Page 21

Story: Gothictown

Chapter 18

I didn’t go home. Instead, after watching Deputy Inman drive off, I walked across the street to city hall. After some alcohol-influenced wandering through the deserted halls, I finally found myself in the basement, location of the records department.

The basement was a cramped, dank, fluorescent-lit space that smelled of mildew, old paper, and something sharp and disgusting that I decided must be rat piss. The nameplate on the desk read NELSON ST. JOHN. I introduced myself to the man sitting behind an ancient desktop computer then asked for the plat of the Dalzell-Davenport property.

“Okey-doke,” the guy said in an affable voice. He moseyed back, disappearing into the rows of metal file cabinets.

I picked at my fingernails, watching the minutes tick by on the clock on the wall. I glanced around the walls, checking for cameras, then pulled Major’s flask out of my purse and took a couple of fortifying swigs. I found a metal folding chair and plopped down, scrolling the news on my phone.

Fifteen minutes later, the guy returned empty-handed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hope, I wasn’t able to locate that plat in our files.”

I stood. “That’s incorrect. You actually do have a copy of it here.” I tried to keep the New York edge out of my voice. “My husband said he saw it recently.”

He just shrugged. “Sorry.”

“We just bought the place back in April.”

“Then it should be in your information,” the guy said. “Or check your email to see if it was sent electronically.”

I hesitated. We’d closed virtually, and I’d only really paid attention to the contract, the photos of the house, and the insurance documents. I did seem to remember a map of the property, but it had been more of a surveyor’s sketch, not an official plat. A trickle of dread moved through me.

“Well, please call me if it turns up, Mr. St. John.”

“Oh, I’m not Mr. St. John. I’m the temp, Jack. Just moved into town from Houston.”

“The Initiative?”

“That’s right. I freaking love this place. Got a freaking four-bedroom house built in 1910, in perfect condition, with a huge backyard and a fountain for one hundred goddamn dollars, pardon my French. It’s freaking wild.”

“Totally wild,” I agreed.

“I’m just filling in down here, starting today. This place is a wreck, boxes and boxes of stuff back there, piled up to the ceiling, and half of it is water damaged. If they asked me to Marie Kondo this place, I can tell you the God’s honest truth, I’d throw everything out. Anyway, I’m going to be gone in a month, opening a Tex-Mex restaurant.” He leaned closer. “The mayor even set me up with someone. One of the Dalzell girls. One of the original families.”

“Huh.” I thought of Peter’s comment—that the Initiative was like a mail-order bride service for the old families. The old guard.

“Super-hot, too. The Dalzell girl.” Jack was nodding dreamily.

“Well, good luck,” I told him and left.

In the stairwell, I sipped once more from the flask then set off in search of Mayor Dixie’s office. I finally found it on the second floor—a set of spacious offices with high ceilings, dark wood paneling, and plush forest-green carpet. Feeling good and toasty from Major’s moonshine, I breezed past my old friend Bonnie St. John at the reception desk out front and headed toward the back.

“ ’Scuse me, hon,” Bonnie called after me, which I only took as encouragement to walk faster.

Mayor Dixie’s door was wide open, and I could see that she was on the phone. I entered her office and availed myself of one of the matched pink wingback chairs set in front of her massive mahogany and leather desk.

She held up a finger, a crease appearing between her brows. “Yes, thank you so much. We are so excited to hear that.”

I nodded agreeably and crossed my legs.

Her frown deepened. “No, no, we do not have a chiropractor in town, but I can tell you we’ve got plenty of old spines that could do with one, including mine.” She let out a chuckle.

I waited, smiling patiently.

Now she was glaring at me. “I apologize, Mr. Hollister. I’m going to have to call you back later. I look forward to telling you more about our Initiative. Okay, then. Bye-bye.” She listened for a moment and then hung up.

She gently inclined her head, her forehead free of lines now. “Billie Hope,” she said in a creamy voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

To Major’s moonshine . . .

“Sorry to barge in this way,” I said. “I was just going to pick up that plat of the property—the Dalzell-Davenport property—like you suggested, but the guy in Records told me it wasn’t in the file.”

“Gracious. How strange.”

I templed my fingers. “Yes, indeed. I thought so, too. Especially since my husband said he saw it recently.”

