The Sitter

  He nodded. The steady ocean breeze fluttered his hair around his serious, pale face. He stared hard at me for a moment, lowering the stick to his side.

  What are you thinking, Brandon? I wondered. What is going on in that troubled brain?

  If only you would talk . . .

  At the top of the dune, the ocean came into view.

  “Wow.”

  I stopped and gaped at the wide band of golden sand, at the crashing waves. The beach stretched on forever!

  Ellie, you’re a long way from Madison.

  The green-blue waves were high today, roaring to shore in twos and threes, exploding in burst after burst of white froth. Two terns picked at something in the sand. I watched them run when the surf rolled over their spot.

  Chip and Abby’s house stood alone down at this end of the beach. I could see the top of the guest house from here and, beyond it, the second story of the main house.

  Brandon kicked off his flip-flops and left them in the sand. He went running down the beach, his bare feet splashing up sand and water.

  “Pick me up! Pick me up!” Heather demanded.

  What choice did I have? Somehow I managed to carry the beach toys, the straw bag, and the two-year-old.

  “What’s dat?” Heather pointed at a shiny black object half-buried at our feet.

  “It’s a crab shell,” I said. “I think it’s called a horseshoe crab.”

  “Yucky!”

  We passed several nice-looking older houses that faced the water, then came to the edge of a public beach. A few dozen people had spread out blankets and erected beach umbrellas. The tall, white lifeguard stand stood empty. Too early in the season for lifeguards, I guessed. Most of them probably weren’t out of school yet.

  Brandon had already found the au pair, Maggie. Abby was right. No way I could miss her. She was at least six feet tall and had flowing, carrot-colored hair that gleamed in the sunlight. She wore a long white cover-up over a green one-piece bathing suit. As I approached, she was handing juice boxes to two little blond-haired girls.

  She smiled and greeted Brandon and then turned to me.

  I groaned as I lowered Heather to the sand. “Are you Maggie?”

  “Yes, hello. You must be the new nanny.”

  “Juice!” Heather demanded. “Juice!”

  “Sure, I have one for you,” Maggie said. She dipped into a red-and-white plastic cooler and handed Heather a juice box. “How about you there, Brandon, my lad?”

  Brandon shook his head.

  “I’m Ellie,” I said. “I just started with the Harpers.”

  Maggie brushed her hair back. She had a warm smile. “At least they got rid of the old woman.”

  “Mrs. Bricker?”

  “Imagine her coming here and telling me ghost stories. I’m from Limerick, you know. I could tell her a few ghost stories of my own.”

  I dropped the straw basket and the beach-toy bag to the sand. “She—she followed me in town,” I said. “I think she wanted to tell me some kind of ghost story, too. She warned me to—”

  “She’s daft as they come,” Maggie said. Then she lowered her voice. “She tried to tell me that Brandon there—that sweet, innocent boy—was haunted, possessed by something evil, and that’s why he stopped talking.”

  The image of last night flashed into my mind. The sight of a boy shrouded in the eerie yellow haze. Then in the kitchen. The soft breathing, so close to me in the dark.

  I shook away the thought. “Well, anyway, Mrs. Bricker is gone,” I said to Maggie.

  Heather and the two Lewis girls were handing their empty juice boxes back to Maggie. “That’s Deirdre, and that little angel is Courtney.” Maggie pointed. “Nice girls, so pretty with that fine, blond hair, but they’re spoiled. Back home, we wouldn’t wait on them hand and foot like royal princesses.”

  She shooed the four kids away. “Go play. Here. Take your shovels and things, and go busy yourselves. Go play with those other kids over there.”

  “You come, too!” Deirdre insisted. She tugged Maggie’s hands. “You, too!”

  “I’ll be joining you in a moment. Shoo. Go.” Maggie turned to me. She still had the crunched-up juice boxes in her hands. A stiff wind gust fluttered her white shirt. “Are you a local girl, Ellie?”

  “No. Actually, I’m from Wisconsin.”

  Maggie chuckled. “I’d have to look that up on a map. I’ve been in your country only little more than a year.”

  “It’s in the Midwest,” I said. “It’s a long way from here.”

