The Thirteen (22 page)

She rolled the newly sharpened blade into the pouch and tied the thong around it tightly. At the Chapman house, by now her previous offering would have been consumed. The thing was waiting grudgingly for his main course.

The Murder House, the kids used to call it. It was apt.

But not long now and all would be set to rights. They would be thirteen. The Father would be appeased. Everyone had to make sacrifices. Hers had been the greatest.

One more, very necessary chore. Izzy went out the front door into the cool of the evening and stood on Proctor Street. She turned slowly, raising her arms as she did. She was careful to cast her eyes over every house as she turned. She sing-songed, “Early to bed, late to rise, hear no evil, see no evil, see that you do. No trouble for me, no trouble for you.” She dragged out the last syllable of the spell until her magic covered the whole of Haven Woods. Then she stopped.

As she lowered her arms, the lights went out in the houses, one after another. The neighbourhood went dark with sleep.

–

Tim was quiet, finally asleep, still dressed and on top of the covers. He was curled around the basketball, his arms cradling it like a baby, his sweet face twisted into an expression of concentration: his game face. She draped a blanket over him and the ball. Even in the dark room he looked too pale.

Marla left his door slightly open and went to her daughter’s room. Amy too was sleeping, or appeared to be. The night light was enough to illuminate her peaceful face

(please just sleeping)

and she sat on the bed and put her hand on Amy’s head. Her hair was silky and warm. She was lying on her back on top of the blankets, exactly as Marla had left her. She had tried to put her pyjamas on, but Amy’s limbs were stiff and uncooperative, and she had been reluctant to force them in what had felt like an unnatural direction

(she remembered all too well what happened when you tried to bend your doll’s arm the wrong way)

She eased the covers out from under her daughter and tucked her in, pulling the blankets up to her chest. The girl’s breathing was smooth and easy. She kissed her forehead.
Mommy’s pretty doll
.

Her heart ached. This was her doing.

Doug was in his office downstairs, oblivious to the drama. If she went into the office she’d find him working, hunched over paperwork at his desk, his forehead wrinkled, muttering to himself.

if you’re going to marry such trash the least he can do is make something of himself

Doug had been a happy-go-lucky man whom she loved, and so, as her mother said, she had made him better. Just as she’d made her slightly chubby, definitely normal children better. What had she done?

She could hear the others moving about in the living room. Esme had arrived first, then Glory with Sharie, Joanna, Bridget and Ursula. When Paula got here, she would have to join them. But now she climbed the stairs again to her daughter’s bedroom, stretched out beside her little girl and watched her sleep.

(please just sleep)

Marla’s very pretty house was at the top of a broad lawn, lushly green in the evening light. A ring of shrubs surrounded it that seemed to march around to the back. All was still. Pastoral. There was a flutter at the curtains as Paula approached, and she raised her hand in a self-conscious wave.

She felt self-conscious, watched even, as she made her way around to the side of the house, where she opened the screen door and knocked. Why was her silly heart pounding? This was just a night out with Marla’s “girls.” How bad could they be? Especially considering that lately her girls had been strippers

(it’s a sisterhood ha ha)

There was no answer, so she knocked again and then finally pulled open the door. She poked her head in. “Marla?”

No answer.

“Marla?” she called again, when she reached the hall.

A big woman suddenly loomed towards her. She grinned, her teeth so white Paula could hardly concentrate on the rest of her face. “Hel
-lo,”
she said, her voice almost flirtatious.

“Hi,” Paula answered. “I’m Paula—”

When the light from the kitchen doorway hit her, Paula saw that she was beautiful. She was dressed in black and her hair was dark and fashionably short. She thrust her hand at Paula. “I’m Esme.” Her grip was strong, her flesh very warm. “Marla’s still with the children, so I’m playing hostess,” she explained, dragging out the final syllable with élan.

Paula smiled, shyly, because she couldn’t help herself. And all she could think of to say in response was “Oh.”

“You have to come in and meet the rest of the girls. We’ve been waiting on you.” She glanced over Paula’s shoulder. “Where’s your daughter? We thought she was coming with you.”

“Rowan,” Paula said. “I’m afraid she isn’t feeling well.”

“Really?
Does Marla know?”

Paula shook her head. “Not yet. I’m sorry,” she added, feeling oddly compelled to apologize. The woman was still holding her hand, and she tugged her farther down the hall.

“Well, come on in. Everyone is expecting you.”

The drapes were drawn in the candlelit living room. The flames flickered in mirrors and crystal vases, even the chandelier on the ceiling. It was beautiful, and she couldn’t help but let out a little gasp. “This is so pretty,” she said.

