The Sitter (7 page)

16

A
t first, I thought the cry had come from inside the house. But then I heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.

I spun around.

The glare of sunlight hid the person approaching, a figure in white, all white. And again, I thought of ghosts. I squinted hard, struggling to focus.

And then he stepped out of the glare, a grin on his tanned face. He wore a white polo shirt, damp from sweat, white tennis shorts, white sneakers, and he carried a tennis racquet in its case.

“Chip? Oh. Hi.”

“Ellie, I didn’t scare you—did I?”

“Uh . . . no,” I said. Why did he shout like that? Did he deliberately try to make me jump?

“You should be careful. Stay away from here,” he said.

He stepped closer, and I could see his broad forehead was beaded with sweat. “Dangerous,” he said, a little out of breath. He grinned at me. “You’re looking fresh and alive this morning.”

“Well . . . thank you.”

He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts and mopped his forehead. “You finding your way around?”

I nodded. “Yes, doing a little exploring. I saw the little guest house and—”

“Think I should rent it out? Ha ha. What a dump, huh? It looks like a bomb hit it. No kidding. It’s kinda dangerous. You should stay away. And you should definitely keep the kids away. Don’t let ’em play in here or anything.”

“I won’t,” I said. I tried to act as if he wasn’t staring at my top. But it was hard not to notice. The guy wasn’t exactly subtle.

He put his hand on my bare shoulder. “I hope you like it here. Everything okay so far?”

“Yes, fine.”

But I’d like it better, Chip, if you stopped staring at my tits.

“Shame about this little guest house,” he said. He brushed a fly away from his face. “It was already a wreck when we moved in. Abby and I really should have it torn down, I guess.” He scratched his crooked nose. “Probably cost as much to tear it down as rebuild it.”

He grinned at me, his eyes lowering over my body. “You play tennis?”

“No. Not since high school,” I said.

“Oh. You’ve got those strong, athletic legs. I thought maybe you played.”

“I do the treadmill. You know. At the gym. When I can afford it.”

He nodded. “Have you been to the beach yet?”

“No. I was just on my way to check it out.”

I was tempted to tell him how uncomfortable his stare was making me, but I had the feeling he didn’t care.

I turned and started up the dune that led to the beach. “I’ll be back for lunch. Abby says I have the kids this afternoon.”

And wouldn’t you know it? He followed me. “Totally amazing day, isn’t it? But, man, I sucked at my tennis match this morning. And I was playing a guy twice my age. Gotta get back in shape.” He took my hand and pressed it against his stomach. “Still pretty tight, huh?”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

I didn’t like the way this was going. I pulled my hand free. “Chip, I ran into someone . . . in town yesterday. Mrs. Bricker? Actually, she came up to me. She said she used to be the nanny here.”

“You’re kidding.” His face reddened. Rivers of sweat ran down his cheeks. “That crazy old bitch? What did she want with
you
?”

“She—she acted very strange. She—”

“She
is
very strange,” he said. “She’s totally nuts. I had to fire her. I caught her telling Brandon all kinds of frightening ghost stories. She was scaring the poor kid to death.”

“Oh, wow. That’s awful,” I said.

“Can you imagine? Telling ghost stories to a four-year-old? Abby and I think maybe that’s why he stopped talking.”

I shook my head. “That’s bad news.” Then I added, “It’s a good thing you hired me. I don’t
know
any ghost stories.”

I was just making a joke, but it didn’t make him smile. “Enjoy the beach, Ellie. See you at lunch.” He lowered his gaze. “Are you wearing a swimsuit under that?”

Yuck.

“No. I’m just exploring today,” I said.

He saluted with his tennis racquet. Then he turned and started trotting toward the house.

“Weird,” I muttered.

I heard a loud creak from inside the guest house. Did the curtain over the front window move?

No. Of course not.

I was imagining things.

Right?

17

I
can’t believe that I stood
this
close to her this morning, that she’s in my house. That I see her every day.

She’s so close.

Close enough to strangle.

Parading around in that tiny pink top, as if she had any tits. . . .

I really can’t stand it. She’s making me crazy.

Only two days, but she’s making me crazy.

All the old feelings . . . They’re all flooding back to me.

I’m only human. Every time I see her, every time I stand close to her, she brings it all back—all the bad feelings. All the
anger
.

How can she not remember me? How is that possible?

She looks at me and doesn’t remember.

How insulting is that?

It proves that I was nothing . . . nothing at all to her.

I’ve controlled myself so well. I haven’t let on a thing.

But I’m angry enough now. After two days of seeing her, I’m angry enough.

She’s made me angry enough to kill her.

Sooner? Or later? That’s the only question.

Sooner? Or later?

Or . . . perhaps I should torture her first. The way she tortured me.

18

A
fter lunch, Abby and I rubbed the kids down with sunblock. Brandon stood still as a statue and let Abby goo him up. Heather made a giggling game of it and made me chase her around the house first. Then she kicked and screamed and pretended she didn’t like it when I slathered her with the stuff.

