The Cake House (10 page)

He disappeared.

“Does Mr. Fisk buy your mother a lot of gifts?”

“Yes,” I said, and only that. If I didn’t speak, the ghost vanished. If I tried to tell the truth, he reappeared. I didn’t want to answer any more questions, knowing now that I had made a mistake in speaking at all.

Mrs. Wilson persevered. “Have you seen where your stepfather works?”

“No.”

I could see her thinking. She took her time, her eyes fixed and unmoving, ponderous and large. “Tell me truthfully,” she said, putting aside her clipboard. She held her hands out, and I left the window to sit next to her on the bed again. “How has it been?”

She had square, clean-cut nails. Not a hangnail to be seen, not a spot of nail polish. I had to take shallow breaths to stop myself from crying. But I couldn’t cry. If I cried, that would be telling the truth, and the ghost would come back.

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” I said at last.

“Your father and mother, did they get along?”

Movement caught my eye; the ghost appeared, maybe wanting to sit on my bed too. Intruding, insistent, and I closed my eyes, willing him to go away. I didn’t know the answer to that question anyway. What did he want me to say? They were happy. They loved each other. My mother used to cry when my father wasn’t home. She’d cry in her room, and when I went to her, she’d push me away and tell me to leave her alone.

Mrs. Wilson understood, even though I hadn’t spoken. She took my hand again. “All right,” she said, “All right. I know it’s hard; I know it isn’t fair. I want you to be strong. No more running away; no more fighting your stepfather. You be good, and I’ll see you again. I’ll come back and we’ll work this out together, okay? I’m here now,” she said.

For some reason I believed her. I needed to believe her. She was real, and she was strong and held my hands in hers.

In that moment, I loved her more than I loved my mother, more than I had loved my father. Mrs. Wilson would make it right. Mrs. Wilson would save the day. She would heal this great big wound in the center of my life. Faith filled me
with hope and love. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be one of her kids, to find my way onto her handmade bag, right in the center, so she could proudly point to my smiling face and say, “That’s Rosaura; she was my last. She’s doing real good now.”

Mrs. Wilson stood up to go, but I wanted her to stay.

“You’ll come back?”

“Oh yes.”

“Will you come for my birthday?”

She smiled. “Certainly, if you want me to.”

I walked with her into the hallway, nearly vibrating with suppressed energy. The ghost disappeared again. Maybe that meant he was done; maybe he realized telling Mrs. Wilson the truth wouldn’t hurt him and that I would keep him a secret and it was going to be okay.

“Well, Rosaura, I want to thank you. You’re a very pleasant young lady,” she said, turning to face me. “And call me Polly.” She handed me a card. “All my kids call me Polly. You can reach me at that number. Anytime.”

Her name was printed in block letters:
POLLY S
.
WILSON
. The points of the card dug into the pads of my fingers. When I looked up, my father’s ghost stood behind her, his expression hard and unforgiving. His hand reached for Mrs. Wilson’s shoulder.

I caught my breath, and with a question in her eyes, Mrs. Wilson turned to follow my gaze.

It happened like on a television show: Everything fast reduced to slow motion. Her foot slipped on the first step. She cried out, one piercing shriek. Her arms went up and she knocked me back as she fell, tumbling from step to step, scraping the wall, reaching for the railing, catching one of the framed photographs that lined the staircase instead:
a picture of a six-year-old Alex riding a pony. Another scream, maybe from me. She thumped all the way down.

At the bottom of the stairs Claude appeared. He ran to catch her, but she was already on the floor. Bent at an odd angle, twisted like how the bike had been when it had fallen at my feet, her glasses askew on her face. Her handbag lay at her side, her kids’ faces looking up, smiling.

For the second time that summer the house crawled with policemen, firemen, EMTs. We couldn’t move Mrs. Wilson, couldn’t even sit her up or give her a glass of water for fear that she had broken her back or her neck and might be paralyzed. She groaned on the floor.

Outside, unknown neighbors stood on the lawns of their houses. Kids rode up and down the street on their bikes, slowing to a crawl while they gawked and tried to see what was going on, watching as the EMTs put Mrs. Wilson on a gurney and removed her through the front door, one wheel squeaking with each rotation.