“Odd.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re still worried about the well, I take it?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear the plat’s been misplaced, but I don’t think I’m going to be much help. Perhaps in a few weeks when our permanent Records Director Nelson St. John comes back from vacation—”

“Is it real?”

“Is what real?”

“The well. Or did you just make it up so Major—or other people—wouldn’t wander around the property?” I stared at her, her face doubling for a second. God, I really was sloshed, wasn’t I?

She laughed. “You think I would lie about a well on your property?” She seemed deeply amused by this. “Mrs. Hope, you’re a regular riot, aren’t you? I think you’re the first Juliana citizen to come into this office and accuse me of lying.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mayor, I’m just asking.”

“I don’t know anything about a well on your property. I’m sorry if Major got confused, and I hope you resolve the issue. I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs. Hope, but is there anything else? I have work to do.”

I noticed the delicate gold bracelet peeking out of her jacket sleeve. It had two little charms, a script D and J . It was just like Ronnie Coleman’s bracelet, the one she’d said had been a gift from Dixie. Jamie said they all had them. I wondered when the old guard would allow me to join their secret society club? Or would I always be an outsider here?

“Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Hope?”

“No,” I said in a thoughtful voice. “I don’t think I am. But thank you for asking.”

She hesitated. “Can I help in any way with . . . whatever it is?”

I sighed and trailed my fingers along the pink taffeta arm of the chair. “Please, call me Billie.”

“Okay, Billie.” Her expression softened, and she leaned back against her cushy leather chair and regarded me. “I was a young widow. Did you know that?”

I shook my head.

“My husband, Bobby, Major’s younger brother, was a doctor. Big man, tall. Like Major, but handsome. Whew, let me tell you. Looked like Troy Donahue. He got all the brains of the family, too.”

“Poor Major.”

She waved a hand at me. “Oh, don’t you worry about Major. He has his own talents. What I want to tell you is this. Your happiness is your husband’s happiness. If you’re miserable, then he will do anything to make it better.”

I stared at her, not understanding.

“You’re not happy, Billie, are you?”

I let out a sigh. I had been happy. For the most part. Peter was the one who was refusing to make the effort. Harping on the negatives. Pulling against me at every opportunity.

“What is it?” she asked. “Does it concern the restaurant? Your daughter?”

“No—”

“Would you like to move out of the Dalzell-Davenport house, Billie? Because I can arrange that, if you do. We have several houses left that we’re offering with the Initiative. They’re not quite the caliber of your house. They don’t have the acreage, but they’re plenty big enough for you and your family—”

She paused, and I wondered if she had heard about Peter leaving me. Word traveled fast around here. Somebody had obviously told him about Jamie and me kissing. Somebody could’ve seen him filling the Subaru at a gas station on his way down to Atlanta to the airport.

“—and all of them are historically recognized and in excellent condition.” She was shuffling through the papers on her desk now. “I’m thinking of one in particular, a little Craftsman bungalow over on Dalzell that I think you’d love. It’s got a nice, deep porch, several built-ins. And the stained glass transoms are to die f—”

“I don’t want a new house,” I interrupted. “I want to know where the uncapped well on my property is so I can cap it and my daughter can play safely in her own backyard.”

Mayor Dixie’s pale blue eyes were steady. “Well, if you’ll just take a look at—”

“I do not want a new house!” I shouted, springing up. I wobbled a bit as I did and grabbed the side of the chair for support. “I want that plat!”

“Billie,” she said in a low, steady voice, “have you been drinking?”

I said nothing.

“If you have, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There is no alcohol on the premises. We’re a government building.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been drinking.”

She sat back in her chair, and it creaked loudly. She regarded me for a few uncomfortable moments. “Whatever it is, Billie, I want you to know, we are here for you. All of us.”

I nodded. I was starting to get the feeling that I’d messed up in a bigger way than I knew.

She sighed. “If I have the time, I’ll go downstairs and try to find the plat for you. Okay?”

“Okay. Thank you. I really appreciate it.” I turned toward the door.

“And Billie . . .”

I stopped.

“If you plan on driving home, do be careful.”

* * *

I drove home slowly, hands at two and ten. New plan: I wouldn’t be getting hammered at some middle-of-nowhere dive bar. With warnings from both a sheriff’s deputy and the mayor of my town, I was stuck in my palatial Italianate mansion, chock-full of priceless antiques and crystal chandeliers and possibly a band of creepy ghosts, where I would have to settle for a party of two . . . me and Major Minette’s flask of moonshine.

