The Accidental Siren (20 page)

When a year passed without word of a missing
girl in Florida, Lydia made a downpayment on a home, began
attending mass at a church in Grand Harbor, and raised Mara as her
niece. With her insider knowledge of the public school system, she
was able to enroll the girl in first grade without drawing unwanted
attention.

I was so involved in my father’s retelling of
Ms. Grisham’s confession that I hardly noticed we stopped at the
State Park. The stars were visible above the lake. The lighthouse
beam illuminated, in bursts, the sea of undulating ink.

“What a wacko,” I said, then supplemented my
childish reply with, “I can’t believe Mara had to go through
that.”

“Your friend is learning to trust people
again. She may not remember her time in Florida, but the experience
of being kidnapped can stick with a person for the rest of their
life.”

“What about...” The ramifications of my next
question clotted in the back of my throat. “What about her parents?
Now that we know who they are... are they gonna take her back?”

Dad adjusted his torso awkwardly beneath his
seatbelt, then took my shoulder. “James, Mara’s parents are
dead.”

I admit it here, in writing: grief was not my
first emotion. Like a cruel game of tug-o-war,
relief
made
the first pull.
My competition was dead! Mara would be my
permanent sister!
Then I remembered her diary (”
I pray every
night that theyre alive”
) and
empathy
jerked back.

“They died in a car accident,” Dad said, “a
year after the kidnapping.”

“That’s horrible...”

“Mr. Anderson is looking into Mara’s extended
family. From what he told your mother, the Landons are a mess.”

My mind whirred with new implications. I
nodded.

“It might be a tough few days for your
friend, James. You need to stand back from the situation to
determine what she needs.”

“What do you mean?”

“You need to gauge Mara’s feelings; does she
need to talk? Does she needs to be alone? Sometimes she might tell
Livy or Mom things that she can’t tell you. You need to respect
that. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Dad’s advice, fairly stated,
broadened my chest and quashed the games in my head. I crossed my
legs and traced the lid of a coffee cup with my finger. “When are
you going to tell her?” I asked.

Dad gazed at the light pulsating against the
pier. “Mom told her tonight.”

* * *

20 INT. CATHEDRAL - DAY

THE GIRL HAS FINALLY GROWN UP. HER ADVENTURE
IS OVER AND SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FANCY CHURCH, SHE LIGHTS
A CANDLE AND CRIES.

My camera was still except for the mechanical
whirr of the tape in the chamber. The lens was wide, capturing The
Girl like a rag doll among the cathedral’s polished floors, epic
columns, and mezzanine rim. Above the row of candles, a plaster
wall was ablaze with the blurred form of a dove inside a broken
rainbow; a gift from the stained-glass window on the opposite
wall.

Dominique watched from the crook of the
confessional. His excitement was evident only in his reverence.

Less than a foot from the camera frame,
Father Stevenson observed my equipment and crew. His spine was
rigid like the vertical beam of the cross and his arms were bound
by an invisible straightjacket.

I could smell my mother behind me doused in
perfume and powder, a sanctimonious attempt to conform to the
standards of The House of God.

Whit was the fifth witness, erect in his
chair, clenching the boom, watching as liquid formed in Mara’s
eyes.

Gently, the girl pinched a candle as if the
shaft was a flower stem, plucked it from the brass stand, and held
the flame to a new wick.

I studied the fire in her eyes; the anger,
the hurt, the madness that normally manifests itself in bubbles of
snot, beaten pillows, or terrible cries in the dark.

Hair down, face sealed in a dusty veneer,
Mara pressed both candles among a garden of flaming sticks. She
knelt before them–the candles, the smeared dove on the wall, her
God–and she wept.

I zoomed into her profile. Her head was
bowed. The balled-fist of a prayer was clenched beneath her chin. A
single tear shattered the fragments of light and shadow, carved a
path through the mud on her face, and dropped from her cheekbone to
the marble floor.

Behind me, my mother sniffled. Whit risked
the boom’s stability to wipe his eye. Father Stevenson relinquished
his stoicism, nodded, and crossed himself once.

When I was certain that I had captured the
final shot of my film, I whispered,
“Cut,”
and let the
sanctuary breathe.

