bones. This house has an awful chill to it. Youâd never guess itâs May.â
âItâs the spirits,â Rose told her.
âPardon?â Dot wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger.
âThe spirits,â Rose repeated. âYou know what my parents do for a living, right?â
âWell, Iâ The woman at the service warned me it was unusual. But I get all kinds. Moneyâs money. I told her I didnât want to know the details. Iâm a holy womanââ
âA holy woman who wears sheer nighties?â Rose said.
Seven-twelve, I thought. Seven-twelve.
âI never said sheer . I said lacy . And that was a long time ago, for my husband, Roy, on special occasions. Before he passed. I donât parade around like some floozââ
âWhen our parents go on these trips,â Rose interrupted, âthey are asked to confirm the presence of unwanted spirits. Sometimes they are asked to drive them out too. Usually from places, but once in a while, from people. Iâm talking about children, pregnant women, the elderly, even animals and inanimate objects too.â
This information bothered Dotâthat much was obvious by her pinched expressionâbut she shrugged. âWell, I want to get my laundry done then settle into the tub and finish my book. Iâm just getting to the juicy part. Sylvie, could you pick up my laundry basket like a good girl? Old Dotâs back hurts.â
âThe spirits need somewhere to go after theyâve been driven out of the host,â Rose told her as I lifted the basket. âMore often than not they end upâ Well, Iâll give you one guess where they end up.â
Dot pushed her owl glasses to the top of her nose and grabbed her copy of The Thorn Birds âa priest dominated the cover, far more handsome than Father Vitale from Saint Bartholomew with his drooping skin and sagging shoulders. â Here? â she said in a quiet voice.
â Here, â Rose told her, lowering her voice too. âIn this house. Tell her, Sylvie. Tell her about the terrible things weâve seen.â
There were times when Roseâs terrorizing of the nannies was, I confess, fun to watch. But this felt too easy somehow. âLet me show you the washer and dryer, Dot.â
Dot ignored my suggestion, asking, âWhat do you see?â
âSylvie wonât tell you because we are not supposed to talk about itâ forbidden by my father to talk about it, actually.â
âSo why are you talking about it then, Rose?â I asked.
My sister manufactured a creepy, distant voice. âBecause Dorothy seems like a nice lady, and since sheâll be staying here for the next five nights, I feel I should warn her.â Rose looked at Dot. âOurs is not an easy house to sleep in. Some nights theyâve evenââ She stopped, as though snapping out of a trance, returning her voice to normal. âWell, never mind. Donât worry. Mostly they mind their own business. Mostly. â
Dot stared at her a moment, pinched-faced still, before pushing back her shoulders and squeezing the handsome paperback priest tighter. âI donât buy into that nonsense. Tell you what. Sylvie, Iâm gonna let you put the laundry in since youâre familiar with the machines. Meanwhile, if anyone needs me, Iâll be in the tub.â
For a while at least, Rose left her alone. I took care of the laundry. Slipped into my pajamas. Spent time completing a paper Iâd been writing for the first ever Maryland Student Essay Contestâa two-hundred-dollar cash prize would be awarded to a student in each grade from fifth through twelfth and the deadline was the next morning. My topic was inspired by a documentary my mother and I had watched about the aftereffects of Martin Luther King Jr.âs assassination. When I mentioned it to Ms. Mahevka, my pasty, yawning English teacher,