After Alice Fell(26)

At the bottom, he grabs a bucket from the small closet. Holds it with both hands. He looks at me again, his eyes glassy bright. I know it’s from the strange light coming through the windows. But I can’t stop the shiver that skids down my spine.

Toby’s cut his thumb. I’ve set him in the chair in my room, lit the lamp, and pulled my leather aid kit from the top shelf of the wardrobe.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says.

“I told you not to pick anything up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not deep.” I dip a handkerchief to my water glass and dab the beads of blood. “Just a scratch.”

He squirms in the chair as I press the wound edges together and tie a strip of cotton around it.

“Is it terrible?” he asks.

“We won’t need to amputate. It will sting for a bit, though.”

His eyelashes are starred with tears, but he screws up his mouth and gives a quick shake of his head. “I don’t feel it.”

“You’re very brave.” I pat the inside of the forearm, then rest his hand to his lap.

“Did you cut many thumbs off? In the war?”

I move from my kneeling position, rest back against the desk, and cup my chin in my hand. “Not a one.”

There’s a burst of white light, followed by a clap of thunder that shakes the house. Toby claws the edge of his chair, then jerks his sore thumb away.

The rain comes in on the wind gusts, first like fingers tapping the glass, then in sheets that rattle and hiss. The window latches shiver but hold, keeping the rain out. But the closed-in air steams with the damp of it, as if the water has found all the little crevices and boiled inside the walls.

The lightning comes in pieces. Out the window, the pond is a sulfurous yellow, like smoke. In the next flash, the vapor clears; the rain plonks and pulls at the skin of the water.

Another clap. Closer. Enough that Benjamin’s portrait shimmies and tips. I jump up, grab at it before it falls off the mantel.

We sit together, Toby’s fingers curled into my palm. A roll of thunder sounds somewhere past the hill, over Barrow Rock. A blue-white light slices along the treetops.

“We needed this rain,” I say.

“But not thunder.”

“No, not thunder.”

Toby hums a tune, and I tap our hands to my knee and sing.

I’ll be in Scotland afore ye,

But me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

We listen to the thunder grow fainter, the lightning shimmer far off. Sing “Oh! Susanna” and “Froggie Went A-Courtin’.”

The rain stops abrupt as it came. The sky clears, and the moon glows behind a long wisp of cloud.

“Look.” Toby points past the main pond to where the shore pinches and turns out of sight.

“There’s nothing there.”

“It’s a Bad One. It’s come from the Narrows.” Toby’s got his hands pressed to the glass. He dips his head to peer around the rainwater.

“Bad Ones don’t exist. I told you that. It’s make-believe. It’s . . .” I let out a breath and take his elbow. His body is rigid, on alert. “Alice made it all up.”

But it’s Alice’s arm I hold, and Alice’s eyes round with terror that look at me.

“Nothing will happen, Alice,” I murmur. “Nothing is there.”

Her mouth moves without a sound. She pokes her finger against my breastbone.

No—it’s not her—it’s Toby, twisting and pulling his arm free, his elbow sharp to my chest. “Look. Just like Alice said.”

There in the water, a dark shape slips the surface. I rasp a breath and lean forward to the glass. It’s blurred now, human shaped, then not. I can’t tell if it twists and rolls or it’s the trick of the waterlogged moonlight. I fight with the window latch, my fingers clumsy and numb, then throw the window open. I grip my fingers to the sill, hard enough that the paint chips under my nails. Toby presses his shoulder to my arm as we lean out to look.

“It’s a Bad One. It’s come to cut my tongue. Alice said it’d come.” His voice lifts into a shriek.

“It’s a log, Toby. Just a log.” I grab Toby’s arm and shake. “Alice told you stupid lies.”

We stare at each other, both our breaths shallow.

“There’s nothing there.”

“She doesn’t lie.” He whimpers and slips away from me, darting out the door before I can pull him tight.

The morning comes, the sky a faded lavender, the warming earth loamy and rotten. The log has beached in the shallows. I have not moved from the chair. My back and legs are stiff and sore. I leave the window open. The pond laps the shore, the tail of the storm still stirring the water, still slipping through the trees, liquid and smooth.

Behind me, Alice’s trunk lies open. I hold her inventory list, written in precise cursive with a diagram drawn below of the contents’ placement. All the items are still intact; I can’t bear to touch it.

Cathy rakes loose branches and leaves from the garden beds, flicking them to a pile. Toby crouches, intent on an insect or worm that’s crawling amongst the detritus. When he’s lost track, he scoops a mound into a pan and dumps it into the wheelbarrow. Saoirse stalks the vegetable rows, hands on hips, shaking her head. The tomato plants are beaten and sodden. She shifts the leaves with her foot, then twists off the fruit that’s still good. The bean posts tilt and twist into the garlic. The peppers litter the soil like Christmas bulbs flung from a box.