Chapter 3

 

Saturday

 

Abby was up early the next morning, even though it was Saturday. Getting up and starting her day was better than lying in bed and worrying about what she was doing with her life. She had to admit she was being a little obsessive, but she really wanted something to do with herself. Something important, something that mattered to her, and maybe to other people. Nobody was pushing her—nobody but herself. Ned was happy to support her, and he wasn’t particularly materialistic anyway. She was lucky, she knew, but at the same time she felt kind of embarrassed. She had a brain. She had professional experience. She wanted to use them, not just pick wallpaper patterns and try out new recipes.

Ned noticed that she was in a mood, one that she couldn’t even quite define. “What’s up?” he asked as he settled at the kitchen table with his coffee and the newspaper.

“I feel like a parasite.” She held up a hand before Ned could protest. “I know, you’re happy with the way things are, and I am too, most of the time. But I feel useless. I want to be doing something, not just dabbling in this psychic stuff.”

“You want to give that up?” he asked, looking surprised.

“No, not at all. But the key word was dabble. It’s not just a hobby. It could be important to a lot of people, in different ways. And it’s challenging, since there are so many people who think it’s fake or nonsense, or who believe that people who claim to be psychic are simply crazy. And I can understand that—we both know there are fakes, and there are people whose brains aren’t quite wired right and maybe they hallucinate or hear voices. And historically there have been lots of supposedly intelligent people who believed in spiritualism and the like.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Abby, but what do you want to do about it?”

“That’s what I don’t know!” she said, frustrated. “Look, we—you and I—have an extraordinary opportunity to look into all this rationally, scientifically. But I feel like I’m dashing around following up one interesting path after another, and I want to pick one and stick to it. We’ve already kind of divided our research into science—your territory—and the historic and intuitive and less easily defined areas—my turf. But that still leaves a lot of questions to be answered. And I guess that’s why I’m excited about looking at autism, to see if there’s some way to forge a connection with people who have trouble communicating with most people, if I decide to focus on autistic people.”

“I agree. It’s worth taking a serious look at, and you’re uniquely qualified.”

“Thank you. I didn’t doubt that you’d be supportive. I need to interact with them, and I don’t see how to do that. It’s hard enough to find people who’ll admit to any kind of possible psychic ability. How do I find people—adults or children—who have what is usually considered at best an abnormality, and at worst a sickness, and then try to find that invisible connection?”

“You want my opinion?”

“Of course I do.”

“I’d say, approach it systematically. Learn as much as you can about different aspects, online or in libraries. Then find some people—scientists, researchers, counselors, whatever—whose opinions seem trustworthy, and talk to them. You don’t have to tell them about the psychic side right away. Say you’re thinking of going back to school and looking at different fields of study, and you’d be interested in autism. Bottom line, find out as much as you can up front and then sit back and review what you’ve learned. Then you can make a plan.”

“You know, you’re right. Obviously you’re a scientist. I’m not. Maybe I could volunteer in a classroom as an observer or something. But say I can connect—then what do I do? It’s still a big leap to trying to forge a psychic link with autistic people and finding a way to make it work consistently with a broad spectrum of people.”

“True. How about this: think big but start small. Maybe we could start our own school.”

Well, that’s certainly a big leap, Abby thought. “That isn’t easy, is it? I mean, the state had guidelines and requirements, and I’m sure the medical profession would stick their nose in if we focus on one particular, well, ability. Apart from the fact that it would cost money, and we’d need staff to manage it.”

“Hey, just fantasize, will you? What would you like to see? How big? Age limitations? What kind of staff? Live-in or day students? Medical faculty? Affiliations with any of the health or professional organizations in the greater Boston area? What range of students? From near normal—I know that’s a poor word to use—to severely impaired?”

Abby held up her hand again. “Stop! Please. These are all good points, and I love your enthusiasm. Maybe it’s a good idea, but that would mean research into the practical side of setting up an institution. For-profit? Nonprofit? Certifications? Hiring staff. And that’s just the start. To be honest, I’m not sure I want to be an administrator.”

Ned answered quickly. “So hire a business manager who knows this kind of stuff. The position could be short term, like an educational consultant, but we could pay enough to make it appealing. Or two people, to cover the medical and the business sides. Term appointment, no promises, flat fee.”

Abby found herself grinning, even though her head was spinning. “Ned, the way your mind works continues to amaze me. You’ve just created a business plan out of thin air. But this is a lot to digest. You’re right—I need to think bigger. I can’t go creeping around looking for people who might have this psychic ability, one by one. It’s not efficient. But I’ll have to readjust my perspective just a bit. Are you going to be part of this?”

“It depends. You said you wanted something important to do, something that mattered to you. This can be your project. I’ll help if you want me to, but I’m the science guy, remember? You’re the teacher slash fundraiser—you can make a credible presentation. Of course I can provide whatever funds you need for the start-up. But at some point this hypothetical organization will have to be self-supporting, or no one will take it seriously.”

“Got it. So I’ll go back to doing research. What else is on the calendar?”

“Ours or the rest of the world’s?”

“Let’s start with ours. Do we have a plan for Thanksgiving?”

“Uh, not officially. My family doesn’t make a big thing about it—whoever wants to come to dinner is welcome. Or we could host it here, if you’re up for that.”

Abby looked around the kitchen and sighed inwardly. “Well, at least everything in the kitchen works. The dining room is pretty shabby, and I don’t know if we have enough chairs . . .”

“That sounds kind of like a ‘no.’”

“I guess so. Maybe we can host it next year? Things should look better by then.”

“What about your parents? Will they expect to see you—us—here or at their place?”

