Touch: A Trilogy

by A. G. Carpenter

  I slip the dress over my head. It’s a little long, the hem nearly brushing my ankles. Mama always was tall.

  There’s a whisper of voices, and I turn toward the bed.

  Mama and Daddy lay next to each other, bare skin showing every place the sheet don’t cover, heads leant together and hands clasped.

  “I love you,” Daddy says.

  And Mama flushes and smiles, shy. “Me too.”

  He touches her cheek, tender. “I’m going to take good care of you, and you and me will live here and have babies and be happy forever.”

  For a moment, her lips tremble and a shadow creeps in around her eyes. “We will?”

  He props himself up on one elbow. “Sure, darling.” He takes her hand again. “Forever and ever.”

  The floorboards creak. Laurel stands in the doorway, staring at me—wide-eyed and nervous. “This house is haunted.”

  I shrug. “I guess most places are. If you know where to look.”

  She rubs her arms, as though brushing away a chill, though it’s hardly cold up here under the sunbaked roof. “You grew up here?”

  “Yes.”

  Laurel glances over her shoulder toward the empty room I used to sleep in. “Was it... when you lived here, too?”

  I guess maybe she can’t see my Great Granny Jean knotting the rope around the banister, the other end around her own neck. “Yes.” I watch Granny Jean swing her legs over the railing and drop toward the hallway below. “But those ghosts aren’t as loud.”

  I remember being scared a few times when I was little, going up or down the stairs and seeing my great-granny come hurtling out of the darkness toward me. But she never hurt anyone ‘cept herself. And sometimes, in the dusky hours when the sun had dropped into the woods and the moon hadn’t crept up out of the trees yet, she would sit on the front porch and sing old gospel songs.

  She shakes her head. “You mean to stay here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t see how you can stand it.”

  I rub those silver scars on my arm, thoughtful. “Some ghosts come with us. No matter where we go.”

  Laurel shudders, one hand drifting up to touch the grey patches in her hair. “Yes,” she whispers. She licks her lips, sidles closer. “You ever wish you weren’t like this?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve been hurt so much because of it.” She bites her lip, shoulders hunched.

  “Ah.” I reach out and take her hand, remembering Alex and her scars. “The world hurts everybody. Touch or no.”

  Her fingers tighten around mine, but she says nothing.

  “Franklin will be back soon,” I say. “Why don’t we go wait on the porch?”

  26

  Percy and Martinez are pacing back and forth at the end of the driveway, taking turns on the phone. Trying to present something sensible to the government powers-that-be in Atlanta.

  Laurel is curled up on the swing at the end of the porch, head resting on her arm and sound asleep.

  Franklin nudges the door open with his foot and comes out to sit beside me on the steps. “Beer?”

  “Sure.” I pop the can open and take a curious sip. “Jesus. That’s awful.”

  “You drink the whole thing and it will be less awful.” He takes a hefty swallow by way of demonstration.

  I take another swallow, wince. “You sure?”

  “When have I lied to you, Delaney Green?”

  “Ah.” I hold my breath and drink a little more. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “What?”

  I hold up my left hand and wiggle the pinky stub. “My bones. What do you plan to do with them?”

  He sits very still for a long moment, the edge of his beer can just touching his lip. “Hah,” he says finally. He tips his head back and finishes the rest in a few noisy swallows. “Not sure.”

  I nod. Sip at my own beer, which still tastes mostly of piss, and stare out across the weedy yard.

  The sun has dropped in the west, long shadows creeping out of the woods to touch the house and driveway. Soon it will be dusk and the fireflies will come out to look for love in the unkempt grass.

  Franklin looks at me, brows drawn in and lines around his mouth like he’s chewin’ something over. “Are you mad?”

  “About my bones?” I shake my head. “Nah. I suppose everyone needs a weakness.”

  He chuckles. “Your pinky ain’t your weakness, Delaney.” And his gaze slides away from me to rest on Percy—still pacing back and forth at the end of the driveway.

  “This is true.” I take a few gulps from my beer. A lightness settles in my feet and hands. I tip my head back, gaze rolling across the ragged treetops, wondering if I will float away. But I know it’s just the beer.

  I turn my head over to one shoulder and look at Franklin, trying to keep my voice serious. “You hold onto those though. Someday they might be important.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Might be?”

  I giggle. “Might be. Will be. The future’s always changing, Franklin.”

  “Not your future.” He says it thoughtful. I know Laurel has been talking to him. Talking to Martinez, too. Warning them, maybe. Or trying to convince them to do the thing she can’t.

  I drain the last few swallows from my beer can, trying to reclaim the fading buzz and failing. I set the empty can aside and wish the sun would hurry up and set so the heat would let up. “You hang onto those bones,” I say again.

  Franklin looks at me, solemn. “Yes, ma’am.” He stands up before I can say anything else. “I gotta piss.”

