Dancing on the Edge (15 page)

I didn't like her watching me like the old wig heads. Every time I saw her I got scared, and I felt this cold spot harden in the center of my chest. Any joy left in playing the love magician game died whenever she was around. Then later, toward the end of winter, the joy died altogether. I had replaced it with fear. That dark fear-shadow that had been with me for so long no longer hovered over and around me but had moved inside me, had taken over my whole insides so that I feared everything—the dark cracks in the sidewalk and tree branches broken off and lying dead on the ground. I was afraid of thunder and lightning and steep stairwells. I was afraid of choking on my food. Most of all, I was afraid that there was someone pushing me, or drawing me forward to someplace I didn't want to go, someplace dangerous, and every day I played the love magician game, every time someone fell for my tricks, it brought me closer to the edge of that dangerous place. Juleen Presque knew this. She was waiting for me to fall off that edge.

Then in the spring, Uncle Toole moved out on us, exactly one week before my fourteenth birthday. The last few days he had been with us, the house was quiet. They had stopped fighting. He and Aunt Casey had agreed that they had drifted apart. It was best they went on their own separate journeys, followed their own bliss. That's what Aunt Casey told me. Uncle Toole said, “Casey's just plain no fun anymore. My philosophy is you only go around once in life so drink your beer first.”

Aunt Casey told him he had to move all his junk—the broken furniture and appliances—out of the house. I had hidden the overflow of candle bottles under those stacks of furniture and had to wait until they went to bed to dig them all out again. I spent most of the night searching for them and taking them in bags out to the garage, and even then I wasn't sure I'd found them all.

The next afternoon when I came home from school the house was so empty, so quiet. The old clutter had been comforting, like the voice of a radio in an empty house. It held its own noises, its own busyness. I always had to work my way around it to get anywhere. It took concentration not to stub my toe on a protruding leg, or to find my way to the kitchen and dig up a clean dish. The house was bare, exposed, stripped naked. I started to shiver. I stood in the living room, staring down at the only thing left: three candle bottles. Three. Bad things always happen in threes. Uncle Toole had moved out. One down, two to go. I grabbed up the candle bottles and brought them to my room. I pulled out the ones I had stashed under my sofabed, set them up around me on the floor, and lit them. I was still shivering. I put on Dane's bathrobe, but it didn't help. I brought the candle bottles in closer, but I was still cold. I climbed into the bed and huddled under the covers, but I couldn't stop the shaking. My teeth were chattering. I felt cold from the inside out instead of the outside in. I stayed huddled in my blankets and watched the candles melt. I grew colder still.

Aunt Casey came home at night and called out to me. Her voice sounded far away. She came to my bedroom and knocked on my door.

“Can I come in?” She opened the door without waiting for an answer. She saw the candle bottles. “Hey, what's going on? What are you doing with all those candles?”

Then she saw me shivering in the bed.

“What—are you sick? I've never known you to get sick before.”

She set her backpack on the floor and moving to the bed reached out her hand to touch my forehead. “You don't seem to have a fever. Maybe I should take your temperature.”

“No. I'm okay.”

“How 'bout I fix you some hot tea?”

“Okay.”

Aunt Casey turned to leave. On her way out of the room she said, “I thought we lost all those bottles in the tornado.”

She returned with the tea and some toast and I sat up. She set the tray on my lap, but I was shivering so much the tea was slopping out of the mug.

“I'll just move the tray onto the bed here, okay? I brought you some toast.”

I nodded and reached for the mug. I had to concentrate hard to keep my hands from shaking the tea out again. I took a sip and I could feel the heat traveling in a thin stream down the center of my body. I kept drinking, but the heat wouldn't spread out to my arms or legs or feet. I took a bite of the toast.

“I always liked tea and toast when I was sick,” Aunt Casey said, standing over me and watching me eat and drink.

The toast had mold on it. I could taste it. I drank down the rest of the tea and by the time I had finished it, the tea inside me had gone cold and I was still shivering.

“I can't eat the toast,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You want some more tea?”

“No, I just want to lie down.”

