The Atheist's Daughter Page 9

  She peeked over the top of her painting. “Getting tired?”

  “Tired of what? Lying here?”

  Gathering the sheet around her breasts, Susannah leaned forward. “Have you been to the new café?”

  “It’s not so new from what I’ve heard.”

  “You’ve heard right,” Susannah said. “Step inside and you’d swear Martin was still running the place. Same tables, same decorations. You’d think someone would have had the good taste to replace that God-awful flocked wallpaper. I almost expected to see Chandra Piotrowski at the cash register.”

  “Poor Chandra.”

  “Poor Chandra, my ass,” Susannah said. “She probably ran off with the lifeguard from the Y.”

  “Chandra, hooking up with twenty-three year old Mike ‘Muscles’ Morley? You can’t be serious.”

  “If only it were true. There might be hope for the rest of us.” Pointing her painted toenails, she pushed her feet into the bejeweled sandals sitting at the base of the sofa. Having posed for almost ninety minutes, this was her gentle reminder that she’d grown bored with it.

  Becky knew better than to ask for more time. Once she made up her mind, Susannah grew restless. A fidgety model was of no use at all. “You were talking about the restaurant.”

  “There’s a man in the kitchen, you can tell. The meat in my casserole had been chopped to death. Pieces so small, it could have been anything.”

  “Cow, horse, llama....” Becky wiped at the brush, cleaning the paint from it.

  The sheet wrapped around her, Susannah hobbled over to the side chair where she’d dropped her clothing. “Martin was there. He told me a little secret.”

  “About Chandra?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “About the family that leased the café.” Dropping the sheet, she wiggled into a pair of capris. “They live upstairs of the dining area, you know. All five of them.” She pulled a knitted sweater over her head. “In the smallest room, the one without windows, they’ve removed all of the electrical outlets.”

  “Because – ?” Becky dropped her Berkeley Number Seven brush into a pot of turpentine.

  “They have to use candles in the room. They can’t use artificial light. Artificial light might affect the prophecies of their seer stone.”

  Becky’s voice went cold. “Psychics.”

  “You don’t like fortune-tellers?” Uncertainty crept into Susannah’s voice. “It’s not what you think. They don’t charge anything. They wouldn’t even take my tip.”

  “Do not tell me you went up those stairs.”

  “It’s only a game.”

  “It’s a wicked game,” Becky told her. “Let me finish cleaning up. I’ll put the tea kettle on to heat and we can talk.”

  * * *

  Seated at the kitchen table, she stirred a packet of artificial sweetener into her cup of green tea. “It was years and years ago,” Becky said. “Rick and I were fairly new to this area. We’d emptied our bank account to buy our first place together. This house.”

  “I’ve always liked your house.” Holding the tea cup in front of her mouth, Susannah surveyed the cream-colored walls around her. “It’s so homey.”

  “We wanted a place to raise our baby, our little Kristin. We had so many plans. There was just so much... so much we planned to do.”

  Funny how the memory of it still hurts, she thought. Nearly two decades later and talking about what-should-have-been still carries the ache of a fresh wound.

  People say the loss of a loved one becomes easier over time. That’s partly true but only partly.

  The loss never fully goes away.

  “It was the middle of the week, for some reason we were both home, and I wanted to get out,” she said. “There was no real reason for it. The house needed all kinds of repairs, the yard was a mess. There were a hundred chores waiting to be done.”

  “There are always a hundred chores to be done,” Susannah said, blowing a cooling breath over the edge of her teacup.

  “I’ll never forget it. It was such a beautiful spring day. Rick would have been happy to putter around the place but I wanted to get out. So out we went.”

  * * *

  The stroller’s wheels clicked as they rolled over the divisions in the sidewalk. Ahead of them, the Downtown District was almost empty of pedestrians.

  Becky was surprised at how quickly she’d grown to accept Winterhaven’s vacant parking spaces and open sidewalks. She was enjoying life away from the big city. With her baby asleep in the stroller and her husband beside her, she felt content.

