Just One More Read online

  Just One More

  A Psychological Thriller

  Tamara Merrill

  CALI Press

  CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

  Just One More

  Tamara Merrill

  Copyright © 2022 by Tamara Merrill

  Published at Smashwords

  DEDICATION

  To everyone who faces a bully and says, “Stop It!.”

  To everyone who communicates with crows.

  And, to Theresa One and Teresa Two, who believe I am not crazy.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter – One for Sorrow

  Chapter – Two for Joy

  Chapter – Three for a Girl

  Chapter – Four for a Boy

  Chapter – Five for Silver

  Chapter – Six for Gold

  Chapter – Seven for a Secret

  Chapter – Eight for a Wish

  Chapter – Nine for a Kiss

  Chapter – Ten for a Surprise

  Chapter – Eleven for Health

  Chapter – Twelve for Wealth

  Chapter – Thirteen Beware

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  One for Sorrow is an Old English counting rhyme used throughout the United Kingdom.

  One for sorrow.

  Two for joy,

  Three for a girl,

  Four for a boy,

  Five for silver,

  Six for gold,

  Seven for a secret, never to be told.

  Eight for a wish,

  Nine for a kiss,

  Ten a surprise you should be careful not to miss,

  Eleven for health,

  Twelve for wealth,

  Thirteen beware, it’s the devil himself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  One for sorrow,

  “I used to think that the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It's not. The worst thing in life is ending up with people who make you feel all alone.” —Robin Williams

  These are ten things I know about me:

  I am ten years old.

  I am smart. I can read anything.

  My feet are size six, that is large but not too large for my height, which is four feet eleven inches. My grandpa says I am a “firmly rooted string bean”.

  My name is Penelope Jane, that is not true. It is only my name today. My real name is too horrible to write on this list.

  My father doesn’t live here anymore.

  “Girl, get down here!” Jerry’s voice always sounded mean, and sometimes he was. She leaped off her bed, snapped her notebook shut, and ran for the stairs.

  The hall was dark, but she knew better than to turn on the light. Jerry hated what he called “wastin’ ’lecticity” almost as much as he hated her. She stumbled and stubbed her toe. “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered.

  “What did your mama tell you ’bout swearin’, girl?”

  The creep can hear like a bat. “Sorry, sir.” She slid to a stop in front of the worn recliner where Jerry lay sprawled. She dropped her eyes to avoid seeing him scratch his private parts. Mama wouldn’t like that any better than me swearing.

  She stood frozen, afraid to move or catch his eye. When he was like this, she didn’t know what to expect. The TV cast a blue light across the room. Music surged from the TV, louder and louder. She wondered what he was watching but didn’t dare sneak a peek. Crescendo, C-R-E-S-C-E-N-D-O, a gradual, steady increase in loudness or force.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Jerry brought the recliner to upright with a loud bang. She jumped. “I ast you a question.”

  She cleared her throat, brought her thoughts back to Jerry, and managed a whisper. “Mama said nice girls don’t swear.”

  Jerry threw back his head and laughed a horrible laugh, rough and mean. “Guess you don’t need to worry, then. You ain’t no nice girl.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her close to his chair. She nearly gagged on the odor wafting from him. She pictured his breath as a putrid green cloud of gas. Mama, she wanted to scream. Mama, where are you?

  “Don’t stand there gawkin’ like a retard. Git me a beer.”

  Jerry dropped her arm. She scurried away, keeping one eye on the big hand to be sure it wouldn’t grab her, or pinch her.

  The inside of the refrigerator smelled almost as bad as Jerry, rancid with mold and damp. The light was out, but she could see the beer in the faint glow from the TV. She carried it back to Jerry and pulled the tab. He grunted as she placed it next to his chair. His eyes stayed glued to the TV.

  She walked backwards out of the room and climbed the stairs to her bedroom, where she opened her notebook and picked up her pen. She resumed her list.

  I am the best speller at Exeter Charter School.

  My mama is very beautiful, and she loves me very much.

  Tears fell on the paper. She brushed them away impatiently. Tears never helped anything, she reminded herself. She ripped the page into tatters and began her homework again.

  Ten things about me:

  My name is Harriet Blimm.

  I live at 1436 Main St.

  Our house is yellow.

  My bedroom is mostly green and pink.

  My favorite book is Heidi.

  I look like my mother.

  I do not have a grandpa.

  I do not like to play volley ball.

  I have a red bike.

  My favorite subject in school is spelling.

  ***

  “Hey, Hairy Fairy, what you got in your lunch today?” Toby snatched her creased and tattered brown bag from her hand and tipped it over. The sandwich she’d carefully constructed using the heel of bread and the small amount of peanut butter still in the jar slipped from the plastic wrap she’d covered it with and lay in the dirt. Her small, hard orange rolled away and came to a stop. Toby kicked the orange under a bush and stepped on her sandwich.

  “You’re an asshole.” She opened her eyes wide and blinked rapidly, forcing her tears not to fall.

  “Harriet Blimm!” Mr. Comstock’s voice jerked her around. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her away from Toby and his gang. “We do not use language like that. Apologize to Toby, then march yourself to the office.”