I changed out of my work clothes, showered, and put on the oldest, stretchiest yoga pants I could find. Forgoing a bra, I pulled on a bright pink tank top. Feet bare, hair pulled up into a topknot, I slathered my face with a green mask, one of the outrageously expensive items included in the going-away gift basket my friends had given me.

In a cabinet in the green-and-yellow parlor, I found a set of adorable little footed, crystal whiskey tumblers, and after washing one out, poured myself a proper drink of the home brew. On my phone, I found a classic seventies rock mix, one that reminded me of my mother, back when I was a girl. She’d always put on music when we cleaned our little nondescript Garment District apartment and turned it up so loud the neighbors—above, below, and beside—all pounded on the walls. But here .. . here in this house on the knoll, in the middle of nowhere Georgia, I could play the music as loudly as I wanted.

And I wanted.

Now the Rolling Stones, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the Allman Brothers blasted from the wireless speakers. I’d set them up when we first moved in, for some nonexistent party I planned to throw. Or for when, after we’d put Meredith to bed, Peter spontaneously swept me into his arms and danced me across the spacious room. But I hadn’t gotten around to throwing a party, and Peter and I had never danced alone in this room, not even once.

I checked my phone. No missed calls from Peter. No texts, nothing. Presumably, his plane had landed by now and he’d cabbed or Ubered from JFK to whatever hotel or friend’s apartment where he was staying while he contemplated what was left of our marriage. I just didn’t understand why he hadn’t contacted me. The man was a communicator by nature; it’s what he did for a living. And I’d lost count of the times he refused to let me clam up during an argument, cajoling me into dealing with the issue, no matter how much I wanted to isolate. This wasn’t like him at all. Even if he was furious with me, he’d still want to know what was going on with his daughter. I was the only way he could contact her.

Or was I?

He could’ve gone around me. Called Lilah to check in, to talk to Mere. The idea of it infuriated me, that he may already be cutting me out, going behind my back to create a new line of communication with our daughter. I poured myself another drink and sipped it, more slowly now that my head was already buzzing. Would he actually do something like that? Cut me out of the equation that way? I couldn’t fathom it.

Had I really done so much damage to our marriage with my one stupid act? It didn’t seem possible. But maybe I was just letting myself off the hook. Brushing the crime away because I didn’t want to hold myself accountable. Maybe I’d really torched my life for good.

I closed my eyes, let the music move me through the rooms of the house. Parlor to parlor, library to smoking room, conservatory to dining room, I drifted through the spaces. Funny how these days people always knocked down walls for the ubiquitous “open concept.” What made us think all that openness was better? Maybe the old-timers knew what we didn’t. That we all needed our own little compartments so we could keep our meanness and our tendencies to hurt each other barricaded away.

I’d certainly done that. Hurt Peter and in doing so hurt Mere and myself. I’d tried to engineer the perfect family in the perfect, idyllic setting, but it had backfired. I’d been arrogant and overconfident. In trying to control every aspect of my life, I’d lost everything.

No, not everything. Not Mere, not the restaurant, not this beautiful, enormous house. I still had the house. Owned it, free and clear. Which was, to borrow the words of Jack the Temp from the records department, pretty goddamn freaking wild .

I laughed and spun around, holding the crystal tumbler aloft and singing along with the music. It felt good, to dance in this big, glorious house. This house that was all mine. Because if Peter was really going to leave me, he was going to leave this house as well. This was where he couldn’t sleep, where he obsessed over that stupid, nonexistent well. Where he hallucinated feathery, winged, demon-horses . . .

I blinked and looked around, realizing I had danced myself into the kitchen. I also realized I was hungry, starving actually. I put down my drink and set to work. I mixed up some dough and fresh marinara and rolled out pizza crust. In the fridge, I found some leftover broccoli and artichoke hearts. I sliced an early tomato and handful of basil from my garden and tossed it on. A few black olives, some jalapeno, and a sprinkling of fresh mozzarella, and the pizzas were ready for the oven. I found a bottle of Montepulciano and uncorked it as the smell of crisping dough wafted through the room.

“Go fuck yourself, Peter,” I said to my silent phone.