  “Have you been watching?” Rick asked.

  “Watching what?”

  “How many people we’ve passed,” he said. “We’re in the heart of downtown and we’ve passed three other people. Three. Not one of them carrying a shopping bag. The store lights are on, the doors are open, and the streets are practically empty. Why isn’t the Mayor doing something about this?”

  “There’s the Pumpkin Festival in October.”

  “So, for those two weeks, we get a few tourists in in town. Two weeks! If it wasn’t for Christmas and the Pumpkin Festival, every merchant in town would go bankrupt. It’s not enough.”

  “The city’s building a new mall. That might help.”

  “Could be.”

  “You wouldn’t like all those tourists, anyway. Filling the stores, crowding the driving lanes. It drives you nuts.”

  “Don’t go using logic on me,” Rick told her. “I’ll gripe and complain all I want, logic be damned. A good wife understands this. A good wife encourages her husband to spout the nonsense of his choice. A good wife simply nods her head and says, ‘Yes, dear’.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Rick leaned over and kissed her. Breaking off the kiss, his eyes widened. “Would you look at that?”

  The front door of the Antiques Hut had a We’re Open sign suctioned to the glass above its door handle. Below the faded letters of the store’s name, a white placard was mounted: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT.

  “I thought they were out of business.”

  “It’s been closed since we moved here.” Rick rocked the stroller on its front wheels and backed into the doorway. “Let’s go inside.”

  “No, you don’t, mister. This isn’t a shopping expedition.”

  “Did I say I wanted to buy anything?” He pushed open the door, causing a tiny brass bell to tinkle from its perch inside the building. “Let’s just see what they’ve got.”

  “Oh, joy. We’re teaching our baby how to be a looky-loo.”

  Rick continued ahead, somehow squeezing the stroller through the shop’s narrow center aisle. Following after him, Becky quickly got a sense of this new business.

  Different management? If so, it’s the only thing new about this place.

  Overhead lights threw a harsh fluorescent glow onto the shelves and tables below, revealing an inventory that appeared to have filled this space for years. A light film of dust seemed to cover everything. Around her, Becky saw old magazines, old knick knacks, old furniture and old toys.

  Please don’t find a vintage train set, she pleaded with Rick silently. Nothing by Lionel or Ives or American Flyer, nothing you’ll fall in love with. As much as you like your collection, we just can’t afford another splurge right now.

  If Rick was swayed by her mental plea, he made no sign of it. He pushed the stroller ahead slowly, offering a mild interest in the goods around him.

  She let her attention drift to a table filled with toys. A chinless, brown-faced figure sat in a red and green car with white wheels. Reaching for the string tied beneath the brim of the driver’s black hat, she flipped over its price tag.

  It read, Andy Gump $95.

  A low whistle escaped her lips. Behind her, the brass bell jingled at the store’s entrance.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said a woman as she entered. “Customers. I was just next door. I didn’t see you come in.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Moving s
o quietly she might have been floating, the woman approached her. Seeing the rectangular tag in Becky’s hand, she said, “All prices are negotiable.”

  Becky dropped her hand from the toy. “Just looking.”

  “Of course.”

  The woman smiled a distracted smile. She appeared to be about the same age as Becky but her tiny frame gave her an appearance of youth that her manner belied.

  God, I’m a whale, Becky thought. A little post-baby fat is natural but I’ll never be as thin as this store clerk.

  If she was any skinnier, I’d see right through her.

  Rick had journeyed to the back of the store, near a curtained area in the building’s rear corner. The stroller sat in front of him. Miraculously, Kristin was still asleep.

  Her husband held a silver metal train engine. He turned it over, examining the bottom of the toy.

  Becky quickly navigated her way down the aisle. “Things are awfully expensive here,” she said in a low voice.

  “It’s not discount store prices, that’s for sure.” He set the train engine on its table stand. “Nothing special, really.”