“They make a spray sun lotion now,” Abby said. “We’ll have to get some. Then we can just line them up and spray them.”

“In my eye,” Heather complained, rubbing both eyes.

“Well, stop rubbing it, then.” Abby took a tissue and wiped Heather’s eye.

“Do you like the beach?” I asked Brandon.

He nodded, but his flat expression didn’t change.

Abby pulled a blue-and-white Yankees cap over Brandon’s curly black hair. He took it off. She put it on again.

She turned to me. “Since we’re down at the end, our part of the beach is pretty deserted. No one for them to play with. So turn right when you get there and go where it’s more crowded. The public beach is just a short walk.”

“No problem,” I said. I slung the bag of beach toys over my shoulder.

“Look for an au pair named Maggie. She has long red hair, and she’s very tall, and has an Irish accent. You’ll see her. She works for Hannah Lewis, a friend of ours. Maggie takes care of the two daughters. Sometimes Heather and Brandon like to play with them.”

“Great. I’ll find her,” I said. “It’ll be nice to have company.”

“You can’t miss her,” Abby said, pulling a small tennis hat over Heather’s blond hair. “She has the reddest hair you’ve ever seen and a face full of freckles. I think you’ll like her.” She patted Heather’s head. “Are you going to keep your hat on today?”

“No way.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I laughed. Two-year-olds are so refreshingly honest.

Abby flashed me a scolding glance. “Don’t let her get too much sun.” She grabbed Heather playfully and started to tickle her ribs. “Heather’s bones. I’ve got Heather’s bones.”

Heather giggled and squirmed. Then she thrust her little hands at Abby’s ribs. “Mommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!”

I turned to Brandon. He stood in the corner, tugging the waist of his swimsuit, watching the tickling match, his face as blank as ever.

Abby and Heather giggled together. “Mommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!”

Then Abby said, “Enough.” She pulled Heather to her and kissed her cheek. “You be good for Ellie, okay?”

Heather didn’t answer.

Abby handed me a straw carrier full of beach towels and sun glop. “And here. Take some extra Pampers. You’ll probably need them.”

So now I had the pails and shovels slung over my back, the straw bag in one hand. Heather took the other hand. Brandon ran ahead, and we stepped out the back door, finally on our way to the beach.

As we passed the deck, I glimpsed Chip stretched out on a chaise longue, reading a Stephen King novel, a tall drink on the table beside him. He lowered the book and gave us a wave. “Have fun,” he called.

“Daddy, come beach?” Heather called.

“Maybe later,” Chip shouted.

We climbed the dune toward the guest house. The sun faded in and out. High clouds passed quickly overhead. The breeze off the ocean felt cool.

As soon as we reached the line of pine trees, Heather pulled off her tennis hat and handed it to me. I decided not to argue with her. I tucked it into the beach bag.

Brandon suddenly started to run toward the guest house, a determined expression on his face. He bent down and picked something up from the thick carpet of pine needles.

“Brandon? What have you got?”

“Bandon? What got?” Heather called, mimicking me. “Bad boy. What got?”

Stepping into the cold shadow of the guest house, I caught up to him and saw that he’d picked up a straight stick. He studied it for a moment, then began trotting toward the beach, waving the stick in front of him.

“Hey, you don’t need that stick,” I called. “What are you going to do with that?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Put it down. You’ll poke your eye out.”

But how many thousands of times had my mother said that to me?

I caught myself in time.
No way
was I becoming my mother!

“Brandon, wait for us. Don’t run ahead.” I practically dragged Heather up the dune to catch up to him. “Are you going to use that stick to help build a castle?”

He waved the stick at me.

“Shall we build with that?” I repeated.

He nodded. The steady ocean breeze fluttered his hair around his serious, pale face. He stared hard at me for a moment, lowering the stick to his side.

What are you thinking, Brandon? I wondered. What is going on in that troubled brain?

If only you would talk . . .

At the top of the dune, the ocean came into view.

“Wow.”

I stopped and gaped at the wide band of golden sand, at the crashing waves. The beach stretched on forever!

Ellie, you’re a long way from Madison.

The green-blue waves were high today, roaring to shore in twos and threes, exploding in burst after burst of white froth. Two terns picked at something in the sand. I watched them run when the surf rolled over their spot.

Chip and Abby’s house stood alone down at this end of the beach. I could see the top of the guest house from here and, beyond it, the second story of the main house.

Brandon kicked off his flip-flops and left them in the sand. He went running down the beach, his bare feet splashing up sand and water.

“Pick me up! Pick me up!” Heather demanded.

What choice did I have? Somehow I managed to carry the beach toys, the straw bag, and the two-year-old.

“What’s dat?” Heather pointed at a shiny black object half-buried at our feet.

“It’s a crab shell,” I said. “I think it’s called a horseshoe crab.”

“Yucky!”

