The Nightmarys (10 page)

greeted him, loudly. Timothy bent down to say

hel o, but the dog backed away into the

apartment’s foyer. “Just ignore her. She thinks

she runs the place,” said Abigail, glancing at the

dog. “Don’t you, lit le queen?” Hepzibah

listened for a second, then began barking again.

Abigail rol ed her eyes. “You don’t have to

stand in the hal way,” she said to Timothy. “She

won’t bite.”

“Oh, that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “What are you

afraid of, then?”

Timothy felt his face ush. He stammered,

“Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not

“Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not

afraid of your dog. That’s al .” He came through

the door. “Hepzibah? Strange name. Where’d

you come up with it?”

“I didn’t come up with it. My grandmother

loves Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hepzibah’s a

character in one of his books,” Abigail said. The

dog sni ed Timothy’s cu . He stuck out his

palm. Hepzibah considered him, then gave

several soft kisses. “See? She likes you.”

“Good. I like her too.” Looking around,

Timothy felt smal . “Cool place. It’s huge.”

Across the foyer, a wide arched entry opened

into a sprawling living room fil ed with antique

furniture. Outside, through paneled French

doors, was an enormous roof patio. Several of

the spires from the col ege were visible beyond

the railing, and beyond those were the river

and then the hil s of Rhode Island. Through a

smal er doorway in the foyer, a long hal way

stretched into darkness.

“Yeah, I guess it’s okay,” said Abigail.

“You don’t like it?”

“You don’t like it?”

“Well, I didn’t ask to live here.” Suddenly,

she looked at him, her eyes wide. “Oh my God,

I probably sound like such a lit le brat. I’m

sorry.”

“No, you don’t.”

“My grandmother is real y lucky to have this

place. And I’m real y lucky to be able to stay

until … wel , for now. It’s just that at night … it

can get a lit le … creepy.”

“Creepy how?” said Timothy, suddenly

noticing the many shadows in the numerous

corners.

“Here,” said Abigail, leading him into the

dining room, changing the subject. “You can

put your stu down. I’ve already got en started

in the kitchen.”

“Started with what?”

She turned to look at him. With an

embarrassed smile, she said, “You’l see.”

Timothy dropped his coat and bag on a chair

at the end of the dining table, then fol owed

at the end of the dining table, then fol owed

Abigail through a series of doors to a narrow,

clut ered kitchen. The countertop was scat ered

with a number of plastic bot les, and on the

stove sat a smal cardboard box. On the cover, a

woman smiled as she ran her hands through

her black hair. The words COLOR ME WILD—

RAVEN SILK leapt out in white text underneath

the woman’s shapely chin.

“You’re going to dye your hair black?”

“Nope,” said Abigail, snatching the box from

the stove-top and handing it to him. “You’re

going to do it for me.”

Hepzibah came around the corner from the

direction of the dining room. She sat in the

doorway and looked at him, as if prepared to

watch the show.

“You want me to dye your hair?” asked

Timothy, appal ed.

“You don’t need to be good.” She sighed and

rol ed her eyes. “I just need an extra pair of

hands to get the back, but the box only comes

with one pair of gloves, so you might as wel

with one pair of gloves, so you might as wel

just do the whole thing. You don’t real y mind,

do you?”

Timothy thought about that. After everything

that he’d been through that week, helping his

new friend dye her hair shouldn’t be a big deal.

His new friend? Was that what they were

now?

“Okay,” said Timothy softly.

“Great.” Abigail reached into the open box

and pul ed out a pair of plastic gloves. “See if

these fit. I’l start mixing.”

Hepzibah fol owed as they set themselves up

at the long dining room table. Abigail spread

out some old newspapers underneath their

supplies, then sat in one of the high-backed

chairs. Grabbing the plastic bot le, which

Abigail had l ed with pungent-smel ing

chemicals, Timothy squeezed a lavender-

colored gel onto her head.

“Ooh, it feels gross!” she said.

“Sorry,” said Timothy.

“Sorry,” said Timothy.

He remembered the reason he’d come here:

to talk to Abigail about her grandmother. But

he stil didn’t know how to tel his story.

“Why did you want to do this anyway?” he

said instead.

“I guess I just want to be someone else for a

change. I’m cut ing it al of next.”

“Real y? Al of it? Like a crew cut?”

“Nah, sort of, like … ear length. I’ve got the

scissors in the bathroom.” She glanced up at

him. “Make sure you get it al even. Then just

start combing it through.”

Even through the gloves, the gel was squishy.

“Is it just you and your grandmother here?” he

asked.

“No. I came with my mom from New Jersey

when Gramma fel again last month. Mom

thinks she’s get ing sick. I just think she’s

get ing old and doesn’t want to admit it. She

says to my mom, ‘If I’m sick, you’re sick.’”

“Is your mother sick?”

“Is your mother sick?”

“Not in the conventional sense of the word.”

Abigail suddenly burst out laughing. “My

mother su ers from a disorder cal ed

Freakazoidism.”

