The Sleepwalkers Read online

  “Oh, here!” she says—like it’s a great realization. “Here’s Annie’s school picture.” She snatches a framed picture of a pretty little girl missing a tooth. It is the only item in the home not sheathed in dust.

  “She was in second grade, do you believe that? What a grown-up. I pulled that tooth and she cried and cried,” says Mrs. Zikry. “Cried and cried . . . ”

  “They never found her, did they?” asks Caleb.

  The woman stares at the picture. The corners of her mouth are down-turned, her bottom lip trembles. She sighs deeply. “Never.”

  She emits a little sound—it might be a laugh, but it isn’t—and raises the picture over her head as if to smash it on the table. Bean leans back and raises his arms to protect his face, but the woman brings the picture slowly back down again and cradles it tight to her chest.

  “What about your other little girl?” Caleb asks. “What about Christine?”

  “That little tramp,” spits the witch, suddenly ferocious.

  “What did she do?” Caleb says, his voice rising almost to her pitch.

  “Nothin’,” she says, like the word is venom. “She won’t help. She won’t tell me where my Annie is!”

  “What makes you think she knows where Anna is?” asks Caleb.

  The witch takes another pull off the whiskey. She’s standing now, pacing back and forth and brushing the dream catchers above with one hand as she does, making them swing wildly.

  “I tried everything, Billy. I got tarot cards, tea leaves, even bought me a set of pig bones, got me a Ouija board. I tried to learn the black arts,” she says. “I sold my soul, lock, stock, and barrel. And they still won’t talk.”

  Caleb has no idea what she’s talking about, so he continues with the previous course of questioning.

  “Why would Christine know where Anna is?”

  “Because they talk to her!”

  “Who talks to her?”

  “The spirits!”

  Caleb and Bean exchange a stunned glance.

  “The spirits?” Caleb says. “Christine says she talks to spirits?”

  “They talk to her all the time,” says the witch, in disgust. “Never a word to me. To me, they won’t say nothing. They’d rather talk to a damned lying little whoring bitch!”

  “Maybe she’s lying,” Caleb says. “How do you know the spirits really talk to her?”

  The witch is suddenly placid. “Oh, they talk to her alright. She knows things. Impossible things. Lying whore.”

  Silence, except for an electric snap as a fly-zapper in the corner claims a victim.

  Caleb glances at Bean again, uncertain how to proceed. Bean only stares in rapt silence, the shadows of the swinging dream catchers playing strangely across his face.

  “Where does Christine say Anna is?” Caleb resumes.

  The witch swigs her whiskey. “Dead,” she says; the word is almost a moan.

  Caleb doesn’t know what to say. He’s hit a roadblock. A strange feeling floods through him; he pities this woman. He fears her, but he pities her more.

  “Christine can’t know everything,” he says, trying to comfort her. “Maybe she’s wrong about Anna.”

  She looks at him. “She knew you’d come.”

  To this, Caleb simply can’t respond. Of course, Christine had sent him a letter, but to go so far as predicting that he’d actually come back to Hudsonville because of that bizarre piece of correspondence—that’s another thing entirely.

  The witch sits down in her recliner, leans back and pops the footrest up before taking another long pull off the bottle.

  “Mrs. Zikry,” says Caleb, “do you mind if I look at Christine’s room?”

  The woman gestures dismissively and hides her face with her hand. Caleb has a feeling now that she’s curled up with her bottle, she won’t be saying much else. He stands and glances at Bean.

  “Don’t look at me, I’m staying right here,” says Bean.

  Caleb figures Bean has just about reached his limit on drama for this vacation, so he sets off on his own, down the dark hallway leading to Christine’s room.