I texted my New York friends: Gigi, Annika, Devon, and Jane. The women I’d worked with at the original Billie’s. No one responded, but that was fine. It was still early in the evening. They were probably still working. Or busy with family.

I was the one alone on a Friday night, drunk off my tits and making pizzas in my Italianate mansion. I was the one who had cheated on my husband. Forced him to take a break from me. From our family. I was the one who’d blown up her life. And maybe . . . maybe I’d done such a shitty job of keeping in touch since I’d moved down here, my old friends had given up on me, just like Peter.

I smelled something burning. I raced to the oven, reaching in with only a dish towel. I pulled the pizzas out, one by one, yipping as the dripping cheese burned me through the fabric. I dropped them on the farm table and ran cool water over my fingers, then grabbed a knife and slammed it down through one. Then again, once, twice, three times, and then the second one. I started to take a bite, then paused.

I stilled myself. Bowed my head and said the words Jamie had taught me.

“For food that stays our hunger, for rest that brings us ease, for homes where memories linger—” I stopped, lifted my head, and looked around the empty kitchen. It was just me. No one else. I was alone now.

“—we give our . . .” My voice trailed off again.

Who am I thanking anyway? God? This town? Who exactly could I assign responsibility to for the place I’d found myself?

“Fuck it.” I took a bite of the steaming pizza, barely noticing how it seared the roof of my mouth. It didn’t matter. The pizza was excellent, and I ate slice after slice of each fragrant, piping-hot wedge of perfection.

I drank almost all of the wine, too, keeping a constant eye on my phone. Not one of my friends returned my texts, and I was starting to feel hurt. Could none of them spare a brief minute for a check-in for an old friend? Had I ceased to exist just because I didn’t live in New York anymore?

Well, fuck them.

Fuck them right into the sun with a cannon, thank you very much.

I took the bottle of wine back into the parlor to switch the playlist to something sexier. A little late nineties, early 2000s Mariah, perhaps. I tapped on my phone and the bubblegum pop beat poured out. Peter hated this music. So it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I worked my way through the rest of the wine, twirling through the rooms of my house, everything growing hazier and softer and lighter by the minute. At one point, in the front hall, I believe I knocked over a lamp, but I left it lying on the floor. Who even cared? Not me. I had dancing to do . . . in my freaking wild house. The golden sun had dipped in the sky, on the western side of our land and, for a moment, the house glowed. Every piece of furniture, every lamp, every framed portrait seemed to shine with a gilt wash. I blew a thin layer of white dust off a pair of candlesticks and lit the candles. I watched the flames lengthen and flicker, mesmerized by the light and life. Even in this light, the dust looked magical.

“Welcome, spirits.” I stretched out my arms to the big, empty room. “Welcome, you creepy, singing children of the darkness and you, too, weird lady with the braids.” I shivered, as if I’d just invoked something bigger and more powerful than I knew. Suddenly, I realized the house was doused in shadows. The candles were the only source of light.

I closed my eyes, and I thought about Mere’s and my dreams—the children trapped in darkness with the old woman, singing songs to bring them comfort. It was never clear, though, why the children were afraid. Did Peter’s dream have anything to do with it? Had the children seen the winged demon-horses that had terrified him? Nothing fit together. But it had to. Wren and her trustafarian friends had carved those words— for the children —when they were living here in the house. Maybe they’d had the dreams, too. Or understood something I still didn’t. Some terrifying piece of the puzzle that eluded me.

An old secret, I suddenly thought .

A buried evil.

I opened my eyes. I was drunk and scaring the hell out of myself.

But...

What if mine and Peter’s and Mere’s nightmares actually were linked? What if Major Minette had told us there was an open well because there really was something evil on this property that they didn’t want us disturbing? What if there really was some kind of curse on the land or even the house?

I lifted my arms, hands held open to the shadows. “Children!” I called out into the darkness. “Are you here? If you are, speak to me! Tell me what happened to you!”

I listened to the quietness—or rather the sounds of the fridge and mantel clock ticking—and then I really did hear something. Like the whirring, fluttering sound of wings beating against the air. I whirled, searching the dark corners of the room, but all I could see were the shapes of the furniture and the moonlight spilling in from the windows.

Billie, stop.

You’re losing it.

Shaken, I grabbed my phone, shut off the music, sank down on the silk taffeta sofa, and FaceTimed my mother.