“Okay, but I'm blowing out these candles. We don't want a fire. Did you notice the living room?”

“Yes.” I huddled back down under the covers again.

“My voice echoes in it. The house hasn't been this clean since I was a kid.”

I lifted my head. “You lived here when you were a kid?”

Aunt Casey nodded and picked up her backpack. “Yup. I've always lived here. Didn't you know that?”

“Mama—Sissy lived here?”

“This was our bedroom, sure. Didn't you know that?”

“No.” I rolled over and faced the wall. I didn't want to know any more. I could feel myself getting close to that dangerous place again. I could almost peer over the edge. I didn't want to see what was there. I didn't want to find out any more. I was afraid to even think about Dane or Mama because I just knew if I did Aunt Casey would leave, too. That's how it worked. That was the connection.

“Well, I'll check on you in the morning. Think you need a doctor or anything?”

“No,” I mumbled from beneath the blankets. I felt so cold.

I know I slept some. I remembered dreaming about a warm yellow light. I could see it on the other side of a giant spider web. The web was blocking my way. I stood in the cold dark just inches from the warmth, too afraid to walk through the web.

When I woke up I was still shivering. Aunt Casey brought me some tea and some more moldy toast and sat on the edge of my bed. She watched me drink my tea. She stared at my face, studied it the same way she studied for her psychology exams, with the same intense expression. It was as if she were trying to read me, understand me. She opened her mouth a few times and I thought she would say something; I could tell there was something she felt she needed to say. And watching her, seeing her trying to find the right words, I felt I could almost will those words out of her mouth for her, I could almost guess at what they would be, and then I couldn't do it. Fear gripped my hands and shook the tea onto my lap. I dropped the mug onto the tray, and Aunt Casey jumped up and brushed at her own lap as if I had spilled some on her. Then she removed the tray and dabbed at my lap with the napkin she'd brought me. The mood had been broken. She said different words than the ones she had planned to say, safer words. She said she would come home early and if I didn't feel better she'd take me to see her doctor.

“Of course, it could just be psychosomatic. Know what that is? When it's all in your mind. Most illnesses are all in the mind, did you know that? Disease is just dis-ease. Without ease. Cool, huh?”

I shivered all day long. I couldn't get warm. I stayed facing the wall. The wig heads were behind me. Aunt Casey had let me keep them turned away. She said it was easier to get at the wigs that way anyway, but I still felt afraid of them. I was afraid if I turned one of them back around again, any one of them, they'd have someone's live face on them. Maybe Mrs. Beane's, the woman who came for her fitting and died two months later. Maybe the head her wig sat on would have her face. That's what I feared. They all had the faces of the person whose wigs they wore.

I tried not to think about them, or anyone. I counted to ten thousand over and over, but sometimes a thought would slip in if I let my mind relax too much. I'd get a glimpse of Gigi in her home in Tennessee. Home since Christmas, yet I hadn't seen her since the tornado. I hadn't seen Grandaddy Opal, either. I wouldn't think about that—six thousand and eighty-two—Miss Emmaline always answering the phone now—six thousand, four hundred, and thirty-one—Juleen Presque, the brain—eight thousand twenty-six—Dane melted—eight thousand forty-two—Gigi—don't think—I'm so cold—nine thousand and thirteen.

The doorbell rang. I lifted my head. Was it Aunt Casey? It rang again. Uncle Toole? I climbed out of the bed and hurried to the door, dragging the top blanket with me.

I opened the door and found Juleen Presque standing on the stoop in front of me.

I sucked in my breath and choked on the quick draw of air. “I'm sick, go away,” I said, coughing, pressing against the door.

Juleen pushed it back and stepped inside. “I brought your homework.” She held up a stack of books. “You're shivering. Why don't you get back in bed. I can talk to you there.”

“No. No, I'm fine.” I didn't want her seeing the wig heads or the sawed-off sofa I slept in. “Thanks for the books.” I cleared my throat and clutched the blanket around my shoulders. “How did you get my homework? You're not in any of my classes.”

