Don thought of how he’d had to pay extortion money to the last owner. “I guess none of the owners were very nice, not since the Bellamys.”
“Now that dead girl,” said Gladys, “she’s nice enough. She been taking the edge off that malice. Made my job a little easier. That’s why Miz Evelyn and Miz Judea, they can go out and work in the yard. Till you fix things up over there.”
“Miss Gladys,” said Don. “I appreciate all you’ve explained to me. But the big question is still hanging in the air. What can I do to set things right?”
“And my answer still hanging right next to it. Tear down that house.”
Don could feel Sylvie slipping through his fingers. “No,” he said. “Not till I’ve done . . . something.”
“What?”
“I got to set things right.”
“You can’t.”
“If Sylvie’s going to fade from that house no matter what I do, then she’s sure as hell not going alone!”
“If you thinking of killing yourself, do the kind thing and tear the house down first, all right?” said Gladys.
“I’m not killing anyone,” said Don.
“You’re killing me right now,” said Gladys. “Me and these ladies. Look how they can’t take their eyes off that house.”
It was true. Miz Evelyn and Miz Judea had both wandered over to the window and now had their faces pressed against the glass like little children.
“Close that curtain, Mr. Lark,” said Gladys.
Don excused his way past the Weird sisters and drew the curtain closed. Miz Evelyn was crying softly, and Miz Judea looked like she had lost her last best hope in life. Gladys was right. This couldn’t go on.
“Thank you for your help,” he said. And it was help. He knew more. Knowing was better than not knowing.
But not by much.
20
Lissy
All the way back around the fence to the Bellamy house, Don was filled with dread. Sylvie was fading already, Gladys had said. Now that she didn’t have that aching hole of guilt and shame in her heart, the house didn’t have so much power over her. What if she was already gone? At this moment it was an unbearable thought. I just found her, he thought. I didn’t ask to be in this swamp, and neither did she, but we found each other, and it’s not right that I should already be losing her.
The door wasn’t waiting open for him. She wasn’t in the alcove in the ballroom. He called her name, striding through the main floor. Called again, again, more loudly, as he ran up the stairs, searched the second floor. Then up to the attic, and she wasn’t there either, and now he felt it like another death. How could it happen so quickly?
The basement? She never went down there on purpose.
But then, that was before she learned the truth about who killed whom. Don skimmed down the stairs like a schoolboy, then ran the length of the ballroom to get to the basement stairs. “Sylvie!” he called. “Sylvie!”
She still didn’t answer, but now it didn’t matter, because there she was, pressed against the foundation wall, almost behind the coal furnace. Near the tunnel entrance.
“Sylvie, what are you doing?”
She smiled wanly. “I don’t know,” she said.
“What brought you down here?”
“I just . . . wanted to see myself again.”
Was it ghoulish to want to see a corpse, if it was your own? “So did you?”
“No,” she said. “Part of me wants to go there. Down the tunnel. But the house doesn’t want me there. I don’t know what’s the right thing to do.”
“All I know about the tunnel is that it’s not part of the house,” said Don. “Gladys says it’s older than the house.”
“You know what it feels like?” she said. “If I go down there again, I’ll be free!”
“Depends on what you mean by freedom.” He explained to her what Gladys had said about how the house might be losing its hold on Sylvie. “If you want to be free, then go,” he said. “I can’t ask you to stay.”
“Yes you can,” she said.
“Then stay,” he said. “Please stay.”
She launched herself from the wall, ran to him, threw her arms around him.
He held her, but as he stroked her hair, it kept passing right through his fingers. Slowly, but passing through. He couldn’t help the tears of grief that began to flow. “You’re going,” he said.
She pulled away from him, her eyes frightened. He showed her what was happening with her hair. In reply she clung to him all the more tightly.
He lifted her—lighter now, or was it his fear of losing her that made her seem like nothing in his arms?—and carried her upstairs, back to the alcove. “I’ll tell you something,” he whispered to her. “If I lose you, Sylvie, then you can count on this. I’ll find Lissy wherever she’s hiding. I’ll find her and . . .”
“And what?” she said. “Look, your hair goes through my fingers, too.” She shuddered. “Which one of us is disappearing?”
“You don’t know how many times I’ve wished that I could.”
“Me too,” she said. “And now that I don’t want to, the wish comes true.” She kissed him lightly. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“What did you ask?”
“What you’ll do when you find Lissy?”
Kill her, thought Don. But then he knew that it wasn’t true. He wouldn’t have the heart for it. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” he said. “I’ll turn her in.”
“Waste of time,” said Sylvie. “Don’t even bother looking for her, Don. They won’t do anything to her because there won’t be enough evidence, nothing to point to her except you, and you got all your information from the victim’s ghost. And they’ll say to you, Well, Mr. Lark, where’s that ghost now? And you’ll say, Sorry, Your Honor, but she faded away.”
“So Lissy gets away with it.”
“She already got away with it. There’s nothing you can do about that.”
“That’s all I seem capable of, when it really matters: nothing.”
