Chapter Seven

Jeremy wasn’t there when I awoke. Enveloped in a sleepy fog, I glanced at his empty sleeping bag, afraid to think of anything else. It was chilly in the house and I crawled out of my cocoon, shivering, and went to look for him. We’d both slept in our clothes and mine felt damp against my skin.

I heard a suspicious shuffling above me. As I climbed the stairs I told myself I was silly to worry. I couldn’t keep Jeremy by my side every moment of the day, we couldn’t live like that. There wasn’t anyone upstairs. I returned to the first floor.

“Jeremy, is that you?”

The house seemed so strange all of a sudden. My nose was runny and I wiped it with the back of my hand. How many weeks, months before this tomb for old memories and spirits became a real home? I was beginning to have doubts this house could ever be free of its remnants.

“Jeremy!”

“Here, Mom!”

He was lounging at the end of the front porch, his feet dangling over the edge of the rotted railing, a left-over piece of chicken half way to his mouth. He turned to wave it at me.

“This porch is neat, huh? We’ve never had a porch before. So I’m enjoying the morning. It’s nice out.”

I could hear the birds chirping in chorus around us. The sky was a cloudless blue, the sun a bright orb warming the earth. It was hard to believe three days ago it’d been snowing and now it was spring.

“You were so wiped out, Mom, I tip-toed out so I wouldn’t wake you.” He gnawed at the chicken.

“I was tired.” I pulled him off the railing. “If we’re going to sit out here, let’s spread a blanket and sit where we can’t fall off. I don’t want you splitting your skull. Hear?” I peered down at the drop and the concrete and stairs below.

“Yes, Mom.” He nodded, crossing his legs and squatting on the floor. “You worry too much. I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can.” I didn’t tell him he was all I had. Or say I was afraid of losing him. I was at the railing taking in gulps of clean morning air. The place was so beautiful. There was the strong scent of rain. It smelled like my childhood. Nothing bad could happen to us here in grandmother’s house, I told myself. Everything was going to be okay. In the April sunlight I could believe in anything, even fairy tales.

In that moment, oh, how I wanted to live in her house, in the town I’d once loved and eventually feared. I knew the place was lulling me into a false sense of security but I couldn’t help it. I kept thinking, this is our new beginning and nothing is going to steal it from us. We’ll manage somehow. No faceless, soulless entity in the distant woods was going to chase us away. We were staying.

“It’s late. We’ve got work to do.” I smiled at the sun, shading my eyes. He thought I hadn’t seen him wipe his greasy fingers on his blue jeans. “Ready to work or do you want more to eat?”

“No. I’m full now.” He grinned. “What do we do today?”

“Well, I guess what we should do is go and enroll you in the neighborhood grade school.” He didn’t see the glint in my eye.

“Are you kidding? It’s Sunday.” He stood there defiantly. He had no sense of humor, Jonathan’s child.

“Easy.” I put up my hand. “Can’t take a joke?”

“Sure.”

“Though it’s something we should take care of this week.”

“Mom? Let’s face it, you need help here and what’s a few days more anyway? Didn’t I make A’s and B’s last time?” His look was a plea.

“No, a few more days couldn’t hurt anything, you’re right.”

“Good. Let’s go paint the house.” Everything else was forgotten and he ran ahead to the car to get the supplies from the trunk. I found I wasn’t very hungry.

I tied a scarf over my hair and dug out the paint brushes. We brought in water from the pump to scrub down the walls first. Good thing the water was clear and not some shade of brown.

By the time we were working on the third wall in the living room, paint was splattered on the sheets I’d spread over the floors and on us. There was probably more paint on my skin than on the walls. I fell to the job with relish. It helped me forget the doubts squirming around in my head.

“Mom, there’s someone at the door,” Jeremy yelled and went to answer it.

It was the lawyer.

“I saw the car outside and suspected it was either you or else a very gutsy burglar. I’m Clarence Largo.” He was a small man. When I stood up and clasped his offered hand, I towered at least six inches over his silvery white head. He had one of those serious, narrow faces typical of an old-time lawyer. No laugh lines, yet his gray eyes shone with intelligent humor.

