Footsteps on the Stairs: A Novel Read online

  “What makes you think I didn’t like it?”

  “The expression on your face.”

  “You must have read me wrong,” I said, but I didn’t reassure her that I liked her or that I wanted to spend time with her. She waited while we pulled on the oars together—pretty evenly considering what a bad match we were physically. Then she changed the subject.

  “Irma and Renee would have been a lot better off if they’d concentrated on doing well in school instead of on him.”

  “He was the only nice thing in their lives.”

  “But he didn’t have to be. They could have prepared themselves for something. They could have gotten jobs and gone away. They could have started whole other lives for themselves somewhere.”

  “Why is it bugging you?” I asked her. “It’s all over and done with long ago.”

  “I know, but it’s like my mother. She should have made something of herself when she was young instead of just being Dad’s wife. You can’t depend on some man to make your life worthwhile. You have to do that for yourself.”

  “Well, sure, we know that, but nobody told Irma and Renee. They thought they had to stay home and take care of their mother and wait for some guy to marry them. That’s what girls were supposed to do back then.”

  “I’m never going to get married,” Anne said fiercely.

  “I am. If somebody asks me—somebody I really like. Though I think I’ll probably become famous first.”

  “You will.”

  “Will what? Become famous? You really think so?”

  Anne looked straight at me and said stiffly, “I think highly of you, Dodie, even if you don’t think much of me.”

  “Are you crazy? I think so much of you that I’m almost as jealous of you as Renee was of Irma.”

  It was a pretty strong comparison, but when Anne asked, “Why should you be jealous of me?” I stuck with it.

  “Anne, besides being a nearly perfect girl, you have Larry.”

  “No, I don’t. You have him. I only see him on a weekend now and then, or like now, on vacation. You’re with him all the time.”

  “But he loves you best. You’re his daughter.”

  “Anyway, he cares a lot about you.”

  “You know,” I confided. “I like being hugged, and Larry’s the only hugging relative I have.”

  “We could share him.”

  “You’d be willing to? That really makes me hate you. It proves you’re nicer than me along with everything else.”

  “Do you hate me, Dodie?”

  “No, not really. I’ve tried, but you’re hard not to like.” We were quiet—just sitting in the boat listening to the water sipping at the sides, surrounded by the cavernous gray clouds above us and the dark water below. I saw Anne staring at the floorboards of the boat. I looked down. There was water up to the floorboards!

  “Dump those letters fast,” I said.

  She moved to the bow and started tossing Irma’s phony letters into the water. “Aren’t we going to say anything?” she asked me.

  I was looking toward the cottage, surprised at how small it had gotten. How had we put so much distance between us and dry land so fast? I glanced at the water. We weren’t even rowing now, but the boat was still moving. We were caught in a strong current and heading toward the mouth of the inlet.

  “Anne, sit down. We’ve got to turn around and row back.” I reached across and set her oar in place, then plowed the water with one oar so we turned in a circle. Anne heaved the last of the letters into the marsh.

  “There, Renee,” she said. “Irma wrote the letters herself. He never picked her over you. He didn’t really love either of you.”

  “Forget that and grab the other oar,” I ordered. “The tide’s pulling us out.” At that moment I was more concerned with the problems of the living than the dead. Even though I was straining to make headway, using both oars myself, it seemed to me we were barely moving. The water was over the floorboards and rising fast.

  Anne finally sat down beside me and took an oar. Now that we were anxious about getting back, the oars kept slipping out of their wooden cradles. Our strokes fought each other. We couldn’t seem to hit a smooth rhythm. Larry had been right about the boat. We weren’t safe in it.

  “Dodie, we aren’t making any headway. What’s wrong?”

  “The current was with us before. Now we’re working against it. Besides, the boat’s heavier because of all the water we’re taking on. We may have to abandon ship and swim for it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can. All you have to do is relax. I can swim us both in.”

  That made her strain harder at her oar. We pulled and grunted, fighting to get closer to shore, but it was like trying to row a full bathtub.

  Anne suddenly stopped rowing. She stood up, turned toward the cottage, and yelled, “Dad! Dad, help us!”

  She had the right idea. I bellowed for Larry too. But nobody appeared. Water all around us, wooded dunes behind, and the empty road going up the hill. We were on our own with the dumb boat sinking under us and Larry and Mother probably sound asleep.

