by Hart, Callie
I fire a sharp look at him. “Why would I go and do something stupid like that?”
“Don’t play dumb, you wee shite. Your time’s up and you know it. Three years. Everyone’s happy. Everyone’s looking forward to you coming home. No need to make a big deal out of it.”
No need to make a big deal out of it? Once upon a time, I would have laughed at that. Now, I just scowl at my reflection in the mirror—at the rivulet of blood that’s traveled all the way from the palm of my hand down my raised forearm, and is dripping from my elbow as I run my finger around the inside of my mouth, checking to make sure none of my teeth are chipped. “Shelta didn’t feel like making the journey across town herself, then?” I muse.
“You know your mother. She doesn’t like overly populated areas.”
“She manages New York just fine. She can handle fucking Spokane.”
Patrin splays his fingers, exasperation building in his dark brown eyes. Patrin and I might call each other brother, but it’s nothing more than a term of comradeship. He’s actually my second cousin. Or maybe my third. Whatever he is, we share a thimble of blood or two; the man bears the Rivin family traits, just as I do, but he’s also the spitting image of my grandfather Jamis. I never met Jamis—he was dead long before I was born—but I’ve seen enough photos over the course of my twenty-seven years that I feel like I’m looking at a ghost whenever I look at Patrin. “This isn’t a simple matter, y’know,” he says. “You can’t expect this to be easy for her. I think she’d like an apology before you come back to the vitsa. A proper apology. Not some half-baked bullshit you don’t mean.”
This does make me laugh. “Oh, I’m sure she would. Tell her I said she shouldn’t hold her breath. I don’t owe her shit.”
Patrin’s dismay is very real. He shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “I thought you’d have come to your fucking senses by now. Aren’t you ashamed?”
The memory sinks its hooks in, forcefully dragging me back in time, back three years, to the night that got me banished from my family’s embrace. There’s blood all over me, my skin mottled and sticky with it, as I stare down at the knife in my hand. I feel the air pushing its way into my lungs. Feel the pulse and thrum of my own blood forcing its way around my body as I try to remain standing. At my feet, my white sneakers are covered in mud, the toes stained green from the cut grass I just ran through, and fifteen feet away, my mother…
…my horrified mother is screaming.
“You’re not the only one who’s suffered, Pash.” Patrin’s voice drags me back to the present. The blood, the knife, the grass-stained tops of my shoes—it all whips away, returning me to the locker room, the smell of stale sweat shoving its way up my nostrils. Patrin hands me my rolled-up hand wraps, careful not to actually touch me as he deposits the fabric into the palm of my hand. “We’ve all had to make sacrifices. We’ve all had to defend—”
“Then why are you here? Why even bother to come back and find me. If I’ve caused so much hurt, you should have bypassed Washington altogether and left me here to rot.”
“We could have,” he admits. “But, despite what you think, your family loves you. We all do. And the Rivins have never been the type to turn their backs on their loved ones.”
I stuff the hand wraps and my shirt into my gym bag, trying to mute the growl that’s building in the back of my throat. This is bullshit. Utter bullshit. Narrowing my eyes at Patrin, I throw the gym bag over my shoulder, itching to propel myself past him, to bully my way through the crowd and make my way out into the night. I won’t feel good about any of this until I’m in my Mustang and the sole of my right foot is hitting the gas pedal. I pause, though. “Of all people, I’m surprised you became Shelta’s whipping boy.”
Patrin grimaces; my words cut deep, just as they’re designed to. Last time I saw him, Patrin was waxing lyrical about how he was his own man, how the family hierarchy didn’t mean shit to him, and how he refused to answer to anyone, no matter who the fuck they were. And now, here he is, Shelta’s monkey, doffing his cap and spitting over his shoulder every time she fucking sneezes?
“Power is power,” Patrin grumbles under his breath. “Makes no difference how you obtain it, right? I’ve learned a lot over the past three years. Everyone has to bow to someone at some point in their lives. I might be serving someone else’s interests right now, but it won’t be long before I’m serving my own.”
“Shelta’s a manipulator, a user and a liar. You know that just as well as I do. She’ll lean on anyone stupid enough to stand still long enough to do her dirty work.”
“She’s not that bad. And you’re a fine one to talk. You’ll be needing to lean on people too, soon enough. Things are gonna change for you. You’re going to have a line of people waiting for the opportunity to bow and scrape to you the moment you step foot on Rivin soil.”
“There is no such thing as Rivin soil. There’s only Rivin trouble. Sorry to disappoint, but my mother’s been lying to you. I won’t be needing a right-hand man. I’ve made a home for myself here now. When you all leave in a month or so, I won’t be traveling with you.”
Patrin goes stiff. He cocks his head to one side, as if he thinks he might not have heard me correctly. “What’s that supposed to mean, then?”
“It means I’m not coming back, tail tucked between my fucking legs. Shelta isn’t getting her apology. I’m not going to crawl over broken glass to regain the clan’s respect. For once in my life, I’m happy. I intend on keeping it that way.”
“You got more tattoos. There’s hardly a square inch of bare skin on your chest now.”
“What of it?”
