The Vanishing Season (10 page)

“Maybe someone escaped from the prison, down below the peninsula,” someone said.

“You know that guy down on Cherry Street, Chuck Elliott? He’s kind of crazy.” They continued to bandy names around, all of men. One of the names that came up was Mr. Witte.

“He’s a devil worshipper,” a blond girl said.

“I think he was in prison for a while,” some guy offered.

“My mom thinks it could be him,” Hairica offered meekly.

Maggie prickled and looked at her, then around the group. “You guys shouldn’t accuse people.” Hairica blushed. Everyone got awkwardly silent.

“Sorry, you’re right,” Hairica said.

Maggie could tell she’d killed the mood, so she started backing up, turning to Hairica. “Wow, it’s cold out here. I’m gonna go back.”

Hairica peeled off from the group too but cut in the other direction, heading toward the edge of the lot, where, Maggie could see, a short path through the trees led to a subdivision where she must live. She waved to Maggie and left her breath trailing behind her.

Inside it took Maggie a moment to realize the shift in the mood. Everyone was silent, turned in the direction of the band, and the polka had died. Instead someone was singing, with only a guitar in the background. Maggie was shocked to realize it was Pauline.

She looked tiny up in front of the men of the band, a little embarrassed but like she belonged. Either she’d forgotten to take off her turkey headband or she’d kept it on on purpose, and it was a strange visual, because her voice was strong, full of longing, and beautiful. Maggie couldn’t believe it—Pauline’s voice was so husky, yet so clean, it gave her chills.

She was singing a country song Maggie had heard once on one of her mom’s John Prine CDs. She didn’t usually like country, but she remembered liking how bittersweet the song was, and Pauline’s voice fit it perfectly.

“Make me an angel,” Pauline sang, “that flies from Montgomery. Make me a poster in an old rodeo.” The words didn’t really make sense, but in a way they did. To Maggie it seemed like a song about wanting to be far away and also wanting to be something
more
.

Pauline went through the chorus one more time and then let her voice trail off on the last note. Abruptly she darted off the stage, her face bright red as everyone clapped.

She came straight toward Maggie, shoulders hunched. “Let’s go,” she said. Liam found them in the crowd and trailed along behind.

About a half hour later, they were perched on the banks of the strait, looking over at Wisconsin proper. The bridge stuck straight up against the dark sky, giving the impression that the people on the peninsula were prisoners in Alcatraz. Maggie blew on her hands, and Pauline shivered in her coat. Liam didn’t seem to mind the cold at all.

“I don’t understand why you’re so embarrassed,” Maggie said. “That was amazing.”

Pauline shrugged, and Maggie thought she detected a blush rising on her cheeks. “I don’t know why I let my mom talk me into it.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and looked out across the strait for a while and then reached over and tagged Maggie on the shoulder. “Let’s play tag. You’re it.”

Maggie turned. “Are you serious?”

Pauline was on her feet jumping up and down. “You’re
it
!”

Maggie lunged for Pauline, who darted out of the way. She moved as if to reach for her again but sidestepped and shot her arm out to tag Liam, who was just catching on. Maggie had always dominated at tag as a kid, at any game where you had to be clever and physically fast.

She and Pauline scattered into the trees of the park as Liam came after them. He went after Pauline first, and Maggie could hear whooping and screaming in the dark. And then he reappeared, looking for her. She moved behind a big maple and stood still, trying to keep her breath low and steady.

He appeared without so much as a sound, coming around to her left. He put a hand against the side of her rib cage, trying to make out her shape in the shadows. “Tag,” he said.

Maggie took a deep breath. She crossed her arms over her chest, her face prickling. “You got me.” They stood awkwardly for a moment.

They walked out onto the open grass and saw that Pauline had given up the game as quickly as she’d started it and was riffling through the trunk of her car. She pulled out a huge rectangular box covered in illustrations of flowers and dragons and rockets. Fireworks.

“Let’s light them over the water,” she said.

“Where’d you get those?” Maggie asked.

Pauline shrugged. “Online.”

“They look highly illegal. You can blow off your hands, doing this stuff,” Liam said, but Pauline was carefully positioning the rockets, pointing them in the direction of the bridge and sticking their ends into the dirt.