  “So why aren’t we leaving?”

  “Aren’t you curious where they keep the good stuff?” he asked. “There’s a room behind the curtain. I can smell incense burning.”

  “We can’t, for a second, afford the cheapest of this junk. Why would I want to see the ‘good stuff’?”

  Rick raised an arm into the air. “Miss!”

  The sales clerk swiveled in their direction. Slowly, she approached them, showing little enthusiasm for the task.

  She knows we can’t afford any of her goods. Even though it was true, Becky felt offended.

  “What’s your name?” Rick asked the clerk.

  “Lenore Rice.”

  “What’s behind the curtain, Lenore?”

  The clerk’s body stiffened. She narrowed her eyes, her vacant expression disappearing.

  At first, Becky thought something was wrong. Then she realized: The sales clerk is angry. It was true. Her body was rigid, her small hands nearly curled into fists.

  Becky said, “Do you mind if we call you ‘Lenore’?”

  After a moment, the woman’s lips parted. “I much prefer my full name.”

  Becky and Rick shared a quick look. As if responding to the tension in the room, Kristin stirred inside her stroller. Becky picked her up, sweeping the pink blanket around her before it could trail to the floor.

  Holding the baby to her chest, Becky rubbed her

  palm soothingly on her infant’s cheek. Kristin nestled into her mother’s arms, closing her eyes.

  Lenore Rice viewed the child as if she’d found an unexpected treat.

  “Well, then, Lenore Rice,” Rick said, amused. “The full name it is, then. Mind answering my question?”

  “Kristin’s getting restless,” Becky lied. “Let’s go.”

  “In a minute.”

  Lenore Rice remained focused on the baby. Feeling uncomfortable under her gaze, Becky used her body to shield Kristin from the other woman. “I’ll be outside.”

  Leaving, she heard Lenore Rice say to her husband, “Why don’t I show you what’s on the other side of the curtain?”

  * * *

  “So?” Susannah rested the base of her empty tea cup on the tabletop. “What was on the other side?”

  “I think you know.”

  “A fortune-teller.”

  “Psychic, fortune-teller, they’re all the same thing,” Becky said. “Rick went into the back area and there she was. She apparently remained in her room all day, a spider in the darkness, waiting for –” The next sucker, she thought, before amending, “– a customer to come along. Rick said she had all the paraphernalia.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tarot cards, tea leaves, those kinds of things. Probably had a crystal ball tucked in there somewhere, too. She was dressed like a gypsy, too. Might even have been a gypsy, for all I know. ”

  “Did he get a reading?”

  “It cost us seven dollars.”

  “Seven dollars isn’t so much.”

  “It was seven dollars we couldn’t afford,” Becky said. “That little fee caused the owner of the store some trouble later on. Apparently, one of their customers didn’t like what he’d been told and he went to the police. It seems, if a fortune-teller charges to give a reading, they have to have a business license. And this county doesn’t give business licenses to psychics.”

  “Well, my reading at the café was different. No charge, remember?”

  “Why do they do it, then?”

  “For fun. An amusement for their customers.” On Becky’s expression, she added, “That’s what they said.”

  “Was it fun? Did they give you the winning lottery numbers?”

  “These old bones aren’t climbing those stairs for some lottery numbers,” Susannah said. “I wanted to know about romance.”

  “George Newton?”

  “Maybe George, if he ever glances up from his drafting tools and notices I’m still alive. Maybe somebody else.”

  “So? Are you going to be lucky in love?”

  “She said she didn’t see anyone.”

  “She couldn’t fake it?” Becky asked, surprised.

  “I wish she had. Instead, she told me about my health. She said I’d never hurt like my Abeula.”

  “That’s because you told her about your grandmother’s arthritis.”

  “Not a word, I swear,” Susannah said. “‘The next five years of your life are going to be perfect,’ she told me.”

  “After that?”