  He gropes for the switch and, finally finding it, snaps it to life. What he finds is the last thing he expected: a pretty normal room. The walls are plastered with posters of rock groups and pictures of half-naked men ripped out of Abercrombie & Fitch catalogs. There’s a tall CD tower full of good music, an unmade bed with a hair-straightener sitting on it, a half-open closet stuffed with clothes, shoes, and hats. On a dresser he finds makeup and hairspray bottles, scattered specks of glitter, a couple stacked books: Romeo and Juliet, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. Pictures line the smudged mirror; each features Christine with her arm around a friend or two. Some of her friends are guys, some are girls. In a few pictures, she’s holding a beer and looks fairly trashed. He opens one of the top dresser drawers. Socks, a stocking cap, some old movie ticket stubs. Next drawer: underwear, some of it white cottony stuff, some of it more sexy. Next drawer, tank tops and T-shirts, next jeans. Over to the bedside table. There’s a box. He opens it, and jumps back, startled as the tinkling tune bursts forth. A music box. He snaps it shut and looks down the hall to see if the sound disturbed the witch, but no one is coming. Good. He looks around again. Nothing weird at all. This is a normal room. The only slightly strange thing is that over in the corner, there’s a small child’s bed, neatly made, with a frilly, yellow comforter, stacked high with stuffed animals. Anna’s bed. But that’s only natural. They would have to keep something of hers. It would be heartless to throw it all out, or donate it to Goodwill—and Mrs. Zikry would never agree to that anyway. So Christine lived with it.

  Strange, being here, he feels so close to her. And there’s a feeling in his chest, oddly painful but also nice. Maybe it’s because he smells her in here, just a little bit, and it’s bringing back something from his childhood. Maybe it’s just pure nostalgia; after all, he hadn’t thought about her in months, probably even years, before the letter came, but now he suddenly realizes he missed his buddy Christine. His old best friend, his playmate. And it’s kind of nice to know she’s not that crazy, or at least she wasn’t when she lived in this room.

  The question is: how to help her? That’s the tough one. He walks to the door, takes one last look around, and shuts off the light.

  Then turns it back on.

  Something caught his attention, just before the light went out— probably nothing, but there’s a large, antique-looking wooden chest under the bedside table. He crosses to it and pulls it out, hoists it up (it’s heavy), and sets it on the bed. He glances down the hallway again, full of the feeling that now he’s about to delve into something very personal—but the hallway is still empty.

  Of course, the chest will be locked, he thinks, perhaps hoping it will be, fearing what he’ll find inside—but when he tries the lid it opens freely and lightly. It’s so full that when he opens it, part of its contents spill out onto the comforter and even onto the floor. But it’s not full of money or costume jewelry or severed dolls’ heads or any of the other things he had imagined might be under the lid. It’s just a bunch of folded-up papers. He picks one up off the floor, and opens it.

  Dear Billy,

  School sucked so bad today. Mr. Phizer was having us find complementary angles in triangles. I don’t know how anyone could actually think trigonometry is hard. . . .

  He folds the letter and puts it back in the box, then pulls another one out:

  Dearest Billy,

  Hello, my love! I have missed you so, so, soooooooooooo much!!!!! I can’t wait until we get married and have babies and get the hell out of this town!!! Everybody here is evil!! I’m in English class right now, snooze. . . .

  He pulls out another:

  Dear Billy,

  I’ve been thinking about you so much lately, I just can’t help it. Every time I do I start touching myself and I get so wet. I can’t wait to . . .

  He folds this one up quickly. He
’s about to toss it back into the box, then thinks twice and sticks it in his back pocket instead. He takes out a handful of letters:

  Dear Billy,

  There are so many voices screaming at me every moment, but Anna is the worst. I keep telling her to SHUT HER GODDAMNED DEAD FACE, but she WON’T . . .

  Dear Billy-baby.

  what’s up? so I’m killing my mom. I haven’t decided when or how, but the bitch must die. She is really, truly the most crazy and certifiably f-ed up woman ever to live. . . .

  Billy,

  i can’t sleep, can u? I wish I couldn’t hear them whisper to me, but I always can—when I’m sleeping, when I’m awake. It’s gotten so much worse you wouldn’t even believe it. I thought about stabbing my eardrums out with a pair of scissors today, then I thought what if I could still hear them, but I couldn’t hear anything else?? It would be horrible with nothing to drown them out. I wish you were here. . . .

  Billy, my Billy

  June 19th

  Forever

  We are one.

  Love, MEEE!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

  Dear Billy,

  Okay, so I was telling you about my friend Mariam, right? Well, she was cheating on her boyfriend Will with this guy Casey (don’t worry, I’d never cheat on you, lover) . . .