“It
is
beautiful,” Esme said. “We all have beautiful homes. Do you have a beautiful home, Paula?”

What is with this woman?
Paula thought.

The others were clustered at the far end of the room. The first to turn towards the new arrival strode slowly over to Paula, holding out her hand. “Bridget,” she said. “And you’re Paula.” She shook her hand and then let it drop. Just as Esme had, she looked beyond Paula. “And where’s this little girl I’ve heard so much about?” Not a hair was astray, and she was very pretty.

Esme said pointedly, “She didn’t bring her.”

“Why not?” Bridget demanded.

Paula was at a loss, so she chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring her next time. She had a bit of an upset stomach so I left her with a friend.”

The other women had now gathered closely around her.

“Which friend?” Esme’s voice was loud.

“Um, he’s new to the neighbourhood. I’m sure you don’t know him.”

They were all lovely, and every one of them was in black. The fashion standard in Haven Woods, apparently. Paula felt underdressed.

A plumpish redhead wearing—were those really old-fashioned lady gloves? Wasn’t that some sort of fashion crime?—spoke up next. “We’ll just have to go get her.” The others giggled. “I’m Glory. I used to be really fat. Want to see?”

Before Paula could respond she pulled out an old Polaroid and thrust it at her. The woman in the photo had to weigh at least three hundred pounds. She was standing at a stove, a huge smile on her face, a wooden spoon in her hand. “My God,” Paula said, “that can’t be you.”

“It is,” Glory said brightly. She took the picture back and tucked it away as she looked Paula over. “Wouldn’t you like to lose a little weight?”

“Excuse me?”

Glory laughed, all tinkly. “Oh, I’m just saying. There are always things we want to change about ourselves, aren’t there? What would you change?”

Paula had a sudden memory of kissing Sanderson in the kitchen

you’re so beautiful

“I don’t know. I guess I’d have to think about it.”

“Well, I suspect you would like a beautiful house,” Bridget said. They all laughed.

“Yes,” Paula said, because it seemed like the right answer.

There were so many of them. Ursula was Bridget’s sister and they worked together. There was Glory, who used to be fat. Sharie was a dancer, though her poor leg was swollen and wrapped in bandages, looking huge against the tiny, fit rest of her body. On closer viewing, Esme was wearing a nearly see-through top and no bra. And, as Marla had promised, the famous Joanna Shaw was there. Paula felt shy meeting her—she had just seen her on TV—but Joanna’s eyes were distant and her words were quiet, completely unlike her television personality.

When the introductions were finished, Bridget led Paula to the sofa, putting her in the middle between her and Esme. The other women settled themselves across from them in a selection of love-seats and overstuffed armchairs. It felt strange to be the centre of attention.

A buffet of treats was spread on a side table, but no one was eating. Or drinking. What kind of a girls’ night was this? She didn’t feel it was right to ask, although a glass of wine would have been good to take the edge off.

She gestured to Joanna and grinned. “I just saw you on television. You sure got here fast.”

“It’s taped in the afternoon,” Joanna said gravely.

“Oh, of course.”

“I’m sure you’re a big fan of Joanna’s. We all are.” Esme reached over and gave Joanna’s knee a squeeze. The woman hardly reacted except to smile wanly. “She got to the big time with a little help from her friends, right? Right?”

Joanna nodded at Esme, her expression unchanging.

“We could all use a little help sometimes, isn’t that true?” Esme stressed.

“Tell us, Paula,” Bridget said, “what do you want out of life?”

Paula laughed—it was such a bald question. The room was silent, waiting for her answer. She wondered where Marla was. She wished she would appear. “I would have to think about that too,” she said.

“Come on, Paula,” Esme butted in. “We all want the same things, don’t we? A beautiful home, a good man, the best for our families. Isn’t that what you want too?”

“Right now all I want is a drink. I would love a glass of wine,” Paula said finally.

Bridget turned to her sister. “Good idea. Ursula, get her a drink. Get us all one.”

Without speaking, Ursula got up.

“You must want a husband,” Esme said.

“I want all of that. I—” Paula faltered. They were too close to her. They were paying too much attention. They were too lovely. She felt as if the joke was on her, that at any moment Marla was going to jump out.
Ha ha ha ha, gotcha, Paula!

“You could have it all,” Esme said, seriously. “You could have everything you want.”

“I got thin,” Glory said.

“I’m a dancer,” Sharie said, but she was looking at her leg.

“And I have a very successful business,” Bridget said. “Maybe you’ve heard of it—Bridget Bakes?”

