Ink and Bone(78)

“Poppa!” she called. “Momma needs your help! Hurry!”

If he was there, he would race out to help Momma, wouldn’t he? Then Penny would have the time she needed to get supplies and go. She listened. Was he there and not answering? If he caught her in Real Penny’s room, what would he do to her?

But there was only silence; she waited, listening to her own breath, then started slowly up the stairs. The warm air in the house was a blessed relief but it made her skin tingle, and that heavy, tired feeling had come back. The snow tapped against the glass as she inched up one creaking step at a time.

On the landing, the hall loomed long. She wanted to be quiet, but instead she ran the distance to Penny’s room and burst inside, carelessly letting the door hit the wall. She moved immediately to the closet and removed the shining black boots, as well as the jacket. She didn’t know where Poppa was or when he’d be back. She didn’t know how long it would take Bobo to reach the house or what he might do when he got here. He was crazy; she’d seen it in his eyes, a kind of wild, horselike fear and a terrible rage.

She found a pair of socks in the drawer and slid them on. They were so warm, but it hurt, too. It hurt to go from cold to warm, a kind of throbbing pain. Then she pulled on the boots. Even though they were too big, her ankle screaming in protest at the pressure. Abbey wobbled with the pain, struggling to keep going.

A flash of light against the wall, a thud from outside brought her to the window, hiding behind the curtain.

She saw Poppa climbing from the truck, the snow falling heavily around him. He wasn’t alone. They were there, too, the other girls—though she knew Poppa couldn’t see them anymore. The girl who taught her how to milk the cow was standing by the barn. The other girl, the one who’d come after her and had only been here a short while, stood by the trees. And someone else lay on the ground, wearing a white dress, arms and legs spread wide, as if she were making an angel in the snow. She wanted to help them all, but she knew it was too late.

She ran noisily in the too-big boots, down the hallway. She had to get downstairs and toward the back of the house before Poppa came in. But she only made it to the landing in time to see the door open, then close. She was trapped upstairs, no way out. He moved into the house.

“Momma,” he called. He stood in the foyer a minute, listening. Then he moved toward the stairs.





TWENTY-FOUR


Finley and Eloise lounged on soft chairs, the sound of the ocean loud around them. The water was jewel green, white capped, lapping against sand as white as sugar. Finley wore a black bikini; -Eloise was conservative as ever in a chambray skirt and cream sweater set.

“You asked me what it is,” Eloise said.

“You didn’t answer,” said Finley.

Finley’s legs were covered with tattoos—a girl dancing, a gun, a glade of towering trees morphing into The Three Sisters—none of which she remembered getting. She ran her hands along her skin, which was greasy and smelled of coconuts. She only remembered lounging on a beach in a bikini a couple of times—once in Florida, once in Hawaii, both trips that were characterized by her parents bickering and arguing from dawn till dusk. But today there was only silence, except for the white gulls and the sound of the surf.

“There is no answer,” said Eloise. She sipped from a straw punched into a hollowed-out pineapple. Finley had one, too. The drink inside was like nectar, sweet and refreshing, the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. It made her relaxed and lightheaded.

“It’s something different to everyone,” Eloise went on. “Like life. You take from it what you bring to it.”

“But it’s not like other places,” said Finley.

“No,” said Eloise. She, too, looked peaceful.

“It wants something,” said Finley.

“We all want something,” said Eloise.

Finley was annoyed. Why must Eloise always be so vague? Maybe she didn’t have the answers, after all. When she looked over again, it was Abigail. The girl, with her wild auburn hair, wore that eternal blue dress, tattered and worn. She tilted her face toward the sun with a smile.

“Too many bad things have happened here,” said Abigail. The voice that came from her mouth was Eloise’s. “It might have started with just one thing, one tragedy or injustice.”

Finley closed her eyes. When she opened them, there was a little girl in an owl tee-shirt, the knees of her jeans ripped and bloodied. The voice was still Eloise’s.

“That anger was a seed that grew. The energy expanded and spread itself, like violence runs in families. Now a blockage has been created, and nothing can pass through as it must. It’s like a clogged drain. And the muck gathers, collects, rots, and festers.”

Finley listened, though Eloise’s voice was barely audible now over the sound of a strange whispering. And more so, Finley didn’t want to hear what the old woman had to say. She was tired of all the darkness. Why couldn’t she just stay here on the beach, with the sun on her skin? She looked down and it was all gone, all the ink on her arms, on her legs. Her skin was clean, clear of any marking. She felt such a tremendous sense of release, but loss, too.

“Someone at peace has to show them the way out,” said the little girl with the very old voice. “Once the negativity has been released, it won’t attract more.”