Heath let the rest of that sentence hang, but I knew exactly what he was implying. So I finished the thought for him. “Or we figure out how to shut down the Sandman.”
We sat silently at the table for a few seconds, letting the weight of our responsibility sink in if I couldn’t convince Christine to abandon Porter Manor.
And then Gilley slid his chair back from the table and said, “There’s only one thing to do in a situation like this.”
“What’s that?” I asked him.
Without answering, Gilley turned away from me and headed back to the counter. “I’d like a double scoop of your peanut butter lover’s with Reese’s Pieces and Heath bar sprinkles, please. In a waffle cone. With a little chocolate syrup drizzled on top. Oh, and don’t forget the whipped cream and cherry.”
• • •
We left as soon as Gil’s stomachache settled in, which was about midway through his second waffle cone, but the brave little soldier still managed to shove the rest of it into his piehole. “Ohhhhhhh,” he moaned from the backseat while I drove us back to Mrs. G.’s.
“It’s your own fault,” I told him. “Going back for an extra helping of sprinkles when you were already complaining of an upset stomach didn’t help your cause, buddy.”
“Why didn’t you stop me?” he moaned.
“For the same reason that, sometimes, even though it’s really hard, you gotta allow a little kid to put his finger on a hot burner to find out that some stuff shouldn’t be messed with.”
Gilley whimpered and kept it up even after entering his mother’s house. Mrs. G. came out of the kitchen the second we returned. She took one look at Gilley’s slouched posture and said, “What’d he eat?”
“What didn’t he eat?” Heath replied, easing Gil over to the nearest chair.
“I think it was his second double-scoop ice-cream cone that did him in,” I told her.
“Mama,” Gil whimpered.
Mrs. G. frowned at her son. “I have half a mind to let that bellyache keep achin’, Gilley. That or a diabetic coma is surely gonna do you in.”
“I won’t do it again,” Gil lied.
Mrs. G. harrumphed and turned back to the kitchen muttering about getting her son some sodium bicarbonate. I stood by the door, eyeing it nervously.
“What’s up?” Heath asked me.
“I think I should go talk to Christine.”
“Have you heard from your dad since he left to go see her at the hospital?”
I slapped my forehead. “Ohmigod! I totally forgot about her panic attack.”
“Did somebody say ‘hospital’?” Gil groaned. I glanced over and saw that he’d managed to get himself from the chair over to the couch and was now lying back with one hand over his stomach and the other over his eyes, going for the most pathetic posture possible. Drama queen.
“No,” Heath and I said together. The last thing we needed was for Gilley to insist on being taken away by ambulance, which he was likely to demand, given his current state of discomfort.
“What do you want to do?” Heath asked me.
I pulled out my cell and called Christine’s phone, but it went straight to voice mail. I tried Daddy’s cell next and he picked up right away. “Hello, Mary Jane,” he said quietly.
“Hey, Daddy, how’s Christine?”
“Oh, she’s fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s resting here at the house with me. Did the sheriff finish over at the Porter place?”
I bit my lip. “Daddy, there’s something I need to tell you. . . .”
“Yes?” he asked when I lost my nerve.
I took a deep breath and chickened out for a second time. This just wasn’t something I could explain over the phone. “I’m coming over, Daddy. I need to tell you and Christine what happened in person.”
“What happened?” Daddy said, his voice a bit louder.
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a few.” With that, I hung up before he could grill me for details.
“Want me to drive?” Heath asked.
Before I could answer, Mrs. G. came out of the kitchen with a bubbling glass of milky liquid for Gilley. “Mary Jane, Heath,” she said, her voice full of command. “Come over here and tell me exactly what put Gilley in the frame of mind to do this to himself.”
I eyed Heath. “Can you stay and explain it to her while I head over to Daddy’s?”
“You want to go alone?”
“I do. Christine might get upset again, and I feel like she won’t want a lot of witnesses if that happens.”
Heath’s expression softened and he leaned in to kiss me sweetly. “Go. Text me later and tell me how it went, okay?”
“You got it,” I said, giving him a hug before making haste toward the door. “Mrs. G., Heath is going to stay and explain everything. I’ve got to get over to Daddy’s to talk to Christine.”
“Will you be back by six?” she called after me. “I’ve got dinner in the oven and I’d hate for you to miss it.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” I promised.
“What’s for dinner?” Gil asked meekly.
Mrs. G. leaned the glass toward Gil’s lips. “Well, sugar, for us, it’ll be eggplant parmigiana. For you, sodium bicarbonate and an early bedtime.”
• • •
I got to Daddy’s house and made my way inside without knocking. I found myself still coming up short in the front hall; it was just a shock to see how beautiful it had become since Christine had entered Daddy’s life. “Hello?” I called out. “Daddy?”
He came out from the right side of the staircase, which would have put him in the parlor. He looked very different from the commanding presence I’d gone toe-to-toe with earlier in the day. I can’t fully describe it, but there was a gentleness in his eyes and his expression, a touching sweetness that he’d hidden from me for so long that I hardly remembered him capable of such caring vulnerability. I realized he must’ve been sitting with Christine. It struck me that she brought that side out of him, when the only other person I’d ever known who could tame my father the lion had been my mother.
