The Atrocities Page 2

  “Hello,” he says, shaking my hand. His skin feels calloused and cracked.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

  “You, too.”

  Raul returns to the pool table, and Robin sighs. “That man,” she says. “Always the talkative one. You’ll hear longer stories from the paintings on the walls.”

  I think of the gaunt figure outside my bedroom door, with bulging yellow eyes and crooked teeth.

  At the dining table, Robin serves us a breakfast of eggs royale and fresh strawberries. “I made a dairy-free hollandaise for you, miss. Can’t say it tastes exactly the same as the traditional sauce, but it isn’t an unpleasant commingling of flavors. If you don’t like the hollandaise, you can be honest with me. I won’t take offense.”

  I swallow a bite. “It’s delicious. Thank you, Robin.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that, miss.”

  For a while, Robin studies my face in silence. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, miss. But it looks as if you had some trouble sleeping last night? Not that you appear anything less than elegant. It’s only, you seem as if sleep eluded you.”

  “This house will do that to you,” Raul says, joining us at the table.

  Robin nods. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, miss, but there are a number of unsightly paintings and things in Stockton House. If you’re susceptible, these images can work their way into your subconscious and generate nightmares. What works for me, miss, is to watch a number of comedy programs on the television right before bed. If you’re unfamiliar with current television programs, I would be more than happy to recommend a number of very funny shows. They aren’t Shakespeare, miss, but they will do the trick.”

  “I appreciate the concern,” I say. “I think I’ll be fine.”

  “Ah. Very good, miss.” Robin finally takes her first bite of food. “I hope you’ll let me know if you need any help during your stay. The house can spin you around and leave you dizzy, if you get my meaning, miss.”

  “There is something I was wondering about,” I say. “Someone banged on my door last night and laughed.”

  Raul glances at me. “That was probably—”

  “That’s not for us to say, Raul,” Robin says, pointing her fork in his direction. “We should let Mrs. Evers explain. Don’t you think that would be for the best?”

  “Yeah,” Raul says, with his mouth full of strawberries. “I suppose so.”

  I look at Raul and then Robin. Neither of them will meet my eyes. “I’m only wondering if Isabella does this sort of thing often.”

  “Mrs. Evers will explain,” Robin says. “I do hope the hollandaise sauce is to your liking, miss.”

  After breakfast, Robin leads me to a large room with ocean green walls and an old-fashioned chalkboard below a stained-glass window. The window depicts a hairless child standing at the top of an oak tree, raising his hands to the sun. Colossal bookshelves cover two of the four walls. A single tablet arm chair sits empty in the center of the room.

  Robin waves her tiny hand at one of the walls. “The room used to be red, but Mrs. Evers hopes the green will help promote a relaxed learning environment. I should have warned you earlier, miss, but Mrs. Evers prefers us not to wear red, orange, or yellow. A little here or there is fine, only Mrs. Evers worries about overstimulation and cognitive overload.”

  At this point, I notice that all the books with red, orange, or yellow spines are located high up on the bookshelves.

  “I’ll leave you here, miss. Mrs. Evers will be with you shortly. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you for being so helpful, Robin.”

  Robin’s lips twitch in a momentary smile. “No thanks necessary. It’s my job.”

  She speeds toward the door but freezes in the doorway. She turns around. “I do hope to see you for lunch, but if you’re already gone by then, I want you to know it was a pleasure meeting you, miss. You seem a kind sort of person.”

  With that, the old woman is gone.

  I sit at a Chippendale-style walnut desk in the front of the room. The rash on the back of my hand has devolved from a dog into an amoeba. While I’m waiting, I flip through the textbooks and workbooks stacked in front of me. One of the completed workbooks begins with small, neat handwriting, and by the end, the lettering is replaced with cryptic hieroglyphs, angular like broken glass. A maelstrom of doodles fill some of the pages. In the chaos, I make out a face impaled with nails and a severed arm holding tight to a branch.

  “Oh good,” Mrs. Evers says. “You’re here.” The woman’s dressed in a muted blue cocoon dress, and she wears her dark hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. “I hope you’re not too upset about our little wallet test. I’m sure it was terribly unprofessional of us, but Hubert thought it would be for the best. He can be so overprotective when it comes to his family. We didn’t offend you too much?”

