Tyger Tyger (2 page)

Abby rode the bus home with Teagan at least three times a week to spend the night. Her sister Clair had moved back in while her husband was deployed. The only place the Gaglianos had to put her was Abby's room, and it was small, so Abby and Clair worked out a time-share. They were never home on the same day of the week, and Abby kept half of her clothes in Teagan's closet.

Teagan looked around for an empty seat as Abby made her way down the aisle. There wasn't one.

"Thank god you're here!" Abby grabbed the post to steady herself as the bus started forward. "I've been trying to call you. Your life is totally in danger." Her face twisted. "What's that smell?"

"What?" Teagan said. "I can't smell anything."

The German grandmother turned around.

"You smell like shite," she said helpfully.

"Oh, my god. Abby, is there something on my sweater?" Teagan twisted so Abby could see her back.

"Yes," Abby said.

"Help me clean it off."

"I'm not touching it."

"Hold my blouse down while I take my sweater off, then," Teagan said.

Abby grabbed her shirttail, and Teagan wiggled the sweater up over her shoulders, careful not to turn it inside out. Whatever was on it, she didn't want to smear it on her blouse or in her hair.

"Eew," Abby said, and let go. Teagan felt cool air on her midriff as the sweater went over her head. She pulled it off her arms, then jerked her blouse down with one hand. Two high school boys across the aisle had goofy smiles on their faces.

"Nice shimmy," one said.

"Hey." Abby smiled at him. "You go to our school, don't you? Geoff Spikes, football team. Quarterback."

"Does your friend know who I am, too?" Geoff leaned around Abby to leer at Teagan.

Teagan ignored him and turned her sweater over. She should have checked the back before she put it on. Cindy had left a present for her—a thick brown-green gob stuck right between the shoulders. It had squished flat when she'd leaned back, leaving a lovely smear on the bus seat.

"Tell your friend to call me if she wants to hook up," Geoff said. "I could spend some time with that bod."

"She's into brains, not brawn," Abby said. "You might have a chance. Just one. What's your IQ?"

"Huh?"

"Wrong answer. You're out." Abby turned her back on him.

"Abby," Teagan whispered, "I'm going to kill you."

"I had to let go of the shirt," Abby whispered back. "That ... stuff almost touched me."

"Did anything show?"

"Anything like wha—" Abby stopped. "You're wearing a bra, right?"

"Of course I am."

"Good," Abby said. "'Cause he had a cell phone."

"
What?
"

"You can kill me later. We have to get off at the next stop. Your life is in danger."

"
What?
"

"I said we have to get off here."

"I meant the other part. About my life being in danger?"

"I had a dream," Abby said.

"A dream."

Abby nodded. "I'm totally psychotic. You know I am."

The old man huddled in the corner threw a worried look at her.

"Psychic. She means psychic," Teagan assured him, using her sweater to wipe the brown goo from the seat.

"That's what I said," Abby agreed. "I should be working for the psychotic hotline, I swear." She grabbed Teagan's arm and pulled her down the aisle.

Several passengers cheered as they went down the steps.

"Does the ape poop really smell that bad?"

"My eyes are watering," Abby said.

"Where are we going?" Teagan asked as the bus pulled away.

"We're not going." Abby waved toward the building above them. "We're here. St. Drogo's."

"No, no, no." Teagan stopped. "I'm not going to church. Not with this sweater."

"Then throw it away."

"Never," Teagan said. "It's my favorite sweater."

"How long have I been your best friend?"

"Forever," Teagan said.

"Damn right." Abby started up the church steps. "I flunked first grade so you could catch up to me, didn't I? I gave up a year of my life for you—a whole year! And have I ever asked you to do anything for
me?
"

"Yes," Teagan said. "All the time."

"That's true. But this is life and death, Tea, I swear. You're always taking care of other people. Now I am going to take care of you. I'm going to light a candle so Drogo will intercede for you."

Abby
wanted
to go to church? She'd only been twice since they'd transferred from St. Joseph's Academy to public school, and that had been in the ninth grade.

"This is crazy," Teagan said, but she followed Abby up the steps and past the smiling statue of Saint Drogo leaning on the handle of a hoe. "How is my life in danger?"

"I'll tell you after we pray." Abby looked around nervously. "I want to get out of here before Father Gordon sees me."

