Trina picked at a bare spot on the blanket, thinking that she didn’t know who she was anymore. She wasn’t like she used to be before Hendrika, not like those burn-outs in the ‘hood, and she sure wasn’t like the folks she saw from the window of Lee’s car walking to work or going out to lunch or racing their fancy boats in the river. But she couldn’t relate to anyone at SafeHaven either. Was she still Trina Collins? Was Trina Collins still her?
She flashed on Lionnel. Smart, sexy, rich Lionnel. She loved him and hated him all at the same time. He called to her, but she turned away. The Big H called to her, but she sang real loud so she couldn’t hear its sugary, skaggy voice. She saw Clara’s shiny bracelet hanging from the open drawer of the jewelry box. It called to her, too.
But she wasn’t gonna go to the bracelet, and she wasn’t gonna go to the junk, and she didn’t have to answer to Lionnel any more. She owed it to Hendrika to say no to the temptation, to give it a real try. And as much as Trina hated this place, she was sure prison was way worse.
Before Beth left, she slipped me a small bottle of sleeping pills. “They’re good,” she said. “Very short-acting.” When I protested that I didn’t want them, and that she had no business with them either, she explained that these were nothing like the sleeping pills she had accidentally overdosed on when she was wired on too many diet pills.
“These are really mild,” she assured me. “A whole different chemical thing. And if you take two, you won’t have any dreams.”
Not dreaming seemed like a good idea, so I swallowed two of the little orange pills before I got into bed, then I read until I was so tired my chin dropped to my chest. But Beth was wrong. I did dream. Twice.
In the first dream, I was sitting in the east parlor playing Scrabble—a game I detest—when I heard a deep rumble. I tried to run, but I was glued to my chair in that annoying paralysis of dreams. Helpless, I watched through the window as dirt poured over the house. The dirt rose quickly, then burst through the panes, ripping the frames from the walls and sending an avalanche of earth exploding toward me. I tried to scream, but dirt filled my mouth. It was burying me, crushing me. Then I heard the muffled sound of digging. It was distant, but forceful. “Michael!” I yelled, and woke myself up.
I was in bed, and my damp T-shirt was stuck to my back. Moonlight shone through the windows. The house was still. I lay back against the pillow and closed my eyes, childishly pleased that my subconscious was stronger than Beth’s pills. It was akin to the inflated pride I felt when I was a kid and the doctors said only boys walked in their sleep, but I was a girl and I was famous—or infamous—for my sleepwalking.
Then I heard it. The sound of scraping, of metal against metal, of manacle against stone. Digging. Just like the night before.
For a moment I was pinned by fear. Did this mean I had inherited the gene? Was I hearing voices like Dotty Aunt Hortense? Would I soon begin to see people who didn’t exist? To talk to walls? Walk off rooftops? No, I might be a twenty-seven-year-old adolescent, but I wasn’t crazy.
Relieved and emboldened, I climbed out of bed and went into the hallway. I listened, but there was nothing. Then it started again. Louder. More insistent. It was coming from the cellar. I glanced at Gram’s closed door and then through the spiky balustrades descending below me. I wasn’t crazy, I reminded myself. The heating system might be broken. I headed down.
The kitchen was shadowy, the appliances grotesque and monstrous in the moonlight; the curved sofa looked like a cougar, hunched and ready to pounce. I opened the cellar door and went down the stairs. The digging was closer, the sound more intense. I imagined I smelled sweat, a man’s sweat, the musk of hard toil.
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, motionless, transfixed. It was coming from the old cellar. I crossed the hard-packed floor to the rough door in the foundation, captivated by the noise and terrified by it, drawn by the odor and repelled by it. I stepped across the threshold. The old cellar was dark, as always, and yet I could see clearly, as if the damp fieldstones glowed with their own internal light, an icy glow as horrid and unforgiving as the scene it illuminated.
