“Oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh my god.” Michelle walked to the front window and back.
“You said that. A few times now.”
“But Toby! Oh-my-God.”
“Sit down; take a breath or four.”
She did, dropping to the chair at our kitchen/dining room table, right leg over left, working the buckle of her sandal. “That teacher, huh?”
“Yeah, Mr. Collings. I should have guessed he had a thing for teen girls. I thought he liked me for my wit.”
“Huh?”
“My short stay in your school. He asked me to join his special after-school group.”
“He saved me from being raped.”
“Incidental hero. Only because he wanted to chase smokers from the boys’ room, I’m sure. You were getting mugged; he shrugged his shoulders.”
Her sandal dropped to the floor; she flipped her leg one over the other, working at the buckle. “I bet if you weren’t there with me, I’d have gotten his attention. He didn’t know me at all.” She shook her head. “I thought you were helping me out.”
“I did wish to help you. I had my own reasons, too. I wanted people who knew me to look me in the face and see if I was recognized. Collings didn’t.”
“Your own brother.”
“That was just pure luck. Him and Jerry.”
“Was that your plan? The Dogs of War?”
“Hell, I think I said, Dogs of Hell. No. I’d not planned to hurt Mark. It was just happenstance. Low-hanging fruit. There he was—grabbing me aggressively—”
“That’s just how he grabbed me!”
“Up in my face. I acted out of instinct, not a conscious decision. Okay—I took him to the floor by instinct. The head bouncing was a conscious decision.”
“What if you killed him?”
I shrugged. “If I didn’t, I’m going to regret not bouncing his head off the linoleum a couple more times.”
She presented a shoe. “I remember the first time, you know, thinking I’d never get used to these things. Struggling not to fall down your stairs.”
“I love the feeling in my legs, the stretch.”
“Everything happened so fast. Did Jerry pee his pants?”
“Like an excited puppy.”
“I thought he was going to nail you.”
“He’s a bully. Bullies run from serious confrontation, and I was pretty seriously confronting. Jerry and I will have another time together. That’s the way the universe works sometimes.”
She rolled her eyes. “They ruined it.”
I returned the rolled eyes. “Yes, Michelle, yes, they did. You can always count on boys to ruin things.”
“You told the cab guy—”
“Ralph. His name is Ralph.”
“Cute. I liked his flirt.”
“I can’t believe that ever works for him.”
“Do you think he’ll do it, or should we skip town?”
“Claim he took two old men to the high school and back?”
“For a date.”
“Sure. I’ll suggest dinner at Michelangelo’s and a movie.”
“You’re not worried?”
“That someone caught the name of the cab company? Jane and I bonded. I’m not worried at all.”
“I didn’t get that from what I’d overheard.”
“I didn’t shrink away or sit at the door staring out the window. I squared my shoulders, looked her in the eye, and accepted her for just being who she is. You should know how meaningful that can be.”
Michelle swallowed hard. “Anyway.”
“Anyway.”
“When I sat in the classroom and closed my eyes. I had a moment there where I could feel what it would be like.”
“To be Michelle—in school.”
“To be Michelle, to be me, in school. The lunchroom. Thank you. Did you know?”
“I did.”
“To be there—me. To be not just a girl, but to be one of the top ten prettiest girls in the room.”
“Watching people watch you without them knowing you’re watching them is a skill that develops over time.”
“You said years ago you knew I was watching you. I’d never have guessed.”
“Having been born a girl, growing up a girl, I have things that are—”
“Inherent.”
“Very good. That word’s on the GED test.”
“I need to learn.”
“Not leaving the toilet seat up. I watched you today, working in the yard and in school—your mannerisms. You're doing very well. For example, in the cafeteria, even here, now, you didn’t sit like a cowboy.”
She blushed. “Levy’s family. Mrs. Palmer only had to call it to my attention once.”
“In the classroom. Even now at the table. You carry yourself properly.”
“Thanks for saying. When do I learn how to clean someone’s clock like a lady?”
“My sarcasm may be rubbing off on you.”
“Are you going to ever tell me what this manhunt is all about?”
“That would be girl hunt. No.”
She shrugged. “Given your age, sure, I get you’re a runaway. I don’t get the FBI chasing you down.
“Look at it this way. If not for the girl hunt, I’d still be in the house; you’d be dodging your father, going to school.”
“And, Toby, what a wonderful gift that is. Are we going to hug?”
“I think not.”
“I’m okay with that.”
Cold March wind came up, whipping around me, dropping away under a canopy of stars peeking through naked branches and around the interference of streetlights, my old woman dress hem dancing. I entertained the passing thought to change. I didn’t dress to please Shawn.
The door was not locked, inviting me. I thought Cassandra would be waiting like before, as if she knew I was coming. The door across the room was like the first, lively band music washing over me along with bright studio lights as I entered the long hall—a wall of glass to the right—twelve women in colorful tights and leotards engaged in a synchronized frenzy.
“Oh, I could never do that,” I said aloud.
Cassandra offered a quick wave, stepping from the fray, and joined me.
“I thought you’d not be able to see me,” I greeted.
“Oh, the mirrors. With practice, you can see shadows. That pane.” She pointed. “Has a defect. Get in the right spot; catch the light just right, you can see a distorted reflection of yourself to your right.”
“Like a ghost.”
“Scares the kids sometimes.”
“I bet.” I nodded to the window. “I could never do that.”
Cassandra laughed dismissively. “What did I tell you years ago about ballet?”
“I have no idea.”
“One step at a time. Watch. Step forward, toe, step back, toe. Not so hard.”
“Yeah, not so hard.”
“Want to join us?”
“That would be a no.”
“I have dancewear you can borrow. You don’t have to dance naked.”
“Sometime. You and me. You can take me through it. I’m not good in crowds.”
“We’re breaking up soon. Right through there, door on the left. You won’t be needing shoes today.”
Pink long-sleeved leotard, black tights—I might as well have been naked, which I didn't mind.
“Dasey Longardner,” Cassandra said. “My life partner.”
Dasey towered my height, one of the shortest of the dancers, her silver hair ponytailed down her back, giving the impression she was older than her actual years. I’d like to say thin, gaunt is more like it, frail yet durable. Brown eyes, soulful eyes almost black, eyes that could see for a thousand years pushed deep into raw sugar cookie dough flesh—almost white, pale yellow around the eyes.
Smooth as the cool breeze of spring floating across the budding landscape, her voice caught in my ears when she said, “May I hold you, Toby?”
I was trapped like a feral cat on the porch wanting to run away, wondering what treats there may be. “Eh, I’d rather not.”
“Dasey is a spiritualist.”
My right eye twitched. “Is that supposed to explain something?” I took a deep breath. “Sorry. This is your house. I’m being rude.”
Dasey’s thin, pale lips crooked, almost a smirk, her eyes drinking me, eyes I couldn’t hold. “That’s okay, Child. You’ve been through some things. Those things have molded you, made you who you are today. I understand your defensiveness. I understand your discomfort.”
I understand hit like a cold glass of water tossed in my face. I narrowed my eyes—taking up her sober, black orbs. “I do not give out hugs as if they were Halloween candy.”
