While the container circles in the ancient microwave and Gretchen curses Mrs. Easterly’s interruption for making her pathetic lunch even more pathetic, she thumbs through the stack of mail that was piled under the front door’s slot when she showed the woman out. Bill, bill, bill. Swiss Colony catalog addressed to the accountant’s office on the house’s main floor. Envelope with a handwritten address...
The microwave beeps, but Gretchen’s stomach no longer growls so much as lurches.
Well. Her father was bound to track her down eventually. She just didn’t expect him to take so long. Then again, knowing Ned Eichorn, it’s all part of the plan. She originally braced herself for this moment fourteen months ago when she learned he was out on parole. But when no unknown numbers called and no letters like this one arrived, she slowly, slowly let her guard down until she forgot why she should have it up at all.
It’s the way she would have done it too, were she him. But she’s spent several years trying to prove to herself sheisn’t. And she’snot. Her Rule makes sure of that. But there’s certainly a part of her that suspects that, without it, she wouldn’t be inclined to be much better.
Ned Eichorn is extremely skilled at spotting a person’s weaknesses, and hers are no exception. So she can predict with some accuracy what this letter says. Its arrival sends much more of a message than whatever words are inside. It’s pointing out her sloppiness, her complacency. It’s not a threat, exactly, but thesuggestionof one. Yet instead of throwing it straight into the small trash can in the corner, Gretchen tucks it away under the bottom of the pile of bills before placing the whole stack of mail on the nearest horizontal surface.
As Gretchen twirls noodles around her fork, she forces her thoughts to turn from her father to her upcoming afternoon meeting with Deborah Van Alst—only a marginally less stressful topic. “Talking” to her daughter has been a crucial part of Mrs. Van Alst’s grieving process; Gretchen wouldn’t allow her to come in twice a week for the last nine months if she wasn’t convinced she was doing the woman some good in exchange for her money. But based on Yolanda’s reports, Mrs. Van Alst has turned a corner in her grief. The neighborhood chatter is that she’s come out of hiding, no longer only leaving her bijou mansion on Glenbrook Road to visit Gretchen’s shop. She’s been spotted at restaurants, charity events, the University Club. Then, this past weekend, according to the gossip Yolanda gathered for Gretchen at Salon Apolline, she participated in a bridge tournament in Potomac and was later seen getting drinks with a handsome (and much younger) man.
Getting the woman back out into the world was always the goal, but it’s a bittersweet development. It’s becoming more difficult to justify Mrs. Van Alst’s twice-weekly séances. Still, Gretchen keeps procrastinating on doing anything about it. Not because she’s learned tolikethe absurd woman or anything. It’s just that her landlord is unlikely to accept good deeds in lieu of rent on the basement space and the only slightly larger apartment on the converted house’s top floor, and without Mrs. Van Alst’s biweekly appointments, Gretchen’s monthly income will be reduced byseveral hundred dollars. Not exactly a drop in the bucket, especially in an expensive city like Washington.
Gretchen side-eyes the letter from her father hidden beneath the stack of bills. She can only see the corner of the envelope, the empty one where there should be a return address. Her father would advise her to keep up her current schedule with Mrs. Van Alst. Shit, he’d suggest she try to get her to come in more often. The woman has the money, and if she’s stupid enough to want to waste it like this...
Gretchen shakes her head. It’s certainly tempting, but that’s why she created her Rule in the first place. And said Rule dictates that it’s time to gently nudge Mrs. Van Alst into relying on her less.
Just maybe not so much less that Gretchen won’t be able to pay her bills.
The last time they spoke, her dad called her out for being on a high horse. But Gretchen’s always pictured it as more of a stubby-legged pony, elevated off the ground just enough to keep the worst of the dirt off. She’s abovesomethings... but notallthings... and even then, not by a significant margin.
So when the sixty-eight-year-old canned goods heiress-cum-ultra-wealthy divorcée arrives in the shop—her once gray-streaked hair now shiny, blonde, and meticulously coiffed—and takes her seat, Gretchen intends to call upon the Mother and the Father and the Heavens and her Spirit Guide to let Rachel come through like she has dozens of times before. Today, though, instead of reaching into the mental grab bag of information she’s compiled via Rachel’s amazingly thorough documentation of her life (the woman had recently started apodcast!), she fully intends to regale Mrs. Van Alst with the good news that her daughter has noticed herrecent progress, and that now that she’s certain her mother will be okay, she’s going to go spend time enjoying everything the afterlife has to offer. She’ll be harder to reach from here on out, so Mrs. Van Alst shouldn’t take it personally if Gretchen can no longer deliver Rachel’s messages as regularly. In fact, might as well only come in once a month to preserve her strength and ensure the strongest chance of contact. No, better make it twice a month; Rachel will miss her too much otherwise (because, seriously: rent).