“Have you ever seen the northern lights?” Maggie suddenly asked as Pauline finished up.

Pauline shook her head. “My dad said he did once. Right from Gill Creek. When he was little. Some weird weather pattern pushed them this way.”

“I want to see them someday,” Maggie said. Liam and Pauline both agreed it was a must. They all peered into the sky as if mentioning them could summon them.

Then, finally, Pauline turned to Maggie. “Do you wanna light ’em? You’re the responsible one.”

She handed Maggie a lighter and then took a couple of steps backward. Liam tried to argue that he should be the one to light them, but Maggie was suddenly enamored with the idea of doing it herself.

Pauline and Liam backed up. Maggie struck the matches and timed the lightings, spacing them each a few seconds apart. Finally, with relief, she stepped back with Pauline and Liam, and they sank onto their butts on the cold ground and waited.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

They watched; tiny sparkles went spilling across the sky. Then nothing.

Then . . . the sky lit up, and there was a deafening series of crackles as a bright pink heart flew open far above the bridge, getting wider and wider before collapsing, its tiny pink dots plummeting earthward. It was enormous.

“Oh my God,” Maggie whispered. There was no way people hadn’t seen it. There was no way the entire
town
hadn’t seen it.

A loud crackle muted her voice as a bright white circle of sparkly, crackly puffs flew upward, seeming to sprinkle the bridge as they fell. Gill Creek lit up against the water. Tiny in the distance, the shapes of a few scattered people gathered at the water’s edge to watch.

Maggie put her hands on her ears, and that made it even better: The explosions sounded far away, muted and beautiful.

Then a purple one—it flew outward, and the shape seemed hazy for a moment but sorted itself into a giant smiley face.

Pauline laughed so loud and screechy that Liam flinched. Maggie didn’t realize how big her own smile was until her cheeks started hurting. The fireworks lasted only five minutes, maybe even less, but they were spectacular. It felt like they were taking a town that was lost in the dark and lighting it up.

10

IT WAS ELSA, HAIRICA’S NEIGHBOR, WHO SAW THE COPS PULL UP TO HAIRICA’S house a couple of weeks later, on December 8, lights flashing but sirens silent. The rumors raced around by word of mouth hours before the facts appeared on the news that night.

Hairica hadn’t come home the night before. And that morning her car was found empty at the side of Millers Park, her thick, wool hat nearby.

Light snow fell as Maggie crunched down Main Street that morning. To her surprise, the general store was closed, as was the Coffee Moose, where she usually got her coffee before work because it was better than the stuff Elsa brewed up. Several other sets of windows were dark that hadn’t been the week before.

She was just approaching the Emporium when she saw a figure emerge, pulling the door shut and turning to lock it.

“Elsa?”

Elsa turned, startled, and then looked relieved. “Oh lord, you scared me,” she breathed, holding her hand to her chest.

“Why are you locking up?” Maggie asked.

Elsa looked guilty. She wrapped her scarf more firmly around her neck and looked away, then back at Maggie. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I just decided on my way in.”

“What was a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

Elsa hesitated. “I’m closing up the shop for the winter.”

Maggie felt her heart sink.

“Nobody comes downtown to shop these days; everyone’s scared; no one’s really into strolling down Main Street. Hair . . . sorry, Erica, is gone. It just . . . doesn’t make any sense to stay open.”

She crouched to hide the key in the spot where she always did, under a rock at the corner of the walkway.

“But . . . ,” Maggie said dumbly. “I need the job—I’m saving for school. I . . .”

Elsa looked at her sympathetically and put her hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Maggie, I really am.” She stamped her feet and walked Maggie in the direction of her car. “You’ll be the first person I call once I reopen.”

Maggie stood there, at a loss for words. “Thanks,” she finally managed to say.

Elsa unlocked her car, gazed around as if to make sure the coast was clear, and then looked at Maggie and sighed. “This time of year I always feel, if we can just get through the winter, we will be okay.” She patted Maggie again on the shoulder and offered a smile that was meant to be encouraging. “We just have to make it till spring. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll see you around town.”

