The Resurrected Compendium Read online

  His brother was still staring out at the funnel cloud, closer now, moving no faster but definitely heading right for them. Jeremy pushed past him to get at the motor, which didn’t want to start no matter what he did to it.

  “The motor’s fucked,” Jeremy said.

  “So, what do we do?” Kelsey asked.

  Ty had been with a lot of whiny women, real pains in the ass. Even knowing her in a way his brother didn’t, Jeremy had expected her to get hysterical. At the very least, to look scared. But other than that initial scream, she’d maintained her calm better than Sheila, who was up front freaking out while Duane helped her with the first-aid kit.

  “We secure everything as best we can so if that funnel hits us — when it hits us, we can make it through without capsizing. Without the motor, the worst thing that can happen is the mast breaking,” Jeremy said.

  Ty shook his head. “The worst thing that could happen would be for the boat to sink, bro.”

  “If the mast breaks, we’ll have no way of getting anywhere!”

  Kelsey stepped between them, a hand on each of their chests. “Stop fighting and get everything taken care of. We don’t have time. What do you need to do? What can I do to help?”

  Ty barked out a series of orders Jeremy could see she didn’t understand. “Just…follow what I do. We’ll start securing everything.”

  Kelsey nodded, her expression strained, but again without panic. She started working along side him and Ty while Duane got Sheila under control. They didn’t have time, the funnel was almost upon them. Now there was wind, but too much of it. Spray slashed at them, making everything slippery and swollen and hard to work with. The storm had no distinct shape now. It was all wind and water.

  It engulfed them.

  22

  The wind’s strong enough to rattle the windows, even the ones with the bars on them. Kathy should be comforted by the bars, since it means nothing can get through the glass, no reaching tree fingers like in the movie she wasn’t supposed to watch and wishes she hadn’t. But of course they mean she can’t get out, either.

  It’s for safety, Grandma says. So nobody can come in the night and steal from them. The TV, the rings that Grandpa bought her, the diamond earrings. The money she stashes under her mattress for emergencies — Kathy’s not supposed to know about that money, but she does. Somehow knowing it’s there, protected only be a cardboard box, comforts her. She could steal it someday, if she ever was brave enough to run away.

  Now Kathy is in her bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin, her toes still cold. She should be sleeping. She has school in the morning. A science test. She studied hard for it, because her teacher, Mrs. Feinstein, told Kathy she has a real talent for science. She should consider being a doctor or something like that. Mrs. Feinstein says Kathy’s smart enough to do anything she wants to. Be anything she wants to. She hopes Kathy will “settle down” and “pay attention” and “make an effort.”

  Mrs. Feinstein has no clue.

  Still, Kathy studied hard for the test not because she doesn’t want to disappoint her teacher, but because she believes what Mrs. Feinstein said. Kathy can be and do whatever she wants…if she can get away from this house. At twelve, she can’t get a job, and she doesn’t want to live on the streets. Whatever’s out there could be worse than what happens in here. At least here in Grandma’s house, Kathy knows how to play the game.

  She listens to the sound of the wind outside. The trees creak. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s on a boat in a stormy sea. It even feels like it’s rocking. Her bed a boat, a cradle, tipped by a loving hand to ease her into sleep. Like long ago her mother must’ve done, or would’ve done if she’d hung around for longer than a few days after Kathy’s birth. Her mother would’ve loved her, Kathy thinks, if only she’d stayed.

  Your mother was a no-account whore, Grandma said. She got knocked up and ran off and left you behind, but I took you in because I love you, Kathy. I took care of you because it’s my duty to make sure you’re raised up right.

  Kathy pointed out once, and only once, that Grandma had been the one to raise her mother, the no-account whore.

  That was two years ago, before Grandpa got so sick, and he took Kathy to the hospital when Grandma hit her so hard everything went black and wouldn’t come into focus. Grandpa said she’d fallen down the stairs, and the doctors seemed to believe him. Two days after Kathy came home, Grandpa was in the hospital. Stroke, they said. He’d never help Kathy again.

  The wind screams soft and low outside the window. It sobs. The sound is so sad, it makes Kathy want to sob too. She curls onto her side, hugging her pillow, trying hard to fall asleep because tomorrow she has school and a test and if she’s too tired she won’t be able to do her best. But it’s so hard to fall asleep when she’s listening to the wind outside the window, and for the sound of footsteps in the hall outside the door, because tonight at dinner Grandma had been silent and frowning, barely speaking. That was never good. It was bad when she laughed, but when she said nothing, that was much worse.

  Kathy sleeps.

  Kathy dreams.

  In her dreams, Kathy is taller, with blonde hair, and her teeth are not gray and broken. In her dreams, Kathy wears pretty dresses and high heels and makeup, and people look at her without making their eyes shift away, their mouths scrunching up in pity. They look at her like they like what they see. In her dreams, Kathy laughs.

  Her laughter wakes her, and she stretches in her bed, feeling her joints snap and pop. For a moment, with her eyes still closed, she listens to the still moaning wind and feels residually happy. Then she hears the soft shush of slippers on the hard wood floor, and though she wants to cling to that dream, she knows it’s too late. It’s already over.

  It will be worse if she doesn’t open her eyes, but once she does, Grandma will know she’s awake. She opens her eyes. Grandma stands over her with that look on her face that says she’s going to make Kathy do some things.

  Some bad things.

  “Get up.”

  Kathy pushes the covers back with her feet and swings them over the side of the bed. The floor’s cold. The air’s cold. She shivers, hugging herself. The bed is between her and Grandma, and that’s a good thing. It means she’ll have time to brace herself if Grandma tries to hit her. She doesn’t always hit, but when she does it’s always hard and in places that hurt a lot but won’t show bruises to strangers.

  “It’s time to clean the basement, Kathy. It’s filthy. And since you’re the filthy girl, you should be the one to clean it. Am I right, Kathy? Am I right?”

  “Yes, Grandma.”

  Grandma’s voice sounds far away, and she stares like she’s looking far away too. Her hands rub at the front of her housedress. Rub, rub. Her fingers curl like hooks. Like claws. She bunches the fabric in her fists, lifting the hem to show off her bony knees, white flabby thighs with blue veins like spiderwebs.

  In the basement, she watches from the wooden stairs as Kathy goes to the bucket of supplies already set out for her. Grandma’s hand rubs on the banister. Her palm makes a scratchy sound.

  “Clean it up, Kathy. Clean up the mess. All of it. And don’t think that just because I’m upstairs that I can’t pay attention, that I won’t know if you’re doing a good job or not.”

  The stairs creak and groan like the trees outside Kathy’s window when Grandma goes upstairs. The door closes with a click. Then the sound of the lock. At least she didn’t turn off the lights — there’ve been times when she put Kathy down here in the dark, but if she wants Kathy to clean, there has to be light. That’s something to be glad for, anyway.

  It feel warmer down here than upstairs. The concrete floor is dry and stained, with large lighter areas where Kathy’s cleaned it in the past. Concrete walls are thick with mold in places where water has come in, but those are never the spots Grandma makes her clean. In one corner is a towering heap of cardboard boxes in all shapes and sizes. Grandma keeps every box from every packa