Homing (2 of 3)
Part One Ellen has lived in a quite a few places throughout the years. She's not entirely sure which of them is the first place she called 'home.'
There was the ugly brick house outside of Philadelphia, where she spent much of her childhood, but that wasn't it. It was just a place where they were staying only until her father got tenure. Later, it was only until Janis got out of the hospital (and then they'd find a wonderful new place to live, just the three of them). Until Nebraska, Ellen had lived longer in that house than she had anywhere else, but she can't recall ever telling anyone she came from Philly.
Before that, there was the house in Indiana they'd shared with four of Dad and Janis's friends, but that wasn't it, either. It had been chaotic, and loud, with too many 'house rules' that no one ever seemed to follow. Janis always hated it, but they didn't leave until Ellen's father decided he couldn't get any writing done in all the chaos.
Then there was the apartment in California back when her father was still in school, but Ellen doesn't remember much about California other than the denim beanbag chair where Janis would park Ellen while she and her friends painted sign after sign (Bill would later laugh his head off when Ellen explained to him that the first letters she'd learned to recognize were L, B, and J).
About two years after she'd started learning the hunting business, once Miss Sylvia was too old and frail to look after her, she'd gone to stay with Bud Corrigan and his wife for a while, helping by doing the kind of legwork Bud couldn't since he'd lost most of a foot to diabetes.
She never did ask how Bud and Katie got into hunting, but she figured the fact that they had a spare room all set up for a youngish girl (one just a little prissier than Ellen, perhaps, but who liked many of the same books) said all that really needed to be said.
There weren't many hunters left like Bud, even back then. By the time Ellen met him, he didn't venture more than a half-day's drive from home, and only when there was good cause. Their long drives became a time for Bud to tell her every thing he'd learned over the past twenty years, from how to draw a Devil's Trap (illustrated on a paper placemat that Ellen still had in her cigar box) to how hunting wasn't something you could just put back down once you picked it up.
From Katie, she learned how a person could keep on living while you hunted, no matter what happened to you. It was why she could call Tessa Corrigan's old room or Bobby Singer's couch or the women's shelter run by Jim Murphy's church 'home' and not have the word came out of her mouth all warped and dripping with acid.
Maybe that's why, until she and Bill finally settled at the Roadhouse, she always told people she'd come from Massachusetts. The faint accent she'd picked up from her two years with Miss Sylvia and her three with Bud and Katie was chewed up and spit out by the Midwest long ago, but even now, even after she's called the Roadhouse home for nearly half her life, Massachusetts is still where she is from.
She remembers sitting by the fire in Miss Sylvia's cottage, wrapped up in a down comforter, listening to the steady hush of the rain pelting against the windows and finally feeling safe for the first time in a very, very long time.
Funny, how some of her worst nightmares and some of her best memories come from the same place.
* * *
The ghosts kept up with their game of moving things--always carefully, so that nothing ever broke or chipped or scuffed--and moved on to opening and closing doors at random. Ellen simply kept up with putting things back, or opening or closing them as needed. One time, she closed the same door five times in one day, and had the distinct feeling that something was laughing at her. No, with her.
She didn't mind. It was something to do, and she didn't think to worry about it until early August. Going upstairs and finding her books stacked up in a pyramid was no different than coming back from a day at the beach and seeing the stray clumps of grass and snips of privet that said Professor Jameson's lawn service had been and gone. Sometimes, she got the feeling that the ghost or ghosts enjoyed having someone to play with.
Sometimes, when she couldn't stop thinking about Janis, she thought it was only her father being clever.
The day she was first made to worry about it, there was nothing to eat in the house, as usual. When Ellen went upstairs to announce that she was hungry, her father fished out his wallet, handed her some money, and told her to go into town. "Be back by seven, though. There's a pot-luck at the Whitings, and there's lots of people I'll want to meet there."
She wasn't surprised when his instructions trailed off into a ramble about how he needed to have this finished in time, and god, it just wasn't flowing, and people were going to be there... He was so focused on the spiral notebook propped on his knees and all its scratched-out lines that he didn't even notice he'd just given her a twenty dollar bill. Ellen paused, watching him scowl his way through the next line, and in the end she quietly folded the bill into a tidy little square and tucked it into her change purse.
On her way out, she ran a finger through the dust on the station wagon, leaving a dark brown trail through the light brown. Maybe she should go back and interrupt her father to tell him he'd given her too much money--easily three week's worth, all at once.
Then again, if she was careful with it, she wouldn't have to bother him again for at least another week. He'd been getting more and more caught up in his work lately, and when he wasn't lost in his writing or sitting staring red-eyed into nothing and acting like she wasn't there, he was eager as a puppy, practically dragging her off on some wild 'adventure' or another whether she wanted to or not. Besides, it wasn't like he kept track of where the money went, anyway. The words in her mind sounded an awful lot like Janis.
As she made the long walk down into town, Ellen thought how she might use the money. Maybe she should use some of it to buy a cake or pie or something because otherwise they'd have nothing to bring to the potluck. Her father had snapped at her when she asked, showing a rare flash of temper. He apologized, of course, then told her not to worry about it.
