The Unwanted
What it was, she didn’t know.…
Late that night, as Miranda Sikes carefully banked the fire in the ancient wood-burning stove that sat next to her makeshift kitchen sink, the nondescript grayish cat with the black markings on its back wove around her feet, rubbing itself against her ankles. She finished with the stove, closing the vent to let in only enough air to keep the fire going, then turned the oil lantern on her table down low.
She began stripping off her clothes, hanging them carefully in the armoire against the east wall, and finally slipped into a worn flannel nightgown. As she turned the bed down, the cat leaped up and slithered under the covers, but Miranda shook her head.
“No, no, no, Sumi,” she crooned.
Reaching into the depths of the bed, she scooped the cat up and cradled it in her arms. Stroking its belly, she looked down into its glowing yellow eyes. “Didn’t we have a long talk yesterday, and didn’t I explain to you that you can’t come back here anymore?”
The cat mewed softly, and one of its forepaws stroked Miranda’s wrist.
“Yes,” Miranda crooned. “I know what you want, but you can’t always have what you want, can you? And you just can’t live here anymore, no matter how much you want to. You have to stay with Cassandra. You have to stay with her and do what she wants you to do. She needs you now, doesn’t she?”
Opening the front door, she stooped down and slid the cat out into the night.
The cat hesitated, looking up almost questioningly into Miranda’s eyes. But once again Miranda shook her head.
“No, you can’t come back in. You know where you live now, and you know what you’re to do.” Quietly but firmly she shut the door.
The cat stared at the closed door for a moment, then bounded off the porch and down the slope into the darkness of the marsh. It moved quickly, slipping through the reeds and grasses like a dark shadow, its eyes glittering brightly in the starlight.
As the clock in the church tower struck midnight, the cat slipped once more through Cassie’s window. A few minutes later it was asleep at its new master’s feet.
Chapter 8
By the end of the week Rosemary Winslow was finding that she no longer looked forward to each new day. So on Saturday morning, instead of getting up at her usual time, she allowed herself to sleep in, lingering in bed, not quite asleep, but somehow unwilling to dress and begin the day.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Keith asked when he came up to look for her just after seven.
The look of concern on his face and the slight tremor in his voice almost made Rosemary laugh out loud, but when she had reassured him and he’d gone downstairs again, she lay awake, a strange feeling of ennui overcoming her. Slowly she’d come to realize that she wasn’t nearly as all right as she’d told Keith she was, though she still couldn’t put her finger on precisely what was wrong.
Part of it was simply the fact of Cassie’s being there. She understood that and accepted it. Time would take care of that. It was simply a matter of waiting for new routines to establish themselves. What, after all, had she expected? Had she really thought that a teenaged girl could come into their lives without having anything change? Of course not.
Yet deep down inside she suspected that she had hoped for precisely that. A part of her knew that she’d hoped nothing would change, that somehow Cassie would simply meld into their family, sliding naturally into her role as Jennifer’s older sister and her own eldest daughter. Which, of course, was a stupid idea, even if it had been an unconscious one. And if she was completely honest with herself, she also knew that so far everything had gone much better than she could realistically have hoped for.
And yet …
She cast her mind back over the week, remembering all the little things that had happened, the little things that really shouldn’t have bothered her but somehow did.
The biggest of those things was the cat.
Tuesday morning when Cassie had come down to breakfast, the cat had been with her. Rosemary’s first instinct had been to tell her to put it out and not let it come back in again, but when Jennifer had seen it, she’d squealed with excitement and immediately demanded to be allowed to hold it. Rosemary had opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything, Cassie had set the cat in Jennifer’s lap. It immediately closed its eyes and began purring.
“His name’s Sumi,” Cassie said.
“Sumi?” Keith repeated. “How did you come up with that?”
“I dreamed it,” Cassie replied. She turned to Rosemary, smiling softly. “When you dream something, you should pay attention to it, don’t you think?”
