Help for the Haunted (4 page)

As she spoke, I stayed quiet, watching her undo the snarls in her hair.

“Someday, Sylvie, when you finish school and we move away from this house and live our separate lives, we're going to forget the one we lived here. I know it seems hard to believe, but one day it'll be just a bunch of lost memories from a long time ago.”

Shhhh . . .

It had nothing to do with that sound; I heard her just fine. Yet I couldn't see how we would ever be able to leave any of it behind. But what more was there to say? I reached for my father's tote full of books, including the diary Boshoff had given me earlier that day. I opened the door and lowered my feet to the ground. That's when I felt something soft beneath my flip-flops. Part of me knew what it was right away. Still, the sensation made me gasp.

“What now?” Rose asked.

My silence did nothing to keep her from coming around to the other side of the truck. By then I'd stepped off the thing and placed the tote on the ground. We stood in our shadowy driveway, staring down at its splayed body and wide white moon of a face. Those blank black eyes and that peculiar shade of red hair. This one was smaller than usual: the size of a possum, but flattened, as though it had been run over.

With the tip of her boot, my sister flipped it facedown into the dirt. “Fuckers!” she yelled into the darkness surrounding our house. “You fuckers!” With each new outburst, she raked her hands over her hair until the staticky strays levitated around her head. I thought again of how she'd first razored it to the scalp more than a year before, mainly because some guy she liked had shaved his and wanted her to do the same.
If Franky told you to jump off a bridge, would you? If Franky told you to rob a bank, would you? If Franky told you never to speak to your family again, would you?
Those were the questions my parents asked, to which my sister responded,
Yes!

“Fuckers!” she yelled one last time before letting out a breath and kneeling in the dirt. Slowly, her hands reached out for the thing.

“Don't!” I said.

“Don't what?”

“Touch it.”

Rose looked up at me. She may have had our mother's name, but it was our father's face I saw on her: his wide chin, his pronounced nose, his eyes, dark and squinty behind his smudged wire-rims. Though our father never spoke to me the way Rose did when she said, “It's not going to do anything, you idiot.”

“I know. But please. Just don't.”

My sister sighed. She stood and walked to the rusted shed at the edge of our property. I heard her rattling around before she returned with a shovel. It took maneuvering, but she slid the foam-stuffed body onto the end and carefully walked to the well we hadn't used since the town of Dundalk installed city water. I followed and pushed the plywood covering off the top. Rose raised the shovel over the gaping black mouth and, with a flick of her wrists, dropped the doll inside.

“It never ends,” my sister said, hurling the shovel into the darkness where her old rabbit cage once stood. “It never fucking ends.”

“They'll get bored,” I told her and pulled the plywood back over the hole, careful not to give myself a sliver. “They have to get bored.”

Inside, our house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the antique clock that hung not far from the cross on the wall. I went to the kitchen with its peeling blue walls and ate my dinner: a cherry Popsicle, the best kind. All the while I slurped and felt my lips go numb, I stared at my mother's thick book of wallpaper swatches on the table and thought about another conversation with Detective Rummel, the morning after the first, at the hospital.

Rummel had slid a photo across the narrow table over my bed. “Do you know this man, Sylvie?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He once was a friend of my— Well, not a friend. I guess he was what you'd call a client of my parents. His daughter, Abigail, was anyway. She was the one who needed them. Her father just brought her to us.”

“Brought her to you?”

“Yes. Albert Lynch wanted my parents' help dealing with his daughter's, well, problems.”

Rummel tapped his thick finger on the photo. “Okay, then. We are going to want to know all about that. But right now, I need an answer in order to help you. Is this the man you saw inside the church the night of your parents' deaths?”

I thought of the cold air inside that small building after I pulled the door open, so cold it hurt to breathe. I thought of how dark it had been after the door clicked shut behind me, the only lights from the car outside, the beams muted through the stained-glass windows. More carefully, I stared down at the picture. Bald head. John Lennon glasses. Wispy mustache that looked like something a teenager, maybe Brian Waldrup, might grow.

“Yes,” I told Rummel. “That's who I saw.”