“Of course, you don’t, a child who never had a chance to learn to love. I understand.”
It was there that her Sally-ing laid bare. She wasn’t reading me. She was working from impressions gained from what Cassandra told her. “Okay, Miss Longardner. You may hold me. I understand.”
“Call me Dasey.”
“I think not.”
She wrapped around me. “Respect for elders is a good thing,” she said, her chin on my shoulder. “Your journey has been a long one with many challenges. Your greatest challenges lay ahead.”
No shit. I’m fifteen.
“You will find love, if only you learn to be open to it.”
Just maybe.
“You have a dark spot on your soul. Wait. There’s another.” She broke, stepping back.
“Another what?”
“It’s not so strange.” Her right hand cut at the air like she was chasing a gnat. “You have a fellow traveler, another soul atop yours.”
“Like a walk in?”
“Oh! Someone’s told you this before.”
“I read a lot.”
“He is oftentimes a great comfort to you.”
I shrugged. “He sure is.”
“There’s a time coming up on you. You will face death.”
“Dasey!” Cassandra jumped in.
“She only looks like a child, Cass. This one’s an old soul.”
I shrugged. “I ride my bicycle tons of miles a week on the New Jersey roadways. I face death every day.”
“That’s not what I mean, Child.”
“I know.” I burned to tell her not to call me child. She was enjoying her self-proclaimed authority too much. “Can I get that dance lesson now?”
Dasey bit her lip.
“Of course!”
“I like your girlfriend.”
“Life partner.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say you like her. I could tell she unnerved you.”
“You could tell wrong.”
“Well, that unnerved me a little.”
“The talk of my upcoming battle with death?”
“Toby.”
“Everybody does it; everyone’s terrified.”
“How about we leave the macabre to Dasey and run through the entire routine one last time?”
The dance was not as complex as it seemed—at least slowed down to one-tenth the speed.
“We had a nice visit at school.”
“Riversides?” Pamala asked.
“No, silly, my old school,” I said to the phone. “Bubbles are gone; water’s getting cold.”
“Your old school?”
“Yeah, Michelle had to turn in Michael’s books.”
“It’s weird I actually follow that. Michael as Michelle?”
“Yes.”
“How’d that go?”
“Michelle was delightful. She had a really good experience being a girl doing normal stuff.”
“Did you see anyone you know?”
“Couple people. Saw Mark.”
“Mark, like in your brother Mark?”
“Yeah. Like my brother Mark. One of the assholes who raped me.”
“Did he see you?”
“Nose to nose, Pam.”
“Did he know you? That could be—”
“He didn’t have a clue. Thought I was a new girl. Took a hard run at me. Grabbed my arm.”
“Did you leave him bloody on the floor? Oh, Toby, tell me you left him bloody on the floor.”
“I took a tip from you.”
“How so?”
“Once he hit the floor, I bounced his head off the linoleum a couple times.”
“Shit. How’d that get there?”
“What, where?”
“My hand in my underwear.”
“You’re so fucking weird.”
“I know!”
“Teacher even took a run at me.”
“You’re kidding. I’m so glad I go to a parochial school. Did you leave—”
“No, Pam. He’ll live to hit on a child another day. Other than maybe killing my brother—”
“You think you killed him? There was nothing on the news.”
“A girl can dream.”
“You’re just flirting with me now.”
“Just so you know, I just rolled my eyes.”
“Definitely flirting. Now bite your lip.”
“I really do love you real and true.”
“Me, too.”
“Anyway.”
“Anyway.”
“I’ve been thinking about seeing what I’d have to do to enroll in your school.”
“I can’t imagine how that’d work.”
“I own a lawn business and a truck; have bank accounts, my own apartment, and a phone; rent a garage; and have utilities in my name. I bet I could make it happen.”
“Why?”
“I love those little plaid skirts.”
“Beside that.”
“Back in school today. The smell of books, floor wax, freshly scrubbed children, and bright classrooms. I was robbed of that, stolen from me. If I could get in a school like yours, where teachers don’t lumber behind me with their tongues hanging out, and where a gang of assholes doesn’t rape me in the boys’ room. Pamala. The only thing in life I love more than you is school.”
“Are you crying?”
“Just sobbing a little.”
“I can come over.”
“I’m all right. Took my first flapper lesson today.”
“Charleston. How’d it go?”
“Better than I thought. Cassandra says I’m a natural.”
“She’s just flirting with you. You know, after seeing you naked and all.”
“Met Cassandra’s girlfriend, who she calls her life partner. Should we make up a cool designation to describe our relationship?”
“I’m proud as punch to call you my girlfriend.”
“Accept no substitutes. Her life partner is a spiritualist.”
“Of course she is. I just rolled my eyes. Did she spiritualist you?”
“She spiritualisted the fuck out of me.”
“How’d she do?”
“Haven’t thought much about it. I bet she hit fifty percent.”
“That’s pretty good.”
“She said I shall soon meet my true love—if, she said, I find a way to open myself up to love.”
“You’ve had a lot of trouble in your life.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“That’s a favorite of the spiritualists. Gets a hit every time. Trouble in life, success is ahead, love is on its way.”
“You take notes?”
“The school hosts a carnival each year. Raises a lot of money and always has a spiritualist like a fortune teller.”
“I kind of like to be surprised.”
“I get the idea you know the future.”
“Well, I like to be surprised, but I don’t like to be blindsided. My water’s cold. I think Michelle needs the facilities.”
“I can come over.”
“I’m good.”
“I can make you better.”
“This is getting to be a habit,” Shawn said, pouring coffee as I shook out my newspaper.
“Not for long. I change my routine often on the off chance the assassins catch up to me.”
“I’d not be surprised to learn that’s not a joke. The usual?”
“Sure.”
Breakfast done, as I held the newspaper up to read a story about the uptick in pollution in the Delaware River, I was struck by something as the paper said, “You two, I don’t know,” in Ralph’s voice.
I’d not been reading the room, alert for hostiles. The assassins could be in and out like a boy on prom night.
I lowered the paper. “Good morning, Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one.” He rolled his eyes. “You two, I don’t know.”
“You said. Know what?”
“At the school. The cops came around the shop.”
“Let me guess. Officer Martin.”
“Why am I not surprised you know all the cops?”
I answered with a shrug.
“When I dropped you off outside the shop, I told Jane what you said about old men. She gave me that best-she-can smirk and told me to scrub my log.”
“Scrub your log?”
“We log in pencil.”
“Okay.”
“She took it to Martin pretty good. He comes in, asks about the fare to the high school. Jane asks what it’s all about. A boy got assaulted, he said, which set her off on one of her crazy rages. Oh no, a boy! A boy got assaulted! She’s waving her crutches around, knocking shit over.”
“I can actually see that.”
“She didn’t tell you the story?”
“I told her mine.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Oh. She was assaulted by a gang of boys for hours, beaten, and left for dead. Doctors have no idea how she survived.”
“If, in fact, she did survive.”
“My God, that’s her punchline to the story!”
“We know our own, Twenty-one. That coffee for her?”
“Yes. Every morning.”
