Help for the Haunted(85)

“You came,” I said, staring at Penny’s face repeating all over the floor, my mother’s face too, and remembering my father’s promise that the photo would be just for their records. “But Rose sent you away.”

“She told you that?”

“No. It’s just, she’s done it to other people.”

“Well, my story might be a bit different from the others.”

“Different how?”

Howie paused a moment. It was an odd feeling, being so close in that small room, speaking with such a sense of exigency—a word I recalled from that English exam years before. In most ways, we were strangers.

“When I got back to Tampa,” Howie began, “I sent cards with cash to you girls any time I managed to hold on to a few bucks. Wasn’t much, but it was my way of doing something to show you were both on my mind. But there was never any word back. I called, left messages. No word then, either.”

I thought of the way Rose was always so possessive of the mail, and the way she used to roll her eyes whenever we got Howie’s messages on the answering machine.

“Eventually, I figured the calls and cards and cash—all of it was useless. I came to the conclusion that before he died, your father poisoned your minds against me. Same as he did your mother’s years before.”

“Judging from that night in Ocala, you gave my mother plenty of reasons not to like you.”

Howie stared down at those casino arms of his. Ace of spades. Queen of diamonds. Snake-eyed dice in a permanent tumble. I watched the muscles beneath his tattoos tighten as he balled his fists before lifting his head again. “I regret so many of my actions, Sylvie. You have no idea. That night is one among many. I didn’t believe the things they did, not one bit, but it wasn’t right to ruin their lecture like that.”

His voice, his expression, every part of him seemed genuinely sorry. “When you didn’t hear back from Rose and me, you gave up . . . just like that?”

“At first. And after the shock of everything that happened, I started drinking more. Doing things I’m not proud to admit. Things got so bad, there were only two ways to go: keep falling down the dark hole until it was over or crawl back out of it. It wasn’t easy. It’s still not. But I started going to meetings. I got sober. Stopped doing a lot of things I never should have in the first place. And now, here I am.”

We both looked around the small, dim room, and I couldn’t help but wonder how this was any better than where he’d been. “My father never even talked about this place,” I said. “I figured it was closed or torn down a long time ago.”

Howie let out a short, exasperated laugh. “That would have been too easy. After your grandfather died, this theater was left to your dad and me. We couldn’t sell it. Nobody wanted it, considering what the neighborhood had become. So the place sat vacant for years, until an offer came to rent it—as a movie theater, of all things, only not the kind that showed the sort of films that used to play here.”

“My father—he never would have gone for that,” I said.

“What choice did he have? We needed to cover the taxes that drained us every spring, taxes your father usually ended up paying. And then I had this idea of taking back the place. Doing something better than renting it out.”

“You mean, making it a regular movie theater again?”

“Afraid not, Sylvie. The days of people getting dressed up to come to this neighborhood and see a film are long gone. I had another idea. Making it a venue for bands. Something I’ll tell you more about. But your father wouldn’t allow it. Despite his grandiose morals, he preferred to let it stay what it had become, rather than give his own brother a chance. When he passed, since there was no will, the property went through probate. In the end, his half went to you and your sister.”

“Rose and me?”

“Yes. This place, crumbling as it is, belongs to the two of you as well. You might not be aware of it, since Rose was made your legal guardian and she has the say for both of you. When I told her what I wanted to do with it, she agreed so long as I send half of whatever money I make. And so long as—” Howie stopped, considering his words.

“So long as what?”

“So long as I stayed out of your lives.”

I thought of that morning at the bus stop when Rose scoffed at Howie’s “pipe dreams” and told me about his refusal to let her come live with him. I wanted to find some way to ask about all that when a noise came from out in the hall—footsteps, I was certain this time. Howie must have heard them too, because we both turned just as Sam Heekin stepped into the doorway.

I had been so caught up in seeing my uncle again that I’d momentarily forgotten about Heekin, and his abrupt appearance surprised me. Howie stood, shoving his sleeves farther up his arms, displaying more tattoos. In a voice so gruff it seemed to come from a wholly different person than the one who had just been speaking to me with such tenderness, he shouted, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“He’s—” I began, but Heekin was already talking, though not doing a very good job of it.

“I d-d-drove here with—”

Howie cut him off. “I made it clear I didn’t want to see you around here again.”

“Hold on,” I said, standing too. “He brought me here. He’s a friend of our family.”