  I turned and saw that the girls had joined up with some other kids a little ways down the beach. The kids had formed a circle. They were holding hands and moving together, circling something, moving slowly, clockwise.

  “What on earth are they doing?” I asked.

  Maggie tossed the juice boxes down, and we hurried over to them. “It’s a gull,” Maggie said. “A fat seagull. Oh, look. The poor thing has a broken wing. I guess it can’t fly. It’s just standing there while they dance around it.”

  We stood at a distance, watching the circle of kids. Step, step. Holding hands, they kept the circle tight as they moved.

  The gull tipped its head, watching warily.

  Some of the kids were laughing as the circle began to move faster. Some appeared to be singing.

  And then I spotted Brandon, by himself, off to the side, far back from the circle.

  Why hadn’t he joined the other kids?

  I cupped my hands over my mouth and started to call to him. But I stopped when I saw him raise the stick. He raised it chest-high in front of him, and then he went charging—

  —Charging into the circle of kids.

  I screamed, starting to run. “Brandon! Stop! Brandon—no!”

  Kids cried out, startled, as Brandon broke through the circle. Two girls stumbled into each other and fell to the sand.

  Running hard, his head down, Brandon lowered the stick—aimed—and drove it deep into the gull’s white belly.

  The bird let out a hideous, shrill squeal. Its good wing shot straight up, fluttered frantically.

  But it couldn’t move, skewered on Brandon’s stick. The bird cried out again, hoarser this time, like the caw of a crow.

  Brandon jerked out the stick. With a loud grunt, he stabbed again, burying the stick deep in the gull’s chest.

  The bird’s head fell back. The wings drooped to its sides. It groaned and toppled over.

  Kids screamed and cried.

  The Lewis girls, shrieking, tears running down their cheeks, ran to Maggie.

  Grunting like an animal, Brandon poked the stick through the gull’s belly again. Stabbed it.

  Stabbed it again.

  I hurried up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.

  I pulled him back. Brandon toppled over, breathing hard. His face red, his dark eyes wide, blank, almost unseeing.

  “Brandon—why?” I choked out. “Why? You killed it! Why?”

  White gull feathers blew around my ankles, sticky with blood. Dark blood soaked into the sand, spreading into a puddle around the mutilated gull.

  “Brandon, answer me! Answer me!” My throat stung from screaming. “Why, Brandon? Why?”

  19

  I sat across from Abby in the kitchen. I hadn’t changed—I still wore my bikini with an oversize, white T-shirt on top.

  Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, making the room rosy and warm. We sat with our legs tucked under us at the small, square white table in the breakfast nook. The red straw place mats from breakfast were still on the table. A glass vase brimming with blue and white hydrangeas sat in the middle.

  Abby leaned over the table to pour tea into my cup. She was wearing white sweats, which made her tan look even more sensational, and she had a white bandanna around her hair. She shook her head sadly as she slid into her chair.

  “I don’t know why Brandon has become so violent,” she said. Chip was upstairs, watching a Disney cartoon video with the kids.
So we didn’t have to whisper.

  She sprinkled a packet of Equal into her tea. “I just don’t know what to think about that boy. I’m at a loss, Ellie. I really am.” She sighed. “I feel so helpless. Why would he do a thing like that? What would make a four-year-old boy kill a bird . . . so brutally . . . in front of all those other kids? It’s just sick.”

  I raised the cup to my lips and took a sip. “His doctor—?” I started.

  “Yes, of course, I’m going to tell Dr. Kleiner about this,” Abby interrupted. She was spinning her cup slowly in her hands, tapping her magenta-polished nails on the china, but she hadn’t taken a sip. “I have to tell him about this right away.”

  She sighed again, tapping the cup some more. “But I don’t know about these shrinks. I really don’t. Is Dr. Kleiner getting anywhere with Brandon? Is he reaching him? I don’t see any sign. The boy has killed two animals in the short time since you arrived.”

  Her shoulders shook. I thought she might cry. She stared into the steaming teacup.

  Then, she reached across the table and took my hand. “He seems to like you, though, Ellie. You’re the first one he’s responded to.”