A black man stood in front of the root closet. He was light-skinned, his shoulders massive, and he held a shovel in his hands. He was turned away from me, rhythmically, furiously, frantically, pulling dirt from the tunnel. The muscles of his naked back were slick with sweat and rippled as he worked. He had a crude cast on his left leg, which rose from ankle to knee, but it did not impede his progress. A pile of dirt grew at his feet. There was a passion, a rage, to his movements.
I gasped, and as I did, the man lowered his shovel and began to turn his powerful neck toward me. I knew I didn’t want to see his face, but understood the confrontation was inevitable. I stood frozen, filled with the terrified fascination of dread. But as he completed his turn, right at the moment when his eyes would have met mine, he wavered, grew translucent, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
I hadn’t walked in my sleep for fifteen years, but there I was, barefoot and wearing only a T-shirt, cowering on the cellar floor.
There was no man with a shovel, no woman with iron teeth; there was just me: alone, cold and scared. I pushed myself from the hard-packed dirt and raced up the cellar steps, through the shadowy kitchen and parlor, up the main staircase and into my bedroom. I jumped into bed and pulled the covers over my head, just as I had as a kid when I woke up someplace I shouldn’t be.
Although my mother had always blamed Beth and her brother Tommy for my sleepwalking—I once overheard my mother telling my father that Beth was a little brat—the truth is that it started way before Beth came up with the woman with the iron teeth. I was so young when I first began finding myself in strange places in the middle of the night that I thought it was normal; I just assumed everyone woke up in the cedar closet or under the living room couch. It wasn’t until my parents started erecting gates and taking me to doctors that I realized I was unusual. The doctors weren’t able to do anything about my nocturnal wanderings, but the gates and locked doors kept me safe until puberty changed some hormonal or electrical imbalance in my brain—at least that was the theory at the time—and my sleepwalking stopped.
Until now.
I pulled the blanket down to my chin and peered into the gloom, wondering if this was indeed verification that I was the member of my generation to inherit the Dotty Aunt Hortense gene. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to give substance to the room, nudging at the shadows and my imaginary demons. I glumly watched the furniture define itself, growing into a bureau, a chair, a desk, and wondered if I’d soon begin talking to them. Then, as the sunlight hit my face, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
When the phone rang, it felt as if no time had passed, but the clock on my end table said it was almost nine. Gram had been on the tennis court for over an hour, and my nightmare was distant and unreal, drifting into that blessed amnesic fog of yesterday’s dreams.
The voice was deep and gravelly and sounded as if it belonged to an old man. It took me a moment to place it. Michael. “Sorry to wake you,” he said.
“You didn’t,” I lied.
“Don’t you have to go into work today?”
I felt hung over and rubbed my forehead. “Tuesday,” I said. “I’m, ah, I’m not going in until after lunch.” The accountant was reviewing the budget section of my report, and I couldn’t do anything more until it had been approved. “What’s up?”
“Is the dirt there yet?”
I saw the pile of dirt growing at the feet of the man in my dream, and the details of the nightmare sprang full-formed from the fog. I could hear the scrape of the shovel against the rock. I could taste the metallic bite of my fear. “Dirt?” I croaked.
“Lexington Sand and Gravel was supposed to deliver a load of dirt first thing this morning. To use to fill the tunnel.” Michael sounded exhausted. “Is it there?”
“I don’t know,” I said, relieved we were talking about real dirt,
but unnerved by the nightmare images assaulting me. “Maybe Gram let them in. I’m still in bed.”
“I thought I didn’t wake you?”
“I’m awake,” I said quickly, “I just haven’t gotten up yet.”
Michael cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” His sigh was long and deep. “My mom’s in the hospital.”
I sat up. I knew Michael’s mom had a heart condition, and this sounded bad. “Is she okay?”
“Pretty sick. She’s stable for the moment, but in the ICU hooked up to more machines than you’d think possible. The doctors say the next week will tell the tale.”
“Her heart?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you?”
He forced a chuckle, but he sounded more tired than amused. “Fill in the tunnel?”