They dipped their fingers in the laver and crossed themselves before they stepped into the familiar nave. A second statue of Saint Drogo, his face grim and his hands lifted in petitioning prayer, stood to the side of the altar.

Teagan had asked her parents who Drogo was one Sunday morning when she was six.

"Frodo the hobbit's father, from Tolkien's
Lord of the Rings,
" Mr. Wylltson had said. "Isn't it marvelous that they built a church for him?"

"Hist! John!" Her mother's Irish accent showed even in a whisper. "Mind you're in church, and don't mislead the girl.
Saint
Drogo was a holy man, and a bilocate. He could be in two places at once. The blessed man spent every Sunday face-down on the floor in front of the altar while simultaneously working in his garden to the glory of God."

"I think he was sleeping in church," Mr. Wylltson had said.

"John," Mrs. Wylltson warned. "I'm instructing our daughter in the things of the faith." She turned back to Teagan. "That's why we have two statues—the petitioner and the gardener. If I could do that, think how much painting I could get done."

"Come on." Abby tried to pull Teagan toward the altar, but she shook her head. The statues of saints along each wall looked unusually disapproving.

"I'll wait here." Teagan slid onto the pew at Saint Francis's feet. If anyone would understand bringing ape poop to church, it would be Francis.

Abby went to the front, lit a votive candle, and knelt with her head bowed. Teagan shifted on the hard pew.

"Abigail Gagliano." Father Gordon had entered the nave. "I haven't seen you for—"

"Laters, Father." Abby jumped up. "Gotta run." Teagan followed her out.

"So what was this psychic dream?" Teagan asked. "Did it have perverts with cell phones and a bus in it?"

"No." Abby shuddered. "Saint Drogo was in it. He was trying to tell me something, but his Italian was all mixed up. Like, not Italian at all. And some of your mother's paintings—the ones in your basement—came alive. I remember the goblins for sure. The goblins came upstairs, and they were after you, Tea."

"You're making me walk
six blocks home
because you had a crazy dream about my mom's paintings? You were right, back on the bus. You
are
psychotic."

"Whatever," Abby said. "The people on that bus thought I was a hero for getting you and your monkey poo out of there."

"Very funny." Teagan found a plastic grocery bag in the gutter, shook off the twigs and dirt, and wrapped her sweater in it. "And it's ape poop. Cindy is an ape."

 

Aiden was playing Super Mario Galaxy in an alcove off of the living room when they came in the front door. Lennie Santini loomed over him, waving the Wii wand to gather up the stars that appeared on the screen. The alcove was Aiden's den of boyhood, complete with video games, a Lego castle, and an army of Lego men set up around the room, ready to wage war.

"
Ai-den-is-the-hero,
" Aiden sang in sync to the synthesized music.

Teagan winced. If she had known her dad was going to get him a Wii for his fifth birthday, she'd have destroyed every compatible sound system in the house. Aiden was one chip short of being a high-end cell phone. His brain came bundled with an MP3 player and GPS. Every tune he had ever heard was stored in his gray matter. When the music had no lyrics, he made up his own.

"Hey, Tee-gan," Lennie's voice boomed. "Hey, hey, cousin Ab-by."

"Hey, Lennie," Teagan said. Lennie was a sweet six-year-old trapped in a plump, pimply eighteen-year-old body, and he was Aiden's best friend in the whole world. "Does Mom know you guys are playing Mario?"

"Dad said I could if I didn't sing too loud."

"Dad's home already?"

"Hey, choirboy," Abby said. "You still have that goochi-goochi I gave you?"

"
Tamagotchi.
" Aiden paused Mario and pulled the electronic pet out of his pocket. "I'm taking good care of it, see?"

"Hey!" Lennie squinted at the pixels on the tiny screen. "He's growing! Let me feed him, okay?"

"Okay." Aiden handed it to Lennie. "But you have to whisper. Dad said to be quiet because we have company. They're in the kitchen."

"Company?" Teagan asked.

Abby followed her through the door into the kitchen. It stretched across the whole back of the old house. They used half of it for food preparation and eating. The other half was an art studio. Teagan's mother was standing in the art-studio half with a woman in a purple pantsuit. A female water goblin leered out of the still-wet paint on the canvas before them, the strands of her thin hair plastered to her round face.

