Chris Grabenstein - The Hanging Hill

One of the photographs made Zack freeze.

An actress named Susan Potter.

“Here we go,” chirped the librarian. “Found it. Nine teen sixty-nine. The world premiere of a rock opera called Chaos City . ‘We’ve chosen to call ourselves the Pandemonium Players to celebrate the inspired chaos that guides all theatrical journeys.’”

She was beaming.

Meghan was smiling, glad they’d finally found Zack’s answer.

Zack didn’t say a word.

He just kept staring at the photograph of the actress named Susan Potter in a playbill from the summer of 1985.

“It’s my mother,” he said softly.

“Judy?” asked Meghan.

“No. My real mother.”

82

Zack borrowed Meghan’s cell phone so he could talk with his father.

“That’s right,” his dad said. “Before we met, your mother was an actress.”

Zack, Zipper, and Meghan were sitting on a park bench in the small town square in front of the library.

“Did you know that she used to do shows at the Hanging Hill Playhouse?”

“No. She never talked about her acting career. Your mother’s parents thought acting was a waste of her time and her expensive college education. They encouraged her to give it up, which she did, long before I met her.”

“Well, she did like half a dozen shows with the Pandemonium Players. I’m surprised she never talked to you about it.”

“Yeah,” said his dad, sounding sad. “Me too.”

Neither Zack nor his father said anything.

“Guess I’d better go,” mumbled Meghan. “Schoolwork.”

“Dad, I gotta run.”

“Yeah,” said his father. “So, hey, how are you and Judy making out over there?”

“Okay,” said Zack.

“The plumbers came today. Put in new toilets at the house.”

“I’ll tell Judy.”

“Is she there with you?”

“No. She’s still in rehearsal.”

“Tell her to call me before she goes to bed tonight, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Zack?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad.” He closed up the cell phone, handed it back to Meghan.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Kind of freaky, hunh? Finding out your mother had this whole secret life nobody knew about.”

“Yeah. But you know what’s even freakier?”

“What?”

“In that photograph, she was actually smiling.”

“What’s so freaky about that?”

Zack turned to face Meghan and raised his right hand to let her know that what he was about to tell her was the absolute truth: “I have never, ever seen my real mother smile in a photograph.”

“Okay. But have you ever seen any pictures of your mom from before you were born?”

“Yeah. Just now.”

“I mean besides the one in the program. Just her and your dad, maybe, before you came along?”

“Sure. Their wedding pictures. A couple snapshots in the photo album. Vacations and stuff.”

“Was she smiling in those?”

Zack thought about it.

“No.” Even in her wedding pictures, his real mom looked super-serious. “That’s why it took me a while to recognize her in the playbill.”

“See?” said Meghan.

“See what?”

“You didn’t make her stop smiling, Zack. That was something she’d decided to do long before you came along. If your real mom wasn’t happy, I don’t think it was your fault.”

Zack smiled. “Thanks, Meghan.”

“I gotta go. Catch you later!”

Meghan took off running, headed for the theater.

A theater where Zack’s real mother had once performed.

Zack’s heart started pounding harder.

That meant she could come back!

“Anyone who ever traipsed across the boards or worked here behind the scenes” was welcome to return, according to Justus Willowmeier III.

Anyone.

Including Susan Potter.

83

During a short rehearsal break, Reginald Grimes huddled in a corner of the room with Hakeem.

They spoke in hushed, tense whispers.

“I’ve been thinking about tonight. What do we do about the mothers?”

“I have an idea,” said Hakeem. “The stage will be empty tonight, yes?”

“Yes. It’s Monday. We’re dark. No performances at all.”

“Good. We can hold them there.”

“Where?”

“Do not worry,” said Hakeem. “Jamal and Badir will handle it. But tell me: Who else is residing in the bedrooms upstairs besides the Stone and McKenna families?”

“The playwright and her son. The boy with the glasses.”

Hakeem nodded thoughtfully. “Invite them to your party.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. The playwright must be detained with the other women.”

“And the boy?”

“He will be dealt with.”

84

Zack and Zipper lay on top of his bed on the fifth floor.

Earlier Zack had gone by the rehearsal room and heard a man screaming, “Five, six, seven, eight,” which was followed by a stampede of feet and pounding piano music. He didn’t really understand why Judy, the playwright, had to attend a dance rehearsal. Maybe in case they decided to change the words from “Five, six, seven, eight” to “One, two, three, four.”

Since Judy had been busy, Zack came upstairs and thought about eating.

He wasn’t really hungry, so he’d thought about watching TV.

Then he thought about reading.

He’d thought about a lot of stuff and opted for lying on top of his bedspread with his good buddy Zipper for about four hours.

He had heard birds chirp, Zipper snore, and ancient beams creak as the sun heated and clouds cooled the building.

Zack had spent the final fifteen minutes of his four-hour funk rubbing Zipper’s ears while staring across the room at the glassless frame holding the family portrait on top of his small dresser.

Zack, his dad, Zipper, and Judy.

His new mom.

Maybe that was why he was spending the whole afternoon hiding in his room: It was what he used to do a lot when his real mom was alive.

She’d scream and yell, tell him how he ruined her life, how he spoiled everything, how he was worthless, an embarrassment, and a total mistake. Zack would retreat to his bedroom, lock the door, and play with his G.I. Joes and action figures. He’d make up imaginary friends, create his own world. His pretend family could sometimes make up for his real one.

Now he was afraid his real mother could find him again.

Yes, she was dead. He knew that. He’d been at her funeral.

But…

Susan Potter could come back to the Hanging Hill Playhouse just like Bartholomew Buckingham and all the others. In fact, she could be here right now, hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Maybe she’d toss him off to Lilly Pruett or give the old hag a hand with the hatchet. The ghost of Susan Potter would do whatever she could to make Zack pay for being a horrid little ingrate who loved his pretty new stepmother better than his angry old dead mother!

Zipper yawned, stretched into a stand, and marched up the bed to give Zack a sloppy smooch.

“What?”

Zipper smiled at him. Wagged his tail.

“What?”

Zipper jumped off the bed, found his grungy sponge ball.

“Oh. I see. You think I’ve spent enough time up here feeling sorry for myself? You’d rather go outside and play?”

Zipper’s tail wagged faster.

“You’re probably right. Besides, even if she is here, my mother can’t hurt me anymore.” He said it loudly enough for any invisible visitors to hear him without having to strain. “None of the ghosts can.” He climbed off the bed. “They’re ghosts. They can’t do diddly except make spooky noises, rattle the furniture, and scare me into hurting myself!”