One Bloody Thing After Another Read online

  The roller coaster shoves her to the side, slams Jackie into Ann. Slams Ann into Jackie.

  “Oh,” Ann says. It snaps them around another corner. It takes the corners so fast that they slam into the sides of their seats, elbows digging into each other, heads knocking together. Then they go up, and they come back down. Jackie’s stomach is somewhere behind them.

  Click click click, they pull into the little room where they started. Jackie and Ann climb out of their seats. The metal is cold in her hand and Jackie glares at the bored attendant who tries to help them. Greasy, laughing bastard.

  “It’s only four dollars if you go again,” he says.

  “Can we?” Ann says, but Jackie is so sore. “Come on Jackie,” Ann says. “Maybe we’ll die this time.” Jackie shakes her head. “Maybe we’ll die this time,” Ann says again. “We’ll be free.”

  “No,” Jackie says.

  “I thought you said we could do anything I wanted,” Ann says, and there’s a taunt in her voice that makes Jackie sick, like Ann knows that Jackie will do whatever she wants, like she has Jackie wrapped around her finger. This isn’t a date, Jackie thinks. I’m so stupid.

  Well, if it isn’t a date, it isn’t a date. Jackie doesn’t know what to do on a date, anyway. And she’s not wrapped around anyone’s finger.

  “I’m not getting on that roller coaster again,” she says. She says it clearly. She thinks, I’m not a puppy dog.

  “Let’s find some payphones instead,” Jackie says. She wants to get things back to normal. If this isn’t a date, she has to act like she never thought it was. People don’t hack phones on dates. They don’t call up strange answering machines from payphones and try to guess their passwords.

  Ann and Jackie leave each other secret messages. Everyone should have a hobby.

  “Okay,” Ann says. “I have the notebook.”

  They’re working on a book called The Hidden Guide to Telephones. In a single day they can fill pages and pages of the notebook up with numbers, and each one gets a note.

  1-800-555-0000 FAX TONE

  1-800-555-0001 BUSY SIGNAL

  1-800-555-0002 VOICEMAIL SYSTEM

  The girls already have a notebook half filled. They dial every one of these toll-free numbers, and write down who answers. If it’s a business, they write the name of the business. If it’s a voicemail computer system, they try to guess the passwords. Lots of people use the same passwords. 1111. 2222. 1234. 6789. If not, well, they take their time and they try everything else.

  They call up Joe Business after he’s gone home for the day, and his answering machine says, “If this is an emergency, you can reach me at my cell number,” and they punch in his password and listen to the menu.

  To change your outgoing message, press five.

  “Hey, Squirrel, did I tell you what Ms. Garcia was wearing today?”

  They call up Susan Politician, “If this is urgent, please call the switchboard at . . .” To change your outgoing message, press five.

  “Bug, it’s me. I’m sorry I haven’t been in school. I’ve just been sick, that’s all.”

  And that’s their hobby. At first Jackie had all these rules. Never use the same payphone twice. Always dial with your knuckles so there are no fingerprints. Use fake names (Jackie was Bug, and Ann was Squirrel) and never call from a payphone near a video camera. But all those rules were useless. Nobody was ever going to arrest them. For what? For changing a politician’s voicemail to an update about Ann’s missed homework? For a recording of Jackie gushing about the length of Ms. Garcia’s skirt?

  Maybe those are crimes — imagine how great it would be to be on the run from the law with Ann. Holed up in cheap motels, pumping quarters into vibrating love beds and laughing at their terrible pictures on the news.

  19

  Jackie and Ann go looking for a payphone. Ann doesn’t say much. Jackie’s babbling. Has Ann been this quiet all night? She’s just staring off, distracted. This isn’t how you’re supposed to behave on a date. Jackie is looking at the ground for coins while they walk. She’s counting streetlights. She can’t believe she wanted to tell Ann about her mother. She still wants to. She’s so stupid. She knows this isn’t a date. She knows that the smart thing would be to play it cool.

  Ann is wearing torn jeans. They’re dark and old. They make a weird sound when she walks. Jackie knows that she should play it cool, but she wants to reach out and hold her hand. She could make a trick of it. She could grab it and they could run. Jackie could pretend to read her palm. There are all sorts of reasons girls can touch.

