by John Searles
But Penny was no longer there.
Had she been there when I walked out of the kitchen moments before? I could not be certain. And as I picked over the possibilities, my mind arrived at the same conclusion it did with those horses: my sister was playing tricks on me. I imagined her padding down the steps to watch TV, realizing what I was doing, and getting the idea to move that doll somewhere just to scare me. I moved quietly around the room, peeking behind the sofa and drapes and any other place where Rose and I used to hide. But there was no sign of Penny anywhere, so I gave up and turned off the TV, sliding my chair back into place before climbing the stairs again.
At the end of the hall upstairs, Rose’s door was shut. My parents’ was cracked open, however, so I peeked inside. The green glow of their alarm clock gave only enough light to make out each of them, lumps in their beds. I thought of the silence that had fallen over them before bed. I rarely heard them argue, and I wondered if they’d gone to sleep angry at each other, which left me with a sudden sense of sadness toward them.
In the morning, I woke early to find my sister’s door still shut, my parents still lumps in their beds. Downstairs, the doll sat in the rocker again as though she had been there all along. I walked closer, staring at the smudges around her neck, the bracelet around her wrist. That face—one a child might draw with a crayon—was nothing more than a pair of eyes, a triangle nose, and a curled slash for a smile. And yet, looking at it brought a feeling of dread. I stood there, soaking in that feeling, wondering if I’d imagined the entire thing the night before, as that waitress’s voice echoed in my mind.
She’s just an old Raggedy Ann. A dime a dozen. But this one, well, she feels different somehow . . .
“You girls having a nice morning chat?”
The voice startled me, and I whirled around to see Rose, showered and dressed, walking down the stairs. Say something, I told myself. About the doll. About the horses. But I just stood there, watching her move through the hall to the kitchen. I heard the fridge open and close. Cabinets and drawers too, followed by the sound of cereal being poured into a bowl.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, coming back into the living room with her breakfast, crunching away.
“Nothing.” I turned again from Penny’s smiling face to see my sister’s more serious one. “Where are you going?”
“Hate to break it to you, Sylvie, but there’s this place called high school where I have to be in a bit. Another place called junior high where you have to be soon too. That’s something I wouldn’t expect an egghead like you to forget.”
Above us, floorboards creaked. Our parents were getting ready to start their day too. Rose rolled her eyes. “For once I’m actually looking forward to it,” she said. “I mean, anything to get me out of this joint for a while.”
In the mornings, Rose left the house first, since the high school bus came before the one I took to junior high. But that day, I asked if I could walk with her to the stop in hopes of finding a moment to confront her about the games she was playing with me. After I hurried to dress and gather my books, we headed out the door together. On the way, Rose stopped to pick up rocks, tossing them into the empty foundations and doing her best to hit those rusted fireplace rods at the bottom, which gave a loud clank and elicited a “Yes!” from her whenever she was successful. At the end of the lane, she pulled a cigarette from her sock, just like she’d done in that desolate park on Orchard Circle. As she sucked on one end, blowing a hearty puff into the morning air, I heard the rumble of an engine not far down the road. “I don’t think what you’re doing is funny,” I blurted, worrying that the bus must be approaching.
Rose rolled her eyes and let out a groan. “Oh, please, Sylvie. The last thing I need is a lecture from you about smoking. I get enough lectures from Mom and Dad.”
“I’m not talking about smoking. I’m talking about my horses and the—”
“Your horses? You’re back on that? I told you, I didn’t do it.”
“I don’t believe you.” Instead of the bus, a truck rumbled past. But I pressed on with the conversation anyway. “Why should I?”
“Why should you? I don’t know. First, you’re the only one in our family treating me decently right now. Second, I know those horses actually mean something to you. I wouldn’t mess with them. In fact, you can take mine if you want. They’re under my bed. Looking at them only makes me think of Howie, which is something I’d rather not do.”
“I thought you liked Uncle Howie?”
“Liked. Past tense.”
“What changed?”
“What changed is that I called and asked if I could come live with him.”
“In Tampa?”
“Last I checked that’s where he lives, knucklehead.”
Just the thought that Rose might actually find some way to leave home caused an unexpected longing to stir inside, because I was not ready to lose her. “Why would you do that?”
“Why? Sylvie, open your eyes. In case you haven’t noticed, things aren’t exactly working out for me here in Holy Roller Hell. I figured it might be better if I stayed with him. You know, finished up school down there then figured out what to do with my life.”
As we spoke, Rose ran a thumb over the dial on her lighter. Once in a while, she did it hard enough that a flame reared up. She took another puff of her cigarette, blew smoke between us. “Well, I wouldn’t like that,” I said.
“And why not?”
I felt silly saying the words, but I said them anyway: “Because I’d miss you.”