“Forget the tunnel. Forget the house.”
“If that foundation isn’t cemented over when the Park Service comes, we’re not going to pass the inspection.”
“We’ll live.”
“No.” His voice was tight with stubbornness. “My crew’s tied up on another job ’til the twentieth, and I promised your grandmother I’d do it myself to make sure we didn’t miss the opening of the Park.”
“She’ll live. The house’ll get in on Phase Two.”
“I won’t let her down,” he insisted.
Kiah, a woman who had seen more than her fair share of trouble, once told me that in the midst of a crisis, people often feel so helpless that they grab onto seemingly inconsequential things and insist on seeing them through. “It’s all about control,” Kiah had explained. “And it’s real important to let folks hold on to their illusions.” It seemed as if Michael needed his illusions.
“We’ll do it,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Beth and I will fill the tunnel.” It seemed like the right thing to do under the circumstances.
“You think?”
“Beth’s really strong—she’s at the gym a minimum of two hours a day—and she’s a lot better at all kinds of construction then you’d guess from looking at her. I can be her assistant.” To prove my sincerity, I climbed out of bed and, with the portable phone pressed to my ear, headed downstairs to check on the delivery, jabbering to Michael so he’d stay on the line.
The cellar was damp and shadowy, as usual, and a large pile of dirt was standing a few yards from the tunnel opening. When I told Michael the dirt had arrived, he explained what needed be done. It was pretty basic: fill in the tunnel and the rear part of the root closet so that the hole in the foundation would have a solid back when it was filled with concrete. Basic, but not without jeopardy for a grown woman who couldn’t let go of her childhood fears. I kept Michael on the phone until I got back upstairs.
Beth and Trina walked in just as I was pouring myself a cup of coffee. Gram had a tennis match she thought might run over, so she had asked Beth to meet Trina at the Ale-wife T Station. She needed Trina all day to get the paperwork completed for the inspection. I told them about Michael’s mother and the offer I had made.
Beth paced the kitchen nervously as I talked. When I finished, she tapped a fingernail on the counter and bit the cuticle of another. “How about I call Ryan?” she offered. “You know, that handyman I use? Maybe he could squeeze us in.”
“Today?” I was pretty skeptical.
Beth reached for the phone. “Never know ’til you try.”
But for once, Beth’s service network failed her, and so did the yellow pages. The downside of a strong economic upturn is that everyone’s busy.
“I’ll help,” Trina offered.
“Help with what?” Gram came through the back door and headed straight for the fridge. She grabbed the milk and poured herself a large glass; Gram was a big believer in milk and drank at least a half gallon a day. I went through my explanation again. Gram polished off the milk and shot Beth an annoyed glance.
“I never said I wouldn’t do it,” Beth said defensively. “Remember how I fixed that electrical short? And I don’t pump iron every day for nothing.” She raised her arms and clenched her fists. Her biceps were damned impressive, and she was a whiz with a blown fuse.
“I’ll help too,” Gram offered. “Lord knows, I’m no good at paperwork.”
“No way,” I said.
“Don’t kid yourself, Lee.” Gram jabbed her finger in my gut. “I’m in far better shape than you are—probably with stronger and healthier bones.” A dig about my refusal to drink milk.
Although Gram’s words were more than likely true, she was still sixty-nine, and I wasn’t going to let her shovel dirt. “There are only two shovels, Gram,” I said, hoping that this was the case, or at least that it wouldn’t be known not to be. “How about you and Trina deal with all that paper, while Beth and I get started in the cellar?” I wasn’t any more thrilled with this plan than Gram was, but I forced a smile. “I don’t have to be at work for a couple of hours yet, and Beth and I can get a lot done before I have to leave.”
Gram grumbled about Trina being able to do a better job without her, and Beth grumbled about wearing the wrong clothes.
“Come on,” I coaxed. “It’ll really help Michael.”
“Far be it from me to stand in the way of romance,” Gram said, but she didn’t look happy.
