There's Someone For Everyone

Chapter Thirteen
History Ready to Repeat

The door to the basement, oddly free of the cobwebs that coated most of the surfaces in the basement, creaked open. A small stream of water dribbled across the top landing of the stairs and dripped over the edge of the top step, making a quiet plopping sound. It was very distinct in the silence.

Then a loud female voice said, “Come on, man. Move!”

Chuck, hands braced on the doorframe, looked back over his shoulder at Chili. “I dunno. I... uh... I just don’t feel like goin’ down there right now.”

Chili frowned at him. “But the washer n’ drier are down there.” She grabbed the hem of her soppy shirt and twisted, sending a pattering of water to the floor.”

“It’s dark.”

Chili rolled her eyes. “That’s how it is, man. It’s a cellar. Hello? No sun. Cellars are dark.”

“And Hell is hot, but I ain’t going there either.”

Chili poked him hard in the back. “You’re making a waterfall on the stairs. Move, or you ain’t getting any this weekend.” Chuck folded his arms stubbornly. “Move or you ain’t getting any more weed this weekend.” Chuck started to descend quickly, tennis shoes squishing with each step. “You’re so easy, man. That’s what I love about you.” Chili followed him down.

She had to stop before she got to the floor because Chuck was blocking the way, groping blindly over his head. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not taking another step unless I can see where the hell I’m going. It could be dangerous.”

“Oh, really. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Like...” Chuck’s flailing hand found a dangling cord and he plucked at it. There was a snapping sound, and a naked bulb flashed to life overhead. It wasn’t a strong light, but it threw a dim glow that illuminated most of the small cellar. Right in front of Chuck, inches from his feet, was a pile of rusty gardening tools–a grimy, but sharp, garden claw lying on top, prongs pointed upright. He gave Chili a reproachful look. She shrugged.

They edged around the tangled pile, looking around. The stuffy room was thick with dust and cobwebs. Chili gestured. “As I was saying, noting LIVING dangerous down here.” A spider ran across her sneaker and she yelled, hopping up and down, shaking her foot. “I’m outta here!”

Chuck grabbed her arm, stopping her. “No way. It may be summer, but these wet clothes are starting to get me cold. I’m down here, I’m not leaving till my clothes are dry.”

“Yeah, okay.” Chili glanced around. There was a battered washer and dryer sitting in one corner, just to the left of an equally battered looking fuse box. Chili grabbed Chuck’s hand and led him over, then skinned her shirt over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra, of course (there was a rumor that she once HAD worn one, solely so she could take it off and burn it at a feminist protest rally. It wasn’t that she was radically feminist–she just thought it was a cool idea). She shoved down her gypsy style skirt, revealing that she didn’t have much use for underwear, either, and tossed both of the saturated garments in the dryer, then held out her hand to Chuck. Chuck was just staring. Chili put her hands on her hips, making her small, firm breasts jiggle. “Oh, come on, Chuck. It isn’t like you haven’t seen it before, or aren’t going to see it again. Gimme your duds.”

Chuck pulled off his shirt, handed it over, and started to unzip his pants. Chili tossed his shirt in after her own garments. When the damp zipper proved stubborn, she impatiently shut the drier and started it. It rattled and thumped lightly against the back wall...

And the bulb went out.

Chuck froze. There was still a faint wash of light coming from the open door at the top of the stairs, but it wasn’t much. “Aw, man! You broke the electricity,” he whined.

Chili slapped the top of the still running drier. “Then how come this booger is still going? Either the bulb just quit, or someone is playing with us.”

They heard a thud from the direction of the stairs, and then another, and another–as if someone heavy was descending. They looked over, round-eyed. A rusty old roller skate dropped slowly from one step to the other. When it hit the floor it rolled a few inches, then stopped. The pair stared at it for a moment, then as one looked toward the top of the stairs. “Who’s out there?” Chuck called.

The door closed slowly, leaving them in darkness. “Oh, shit!” said Chili. She sidled past Chuck, headed for the stairs.

Chuck grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna try the light again.” She pulled away from him.

“But no one turned it off–we would have seen. You can’t go wandering around in the dark.”

“Well, I can’t just STAND here in the dark for very long, either. It’s worth a try.” She edged over toward the stairs and groped over her head, finding the cord. “Here goes nothing, man.” She pulled. There was a snap, and the light flashed on.