  “No,” I say, standing. “But if you have any further questions regarding my character, I do hope that you’ll speak to me directly.”

  “Oh, of course.” Mrs. Evers flows over and takes both my hands. “Thank you again for coming all this way. I’m sure you’ll do Isabella a world of good.”

  “I’m looking forward to working with her.”

  Mrs. Evers releases my hands. “I was hoping we could begin now, but I’m afraid Isabella is hiding. She does this from time to time. There are so many nooks and crannies in this house. It may take me some time to find her.”

  “Would you like me to help look for her?”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Evers waves away the thought. “Bell usually won’t come out unless I’m alone. I’ll go find her and you stay here and prepare.”

  Mrs. Evers turns around and flutters away. She leaves a scent of lavender in her wake.

  I remove a folder from my woven leather satchel, and I make sure that I have all the necessary assessment materials.

  At this point, I spend a few minutes writing out my initial impressions of the family and the staff. I know little about Isabella herself for the time being, except that she broke her great-grandfather’s urn and she banged on my door during the night. Is she sneaking off at any little opportunity, or is she being left unsupervised? As is sometimes the case with the affluent families I work for, Isabella might be feeling ignored by her parents. It’s clear to me that Mr. and Mrs. Evers care for their daughter, but do they spend any quality time with her?

  As these questions whirl around in my head, I draw the hairless, faceless woman from the trumeau. But I give her a face. I give her thin, pale lips with the weakest of smiles. Her eyes are dark and sunken.

  Minutes pass. An hour? Eventually, I take out my phone and look through the photos from my cousin Isaac. Today, he’s sent me a kitten in a Christmas sweater riding on the shell of a giant tortoise. He’s also sent me an American bulldog dressed up as the Hamburglar. It’s been about five years since Isaac started this tradition of texting me photos every morning, and he’s only missed a handful of days. I should find a way to thank him properly. But what else can I do? What else can I say?

  I message him another thank-you.

  Finally, Mrs. Evers returns, and there’s still no sign of Isabella.

  “I’m so sorry for making you wait,” Mrs. Evers says, stepping to the center of the room. “I finally found her inside a wardrobe in one of the guest rooms. Bell is a dear girl, but she does enjoy her little games, no matter the inconvenience they might impose on the rest of us.” She releases a frail, breathy laugh. “Bell, sit down. It’s time for your lessons.”

  I look to the doorway, but the girl doesn’t appear.

  Mrs. Evers faces the empty tablet arm chair beside her. “Bell, this is Ms. Valdez. Your new governess.”

  I look to the doorway again.

  Mrs. Evers squeezes the fingers of her left hand with her right hand. “You can’t see her, can you?”

  “What?” I say.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t. Most people can’t.�
�� The woman looks down at her black wedge sandals. “You see, um. You see, Isabella passed away in February. It was an accident, and . . . I know what you must be thinking, Ms. Valdez. I know this is a peculiar sort of situation. But . . . but I assure you, Isabella is sitting right here in this chair. I can see her clear as day.” Mrs. Evers looks at me, and a beam of red light from the stained-glass window coats her face.

  At this moment, my face and chest feel warm. The room around me seems fragile, as if any sudden movement would cause the whole scene to shatter.

  “Mrs. Evers,” I say. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I . . . I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

  The woman squeezes one of her fingernails. “Please don’t leave us. Please. We’ve had two prospective governesses sitting at that desk, and as soon as they learned the truth, they left us.” Mrs. Evers trickles toward me and whispers, “Isabella isn’t coping well with this new phase of her existence. A few months ago, she started breaking things. At first it was only a lamp or a vase every few weeks, but things are . . . escalating. Hubert and I both agree that what our daughter needs is structure. She needs to feel normal again. Please stay, Ms. Valdez. At least for a little while?”

  “I don’t think I’m qualified to—”

  “All that we ask is that you give your lessons and speak to Bell as if she’s one of your regular students. Please.”

  For a few moments, I look into the woman’s dark, moist eyes.