I had a flashback to a moment so eerily similar, a time when Mama had been complaining of pain in her lower back, and a feeling of fatigue. I’d been worried about her, and Daddy had come home early one afternoon because he’d been worried too. He’d doted on her all the rest of the day, and I’d caught him coming out of the parlor, where Mama was resting, and he’d looked just like he did now: a bit worried, but also so—I don’t know—content for her company. He always softened around Mama. He never raised his voice or got angry when she was nearby. Instead, he was patient, and kind, and even loving. She’d had that effect on him. She’d had that effect on everyone.
After she was gone, I never saw that side of him again. It was like a light had gone out in our worlds, and for Daddy, things got very dark indeed. Until now. Until Christine.
“Daddy,” I said as he paused to acknowledge me. For a moment that gentle vulnerability lingered as he took me in without saying a word, and I had the strongest urge to run to him and throw my arms around him. Something I hadn’t done since Mama died. But then, I saw him square his shoulders and something shifted inside those eyes and he became the Daddy I’d known from the age of eleven on. Cool, commanding, and totally unapproachable.
I felt myself tense at the sudden change, and immediately squashed the urge to run over to him, but then, most unexpectedly, something else bubbled up from deep inside me. Something that I’d probably kept at bay for well over two decades. It started with my lower lip, which began to quiver, and my eyes, which started to mist. I cleared my throat and blinked furiously, but caught sight of Daddy’s now quizzical look in my direction. And then a tear slipped out and slid down my cheek. I blinked some more, shook my head, and swallowed hard,
but then another tear leaked out. And another. And then I couldn’t stop.
I ducked my chin to hide my face and wiped furiously at the tears. I opened my mouth to tell him that I was sorry for the emotional display, which was so unlike me, but a small sob escaped instead of words, and I quickly closed my mouth and covered it with my hand.
Turning away, I decided a hasty exit was in order, but then I found myself encircled by strong, steady arms, which were turning me back. “Mary Jane,” Daddy said as he pulled me into a hug. “Whatever are you on about, baby girl?”
I tried to take a steadying breath, but got only a small lungful of air before more sobs forced their way out. I was crying and crying and I didn’t think I could stop.
All the while Daddy held on to me, patting my back and telling me, “There, there, Mary Jane. There, there.”
After what felt like an eternity, we heard a voice say, “Monty? Mary Jane? Is everything all right?”
I ducked my chin again as I pulled away from Daddy, and wiped at my cheeks with the backs of my hands. “I’m sorry,” I managed to say, but it was a little choked.
“Oh, child!” Christine said when I lifted my chin, and once again I was pulled into comforting arms and held tightly. “Honey love, tell me what’s wrong!”
It was my undoing. Christine was not my mother, but she was so warm, and sweet, and lovely in her own right, and in that moment she reminded me so much of Mama that I felt myself tremble a little, then begin to sob all over again. And to my absolute horror, I was crying even harder and louder this time. Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to hold it inside anymore.
It was as if all the years that I’d missed and longed for Mama were being compacted into one moment of anguish; and not just over her death, but for her entire absence from my life. The black hole created by her premature passing had sucked out so much joy, and love, and comfort, and stability, until her loss was the sum of all the things that she and I should’ve gotten to share with each other. As the years had passed, that loss hadn’t gotten smaller; it’d gotten exponentially bigger until it was a giant gaping maw of sorrow and devastating sadness swirling in the center of my chest like a light-eating, life-diminishing, universe-destroying black hole. A hole that was now being filled with terrible, tearstained, gut-wrenching grief, and I couldn’t seem to stop.
And all the while that Christine rocked me in her arms—all that time—I wished with everything I had that it could’ve been Mama who was there to comfort me instead. If only she’d lived. If only she’d stayed with us. If only she’d kept her sun shining and our world bright and that black hole at bay. What could I have been with Mama in my life? What struggles would I have avoided? What triumphs would I have achieved? What would I have become other than something more whole, more courageous, more accomplished, and far more secure than the shell of a person left behind by her passing? What me could I have been with Mama that I could never, ever be without her?
So I let Christine rock me while Daddy hovered close by, and I cried tears of sadness, and bitterness, and anger, and loneliness, but mostly . . . mostly I cried tears of regret. For all of us. Because even Christine would’ve loved Mama.
Everyone did.
• • •
Later, I sat in Mama’s old parlor on the new brown leather sofas with a bright tangerine angora throw tucked around my legs, and a warm cup of tea, which was doing its best to warm up my insides. Daddy was in his chair, pretending to read the paper, while Christine was sitting close to me, her arm curled through mine. She hadn’t said a word to me since I’d stopped crying other than to ask if I’d like some tea. Since bringing me the cup, she’d been comforting me by sitting close and occasionally rubbing my arm, or tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
Finally I felt like I’d be able to talk without losing it, so I said, “Sorry I was such a mess before.”
