“And these are the same rules that Father followed before he left?”
Grandmother doesn’t flinch. There’s a long pause. Unspoken words hang between them, their long glares locking like horns.
“Your father broke the rules,” she finally says. “And he is no longer with us.”
Oliver fidgets, and the step sings.
“Olivah, keep your place and stand at attention. Keep your hands at your sides, no touching the bannister. You will remain here until further notice. Is that understood?”
He nods.
And then she says something that nearly buckles his knees. Not with fear, but shock and amazement.
“I love you both,” she says.
Love. The word actually came from her mouth. Her lips formed it, her tongue spoke it. Hearing it was like swigging from a bottle of vinegar but tasting something sweet—it didn’t compute. Even if she delivered the word with the synthetic emotionlessness of a computer, it still came out of her.
“But true love,” she says, “has nothing to do with feeling good.”
Oliver feels a wave of weird begin—his blood sugar is getting low. He’ll let it drop. He used to do that when he was little, especially when he was mad at his mom. He’d let it go until he was shaking. It was his way of punishing her.
Grandmother slides her hands into her coat before walking to the kitchen. Mom watches from the front door, a grim smile dimpling her cheeks, her chin cocked sideways like she’d taken a right hook.
He knew this expression, too.
She’s putting pieces together, hatching a plan. The last time he saw that look was in Texas, shortly after losing her job. Creditors had been calling, and the rent was due. There were few options for them, none of them good.
And then they came here.
She unlocks her jaw. With a brief nod, she climbs onto the bottom step, forcing him to move over. She takes a jagged breath, adjusting the kinks in her back before standing upright. A calm expression rises to the surface, placid and meditative.
Her next breath is smooth.
“We had to do this when we were in trouble,” she says. “She would make us wait for our father. Sometimes it would be hours. When it was just me, the boredom was unbearable, but I became a pro at this. I learned to keep good posture. I hate to admit it, but it helps. Pretend there’s a string pulling the crown of your head where your hair swirls. This will keep your back straight. Find a spot on the door and breathe through it.”
She pulls an easy breath through her nostrils, lets it flow from her lips.
“And she always knew if we were touching the wall or the railing. And if we got the giggles, that was also more time on the step. The record was four hours, all the way until bedtime. And then we went back to the step first thing in the morning.”
“What’d you do?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head. “There are worse things than standing on this Godforsaken step, I suppose. Your grandmother never hit us, so there’s that.”
Oliver knew what it was like to be ignored. He knew what a fat lip was like, too. Given the choice, he’d take a shot to the mouth.
But neither was good.
Oliver tried her posture technique, imagining a string attached where the hair swirled on his head, picking a spot on the side panel of glass to breathe through. It wasn’t long before his back ached. Worse, he thought about not seeing Molly.
That ached, too.
“Get off the step, Debra.” Grandmother appears at their side. “Don’t be silly.”
Mom keeps her composure, quietly breathing. Oliver keeps his focus on the window. Several moments pass.
Grandmother stands at the side of the door, the sharp tip of her nose almost pressed to the glass. Oliver stares at the bun on the back of her head, not a single gray hair escaping the intricate web of pins and elastic bands. He inhales through his nostrils, imagining his breath pulling through her head like a cool breeze, her thoughts penetrating his sinuses like dust, swirling inside him.
Cold and empty.
He consumes her innermost secrets, or what he imagines them to be, picturing her up late at night, walking the property in search of something, the metal glove securely wrapped around her hand, the fingers arched like talons, the moon pale on her cheeks. Beneath her distant stare and hardened stance, he feels a great need, an unrequited desire for something she’d lost. Something she’d once had.
Once loved.
“What is love?” The words leap from his tongue, startling him like someone else said them.
Grandmother flinches. “Quiet.”
“If it doesn’t feel good,” he continues, “then what is it?”
He was thinking about Molly, the way it felt when their hands were entwined, the warm swirl in his belly when they walked together. When he saw her, his chest opened and fireworks exploded. She was this star, this enormous field of gravity that he was hopelessly caught in, destined to forever orbit. If that’s not love…
“It’s a fair question.” Mom spoke up.
Grandmother doesn’t move, but her shoulders rise with a long, deep breath. “I didn’t say it didn’t feel good. The point of true love is not happy feelings. It’s to do what is required in that moment. Good feelings may result, but that’s not the point.”
Colors spread across the distorted panes of glass as a car eases into the circle driveway.
“It is difficult to truly love.” Grandmother opens the door.
Aunt Rhonnie is climbing the steps. The fair-headed blood-related duo is behind her. Henry is locked on him like crosshairs tracking a buck.
Breathing becomes difficult. It feels like a wool blanket has been pulled over Oliver’s mouth. Each step his cousin takes, another layer is added.
“What’s so urgent, Mother?” Aunt Rhonnie asks.
“Come inside.”
She steps aside to let Henry and Helen go first. A smirk snarls deep into Henry’s cheek, his eyes hooded like a viper. Aunt Rhonnie brings her open hand behind him, cuffing him in the back of the head.
“Stop smiling. Get in there.”