Before she could even think, Rosemary had nodded. She wanted to protest again and insist that the cat must go, but Cassie had artfully changed the subject. By the time she was able to turn the conversation back to the cat, it all seemed to be over.
“But I always wanted a cat,” Jennifer wailed. “And it’s not a kitten, like the other one was. This one’s all grown up, and I bet it won’t even scratch the furniture or anything.”
“You have to admit it’s kind of pretty,” Keith argued. “It almost looks like a gray Siamese, except I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“But it’s just an alley cat,” Rosemary protested. “And it looks far too well-fed to be a stray. It has to belong to someone.”
It wasn’t until the girls had left for school and Keith had gone down to the marina to work on the Morning Star, that Rosemary realized that throughout the discussion Cassie had said nothing. She had merely brought the cat downstairs and let her father and half sister talk Rosemary into letting it stay. As she’d loaded the breakfast dishes into the washer, the cat had sat quietly on a chair, watching her.
Watching her, Rosemary had thought, as if it knew exactly what had happened, and knew that it—and Cassie—had gotten the best of her.
That’s stupid, Rosemary told herself now. It’s only a cat, and cats don’t think. Even so, all week long, whenever she found herself alone in the house with the cat, she’d kept getting the feeling that the cat was watching her, assessing her somehow. As each day passed, she grew more wary of the animal. More wary, and also more suspicious.
Where had it come from?
What did it want?
Unreasonable as she knew the thought was, she had a growing certainty that the cat did, indeed, want something.
But it wasn’t just the cat.
One night—Wednesday night, she remembered—she had asked Cassie how things were going at school.
Cassie had shrugged. “Okay.”
“What about the kids?” Rosemary asked as casually as she could. “Do you like them?”
Though Cassie’s face had tightened, she had shrugged once more. “They’re okay, I guess,” she said, though her eyes never left her plate.
Rosemary opened her mouth to speak again, then changed her mind, remembering the conversation she’d had with Cassie on Monday. So far Cassie had not cut school again, nor had she complained of any problems with her classmates.
She hadn’t spoken of school at all, in fact. Each day she’d come home and disappear into her room, presumably to do her homework. Once, when Rosemary had been passing through the upstairs hall, she’d paused outside the closed door to Cassie’s room and listened.
Within, the soft tones of music from the radio had been barely audible, and above that she’d heard the sound of Cassie’s voice, murmuring softly.
Immediately, unbidden, an image of Miranda Sikes had come to Rosemary’s mind—Miranda, pushing her grocery cart slowly along the sidewalk, muttering to herself in barely audible tones.
No! Rosemary told herself, forcing the image from her mind. She’s just talking to Sumi, that’s all. Everyone talks to pets, and there’s nothing strange about it.
Then why had she become increasingly uneasy about it as the week had passed? Why had she begun to feel that though Cassie was being perfectly cooperative, appearing whenever she was called and doing whatev
er was asked of her, she was separating herself from the rest of the family, turning increasingly inward?
Then, late on Thursday afternoon, something else had happened.
She had been in Jennifer’s room finally unable to stand any longer the mess that never seemed to bother Jennifer at all. She was packing Jennifer’s toys away in the chest below the window when she’d glanced outside.
In the cemetery on the other side of the fence, kneeling in front of one of the graves, she’d seen Cassie. For several minutes she’d watched in silence.
Cassie seemed to be reading one of the headstones. Then she reached out and touched it. Her hand rested on the granite for a few moments before she moved on to the next one, where she repeated the process.
Finally, after about ten minutes, Rosemary left Jennifer’s room, went downstairs and out the back door, then crossed to the low fence that separated the yard from the graveyard.
“Cassie?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
Cassie froze, her left hand, about to touch another of the grave markers, hovering in midair. Slowly, almost furtively, she’d turned around and looked at Rosemary.
“What are you doing?” Rosemary asked.
