The Stonefly Series, Book 1

by Scott J. Holliday

  Jake's heart plopped onto his stomach. He'd never seen the shirt before. No doubt it belonged to some new boyfriend. How long had the guy been gone?

  Two hours, dummy.

  "Hi," Lori said.

  Jake handed her the doughnuts as they went inside. He put down the coffee carrier and turned around to find her hugging him. The doughnut sack slapped his back as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Despite his change of mood at the sight of her men’s shirt, he reciprocated the hug and the world faded away. The scent of her hair. The feel of her chest against his. She gripped him hard and turned her face into his neck. Her breath danced across his skin and caused him to shiver.

  She pulled back from and put her hands on his shoulders. "JD," she said, "I think I'm in love." She bit her lower lip, her eyes searching back and forth across Jake's face. She wanted him to share in her happiness, wanted him to smile like a clown while she stuck a butcher knife in his guts and yanked it up.

  So he smiled.

  She hugged him again, bouncing on her toes.

  When it was done, Jake reached for his coffee. He sat down on the couch and took a scalding sip.

  A yellow Labrador Retriever named Russ emerged from the back bedroom. He stood half in the kitchen, half in the living room, watching Lori. He was a pound rescue who'd so far had proven leery of Jake. The kind of dog that didn't come to the door when someone knocked, but instead waited to suss out the situation before deciding what to do. Jake and Russ had come to the unspoken agreement that they'd tolerate each other's presence.

  Lori set the doughnuts on the arm of a chair and went to the dog, patted his head and rubbed behind his ears.

  Russ closed his eyes. Ecstasy.

  Once she was done, Russ walked toward Jake.

  Jake sat up, thinking the dog may finally be opening up to him and coming over for a visit, maybe a scratch behind the ears, but Russ veered on his path and stuck his nose up against the doughnut sack for a sniff. The bag fell off the arm of the chair and onto the seat cushion.

  In the kitchen now, Lori opened an overhead cabinet and reached inside. Her shirt came up and Jake caught his breath at the sight of her belly button. Her features had slightly softened since they met—since she'd begun eating again—but with the right stretch or bend the outlines of bone and lean muscle could still be seen. From beneath her waistband trailed out the tattoo that stretched across her ribs to her back—the dandelion and its wish-blown spores.

  Lori produced a treat designed to look like one of those round, marrow-filled bones in a steak. Russ retreated from the doughnut bag and hopped back and forth on his front paws awaiting the bone. She teased him with it, waving it around in front of his face until ropes of saliva began to rappel from his black lips.

  Finally she fed him.

  Lori came to the couch, grabbed her coffee, and sat opposite Jake. She held the cup in two hands, warming them, before she closed her eyes and sipped.

  Jake shifted his position to face her, one leg bent, the foot and ankle tucked uncomfortably in the opposite knee pit.

  Lori raised her eyebrows.

  "So, what's his name?" Jake said, seeing where she wanted him to go. He knew her answer would be a name he was predestined to hate, like-

  "Preston."

  -Preston. Jake slugged back more coffee.

  "He's a great guy, JD," she said. "You'd really like him."

  This is how it went. She'd meet some new asshole and tell Jake how he'd really like him for some trivial reason like-

  "He's into baseball."

  -him being into baseball. Never mind that he was probably a prick in every conceivable way. So no, Jake wouldn't like him. And the fact that he's into baseball wouldn't make Jake like him, but hate him all the more.

  Still, he nodded, forced a smile, and sipped more coffee. At this rate he'd be done with the extra-large cup in record time, and tomorrow morning he'd have to peel the skin from the roof of his mouth.

  "Remember where we ate on Friday?" Lori said.

  A little Thai place in a strip mall a few blocks down from the bookstore where Lori worked. Jake had some time between clients in the late afternoon and they spent the half-hour of her mid-shift break together. She had tried something new, something with curry and Chinese broccoli. Jake stuck with his standard Pad Thai.

  "Remember how you had to get going, and it was such a nice day I wanted to walk back?"

  Jake nodded.

  "I met him on the walk back," she said. "He was coming out of that CVS on Rivard as I was passing by."

