Everything is different at night. Not looks different, is different. Nieve knew this because she’d been out late exactly when she wasn’t supposed to be, seeing and feeling and breathing it in. The difference. It was because of them that this was so, and because of them that she knew it.
There had been signs, and although she hadn’t taken them as such, she hadn’t completely dismissed them either. Superstition was Gran’s department. Nieve was more of a let’s-wait-and-see person, more of a let’s-not-jump-to-conclusions person. In the pond behind her house she’d seen something she couldn’t identify. It was long and black and moved sinuously in the water like a long scarf swirling around and around and up and down. She got down on her hands and knees to look at it . . . it moved as one, but it was many. Hundreds of black fry all moving in concert, as if following a single thought. Little fishes, she said to herself, standing up and brushing the mud off her knees. Practicing their synchronized swimming. Not so strange, really. Although she had to admit that she’d never seen them in the pond before.
What else? Spiders. Nieve had nothing against spiders. She liked them very much in fact. A spider here, a spider there, interesting. But lately there had been spiders here there everywhere . . . dangling from Nieve’s toothbrush when she raised it up to brush her teeth before bed, scrambling out of her pockets when she slid in her hand to retrieve a piece of string or a marble, dropping on her head from the beams in the ceiling when she zoomed by underneath. Spiders, spiders, spiders, all sizes, all kinds. Gran said that it was bad luck to kill a spider, and Nieve would never have done that anyway, bad luck or no. So she was being extra careful not to squash any by mistake. This required some cautious walking, and running (her favorite form of locomotion), and much paying attention to tiny things that skittered by.
She saw a tiny thing skitter by that was NOT a spider. It looked more like an elongated spider’s shadow. But as shadows don’t run free on their own, she didn’t want to think that it was. That would be jumping to conclusions.
Three other happenings.
One: Nieve’s big, orange cat, Mr. Mustard Seed, shot through the door one morning with his fur sticking out all over as though he’d been electrified. He didn’t stop for his usual pat-pat on the head, or Nieve’s cheery greeting, or, even more unusual, for his breakfast (Mr. Mustard Seed never missed breakfast). He ran straight to his hideout, an old breadbox that was stored in the deepest darkest farthest part of the basement, and wouldn’t come out. Nieve eventually brought him a bagful of cat snacks, which she poured into the breadbox after shooing away a couple of spiders. They scurried away over the lid. (In the deepest darkest farthest part of the basement one expects to encounter a few spiders.) Mr. Mustard Seed thanked her by mewing once, quietly and tremulously.
Two: Her parents’ business had suddenly picked up. Not a bad thing in itself, as it brought some decent desserts into the house. And a new, nifty, lime green shirt for Nieve. Not that she overvalued trendy clothes and name-brand runners and all that, but the odd cool item was useful, even necessary. She could hold her head up in school and not be marked for ridicule as some unfortunate kids were. When Alicia Overbury cooed, Oooooooh, I liiiiikkkke your shiiiiiirt, Nieve responded by nodding curtly and saying, Yeah, thanks, I like it, too.
So the problem with her parents’ new popularity had more to do with the nature of their employment itself. They were professional sympathizers. Their business ad went like this:
Feeling troubled, feeling low,
Lost your dog, lost your job,
Don’t know which way to go?
Need a hand to hold, or a Tissue for your nose?
A pat on the back, a hug, a rose?
Call Weepers & Co.
Friends-in-Need Support Services.
They had a sliding pay scale with hugs ranging from 50 cents to a dollar and up, depending on how long they lasted, and with pats on the back and shoulder squeezes costing 20 cents each. Sympathetic murmurs were a bargain, although copious tears and custom-designed indignation on the client’s behalf were pricey.
