Girl in the Basement Page 3

  “Could I have a drink of water?”

  “Sure, honey,” Lyssa said. “Where’s your glass?”

  Maddy got up and waddled over to her bedstand and got her glass, waddled over to Lyssa and gave it to her. Lyssa took it to the bathroom across the hall and filled it, brought it back. Maddy took the glass in both hands and made slurping sounds as she drank from it, then took it over to the bedstand and set it down.

  “Thank you,” Maddy said.

  “We should go,” Lyssa said.

  “Yeah, okay,” Ryan said, going to the door.

  “Nice to meetchew, Ryan,” Maddy said.

  He turned to her. Her face had a pinched quality to it, and she had about her the look and demeanor of someone who was, to be generous, slow. Ryan nodded and said, “Yeah, it was nice to meet you, too, Maddy.” There was a slight tremble in his voice.

  In the rec room, the airhockey game was still going on loudly. Ryan and Lyssa returned to the couch in front of the television.

  Ryan said nothing for a long time. He was shaken by what Maddy had said to him in that strange gravelly voice. No one knew of Ryan’s writing. Even though Ryan had asked him some questions about writing, even Mr. Granger did not know that Ryan wrote, only that he was interested in writing. His stories were hand-written in spiral-bound notebooks. He’d been writing them since he was ten years old. His journal was new – he’d never kept one until Mr. Granger had suggested it.

  There was no way Maddy could know he wanted to be a writer. No one knew that but Ryan.

  “What’s the matter?” Lyssa said.

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “You look ... I don’t know, like you saw a ghost, or something. Did she say something that bothered you?”

  Ryan said nothing.

  “See what I mean? There’s something wrong with her.”

  “How did she talk like that?” Ryan whispered. “I mean, that voice. It was like a man’s voice, a man who’s been smoking two packs a day for years.”

  “Now you know what I was talking about. She said something that bothered you, didn’t she? What was that about you being a writer?”

  Ryan slouched a little lower on the couch and Lyssa came in close, their heads touching again.

  “You can tell me,” she whispered. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I like to write,” he said. “I write stories. I hope to be a writer. But nobody knows that. Nobody. You’re the first person in the world I’ve ever told.”

  She smiled and took his hand. “Really? I’m the first?”

  He nodded and returned her smile. “I’ve never told anyone because it’s the kind of thing most people discourage. You know, they say, ‘That’s a hard business to get into,’ or, ‘You’ll never make much money writing,’ stuff like that. And I just never wanted to hear that, so I haven’t told anyone. But it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “Would you let me read your stories?” Lyssa said. “I’d really love to read them.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you ever let anyone read them?”

  He shook his head. “Mr. Granger next door is a writer, though, and he said he’d like to read them, so I may type them up on the computer and print them and let him.”

  “But how did Maddy know you wanted to be a writer?”

  “That’s what I mean. There’s no way she could know. It’s impossible.”

  Lyssa’s eyes widened and her brow furrowed. “Then ... what she said to me might be true.”

  “What?”

  “She said sadness would follow me all my life.” She looked about to cry. “If she knew about your writing – something she couldn’t possibly know – then maybe she was right about that, too.”

  “Hey.” Ryan put an arm around her and held her close. He didn’t want her to cry. He couldn’t stand it when anyone cried – it always made him want to cry, and he didn’t want to do that in front of Lyssa. “Who knows what she was talking about. She’s just a little retarded girl. Right?”

  “But you just said – “

  ”I just said, she’s just a little retarded girl. Right?”

  Lyssa sniffled, and nodded against his shoulder. “You wanna get together later tonight?” she whispered.

  Ryan thought about it a moment. He thought about that fat little girl sitting in her room listening to classical music. He wondered what her story was.

  “Not tonight,” he said.

  “How come?”

  “I want to do some writing tonight.”

  “Will you let me read it?”

  He smiled. “Maybe.”

  But writing was not all he had in mind.

  From the Journal of Ryan Kettering

  I don’t sleep much. I never have. I can get by on three or four hours of sleep in a night. I like to read and write at night while everyone else is sleeping. Along with writing, I read a lot. Reading is how I learned to write.

  Even if I needed the sleep tonight, I don’t think I could get it. I can’t stop thinking about Maddy.

  Instead of meeting with Lyssa tonight, I went to Maddy’s room. I have a powerful little penlight I use for light when I move around the house at night, so I don’t run into anything and make noise. I have to be careful when I get up and walk around in the middle of the night. It’s a creaky old house, and Marie knows every single creak in the place. Once I get down the stairs without waking anyone, I’m home free.

  I couldn’t get over what Maddy had said to me, and it wasn’t just that she knew about my wanting to be a writer. I had asked Maddy how long she’d been here, and in that deep voice, she’d said, “I’ve been here a long, long time.” But when I asked the second time, I was more specific: “How long have you been in the house?” Then she’d said, “Oh, in this house. You think small, boy. You’ll never be a writer thinking that way.”

  What had she meant by, “Oh, in this house?” What else did she think I meant when I asked her how long she’d been here? What did she mean when she said that I think small?

  What the hell’s wrong with her, anyway?