We passed several nice-looking older houses that faced the water, then came to the edge of a public beach. A few dozen people had spread out blankets and erected beach umbrellas. The tall, white lifeguard stand stood empty. Too early in the season for lifeguards, I guessed. Most of them probably weren’t out of school yet.

Brandon had already found the au pair, Maggie. Abby was right. No way I could miss her. She was at least six feet tall and had flowing, carrot-colored hair that gleamed in the sunlight. She wore a long white cover-up over a green one-piece bathing suit. As I approached, she was handing juice boxes to two little blond-haired girls.

She smiled and greeted Brandon and then turned to me.

I groaned as I lowered Heather to the sand. “Are you Maggie?”

“Yes, hello. You must be the new nanny.”

“Juice!” Heather demanded. “Juice!”

“Sure, I have one for you,” Maggie said. She dipped into a red-and-white plastic cooler and handed Heather a juice box. “How about you there, Brandon, my lad?”

Brandon shook his head.

“I’m Ellie,” I said. “I just started with the Harpers.”

Maggie brushed her hair back. She had a warm smile. “At least they got rid of the old woman.”

“Mrs. Bricker?”

“Imagine her coming here and telling me ghost stories. I’m from Limerick, you know. I could tell her a few ghost stories of my own.”

I dropped the straw basket and the beach-toy bag to the sand. “She—she followed me in town,” I said. “I think she wanted to tell me some kind of ghost story, too. She warned me to—”

“She’s daft as they come,” Maggie said. Then she lowered her voice. “She tried to tell me that Brandon there—that sweet, innocent boy—was haunted, possessed by something evil, and that’s why he stopped talking.”

The image of last night flashed into my mind. The sight of a boy shrouded in the eerie yellow haze. Then in the kitchen. The soft breathing, so close to me in the dark.

I shook away the thought. “Well, anyway, Mrs. Bricker is gone,” I said to Maggie.

Heather and the two Lewis girls were handing their empty juice boxes back to Maggie. “That’s Deirdre, and that little angel is Courtney.” Maggie pointed. “Nice girls, so pretty with that fine, blond hair, but they’re spoiled. Back home, we wouldn’t wait on them hand and foot like royal princesses.”

She shooed the four kids away. “Go play. Here. Take your shovels and things, and go busy yourselves. Go play with those other kids over there.”

“You come, too!” Deirdre insisted. She tugged Maggie’s hands. “You, too!”

“I’ll be joining you in a moment. Shoo. Go.” Maggie turned to me. She still had the crunched-up juice boxes in her hands. A stiff wind gust fluttered her white shirt. “Are you a local girl, Ellie?”

“No. Actually, I’m from Wisconsin.”

Maggie chuckled. “I’d have to look that up on a map. I’ve been in your country only little more than a year.”

“It’s in the Midwest,” I said. “It’s a long way from here.”

I turned and saw that the girls had joined up with some other kids a little ways down the beach. The kids had formed a circle. They were holding hands and moving together, circling something, moving slowly, clockwise.

“What on earth are they doing?” I asked.

Maggie tossed the juice boxes down, and we hurried over to them. “It’s a gull,” Maggie said. “A fat seagull. Oh, look. The poor thing has a broken wing. I guess it can’t fly. It’s just standing there while they dance around it.”

We stood at a distance, watching the circle of kids. Step, step. Holding hands, they kept the circle tight as they moved.

The gull tipped its head, watching warily.

Some of the kids were laughing as the circle began to move faster. Some appeared to be singing.

And then I spotted Brandon, by himself, off to the side, far back from the circle.

Why hadn’t he joined the other kids?

I cupped my hands over my mouth and started to call to him. But I stopped when I saw him raise the stick. He raised it chest-high in front of him, and then he went charging—

—Charging into the circle of kids.

I screamed, starting to run.
“Brandon! Stop! Brandon—no!”

Kids cried out, startled, as Brandon broke through the circle. Two girls stumbled into each other and fell to the sand.

Running hard, his head down, Brandon lowered the stick—aimed—and drove it deep into the gull’s white belly.

The bird let out a hideous, shrill squeal. Its good wing shot straight up, fluttered frantically.

But it couldn’t move, skewered on Brandon’s stick. The bird cried out again, hoarser this time, like the caw of a crow.

Brandon jerked out the stick. With a loud grunt, he stabbed again, burying the stick deep in the gull’s chest.

The bird’s head fell back. The wings drooped to its sides. It groaned and toppled over.

Kids screamed and cried.

The Lewis girls, shrieking, tears running down their cheeks, ran to Maggie.

Grunting like an animal, Brandon poked the stick through the gull’s belly again. Stabbed it.

Stabbed it again.

I hurried up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.

I pulled him back. Brandon toppled over, breathing hard. His face red, his dark eyes wide, blank, almost unseeing.

“Brandon—why?” I choked out. “Why? You killed it! Why?”

White gull feathers blew around my ankles, sticky with blood. Dark blood soaked into the sand, spreading into a puddle around the mutilated gull.

“Brandon, answer me! Answer me!” My throat stung from screaming. “Why, Brandon? Why?”