I heard Daddy’s paper rustle, but I didn’t look at him. I focused on the bottom of my cup and keeping my fragile emotions in check.
“Want to tell us what happened?” Christine asked.
I nodded, but took my time replying. I needed to choose my words carefully. “Christine, even aside from the murder that took place today, Porter Manor isn’t the genteel old mansion that you thought it was.”
“Oh?”
“No. It’s got secrets. Bad, ugly, old secrets.”
“What secrets?” Daddy said.
I looked up from my teacup. “You remember a story about a young boy from around these parts who went missing about fifty years ago, Daddy?”
My father’s considerable brow furrowed. “You talking about that Sellers boy?”
I nodded.
Daddy scratched his head. “I recall that,” he said. “That boy was a few years younger than me. Only met him twice. He was a cousin of the Porters or some such. Went missing back in nineteen seventy-one from what I recall. Search parties looked for him for weeks—hell, I was even part of one search in the first days after he disappeared. We looked for him everywhere, but he was never found.”
“Actually, he’s recently been located.”
Daddy’s brow shot up and Christine said, “He has? Where?”
I turned to her now. “Inside your house.”
She gasped. “Inside . . . you mean . . . in Porter Manor?”
“Yes. I believe we discovered his remains shortly after Daddy left to check on you.”
Daddy sat forward and laid his paper aside. Christine blinked furiously, as if she couldn’t believe it. “But where inside, Mary Jane? I’ve been all through that house with my real estate agent, an inspector, an architect, and construction workers. . . . Why, I’ve even personally opened every closet, pantry, and cabinet door myself!”
“There’s a hidden room off the last door down the corridor to the right of the staircase,” I said, and Christine pursed her lips, as if trying to locate the room in her memory.
“Oh, yes, I know which room you mean. The one with the large magnolia tree outside the window.”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“But what hidden room is there inside that one? I never saw any sign of another room, Mary Jane, and I must’ve been in there at least a dozen times.”
“The door leading to it had been Sheetrocked over. Someone went to great lengths to cover it up.”
“Was it a closet or something?” Daddy asked.
“No,” I said. “From what we could tell, it was a playroom. It looked like a time capsule, actually, with dolls, and stuffed animals, and a tea set. . . .” My voice drifted off as I recalled the scene.
“And you say this young boy’s remains were found in that room?” Daddy pressed.
“Yes. All that’s left of him are his clothes and his skeleton, but he was lying pretty much as he must’ve lain when he was killed. He was next to the table with the tea set, lying on his side.”
Christine’s hand went to a small gold cross hung around her neck. She fiddled with it and said, “Oh, that poor boy!”
Meanwhile Daddy was glaring at the floor. “Now, why didn’t Rusty call me and tell me about this?” he snapped.
I knew he was referring to Rusty Kogan, the sheriff, and that led me to tell him all about what’d happened to his old friend right after Daddy had left the premises.
“My God in heaven,” Daddy said. He seemed truly stunned. “Has the whole world gone mad?”
“Not the whole world,” I said. “Just the parts of it that come into contact with Porter Manor.”
Christine eyed me with concern. “Mary Jane, tell me what is truly happening in that house, won’t you? Is there an evil spirit at work?”
I took a deep breath and told Christine and Daddy most of what’d happened since Gilley, Heath, and I had first driven to Porter Manor. I filtered out the parts about my out-of-body exper
ience where I’d met little DeeDee, because I knew that was way too weird for Daddy or even Christine to understand, so I kept mostly to the events that’d taken place that day, knowing that if either Daddy or Christine didn’t believe me, I’d have some backup from the sheriff’s department, and not even Daddy could doubt the word of our trusted sheriff and his deputy.
When I was at last finished, there was a protracted silence that filled the room. Christine had gone quite pale, but she’d held herself together throughout my story, so I figured she just needed time to take it all in.
It was Daddy who broke the silence when he reached for the telephone and made a call. “Olivia? Montgomery Holliday. I just heard the news and I’m calling about Rusty. How’s our boy?” Christine and I waited while Daddy listened. “I see,” he said. Then another long pause. “So he’s out of surgery and stable?” he said. “Oh, that’s very good to hear, dear. Is there anything you need?” Another pause, then, “Well, you keep me posted, and if there’s anything I can do for you, you just holler, you hear?”
Daddy then hung up the phone and looked at Christine. “It’s all true,” he said to her, his face registering the shock of it. “Rusty was attacked by Levi Cook.”
“Levi Cook?!” Christine said. “That nice young man who let me out of a speeding ticket not a week ago?”
Daddy nodded. “Rusty’s known Levi since he was sixteen and was heading down the wrong path. I had to represent Levi in juvenile court once, and it was Rusty who pulled him aside and set him straight. He mentored that boy through high school, encouraged him to enlist, and recruited him for the sheriff’s department when he came home from Afghanistan. What could’ve happened to that boy to make him snap like that?”
I knew, of course, but I didn’t think Daddy wanted to hear it.
Christine turned to me, however, and said, “Mary Jane, you suggested that there was something evil in my house. Something that got into the minds of these men and made them do those things?”