I went outside to the garden. I walked around and around the fountain, wanting to drown, wanting to hide, wanting to go away and never speak again. The grass cut my bare legs and stuck burrs to my socks, but I kept walking. I wanted the tape from Alex’s room to tape my mouth shut forever. My fault, all my fault. I misunderstood what
the ghost wanted and he had almost killed Mrs. Wilson. But he had used me to do it, my words, my voice.

Clouds littered the sky, although here and there a shaft of light fell to strike the earth. I remembered my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Tadakian. She took my class on a field trip to a park on a wet day. Too wet, she complained, but the sun broke through the clouds as if through a prism, scattered and fractured. Mrs. Tadakian looked up and said, “Oh, it’s God’s light.”

In the backyard, the sky had God’s light, straight out of a photograph on a thank-you card sold at a drugstore or a supermarket with a line or two of Scripture: “For the Best Dad.”

But was he the best dad?

A long-legged stride broke through the tall grass. Deputy Mike took a seat next to me. I had wanted him to come, and here he was, except it was for the wrong reason. He held his hat in his hand, twirled it once, then laid it down on the grass, where it sat crooked, jaunty, to one side.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

What it must look like, that this happened so soon after my father’s death. Maybe he thought death hung around wherever I was, lurking in the shadows and waiting for unsuspecting victims to happen by, like one of those carnivorous plants lying in wait. In this case, death looked like my father.

Alex worried that I kept acting crazy when I wasn’t, but I was crazy. Only crazy people see things that aren’t there; it’s the guilty ones who see ghosts. If I closed my eyes I saw Mrs. Wilson at the top of the stairs, the ghost reaching for her.

Deputy Mike waited for me to speak. I tried to pick my
way through the truth. “We were talking in my room. She’d asked about my dad, about Claude. She mentioned you.”

“I spoke with her,” he said.

I yanked a long blade of grass, peeled it in two, yanked another one and did the same thing, tying the pieces together into a bow. “I told her … I told her—”

A breeze blew. It rushed through the tree branches. Leaves fell like rain. The ghost stood in the middle of the bushes, one side of his face oozing blood. He put his finger to his lips and shook his head. A warning:
Don’t do it again.

“Take your time,” Deputy Mike said, and I began to panic because I knew he thought I was preparing to reveal a secret. But I was trying to breathe, trying to figure out what I could say.

“I told her what it was like living here. And how I hated it, how I hated Claude sometimes.” My voice dropped to a whisper, afraid that even this was too much.

“Then—then, she was leaving, and—

“She slipped,” I said, looking at Deputy Mike until the ghost faded. “It was the way she fell; she couldn’t help it.”

“Did you talk about anything else?” asked Deputy Mike.

I shook my head, no. I refused to say that I thought Claude was responsible for my father’s death, for fear that something would happen to Deputy Mike. And I couldn’t say the ghost caused her accident because I disappointed him.

Deputy Mike didn’t say anything, rising when the other officer called his name.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wanting to say more, but my throat closed and the words stuck and wouldn’t become unstuck no matter how hard I tried.

“It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault.” His warm hands covered mine, brown skin over light, and then he left.

Dead leaves flew across the grass, the trees shivered, and the sun took cover behind a cloud, draping the garden in shadow. The ghost came to take Deputy Mike’s empty seat beside me.

“What do you want?” I asked, and folded my arms over my head.

“Remember the bluebell earrings?” He spoke in a voice the texture of sandpaper. “I bought them for her. They cost a fortune. Remember how pretty she looked?”

I didn’t care about any earrings. “Just tell me what you want or go away.”

“She said they hurt her ears, but she would put them on when I asked her to, because I liked to see the blue against her skin. She lost one of the pair and tore apart the apartment looking for it. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘No, no, it’s all right.’ But I think she lost it on purpose so she didn’t have to wear them anymore. Nothing I gave her was ever good enough.”

I tried to be as still as possible, gazing toward the house. My mother sat with her head bowed and her hair pulled back with one hand.

“Look at her,” he said. “Look at your mother,” he repeated.

I had thought that the ghost wanted revenge on Claude, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe he wanted in death what he had wanted in life: to be close to my mother, to love her and touch her. He couldn’t let her go. He wanted to haunt us all.