Despite al the talk of il ness, or perhaps

because of it, Timothy couldn’t hold back his

own laughter. “So do my parents!” he said.

“Yeah,” said Abigail. “My mom left my dad

… like, left-left him, and didn’t tel me, and

thought I wouldn’t notice that they weren’t

living together anymore, you know? In the

same state?”

“But I thought you came here to help your

grandmother.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows and shook her

head. “There’s always an ulterior motive with

my mom. She real y just needed a place to go.

Voilà—New Starkham, here we come!”

“Wow,” said Timothy. “That’s harsh.”

“That’s the truth. The funniest thing is that

she thinks she has me fooled, that I’m just so

young and gul ible.” She sni ed. “So why are

young and gul ible.” She sni ed. “So why are

your parents freaks?”

“They’re not freaks, exactly. They just don’t

real y seem to know how to talk to me.”

Abigail didn’t say anything. Before he knew it,

he blurted out, “My brother’s unit was at acked

overseas. He got hurt. Bad. They’re keeping

him in a coma, I think to protect his brain.”

Abigail shuddered and brought her hand to

her mouth. “He’s in the—what, the army?” she

asked. Timothy nodded. She grabbed his hand,

and he flinched. “I’m so sorry … I had no idea.”

“No—it’s—” Timothy stammered. “Nobody

did. That’s the thing … My parents didn’t want

me to tel anyone.”

“Why not? It’s public information anyway.

Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I think they felt ashamed. Like

his injury is their fault. They don’t want their

friends to blame them.”

“That alone is ridiculous, but what on earth

does that have to do with you?”

does that have to do with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t they thought that you might want

to, I dunno, talk about it with someone?”

Timothy shook his head. “Guess not.”

“I mean, ever since I moved here, al I’ve

wanted to do is talk to my cousins back in

Jersey about everything that’s happening. It’s

good that they listen on the phone, you know,

about Gramma, and Mom and Dad, but stil ,

there are things I feel like I can’t tel anyone …

not even them … and it’s kinda driving me

crazy.” Abigail blinked, as if she expected him

to ponder that last statement. “So I sort of

know what you’ve been going through.”

“Thanks,” said Timothy, secretly wondering

what it was that she couldn’t tel anyone.

Would she tel him now?

“So where is your brother?”

Guess not. “He’s in a military hospital

somewhere in Germany. He’s been … critical

for a while now. They say they’l send him

home when he’s healthy enough to travel, even

home when he’s healthy enough to travel, even

if he is unconscious,” said Timothy. Abigail was

staring at him again. Her head was slick with

purple goo. She looked funny. He smiled. After

a few seconds, he realized that he’d actual y

nal y told someone about his brother. It had

been easier than he thought it would be. “So …

what is it that you can’t tel anyone?”

Abigail glanced at the oor, her mouth

pursed. She actual y looked like she was

considering the answer, but then said, “Never

mind. It’s not important.”

17.

After they cleaned up, Abigail put on a plastic

bathing cap and led Timothy down the long

hal way to a smal room. The dark purple

wal s were entirely covered with black-and-

white photographs in black wooden frames.

“My grandmother was a photographer for a

local newspaper. Sometimes she wrote, but

mostly she just took pictures.” She pointed at

one picture that looked like owers of light,

blossoming in the night sky. “The Fourth of

July. Cool, huh?”

Timothy nodded.

Against the far wal was a twin-sized brass

trundle bed. They plopped down on the

mat ress, giggling at the way she looked.

Hepzibah leapt onto the bed too, circled a

smal spot in the corner several times, then lay

down.

down.

“Do you want to listen to some music?” said

Abigail. In the corner of the room was a low

bookcase, on top of which sat an old record

player. The shelves below it contained vinyl

records.

“Okay.”

“They belonged to my grandfather before he

died. Gramma said I could have ’em. Pick out

whatever you want,” said Abigail. “We’ve got a

half hour before rinse time.”

Timothy slid o the bed. Abigail fol owed.

The record jackets were old and dusty. They’d

been arranged in alphabetical order. Lots of

country music. Not his favorite—but some of

the covers looked interesting. He plucked a

record from the shelf. “Gun ghter Bal ads,”

Timothy read. “Cool title.” He handed it to

Abigail. She slipped the disk from its envelope,

placed it on the turntable, then lifted the

needle. A dark melody began to play.

“So,” said Abigail, sit ing down on the bed

again. “Now you know that my grandmother

again. “Now you know that my grandmother

was a photographer. What else did you want to

know?”

“It’s not that simple,” he said. She stared at

him, curious. “I mean … I need to tel you

something rst. But I don’t know where to

start.”

Abigail set led against the wal and folded

her hands in her lap, as if preparing for a

bedtime story. “It’s always best to start at the

beginning.”

By the time the needle reached the center of

the record, Timothy had said everything he’d

meant to say. The book, the names, the author.

The locker room. Stuart’s monster. For the most