Recalculating (3 page)

A week after she’d found the box in the attic, she’d called her sister and asked if she wanted to meet for lunch.

“Sure, absolutely!” said Laura. “Where were you thinking?”

“I read about this place out in New Hope,” Maureen began.

Her sister had whistled. “New Hope! Look at you! You sure you can get there all by yourself?”

Maureen felt herself flushing. Her sister must have noticed that for all the years of her marriage, only Tommy had driven the car when they were together, and he’d tell anyone who listened that Maureen, like most women, was terrible with directions.
Couldn’t find her own piehole with both hands and a flashlight
, he’d announced at Thanksgiving dinner … the last Thanksgiving, now that she thought about it, that they’d celebrated with her family.

“I’ve got a GPS. I’ll be fine,” she told her sister, and Laura had said, “You know what, little sister? I’m really proud of you.”

Glowing with pleasure, wearing a brand-new skirt, Maureen had gotten in the car, fired up the Ouija, and tapped in her destination. She was badly startled when she heard that the voice had changed. Instead of the voice of a pleasant, serene woman, someone Maureen always pictured as smiling, the voice was now a man’s. “Turn right,” it said curtly as she backed out of the driveway.

She pulled over to the curb instead, frowning, and tapped the buttons that would call up her Saved Settings. “Select voice—female.” There it was, still checked. “Turn right,” the male voice said again … and was Maureen being paranoid, or did she imagine that the voice sounded a little impatient? She sighed. There was a troubleshooting guide, but that was back in the house, in the box that the Ouija had come in. She’d look for it later.

She followed, only half listening to the GPS talking her through the turns, even though somehow it didn’t feel right. She didn’t know exactly how to get to New Hope, but she at least knew the general direction, and she felt very strongly that the GPS was leading her astray. But what could she do? She didn’t have a map in the car. She did have her cell phone, but even if she called someone, what would she say?
I’m lost, and I don’t know exactly where.

“Take the highway,” said the GPS … and then, in a voice that was low and somehow musing, it said, “I didn’t like it underwater.”

Maureen screamed. Her hands froze on the wheel, her foot stomped on the gas, and she shot down the ramp into traffic, narrowly missing an eighteen-wheeler, which blatted its horn furiously and flicked its lights at her. “No,” she was whispering. “No, no, no.”

“Stay on the highway for … five … thousand miles,” said the voice of the GPS, the ghost in the machine. “Turn right,” it said … but there was nowhere to turn, nothing to her right except the breakdown lane, then metal barriers, and then a ravine, a long, steep drop into nothing. “Turn RIGHT,” said the Ouija, “turn RIGHT, you murdering bitch!”

Instead, Maureen swerved into the breakdown lane. She put the car in park and, with shaking hands, yanked the power cord out of the outlet, fumbling with the Ouija’s off switch until she’d powered it down. Then she sat there, heart pounding, panting for breath.
I imagined that,
she thought.
My GPS did not say it didn’t like being underwater. My GPS did not call me a bitch.

It took her ten minutes to get her breathing under control, and when she was ready to drive again, she inched along in the right-hand lane as cars honked and swerved around her and cursed her once they’d passed. Finally she found a sign that indicated a route back to Philadelphia. She took it gratefully, tears still drying on her cheeks. The GPS sat in silence on the dashboard. She thought that it was brooding, sulking … but that was silly.

“I imagined it,” she told herself, and her voice sounded normal to her ears. “Just imagined the whole thing.” Still, she left the GPS unplugged when she got home, the cord dangling forlornly as she went inside to make excuses to her understandably pissed-off sister, to say
I guess I’m not as good on those roads as I thought.

* * *

She didn’t want to get in the car again, but old habits die hard, and Thursday, for her entire life with Tommy, had always been dry-cleaning day. That morning she lifted her basket into the backseat and began to drive. She left the Ouija unplugged, knowing she could find the dry cleaner without assistance, but the screen flared into life as soon as she left the driveway, talking, once more, in its male voice.

“Turn left.”

She gaped at it. “I didn’t tell you where I’m going,” she said.

“Turn right.”

