The Family Plot (11 page)

Slowly, she set her own light down and crouched beside him. “What have you got there?”

“Just an old trunk,” he whispered.

“That's … that's what it looks like.” Inside she saw folded items, discolored fabric. Scattered dominos that were yellowed and cracked, and a single shoe that was sized for a baby, or a large doll. “So … what's wrong?”

With a rasp, he said, “Nothing.”

“You're a liar—and a shitty one, at that. What'd you find?” She leaned past him and put her hands in the trunk, sifting through its contents with her fingers. The other shoe turned up, as well as some vintage children's books, their cardboard backs gone soft from the years of damp. “It's just a bunch of kid's stuff.”

The temperature had fallen ten degrees in the last hour, but Gabe was sweating. “No creepy dolls, or anything.” He sniffled and rubbed at his nose to keep from sneezing. “I don't know what's in here. I don't know what he…”

“He?”

Gabe looked over his shoulder, and held still long enough to listen for footsteps—on the ladder, or across the rickety attic floor. “The kid. This is his stuff, I guess. He wanted to show me something.”

“There was a kid up here? No, don't you tell me that; I won't believe it for a second, and whoever this trunk belonged to…” Her fingers crawled through the blankets, the nightshirts, the toys as fragile as bird bones. “He's been dead since before you were born.”

She was rambling, and she knew it. She was rambling because she already knew what Gabe meant, before he could say it outright. Her hand knocked against something solid, something that crackled between her fingers. She lifted it up into the light: a book with tattered black pages, loosely bound. The pages were flaking, shedding like leaves.

Gabe nodded earnestly, but said nothing. Now they heard feet on the ladder, and a way-too-loud voice rising up into the eerie space.

“Where the hell
are
you two? Hey! Is it … is it safe up there? Is it…” Bobby gave up on an answer and threw himself over the lip anyway. Dahlia heard him land with a thud, hard enough to send splinters raining down below, tinkling as light as confetti and ash. “I see your light. I'm coming your way.”

“We're over here, Dad,” Gabe called out, but his eyes were still locked to Dahlia's. His pupils were the size of the acorns that were scattered all over the porch, clogging up the gutters.

She wanted to ask him what he'd seen. No, she
didn't
want to ask him what he'd seen.

Nothing felt like the right thing to do, so she looked down at the book she'd found instead. Its covers were leather, and the metal rings that held its pages together had rusted away to powder. Down in the trunk, a lacy baptism dress had red, round stains left behind by the book. Another crumpled wad of fabric was stashed beneath it. She began to unfold it, smooth it, touch the long lines of lace that were stitched down the front, but Bobby crashed the scene—moving heavy and hard, like the climb up the ladder had winded him.

“What the hell, Gabe? I expect
her
to ignore me, but you?”

“I didn't ignore you. I told you I was over here.”

“Not until I was already up the ladder. Jesus Christ,” he swore. He put his hands on his hips and glared down at them both.

Dahlia dusted off the book with the back of her hand. She muttered, “No, he said something before that. So did I. Must be a trick with the acoustics in here. I couldn't hear him either, not at first.”

“Really? You want to blame the acoustics?”

“See? You heard me fine, this time. It's something weird about all the junk, and the metal roof, and the rain. Don't make a mountain out of it. Hey, look at this, huh? Looks like something we would've found on Vine Street.”

He was on the verge of toppling into a full-on grown-man sulk, but he held it at bay long enough to ask, “What is it?”

“A family album. Photos, and…” She flipped it open. It fell open to a page with a birth certificate so faded that the lantern blanched it beyond all reading. “Papers, and the like.”

“Nothing we can sell,” he said, still teetering on that edge. “Nothing valuable.”

“Not to us, no. But Augusta Withrow might want it. And it's … interesting, don't you think? I bet there's pictures of the house in here, before it looked like … like it does now. Pictures of the family, and all that. Gabe found it,” she said, trying to pull him back around again. For his son's sake. Sometimes if you could just get him talking, or listening, and you did it fast enough—he'd forget whatever had pissed him off. “He found this trunk. Some of these toys might be worth something, and the dominos … the dominos are a nice set. Maybe we'll find the tin they came in. They might even be real ivory.”

