The House on Persimmon Road (16 page)

When she finally shut down the computer, moths were flying in through the open French doors and flitting about the desk lamp. She shook a cigarette out of a pack and took it out to the porch to smoke. It was her third one of the day. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she’d cut back to two.

Bits and pieces of the evening intruded on her solitude. Pip’s version of a fish story, Agnes’s odd quietness at dinner. Pouting, Justine surmised, or showing a twinge of envy concerning Pauline’s hope of finding a job. Agnes needed something outside of entering contests and watching television to occupy her time.

Oh, bag it, Justine told herself, one worry only led to another.

It was a beautiful night: the sky was inky, the stars twinkling; a slice of golden moon cast a surprising amount of light that illumined the moss-draped oaks. She shifted her gaze to the persimmon trees. She could just see light spilling from Tucker’s upper windows. So, he was still up. She wondered what he was doing, what he’d say if she walked over and knocked on his door. Not that she had any intention of doing that, ever. But for a few seconds she indulged in an imaginary conversation with him.

An owl hooted. It was a singularly lonely sound.

I’m afraid
, Justine thought.
I’m the kind of woman who wants to have a man as a focal point in her life.
But she had done that once and come up a failure.

All that lip service she paid to being independent, making it on her own—she was just parroting talk-show guests, quotes in magazines and books—liars all, she scoffed. She didn’t want to be alone for the rest of her life.

A good marriage was a barrier, a safety net, protection. Two people
were
stronger than one. Despite what feminists said, divorce left one feeling like a second-class citizen. Why didn’t they tell you how to cope with how scary it was instead of mouthing platitudes? Why didn’t they warn of how difficult it was to sleep when a woman was suddenly alone in a bed that she had shared for years?

I need a soul mate.
The acceptance of that idea was as frightening as admitting she was deeply and utterly afraid of the future.

She glanced once more toward Tucker’s house. Impossible, she thought wistfully; Tucker had many wonderful qualities, but that didn’t make him her soul mate. She’d rather face her fears alone than tie herself to the wrong man. Again.

Finished with her cigarette, she stubbed it out, pulled the doors closed on the night, switched off lights, and trod quietly across the darkened hall to her room.

Lottie stopped pacing the hall.
Finally!
She could take care of her chair now that Justine had gone off to bed.

Lottie decided that if she could just sit in her chair and dwell on her situation, she could find the answer to her dilemma. She knew exactly where she’d place it—near the television set.

She thought it prudent to move the chair while the house did its night settling. That way the creaks and groans would cover whatever unintentional noise she made.

Justine put down the first series of thumps to the squirrels inhabiting the attic. She plumped up her pillow and turned over in bed. She had it to herself again, since Judy Ann had returned to the room she shared with Agnes.

The thumping changed to a dragging sound. Agnes must be up, she thought drowsily, interpreting the sound as that of the cane and slippered, shuffling feet. She dozed, but the shuffling noises kept penetrating her subconscious, as did memories of Agnes’s behavior at supper. Was the old lady ill and keeping it to herself out of some misguided fear of being thought too much trouble?

Damn. She’d better check, or be ready to spend a restless night wondering if Agnes was okay. Reluctantly she threw back the coverlet, switched on the bedside lamp, and shrugged into her robe.

—  •  —

Light suddenly spilled from Justine’s bedroom into the hall.

Drat!
Lottie muttered, watching the other doors along the hall open one after another. She stood rigid in deep shadow, the old fiddle-backed chair clutched to her bosom.

“Did you hear it, too, Mom?”

“Pip! What’re you doing up?”

“I heard a noise by my door.”

“Your grandmother, I heard her cane.”

“It wasn’t me,” whispered Agnes, peeking around her door.

Tying the sash of her robe, Pauline emerged from her room. “What in the world is all the racket about?”

“Nothing, Mother. Go back to bed.”

Pauline looked to her left, her right. “Everybody is up. Something must be going on.”

“Judy Ann?” Justine asked of Agnes.

“Standing right behind me,” said Agnes, sounding much more forceful now that Pauline was looking at her.

Lottie felt the chair slipping from her grasp. She thrust out a hand to catch a rung, but the chair passed through her disincarnate limb and crashed to the floor.

Five pairs of eyes suddenly swiveled in her direction. They were filled with disbelief and sudden consternation.

