Burntown

by Jennifer McMahon

  Shit. This is so not the time to go all catatonic.

  Theo takes the glasses off Necco’s face. Her eyes are flat, staring down at the papers on the floor.

  “Hey, Fire Girl, you there?”

  “The Chicken Man,” Necco says. “He was real.”

  “Has she been doing drugs?” the bowling alley man asks Theo. His skin is yellow in the flickering fluorescent lights. He’s got a bad comb-over and smells like last night’s vodka covered up with cheap cologne. “Is she on drugs, or what?”

  “No sir,” Theo says, heart pounding. “She’s okay. She’s just tired. And she didn’t eat breakfast this morning. Low blood sugar, you know?” She remembers the prenatal vitamins—didn’t pregnant women get funky blood sugar? Was that part of morning sickness?

  “Come on, Necco.” Theo strokes her face, marveling again at how bizarre she looks with all that orange makeup Pru put on her. Like an Oompa Loompa.

  “Necco?”

  Necco shifts, turns Theo’s way; her eyelids flutter. “Yeah?”

  “See,” Theo says to the bowling alley guy. “She’s okay.”

  “She don’t look okay to me. I’m calling 911,” the man says, pulling out a cell phone and punching the numbers in.

  “No, please,” Theo says. “We’re leaving. She’s totally fine. Really.”

  But the man is talking, describing the situation to a dispatcher, saying they’d better send both the cops and an ambulance. “Looks like drugs,” he says with authority.

  Theo hurriedly gathers up all the papers scattered across the floor and tugs at Necco. “We’ve gotta go,” she says, looping her arm around the frozen girl and steering her toward the exit, through the bowling alley doors, and down the ramp to the parking spot, where Mrs. Small waits in the car. It’s an ancient Chevy Impala, with a tan exterior covered with rust. Theo opens the door to the backseat, and Necco crawls in, her wig crazily askew. She leans against the opposite door, closes her eyes.

  “What on earth happened?” Pru asks.

  “I don’t know, exactly. She just kinda checked out. The guy inside just called the cops. We’ve gotta get out of here. Now.”

  Sirens wail in the distance.

  “What was in the locker?” Pru asks, turning the key.

  “A bunch of papers. Newspaper articles mostly.” She jumps into the giant bench front seat beside Pru, still clutching the papers she’d gathered up from the bowling alley floor.

  “Necco, dear, where to?” Pru asks, leaning her head into the backseat. “Where do we need to go to get Theo’s bag and the vitamins?”

  Necco doesn’t respond.

  “Just drive, Mrs. Small,” Theo says. She looks at the papers in her hands. The photo of the house has something on the back. An address.

  “Okay, I’m driving, but where are we going?” Pru asks, wheeling out of the parking lot.

  “One ninety-eight Birchwood Lane,” Theo tells her.

  “Where’s that?”

  “The east side of the river somewhere. Take Franklin to Chandler, then head over the Steel Bridge.”

  “I’ve got an old map in the glove box,” Pru says. Theo fumbles with the latch as she slips and slides on the cracked vinyl seat; of course there’s no GPS in this beast of a car. The ashtray is full of dusty potpourri. One of Pru’s wire-bodied acrobats with a papier-mâché head hangs from the rearview mirror.

  “What’s on Birchwood Lane?” Pru asks while Theo pulls out the map and starts to orient herself.

  “It’s where Necco grew up. There’s a photo of it here in the papers Hermes hid in the locker.”

  “So why do we want to go there?”

  “I don’t know; have you got a better idea? Maybe there’s someone there who knows her. Family or something.”

  “There’s no one there,” Necco whispers. “The house is gone.”

  Theo turns and looks at Necco in the backseat. “Good to have you back among the living, Fire Girl,” she says.

  “The house is gone,” Necco repeats. “Lost in the flood.”

  “What?” Pru asks. “What on earth is she talking about?”

  “Necco told me her house was destroyed in some big flood. She said the dam broke.”

  Pru shakes her head. “I’ve lived here my whole life—not just me but generations of Smalls before me, including men who helped build the dam and factory. That old dam has never broken. If it had, I’d know about it.”