“I’m Sarah Towers.” I smiled, aware of the paint cracking on my face. He bobbed his head, looking me over first and then my son. He finally smiled and reached out to pat Jeremy’s head.

“This is my son, Jeremy,” I added.

He looked past us to the now white walls. “I gather you’re staying awhile then?” He appeared nervous, but curious. His eyes ate everything in sight.

“I think so. But there’s so much work to do, as you can see. It’d help,” I dropped a hint, “if we had electricity and heat.”

His bushy eyebrows rose as he studied me. “I’ll take care of it. My sister-in-law works at the power company and she can pull a couple of strings here and there. I promise you, everything will be working tomorrow. I even have a handyman in mind to check up on the plumbing, wiring and the general condition of the house.” He winked at me.

“Thank you. It’s kind of you.”

“No. I’m doing my job.” He pulled a pen out of his jacket’s breast pocket, and a business card. “I’ll leave you my telephone number so you can tell me if you need anything else.” He glanced up with those intense eyes of his and I had the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me. “Don’t hesitate. Call me any time.”

“I don’t have a phone yet.”

He smiled, backing towards the door. So he was in a hurry to leave, was he? I realized he was frightened. Of what?

“I’ll take care of that too,” he spoke quickly. “I have another appointment now so I must fly.” He glanced at his watch to make it look good. “I’ll drop by again soon.

“Oh, I have a letter for you. I don’t actually have it with me as this was an unscheduled visit. As I said, I didn’t know I was coming myself.” His smile was genuine but weak, his face pale. His hand was balanced on the door.

Could he feel it, too, then?

“I’ll be sure to have it next time I come.”

I couldn’t resist asking. “Did you know my grandmother, Mister Largo?”

His reaction shocked me.

“No! She was my brother’s client many years ago. When he died, I took the case over for him as I did all his others.” He spread his hands, his voice subdued. “To be truthful, I never thought you’d come to claim your inheritance.” He cleared his throat and attempted a smile.

“I knew the rest of your family, though.” The words hung in the air between us. Now I knew why he was acting so peculiar. “You look so like your mother. It’s remarkable.”

His eyes darted around the room. “You have your work cut out for you.”

I knew he’d purposely changed the subject and knew better than to ask any more questions. If the rest of the neighborhood reacted to us the way he was doing, we were going to be two lonely people. He looked at me as if I were a ghost.

“It’ll be beautiful when we’re done. My brother’s coming to help.” I was trying to be friendly. We’d need a friend.

“Your brother?” His face was blank.

“Jim. He’s coming to help us restore the house.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, we’re all that’s left.”

His face showed no emotion, but his eyes filled with what I thought was pity.

“I appreciate your help. Thank you.” I shook his hand goodbye.

“No bother. No bother. I’ll be seeing you again.” He was in a hurry to get out of the house. He and the people around here must believe it was haunted, or worse. It was the only explanation for his odd behavior. He seemed like a pleasant enough man otherwise.

Jeremy tailed after him to his car, a sporty blue Mercedes. So business wasn’t too bad, I thought, amused, as I watched from the window until he drove off. It’d been a short visit.

Jeremy came back in and picked up his brush. “Mister Largo said his wife’s gonna send over supper for us. Some kind of noodles and something.” He scratched his head and a clump of white paint ran down his wrist. “Chicken, I think.”

“That was nice of him.” I was surprised. Was he trying to make up for the less than neighborly way he’d rushed in and rushed out—or had he felt sorry for us?

“Ah, just when I was going to make the biggest, best supper.”

“You hate to cook. Noodles and chicken sounds delicious to me. A home cooked meal, finally.” He stressed the last word and kept painting. “The stove doesn’t work anyway, remember.”

We didn’t finish the room. Our supper came, hand-delivered by Mrs. Largo, a sweet woman with sandy red hair. She practically dropped the food on the porch and dashed off. I hardly had time to say thank you before she was gone.

Was everyone going to act like this?

I sure hoped not. It was beginning to freak me out.

I wondered what had been happening here since my family had moved away. Whatever it was I brooded, it couldn’t be good.