Mara inhaled once,
hard
, then popped
up her head, raised her smile–teeth and all–and relaxed her
shoulders. Her eyes glimmered their brilliant blue. The tear was
gone.

“Holy smokes,” she exclaimed. “How’d I
do?”

* * *

“Ryan?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Red Five.”

“James? It’s after eleven. Mom’s gonna have
my ass.”

“The movie’s finished. We shot the last scene
this morning.”

“That’s cool, little dude, but it’s an hour
passed my phone curfew.”

“I wanted to thank you for your help on my
film. You made a great evil prince. But I won’t be needing you
anymore.”

The receiver fell silent as Ryan Brosh
considered his next move. “You need help editing the footage.”

“I’ve got several weeks until the Lakeshore
Celebration. I’m pretty sure Whit and me can handle it.” I twirled
my finger through the phone cord.

“There’s gotta be somethin’ I can help
with–”

“I talked to my parents. They said there’s no
reason you need to come over if the movie’s finished.”

“I’ll–”

“You’re invited to the screening, of course.
Mara’s excited; she won’t stop talking about it.”

“I’m–”

“I’m looking forward to it too, Mr. Brosh.
G’night.” Softly, I returned the phone to its cradle.

8. THE ZOMBIE-FERRETS STRIKE BACK

“She’s focused. She knows what she likes. She
doesn’t talk too much–”

“Mara?” I exclaimed and blinked hard. “She
talks all the time!” I blinked again. Four hours in Whit’s room and
my eyes were still watering from the stench of cheap cologne.

“She listens to me rant about computers. She
likes video games–”

“You wish! Mara likes books and movies, not
Metroid and Zelda.”

“Then why did Ms. Grisham get her a Nintendo
for her tenth birthday?”

I slouched in the chair and plopped my feet
on the TV stand. Mara never told me about a Nintendo.

“She rocks at Duck Hunt,” Whit continued,
“but she couldn’t figure out how the plastic gun knew where she was
aiming.”

“I suppose you explained it to her.”

Whit pressed fast-forward on my camera. The
fairytale war zipped across his nine-inch TV. The image was cut to
pieces by lines of silver static. He pushed play just as a masked
creature leapt into frame and a fireball exploded from the tip of
its torch. “Cooking spray in an aerosol can,” he said. “Never
thought I’d say it, but A.J. had a good idea.”

The dramatic whoosh of the fireball was
muffled by the hum of the four-wheeler’s engine. “Blah.” I said.
“We’re gonna need a lot of folli.”

“Folli?”

“Background sound. The torches, footsteps,
sword clanks, rustling leaves...”

“Do you have any idea how much work that’ll
be? We have three weeks to–”

“It’s gotta be perfect. Mara’s counting on
me.”

Whit shrugged and paused the shot. “Keep or
cut?” he asked, his pen hovering an inch above the production
notebook.

“The fireball is killer,” I said. “Keep
it.”

He scribbled a note, popped the cassette from
the camera, placed it in the “finished” pile with two others, then
grabbed a tape labeled “19” from the leaning stack of “to-dos.” He
yawned.

“Wake up,” I said. “We can sleep when we
finish the tapes.”

Whit ignored me and pressed play.

The pretty face of Ryan Brosh filled the
screen. He was wearing makeup, but donned a basketball jersey
instead of a costume. He looked at the camera, opened his mouth,
and pretended to eat the lens.

I scoffed.

“Why do you hate him?” Whit asked.

I snatched a two-liter of Diet Coke from the
floor and took a swig. “He kissed Mara.”

“Yeah.
On a dare.
”

“He likes her too.”

“Everybody likes her. You don’t get dibs on a
girl just ‘cause you live in the same house.”

“This is different. Ryan–”

“–has muscles where you have lard?”

“I’m down fourteen pounds,
scrotum-hugger.”

“I thought your goal was ten?”

“I’m at one-thirty-one. For my height, that’s
still six pounds overweight.”

“So you’re gonna hate Ryan until you weigh
one-twenty-five?”

I gave the bottle to Whit, leaned forward,
and sighed.

“There’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me,” he
said.

“Mara likes him back.”

“She told you that?”

“I read her diary.”