“Oh goodness, yes!” Paula said. They were beyond Paula’s budget, but she’d seen them often: exhaustively beautiful things, tiny cakes iced to perfection, decorated with real flowers. She was impressed, and it showed on her face.

“I get laid whenever I want,” Esme volunteered, and laughed hard, and everyone joined in.

Paula laughed uncomfortably.
This is a really strange party
, she thought. “You’re all very lucky,” she said.

“We’ve had help. Everyone needs a little help now and then, don’t you think?” Bridget put her hand on Paula’s arm.

“Yes, I think that’s true.” A silence fell, and Paula let it ride uncomfortably for a moment. Then she said, “Does Marla know I’m here?”

Ursula came in with a tray of wineglasses, already filled. “Here we are,” she said quietly, and handed glasses to everyone. Paula was last. “And for you, Paula.”

“Thank you.” She took the glass. Everyone stared.

“To new friends.” Bridget raised her glass and the others followed suit.

Paula raised hers too and took a tiny sip. She wasn’t really a wine drinker, but she could tell this white wasn’t so good. It was bitter and sweet at the same time; she tried not to grimace.

The others took similarly genteel sips, echoing, “To new friends.”

Esme leaned in close. “Now where did you say your daughter was?”

Paula took another sip of wine.
Where’s Marla?

NINETEEN

P
IZZA CRUSTS AND PLATES
smeared with tomato sauce sat on the low table in the TV room. A half-drunk glass of pop and a just-opened beer sweated on the tabletop. Rowan burped daintily into her hand.

“Oops. Sorry,” she said.

Mr. Keyes held up a DVD. “I’ve got a classic for us to watch. Not too scary, in deference to your mom, but good just the same.” He held out the package. On the cover a sleeping man lay on his side while something green and slimy hovered above him.

“Invasion of the Body Snatchers
. The 1978 version. You’re going to love it.”

Rowan smiled and nodded and hoped it wasn’t in black-and-white.

He poked the Open button, and when the tray slid out he put the DVD in the machine. It closed smoothly. He found the right remote and pressed buttons and clicked menus.

The dogs were lying on the floor in front of the sofa. Gusto had his head down between his paws, but Old Tex was watching the front door. Now and then Gusto would raise his head too, and he whined sometimes, looking at Old Tex. But then he would return to the floor with a sigh. Old Tex never varied his pose. Rowan knew, because she was watching him.

“Mr. Keyes? Where’s my blazer?” she asked suddenly. “I want to put it on.”

He turned, remote still pointed at the screen. “I don’t know. Maybe your mom hung it in the front closet.”

“Right.” As Rowan got up, music poured into the room from several sources, surprising her.

“Surround sound.” Mr. Keyes grinned.

“Cool,” she said and went looking for her jacket.

Sanderson pressed the fast-forward button through the ads at the beginning of the disc and paused at the trailers. He grimaced and rubbed his face; a slight headache was coming on. Rowan had complained about a stomach ache—maybe they were all coming down with something.

“I paused it,” he called to her.

Her blazer was hanging in the closet as Mr. Keyes had said. Rowan slipped it on and put her hand in the pocket. The piece of paper with his number was still there, folded, maybe illegible now after her trip into the water, but even if she couldn’t read it, it was a talisman of some kind. She left it in her pocket.

She dug out the makeshift necklace and hung it around her neck, the twine rough against her skin. The little Jesus on his cross looked a bit like the pictures of ovaries they showed in sex-ed class, but she knew who it was supposed to be, and that made her feel safe. School-safe and something-else-safe. Safer.

She was tucking the cross under her T-shirt just as a terrible cramp hit her right in the … ovaries … She clutched her middle, groaning.

From the TV room she heard Mr. Keyes call, “Rowan? Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. Stubbed my toe. I’ll be right there.” She stood up, grimacing, and made her way to the bathroom. A couple of times she touched her shirt where the crucifix hung beneath it.

In the bathroom Rowan pulled her jeans down and sat on the toilet, absolutely uncertain about what her body was trying to tell her. Another wave of cramping hit her. She peed, then sat a minute more wishing for
something
to happen, even diarrhea, so she could feel better and go watch the stupid movie. She wiped herself, glanced down—

Oh. My. God
.

The tissue, and her underpants, were stained with blood. She made a face.
Gross
. Then slowly she realized,
I beat Caleigh and Patty!
She had her
period
.