When I finished eating, I tossed the Popsicle stick in the trash and headed upstairs. My sister had gone ahead of me, and a thin strip of light glowed beneath her door. No sound came from inside. As I got ready for sleep, I emptied my books from the tote and placed them on my desk until I pulled out the violet diary. Earlier that day, I had felt certain I would not bother, yet there I was searching for a pen. There I was turning to the first of so many empty pages as I sat on my bed. For a while, I did nothing but stare at the pink margins and lines, doing my best to conjure frivolous details from the life of that imagined girl. But she had gone silent, drowned out by the very different particulars of the life I was leading. At last, I clicked the pen and wrote the name
DOT
at the very top. But before I put down anything about the way the woman's visit to our house led, in its own peculiar way, to greater troubles for my family, I found myself writing out Boshoff's question:
How would you describe yourself nooow
? This was my answer:

I am the only girl in school who dresses like it is June, even though it is October. Last year's fall and winter sweaters and pants and skirts are hanging in my closet and folded in my drawers, exactly where my mother left them. But I cannot go near those things. Not because I am beginning to outgrow those clothes, but because putting them on would mean rearranging the things she left for me. Not that it matters since Rose really is my legal guardian now and, like she said at the mall, she barely notices what I wear, even if it's a flimsy tank top, capris, and flip-flops, and even if the temperature is dropping by the day, and even though she should—

My sister really should notice.

 

Chapter 4

Dot

M
y parents always packed the same supplies. My father: an electromagnetic frequency meter, a motion sensor, thermometers, audio and video recorders, a high-resolution camera, ample rolls of film. My mother: a simple set of rosary beads, a well-worn King James Bible, pages dog-eared and highlighted in a rainbow of colors, and a solitary flashlight. As they prepared for their trip, Rose and I lingered by the front door in anticipation of the latest nanny's arrival. How many times had I been disappointed? Yet there I stood, hoping for Mary Poppins to glide over the cedar trees. Instead, the nannies were all so bland they blurred in my mind—except for Dot, who arrived at our house when I was eleven and Rose fifteen, and who came to be the last nanny we ever had.

I remember watching from the front steps as she shoved open the creaky door of her mud-splattered Yugo and climbed out. Dot had skinny arms and legs, but a bulging midsection, hugged tight by the elastic waistband of her yellow uniform. Instead of a suitcase, she pulled a plastic laundry basket from the backseat.

“This one's going to be an easy target,” Rose said as we watched the woman lumber up the walkway. “I almost feel bad for her.”

Run!
I wanted to yell.
Get out before it's too late!

When she met us at the front steps, Rose skipped over any formal greeting and asked, “What's with the bears?”

“Bears?” Dot had a foamy mouth with permanent spittle in the corners of her chapped lips. Tiny bubbles washed over her crowded teeth. She glanced behind her then looked down at her matching shirt and pants, where pastel bears decorated the fabric. “Oh,
these
bears. It's my uniform. I'm an LPN at the children's hospital in Baltimore. I'm hoping it'll turn into a full-time job. But right now, I'm just a substitute.”

The geyser Dot produced pronouncing the word
substitute
kept me distracted until Rose said, “Well, this ain't the children's hospital. So climb back in your four-wheeled fuse-box and keep right on trucking.”

“Seven-twelve, Rose!” my mother called, coming up behind us. She had developed a shorthand for the scripture she most often quoted to Rose—Matthew 7:12: “Do unto others as you would like done unto you.” Or, as my sister liked to translate, cut the crap and be nice.

“I just came from the hospital where I work sometimes,” Dot informed my mother after they introduced themselves. “Sorry I didn't change, but I worried I'd be late.”

“Are you sure you want this lady bringing hospital germs into our house?” Rose asked my mother. “She could be carting along an army of bacteria for diseases like—” My sister looked at me. “Sylvie, name some weird diseases that might be contagious.”

Normally, I would not have gone along with Rose's behavior, but my desire to show off my smarts trumped all else. “Elephantiasis. Progeria. Hypertrichosis,” I rattled off. “Diptheria. Shigellosis. Leptospirosis.”

My mother gave us a look and said more plainly, “Quit. Being. Rude.”

“Rubella,” I let slip.

“Sylvie!”