Beth raised one eyebrow and smirked. I ignored them and went upstairs to get Beth a T-shirt and jeans.
When I came back down with the clothes, Beth, in her predictable-unpredictable way, went gung-ho on the project. She dragged me into the cellar and barked instructions as if she’d been a building contractor her whole life—or a drill sergeant.
“Those jerks left this pile of dirt too far from the tunnel opening,” she grumbled. “We’re going to have to move it. You start shoveling while I check out the situation.” She paced across the old cellar, stepping around puddles and tools, mumbling about uneven footings and electrical hook ups. “And they haven’t even wired the sump pump yet. How the hell do they expect to get all this water out of here without a pump?” She walked to the far wall of the new cellar and back again, then circled the rooms poking at walls and floors. She finally stopped in the spot where the man in my dream had stood. She picked up one of the shovels.
“Is it too much coffee or are you taking diet pills again?” I asked.
“This was your idea, not mine,” Beth reminded me. “And anyway, your fears have all been realized. Remember? Now that you’ve survived being buried alive, you’ve got nothing left to be afraid of.”
“What about the woman with the iron teeth?”
Beth’s grin was demonic as she handed the shovel to me. “Except for her, of course.”
The air felt oddly thick, edgy and electrified, like the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm, and I didn’t like it. But I stuck the shovel into the dirt.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Beth reprimanded me, grabbing the shovel from my hands. “Bend your knees or you’ll screw up your back and we’ll never get this finished.” Then she demonstrated the proper shoveling technique three times. Her frenetic enthusiasm was scary.
I spent the next couple of hours breathing dust and letting Beth boss me around. I tried not to think about my dream, but the longer I was down there, the more clearly I remembered the rippling muscles of the man’s back, the intensity of his efforts, the anger in the swing of his arms.
When Trina came down to tell us she had made lunch, I dropped my shovel so fast, both she and Beth laughed. But I didn’t care: I was out of there.
When I pulled up to SafeHaven, Kiah was standing in front of the house talking to a tall, extremely handsome black man. He was in his mid-twenties and dressed in a well-tailored conservative suit. As I was parking the car, he turned away from me, and the fabric of his jacket tightened across his broad shoulders, hinting at the toned muscles underneath. If it wasn’t for the way he was waving his arms and the steely look in Kiah’s eyes, I would have guessed he was the
latest neighborhood success story. Instead, I guessed he was someone’s boyfriend.
I got out of the car and walked toward the house. I nodded to Kiah, and as I pressed into the hedge to squeeze around them, the man began a slow turn toward me. For a moment, I was once again in my dream, my feet rooted to the ground, terror licking at my stomach. Then he stepped aside, bowed slightly and smiled. A jolt shot through me that was equal measures of fear and sexual attraction. I felt flustered and foolish. “Sorry,” I mumbled. Another man who was clearly too handsome for his own good.
“Lionnel Matthias.” Kiah waved at Lionnel, then pointed to me. “Lee Seymour.” Although her face was set in a polite expression, I knew from the snap of her wrist that she was annoyed.
“Lee,” he said slowly, his voice caressing my name, then his smile broadened and his eyes latched onto mine; he oozed sex appeal with an irresistible hint of danger. He held onto my hand. “I’ve heard about you from Trina.”
So this was Trina’s Lionnel. He was even better looking than she had said. And scarier. I took a step back, but I was unable to look away.
Lionnel released my hand and nodded toward Kiah. “My buddy Kiah and me were just shooting the breeze. Telling each other lies.”
“Lionnel’s leaving,” Kiah said. “We’re done here.”
Lionnel cocked his head to the left and said, “For now.” Then he touched the brim of a non-existent hat and sauntered down the street. A man in control of his world. I watched him until he turned the corner.
“Wow,” I said as we headed up the stairs.
“You know how some men get more attractive after you’ve known them a while?” Kiah asked. “Well that man just gets uglier.”
The Safe Room Page 7