Henry and Helen stand to the side, their shoes shiny and their clothes snug and wrinkle-free. Their fair skin appears to have avoided sunlight for too long, almost vampire-like in its paleness. Aunt Rhonnie lowers her movie-star glasses and peers at Oliver’s mom.
“What are you doing?”
“Reliving old memories.”
Aunt Rhonnie’s eyes narrow.
“What do you know about the garage?” Grandmother asks. Aunt Rhonnie turns, but Grandmother is standing in front of Henry and Helen. The twins exchange confused looks.
“Tell me. Now.”
“There’s a car inside,” Helen says. “Is that what you mean?”
“Have I not told you to stay away?” They agree, in unison. “Have you been inside the garage, then?”
“No,” they say.
“Have you ever tried to go inside?”
There’s a pause. Without looking at each other, they decide not to test Grandmother’s truth detector. Together, they nod.
“Mother, really?” Aunt Rhonnie says. “This couldn’t be done on the phone?”
Her death ray only works in person.
“Olivah says the garage was unlocked for him.” Grandmother leans closer to Henry. Her nose twitches like she’s smelling the truth. “He took something that belongs to me. Something very special. What do you know about this?”
A dark shade falls over Henry. The joyless smile is replaced with grim focus.
“Well?”
“Nothing, Grandmother,” Henry says. “We’ve never even smelled the inside of the garage.”
She stands in front of him. Oliver, once again staring at the tight bun, feels Henry’s eyes as if they are boring through Grandmother to latch onto him.
“What’s the big deal, Mother?” Aunt Rhonnie says. “So they want to see the car. I hardly think this deserves an investigation.”
Grandmo
ther steps away; her hands fold behind her back.
Henry, his stare once again fixed on Oliver, says, “If I may speak?”
“Continue,” Grandmother says.
“What else has he done?”
A cold shank of fear drives down Oliver’s legs, spiking his heels into the step. He can’t feel his thighs and knows to keep his knees locked or he’ll fall like a boneless bag.
“I’d like to have a word with Henry and Helen,” Grandmother intones. “Alone.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Aunt Rhonnie mutters.
“Come along.” Grandmother exits the foyer, quietly padding down the hall. Henry lingers after Helen until Aunt Rhonnie tells him to get his butt in gear. Oliver avoids looking at them.
Once in the kitchen, their voices murmur. Oliver, Mom and Aunt Rhonnie concentrate to make out what is so top secret until the back door closes. Silence falls like heavy snow.
“Get off the step,” Aunt Rhonnie says. “You look ridiculous, Deb.”
“That’s the point.”
Aunt Rhonnie cusses. “I need a drink.”
She slams the front door on the way outside. The pointy ends of her high heels hammer the steps and chisel the sidewalk. Several moments later, the base line of a synthesized beat vibrates through the front door. Aunt Rhonnie sits alone in the car.
Mom begins laughing. “Come on.”
She steps off and stretches. Fear punches Oliver between the ribs. His ears prick for sound coming from the back of the house, aware that old ninja shoes can still be watching. Mom pulls him by the elbow.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t fold like a book. His legs are still solid.
She walks to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets for a glass, whistling while she does it. She’s done this before.
When Oliver gets the courage, he follows. Mom is in the dining room, but a glass of tea is waiting next to the sink. He’s not thirsty, but takes a sip. He grabs something to eat to bring his sugar up. He’ll need a blood test.
Outside, standing in front of the garage window with her back to the house, Grandmother is talking to the twins. Oliver jumps to the side and, a few seconds later, eases in view.
Henry is looking at him.
But that’s not why Oliver’s knees go limp-noodle.
He’s wearing a metal glove.
F L U R Y
eighteen
Aunt Rhonnie sits in the car for hours.
She’s on her phone with a cup of Starbucks. A grande. Occasionally, she walks around the circle drive with cup in hand, waving it in a slow circle. Eventually, she goes home.
The twins stay.
That night, dinner is quiet. Almost silent. Oliver doesn’t look up from his plate. Henry and Helen clear the table but leave the dishes for Oliver. He doesn’t mind.
Oliver locks himself in his bedroom. He searches for the wooden orb, yearning to feel the vibrations in his arm like a fat beetle shaking its wings. It’s gone. Where could it be?
He hears footsteps outside his door in the middle of the night.
The next morning, the twins are gone. There are chores by his name. Henry’s and Helen’s names aren’t on the board. That afternoon he sees them returning from across the field. Dinner is almost as quiet as the first night.
This goes on for a week.
Oliver stays in bed the next morning. He eats his stash of energy bars to keep his sugar balanced. It’s not quite lunch when he leaves. He pauses on the second floor. The bedroom doors are open. The house, a veritable motion detector, popping when someone yawns, is silent. He backs up a step, then two. The blood pushes through his veins in gushing waves. He clutches the railing.
His socks, hanging off the toes, allow him to slide quietly, not silently, but quietly toward Henry’s and Helen’s rooms. He stops midway at the bathroom, listening before continuing.
Henry’s room is first.
Oliver peeks around the open door. His head vibrates with excitement. He takes a deep breath and steps inside. The bed is made, the corners tucked and the bedspread smooth. The top of the dresser is clean, like the floor. No one would know someone lived here.