Still, the thought of showing up empty handed and eating everyone else's food burned worse than her empty belly. She could go to the bakery and get a pie, she decided, and then maybe she could take the bus out to State Beach or maybe out to Dutcher's Dock and buy herself a bag of fried clams. No, she'd get the clams first, and then the pie. Her stomach rumbled, and she punched it lightly, telling it to shut up.
When the trees parted, she would sneak a glimpse to the left, down the tumbling meadows and out towards the ocean far below. It was too bright to look for long, but when she saw the ferry chugging out she made herself track its progress for as long as she could. She'd stopped by the Steamship Authority to use the restrooms plenty of times that summer, and she'd always stopped to look at the ferry schedules. Next to it was another schedule, one that showed what time the buses left for Boston. By August, she had both schedules memorized, but she still looked at them.
Twenty dollars could get her there, easily. She wouldn't do it--she didn't even know what she would do if she went to Boston--but she held on tight to the thought as she watched the ferry turn and shrink as it ambled along towards the Cape.
It occurred to her then that she couldn't leave the island anyway, at least not until the ferry came back. She didn't know where she wanted to go, but she still didn't like that she couldn't go there if she did. And when the ferry did come back, who's to say someone wouldn't try to stop a little girl who was so obviously boarding all by herself?
All by herself. And her father would be sad and upset and trying to pretend that he wasn't. Ellen stopped and looked over her shoulder, back up the road, and her breath caught tight in her chest. She stood there for a while, and the sound of the ocean seemed to do her breathing for her. There were times she missed her father almost as much as she missed Janis, but going back there right now would only make her miss him more.
When she turned to set off back down the hill, she now saw someone coming up the other way. A bent, bird-boned old woman in seersucker shorts and a tidy white polo, waved hello from so far away that Ellen knew the woman must have thought she was waving to some other girl. Not knowing what else to do, Ellen raised her hand and waved back because that's what you did when people waved to you.
"Good morning," she said as they came within speaking distance of each other. Ellen didn't return the greeting right away, and the woman kept on talking. "You're the little girl who's staying in the Jameson place, aren't you?"
It was all said with good cheer, but Ellen froze in place, wondering how this woman knew about her and feeling the weight of that twenty like a stone in her change purse.
"Yes'm."
The old woman smiled, which made her face seem even more wrinkled. "I heard down at the bookstore that someone else was staying there this summer. It's such a lovely place, isn't it?"
Ellen nodded and wondered how long the woman would keep her there, talking. She didn't want to be impolite, but she wanted her lunch.
"I've never seen a collection of old porcelain quite like the Jamesons have, not outside of a museum." It was shaping up to be nothing but small talk, the kind Ellen had to put up with when her father dragged her to parties. Ellen was so used to tuning it out that she almost missed it when the woman asked, in the same tones people used to ask if Ellen was having a nice summer on the island, "Have the ghosts started moving it around yet?"
Ellen drew in a sharp hiss of breath between her teeth, but anything else she or the woman might have said was knocked off track when her stomach rumbled, loudly.
"Oh, dear." The woman gave Ellen a sharp once-over from her too-small sandals up to her faded tie-dye shirt and crooked barrettes. "I did hear you need some looking after, young lady. Seems I heard right."
The broad vowels and dropped Rs had already become familiar to Ellen over the past two months, but for the first time it was starting to sound comforting. "Let's see about getting you a decent meal before we do anything else."
* * *
The Roadhouse isn't a restaurant, but Ellen's been known to feed passers-through from time to time. She doesn't run a charity, but she'll do what's needed, when it's needed.
Ellen isn't a bad cook, but she's by no means an excellent one, either. She's good at cooking the sort of things that can be expanded to feed two or three extra guests by tossing in a can of tomatoes or several handsful of macaroni, or that can be doled out in smaller portions if there's a need to stretch. They're the sort of meals that can also be frozen with little harm if people fail to show up for a meal without warning.
Bill would always eat whatever she served with great relish, quickly and quietly, especially when he'd come back from a hunt. In her more teasing moods, she responded to Bill's compliments that living on C Rations for a few years must have blasted his taste buds to hell and gone.
Jo wasn't as enthusiastic about her mother's cooking, but she didn't complain, not unless broccoli or cream of mushroom soup were involved. Jo's a better cook than Ellen is, to tell the truth. She's almost as good of a shot, too. Those are just two of the many things Ellen regrets Bill never lived to see. They're also two of the few things that don't worry her about Jo being out on her own. When it comes to the everyday things, Jo can take care of herself.
Ellen hopes Jo doesn't think that because she's capable in a few things that she's capable in all things.
Lately, Ellen's been daydreaming about what she'll do when Jo's come home and they've worked through all the yelling and tears and sorries--because there'll be plenty of that, oh yes there will. Maybe she'll make the spaghetti sauce that Jo always likes. Or maybe she'll make the hour and ten round-trip to pick up a pizza and a couple of movies the way they always did when they had something to celebrate.
