Элизабет Чандлер: The Back Door of Midnight

“Yes, be careful,” the girl said. “You wouldn’t want to damage that car.”

“Thanks,” I replied, looking at the guy, not her, then starting up the car, its roar ending the possibility of further conversation.

He must have watched my car as I drove the cobblestone circle, for he suddenly ran out in front of me, waving his arms. I wasn’t turning off the car again — if he wanted to talk to me, he would have to shout.

“Do you know you’re dragging your muffler?”

“Sure sounds like it,” I hollered back, and drove on, not that I didn’t appreciate his thoughtfulness in telling me, but I saw no point in stopping for a closer look. His clothes were casual chic, laid-back rich-kid clothes, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to crawl under and take care of it. I could drag it another quarter mile or so.

Back on Scarborough Road, I found what looked like a pull-off rather than a driveway and, after a moment of indecision, left my car there, not wanting to lose a wheel as well as a muffler. The entrance to the rest of the driveway was hidden by a sharp turn and overgrown shrubs. Scrub pine, high grass, and weeds cooked in the late-afternoon heat. About thirty feet beyond was the dense green of trees, and somewhere beyond their leafy darkness lay a house I vaguely remembered. As I walked, the stillness of the Sunday afternoon was eroded by the sound of insects swarming up from the tall grasses. The moment I entered the trees, the air changed, its temperature dropping, its dampness coating my skin.

Patch by patch, the old house began to show through the leaves, pieces of brown shingle roof and weathered gray boards. Its wood had a greenish tinge, like that of the mosscovered trees. I had remembered the house as being unusually long, and when I got close, I saw why. It must have been built as two structures, the left one added on to the right. Both sections of the house had a second floor, but the right portion was taller, boxier. The left portion sat low, with a simple sloping roof and dormer windows for its second floor. A narrow covered porch ran along the front of the low portion.

The house’s windows were open, blackened screens in each one, but not a sound came from within. I was relieved to see Uncle Will’s pickup parked at the end of the driveway, next to what looked like a horse trailer.

“Hey. . Hi. . Uncle Will?” I called.

At first I heard only insects, then there were soft, leafy sounds, stirrings in the trees and bushes around me, and cats began to emerge. They strode out in that fluid, stealthy way cats have, their increasing number making them bold. I stopped counting at sixteen.

Several of the cats trotted up the steps to a square porch and sat looking at the entrance to the tall section of the house. I followed them, opened a warped screen door, then knocked loudly on the main one. There was no answer, and after a moment the cats turned to me expectantly.

“Uncle Will? Aunt Iris?” I knocked again, then turned the handle. The door swung inward, sweeping over a threadbare rug, letting out a breath of musty air. I stepped inside, and so did the cats, padding softly. A center hall ran past the stairs to a door at the back of the house. That door was open, and through it, I could see tall grass, a yard that sloped down to the wide creek.

I called out several times, then noticed the cats scurrying to the front door, which they scratched energetically. After letting them out, I watched the entire herd trot over to Uncle Will’s truck. They leaped onto the pickup, some of them choosing to sit on the hood, others making a second leap to the top of the cab. I stepped onto the porch, surveying the trees, wondering what had caused them to act that way.

About a minute later I heard a car engine. An old sedan came barreling through the trees. Branches snapped back and crunched beneath its wheels. When the car stopped next to the pickup, I saw a bouquet of twigs attached to its bumper and another one stuck in its windshield wipers.

Perhaps the cats knew from experience to stay clear of this driver.

A tall, broad-boned woman got out of the sedan. Aunt Iris, I realized. Her hair was dyed a harsh version of its original red, and her skin looked both paler and more freckled than I remembered. In some places it stretched over her large bones; in others, like the backs of her arms, it hung loose.

“Oh, stop it!” she snapped, before I could speak a word.

“I’ve heard enough already.”

She stalked toward the porch where I stood, but never looked at me. I assumed she was talking to the cats, since they had jumped down from the truck and were mewing.

Then her gaze became fixed on the right porch post.

“Hello, Aunt Iris.”

She turned her head sharply. For a moment she looked surprised to see me, then she made a face. “It’s about time!”

I glanced at my watch. “I told Uncle Will three o’clock.”

“Well, he didn’t tell me. He didn’t even mention you were coming back.”

“He didn’t?” Uh-oh. “Where is Uncle Will?”

“At the coroner’s — most of him, that is.”

“Excuse me?”

“They won’t return him. They said they have more tests to do. It’s not right, a man to be half ashes, half skin. He should be one or the other.”

I stared at her, a grisly image materializing in my head.

“Half ashes. . you mean he’s dead?”

She nodded and looked somewhat smug. “I see you didn’t know. That’s William for you — always forgetting to mention the important things.”

“When did he die?” I cried. “How did he die?”

She shot a look at the right porch post. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. He’s not speaking to me.”

I glanced at the post as if I might see him there, then back at her. She wasn’t making sense — not that anyone claiming that my uncle was dead would have made sense to me. Had he been seriously ill and waiting till I got here to tell me?

Then I got a creepy feeling. Half ashes. “Was there a fire?”

“Of course there was a fire,” she replied, stomping up the steps and into the house.

I followed her, images from my dream flickering through my mind. “Were other people there? Were there kids my age? Did someone deliberately set the fire?”

“You ask too many questions, Joanna.”

“Anna,” I corrected quietly.

“What?” She spun around, and I stepped back.

She was a head taller than I, and her hands, though worn, were still powerful, like those of a woman who had spent her life working a farm. I had no problem imagining her snapping the necks of chickens before throwing them in a boiling pot.

“I’m Anna, Anna O’Neill Kirkpatrick. Joanna was my mother,” I said. “She’s dead, remember?”

“Despite what William says, I remember everything that I want to.”

She strode through the dining room. I trailed her, and two kitties trailed me.

“Why aren’t you in Baltimore?” Aunt Iris asked, making it clear she now knew who I was.

“Uncle Will invited me. He said there were some family things he wanted to talk about.”

I saw the color wash up the back of her neck. She shoved the swinging door between the dining room and kitchen so hard, it slammed against the kitchen wall. “He wanted to talk about me. He thinks I’m out of my mind. He thinks I should be committed to the crazy-people place.”

I caught the door as it bounced back at me. The two cats slinked away.

“I’ve been there,” Iris went on, “and I just can’t get along with those people. They’re strange.”

“I guess so.” I glanced around the room, which had appliances even older and stickier-looking than ours and a faded tile floor. Perhaps when you are less than three feet tall, you stare at the floor a lot: The checkerboard pattern was familiar to me.