“But we can't sell real ivory,” he argued without conviction.

“There are laws about it, but there are exceptions for antiques. I don't know all the ins and outs. Brad probably does. Dad
definitely
does.”

Bobby took a deep breath, and let out a sigh that deflated the worst of his irritation. He put his hands on his hips, letting the LED lantern dangle against his thigh, so the light hit both Dahlia and Gabe square in the face. They squinted hard at him when he said, “Ivory's good, then. That's something.”

Behind him, beyond the pattering pings of small droplets hitting the roof, a low grumble of thunder rolled over the mountain. No one saw the lightning that preceded it, but another faint, brief, violent glow was followed by a rumble some five or six seconds later.

Dahlia said, “Might get worse out there, before it gets better.”

“Good thing we're all set up for camping,” Gabe said.

“And it's mostly dry in here,” his dad added.

“Yeah, but … I don't want to stay.” The kid stood up and dusted his hands on his sweater, then his pants. He closed the trunk lid. “We ought to come back tomorrow, when the sun's up. Even if it's still storming, it'll be easier to see. It's hard, with just these stupid lanterns.”

“We'll still need the lanterns tomorrow.”

“I know, Dad. But you know what I mean.”

“What's the matter with you, all of a sudden? You were all gung ho to come kicking around up here, and now you're itching to leave? When did you get so chickenshit about working in the dark?”

Dahlia jumped in again, hoping it wasn't too late. “He's right. It's hard to see anything up here with just the LEDs. Everything's either too bright or too dark. Makes the whole place look…” She almost didn't say it. “… haunted.”

Bobby waved his hands like Bela Lugosi. “
Oooh.
There it is. You two are scared of ghosts.”

Dahlia shrugged, stuffed the photo album under her arm, and started walking back to the ladder. “Put away the jazz hands, dumbass. I'm not too scared of ghosts, but I have a healthy respect for them. That's just common sense, right there. If you see dead people running around and you're all, ‘Whatever,' then there is something
seriously
wrong with you.”

Gabe scrambled to his feet, and fell into step behind her. “Who said anything about ghosts?”

His father brought up the rear. “I seen a ghost once.”

Dahlia reached the ladder, turned around, and descended, one echoing metal rung at a time. “Oh God, don't tell him that story about the Walmart.”

“I
will
tell him the story about the Walmart, if I damn well please.”

“Can it wait until we're back in the house?” Gabe paused until Dahlia reached the floor, then climbed down behind her.

She laughed so faintly that it came out her nose like a sigh. “Don't worry, kid. You won't need all the lights on. It's a dumb story, and it's not scary.”

“Unless you believe it,” Bobby insisted from the loft.

“You won't believe it,” she assured Gabe.

But the look on his face said maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was in the mood to believe all kinds of dumb stories, bless his heart. She guessed that made two of them.

 

5

T
HEY CLOSED UP
the carriage house and sprinted back to the big house, arriving at the porch damp, but none the worse for wear. Brad had fallen asleep, as promised, but he awakened with a start when they tumbled inside and shut the door against the weather. The big chandelier (no, it was a pendant) was lit above him, and the dusty bulbs cast a warm yellow light that wasn't as bright as the lanterns, but was much more comforting. Dahlia liked the old-fashioned feel of it, how it was almost as flattering as candlelight … to people and derelict houses, and everything else.

It was also nearly as hot as candlelight.

“What's that smell?” Gabe asked with a wrinkled nose.

“The lights,” she told him. “The bulbs got hot, and now they're burning off the dust.” And dead bugs, and termite shit, and everything else. It was a sour smell, with a top note of old ashes and scorched feathers.

“Will it start a fire?”

“I doubt it. Hey, Brad?”

He saluted from his nest of sleeping bags. “Yes ma'am?”

“You all right?”

“I'm even more sore than I was an hour ago, but I'll survive. Did y'all find anything cool?” He rose to a seated position, and rested his forearms atop his knees.

