Monsters Among Us

by Monica Rodden

  “Really good.” She wiped her mouth with her free hand.

  “Great,” Henry said, deadpan, taking a sip of his coffee. “But I was asking about something else.”

  “Someone else, you mean,” she said, scanning the room. It was just before noon, and the service had gotten out ten minutes ago. They were in the attached reception hall again, but this time the atmosphere was brighter, the smell of fried dough warming up the cold room. Fifty or so people milled around, some hanging up their coats in the closet by the bathrooms, which already had a short line spilling out the door marked women. Her mom was in the line, talking to Henry’s mother, who was stamping one foot as though it had fallen asleep. Her father was getting coffee—eyeing the various coffee pod flavors on a spin display with some distrust—while Henry’s dad was talking to a group of men by the tall windows. As Catherine watched, Pechman walked over and began talking to Henry’s father. She couldn’t hear what he said, but it was followed by good-natured laughter that made its way around the group.

  “The sermon was okay,” she said finally, turning back to Henry. “I didn’t spot any red flags. Or a confession.”

  “Well, it was about death.”

  “For a time is coming when all who are in their graves will come out,” she said. Henry stared at her. She shook her head. “I had a nightmare last night.”

  He said nothing.

  “A bad dream,” she added.

  “And you said you didn’t think I was an idiot for going to Falls.” But his voice held no rancor. “I know what a nightmare is. I even know its etymology.”

  “You do not,” Catherine said, wondering vaguely if he had been hanging out with her father.

  “It comes from this Latin word that means, One who lies down with the sleeper.” He drank more of his black coffee.

  “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “Of course I am.”

  She swallowed another bite of her donut. “One who lies down with the sleeper. That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “It does, sort of. Like there’s a monster—an evil spirit—who comes when you’re sleeping and causes the nightmare.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows at her and she flushed and looked away.

  She spotted Pechman walking across the room, toward the donuts, and she moved back, closer to the wall. Henry followed her.

  “Sorry,” she said shortly.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Amy was at my window,” she said. “Begging me to let her in. I didn’t. I left her outside. That was my nightmare.”

  “Jesus.”

  She gave a short, brittle laugh. “Isn’t he the one who’s supposed to awaken everyone? Sounds more like the zombie apocalypse to me.”

  “Actually, we don’t start on the zombie apocalypse until the new year,” Pechman said.

  He was a foot from her, smiling down with a donut in hand. He’d used a napkin too.

  “She was joking,” Henry said.

  Dimly, Catherine nodded. She wanted to say something but found she couldn’t speak. The glare from the windows seemed far away, the room stretching and narrowing, goose bumps erupting under the coat she hadn’t taken off. She remembered shoving the coat Andrew had brought her into the trash last night after the nightmare, under the bags of wrapping and ribbon and Christmas leftovers, stuffing it down and slamming the lid. Freezing in her bare feet in the garage, sobbing bitter, furious tears, her mind so full of Amy it was as though nothing else existed.

  Catherine forced herself to meet John Pechman’s eyes. “I actually liked it.” Her voice was shaking a little but otherwise almost normal. “How it was about hope, and everything.”

  “Well, I’m glad that part came through at least.” He was still smiling. “And I have to say, I’m glad to see you and your parents at the service this morning.”

  “Yes.” And then, with no intention of saying it: “We’re actually thinking of getting back into it. The church, I mean.”

  “Wonderful!” Pechman chewed his donut thoughtfully. “You know, it’s been a difficult time. But I think life’s challenges…they can do good. That’s what I was trying to get at today. Hope. Though of course zombies shouldn’t be ignored.”

  Henry looked awkward and drank more of his coffee.

  “Can you get me some?” Catherine asked him.

  “What?”

  “Coffee.” She pointed to his cup. “Get yourself some more and a cup for me. Tons of creamer,” she added pointedly, and he walked away, a little bemused.

  “So does that mean you’ll be staying in town?” Pechman asked her. “I was under the impression you were at college.”

  “I might be staying.” I’m letting you in, Amy. Help me here. “I was thinking about getting more involved with the church. I know Amy—knew her. She used to bake. I could help take over with that. I baked a lot. With her.” Her heart was beating hard, almost painful. She felt the donut she’d eaten like lead just below it.

  Pechman looked at her pityingly. “Are you involved with the funeral?”

  “I…No. I hadn’t heard…”

  “It’s Thursday the second.” He pulled out a slim navy planner from inside his suit jacket pocket and flipped a few pages. “Wanted to wait until after the new year. If you’re interested, you are more than welcome to assist. I know you and Amy were close. She talked about you quite a bit.”

  “She did?” Her voice went stupidly high, stupidly grateful.

  He nodded. “I’m so sorry for your loss. What happened to Amy…we have all lost something, in losing her.”

  Catherine felt her eyes burn. “I can help,” she said, desperate to cut him off.

  He gave her another kind if patronizing look, then glanced back at his planner.

  She took the opportunity to see if Henry was coming back, almost wanting him to. But no—Henry was still by the coffeemaker, talking to James, who clapped him on the shoulder.