  “Now don’t panic,” I said. “All you have to do is lie in the water and let me tow you in.” I dived over the side, not even feeling the sting of cold water, surfaced, and reached for Anne. She gripped the edge of the rowboat and wouldn’t let go.

  “Anne, take hold of an oar,” I said. “Look, it’s going to be okay. If you just hang on to an oar, I can pull you along easy.” I swam a little way to show her that I could swim against the current better than we’d been able to row.

  “I don’t want to drown, Dodie.”

  “You’re not going to. Trust me. I’ll get you back.” I thought of that time when the Sunfish went over and she wouldn’t even let me near her. Just as I began to worry about what would happen if she didn’t trust me, she let go of the boat and rolled into the water. She took hold of the oar and so did I. But swimming with only one arm and my legs free was not as easy as I’d thought now that I had her weight as well as the current against me. The gloomy notion hit me that possibly Irma and Renee had appeared to us because they wanted company in their watery grave. Worse, I was beginning to doubt I was really the superwoman swimmer I’d thought I was. My arm felt weighted and my chest felt tight. I could drown! Anne and I could both drown, I suddenly realized. I’d never been scared in the water before. Now I was getting scared. To control my fear, I concentrated on swimming. Push against the water, move those legs up and down. Be a porpoise, a dolphin, a whale, a sea creature getting closer to shore, unsinkable.

  Larry’s voice calling our names gave me a surge of new energy. I even dared to try to touch bottom, but felt only the tickle of the slimy grasses. Anne looked at me fearfully. “Kick your legs,” I said, and went back to swimming.

  The second time I tried for the bottom, my toes found it. Three more strokes and I stood and pulled Anne up. In chest-deep water we hugged each other, giddy with relief. When Larry got to us, he grabbed us so tightly against him I thought he was going to crack somebody’s ribs, maybe even mine.

  “You crazy kids. What were you doing out there? You scared me half to death.” He kissed us roughly and dragged us up onto higher land. “What made you try that boat this early in the morning? I never thought you’d be so foolish. What got into you?” He babbled questions without waiting for answers, alternately scolding and hugging us.

  “Dad, it’s all right,” Anne said. “Dodie saved me.”

  “Of course, Dodie saved you, but that isn’t the point. She could have drowned too. I could have lost you both. Oh, God!”

  “But we didn’t drown, Dad. We’re all right, thanks to Dodie.” She gave me a smile so adoring, I felt my cheeks get hot. How was I to know that being a heroine would be embarrassing? Besides, now that I’d saved her life, I owed her something. I mean, it wouldn’t make sense to be jealous of her anymore. I was going to have to keep batting down that feeling anytime it stuck its evil little head i
nto my gut. Probably that would be a continual struggle for me.

  But she was worth it. Considering how perfect she was, she was a very nice kid.

  The rest of our vacation I kept listening for the footsteps at night after everybody had gone off to bed and left me alone downstairs. When I hadn’t heard anything ghostly for a while, I began to miss Irma and Renee—we’d gotten to know them so well. One night I even tried to lure them back. I lit a candle and turned out the lights in the living room and made like a swami sitting cross-legged on the couch. I stared into the wavering candle flame and gestured hypnotically. Then I intoned, “Renee, return. Renee, return.”

  Nothing happened except Anne leaned over the stair railing and called down to me, “Dodie, have you gone crazy?”

  “Just practicing,” I said. “How do you think I’d be as a famous spiritualist? I could go around the world raising the spirits of people’s dead loved ones for them. Don’t you think I’d look good in a purple velvet gown with big wide sleeves and maybe a feather boa?”

  “Come to bed, Dodie. The ghosts are gone,” she said.

  She was right, of course. I couldn’t sense their presence anywhere.

  What I ought to do is write up the whole experience. Footsteps on the Stairs—that’s what I’d call it. It would certainly make an interesting book. Maybe that’s what I’m destined to become famous as—a writer. Now, what kind of costume could I wear for that?

  About the Author

  C. S. ADLER was born and grew up in New York City, where she was graduated from Hunter College. She worked in advertising and taught middle school English for several years before turning to writing full time. Among her earlier books are The Magic of the Glits and The Silver Coach. Footsteps on the Stairs was her first book for Delacorte Press. Ghost Brother is her most popular novel.

  The mother of three grown sons and grandmother of six children, C. S. Adler vacations in Cape Cod where this story is set.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First edition published 1994 by Delacorte Press.

  Copyright © 1982, 2013 by C. S. Adler

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1115-0

  Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution

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