Help for the Haunted(37)

“Do you know a blond Dereck with missing fingers and werewolf teeth?”

“You know what, Sylvie? Every once in a while you’re actually funny. But not this time. No one calls that doofus by his real name, so that’s why I wondered.”

“What do they call him?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?”

“That’s how many fingers he has left.” Rose hunted down the remote and collapsed into a wingback chair. As she flipped channels, I watched her kick off her shoes and rub her feet. It took a while for me to work up the courage, but I managed to ask, “Have you been down in the basement?”

“Nope. Why?”

“The light’s been on. Ever since last night.”

“Probably something screwy with the wiring. Don’t start thinking your weird thoughts. By the way, that detective called. So did Louise. There’s been a development. They want us at the station in the morning. So you’ll have to miss a few classes.”

I waited to see if Rose would say anything more about the development, but she did not. Rather than tell her what I’d read in the paper and seen on the local news, I just took to watching bits and pieces of TV before asking: “What state has license plates with a blue background and gold letters and numbers?”

“You don’t know, Sylvie? We see them all the time. They’re from one state over. Delaware. Why?”

“No reason. Did you mention something before about a job?”

From the way she rubbed her feet, I thought she’d tell me she found one waitressing. Instead, she said, “Try not to be too impressed. But you’re looking at a bona fide tele-researcher for Dial U.S.A. in Baltimore. Today was my first day. I completed three phone surveys.”

“Surveys? About what?”

“Fast food. Deodorant. Cigarettes. They say opinions are like *s and everyone’s got one. But I say opinions are like teeth—everyone’s got hundreds, and they love nothing more than to use them to chatter away.”

“Thirty-two,” I told her.

“Thirty-two what?”

“Humans have thirty-two teeth. Not counting the deciduous ones we lose and put under our pillow for the Tooth Fairy when we’re kids. So according to your theory, every adult has thirty-two opinions. Not hundreds.”

My sister stared at me, massaging her foot still. “How the hell do you know that kind of crap anyway?”

“Our father was once a dentist. Didn’t you ever talk to him about it?”

She let go of her foot, slouched in her chair, not answering.

“So do you like your job?” I asked, changing the subject.

“It’s work, Sylvie. Nobody likes work. But I’ve already sucked up to my supervisor real good. Fran even forked over a Dial U.S.A. calling card, so I can take surveys home and do them from here. A privilege only people with seniority usually get. Anyway, I was thinking, if you help me, I’ll give you a cut. Fifty cents for every completed survey. What do you say?”

It used to be I had money hidden in my room from that first essay contest and the others I’d gone on to win. But that changed the summer Abigail came to live with us. As much as I liked the idea of replenishing my supply, I knew better than to accept Rose’s initial offer. We haggled, stopping whenever she found something good on TV. As I waited for a commercial, I found myself thinking of what Boshoff told me about his sick wife and the way he liked to read cookbooks when he couldn’t sleep. Maybe, I thought, if I made enough cash, I’d pick him up a new one.

“A dollar a survey,” I told Rose when a commercial appeared at last. “Final offer.”

“Deal.”

I had plenty of questions: How would Fran know we weren’t making up answers? What was the latest we could call people? But Rose told me she would explain everything in the morning. She didn’t want to talk about Dial U.S.A. anymore. I knew better than to bother her, so I stretched out on the sofa again, figuring I’d stay up a while. My sister flipped channels until settling on a PBS documentary that I knew didn’t interest her. But leaving that channel on was what we did when we wanted our house to feel the way it used to when our parents were alive, since that was all they watched.

This particular show was about famous speeches. As Winston Churchill addressed a crowd, I started thinking that I might do better than Rose when it came to making those survey calls. My voice was less pushy, like our mother’s, which might put those people at ease. When I looked over, Rose had nodded off. Her eyes had a way of staying open the smallest bit when she slept. I kept staring at the milky slits until something caused her to stir.

“Why are you gawking at me?”

“I wasn’t gawking.”

“You were so. Just like when I came in before. Now cut it out.”

I should have planned the next part, but the question came out almost of its own accord. “What do you think I should love about you?”

Rose opened her eyes more fully and sat up. I may as well have snapped on the lights, clapped my hands next to her ears. “What?”

“What do you think I should love about you?” I repeated, feeling more nervous the second time.

“What the hell kind of thing is that to ask, Sylvie?”

The Churchill speech should have inspired me to offer some eloquent response, but I felt stumped. Rose pressed the remote and the room went dark. Silent too, except for the ticking clock. I figured she’d given up waiting for an answer, because she told me she was too tired to go up to bed and that she’d just rest on the couch for a while. I picked up my things and walked to the stairs, glancing down at the mail and wondering if a letter from Howie might be in the stack. The moment I put my foot on the bottom step, I heard Rose’s voice behind me. She sounded softer, a little like our mother for a change, when she said, “I’m your sister. Isn’t that reason enough for you to love me?”