  Billy—Caleb—stops reading. This is enough. He stuffs a handful of letters into the cargo pocket of his shorts, then shovels the rest back into the chest, and claps the lid shut. With one last sidelong glance down the shadowy hall for safety, he puts the chest back on the floor and shoves it roughly under the nightstand. As he leaves the room, he flicks the light off again.

  “A lot of wisdom, a lot of laughing, a lot of happiness,” says a slurred voice.

  “What about my lifeline?” asks Bean eagerly.

  “Ah, can’t see in this damned light,” says the drunken witch. She’s hunched very close to Bean’s outstretched palm.

  Bean looks up at Caleb in the doorway.

  “Hey, there, buddy,” he says. “Sit down. Mrs. Zikry is reading my palm. You’re next.”

  “We should really get going,” says Caleb.

  “Ah, come on, party pooper,” says Bean. “Don’t you want to know if you’re going to be the editor of the New York Times someday?”

  “Hmm, your lifeline—” begins the witch, smiling.

  “Maybe next time,” says Caleb. “Let’s go.”

  Bean looks disappointed, but the witch just goes back to her bottle.

  “My Annie was such a dancer!” she says, but whether she’s talking to herself or to them, Caleb can’t tell.

  “Let’s go,” he says again.

  “Okay, okay,” says Bean. “Thanks for the warm Coke, Mrs. Zikry. Maybe next time I’ll drink it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Zikry,” says Caleb. “Hey, don’t drink so much, okay? It’s bad for you.”

  “My Annie was such a good, obedient girl!” she says, staring at the coffee table and taking a shallow swig of whiskey.

  There’s nothing else he can say, so Caleb follows Bean out the screen door, thinking that even the strange, heavy Southern air is like a mountain breeze compared to the rot of that trailer.

  They cross the field of stars and step into the twisted paths of the forest.

  It takes them almost twice as long to get home as Caleb thought it would. Almost every path he leads them down, he has to double back. Finally, the familiar wooden fence, now half fallen and peeled of all but a shred of its paint, ushers them into the Masons’ backyard.

  Only then do they speak, and only a few sentences.

  Bean: “So what did you find in her room?”

  Caleb: “Nothing.” He wants to explain, but for some reason, he’s ashamed for Christine and can’t say it. “She’s crazy, just like you said. She’s crazy and her mom’s even crazier. I’m sorry I dragged you here. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “Sweet,” says Bean.

  And that’s that.

  TRANSCRIPT—Patient #62, SESSION #79

  (In this session, the patient begins to show signs of progress.)

  DIRECTOR: You’re very quiet today.

  (The patient doesn’t respond.)

  DIRECTOR: You had some visitors earlier. Tell me about them.

  PATIENT #62: It was Billy.

  DIRECTOR: What was that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.

  PATIENT #62: It was Billy and his friend.

  DIRECTOR: And who is Billy? Patient Sixty-two, please answer me. Who is Billy?

  PATIENT #62: He’s my best friend.

  DIRECTOR: Well, that’s nice. Did you enjoy seeing him? I thought it might be nice for you. Did you enjoy it?

  (The patient nods.)

  DIRECTOR: Were you ashamed for him to see you like this?

  (The patient nods.)

  DIRECTOR: What do you think he would say if you told him about all the voices you think you hear? Do you think he would believe you?

  PATIENT #62: I guess not.

  DIRECTOR: Patient Sixty-two, look at me. Did you think he was going to rescue you? Did you think this Billy was going to take you out of here?

  PATIENT #62: I guess so.

  DIRECTOR: Well, how long has it been since he came?

  PATIENT #62: He came today.

  DIRECTOR: No, he came three days ago. This is Thursday; he came on Monday.

  PATIENT #62: I thought it was today . . .

  DIRECTOR: Three days. Patient Sixty-two, I don’t think he’s coming back. Do you?

  (The patient is becoming agitated.)

  PATIENT #62: I don’t know. I don’t know.

  DIRECTOR: Relax, relax, relax.

  (The director walks behind the patient and places his hands on her shoulders, then slips one down inside her nightgown.)

  DIRECTOR: What’s wrong? Why are you crying?

