Help for the Haunted(102)

My mother and I looked at each other to be sure we had actually heard it. And then, through the small crack in the door, my mother spoke gently, telling her, “You are welcome, Abigail Lynch.”





[page]Chapter 19

Candles



In the dark beneath that scratchy wool blanket, the station wagon’s wheels turning beneath me, it became difficult to keep track of time. Had an hour passed? Or only twenty minutes? The woman turned on the radio, and an announcer’s voice filled the chilly air inside the car. His was a syrupy, southern drawl I recognized as one my father sometimes tuned into when we were driving. The preacher spoke of things I’d heard him say before: that the end was near, that the listeners better hurry up and get right with God. Normally, there was a menacing edge to the sermons but tonight even he sounded tired of it, rattling off the scripture as if it was old news, which in every possible way, it was.

The woman at the wheel must have grown bored too, because she turned off the radio without warning. I wondered if we were getting close to our destination, but then the car picked up speed and I felt us climbing upward, heard the whir of cars and trucks passing. We were merging onto a highway, and I realized I’d slipped into the backseat without considering that Delaware license plate on her car.

When I couldn’t bear the darkness a second longer, I peeked from beneath the blanket. Above me, headlights from passing vehicles shape-shifted on the ceiling. I lifted my head just enough to make out the driver’s hair yanked into a tight bun. I wanted a better look, but didn’t dare risk her catching sight of me. Instead, I did my best to read the dozens of road signs we moved beneath, though it was impossible to see more than a blur. Beside me lay a few Tupperware containers, like so many she brought to our house, only these were empty.

After what felt like ages, the station wagon finally slowed. I heard the clicking of the turn signal, and we moved off the highway, stopping a few seconds before picking up again at a slower speed. Once more, the woman began to hum that same hackneyed tune as we made a series of rights and lefts. I tried to memorize the order in case I needed to follow the path in reverse when finding my way back home, but after too many, I lost track. And then we made one final turn before the car came to a stop—her humming stopped too.

In the silence that followed, I worried she might hear me breathing. I slipped back beneath the blanket, pressing my face to the floor and feeling the sand and grit there against my cheeks. When I heard the woman gather her purse from the front seat, I realized she might also want the containers next to me. She opened the door and got out while I bit down on my lip, bracing myself again to be discovered. But then came only the sound of her footsteps clicking away.

A moment later, I poked my head out and was considering sliding back over the seats when a car rolled up and parked directly behind the station wagon. A police car, I saw when I turned. I ducked and listened as the officer got out and slammed the door, his footsteps heavier than hers.

“Where were you?” a male voice asked.

“Errands.” The woman’s voice, like her humming, sounded full of false cheer.

“More errands?”

“Yes. You know, post office, grocery store.”

“Where are the bags?”

“Bags?”

“The grocery bags.”

“Oh. Well, I just stopped to see if they had more of those potpies you like. The turkey ones. I had a coupon. But they were all out. I swear the stores do that just to get you in the door, figuring you’ll buy something at full price instead. Not me. I turned around and walked right out of there.”

Things were quiet, and I considered lifting my head to look around again, but waited to be certain they’d gone.

“What’s the matter?” the woman asked at last.

“Why do you think something is the matter?”

“The way you’re staring at me right now. Like you’re angry, Nick. Either that or I’ve got food in my teeth.” She laughed, but if he did, I couldn’t hear it over the shhhh.

“I’m just hungry is all. Bad day. Very bad day.”

“Sergeant again?”

He mumbled something I couldn’t make out before saying, “Let’s just eat. Then I’m going back down there and talking some sense into that jackass.”

A door opened and banged shut, and the voices disappeared. Still, I lingered beneath the blanket in case they returned. When I lifted my head finally, the world came into view in pieces. There was that police car with the gumball lights on top. There was the front lawn, or not a lawn really, but a strip of crushed shells with a small plastic windmill spinning away in the center. There was the house, tall and narrow, white with black shutters, the roof full of peaks and dips—the sort of place I remembered from nights trick-or-treating in my parents’ old neighborhood. Except this must have been near the ocean: I could smell salt in the air, hear the faint sound of waves crashing.

Slowly, I slipped over the seat, making as little noise as possible when I stepped from the station wagon. Outside, I looked at the side of the police car: Rehoboth Township. The sight should have made me feel safer, but somehow it worried me more.

I gazed up at the house again. Lights glowed in the windows on the first and second floors. Nervous as it made me, I followed the path of crushed shells to one side of the property, where a row of garbage cans and a chain-link fence divided the backyard from front. In the moonlight, I could see a cement patio, a picnic table, and a kettle grill. In the yard stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, vines winding up her open arms and obscuring her face. In the corner was a wooden shed, newly built with two sturdy locks on the door.