"You illustrate
children's
books?" The woman's head wagged disapprovingly.

"Write and illustrate." Aileen Wylltson turned to gaze at the woman.

The woman took a step back. "She's ... frightening."

Teagan wasn't quite sure whether the woman meant the painting or her mother. She would have given anything to have inherited her mother's intense amber eyes, ringed by subtle green, but the gene lottery had given her her father's dark brown eyes instead.

"Of course she's frightening," Mrs. Wylltson said. "She's Ginny Greenteeth. She drowns travelers in bogs."

Teagan's father was filling the teakettle at the sink. He smiled at the girls. "How was work, Rosebud?"

"Fine." Teagan tossed the bagged sweater at the laundry chute. Her father had taken both the doors off, upstairs and down, six months ago to refinish and seal the ancient wood. Now the openings gaped like a monster's maw, offering up basement breath and the occasional death rattle from their old washing machine. The sweater dropped from sight as her mother and the woman turned toward Teagan.

"Tea, you're home!" Mrs. Wylltson said. "Ms. Skinner, this is our daughter, Teagan, and her friend Abigail. Tea, this is Ms. Skinner from Social Services."

Ms. Skinner's glance flicked from Teagan to Abby, and her thin lips pressed together. She clearly did not approve of Smash Pad's fashion statement.

"Pleased to meet you," Teagan said.

"A teenage daughter!" Ms. Skinner's ginger eyebrows drew together. "You should consider her safety when deciding who you take into your home."

"We always take our children's safety into consideration," Mr. Wylltson assured her.

Ms. Skinner ignored him and studied Teagan. "How do
you
feel about your cousin Finn coming to live with you?" she asked.

Teagan blinked. "Who?"

TEA won't remember Finn," Mrs. Wylltson said quickly. "His family hasn't visited since she was a baby."

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Ms. Skinner?" Mr. Wylltson asked.

"I drink only herbal tea." Ms. Skinner held up her clipboard. "We are not finished with this interview, but I hesitate to continue in front of the children."

"What children?" Abby looked around.

Mr. Wylltson frowned at Abby and nodded toward the door. Teagan grabbed Abby's arm and dragged her out of the kitchen. She shut the door behind them, then motioned for Abby to follow her up the stairs.

"'A
teenage daughter!'
" Abby's imitation of Ms. Skinner's tone was perfect. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That harboring hormones is a crime," Teagan said. "Now, shh."

"What are we doing?" Abby whispered as Teagan sat down by the open mouth of the laundry chute in the second-floor hallway. "Shh," Teagan said again.

"You had no idea he was in town?" That was Ms. Skinner's voice.

Abby's mouth made a little O and she sat down to listen as well.

"My brother's family moved frequently. They followed the work wherever it took them."

"What kind of work would that be?"

"Odd jobs," Mrs. Wylltson said. "They did what they could do to get by."

"Irish Travelers." Ms. Skinner's voice twisted around the words as if they were rotten.

"The Mac Cumhaills are fine people," Teagan's mother said.

There was a snorting sound. Teagan couldn't tell for sure who had made it, but she could guess.

"He walked into a hospital with a broken arm?" That was Mr. Wylltson, trying to change the subject. "Is that how you ... got involved with him?"

"He was in our records," Ms. Skinner said. "A Finn Mac Cumhaill ran away from a foster home when he was twelve. When he showed up, the hospital contacted us. It's the same boy. If he'd waited a few more months, he'd have aged out of the system, and I wouldn't have to—"

"I'm sure your convenience was foremost in his mind when he went looking for help with a broken arm," Mrs. Wylltson said. "He gave them my name, didn't he? As a close relation."

"He didn't know your phone number or address. I'm the one who tracked you down. And you've had no contact with the family in years. I see from the guardianship petition that you've been institutionalized, Mrs. Wylltson. May I ask what for?"

"I had a mental breakdown," Teagan's mother said. "Four years ago."

"What a hag," Abby whispered. "That's none of her business, and—"

Teagan put her hand over Abby's mouth and scowled at her until her lips stopped moving.

Her mom had been coming home on the EL when she'd had her incident. She'd started screaming; shouting in a garbled, made-up language; punching and kicking at things that weren't there. Someone had called the cops.