A Noise Downstairs(34)

“We met up for a game and—”

“Squash?”

“It was a very gentle game. I didn’t want—”

Charlotte was enraged. “Are you out of your mind? You’ve had a serious blow to the head and you set foot in a squash court? Have you any idea how stupid that is? You could bash your head—”

“Would you just stop!” he shouted. “Fuck! Just shut up!”

Charlotte took a step back. “I’m trying to help you.”

Paul lowered his head and held it with both hands. “I feel like my fucking brain is going to explode.”

Charlotte, softly, said, “It’s going to be okay.” She waited a beat. “You said Bill had an idea.”

Paul sighed. “Yeah. I don’t know if he was joking, or humoring me, or what.”

Charlotte waited.

“He said I should roll some paper in.”

Charlotte blinked. “He said what?”

Paul pointed at the typewriter. “He said, if this thing’s making noises in the night, put some paper in and see what it’s saying.”

Charlotte said nothing.

“You think I should do that?” Paul asked.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

Paul shrugged. “He mentioned the word ghost. Well, actually, he mentioned the Ghostbusters.”

“Jesus. He can be such an asshole.” Charlotte rolled her eyes, threw up her hands, and said, “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Do it. Roll in a sheet of paper. If you think you hear something again in the middle of the night, and there’s nothing on it, then you’ll know.”

“Know what?”

She touched her index finger to her temple. “That it really is a dream.”

Paul’s jaw hardened. He met his wife’s eyes for several seconds before breaking away, stepping over to the printer, and taking out one sheet of paper from the tray. He set it into the typewriter carriage and rolled it in, bringing an inch of paper above where the keys would strike.

“Great,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

She turned and walked out.

Paul stayed another moment and stared at the typewriter. He ran his fingers along the middle row of letters, depressing the occasional key just enough to see the metal arms bend toward the paper, as if with anticipation.





Nineteen

Later that week, Anna White was at her desk, adding a few notes to a patient’s file in her computer before Paul Davis arrived for his weekly session, when she thought she heard a noise from upstairs. The only one up there was her father.

She worried he might have fallen.

She bolted from her chair, ran from the office wing on her house to the living area, and up the stairs as quickly as she could. She rapped on her father’s closed bedroom door.

“Dad?”

There was no answer.

She tried the door and was surprised to find she could open it only an inch. Through the crack she could see that a piece of furniture was blocking the door. It was her father’s dresser. That was what she had heard. Her father dragging his dresser across the room.

“Dad!”

Frank’s face appeared in the sliver. “Yes, honey?”

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t be too careful.”

“Dad, the police are not coming back. That’s not going to happen again.”

“They’re not getting in here, that’s for damn sure.”

Anna, her voice calm, said, “You can’t stay in there forever, Dad. What are you going to do when you have to go to the bathroom?”

He disappeared, only to reappear five seconds later with a wastepaper basket in one hand, and a roll of toilet paper in the other. “Thought of everything,” he said.

“Okay,” Anna said. “And when you get hungry?”

“You can bring something up for me.”

“And who do you think’s going to empty that pail for you? Because I can tell you, it’s not going to be me.”

“Window,” he said.

Jesus, she thought, picturing it. She had one last card to play, and knew she’d hate herself for it. “And what about when it’s time to go to the home to visit Joanie?”

Frank stopped and puzzled over that. He clearly hadn’t thought through every eventuality.

“Oh,” he said. “You’ve got me there.”

“Why don’t you put the dresser back where it was, Dad? And put on the TV. Maybe they’re running some Bugs Bunny cartoons now.”

She heard the dresser squeak as he pushed it back. Anna opened the door wide and watched him move it across the room. She didn’t offer to help him. All those hours he spent on the rowing machine, he could probably get a job with the Mayflower furniture movers.

Dresser back in place, he grabbed the remote and turned on the television. He propped himself on the corner of the bed, as if nothing had happened.

Anna, wearily, went back downstairs.

The moment she entered her office, she let out a short scream.

Gavin Hitchens was sitting in his usual chair, waiting for her.

“Jesus Christ,” she said.

He made an innocent face. “I never canceled. This is when I come.”