The Accidental Siren

by Jake Vander Ark

  My father gave me a watered down version of the tale that evening, but with the advent of search engines, online public records and social networking sites, I’ve been filling in the blanks ever since.

  To my horror, Lydia Grisham wasn’t a pedophile hermaphrodite with yellow eyes and snakes for hair, but a relatively normal English teacher at a South Florida elementary school. In 1966, she was recognized and awarded by the State for developing a unique system of teaching phonics that involved word repetition, silly nemonic devices and elaborate sign language. Former students not only describe her as “easygoing,” “patient,” and “beloved,” but they traced their understanding of the English language directly to her.

  In 1972, Lydia married Donald Grisham, a hotel manager and entrepreneur. My internet research didn’t expound on the reasons for their divorce eleven years later, but sources suggest a one-two punch of infertility (on her part) and infidelity (on his).

  It was church that helped Lydia overcome the pain. It was church where she first heard Mara’s voice.

  The girl was four when her parents stuffed her into angel garb and debuted her gift at the annual Christmas pageant. (She had parents. “The Landons” my father told me; a name so human–so tangible and permanent–it sucked the light from Mara’s ethereal veneer.) Standing among the heavenly hosts–above the kings and shepherds and cardboard stables–Mara sang Away in a Manger. I lived twelve-hundred miles from the tip of Florida when that tiny voice shook the walls of that holy chamber, but the memory is vivid nonetheless.

  The song brought Lydia to her knees. It was there–folded before the nativity–that she hatched her plan. As the congregation dried their tears and mingled toward the exits, the divorcee approached Mara’s parents, introduced herself, and claimed to be a vocal coach. Her services would be free... for such a special little girl.

  For three months she maintained the ruse, inviting the family into her home, faking her way through music theory, relishing every moment with that darling child.

  Despite my best efforts, I’ve been unable to locate a police report to pinpoint the date of the kidnapping. In her confession, Ms. Grisham placed their departure from Florida in March of 1986. She provided no insight into her motives for taking the child, but explained that Mara’s face was recognizable, not only to those who knew her, but to those who glimpsed her on the street, in a photo, staring out her bedroom window. Michigan was an arbitrary decision, but provided the distance and seclusion needed to begin a new life.

  When a year passed without word of a missing girl in Florida, Lydia made a downpayment on a home, began attending mass at a church in Grand Harbor, and raised Mara as her niece. With her insider knowledge of the public school system, she was able to enroll the girl in first grade without drawing unwanted attention.

  I was so involved in my father’s retelling of Ms. Grisham’s confession that I hardly noticed we stopped at the State Park. The stars were visible above the lake. The lighthouse beam illuminated, in bursts, the sea of undulating ink.

  “What a wacko,” I said, then supplemented my childish reply with, “I can’t believe Mara had to go through that.”

  “Your friend is learning to trust people again. She may not remember her time in Florida, but the experience of being kidnapped can stick with a person for the rest of their life.”

  “What about...” The ramifications of my next question clotted in the back of my throat. “What about her parents? Now that we know who they are... are they gonna take her back?”

  Dad adjusted his torso awkwardly beneath his seatbelt, then took my shoulder. “James, Mara’s parents are dead.”

  I admit it here, in writing: grief was not my first emotion. Like a cruel game of tug-o-war, relief made the first pull. My competition was dead! Mara would be my permanent sister! Then I remembered her diary (”I pray every night that theyre alive”) and empathy jerked back.

  “They died in a car accident,” Dad said, “a year after the kidnapping.”

  “That’s horrible...”

  “Mr. Anderson is looking into Mara’s extended family. From what he told your mother, the Landons are a mess.”

  My mind whirred with new implications. I nodded.

  “It might be a tough few days for your friend, James. You need to stand back from the situation to determine what she needs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need to gauge Mara’s feelings; does she need to talk? Does she needs to be alone? Sometimes she might tell Livy or Mom things that she can’t tell you. You need to respect that. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. Dad’s advice, fairly stated, broadened my chest and quashed the games in my head. I crossed my legs and traced the lid of a coffee cup with my finger. “When are you going to tell her?” I asked.