“What the fuck?” said Chuck, surprised.

Chili was squinting toward the top of the stairs. Now she pointed, “Hey, there’s a light switch up there near the top. We shoulda looked closer before we came down. Man, someone is fucking with us. One of the guys waited till we were busy, reached in and cut the light, pushed that freaky skate down the stairs, and shut the door. I don’t mind practical jokes, but that coulda given us heart attacks.”

“I bet it was Shelley,” grumbled Chuck, finally getting his fly unzipped and putting his pants in the still running drier. “That kid has a morbid sense of humor.”

~*~

Andy, laden with suitcases, almost staggered through the front door. He went to the base of the spiral staircase and peered up it unhappily. “What a lovely way to start a vacation–acquiring back strain.” He glanced back to see Chris and Debbie, unburdened, coming through the front door. “I protest. I object to being used as a beast of burden.”

Debbie waved at him. “You can’t expect me to be carrying heavy loads,” she put a hand on her still flat belly, “in my delicate condition.”
Andy grumbled under his breath, but started to hump the cases up the stairs. Debbie elbowed Chris and whispered, “I’m gonna be able to use this excuse for another six months, then I figure I can get away with being ‘delicate’ for at least two months after I have the baby.”

Chris snickered and led her up the stairs. Andy was leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs, cases piled around him, panting dramatically. They ignored him as they sailed by. Chris preceded Debbie into a large, airy room. “This used to be my bedroom. It’s the nicest one.” She smiled. “I was a spoiled brat. It’s yours for the weekend.”

As Chris opened a window to air the room, Debbie examined it, pleased. It was very pleasant, decorated in an antique style, with a beautiful folding Japanese dressing screen. But there was one thing missing. “It’s beautiful, Chris. But where are we supposed to sleep?” Chris went over to a big cabinet standing against the wall. “Oh, have you got one of those... Um... Martin beds? You know, the kind that fold up into the wall?”

“Murphy beds, and no–not that.” Chris opened the cabinet and pulled out what looked like a tangled armload of netting.

Debbie blinked. “What’s that?”

“Your bed.”

“My...?” Chris pointed to a couple of hooks set in the wall. “A hammock?”

“I thought it was the coolest thing in the world when I was a kid.”

“But you expect us to sleep in a hammock?”

Chris smiled at her. “Have you ever made love in a hammock?”

Debbie started to say something, then thought about it. She returned Chris’ smile. “Have you?”

“Ain’t telling.” Chris pushed the net into Debbie’s arms, winked at her, and went out, closing the door.

Debbie started to try to untangle the net, muttering, “Is it possible without getting motion sickness?”

A sharp breeze blew through the open window, and the Japanese screen fell over, hitting the floor with a crack. At the exact same moment the door burst open, smacking into the wall, as if it had been kicked in. Debbie squealed in shock, dropping her armload, staring at the door fearfully.

Andy edged into the room, loaded down with suitcases. “You might have left the door open for me, Deb.”

Her heart starting to slow back to normal, Debbie snapped, “You might have knocked.”

“How?” Andy lifted the cases slightly to demonstrate. “I guess I could have kicked the door, but somehow that just doesn’t seem polite when you’re a guest.” He looked around. “Where’s the bed?”

Debbie smiled at him slowly as he used his foot to shut the door. Neither one of them saw the hulking figure that passed quickly by in the hall.

~*~

Chris was standing just inside the room that had belonged to her parents, looking around with a concerned frown. Something was wrong, here. The rest of the house had been much as she expected–dusty and musty, with a few signs of careless departure–but this... “Derek?” she called. “Could you come in here?”

She heard a steady smacking sound and looked around, curious. Derek came into the room carrying a ball-and-paddle. It was one of those old childhood toys–it looked like a ping-pong paddle, but there was a long elastic band fastened to the center, with a small rubber ball on the end. Derek was bouncing the ball against the paddle with ease, never missing a stroke. “Look what I found! I’d almost forgotten about these things. Hey, did I ever tell you that I held the record on my playground for these?”

“No,” said Chris dryly. “Somehow we missed that topic of conversation. Derek, look at this.” Derek continued smacking the ball. Chris frowned, then reached out and snatched at the ball. She managed to catch it, stopping its flight. “Derek!”