  I had to talk to her some more, even if I had to wake her up.

  The basement hall was dark, but there was light coming from under Maddy’s door. Was she awake, or did she just leave a light on at night? I went to the door and considered knocking, but decided against it. I opened the door and went in.

  The lamp on her nightstand was on and Maddy was sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking at me. I froze where I stood for a few seconds, I couldn’t move. She looked like she’d been sitting there waiting for me. She wore a pale green nightgown and her hair was a mess. Strands of it dangled in her face. Her feet were bare.

  I looked around at all the toys. I couldn’t understand where she’d gotten so many expensive toys. A couple were still in their boxes and hadn’t even been opened yet. Hank and Marie are always talking about how tight money is. If they’re spending it on Barbie accessories for Maddy, I’m not surprised.

  “Hi, Maddy,” I whispered as I closed the door. I didn’t have to whisper, there was no way anyone upstairs would hear me down in the basement, but I whispered, anyway. “Remember me?”

  “Ryan,” she said, and she sounded like a sniffly, slow little girl.

  “That’s right,” I said. There was a chair against the wall, the same chair she’d been sitting in when I was down there earlier. I got it, moved it over to the side of the bed, and sat down facing her. “How are you tonight, Maddy?”

  Instead of replying, she bowed her head. She looked like she was praying. She stayed that way for about fifteen seconds and didn’t say anything.

  “Maddy?” I said.

  She lifted her head. Her small piggy eyes seemed narrower now. “You’ve come back,” Maddy said in that deep voice that sounded damaged by cigarettes. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

  That voice gave me a chill. It didn’t sound right. It sounded too smart, too adult to be coming out of a young mentally-handicapped girl
like Maddy.

  “Satisfaction brought him back,” I said, but I don’t think I sounded too confident.

  “What would satisfy you, Ryan?”

  She kept smiling, with her head tilted forward just a little, those strands of hair in her face, those dimples in her cheeks.

  I asked the first question that came into my head, even though I knew it didn’t seem to make sense. But it felt right, because I didn’t feel like I was talking to Maddy anymore. I wasn’t talking to that fat little girl.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “Thinking bigger, I see.”

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  She shrugged. “It means you’re thinking bigger, that’s all. Opening your mind to ... possibilities.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m just li’l ol’ Maddy, Ryan. Who do you think I am?”

  “Why does your voice sound like that?” I was still whispering.

  Maddy chuckled. It sounded like a couple bricks being knocked together.

  “Why did you come here tonight, Ryan?” the deep voice asked.

  “How did you know about my writing?”

  “I know lots of things.” She said something in another language then. It sounded like French, but I wasn’t sure.

  “What?” I said.

  “Parlez-vous francais, Ryan? I guess not.” She stopped smiling.

  “I don’t speak French. What did you just say?”

  “What does it matter? I’m just a little retarded girl, right? Right, Ryan? I’m just a little retarded girl.”

  I had the feeling I was being laughed at, toyed with, and it was irritating. But at the same time, it was scary, because I knew the girl sitting before me would not be capable of toying with someone, she wasn’t sophisticated enough. Besides, how could she know what I’d said to Lyssa about her, that she was “just a little retarded girl?” And what was a mentally handicapped nine-year-old girl doing speaking French?

  “What do you do all day?” I whispered.

  “Oh, I do all kinds of things. You don’t think I stay here all the time, do you? I have a very active life. But the things I like to do would not interest you. You would be ... quite horrified, I’m sure.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well, let’s see. I helped a man beat a baby to death a little while ago. Just a little baby. But it wouldn’t stop crying, and it got on the man’s nerves. All it took was a little prompting from me, and he went for it.”

  “Went for ... what?”

  She smiled again, even bigger this time. “The baby, of course. He beat it with his fists. He’d had a few drinks, which only loosened him up. He kept beating it till it stopped crying. But he caved its little skull in. Once he realized what he’d done, he didn’t take it very well. His wife called the police, but before they could get there, the man put a loaded revolver in his mouth and blew the back of his head off, right in front of his wife and two little kids. It was a powerful family moment I’m sure they’ll all remember for many, many years to come.”

  My mouth and throat were dry, and when I gulped, my throat made a little clicketing sound. I had to clear my throat before I could say anything.

  “If you can leave,” I said, “then why do you stay here?”

  “Because I choose to. I have work to do here. We have work to do here.”

  “We? We who?”

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you, Ryan?” She said something in another language again, a different language than before.

  “Was that ... German?” I said.

  “You have a good ear. Now, why don’t you go fuck your little girlfriend and leave me alone.”

  I was so surprised by these words coming out of Maddy that I flinched a little.

  “How do you know about Lyssa and me?” I said.

  “I know lots of things. I know that if you stay down here, you’re going to get into trouble. I know that, in a little more than three minutes, Marie is going to wake up and put on her robe and walk through the house. Did you know she does that sometimes at night? And she’s going to come down here and look in on me. And if she finds you here, you’re going to be in trouble.”

