Wicked Cruel (16 page)

“Thursday night, everything changes,” Mason said. He picked a tiny cube of tomato out of his fajita and wiped it on his tray. “We take several steps up in status, Owen. Just for being brave enough to look like idiots.”

“As if that’s something new?”

“
Colonial
idiots,” Mason said. “Girls love that sort of thing.”

The St. James thrift shop was below street level in an old stone building. A bell tinkled as Owen opened the door, and he smelled old clothes. Racks of dresses and women’s coats filled the small space. A short gray-haired woman at the counter smiled and said, “Hello there. We have some children’s clothes in the back.”

Owen just said, “Okay,” but he looked around until he spotted a section of men’s items. He flipped through a rack of sports coats until he found a black vest. It didn’t look particularly old, but it might do over a white shirt.

The vest was big for him, but it was the only one like it.

Owen was the only customer. The woman asked if she could help.

“I was looking for some old-fashioned stuff.”

“For Halloween?”

“Sort of. There’s this party …”

“At the Chase?” The woman seemed delighted. “I’ll be there. Serving punch. I’m a member.”

“Oh.”

“The children’s party is one of the highlights of the year,” she said. “Oh, I shouldn’t say ‘children.’ Young men and ladies.”

“Right.”

The woman reached for the vest and held it up. “This will do just fine,” she said. “You can tighten it from behind with the laces. See?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s so nice that you’ll be attending. We haven’t had enough boys show up in recent years.”

Owen nodded. That was no surprise.

“I have a black string tie at home that would be perfect with this vest,” the woman said. “My husband used to wear it at events like this one, but he passed away last year. I’ll be glad to let you use it.”

“Okay.”

“You can pick it up here tomorrow after school. All right?”

“Thanks.” Owen didn’t ask about gold-buckled shoes or knee britches. He figured a pair of black pants and his regular shoes would be fine.

He paid three dollars for the vest. “It all goes to charity,” the woman said.

Owen sifted through a pile of fishing magazines on a table near the checkout. The bell rang again, and Sophie walked in.

“Hi, Grandma,” she said. “And hello, Owen.”

“Hi, Sophie,” they said, almost in unison.

“So you know each other,” the woman said.

“Owen’s coming to the party,” Sophie said.

“I got this vest,” Owen said, holding it up for Sophie.

“Nice.” Sophie fiddled with some cheap bracelets in a basket. She picked up a light blue one and put it on her wrist,
then placed it back in the basket. “Any good merch come in?” she asked her grandmother.

“Probably nothing that would interest you.” Then she tilted her head toward Owen and winked at Sophie. “Well, something nice
did
just come in a few minutes ago.”

Owen blushed. Sophie giggled.

“Alas, Grandma. He has his eye on someone else.”

Owen looked down at the floor and bit his lip. “Who says?”

“Oh,
I
don’t know,” Sophie replied. Very softly she sang, “Emma, Emma, Emma.”

Owen rolled his eyes.

“You’ll look dashing in that vest,” the woman said.

“Emma’s the lure,” Sophie said. “She’s the only reason Owen agreed to go.”

Owen blushed deeper. “I’d better get home.” He could hear Sophie and her grandmother giggling as he left.

On at least three occasions in the past twenty years, the Cheshire Notch Fire Department has been summoned to the Chase Tavern to investigate reports of smoke coming from the chimney. But they’ve never detected a sign of a recent fire.

There are eight fireplaces in the tavern, and all are connected to a single, central chimney. Downstairs are the large hearth in the taproom, smaller ones in two parlors, and the main one in the kitchen. Each of the four upstairs sleeping areas has its own fireplace. For safety reasons, none of the eight has ever been lit in the years since the Historical Society took charge of the building.

But smoke is occasionally seen, and the smell of burning wood is sometimes very apparent.

Interviewed by the
Daily Sentinel
a few years back, the fire
chief speculated that the “smoke” must have been steam that was rapidly evaporating from the slate roof after a storm. He also said cooking smells and other odors can linger in wooden beams for years and be activated when warmed by intense sunlight.

Privately, the chief told friends that upon entering the tavern’s kitchen after midnight one very cold January night, he surprised a man and two young boys sitting by a roaring fire, eating what appeared to be rabbit or deer meat from wooden bowls. When he flicked on a flashlight, the people and the fire disappeared.