  I sure didn’t see any signs of it. But if Abby said so . . .

  “Well, thanks . . . ,” I said.

  She squeezed my hand, then let go. “I hope you’ll stay, Ellie. I know it’s kind of tough. Not your normal baby-sitting job. But I hope you’ll stick it out. I think you can help Brandon. I really do.” Her eyes watered over. She brushed the tears away with her paper napkin.

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  She took a sip of tea. The cup shook in her hand. Suddenly, her eyes went wide. She jumped up. “Oh, my goodness. I totally forgot.”

  She hurried out to the hall, her sandals clicking on the wood floor. A few seconds later, she returned carrying a long white box, tied with a satiny red ribbon. “These came for you, Ellie. Looks like roses.” She handed the box across the table.

  “Weird,” I muttered. “Who would send me roses?”

  I took the box from her. As I set it down, I saw a little white envelope tucked under the ribbon. I opened it and read the note, written in blue ink, very neatly, in a handwriting I didn’t recognize:

  Congratulations!

  To the new nanny.

  Love,

  A FRIEND

  Abby had walked to the kitchen counter and was sorting through some mail. “These must be from my friend Teresa,” I said.

  “Nice,” she muttered.

  I tugged off the ribbon, pulled open the lid—and let out a sickened groan.

  20

  I dropped the box to the table. The flowers weren’t roses. They were carnations and lilies, I think. And they were spray-painted black.

  The blossoms were withered . . . shriveled . . . and crawling with bugs.

  “Ohhh—cockroaches!” I cried.

  Abby hurried over. “What’s wrong?”

  Cockroaches—dozens of them—swarmed over the black flowers. Swarms of bugs began crawling over the sides of the box.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Abby let out a cry. “Who—? Who—?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. My stomach lurched. I felt sick. I slammed the lid back on the box. Too late. Cockroaches were scrambling over the kitchen table, darting over and under the straw place mats.

  Abby ran to the sink, grabbed a roll of paper towels. She tore off some sheets and began slapping at the slithering cockroaches. “Sick,” she muttered. “Sick . . . sick . . .”

  I grabbed up the flower box. My arms prickled as roaches slid onto my skin. They poured out of the box. The back of my neck itched. My hair itched.

  Were they crawling through my hair?

  “Oh, help.” I slapped the back of my neck and felt a warm, wet squish. “Abby, where’s the trash?”

  She swung a place mat off the table and slapped it at a fleeing roach. “In back. Under the deck. Hurry. Get it out of here!” Roaches scattered over the floor. Abby did a wild dance, stomping them under her sandals.

  Clamping the box shut with both hands, I hurried out the kitchen door, down the deck stairs, and to the ground. I found three metal trash cans near the driveway and shoved the box into one of them.

  “Oh, gross.” Gritting my teeth, I frantically brushed cockroaches off my arms, off the front of my T-shirt, out of my hair. Did I get them all? I couldn’t tell. My whole body tingled and itched. I could still feel their prickly legs all over my skin.

  By the time I returned to the kitchen, Abby seemed to have everything under control. She stood behind the table, her arms crossed tightly in front of her.

  I shuddered. I rubbed my arms, the back of my neck. I could still feel those fat bugs. “I’m so sorry,” I muttered.

  “What was that about?” Abby asked. “Was it a joke? Who would send such a horrible thing? Your friend Teresa?”

  “No way.” I let out a sigh and dropped back into my chair. A cockroach floated belly-up in my mint tea.

  “Then who?” Abby asked.

  “Probably my ex-boyfriend, Clay. I’m really sorry, Abby. He—he’s been acting like a total jerk. I broke up with him in the city before I came out here, and he—well—he can’t seem to take a hint.”

  “What kind of guy sends bug-infested black flowers? Is he crazy?”

  I tugged at my hair with both hands. “Aggggh. I don’t know. He’s been acting crazy. I think he’s very angry. He just won’t take no.”

  She crossed the room and stepped up close beside me. “Is he dangerous? Can I help you call the police about him, Ellie? I’d be happy to help call. If you think it would do any good.”

