Down, boy! Down!
“Well—”
“Hey, I really like that swimsuit. I saw you down on the beach with the kids. You look great in it.”
I straightened my long shirt. “Thanks, Chip . . . but . . .”
I heard Abby talking to Heather. Does Abby know what Chip is like? Would she be surprised to know that he’s coming on to me while she’s just down the hall?
“Uh . . . no drink for me right now. Thanks,” I said stiffly.
His eyes went dull.
“I’d better change and help out with the kids,” I said.
I brushed past him and started toward the stairs.
“Maybe later,” he called. It sounded more like a threat than an invitation.
Late that night, I was in bed, thumbing through a stack of magazines I had dragged out from my apartment—mostly dance magazines and ballet journals. Fantasy time for me.
Even after the humiliating incident at Miss Crumley’s recital when I was eight, I continued to dance. In fact, I took ballet lessons up till my senior year in high school—until the day the real world stopped the music for me.
It was hard work, and my leg muscles ached just about every day of my life. But I loved the feeling of floating in the air, turning and moving with such precision and beauty and grace.
Another reason I loved it: I was good at it, and Wendy was a klutz.
I wanted to be a ballet dancer in New York. I danced in my dreams and in my daydreams. I doodled dancing figures on all my notebooks instead of taking notes in class.
Then, after that night with Will, after I stopped dancing forever, the dreams ended. But I never gave up my subscriptions to all the dance magazines. I never stopped studying the wonderful photos of dancers frozen in beauty, defying gravity.
Yes, I guess that was my unconscious ambition—to defy gravity. To dance on air. To dance in the mirrors on the ceiling.
Ha.
A little after midnight, I shoved the magazines under my bed and called Teresa on my cell.
“I’m not calling too late, am I? I know you’re a working girl.”
Teresa sighed. “Don’t remind me. The computers were down today, so they told us to write everything down on paper. I mean, what is that about? I can’t wait to get to the beach this weekend. How’s it going, Ellie?”
“Not great.”
“Like, how not great?”
“Clay did the most disgusting thing yet,” I said. “He sent me a box of wilted flowers painted black.”
“No shit? What a creep.”
“I haven’t finished. They were crawling with cockroaches.”
“Oh, gross. I don’t believe it. The cockroaches were probably other members of his family.”
“Easy for you to make jokes,” I said. “The roaches got out of the box and were crawling all over me and all over Abby’s spotless kitchen.”
“Did she freak? Did she lose her tan when she saw them?”
“No. She was okay about it. She’s been really nice to me.”
“Well, that’s a good thing.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Teresa, I think I have the job from hell. I really do.”
“Ellie, give me a break. You’re living two steps from the ocean in a gorgeous summer house and—”
“The kid is a total psycho maniac,” I interrupted. “I mean, he’s like right out of Bride of Chucky or something. And his father keeps staring at my tits, telling me how great I look in a bathing suit, offering me drinks as soon as his wife is out of the room.”
“Dad is a slut?”
“Dad is a slut.”
“Jesus, Ellie. Is he hot? Are you going to sleep with him?”
“Shut up, Teresa. You are so not funny tonight!”
“Come on, El. Only trying to make you laugh. You just started this job, and you sound totally wrecked. Are you going to stay there?”
“I don’t know. I guess. I mean, do I have a choice?”
“Well—”
“I have to stay here,” I insisted. “Can you hear my mother if I tell her I’ve quit another job? Could I live through another lecture from her about what a quitter I am and how I’m aimless and juvenile, and it’s time for me to start my life for real, and how I should use my sister, Wendy, the saint, the soon-to-be-millionaire, as an example? I don’t think so.”
“Okay. So you’re definitely staying. Excellent. I’ll be out Friday night. Saturday night, we’ll hit some clubs.”
“You mean, have actual fun?”
“Actual fun. I promise, El.”