“But I was in your English class last year,” she said, peering into the empty living room.

“You were? I don't remember.”

“That took guts coming in new the last month of school and messing with Mr. Pertnoy's head.”

I shook my head. “I don't remember.”

“Erasing your name, reading that crazy story with the pirouettes.”

“Oh! Oh yeah. He gave me an incomplete.” I wrapped my blanket around me tighter. I wished she'd leave the books and go away. “So thanks for the books then. I'll probably be back in school tomorrow.”

“I've been watching you,” she said, walking toward the kitchen.

I followed her. “I know.”

She turned around to face me. “You're very interesting.”

“Thanks.” I looked away at the empty counters—no cannons or Confederate mugs, no ashtrays or old newspapers. I was so cold.

Juleen stepped closer to me. “You're a clever one.”

“I don't know . . .”

“You're smart. You had the whole school believing in you, in your spells and dances and that story about descending from a long line of mediums and clairvoyants.”

“But it's true. My grandmother's a medium.”

“And now it's all backfired. Now everybody knows,” Juleen said, ignoring me.

“Backfired? What's backfired? What does everybody know?” Why didn't she leave? I was freezing. Couldn't she see I was freezing?

“Melanie Brubaker came in today with her purple hair.”

“Melanie?”

“You told her to dye her hair purple and do that stupid dance in front of Bob Eliott, remember?”

“Yes. Didn't it work? She must not have . . .”

“Her hair fell out! All day long, in patches all over her head. Bob Eliott told her she was a joke and should join the circus. Everyone was laughing at her because of you.”

“She must have done something . . .”

Juleen stuck her face right up to mine. I could feel her heat, but it wasn't enough to warm me.

“You're a phony. Everyone knows it now. A fake! I knew it. I could have told them, but I let you set yourself up. Everyone gets caught eventually—every fake.”

“Stop!” I backed away. “I'm not a fake. I'm real. I'm real!”

“My aunt Juleen used to contact the dead.” Juleen stared down at the books in her hands. “I was named after her, after a fake. She was caught red-handed. I was there when it happened. I used to think she was wonderful.” She paused, then looked up at me. “Now you got caught, everybody knows, and your grandmother will get caught, too.”

I took another step back and found myself up against the kitchen wall. “No. She won't. She's real.”

“How do you know?”

“She is. Stop it! I've seen her. I was her assistant. People have even seen their dead husbands and wives appear right in front of them.”

Juleen nodded. “People see what they want to see.”

“What does that mean? What do you want? Why are you here?”

“It's all illusions, magic tricks. People see what they want to see and don't see what they don't want to see. The whole school knows now. They know what you really are. They know you're a fake.”

“Stop saying that!” I didn't want her pushing me, making me look at what I didn't want to see. “I'm sick. You'd better go now.”

“It's dangerous what you're doing. People could get hurt worse than Melanie. Don't mess with magic.”

“You need to go now.” I let go of my blanket and took my schoolbooks from her.

“I brought you a book. See there on top. It's a book of poetry. Do you read poetry?”

“What?” This girl was crazy. I had to get rid of her.

“I read poetry. I write it, too. It helps.”

I pushed Juleen toward the door. “Thanks for the book. Honest, I don't feel well. You have to go.”

Juleen opened the door and paused, turning back to look at me. “You read the poems. They're true. They're the truest, realest thing I know. You need that, I think. You're like me. You need the truth.”

I
WAS STILL SHIVERING
, but I didn't put the covers back over me. My hands felt stiff, frozen. It was hard turning the pages in my miracle notebook where I had glued a miracle story to almost every page—a story from the newspaper, a
true
story. Newspapers had to print the truth. Miracles happen. I was a miracle. Gigi said so. A miracle! I'm real. Juleen doesn't know anything. Nobody does. Gigi knows. She knows about things like that. She's a medium. She's the world's greatest medium! I've seen her. I've seen her working. She didn't have to pretend because it was real. She made her clients happy. They got to speak with their loved ones. Some said they actually saw them—
People see what they want to see
. No! It was real. I believe it. I'm real.