  I hesitated. “I don’t really—”

  A cry from upstairs. Heather. I jumped up.

  Abby pushed me back down. “No. I’ll go. Chip is up there with them. He probably fell asleep. You sit for a while and get yourself together.” She hurried down the hall.

  I sat for a long moment, staring at the dancing dots of sunlight on the kitchen counter beneath the window. I shut my eyes, and I saw those disgusting shriveled flowers and the fat roaches scrambling, scrambling over the flowers, over the table, over me.

  I pictured Clay’s teddy bear face, the chubby, pink cheeks, the round, dark eyes under the furry eyebrows. Did he really think this was the way to win me back?

  Or had he given up?

  Was this his crude, angry way of saying good-bye? Did he hate me that much?

  Well . . . maybe it means I’m rid of him, I thought.

  Way to go, Ellie. Always look on the bright side.

  And then, another scene with flowers flashed through my mind. Another time when flowers made me want to cry . . .

  A dance recital at Miss Crumley’s, the dance studio on Henry Street in Madison that my sister and I faithfully attended every Saturday morning. Wendy was eleven and I was eight. I was so excited about the recital because I knew I was a better dancer than Wendy. Our grandparents were going to come, and I’d have a rare chance to show off in front of them.

  I was so nervous, I sweated right through my tutu. But I danced wonderfully. At least, I thought I had. I can still remember the applause, the feeling of exhilaration. And then there came my grandparents, leading my parents into the dressing room, everyone beaming, so many big smiles.

  Arms outstretched, I ran to them—and then stopped. I saw that my grandmother held a bouquet of flowers—yellow roses—in her hands.

  A bouquet she started to hand to Wendy.

  “Oh, goodness, Ellie,” Grandma Estelle said. “We completely forgot that you dance, too!” I saw her cheeks blush red. She lowered her eyes to the bouquet—my sister’s bouquet—pulled out a single yellow rose, and handed it to me. Then she gave the bouquet to Wendy.

  I held myself in. I didn’t cry. I think I might’ve even thanked Grandma Estelle.

  But later in my room, I ripped the petals off the rose one by one, and I said a dirty word for each petal.

  Wendy kept her flowers in a va
se in her room. She asked me several times if I wanted to come in and smell them.

  Whoa. Amazing how memories jump back to you.

  The card that came with the black flowers sat in a puddle of spilled tea. I grabbed it and ripped it in two. Then I jumped to my feet and carried my teacup to the sink.

  I poured the cockroach down the drain and washed the cup clean. Then I held my hands under the faucet and just let the hot water pour over them.

  I was still standing there, leaning over the sink, when I heard someone come up quietly behind me. Then I felt a hand caress the shoulder of my T-shirt.

  Thinking it was Abby comforting me again, I turned. And there stood Chip, with his crooked, sleazy grin.

  “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

  “I . . . didn’t hear you. I didn’t know you were home,” I lied, taking a step to the side, drying my hands on a dish towel.

  His eyes flashed. “I can be quiet as a mouse when I want to be,” he whispered.

  I let out an awkward laugh. “You missed all the excitement. I—”

  “Check this out,” he said, showing off the hip-length, brown leather jacket he was wearing. “I just bought it. In Easthampton. Like it?” He spun around, modeling it for me.

  “Sure. Very cool,” I said.

  “It’s Armani. The leather is not to be believed. Made from virgin calves or something. Here. Feel it.”

  I hesitated. Virgin calves? He was joking, yes?

  “Go ahead, Ellie. Feel it. You’ll fall in love, no kidding.” He stuck out his arm.

  I ran my fingers down the jacket sleeve. “Really soft leather,” I said. That’s what I was supposed to say, right?

  “I put it on and I couldn’t take it off. I just had to have it. A total impulse thing.” He brought his face close to mine and whispered again: “You ever do anything just on an impulse?”

  The question hung in the air between us for a moment. When he didn’t get an answer, he changed the subject. “How about a drink, Ellie? It’s almost late afternoon. And who’s counting, right? I’m going to have a vodka tonic. Nice and summery, I think. What can I get you? We could go out on the deck and chat. You know. Get acquainted.”