“Sorry.”

She took a breath, then turned back to Dot, who stepped into the house, carrying her laundry basket. Inside, I saw her wrinkled clothing, deodorant, a worn toothbrush, and a bloated copy of
The Thorn Birds
. “You can change in the bathroom down the hall,” my mother told her, “then I'll show you around and go over the rules.”

Dot set her basket on one of the wingback chairs. “Actually, if you don't mind, I have to wash a few things. So I'll keep these clothes on until my nightie is clean.”

“Nightie?” my mother repeated.

Dot smiled, her mouth foaming a little too. “Oh, don't get the wrong idea, Mrs. Mason. It's not one of those lacy Frederick's of Hollywood getups I used to break out for my husband. It's just a flannel nightgown any old lady would wear to bed. Thing is, my cat hopped up on the bed this morning and peed on it. I guess when she saw me filling her auto-feeder she realized I was skipping out for a few days. Got her revenge ahead of time. Anyway, I figured I'd wash it here.”

“I see,” my mother said, glancing at her slim watch and probably wondering if she had enough time to call the service and inquire about another nanny.

My father came clomping up the basement stairs then, carting the suitcase full of equipment and his tote filled with notepads where he recorded observations for lectures. In the hours before their trips, he grew serious and preoccupied—this time was no different. “The flight leaves in a few hours,” he told my mother. “We better get going.”

Not long after, the two of them were waving and honking from the Datsun as they pulled out of the driveway. No sooner had they disappeared down Butter Lane than Dot asked, “So what's on the docket, girls? Are you hungry?”

Rose didn't answer, but I shook my head.

“Good. Because I had some Burger King on the way over so I'm stuffed. You can help me get started on my laundry. Oh, and I assume there's a bathtub in the house.”

“In my parents' room,” I told her, “and one in the bathroom Rose and I share.”

“Great. I need to soak these weary bones. This house has an awful chill to it. You'd never guess it's May.”

“It's the spirits,” Rose told her.

“Pardon?” Dot wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger.

“The spirits,” Rose repeated. “You know what my parents do for a living, right?”

“Well, I— The woman at the service warned me it was unusual. But I get all kinds. Money's money. I told her I didn't want to know the details. I'm a holy woman—”

“A holy woman who wears sheer nighties?” Rose said.

Seven-twelve,
I thought.
Seven-twelve.

“I never said
sheer
. I said
lacy
. And that was a long time ago, for my husband, Roy, on special occasions. Before he passed. I don't parade around like some flooz—”

“When our parents go on these trips,” Rose interrupted, “they are asked to confirm the presence of unwanted spirits. Sometimes they are asked to drive them out too. Usually from places, but once in a while, from people. I'm talking about children, pregnant women, the elderly, even animals and inanimate objects too.”

This information bothered Dot—that much was obvious by her pinched expression—but she shrugged. “Well, I want to get my laundry done then settle into the tub and finish my book. I'm just getting to the juicy part. Sylvie, could you pick up my laundry basket like a good girl? Old Dot's back hurts.”

“The spirits need somewhere to go after they've been driven out of the host,” Rose told her as I lifted the basket. “More often than not they end up— Well, I'll give you one guess where they end up.”

Dot pushed her owl glasses to the top of her nose and grabbed her copy of
The Thorn Birds
—a priest dominated the cover, far more handsome than Father Vitale from Saint Bartholomew with his drooping skin and sagging shoulders. “
Here?
” she said in a quiet voice.

“
Here,
” Rose told her, lowering her voice too. “In this house. Tell her, Sylvie. Tell her about the terrible things we've seen.”

There were times when Rose's terrorizing of the nannies was, I confess, fun to watch. But this felt too easy somehow. “Let me show you the washer and dryer, Dot.”

Dot ignored my suggestion, asking, “What do you see?”

“Sylvie won't tell you because we are not supposed to talk about it—
forbidden
by my father to talk about it, actually.”

“So why are you talking about it then, Rose?” I asked.

