Jaime dove in enthusiastically, pulling out every stereotype in the book and pausing only when the waitress returned with Samuel’s and Caroline’s salads. She wove an elaborate tale about how we met at an LGBT mixer at the Lyons Civics Center—we were the only two there, so we just kind of fell together. Since then, we’d bonded over our love for military consignment stores and erotic art. We’d even marched together in the last annual Denver Gay Pride Parade, donning rainbow wigs and carrying signs that read: Better Gay than Grumpy. And now we bided our time in the proverbial Lyons closet, living in our own “bubble of beautiful lesbo love.” I coughed into my napkin at Jaime’s alliteration. Samuel’s eyes met mine, shining with amusement.
Not to be left out, Caroline nodded sympathetically, watery eyes meeting mine. “I understand. It must be difficult to live in such a small town, Kaye, especially when your father is the high school baseball coach.”
I was unnerved she knew about my father. Then again, I knew about her father. It reminded me to keep my cards close—Caroline was not as ditzy as she appeared. “We like to keep our relationship quiet, here. Really quiet. As in, don’t tell anyone please.”
“Of course.” She speared a cucumber slice.
“You’ll have to join me some Saturday for Harley club while Kaye’s wedding prepping,” Jaime said. “Our biker bitches would really dig you.” I wondered if Jaime really knew biker bitches and, if she didn’t, what she planned to do with Caroline. I probably shouldn’t know.
“Oh!” Caroline turned to Samuel. “Speaking of lesbians, you have a talk show scheduled next Tuesday. They had a cancellation and want you to discuss The Last Other. Probably ask some questions about that ridiculous guinea pig and the PETA boycott, too. I could just throttle whoever pulled that stunt.”
Jaime’s body shook with mute laughter.
The conversation safely turned to the book tour (oh thank you, thank you). My near-incitement of a fan-girl riot was blessedly overlooked. Caroline mentioned another talk show appearance two weeks from Saturday.
“Samuel, that won’t work,” I replied. “That’s the same day as Angel and Danita’s bachelor-bachelorette trip—the weekend before the wedding?” They’d opted out of strip clubs and body shots, instead wanting to honor their upcoming nuptials in an activity befitting our circle of friends. We were going skydiving. Half of us were licensed after a summer’s worth of free fall and parachute training.
“I forgot about that. Caro, can we reschedule?”
She whipped out her smartphone and shook her head. “No go. I worked really hard to set this one up, Samuel. Maybe you can throw yourself from a plane some other time.”
“Cancel then. This is my sister’s wedding and I’m not missing anything she has planned. Although, why she wants to kill off her entire wedding party with one deft plunge, I’m not sure.”
“I’m surprised, Cabral,” Jaime said. “It seems like you have a lot of experience pushing the limits. Now Trilby here, she’ll throw herself out of anything that’s remotely dangerous. Trilby’s insane.” No, Jaime. Please, no, not my last name. Not here, not now. I nudged her with my elbow over and over until she shoved me away, annoyed.
We waited, bated breath, for Samuel to react. When he didn’t so much as bat an eye, I relaxed. Jaime, however, wasn’t going to let it go.
“Like I said, Kaye Trilby is a real dare-devil. Skydiving is a walk in the park for her.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “We get it, understood you the first time. Kaye’s amazing at extreme sports, likes to take risks.”
“No. I don’t think you do get it.”
“Jaime,” I hissed. I scrambled for a subject change while the two verbally dived for each other’s throats.
But then, beneath the table, well-known, warm fingers wrapped around my fidgeting ones, holding them still.
My eyes flew to his. They were cool, veiled. Either his poker face had gotten a lot better or I couldn’t understand him like I used to—I don’t know which upset me more. I wanted anger to be in every fleck of blue, not this unnerving calm. There was the barest hint of urgency there, almost as if he waited for some cue, something from me I couldn’t comprehend. Jaime and Caroline still busily sniped at each other, somewhere in my blurred peripheral. But I lost myself in wild rivers and wide blue skies…everything I cherished about Colorado.
He traced the inside of my palm with his thumb…so very subtly, I wasn’t sure it was deliberate. I capsized.