“Holy crap. Wow.” She sat there on the toilet and thought of ways she could tell Patty (that bitch), phrasing it nonchalantly to seem like such a pain and a bore, just a thing that women got. Women.
So yeah, I was at this
guy’s
house and totally got my rag—

It occurred to her that she
was
at some guy’s house, and she
had
totally got her rag on. She blushed, realizing that she had no way to deal with it. She looked around the bathroom, half hoping God or someone like Him had placed a Kotex dispenser

(I will never make fun again)

in there like the one in the second-floor washroom at St. Mary’s. She leaned over and opened the door to the cupboard under the sink

(just for second thinking about the warm,
breathing
bags under her grandmother’s sink)

but there was just a four-pack of toilet paper and a rusty can of Ajax, probably left by the people who used to live there.

“
Mr
.
Keyes!”
she finally shouted through the door. “I need my mother!”

Sanderson was looking through the cupboard in the kitchen, where he thought he’d put the Aspirin, when he heard Rowan calling. He ran to the bathroom and stood outside the door.

“What’s wrong, Rowan?”

“I need my mother.”

“She’s at Marla’s by now. Can I help?”

“Can you phone her? I’ve got the number in my jacket pocket. I need her right now.”

“Okay, okay. Where’s your jacket?”

There was a pause. “In here.”

Sanderson laughed in spite of the pain in his head. “Should I come in?”

“No! Wait, I’ll shove it under the door.”

While he waited he thought,
Maybe diarrhea
, and then he thought,
Poor kid, she’s just at that age when these things are really embarrassing
.

Just at that age.

As the little piece of paper came wiggling under the door, he started to put two and two together. He grimaced with embarrassment for her. And himself.

He bent down to grab the note. “Rowan, I’m on it. I’ll get your mom. It’s all going to be okay. Is there anything—Do you have—”

“I want my
mom!”

“Absolutely. Hang tight, kiddo.” He ran for the cordless on the counter in the kitchen, grabbed it and thumbed the on button. He punched in the number on the paper and put the phone to his ear.

The pause had come off on the DVD player and he could hear the trailers starting. He headed for the living room, phone to his ear, found the remote and paused the movie again.

The phone wasn’t yet ringing at the other end. He shut it off and turned it back on, but now he wasn’t getting a signal. He stuffed the handset onto the charger base and went searching for his cell, calling out, “Rowan, the battery is dead. I’m just going to find my cell, okay?”

He took the stairs two at a time and did a quick scan of the bedroom, spotting it on the table beside the bed. He flipped the phone open. No signal, even though he was upstairs and the signal was usually stronger there. He walked down the hall with it, watching for bars. At the end of the hall he got one.

Sanderson dialled Marla’s number. Even with his head pounding and a little girl trapped in his bathroom, what he was thinking was,
I’m going to fall in love with Paula
.

After four rings, someone picked up. “Hello, who is this?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Hi, is this Marla? Marla, this is Sanderson Keyes. I’m Paula Wittmore’s—” Paula Wittmore’s what?
Friend
.

He was about to say it when she spoke. “This isn’t Marla. And Paula isn’t here. She’s been—” The line crackled, the signal breaking up. “—detai—can’t—”

“The connection is bad,” he yelled. “Where’s Paula?”

He waited, but there was only crackling on the line. “Paula?”

“—not here—”

“Where is she?” he shouted again. There was static and then what sounded like a laugh. The phone beeped twice. He checked the bars; the display blinked
SIGNAL DROPPED, SIGNAL DROPPED
. Disgusted, he shut the phone and stood indecisively for a minute. Then he ran to the stairs, taking the first one on the fly.

There was a second when it passed through his mind,
Stairs are slippery. Why did I use the glossy varnish?
Then he pitched forward, all two hundred pounds of him barrelling down, his ankle striking the edge of the step and sliding off at an angle. The crack was so loud, so alarming, that even as he screamed in pain he knew exactly what had happened.

The phone went flying out of his hand, disappearing into space.

There was a pregnant moment of silence after Sanderson hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs, the wind knocked out of him. The dogs came running, a frantic Gusto getting in his face. Sanderson had to push him away, but he and Old Tex continued to hover like a couple of old ladies. It would almost be comical, except for the pain. And then he remembered Rowan in the bathroom.
Oh God, where is Paula?

At the moment Sanderson Keyes broke his ankle, Paula was being poured a second glass of wine by Ursula, who seemed to be the waitress for the evening. Thinking of her in those terms made Paula grin, and she wondered a little at herself.
Why so easily amused?
She did feel funny. Was wine more potent than beer? It had not improved the evening.

Joanna was leaning close, explaining how she had got where she was. “When you’re a little girl, you think you’re going to grow up to be someone. We all think we’re going to be
someone
, you know? And I was, in a limited way. I was … someone. But you want more. You always want more, right?”

