43

“Of course.”
“And what else does he say to you?”
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
Stephanie shrugged. “Just stuff.”
“For instance.”
“I’ll show you. I’ll ask him some questions.”
“You do that.”
Her fingertips on the planchette, Stephanie stared at the board with eyes tight in concentration. “Captain Stevey, don’t you think my mom is pretty?”
A second…five…ten…twenty…
“Captain Stevey?”
More seconds passed. Shirley was surprised. She’d expected her daughter to slide the planchette to the section marked YES. Oh, for pete’s sake, what now? An unconscious hostility? Oh, that’s crazy.
“Captain Stevey, that’s really not very polite,” chided Stephanie.
“Honey, maybe he’s sleeping.”
“Do you think?”
“I think you should be sleeping.”
“Already?”
“C’mon, babe! Up to bed!” Shirley stood up.
“He’s a poop,” muttered Stephanie, then followed her mother up the stairs.

42

Shirley was pulling up a chair. “Well, let's both play, okay?”
Hesitation. “Well, okay.” She had her fingertips positioned on the white planchette and as Shirley reached out to position hers, the planchette made a swift, sudden move to the position on the board marked NO.
Shirley smiled at her slyly. “You'd rather do it yourself? Is that it? You don't want me to play?”
“No, I do! Captain Stevey said ‘no.’ ”
“Captain who?”
“Captain Stevey.”
“Honey, who’s Captain Stevey?”
“Oh, ya know. I make questions and he does the answers.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, he’s nice.”
Shirley tried not to frown as she felt a dim and sudden concern. The child had loved her father deeply, yet never had reacted visibly to her parents’ divorce. And Shirley didn’t like it. Maybe she cried in her room; she didn’t know. But Shirley was fearful she was repressing and that her emotions might one day erupt in some harmful form. A fantasy playmate. It didn’t sound healthy. Why ‘Stevey’? For Steve? Her father? Pretty close.
“So how come you couldn’t come up with a name for a dum-dum bird, and then you hit me with something like ‘Captain Stevey'? Why do you call him Captain ‘Stevey’’?”
“ ‘Cause that’s his name of course,” Stephanie snickered.
“Says who?”
“Well, him.”
“Of course.”

41

something like a “worry-bird,” painted orange, except for the beak, which was laterally striped in green and white. A tuft of feathers was glued to the head.
“Do you like it?” asked Stephanie.
“Oh, honey, I do, I really do. Got a name for it?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What’s a good one?”
“I dunno,” Stephanie shrugged.
“Let me see, let me see.” Shirley tapped fingertips to teeth. “I don’t know. Whaddya think? Whaddya think about “Dumbbird”? Huh? Just 'Dumbbird.' "
Stephanie was snickering, hand to her mouth to conceal the braces. Nodding.
" 'Dumbbird' by a landslide! I'll leave it here to dry and then I'll put him in my room."
Shirley was setting down the bird when she noticed the Ouija board. Close. On the table. She'd forgotten she had it. Almost as curious about herself as she was about others, she'd originally bought it as a possible means of exposing clues to her subconscious. It hadn't worked. She'd used it a time or two with Lori, and once with Thompson, who had skilfully steered the plastic planchette ("Are you the one who's moving it, ducky?") so that all of the "messages" were obscene, and then afterward blamed it on the "fucking spirits!"
“You playin’ with the Ouija board?”
“Yep.”
“Where’djya learn how?”
“Oh, it says on the back. On the box. Here, I’ll show you.” She was moving to sit by the board.
“Well, I think you need two people, honey.”
“No ya don’t, Mom; I do it all the time.”