  “There’s a meeting Wednesday to finalize some of the details,” Pechman said. “New Year’s, so not ideal, but early enough that you’ll be home for dinner. It’s at three. We’ll have pizza. You can bring some ideas for food for the funeral, and the reception afterward, at the Porters’. I know we already have some volunteers bringing hors d’oeuvres—little sandwiches, things like that—but you can never have enough food, I say.” He pocketed the planner. “We’ll see you there, then?”

  Henry was coming back, two coffees in hand. She took hers as Pechman gave her one last smile and walked away. She watched him go, then took a large swallow of coffee, which scalded its way down her throat.

  “Careful,” Henry told her. “Hey, look.”

  She followed his gaze. Andrew had just walked into the reception hall, shaking his dark hair out of his eyes and looking self-conscious.

  “Go get him,” Catherine said. “I’ll be right back.”

  And before Henry could say another word, she darted down the hall with the bathrooms, turned a corner, and disappeared.

  * * *

  —

  The thermostat for the reception hall was exactly where it had been ten years ago. But it had been a yellowed spin-dial then, and this new one was white and square and digital. Mounted on the wall at face height around the corner from the bathrooms, it currently read sixty-seven degrees. She and Henry had once tried to lower it, her sitting on Henry’s shoulders to reach—in an attempt to make it snow inside, which somehow made a kind of sense at eight—before their parents caught them and took them home, no donuts at all.

  She shot a glance left and right, saw no one, and, coffee still in hand, used her free one to stab at the up arrow until the thermostat maxed out at ninety.

  Then she walked as normally as she cou
ld back to the hall.

  * * *

  —

  Henry and Andrew were still standing by the door. Catherine grabbed at the handle to make sure it was closed firmly, then turned back around to face their curious stares.

  “I have a plan,” she said unhelpfully.

  “Care to share?” Henry asked.

  “No.” She turned to Andrew. “Where were you?”

  “Late. Sorry. I’m here now,” he added at the look on her face. The small cut on his cheek was healing, scabbed over and small. She averted her eyes.

  “Why’d you send me away when you were with Pechman?” Henry asked her.

  “I wanted to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “Things.” She walked away and came back a moment later with two donuts. She shoved them at Andrew, who looked dead on his feet. “Eat before you pass out.”

  “Thanks.” Andrew took the donuts and, to her surprise, ate them hungrily. “So, what are we doing?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled.

  “Waiting.”

  “For what?”

  Across the room, a large woman walked over to the closet by the bathrooms to hang up her heavy fur coat.

  “That,” said Catherine softly.

  It took fifteen minutes for the room to warm up a little, another five before people started to notice, edging away from the windows and shrugging off their coats, but it was another ten, just as the reception was winding down and people were starting to leave, before those remaining—about half—began to wonder aloud if the room was supposed to be quite so warm.

  Henry’s mother began to complain and Henry said she and his dad could leave and he’d catch a ride with Catherine’s family. But then Catherine’s parents came up, asking if she was about ready to go, and thankfully Andrew chimed in, introducing himself as a friend of Catherine’s from school, saying he’d give Henry and Catherine a ride back. Her mother looked quickly to her at that, but Catherine smiled reassuringly, and her mother’s face relaxed a little.

  The four adults left just as John Pechman pulled off his suit jacket and walked down the hall to check the thermostat.

  As though she’d just heard a starting pistol, Catherine shot forward. There was a general commotion in the hall as people wondered about the temperature and others began to make their way to the front doors. No one noticed as she took the suit jacket off the chair and walked to the coat closet on the pretense of hanging it up. At the last second, she ducked into the women’s bathroom, which thankfully had no line now, though one of the three stalls was occupied.

  Catherine ducked into an empty stall, slammed the lock right, and grappled furiously for the planner. It was slim, with white pages and navy lines the same exact shade as the cover, each week spread over two opposite pages. John Pechman had very neat writing and a penchant for abbreviations. No names but initials, and times were always written on the left without a.m. or p.m. For this Wednesday he’d written: 3–4/5, fun. plan, order 2 lg pizzas.

  Funeral—the stall next to hers flushed and she jumped—fun. was funeral.

  But then something else caught her eye, something added with an arrow, the handwriting just a little cramped in the margin, the arrow pointing to just above the Wednesday meeting.

  12 K.I.

  She shut the planner, stuffing it back into the inner pocket of the jacket. She had walked out of the stall, intending to hurry past the sink, when someone called out to her.

  She froze, heart in her throat, and turned to see a young girl coming out of the other stall. It took a moment for Catherine to place her; then she realized:

  Hannah Walsh.

  Amy’s best friend.

  “Hi,” Catherine said automatically. “Hannah. Hi.”

  Hannah looked at her glumly, then walked to the sink and began to wash her hands. “This is the worst Christmas of my life,” she said. “Including that time I got an ear infection and had to get a shot in my butt because it hurt so bad.”

  Catherine didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t have a rapport with Hannah the way she’d had with Amy. Sure, Catherine had taken Amy over to the Walshes’ several times for playdates, and Hannah had been over to the Porters’ house almost as much, but Catherine had never had a conversation with Hannah without Amy in the same room.