Nieve and Gran – who were a lot alike in many ways, except for the superstitions – both thought that this was a really dumb line of work. Although there was clearly a call for it, and lately there seemed to be an overwhelming call for it. That was the troubling thing. I wonder why more and more people are unhappy? Nieve thought, tucking into the fancy chocolate torte that her dad, Sutton, had brought back from the city. She felt pretty good herself . . . except for a little niggling uneasiness crawling around in the pit of her stomach. And it wasn’t from eating too much rich dessert, even though she had.
“Dad,” she said. “I’m an eensy bit worried.”
“Hey, nothing to worry about, En.” Sutton poured himself a coffee, while wiping the tears from his face with his shirt sleeve. (He’d been rehearsing for an important sympathy gig.) “Like the torte?”
“Yeah!”
“Great,” he said, and left the kitchen.
Given their profession, Nieve’s parents were remarkably unsympathetic on the homefront, but being understanding and lovey-dovey could get tiresome, she reasoned, especially if one had to dish it out all day long.
Three: This was the worst of all. The very worst. It had happened to Doctor Morys, who was the funniest, smartest, nicest man in town, and who had delivered all the babies for the past fifty years, including Nieve and her parents, and all of Nieve’s friends and their parents. She got fidgety and upset just thinking about it, but she had to think about it because it wasn’t right. It was fishy. Not that she’d connected it up with all the other not-right things that seemed to be happening. Not exactly.
“He was old,” said Alicia Overbury cooly. “I wonder what the new doctor will be like? Dreeeeamy, I bet.”
“Dreamy?” Who’d want that, Nieve thought? You might go to him with a stomach ache (like the kind she had right now) and he’d give you the wrong medicine. “We might not even get another doctor. Besides, Dr. Morys isn’t that old.”
“Collapsed?” said Gran, when Nieve ran up the hill to tell her. “James?”
“Right in the middle of telling a joke,” Nieve nodded. “The one about why ducks fly south to Florida every year. Rob Cooper had already started groaning because that one’s so corny, and then all at once Dr. Morys got this puzzled look on his face and reached out with one hand like he was grabbing at something and then he fell down. That’s what Rob said.”
“He’s . . . ?”
“Alive, but in a coma. Mayor Mary rushed him to the city in the ambulance.” The town ambulance was actually an old station wagon.
“Jim.” Gran sat down very slowly at the kitchen table. “Jimmy.” Every time she said Dr. Morys’ name it got younger and fonder. He and Gran were great friends and had been for years. Although neither of them were old, Nieve thought, not dying old.
Gran was wearing her dress inside-out. This wasn’t because she was dotty, or ‘daft,’ as she might say. She was as sharp as anything, and even laughed about the superstitions, of which the inside-out dress was one. It was meant to ward off harm, as was the blue woolen thread she wore tied around her wrist, and the acorn she carried in her pocket. “It’s more fun to believe in these foolish freets than not,” she’d often said to Nieve. “Habits leftover from the Old Country, pet.” She always smiled when she said it, amused at herself but content nonetheless with her contrary cast of mind. “They’re part of our family history, you mustn’t forget.”
When Nieve had arrived at Gran’s to tell her what had happened, she paused before leaping over the broom that lay across the threshold of the cottage. She liked leaping over it when she came to visit, but had to wonder if Gran’s precautions would stop bad luck from entering. The broom didn’t stop bad news. News that she herself was bringing.
Gran wiped her eyes with her sleeve, as Sutton had done, but her tears weren’t a rehearsal. Nieve felt her own eyes well up. She said, “Artichoke’s gone, too. He ran off.”
Artichoke was Dr. Morys’ dog, a black lab who seemed to wag his whole body when he wagged his tail, so happy he was to see you.
“Oh, Nieve. ”
A fat black spider with red spots on its abdomen dashed across Gran’s oak table and wedged itself into the crack where the leaf fit when she needed a bigger table for company. They both watched it go, watched it squeeze itself into the crack and disappear.
Gran then raised her eyes to meet Nieve’s, eyes of the very same seer-blue shade, and said, “They’re coming, you know.”
And they did.