* * *
Miss Sylvia--the old woman introduced herself as Sylvia Holmes, and within a week Ellen had picked up the 'Miss Sylvia' from other year-round residents--insisted on walking back into town with Ellen and treating her to lunch. Ellen wasn't so sure about that, but she was hungry. Then, when they reached town, the bookstore owner waved hello to Miss Sylvia through the window, and that sealed the deal.
They ate at a small, self-styled 'bistro' that was half a story up from street level, where they could peer down on the tourists through lacy half-curtains. Miss Sylvia studied the menu carefully, tilting her head back to peer through glasses that had slid down to the end of her nose. "I imagine this place won't be here next summer. Shame."
Ellen had quickly scoured the menu for 'fish and chips,' and having verified its presence, put the menu down in favor of watching the people crowding the sidewalk. Miss Sylvia's remark caught her off guard.
"Vineyard Haven?" she said, thinking Miss Sylvia meant the whole town and all its summer people.
Miss Sylvia shook her head slightly, and did Ellen the favor of not laughing. She continued to peruse the menu, reading each and every item even though she'd already declared she was going to have the Waldorf salad. "This restaurant. Half the town shuts down come Labor Day, and half the businesses along Main Street never re-open come spring. It's just the way it is, around here. Past September twenty-one, you'll find more ghosts than living people on this island."
"Like the ones where I'm staying," Ellen said, proud to be in the know. It made her feel like this place was hers in some way. "The ones that move things around."
"Yes."
Miss Sylvia had put down the menu, and was now looking at Ellen, again scrutinizing her as if looking for fault.
"Ed and Sarah Jameson have been coming here every summer since fifty-nine."
Ellen nodded. Her father didn't exactly work for Professor Jameson, but he'd gotten her father a job that was supposed to start that fall. Or something like that. Ellen wasn't quite sure why they'd gotten to use the Professor's house that summer, but her father kept on saying it was the start of good things for them, and that the universe owed them good things after what they'd been through.
"They're as proud of those ghosts as if they're their own ancestors, but that said, the Jamesons do leave right before Labor Day, every year, without fail. Of course, that's because he's got to get back to Tufts before the fall semester starts, and Sarah Jameson won't dare miss the start of the social season."
Ellen got the feeling that Miss Sylvia was about to start talking around something, the way her father always managed to avoid saying exactly why Janis was in the hospital or would change the subject when Ellen asked when she could go visit.
But instead of talking around the matter, Miss Sylvia walked right up to it and knocked on the front door. "I've heard stories from previous owners--I played there as a girl, when they and their grandchildren came up for the summer." She craned her head to look out the window, and at the summer people in their short sleeves and sunburns. "The ghosts play games in the summer. You've seen it, the way they'll put things where they don't belong. In the fall though, they're not as playful. If no one is around, they'll leave things alone, but if you stay more than a few days into September, they'll start trying to drive you out."
Ellen played with her napkin for a moment, folding it and unfolding it. She knew that they were going to leave in a few weeks, but to think of it like that, to think that they weren't wanted...
"Why?"
Miss Sylvia looked out at the logjam of people that had all but stopped any motion on the sidewalk. "Probably the same reason why I look forward to summer and all its goings-on, but by the time it's over, I'm ready for everyone to get on that ferry and never come back."
"I mean, why are you telling me this?" Ellen tried hard not to sound like she was sassing, but she wasn't sure if she'd succeeded. Free fish and chips was all well and good, but she was starting to wish she'd lied and said she wasn't the little girl who was staying at the Jameson place.
Miss Sylvia raised an eyebrow, and after the waitress came to take their order, all she had to say on the matter was that she wanted to be sure that Ellen knew she was safe in the old house. "Just so long as it's summer."
This time, when Ellen got the feeling there was more to be heard on the matter, Miss Sylvia left it alone. The conversation moved on from the Jameson ghosts to tales of a haunted piano in Edgartown, or the ghost of a Wampanoag woman who appeared only to people who were grieving and who brought them a sort of calm, or a ghostly visitor who helped water down a widow's roof and keep it from going up in one of the fires that had ravaged Main Street.
She also asked about Ellen's father, but something about the way she asked made Ellen think that Miss Sylvia already knew all about him and was just checking her facts. Then, without knowing how it happened, they were talking about Ellen's favorite books and Miss Sylvia talked about books she thought Ellen might like.
* * *
The private rooms at the back of the roadhouse are filled with keepsakes. Photographs, of course, some out and some in shoeboxes. Jo's dolls and a scrapbook filled with her schoolwork and report cards. A set of hand-thrown mugs Diana brought her from New Mexico. The bigger-than-god wardrobe she and Bill had trucked down from Bobby's place when she was seven months pregnant.
All of that is stuff she and Bill (and then later, she alone) got once they settled at the Roadhouse. While they were living on the road--apart and then together--it was too risky to try to hang on to anything that they didn't need for the job or for day-to-day living. Anything that they wanted to keep but didn't absolutely need was in storage. Bill had a storage locker north of St. Louis. Ellen had the Corrigan's cellar.