  Jake tasted bile. Not only was she smitten with this Preston asshole, but he'd been partly responsible for their serendipitous meeting? Tie a noose.

  "He came out with a Dr. Pepper," Lori said, "and some peanut M&Ms. I couldn't help but say something to him. Are you okay, JD?" She laid a hand on his knee. "We don't have to talk about Preston if you don't want to."

  Not 'him,' but 'Preston,' as if he were an old friend they shared. Jake sipped and burned.

  She offered a coy smile.

  Jake squinted, expecting something he wouldn't like.

  "Gee," Lori said, "I sure wish those doughnuts weren't all the way over there on that chair, but here on this coffee table and out of the bag."

  Jake felt a twinge in his chest, felt the quickening's minimal surge at her minimal wish. It was hardly noticeable with the weight of the kid from Wixom's murderous desire already there. He dutifully went to the doughnuts and brought them back.

  Russ tracked him with his eyes the whole way.

  Jake removed the doughnuts, flattened the sack on the coffee table, and placed a chocolate cake, a Boston cream, and a sourdough on the paper.

  Russ trotted over and sniffed at the edges of the table as Jake sat back down and took a peek out the window. His horizon was still in good shape, maybe a few hundred miles out. It shifted back slightly at the granting of Lori's wish. "One of these days I won't do it."

  She reached for the Boston Cream. "Oh, please. You love granting my wishes."

  He did. Especially her first.

  Lori had stayed after he left her in his tattoo shop the morning they met. When he came back the next day he found her sitting on the back steps, freshly showered and reading her book, back in her party clothes.

  "I watched you come in," she said.

  Jake set down a cooler, a bag, and a carrier with two Dunkin' Donuts coffees, both extra-large with cream and sugar. The cooler held some chicken salad sandwiches he'd made, some potato chips, and a couple Pepsis. The bag held a change of clothes for her. He didn't want to seem presumptuous, but he figured she might be more comfortable in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt rather than the short skirt and skimpy top she was wearing. The t-shirt and jeans were items his mother hadn't worn since she was probably Lori's age. "I'm glad you decided to stay."

  "I screamed when you opened the door," Lori said. "You weren't looking and I screamed as loud as I could. You didn't react. You really are deaf, aren't you?"

  Jake nodded.

  She closed her book and set her jaw to the side, then back to center. "You're gonna help me, huh?"

  "Help you start over," Jake said. He held out a coffee.

  She took the coffee, closed her eyes to savor the scent as she drank.

  "I will grant your wish."

  "What's with this wish stuff?"

  Jake blushed. "I guess it's just my way."

  Lori set down the coffee and stood. She picked up a nearby broom. "I won't stay without chipping in."

  Four days later Jake's shop was operational and Lori's wish had been granted. She had no credit, so he put her new apartment in his own name, paying the deposit and first month's rent with all the cash he had left. He accepted her word that she would one day pay him back and change the lease to her name. They filled her new space with some credit-bought IKEA furniture and it looked enough like home. Cleaned up and looking smart, she got the bookstore job on the spot. Her black eye had nearly healed, and the
phone calls and text messages from the guy who'd given it to her had suddenly stopped.

  Lori never questioned why Jake applied her dandelion tattoo with a bandaged hand, and Jake never had to say, "You should see the other guy."

  He recalled the precise moment he was released from her wish. It was that same moment when she examined her new tattoo in the full-length mirror, when she looked up with tears in her eyes and said, "Thank you." The quickening died and the pain in Jake's chest subsided, replaced with a different kind of pain, something he was feeling for the first time.

  Lori's tattoo had been Jake's first outside of Dover, where he'd picked up the craft. The nurses encouraged patients—those that would one day be set free, anyway—to learn trades, so when Jake asked for a tattoo machine they initially hesitated but eventually relented.

  They gave him two rules.

  One, he had to buy the machine and supplies with his own money. No problem there. He'd been saving up the two dollars an hour he'd earned from sweeping and mopping the floors, cleaning the bathrooms, and washing the day room walls for years while at the same time avoiding the temptation of the sweets and treats at the canteen.

  Two, he wasn't allowed to tattoo any fellow patients.