Sylvie leaned back. “I think I won’t sleep tonight,” she said. “I don’t want to go to sleep and wake up invisible. So I’ll stay awake. I’ll watch you all night. I’ll hold your hand. And then when your hand sinks through mine and leaves my hand empty, I’ll know I’m gone.”
Again Don’s tears flowed. It made him angry, to have to face grief again. He clenched his fists. “Damn, what happened to me? I used to be stronger than this.”
“Fat lot of good it did you. I’m glad you’re crying for me, Don. I’ve been dead for a decade, and you’re the first one to shed any tears of grief for me.”
“This is just the start, kid.”
“You want to hear something pathetic?” she said. “I’ve had more kisses from you than from every other boy or man in my life combined.”
He kissed her again.
“What’s that for? You’ve already got the record.”
“Running up the score,” he said.
She kissed him back.
“Mm,” she said.
He broke off the kiss. “What?”
“Just thinking,” she said. “About Lissy. Maybe we’re giving her credit for being too resourceful. You know, coming up with a false name. That’s not easy to do. I mean, sure, you can get fake ID, but don’t you have to know somebody? How do you go buy a fake driver’s license?”
“She bought drugs,” said Don. “So she knew some underground people.”
“No, Lanny bought the drugs. Just pot, mostly. I don’t think she knew anybody like that.”
“She really did coast on other people, didn’t she,” said Don. “He buys the drugs, you do her homework.”
“That’s the thing,” said Sylvie. “When she needed some A papers right away, she didn’t write them, she didn’t do anything on her own, she just copied mine. Whatever looked easiest. Going underground and changing identities, that’s hard. I just don’t see her doing it.”
 
; “So you’re saying she’ll be living under her own name?”
“Don’t you think?”
“No,” said Don. “She knew she had to conceal her crime. That’s why she killed Lanny, it’s the only possible reason. She didn’t know that neither body was going to be discovered. So she couldn’t keep her own name.”
The idea dawned on both of them at once. “She used mine,” said Sylvie, as Don said, “How much did you two look alike?” They laughed for a moment, more at the excitement of the discovery than the coincidence of their talking at once.
“You said you two could swap clothes,” said Don.
“Same color hair, nearly,” said Sylvie. “Same basic shape in the face. Not that we looked like sisters, but if you didn’t know either of us . . .”
“I mean, could she use your ID?”
“She could maybe get a haircut, different glasses, and tell the person at the motor vehicle department that of course she doesn’t look the same, it’s been years.”
“No,” said Don. “She just reports your license missing. Says her name is Sylvie Delaney and her purse was stolen.”
“She’d need a birth certificate or something, wouldn’t she?”
“Where did you keep your birth certificate?”
“In my room.” Sylvie nodded. “You’re right, she’d never have to show a picture.”
“And your fingerprints were never taken.”
“Right,” said Sylvie. “I wasn’t arrested much.”
“This feels right, Sylvie. This is it. She took your name, your identity—”
“My savings. She could do my signature. She did that as a joke, but she could do it as well as I could. She used to tell me that I should do a harder signature, any fourth grader could fake mine.”
“That’s her whole getaway,” said Don.
“Getaway,” echoed Sylvie. “Don, she took my job.”
It took him a moment to realize what she meant. “Providence?”
“They interviewed me over the phone. We never met. She read all my papers. She’s a champion shmoozer. She could fake being me well enough to get along until she really learned the job. All the time getting an income.”
“That makes my skin crawl,” said Don. “To think of her out there in the world, using your name. People asking for Sylvie Delaney and she’s the one they mean.”
Sylvie shuddered. “Well, after killing me, I guess that’s only adding insult to injury.”
“I’m going to call,” he said.
“Call who?”
“Directory assistance,” he said. “Providence, Rhode Island.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’ll invite her here,” he said.
“What makes you think she’d come?”
“Come on, Sylvie, give me credit.” He put on his Marlon-Brando-as-Don-Corleone voice. “I’ll make her an invitation she can’t refuse.”
“I don’t want you hurting her, Don,” said Sylvie. “You’d only get in trouble yourself. It won’t help me for you to be in jail.”
“No, I won’t hurt her,” said Don. “All I want is for her to face what she did. To face you. While you’re still here.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Don, I’m not sure I want to—”
“Why not?” he answered. “What can she do to you? What are you afraid of? Let her face her own shame and guilt.”
Those words resonated with what he had told her from his interview with Gladys. “You’re hoping the house will hold her,” said Sylvie.
“Maybe,” said Don. “It probably won’t, though. She’s guilty and what she did was shameful and she knows it, she can’t hide from that. But pain and loss? She’s got everything. I’m betting she feels no pain.”
“She lost her family,” said Sylvie. “Remember?”
“Then the house will snag her. That’s justice, Sylvie. To have her trapped here.”
“But how will you finish your renovations then?” she said.
He looked away from her. “I don’t know if I will.”
“You can’t afford to walk away from this place.”
He shrugged. “I have some money in the bank. I can break the house up a little bit, weaken it so the Weird Sisters aren’t so drawn to it.”
