By the time they had put together a dinner of leftovers and birthday cake, Amethyst found that she was exhausted. Miraculously, Little Am volunteered to do the dishes and then, while Amethyst sat in the den with her feet propped up, disappeared upstairs.
Half an hour later, just as she was about to doze off in the chair, Amethyst caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of her vision and looked up to see an angelic apparition descending the stairway in the foyer. She sat up and rubbed her weary eyes. She must be dreaming . . . or hallucinating. The figure floated down the stairs and into the den, settling itself into the chair opposite her own.
“I took a long bath,” the apparition said. “Found this nightgown in the dresser upstairs. It’s okay for me to borrow it, isn’t it?”
Amethyst shook her head to clear her mind. “Little Am?”
The girl shrugged. “Yeah?”
“You look so—so—”
“Go ahead and say it. Different.”
“A lot different. You look positively radiant.”
It was true. The child had shampooed her hair and pulled it back so that it no longer draped over her face like a shroud. Gone was the pasty makeup and black eyeliner. Every trace of the ghoul had disappeared, except the black fingernail polish. She looked young, fresh . . . and positively lovely. Her brown hair shone with coppery glints in the lamplight, and the wide, dark eyes dominated an unblemished face.
“Don’t make a big deal of it, all right?” Little Am said curtly. “I don’t have any clothes or makeup here—I had to do something.” She twisted in her chair.
“You look cool,” Amethyst said with a little laugh. “Way cool.”
Little Am giggled, and for the first time all day, she sounded like what she was—a teenage girl on the verge of young womanhood. A surge of pleasure and love rose up in Amethyst’s heart. This was her great-granddaughter, her namesake. The zombie had vanished. Maybe there was hope for the girl yet.
“I washed my underwear and left it to dry over the shower rod. Is that okay?”
“Of course. Did you find everything you need?”
“Everything but a blow-dryer. I guess I can do without one for a couple of days.” Am flung her legs over the arm of the chair and sighed. “Whew. This has been some day.”
“The best birthday I ever had.”
“Didja see Con’s face when you came out with that shotgun? I thought he was gonna pee in his pants.”
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“You bet.” Am nodded vigorously. “It’s about time he got what was coming to him.”
Amethyst frowned. “You know that’s not why I’m doing this, don’t you?”
The girl leaned forward. “Not so you can get back at Grandpa Con for what he’s trying to do to you?”
“Revenge is a poor motivation for any action,” Amethyst sighed. “God doesn’t put vengeance into human hands, and when we take it for ourselves—”
“I don’t believe in God,” Am interrupted.
“You don’t?” Here was a twist Amethyst hadn’t expected. “Didn’t Con and Mimsy teach you about God?”
“Yeah, well, they tried, sort of. Dropped me off at Sunday school when I was little. Went to church once in a while—Christmas and Easter, mostly. But it didn’t take.”
“What do you mean, it didn’t take?”
“All the God stuff. It was so . . . boring. And they sure don’t believe it themselves. Con’s god is his work, and Mimsy—well, I guess she’s her own god. The universe revolves around her, anyway.” She shook her head. “If I was God, I sure wouldn’t want to listen to that whining all the time.”
Amethyst stifled a laugh. The girl had a point about Mimsy’s constant shrieking. But her heart sank within her to realize that Little Am was growing up without any spiritual foundation.
“Tell me what you think about God,” she ventured.
The girl rolled her eyes, and for a moment the zombie appeared again. Then her expression cleared, and she looked straight into Amethyst’s face. “I told you, I don’t believe in God. I’m an atheist.” She said the word proudly, as if it were a major accomplishment.
“It takes a lot of faith to be an atheist,” Amethyst said.
Little Am frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Everybody needs some kind of faith to live by,” she answered. “Faith in God, or faith in yourself. Faith in fate or destiny. I’d like to hear about this God you claim not to believe in.”
“You mean like what I was taught in Sunday school?”
“Or what you learned from your grandparents. Whatever you’d like to tell me.”
Am thought about this for a minute and then said, “Okay. Well, God is this big dude on a throne in heaven—a really, really old geezer. He says he loves everybody, but then you find out it’s only the good people he loves—you know, preachers and nuns, people who do right, go to church all the time, that sort of thing. If you get out of line—wham! You’re done for. Punished. Headed for hell.” She paused. “Con and Mimsy say they believe in God, but they don’t much act like it.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. God hates teenagers.”
Amethyst sat back in her chair. “Really?”
“Well, sure. God—if there is a God, and like I said, I don’t believe there is—can’t stand loud music and stuff. Or sex. Especially sex. God hates sex.”
“That’s odd. I thought God started the idea in the first place.”
The girl gave Amethyst a curious look. “You sure don’t talk like you’re ninety-three.”
“I’ll consider that a compliment. Go on.”
“I’m done, I guess. Now you’re going to try to convince me I’m wrong, right?”
“No.”
“You’re not?”
“Why should I? If the Almighty really is like the deity you describe, I wouldn’t want to believe in him either.”
“But you do believe. You said so.”
“I believe in God, but not in the god you’re describing.”
“So what other kind is there?” Just a hint of a sneer crept into the girl’s voice.
Amethyst smiled. “A God who is loving and just and fair. A God who doesn’t hate teenagers or sex or rock music. A God who cares deeply about the things that affect our lives.”
“Like you trying to hang on to this old house?”
“Yes, I think God cares about that. But for me, there’s a lot more at stake in this house than just a valuable piece of real estate and a collection of antique furniture. Those are just possessions. What’s more important to me is the heritage this house represents—our family’s history, and our family’s faith.”
Little Am leaned forward, and a glimmer of interest illuminated her dark eyes. “You mean like stories of stuff that happened here?” She gazed around into the darkened corners of the room. “Murders and ghosts and stuff like that?”
“Not ghosts, exactly, but stuff like that, yes.” Amethyst peered at her great-granddaughter’s face. “Didn’t Conrad ever tell you about the history of this house?”
“He never told me anything except to turn the music down.”
Amethyst laughed. “And you really want to hear this? It’s rather a long story.”
Little Am gave a shrug. “Hey, it’s only eight o’clock. You don’t have a TV. The doors are locked, and I’m a hostage. What else am I gonna do?”
“Maybe . . .,” Amethyst mused. “Maybe it would help you understand why this house is so important to me—and to you.”
“Go for it.”
Amethyst took a deep breath and settled back into her chair. “Well, it all began right here, in this very room, almost exactly a hundred and forty years ago. . . .”