She Walks in Shadows(33)

“Asenath!” Ms. Van Helder was shocked.

“None of you have any idea about anything!” she screamed, and took off running toward the locker room.

A moment passed where they waited to see if Asenath would return. She did not. “Come on, Mr. Waite, let’s get you home,” said Ms. Van Helder, helping Ephraim to his feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“She stole it,” he mewed. “She’s a thief.”

“Ms. Van Helder … I could take him home.” Veronica felt bad for her uncle, the latest victim of Asenath’s troubling metamorphosis. Perhaps, if she got him alone, she could talk to him. Maybe he needed help from the Church, or from her father, to deal with his wayward daughter.

“Do you have a car?”

“No, but it’s not far. Maybe a mile. I mean, he walked here, didn’t he?” Veronica took the man’s hand. “Can you walk home with me? Are you strong enough, Uncle Ephraim?”

At first, he shook his head no, then something about his expression changed — brightened, maybe.

“Not far,” he whispered, apparently agreeing with her.

The sound of a car peeling out of the parking lot made them all look to see Asenath’s dramatic departure. She wasn’t heading in the direction of her house.

“Better get him home,” said Ms. Van Helder.

Uncle Ephraim nodded his enthusiasm.



Veronica had never been a regular visitor at Asenath’s house; not only did her daddy think she should “limit her contact” with her cousin and uncle, the place was just spooky, with its peeling paint and sagging roof. Her father also said the only reason their neighborhood’s homeowner’s association hadn’t served Ephraim a notice was because of his intervention.

Uncle Ephraim had a key hidden somewhere in the deep pockets of his coat. Veronica got the door open and helped him inside.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she said, taking off his coat. It was very warm in the house, and dark; the blinds were all shut and the golden bars of afternoon sunlight that fell over the carpet through the slats didn’t so much brighten the room as they showed the dust motes swirling in the air.

He nodded and shuffled toward a chair in the living room that shared his shabby, ill-used appearance. “Please,” he mumbled. “Water.”

There were no clean cups, so Veronica rinsed out a glass and got him some water with ice. She brought it into the living room and set it beside his elbow on a little tray table.

“I’ll leave my number,” she said uncertainly, “in case she doesn’t — I mean, I’m sure Asenath will be home soon.”

“Asenath ….”

“She drove away,” said Veronica. “But she was just angry. She’ll be back.”

“Stay.” Uncle Ephraim pointed to the couch. “Please.”

Veronica really, really didn’t want to stay, but didn’t feel like she had much of a choice. “Okay,” she said. “Should I … turn on the TV?”

“Read to me.” The suggestion of a whine in his unsteady voice stopped Veronica’s protest in her throat.

“What should I read?”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Secrets. Under Asenath’s mattress.”

“I shouldn’t ….”

“I hid it there.”

Veronica’s skin prickled as she wondered just what in the world Uncle Ephraim had stashed under his daughter’s mattress. What if it was a girlie mag, or something even more disgusting? She decided she might as well do as he said. If it was really bad, she’d give it to Asenath and tell her to get rid of it.

The stairs were dark and cramped. Veronica took them two at a time, but she hesitated before grabbing the knob of Asenath’s bedroom, unsure what she might find inside.

Like Asenath, the room was … different. The antique vanity Veronica had always coveted was still there, but Asenath’s beloved Kaboodle full of makeup no longer sat upon it, nor did the shelves hold the toys and dolls she had brought over to Veronica’s when they were younger. The strange thing was, nothing had replaced the missing items. It felt bare in there, denuded, stripped of its essence as if it had been bleached.

Veronica shut the door behind her, unsure what she was feeling. Sadness over the loss of a friend, yes, but there was anger, too. They hadn’t just grown apart naturally, she and her cousin. Asenath had chosen this path, no matter what she said.

It made her uncomfortable, being in Asenath’s private space, so Veronica screwed up her courage and plunged her arm between his mattress and the bedspring. She rooted around until her hands closed on a slender volume.

“Hieron Aigypton,” she read slowly, running her fingers over the tooled leather of the cover. “By Ana … Anacharsis.” She’d never heard of it. It looked very old.

She opened it to the first page, curious to see what it was Uncle Ephraim wanted her to read to him. “Hieron Aigypton, or Egyptian Rites,” she read. “Being an unflinching translation of the dreaded rituals detailed by Anacharsis, who was born a woman, lived as a man, and died neither.” She flipped another page. “Weird.”

Veronica knew that “rituals” were nothing her daddy would approve of, but just the same, Uncle Ephraim had requested this book …. Veronica pursed her lips, but went back downstairs with it.