My sister looked away from me, back down our street at those old foundations where we used to play, before turning to me again. “Oh. Well, I’d miss you too, kid. But it doesn’t matter. Our dear old uncle blew me off. Said he didn’t know how long he’d even be in Tampa since he had other plans.”
“What plans?”
“Pipe dreams, really. Crap he blames Dad for getting in the way of all these years. Anyway, who cares? The point is, I’m not a fan of Howie. So the horses in my room, they’re yours if you want them.”
“What about Penny?”
“The doll? Well, you can have that too. But you might want to check with the thing’s new parents. Mom and Dad, I mean.”
I told her that’s not what I was asking, then took a breath and explained what happened the night before. But once I was done with all those details, the most Rose had to say was, “Three’s Company, huh? Now that’s a dopey show. Though I’d like living near the beach in California.”
In the distance, I heard the sound of an engine again. This time, I looked to see that it really was the bus rolling in our direction. Before it got closer, I said, “Tell me you came downstairs and hid Penny on me last night.”
Rose snuffed her cigarette on the bottom of her sneaker before stashing what was left of it in her sock. She reached in her pocket for a stick of gum, folding it into her mouth. The smell of smoke mingled with mint, same as in the park. “That night at the truck stop, when you woke to find the yarn in your hand, remember that?”
“I do.”
“I admit to putting it there. I was just messing with you. Having some fun.”
“I knew it. And the same goes for last night?”
The bus bore down upon us, lumbering to a stop just feet away with a loud squeal of brakes and the roar of teenage voices laughing and hollering inside. The driver, a vest-wearing woman with a ratty ponytail, swung a lever and the door sandwiched open.
“Sorry, Sylvie. Can’t cop to that one. Ever since I heard Mom hacking her guts out, I steer clear of that thing. I wasn’t kidding when I said it might have germs.”
“Well, then I don’t—”
“Are you coming?” the driver called.
My sister moved toward the door, climbed onto the first step. I stood watching, not wanting her to leave just yet. Before disappearing inside, Rose turned back. “We can talk about it later, Sylvie. I’ve got my own ideas about things that go on inside that house. If
you keep your mouth shut, I might tell you.”
With that, the door closed. Through the windows, I saw my sister walk clumsily down the aisle in search of an empty seat as the bus began rolling away. After she was gone, I waited for my bus to arrive. Then I waited all day for school to be done, and for the hours of homework and dinner to pass. A day passed. Two. Three. A week. Another week. Never once did Rose give me so much as a hint of the things we talked about that morning. I could have escorted her to the bus stop again and tried to prod her, but I figured she had made up her mind not to tell me anything after all. Meanwhile, things seemed to return to normal at home, or normal as they could be with that doll smiling from my mother’s rocker every time I stepped into the living room.
And then came a day when I walked the packed hallways between classes with Gretchen and Elizabeth. We were discussing an upcoming English exam that had us nervous, since the teacher always threw in a trick question. Last time, it amounted to a simple vocabulary word—exigency—that not one of us knew the meaning of. In the middle of our guessing what it would be this time, a voice shouted, “I saw your sister!”
Laughter erupted, and as I was looking around to figure out what was going on, Brian Waldrup stepped in front of me. “I mean you, Wednesday. I saw your sister.”
“That’s not my name,” I told him, thinking of the way my mother hated being the center of attention. This was why, I realized, things could turn on you in an instant.
“It’s your name now. And I saw your sister.”
“I don’t— You saw Rose?”
“No. Penny. That’s what you freaks call her, right?”
For just a moment, all the noise and commotion in that hallway seemed to cease. There was Brian with his buzzed hair and ripped jeans. There was Gretchen with her mouth full of braces. There was Elizabeth with her horsey face. I stood, watching as their eyes and so many others fell upon me. “She’s not my—I mean, it’s not my sister. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” Brian said, laughing. “So does anyone who looked at today’s paper.”
Rather than respond, I started moving again, telling myself I’d go to the library the first chance I got to find the paper he was talking about. Gretchen and Elizabeth followed, though that did not stop Brian from calling after me, saying that name over and over: “Penny! Penny! Penny!” I tried to keep my two friends from hearing any more by talking loud and walking fast. It was some made-up story, I said; he exaggerated things, and it was better to just ignore him. But even as I said those words, I detected something flimsy in my voice. They must have sensed it too, because I glanced over to see a mix of curiosity and confusion on their faces, and I knew then that whatever germs my sister spoke of—real or imagined—had spread, irreversibly, to school now too.
When I arrived home, I found my father in the living room, curio hutch wide open as he inspected the books inside. The phone rang and rang, but he made no move to answer it. I’d long since returned the “history” book, but the sight of him there worried me anyway. Don’t bring up the article, I told myself, sensing that it would be better to discuss it with my mother. “What are you looking for?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just gathering information for a new lecture. We booked two more today, and I’d like to give them a bit more historical context. People are so obsessed with what they see in movies, and I want them to understand the way malevolent spirits can have a more subtle but devastating influence on their lives if they don’t keep them at bay. For example, in the 1600s—”
“I don’t want to go on those trips anymore,” I heard myself say over the ringing phone.