But so help me, whenever I was swamped, I always broke the surface. My steel guard snapped up, stemming the torrent of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. Gritting my teeth, I pulled my eyes back…and my hand. “I think it’s time to head out,” I said flatly.
Jaime broke from her argument with Caroline in an instant and gathered up her things. “Finally!” she exhaled, shoving me from the booth.
The night air was crisp. The sky was clouded over when we exited the café, but the wind had stopped. I breathed deeply as I pushed through the door, savoring the farm-tinged mountain air. Streetlights bounced off pavement and it glowed orange. I started toward my car, but Samuel put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me tightly to his side, halting while the others walked ahead. His breath was hot on my ear.
“What are you, eight? You think I don’t know what you’re up to?”
“Tell me, what am I up to?”
“You and Jaime, and all of these ridiculous games you’re planning. Now you want to duke it out, after all these years?”
Oh, that got me. “Oh please, Samuel, you are the king of avoidance.”
“Likewise. May I remind you who ran out on Thanksgiving?”
“And may I remind you who bailed on us in the first place?”
His mouth snapped shut. I’d seen Samuel’s face turn red on many occasions, but he’d been rendered speechless on precious few—clever man always had an answer to everything. But now, he simply flushed and remained silent.
Answers. Answers. Answers. Just fire back, Samuel. Tell me why you bailed, don’t make me ask.
He wasn’t going to tell me. It should be that easy. “Go ahead, Kaye,” he murmured, “play the vengeful ex-wife, if it helps. But you should know that I’m not going to step aside and allow you to mess with me. I won’t have a choice but to fight back.”
“What are you going to do? Write another book about me?” His hand was warm on my arm despite the chilly air. But I still shivered and wrapped my sweater tightly around me.
“Maybe.”
“Well, consider this payback for all the years you’ve messed with me. That ridiculous alimony check every month, all of your books. Do I even need to mention the whole New York thing? You’ve got it coming, Cabral.”
His eyes burned an angry blue. Good. “If this is the way you want to have it out, let’s have it out. Game on, Cabral.”
“Been wearing that old letter jacket around, too? Or are you just talking high school sports trash?”
Stooping down, he swiftly kissed the top of my head. “You and Jaime look incredibly hot together—I’m so happy for you,” he said loudly, his voice reverberating across the parking lot. “We’ll see the two of you around.” He gave my rear a swat and jogged across the parking lot to his roadster rental.
Some things never changed.
But I noticed Caroline chose to wait for him at the car, rather than hover with her hydra glares. Now that I batted for the other team, she was no longer concerned with me and was animatedly chatting to Jaime. Jaime, however, was shooting me a hydra glare. My former lawyer-become-accomplice was either certifiable or an evil genius. I suspected both, but leaned toward genius.
And Sam. Passionate, maddening Samuel. Yes, we were fighting—nothing new, we’d fought since we were children. But for once, there hadn’t been that worn, defeatist undercurrent in his eyes or in his words. Instead, there was fire. And I hadn’t seen true fire there in a really long time. Not since…not since high school.
Now, I felt the burgeo
ning of my own spark. A spark that wasn’t due to rafting, or skiing, or mountain climbing. It was exhilarating and ominous, all tangled into one little accelerant.
I’d forgotten I could feel like that.
Much better than that insurmountable whitewater hydraulic.
Chapter 9: Alluvial
Sand, clay, and silt carried away in downstream
currents and layered along river banks.
Hydraulic Level Five [working title]
Draft 2.09
© Samuel Caulfield Cabral
Bat Versus Bat
ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD BOYS aren’t supposed to cry. Maria tells him as much when she hears his quiet tears, passing his room on her way to the bathroom. She thinks she’s helpful. Patting his back, she offers to read from Treasure Island. His aunt reads to them every night, usually a chapter from a classic book, and Treasure Island was his pick.
Before that, they’d ventured through The Secret Garden. It was Maria’s choice, but he enjoyed it (though he’d never tell Maria). She scoffs at the rudeness of Mary Lennox and Colin Craven. They are bossy and mean, sure, but he understands them a little better than Maria. Mary Lennox was all by herself in India, with a mother who didn’t like her, and Colin was the same—locked away in his manor, alone, scared he’d become a hunchback like his father. And his father didn’t want him because he had strange, gray eyes like his mother’s.