Lottie pressed against the wall. Hooey! She was caught fair, and no doubt about it.

Pauline took a step toward her.

“It’s that dreadful old chair I threw out. How did it get—”

Dreadful old chair! It’s my chair, you uppity old snout. Keep back.
Lottie grasped the fiddle-back. Head high, dignity asserted, she began dragging it toward the place she’d selected for it.

Pauline dropped her arms. “Dear me,” she croaked weakly.

“The chair’s movin’ by itself!” squeaked Pip, falling in and following behind it.

Justine grabbed him by his pajama shirt, yanking him to her side. “Stay back.”

The chair moved past Agnes and Judy Ann. Agnes stared for a long second, tugged Judy Ann into her arms, then slammed her door closed.

The chair kept up its wobbly pace until it disappeared into the great room.

Justine’s chest felt suddenly tight. “I’ve heard of things like this happening. It’s called kinetic energy.”

“Yeah,” said Pip, his voice quavering. “Like in the movies. Remember
Poltergeist?”

Pauline moved closer to her daughter. “Maybe we ought to call the police.”

It wasn’t an idea Justine relished. “How would we explain—”

“Well, we’d just…” Pauline leaned heavily against the wall. “I don’t know. You could say we were being burgled. Let’s go to a hotel.”

“Let’s get Tucker,” said Pip. “He’s not afraid of anything!”

“Yes,” breathed Pauline. “Do. Let’s all go get Tucker.”

“No.” Justine’s mind was racing. “There’s some scientific basis for kinetics. Pip is going through puberty. That could be it.”

“Hey! I didn’t move that chair. I wasn’t even thinking about chairs. I was dreaming about fish! Stop blaming me!”

Pauline moved past Justine into the lighted bedroom. “Come along, Pip. You and I will get Tucker.”

“Wait a minute, Mother. That’s not a good idea, either.”

“You have a better one? I’m not sleeping in a house that has furniture moving about on its own. It’s unheard of.”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“Like what?”

“It’s supernatural,” suggested Pip, his tone belying a shiver of thrill as well as fear. “Maybe you ought to call a priest, Mom. He can come and—”

“There is nothing supernatural in this house!”

“I wish we had a gun with silver bullets, or a stake.” Pauline crawled to the middle of Justine’s bed and sat there. “I don’t care what you say it isn’t. I left my room so quickly, I failed to turn on the light. If you refuse to get Tucker, I’ll finish out the night in here. Pip, dear, get up beside me. We can protect each other.”

There was enough edge in her mother’s tone to make Justine scrutinize her closely. Pauline’s lips were rimmed in white; her entire body trembled.

“Look,” she said, “we can’t let our imaginations run wild. There must be a perfectly logical reason—”

Pauline was at once indignant. “You might try that line on Agnes or one of the children, but not on me! I didn’t imagine a chair suspended above the floor, nor did I imagine it trotting along on its little crooked cedarwood legs. I saw it with my very own eyes!”

At that moment Justine would have willingly given up everything to be back in Virginia, married to Philip—running to answer his summons for a fresh shirt, clean socks, or even being chastised for her flaws—to have life simple again.

“It might attack us if we go to sleep,” said Pip.

“A chair is nothing more than wood and fabric, for Pete’s sake!” There was, Justine recognized, a slight edge of hysteria in her own voice. She exhaled slowly. “Okay, Mother, you win. We’ll see Tucker. I’ll get Agnes and Judy Ann.”

Tucker answered his door on the second knock. His brows arched in surprise as his gaze swept over them. Justin watched him register their strained and unhappy expressions. Saw his alarmed expression as he tightened the sash on his short terry robe. “What’s wrong? Your house on fire?”

He looked beyond them, saw no smoke, nothing out of the ordinary.

Justine shook her head. “No.”

“One of you is hurt?” He stepped back and gestured them into his home.

“We’re all fine.”

What the hell? “Ah! Don’t tell me. You want to borrow a cup of sugar. And you have so much pride it takes the whole family to do it.”

“We have sugar,” said Pauline, moving to sit down as if her legs were of no account and unable to bear the burden of her weight. Agnes followed suit and pulled Judy Ann onto her lap. Pip hung back by the door.