  “Bathroom’s in there. Should flush, we got the pump on the well going a little while ago.”

  He disappears into the house, and I stretch and shuffle my feet.

  Martinez has left Percy to his phone conversation, wandering across the yard as if by accident, but drifting steadily toward the burned-out carcass of the tool shed.

  I sigh and stand up, picking my way across the yard to stand beside him. “You get things worked out?” I ask after a moment of silence.

  “For now. Percy’s going to take an extended leave while you figure out what you want to do.”

  “You told them his magic is gone?”

  Martinez looks at me, and his eyes are dark and unreadable. “For now.” He glances over his shoulder, but Percy is still on the phone, and turns to face me square. “How long?”

  “Maybe never.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t lie to me, Delaney.”

  I shrug. “Years, I think.”

  “How many?”

  “Fifteen. Ish. I think.”

  Martinez nods. “I expect so, too. And it’s changed, too, hasn’t it?”

  I blink at him. “Yes. But how…”

  “I always wondered why you would come down this road. And don’t tell me it was just because you couldn’t leave The Salesman unchecked.” He raises an eyebrow, but I say nothing. “It wasn’t until I saw him today, turning that rage into something else so he could bring you back, that I figured it out. This road was not about saving yourself. You were saving him.”

  I look at him for a long moment. “Could be I can’t do one without the other.”

  He nods, unsurprised. “Laurel says you are still going to doom us all. Some other darkness following you. Or returning despite your best efforts.”

  “That is still some years off. And you know how the future is.”

  His eyes narrow. “And your magic?”

  “It will take less years.” I reach out and touch his shoulder, impulsive. “I don’t mean to hurt anybody though.”

  His mouth twists in a wry grin. “You never do.” He raises his hand before I can respond. “Nevermind. Just... don’t make me regret seeing you again.” His gaze slides toward the charred ribs of the collapsed tool shed.

  I lean close, looking at him kindly with my brown eye. “I promise. I’ll be good.”

  Martinez sighs. “Right. I should get on the road. I’ve got meetings out the a
ss in the morning.”

  “You be careful,” I say, automatic. And for sure, I don’t mean anything by it, but his hand drops down to touch his gun, and I remember how he didn’t hesitate to put a bullet in my head in the middle of that cursed clearing.

  The screen door on the porch bangs—Franklin returning from the bathroom.

  The noise breaks the tension, and Martinez takes a step back, lets his hands rest at his sides. “I’ll be seeing you, Miss Green.”

  I wait until he starts toward his car to let out the breath I’ve been holding. Our next meeting won’t come for years. It won’t be long enough.

  27

  As night settles around the house, Franklin and Laurel leave for the motel in Crossing. Franklin promises to return in the morning with more food and clean sheets for the bed upstairs. Laurel promises nothing, climbing into the car without a word.

  As the rumble of Franklin’s car fades—a space quickly filled with the peep of tree frogs, the creak of cicadas under the dark-columned trees, and the rustle of leaves in the soft breeze—Percy leans down to kiss me. His fingers catch the fabric of my dress, drawing it slowly upward, my skin revealed to the velvet dark night one inch at a time, until I lift it over my head and stand naked in front of him.

  Then it is my turn to untuck and unbutton and peel away his shirt and trousers so that we lean together—skin to skin.

  We lay down on the porch, which is hard against elbows and knees, but take turns resting on each other. It is no less awkward than our first night—our only night—together, but there is more laughter. This time will not be our last.

  After a while, we are both spent and Percy lays his head between my breasts, content. The moon has crested the tops of the trees, and the yard is full of silver, but here, on the dusty boards of the porch, it remains soft and shadowed.

  “Will you stay here?” I ask, once my breath has returned.

  “Huu.” He sighs, settling more comfortably on top of me. “It seems that way.”

  “What about your work? With Martinez?”

  “They are talking about letting me take more of a support role. Research and history.”

  I run my fingers through his hair. “You’ll be happy with that?”

  “I’ll be happy with you.” He tilts his head, looking up at me. “I’ll always be happy with you.”

  I am silent for a moment, considering that. For sure this house has baggage, but every other place will too for folks like me and Percy. Still... “You don’t mind staying here?”

  “No. Why?”

  I stare up at the flaking blue paint on the porch ceiling. “Laurel says this house is haunted.”

  At the other end of the porch, Great Granny Jean starts to sing. Coome on dow-own to the river. Coome down to the water, child.

  “Ah.” Percy yawns and curls around me tighter. “There aren’t any ghosts here, Delaney. Just family.”

  Epilogue

  On a hot July day, Mama tried to kill me for the last time.

  Addie and I had taken the baby down to the church to see if we could get some formula. She hadn’t taken to nursing like she should, and Mama had been distracted and irritable—going back to work making fancy cakes as if she hadn’t just given birth a few days before.