Cassie’s eyes flicked almost guiltily away from Rosemary. “I was just reading the gravestones,” she replied. She met Rosemary’s gaze, and once more Rosemary saw that look of challenge in her eyes. “They’re—they’re interesting.”
Rosemary’s brows creased into a frown. “But you can hardly see them.”
Cassie hesitated, then nodded and got to her feet. “It’s all right,” she said. “I was just about done anyway.” She came to the fence and scrambled over it, then looked at Rosemary uncertainly. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked. “I mean, aren’t I allowed to go into the graveyard?”
Suddenly flustered, Rosemary shook her head. “No, of course not,” she said. “It’s just … well, it seemed like an odd thing for you to be doing, I suppose.”
Cassie’s eyes immediately darkened. “Well, maybe I’m just an odd person,” she said, her voice quavering. “But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that either!” Covering her face with her hands, she fled toward the house.
Rosemary took a single step after her then stopped. It was too late—once again she’d said the wrong thing, and once again Cassie was upset. She took a deep breath, wondering once more why it was that she seemed to have such a talent for saying the wrong thing to the girl. She was about to go back into the house herself when she changed her mind and carefully climbed the low picket fence into the graveyard. It was nearly dark now, and the huge ancient trees that dotted the little cemetery seemed to be closing their branches overhead, as if trying to shut out what little light remained.
The air in the graveyard seemed to carry a chill Rosemary had not felt a few moments before.
Slowly, almost apprehensively, she moved toward the grave Cassie had been kneeling over when she’d come outside a few minutes ago. It was the grave of Rebecca Sikes, who had been Miranda Sikes’s mother.
Next to that was the grave of Charity Sikes, Rebecca’s mother.
Rosemary moved slowly down the row of graves, examining the stones that marked the memory of the generations of Sikes women.
It wasn’t the first time she’d looked at these graves—indeed, over the years she’d read most of the headstones in the village cemetery. And long ago she’d noted the oddity about the Sikes women.
None of them had ever married, and each of them had borne a single child—a daughter.
Except for Miranda.
Miranda was the last of the line. When she was gone, for the first time since the seventeenth century there would be no Sikeses in False Harbor.
But what was it that Cassie had been looking for? Why had she been touching the stones?
Suddenly Rosemary remembered standing outside Cassie’s door, listening to Cassie talking softly in the privacy of her room. She remembered how she’d been reminded of Miranda.
Shivering against the chill and the darkness, Rosemary hurried out of the cemetery.
That night she’d tried to talk to Keith about it. Though he’d listened patiently as she attempted to voice her concerns about Cassie, he became coldly furious when she’d mentioned Miranda.
“What are you trying to say?” he asked. “That Cassie is going to turn into another Miranda, walking around in rags and talking to herself? For Christ’s sake, Rosemary, look at things from her point of view. She’s an outsider here, and she’s having a hard time making friends. So she’s lonely. Haven’t you ever talked to yourself? And as for the graves, why shouldn’t she be interested in them? Miranda’s the town character, isn’t she? Cassie’s probably been asking questions about her, and somebody told her about the graves.”
“But she hasn’t been talking to anyone,” Rosemary protested. “That’s the problem—she spends all her time in her room, with that cat.”
Keith only shrugged. “Just because you can’t stand cats doesn’t mean everybody has to hate them,” he said. If he noticed how his words stung Rosemary, he gave no sign. “Sumi’s a nice cat. Besides, Cassie has a lot to work out for herself, and she hardly knows us. You can’t expect her to open up to us right away. Give her a chance, honey. Just give her a chance.” He snapped his paper and turned the page, and Rosemary knew the conversation was over.
Feeling dismissed, she retreated into silence.
And then, yesterday, Miranda Sikes had come into her shop.