“It’s Roma ink, brother. All of it. If you’re so desperate to be rid of us, then why mark yourself up like that? You think you’re happy? You think this life is going to make you happy? Trapped in an apartment, stuck there, unable to leave whenever you want? Chained to a fucking job? You think we don’t know about the studio?”
My grin is reckless and needling. “That apartment cost a fortune. I have no neighbors, and the view is fucking ridiculous. And of course you know about the studio. I don’t care, Patrin. It’s mine. Something of my own. A business and a reputation I built with my own two hands.” I heave a stunted breath. “I’m gonna be just fine here, brother, but thanks for your concern. It means a lot that you stopped by.”
I’m almost out of the door when Patrin says something that has my blood turning to ice in my veins. “She’ll never let you leave, Pasha. Never in a million years. If you think you can just…give up your birthright and walk away from everything that’s expected of you, then you’re gonna have another thing coming. Do you know how many of us would kill to be in your shoes right now?”
My hand rests on the door. I don’t look back as I push it open and walk through it. “If my birthright is such an honor, then why aren’t you celebrating right now? You’re next in line, after all. If I don’t come back…then all of it is yours.”
* * *
“Fifteen thousand, three hundred and eighty-seven dollars.”
I cash the check Barry slapped against my chest as I left the flower markets, ripping it into pieces once the Bank of America app on my phone has accepted the deposit, and then I hurl the pieces out of the window as I burn rubber out of the parking lot.
To say I’m in a bad mood would be an understatement. I am fuming mad. So angry that my hands shake as I head across town, beelining for home.
How long did it take before I began to consider the vast loft apartment overlooking the city my home? Surprisingly, no time at all. My banishment was supposed to be a punishment, but the moment the clan left the state of Washington three years ago, it felt like a monumental weight had been lifted from my shoulders. If anyone else had been banished, they would have floundered, lost and unsure what to do with themselves without the guidance of the vitsa. But not me.
I reveled in the silence.
I reveled in the peace.
Instead of losing myself, even for a s
econd, I found myself. I set up the tattoo shop, specializing in large, intricate pieces of bespoke, commissioned work, and I fucking thrived. There’s something peaceful about sitting for hours at a time, losing yourself in a giant back or chest piece. My brain stops scrambling, trying to make sense of the world, to wade through countless decisions and worries. The gun in my hand is my only focus. The needles, the ink and the skin: that’s all there is.
My apartment felt weird for a couple of weeks, yeah. But I had experience with being stationary, since Shelta packed me off to boarding school when I was a kid—the most un-Roma thing she’s ever done—so it didn’t take me too long to adjust and adapt.
I don’t care about moving on. I don’t care that sometimes I have to be at a certain place at a certain time to tattoo someone. Neither of these things feel like a sacrifice to me, and neither my mother nor Patrin will ever be able to understand that. They’d never leave the vitsa. They were born a part of our community, and they will die a part of it, too.
Back at the loft, I walk from one side of the space to the other. After inspecting the kitchen, I move onto the living area, and then into the far corner, where I set up my sleeping arrangements—to a gadje, my living arrangements would look sparse no doubt, but to Patrin, it’d look like I’ve begun a career in hoarding. The small collection of books I’ve accumulated; the free weights, and the bench by the window; the clothes in my closet; the T.V.; the sound system, and the artwork I’ve painted and hung on the walls: it would all look like excess to Patrin and my mother. Any member of the Rivin vitsa would cringe to think that one of their own lived here on a permanent, long-term basis. There aren’t enough sinks, for starters. They’d die a death if they thought for a second that I used the sink in the kitchen to wash my dishes and my hands. Jesus Christ.
I pace, and I pace, and I really think about what I told Patrin back at the fights. Life would be so easy if I went back to them. Money, adoration, respect—I really would have it all. But the one thing I wouldn’t have, far more valuable to me than any of that, would be missing. Gone forever, never to be seen again.
My freedom.
I would no longer be free.
And my freedom is worth more to me than anything else in the world.
3
ZARA
CYSCOM
The rest of the week passes by in a blur of phone calls. My shifts are long and torturous, and I come home every evening exhausted, both physically and mentally. There are a number of occasions where I pause to think about the little boy I spoke to, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on him. I can’t.
And each night, when I fell into bed, determined to get some well-earned rest…the payphone outside my window starts to ring. The sound isn’t technically loud enough to stop me from passing out, but there’s something unsettling about it. The tone’s just the same as any other payphone, but it’s insistent. Over and over again, the phone rings, and it rings, and rings, the sound like a drum pounding in my bloodstream, a hammer coming down on top of my head, the impact jarring me down to my bones.
No sleep, which means no dreams, which means no mystery guy when I close my eyes at night. I’ve tried not to be too disappointed. There have been occasions over the past few years where I’ve really worried about my own sanity. Is it normal to experience reoccurring dreams on this kind of scale? It’s not as if they’re the same dream every time. No, none of the dreams have been the same. I can’t remember the finer details inside the dreams, but I do know that each and every one of them has been different. Different places, different times of the day, of the year. Different scenarios. When I wake up, usually panting and out of breath, skin covered in a slick sheen of sweat, the episodes are ripped away and it feels as though there is a rent in my mind, a giant, gaping hole where the memory of the dream should be but now isn’t. I never recall his face. I never remember what he’s said to me, or what his voice even sounds like. All that remains of him once I resurface into consciousness is the lingering burn of his hands on my body, the pressure of his lips on mine, and the crippling sense of loss I feel in the hollow of my chest when I realize he, whoever he is, has gone.