Gabe said, “Not really,” and went to the kitchen. They heard the fridge open and shut, and the peeling pop of a soda being opened.

But Bobby did a full 180 and valiantly corrected him. “The kid found a trunk of old baby stuff, full of toys and books. Dahl thinks the domino set is ivory, so that's a good score. Otherwise it's kind of a wreck up there. We'll get a better look in the morning, when there's more light to go around. For now, you can stick a fork in me, because I'm
done.
”

Dahlia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Wait until morning. Sounds like a good idea; I wonder whose it was.”

“Who cares? We found some good shit at the end of the day, and now we can call it. Hey, what time is it?” he asked.

“Late enough to relax.”

“Late?” her cousin laughed. “The bars have barely opened. What is it, maybe nine o'clock?”

“We aren't here to barhop, Bobby. Let's get settled in, take our showers, and get familiar with the house.”

“Why?” He shook himself out of his wet jacket and went digging around in his duffel for something dry. “Like you said, we're done for the day. You don't need me anymore, and I need a drink. And some alone time.”

“Don't do it,” Dahlia warned him.

“Or what? You'll fire me? I'm off the clock.”

“No one's off the clock until the job is finished.
You
won't be off the clock until Friday.”

He found a thick plaid flannel and shoved his arms inside it. “I've been up since dawn, driving and digging around in vintage garbage ever since. I deserve a beer.”

“Then go buy a six-pack and bring it back,” Gabe suggested anxiously from the dining area.

“Naw, I've had just about enough social time with you people tonight.” Straightening his collar, he felt around in his pocket for the keys to the truck. “Nothing personal.”

Brad watched them, his head bobbing back and forth like a cat's at a tennis match.

“But you were going to tell me your ghost story…” Gabe prompted.

“Later,” Bobby said on his way out. “Or just ask Dahlia. She tells it better, anyway.”

The door clapped shut behind him, and Gabe looked helpless, standing there with a cherry 7Up fizzing in his hand. He looked to Dahlia like she ought to say something, or do something—like
somebody
ought to, and she was the nearest adult.

“You're going to let him take the truck? Uncle Chuck'll kill him if he wrecks it, and it's wet out there … and dark … and he's going drinking.”

“You'd rather I wrestle him to the ground and take the keys?”

“I could do it. Maybe I should've tried.”

She shook her head and sighed. “Baby, that's not your job.” She muttered the rest, knowing they could hear her. “He's an accomplished drunk, and he knows what he's doing. Oh well. I should've guessed he'd take off first chance he got.”

Brad finally cleared his throat and raised his hand. He raised a couple of fingers, anyway. “Are you sure? The truck has all today's stuff in it…”

“Goddammit, I should've told him to take mine. Mine's still empty, so we wouldn't be out a day's work and all that loot if he trashed it.” Before Brad could add anything else, she said, “But he's not going far. There are half a dozen bars between here and the interstate, and that's not three miles, as the crow flies. I know neither one of you likes it, and I don't like it either—but it was either let him leave, or fire him and let him hitchhike home.”

“You
are
the boss,” Brad reminded her.

“And these are family politics,” she snapped back. “If I fire him on the first night, he'll go crying to my daddy, and it'll be my word against his. Dad will believe me, but he's soft, and it won't matter—he'll give Bobby his job back, and act like nothing happened. From then on out, Bob'll be fucking insufferable, because he'll know for a fact that I can't touch him.” She ran her hands through her hair, and leaned against the arched entryway that separated the foyer from the living area. “So long as we all pretend, he might behave himself and get a little work done during daylight hours. If he doesn't, and he blows our timeline, then Dad might see reason and cut him loose for real. It's as close to a win-win as we're gonna get.”

Carefully, Gabe asked, “Is that what you want? For Uncle Chuck to cut him loose?”

Shit. “Yes. No. Sometimes. Honestly, it might be good for him, in the long run. It might be the kick in the pants he needs. But you shouldn't worry about it, one way or the other,” she assured Gabe quickly. “You're a good worker, and you've always got a job with us. You won't go homeless or hungry. We'll see to that.”