  “Right? That’s what I told her,” Theo agrees. “I bet the house is still there.”

  “We’re not going there!” Necco springs forward, leaning into the front seat space. “I promised I wouldn’t! We do not cross the bridge!” She says this with such intensity that Theo feels a little afraid.

  “Okay, okay,” Theo says. “Whatever you say.”

  Necco sinks into the backseat again, goes back to staring out the window.

  “Whatever she says?” Pru hisses. “Why is she the one calling the shots? I don’t mind saying I think your friend here has a few loose screws.”

  Pru looks at Necco in the rearview mirror, and Theo glances back, too. Necco is gazing out the window, seemingly oblivious to their conversation, but Theo knows she’s listening carefully.

  “And don’t forget,” Pru goes on in a too-loud whisper, “she’s wanted for murder! I know she looks innocent, and I’m all for giving people the benefit of the doubt, but what if she did it? What if she’s actually dangerous? Maybe the best thing, for all of us, would be to drop her off at the police station. Let them sort it out.”

  Necco flinches slightly, puts her hand on the door handle like she’s thinking about bailing out.

  “No,” Theo says firmly. “She’s innocent. And remember, if we do that, I’ll never get my bag back and you’ll never get your vitamins.”

  Pru purses her lips. Then, at last, she says, “So where to, then?”

  “Just drive,” Theo says. “And don’t cross the river.”

  Necco takes her hand off the door handle. “Go to Old Town,” she says. “That’s where the bag is.”

  Pru nods, steers the car back along the river, avoiding downtown.

  Theo returns to the stack of papers on her lap. She picks up the newspaper article on top, the one Necco had been staring at in the bowling alley, and starts to read it out loud:

  Dr. Miles Sandeski, a sociology professor at Two Rivers College, is being sought for questioning about the disappearance of his wife and daughter. Police were alerted when Sandeski’s sister-in-law, Judith Tanner, arrived at their home on Birchwood Lane, after receiving a panicked phone call from Sandeski’s wife, Lily. Ms. Tanner was greeted by Dr. Sandeski, who tried to send her away, explaining that his wife and daughter had to leave town unexpectedly. Ms. Tanner said that there were signs of a struggle in the house: overturned furniture, a broken lamp. And Sandeski’s clothes were muddy and had what Ms. Tanner believed to be blood on his shirt. Ms. Tanner left and notified police, who have thus far been unable to locate Dr. Sandeski, his wife or daughter. Detective Samuel Glover gave the following statement: “The disappearance of Mrs. Sandeski and her fourteen-year-old daughter is very concerning and we have reason to suspect foul play. Dr. Sandeski is wanted for questioning and anyone with any information about his whereabouts should contact police immediately.”

  Dr. Sandeski’s supervisor, Dr. Bruce Nessler, issued a statement earlier today: “We at Two Rivers College are very taken aback by this news. Miles is an outstanding teacher, much loved by his students and colleagues. The idea that he may have harmed his wife and daughter is baffling to all of us here at Two Rivers. We are all praying for their safety.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” Pru says.

  Theo turns to Necco in the backseat. “This article is from four years ago. The professor, he’s your father, right? And the fourteen-year-old girl is you.”

  Necco keeps her head pressed against the window, doesn’t look at Theo. “My father would never have hurt us,” she s
ays. “My father loved us. It’s all wrong. That’s not what happened.”

  “Miles Sandeski,” Theo says. “He’s the guy who wrote the book, right? The Princess and the Elephant?”

  “Yes,” Necco says, turning to look at Theo.

  “I read it.”

  “I know,” Necco says. “I saw the copy of it in your bag.”

  “Her father wrote a book?” Pru asks. “What kind of book?”

  “It’s all about good and evil, and myth and stuff. How we are shaped by our experiences and how it is that some of us grow up to be killers and some of us are the good guys. But really, what he says is that it’s not so black and white, you know? We’ve all got good and evil inside us.”

  “So what happened to Dr. Sandeski? Is he still missing?” Pru asks. “Is he still on the run?”

  Theo shuffles through the papers again, pulling out another photocopied newspaper article, and skims it. “Oh, shit,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Necco.”

