Sandra Steffen - Slightly Psychic

Chickens squawked, scattering out of the driveway as Lila approached. A goat stood watch from the roof of a rusting car. She counted two more junked cars nearly covered by rambling roses, and other mounds of debris hiding in weeds. Beyond the house were several outbuildings weathered to a dull gray. In the distance she saw more trees, a pond and what appeared to be a small cabin.

Pulling to a stop near the main house, Lila got out. She wondered if Pepper was right that Myrtle Ann Canfield had left everything to her for a reason. If so, what on earth could that reason be? Why not leave her beloved homestead to someone stronger, emotionally and physically? At the very least, why not leave it to someone with enough money to finish the clearing and mending?

Why her?

She tried to go to that place she used to go where the air held a low vibration and the universe made sense. Raising her gaze to the sky, she lowered it again, her inner voice mute and her heart beating too fast.

Insects flitted and a soft evening breeze fluttered weeds against her ankles. Spring had been stubborn about arriving in the northeast. Here it already felt like early summer. She stood in the fading twilight for a long time, staring at the house that was now hers. It was a sprawling two-story, its white paint peeling in places. Somebody had washed the windows and trimmed the rosebushes and planted flowers in front of the porch, as if in welcome. It was Lila’s second welcome to Murray.

She tried the bottom step. When it held her weight, she took the next one. At the top, she made a sweeping survey of every inch of The Meadows in plain view. It was nothing as she’d envisioned, and yet it was a peaceful place, and peace was all she wanted or needed.

Key in hand, Lila unlocked the door. Without saying another word, she and Pepper went in.

Joe McCaffrey had seen the lights in the main house last night. He supposed it was inevitable that the peace and quiet wouldn’t last, just as it was inevitable that the new owner would notice The Meadows had another resident.

He’d known Myrtle Ann had left the property to a woman from up north, a Yankee, she’d called her. That was all Myrtle Ann had had to say on the subject.

Seeing the new owner picking through boxes in her U-Haul trailer last night, he’d kept his lights off. This morning he faced the fact that he couldn’t keep his presence a secret indefinitely. Before she got spooked and called the police—that was all Joe needed—he washed up and changed. He even shaved, although why he bothered, he didn’t know. Evidently it was important to look his best while being evicted.

He’d been staying in this old cabin by the pond almost two years now. It had an antiquated refrigerator and stove, running hot and cold water, a huge monstrosity of a bed, one table, two chairs, one bathroom, one mirror, which was one mirror too many most days.

Staring at his reflection this morning, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, then held his right hand palm-side up, slowly squeezing his fingers into a fist around an imaginary ball. The tendons in his wrist tensed and the muscles in his forearms coiled in anticipation.

He could almost hear the fans, thousands of them. “J.J.,” they’d called him. His mother had called him Joe-Joe, short for Joseph John McCaffrey Jr. To everyone else who’d known him growing up in Murray, he’d always been Joe. Not just Joe. Joe-the-boy-wonder-McCaffrey, Murray High’s all-star pitcher. He’d starred in college, too, and then during a short stint in the minors, followed by his lifelong dream, the majors. One thing had led to everything, and everything was what he’d had: a beautiful wife, beguiling daughter, thriving career, home, hearth and happiness. It was all gone now, except his daughter, but she’d changed, too. Who could blame her? Murray, Virginia, wasn’t exactly a forgiving kind of town, and it sure as hell never forgot.

The signs marking yesterday’s parade route had gone up all over town a week ago. Signs were unnecessary. The route hadn’t changed in fifty years. But Murray was big on tradition, and it was a tradition to put up signs. The theme every year was the same, too. Peace in the valley. For a long time he’d been part of the tradition, riding in the parade with some of his old high school teammates when his schedule allowed.

He scowled, not because he’d lost his place in the limelight, but because he’d lost everything else. All because Noreen went missing one day. Husbands were always prime suspects in such cases. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t enough evidence for a trial. There wasn’t even a body. A trial wasn’t necessary in Murray, and living within spitting distance of the town’s suspicions was both his punishment and their comeuppance.

To hell with it and to hell with them.

Staring hard at his reflection, at his narrowed eyes and the furrow between them, at the grim line of his mouth and the stubborn set of his chin, he flung the towel over the bar and tucked in his shirt. Peace. His scowl deepened as he headed up to the main house to introduce himself.

Joe Schmoe.

Joe knocked on the front door, the side and the back. Cradling his sore knuckles, he backed up, oh for three.

He was trying to do the right thing. The car and trailer were parked in the driveway. Where was she?

When Myrtle Ann was alive, he’d always rapped twice before entering. She’d never locked her doors, and knocking had simply been a courtesy, for despite waning eyesight and an increasing dependence on her canes, the old woman always knew he was there. Said she could smell him the way she could smell an approaching storm.

Myrtle Ann Canfield had been a cagey old bird, an odd duck by Murray standards, a case of the pot calling the kettle black if there ever was one. Old age had shrunk her body and lined her face so deeply she’d looked a hundred for as long as Joe had known her. She’d never been one for gossip, preferring quiet companionship to idle chatter. Every once in a while she’d let something personal slip. Looking back, he realized those instances had been more carefully orchestrated than he’d realized at the time. She’d buried her husband fifty years ago and never seen fit to remarry. She and Joe had understood one another there. She hadn’t had an easy life, but she’d once said it had suited her.

He hadn’t expected to miss her.

But she was gone, and some law firm in Rhode Island had commissioned the local locksmith to change the locks in the main house when someone new inherited the old place. Joe had most likely already overstayed his welcome. No matter what they said about possession being nine-tenths of the law, the cabin by the pond wasn’t his.

Hoofs clattered up the steps, and the world’s most ornery goat butted Joe from behind. Giving the animal a guiding shove, he said, “Get off the porch, Nanny. Go on. You know better.”

“So her name’s Nanny.”

The soft, plaintive sound drew Joe around. The woman stood in the doorway, her light brown hair hanging past her shoulders. He couldn’t tell how old she was, mid- to late thirties, maybe. She was barefoot and sleepy-looking, her dress long and loose and the color of burnished copper. Over her shoulders she wore a sweater that was severely wrinkled, as if she’d just pulled it from a packing crate. Slipping her arms into the sleeves, she said, “She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Who?” he asked.

“The goat. You called her Nanny.”

He found himself staring at the open door, puzzled. “That old relic is solid mahogany and has been sticking for years. How did you open it soundlessly?”

“Some things respond best to a gentle touch.”

Something erotic seared the back of his mind. Dousing it at the source, he looked at her again.