  Jake followed the second rule almost to the letter, practicing on grapefruits in his bedroom or in a corner of the day room while the more volatile patients were on lockdown. The only misstep was when Conlon, a Dover lifer who'd never displayed violent tendencies—save for the trailer park killing spree that put him there in the first place—sucker-punched Jake while he was practicing. Jake went down hard, out cold, and Conlon managed to tattoo 'TITS' on his forearm before the orderlies descended on him.

  Conlon showed Jake the tattoo a week later when they finally let him out of lockdown. He was beaming with pride. For a nut-job under duress, it was pretty clean line work.

  Lori was giving him a look.

  "What?" Jake said.

  "What's on your mind?" she said, tearing the Boston Cream in half. She licked that little curl that always appears when you pull apart a cream-filled doughnut. That little curl always makes Jake think of The Nightmare Before Christmas.

  "I was just thinking about the first time we met."

  She looked down. Jake watched her lips move, but it was hard to read them. He thought she might have said, "Please don't."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  Her head came back up. Her smile was gone. He had hurt her, reminded her of a painful time. He scrambled to recover. "So, about this Preston fella?"

  Her face brightened.

  During the barrage of terribly exciting details about Preston—Jake especially enjoyed the part about him offering to cook her breakfast this morning, but suddenly having to leave before he had the chance—Russ came over to Jake. He sat down next to the couch and looked off as though he'd just chosen the spot at random. Jake tentatively reached out, glancing at Lori for approval. The last time he reached out to Russ, the dog had shown his teeth and Jake pulled out for fear he may draw back a stump.

  Lori nodded.

  Jake laid his hand down on the dog's neck, just between his shoulder blades and head. He scratched for a moment and Russ stayed put. Jake chanced moving up to scratch behind Russ's ears. The dog responded by opening his mouth and letting his tongue fall out while he breathed. With his available hand Jake reached out to the coffee table and snapped the sourdough doughnut in half. He held out the half for Russ to take.

  The dog took the doughnut gently and then scarfed it down in two bites.

  Jake's cell phone buzzed. A text from his mother.

  Dan says stop by the station before 4:00.

  The phone's clock read 2:42 p.m.

  "I gotta go," Jake said.

  "Come by the bookstore later," Lori said.

  14

  In the days that followed Nurse Crane's death everything went back to routine for young Jake at Dover Psychiatric, save for this one new thing—Motown was watching. At breakfast, lunch, and dinner he watched. At movie-time he watched. At game-time he watched. Day after day, hour after hour, Motown sat with his arm hanging out the barred window, his head inside a helmet, watching Jake's every move until the day he finally spoke.

  On that day Jake was set to sneak past the older boy's room, just as he had each day since the Motown's strange vigil began. He slid along the pediatric wing hallway wall, barefoot up to Motown's bedroom door. Baby Love by The Supremes blasted out the open doorway.

  Jake darted past.

  The tape player clicked and the music stopped.

  "Hey kid! Come back here."

  Jake cursed his lack of speed. He came back and peeked into the room.

  Motown was sitting on the far edge of his bed, against the wall, curled up into himself. A thin boy, he looked like a pretzel knot dressed in orange. Atop one knee was a pack of filterless Camel Straights, atop the other was his electric coil lighter. Jake was fairly certain Motown wasn't old enough to smoke, but it was likely Dover chose a small allowance over a daily war. Motown's clothes, blanket, and mattress were flame-retardant and there were no sheets and nothing else flammable in his room. His bedroom window was sealed up with fire-retardant particle board. His hair was short on the sides and long on top. Typically you could only measure its length by the tufts sticking out the holes in his helmet, but in his bedroom he was allowed to go helmetless. A scant beard ran down his cheek and died on the way to his chin. His eyes turned slowly to Jake. They were the color of window cleaner. "Come on in here, kid. Don't be scared."

  Jake stepped into the room, but only so much as his heels were inside the threshold. He clasped his hands behind his back, came up to his toes and then back down.

  Motown looked him top to bottom. "What's with the shit-eating grin?"

  Jake blinked, dropped his smile.

