Page 20 of Play Nice

Dad slut-shamed me,” I tell Leda an hour later as I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“What?” she asks, frazzled. I don’t know why she called; I just picked up and said the thing I want to talk about. That’s why I picked up. If I had nothing to say, I would have ignored her call. She’s not fun on the phone.

“I hooked up with the neighbor and he left me a note. Dad found it and got all dad about it.”

“What did the note say?” she asks.

“Had fun last night, let’s do it again,” I say. “Basically that.”

“You shouldn’t have had it out for him to find. And what was he doing at the house?”

“Pest control.”

She sighs. “You said you would handle the house yourself.”

“I am,” I say.

“You’re not. You’re involving Dad. How many times has he been over there?”

“Not a lot. There were dead mice in the garage. Stuck in glue traps. Not whole mice either. Parts of them. Wouldn’t you ask Tommy or Dad for help disposing of a mouse head stuck to a glue trap? Head only, Leda. Just a head. No body.”

She doesn’t say anything. I don’t even hear her breathe. I check to make sure we weren’t disconnected.

“Leeds?”

Still nothing.

“Leda, are you there?”

“You’re reading the book,” she says. She’s not angry, her tone isn’t accusing. That’s what makes it so scary.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, going with denial, because how would she know? There’s no way. “What do dead mice have to do with the book?”

I, of course, know about the priest coughing up half a mouse in Demon of Edgewood Drive . But how would Leda know said incident was featured in the book if she never read it?

“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she says, her voice going high and squeaky. “Nothing. Just…we all agreed you would do this on your own. Part of being an adult is cleaning up your own messes.”

“Did you call to lecture me or…?” I ask, taking a bite of my PB it’s waiting. There’s something coiling inside it, I know. I can feel it. I believe it. If I were to close my eyes, I would see it.

Sometimes silence isn’t peace; it’s war.

I’m afraid to blink.

I keep my eyes wide. I move them everywhere.

My sketchpad is open on the coffee table to the page with the sketch I don’t remember making, the word I don’t remember writing.

Hello.

I couldn’t sleep after Father John’s visit. That night, once I’d put the girls to bed, I wandered through the house, room to room. I was manic. I felt silly for inviting him over, foolish for thinking I could get help from any man, even a holy man. Perhaps especially a holy man.

In the eyes of the Catholic Church, all women are sinners. We invented the enterprise, after all. Eve plucked the fruit from the tree.

I poured myself a glass of wine and sat outside on the back deck. I called my sister, Helen.

“I think there’s something wrong with the house,” I told her. “That or I’m losing my mind.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean?” she asked.

I could hear her smoking through the phone, and it made me want a cigarette.

Our parents smoked, so we smoked, but I quit when I met my ex-husband, at his insistence.

He said it was a nasty habit. I craved one that night as I sat alone on the deck shivering.

“I hear noises.”

“Houses make noise. You’ll get used to it,” she said. “You’ve been under an incredible amount of stress. Consistent stress for years. You must be exhausted.”

“I am. But it’s not that. Not just that, anyway,” I said. “I swear. I hear it laughing at me. It’s mocking me. It moves through the house. It wants me to know it’s there, but it doesn’t want anyone else to know.”

“Lex. Slow down.”

“I don’t know if it wants to hurt me. It…it wants me to hurt myself,” I said. I’d spoken a truth I hadn’t been fully aware of until the words freed themselves from me, escaped into the night. It was frightening to hear that truth out loud.

I did speak to Helen on the phone that night, but I don’t remember the specifics of our conversation.

I made this part up. She already knew that I suspected the house was haunted.

She already knew about Father John. I spoke to her almost every day, as I’m sure you speak to your sisters.

I could tell she did not believe me, and I felt some resentment toward her.

She thought I was crazy, but she was at least sympathetic.

I did have a few friends at that time. Rebecca was one of them, the closest one.

I lied about her not picking up my calls.

While my other friends shunned me after the divorce, Rebecca was unbothered and unthreatened.

But I feared if I told her about the hauntings, she’d cut me off.

Then I’d really have no one. The neighbors were friendly, but they all liked to embroider and bake cookies.

They sold Mary Kay and had Tupperware parties.

I didn’t fit in. I didn’t want to. It depressed the hell out of me.

I didn’t think the average reader would understand, but I think you will. I don’t know. Maybe I hope you don’t.

“I’m going to talk to my boss tomorrow. I think I should come down there,” she said.

“No, Helen. Don’t…don’t listen to me.” A moment passed. I heard her light another cigarette. I took another slow sip of wine. “I had a priest come to the house.”

“Come again?”

“He left. He didn’t stay a minute. Not a minute.”

“What about Rebecca? Have you seen her at all lately? Have you met any of the neighbors? Anyone friendly?”

“I lost everyone in the divorce!” I snapped. “You know that.”

“You said Rebecca—”

“She won’t return my calls. I’m alone, Helen. I’m alone, and it’s glad.”

“You keep saying ‘it.’ What’s ‘it’?”

“I’m not sure. The priest said he was sending someone else, but I don’t think he meant it. I feel…I feel hopeless.” I broke down in tears.

She offered again to come down, but I told her not to bother. I didn’t want to get her involved in whatever was happening inside the house.

There was a beep, indicating a call on the other line.

“Helen, I have to go.” I promised to call her in the morning, told her I loved and appreciated her, and then switched lines. “Hello?”

I doubt I said I loved her. I do love and appreciate Helen, but we rarely said such things to each other.

It wasn’t how we were raised. Your father was always telling you he loved you, and you girls always said it back, said it to each other.

I was never good at that. So much of my life I’ve felt like I’m pressing my nose to the window, watching everyone else be happy beyond the glass.

“Ms.Alexandra Barnes? This is Father Bernard. I have reason to believe you and your daughters may be in grave danger.”

He didn’t say that. He didn’t call. He showed up at our door the next morning with a Bible, a crucifix, and an attitude I didn’t care for. But I needed something punchy to end the chapter, instead of me crying into my wine on the deck.