“Do you own a suit?”
“Eh, sure.”
“Is it decent, clean?”
“Huh, what?”
“Not a trick question. I have a thing on the twenty-first. I need a car and driver. I see it’s the Royal Taxi and Limousine Service. They do have an actual limousine, don’t they? Not just an old big car washed and waxed.”
“Well, yeah, a Lincoln Town Car.”
“I’ll talk to Jane. You get cleaned up, and you can drive.”
“Oh, they’d never let—”
I shook the paper out. “Sure, they will.”
“Jane wants to hear the high school story anyway.”
Ralph passed Charlotte at the entrance, Charlotte coming right to my table, sitting across from me. “Good morning, Toby.”
I felt I should be disturbed by the presumed familiarity. I wasn’t. “Charlotte. Love the dress. Silk?”
Under her tan winter coat, she wore a knee-length, form-fitting black silk dress with flowing red flowers, green vines, a high neck, and long sleeves.
“Most people think satin.”
“I’m in love, real and true, with silk.”
She eyed me like she was fucking me. “If you don’t mind short, I could make you one. Like this, mine.”
“I never mind short. If I had a father, he’d say my dresses are shirts.”
“You don’t have a father?”
I was struck by the revelation like a hammer to the face. “I do not.”
“I’ll work up a price.”
“Make the dress. I’m not concerned with the cost.”
Shawn arrived with a coffee to go. “Good morning, Charlotte. I assumed.”
“Shawn! So happy to see you! You assumed right!”
I waved Charlotte’s purse aside. “I’ve got it, please.”
“If you insist!”
While we’re at it, Shawn, if you could put all Taxi Jane’s coffee on my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab. And that’s really kind of you.”
“Jane and I had a moment yesterday.”
“She’s, eh—”
“A character.”
“Can you and Pamala come in this afternoon?” Charlotte asked.
“Just don’t let anyone know I’m covering the coffee. Sure, we can. I’ll make that happen.”
“Pamala?”
“Didn’t I tell you, Shawn? You’ll be working the dinner with Pamala.”
“The Pamala?”
“Accept no substitutes.”
“I’m in. I need a tuxedo?”
“It’s what all the cool kids will be wearing, and Shawn, you’re one of the cool kids.”
“Char?”
“See me today. I’ll measure you. Toby?”
I chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll cover it.” I looked to Shawn. “We’re doing a vest, a pink bowtie, a pink pocket square, and a skirt too short for parent-approval.”
“Black Mary Janes with a two-inch heel,” Charlotte added.
“Oh, I’d like to wear my black sneakers.”
“Agreed,” I said, ruffling my newspaper again. “Pam and I will be in black fishnets.”
“Oh, me too!”
I had decided to like Sebastian Connor. “I want to settle up,” I said. “Antoinette Blanc.”
Connor was a gruff old man pushing his fifties, built wide, his face a pallid roadmap of creases, his graying brown flattop a cliché, tan work shirt and pants, a huge cigar stub dancing around his words, and slobber on his chin.
I was looking down a time tube seeing what Uncle Gropey was going to look like if I didn’t shorten his days on the planet. I had pictured a benevolent man helping teenaged boys.
He was a child molester. Keith had said as much; I just didn’t hear. I could never like a child molester.
He pulled an invoice from a rack. “$28.95!” he barked around the cigar.
“Oh, that can’t be right.”
“Hey! We don’t pad nobody’s bill!”
“I was thinking it was low.”
“That’s a first for me! First for me!” He squinted. “Yup. Pick up the pickup. Ha, ha! Tire repair. Take it to inspection. Yup. Pick up and assemble the lawnmower. Here at Conner’s, we do it all. We do it all! $28.95. What’s the problem?”
“No problem, Mr. Connor.”
“Call me Sabbie!”
“I think not, Mr. Connor. Just seems low.” I fished a ten and a twenty from Pamala’s bag, placing the money on the desk. “Don’t worry about the change.”
“Thank you, little lady!”
“Thank you, Mr. Connor.” I added a second twenty. “Buy the men lunch on me sometime.”
“We got a girl in the shop now, too! A girl, I know—hard to believe, hard to believe. Works almost as good as the men!”
“Oh, I bet she does.”
Dark clouds crept in like gray cotton candy erasing a crystal blue sky as I rolled to the house because I do live a cliché. The house, an old Victorian, towered atop an incline, surrounded by maples and pine trees on a large lot, the lot appearing to have been neglected since before the German army marched on Paris. The iron gate, my height between two stacked stone pillars, fought me, finally relenting.
I knew the house, or rather, I knew stories of the house. The other paperboys told me, “Don’t go anywhere near the Witch House.” Since the house was not on my paper route, I didn’t have to worry.
The parade of clouds was complete, evening arriving six hours early. I thought there should be lightning and thunderclaps.
Ancient eyes sparkled, trapped in a failing body. Thin, hollow face, white flesh in sunken cheeks, hair the color of quality typing bond twisted in long flows down her back. A multicolored robe draped her obviously naked body. The voice was like a song, colorful and strong. “How can I help you?”
I did not, would not buckle. “You called me. We spoke on the phone.”
“Antoinette Blanc.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“My yard’s been neglected for a long time. My husband finally died. My niece gave me this.” She presented my flyer.
“Your husband? Died?”
She sneered a snicker. “Would you care for some tea?”
“I would, Mrs. Stiles. I would very much care for some tea.”
“You may call me Harriet.”
“I’d rather not.”
“On, Miss Blanc, I want to hear that story.”
At least the house didn’t smell of rotting flesh or bathrooms inches deep in shit. “Excuse the mess. I’ve not had visitors in years. My husband, you know.”
“Not a people person?”
“You know the type.”
I am the type.
After wrestling the pot onto the burner, she cleared newspapers from the table, placing cups. “Just tea.”
“There’s no other way,” I answered.
“There is not. My husband. I bet for twenty years. Always the same thing. I’ll get to the yard tomorrow, first thing. Men.”
“Men.”
“I told him I’d call someone, but no. He was going to do it, there, sitting in front of the television. Then he died. Last week.”
I looked around.
She laughed a brittle laugh. “Relax. I couldn’t get him in the ground fast enough.”
We sat, sipping tea.
“I can start—”
“After Easter.”
“I was thinking tomorrow.”
“It’s been twenty years. We can wait three weeks, right as the last snow of the season melts away.”
“Snow? The end of March? Unlikely. I will, however, pencil you in. After Easter, right after the last snow of the season.”
“Good. Dasey said you were eager—and headstrong.” She worked to her feet. “After Easter, then. If I’m still here, and if you make it back, Miss Blanc.”
“I’d like to drop a trash container in the driveway—”
“Make your notes. Walk around the property. Make your plans. We’ll see what the universe has in mind.”
“Okay.” I stood. “Sincerely, really nice to meet you.” I thought we should shake hands. We didn’t.
With narrowed eyes, she stated, “You don’t believe I’m a witch.”
I didn’t flinch. “I may be the only person in the neighborhood who doesn’t believe you’re a witch, and I’m okay with that.”
“Why?”