The night of the dance, Owen hesitated on the tavern’s brick walkway and fussed with the string tie, which pinched his throat a little. He could hear fiddle music and see a few people through the taproom window.

“Come
on
,” Mason said. “We’re already late.”

A woman in a blue gown with white ruffles and frills greeted them at the door. “Welcome to 1772,” she said. “It’s all right to keep your hats on tonight.”

Owen’s eyes went right to Emma, who was near the punch bowl, laughing with some boy Owen didn’t recognize.

He quickly counted thirteen girls and six boys, plus him and Mason. Sophie’s grandmother was behind the punch table, and two fiddlers and a woman with a mandolin were in the corner, playing their instruments.

The room was lit by electric candles in wall sconces, so the wide pine boards of the wall and floor were dimly lit. The only kids Owen recognized were Sophie, Emma, and Darla.

“Who are these people?” he whispered to Mason.

Mason shrugged. “Out-of-towners, I guess.”

Some of the kids had elaborate costumes—buttoned jackets and stockings—but most of the girls were wearing plain dresses with long sleeves and simple white bonnets.

There were plates of cookies by the punch bowl, so Owen went over. Sophie’s grandmother told him he looked very handsome.

The music sounded way more classy than Owen had expected from fiddles—rising and falling lightly and with precision. He swayed a little and felt giddy, as if he was suddenly in a more respectable era. He immediately felt older. He eyed Emma, but she didn’t look his way.

Sophie and Darla came over. “Isn’t this fun?” Sophie said, touching Owen’s wrist.

“Just got here,” Owen said. “I wouldn’t say it’s fun yet.” But he smiled and bit his cookie, which was spicy and had walnuts and raisins. Some powdered sugar drifted onto his vest.

“No one’s dancing,” Darla said. She poked Mason’s arm. “The boys are always shy at the beginning.”

“I’m not shy,” Mason said. He gave her a big grin. “I just don’t see anyone I want to dance with.”

Darla stuck her tongue out at him. Mason smirked. He put out his palm, gesturing toward the open space near the band. Darla laughed and they stepped out to dance.

Darla took the lead and Mason awkwardly tried to follow. Owen took a step back toward the wall. He could never dance like that in front of a crowd. This evening was going to be a disaster.

Sophie was humming. She looked up at him. “Would you like to dance, Owen?”

“Maybe in a little while.” Owen was starting to sweat. “I’ll … watch.”

“It isn’t hard,” Sophie said.

“I know.” He couldn’t believe Mason had jumped right into it. Everybody in the room was watching him and Darla twirl around.

Sophie turned to Owen. “Mason has a lot of energy.”

Owen nodded. Mason had been so sure he’d make a breakthrough with Darla tonight, getting her to like him. He’d certainly moved quickly.

Emma was still laughing with that other guy, who looked a little older and quite strong. If Owen danced with Sophie, would it give Emma the wrong impression? He didn’t want her thinking he was off-limits.

So he took another step back and leaned against the wall.

“He was here last year,” Sophie said.

“Who was?”

“That guy you’re worried about.” Sophie jutted her chin toward Emma and the boy. “He’s from Peterborough. Eighth grader.”

Owen felt about two feet tall. When the next song started, Emma and the boy stepped onto the dance floor.

In a few minutes, another guy Owen didn’t know came over and asked Sophie to dance. She glanced at Owen, then nodded eagerly and followed him onto the floor.

Owen grabbed three more cookies.

The girls who didn’t have partners were dancing in a circle. Some of them kept looking over at him. He kept eating cookies and drinking apple-cider punch from a blue-and-white teacup.

He tried not to stare at Emma and her partner. The boy seemed confident and talkative and muscular and mature—everything Owen wasn’t.

He watched the dancers for half an hour. When the band leader called everyone onto the floor for lessons, Owen left the taproom and cautiously climbed the wooden staircase.

There was only one small light lit on the entire second floor. Owen entered a room that was directly above the taproom, with dark, wood-paneled walls. A white pitcher rested on a small wooden stand, and a cradle sat in the corner.

