The Thirteen

by Susie Moloney

  Her hands flew to her face. “Oh jeez! Mr. Keyes, did you break your leg?”

  “My ankle. Rowan, you’re going to have to get help.”

  She nodded, her face grave.

  “The landline is fuck—Sorry.” He grimaced in pain. “The phone’s out. And I can’t get a signal with the cell. You’re going to have to go the neighbours, okay? But first help me take a look at what I’ve done here.”

  At his instruction, Rowan peeled the sock off his foot, Sanderson gritting his teeth. “God, Mr. Keyes, that looks awful.”

  There was no bone showing through, but the ankle was twice its normal size and already turning a very wrong shade of indigo.

  “I’ll go get some ice.”

  In the kitchen he could hear her opening his mostly empty freezer. Thank heavens, he’d bought a bag of ice, just in case Paula wanted a real drink and not a beer. She came back, carrying a tea towel full of cubes. “Did you get my mom?”

  “She wasn’t at Marla’s. The line was so bad I couldn’t tell what the woman was saying. Do you know Izzy Riley?”

  “Ugh. Yes, my grandma’s friend.”

  “Before the line died, all I got was her name. Sorry, kiddo …”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay. We have to get you to the hospital first.”

  Sanderson gingerly held the ice to his ankle. Its weight hurt so much his eyes watered. He needed a cast and some antibiotics for sure. He had to get to the hospital. Those were facts. But something else was wrong. It might be stupid to feel so sure, but inside him was a sense of terrible urgency. He just knew something was wrong with Paula. They

  (he)

  had to find her.

  “Rowan, go to the neighbours and call 911. Then call your mom, okay? Find out where she is.”

  She nodded briskly. “I’ll be right back.”

  The girl ran out the front door, the dogs following her. The door bounced once in the frame.

  The house was suddenly silent. His ankle was throbbing and the pain went all the way up to his knee. He tried to move his leg. It shrieked agony, so he stopped. Shit.

  Sanderson spotted his cell on the floor about six feet from where he sat. The screen was dark but the green light indicated the power was still on. Useless. Even if he stretched as far as he could, it would just be out of reach.

  There was no sound from outside, no rush of neighbours through the door, no sirens in the distance. There was something uncomfortable about the silence.

  To hell with being helpless. Sanderson leaned and leaned, stretching in the direction of the phone, until he fell over—shit, that hurt—stretching in the direction of the phone.

  “Ahhhhhhrrrrrrrr—”

  With the ends of his fingers he could just touch the casing. Pausing to breathe, he then used his good foot to push himself away from the bottom step. He got two fingers around the phone, and then his thumb, and he had it.

  He propped himself up on one elbow, ignoring the drumbeat of misery in his lower leg. He closed the phone and opened it again. There was a full set of bars.

  Redial. The phone rang and rang on the other end. He hung up. He checked the bars—still full—and punched in 911. The phone lost its connection. “Fuck!” What was going on?

  Rowan ran to front door of the house next door and knocked hard. What could she say that would create the maximum amount of urgency? My mom’s friend broke his ankle—

  My mom’s friend is having a heart attack—

  is dying—

  My friend—my Daddy is badly hurt—

  No one came. Rowan knocked again and then rang the bell for good measure. Still no one answered. Gusto was sitting on the step beside her, but Old Tex was on the sidewalk. She wondered if someone was looking out and was afraid of the dogs.

  “Go home!” she loud-whispered. “Go!” Old Tex turned reluctantly and went as far as the tree in front of Mr. Keyes’s house, where he sat down. Gusto looked up at her, but then went to sit beside his friend.

  She waited a few seconds more, then gave up and cut across the front yards to the house on the other side of Mr. Keyes’s, where she repeated her actions. No one answered there either, even when Rowan pulled open the screen door and knocked hard on the inside one. Surely that would wake someone up if they were at home in bed. No luck.

  So she went to the house next to that one and saw that it was dark inside too. Just for a second she thought, Everyone’s dead, before she pulled herself together. Big deal—a bunch of the neighbours were at some football game or something, Bingo night, some stupid art thing like they had at St. Mary’s every year and hundreds of people came and it raised tons of money for blind people or something.