  I don’t believe in ghosts, at least not the kind that would break vases or sit in a chair. But I know what it means to lose a child. Even if I can’t help Isabella, maybe I can provide some comfort for Mrs. Evers, or point her in the direction of a therapist? At the very least, I should take some time to think things through before abandoning this woman.

  “I can’t make you any promises,” I say. “But I’ll stay for now.”

  “Oh, good.” Mrs. Evers uses her finger to dab at a tear in the corner of her eye. “Ordinarily, Bell is unable to communicate in a traditional sense. Will this be a problem in regard to her education?”

  “I . . . No.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that. Well, I’m sure Bell doesn’t want her mother intruding in her classroom all day. I’ll leave you two to your work.”

  Mrs. Evers walks out the door. And I’m sitting at my new desk, facing the green lounge chair with the tablet arm. The leaf-shaped clock on the far wall taps away the seconds.

  What exactly am I doing here?

  I came to this house to escape empty rooms.

  * * *

  The word ARMADILLO is written on the mahogany podium in gold letters, in elegant uncials. On top of the podium, a creature squirms, blinking at me with big brown eyes. Pale, bony plates cover his rounded skull. He’s held down with wire, but he manages to reach out at me with his one good hand. His other shriveled arm is missing the hand.

  The creature’s good hand brushes against my arm. He blinks faster and faster.

  “Is this really an armadillo?” I ask.

  I search the white, bleach-scented room. A woman in a lab coat shoves a chicken into a wheezing pneumatic tube, which sucks the creature into the ceiling. Without looking, the woman reaches for another chicken on the pile. Are the chickens living or dead? I can’t tell.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I have a question about the armadillo?”

  The woman ignores me.

  On the other side of the room, a group of women and children stand perfectly still, facing a terrarium built into the wall.

  I can feel the armadillo’s thin fingers grazing my back.

  One of the women in the crowd says, “Could you be quiet? We’re trying to listen.”

  I try to look through the wall of people at the terrarium, but all I can make out is something writhing on the jagged stones.

  “Quiet,” the woman says.

  “I can’t hear them eat,” a little girl says.

  They all face me now, showing me their long, ashen faces. I turn away from the crowd, and the armadillo grips my neck and squeezes.

  Only now do I hear myself. I’m screaming. I must have been screaming the whole time.

  The armadillo opens his toothless maw and shrieks with me.

  I open my eyes, coughing, with the creature’s clammy fingers touching my face. No, these are my fingers. I sit up at the walnut desk and inspect my body. I’m still wearing the mustard cardigan, polka-dot skirt, leopard-print belt. I must be awake.

  A glimmer of crimson light dances on the empty lounge chair in front of me. For an instant, I can see a face in the anarchic shimmer. She smiles an impish smile and then disappears.

  “How is everything?” Mrs. Evers asks from the doorway.

  I stand and straighten my cardigan. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “Bell isn’t causing you too much trouble, I hope?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Oh, good.” Mrs. Evers squeezes the end of her loose braid. “Well. I’ll see you both later.”

  “Mrs. Evers,” I say, but she’s already out the door.

  I grip a piece of white chalk and consider writing my name on the board. The thought forces a feeble snicker out of me, but I shouldn’t be laughing. An invisible flame heats up my face.

  I stare at the lounge chair.

  What if Mrs. Evers is right about Isabella? What if she bangs on doors and hides in wardrobes and wants to learn her times tables? What if Bruno’s standing beside me in his Slimer pajamas, waiting for me to touch his ethereal face and say everything a mother should say?

  But of course, Mrs. Evers is not right about Isabella.

  The chair is empty.

  I take out my phone and look at a possum dressed in a Victorian-style wedding gown.

  At a little after one, Robin enters the classroom and beams in my direction. “You’re still here, miss? You’ve decided to stay?”

  “For now,” I say. “To be honest, I . . . I’m not sure how much I can help here.”

  “Ah. That is something to consider, miss.” The old woman leads me out the door and races down the hallway, peeking back at me from time to time. “I know this is only your first day on the job, but the whole house seems brighter since your arrival. Not two hours ago, I spotted Mrs. Evers walking in the garden. This might seem of little consequence to you, miss, but I assure you, what I witnessed was a small miracle. Mrs. Evers hasn’t left the house for eighty-four days. When she was out in the garden, it was disheartening to see her stepping on the perennials without any consideration of Raul’s hard work. But at least she was outside, miss. At least she was smiling.”