  "Relax, kid," Motown said. He moved his wiry arms to pick up his cigarettes and knock one loose. He lit up and took a drag. While holding in the smoke he picked a piece of tobacco from his tongue, examined it, and flicked it away. Through the plume of his exhale, he said, "So why'd you do it?"

  "Why'd I do what?"

  The older boy's eyes brightened. He made a circular motion with his finger. "Why'd you wrap your little self around Bozo's head like a turban?"

  "Why do you hang your arm out the window?"

  "So that's how you want to play it, huh?"

  Jake shrugged.

  "Bees," Motown said. "I'm allergic. One sting and I'm a goner. Could be one out there right now, waiting to help a brother out, but..." He gestured toward the particle board over the window. "They won't let me outside, neither. Too far away from the EpiPen."

  Jake raised an eyebrow. "EpiPen?"

  "It's an adrenaline shot," Motown said. "When you're allergic to bees and you get stung, you'll turn all puffy-faced and die," he mimicked stabbing himself in the thigh, "unless someone hits you with an EpiPen. It's got a needle in it, so they keep it. Why'd you do it?"

  Jake imagined Motown's face turning puffy, like Martin Short in Pure Luck. Probably it wouldn't be funny, though.

  "Crazy is as crazy does, eh?"

  Two days before, they had watched Forrest Gump in the day room. The orderlies had wheeled in the television on a cart, just like in elementary school. VHS. For an hour after the movie was finished, Teapot replaced her typical 'I'm a little teapot, short and stout' with 'Stupid is as stupid does.' This lasted until Motown looked at her sternly and said, "Crazy is as crazy does."

  She went back to being a teapot.

  "I guess so," Jake said.

  "Why they got you in here?"

  Jake shrugged again.

  "Aw come on," he said. "The first step to being nuts is admitting it or something." He took a drag, sucked in the smoke as it tried to escape his mouth, blew it out. "Besides, it doesn't matter. No one cares about you, kid. No one's paying attention. Shit on the floor? They'll still eat breakfast tomorrow. Throw a naked piss fit? They'll eat lunch. Knock your t
eeth out with a hammer? What's for dinner? See? You don't matter. I don't matter. No one does."

  "Why are you in here?" Jake said.

  Motown's eyes thinned out. "Me first again, eh?"

  Jake nodded.

  Motown looked up and to the right. He tapped his fingers on his shinbone. "I... uh... hurt my girlfriend. I hurt her and then I hurt myself." He looked at his wrist, tugged his sleeve down. "She still comes to see me. Can you dig that?" He shook his head and took a drag. "And they say I'm crazy."

  "I should go," Jake said.

  "Bullshit. Fair's fair. I told you about me. Now it's your turn. Why are you in here? You're just a kid."

  Jake looked down, rolled his ankle around. "I hurt someone, too."

  "The same way you hurt Bozo?"

  "Worse."

  "Good." Motown smiled. "Worse is good."

  Jake took a step backward, his foot out the door.

  "Wait," Motown said.

  Jake stopped.

  The older boy pointed at his tape player. "I wish you would turn that on."

  For the first time in Jake's memory, he was immediately aware of the vibration in his chest, the pain of being bound, the onset of the quickening. His hands began to tremble. His body temperature rose.

  "I heard Nurse Crane make that wish," Motown said.

  Jake stepped back into the room, his feet moving against his will, his eyes locked on the tape player.

  "At first I didn't think nothing of it," Motown said, sitting like a coiled snake. "But then you disappeared. For days you stayed in your room, only coming out to eat. Something about you changed."

  Jake stepped closer to the tape player. It was a Panasonic. On the clear plastic cover over the tape it read, 'A/C Battery - Full Auto Stop.'

  "You got some kind of magic in you. Don't ya?"

  Jake reached for the tape player with a shaky hand. For a moment his finger trembled over the play button. His brain told his finger not to do it, but the finger was acting on its own. It came down and pressed play. The machine came alive with Baby love.

  Jake's hand stopped shaking. His body cooled. He looked at Motown through a haze of smoke. The cherry of the older boy's cigarette glowed bright orange, reflecting off his pale eyes in a sea of white.