  Rowan turned around to face the street. As if ticking off items on a list she looked at every house in viewing distance, one after another, tick tick tick. And every single house was dark. Deserted.

  Frustration welled up in her and she clenched her fists and yelled, “I hate this place!” It echoed impotently up the street … this place … this place.

  Her hand went to her neck and she felt for her stupid cheap plastic Jesus on the candy-pink crucifix and she couldn’t help it; she wrapped her fingers around it and prayed. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our—”

  That’s when a car turned onto the street, driving slowly, the lights bouncing.

  Rowan waved her arms in the air. “Stop! Stop!” she yelled.

  The car slowed down and stopped in the middle of the street. A city girl from way back, Rowan didn’t get close to it.

  A woman rolled down the front passenger window. “What is it, dear? Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. “No, my friend is hurt. He needs an ambulance—” she gestured to Sanderson’s house. “And I have to find my mother. She’s at her friend’s house. I have the street number …” She dug around inside her pocket. “Do you have a cell that I can use? The phone’s not working and none of the neighbours are home.” Rowan’s face twisted up and she gulped air for a minute to ward away tears.

  “There, there. Oh dear. Oh my. We don’t have a cellphone—we’re old ladies. Let us take you where you need to go. Would that be all right?” She opened the car door and struggled to get out. A tiny, round lady, leaning on a cane. Rowan could smell the woman’s perfume, which reminded her of the scent worn by the grandmothers who came to St. Mary’s on blind-people benefit night.

  Gusto and Old Tex moved to flank her. Old Tex put his head down and growled, and then he barked. It echoed up the empty street and sounded so loud.

  “Shhh, Tex,” Rowan said. “Go home.”

  “That’s okay, he’s just worried for you. Animals are very sensitive and you’re obviously upset. You poor thing.”

  Rowan swayed in the old lady’s direction. “I’m not supposed to go with strangers.”

  “Of course you’re not,” she said. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Aggie. If you peek in the car, that’s Bella driving. And in the back is our good friend Tula.”

  Tula ducked her head as Rowan bent to see her.

  “Hey, I know you,” she said. “You’re the nurse from the hospital.”

  The driver waved, smiling kindly. “You poor dear,” she said, leaning towards the passenger side window. “Come on and we’ll take you where you need to go.” Three old ladies. Not exactly serial killers. She didn’t like Tula, not one bit, but she was in a spot. And really, what was Tula? Not exactly a monster

  (but creepy)

  Aggie opened the back door and Tula shifted over to make room for Rowan. Still the girl hesitated.

  Aggie said gently, “Your friend needs a doctor?”

  Rowan decided she had no choice. She got into the back seat. “He broke his ankle. Can you take me to a phone? I need to call an ambulance.” And then she burst into relieved tears.

  Aggie clucked in sympathy and under her breath said, “Poor thing, poor thing.”

  The car door was shut with a bang and Aggie got back into
the front seat. They drove away. The dogs barked and chased the car.

  “I should have put the dogs inside,” Rowan said tearfully. No one responded. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her blazer, embarrassed that she’d let go like that. Tula nudged a Kleenex into her hand. She took it gratefully and wiped her eyes and then her nose with it.

  In the front the driver, Bella pulled a soft pack of cigarettes off the dash and shook one out, putting it in her mouth. She pressed in the lighter.

  “Oh jeez, the car is going to smell like smoke, Bella—”

  “Just shut up. It already reeks of perfume. That’s terrible stuff.” The lighter popped and Bella lit her cigarette. Smoke filled the car.

  At the end of the block the car turned onto a side street. They were going very slowly.

  “Izzy—” Bella muttered under her breath to Aggie, gesturing to something in the old woman’s lap.

  Aggie put her glasses on. From the front seat came the distinct and familiar sound of a cell dialling. Pink pink pink.

