by A J Rivers
I make a mental note to come by and offer my condolences when he gets back, then I finish my transaction and head home to try to create an incredible birthday cake and look fabulous and stress-free in less than three hours.
Chapter Nine
Lilith
Two months ago …
She wrapped the cloth around her face. Tied the corners tight around the back of her head.
Her body felt like the land as she walked out into the fields. Still not fully warm from winter.
Spring had come. There was no resisting any longer. She’d pushed back against the days and weeks for long enough. They kept coming, even when she tried to hold them back. They forced her out of the white-blanketed chill and out into new warmth that gradually melted away the gray sky.
The final snow came and went, and she waited.
The first bits of green emerged, fragile and vulnerable, and she waited.
The birds sang until the silence was gone, and she waited.
Now there was no more waiting. The ground is only patient for so long. The world presses on. Life continues. Always there as a reminder. Even when she felt she was standing still and everything around her would never end, she was reminded. The weather changed. The ground woke up. The sky lived and breathed and cried. Days went on.
And that day, the fields wouldn't wait anymore. With the warmer weather coming on fast, they shouldn't have waited as long as they did. But she didn't want to go out there. Not yet. Not ever. A little longer and it wouldn't be as hard. A little longer and there wouldn't be as much left. It would be easier then.
She hated it when they came in the winter. It meant spring would tell their secrets. And it was up to her to make sure they were kept.
Her skin shivered as she plunged her hands into the old leather work gloves. Taking hold of the worn and splintered handles, she pushed her wheelbarrow through doors once green and now flecked, out into the sun.
The fields stretched endless in front of her. This moment always felt impossible. Every year she stood at the edge of the fields and stared out over dirt that looked barren, dotted with old and shriveled remnants from the year before. It was as if the ground had given up the last of what it had and now lay dead, unable to produce what had once been expected of it.
And every year, she stood there, expecting more. She had to. There was no other choice. As impossible as it seemed, this was the task she had to complete. It took every moment of sunlight and often hours of moonlight as well. Every day, from the moment her eyes opened until she collapsed. Some days she simply dropped down in the field and lay in the dirt. She would spend the night among the rows and wake to go right back to work.
She carefully managed where she went, just in case she might not be able to make it back before her body could no longer carry her. Days when she already knew her only sleep would come on the ground. She brought with her enough water and food to sustain her and carefully measured her steps. She didn't know exactly how many she could take, but if she could make enough of a guess, it kept her away from the areas of the field she didn’t dare to sleep in.
Those belonged to the bones that lay there.
The others were scattered across the field. It wasn't like in the movies when bodies are wrestled over by dogs and cast miles away by the animals that carried them off. Nature is far more brutal and far more dismissive than that.
It usually took only minutes for the birds to come.
As soon as the men left and the field fell quiet, their wings darkened the sky. She could hear them. Even from a distance, even if she was hiding away, she knew they were coming. The birds screamed to each other, almost like they were mocking the last moments of the slain who had now already begun the process of being reclaimed by the land.
Because that's what it really was. Crafted up out of dust, molded from clay, returned to the earth.
The men believed that power was in them now. They believed they were the potters, the crafters, the makers of men, and the bringers of light.
For some, those men were as they believed. For the lucky ones, those men created the world. For the others, the men saw only dust.
And the birds did their part. Drawn to the smell, they swarmed the field and tore away at what had once held life. Eyes that no longer saw. Tongues that no longer spoke. Lips that no longer kissed. Noses that no longer breathed. They plunged inside, finding a heart that no longer beat, the inner workings of a being now little more than waste.
When they were done, there were always shreds of clothes and frayed bones. Strips of skin discarded, and bloody clumps of hair strewn among feathers. Sometimes the wild dogs would come next, but not nearly so often. Far more likely, the tattered remains stayed just as they were, at the mercy of the sun and the rain, the wind and the insects.
But in many ways, those were the merciful ones. It was easier not to have to watch the earth take them. She didn't want to see their faces or watch them disappear.
It was the decision she had to make in February. One she hoped she wouldn't regret, even as it made her stomach turn. The birds hadn’t come for the dark-haired woman who screamed in defiance, who refused to give herself up to the hands of the men determined to take her. Lilith had kept the flocks away.
In February, there was still a reason for her to leave the house. There was still enough happening beyond the walls to let her open the door and step outside. Not for long. She didn't have much time. But what she had, she used.
As soon as the men left, she knelt by the woman's side. There was still a short time of beauty left in her. It was just enough to see her nearly as she was before they’d gotten to her. Lilith sat beside her and touched her hair, talking to her as the moon created a cold, pale pool around them.
When the morning came, she couldn't just leave her. There was nothing she could do. Just as there hadn't been as she witnessed the woman’s last moments, there was nothing she could do to fix what had happened. Soon they would come back. This would be her last chance to do anything for a little while.
All she could do was hope that something would change. This woman was beautiful. She was someone. She would be missed.