“Why I don’t believe or why am I okay with that?”
She chuckled. “Dasey said you were a smart one.”
“Miss Longardner drew an awful lot of conclusions from such a brief conversation.” I took a deep breath. “I read the newspaper every day. I read all the news magazines. I’m not saying everything in print is true, much isn’t. Taken as a whole, I can discern what’s true and what isn’t.
“My point, of course, is that I’ve seen no credible evidence, report, or story of women flying through the night sky on brooms. Therefore, no witches, hence you cannot be a witch.”
“What if witches don’t fly through the night sky on broomsticks? What if witches are completely different from what you believe them to be?”
“Flying on brooms is a metaphor, an example.”
“Okay, Miss Blanc, for now. Promise me we can talk if I’m still here, if you make it back. We can sip blackberry tea on the porch. You owe me a story.”
I nodded sharply. “I shall do that. It is, after all, the story of men.”
“Of course, it is.”
Dark clouds remained seamless, a perfect blanket of gray. Enjoying my ride along back streets, I said aloud, “There it is. There it is.”
I wanted to wash Harriet Stiles’ dishes, scrub her kitchen, and take Old English to her neglected dining room table. I wanted to wash her hair and brush it to a rich sheen.
There it is. The need to fix.
Harriet hit hard on the if I make it back a couple times; obviously something Dasey Longardner put in her head from when Dasey spiritualisted me and just as obviously, chum cast out on the water.
Oh, make it back from where? I was supposed to ask, my question, unlocking a deep well of pontification upon whatever. The library called to me. I was not comfortable doubting what I knew.
With my bike locked to a street sign, I entered Tom Thomas Realtors, the small office crowded by an oversized maple desk facing the door. “Good morning, Mr. Thomas,” I greeted.
The man filled his chair, jowls like my father, an unlit cigarette dangling in his mouth, black hair in a classic flattop, black-rimmed glasses, eyes not unlike mine, a dark blue wrinkled suit, a red tie, and a white shirt. Leaning back, he eyed me. “Eh, good morning. I’m not interested in any Girl Scout cookies.”
“You should be. It’s for a great cause and they’re pretty good.”
“Still—”
“Not why I’m here. I’m looking for a house. I mean, I’m looking to buy a house.”
“How old are you?”
“Immaterial.”
“Well, I disagree.”
“It’ll be a cash sale. Probably. Sure. My lawyer will be handling all the paperwork.”
“Who’s your lawyer?”
“Immaterial at this time. I want to see what’s on the market. I’m in no hurry to buy. Anxious, but not in a hurry.”
“Look, kid—”
“Don’t call me kid. It’s disrespectful.”
I almost got the Well-I-never face. “Look, I don’t have time to waste chauffeuring you around for your amusement.”
“Oh, Mr. Thomas. I wholeheartedly agree.” I dug in Pamala’s bag, producing my wad of money, peeling off two one-hundred-dollar bills. “How about I pay you upfront for your time? Will that work for you?”
He centered a yellow tablet on his desk pad. “What were you looking for?”
“Fireplace, large kitchen, separate living room and dining room, older house, detached garage, at least two acres, wooded lot. Two acres isn’t a deal breaker, but a crowded lot is. Within ten miles of town.” I provided my phone number.
“We run you through the bank and make sure you qualify.”
“Lawyer. I qualify for anything you list.”
“I may have a couple of properties you may like.”
“Mr. Thomas, like you, I don’t want to be fucked with. Don’t show me anything way off my list. Close, okay, way off, no.”
He put his pen to the paper. “No-fucking-with,” he said as he wrote.
“I think I’m going to like you, Mr. Thomas.”
“I think I’m going to like you, too.”
The library sat on the corner two blocks east of Tom Thomas Realty. I liked Mr. Thomas. I appreciated he wanted to get paid for his efforts.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” I greeted with a friendly nod.
“Toby,” she greeted back. “More Ohio maps today or maybe where birds build their nests?”
Kyra Sullivan was a stout woman in her fifties; subtle makeup applied with a soft touch. Her chestnut hair banged her brows like my hair, curtaining her face off her shoulders. She broke my cliché life, presenting more as a mom at a PTA meeting than as a librarian.
“Witches, Mrs. Sullivan. Reality as opposed to hysterical fantasy.”
She stared at me, the wheels turning. “I don’t believe we have anything specifically on that. Maybe incidentally in history books.”
“European history?”
“What is it you wish to know?”
“I was kind of wondering, you know, about witches. Being of rational mind, I’ve always believed witches didn’t exist in objective reality—the fly through the sky witches anyway.”
“There’s a woman here in town you may wish to speak to. Used to teach fifth grade when I was in school. Colorful character, great storyteller, if she’s still alive.”
“Harriet Stiles. I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Let’s see if we can’t pull a couple of books for you. I’ll make some calls and see if I can get specific books brought in from other locations.”
“You can do that?”
“Toby, we only have so much shelf space. We couldn’t possibly house every book in creation.”
Pamala rolled her eyes as she approached, taking me and my bicycle in a serious hug. “I was going to surprise you.”
I took her face in my hands, planting a serious kiss. Ohs and ahs came from the distance with one, “Oh, get a room.”
I blushed, stepping back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Again, the eye roll. “Someone will rat me out to Sister Carolina. Sister Carolina will have a talk with me about appropriate behavior on school grounds. I’ll agree with her, offering that you have the most kissable face God ever created. She’ll ask, Detention kissable? to which I’ll answer, Yes, but I won’t do it again.”
I struggled my bicycle into the back seat, climbing in the front. “I want to go here and not just because the skirts are adorable.”
“I was going to surprise you,” she repeated. “Dad gave me the day off. I was going to presumealate you, crash whatever party you have going.”
“That gives me tingles in my special place.”
“Right?” She took my hand as we exited the parking lot. “I started out with you want to go to school with me. He bit his lip, looking around the table. Tuition—”
“Wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I thought as much. There’s the tricky matter of who you aren’t, who your legal guardian is, blah, blah, blah.”
“Yeah. I really don’t want to put him in a position like that.”
“Where to?”
"Dry cleaners.”
“Picking up or dropping off?”
“I’m not sure about Dad meeting me yet. The newspapers aren’t giving me much. I have no idea how hard they’re still looking. I really don’t want Dad to know too much, that he’d give me up in the box.”
“That’s a good idea.”
I moved closer on the bench seat, putting her hand on the crotch of my pants. “Oh, how’d that get there?”
“I have no idea.”
I released a long sigh, running my palm over the back of her hand. “I’ve been thinking. You inside me.”
“Now, you’re giving me tingles in that special place, but—”
I curled around her arm, my head on her shoulder. “Sure, it’s not comfortable is the words I’ll use. Other than with the Ballantine Beer bottle, when things entered me, it was because bad things were happening.”
“Things. Penises. I get all that.”
“I think I’ll be okay.”
“I never in any way wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“I believe, I trust, I’ll get over it. I would like you inside me.”
Pamala laughed—just a little. “Well, Toby, this is a little awkward, driving and all.”
“I don’t mean now!”
“I would have given it my best shot!”
“Anyway.”