  “He’s dead,” Necco says. “Mama told me he and Errol drowned in the flood.”

  “I don’t know about the flood part, and I don’t see any mention of anyone named Errol, but yeah, I’m sorry—your father did drown. This article is from a couple weeks later.” She clears her throat and reads it out loud:

  DROWNING VICTIM IDENTIFIED

  The human remains found on April 27 by a fisherman in the north branch of the Lacroix River have been identified as 45-year-old Dr. Miles Sandeski of Ashford. Dr. Sandeski, a professor at Two Rivers College, has been missing since April 12, and has been wanted for questioning regarding the disappearance of his wife and daughter. Police are calling Dr. Sandeski’s death a suicide but have not released further details. His wife, Lily, and fourteen-year-old daughter, Eva, remain missing.

  Theo looks back at Necco.

  “Eva Sandeski,” she says. “That’s you.”

  Necco nods, looks out the window. “It was,” she says. “Once.”

  Necco

  Eva Sandeski.

  So strange to hear someone speak her true name again.

  She repeats it again and again in her head, can hear her mother and father calling to her: Eva, Eva, Eva.

  Then Errol: You there, Little E? Anyone home?

  She’d worked so hard to put all that away, to bury the details of her past deep inside her. But now, now she understands that if she wants to make sense of what happened to Hermes, of who killed her mother, she’s got to unlock that box and try to remember everything she can. She begins at the beginning:

  My name was once Eva Sandeski. I lived in a house at 198 Birchwood Lane. My mother was a painter and had a studio at the back of the house. My father was a professor. He wrote a book about the Princess and the Elephant.

  These are things she remembers. And if that’s not enough, it’s all here in these papers Hermes collected.

  Necco is skimming through them, trying to absorb all this new information. Trying to understand that everything Mama told her was a lie.

  It was ironic, really. Necco never really believed Mama about Snake Eyes being after them, about them being followed, watched, in constant danger. But all that was true. And yet the biggest lie her mother told, about the Great Flood, Necco bought without question.

  “Tell me what you remember about this Great Flood,” Theo says now. They’re driving across town, taking back roads to avoid congested areas. Pru doesn’t want to risk someone recognizing Necco despite the fact that she’s straightened up her wig.

  “Not much,” Necco admits. “Most of what I know came from things my mother told me after.”

  “But you must remember something,” Pru insists.

  Necco shuts her eyes, tries to go back to the day of the flood. Maybe she’s got something that might help locked up inside her: like the princess in her father’s story.

  It was raining hard. The rain, it had a pattern to it as it drummed on the roof, hammered against the windows. She would sit for hours, hypnotized, as she tried to decode it, to discover the meaning behind the constant taps, some light, some heavy and pelting as the BBs from Errol’s rifle.

  They’d been watching the river rise behind their house, talking about it as if it were a living thing, unpredictable and dangerous.

  Her father had put sandbags around his workshop.

  “Maybe we should build an ark,” he’d joked to Mama, casting a wary eye at the rushing water. Objects floated by: boards, a basketball, some poor kid’s plastic rocking horse.

  “I just hope the dam holds,” Mama had said, her small voice coming from under a black umbrella. Mama was beautiful then: flawless ivory skin, her flaming hair in a thick braid, hand-knit sweaters and tailored pants.

  The water had an angry look, a roaring voice. It was the backdrop they lived with those last few days, the sound that nearly deafened them, dimmed out every other noise. They had to shout at each other to be heard over it, yell at the top of their lungs to ask to have the maple syrup passed at breakfast, to say, Good morning, how did you sleep, what did you dream, what are you going to do today, no going out because the roads are closed, shut down with a big orange barricade and flashing lights, the river got too high.

  It makes her head ache, all this remembering. “There was a flood, I’m sure of it,” Necco begins. “I remember water all around me. Being pulled under then carried off by it. Hitting my head on something: a rock in the river, I think. Then my mother finding me by the river the next morning. She said it was a miracle I’d survived.”

