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"Hey," he suddenly cried, "why are we being so heavy here? I want to talk about my new golf clubs. You should have seen me on the third hole at the Monster golf course last Sunday. I won ten bucks, too."
I laughed. It felt good. It felt like a cool breeze on a terribly hot and muggy afternoon.
How lucky I was to have parents like mine, I thought, and how horrible it was for Karen to be where she was. It made me even more determined to do what I could to help her.
My father went into his home office after dinner to finish up some work. He heard me shout to him that I was off to Karen's, and he called back not to be too late. I promised I wouldn't and left after putting my bundle of books and notebooks in the bike bag. At least, we had to make it look as if studying was what we were doing, I thought.
Everything Karen had told me had changed my whole view of her home and her mother and Harry Pearson. The house looked ominous to me as I pedaled up the driveway. Shadows seemed painted forever over the front. The tree branches were as still and luminescent as skeletons caught in the moonlight. I saw the lights were on in Karen's room. I was sure she had told her mother I was coming. It was already past seven, so Harry was probably home. Karen came to the door so quickly when I rang the bell I suspected she had been waiting on the stairway.
"They're eating," she said, nodding toward the dining room. "It's just Zipporah!" she shouted in that direction.
"Hi, Zipporah," I heard her mother call back. Harry said nothing. I was happy I didn't have to face him right off. We practically ran up the stairway to her room and closed the door. She plopped onto her bed. The book of short stories was open to the right one.
"Tell me exactly what you think is going to happen and what you were thinking we should do," she said.
I hadn't thought up any details. It was just the concept. I stared at her and shook my head.
"I don't really know exactly how we should do it." She looked disappointed.
"But when the character in the story believed the ghost was telling him to kill his brother-in-law, he went ahead without any hesitation," I added quickly. "People who believe in ghosts believe that ghosts see everything, know everything, I suppose, and when you told me how he talks to his mother and even seems to hear her talk to him, I thought of this story. Maybe he thinks he sees her ghost."
She nodded.
"It's a pretty nasty story. I'm surprised your parents let you read it."
"They don't know the book was in my room. It's Jesse's book, but it was moved with another carton of stuff."
"So you think if we can get Harry to believe his dead mother knows what he's done, that he's come in here, and that she disapproves, he'll be sorry and stop?"
I shrugged. "That was sort of my idea. What do you think?"
"I think it's worth a try. What's he going to do to me that he hasn't already?" she muttered. She picked up the book and turned the pages. "I really don't k
now what we should do specifically, either. It was just the idea that excited me," she said.
"Maybe it's stupid, after all."
"No, no. It was good thinking. To do anything like this, I think we have to get into the apartment."
"The apartment?"
"There are two ways to get into the apartment, through the door that leads from the kitchen and the outside door. It has a separate entrance. Both are locked, but I know where Harry keeps his keys. We'd have to get one, probably to the outside door, and have a copy made while he's at the drugstore, so we can go in and out anytime we want. We can do it Saturday," she said. "As soon as he and my mother leave for the store, I'll get the key. We should not have it made here at Heckman's Hardware, though. We should go at least to Monticello or Liberty."
"Perfect!" I cried. "Remember, I have to go see my grandmother in Liberty. I'll ask my parents to let you come along, and while they're visiting, we'll ask to take a walk and go to the hardware store there." "That's a very good idea."
"Once we get in there, what are we going to do to convince him that his mother knows and disapproves?"
She looked thoughtful.
"We have until Saturday or so to figure that out. We'll come up with something," she said. She looked at the book again. "In the story, the man's sister forged their mother's handwriting."
"The perfumed stationery really got him."
"We can't use anything like that. I told you Harry's mother had all these allergies. She didn't wear any perfume. Besides, a mere note in what looks like her handwriting wouldn't be enough. No, we've got to find a better way."
"What if when he came to your room, you were wearing his mother's nightgowns or something else of hers? He wouldn't know we got into the apartment, and he would be shocked enough to turn around and leave."
She looked at me and smiled.