My sister manufactured a creepy, distant voice. “Because Dorothy seems like a nice lady, and since she'll be staying here for the next five nights, I feel I should warn her.” Rose looked at Dot. “Ours is not an easy house to sleep in. Some nights they've even—” She stopped, as though snapping out of a trance, returning her voice to normal. “Well, never mind. Don't worry. Mostly they mind their own business.
Mostly.
”

Dot stared at her a moment, pinched-faced still, before pushing back her shoulders and squeezing the handsome paperback priest tighter. “I don't buy into that nonsense. Tell you what. Sylvie, I'm gonna let you put the laundry in since you're familiar with the machines. Meanwhile, if anyone needs me, I'll be in the tub.”

For a while at least, Rose left her alone. I took care of the laundry. Slipped into my pajamas. Spent time completing a paper I'd been writing for the first ever Maryland Student Essay Contest—a two-hundred-dollar cash prize would be awarded to a student in each grade from fifth through twelfth and the deadline was the next morning. My topic was inspired by a documentary my mother and I had watched about the aftereffects of Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination. When I mentioned it to Ms. Mahevka, my pasty, yawning English teacher, she told me it was “overreaching” considering my age. I kept at it for weeks anyway, my electric typewriter conking out before I did, since the last of my ink cartridges ran dry that night. The letters of my final sentence were so faint I backspaced and typed over them again and again.

“Boo!”

I glanced up to see Rose lurking in my doorway. “Stop it.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just homework.”

“What kind of homework?”

The kind you never do,
I thought. “A paper. I'm finishing the last line.”

“Read it to me.”

“The entire paper?”

“No. The last line.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Guess I'm curious what goes on inside that egghead of yours.”

Why I did not simply refuse her request, I don't know. Maybe the pride I felt clouded my judgment. I cleared my throat and, rather than read, recited: “Only by entering into the most crystalline of consciousnesses and by raising our voices vociferously enough to be heard by those in power will the citizens of this great but troubled country of ours send such bigotry and phobia tumbling toward obsolescence.”

Rose stared at me, blinking. “Now that you're done speaking in tongues, what are your plans tonight?”

I tugged the sheet from the machine and placed it beneath the others on my desk. My parents had given me that typewriter, a brand-new Smith Corona Spell Right, for Christmas, and even though other students were getting pricey word processors, I treated it like a favorite pet, wiping down the keys and fitting the dustcover over the top after unplugging the cord. Rose kept her eyes on me, smirking. So many things she'd been given ended up neglected, like those mahogany horses, gifts to each of us from Uncle Howie on one of his rare visits. I'd given mine fairy-tale names that suited their looks: Esmeralda, Sabrina, Aurora, Megra, Jasmin—and arranged them on my shelf according to color and height. Rose's had long been banished to a dark corner of her room.

When I was finished shutting down the typewriter, I pulled back the covers on my bed, climbed in, and turned off the light. “Good night, Rose.”

“Come on, Sylvie. It's early! Why turn in when Dot the Twat is soaking her lazy bones in the next room? The woman's
just begging
for us to mess with her.”

“Seven-twelve.”

“Enough with the seven-twelves already. It's like some pathetic police code. Ten-four good buddy.”

“Good buddy is more of a trucker saying than cops.”

“Whatever. The point is, I'm not a
baby
. So therefore, I don't need a
baby
sitter. Especially some fart-face who comes around here claiming she's going to take care of us when all she's doing is taking care of her own fat ass. You mean to tell me a substitute nurse at a children's hospital is smarter than me? I don't think so. And even if she is, there's no way she's smarter than
you
, Sylvie. Listen to that sentence you wrote. That is
not
the sentence of a person who requires a babysitter. That's why I've taken the liberty of locking Dot in the bathroom.”

My eyes, which had fallen shut, snapped open. “What?”

“I locked Dot in the bathroom.”

I reached over and switched on the lamp. Got out of bed. Slipped on my slippers. Walked across the hall to my parents' room. On account of our father's back trouble, they had slept separately for as long as I could recall. Their room resembled one in a roadside motel: two full-size beds, a nightstand between, even a bible tucked in the drawer. On this particular night, a bright yellow rope stretched from my mother's heavy wooden bedpost to the bathroom door. Behind that door, Dot hummed away, making bubbling sounds in the water, oblivious to her predicament.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Rose whispered.