“Okay, okay.” He looked around. “Wow. Your parents never struck me as this messy.”

“They aren’t.” The room wasn’t as neat as all the others. The bed was messed, sheets dangling half off. The closet stood open, and there was a jumble of hangers on the floor. Drawers hung open, and there were a few pieces of clothing and linen scattered on the floor. A raggedly opened tin can sat on the dresser, flies buzzing around its crusted rim. “Did you spend the night here?”

“Aw, geez, Chris. Give me a little more credit for being civilized. No, I got here just before you did.”

“Someone was here, though.”

“I think you’re right.” Derek went over and bent toward the can, sniffing it. He grimaced. “In fact, it looks like they might have been living here for awhile.”

“I don’t like this at all.”

“Oh, come on. It COULD have been your parents. You know how messy your Dad is.” Chris didn’t smile. “I bet it WAS your parents. They just got distracted, because they were leaving in a hurry. If you had a telephone I’d call them right now, and I bet they’d be embarrassed.” Chris still didn’t smile. Derek sighed. “Chris, you have GOT to stop being so paranoid.” He went over and took her in his arms. She was stiff, but he didn’t give up. He rocked her gently, saying, “I know you went through something horrible, but it was a long, long time ago. Isn’t it time that you stopped looking over your shoulder all the time, expecting someone to be coming after you? Babe, that’s no way to live.”

“I guess you’re right.” Chris’ tone was almost reluctant.

“Course I am.” Derek set her back. “C’mon, and I’ll help you straighten the bed.”

“Oh, no! I have fresh sheets in the van. I’m not sleeping on those now.”

“Chris...”

“Not even if it WAS my parents who used them last.” She gave him a mock pouting look. “They still have sex, you know.”

Derek looked properly horrified. “Fresh sheets, by all means.”

~*~

The Breman Household

Daphne had arisen early that morning. The house was always kept neat, but she moved through it with a dust cloth and can of furniture polish, slowly putting a final shine on all the flat surfaces. In the kitchen she pulled all the cans and packages of food to the front of the shelves, making sure that it was obvious that they were well stocked. She threw away a half carton of sour cream that had expired a day before, and made sure that all the caps and lids were tight on all the bottles and containers.

Finally she wiped up the puddle of amber, acrid smelling liquor that had been spilled on the counter beside the sink. She washed the heavy tumbler that had been lying on its side, then rinsed the cloth carefully, making sure there wasn’t a hint of smell left on it. She picked up the nearly empty whiskey bottle and started to deposit it in the trash, then paused. Daphne carried the bottle, the remaining inch or so of liquid sloshing, out the back door and across to where the surrounding trees began. Then she heaved it as far into the forest as she could. She’d turned to go back into the house even before it landed.

Once inside Daphne set a pot of strong coffee to brew. Then she went into her mother’s bedroom. She paused in the dimness, not really seeming to look at anything, but taking in everything. She walked past her mother’s bed, past the lump snoring under the blanket, and opened a window wide. A fresh breeze blew in. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to clear out the stale smell.

Again Daphne walked past the bed without looking at its occupant. This time she went into the master bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the water run tepid. She went back to the bedroom and finally approached the bed, standing beside it. Her mother, the previous day’s make-up smeared on her face, was snoring.

After a moment Daphne poked her. The snores stuttered for a moment, but didn’t stop. Daphne poked her again. “Wake. Wake Mum.” Still nothing. Daphne poked harder, sharper. “Wake, Mum. Lady come. Today. Come see. See me. See you. Up.”

Elsie smacked her lips and peeled her eyes open. “Daphne? What...”

“From the state. Check and see. See me. All right? Must show. Show good. I could. Good. Yes.”

Elsie sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Oh, lord! Today’s the day the social worker is coming, isn’t it?” She still wasn’t awake, but a frantic note entered her voice. “Is she here? What time...?” She looked at the clock by her bed, and wilted in relief. “Oh, it’s still early.”

She looked at Daphne. Daphne was neatly dressed, her long blonde hair pulled back into a tidy ponytail. Her hands and nails were clean, and there was a faint scent of soap and lemons about her. Elsie realized that aside from her blank expression, Daphne looked more of what the establishment would consider normal than most girls her age. No heavy make-up, no outrageous or provocative clothing, no defiantly messy hair styles. *She knows what the social worker wants to see, and that’s what she’s showing. And they say my baby isn’t smart.* Elsie didn’t like to think that this could also prove that Daphne was manipulative, as well as being clever.