  I knew that Marie sometimes got up in the middle of the night and wandered around the house, just checking things out. She’d found me in the kitchen a couple times, sitting at the table writing. She didn’t mind that I was up, as long as I wasn’t keeping others awake. But I knew she wouldn’t approve of me being in Maddy’s room in the middle of the night.

  It wasn’t until I was back up here in my bed that it occurred to me that I’d believed Maddy that Marie was going to wake up and come downstairs. I didn’t even question it, I believed it right away and left her bedroom, came back upstairs.

  Sure enough, as I was getting back in bed, I heard Marie get up and walk down the hall, down the stairs. How had Maddy known she was going to get up?

  How could Maddy speak French so well? Or German? And how could she speak in that voice? It was a man’s voice, or the voice of a woman who’s been smoking unfiltered Camels for fifty years. It was very different than the other voice she used, the little-girl voice.

  I’m not going to sleep very well tonight. I just know it.

  FOUR

  The next morning, Ryan mowed Mr. Granger’s back lawn right after breakfast. He mowed the Prestons’ lawn, too, with Hank’s mower, then swept the grass off the front porch. He sat with Lyssa and talked for a little while. He took out the garbage for Marie, then asked if she and Hank could spare him for awhile. He did not have to work that day, and he wanted to spend some of it at Fortress of Solitude Comics in Anderson. Marie said he could go, so he got on his bike and rode down Fig Tree, turned left on Airport. He rode down the hill and across the Sacramento River, where Airport Road became North Street, which went through the center of Anderson. The Fortress was on North Street across from the police station, between a beauty parlor and a travel agency. Ryan leaned his bike against the wall just outside the comic book shop and went inside.

  “Hey, Ryan,” Max said.

  Max was forty-five, a big guy. He was tall, but also quite wide. He always wore a baseball cap, and his greying black hair fell from beneath it to his shoulders. He never quite grew a beard, but he was always unshaved and stubbly.

  “Hey, Max,” Ryan said. “‘Sup?”

  “Same ol’ same ol’.”

  The Fortress of Solitude was Max’s shop. Ryan could not possibly afford to buy all the comic books he enjoyed reading, but Max didn’t mind if he came to the shop and read them there. Max enjoyed having people around to talk comic books, and Ryan wasn’t the only one who came into the shop just to hang around and talk and read comics.

  Ryan found the new issue of The Incredible Hulk and took it to the front of the shop. He leaned a hip against the front counter as he opened the book and thumbed through it. Max sat on a chair behind the counter.

  “Do you have a tape recorder I could borrow, Max?” Ryan said.

  “No, afraid not. Why?”

  “You speak any other languages?”

  “Oh, a little French.”

  “How about German?”

  “Nein, mein fuhrer. Why?”

  “Do you know anybody who speaks German?”

  “No. Why?”

  “How well do you speak French?”

  Max rolled one round shoulder. “I dunno. So-so, I guess. Why?”

  “If I recorded someone saying something in French and played the recording for you, would you be able to tell me what that person was saying?”

  “Probably. I could at least give you some idea what they’re saying, if not a word-for-word translation. Why?”

  Ryan started reading the comic book.

  “Excuse me, but why?” Max said.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? You gonna bring me a tape of somebody speaking French? Who do you know speaks French?”

  Ryan didn’t know what to tell him. He didn’t think he should
tell him the truth yet, if ever. How would he explain such a thing to Max? If Max heard that deep, gravelly voice, he’d never believe it was a nine-year-old girl speaking.

  “It’s kind of a long story, Max, I don’t really want to get into it. I’ll tell you when I bring in the tape, okay?” But he doubted he would play the tape for Max, if he ever recorded one. He needed someone who would be more open-minded.

  “Eh, fine,” Max said with a dismissive wave.

  Byron and Richie came in, and before long, Ryan was involved with them and Max in a heated discussion about the Fantastic Four. After that subject faded, Richie brought up a new one.

  Richie was seventeen, with a shaved head, a mangy blond goatee, and a few piercings in his right eyebrow. He was a talker, fond of the sound of his own voice. His father was a cop who worked nights out of the station across the street.

  “Did you hear about the guy who beat his baby to death last night?” Richie said.

  Ryan sat in a chair behind the counter with Max, reading an old Silver Surfer, and he dropped the comic book into his lap when Richie spoke. “What?” he said as he stood. He snatched up the comic book before it could fall from his thighs to the floor. “What did you say, Richie?”

  “Some guy here in Anderson last night,” Richie said, “beat his little baby to death. With his fists. Because the baby wouldn’t stop crying. My dad took the call.”

  Ryan dropped back down into the chair. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

  “Beat the baby’s skull right in,” Richie said.

  Ryan licked his lips. “Don’t tell me the guy ate his gun, too,” he said.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?” Richie said. “Did you hear about it already?”

  “What’s the matter with you, Ryan?” Byron said. He was a plump guy of medium height with sandy hair that always looked like it needed to be trimmed. He wore an Electra T-shirt and jeans. Byron was a big Daredevil fan. “You know the guy, or something?”

  “No,” Ryan said, shaking his head.

  “Well, you look upset.”

  “Oh. No. I mean, just that ... well, that’s pretty low, right? Beating up a baby?”