  Hannah turned and grabbed a paper towel, wiping her hands dry with unnecessary vigor. She had brown hair that was lighter than Amy’s. Her nose was tiny, her skin poreless and childlike. In fact, Catherine was struck by how young Hannah looked: short and thin, wearing a blue dress and white tights, her skin completely bare of any makeup.

  Twelve years old, Catherine thought, and something wild rose up inside her. She fought it back, even as her mind whirled with a sudden rage. She thought if Amy’s killer were here, in this bathroom, she could kill him—would kill him—and it wouldn’t even be hard.

  “Amy was in my dream last night,” she told Hannah, trying to recover from this sudden insanity, trying to say something that might help. “I—I think about her all the time, too.”

  Hannah shoved the paper towels in the trash can. “I hate church. I didn’t even want to come today.”

  “Me either,” Catherine admitted.

  Hannah shuffled her feet, then toed the trash can with one shiny black shoe. “I used to come here with Amy. It’s no fun without her.”

  Catherine said nothing.

  “And Matt didn’t even have to come. He’s sick, so he gets to stay home.” She glared up at Catherine. “He’s not even really sick.”

  “Oh,” Catherine managed, because Hannah was looking expectant now, and angry. “Well, maybe—”

  “He’s not sick. He’s just crying. I heard him. Crying like a girl. But he’s not a girl. I’m a girl. Amy’s a girl. Or was. Or is. I don’t even know. It doesn’t matter. But I want to cry. I want to cry at home. In my own bed. Not at church. I want Amy back but Amy’s not coming back and those donuts suck and I hate this, all of this—I hate it!”

  She struck out at the trash can. For such a small child she had a lot of force behind her kick. The tall metal trash can tipped, then fell, crashing onto the tile with a bang that rattled the mirror. A half dozen paper towels spilled out of the hole in the top, and Hannah stomped on each one before she left the bathroom.

  Catherine stood in the bathroom for a solid thirty seconds before something seemed to snap back into place in her mind. She bent down, righted the trash can, and picked up the spilled paper towels. Then she walked out into the hallway.

  She’d taken maybe three steps from the bathroom door when she caught a sudden movement to her right and turned to see John Pechman striding toward her.

  I can’t.

  You can. You have to.

  “Oh, good.” She found herself walking to meet him, her heart a drum inside her that she was sure he could hear. “Someone told me to hang this up for you. Here.”

  She handed the suit jacket to him and he took it, looking a little puzzled.

  “Or I can still hang it up,” she continued, gesturing to the coat closet between the men’s and women’s bathrooms.

  “No, thank you, Catherine.” He was sweating a little at the temples and did not put on the jacket. “Thermostat’s acting up. I put it back down, turned on the AC, in fact. Should be back to normal soon.”

  “That’s good.” She smiled at him and made to walk back down the hall, but then he continued talking and she had no choice but to turn and face him.

  “Yes,” he said. “Temperature was up to the max. Perhaps a child, playing games.”

  She said nothing, forcing her face to remain neutral.

  “I believe you did something similar, years ago.”

  “We tried,” she said. “Me and Henry.”

  “Mischievous, you two were.” He gave her
a thin smile. “Or are you still?”

  She said nothing. Fear was coming like water, lapping at her ankles, bitterly cold. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

  “Well, I’ll see you Wednesday, shall I?” He nodded at her before walking past, the suit jacket in his hands brushing her arm as he went.

  * * *

  —

  Five minutes later, all three of them were in Andrew’s car, the leather seats freezing even as Andrew turned up the heat.

  “Don’t do that,” Henry said, twisting the knob back down. He was in the passenger seat, Catherine in the back middle. “It’s just blowing cold air.”

  “Suit yourself,” Andrew said. He turned to look back at Catherine. “Did you do something in there?”

  “Yes.” She was sitting on the edge of the seat, quite literally, her legs hitting the compartment between the two front seats.

  “Care to elaborate?” Henry asked.

  She did. She told them about talking to Pechman and upping the thermostat to steal the planner. About Wednesday: the meeting with K.I. at noon.

  “And then I ran into Hannah,” she finished. “And after her, Pechman. I gave him back his jacket.”

  “Hannah?” Andrew asked.

  “Hannah Walsh,” Catherine explained. “Amy’s best friend. She kicked over a trash can, she was so upset about Amy.”

  “Strange,” Andrew said.

  “It’s really not,” Catherine said, then paused. “She told me Matt was crying.”

  “Who?”

  “Matt. Her brother. She said he wasn’t at church today because he was sick, but she knew he wasn’t really sick; she’d heard him crying.”

  “Younger brother?”

  “No, he’s a teenager. Sixteen, I think.”

  Andrew frowned at that. “Was Matt close to Amy?”

  “No,” Catherine said after a moment. “I don’t think so. Whenever we went over to the Walshes’ house, Amy only hung out with Hannah. I barely even saw Matt.”

  “But that was last summer, right?”