Elsie heard the hiss of water from the bathroom. “Is that a leak? Oh, lord, not now!” She tossed back the covers, and blinked at herself. She’d gone to bed fully clothed again. The only thing she’d taken off were her shoes. They were sitting neatly side by side next to the bed. Elsie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so careful about placing her shoes. Daphne’s shoes were always lined up in careful rows, pair by pair, so even that they might have been placed with a ruler. Elsie couldn’t remember going to bed the night before. For not the first time, she suspected that Daphne had actually put her to bed.

She’d been distracted from the sound of running water while she thought this, now she was brought back to the moment by Daphne saying, “Wash. Must shower. Power in shower. Clean, clean, clean.”

Elsie licked her lips. “In a few minutes. Do I smell coffee? First I’ll...”

She’d stood up and started to pass Daphne, headed for the door. Daphne put a hand on her chest. She didn’t push or shove, but the flat palm was firm, and immovable. Her expression never changing, her voice toneless, Daphne said, “Smell. Now.”

Elsie could feel herself blushing, and for the first time she was aware of her own odor. She smelled of sour sweat and alcohol. “Yes, Daphne,” she said meekly, going to the bathroom.

She showered, scrubbing herself thoroughly, and it woke her up. She was completely lucid when she finally emerged from the bathroom (after making sure that the shower stall walls were dried, and the damp towel was in the hamper). Her bed had been made, and there were clothes laid out on it–a simple house dress, fresh undergarments, and a pair of pantyhose.

Elsie got dressed in the clothes that her daughter had laid out for her, thinking of all the days when she’d done the same for Daphne, carefully choosing just the right ensemble, so that her baby would look normal in the sight of the world.

Elsie had long ago given up trying to keep her hair neat, and had gotten it cut in a short, almost pixie style. If she had been able to think far past the alcohol haze that fogged her brain most of the time, she would have realized that it made her look much like that other mother–the one that she’d met on a dark, rainy night in the woods. Elsie ran a comb through her hair, and she was presentable. She decided that full make-up might be considered ‘trying to be impressive’ by a government inspector, so she thought that she’d just wear a little lipstick for color. But when she tried to put it on her hand jittered, the color skittering off her lips. Elsie sighed, wiping away the smear, then closed the lipstick, dropped it in her pocket, and went out to the kitchen.

Daphne was sitting at the table, eating an English muffin. Elsie had been right–she had smelled fresh coffee. There was a steaming pot on the stove. She poured herself a cup, glancing at the empty counter. She sighed. Looked like she’d finished that bottle last night. She would have liked just a sip or two for her coffee. She sat at the table beside her daughter and sipped the strong brew. After half a cup she wasn’t feeling quite so shaky.

Daphne silently pushed a saucer containing the other half of the English muffin toward Elsie. Elsie smiled. The muffin was thickly smeared with peach preserves–Elsie’s favorite. They finished their breakfast in silence, then Elsie wiped the saucer off, put it away, and got a second cup of coffee.

When she sat back at the table Daphne’s hand drifted up toward her face. Elsie sat still, and Daphne’s fingers traced lightly over her eyelids, then her lips. Elsie said, “I didn’t put any on today.”

“Lady come. Look nice. Twice as nice, twice as good,” said Daphne.

“I know, but I just don’t think I can get it on straight today, Daphne.” She pulled the lipstick out of her pocket and set it on the table. “Do you want to?”

Daphne picked up the lipstick, opened it, and twisted the tube till the coral pink cylinder emerged. Elsie turned sideways in her chair, and Daphne stood before her. The girl took her mother’s chin in her left hand, then carefully moved the lipstick over Elsie’s lips, laying down a clean, even coat of color. She moved slowly, but deliberately. It was amazing how she could work so neatly without actually seeming to look at her hands.

Finally Daphne closed the tube and handed it back to her mother. She plucked a tissue from the box on the table and held it up to her mother’s mouth. Obediently Elsie closed her lips on it, blotting the slightly sticky lipstick to a matte finish. Then she sat with her hands in her lap as Daphne took the tissue to the trash can.