“Anyway.”
“Dasey says I have another soul sitting on top mine.”
“The spiritualist? Really?”
“Yeah, she said he is a great comfort to me.”
“A hit and a miss.”
“It would seem her aunt is a witch.”
“Oh, no! Not a real witch!”
“Met her today. She needs some yardwork done. Called me.”
“What did she have to say?”
“Her husband kept saying he would clean up the yard; never did. For years. Now that he’s dead—”
“Dead?”
“I didn’t smell any decaying bodies, so I think we’re good. Now that he’s dead, she can hire someone.”
“I was wondering more about what she had to say about the add-a-soul business than her lawn maintenance.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Oh, I want your hand down my pants.”
“We can stop by the river. Park.”
“I’m good. She asked if I believed she was a witch.”
Pamala laughed. “There’s a loaded question.”
“Yeah, huh? I told her I was the only person in the neighborhood who didn’t think her a witch.”
“Because witches aren’t real, therefore she can’t be a witch?”
“I may have mentioned something about having seen no credible or convincing evidence of women flying through the air on brooms.”
“Maybe that’s not what a witch is.”
“Pam! Did she call you? Yeah, she strongly implied that my assumed version of what a witch is may be mistaken.”
“Well, it is. No one anywhere flew around on broomsticks.”
“It’s a metaphor, Pam, like leaving the toilet seat up.”
“I know, but did she?”
“I may be an arrogant, snotty little cunt, but not so arrogant and snotty to think I know all there is to know about anything.”
“Find anything good in the library.”
“You should do a spiritualist act.”
“I think the same about you.”
“Next church carnival, we could do an act together.”
“Tag team.”
“Couple dry history books, which covered the subject incidentally, even dismissively.”
“I had a good in-depth survey study in history last year. I could find my notes or just tell you a story.”
“On the recliner?”
“I promise not to put you to sleep.”
The car rolled to the curb three stores down from Valkyries Drycleaners and Formal Wear. With a long, deep sigh and a snuggle, I untangled.
“Shawn!” Pamala greeted, entering the dry cleaners.
Shawn turned from the counter, Pamala taking her up in a hug, Shawn hugging back. “Hi, Charlotte,” Pamala said over Shawn’s shoulder.
I thought to clear my throat as a joke, enjoying the moment too much.
Breaking from Shawn, Pamala hurried excitedly around the counter, gathering Charlotte up. “Gosh, love the dress.”
“Oh!” Charlotte, with her blue smock over her silk dress, hugged back.
Shawn stepped toward me.
I shook my head. “I think not. Pamala’s a hugger.”
“I see that.”
“I presumed,” Pamala said, returning, standing next to Shawn. “Getting a tuxedo?”
“I am.”
“Oh, I’m so excited. This is going to be so much fun!”
“Shawn only finally said yes when I mentioned you’d be there.”
“That’s not exactly true.”
A man emerged from the clothing carousel, surveying the room from behind the counter. “Charlotte?” He nodded. “Hello, Shawn.”
“Mr. Clift.”
Charlotte offered a sweeping hand. “These are the two women I told you about, Anthony.”
Anthony Clift, a man of sixty, his dark eyes raked me up and down. “Custom tuxedos, buying, women’s, skirts,” he said, a tone difficult to read. “Would you be so kind as to liberally distribute our business card at any opportunity?”
I offered my ballet curtsey. “Not only an honor, but a privilege.”
“Well, get to it, Charlotte. I’ve got the counter.”
“Are you a dancer as well?” Shawn asked Pamala.
“Oh, you mean by how easily I dropped my clothes in front of people? I have absolutely no modesty. It’s not that I’m an expeditionist. It’s more like I don’t care what other people think.”
Charlotte put the three of us in long white button-down shirts similar to what we’d be wearing. She took a dozen measurements of Shawn. “Okay, you can get dressed.”
“I thought you’d be altering an existing suit.”
Charlotte offered a half smirk.
She then draped Pamala and me with jigsaw puzzles, pinning and marking.
“I can’t believe you did this so quickly,” Pamala said, watching herself in the mirror.
“I get obsessed, lost in projects. I’ll sometimes go days without sleeping. My father helps.” She carefully peeled the material from Pamala. “You can get dressed.”
Pamala just had to gather one more hug from Charlotte. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Char,” Pamala and Shawn, holding hands, exited the way we’d come.
With me reduced to my underwear, Charlotte said, “One more thing,” draping me in silk.
“You did this today?”
“I have your measurement.” She put a hand to her neck. “I have a long neck, thus the collar. Your neck is perfect—”
“There is nothing wrong with your neck, matter of fact—”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with my neck, just that it’s long. Your neck is symmetrical. I’m going to open the collar to here.” Her finger touched me high on my chest. She looked at me in the mirror.
I nodded.
She tugged. “Hem here, I can fold two inches.”
“I thought you said it was going to be short.”
She snickered.
“God, Charlotte, I love it, and it’s still in pieces.”
“There’s nothing like the feel of clothing that’s made for you.”
“And the silk.”
“There is that.”
“I was going to see what Woolworth’s has.” I turned each way, looking in the mirror. “I think rather you and I can talk.”
“We can do that. What do you have in mind?”
“Off the top of my head, a dress more fitting for an eight-year-old, made for an adult. How’s that for weird?”
“We call them cocktail dresses.”
“I really need to get out more. Do you have pictures?”
“I do.”
Charlotte didn’t accompany me from the back room. “Have a nice day, Mr. Clift,” I tossed at the man behind the counter because that’s what people in a polite society do.
“My daughter take good care of you?”
No surprise there. “She did.”
“I worry about her; she gets so lost in her work.”
“I think if it’s a passion, it’s not so much work anymore. I get lost mowing a lawn, raking leaves. I do so love a well-groomed lawn.”
“I can appreciate that. Thank you.”
“And thank you.”
Pamala and Shawn stood on the sidewalk by Pamala’s Chevy, Pamala’s right hand to Shawn’s left. I didn’t know whether to duck away or throw a bucket of cold water on them. Shawn had freed her hair, tan sheets teased by the cool breeze. I then understood Tex’s comment about my hair curtaining my face even better.
“My gosh, Toby,” Pamala greeted. “That was, eh—”
“Sensual?”
“That, Toby, is the exact word I was looking for.”
“And you didn’t get the silk draped on you.” I watched their hands briefly, the hand that had been on my crotch on the ride over now in Shawn’s hand.
“Are you blushing?” Pamala asked.
“You know, silk.”
“I do! Shawn was asking about the party. All I could tell her was guys in dresses.”
“I know you didn’t say that.”
“Not as bluntly,” Shawn said. “I’ve got a pig in a poke.”
“Huh?” Pam asked.
“You’ve made a major commitment and have no idea what you’ve signed up for.”
“Exactly that.”
“It’s a sit-down dinner party at the Bristle Estate.”
“The Bristle!” She whistled. “A few years ago, my aunt, my mother’s sister had her wedding reception there. I felt like an interloper.”
I wanted to ask whether this was the same aunt who lost a daughter; given the math, unlikely. “It’s going to be like a wedding reception or rather not unlike a wedding reception.”
