at my face
because she herself
had been
disfigured
by a bottle-wielding psycho,
the skin on her face
cut to
ribbons.
The rose-colored towels
that were hanging on the shiny chrome rack,
were transformed into
shrouds,
the shower curtain,
an undulating specter
in the candlelight.
Say it, Maxie,
commanded Emma.
Mary Worth Mary Worth Mary Worth Mary Worth.
Heart pounding,
my tongue thick
in my mouth.
The image of my face
in the mirror
suddenly went jagged,
like the glass was
shattering.
Someone screamed.
Me?
Emma?
I ran out of the bathroom,
my heart
exploding
in my chest.
Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!
Hating the sound
of Emma’s laughter
in my ears.
And now I wonder:
is it that
long-ago laughter
that keeps me pinned
to this leather car seat?
EMMA
I’ve known about the ghost house
forever.
Always wanted to check it out.
Lots of rumors.
Like someone killed someone there
back in the sixties.
Or that a bride, jilted on her
wedding day, lay dead and moldering,
still wearing her worm-infested Vera Wang gown.
Or just that a crazy old lady
lives there with her grandson,
who no one has seen in years.
Brendan is driving too fast.
Probably too drunk to be driving.
I’ll drive us home.
Slow down, Bren,
I say.
It’s around here somewhere.
We pass Walnut Creek Cemetery.
But I can’t see any sign
of a scary-looking house.
Brendan turns around,
then parks in front of the gates
to the cemetery.
Now what?
he asks.
I get out my cell, and dial my friend
Eve because she’s pretty much the expert
on everything weird in this town.
FAITH
My cell phone
is ringing.
It’s Emma.
Hello?
I say, eager.
How
amazing
is it that
she’s
calling me
just when
I’ve been
thinking so
hard about
her,
wanting
to call,
but not
wanting to
make her
mad.
Hey, Eve, this is Emma,
she says.
Listen, can you tell me where that ghost house is?
Eve?
For a second
I’m confused,
then realize
Emma must’ve
dialed wrong.
She didn’t
mean to
call me
at all.
Emma, it’s Faith,
I start.
Oh shit, sorry little sis. I meant to call Eve. Oh, I see, her name’s right before yours. Sorry. See ya later.
Emma,
I say, urgent,
don’t hang up. Mom and Dad had this big fight and . . .
But she’s
gone.
And I
get this
prickly,
scared
feeling.
The ghost house.
And
Emma
sounded
slurry.
Off.
Drunk.
Mom:
I’ll take the girls and leave.
I won’t
let that
happen.
I need
to find
Emma.
Warn her.
Don’t
screw up
tonight.
It’s too
important.
I know
the ghost house.
I know
how to
get there.
MAXIE
While Emma’s on the phone,
I gaze out at the
graves
behind the low stone wall
of the cemetery,
rows and rows
of them,
like waves on a
gray,
slow-moving
sea.
There’s one streetlight
on the block
and it shines on
a statue
perched above a headstone,
almost like
a spotlight.
Hold on,
I say to no one in particular.
I’ll be right back.
I open the car door,
take out my camera,
hop out into the
warm night.
It’s a stone angel,
with a flowing gown
and wings.
But no head.
Crouching, I find
the headless angel
in my viewfinder.
Flash.
WALTER
Tonight I watched
Gunfight at the O.K. Corral
.
I watch it a lot, and Mother likes to tease me.
She says if I’d been born back in the Old West
I’d have been one of those sheriffs.
Like Wyatt Earp
or the marshal of Hadleyville in
High Noon
,
who faces down lawless gunslingers all by himself
because it’s his duty.
I like it when Mother kids me about that,
because secretly I know she’s right.
I would be a good sheriff
for one of those old western towns.
I’d ride patrol on the dusty streets.
Silver star on my chest,
leather holster with a gun on my hip,
rifle slung across my back.
I’ve loved cowboys since I was a kid.
Mother even got me cowboy bedsheets.
I slept on them until they fell apart,
and Mother turned them into rags.