  “That’s all she’d say. Five healthy, happy years. Right now, I’ll take it. Besides, a short-term prophecy is good for repeat business. If nothing else, she knows I’ll be back sooner or later.”

  “Believe what you want,” Becky sipped at her tea. It had grown cold. “All I know is, the woman at the antiques store lied to Rick. She told him we’d never be rich but we’d never be poor. Our future together was going to be so bright, so wonderful.”

  Suddenly, tears filled her eyes. “Three days later, he was dead.”

  Susannah reached over to pat her hand. “Oh, honey. God knows –”

  “Don’t talk to me about God. No just God would kill a man as good as my husband.”

  They looked up at the sound of footsteps. Kristin paused in the kitchen’s doorway, a nearly-empty bowl of popcorn in her hand.

  “Kristin?” Becky said.

  Gazing fixedly at their family friend, Kristin shook, a tremor running down her body. The bowl spilled from her hand. It struck the linoleum, cracking apart loudly as it threw popcorn kernels into the air and across the kitchen floor.

  The noise seemed to awaken her. “I’m...” she said. “I don’t – sorry. Clumsy.” She blinked down at the broken bowl and its contents. “I’ll get the broom.”

  Susannah considered the debris littering the floor. Hopefully, she said, “You have popcorn?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Kristin swept the shards of the broken bowl into a dustpan.

  One of Mom’s favorite bowls, she thought. She’s had it since I was a baby. I’ve been eating popcorn out of it ever since I can remember.

  Serves her right, sneaking into my bedroom.

  Lifted from the ground, the mouth of the dustpan slapped closed.

  No, she told herself, no, it doesn’t. She probably had her reasons. It started to rain and she checked my window or I cried out in my sleep or something.

  Some solid, Mom-type reason. Nothing sinister.

  What’s the matter with me?

  She poured the pieces into the trash, watching the bowl’s fragmented red-and-white flowers slide from the dustpan like so many puzzle pieces.

  Ungood, she told herself. Something in Winterhaven is majorly ungood.

  First, there were the glass people. Now, there’s something wrong with Susannah.

  In front of her, their family friend remained at the kitchen ta
ble, drinking a fresh cup of tea. Somebody didn’t sit braless in their favorite red sweater, talking and laughing and drinking Sencha green tea, if something was wrong.

  But Kristin knew something was wrong, nonetheless.

  Walking into the kitchen, she hadn’t been thinking about Susannah or anyone else. She’d been thinking about cars.

  There was the kind of car she wanted – small, four-door, and blue, preferably electric but at least offering decent gas mileage – versus whatever embarrassment she could realistically hope to own. Expecting the kitchen to be empty, she was surprised to see anyone, much less Susannah –

  – and, at the sight of her, everything went white. Her vision gone, Kristin stopped in place. When she did, the smell of plastic pressed upon her, so strong she almost gagged. A rasping sound split the air around her, shocking her, and sending the popcorn bowl dropping to the ground.

  As quickly as the sound faded, her sight returned. “Sorry. Clumsy.” She left to find the hand broom and dustpan, the odor of plastic still lingering in the air.

  First her dream and, now, this? Susannah was in danger. Kristin needed to find out why and how. Someway, she was going to have to do something about it.

  “Tomorrow, maybe,” she told the trash can at her feet.

  “Tomorrow, what, hon?” her mother asked.

  Oh, good, now I’m talking out loud.

  “Tomorrow, I’m going for lunch at Piotrowksi’s Café.”

  * * *

  Cranking the steering wheel, Hawkins said, “There’s a parking spot in front of the restaurant.”

  Kristin said, “It’s a café, not a restaurant.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “A café serves fine food. A restaurant serves those Sloppy Joes.”

  Hawkins stuck his tongue out at her.

  “That was a little random,” Kristin said.

  “You, too,” he said. “I’m taking the front spot.”

  “You are not.” Seated behind them, Liz slouched a little lower. “Park at the side of the building. Out of sight.”

  “You’re ashamed to be seen in my car?”