The phone was ringing. It had been ringing all morning, but Rose had been ignoring it. She knew who was calling. That's why she wasn't answering. Some small part of her held onto the hope that if she just ignored the ringing long enough, it would stop and they could avoid the person on the other end.
And just like that, the phone stopped ringing.
She heard her son Kurt say, "Hello," cheerfully, and then heard his natural cheeriness fade into a forced tension-covering brightness.
"Um…hi, Grandma," he said. "No, we didn't forget you, but you're coming here, aren't you? So there's not much we really need to be doing is there?" As the voice on the other end grew sharp he realized his mistake. "Um…no, no. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Of course we want you to come," he lied quickly. "I've been looking forward to it for days." He hoped that wasn't taking it too far. It wasn't. He had soothed the beast—temporarily, at least. "Okay. Good-bye, Grandma," he said, slamming the phone down.
He turned to his mother, who sat at the kitchen table, her head buried in The Second Sex. "Mom, Grandma just called," he said.
"I heard. She'd been calling for awhile. I was hoping she'd give up eventually," she said without looking away from her book.
Kurt didn't respond to his mother's indifference. He was accustomed to it, and if he was completely honest with himself, he didn't blame her. "Well, she'll be here at five," he said, leaving the kitchen.
"Mmm-hmm..."
Kurt wandered outside, where he found his sister, Janis, cleaning her gun collection. Her golden red hair covered her face. She'd inherited their mother's curls, but something had gone horribly wrong somewhere because, unlike their mother's, Janis's curls refused to lie flat and insisted on puffing out from her head and often ended up in her face. Kurt didn't know whether there was anything she could have done about it or not. He'd never seen her try. He was just happy his own golden red hair fell flat as a board around his face.
"Hey, Janis. Grandma called," he said.
She paused in her gun cleaning. "Did she say when she's coming?"
"Yeah. She'll be here at five." He did some quick math. "So that gives us three hours to get rid of anything that might make her eyes bug out...again."
Janis scowled. "I don't know why we have to do this every time. It doesn't matter what we do. The day's going to end the same as it always does."
"I know, but we have to try."
"Fine. Let me finish this. I'll meet you in the living room."
And so they went through the house, hiding anything their grandmother might object to. During their scouring of the house, their mother's sheela na gig statues were carefully carried up to the attic, Janis's gun collection was locked in her room, as were her portion of the books littering the house, Kurt's sewing kit and fabric, and their father's art supplies were put in the room that had been set aside for them—among other things.
Janis collapsed onto the couch. "There. That's all of it."
Kurt dropped down beside her. "I hope so. I can't think of anything we could have missed." He looked around. "Did you see Dad anywhere?"
"He's probably already hiding in the basement. I don't blame him," she added.
"Come on. Grandma's not that bad."
She snorted. "You're just saying that because she likes you."
"She doesn't like me...she just..."
"She likes you."
He gave up fighting it. Their grandmother did like him—as much as she could like anyone in their family. "What time is it?" he asked, changing the subject.
She checked her watch. "Four."
"Almost time. We should get dressed."
"I'm not getting dressed up for that woman."
"Janis, please," he begged. "Don't make this any worse than it has to be."
She got up and began heading toward the stairs. "You've already admitted it's going to be awful. Why does it matter what I do?"
"Janis!" he called pleadingly, following her upstairs. She ignored him.
*****
Meanwhile, Jack really was in the basement. He'd hidden down there every year, slipping off and disappearing down the stairs once the evening reached critical mass, but after a particularly harrowing incident the previous year, he'd finally had to face the fundamental flaw in his hiding place. It had no access to the outside. It was basically a box. There was one way in and one way out, which, as he had learned, was most definitely not a good thing.
The next day he'd come down there, a spoon in hand, determined to dig an escape tunnel. He'd abandoned the plan once it became clear that there was a reason why it took the guy in that book over a decade to dig an escape tunnel with only a spoon. Now he was back in his hiding place, cursing it for its inadequacies. With only one more hour to go, he was having to face the fact that it was either hide there or hide nowhere.
The sound of a doorbell ringing made his blood run cold. She was early.