As if my mother sensed that I was watching, she turned to face us. Bluebell earrings dangled from both of her ears.
When I turned to see if my father’s ghost noticed, he was gone.

DEPUTY MIKE WAS TALKING TO
Claude when I had gathered myself enough to come inside.

Claude flicked his head toward the stairs. “Go up to your room, Rosie.”

“But I want to stay. I’ll be quiet.” I wanted to know what Claude was going to say. I didn’t want to be alone.

“Alex is upstairs,” Claude said, knowing that was usually enough incentive.

I crossed to the foot of the stairs. Alex was sitting on the top step, his guitar across his lap. Claude and Deputy Mike couldn’t see him. He made space for me, and I leaned against the banister, trying not to think that Mrs. Wilson had stood in the same spot.

“Where were you when Mrs. Wilson fell?” I heard Deputy Mike ask.

“We were both here, in the living room,” Claude answered. “She asked to speak to Rosie alone, so what could we do?”

“I wanted to go with them,” my mother said. “She’s my daughter; I should have been there.”

“Were you upset about the visit?” asked Deputy Mike, asking a question he knew the answer to.

“Of course we were upset. Wouldn’t you be?” Claude’s tone hinted at laughter.

Sounds of paper against paper. Deputy Mike read, “You said, ‘I heard her say goodbye and then she was screaming, next thing I knew she was on the floor.’ Did something scare her?”

“I imagine falling down the stairs would do the trick.”

Next to me, Alex huffed a short laugh. It was the first time I saw him show anything close to admiration for his father.

“That’s convenient, isn’t it?” Deputy Mike’s voice was as calm and as gentle as ever.

“Excuse me?”

“She could have broken her neck. Problem solved.”

Even without the benefit of seeing their expressions, I felt the tension in the cross fire between them. I slid down to the next step on the stairs, and then again, until I reached a point where I could see both men standing face-to-face, locked in a silent battle.

Claude took a step back, facial and body muscles relaxing. He made a gesture with his hands. “Rosaura was the only one who witnessed the accident, and that’s exactly what it was, an accident. You want more details, you’ll have to talk to her.”

I couldn’t tell if Claude believed what he said or if he was lying. Maybe he thought I was guilty; maybe he was trying to protect himself.

But then something inside Claude shifted, and his face contracted with worry. “Look, you saw Rosaura; she’s making herself sick over this.”

A soft twang of a guitar string caught my attention, and I looked back to see Alex shaking his head. He was always shaking his head at me now. Was he saying,
Don’t say anything
? Or was he saying,
No, it wasn’t your fault
? Or maybe it was a general,
No.
No to everything.

In the living room, Deputy Mike considered Claude and then put his hat on his head. “Thank you for your time.” His tone had changed, suddenly sounding as if this was a
normal social visit, a friendly neighborhood how-de-do. “This is a really nice house.”

“I’ve worked hard on it.” Claude went along with the act and walked Deputy Mike to the front door. I stayed where I was, not caring if they knew I had been listening.

“I’m curious about what you do for a living, Mr. Fisk.”

Laughing, Claude waved a hand. “Hasn’t that been asked and answered already? That’s no mystery, Deputy. Financial advising. Investments. Wealth management.”

“Oh, right. Of course. Good money in that?”

Claude swelled with a slow, measured breath. “Sometimes.”

“Where did you say your office was again?”

“Burbank, but you knew that already,” said Claude. “Are you going to come down sometime? I’d be happy to have you.” He smiled, this time with his entire face, nothing but smoothness, open and inviting.

Deputy Mike gave an answering smile. “Maybe. But I’m afraid I’m an under-the-mattress kind of guy.”

“I know. I can tell,” said Claude. “But you’d be welcome anytime, Deputy.”

I followed as they went into the front room. Claude opened the door.

“What happens now?” asked Claude.

Deputy Mike looked out to the street. The ambulance and the other officers had left already. There weren’t any spectators left; everyone had gotten bored and gone home. “We have to get Mrs. Wilson’s statement,” he said. “But once we have that, that’ll probably be the end of it. Of course, another Child Services caseworker will likely be assigned.”