I said good night to Teresa and clicked off my phone. I placed it on the bed table and slid under the quilt. “Actual fun,” I murmured, yawning. I suddenly felt so weary, that aching kind of sleepy where your eyelids feel heavy and even your hair hurts.
I yawned again. Pressed my head into the pillow.
And heard footsteps downstairs.
Rapid, heavy footsteps in the room below mine.
Was it Chip? Yes, the heavy thuds sounded like Chip. Pacing back and forth, back and forth, pacing furiously. I glanced at the clock. After twelve-thirty.
What was his problem?
21
Did you like the flowers, Ellie?
They didn’t upset you, did they?
Once you got over the shock, did you think about what they mean? Or did you toss them in the trash—the way you trashed me?
Yes, they were funeral flowers. Black flowers to honor the dead.
They were for your funeral, Ellie dear. Did you figure that out?
Yes, I sent them early. But I wanted to be the first. I’ll be there. I want you to know that. I’ll be the first at your funeral—because I’m going to cause it.
But don’t worry, you have a little time.
I want to torture you a bit more. Because the very thought of you tortured me for seven years. Because you were there torturing me. Even in my sleep. Even in my dreams.
Maybe tonight you’ll dream about my present to you. Maybe you’ll dream about cockroaches crawling up and down your body. Maybe in your sleep tonight you’ll feel the prickle of their feet against your skin, their dry bodies as they move over you, swarm over you . . . cover that cute little string bikini of yours, cover your arms, your legs, climb into your eyes, your mouth . . . choke you . . . smother you.
Soon you’ll be a playground for bugs and worms. Under the ground, in the dark, where the bugs and worms play.
Soon, Ellie. Soon.
22
A few mornings later—cloudy, gray, the ocean air heavy and wet—I dropped the kids with some friends on Noyac Road and then headed the Taurus toward town.
My tires splashed through deep puddles of rainwater. The trees on both sides of the road glistened and dripped. It must have rained hard during the night, but I hadn’t heard the storm.
I’d slept a deep, dreamless sleep. And when my alarm went off, I’d blinked my eyes open, confused. I didn’t know where I was.
Now I was on my way to Southampton to buy party supplies for Abby. She was having a small party—a barbecue if the weather cooperated—and she needed beer and wine, and paper plates, lemons and limes, and a long list of other items, which I had tucked safely in my bag.
Noyac Road bumped past woods and small frame and shingle houses set close to the road. I passed a homey-looking restaurant with a big sign that proclaimed ARMAND’S, then a pretty marina with small boats bobbing in the choppy, gray bay water.
I searched the radio for some lively music, something to wake me up, and I settled on Party 105: dance, dance, dance. I recognized Pink, singing a song from a couple of years ago— “Get the Party Started”—and I sang along with her at the top of my lungs.
The music cheered me up, and thinking about Teresa coming out made me eager for the weekend.
Oh, yeah. Get this party started, all right!
I was still in a good mood at the gourmet store on Main Street when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I had a sudden he
avy feeling in the pit of my stomach, a feeling of cold dread as I turned and stared at Mrs. Bricker.
So much for my good mood.
Her bony hand was still on my shoulder. She pulled it away slowly. She wore a blue-and-white flower-print dress, a little faded with age. She had the same scarf she’d been wearing last time tied loosely around her throat.
Her round face was heavily rouged, and as a smile formed on her scarlet lips, her cheeks appeared to crack and crumble.
“Ellie? I hoped I’d find you today.” Her voice was soft and smooth, a young woman’s voice.
Had she been coming to town every day hoping to run into me?
Leave me alone, you old freak!
No. Don’t do it, Ellie. You’re a polite, young woman. Especially to old people. Remember?
“Hi, Mrs. Bricker. Nice to see you,” I said.
She licked her heavily lipsticked lips. Her teeth were smeared with red. “You’re still working for the Harpers?”
I pulled two boxes of wheat crackers off the shelf and dropped them into my basket. “Yes, of course. It’s been only a few days.”