  Dad gazed at the light pulsating against the pier. “Mom told her tonight.”

  * * *

  20 INT. CATHEDRAL - DAY

  THE GIRL HAS FINALLY GROWN UP. HER ADVENTURE IS OVER AND SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH.

  IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FANCY CHURCH, SHE LIGHTS A CANDLE AND CRIES.

  My camera was still except for the mechanical whirr of the tape in the chamber. The lens was wide, capturing The Girl like a rag doll among the cathedral’s polished floors, epic columns, and mezzanine rim. Above the row of candles, a plaster wall was ablaze with the blurred form of a dove inside a broken rainbow; a gift from the stained-glass window on the opposite wall.

  Dominique watched from the crook of the confessional. His excitement was evident only in his reverence.

  Less than a foot from the camera frame, Father Stevenson observed my equipment and crew. His spine was rigid like the vertical beam of the cross and his arms were bound by an invisible straightjacket.

  I could smell my mother behind me doused in perfume and powder, a sanctimonious attempt to conform to the standards of The House of God.

  Whit was the fifth witness, erect in his chair, clenching the boom, watching as liquid formed in Mara’s eyes.

  Gently, the girl pinched a candle as if the shaft was a flower stem, plucked it from the brass stand, and held the flame to a new wick.

  I studied the fire in her eyes; the anger, the hurt, the madness that normally manifests itself in bubbles of snot, beaten pillows, or terrible cries in the dark.

  Hair down, face sealed in a dusty veneer, Mara pressed both candles among a garden of flaming sticks. She knelt before them–the candles, the smeared dove on the wall, her God–and she wept.

  I zoomed into her profile. Her head was bowed. The balled-fist of a prayer was clenched beneath her chin. A single tear shattered the fragments of light and shadow, carved a path through the mud on her face, and dropped from her cheekbone to the marble floor.

  Behind me, my mother sniffled. Whit risked the boom’s stability to wipe his eye. Father Stevenson relinquished his stoicism, nodded, and crossed himself once.

  When I was certain that I had captured the final shot of my film, I whispered, “Cut,” and let the sanctuary breathe.

  Mara inhaled once, hard, then popped up her head, raised her smile–teeth and all–and relaxed her shoulders. Her eyes glimmered their brilliant blue. The tear was gone.

  “Holy smokes,” she exclaimed. “How’d I do?”

  * * *

  “Ryan?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Red Five.”

  “James? It’s after eleven. Mom’s gonna have my ass.”

  “The movie’s finished. We shot the last scene this morning.”

  “That’s cool, little dude, but it’s an hour passed my phone curfew.”

  “I wanted to thank you for your help on my film. You made a great evil prince. But I won’t be needing you anymore.”

  The receiver fell silent as Ryan Brosh considered his next move. “You need help editing the footage.”

  “I’ve got several weeks until the Lakeshore Celebration. I’m pretty sure Whit and me can handle it.” I twirled my finger through th
e phone cord.

  “There’s gotta be somethin’ I can help with–”

  “I talked to my parents. They said there’s no reason you need to come over if the movie’s finished.”

  “I’ll–”

  “You’re invited to the screening, of course. Mara’s excited; she won’t stop talking about it.”

  “I’m–”

  “I’m looking forward to it too, Mr. Brosh. G’night.” Softly, I returned the phone to its cradle.

  8. THE ZOMBIE-FERRETS STRIKE BACK

  “She’s focused. She knows what she likes. She doesn’t talk too much–”

  “Mara?” I exclaimed and blinked hard. “She talks all the time!” I blinked again. Four hours in Whit’s room and my eyes were still watering from the stench of cheap cologne.

  “She listens to me rant about computers. She likes video games–”

  “You wish! Mara likes books and movies, not Metroid and Zelda.”

  “Then why did Ms. Grisham get her a Nintendo for her tenth birthday?”

  I slouched in the chair and plopped my feet on the TV stand. Mara never told me about a Nintendo.