Still, there were a few things that they had with them, that weren't necessary in the keeping themselves alive sense but were vital when it came to living.
Bill had an envelope full of sketches on cardboard and brown paper bag--pictures of him and his war buddies, a few boats, a few landscapes. The scrap of cardboard with a charcoal sketch of Bill in his tigerstripe fatigues still hangs in their bedroom. It looks more like Bill than any photograph of him ever could.
Ellen had her cigar box. Even now, she occasionally thinks about emptying it into an album or scrapbook, but it's been easier just to keep adding things to it over the years. Jo's postcards are the latest addition.
It barely closes, now.
Once Ellen knew she was at the Roadhouse to stay, she sent Bud and Katie a money order and her shipping address. Katie, of course, went overboard. She sent not just Ellen's things but a few paraffin-topped jars of beach plum jelly and a box of things for the baby-to-be. Ellen was pleased, but not surprised; that's just how Katie was.
The surprise came when Ellen sat crosslegged in front of the low shelves in the bedroom, putting all of her old paperbacks and precious few hardcovers in their new home. She was about to put one of the hardcovers on the shelf, then stopped, realizing that it was the copy of I Capture the Castle she'd read no less than three times while she was at the Corrigans. It was one of Tessa's books; her name was right there on the flyleaf in delicate Catholic school script. Ellen knew damn well she hadn't packed it away with her own things when she took to the road. She was more careful than that.
One of the nice things about being pregnant was that she had something to blame tears on if she needed to.
A few days after Jo left, Ellen noticed a few gaps in the bookshelf, books leaning at an angle where they should have been standing upright. I Capture the Castle is gone. So are Ellen's copy of Little Women and Jo's copy of Make Way for Ducklings. Somehow, Ellen can't bring herself to be as angry about this as she should.
* * *
After lunch, she and Miss Sylvia walked back up to the bookstore. Miss Sylvia had an order to pick up, and Ellen figured she could spend the money she didn't spend on lunch on one of the books Miss Sylvia had recommended. Miss Sylvia apologized for not offering Ellen a ride back up to the Jameson place, but she'd found a good parking spot and still had errands to run in town. Once in the bookstore, however, they walked in and borrowed a pen and a paper bookmark from the owner. Miss Sylvia wrote her number down on the back of the bright purple bookmark. The numbers were very spiky but very neat.
"Call me if you would like to talk about the ghosts, or if you'd like to meet for lunch again." It wasn't one of those offers that meant nothing, like the people who told her father they'd love to read what he'd written.
Ellen told Miss Sylvia she'd like that, very much, and that she would call. She meant it, too. She folded the bookmark in careful thirds, and put it inside her change purse.
Two hours later, when she came up to the cash register with both The Witch of Blackbird Pond and Flambards, she noticed that the man behind the counter greeted her with a more casual cheer than before, stopping to comment that if Miss Sylvia had recommended the books, Ellen was sure to like them. He also told her to tell him what she thought of the books she just bought, and he'd point her towards some more.
Ellen wasn't sure why, but that put her in the kind of good mood she couldn't remember having since just before Christmas. She ran one more errand, then walked all the way back home.
When she got back to the house, she looked up, as she was in the habit of doing. As she walked up to the front door, the reflections in one of the upmost windows shifted so that she could imagine people moving around up there. It no longer startled her, but what did make her jump was the strong "No!" that blasted from up above, louder than the roar of the ocean.
It was her father. Ellen stood quiet, heart hammering in her chest. His voice carried down through an upstairs window as he argued with someone. "You promised... no, that's not how I remember it. You don't make that kind of offer and then take it back like that. I have a child, you fucking asshole!" She held her breath at the enormity of those words coming out of her father's mouth. "She's depending on me. You can't--"
He said even more words Ellen wasn't allowed to use and then she heard a clunk and a dull ring as he slammed down the phone.
By the time she made it inside, being sure to loudly yell that she was home as she walked upstairs to the study, he was all smiles again. Her heart was racing and she felt so guilty about everything that she told him about the twenty. He just nodded and said not to worry about it--it's okay, it's okay. He also said not to worry about it when she told him she'd bought a pie for tonight, or when she said she bought two books with the money.
It's okay, it's okay. Don't cry, all right? No one's mad, Nelly-belle. No one's upset.
She decided not to tell him about the sandwich she'd bought in case he got lost in his work and forgot about the potluck, but he wouldn't have noticed if she did. Instead, he just told her to go read her book (and how did she like The Martian Chronicles so far?) and come get him when it was time to leave, not that she knew when that was. He shut the study door gently in her face, but not ten seconds after it closed she could hear the muffled smack and thump of things being slammed around.
When she walked back through the Jameson's living room, she noticed that the checkers had been set up on the old gaming table. Right there, right in front of her eyes, one of black's men moved out a square. Ellen thought about it for just a second or two, then touched one of white's pieces. It was much colder than it should have been. She almost, but didn't, yank her hand right back.
