“Wha—” he said in a high-pitched sleepy voice. He rolled away from them and curled up into a ball.
“Okay, I’ll tell you the story,” Valerie said. She took one of the couch pillows and hugged it to her chest. “Once upon a time, there was a very rich man and a very poor, but very pretty woman. The woman was happy when the man asked her to marry him because her mother always said it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man. So they got married and went looking for their dream house. They looked and they looked, but they couldn’t find a house they really liked. Finally, they went to see a real estate agent. She was an old woman who used to be a teacher, but she got fired for being so mean to the kids. She took a set of keys off the rack and said, ‘I’ll take you to your dream house.’
“She took them to a big house on the edge of town near the woods that had a Century 21 For Sale sign in the front yard. There were big gardens all around the house and that made the pretty wife very happy. She liked flowers and she liked to go for long walks in the woods. The rich husband liked it because it had good parking and a two-car garage. The house had six bedrooms and six bathrooms and a rec room with a ping-pong table. The strange thing was, the people who had lived there before had left all of their furniture.
“‘Oh that,’ the real estate agent said. ‘The former owners had to leave in a hurry. The husband got an offer out of town and they were getting all new furniture anyway so they decided to leave it. It comes with the house. It’s a package deal.’
“All of a sudden, a little girl popped out. The husband and wife asked the real estate agent who she was. ‘Oh her,’ the real estate agent said. ‘She is the daughter of the former owners. They didn’t allow children in their new apartment building and they were going to have another baby anyway, so they decided to leave her. She comes with the house. It’s a package deal.’
“There were a lot creaking noises as the couple walked around. The real estate agent said, ‘Oh that, that’s just the wind. That’s what you get from living near the woods. It’s part of the package deal.’
“Even with all the strange things, the couple decided to buy the house because they liked it so much. They stuck a “sold” sticker on the Century 21 sign in the front lawn. They moved in and put down new carpeting. They kept some of the old furniture and sold the rest in a yard sale. They kept the little girl and named her Katie. And everything was normal for a little while.
“But what they didn’t know was that the house was haunted and that everyone who had ever lived in the house before them had died a mysterious death. The real estate agent knew this and she purposefully showed the house to people she didn’t like just to be mean.
“Then one day while the husband was at work and little Katie was taking a nap, the pretty wife decided to go for a walk in the woods. She walked out of the backyard and followed the path into the woods. She walked deeper and deeper into the woods until the air was cold and she couldn’t see the house anymore. Then it got very, very quiet. So quiet that she could hear her own heart beating in her chest. She got a shiver up her spine and she felt like someone, or something, was watching her. She got scared and started wheezing, like she was having an asthma attack. She let out a scream, but nobody heard her because she was so far away and little Katie was asleep.
“Later, the husband came home from work and his wife wasn’t around. He went up to little Katie’s room and she was still lying in her bed asleep. He tried to wake her, but she wouldn’t wake up. She wasn’t dead, but she was in a coma and couldn’t wake up. The husband called the police. The police officers came, but they couldn’t start a search until morning because it was too dark.
“Finally, the next morning, they found the wife in the woods. She had been killed, but they didn’t know how. Her hair had turned totally white, and her eyes were totally white, and her skin was extra white. She had seen something that had frightened her to death. When the police were carrying her out of the woods on a stretcher, they noticed some blood coming out of her chest. They unzipped her jacket and saw there was a big bloody hole where her heart should be. Then they took her hand out of her pocket and saw that she was holding her own heart in her hand. She had ripped out her own heart.”
Valerie took a long pause, indicating that this was the end of the story.
“That wasn’t the angel ghost story,” Kirin said quietly. Tammy turned and looked at Kirin. She was curled up tightly on her sleeping bag facing away from everybody. “I don’t like that story,” she said.
Steffi looked across the circle at Tammy. She had her “I’m sad” look on. She looked at Tammy to see what she thought.
“What happened to the little girl?” Tammy asked Valerie.
“They moved out and she had to go into a special hospital until she woke up.”
“What about the real estate agent?”
“She . . . sold the house to the next people she didn’t like.”
“So people keep dying there over and over again and no one figures it out?”
“I suppose so,” Valerie said. “Time for bed now.” She stood up and turned off the light. “Good night,” she said.
No one else said anything. There was nothing left to do but go to bed.
Tammy crawled to the end of her sleeping bag and wiggled her way in. When she rolled over onto her side she looked out into the hallway and saw Kirin’s mom still standing there. She hadn’t gone back to her room. She was standing there in the dark. She looked scary because the light from the street outside shone through Kirin’s bedroom window and lit her up from behind. Her white see-through nightgown glowed like a lantern. If there really were angel ghosts, this is how they must look.
There was an awkward feeling in Tammy’s stomach as if she had accidentally seen someone naked and it was hard to look away. The only thing she could think to do was to ask Kirin to close the door.
“Why?”