  “Do you actually have a cellphone?” Rowan asked, leaning forward. “If you do, we can just call an ambulance for Mr. Keyes and we can call my mom. She’s—”

  “There’s no phone, dear,” Bella said. “Sit back, it’s not safe.” She took the veiny hand with the cigarette off the wheel to wave her back.

  Pink pink pink pink

  Aggie leaned in closer to Bella and muttered low, “Are we going right to Chapman?”

  Bella looked in the rear-view mirror before answering. Rowan kept her expression blank. Bella nodded.

  Aggie cursed. “Shit, I can’t see a thing. My eyes are 110 years old. These glasses are shit.” She pulled them off her face.

  These old ladies curse a lot, Rowan thought.

  “Use mine,” Bella said. “They’re stronger. The case is in my purse.”

  “Did you say Izzy?” Rowan asked. “Mr. Keyes said my mom might be at Izzy’s. Do you know her? She’s Marla’s mom. Do you know Marla?”

  Tula looked at her sideways.

  “Hey,” Rowan said, “you know Izzy. You’ve been taking care of my grandmother. At the hospital. Remember me?”

  Tula’s only response was to give her a quick pat on the leg. Then she winced. “Ow, my hands, my poor hands,” she said.

  “Can you shut up about it, Tu?” the driver said.

  Rowan persisted. “You’re her nurse—”

  Bella said, “Shush, dear, you’re upsetting yourself.”

  Something in the atmosphere of the car had changed. Bella stared straight ahead at the road, smoke from her cigarette curling up into the fabric ceiling. Aggie kept a smile painted on, her head turned partway towards the back seat.

  “My mom might be at Izzy’s,” Rowan offered again. No one said anything. Bella smoked. They were nearly at the end of the side street. Rowan didn’t know where she was now.

  “What’s Chapman? Is that where Izzy is?” Still no reaction.

  There was a light of some sort up ahead, bright and artificial, from a gas station or store front. “I should get out. I can call from that store up there.”

  Bella cleared her throat. “Dear, you should put your seatbelt on. It’s not safe, or legal. Strap her in, Tula.”

  With a warning snort, Tula leaned to reach around her. “You be a good girl now.”

  Rowan put her hand up to block Tula. “I’ll just get out—”

  Tula grabbed Rowan and shook her. “You cooperate or I’ll pinch you!”

  “Hey, don’t!”

  Just then they slowed for the stop sign. Tula got hold of the belt and yanked it, catching Rowan on the chin with the clasp. Rowan hollered.

  Bella waved a fat, wrinkled arm at them, her cigarette dangling out the side of her mouth like a cartoon gangster. “That’s enough! If I have to stop this car—”

  But the car was stopped. Rowan, scared out of her wits, screamed once more, “Let me go!” She grabbed the handle of the door and it opened, swinging wide. She jumped out. As Tula shrieked angrily, Rowan ran. She ducked low and darted between the houses, each of them dark as pitch and silent as the grave.

  Bella and Tula chased her as far as the second yard, but by then the girl was so far ahead it was ridiculous to keep trying. They hobbled back to the car, panting all the way.

  “Shit,” Bella said. “Aggie just texted Izzy that we had her.”

  “Well, we did. Shit,” Tula repeated.

  Through the car window Aggie said, “Where’s she going to go? The boyfriend’s hurt and she’s got no idea where her mother is. We’ll wait outside the boyfriend’s place.”

  The women got back in the car.

  “I hate kids,” Tula said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  SANDERSON HAD BEEN CALLING for Rowan every few minutes, but neither she nor the dogs had come back. He’d messed up, he knew it. Something was wrong, and he shouldn’t have sent her out there on her own. He couldn’t wait—he had to find her.

  He tucked the useless phone into the breast pocket of his shirt. Then, steeling himself against what he knew would be terrible pain, he scooched slowly around so he could back towards the front hall closet, using his elbows to pull himself along the floor. Despite his efforts to keep the whole leg steady, his foot bounced with the first pull, flopping towards the floor. He shrieked and broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t look—to look was to feel sick. It was the kind of break that would require a lot of care. And no movement.

  He groaned and gasped and tried to breathe through his mouth without any more screaming, and he managed to pull himself a couple more feet along the hall floor.