  Harriet said nothing.

  “Now, Miss Blimm.”

  “But…” Harriet started to protest.

  “But nothing. Apologize.”

  Harriet turned to Toby and squinted her eyes, hoping she looked mean. With her back turned to Mr. Comstock, she extended the middle finger of her right hand and muttered, “Sorry, Toby.”

  Toby nodded, pretending to accept her unfelt apology. He locked eyes with Harriet and mouthed, “Fuck you.”

  She held her head high as she walked across the asphalt, keeping her eyes straight ahead, ignoring the giggles and whispers that accompanied her departure. She pulled the heavy metal doors open and entered the school building.

  ***

  “Hello again, Harriet.”

  Harriet recognized that voice, Miss Charles, the school counselor. Harriet avoided eye contact but nodded her head in acknowledgment of the greeting.

  “Come on in. It sounds like we need to talk.”

  Harriet glanced around the small office. The morning sun slanted through the open blinds and created a striped pattern across the carpet and up the far wall. Miss Charles seated herself in one of the soft blue chairs arranged around a low table and gestured to Harriet to take a seat. A sigh escaped from Harriet as she settled into her chair.

  Miss Charles smiled. “Do you want to tell me about your morning?” She waited. Harriet kept her eyes on the carpet. The sounds of students, passing in the hall, whispered into the room.

  Harriet took a deep breath and forced herself to look at Miss
Charles. “Nothing happened.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I heard that Toby Meyers was talking to you and that you called him an inappropriate word.”

  Silence.

  Harriet kept her hands still and silently spelled, A-S-S-H-O-L-E. Factual, not inappropriate.

  Miss Charles cleared her throat and tried again. “Is that true?”

  Harriet raised her head and glanced out the window. The schoolyard was empty. Classes were beginning.

  “You need to answer me, Harriet, or I will have to keep you after school for detention.”

  Shit. Harriet almost said it out loud. She couldn’t be late. Jerry would kill her. She turned to face Miss Charles. “I did not call Toby an inappropriate word. I called him an asshole. ‘Asshole’ is a vulgar word, but it is very descriptive of Toby’s behavior.”

  Miss Charles bit her lip to keep from laughing. She covered her mouth to hide her grin. “Harriet.” She shook her head. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “I imagine you are supposed to reprimand me and send me back to my classroom.”

  Miss Charles nodded. She gazed out the window for a long moment before returning her eyes to Harriet. “Allow me to ask you a different question.” She kept her words as formal as Harriet’s own. “How may I help you?” Harriet stayed completely still. “Can you tell me what you need that will ensure your ability to comply with the school rules?”

  Harriet squeezed her hands tightly together under the desk. Mama, I just need Mama. The clock clicked loudly in the silent room. No one moved. A fly buzzed and settled on the windowsill. Miss Charles adjusted her skirt, pulling it farther over her knees.

  Harriet stayed motionless.

  Miss Charles sighed. “Harriet, go back to your classroom and stay away from Toby. You are a smart, beautiful child and you need not resort to name calling.” She reached out and touched Harriet’s knee. The child stiffened. She pulled her hand back, aware of the school protocol stating it allowed no touching. Ever. No matter what.

  Harriet stood and moved toward the door. She hesitated a moment; tilted her head as if to speak, then opened the door and slid out of the room.

  The counselor opened Harriet’s record and wrote; This child needs to be loved.

  ***

  “Mom,” Harriet shouted, opening the front door. “Are you home?”

  “Shut up, brat,” Jerry snarled. “Your mother ain’t here.” His dark eyes blazed as he glared at her from under a hank of greasy hair.

  Feeling his anger, Harriet paused in the archway between the living room and the hall unsure if she dared to ask more, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Do you know when she’ll be back?” Her voice trembled. She swallowed hard.

  “You goin’ to cry?”

  Harriet shook her head. “No sir.” She cleared her throat and continued, “I was just wondering. Mom’s never been gone this long before.”

  “Your mom’s a working girl. She’ll be home when she’s good’n ready.” Jerry pulled the lever and his recliner snapped upright. He stood, unzipped his jeans and tucked his shirt in. He used the opportunity to scratch himself.

  Harriet turned away.

  Jerry grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “I’m goin’ out.”

  Harriet nodded. “Okay.”

  The door slammed behind him. Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes it was scary to be home alone, but it was better than being home with Jerry. I wonder why Mama chose him to stay with me. She dropped her backpack at the foot of the stairs. She was hungry.

  The kitchen looked exactly the way it had this morning when she’d made her lunch with the last of the bread and peanut butter. Harriet was aware there would be nothing in the cupboards. But she opened each battered, chipped door, hoping she had overlooked something. The refrigerator still had that sour, awful smell, but the beer was gone. A lone bottle of ketchup stood on the shelf. She pulled it out and held it up to the dim light penetrating the kitchen through the filthy window. A meager quarter inch coated the bottom. She tipped the bottle upside down and shook it. The ketchup didn’t move. Harriet shrugged. “Better than nothing,” she muttered and turned on the hot water faucet.

