Help for the Haunted(10)

My mother gave us a look and said more plainly, “Quit. Being. Rude.”

“Rubella,” I let slip.

“Sylvie!”

“Sorry.”

She took a breath, then turned back to Dot, who stepped into the house, carrying her laundry basket. Inside, I saw her wrinkled clothing, deodorant, a worn toothbrush, and a bloated copy of The Thorn Birds. “You can change in the bathroom down the hall,” my mother told her, “then I’ll show you around and go over the rules.”

Dot set her basket on one of the wingback chairs. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I have to wash a few things. So I’ll keep these clothes on until my nightie is clean.”

“Nightie?” my mother repeated.

Dot smiled, her mouth foaming a little too. “Oh, don’t get the wrong idea, Mrs. Mason. It’s not one of those lacy Frederick’s of Hollywood getups I used to break out for my husband. It’s just a flannel nightgown any old lady would wear to bed. Thing is, my cat hopped up on the bed this morning and peed on it. I guess when she saw me filling her auto-feeder she realized I was skipping out for a few days. Got her revenge ahead of time. Anyway, I figured I’d wash it here.”

“I see,” my mother said, glancing at her slim watch and probably wondering if she had enough time to call the service and inquire about another nanny.

My father came clomping up the basement stairs then, carting the suitcase full of equipment and his tote filled with notepads where he recorded observations for lectures. In the hours before their trips, he grew serious and preoccupied—this time was no different. “The flight leaves in a few hours,” he told my mother. “We better get going.”

Not long after, the two of them were waving and honking from the Datsun as they pulled out of the driveway. No sooner had they disappeared down Butter Lane than Dot asked, “So what’s on the docket, girls? Are you hungry?”

Rose didn’t answer, but I shook my head.

“Good. Because I had some Burger King on the way over so I’m stuffed. You can help me get started on my laundry. Oh, and I assume there’s a bathtub in the house.”

“In my parents’ room,” I told her, “and one in the bathroom Rose and I share.”

“Great. I need to soak these weary bones. This house has an awful chill to it. You’d never guess it’s May.”

“It’s the spirits,” Rose told her.

“Pardon?” Dot wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger.

“The spirits,” Rose repeated. “You know what my parents do for a living, right?”

“Well, I— The woman at the service warned me it was unusual. But I get all kinds. Money’s money. I told her I didn’t want to know the details. I’m a holy woman—”

“A holy woman who wears sheer nighties?” Rose said.

Seven-twelve, I thought. Seven-twelve.

“I never said sheer. I said lacy. And that was a long time ago, for my husband, Roy, on special occasions. Before he passed. I don’t parade around like some flooz—”

“When our parents go on these trips,” Rose interrupted, “they are asked to confirm the presence of unwanted spirits. Sometimes they are asked to drive them out too. Usually from places, but once in a while, from people. I’m talking about children, pregnant women, the elderly, even animals and inanimate objects too.”

This information bothered Dot—that much was obvious by her pinched expression—but she shrugged. “Well, I want to get my laundry done then settle into the tub and finish my book. I’m just getting to the juicy part. Sylvie, could you pick up my laundry basket like a good girl? Old Dot’s back hurts.”

“The spirits need somewhere to go after they’ve been driven out of the host,” Rose told her as I lifted the basket. “More often than not they end up— Well, I’ll give you one guess where they end up.”

Dot pushed her owl glasses to the top of her nose and grabbed her copy of The Thorn Birds—a priest dominated the cover, far more handsome than Father Vitale from Saint Bartholomew with his drooping skin and sagging shoulders. “Here?” she said in a quiet voice.

“Here,” Rose told her, lowering her voice too. “In this house. Tell her, Sylvie. Tell her about the terrible things we’ve seen.”

There were times when Rose’s terrorizing of the nannies was, I confess, fun to watch. But this felt too easy somehow. “Let me show you the washer and dryer, Dot.”

Dot ignored my suggestion, asking, “What do you see?”

“Sylvie won’t tell you because we are not supposed to talk about it—forbidden by my father to talk about it, actually.”

“So why are you talking about it then, Rose?” I asked.

My sister manufactured a creepy, distant voice. “Because Dorothy seems like a nice lady, and since she’ll be staying here for the next five nights, I feel I should warn her.” Rose looked at Dot. “Ours is not an easy house to sleep in. Some nights they’ve even—” She stopped, as though snapping out of a trance, returning her voice to normal. “Well, never mind. Don’t worry. Mostly they mind their own business. Mostly.”

Dot stared at her a moment, pinched-faced still, before pushing back her shoulders and squeezing the handsome paperback priest tighter. “I don’t buy into that nonsense. Tell you what. Sylvie, I’m gonna let you put the laundry in since you’re familiar with the machines. Meanwhile, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in the tub.”