  “She rocks at Duck Hunt,” Whit continued, “but she couldn’t figure out how the plastic gun knew where she was aiming.”

  “I suppose you explained it to her.”

  Whit pressed fast-forward on my camera. The fairytale war zipped across his nine-inch TV. The image was cut to pieces by lines of silver static. He pushed play just as a masked creature leapt into frame and a fireball exploded from the tip of its torch. “Cooking spray in an aerosol can,” he said. “Never thought I’d say it, but A.J. had a good idea.”

  The dramatic whoosh of the fireball was muffled by the hum of the four-wheeler’s engine. “Blah.” I said. “We’re gonna need a lot of folli.”

  “Folli?”

  “Background sound. The torches, footsteps, sword clanks, rustling leaves...”

  “Do you have any idea how much work that’ll be? We have three weeks to–”

  “It’s gotta be perfect. Mara’s counting on me.”

  Whit shrugged and paused the shot. “Keep or cut?” he asked, his pen hovering an inch above the production notebook.

  “The fireball is killer,” I said. “Keep it.”

  He scribbled a note, popped the cassette from the camera, placed it in the “finished” pile with two others, then grabbed a tape labeled “19” from the leaning stack of “to-dos.” He yawned.

  “Wake up,” I said. “We can sleep when we finish the tapes.”

  Whit ignored me and pressed play.

  The pretty face of Ryan Brosh filled the screen. He was wearing makeup, but donned a basketball jersey instead of a costume. He looked at the camera, opened his mouth, and pretended to eat the lens.

  I scoffed.

  “Why do you hate him?” Whit asked.

  I snatched a two-liter of Diet Coke from the floor and took a swig. “He kissed Mara.”

  “Yeah. On a dare.”

  “He likes her too.”

  “Everybody likes her. You don’t get dibs on a girl just ‘cause you live in the same house.”

  “This is different. Ryan–”

  “–has muscles where you have lard?”

  “I’m down fourteen pounds, scrotum-hugger.”

  “I thought your goal was ten?”

  “I’m at one-thirty-one. For my height, that’s still six pounds overweight.”

  “So you’re gonna hate Ryan until you weigh one-twenty-five?”

  I gave the bottle to Whit, leaned forward, and sighed.

  “There’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me,” he said.

  “Mara likes him back.”

  “She told you that?”

  “I read her diary.”

  “I thought you said–”

  “She says he’s a great actor. Says he’s funny and smart.”

  Whit chugged the cola and wiped his lips. “She called him by name?”

  “She says he’s super cute. Even wrote ‘super’ all uppercase.”

  Whit winced as if my pain was his. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I called him last night.”

  “You called Ryan Brosh?”

  “I told him we don’t need his help. Told him to stay away from my house.”

  “You threatened Ryan Brosh?”

  I smirked. “I felt like The Claw on Inspector Gadget.”

  “It won’t be enough. He’s never gonna stop.”

  “I told him off.”

  “You pissed him off.”

  I didn’t respond, but watched the TV as the mannequin fell along the castle brick. “Radical shot,” I said. “Keep it.”

  Whit didn’t reply. Except for the ballpoint pen wobbling between his fingers, his body was frozen.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He didn’t budge.

  “Whitney Conrad!” I shouted and kicked his wheelchair.

  “What?” he asked. The pen stopped bouncing.

  “The shot, doofus. Mark it as ‘keep.’”

  “Sorry.” He clicked the pen and jotted down the note.

  I took another sip of caffeine and capped the bottle. “What a psycho.”

  * * *

  Saturday. Two days after my editing date with Whit and six days after Mara learned about her parents’ death, life was returning to the status quo: Dad was in the tower, Mom was in the kitchen, and I was alone in my woods.

  A yawn pried at my cheeks but I tightened my lips and swallowed it. The midnight editing sessions were taking their toll.

  Whit was gone, stuck at a last-minute sleepover with his computer camp friends. For a split second I wondered what those dweebs had that I didn’t... suspenders and tape on their glasses? I always imagined an army of white Steve Urkels with Whitney as their captain.