  “Come on! Let’s go!” Jackie says, and she grabs Ann’s hand, and they run. They run out into the street, down the stairs to the subway. Their voices echo, bouncing off the walls and getting louder with their laughter and Jackie’s brain is echoing, too, happiness and fun and fear and chaos bouncing back and forth and amplifying until they are just screaming and running and laughing into the underground, pulling each other along. This is the first time she’s seen Ann laugh in weeks. The subway trains are shaking the ground and the walls, until they finally have to stop to catch their breath by the turnstiles.

  The big tiled walls down here are like the bathrooms at school. Jackie used to spend a lot of time staring at the tiles, waiting for Ann to finish getting ready after gym. She always finishes first. Jackie showers quickly and throws her clothes on. God knows what Ann is doing in there. Makeup, hair, and some secret ritual nobody ever taught Jackie. But she doesn’t mind waiting. It’s worth the wait.

  So Jackie sits on the wooden bench and stares at the tiles, and she tries not to think about using her magic word. She could just whisper, “Mom,” and she could slip into invisibility. Doesn’t everyone want to be invisible in the girl’s changing room? But then her mother would be behind one of those doors, glowing blue, dry heaving, clutching the toilet and saying, “Jackie. Jackie, I’m okay. Jackie, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  People are pushing through the turnstiles, but there’s nowhere in particular that Jackie and Ann want to go. They stay underground until the rumble of another subway train fades, and then they head up to the street again. Ann leans against the railing. Jackie thinks, “Maybe I should get a pair of jeans like that. Something that shows off skin through rips, something sexy. I could get a whole new outfit. It would be a complete makeover. I could ask Ann.” But she hasn’t seen Ann wear makeup in weeks, either.

  They walk, and Jackie is quiet, even though she wants to tell Ann about Ms. Garcia. Ms. Garcia is a stone-cold fox with bright diamond eyes. She takes no guff off anybody. In Jackie’s English class, when a boy named Chris was flinging elastics, Ms. Garcia told him to grow up.

  “Stupid bitch,” Chris said under his breath, but everyone heard him.

  Ms. Garcia smiled and she walked directly over to his desk and she took hold of the two front corners. Their faces were very close. She said, “Wrong answer, Chris.” And then she tipped him over backward, lifting the desk and chair back, and Chris fell out onto the floor with his books and pencils.

  “You can’t do that!” he yelled. He was almost crying. “You can’t do that, you’re a teacher!” Jackie couldn’t take her eyes off the teacher. She looked so beautiful, standing above him like that. Strong.

  Jackie stole a list of every teacher’s phone number from the office. Ms. Garcia was right there on the first page. Kathy Garcia. Jackie won’t ever have the guts to call her, though. What would she even say?

  “Hello, Ms. Garcia. I am in your English class. My name’s Jackie. I just wanted to say you were beautiful. And maybe we could go out to a movie. Whatever movie you want is okay with me.”

  Ann is looking at Jackie like she’s just asked her a question and Jackie hasn’t answered yet. This is a terrible date. Does Ann have new friends? Is that where she’s spending all her time? Jackie is suddenly certain that she’s losing her. She doesn’t
want to lose her. She doesn’t want to spend less time together.

  “Are you mad at me, Ann?” Jackie says. But Ann doesn’t answer. They just walk in silence for a bit. Ms. Garcia is probably sitting at home wishing she could go to the movies. She is just waiting for the phone to ring. It is a little bit dark out. Soon the lights will come on. Jackie thinks, I am useless.

  20

  When Ann gets home, Margaret is sitting at the table, wrapping gauze around her hand too tightly. There is already blood seeping through the white material. Margaret looks up when her older sister comes in.

  “Jesus!” Ann says, but Margaret just continues wrapping the gauze around her hand. “What happened? Are you alright?” Ann says. Her sister’s blood is dark on the bandage. Oh god. Ann feels sick, looking at the blood. This is her fault. She was worried about the lives of hamsters and budgies.