The canteen is deserted on my Saturday shift lunch break. There are always between ten to fifteen dispatchers on shift together at any one time, and we’re allotted breaks three people at a time; Julia and Kent are more interested in smoking than eating when our allotted time comes around, though, so I find myself sitting alone. I help myself to a sandwich and a bottle of water, and I sit myself down at one of the empty tables, feeling like I’ve been on a four-day bender and I’m severely hungover. My muscles ache, my head’s pounding, and it feels like the very life has been sucked out of me.
I can’t go on losing sleep like this. Not because I’m missing my mystery dream guy. No, that would be ridiculous. I’m just fucking exhausted. I need some proper rest. Something has to be done, otherwise I’m going to lose my goddamn mind. Taking out my cellphone, I open up the internet and type in ‘Cyscom telephone provider customer support’ and get their contact number. Cyscom are the only company that even bother to install public payphones anymore. Their blue and white logo can be found above the handset of all the heavy-duty black phone boxes that sporadically dot the city streets—the same logo above the offending payphone that sits on the street directly beneath my bedroom window. When the bright and cheery customer support agent answers my call, I hastily choked down the dry mouthful I’ve been chewing on and clear my throat.
“Hi. I need to speak to someone about the payphone on the corner of Albertson and Delancy please.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You have a cell plan with us?”
“No. I don’t. I want to speak with someone who takes care of payphones. Specifically, the public payphone on the corner of Albertson and Delancy.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure which department would deal with that. First, can you tell me which city you’re in?”
I roll my eyes. Bitch knows exactly which city I was calling from, the information’s probably provided to her on a readout before she even picks up my call, but I play ball. “I’m in Spokane.”
“All right, ma’am. If you could please hold, I’ll try and figure out who I need to put you in touch with.”
I hold for three minutes, Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’ blasting down my ear while I wait. The song starts over again and has reached the second chorus when the agent returns. “Can I ask what the issue is please, ma’am? I’m still just trying to figure out who can best help you.”
“There is something wrong with the payphone,” I say slowly. This is already tiring. I have to get back to my desk in ten minutes. “It keeps ringing. The box is right outside my window, and it’s keeping me up all night. I need someone to come take a look at it.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am. I’ll transfer you to someone in our technical department. Maybe they’ll be able to figure this out for you.”
I’m placed back on hold before I can object, and Ed’s voice begins singing about a woman’s curves all over again. Perfect. This is just perfect. I do manage to finish my sandwich, however, and I’ve also emptied my bottle of water by the time the song abruptly halts and a gruff male voice says, “Cyscom appointments. This is Paul. How can I help you?”
I explain my problem to him, and he makes bored grunting sounds, interjecting them into the conversation, presumably to let me know he’s still listening, as I complete my run down of the situation at hand.
“Well, Miss…?”
“Llewelyn.”
“Well, Miss Llewelyn. I don’t normally handle issues with landlines or public payphones but let me see if I can take a look. Our systems all changed recently. I don’t know if I can even still see the locations and log records in your area.”
Typical. Just fucking typical. Paul’s fingers fly over the keyboard as he works, and he throws in the odd grunt every now and then—I can picture a husky dude in front of a computer, slurping coffee from a mug and sc
ratching his belly as he slowly alternates between his screens, frowning at the information he sees there.
“Okay. I’ve managed to log onto the system but it’s saying the pubic payphone at the location you’ve given me is no longer active.”
“It is active. Why would I be calling to complain about it ringing if it wasn’t active?”
“You say you’ve heard it ringing?”
“Yes. Repeatedly. Every night for the past four nights.”
“You’re sure it’s not just the wind?”
“How could the wind be making a telephone ring for hours every night?”
“Okay.” Paul goes quiet. Seems he’s thinking very deeply about this. “Approximately what time has the phone’s been ringing each night?”
“It varies. It’s usually about half an hour before I go to bed. It was two thirty in the morning the first night. Then midnight on Wednesday, and Thursday, too. Last night, it started at one, and it didn’t stop until five am.” I’d been ready to go down there and smash the thing into pieces with a Louisville Slugger by that point.
“Right.”
There’s something about the way Paul says that word that makes me sit up straighter and narrow my eyes. “I need you to block whoever it is that keeps calling the payphone,” I demand.
“Can’t do that, ma’am. Not unless it’s a nuisance caller.”
“That’s exactly what this person is. A nuisance.”
His fingers fire rapidly on his keyboard. “Blocking those kinds of callers is pointless. They just call the number from a different phone. In any case, I’ve been looking at the records for the payphone in question, Ms. Llewelyn, and I can’t see any incoming calls.”
“For last night?”
“At all. For the last seven weeks. The last incoming call to that phone was on Monday, August twentieth.”