Rule #980: Live like you don’t exist.
Oliver looks under the bed, where dusty bunnies have been exterminated. He doesn’t touch the bed, afraid a wrinkle will give him away. After listening for signs of life, he crosses over to the dresser and pulls open the top drawer.
It’s full of clothes.
All the drawers are full. The shirts are neatly folded, the pants pressed and creased. Even the underwear is organized next to rows of socks lined up like soldiers. At first, Oliver hoped to see something without touching anything. There’s one thing he wants to find more than anything else, even more than the wooden orb. Something that would ensure that he wasn’t imagining, that this isn’t a dream.
The metal glove.
Were they just pretending they couldn’t go into the garage? It was one thing for Grandmother to get weird, but she acted like they were in on it. And Aunt Rhonnie and Mom still didn’t seem to have a clue. But if I find that glove, it’d be proof the weird includes his cousins. If I find it, I could put it on.
But it’s not there. And he’s not going to move a single sock. He’s already beginning to wonder if he’s left footprints in the hall. He eases the last drawer closed.
“There you are.”
Oliver’s heart rockets into his throat, bulldozing blood into his head. Darkness spills into his vision, and he steadies himself on the dresser, turning to see someone in the doorway. His heartbeat slams past his eardrums.
“Looking for your cousins?” his mom says.
“No,” he says. After several breaths, but still clutching the dresser, he adds, “Not really.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Oliver slides out of the bedroom while she adjusts the headband that holds her hair off her face. She’s wearing fewer earrings than usual, just a couple in each lobe. Oliver uses the restroom first, just in case Henry or Helen come upstairs and see them standing outside their bedrooms. When he comes out, Mom has her shirt tucked in.
“How do I look?” she asks.
“Good. Are you going somewhere?”
“Sort of. I’ve got a job at the bookstore down the street from that café you go to.”
“Little Professor?”
“That’s the one. It’s just shelving books and running the cash register, but it’s something.”
His mom was never good with real jobs. She always got bored. It was the whole punching a clock and taking orders and evaluations. She referenced Pink Floyd a lot when she complained, that humans weren’t meant to sit in rows and march in lines. Sometimes she got fired, but mostly she just stopped going. They didn’t have much money, but that never bothered Oliver. He didn’t know he was poor until he got older.
Texas, though, was the first time his mom borrowed money. The lenders were coming for everything. Hard to start a career when you’re standing in a hole. Oliver often wondered which one was deeper: the one back in Texas or the one Grandmother dug in her childhood.
“Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“Yeah. That and moving out of here. I looked around for apartments and figured we could live in town. It’d take a few months to get enough for first and last months’ rent, but we’d be out of here. How’s that sound?”
“Great.” He didn’t shout or jump for joy, but a smile crossed his face.
“I know, I know. It wasn’t fair to bring you here. I mean, I’m used to dealing with your grandmother. I won’t be making much money, so we’ll have to eat ramen noodles for a while.”
“I’ll eat paper for dinner, I don’t care. I’ll brush my teeth with soap.”
“All right, relax. We’re not moving into a dumpster. I want to stay in town, though. Your grandmother is getting older, and despite what she thinks, she’ll need some help—”
Oliver wraps his arms around her, so elated that if he didn’t hang on he�
�d float to the ceiling. They’ll move to town, where he’ll get phone service, where he can walk to the library. Where he’ll see Molly.
He never thought he had much of a normal life compared to others. After living with Grandmother, he realized he was much closer than he thought. And he’d get back to that. Nothing could stop them from leaving. Nothing could change his mind. Least of all Henry.
He’ll be happy we’re leaving.
If only Oliver could avoid him until then. But the streak ends that night. Oliver thought Henry would be the last person to change his mind about leaving.
***
It’s almost midnight.
Oliver can’t sleep. He’s imagining a two-bedroom apartment. He could put posters on the wall, not make his bed in the morning or do chores. Excitement trembles inside him like a surge of caffeine.
The silhouette of the windmill is dim in the open field. There’s no snow to contrast against, not even patches in the shadows. Winter is officially over. The river must be swollen. Maybe it’s even reached the bridge.
Oliver looks at the dresser, the outline barely visible in the dark room. There’s still a journal in the attic. He hadn’t thought about it since Grandmother snatched his book bag, afraid she’d see the thoughts in his eyes. What must be in them that made her panic? Maybe she doesn’t want us to know mental illness runs in the family. The world knows without those journals, trust me.
And where’s the seventh one?
Maybe now would be the time to go to the attic. He checks the time, thinking he could get down the hall and back within minutes—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Oliver fumbles the phone. His teeth lock together, clamped by the raw grip of fear. Someone knocked on the door, but not with a knuckle. More like a fingernail, each rap separated by a long second. The last one sent gooseflesh across his shoulders as the nail dragged across the painted surface.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
…scratch.
The previous gooseflesh transforms into full-body shrink-wrap. Eyes wide, he stops breathing.
“Ollie.”
Henry didn’t so much as say his name as he breathed it. And not through the heavy door, but under it.
Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set) Page 64