  Necco remembers her mother saying, “Look what I saved for you,” and pulling Promise the doll out of the duffel bag she’d hurriedly packed with things from the house: a few changes of clothes, her and Daddy’s wedding photo, the locket that had the tiny picture of Daddy as a little boy dressed up as Robin Hood.

  “Maybe your father tried to kill you,” Pru suggests now. “Maybe he went crazy or something and your mother took you on the run.”

  “No,” Necco says. “That’s not what happened.” There’s not much she’s sure of about that day, but she knows, knows in her heart, that her daddy would never have hurt her. He loved her. He shared things with her. Secret things. Like his invention. His terrible invention. And the voice that came out of it:

  I’m whoever you want me to be.

  And that laughter, that horrible chorus of laughter.

  Necco closes her eyes, tries to think back to that day. She remembers running out to Daddy’s workshop in her yellow rain slicker, her father right behind her. They were going to check for leaks. Errol had gone down the road to see if the river had washed it out by the bend.

  She got to the workshop first and found something frightening there. But what? Daddy’s invention. It was under the tarp. But it had made a noise. It was alive. She’d screamed for her father, and he came running, opened the door to his workshop, and for just an instant, as he stood in the doorway, he was a perfect silhouette, a shadow man. She remembered a drawing Errol did of her once, shining a light on one side of her face, with a piece of paper pinned to a board on the other. He traced her silhouette, then when he was done, said with a very pleased voice, “Look, it’s you.”

  But it wasn’t her.

  There was the slope of her nose, her familiar chin, the tousled hair, and even the hint of eyelashes—but this was a ghost version of herself. An empty shell.

  That’s what she’d thought of then, as she watched her daddy’s shadow stand in the door of his workshop.

  “What is it?” he had asked, stepping in.

  And what happened then? She strains to remember and can’t. Her poor, cracked head aches.

  Necco tucks all the papers back into the envelope, slides it to the seat next to her, and rubs at the back of her head, fingers finding the ridge of a scar hidden under her hair.

  “So where is it we’re going, exactly?” Pru asks now from the front seat of the car.

  “Turn left up here,” Necco says.

  “Does that even go anywhere?” T
heo says doubtfully.

  “It leads to the Jensen Mill,” Pru says. “But I’d imagine it’s in sorry shape. Hasn’t been open for decades now. Is that where you have the bag stashed?” Pru asks, turning to Necco with a worried look, like it isn’t a safe place to leave the precious vitamins.

  “Just keep going,” Necco tells her. “When you get to the building, pull up right at the front.”

  The road is in bad shape, completely washed out in places. They bang and bump their way along. Pru navigates the big car around the worst of the potholes and washouts, but the shocks are gone and they keep bottoming out. The old brick mill comes into view—a hulking behemoth, four stories high, it stretches along the river’s edge. Its tall, arched windows are smashed, and its crumbling smokestacks reach for the sky. Faint outlines of the words JENSEN WOOLEN MILL whisper beneath them.

  “Stop the car,” Necco says. “I need you guys to wait here. Do not follow me. Do not come in. Just wait. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  They have to think she’s hidden the bag in the building. They can’t see her go into the back entrance to the Winter House.

  “But how do we know you’ll come back at all?” Mrs. Small asks.

  “I will,” Necco promises.

  But will she? What does she owe these people? Yes, they helped her, saved her even, but really, wasn’t it all because they both want something she’s got? It’s the only thing that’s kept the circus lady from turning her in, she’s sure.

  But she’ll keep her end of the bargain. They took her to the bowling alley. She’ll give them the bag. Then be done. They’ll part company, she’ll figure out her next move.

  “Because she’s leaving us her backpack and all the stuff she got at the locker,” Theo says.

  “No way,” Necco starts to argue. “If you think I—”

  “Look,” Theo cuts her off. “It’s either leave your stuff as insurance or I come with you. That’s just how it’s going to be.”

  Pru gives an enthusiastic, satisfied nod. “Good idea,” she says.

  Necco thinks a minute. She doesn’t want to compromise the safety of the Winter House. She can’t let anyone know where the entrance is. Even bringing them here, this close, is stupid and dangerous. She knows her mother would not approve, can almost hear her asking, What are you doing, Necco? Didn’t I teach you better than this?