The upstairs was split into four rooms, each with a bed and its own fireplace. Large beams ran the length of the ceiling and small woven rugs covered parts of the pine floors. There were quilts hanging from racks and several wooden dressers.

Mason probably wouldn’t even miss him if he left. Emma certainly would not. He pulled a wooden chair away from the wall in the front bedroom and sat by the window for a long time, looking out at the street.

The stairs creaked a bit on his way down, but the music was loud enough that no one heard. He ducked into a parlor on the other side of the house and thought about whether he should leave.

“Hello,” came a soft voice.

The only light in the room came from an electric candle in the window. Owen squinted. A girl around his age was sitting on a sofa.

“Don’t you like to dance either?” Owen asked.

“I’ve never danced with a boy my age,” she said.

Owen sat at the edge of the sofa, as far from the girl as he could. “It feels kind of silly,” he said. “I think I’d make a fool out of myself.”

The girl was wearing a light blue corset over a white dress, and she had the same type of bonnet the other girls were wearing. “I’m sure you wouldn’t look foolish,” she replied. “When
everyone is dancing, they’re not very concerned about how anyone else looks. The steps aren’t difficult.”

It was odd how different this room felt from the taproom. A lively party was going on right across the hall, but this little parlor seemed so quiet and serene. “I’m Owen,” he said. He held out his hand.

She didn’t shake it, but touched his palm lightly with her own. “I’m Charity.”

Owen fumbled for something to say. “The cookies are good.”

Charity smiled.

“The punch is, too. Do you want some?”

Charity shook her head. “I can teach you the dance steps,” she said. “In here. Once you’ve learned, you won’t feel so self-conscious about joining the party.”

Owen blushed, but he doubted she could see that in the dim light. He looked at the floor. “All right,” he finally said.

They stood, and Charity held out her hands, which were warm. She pulled Owen toward her, then whispered, “Watch my feet.” She moved her right foot to the side, then swept her left foot over to meet it, then stepped the right one back and moved the left one to join it. “It’s a simple box step,” she said. “The most basic of all. Just follow me.”

Owen stumbled a couple of times, but it didn’t take long for him to get it.

“At the end of each box cycle, let’s twirl,” Charity said. She put her left arm on Owen’s shoulder and held her right hand higher. She smelled slightly flowery, like talcum powder. “See how easy?”

It wasn’t easy, but Owen felt much less foolish now that he had some idea what to do. The musicians began a livelier tune, and Owen grew more confident. No one could see them. It was fun.

There was plenty of room for just two dancers in the parlor, so they circled the entire room, doing box steps and twirls. Owen was grinning and Charity seemed very happy. He was glad he hadn’t left. Their faces were close; he could smell the warmth and life of her hair. He could feel the slight sweat of her hands.

When the song ended, he heard Mason laughing and several kids clapping in the doorway. Owen turned and blushed, but he was smiling.

Mason folded his arms. “What are you doing, bro?”

“We were dancing.”

Owen could see Sophie and Darla laughing hysterically behind Mason. “What’s so funny?”

“Are you nuts?” Mason asked. “The party’s over here.”

“I know,” Owen said. “We’re on our way.”

“We?”

“Me and Charity. We were practicing in here first.”

Mason’s mouth was hanging open. “Owen,” he said, “you all right?”

Owen suddenly realized that Charity had left the room. “Where’d she go?”

“Where did who go?” Mason asked.

Owen didn’t answer. He walked to the parlor’s back doorway and said, “Charity?”

“You’re not fooling anybody,” Mason whispered sharply. He grabbed Owen’s arm. “Are you crazy? Dancing by yourself in the dark?”

Owen sputtered. “I wasn’t by myself. She was right here.”

“Dude,” Mason said, “if you’re going to dance with an imaginary girlfriend, at least do it in private.”

“I was dancing with a girl.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Yes, I was
, Owen thought. He pushed Mason aside, went out the front door, and stormed toward the back of the building. He’d touched her; she was warm and real.

Tree branches blocked much of the sky, but he could see stars overhead and feel the breeze on his face. He climbed the back steps and rattled the kitchen door, but it was locked.

Owen shuffled through the dry leaves and opened the barn door. He didn’t know why. He took a quick look inside, then pushed the door closed and stepped onto the grass, finding a clear spot to look at the stars.