“You’re not supposed to sleep with the door open. In case of fire.” Tammy knew this from a TV show where they explained what to do in case of emergencies. You weren’t supposed to sleep with the door open, you were supposed to feel the door first with your hand to see if it was hot. If there was an earthquake, you were supposed to brace yourself in a doorjamb. And you were supposed to have an emergency family evacuation plan and have a meeting point outside on the corner. If you were at school and the Russians sent over a missile, you were supposed to get under your desk. There were fallout signs at school leading to the basement, but no one ever went down there.
Kirin kicked the door closed with her foot.
Tammy stared up at the ceiling. Valerie’s story reminded Tammy of when she asked her mother if Nick actually loved Tammy and Steffi, even though they weren’t his kids. Her mother said, “He loved me and he knew it was a package deal,” but she didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to, because Tammy knew Nick didn’t love her. He loved Hugh because Hugh was actually his kid. He probably loved Steffi because she was nice and cute. But there really wasn’t anything lovable about Tammy. She wasn’t nice and she wasn’t cute. She got in trouble a lot, she yelled, and she cursed. She got good grades, but she didn’t like school. She didn’t like her sister or her brother, and she didn’t like Nick. She thought her mother was okay, but her mother was always siding with Nick and Steffi. Her mother never took Tammy’s side and if she could get rid of Tammy, she probably would. Without Tammy her life would be a whole lot easier and nicer. Tammy just reminded her of Dad.
Tammy thought it must be nice to be an only child like Kirin and have your own room without a separator door and not have to baby-sit your brother after school. She hated sleeping over here and being treated like a little kid.
The next morning when Tammy woke up she was alone, surrounded by flat sleeping bags. She got up and wandered downstairs, not really sure what to do with herself in someone else’s house.
Kirin, Steffi, and Hugh were already dressed and eating cereal in the kitchen. The choices were Fruit L
oops, Frosted Flakes, or Honeycomb. They never had this at home. They weren’t allowed to have sugary cereal. They didn’t even have regular non-sugary cereal like Cheerios or Rice Krispies. It was always generic brand cereals called Crispy Rice and Toasty O’s.
“Hi, sleepyhead!” Steffi said.
Tammy glared at her and chose Frosted Flakes.
Kirin’s mom was standing by the window smoking a cigarette.
“Do you want to go swimming?” Kirin asked.
“No,” Tammy said without looking up from her bowl.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“That’s not a real reason.”
“Well, I don’t want to and I didn’t bring my suit.”
“We could stop by your house and you could run in and get it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“BECAUSE I DON’T!” Tammy yelled.
Kirin’s eyes bugged out. Steffi put on her “I’m hurt” look and squinted her eyes to force herself to cry. Hugh looked at Tammy with his spoon in midair, needing permission to take another bite. Tammy sat very still because she had forgotten she was in someone else’s house and she was supposed to behave and not yell.
Kirin’s mom didn’t say anything. Tammy slowly turned around in her seat and looked at her. She hadn’t moved an inch. She was still staring out the window. Her cigarette had burned almost all the way down to her fingers. There was a long piece of ash that tilted down toward the floor and then dripped off and fell into the sink. She still didn’t move.
Tammy slowly turned back around and smiled at Steffi. Kirin opened her mouthful of chewed Fruit Loops and stuck out her tongue at Tammy.
THE COUNCIL WITH THE DOCTOR
Jeffrey sat on the shrink’s couch next to his mother; his father sat in a separate chair facing the shrink. The shrink had his legs crossed like a girl and was reading aloud from a paper Jeffrey had written. The shrink liked to give homework assignments, one of which was to write an autobiography—the life of Jeffrey Hackney up until now. Jeffrey enjoyed writing it and embellished very little. He thought it best, under these circumstances, to be as pathetic as possible.
The thing Jeffrey didn’t like was the shrink reading it aloud to his parents. It made him sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to look at them, although he was curious about their reaction. He chose instead to stare at the orange carpet and count the niblets of yarn as they faded from maroon to brown in some semblance of a sunset. He had to concentrate on something to keep his face blank because he could feel his father look over at him from time to time. His father had assumed one of his serious listening poses: legs crossed, ankle over opposite knee, chin in hand, elbow balanced on the armrest. He slowly rotated back and forth in the office-style chair like a pendulum swinging, ticking off time. The rest of his body didn’t move, his eyes remained fixed on the white sheet of college-ruled notebook paper in the shrink’s hand. Every now and then his eyes would dart over at Jeffrey, but he still kept time in his chair on wheels.
Jeffrey counted bumps in the carpet, calculating the distance between chair legs and air vents and electrical outlets. When he needed a break he sang a Beatles song in his head. He was halfway through The White Album when the shrink laid the paper on his desk and they all shifted in their seats, unsure of what the next act would bring. His mother unclasped her hands and hooked them together horizontally with curled fingers, like a yin-yang symbol. She had learned this in church choir as the proper way to hold one’s hands while singing.
Jeffrey looked up. Everyone was looking back at him.
“Jeffrey,” the shrink began, “how does it feel having your autobiography read to your parents?”
“Nervous.”
“Do you feel relieved to have it out in the open, off your chest?”
“I don’t know.”
“How does it feel now, with it all over and done?”