  “You were supposed to meet me after school,” Margaret says. “You weren’t there, so I came home. What do you think happened? She’s hungry. She’s getting hungrier and hungrier.”

  21

  In her room, Martha Richards sets the laundry hamper down on the floor and lets out a long sigh. Charles and Mitchie are gone. Is the ghost still in the hallway? She thought she felt the cold again today, but maybe she’s just fooling herself, maybe she’s too credulous, like the people who go to see psychics.

  Charles doesn’t seem like a liar. Maybe he does see something there. Maybe it really is her daughter, trying to tell her something. But why can’t Martha see her? What if this is some stupid, sick joke?

  Every day, she pretends to be irritated. She acts like she doesn’t believe. It’s the only thing she can do. And afterwards, after the door closes, and Charles goes back upstairs with that idiot little dog of his, Martha stands there shaking. Every day. But holding the tears inside in front of Charles means she can’t cry now, either, even when it’s okay. She walks to the dresser and picks up the framed photograph of her daughter.

  She didn’t believe in any of this nonsense, at first. But day after day, here comes Charles, knocking on her door. Telling her about a girl standing right there, even though Martha can’t see anything. She should have just shown him the photo on that first day, and asked him if it was her. But if he is lying he might have just said, “Oh yes, that’s her.” What if this is some cruel prank? What if Charles had somehow found out about the accident?

  Martha Richards is no murderess. But of course it was her fault that Elizabeth died. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t tell herself that it was her fault.

  22

  At three a.m. Charlie gives up trying to sleep. Whenever he closes his eyes, he can see that pale face with its open mouth. With his eyes closed, he is certain that the ghost is standing right there, beside the bed, her head down beside his, cradled in those bloodied hands. Her dark hair hanging down to the floor.

  Mitchie’s sitting at the foot of the bed. He can’t sleep, either. He’s looking up at Charlie with his cloudy-white eyes, his head crooked to the side. Charlie turns the light on beside the bed, and tries again to sleep. But as soon as his eyes are closed, there she is. Her mouth opening and closing, inches away from his face. No sound coming out. Plenty of blood, though.

  On the telephone, Charlie’s daughter Julia has a lot of opinions.

  “The restless dead have unfinished business, Dad,” she says, and Charlie rolls his eyes at Mitchie.

  “Uh-huh,” he says into the phone. “Restless business.”

  “Do you know what she wants from you?” Julia says.

  “She wants me to bother Mrs. Richards every day, as far as I can tell. She wants me and Mitchie to go knock on her door and get the old girl all riled up.”

  “She’s an unhappy spirit,” Julia says. “She’s carrying her own bloody head around in her arms. I think it’s safe to say she wants you to do more than irritate Mrs. Richards. She wants revenge.”

  “Well, you haven’t seen Mrs. Richards. It’s pretty funny when she gets riled up,” Charlie says. “Maybe the ghost thinks so, too. Maybe it’s boring being dead.”

  “Fine, make jokes. When was the last good night’s sleep you had, Dad?”

  “How’s your mom?” Charlie says. “Is she still seeing that doctor?” It doesn’t do any good to talk about the ghost. They go around and around in circles. Julia is convinced that the thing wants him to kill Mrs. Richards. She thinks it is a vengeful spirit, but it doesn’t seem so vengeful to Charlie.

  Talking to Julia helps with the nightmares, though. They talk for another half hour, and then Charlie climbs back into bed. Mitchie comes up to flop down beside the pillow and with the dog’s warm body beside him, Charlie finally falls asleep.

  23

  On his walk the next day, Mitchie attracts the attention of two young ladies who are on their way home from school. They come right over and the younger one crouches down next to Mitchie. Charlie can’t get a break.

  “I’m Ann,” the older one says, holding her hand out for Charlie to shake. He shakes her hand, even though he doesn’t want to. She’s civilized, at least. “This is Margaret,” Ann says. Margaret is smaller than Ann. And she’s got bags under her eyes, like she’s sick, or like she hasn’t been sleeping.

  Ann and Margaret. Charlie can’t tell how old anyone is anymore. These girls are coming home from school, though. Sisters with dark hair. Julia kept her hair long like that, when she was their age. She cut it all off in high school, though. Mortified her mother.