Maureen did. She looked at the plug, then back at the glowing screen, and tapped the off button, but the screen stayed lit. Well, maybe it didn’t need to be plugged in for her to use it. Maybe it ran on stored-up power or batteries or something like that. She’d never been good with machines. Tommy had told her so.
Just let me take care of it
, he’d
say about the microwave or the VCR or, later, the Blue-ray player, the CD player, the iPod that he filled with music for her one Christmas. He would sound both exasperated and pleased, somehow, at her flaws, her inability to manage life’s simplest tasks, and his exasperation and his pleasure had conspired perversely to make Maureen feel stupid, like the dumb bunny he’d always claimed she was, but also cosseted and loved … like her husband took care of her, instead of expecting her to learn how things worked.

“Turn left,” said the Ouija, and Maureen glided to a stop in front of the dry cleaner.

“I made it up,” she told herself, and got out of the car.

Sam, the shop’s owner, was waiting behind the counter. He too had decorated for Halloween, with black-and-orange streamers hanging from the ceiling, and a plastic pumpkin full of fun-sized candy bars next to the register.

“You doing okay?” Sam he asked as she passed him her ticket. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

Maureen murmured something.

“At least it was fast. If you don’t mind me saying. Sometimes, when they go quick like that, it’s a blessing. They don’t linger or suffer. Am I right?”

She nodded automatically, holding out her arms for the clothes, Tommy’s old suits and shirts and ties that she was planning to send to Tommy Junior “Oh, let me help you,” said Sam. He carried the plastic bags out to the car and hung them from the hook next to the rear passenger door. Before he slammed the door shut, Sam noticed the new gadget, anchored to the dashboard where Liza had put it.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a GPS.”

“Yeah, but what kind?”

“A Ouija.”

“A who-wha?”

“Ouija,” she said.

“Huh,” said Sam, squinting toward the front of the car. “I never heard of that one. You mind if I take a look? My wife’s been bugging me to get one forever.”

Maureen shifted her weight from foot to foot. What if the Ouija didn’t want to be touched? What if it started talking to Sam in that strange mechanical man’s voice? “I didn’t like being underwater,” it had said … and she knew it had said that, even though she’d tried to tell herself that she’d misheard.

“Go ahead,” she said. Sam opened the driver’s side door, leaned in and started tapping at the little black screen, which bloomed obligingly into its 3-D map, with Maureen’s route laid out in gold. “It does all kinds of things,” she said.

Sam was still tapping on the screen. “Is that so?”

Oh, yes, she thought. It calls me
bitch
. It tells me it doesn’t like the water. “Yes. It finds the shortest route, and it tells me where there are restaurants.”

“Nifty,” said Sam. “Where’d you get it?”

“A present,” she said, and felt her throat close. “A present from my husband. He bought it before … before he passed.”

“Ah.” Sam clipped the device back into place, angling the little screen just so. “When is a present not a present?”

“Sorry?”

“When it’s in the past.” He laughed, and Maureen made herself smile

“Past is past, am I right?” Sam was looking at her intently. “Past is past, dead and gone, and you just leave it alone.”

“Sure,” she said agreeably, even though she had no idea what he was talking about.

“Here,” said Sam, offering her a fun-sized Snickers bar that he’d pulled from his apron pocket. “Have a treat.”

“Oh, no, I don’t … I don’t need that.” This was what Tommy had told her, raising his eyebrows when she joined the children for an ice-cream cone or nibbled on a cookie.
You don’t need that,
he would say.

“Aw, come on,” said Sam. “One little bite of candy isn’t going to kill you! Everyone deserves a treat once in a while. Am I right?”

Because it seemed easier to just agree than to argue, Maureen took the candy bar and put it in her pocket. “Thanks again,” she said.

“You take care of yourself,” said Sam. Then he looked at her GPS again. “That’s some nifty little thing.”

Nifty
, Maureen had agreed. Still unplugged, the GPS continued to coach her as she made her way home. “Turn left,” it said when she approached Hawthorne, but the Ouija couldn’t know that Jernigan Elementary was letting out right now and if she took Hawthorne home she’d most likely end up stuck behind a school bus. “Turn LEFT,” said the voice as she cruised through the intersection. “Turn LEFT, you stupid bitch!”

“No,” she said … and for some reason she reached down and touched the little lump of chocolate in her pocket. Her voice was a husky whisper. “No, I won’t. I don’t have to listen to you anymore.”

Behind her, a car honked. Maureen put her foot on the gas. The car lurched forward. “Recalculating,” said the voice. “At the end of the road, turn right. Think you can manage that, Dumbo?”