“Sit-down?”
“Yes. Thus, the servers.”
“We did a catering job off location, served twenty-six, I think. I ran my ass off. I do sit-downs every day, though. No problem.”
“One hundred, give or take.”
“What is.”
Pamala’s eyes went big. “One hundred people sitting down to be served?”
“Give or take.”
“Toby,” Shawn managed to choke out. “Please tell me the three of us aren’t the only servers.”
“I’m not a server. As far as I know at this point, the three of us are the only servers wearing tuxedos. There’ll be six other servers.” I winked at Pamala. “Seven if I have to press Butch into service, him also in a tux, which I can’t wait to see.”
“Uh huh.” Pamala rolled her eyes, biting her lip.
“Why us?” Shawn asked. “I mean, in tuxes.”
“We’re cute as fuck and special.” I rolled my eyes to match Pamala. “First event I did like this, I was a bus girl and dishwasher. I wore a tux. I feel it’s fitting.” Again, I glanced Pamala. “If I were Jessica, I’d put all the servers in tuxes.”
She nodded. “Because of the image it sends. Have you suggested it?”
“I have not. They’re her women.” I turned to Shawn. “We’re the interlopers.”
“And as such, you want to send a clear message,” Pamala added.
“That I do. That I do. Where was I?”
Shawn bit her lip; Pamala melted. “Sit-down for one hundred people, the servers are fucked,” Shawn answered.
“If I showed up at your door with Pamala and asked you to help me bury a body, would you?”
“With Pamala?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. My dad has a couple of really good shovels in the garage.”
“Butch Falcon, who you’re going to meet at the party and who you’re going to want to fuck even though your gate doesn’t swing that way—”
“I know the type.”
“Is opening a new restaurant in the fall.”
Shawn offered a traffic cop palm. “This is a promotion for that?”
“That’s the guts of it.”
“Is this the same Butch you are going to press into service?”
“You don’t miss much.”
“Pam asked if you made a suggestion to Jessica.”
Again, Shawn showed me the traffic cop palm. “Let’s keep the rest of that pig in her poke. I know enough.” She looked hard at me. “Boss. Tell me my job.”
“I like you much more than I should. Door opens at six. Many people will need to use a room to get ready. Cash bar and people get seated, mingle.”
“I’ll be serving cocktails to the tables?”
“Yes, you will.”
Again, the whistle. “I’m going to need a suitcase for the tips and also explains the short-skirted tuxedo.”
“I find a duffle bag works best for carting large amounts of cash around. The plan is come seven, take the food orders, all the food to be on the tables between seven thirty and eight.”
“Fuck.”
“There’s only four entrees.”
“Showcase the food.”
I looked toward the clouds, finger on my chin. “Prime rib, shrimp scampi, flounder Florentine, and lasagna.”
Pamala nodded. “Makes for an easy kitchen.”
“And serving,” Shawn added.
“Pamala and I are going over at noon.”
“We are?”
“There’s setup. Jessica thinks she’s going to kick the servers free about ten unless they wish to stay. Pamala and I will likely be there the rest of the night.”
“We will?”
Shawn narrowed her eyes at me. “Because you own this.”
I shrugged.
“I’m in, Toby. Pam.”
“All day with us?”
“And night.”
“You didn’t ask about the pay.”
Shawn chuckled. “Not a concern.”
“Mark your calendar. Eleven thirty in the morning on the twenty-first.”
“Thus it is marked, thus it shall be.”
“Shawn.” I held her eyes.
“Toby?”
“She gets scary like this sometimes,” Pam interjected.
“I wish to make one thing perfectly clear.”
“Please, make away.”
“These people. We may see men in dresses. What we’re going to deliver is a normal experience, which many cannot have anywhere else.”
“I do know, Toby, me standing here on a city street holding hands with Pam is a normal experience, a normal experience that could so easily be shattered by any random asshole taking exception to who I am and how I love.”
“I figured you’d get it. I wanted to say it out loud anyway.”
Pamala nodded down the street. “Pizza? My treat.”
“You are such a temptress. I have a ballet class, then it’s laundry night.”
“Toby said you teach ballet.”
“I do beginners; help out the master.”
Pamala nodded quickly, smirking. “You’ve seen Toby naked.”
“I have and I’m jealous. I’ve seen you in your underwear—and this cute plaid skirt.”
“Anyway,” I said. “My nakedness aside.”
“Then, laundry night. Since you just moved into Garfield, I know you’re going to have to use the laundromat.”
“I’d not thought that far ahead. I’m used to just running down to the basement.”
“I’m not far. You’re welcome to come over, meet the family, use the facilities at times.”
“Do your parents know?”
“Oh, god no. They’d kill me, skin me, stretch my skin out to dry on the porch as a warning to anyone else in the family.”
“That sucks, Shawn,” Pamala said.
“If I ever bond with a woman like you two have, I’ll tell them, shout it from the rooftops, and let them do as they please. Yes, Toby. I understand about our dinner party.”
Snuggling on Pamala’s shoulder on the recliner under a blanket, Pamala said, “The hug surprised me.”
“She earned it. The past twenty-two years of her life, she’s earned it. There on the street, helpless, I wanted to hold her so long and so tight, all the pain would go away.”
“I was going to clear my throat.”
“You, too! That was me in the tux shop. I didn’t want to be an asshole.”
“Hmm. You not wanting to be an asshole. Now that’s something remarkable.”
“How’d that get there?”
“Your hand? That’s like asking how the grass got wet when it rains. So, witches.”
“Yes, witches. How do they manage to stay on the broom?”
“They don’t wear underwear.”
“You learned that in your witch class?”
“One of the many jokes. Never from the teacher, rarely from a girl. So, witches. Magical beings who fly through the sky on broomsticks. Or so it was believed.”
“Still believed, I believe.”
“I kind of sit in wide-eyed amazement at the things people believe that are obviously not true. Let’s cover the brooms first, then.
“Blah, blah, blah. Europe had many local religions, beliefs. Maybe a thousand years ago, the Church swept across Europe, converting people.”
“Why?”
“Difficult to really say. I think I’ll just say it’s what human beings do. Famously, we have Alexander who led the Greeks to conquer the world; then the Romans came along to conquer the world, then the Roman Church. More recently, under the cover of exploration, the European countries colonized the world everywhere. The Europeans colonized what would become the United States. Once the United States broke the ties to Europe, not without some irony, the United States established its own colonies around the world.”
“Domination.”
“Yeah, it’s what we do.” She sighed.
“Want me to stop.”
“Absolutely not. The Roman Catholic Church sweeps across Europe. Too general to be accurate, I’m going to say the population was divided into two camps: believers and those who are wrong. If you have the truth of God, after all, all others therefore must be wrong.”
“Fuck. I never looked at it that way.”
“Got to slide on the other person’s Mary Janes. Stories, like fairy tales, circulated about those people who have turned their backs on God, worshiping something other. Now, following their logic, since they have the truth of God, the only other thing to worship would be the opposer of God.”
“The devil?”
“Yeah, that’s the critter. If you are not devote to God through the Church, then you worship the devil.”