“The same, kind of.”
Jeffrey’s father lifted his ankle off his knee and planted his foot flat on the floor. He took a deep inhale, which meant he was about to say something, hand down his proclamation, like God to Moses the Shrink, and have the session wrapped up. Jeffrey gave Dr. Gans credit for spotting it and shushing his father with a slightly raised hand.
“Do you have some inclination as to what your parents are feeling right now?”
It was almost too easy, Jeffrey thought. This was his cue to look over at them with eyes on the verge of tears and tell them how afraid he was that they might be ashamed of him. But Jeffrey already knew what they thought. His father wasn’t so much ashamed of him as he was looking for a way to get rid of him. Jeffrey wasn’t a son, but an employee, someone his father wanted to fire without having to hand over a severance package.
“I don’t know,” Jeffrey said, playing the middle.
“What kind of autobiography do you think would please them?” Jeffrey went back to the carpet niblets.
“I don’t know. One where I was rich and famous. More like my brother and sister.”
“Are either your brother or sister rich and famous?”
“No.”
Jeffrey’s father leaned back in his chair. It was killing him not being able to say anything, but those were the rules of the session. They had to listen and not interrupt.
“What do you think your parents want from you for the immediate future?”
“Get a job. Move out.”
“Or you could finish school,” his mother said and, quickly catching herself, uttered an embarrassed, “Sorry.”
“Don’t those seem like rather attainable goals? School, a job, your own apartment. Don’t they seem much easier to achieve than becoming rich and famous?”
“I guess.”
“Should we make that our focus in these sessions?”
“Sure.”
The shrink nodded, satisfied with himself. The four of them got up, shook hands all around, and shuffled through the waiting room full of unhappy hopefuls looking to be told what to do with their lives.
When they got home, his father took out a pen and drew a circle around a day in next month’s calendar.
“One month. Nothing gets done without a deadline, Jeffrey. One month to find a job and look for your own place. We can help you out with a deposit on the apartment, but that’s it. If you had balls enough to pick up and move to California, you have balls enough to knock on doors for a job.”
Jeffrey’s mother bit her bottom lip and curled it into her mouth. She didn’t like the word “balls” being bantered about her kitchen. She peeled back the tin foil covering her CorningWare and placed the dish delicately in the oven.
His father, thusly satisfied, disappeared into his room to pray, or as he called it, his one-on-one time with the Lord.
Jeffrey’s mother began chatting about how school was still an option even though his father mostly talked about job, job, job. You could get a better job if you have a better education. Plus you’d meet people. It’s important to meet people. I don’t really know what kind of people you would meet working in a restaurant. Maybe you could try the club again. They have lots of young people working there. Maybe your father could talk to someone. . . . She chattered on and on like this. She liked talking to Jeffrey because Jeffrey let her ramble and he didn’t talk back.
In between her meal preparations and talking to herself, she plunked two white tablets and a glass of water down in front of Jeffrey. Jeffrey stared at the medication prescribed by the shrink for treatment of a nervous condition. His mother had forgotten that Jeffrey had taken his pills before the appointment. She was slipping up because he usually took them right before dinner, but tonight they were having dinner late because of their after-work family session. The two miniature white eyeballs looked up at him from the table. They jiggled on the vinyl kitchen tablecloth as his mother walked back and forth from oven to fridge. They jiggled like a giant pair of tiny tits for a skinny white female insect, some slutty mi
ni creature performing a disembodied striptease on the edge of a flat world.
Jeffrey licked two fingertips and placed them on top of the pills. They stuck to his skin as he lifted them up and dropped them in his mouth. Double your pleasure, double your fun.
His mother kept on chattering as she wandered in and out, setting the table, folding paper napkins into irregular triangles, filling up amber glasses with white milk. Jeffrey felt as though he was sliding into a deep bath, maybe one filled with mud or warm Jell-O. He let his head rest against the rubbery kitchen wallpaper and set sail for a distant land in which he had no worries and no cares.
PART TWO
FRIENDSHIP HEIGHTS
Josie pulled her head out of the oven, which she had been attempting to clean, and was startled to see a pair of bare legs she did not recognize. She jerked upright, banging her head on the oven ceiling, and found Valerie standing before her in the kitchen doorway.
“How’d you get in?” Josie asked. “Did I leave the door open?” She felt around the crown of her head to see if she had picked up any grease. There was a patch that seemed damp, but when she removed her fingers they were clean.
Valerie didn’t answer the question. If Josie thought about it, it was the type of thing Valerie might do, just kind of wander in somewhere, ignoring “employees only” signs or closed doors. But Josie was embarrassed about being caught doing something so mundane. Although Josie didn’t have a job, she didn’t consider herself a housewife. It was passé to consider one’s self a housewife, she thought, although she didn’t feel comfortable with the refrigerator magnet her husband had given her as a joke present that said, “All mothers are working mothers.” She knew he meant well by it, but it didn’t feel like enough.
“I wanted to give this back to you,” Valerie said and, smiling, extended a book to Josie.
“Oh, did you finish it already?” Josie asked.
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