Vendetta(7)

The old lady shook her head like she was having a seizure. She leaned across the table and looked pointedly at each of us in turn as if calling for our undivided attention, which she knew she already had. She dropped her voice. “You know I have the gift of sight, Celine. I’ve been seeing things ever since I was a child …”

I had to blow into my coffee to hide my smirk.

“I was walking by the old Priestly place a couple of weeks ago and I got the most unsettling feeling. When I saw the renovations and the moving vans, it all started to make sense. The house is full again and I just know it’s not good.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” my mother offered. I could tell by the airiness in her voice that her attention was beginning to wander. She started to pick at a stray thread in her capri pants, frowning.

I considered telling Mrs. Bailey to chill out, too, but she had already redirected her gaze toward our backyard as if she were looking into another secret dimension. But in reality, she was just staring at the potted plant on the windowsill. She squinted her eyes and sighed, probably noticing it was dead.

“Nothing good will come of having five young men making trouble in the neighborhood, because that’s exactly what they’ll do, Celine. You mark my words.”

She shook her head again, but every cropped white strand of hair remained perfectly static, like they were frozen in place.

“Wait, did you say five guys?” I had already seen two of them. Well, one of them, sort of. The second one had knocked me over. I frowned at the memory. Even after a night of reflection, I still wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Mrs. Bailey was, of course, scandalized by my interest. Her mouth was bobbing open and closed, like she was trying to find the exact words for how much of a disgrace I was. “Five young, troublesome men,” she heaved at last, clutching at her chest for added effect. “I saw them move in and I can tell you, they do not seem like the respectable type.”

Isn’t that what you said about my father? I wanted to ask, but I stopped myself. The argument wouldn’t be worth it. It never was. And besides, I had gotten all the info I needed: There was a new family of boys in the neighborhood. Millie was going to keel over with happiness when I told her.

Distracted, I got up to take my half-filled mug to the sink. “I think having new neighbors is pretty cool.”

“What’s cool about it?” Mrs. Bailey threw the question at my back like a dagger.

I turned around. “What’s not cool about it? Nobody ever comes to Cedar Hill willingly. This place is so boring. It feels like any minute now we’re all just going to fossilize.” Maybe some of us already have … I stopped myself again.

“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” she returned.

I blinked hard to suppress an inadvertent eye roll.

“I’m sure those boys are perfectly fine,” reasoned my mother, who was rifling through her sewing kit. I could tell she was more interested in finding a needle to fix the single thread on the pants that had betrayed her.

Mrs. Bailey was still wearing a frown that was beginning to twitch from the effort of keeping it in place. “No, Celine, there’s something not right about it. That house has been empty for too long. And we all know the reason.”

“Ghosts,” I whispered dramatically. I wanted to add an “Oooooo,” but I figured that might be going too far.

Mrs. Bailey rose abruptly from her chair, shrugging on her shawl in a show of clumsy indignation. When she spoke again, her voice was low. “You can make jokes all you like, Persephone, but you just better be careful.”

I glanced at my mother and was surprised to find that she had returned her attention to our conversation.

“Notoriety attracts notoriety,” Mrs. Bailey was muttering without looking at either of us. “And with what your father did, it’s best to be aware of — ”

“I think that’s enough, Rita.” My mother rose from her chair, fixing the old lady with a dark look. “Sophie can handle herself. She knows how to be careful.”

“Yeah,” I echoed, feeling a million miles away. I was thinking about how I had steered myself into trouble the night before. The stinging in my knees resurfaced at the memory.





Mrs. Bailey’s words had kindled something I had become all too accustomed to during the last year and a half of my life: Dad-related guilt.

Back in the welcome privacy of my bedroom, I sat cross-legged on my perpetually unmade bed. Clutching the latest prison-issue envelope in one hand, I carefully removed the letter from inside it and dipped back into my father’s life, which, for now at least, was confined to the pages he sent me every couple of weeks.