"Miss Sylvia says I'm supposed to be careful, but as long as it's summer, I should be okay," she said, looking into the empty space on the other side of the board. She slid the checker up and over a square. "So this is okay, right? You're not mad at us yet?"
Nothing happened, but when she came back in after getting a glass of water, another black piece had been moved.
She and the ghost played checkers all afternoon.
* * *
It wasn't until they'd been together for a little over three years that Bill finally admitted he often wondered if there were ways to deal with ghosts other than just salting and burning, driving them out and moving them on.
"It'd depend on the ghost, of course, but there's times I wonder if maybe it's best just to give it what it wants."
The Roadhouse had closed early for the evening, doors locked and lights out while the Harvelles sat in the one back room they'd blocked off as a living room of sorts. Bill was just home from a hunt, and Ellen felt no guilt about shutting down. If someone needed them that badly, they'd come around back and knock.
"That doesn't sound safe... no, Jo honey, don't touch that, that's Daddy's knife--Bill, for God's sake put that where she can't get at it. Here honey, here's Mommy's keys instead." She unclipped the keys from her belt loop and dangled them in front of Jo's eyes, the flash of lamplight on cheap metal distracting her while Bill took his jackknife and put it up on the end table. "Like I was saying, Bill, giving a ghost what it thinks it wants doesn't sound like a good idea, and... oh, don't tell me you've tried it."
Bill shrugged, and didn't answer at first. The two of them were sitting on the floor, backs leaning up against the front of the couch while Jo crawled around on the rug, exploring and playing with everything but the toys they'd bought especially for her.
"Bill..."
"Hm? Sorry. No, I haven't." Jo banged the keys against the floor over and over, talking brightly to herself in a loud string of bababababababa. Bill couldn't take his eyes off of her. "Just thinking, that's all."
"About what?" Ellen knew better than to ignore matters regarding ghosts, even if it was brought up as an aside. And from the way he was looking at Jo, it was something about their baby that triggered the thought, and so she was doubly on the alert.
Bill didn't speak for a bit, but Ellen knew him well enough to know his silence wasn't a refusal to answer. He was just taking his time getting his words together. That meant something, given how he'd otherwise go right into elaborate stories at the drop of a hat.
"You know I dealt with my first ghost in-country, right? Back in seventy-three?"
Ellen nodded. Bill had told her the story, but only a few times, and with such economy she could easily guess how much he wasn't telling her. She'd gotten good at that, and he knew it, too. He first told her the story about a year after they'd met, back when she was beginning to suspect he had a thing for her and she was still figuring out if she wanted to trust him or not.
Three of the men in his unit had died messily in their own tents. Beyond that, she didn't know any details other than their names, and the fact that Bill avoided mentioning how he figured out why the nurse's ghost had targeted those men and left their buddies unharmed even though they were sleeping only a few feet away. She also knew that whenever Bill mentioned the fourth man--the one whose throat was about to be cut when Bill and his friend Harry torched all of the body bags about to be choppered out since they didn't have time to find out which one contained the nurse--Bill always casually followed up the story of how they'd saved him with the fact that the guy'd been lost to friendly fire a few days later.
When he'd told it the first time, he'd kept his eyes on her face, making sure she was filling in the missing bits properly and anxiously watching to see how she'd react.
She'd poured him another drink and asked him how much trouble he and Harry had gotten into for desecrating the bodies. And that was it.
"That was the first ghost I dealt with," he said as he watched Jo roll over on her back and try to shove Ellen's keys in her mouth. "But I got to see someone else deal with another one, not long before that."
It was something like a poltergeist, from the sound of it. One that terrorized not just a single house, but an entire village where Bill's unit was stationed.
"Couple of the guys thought they'd finally lost it. Couple others thought it was just mind games, and wanted to go into town find the VC who were pulling all this shit and trying to drive us bugfuck. Harry, though, Harry seemed to know what was going on, and one night I heard him getting into it with the guy who was our translator. Harry was going on about graves and burning, and I had no idea what the hell was going on. Harry... see, Harry was a real level-headed guy, even though it turned out he believed in ghosties and ghoulies all sorts of other crazy shit that couldn't possibly exist." This last was said with a slight wink and nod.
Ellen punched him in the shoulder, because that's what she did when Bill's humor got the better of a serious moment.
"Eventually, it seemed they came to some sort of agreement and they headed into the village proper."
"And you followed them." Honestly, Bill was worse than a cat when it came to sticking his nose in things.
Bill nodded. "I followed them. I wasn't sneaky about it. Harry said I may as well come along, but not to expect to like what I saw. Well, I figured that by then, I'd seen or at least heard about the worst that could be seen. But that was nothing like having more and more rocks and sticks and dog crap flung at us as we got closer to whatever it was."
The child's grave, Ellen thought. Most poltergeists were children, after all.
"What I wasn't expecting was the crying. It came from everywhere. Just everywhere. Even from the ground. This awful, awful crying, like a baby that was alone and abandoned and angry and scared all at once."