Abby felt a stab of guilt. “I haven’t even thought that far. We’ve both been so busy that I kind of lost sight of Thanksgiving.”

“Didn’t you have any ancestors in Plymouth?”

“I think so, but I haven’t had time to look at the family tree lately—at least, not past the ancestors in this neighborhood. And Salem, of course. Plymouth is on my to-do list.”

Ned smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, that kind of research is never finished. Don’t worry—those ancestors will wait.”

“I should talk to your mother about this, uh, Big Idea. She’s pretty much in touch with the local community, and she knows a lot of people. I don’t want to go charging off in any one direction and then find out that it’s been done or it’s failed in the past.”

“There’s no rush, Abby.”

“I now—it’s just that I feel impatient. Are you still thinking about that year-end award thing at the school?”

“Yes, I guess. It would give confirmation about Ellie’s new friend, and might turn up a few other kids. I’ve never spent a lot of time with a group of children, so maybe I’ve missed something obvious. But this is highly unscientific—more like taking a pool of thirty or so kids and saying ‘yes, no, maybe’ about each one. Still, it’s a start.”

“Makes sense to me. So, it’s Saturday. What do we need to do? How far did you get with clearing out the basement?”

“Not as far as I’d hoped. I kept getting sidetracked by the things I found. Old bottles stashed in corners. Metal tools that I think were used to poke coal around in the furnace when it still burned coal. What look like the remains of a storage pantry for preserves or something. And a lot of dirt.”

“I’m happy to help, unless that means there’ll be two of us poking in dark corners and pulling out rusty junk, and then trying to figure out what the heck it was. How come you never did this before?”

“I was busy, I guess. I bought the house and did what was necessary to make it livable, but that was as far as I got. Clearly I was waiting for a woman’s touch to make aesthetic improvements.”

“I don’t know whether I should be flattered or insulted. I’m happy to pull my weight, but I’m not going to play the helpless lady of the house and spend my days choosing wallpaper and tile. But I do think we need to step up the renovations, if we’re going to jump into a new project.”

“Good point. How about this? We do a detailed walk-through of the house and make a list of things we think should be done, and then we prioritize those and make some plans.”

“Sounds good in theory. Can I hold you to it? Because I don’t want to be living in a construction zone forever.”

“I’m not arguing. Today or tomorrow?”

“Let’s start fresh tomorrow. We’ve got to get some groceries and stuff like that today. Unless you want to keep working on the cellar?”

“We dig around the cellar as long as there’s light, and then we can get cleaned up and do the food shopping?”

“That’ll work.”

Abby and Ned spent a happy few hours rooting around in the basement. It was amazing to her what past occupants of the house had kept, or more likely, simply not bothered to throw away. Abby reminded herself to put together the ownership history of the place, which she was pretty sure she could do online. Had the earlier owners been sentimental, thrifty or just lazy? Hard to say now. She’d never thought about it before, but having so much space meant you could just pitch your junk into the basement and forget about it. In a smaller place you didn’t have that luxury.

“Uh, what’s this?” Abby asked, pulling out a rusty box-shaped object and holding it up for Ned’s inspection.

“Looks like an old floor grate for the heating system. You can put that in the ‘toss’ pile.”

A few minutes later, Abby said, “How about this? What is it?” She handed Ned a curved narrow metal object about six inches long.

He turned it over in his hands. “There’s a bit of wood sticking out of the end. I’m going to guess it was either a shepherd’s crook for very small sheep or an umbrella handle.”

“I’ll go with the umbrella idea. Wonder what the rest of it would have looked like?”

“Probably silk,” Ned suggested. “It looks like it predates the invention of synthetic materials.”

“Nice. Ooh, look, a fork!” Abby exclaimed.

“Wonder how that got lost? But it’s not silver.”

“I don’t care,” Abby protested. “It’s something the prior residents ate with. That makes it kind of personal. Ned, apart from the people in the cemetery out back, you never sensed any connection to the people who lived here, did you?”

He shook his head. “No. But it’s impossible to be related to everybody in Massachusetts.”

“So you bought the place because you liked it?”

“Yes, plus it was in a convenient location, and the price was right. But I did like it on first sight. What about you? No family here?”

“Not that I’ve noticed in the house. It’s just as well—I’d hate to feel my relatives were here watching us all the time.”

“What about Halloween? It seems that either we have a lot of relatives hanging around, or maybe when spirits gather, they kind of amplify each other.”

“I haven’t really decided what I believe. Ellie saw them, you saw them, I saw them. So there must be some kind of connection to us. If this thing is random, we’d be swamped with spirits all the time. Unless, of course, they all get a free pass for Halloween. Have you seen anybody since?”

“I don’t think so,” Ned told her. “And I’m not getting any vibes from all the junk I’ve been handling.”

“Good to know. But I find it hard to believe that anyone would leave a strong imprint on broken furnace parts. By the way, how are we getting rid of all this stuff? So far all we’ve done is make a big pile,” Abby pointed out.

“I’ll check the trash and recycling guidelines. Worst case, we can rent a Dumpster and pay someone to haul it away.”

“Just as long as I don’t have to trek it all to the dump. Is there a dump?”

“Uh, I don’t know? I’ve never looked for one.”

“How many years have you lived here, Ned Newhall?”

“A few. But I’ve never cleaned out all this stuff, obviously.”

“Well, let’s get this over with,” Abby said firmly.

By late afternoon the corners were clear, and all the useless broken junk was in a large pile near the cellar hatch that led to the outside. “Don’t you feel better now that this is done?” Abby asked.

“I guess,” Ned replied. “I also feel grimy, greasy and sweaty. Time for a shower. Want to join me?”

“Definitely.”