  During our trek through the labyrinthine hallways, we pass by a painting of an angel, her scabrous face ripped apart as if by a claw. Spiral strips of hemp flesh dangle over her throat. Maybe the sight should disturb me, but all I feel is relief that at least one monster in this house has been slain. The thought is ridiculous.

  We turn another corner, and at the end of the corridor sits a giant rodent with eyes like a tarsier. A bizarre-sounding gasp escapes my throat.

  Without even pausing for a moment, Robin rushes forward and grabs the rodent by the head. “No need to worry, miss. It’s a stuffed animal. Isabella had a strong fascination with capybaras and other rodents. The bigger the better was her motto, it seemed to me. Mrs. Evers has no love for rats and the like, but she did everything she could to support Isabella’s interests. No mother is perfect, myself included, but Mrs. Evers did adore that little girl.” Robin’s voice cracks, and her body slows a little. “I hope you don’t mind a little detour, miss.”

  In a minute or two, we enter a messy bedroom with blue-gray walls and a massive picture window that looks out into the back garden. Decorating the ceiling are intricate line drawings of porcupines, flying squirrels, and other furry creatures. The bed is unmade.

  A cottage-style playhouse sits at the end of the room, complete with gingerbread trim and wooden shutters and a railed porch. A stuffed rat stares at me from one
of the flower boxes, nestled in a bed of artificial lavender.

  “I’ll be right back, miss,” Robin says. “We’ll be enjoying our lunch before we know it.”

  The old woman carefully navigates an obstacle course of open books and oversized pencils and serpentine parades of plastic animals. After patting the capybara on the head, Robin places the toy in the other flower box.

  “She used to say they were her guards,” Robin says, motioning to the capybara. “She said her creatures would come alive at night and speak with her. Isabella had a vivid imagination, miss. She was a special girl.”

  Just as Robin predicted, I’m enjoying my lunch before I know it. Robin serves us watermelon gazpacho and pan-seared grouper with lemon and capers.

  “I’ll ask you, miss,” Robin says, holding her empty fork near her face. “What other boss would invite his domestic staff to enjoy the same meals as his own family? Say what you will about Mr. Evers, but he’s no Scrooge. Did I ever tell you about the time he lent me five hundred dollars so that I could help my son? I think I did. Are you enjoying your lunch, miss? You can be honest with me.”

  “It’s delicious,” I say.

  A moment later, Raul enters, bringing with him the scents of fresh-cut grass and manure. A thin cut travels up his arm like a snake.

  “Are you all right?” I say.

  “Oh, this?” Raul raises his arm. “I had a disagreement with a rosebush. Things got heated, but we’ve worked out our differences.”

  “That’s good to hear. You should never go to bed angry.”

  “Raul, don’t be silly.” Robin stabs at the nonsense with her fork. “Anyway, have you heard the good news? Miss Danna has decided to stay with us.”

  “Nothing’s definite yet,” I say. “I’m here for now, but . . . I came here to teach. I don’t know if—”

  “Isabella might still be with us,” Robin says, balancing a single caper on her fork. “In truth, I haven’t seen any apparitions in Stockton myself, miss, but Mrs. Evers seems quite sure of such a presence. Who are we to say, one way or the other?” She swallows the caper. “I don’t know if I’ve told you this, miss, but my mother died twelve years ago from extrahepatic bile duct cancer. A rare disease to take a rare woman. She competed in two Olympic Games. Did I ever mention that? Anyway, the night she died, I woke up at 1:05, and who did I see sitting on the end of my bed, dressed in a straw hat and muumuu? My mother, only her eyes were bigger than usual. I asked her what she was doing in my room, and she opened her mouth, but nothing came out. My mother was always quite a chatterbox, miss, so I knew something was wrong. Suddenly, the room smelled like jasmine. Before I could say anything else, my mother disappeared. I learned later that she had passed away at 12:57 that night. Now, as I said, I haven’t seen Isabella in an incorporeal form, but I wouldn’t dismiss Mrs. Evers’s claim willy-nilly. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, as they say.”