Her smile faded. Behind the thick-lensed glasses, her blue eyes were sharp and cold. “Did you think about what I told you?”
“Well, actually—”
She grabbed my arm so hard I nearly dropped the shopping basket. “I need to talk to you, Ellie. I didn’t get a chance the first time. You really need to hear—”
I raised my free hand, as if calling for a truce. “Please, Mrs. Bricker. I have so much shopping to do. I really can’t today.”
I tried to turn to the shelves, but her grip tightened. “You’re in danger, Ellie. I must speak to you. Now. It really can’t wait.”
My heart started to pound. What did I do to deserve this? Didn’t I have enough trouble back at the house?
“No, I’m sorry. Please,” I said sharply. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—”
She brought her face close to mine. The powder and rouge on her cheeks smelled like oranges. Her breath smelled like sour tea. “You have time to buy me a coffee,” she whispered, giving me a tight smile. “When you’re finished here, we’ll sit down and have a coffee. It will take ten minutes, Ellie. And it may save your life.”
She led me to a little bakery and coffee shop called The Golden Pear, at the end of the row of shops. A light rain had begun to fall, and she held my arm as we walked along the sidewalk to the restaurant.
She must have been in her seventies or eighties, but she didn’t walk like an old woman. She wore black New Balance sneakers and had no trouble keeping pace with me.
“My family used to own most of that block,” she said, pointing to a row of stores across the street. “But they sold it during the Depression for next to nothing. Can you imagine how rich I’d be today? I’d be taking you out for coffee.”
“Your family has lived in Southampton a long time?”
She sniffed. “We’re not summer people. I’ll tell you that.”
We found a cramped booth by the window in back and ordered coffee and croissants. The restaurant was noisy, the little square tables were jammed together, and a man on a cell phone at the table across from us was having a loud, embarrassing fight with someone. Probably his wife.
I shouldn’t have been there with her. I had so much shopping to do, and I barely knew my way around town. But Mrs. Bricker promised she would never bother me again, if I would only let her tell her story.
“I wouldn’t be nagging you like this if you weren’t in danger,” she said, those sharp blue eyes trained on mine.
“Well, why don’t you start with that?” I said, leaning forward. “How am I in danger?”
She shook her head. “I’ll have to start at the beginning,” she replied.
23
Our coffees and croissants came. Mrs. Bricker pulled her croissant in two and carefully slathered both halves with butter and strawberry jam. Then she spooned two teaspoons of sugar into her coffee and stirred it slowly, staring into the cup as if thinking hard, trying to decide how to tell her story.
I wanted to scream. I glanced at my watch. How long was this going to take?
Luckily, the loud, angry man on the cell phone got up and left. He was replaced by two gangly teenage girls in midriff tops and short shorts. They both wore rhinestone beads in their navels.
I counted to ten as Mrs. Bricker took a small bite of her croissant. Jam clung to her upper lip. She raised her cup, took a long sip of coffee, and I noticed the ring on her ring finger. It was an oval ring, silver with a large, dark green stone—an emerald?—mounted in the center.
She saw me gazing at it and raised her hand to give me a better view. “Isn’t that the most perfect emerald you’ve ever seen? See how it catches the light? My husband gave me that on our fortieth anniversary. He said it once belonged to Queen Victoria.” She snickered. “He always was a fucking liar.”
Whoa. Such language. I almost did a coffee spit.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “But please, Mrs. Bricker . . .”
Finally, she cleared her throat and started her story.
“I guess I’ll start with the Harpers’ house. You know, the little guest house was built first. You’ve seen the guest house by now, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, it was built sometime in the 1850s. Back then, Sag Harbor was a major whaling town. There’s a museum there to this day with displays about the whales that were caught and the sailors who went after them. It’s all gone today, of course. No more whaling boats. All gone. Like just about everything else that was real out here.”