She drove on, ignoring the directions. Her whole body was shaking, hands jittering on the wheel, teeth chattering in her mouth. “Who are you?” she whispered … even though she already knew.

* * *

Tommy had been in a bowling league and had had a monthly poker game, but Maureen didn’t think her husband had friends. To be a friend you had to be yourself, and Maureen suspected that maybe she was the only one who’d seen her husband’s true, wolfish face. But in the weeks after his diagnosis, Tommy acquired perhaps the first real friend of his adult life, a strange, reedy man named John, who was, Tommy told her proudly, a professor at Bucks County Community College, where he taught anthropology and folklore.

John was tall and emaciated-looking. The bones of his wrists bulged, and his fingers were so long they appeared to have extra joints. He had a narrow face, curling gray hair that fell past his shoulders, and long teeth with a yellowish cast—gingivitis, Maureen figured. Poor oral hygiene. Tommy himself was a religious flosser and so, by extension, was Maureen. “A pleasure,” John had said, taking Maureen’s hand but not shaking it, just holding it, like it was some small, stunned animal that he was weighing in
his own palm. John dressed in shades of black and gray, and came over to the house only after dark. He and her husband would sit in the den—Maureen having been banished to the kitchen. They’d drink wine and talk in low voices. She’d catch snatches of conversation, phrases here and there.
Host organism
was one.
Parasitic relationship
was another. Tommy had always fancied himself a scientist; in fact he had talked about going to medical school, only his grades hadn’t been quite good enough. Maybe, she thought, the two of them were in there playing doctor. Sometimes she’d hear them laughing. Once, she’d heard a kind of singsongy chant. It was probably sports-related. They were probably watching a game. Late one night she’d heard the door slam, but no car starting. Maybe they went for a walk, she would think, but that made no sense. There was nowhere to walk in their brand-new excuse for a town, no path through the woods that surrounded their house, and their street was miles away from any kind of restaurant or bar.

She would tidy the den once they were gone, washing their wineglasses, emptying the ashtrays (neither man smoked, but John was fond of burning strange-smelling incense while they talked). Pleased to have the house to herself for once, she’d heat herself a mug full of milk, pour in a little brandy, top it with cinnamon, and sit on the couch, watching the old movies she loved that Tommy couldn’t stand. Once she fell asleep there, only to startle herself awake, heart pounding, certain that she’d heard something screaming in the woods. A second time she’d jerked awake from a dream in which Tommy and John had been standing over her, both of them in black robes, like monks.

She listened for the voice, the small one that sounded a bit like her sisters. It spoke to her almost every day.
Be patient
, it would tell her.
Your time is coming.
Tommy
was growing thinner, more drawn, the flesh of his face evaporating to reveal the skull underneath. Thinner and crueler. Instead of once or twice a month, the pinching sessions came once or twice a week, then almost every night.
You like that?
he would croon, putting the clamps in place, watching her with his cool eyes. He showered every morning, and again at night, but up close, she could smell the rot and decomposition coming from his skin, a bland, almost sweet stink. Tommy was dying … but not fast enough. He had tightened her leash as he’d gotten sicker, taking away the one credit card he’d let her keep, quizzing her about her day and how she’d spent it, watching her as she moved throughout the house.

Little things started going wrong. The dishwasher broke, spewing soap-scummed water over the kitchen floor, and they’d had to replace both the floor and the dishwasher. Someone had stolen her credit card from her wallet while she was visiting the library and had charged three thousand dollars’ worth of stuff at Target and Sears; it had taken her days to straighten it out. One morning she reached for her hairbrush, which she’d always kept in the top drawer in the bathroom, and found that it was gone. She put her favorite blue blouse in the washing machine, but when she took the clothes out to put them in the dryer, the blouse was gone. She would catch Tommy watching her from the corner of his eyes, tracking her from behind his newspaper or magazine, studying her coolly as she cooked and cleaned and drove him to the hospital, like she was some kind of new disease, a mutated cell trapped under a slide slip. Something, most likely a raccoon, knocked over the garbage cans on trash day, and left a half-chewed sanitary napkin stuck in the middle of their driveway, like an accusation, until Maureen, still in her bathrobe, had scurried outside to pick it up. Tommy watched and pinched, and just when Maureen was sure she
couldn’t stand it anymore, the voice said,
Tonight’s the night
, and it told her, step by step, what to do.