The men wouldn't notice the chicken wire tented over her or the hay spread like a blanket around her. They never visited. They didn't care.
But maybe someone would. Maybe someone would find her before the corn grew.
Chapter Ten
Now
“Alright, you have options,” I tell Dean as we put away the groceries from the store. “There's a guest room down here on this floor, or there's the attic room. I've renovated and redecorated that thing three times this year. It was originally just going to be a sitting room, kind of hang-out place, but I ended up adding a bed last month. It was kind of on a whim. It just felt right. But, either one of them is totally available to you.”
Dean stands in the middle of the kitchen for a long moment, a loaf of bread in his hands, contemplating his options.
“You gonna put that away or eat it all right now?”
“Oh, sorry,” he says. He places it in the pantry and heads to the living room to scoop up his bags. “I think I'll take the attic room.”
“Good choice,” I say.
I still haven't told him what I found in that room or why it was sealed up for so long. Maybe I'll tell him eventually. Maybe I never will. Either way, it feels strangely appropriate for him to choose that room. Just like the new paint and decorations in it, it's as if having him in there will drain any remaining negativity out of it. He's finally taking up the place where he belonged all along.
As Sam continues his work in the kitchen, making trays of chicken wings for the party, I take Dean up to the attic. He gets to the top of the steps and looks around.
"Impressive," he notes.
"Yeah," I nod, planting my hands on my hips and looking around. "It used to just have one lightbulb in the middle of the steps and another one deep in the attic. It practically looked like one of those horror movies
before we added this lighting. That wall over there wasn't actually there, either. I wanted to be able to use this space for more than just storage, so we added the wall to block off an area for boxes and things. When I was little, this whole room was a bedroom. They just kind of stacked things in the corners, but there was a bed and everything right in the middle."
"Why?" Dean asks.
I shrug. "Not sure. There were plenty of bedrooms downstairs. But it was nice to come up and play and read."
I start across the room toward the smaller room, but notice Dean isn't with me.
"You okay?" I ask, turning back around.
He's still standing where he was, looking around again, but this time as if he's trying to see what the room was before I made the changes.
"Do you think it was for my fa—Jonah?" he asks.
I draw in a breath and let it out slowly. It's the first time he's said his father's name since he's been here. It's been more than a year, and yet it still sucks the air out of the room when I hear him say it. I can talk about him. Sam can say his name, and I don't react. But there's something about hearing Dean mention him that hurts.
"Maybe," I nod. "It's possible they kept it set up for him when he was younger. You have to remember there were a lot of years there when everybody thought he was dead, so I doubt that was the reason then. I prefer to think that Gran just always wanted to fill the house with as many people as she could. Not that she ever did, at least not when my parents and I were here, but the option was there."
Dean finally smiles and comes the rest of the way into the attic. I bring him to the small room and open the door. It fits little more than a bed and a shelf, but it will give him privacy.
"This is great. Thanks again for letting me stay with you," he says.
"I'm not ‘letting you stay’," I insist. "That makes it sound as if I'm doing you a favor. You're my family. When you visit, you stay. That's just the way it is."
"Okay," he says with a smile as if he's relenting but still right on the edge of being unsure.
I can understand the sentiment. Growing up with his mother couldn’t have been easy. His life only got harder when she died. He saved himself through military service that turned into a career as a private investigator after he was injured, but even now, the past still haunts him. After not having a family throughout his life, he is still trying to get used to the idea of having one now.
To be honest, so am I. It's one of the greatest things I can imagine, but it's still hard to wrap my brain around it sometimes. Some mornings I wake up and call my father before the sun is even up. It jostles him out of sleep most of the time. I rarely actually have anything to say, but I know he's there. It's just that knowledge that makes all the difference.
"You go ahead and get settled in. I'm going to go attempt some baking magic to make this board game cake. Then in a bit, we'll go across the street to Janet and Paul's for the party," I tell him.
"Oh, I figured I'd just stay here while you go. I just kind of sprung my visit on you. I don't want to show up at a party with no one expecting me."
"It's a surprise party. She's not expecting anyone. But even if she was, she'd be thrilled to meet you. Sam and I do game night with Paul and Janet just about every week. They've heard everything about you. It would hurt her feelings if she found out you were here in town and didn't come over."
"Really?" Dean asks.
"Yes."
"Alright."
"Good. Now, I'm off. Ron Ben-Israel, don't fail me now."
I get downstairs to the kitchen and find Sam bending over, staring into the oven. I pause at the door to watch him for a few appreciative seconds. Appreciative for both the view and just for his being there. He stands up, and I cross the kitchen to him, gathering him up in a hug, old oven mitts and all.
"Chicken is almost ready," he tells me, his face pressed against my hair.
"Okay. The cake's not," I say.
"Well. One step at a time. If all else fails, we could always go unconventional and bring a different dessert. I think we still have some Girl Scout cookies in the freezer," he says.