Paula had a feeling that her version of
more
would be different from Joanna Shaw’s. But she nodded.

Joanna said, “Exactly. So you do what you have to do. You find a
way
.” This seemed to be the point she wanted to make, because then she leaned back against the sofa where Bridget had been sitting—where had Bridget gone?—and said nothing more.

“What our resident celebrity means,” Esme added, “is that we want what we want. And we do what we have to do to get it. Do you understand, Paula?”

She felt as if she was the target of a hard sell of some kind. Like when a vacuum cleaner salesman comes to your door and won’t leave until you agree, “Yes, I like my house to be clean.” She tried to focus on the question, but the sound of the women’s voices was all she could take in.

“Where did you say your girl was?” Bridget asked.

“Sanderson’s.” To say the name was pleasing to her.
Sanderson
. It felt nice to say it, to think it. She repeated it in her head. She wondered if she was drunk.

“I would do anything for my children,” Glory said. Esme looked sharply at her.

“Of course,” Paula agreed.

“Children aren’t everything,” Esme said.

“I have a little brother,” Sharie offered. No one responded.

Ursula poured more wine. “You’re the waitress tonight,” Paula said, smiling gently at her. “I was a waitress. In a bar. A terrible bar.” She cupped her mouth with a hand and whispered confidentially, “A stripper bar.” The women tittered.

“What would you give to never have to work in a stripper bar again?” Bridget asked.

“It’s not so bad,” she said. Defensively this time.

Bridget smiled winningly at her. “But if you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to. You can join us.”

Paula picked up the wineglass that Ursula had refilled and held it to her lips. Then she thought better of it and set it down. She was feeling … funny. She’d been drunk a time or two in her life, and this was like it, but different. Her body felt tired, loose. Her tongue seemed too big for her mouth. But she didn’t have a
drunk
feeling.

“Drink up,” Esme said. “Who is this Sanderson? Is he your boyfriend?”

Sanderson
. She smiled in spite of herself. “No,” she said, embarrassed, her face flushed. From wine.

“Oooh, yes he is, I bet,” Sharie said. “I like a guy at dance class. He’s very tall. I like tall men. Is your boyfriend tall?”

Esme snapped, “Nobody cares, child.”

Sharie shut up.

“So where does he live?” Esme pressed. “Near your mom’s?”

“Esme, we were talking about Paula,” Bridget said, shooting her a look. Paula saw it.
These women are strange
, she thought again. The conversations were hard to follow.

“She’s going to join us,” Bridget said. She squeezed in between Paula and the glassy-eyed Joanna. Joanna shifted lazily, but didn’t get up.

“Join you?” Paula said.

“You can have everything you’ve ever wanted,” Bridget said. “It’s simple, really. Don’t you want your life to be perfect?”

Paula thought,
What do I have to buy?
But she said, “Where is Marla? I should go, but I would like to say hello to her before I do.”

“Don’t go,” Ursula said, with force.

“I’m here, Paula. Please don’t go yet.”

She turned and there was Marla, silhouetted in the candlelight. She too wore black. She looked slender and perfect, her hair falling softly over her shoulders. She came close and took Paula’s hands in hers. “I was with my children. They’re not feeling well, but I suspect they’ll feel better soon.” There were dark rings under her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry for my absence. I’m so glad you came.” It sounded rote. Like something you’d say to a stranger. It occurred to Paula that she
was
a stranger, and then, out of nowhere, she remembered that she had something to tell.

“I’ve got something I want to talk to you about,” she said to Marla. But there were too many eyes looking at her. She couldn’t do it now.

“I want to hear it,” Marla said.

Esme got up so Marla could sit beside her girlhood friend.

“Paula, my children are sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Rowan didn’t feel well tonight—”

Marla cut her off. “Can you help me with my children?”

“Of course,” Paula said, confused. “What can I do?”

“All you have to do is join us.”

The room fell dead silent. Marla was still holding Paula’s hands. It was uncomfortable, but it was Marla, so she didn’t pull away.

“Your poor mother has been sick too,” Marla said. “And Bridget and Ursula have had business problems. You haven’t met Aggie, yet, but she’s an old, old woman now and she’ll die if you don’t help us. Even Sharie—her leg has swelled right up, like a melon.” Sharie held her leg out awkwardly. It looked painful.

“It’s bad times for us right now.” Marla pressed Paula’s fingers, ready to say her next bit, but instead she sighed. Her eyes dropped from Paula’s and she turned away.