He thinks of his own mother…she hadn’t read to him at night, before bed, the way his aunt does. She’d lie down on his fire engine bed and cry with him, clutching his father’s shirts and telling him to turn over because she couldn’t stand his goddamned sky eyes staring at her.
But the child he likes most is Dickon Sowerby. He runs wild, like a squirrel or a fox, and he smells like grass and leaves. Aspen is like Dickon, except she picks fights with him—a lot. Well, maybe there is some Mary in her, too. When he pictures Aspen, she is outside riding her bike, wading through creeks, climbing trees (and falling out of them), her pink youth banjo slung over her back. She smells like the dirt that clings to her knees and under her nails, dirt that muddies her hazel eyes.
Caulfield swipes away the remnants of his memories from his cheeks and realizes he isn’t crying. Thinking of Aspen helps. But now his throat is dry, so he flips on his bedside lamp to get a drink. His feet hit the floor.
Squeak!
He jumps back with a yell. Something writhed beneath his toes, cold and fuzzy, like an animal. His eyes shoot down to the carpet where a…thing…is sprawled, its wings spread wide.
It’s a large, black bat.
“Mamá! Papá!” He darts for the hallway. He doesn’t dare go back to the room in case the wounded thing is flopping around. He waits for his aunt and uncle to come to his rescue, but they can’t hear him down the hall. But Maria does.
She stumbles into his room, sleepy-eyed, ratty hair sticking out all over her head like Aspen’s Barbie doll. She straightens her yellow flannel pajamas and glares.
“Bat.” He points to the other side of his bed.
Maria mumbles something incoherent and follows his finger. “Ick!” She leaps away, then takes a step closer. “Caulfield, get me your baseball bat.”
“No! You’re not getting guts all over my Louisville Slugger. I need it for practice tomorrow.”
“Fine.” She arms herself with his baseball bat anyway, before he has a chance to block her. Handle out, she pokes at the black thing on the floor. A slow smile spreads across her face.
Caulfield moans. “Oh man, I killed it when I stepped on it, didn’t I? You should have heard it squeak.”
Maria prods it, harder. It squeaks once more. “Sí, Caulfield, tú lo mataste.” Then she stoops down, picks it up, and flings it at him.
He screams again. But when he catches, he feels it isn’t fuzzy like he initially thought. Instead, it’s…rubbery. Cautiously, he smells the bat. Yup, rubber. It’s fake.
His sister doubles over, giggling madly. “Wow! For a kid, she got you good.”
He thoughtfully tosses it from hand to hand. A grin wins out. “Yeah, she did.”
Later, after Maria goes back to her room and the lights are turned off, Caulfield places the fake bat on his pillow and stares. “Firecracker,” he whispers, just to hear the sound of her name. Instead of thinking on his mother, he falls asleep plotting ways to get even with his sly, fascinating friend. Preferably, with a prank that won’t earn him another chat with Aspen’s father.
SC, hmm, let’s break it apart. Aspen was quite the tomboy. Knowing now that she’s a lesbian, how do you think that affects her characterization? Your relationship? Maybe explore that angle—childhood girlfriend grows up to be gay.
~Caro
You’ve certainly hit on something, Caro. That’s what’s missing—Kaye’s thoughts. Her REAL thoughts, not the ones I’m guessing at. I think I’ll ask for her help.
~SC
We’ll discuss in person.
~Caro
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
I heard it again. That obnoxious cricket, rudely yanking me out of my much needed dream time, just when I’d drifted off to sweet oblivion with my blankets pulled over my head.
Chirp-chirp…chirp-chirp…chirp-chirp…
And the other cricket.