Jo babbled contentedly around her mouthful of keys. Ellen reached over and rested a hand on Bill's leg. She knew what would come next, and waited for him to tell her about small bones being put to the fire.
"The translator took us to this little shrine. The thing had been shot to hell and gone, probably by some of the guys. There were bits of rotten fruit and melted candy and broken glass and pottery all over the place. Harry kept going on about bones and salt and so on--you know what he was getting at, El--but the translator just shushed him and walked up right to the temple. A rock got him on the side of the head, but he kept on walking right up to that little shrine. I didn't catch what he said--I know a little Vietnamese, but not that much--and he put a little candy bar up on what was left of the shrine."
Bill shook his head, and although he was still looking at Jo he was seeing something else. His voice had become almost dreamy, and even though the story wasn't a happy one, it wasn't quite unhappy, either. "And then he pulled a mirror out of his pocket and put it up there. And then a fancy little comb."
Jo rolled back onto her hands and knees, and held out the keys to Ellen with an imperious "ba!" Ellen reached out and pulled Jo into her lap. Jo fussed a little bit, but settled down contentedly enough by the time Bill was ready to resume his story.
"Damnedest thing, but the crying started to die down. Not cutting off, the way it would've if Harry'd gotten his way--you know how it goes. Anyhow, the crying just gradually got softer and less angry, kind of like how Jo does when she stops being cranky about her nap once she figures out she really is tired. The translator said that these shrines were build to hold the souls of dead children, and that it was important for the shrines to be well-kept and for the children to be brought gifts from time to time."
After that, he said, Harry took him back to the local tavern and they both got very, very drunk while Harry told him about all kinds of crazy shit, stuff that went well beyond shrines and candy and dead kids who wouldn't stay dead.
"Never did see the world the same after that. And never did meet another ghost that could be stopped just by giving it a toy and a bit of chocolate." Bill shrugged. "Thought things might get back to normal when I got back to the States, but I guess I left normal behind for good back then."
Ellen didn't say anything. She just thought about how it was always Bill who took it the hardest when they had to deal with a child ghost.
"The crying, though. That's the bit I'll always remember," Bill said. He was trying hard to keep the catch out of his voice. "And I'll always remember what the translator said about the children and how they were always so angry when their homes were disturbed. Just so, so angry."
* * *
When Ellen comes back out from the kitchen, the hunters who were about to start the brawl are long gone. Her heart's still racing, but she's stopped shaking.
"For a minute there, I though you were going to pull out the shotgun," Ash says. He's still twitchy as hell, and he's keeping within lunging distance of the phone. Has been all day, and there's no trace of the smugness he'd tried to put on earlier. Whatever he was so proud of is now sitting heavy on his shoulders.
"Everyone's jumpy, these days," she says.
She's jumpy, and not just because of what just happened. In a way, she's been like this ever since Jo took off, but that's to be expected. It's like it was when Bill was gone hunting, only worse.
But that fight... she honestly thought Wally was going to pull a gun on Mac, she really, truly did. The hunters all seem to know that something is up, that something big is about to go down, and everyone's on edge. Problem is, some folks handle 'on edge' a lot better than others.
It scares her more than she wants to admit that Ash is all wound up about something. All he'll say, when she presses, is that he's waiting for a call, and hey, he put something in the safe and is that all right? He's not acting like Ash, and that gets to her the way the prospect of having Mac Martin's brains spattered over her floor can't quite match. She'll press him a bit more, but not just yet. It can wait an hour or two.
She's able to keep her hand steady as she pours herself a drink. It's a little early for whiskey, but she figures she deserves it. It's not the numbing she needs as much as the burn down her throat. She knocks half a shot back in one quick gulp, and it's as good as slapping herself back to her senses. There's part of her that wants more than just half a shot, but she's eyeing her keys, over on their nail, and she's thinking she might need to head out for a bit.
The Roadhouse just doesn't feel safe right now, but her wanting to leave has nothing to do with her own safety.
She just hates being in this place when it doesn't feel like home.
* * *
Three days after she first met Miss Sylvia, Ellen unfolded the purple bookmark. She carefully lifted the receiver off the phone so it wouldn't make a click. She listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, as if not entirely sure that she didn't hear her father yelling at someone.
He'd been on the phone a lot, the past few days. And when he wasn't on the phone, he was almost desperate to go to this party or that, bringing his poems and his short stories with him to each and every one.
It was a relief when he was gone, and she could convince him not to take her along. Last night at dinner, though, he smiled too much and outright lied when she asked him who he was shouting at all the time.
"I wasn't shouting, Nelly-belle. Don't be silly."
Ellen wished Janis was there to call him an idiot, and to cuff him lightly on the back of the head. It was stupid of her, and maybe a little mean, but when he pointed out that the ghosts had stacked up all of Mrs. Jameson's needlepoint cushions on the coffee table, Ellen asked him what he thought Janis would have thought about the ghosts.