“Excuse me?” my father said, distracted still by the thick book in his hands.
“I don’t like missing school. It’s too hard to make up.”
“You’ll be fine.” Without looking at me, he flipped the pages, saying, “We tried leaving you girls here alone before. Remember how that turned out?”
The image of Dot, naked and cowering in the corner of their bathroom, came to life in my mind. “But that was because of Rose.” Or mostly because of Rose, I thought.
“Sylvie, I don’t know where this is coming from,” he told me, shutting the book and paying attention now. “But we’re not leaving you here alone and we’re not going back to enlisting a nanny service. Besides, I can’t say no. I’ve already agreed to the lectures. They’re paying us three times what we normally get.”
The ringing fell quiet. And again, I heard myself say something unplanned: “Why?”
“Why?” At last, my father looked up from his book with an exasperated expression.
“I mean, why are they suddenly paying more?”
“Well, if you must know, word is getting out about us,” he said with a measure of pride. “People are curious about the things your mother and I do.”
My mother. The mention of her caused me to glance over at her rocker. Penny was not there. As if to prove my father’s point about how in demand they were, the phone began ringing again. “Where is Mom anyway?”
“In bed.”
“Bed? But it’s barely four o’ clock.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not feeling her best.”
“She’s sick again?”
“I’m afraid so, Sylvie.”
Before he was even done talking, I turned and started toward the stairs. My father called after me that I should leave her alone so she could rest, but I ignored him, going directly to my parents’ bedroom and peeking in.
Since the shades were drawn, the green glow of the alarm clock was the only light in that room. My mother’s body was a lump under the covers once more. I could make out only her pale face, eyes closed, on the pillow. Someone must have turned off the ringer on the phone in their room, because inside I heard only the soft rise and fall of her breathing even as down below the sound started up again. I wanted to bring my mother soup and cool washcloths and ginger ale, to take care of her the way she had always taken care of us, but there seemed to be nothing to do at the moment except let her sleep. I stepped away and went to my room, where I found Rose lying on my bed.
“How did you get in here?” I asked, since I had locked the door when I left.
My sister ignored the question, held out a copy of the Dundalk Eagle. “I’ve been waiting for you. Did you see this?”
I looked down at the photo of our mother cradling Penny. “Someone said something at school,” I told her. “So, yeah. I went to the library and found it.”
“Why do they have to put this crap in the paper? It makes us look insane.”
“Don’t blame them both. I was there when Dad took that picture. She said she didn’t want it turning up anywhere.”
“Well, she’s an idiot for posing for it in the first place. What does she expect out of him?”
I fell quiet, turning to look up at the horses, counting their legs, counting their tails. I’d taken Rose up on her offer, and now that shelf held her horses too. Fourteen of them crowded for space—a herd that had come to the edge of a cliff. “Don’t call Mom names,” I said, quietly. “She’s sick again. I’m worried about her. Something’s not right.”
“Yeah, and I’ll tell you when it began: the moment they came down the stairs from that apartment in Ohio lugging that doll.”
After so many weeks spent waiting for her to broach the topic, there it was at last. “That morning I walked with you to the bus stop. You said you were going to tell me things about what goes on in this house. But you never mentioned another word. Why?”
“You were the one who had it on your mind, Sylvie. You should have asked me again. Besides, I’ve been busy focusing on other things.”
“What other things?”
“My life. Some of us actually have one. Unlike you.”
I went quiet once more, returned to counting the horses. It was easier than talking to her, easier than thinking about our sick mother down the hall and our father in the living room combin
g through those ancient books full of strange stories, and the sound of that phone ringing and ringing. From behind me, in a softer voice, Rose said, “I’m sorry.”
Since there were so many horses now, it took longer to inspect them. I kept counting, imagining I was staring into an actual herd, breath blowing from their nostrils, tails swishing about to keep the flies away.
“Did you hear me, Sylvie? I said I was sorry. I know I’ve got a mouth on me, as Dad likes to point out. But I shouldn’t use it on you all the time.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’ll try to be better, though.”
I had seen how easily her efforts to control her behavior peeled away, so I didn’t put much stock in what she was saying. When I finished counting the last of those horses, finding every last one intact, I turned to look at her on my bed.
“You know, I think about it sometimes,” she told me.
“Think about what?”
“Growing up here. I’m hardly the sappy type. But once in a while, I can’t help remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Stuff like sleeping in the living room under those makeshift tents or drawing our houses in the foundation across the street. I remember those times, even if I act like I don’t.”
Her words left me with the same awkward feeling as when I told her I’d miss her if she went to live with Howie. I wanted to ask why we couldn’t share a more grown-up version of that closeness now, but worried the question would make her defensive, so I kept quiet.