed in the grip of an ecstatic pain so deep she did not hear anything until—

  Mom?

  The timing, she suspected in retrospect, had been bad. She was mourning her son, and was presented with her daughter had appeared. She’d jerked her head around, to see saw the girl’s stricken face. At that moment, daughter was a sound and a word that felt like spit in her mouth. Like a hag, a harridan, she’d leapt to her feet with a shriek and a wail. She’d gone to the girl and had yanked her forward, pressing her to her knees.

  On your knees—She pushed her with great force to the soiled grass, still wet with her brother’s blood. On your knees you will thank the Father for your life. Say it!

  Marla sobbed, as much with fear and surprise—Izzy had never been physical with them—as natural grief for her brother. Mom! What are you doing? Why are you acting like this?

  Izzy had reached out and, with a single jerk, pulled her daughter’s night gown from her body. The girl had knelt before her, naked except for cotton underpants, her breasts white against the night.

  Marla was a woman. Izzy needed thirteen.

  Izzy knocked the back of her head hard, pushing it forward until her chin touched her chest. Bow your head and give thanks for your life—

  Mom!

  Do it!

  The girl tried to do as Izzy asked, said through heartrending sobs, Thank you, God, for—

  Izzy forced her head up.

  Marla looked into her mother’s grieving, fierce, reddened eyes.

  Not that god she said, and held her daughter’s gaze until there was a stillness. Then Izzy bowed her head again, and Marla did too, without being asked.

  They prayed.

  Izzy had given a son and a daughter. Audra could give her share.

  It was late. She butted out her cigarette and went to have a shower.

  SEVENTEEN

  ONE TIME WHEN ROWAN was at school, she’d had a terrible feeling in the morning, as if she’d forgotten something. It had started when she woke up and had kept hanging on through her first class. It was like forgetting something important, such as the house key or her backpack. She couldn’t shake it.

  Then, in second period social studies, Sister Aurelia gave them a surprise quiz. The minute the paper landed on her desk, she felt relief inside, a complete Ah, that’s what it was. She’d guessed it. That night she’d told her mom about guessing. Her mom had said that kind of guess was called “women’s intuition.” Men get it too, but women tend to put more stock in feelings than men do.

  Rowan had a woman’s intuition now. She had a strong feeling that this place was the creeps.

  She’d woken in the night to go to the bathroom. Old Tex had followed her as always, but this time when she was done, he wasn’t outside the bathroom door. She guessed he’d just gone back to bed on the floor in her grandma’s room, but when she left the bathroom, she heard him growling. She’d found him at the front window, up on his hind legs, front paws resting on the sill, growling at something outside. Rowan hadn’t wanted to look, but she did. On the porch railing were, like, a hundred cats. Well, six really. There were six cats outside, staring into the house. What was it made of, tuna? It was too weird.

  She had a feeling that if she googled Haven Woods she would get “World’s Creepiest Place,” and the images would be of spiders crawling up your pant leg, things under your bed and … cats.

  Her blazer was still hanging by the front door where her mom had put it w
hen they’d come home. Rowan put it on. She felt as if she could smell the river clinging to it, and for a second she thought she could hear

  cool cool soothing

  the sound of water, lapping against the shore rocks

  clop clop

  She didn’t know what to make of her trip into the river. At first she’d wanted to rescue Tex, but then it was something else. It was as if she was making herself go into the water; there had been a feeling that she wanted to be water. Just thinking about it creeped her out

  (everything here creeped her out)

  and she stuck her hand into her pocket. Her fingers closed around the crucifix and the piece of newspaper with Mr. Keyes’s phone number. She wished she could phone Mr. Keyes. But what could she say? Um, Mr. Keyes, I know you like my mom. Would you come and get us and TAKE US HOME?

  Her mom was in the laundry room. Rowan could hear the water pouring into the washer drum. Earlier her mom had been humming. She thought she knew why.

  She sure would like a string or a chain to hang the little crucifix on.

  She listened. Her mom still humming. While she was doing laundry. When she did laundry at home, she was cranky all day.

  There was a desk at the far end of the living room. She knew she shouldn’t snoop, but she told herself she wasn’t snooping—she was looking for something to hang her cross from. She pulled the top drawer open. Blank paper, pens, a pencil. A notebook. She picked it up and flipped through it. It looked like recipes. She put it back.

  There were four drawers along the right side of the desk. The top one wouldn’t open. Aha. She knew how to fix that, because the sisters’ desks at school were exactly the same. You had to open the bottom drawer first and then the top one would open. She quietly pulled open the bottom drawer, taking it slowly, listening for sounds from the laundry room. All she heard was the beep of the dryer, a load finishing.

  The drawer at the bottom was messy, a jumble of things. She dug around a little and her fingers brushed against something rough and thin. She pulled it out. It was a length of brown twine, the kind you use on a package. There was quite a lot of it.