"Don't dwell on that, sweetie." He smiled, but his eyes were either mad or sad--Ellen couldn't tell. She flinched back when he reached out to ruffle her hair, but he either didn't notice or pretended not to. "We both miss her, but we need to focus on the happy times we're going to have together, okay? We're living in a great house on a beautiful island, and guess what, Nelly-belle--I've finally got an idea for a book. May as well start working on it, since I've met all kinds of people here who should be able to help me get it published once it's done."
He wouldn't tell her what it was about or offer to read her what he'd written, teasing her about it the way he would tease her about what she was going to get for Christmas or her birthday. No, not quite like that. This was more like he didn't know what he was going to give her for her birthday, because he'd forgotten all about it until Janis reminded him.
She used to like spending time with her father. At last, that's how she remembered it. But then, it was time spent with her father-and-Janis.
"Can you come get me?" she whispered when Miss Sylvia answered the phone. "I'm scared."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone, and an it's only August that Ellen probably wasn't meant to hear. Then, an almost believably calm, "Is it the ghosts, Ellen?"
She had to think about that for a second. "No."
As she walked quietly to the front door, the checkers clattered into place on the gaming table. Ellen shushed the ghosts. "Later. I'll play with you later," she whispered. She hurried the rest of the way to the door, not sure what she'd do if the ghosts decided they didn't want her to leave.
She walked down towards town, and she made it about halfway there when Miss Sylvia drove up and pulled over so Ellen could get in.
Miss Sylvia's house was far inland, out past the Grange Hall and so far from the water, you'd never know you were on an island. Ellen told her about the phone calls and the book, and her father's smiles. She wasn't ready to talk about Janis just yet. Miss Sylvia nodded in recognition when Ellen named some of the people her father had met on the island and some of the parties and gatherings he'd begged invites to, but Ellen couldn't tell if it was good recognition or bad. She simply nodded and went mmm-hmm from time to time as they drove through scrub oak and past mossy rock walls.
The hills here were little rolls of up and down, not like the big upsweep from Vineyard Haven up to where the Jameson's place and the West Chop light were. Ellen saw sheep and cows out in the fields, and big gray barns and little red barns. The only sign they were anywhere near an ocean was when a gull floated by, following a thermal to God-knew-where.
Miss Sylvia's house was surrounded by old cedars and was set well back from the road. Its shingles were more light brown than gray, and the doors and shutters had been painted bright red rather than the green or white Ellen had quickly learned to peg as 'normal.'
"It's something my grandfather learned when he was in China," Miss Sylvia said as they walked up to the house. The house was one of the kind where the main floor was a little bit up from the ground, and you had to walk up to a small porch to get to the front door. As they walked up the path from the drive, Miss Sylvia pointed out various plants, pointing at and naming them so quickly Ellen couldn't follow. "Mints, all kinds. Sage, chamomile, dianthus, lavender, thyme... all good for purification, if not protection, taken on their own." As she passed it, she lightly backhanded a holly tree that grew right up to the flagstone path. It rustled, and a startled wren shot out in search of other shelter. "That's for protection. And the birds love it in the winter."
When they were up on the porch, Ellen looked down at the front garden. What had looked like just a whole bunch of plants (mostly green things, very few flowers) took on a distinct pattern. It was sort of like a star, with lines running between the points and criss-crossing themselves
"What's that for?" Ellen asked. She'd also noticed that several rocks had been place here and there among the plants, mostly near the points and criss-crosses, and they had what looked like letters scrawled on them.
Miss Sylvia paused, hand still on the doorknob, and turned to look. She smiled, pleased at the question. "I'll tell you, but let's get inside. The mosquitoes are eating me to death. Oh, and try not to scuff the salt lines when you step over the threshold."
Ellen stepped carefully, and wondered why Miss Sylvia had salt spilled all inside her front door. Maybe she was trying to keep out ants.
* * *
Ellen checks the inventory of rock salt. Seeing the bags all lined up in the pantry always makes her feel a little better, even though Miss Sylvia always told her that sea salt--real sea salt from close by--worked a far sight better against evil things than salt you got from box or bag.
Unfortunately, she lives in Nebraska and the local IGA isn't exactly known for carrying real sea salt in any kind of quantity at anything resembling a reasonable price.
These days, though, salt doesn't seem like enough. Something big is coming, has been coming for a while. John's boys are in the thick of it, which means that Bobby'll likely be caught up in it as well. It's already killed Jim and Caleb. Steve, too, if she's reading the rumors right. Also, unless she misses her guess, whatever Ash is so het up about is tied into it all as well.
While she waits for the half-shot to work its way through her blood, Ellen checks the salt lines around her own rooms. She prefers not to go into Ash's room (the smell alone...) if she can help it, but he's assured her it's warded. Probably warded better than the rest of the place, if she wants to be honest about it.
She steps outside, and is almost disappointed not to smell a storm in the air. It's a clear, spring day, a little cool for the time of year. Gorgeous. Crisp. More like late September than the beginning of May. She shades her eyes and looks up. The few clouds are eye-watering white against sharp blue.