“I think I see where this is going.”
“Right? Women, rarely men, would meet up with the devil in the middle of the night deep in the woods, partaking in rituals having to do with profane sex.”
“Profane sex?”
“Yeah, right? A popular phrase when people talk about us. Anyway, deep in the woods, the stories were told, women would have sex with the devil who appeared in the form of a goat.”
“Oh, I so got this. Do tell, Pam, how is it women could get from the village to deep in the woods and be back in time to make breakfast for the menfolk?"
“Why, Toby, they’d ride on broomsticks!”
“So, a witch is someone who fucks goats in the woods?”
“Or dances naked with wraiths in the snow.”
“Or fucks wraiths.”
“I asked my teacher for further reading. She didn’t have much to offer. Most the stuff, like these history books you have here, are aloof, mostly subjective. She said she’s seen nothing by anyone claiming to be a witch in modern times.”
“Mrs. Sullivan did suggest I talk to Harriet Stiles.”
“The librarian?”
“Stiles is the witch in town.”
“Here’s a suggestion. Start by asking what a witch is, instead of saying: I don’t believe in you.”
“I can be an asshole at times.”
“A snotty little cunt.”
“Is that all. About witches?”
“Oh, there much, much more.”
“Okay.” My finger slid in up to the first knuckle. “Oops. How’d that happen?”
“I think I’m leaking.”
Heavy footfalls sang from the stairway.
“Just when things were getting interesting,” I moaned.
“The witches, too. Don’t move.”
“I have to.” I squirmed away off the chair.
“You went Dark Toby.”
“I really do love how you can read me so well.”
The door opened. “Hey, hey, gang,” Michelle called. “Boy, do I need a shower? Anyone need to pee?”
“We’re good,” I answered. “Keith.”
Michelle disappeared down the short hallway.
“Toby? What’s up?”
“We need have a private conversation.”
Pamala opened a book. “Don’t mind me.”
Keith squared confrontationally.
“Sabbie.”
“What about him? He said you were around today. Was impressed by the way you carried yourself for a kid. You bought us lunch?”
I put my two fingers in my mouth, rolling my eyes. Pamala giggled.
“How old were you when he first blew you?”
“Huh? What? How is that any of your business?”
“Did he give you a job because he blew you?”
“Oh, oh, I see what you’re saying.”
“I’m Michelle’s de facto guardian.”
“Dee what oh what?”
“Toby,” Pamala said in her mother’s voice. “You are in no way, de facto or otherwise, Michelle’s guardian.”
“I didn’t mean that literally.”
“Mike told me. He told me how you’ve been involved in his life, dressing him and all. Just how old were you when all that happened?”
I looked to the ceiling for a breath. “Michelle will also tell you math is one of my strong subjects. You were fifteen. Sabbie what? Eighty-four?”
“He’ll be sixty in May. What’s your point without all the big word and dee fact whatevering.”
“Toby feels responsible for Michelle. Toby’s opened her home, given her support. I gather she feels who?”
“Sabbie. Sebastian,” Keith answered.
“Sabbie may be a bad influence; he may be taking advantage of neighborhood children.” She looked at me. “Is that about right?”
“Yeah, what she said.”
“You remember that summer—eh, when we hardly knew each other and—eh, ah—”
“You tried to fuck me.”
“Well, I don’t think I thought that far ahead. Maybe make out, see what happens!”
“Were flowers and candy involved?” Pamala asked
“No!”
“I see your point,” Pamala said.
“I don’t,” I said.
“I wanted something, I guess sex. You didn’t.”
“I'm still not following.”
“What did you call yourself when you talked about this before?”
“Oh, I was Miss Available.”
“See now?”
“No! I have a dumb today.”
“Why did your brother and his merry band of rapists rape you, Toby?” Pamala asked.
“I was available. It wasn’t so much about me as it was about them having sex with any girl. Oh, fuck.”
“Some guys just love the fuck out of a good blow job, Toby. Sabbie does this thing; he takes the whole dick down his throat.” He presented his right hand toward me as if holding a ball. “He takes—”
I shielded my face with my hands. “Way too much information!”
“Some guys, I repeat, love a good blow job and don’t care so much who’s giving it. Sure, I was fifteen. I never felt abused. I feel special, Sabbie praising my—”
“I get it! I get it!”
“You get what?” Michelle asked, entering from the hall wrapped in a towel.
“What did I tell you?”
“I’m not naked!”
“Be more not naked!”
“Okay. Okay.”
I followed Michelle into the bedroom, closing the door behind.
“Toby?”
“Go on. It’s not like I’ve not seen everything before.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t. I got to get it loaded up for Keith later—”
I rolled my eyes back, dropping on the bed. “Really, Michelle. I just want to talk to you. You can get dressed; maybe I’ll do your makeup.”
“I like when you do my makeup.” She opened a drawer. “My underwear drawer. Do you know what’s in it? My underwear. You can think you know how meaningful that is to me, but you can only get close.”
“You’re talking to someone who’s lost everything twice.”
“Noted.”
Retrieving underwear, facing away, she dropped her towel, going one leg, then the other. “I can’t wear silk.”
“Gives you a perpetual hard on?”
“Yeah, like that.” She flipped a bra at me. “Sewn in padding. Makes it easier, though I lack the natural movement of the real thing.”
“I feel you’ve made a good choice with definition. You and Keith. Okay?”
“Sure. We can repeat our last conversation.”
“Sabbie?”
“He gave me a job. Let’s me dress how I want. One of the guys thought to rib me. Keith flattened him. Sabbie backed Keith up, I think because Sabbie knows they make fun of him behind his back.”
“So now, they rib from a distance.”
“At least they don’t try to rape me in the bathroom. It’s a big step up from school. Yeah, they think I’m a freak. Sometimes I agree with them.”
“I have my own kink. I don’t judge. Freak means not like them.”
“In that case, I’ll wear that freak badge proudly. I’d never want to be like them.”
“When I got to the new school, the cool kids invited me to sit at their table, to be one of their group. All I had to do was fuck a half dozen or so of the boys.”
“Really?”
“It didn’t go well for them.” I took a deep breath. “Does Sabbie still require you give him dick?”
Michelle stepped into a simple dress, scrunched her face, and turned. “Zip? Not too often. I think he doesn’t like girls. We’re just going down the diner.”
“I gather you’re not a fan.”
“Of him blowing me? He’s ugly, smells bad. And old. If not for the job—”
“Do you ever have to blow him?”
“God no!”
I stood. “Sit.”
She sat on the extra chair from the kitchen set. I straddled her, eyeshadow palette in one hand, applicator in the other. “Don’t you dare get a fucking hard on,” I scolded.
“Not all things are under my control!”
Satisfied with the shadows, I leaned back, plucking the mascara from the dresser. I worked her lashes.
“I miss that night.”
I sighed. “Yeah. I often think: what if we could step through some kind of magic door, you and me, holding hands, to a place where that was reality? Would we?”
“We could—”
I worked off her lap. “No, we couldn’t. You’re not Antoinette Blanc. I am.”
“I’m not even sure who I am. Michelle. Michelle what? I don’t have an identity.”