She sniffed again, frowning, and took another bite of the croissant.
“Well, the little house was built by a whaling captain, a man named Halley, who sailed off Montauk. The truth is, Halley was a dishonest old scoundrel. My great-grandfather had a whaling boat, and Halley robbed him of it. Promised to buy it on credit, then never paid. A typical Halley. My family never had any use for them from that day to this.
“Well, Halley wanted to build a house for his family. He had four children by this time. But he couldn’t really afford a house. So he stole a lot of lumber. Would you believe he stole some of it from coffins? Don’t look at me like that, Ellie. I’m only speaking the truth. The man stole wood from people’s coffins.”
I set down my coffee cup and stared at her across the table. “Mrs. Bricker, how do you know all this?”
She wiped jam off her chin with her napkin. “It’s in the family records, dear. Besides, it’s all common knowledge around here.”
Common knowledge. Yeah, right.
She really is crazy, I realized. Hel-lo, Ellie. Why are you sitting here with her when you could be getting your shopping done and picking up the kids?
Mrs. Bricker raised her coffee cup to her mouth and slurped the last of it. She held the cup up to the waitress, signaling for more.
“Halley’s wife had left him,” she finally continued. “So when he went off whaling, he left the children in the care of a nanny. Now, I really don’t know if he was humping the nanny . . .”
Humping? Gross! Please—spare me.
“The children loved the nanny. I think her name was Ann-Marie, but I might be getting that mixed up.”
You might be getting everything mixed up, you kook!
“One of the children in particular—Jeremiah, the youngest boy—really loved the nanny. He was a frail, sickly boy. Premature by two months, you know, and never made up for it. He didn’t speak much and was shy around people outside his family.
“Anyway, the nanny took the place of the boy’s mother, and she was his best friend, too, I guess. I mean, she meant a little too much to the child. He loved her too much. It became obvious that he had crazy ideas about her. Because one afternoon—and this is in all the newspapers of the time, dear, so you can look it up—Jeremiah Halley caught the nanny making love to her boyfriend, a young Italian man from the village.
“Jeremiah was sickly and thin, remember, but he went into some kind of ungodly rage. He picked up an old whaling harpoon. It was much too heavy for him, much heavier than he was. But in his rage, he lifted it off the wall. And he heaved it. Heaved it at her, hoping to kill her for betraying him.
“But Jeremiah’s aim was bad. He was just a tiny thing, remember. He heaved the harpoon—shot it across the room—and plunged it through the boyfriend’s heart. He killed the boyfriend instead of the nanny.”
Yeah, sure, I thought. A sickly little boy picks up a huge harpoon twice his size and throws it across the room with such force that it goes right through someone.
Tell me another one, Mrs. B.
“That’s a horrible story,” I said, making like I believed it. “And you’re sure it’s true? It really happened in the Harpers’ guest house?”
Mrs. Bricker nodded solemnly.
An image flashed into my mind: Brandon poking the seagull to death.
I forced it from my thoughts.
“The nanny ran for help,” Mrs. Bricker continued. “She sent for the town constable. The boy admitted what he had done. He hadn’t moved from the nanny’s bedroom. He stood, staring at the boyfriend’s corpse lying there in a pool of blood.”
“And what happened to the boy?” I asked.
Mrs. Bricker cleared her throat. “They didn’t know what to do with Jeremiah. The local police had never encountered a murderer that young. No one had. Four years old. And the boy was so frail, so sickly and silent. He almost never spoke.”
She took a long sip of coffee.
I shifted in my seat impatiently. “And?”
“Wouldn’t you know it,” the old woman said. “Jeremiah died two days later. They found him lying dead in the nanny’s bed. Some said he died from the strain of what he did. Others said the little boy died of a broken heart.”
I spun my coffee cup on its saucer. Then I raised my eyes to the old woman. “It’s a real interesting story. But I don’t understand. Why did you follow me all over town to tell it to me?”