ChirpchirpChirpchirpchirpChirpChirpchirpChirpchirpchirpChirpchirpChirp…
And the rest of the two dozen crickets echoing through my home. I burrowed further beneath my down comforter. This was my second fitful night’s sleep since I returned from Lyons to find my apartment above the TrilbyJones mansion infiltrated by crickets. I’d had fun with them last night, pulling out my guitar and playfully strumming chords around their happy chirps like a fricking fairy-tale princess. But when three o’clock hit and I still hadn’t slept, I stumbled from my bedroom to my brainstorming room downstairs and blissfully crashed on the hard office sofa. The first item of business yesterday morning was to pick up a granular bait pest control and liberally sprinkle it around the baseboards.
That should have done the trick, but the evil little Jiminies were back with a vengeance, gleefully chirping in every nook and cranny. They scooted behind my refrigerator. Hopped into my closet. I even spotted several lazing about in my claw-foot bathtub.
I pretended I was camping, tucked into my sleeping bag while the soothing sounds of a nighttime wilderness enveloped me.
CHIRP…CHIRP…CHIRP…
Nope, didn’t work. I peeked at my alarm clock—four twenty in the morning. With a frustrated cry, I flung back my comforter and blindly tripped from my bed, feeling for a light switch. Nasty bugs. Damn them! Snatching my robe from the floor, I wrapped it around my body and grabbed The Last Other from my nightstand. I’d have to call an exterminator later this morning. Until then, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
I tucked a throw around my legs and settled into my cushy leather armchair, flipping open to where I’d left off…
The sirens of the Alpine lakes were slick, wicked creatures with seaweed hair and exotic faces. Neelie had never seen beings so ethereal, so erotic. Men and women with willow limbs twined toward them, enticing them into the water…
This had to be it. Neelie was a goner, the evil sirens would capture her and rip her to pieces. But surprise, she escaped—barely. A whoosh of breath escaped my lungs, and I dug deeper into the book. After a while, I was able to shut out the crickets, firmly planted in Neelie’s world…
The town of Val d’Isère was heavy with snow and skiers, both weighing down wooden inns, blanketing folk streets. It was the ideal place to blend, recover without the Others tracking them. Neelie breathed, reveling in how a single puff of air crackled and turned to a horde of ice crystals, glinting in the fading light and street lamps. The Alps towered high, forewarning the path they had yet to travel. Their massive shadows inched over the town, pulling it into darkness.
Neelie held up her hand. It trembled, slightly. She grew weaker. Her family could never know…she’d rather die than have t
hem believe she couldn’t battle the Others, that she wasn’t strong enough…
Rats. The sirens had cursed Neelie after all. So it was to be a slow death, hmm? Nothing like two hundred pages of death scene to lift the spirits. Yet I plowed ahead.
For the longest time, I’d avoided Samuel’s books. I couldn’t do it—allow myself to be shrouded in his thoughts. But curiosity (and, admittedly, wistfulness) eventually drove me to read Water Sirens. Anger over his exploitation of my personality carried me through the other books. Being angry made me feel as though I was accomplishing something, that somehow, I made him hurt just as much as he’d hurt me. Even now, I felt a stirring of annoyance at him while I followed Neelie and her crew through the Alps, from France to Geneva. But it wasn’t roiling, and I couldn’t call up the fierceness of years past. Perhaps time had deadened the rawness, leaving me with only a hunger to satisfy that dull ache.
Once, the iced air raised bumps along his arms. Once, they would have built a fire to stave off the chill, frozen limbs pulsing as they roared to life like the hissing logs. Now, Nicodemus’s feeble bones needed neither warmth nor cold. His body decayed as lake algae decayed. If he sank to black depths, mud would preserve his bones, a fossilized ammonite churning circles in the sediment layer that had been his nacken life. His body was dead—a rock memorial for an era passing away before him.
But his mind was not dead. And his spirit certainly wasn’t. Nicodemus considered his three friends as they tucked their packs into the darkness of the mountain enclave, hidden away from these things that chased them. He watched as Noel settled a weary Neelie against the wall, making her comfortable.
His arrested heart beat for them, his family, these vibrant flickers of life. As long as they burned, he would, too…
I folded my bookmark over the page and pressed the book closed. Nicodemus’s pain hit too close to home, and it twisted my gut. I needed to pause, to think. Something in Samuel’s story—the direction it had taken—was extremely troubling.
Hydraulic Level Five Page 11