  “What’s its name?” the younger girl, Margaret, asks, scratching Mitchie behind his ear. “Oh, it’s old!” she says, looking back at her sister. Margaret scratches him again, and Mitchie loves it. Two minutes ago he couldn’t even be bothered to wait for Charlie to finish his TV show. He had to go right now. Had to go out. Come on, Charlie. We have to go. We have to go. Scratch scratch at the door. But now Mitchie just wags his fat little tail, loving every minute of the attention. Stupid little bastard.

  “Mitchie,” Charlie says. “His name’s Mitchie.” The older girl, Ann, is just staring at him. There’s something a little spooky about the girls, but Charlie can’t put his finger on it. Everything’s spooky these days. A headless woman in the lobby, haunting them from beyond the grave. A creepy little girl isn’t going to make much difference.

  “It’s old,” Margaret says again, about Mitchie, and Charlie resists the urge to defend his friend’s honor. Sure Mitchie’s old. So what’s wrong with that? “How long do dogs normally live, anyway?” she asks Charlie.

  “You shouldn’t talk to strangers,” he tells the girl.

  “Whatever,” she says. She gives Mitchie one last scratch and then she stands up, and the two girls keep walking. Charlie watches them go, but Mitchie is already pulling on his leash toward the woods.

  “You sure can pick ’em, Mitch,” Charlie says.

  24

  The creepy girls are gone, and Charlie bends down to unhook Mitchie’s leash. He watches his friend scramble up into the woods. The fat little dog can’t run very well, but he gives it his all. He’s old, sure, but get him out in the underbrush, and Mitchie takes off as fast as he can. He’s still got plenty of life in him. Charlie’s half certain that one of these days the little guy will run blindly into a tree trunk. Thunk! But it hasn’t happened yet.

  Mitchie runs out of sight, and Charlie lets him go. He stands there, listening to the sounds of traffic on the main road. Car, car, car, and the occasional bus. One of these days, he’s gonna take Mitchie on a longer walk, like they used to go on. They’ll walk up to the frog pond, by the water tower. Mitchie used to go nuts on the edge of the frog pond, when every few feet a startled frog would splash into the water. Or they could go down to the Northwest Arm. Mitchie could use some salt air. Probably they both could.

  Charlie sits down on the wall that runs along the sidewalk, and he waits. When enough time has gone by, he calls out.

>   “Mitchie, come on.”

  He stands up, and wipes dust off his ass.

  “Come on now, Mitchie, that headless monstrosity needs our help again today.” Nothing.

  “Mitchie, it’s time to eat. Let’s go!”

  And finally there’s a rustling in the bushes, and here comes Mitchie, sniffing the air, blinking those cloudy eyes, smiling at Charlie. Charlie bends down and hooks his leash on, and Mitchie pushes his warm, dry nose into Charlie’s palm, and they start for home.

  Today there’s a bloody handprint on the glass of the front door. But the mailman is coming out just as they arrive, and he doesn’t seem to see it. So Charlie figures it belongs to the ghost. And there she is.

  On the other side of the glass, she holds her own head in her hands, as calm as ever. Her face is expressionless. Today her dress is dark with stains. Black stains around the neck, like her head had just been removed. This is new.

  Mitchie is stuck in the corner again.

  “Hey, look who it is,” Charlie says. He gives a tug on the leash, trying to get Mitchie turned around. “Okay, we’re ready,” he says to her when they get inside. “Lead the way, madam.” And Mitchie and Charlie follow her down the hall.

  “Where do you suppose we’re going today, Mitchie?” Charlie asks. “The vending machine? The TV room?” And when the ghost stops in front of room 135, he pretends to be surprised. “But, this is where Mrs. Richards lives!” he says. Mitchie sits down and tries to scratch himself behind the ear. Charlie knocks.

  Mrs. Richards looks tired. She answers the door and she looks so tired that Charlie forgets the funny line he has prepared. He wishes he’d just left her alone today, or that he could reassure her, touch her shoulder, but the ghost is raising its arm, now, pointing at the woman with an incomprehensible certainty, and Charlie has no idea what to do but make jokes the way he always does.