I saw her using one of those rags the other
because she herself
had been
disfigured
by a bottle-wielding psycho,
the skin on her face
cut to
ribbons.
The rose-colored towels
that were hanging on the shiny chrome rack,
were transformed into
shrouds,
the shower curtain,
an undulating specter
in the candlelight.
Say it, Maxie,
commanded Emma.
Mary Worth Mary Worth Mary Worth Mary Worth.
Heart pounding,
my tongue thick
in my mouth.
The image of my face
in the mirror
suddenly went jagged,
like the glass was
shattering.
Someone screamed.
Me?
Emma?
I ran out of the bathroom,
my heart
exploding
in my chest.
Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!
Hating the sound
of Emma’s laughter
in my ears.
And now I wonder:
is it that
long-ago laughter
that keeps me pinned
to this leather car seat?
EMMA
I’ve known about the ghost house
forever.
Always wanted to check it out.
Lots of rumors.
Like someone killed someone there
back in the sixties.
Or that a bride, jilted on her
wedding day, lay dead and moldering,
still wearing her worm-infested Vera Wang gown.
Or just that a crazy old lady
lives there with her grandson,
who no one has seen in years.
Brendan is driving too fast.
Probably too drunk to be driving.
I’ll drive us home.
Slow down, Bren,
I say.
It’s around here somewhere.
We pass Walnut Creek Cemetery.
But I can’t see any sign
of a scary-looking house.
Brendan turns around,
then parks in front of the gates
to the cemetery.
Now what?
he asks.
I get out my cell, and dial my friend
Eve because she’s pretty much the expert
on everything weird in this town.
FAITH
My cell phone
is ringing.
It’s Emma.
Hello?
I say, eager.
How
amazing
is it that
she’s
calling me
just when
I’ve been
thinking so
hard about
her,
wanting
to call,
but not
wanting to
make her
mad.
Hey, Eve, this is Emma,
she says.
Listen, can you tell me where that ghost house is?
Eve?
For a second
I’m confused,
then realize
Emma must’ve
dialed wrong.
She didn’t
mean to
call me
at all.
Emma, it’s Faith,
I start.
Oh shit, sorry little sis. I meant to call Eve. Oh, I see, her name’s right before yours. Sorry. See ya later.
Emma,
I say, urgent,
don’t hang up. Mom and Dad had this big fight and . . .
But she’s
gone.
And I
get this
prickly,
scared
feeling.
The ghost house.
And
Emma
sounded
slurry.
Off.
Drunk.
Mom:
I’ll take the girls and leave.
I won’t
let that
happen.
I need
to find
Emma.
Warn her.
Don’t
screw up
tonight.
It’s too
important.
I know
the ghost house.
I know
how to
get there.
MAXIE
While Emma’s on the phone,
I gaze out at the
graves
behind the low stone wall
of the cemetery,
rows and rows
of them,
like waves on a
gray,
slow-moving
sea.
There’s one streetlight
on the block
and it shines on
a statue
perched above a headstone,
almost like
a spotlight.
Hold on,
I say to no one in particular.
I’ll be right back.
I open the car door,
take out my camera,
hop out into the
warm night.
It’s a stone angel,
with a flowing gown
and wings.
But no head.
Crouching, I find
the headless angel
in my viewfinder.
Flash.
WALTER
Tonight I watched
Gunfight at the O.K. Corral
.
I watch it a lot, and Mother likes to tease me.
She says if I’d been born back in the Old West
I’d have been one of those sheriffs.
Like Wyatt Earp
or the marshal of Hadleyville in
High Noon
,
who faces down lawless gunslingers all by himself
because it’s his duty.
I like it when Mother kids me about that,
because secretly I know she’s right.
I would be a good sheriff
for one of those old western towns.
I’d ride patrol on the dusty streets.
Silver star on my chest,
leather holster with a gun on my hip,
rifle slung across my back.
I’ve loved cowboys since I was a kid.
Mother even got me cowboy bedsheets.
I slept on them until they fell apart,
and Mother turned them into rags.
I saw her using one of those rags the other
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