The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Quit answering questions with questions,” she says and wipes the back of her neck. “Damn it’s hot. I’m going to need a swim later. The accent’s been part of the deal for a while.”


“And him?” I nod to Doyle.

“Just a thing we’re trying out,” she says.

“Brings in more cash,” he says, without opening his eyes.

“Adds to the mystery,” she says.

“Those things you said to the girls? Does that add mystery too?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Angry silence.

“Frank had sex with Mom.” The lightbulb stops twirling.

“Fuck,” Enola says. I tell her what Frank told me, about how they met, how long they were together. About the house. Enola makes notches in the side of a card with her thumbnail. The Hanged Man, an inverted figure strung from a cross by his pointed foot, almost like St. Peter. Not the supple cards she keeps in her skirt pocket; these cards are stiff, with backs covered in fleurs-de-lis. “Shit. Well, that screws you and Alice. Fuck, wait. She’s not our sister, is she?”

“No. God, no.” I say. “Mom cut him off.”

“Well, at least there’s one damned thing she did right.” She sneers and a small bead of sweat rolls from her lip.

“Little Bird,” Doyle says.

“Give me a minute to process, okay,” she mutters.

“He kicked us out of the house,” I say.

“So, come with us. Did you talk to Thom?” She puts her feet up on the table. They’re bare and dust clings to her toes. A sliver of light breaks in. “Out!” she yells. “Esmeralda is busy.” The curtain flops shut. Doyle hops up from the ground to chase after the client. His flip-flops disappear beneath the drapes. Alone again, we stare at each other. “Well, shit.” She chews a piece of skin by her thumbnail, the card almost touching her mouth. “I knew Frank had a thing with the house, but I never got why. Wow. That’s gross.” She’s fidgety. She puts down the Hanged Man in favor of the entire deck, fanning, restacking, and flipping the cards over her knuckles. “I really am sorry about Alice. That makes everything weird. Are you going to tell her?”

I hadn’t even considered it; it’s an injury none of us needs. The last she saw of me was bruised and in a broken house. She wouldn’t cry if I told her, that isn’t like her, but would she slam a door on me? Absolutely. Would she look me in the eye after? “I don’t know if it’s for me to tell. I have things to figure out first.”

“Right. Shit. Where are you going to stay? I’d offer but we’re cramped.” She shrugs.

“You have a place?” This is news.

“Doyle and I have a trailer that hooks to his car. We follow Rose’s with it sometimes.”

“Oh.”

She shoots the deck between her hands in arcs. “It got to be a pain keeping his stuff in the car, lightbulbs were always breaking.” She absently draws a line in the air. “We do a caravan kind of thing. We can probably figure something out for you.”

I hadn’t expected her to have a home. Not her—them, there is a them. I’d always pictured Enola as solitary, but she’s perfectly paired. They pass cards back and forth like it’s speaking. I have no such language, though the librarian I was had decimals, everything a classification. What would they be? The 400s for the language, 300s for the sociology, 900s for the history of her, us; though something about them begs for the 200s and religious fervor.

“Hey,” she says. “You okay?”

“I found something strange. Mom died on July twenty-fourth, and so did her mother. Also, Thom saw our grandmother perform, which is weird, but that’s not even the strange part.” I’m rushing, but I don’t care. “I went through the book Churchwarry sent me, and then a bunch of books and articles that Alice and I found, death registers, newspapers going back—way, way back. I went back until I could find names that were in the book. They die on the twenty-fourth, all the women, Mom’s relatives. They all drowned and they drowned on July twenty-fourth.”

She stops moving. “That’s it. You think we’re all going to drown, don’t you?” She shakes her head. “That’s twisted. That’s you wanting to hear things, fucked-up things. You’ve been alone in that house for too damned long.” She looks down at the table, at her hands, her cards. “You think we’re like her.”

“No,” I say and hope that for one second she believes me.

“You’re the worst bullshitter.” Enola’s chair tips forward and she sighs. “She just got sad, okay? Unbearably sad. I told you that book is messed up. Forget about it. Go get your stuff, come back here, and we’ll set up a place for you tonight. Get the hell out of the house. If Frank wants it, let him have it; it’s filled with dead people and it’s going over.” She reaches out to squeeze my hand, grinding the knuckles together. “Look, I’m sorry if I left you alone too long. I’m sorry, okay? Get your stuff. Bring it back here. Don’t bring the book.”