“I thought you said–”

“She says he’s a great actor. Says he’s funny
and smart.”

Whit chugged the cola and wiped his lips.
“She called him by name?”

“She says he’s super cute. Even wrote ‘super’
all uppercase.”

Whit winced as if my pain was his. “What are
you gonna do?”

“I called him last night.”

“You called Ryan Brosh?”

“I told him we don’t need his help. Told him
to stay away from my house.”

“You threatened Ryan Brosh?”

I smirked. “I felt like The Claw on Inspector
Gadget.”

“It won’t be enough. He’s never gonna
stop.”

“I told him off.”

“You
pissed
him off.”

I didn’t respond, but watched the TV as the
mannequin fell along the castle brick. “Radical shot,” I said.
“Keep it.”

Whit didn’t reply. Except for the ballpoint
pen wobbling between his fingers, his body was frozen.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”

He didn’t budge.

“Whitney Conrad!” I shouted and kicked his
wheelchair.

“What?” he asked. The pen stopped
bouncing.

“The shot, doofus. Mark it as ‘keep.’”

“Sorry.” He clicked the pen and jotted down
the note.

I took another sip of caffeine and capped the
bottle. “What a psycho.”

* * *

Saturday. Two days after my editing date with
Whit and six days after Mara learned about her parents’ death, life
was returning to the status quo: Dad was in the tower, Mom was in
the kitchen, and I was alone in my woods.

A yawn pried at my cheeks but I tightened my
lips and swallowed it. The midnight editing sessions were taking
their toll.

Whit was gone, stuck at a last-minute
sleepover with his computer camp friends. For a split second I
wondered what those dweebs had that I didn’t... suspenders and tape
on their glasses? I always imagined an army of white Steve Urkels
with Whitney as their captain.

I wedged my camcorder in the elbow of a
branch, then wiggled my shoe beneath the blanket of leaves to
rustle up a log. I swiped a trio of rollie-pollies from the bark
and rapped the fat stick with my knuckles; it was soft, damp, and
hollow.
Perfect.

I worked quickly without losing sight of the
castle wall. I didn’t have time for another encounter with the
bullies.

I aimed the microphone at the trunk of the
nearest Maple, pushed record, twisted my waist with Ken Griffey Jr.
precision, and wailed the soft log into the tree with a satisfying
thud. I hit it again, then again, then placed the mic on the ground
and beat the shredded stump against the leaves.

In the distance, a twig snapped. It was
probably a squirrel, but I moved my work a few steps closer to the
castle just in case.

The house was calmer without Bobby and Jake
barreling through the corridors. After the “goober incident,” Mom
called the agency and had the twins transferred to a family
dedicated to difficult children. “Parent therapists” they’re
called. I was sad to see them go, but with all the commotion around
the house, it was probably for the best.

When the log was demolished, I scanned the
brush for another instrument and discovered a broken chunk of
cinderblock half-buried in the dirt beside the house. The dull
clank of stone-on-stone would be a great sound effect for the
battle sequence, so I turned the mic toward the castle wall, heaved
the brick above my head–

–and music ruined the take. Ten feet up,
Livy’s bedroom spewed the catchy yammer of
I Saw the Sign
by
Ace of Base. I stepped back, furrowed my brow, and stared at the
second-story window.

I cupped my hands like a megaphone, but just
before I could shout my sister’s name, I remembered that Livy was
at Haley’s after a sleepover.

It was Mara’s music.
I stood on
tip-toes to better hear the song.

The view was no better from three steps back,
nor ten. The window only reflected the apparitions of tree branches
and sky.

Twelve steps back and my shoulder blades
kissed a tree. I inspected the branches for climb-ability, but even
André the Giant wouldn’t be able reach the lowest limb without a
step-stool.

An abnormal protrusion caught my eye at the
back of the trunk. It was lighter than the bark, the size of my
hand with square edges...
a piece of two-by-four.
A nail in
the center confirmed my fear and I looked up. Five more pieces of
wood were ascending the trunk. They were rungs.

“
Woohoo!”
My father’s voice seemed
miles away, yet loud enough to hear over Mara’s radio.
“Beth!”
he squealed.
“Grab the kids and get up
here!”