  I wedged my camcorder in the elbow of a branch, then wiggled my shoe beneath the blanket of leaves to rustle up a log. I swiped a trio of rollie-pollies from the bark and rapped the fat stick with my knuckles; it was soft, damp, and hollow. Perfect.

  I worked quickly without losing sight of the castle wall. I didn’t have time for another encounter with the bullies.

  I aimed the microphone at the trunk of the nearest Maple, pushed record, twisted my waist with Ken Griffey Jr. precision, and wailed the soft log into the tree with a satisfying thud. I hit it again, then again, then placed the mic on the ground and beat the shredded stump against the leaves.

  In the distance, a twig snapped. It was probably a squirrel, but I moved my work a few steps closer to the castle just in case.

  The house was calmer without Bobby and Jake barreling through the corridors. After the “goober incident,” Mom called the agency and had the twins transferred to a family dedicated to difficult children. “Parent therapists” they’re called. I was sad to see them go, but with all the commotion around the house, it was probably for the best.

  When the log was demolished, I scanned the brush for another instrument and discovered a broken chunk of cinderblock half-buried in the dirt beside the house. The dull clank of stone-on-stone would be a great sound effect for the battle sequence, so I turned the mic toward the castle wall, heaved the brick above my head–

  –and music ruined the take. Ten feet up, Livy’s bedroom spewed the catchy yammer of I Saw the Sign by Ace of Base. I stepped back, furrowed my brow, and stared at the second-story window.

  I cupped my hands like a megaphone, but just before I could shout my sister’s name, I remembered that Livy was at Haley’s after a sleepover.

  It was Mara’s music. I stood on tip-toes to better hear the song.

  The view was no better from three steps back, nor ten. The window only reflected the apparitions of tree branches and sky.

  Twelve steps back and my shoulder blades kissed a tree. I inspected the branches for climb-ability, but even André the Giant wouldn’t be able reach the lowest limb without a step-stool.

  An abno
rmal protrusion caught my eye at the back of the trunk. It was lighter than the bark, the size of my hand with square edges... a piece of two-by-four. A nail in the center confirmed my fear and I looked up. Five more pieces of wood were ascending the trunk. They were rungs.

  “Woohoo!” My father’s voice seemed miles away, yet loud enough to hear over Mara’s radio. “Beth!” he squealed. “Grab the kids and get up here!”

  I didn’t realize that Mara’s light was on until it flicked off. I snatched my camera, forgot about the makeshift ladder, and bolted inside.

  * * *

  Mara and I scampered side-by-side up the spiral staircase. Mom waddled across the ballroom, apron around her waist, with a ladle in her right hand and Fantasia in her left. Her sliver of smile said, “I love my husband, but thank the birds it’s over!”

  Dad’s head poked over the balcony ledge. His binoculars smacked the rail but he didn’t care. “Where’s Livy? Get Livy! And hurry up!”

  Before Mom could respond, Dad was back inside the tower, whooping and hollering as if Barry Sanders had just scored a touchdown.

  Mara touched the top step a split second before me. Panting, she smacked my chest and said with a grin, “Beat ya!”

  The tower smelled like salted urine thanks to the open can of artichoke hearts beside Dad’s chair. He was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, binoculars in hand, pointing to the lake like a toddler who just learned to say the word “airplane.” “Two of them,” he said. “Male and female.”

  Mara and I stood between Dad and the window and pressed our noses against the glass. In the distance, two specks hung motionless between lamb-tail clouds and the placid lake.

  “Kinda small,” I said.

  Mara didn’t speak. On the window, a vapored imprint developed around her hand.

  Mom finally arrived with the baby and used the ladle to brush a curl of hair from her eye. “Whew,” she said, then used her foot to slide the can of artichoke juice toward the stairs. She took her place beside her husband and squinted.

  “They’re magnificent,” he said.

  “I don’t see ‘em,” she said.

  I pressed my finger against the glass. “See those tiny specks? That’s them.”

  “They’re kinda small,” she said.

  Dad sighed.

  “Mr. Parker,” Mara said. “Can I try the glasses?”