  PATIENT #62: Because.

  DIRECTOR: Tell me why, I don’t understand.

  PATIENT #62: Director, please stop.

  DIRECTOR: Stop what?

  PATIENT #62: Please stop touching my breast.

  DIRECTOR: I’m not. You’re touching your own breast. Why are you doing that?

  PATIENT #62: I’m not.

  DIRECTOR: Why are you touching your breast, Patient Sixty-two? Does it feel good when you touch your breast like that?

  (The patient nods.)

  DIRECTOR: Then why are you crying?

  PATIENT #62: Because I’m so confused. I know I’m not crazy, but . . . I just don’t know anymore. . . .

  DIRECTOR: You know what? I think we’re ready for the next phase of our work together.

  (The patient begins crying loudly and shaking, but does not move.) (The director bends close to Patient #62’s ear.)

  DIRECTOR: {This portion is inaudible.}

  Chapter Six

  PACK OF MARLBORO REDS. One left. He holds it in his good hand, sticks it in his lips. It dangles there until he digs a lighter out from under a crushed RC Cola can and pops a flame. Then he snaps the cigarette to attention, taut, and breathes all that mother-lovin’, toxic shit into his lungs. He dumps it out in a sigh. Looks down at the crumpled map on the desk in front of him. Spreads it out with his good hand as if to smooth out all the wrinkles, an impossible task. He slouches in his chair and takes another drag. No revelation, nothing. One thing’s for sure, he’s no Sherlock Holmes. Praise God.

  Not surprising. In middle-school gym class, he was no rope climber. At Markston High School he was no mathematician. No writer, either. Not much of a mechanic when he did that stint in his stepdad’s shop, and the old bastard never missed a chance to remind him of it. Was never much good with women, so it made perfect sense that he was a lousy husband when he finally got the chance. Couldn’t hold down that job keepin’ books at the industrial supply—morphine makes the numbers swim once you’re on the third or fourth pull from the whiskey flask. Couldn’t just keep his blessed mouth shut and swallow his pride enough to appreciate that job checkin’ groceries at the Publix, even though
they had health benefits and everything. And, of course, let’s not ever forget the last fiasco, the crown of them all. After that one, anything is easy to swallow. So there’s not a speck of surprise in the fact that he can’t figure this out, a bona fide mystery. One thing, though, gotta be fair. One thing no one can deny, one thing they can scrawl on his gravestone: Ron Bent was a good father. At least there’s that. Praise God.

  He goes to fold up the map and gets ashes all over it: one more screwup to go in his ever growing screwup file. He brushes the map off and folds it up, against the folds. Seems like he’s folding against the folds every time with this blessed map. Seems like there’s no right way to fold the thing. The shiny star stickers—gold, red, blue, and the scrawled, nearly illegible “Ron writ,” as he thinks of it, disappear in the folds until finally, miraculously, the part saying “The Florida Panhandle, by Rand McNally” faces up. He sets it neatly in front of him, thinking he might never unfold it again, now that it’s actually put away right.

  Maybe that would be best. He’s been staring at the thing for over two years.

  Three big steps and he’s at the sink, tosses the cigarette in. It hisses and smokes, then shuts up. Squirts some Colgate on his finger (forgot his toothbrush at the last motel, go figure) and brushes. Looks at himself. Gaining weight? Check. Hair a little thinner? Check. Grayer? Hard to tell with this flickering fluorescent light, but it’s safe to say—check. Spits, splashes water into his mouth, pulls the rubberband out of his ponytail. It pulls and hurts. Tosses it next to the sink, takes a leak, undresses to his skivvies, and sits down on the bed, feeling it strain and hearing it squeal under the weight of his body. What’s the blessed box spring complaining about? He’s the one who has to carry his heavy ass around all day, not it. He shoves his feet under the covers and clicks off the light next to his head. It’s dark. A truck yells past on the highway, then another, then another. Hollow light seeps in between the curtains. Somebody’s clomping up the steps outside, shaking the whole place. They walk by his door; he can hear them clearly:

  “That’s fine. Let’s just worry about it in the morning. Jesus.”

  “I’m just saying . . . ” This voice is a woman’s—the other one was a man’s.