But, despite her intention to do the right—okay, rightish—thing, Gretchen doesn’t get further than greeting Mrs. Van Alst and making their usual small talk about the weather before the woman interrupts. “Instead of speaking with Rachel today, there’s something else I would like to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” Gretchen dabbles in palm reading, tarot, and the occasional psychic prediction when a client is amenable, but Mrs. Van Alst has never shown interest in anything except communicating with her daughter’s spirit. Unless... No. It’s unlikely Mrs. Van Alst has discovered she’s a fraud. Or who her father is. Gretchen’s heartbeat stutters at the thought.
Luckily, she isn’t left in anticipation for long. Mrs. Van Alst launches right in without further prompting. “I would like to hire you to help a friend with a particular... problem.”
The way she says it makes it sound like Gretchen’s about to be propositioned to cure someone’s impotence, and her eyebrows are hoisted by a mixture of curiosity and bemusement. Her interest is certainly piqued. “And the nature of this problem?”
“I would like you to perform... an exorcism.”
Well, that is certainly a less awkward request than where her mind initially went, but still not on Gretchen Acorn’s usual menu of services. Other than having seenThe Exorcist(way too young, bythe way, at one of the few sleepovers she ever attended), she doesn’t particularly have any experience with that sort of thing. Is an exorcism even something she could do? Or rather, pretend to do?
“You believe your friend is... possessed?” she asks, finding herself mimicking Mrs. Van Alst’s cadence. That pause does feel natural when discussing the topic. Obligatory, even.
“Goodness, no. As if I believe inthat.” She says this dismissively, like she hasn’t paid Gretchen thousands upon thousands of dollars to channel her dead daughter. “My bridge partner, Charles Waybill, has a goat farm in Maryland. Historic little property that’s been in his family for eight generations. But personal and financial circumstances have convinced him it’s time to sell.”
“Ah, I see.” Gretchen isn’t entirely sure she does, but Mrs. Van Alst seems to be waiting for a response.
“He’s had several offers since he put it on the market in February, but they keep falling through at the last minute. There have been some... unexplained phenomena.” There’s that pause again. “Lights turning off during open houses, doors slamming in home inspectors’ faces, spots of extreme cold in otherwise warm rooms, a sense of being watched. It all points to a haunting. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Gretchen nods. That’s definitely some stereotypical ghost shit. Things for which there are also a million other, more rational explanations, of course. But it’s not really in her best interests to point that out when her business relies upon people believing in the afterlife.
“I told Charles about you and how you’ve been helping me communicate with Rachel since she passed. I assured him you would know how to rid the property of its spirits, or at least that you could speak with them to see if they have some issue with thefarm’s sale and persuade them to allow it. Thatissomething you could do?”
Could she? It’s been a long time since Gretchen used her skills outside the safety of her shop. Probably why she’s been feeling a bit stuck lately, like she’s just going through the motions. Maybe this is a chance to experience that excitement again, the feeling she fuckingloves, the reason she does this instead of waiting tables or grooming poodles. The only way she can describe it is like the atoms that make up her body start a game of freeze dance, and when the music stops they’re in an entirely new arrangement that makes her feel a little bit invincible. Her father always called that high from successfully pulling off a con “gotcha euphoria.” And she hasn’t felt the full force of it in a long, long time.
If she can manage a convincing enough exorcism to help an old man sell his struggling farm? That just might be the pinnacle of her career as a bullshit artist. Her masterpiece. The gotcha euphoria would be overwhelming—a high she could ride for a good long while.
Also, she hasn’t forgotten the bills on the shelf in the back room. Those might begin to haunt her themselves soon, especially once she convinces Mrs. Van Alst to stop coming around as often. Which she really does still intend to do, just as soon as the right moment arises...
But then Gretchen also remembers the letter beneath those bills, the one she assumes says something like,We’re peas in a pod, kid, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, and her selfish, mercenary thoughts make those words too close to the truth for her liking. So she clings to the resulting compunction, accepting it as a sign from her subconscious. “Mrs. Van Alst, I appreciate yourfaith in me, but I’m not sure if my schedule can accommodate such a—”
“Oh, but Charles is such a dear friend. If you don’t help him, I’m afraid he’ll never be able to move on with his life. He’s all alone now. It’s no way to live...” Mrs. Van Alst’s voice trails off, as if perhaps she’s unsure if she’s speaking about Charles Waybill or herself now.
A twinge of empathy makes Gretchen bow her head. Not that it’s the same, really. Gretchen is also alone, sure. But it’s by choice. Not having anyone is different from having them and losing them.