My arms still wrapped around his waist, I lean back and look at him questioningly.
"Surprise, happy fiftieth birthday, here are your partially frozen Thin Mints?"
"We could grind them up into a milkshake."
“Seriously?”
“Actually, now that you mention it, I’m kinda craving them…”
He turns away toward the freezer, but before he does, I pull his shoulder back to me. I grin and rise up to kiss him, and he wraps his arms around me in a hug, leaning into my kiss. One thing among the many that I adore about this man is he's tall enough that I still get to bounce up on my toes just a little bit when I kiss him.
"I love you," I say.
He kisses me in return.
"I love you, too."
"Thank you," I say, thinking about the conversation Dean and I had at the grocery store.
"For what?" he asks.
"Just… thank you."
I've said that a lot to him over the last couple of years, and I'm sure my supply of the words won't be running out any time soon. There are so many things I feel like thanking Sam for every day; some of those thanks due from many years ago. I don't always have a specific reason, but he always accepts them with a smile.
Whether it was my plea to the cake god or just having spent far too much time getting familiar with board games, the themed cake actually turns out looking better than I thought it would. We're getting ready to head out of the house when Sam tells me to wait and rushes into the kitchen. When he comes back, he's carrying a bucket with a lid and tongs.
"An ice bucket?" I frown. "I'm pretty sure they have an ice maker. They always have an ample supply when we're over there playing games."
"Yes," he says with that mischievous smile I've learned means he's up to something. He opens the lid and pokes the tongs into the bucket, coming up with a piece of ice. "But it isn't shaped like game pieces."
I lean closer and notice the piece of ice he has clutched in the tongs looks like a token from Sorry.
"You made game-themed ice?" I ask.
"Yep," he says, dropping it back into the bucket. "There are also Monopoly houses, all the Clue weapons, and Trivial Pursuit pie pieces, which I'm fairly certain are just triangles."
"You didn't remind me until four hours before the party that I needed to make a cake, but you sourced, purchased, and filled ice cube trays that look like board game pieces," I say.
"The cake was on you," he says. "I don't bake."
"Fair enough," I say. "But I'm taking partial credit."
Sam laughs and gives me a sharp smack on the butt as we walk out the door and head across the street.
Chapter Eleven
Paul and Janet's house is bursting at the seams for the first couple of hours of the party, but gradually people filter out, stuffed with party food and cake. A few carry plates with extra slices, and most even snapped pictures of my masterpiece before Janet took a chunk right out of the conservatory, complete with tiny revolver drawn with melted chocolate.
Sam is still pretending he's only eaten one piece by periodically cutting off slivers, believing they don't count. By my estimate, his slivers have not counted for about three slices.
"You really pulled this off," he smiles, taking down a portion of the ballroom. "It looked amazing."
"Thank you," I say. "It's good to know my art skills are translatable into pastry."
"Maybe that's a backup career you can have in your pocket," Paul suggests as he gathers up paper plates and napkins to throw away
"Bite your tongue," Janet says. "Emma can't be spending her time making people cakes. She has murderers to take down."
"I bet that was an argument you never thought you'd hear," I murmur to Sam.
“Besides,” Dean says. “If Emma is starting a new career, it's as a private investigator.”
“I think for now I'm just going
to stick with the FBI,” I fan my hands out to quash the argument. “But if I ever want to reach for the stars and tack on a couple more jobs, at least I know I have options.”
Janet pours herself another glass of wine and takes her second piece of cake over into the living room. Her son and granddaughter were the last of the other guests, and they just left. It's great to see him on his feet, able to take care of his little girl on his own now after she spent the first few years of her life being raised by her grandparents. Now it's just us at the house, and it feels good to be out of party mode. When Paul first suggested the idea of throwing a surprise party for Janet for her fiftieth birthday, it seemed like a great idea. I hadn't thought about just how stressful doing something like that could be.
Planning such a surprise when you live across the street from somebody and see them on a near-daily basis, including several hours once a week, took some concentration and fancy footwork. We had a good time, and the party was a success, but it’s such a relief to just be able to sit down and relax for a little while.
“Speaking of the FBI,” Janet says. “Has the Bureau gotten involved with this missing girl?”
So much for relaxing.
“Unfortunately, you're going to have to narrow that down a bit,” I tell her.
“The one on the news. Pretty thing, long dark hair,” she explains.
“Lakyn Monroe,” I say.
"That's her," Janet says. "Are you doing anything about her?"
"Not at the moment. Right now, she's missing, but there isn't really anything to indicate there's something wrong," I shrug.
"The girl hasn't been seen in months. She's had no social media presence, no contact with anyone she supposedly cares about and hasn't used any of her money," Dean points out.
"Except for those transactions that came after she was supposedly seen for the last time," I say. "And with all the money she brings in, there's no telling how much she could have squirreled away to use if she just wanted to dip out of the spotlight."