Many times before, Rosemary had seen her pause in front of the shop to stare inside. She had often wondered if Miranda was really seeing what she was looking at, or if her eyes merely drifted from object to object while she herself watched whatever strange visions might be going on in her head. Over the years Rosemary had been tempted to open the door and speak to her, but when she tried, Miranda had quickly moved on. After a while, understanding that the woman didn’t want to be spoken to, Rosemary had given up. Indeed, for the last year or so she’d barely been conscious of the strange figure in black who drifted through the town almost like some sort of ghost.
But on Friday morning Miranda had paused outside the shop again, staring in through the window, and Rosemary had suddenly become aware of the fact that her lips were not moving in their customary whispered monologue. As Rosemary watched, afraid to move lest Miranda dart away, the woman pushed her shopping cart close to the window, carefully tucked the large black shawl she always wore on her head over the tops of the bags, and opened the door.
She stopped cold as the bell tinkled above her, then slowly tipped her head up to stare at the tiny brass object. At last, nodding, she came inside and closed the door behind her.
She looks like a fawn, Rosemary thought. She looks exactly like a frightened fawn. Rosemary stayed where she was, certain now that if she moved, Miranda would bolt out the door.
For a moment Miranda seemed totally disoriented, as if she didn’t know quite what to do. She glanced around, then took a tentative step forward and reached out to brush her fingers lightly over the marble top of a Victorian sideboard. As if reassured by the fact that the piece of furniture didn’t crumble under her touch, she moved farther into the shop, pausing every few steps to lean down over one of the display cases. Finally she was only a few feet from Rosemary, but still Rosemary didn’t speak.
At last Miranda turned and looked directly at her.
As their eyes met, the room seemed to reel, and for a split second Rosemary was afraid she might faint.
Suddenly she knew why she’d been so certain she had seen Cassie’s eyes before. She was looking into them now.
Yet Miranda looked nothing like Cassie at all. As Rosemary studied the ruin that was Miranda’s face, she could see no resemblance to Cassie’s clean, clear features. Whatever beauty Miranda might once have had was long since buried under the sea of wrinkles that had ravaged her flesh. Her gray-streaked black hair was pulled back into a thick braid that had always before been hidden i
n the folds of the black shawl.
And where Cassie’s eyes were dark brown, Miranda’s were the startling blue of sapphires. Always, Rosemary had had the impression that Miranda Sikes’s eyes held the strange vacant stare of the mentally disturbed. But now, as the woman faced her, she saw that they held the same strange intimation of darkly hidden secrets that Cassie’s eyes contained. In their depths Rosemary was sure she saw an underlying residue of anguish, and something more.
“If you don’t want me here, just say so,” Miranda said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
Slowly, deliberately, Rosemary tried to clear away the fog that seemed to have gathered around her mind. Part of her—a part she immediately understood to be irrational—wanted to turn away from Miranda, to banish this grotesque figure from her shop and her mind. But the pain she’d seen in Miranda’s eyes was so clearly reflected in the woman’s voice that a tear welled up and overflowed onto her cheek. Vainly she searched for her voice. Miranda waited for her to reply, then finally nodded slightly and turned away. Only then did Rosemary manage to get to her feet. “No—no, please don’t go,” she said.
Miranda turned back.
“I’m sorry,” Rosemary floundered. “You—I didn’t know what to say. I thought—oh, Lord, I don’t know what I thought.…”
Miranda smiled then, but instead of replying, she turned away from Rosemary again and looked curiously around the shop. “I’ve always wanted to come in here, you know,” she said at last. “It’s my favorite place in the whole village. I always look forward to the days when you change the windows.”
Rosemary swallowed. I have to speak, she thought. I have to say something. Anything. “Y-you should have come in then,” she heard herself say.
But Miranda shook her head. “I don’t go in any of the shops. They don’t want me, and I don’t want to impose myself.”
“But you came in today,” Rosemary breathed. And yesterday Cassie was looking at your ancestors’ graves, she thought. And the day before that I thought of you while I listened to Cassie. She could feel her heart begin to pound.