Элизабет Чандлер: The Back Door of Midnight

I picked up my suitcase and climbed the steps to the second floor. At the top of the stairway a window overlooked the backyard of the house. To the right was a large bedroom. I remembered its wallpaper, the big, blue mopheaded flowers, but despite the twin beds and crib, I didn’t recall sleeping there. My eyes slid over to the mahogany bureau. I told myself I needed to keep checking the house while Aunt Iris was gone, but that was just an excuse for not opening the drawers to see if they contained clothes worn by my birth mother.

On the other side of the stairs and hall were a bath and two bedrooms. The front room, its walls green and shadowy from the press of trees, must have been Aunt Iris’s. I remembered its herbal smell, a good smell, but it brought back a feeling of fear. The back room, facing the water, was Uncle Will’s. Surveying the simple furniture of his room, my eyes stopped at a door opposite from where I was standing.

I knew the moment I saw the door that I used to go through it.

Opening it, I found the entrance to the left side of the house, the portion that lay beneath the sloping roof. A long, low-ceilinged room with bare planking and dormer windows — three facing the water, three facing the trees — it looked like an orphan’s dormitory in an old storybook. In the corner closest to Uncle’s Will’s room, snug against the sloping roof, was the bed where I had slept. I knew it the moment I saw it.

Two painted bureaus, a rocking chair, and a child’s chair made a cozy little square. It was creepy, everything still in place as if the kindergartner who had slept there would be returning. Of course, I could imagine how it must have looked to the people from Social Services — kid kept in the attic — but I remembered the feeling of warmth and safety I’d had here. I set down my suitcase. This was where I would sleep tonight.

Beyond my little corner were boxes, trunks, miscellaneous pieces of furniture, and a cemetery of television sets. There were ten TVs, most of them the same size, all of them having one obvious feature: a smashed screen. Ten times was nine times too many for an accident, and I doubted it was Uncle Will who had gotten mad.

At the end of the long room was a massive chimney with steps next to it. I crossed the floor quickly and descended a turning staircase to a room full of books. Uncle Will’s den — I remembered playing dolls here. The huge fireplace and the brick floor indicated that it was the original kitchen of the homestead. I assumed the police had searched it for clues about Uncle Will’s death, but there were so many books and papers that if anything was hidden, it could have easily been missed. I planned to search it too.

At that moment a cat that must have been following me came flying down the corner stairs and clawed at the door to the outside. I glanced at the clock on Uncle Will’s desk, then opened the door and listened for a moment. I could hear nothing, but I let the cat out so it could join the other cats, which were leaping onto the hood of Uncle Will’s pickup. A minute and a half later the gold car came roaring down the driveway. I had expected my aunt; still, the skin at the back of my neck prickled at the sight of her. Was the cats’ hearing that good, or did she communicate with them in some way?

She climbed out of her Chevrolet and stood with her head cocked, as if she, herself, were listening to something.

“Hello, Aunt Iris,” I called before emerging from the house, hoping I wouldn’t startle her.

She whipped around.

“It’s me, Anna,” I said.

She looked hard at me. “I remember. I remember everything that I want to.”

The problem was, I had no way of knowing what she did not want to.

“A man was here with his goats,” I went on. “He said he had an appointment.”

“I knew he was here. I had to leave. The voices wouldn’t stop.”

“The man asked for — for my advice about one of his goats, so I gave it to him.”

She nodded, as if it were perfectly normal for me to be making suggestions about farm animals. “Maria gets her feelings hurt easily,” she said. Then she blinked and turned her head slowly. I looked where she looked but saw nothing, not even a porch post resembling Uncle Will.

“Stop it!” she said angrily. “I won’t listen to you anymore!”

I moved out of the shadow of the house and heard bits of jazzy music mixed with the rise and fall of voices. “The people next door are having a party,” I told her.

“Even when they whisper, I can hear them telling me what to do.” Her voice quavered with emotion.

“What to do about what?”

“William. You.”

“Oh.” In Baltimore I might have found this conversation humorous, but here in the gloom of the old house and encroaching trees, it made me uneasy.

“You’ve been talking to William, haven’t you?” she said accusingly. “You were in his den.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “I was there, but he wasn’t.

He’s at the coroner’s, remember?”

“He never hears the voices.”

“I don’t hear them either,” I told her. “But maybe, if you tell me what they are saying, I can help you figure out where they are coming from and what to do about them.”

Her eyes flew wide. “I can’t! I can’t say a word! There are secrets I can tell no one.”

“Secrets about what?”

“I can’t tell you!” She sounded panicky and took a step back from me. “Don’t ask me, the voices will be angry.” She held her ears with her hands. “How they taunt me!” she moaned.

She shook her head from side to side, then dug her index fingers into her ears. “Stop it! Stop it!”

“Aunt Iris—” She backed against her car. When she started to fall, I rushed forward to catch her. She slid down the side of the car. I struggled to pull her up, but she was dead weight. She sank to the ground, sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest.

“Aunt Iris, everything’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

She bent forward, her head and hands between her knees, as if they could help keep out the maddening voices.

I knelt in front of her, my hands clenched, feeling useless.

I wanted to run back to Baltimore — she scared me. But I owed it to Uncle Will to stay. When my mother died, he had taken care of me, giving all he could. Now he had died, leaving someone behind, and it was my turn.

It would take weeks to figure out what Iris needed and how to get it for her. Maybe I could find the medicine she was supposed to take, a bottle with a doctor’s name on the label. I had to figure out if she was safe alone — and if others were safe from her when she was left alone.

“Aunt Iris. Aunt Iris, listen to me!” I increased the volume of my voice until I was shouting at her. “There’s no one here but me. It’s just me.”

Finally, she removed her hands from her ears.

“We need to go inside now. I’ll fix us something to eat.

You’ll feel better if you have some dinner.”

She looked about, then reached for the car’s outside mirror and pulled herself to her feet. “How long will you be staying?” she asked.

“For a while.”

“What kind of job will you get? I hope you don’t read cards.”

“Read cards?” I repeated, surprised. “You mean tell people’s fortunes? No way!”

She nodded, brushed something aside with her handmaybe a cobweb I couldn’t see — and headed toward the kitchen door. “Good. Stick to animals, Joanna. People are vicious. They will turn on you.”

A SEARCH OF the kitchen cupboards produced a box of macaroni with cheese flakes that could be mixed and cooked, which was filling and safer than the food in the fridge. Aunt Iris ate two mouthfuls, said she wasn’t hungry, and retreated to her bedroom. I waited five minutes, then carried her plate upstairs. Her door was closed. I knocked and asked her if she was feeling all right — she was. I asked if she would mind me opening the door — she would. I told her I had brought up her dinner in case she wanted a little more — she didn’t.