“We have a slight problem,” Justine began, the words dying in her throat. Now that she was in his house and facing him, she felt an utter fool.

She put off saying more by inspecting her surroundings.

Her first impression was one of space. The downstairs was one long rectangular room. Vaulted above their heads was a ceiling with thick cedar-beams. A set of stairs along one wall led to a sleeping loft under the slope of the roof. The loft projected out over the kitchen and became its ceiling. There were dishes in a drainer on the counter. The stove looked so clean and modern she felt a twinge of envy.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a small desk and typewriter. The furnishings were sparse, masculine and clean—a perfect blend of comfort and simplicity.

“You have a nice place,” she said artfully. “Did you do all of it yourself?”

Tucker gave her his undivided attention. Justine’s eyes seemed lit from within by a curious glowing flame so that all he could see of her face was their huge opaque splendor.

“You came over here at midnight to talk construction and Salvation Army chic?”

“It was a stupid idea. I’m sorry we disturbed you. C’mon, everybody, let’s go home.”

“Pooh on that!” said Pauline.

“A chair moved by itself,” said Pip, drawing Tucker’s attention. “We all saw it.”

“I didn’t,” said Agnes, eyeing Pauline as if the entire affair were a conspiracy against her.

“You most assuredly did!” Pauline yelped. “You were in the hall the same as the rest of us!”

Agnes clamped her mouth shut in a thin line and shook her head vigorously.

“You’ll forgive me,” Tucker said, “If I tell you I’m not enlightened.”

“A ghost lives in our house,” Judy Ann said defiantly. “It made my doll drink tea and now it’s moving furniture.”

“A ghost?” It was all he could think of to say.

Judy Ann nodded. Tucker smiled down at her. “You all saw this ghost.” He made it a statement.

“We all saw a chair moving down the hall—by itself,” said Pauline.

“Don’t include me,” said Agnes. “I was asleep.”

Tucker looked at Justine. He was grinning. “You sure as heck picked a novel way to get a guy outta bed.”

“The fiddle-backed chair did move,” she said. “At least, we think it did. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Justine!” exclaimed Pauline. “We saw it with our very own eyes. I’m not blind, neither are Pip and Judy Ann. Agnes,” she added snidely, “is another matter.”

“I will never get in the car with you again,” Agnes retorted.

“Mother, Agnes…please…”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Tucker floundered in unfamiliar territory and wondered how best to handle the situation. He was out of his depth. A house full of women gone dotty on mass hysteria. He sure as hell didn’t believe in ghosts.

“What would you like me to do?” he asked for want of anything better. His robe gaped open, revealing a thick mat of hair on his chest, but not too thick and below his chest were rippled runner’s abs and string-tied pajama bottoms, revealing he was a well-made man. Oh. Justine’s gaze traveled up to his lived-in face, admiring the mustache, the deep-set eyes for fear she might admire something else altogether and he’d notice her staring. He looked a romantic criminal, far more dangerous than whatever was in her house—if anything.

Self-consciously she averted her face and in her mind’s eye saw suddenly how they must appear to him. Hair all pillow-awry, mismatched threadbare sleepwear with buttons or sash missing, barefoot. Except for her mother, of course, who wore a gray batiste peignoir set with matching feathery mules, and not a hair out of place because Pauline slept on a special silk pillowcase.

She found her voice. “We don’t want you to do anything. This is silly. We shouldn’t have bothered you. It’s an old house. We’re not entirely used to it yet. We scared ourselves.” She gestured to her mother, the children, and Agnes.

Agnes clutched her cane, but made no move to rise. Judy Ann leaned against her shoulder.

“We do too want Tucker to do something,” parried Pauline. “I’m not budging until he’s been through the house from one end to the other. And be certain you look under my bed.”

“Mine, too,” said Judy Ann.

“We don’t have a gun or anything,” Pip said.

It was no use. Even Agnes, for all her stubborn denials, was holding her ground. Justine felt boxed into a corner. She implored Tucker with her eyes. “Would you mind?”

“Hey, what are neighbors for? Ghost slayer to the rescue. Allow me a minute to put on some pants. I wouldn’t want to meet any fairy folk in bare feet or…well, never mind. I’ll only be a minute.”

When Tucker returned, clad in jeans and pullover shirt, Pip put on a brave front. “I’ll go with you,” he said.