  The water trickled out. She waited, testing it with her finger, hoping it would get hot, or at least warm. Nothing happened. The gas must have been turned off again. Without gas or electricity, the water heater wouldn’t heat, and the stove top wouldn’t work. Harriet removed the ketchup lid and filled the bottle with the tap water. She screwed the lid back on and shook the bottle until, finally, the ketchup loosened from the bottom and the liquid turned a pale red. “Bisque,” she said. “B-I-S-Q-U-E, a creamy soup, traditionally made with seafood, but often made with tomato.”

  Harriet carried the bottle back to the stairs, picked up her backpack and went up to her room to do her homework. Her stomach growled. She flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. Maybe Jerry has gone to pay the bill and the lights will come back on before dark.

  When Mama comes back, I need to ask her why Jerry really lives here, Harriet speculated If she believes he’s taking care of me, he’s not. Jerry wasn’t really her brother, even though she was supposed to tell anyone who asked why he lived at her house, that he was.

  Harriet stood in her window, looking out at the neighborhood. All the houses looked alike, different colors and different trash in the yards, but still they were all the same. Mama called them ticky-tacky boxes. A few people hurried down the street, their heads ducked against the rising wind. A gust rattled the window and caused the thin curtains to stir. “Draft, D-R-A-F-T,” she spelled aloud, “a current of air in an enclosed space.”

  The sun set, taking the light from the room. As the house grew darker and colder. Harriet huddled by the window, her blanket wrapped around her. She tried to read her book. The streetlights came on. Their glow fell short of the page. She closed her book, lay her head on her knees. Her stomach rumbled. Harriet began to count aloud. “One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine, nine hundred and ninety-eight, nine hundred and ninety-seven…” Her eyes drooped, and she drifted to sleep.

  ***

  A door slammed. Harriet jerked awake. The book hit the floor with a bang. She shivered and tugged her blanket closer. The moon was high in the sky, caught in the branches of the pine tree in the yard. For a second, Harriet noticed how beautiful the moon looked.

  “Girl, git down here.”

  She could tell from his tone that he was drunk. Harriet scrambled to her feet. She stumbled. Pins and needles shot up her legs. How long was I asleep? she wondered. Harriet held onto the windowsill for a minute to allow her legs and feet to wake up.

  “You sleeping, girl?” Jerry bellowed again. “Get your ass down here. This place is a pigsty.”

  Harriet hurried. When Jerry was drunk, she never knew what might happen. “Hey,” she called from the stairs, trying to keep her voice light and welcoming. She could see him silhouetted against the window in the hall. He swayed side to side, obviously very drunk. He lifted his arm and took a long drink from the bag he held in his hand. Whiskey, she mused. Hard liquor is always worse than beer.

  “Hey, Jerry,” she said again. Harriet stopped at the bottom of the stairs, keeping her distance from him.

  “Why ain’t there no light in here?” he slurred.

  Harriet wanted to scream, because you spent the money on booze! Instead, she said carefully, “The power must be out. The gas isn’t working either.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jerry took another long drink. “Forgot about that.” He seemed to take a sober look at Harriet. She froze; it was never good when Jerry actually noticed her. “Cold in here.”

  Harriet nodded.

  “I saw your mama today.”

  Harriet’s mood lifted instantly. Any news was better than no news. “Is she okay? Will she be home soon?”

  Jerry chuckled. “Soon as the drugs run out, I imagine.”

  “Did she…” Harriet knew she shouldn’t ask, but she needed to k
now, “Did she ask about me? Where did you see her?”

  Jerry took another long drink. His face changed, and he shook his head a bit. “Well, she didn’t exactly ask. She was kind of busy.” He reached his hand out as if to touch her.

  Harriet stepped back and felt her heels bang against the bottom stairs.

  “Go to bed, girl.” He grinned at her. “Don’t do no good to worry about your mama.”

  “But…” Harriet’s voice shook. She stammered to a stop.

  Jerry dropped his grin. His face darkened and became even uglier. He squinted at her. “Don’t whine, girl. It’s colder than shit in here. I’m leaving.” He swung around, pulled the door open and slammed it behind him.

  Harriet sank down onto the stairs. She swiped angrily at the tears that threatened to overflow. Her whole body trembled. She hugged herself and began to count —“Two, four, six, eight…” When she reached “twenty-eight,” the tears were gone. Harriet locked the front door and went back upstairs. Instead of going to her room she turned to her mother’s room, and without undressing crawled under the covers and continued counting until she fell asleep.

  ***

  Harriett woke, shivering. She looked around, unsure of where she was. Light poured in through the crack between the drapes and, with a deep sigh, she recognized her mother’s bedroom. She turned her head and buried her face in the pillow. The slight hint of her mother’s perfume reassured her. She thrust the pillow aside and sat up, refusing to let herself cry. A spiderweb stretched from the drapery to her mother’s dressing table. It stirred and quivered. Harriet narrowed her eyes, hoping to make the web go away. How long has Mama been gone? she wondered. She peered closer, not wanting to see the spider that lived in the web, but afraid not to find him. Arachnid,. A-R-A-C-H-N-I-D, a class of arthropods; including spiders, scorpions, mites, and ticks. She stayed perfectly still, eyes wide as they searched the room and found nothing.