  Tucked into the closet was a box of things he hadn’t gotten around to unpacking yet. The tall box had once contained aluminum tracking for industrial lighting. Inside it was a badminton net with adjustable poles, his golf shoes, a lacrosse racket, two tennis rackets—a Yonex and a lesser wooden racket he’d had since college—and a set of ski poles. Also a hockey stick, a CCM Vector. It would make a decent crutch, he hoped.

  He worked himself across the floor, concentrating on how Paula had looked as she’d turned to meet his eyes before she left, her face so vulnerable.

  When they were gone, Marla went to the back door and listened to the quiet. She did not turn on the outside light. The neighbourhood was dark. She would have to go soon, do her part for the greater good. The greater evil.

  It was probably too late to help herself. Or Paula.

  But there was Rowan. David’s child.

  isn’t that right Pauls isn’t that who she is

  Her mother didn’t realize it, Marla was sure of that. Not even Izzy could be so cruel as to ignore that fact, to have such designs on the offspring of her favourite child.

  Marla had suspected, had wondered, but not seriously. She’d thought that if David had got Paula pregnant, Paula surely would have told her. The realization that she hadn’t was at least as painful as knowing what she had just done to Paula and her daughter. Her niece. Why didn’t you tell me?

  What had she done?

  When she’d seen Paula again, here in Haven Woods, she’d realized how much she’d missed having a real friend. The girlfriends she’d made since Paula had left had at best been recruits, even if they hadn’t begun that way. As she’d watched them embrace the faith with such passion and gusto, eating up their opportunities no matter how blood-soaked they were, the friendships had changed. And not into sisterhood either, despite the cant.

  Of course, now she was more blood-soaked than most. All because she’d used her power, her persuasion, to help her mother—a woman who had done her utmost to make Marla feel second best all her life. Now Marla had no way to stop it, and a trail of blood followed her everywhere. The stupid coach, all those people at the mall, now her

  (niece, blood of her blood)

  she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it out loud.

  But maybe there was something she could do to make it right. And if she was successful, maybe her own children—her
blood—would be spared.

  Father, forgive me, for I am sin.

  Doug was lying with his head on his papers, eyes closed, the lines and circles around them invisible in the low light. He looked like his old self when he slept

  (if he slept)

  She whispered, “I have to go out, darling. The kids are in bed. I won’t be too long.”

  Next Marla went to the room at the end of the basement where no one ever went but her—a housewife’s room. There was built-in shelving along the walls, nearly full of the usual pickles/relish/homemade jam. She reached behind the canned peaches and retrieved a small brown bag. Without looking inside she carried it back upstairs.

  Once again the phone was ringing. It rang and rang and rang, until finally she gave up and answered. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice at the other end of the line, but she knew the tone. Worry. Soul-sucking worry.

  “She’s not here,” she broke in. “They’re taking her to the Chapman house. It’s best you stay away. Watch out for that little girl. This is no place for a little girl.” She hung up.

  Then Marla went out into the night. She pushed herself into a light jog, then faster. As she ran along the road she saw tiny shapes dart out of hiding, falling in silently behind her. She didn’t care. It felt good to run.

  Sanderson stared down at his phone in disbelief. The Chapman house?

  Now that he was upright, the hockey stick jammed underneath his armpit, his ankle throbbed and throbbed. But all thoughts of hospital had vanished from his head. He had to find Rowan first. Then to hell with what Marla said, he was going to go get Paula out of the Chapman house.

  He hobbled out the door, not bothering to try to shut it behind him. The street was very quiet, as if everyone on the block had gone out for evening. Maybe they had. Or maybe they were inside, hiding because they were afraid.

  His car was in the driveway where he’d left it what seemed like months ago. The keys jingled, bouncing against the stick as he limped to the driver’s-side door.

  He would find them both, make it right. Rescue them. From what, exactly, he didn’t know, but there sure as hell was something going on. Save the female is an ancient male imperative, a guy thing, but in this case it seemed more than that. An imperative of unknown origin.