An hour or so later a car pulled up in front of the Breman house, and Clarinda.Morgan, a social worker for the Bureau of Health and Welfare, got out. She consulted a case file, then tossed it back into her front seat. She’d met with Elsie and Daphne Breman a few times at her office, but they’d only been assigned to her a few months before, and this was her first home visit.

She wasn’t sure why the
Bremans had so recently made their way into her jurisdiction. Daphne Breman was twenty years old–she should have been removed from the client list of the Bureau of Child Welfare two years before. *Just goes to show how fucked up the system is,* Clarinda thought sourly as she walked toward the front door. *If it ever gets out that she was mis-classified for that long, they’ll skin a few behinds in the administration. I guess that’s why they’ve hinted that it’ll be in everyone’s best interest if I decide that she’s doing well. Well, they can kiss my ass. If I see any signs of abuse or neglect, I’m reporting it, and we’ll have that girl in a group home or institution before you can say boo.* She rang the doorbell. *Though I have to admit, she seemed in good shape when I saw her, and the mother seemed to be very careful of her, very concerned. Of course that was in public. Home life can tell a different story.*

The door opened. Elsie Breman, looking a little pale, but calm and together, greeted her. “Good morning, Miss Morgan. I’d almost forgotten that you were going to be visiting us today.”

*Sure you did,* Clarinda thought, going inside. *And I may eventually end up reporting my superiors for notifying you that I was coming. There are supposed to be UNANNOUNCED visits. Well, most of the ones we have to worry about slip somehow. I’ll just have to keep my eyes open.*

The living room was clean–cleaner than Clarinda’s own, in fact. Daphne Breman was sitting on the sofa, watching Jeapordy. Clarinda went to her, but the girl didn’t look up, her eyes remaining fixed on Alex Trebek. “Good morning, Daphne.” There was no response, and Clarinda made a mental note. Complete lack of communication was not a good sign. She’d need to get some sort of response from Daphne before she left if she was to make a good report. “I’d like to see Daphne’s room now, Mrs. Breman.”

“Of course. It’s the first one down the hall.” Clarinda started toward the room, and Elsie suddenly remembered how it had been the last time she’d seen it, several days before. The walls had been thickly covered with dark drawing, each more disturbing than the last, and Xeroxed newspaper clippings. All of them had concerned death and bloodshed. Elsie hurried after the woman, almost babbling. “It’s probably a mess. You know how kids are...” She was praying that Daphne had locked the door again. Then she could claim that she didn’t have the key, and at least that would buy her some time. Maybe the woman wouldn’t insist on seeing it till next time, and Elsie would have time to take down the bizarre decoration.

Clarinda had opened the door. “Well. Your daughter has quite a sense of style, Mrs. Breman.”

Puzzled, Elsie peered past the woman into Daphne’s bedroom. All four walls were draped with swathes of cloth, cream and maroon swags. The only open spaces were for the doors and window. Elsie suddenly remembered their last trip to the department store. Daphne had left her while she tried on shoes, and had returned carrying a bulky sack. Daphne hadn’t shown her what it was, and Elsie hadn’t pried. The girl had been coming back from the bedding department, and now Elsie realized that she must have bought several sets of sheets, and used them to drape the walls. Elsie knew that if they pushed aside the cloth they would be confronted with all the dark images that Daphne had spent long hours sketching.

Clarinda checked drawers and the closet, finding them all well ordered (again much more neatly than her own). “Does Daphne keep her own room?”

“Yes. I don’t come in here.” Clarinda looked at her. “She likes her privacy. I had to take care of her all the time for so long, I think she’s earned it–don’t you?”

Clarinda hummed, then went back out into the living room. Daphne didn’t seem to have budged. Again Clarinda went back to stand beside her. “You watch a lot of television, don’t you, Daphne? You DO realize that it isn’t real? That most of it is just made up stories?”

“Who was Buzz?”

Clarinda blinked. “What?”

On screen Alex Trebek said, “I’m sorry, Bob, but Neil Armstrong was the FIRST man to set foot on the moon. The SECOND was Buzz Aldren. It’s your turn again...”

Clarinda, stunned, looked at Elsie. “I didn’t know that.”

Elsie smiled. “She’s always liked modern history. Can you stay for lunch? Daphne can show you how good she’s gotten in the kitchen.”