For the first time in a long time, she feels homesick. She wishes Bill was there. She also finds she hopes Jo stays well away, even though she misses her daughter to the point of being sick from it.
She lets the pang wash over her. It's almost pleasant, in a way. Then, the moment over, she checks on all the outside protections. The few plants she keeps--tomatoes, black-eyed susans, peppers--are planted up close to the back of the roadhouse and don't serve any purpose besides the obvious. There's not even an attempt to imitate Miss Sylvia's elaborate, organic wards or Katie Corrigan's tidy and fruitful kitchen garden.
There are, however, several carefully marked and carefully placed rocks set around the Roadhouse. Ellen checks each and every one, kicking dirt away from one, adjusting another slightly.
Next, she checks the dreamcatchers that Diana set up here and there in the scrub. Ellen's not sure how much use they are, but Diana insisted she take them. Still, she's relieved to see that all the threads are in place. Dingy and dew-soaked, yes, but perfectly intact.
She's done her due diligence, but her mind is still not quite settled as she'd like it to be. So, when she sees that they're running low on pretzels, she doesn't think twice about taking the excuse to get out of there for a little while.
A careless "Ash, I'm headin' out," as she lifts the keys off their nail, and she's on her way.
Simple as that.
Ash follows and waves to her from the door, and it's not until she's well on her way to Brewster that she wonders if he was waving goodbye or waving her back.
* * *
When Miss Sylvia dropped her off later that afternoon, Ellen groaned when she saw that the brown station wagon was still there. She didn't mean to be too obvious about it, but Ellen already knew that Miss Sylvia didn't miss much.
"If you want, Ellen, you can leave a note for your father and come stay at my place. If you want," Miss Sylvia said, so kind that it nearly broke Ellen's heart.
"I'll be okay," she said, but she didn't think Miss Sylvia believed her.
"Call if you need me to come get you," Miss Sylvia said, so simply that it scared Ellen more than if she'd been insistent or anxious. "If you honestly feel you can't stay, head into town, and I'll meet up with you on the way."
She also insisted that Ellen take out her purple bookmark and copy down three other phone numbers. "Oliver Coombs, lovely gentleman from the reservation, does digging and other chores for me when I have need, and then there's Marilyn Tucker. She lives not far from here, just down by Lagoon Pond. You can walk there if you have to. She'll know how to keep you safe, and from more than just ghosts."
The last number was for a Bud Corrigan. "He's over on the mainland, and he doesn't get around much these days, but if you've got any questions about what the ghosts are doing and you can't get hold of me or Marilyn, he'll be able to help."
Ellen looked at the numbers for a long time, studying them, memorizing them. She figured they were meant to make her feel better, but somehow they didn't. It wasn't ghosts that bothered her, but she couldn't tell Miss Sylvia that. She instead promised she'd be okay, and that she'd put salt in front of her bedroom door and along her windowsill. The ghosts didn't bother her, and she was pretty sure Miss Sylvia knew that, but...
She couldn't stop the hitching breath that broke free. Once it was out, though, it was out, and so many other things came out with it. She was sobbing, and then Miss Sylvia had her bony, fragile arms around her. It was nothing like being held by Janis, but the frail chest and the too-crisp shirt that smelled of Dove soap and talcum powder felt as strong as a rock and as soft as a cloud. She tried to stop crying because if she didn't, her father would joke and provoke to get her to stop--he never figured out that she only stopped to make him shut up. But this was Miss Sylvia, and even though she'd only known Ellen a few days, she still held her, and rested her cheek on the top of Ellen's head and just let her cry and wail.
She hadn't told Miss Sylvia about Janis, but from the soft things that Miss Sylvia said as she held Ellen and stroked her back, Ellen figured she already knew about what happened. Maybe even more than Ellen herself did.
Miss Sylvia didn't tell Ellen it was going to be okay, but she did let her cry until the crying turned to hiccups and then to mortified, nauseated silence.
"Call me if you have a need to," she said once more.
Ellen was starting to feel a little better, like something that had been wrapped tight around her chest had finally been loosened just a bit. "Yes'm."
Ellen hopped out of the car, and looked up at the third story windows out of habit. She nearly jumped straight in the air when her father flung open his study window and leaned out to wave at her.
"I said don't do that!" she yelled. He was always scaring her like that, and it made her stomach hurt to look.
"You worry too much," he shouted back. "Come on inside and keep me company while I have my coffee. I want to read you what I've written."
"Okay!" Ellen actually smiled, for real. Him reading to her was one of the few things that hadn't changed. She didn't always understand what he wrote, but she liked his voice and she liked hearing things that no one else had heard before.
He ducked back inside and a reflection of someone who wasn't really there waved from the window next to his.
That night, as she listened to the ocean and told herself stories to help her fall asleep, Ellen wondered about the people who used to live in the house and who still acted like they belonged there. She wondered if maybe they'd let her stay through the fall if she asked nicely, but there'd be no point. They were leaving in a few weeks and that was that.
Part Three