Maggie nodded. And then Elsa got in, spun her wheels slightly in the icy lot, and pulled away. Maggie stood in the warmth of the car exhaust and then turned back in the direction she’d come.

Even in homeschooling, there was Christmas break. Maggie woke every morning to ice crystals encrusted on the corners of her bedroom window and icicles dangling above the side porch. The grass disappeared under snow. Driving around aimlessly, she’d see people pulling Santas and sleighs and wooden nativity scenes onto their lawns. The lights on the trees in front of Gill Creek Public School and the wreaths on the courthouse kept the pulse of the peninsula steady, despite all the chaos. Next door, Mrs. Boden had hired a company to decorate her lawn with twelve glowing reindeer—as white-lit and understated as twelve reindeer could be—stretching out toward the water and turned in the direction of the lake, so passing boats could see them at night.

Sometimes Maggie thought about hiking back into the woods to check on the progress of the sauna, and instead, not wanting to run into Liam alone, trekked out in the other direction, pulling on her hat and gloves and thick, old Columbia jacket, plus her waterproof boots that were getting too small for her. (She didn’t want to ask for a new pair and see her mom pretend the money didn’t stress her out.)

Her parents were loathe at first to let her go into the woods alone, but Maggie was climbing the walls, and eventually they’d relented; Water Street was too isolated to be a target anyway. What was a killer going to do, Maggie had argued, drive to an isolated three-house neighborhood and wait for some victim to come trundling along through the woods where hardly anyone ever walked? She trekked into the trees on the other side of the house, out to the very tip of their tiny spit of land, and watched some Horned Grebes land on the water, mist rising from the lake against the cold air and ice creeping out from the shore inward across its surface. Pauline said if it got cold enough the lake would freeze completely, but that was still hard to believe, considering its vastness.

That weekend Pauline demanded they get out of town to the thriving metropolis of Green Bay to see the sights.

“There’s a botanical garden. We should go to the railroad museum. Have you ever been to a casino?”

In the end Pauline chose an indoor theme park called Pirateville. “They have mermaids,” she said matter-of-factly, reading from the website. “They’re open all winter.” They had a show there where women swam underwater and breathed through tubes and did acrobatics in fish tails.

“You know mermaids are imaginary, right?” Maggie said.

Pauline blinked at her innocently and then held her hands under her chin like Ariel. “They’re doing
The Little Mermaid
.”

Pirateville—which on the map had looked huge, with a Pirate’s Cove and a Marauder’s Cavern—was tiny and poky. The log-flume ride, which had been drawn as a raging river, was closed, a miniature wave lagoon lapped against its cement walls forlornly, and the mermaid theater smelled weird. They entered at ground level and climbed down into old, upholstered movie seats, facing a curtain that, Maggie assumed, concealed the glass walls of the large water tank.

The curtains opened. The water was lit Day-Glo blue from above, and the Little Mermaid was there, swimming around and breathing through her tube, dancing in the water and lip-synching to the sound track. Maggie looked over at Pauline, who was captivated.

The production ended up being really good. They did the original Hans Christian Andersen version of the story—the tragic, non-Disney-fied one, where the prince marries another woman and treats the Little Mermaid like an adopted daughter, causing her to stab herself with a dagger made of her own hair.

“Well, glad we saw something cheerful,” Maggie said, on the drive back.

Pauline looked crushed. “My dad used to read the real story to me. But I guess he left out the bad bits.” Pauline dabbed at the corner of her eye with a pinkie.

“You are
not
crying.”

“No.” Pauline shook her head. But sure enough her eyes were wet with tears. She snorted with embarrassed laughter, and then Maggie burst into laughter too.

After a while of driving in silence, Pauline spoke. “You know, I thought about inviting Liam, but things have been weird with us lately.”

Maggie thought and then steeled her courage. “Pauline, why haven’t you ever . . . you know? Liked Liam, like that?”

Pauline looked over at her thoughtfully. She lolled her head to the side, then fiddled with the visor. “I’m not into anyone that way. I don’t know. I just, I don’t see why everyone has to pair off and fall in love and everything anyway. Why can’t we just stay the way we are?”