“You are Michelle. My friend.”
“I thought—”
“Things change. The twenty-first. Make sure you have off work. You’ll be working for me that day. Noon to likely the next morning.”
“Okay. Doing what?”
“We’ll be setting up and taking down. Bussing tables, washing dishes, mopping up vomit if need be. One thing you won’t have to do is sit while some skanky old asshole blows you.”
“I follow.”
“I don’t give a fuck if you have family plans with Keith. This is not a request.”
“Fuck. Toby. Fuck. I will not let you down. This time.”
Hints of spring were everywhere. I drew the cool air deep into my lungs. I smelled more like Pamala than me, hidden under layers of clothing, enjoying the leisurely twelve-mile ride.
Mrs. Ambrose was exactly as remembered. The same beady brown eyes sweeping over me, the same expression of irritation on her round face. I did not bother with a pleasant greeting.
“Mrs. Ambrose. 3751 C.”
“You a relation?”
“I am not.”
“Oh, what a piece of work that one is.”
I can really do without the gossip. “The rent. Where’s she stand?”
“I knew she was trouble. So many single women, all trouble.”
“I would imagine. It’s not natural for a woman to live out from under the steady hand a man provides.”
“Right? Right?”
“Where does she stand?”
“She paid February, all proud as punch and snotty too, like she’s all that.”
“A woman with two children, thrown to the wolves to fend for herself. I can see where she might be proud of a simple accomplishment like paying rent. March is due. Late?”
Ambrose grumbled, unwilling to give an inch. “It’ll be late tomorrow.”
I dropped a couple hundreds, counting twenties. “March and April. I’ll be needing a receipt.”
“You know, if your friend would quit drinking—”
I cut her off with a glance. “Receipt.”
She opened a pad. “What name should I put on this?”
“Santa Claus.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t look like Santa Claus?”
As if delivering some great defeat, she pushed the pen hard on the pad. “Santa Claus. There. Happy?”
I shrugged, accepting the receipt. I thought about demanding a thank you. I thought to suggest she not be such an asshole. I had my fill of Mrs. Ambrose and her hate for women.
As I exited, I didn’t bother wondering why I paid my mother’s rent. I happened to know where these poor people lived.
Because it’s how the universe works, a scarecrow of a man, barely not a boy, a head over me, hovered near my bicycle. Lanky, disheveled, clothes obviously not his hung on him. “Nice bike.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Take the lock off; I’ll be taking it.”
“Nice neighborhood my father picked for us,” I mumbled, coming around the bicycle aggressively, head down. I lunged like I lunged at Jerry. Scarecrow stepped back, his feet tangling. I helped him to the asphalt, following, employing the Brother Mark maneuver.
He sobbed, rolling, holding his head.
Working the combination lock, I said, “Three bounces, not two.”
I was tempted to stare down on him, say something profound like Antoinette Blanc has done this to you. I’d read The Odyssey the year before. I knew to let everyone believe Santa Claus was responsible.
A block and a half, around the corner, I carried my bicycle up the steps, letting myself into the apartment. The smell twisted my stomach; the trash obviously had not been taken out since I left months before. Dirty dishes, silverware, pots, pans, were piled everywhere.
I gathered from the police report on the table that Mark was still in the hospital. I shrugged, relieved my name wasn’t on it.
I had no specific plans for my visit. Maybe I thought I could hurt them by stealing something, maybe breaking something, possibly shredding their clothes. The damage they’d done to themselves surpassed anything I could do.
I wanted to clean the apartment. I wanted to set fire to the apartment. I worked my key from my keyring, placing it to the table where my mother drinks her bourbon while she curses what the world has done to her.
Playland lie dark, temporary chain-link fencing closing off the area. I lingered a bit, pondering roller coaster cars and lies, wondering whether Bill Locke planned to sink his dick in me the day we met. Across the way, I spotted Carol and Tex. They didn’t notice me.
Wandering among the sparce people, I landed on the eighteen-inch fountain wall, the dancing water spouts soothing. Across the court, Mr. Bailey and Bob Edwards walked in the direction of Harvest. They both casually glanced me, me hidden within my hooded sweatshirt.
Across the court in the other direction, Tammy Flannagan worked hard at the display case glass, an elderly man in gray coveralls, handle on his shoulder, pushed a large dust broom as if following my father. My father stopped abruptly, the broom sliding around him.
He watched me across the distance. I felt like prey and predator. I imagined taking the Mark Maneuver to him, bouncing his head three times, leaving him dead on the tile floor, a mess for the elderly man to clean up.
I did not fool myself. I knew—like in the restroom in my new school—I got lucky with the Mark Maneuver. Besides, I didn’t consider my father recognized me. He saw a girl alone in the mall, calculating whether he could fuck me or not.
Tammy appeared next to my father, glancing my direction, then waving her arms at him, raising her voice.
I couldn’t decide which was in the greater hell.
Mr. Bailey joined, his voice raised at Tammy, an arm thrust at the store. Red-faced, Tammy stamped her foot like the child she was, hurrying back to the store. Though I couldn’t hear, Bailey took it pretty good to my father.
I entertained the passing thought I wanted to meet Tammy’s father, Hugo Flannagan, to look pure evil in the eye. Maybe I’d kill him.
Dark Toby.
Bailey returned to the store; my father hurried off in the other direction.
A child floated to the fountain’s other side. I watched her without looking. My height, light tan hair curtaining her face and down her back, faded jeans, tattered sneakers, and an oversized used-to-be white sweater with the sleeves pulled to her palms. The only thing lacking for her to complete the cliché would be a smudge of grease or dirt on her cheek.
Here, in the mall, I was surprised the FBI or local law enforcement didn’t pick her up thinking she was me.
Tex marched into the court, a man on a mission. His steps became lighter when he looked in my direction. At first, I thought he recognized me.
It was the girl.
I stood, slid twelve paces, blocking his path, going almost nose-to-nose.
“Huh?”
“Jody Demarko. Is her name Jody Demarko?”
“What fucking business of yours is it?”
“Jody Demarko. Yes or no, Paul, or things are going to get fucking ugly here.”
He took a step back. “Toby? You look—eh—great.”
“Paul—”
“I’ve not checked her ID.”
I poked him hard high in the chest. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“Hey! Don't do that!”
I poked again, stepping forward. “Then answer me.”
“Jennifer Longe. That’s what she said her name was.”
I bit my lip. “Do you believe her?”
“Yeah, for two reasons. She has no reason to lie to me, and she’s not smart enough to lie. She ran away from home right before Christmas; story ran in the papers. You should have seen it the way you’re always ass-deep in the newspapers.”
“You okay?”
“Sure, we’re in an abandoned house a couple miles from here.”
I watched the child on the fountain wall for a long ten seconds. “You’re fucking her?”
He shrugged. “She ran away because her father, uncle, and brother were fucking her silly. I figured another dick in her isn’t going to hurt any.”
“It’s a wonder you didn’t rape me, me having let you in so close.”
“I figured I did that, you’d kill me.”
“You figured right.” I crossed off any plans I ever had for going to Texas.