“But then she won’t be drawn to it anymore.”
“Sylvie, why don’t you want me to bring her here?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Because . . . because this is our place. If I’m going to fade, the only memory I want to take with me is this one. You and me. In this place.”
Don got up from the alcove, paced toward the far wall, then stopped. “OK,” he said.
“OK what?”
“OK, I won’t call her. I’ll let her get away with it. We’ll have these last days or hours, whatever we’ve got, we’ll spend this time together, and then I’ll just . . . I’ll just forget it all.” He turned around and kicked the wall. It was tough and strong. It hurt his foot through the shoe. He slapped the wall with the flat of his palm and leaned there, crying again, dammit.
After a while he felt her hand on his back. Lightly, too lightly.
“Don,” she said. “I can face her.”
“No,” he said.
“I want to,” she said. “What she did to me, that’s done with. But what she’s done to you—that really pisses me off.”
He laughed in spite of himself, turned around, held her. “You mean it?”
“It’s less than a twelve-hour drive to Providence if you go straight through,” she said. “I had that all figured out. Feels like only yesterday.”
“Let me guess. The bitch took your car.”
Sylvie danced away from him. “We’re such stupid children,” she said. She pirhouetted lazily. “We’ve built up this whole castle in the air, and she’s probably married to some executive with Coca-Cola and living in Atlanta under his name.”
“Still, it’s worth a shot. It makes sense,” said Don. “I’m going next door to see if they’ll let me use their phone.”
“Hurry back,” she said.
“Stay out of the basement, please.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m too busy dancing my life away to bother with basements.” She was still turning around and around as he closed the door behind him.
Next door, Miz Evelyn let him into the house. “So have you decided what you’re going to do?” she asked.
“Sylvie’s fading. When she’s gone, I won’t leave the house strong like this.”
“But all your money’s tied up in it.”
“I’ve lost a lot more money than this,” said Don. “Lose enough of it, and you start thinking of it as nothing.”
“Money’s never nothing,” said Miz Evelyn. “All those years we took in laundry and sewing, living on nothing, growing a garden, saving, saving. All so we could keep living here and never go out of the yard. Money is very much something.”
“Not compared to saving people I care about.”
“Well, all I can say is, if you weaken that house I’ll be the first to kiss you.”
“Too late,” he said.
“There’s already a line?” Miz Evelyn laughed. “Should have known, a strapping young man like you.”
“Miz Evelyn, you ladies do have a phone, don’t you?”
“Oh, you need to borrow one? It’s right here in the parlor, right over here on the writing desk.”
It was an ancient black dial phone. “You don’t know how many years it’s been since I’ve used one of these,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know how we could ever get along without it. That’s how we get our groceries delivered! And lightbulbs and things like that!”
“I didn’t mean the phone, I meant that phone.” She didn’t understand. “They have phones with buttons now.”
She looked baffled. Then comprehension dawned. “Oh, you mean pushbuttons. For a minute I thought, what in the world would you need to button up a telephone for!” She laughed. “Oh, my laws, I don’t get ou
t much.” She looked wistful.
Don picked up the phone and dialed 411. He got the area code for Providence and then dialed directory assistance at that number. It was amazing how irritating it could be. The pressure on the sides of his finger. The endless waiting for the dial to return to position.
“For Providence,” he said.
Miz Judea walked into the room.
“I need a listing for Sylvia Delaney. Or Sylvie. I’m not sure how the last name is spelled. Delaney.”
He realized he had nothing to write with. He flung out a hand toward the Weird sisters, who were eavesdropping unabashedly. “Pen pen pen, please,” he said.
Miz Evelyn fetched a pencil for him from a cubbyhole in the writing desk, and took an open envelope from the mail table.
The operator came back on. “Could that be S. Delaney, D-E-L-A-N-E-Y, on Academy Street?”
“Could well be, it’s worth a shot.”
“Hold for the number, please.” After a moment, the computer voice started intoning the number. Don wrote it down and dialed it immediately.
“Am I missing something?” Miz Evelyn asked. “Ain’t Sylvie Delaney the name of the haint?”
Don nodded, listening to the phone ringing.
Miz Evelyn went on talking, ostensibly to Miz Judea. “Why’s he calling a dead girl in Providence when she’s haunting the house next door?”
“Hush and listen, Miz Evvie,” said Miz Judea.
Someone picked up the phone. A woman’s voice. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Sylvie Delaney?” He did his best to keep his voice sounding breezy, cheerful.
“Yes,” she said. “Who’s this?” Bored. Must have a lot of unidentified men calling her.
“Forgive me, but I just want to make sure I’ve found the right person. Did you get your graduate degree at UNC-Greensboro?”
“Who is this?”
Don waited a moment. “When I’m sure you’re the right person,” he said.
“Yes, I did my graduate work there. Now who are you?”
“We’ve never met, Miss Delaney,” said Don. “But I feel as though I know you. You see, I’ve been renovating the old Bellamy house.”