  By the time we got back to the house, me carrying the baby and Addie pulling the wagon with the half a case of formula tins, plus our normal loaf of bread and stack of cheese, we were all red-faced and sweating.

  Addie scooped up the box with the formula and stomped up the stairs to the porch. “Bring the rest inside, Del.”

  I juggled the baby back and forth from one arm to the other, trying to get the other box tucked up against my chest. Finally just laid the baby in the box next to the bread and cheese and cans of soup and picked it all up. Shuffled up the steps and kicked the screened door to get Addie’s attention.

  “Hold on.” She pushed the door open with a scowl. “You don’t have to be so loud.”

  “Sorry. I’m hot. So is the baby.” I trudged into the kitchen and put the box down on the floor. Wet my hands in the sink and rubbed them on the baby’s face to try and cool her off. She fussed, but not with any strength.

  Addie stood, one hand on her hip, as she squinted at the directions on the cans of formula. She punched a hole in the top of the can and poured some into the bottle, then screwed the rubbery nipple on the top and held it out to me. “See if she’ll drink this.”

  I settled on the floor cross-legged and cradled the baby in my arms, rubbed the nipple against her mouth. She latched on, but after just a minute, she turned her head away, fussing. “She doesn’t want it.” I looked up at Addie, worried.

  “She’s probably just hot and tired. Try a little more in a few minutes.” Addie put the rest of the cans of formula up in the cupboard. Took the loaf of bread and stack of cheese and put them in the fridge. “Oh. Looks like Mama left us a snack.” She pulled out two little plates, each with a single fancy cake in the center and a strip of masking tape on the edge with our names written on them.

  I put the baby down on the floor and stood up eagerly. Mama didn’t normally let us have any of the cakes she made, and we knew better than to try and sneak one. I reached for the yellow one and paused, head aching with knowledge that there was something wrong with it. It was hard to tell what, exactly. I saw Mama putting ground glass in it, and also something powdered that came out of a pharmacy bottle.

  I let my hand drop to my side. “I can’t eat that.”

  Addie paused, looking at the cakes carefully. “They look all right to me.”

  I touched the edge of the plate with her name on it and nothing happened. No flash of the past, no headache. For the first time, I realized that Mama wasn’t trying to kill us. Just me.

  I shook my head. “She’s fixed mine. I can’t eat it.”

  Addie frowned, her hands fidgeting on the edge of the table. “But mine’s all right.”

  “Well, yeah. But...” I paused, a hot flush creeping up the back of my neck. She meant to eat hers even if I couldn’t eat mine. And the unfairness of it, not just that she was going to get cake and I was not, but that Mama’s fear and obsession would be focused just on me, was too much.

  I smashed my fist onto the plate and splattered gooey crumbs across the table. Then scraped the mush off my hand and tossed it into the trash can.

  Addie’s cheeks bloomed red, and she stretched up to her full height, thin and lanky after a hot summer of growing. “Delaney.”

  And I felt bad, but I didn’t see why she should get cake if I didn’t. “You know you can’t trust Mama’s food.”

  “You keep sayin’ that, Delaney, but I ain’t never got sick.” Her lips stretched out in a humorless grin. “Maybe Mama is right about you after all.”

  I shook my head. “You take that back.”

  “Or what?” She took a step toward me. “You think you can pull on my future, Delaney?”

  The baby fussed, high and thin. I wet my hands at the sink again and picked her up, smoothing cool fingers across her hot little head. “Shhhh. It’s all right.”

  Addie shook her head. “Telling her stories already.”

  “Stop.” I turned on the faucet and wetted one of the dish towels. “She’s really hot, Addie.”

  Addie shrugged. “We’re all hot.” She looked at the plates on the table, and her grin got sly-like. Quick, before I could try and stop her, she snatched the fancy cake off my plate and shoved it in her mouth.

  “Addie, no. Spit it out.” I tried to grab hold of her, but with the baby in one arm, I couldn’t move very fast.

  She swallowed the cake with a grimace, then poked her tongue out at me—all green and sticky with icing. “See? It’s fine.”

  “It’s not.” I stared down at the baby, afraid and uncertain what to do next. The baby seemed really heavy, little arms and legs twitching like she was trying to shiver, but so hot she wasn’t sweating. “Addie, please. I think something’s wrong.”

 
; “Put her in the sink, then.”

  I turned the cold water on, not really cold because it was the middle of summer and the pipes got hot even running under the ground, and rested the baby in the sink. Splashed water over her tiny chest and arms and legs. The shivering stopped, but she wouldn’t open her eyes or fuss—just lay there, breathing fast and light. “Addie.”

  I looked at my sister, but she was leaning hard on the edge of the table, her face gone white as bone. She coughed and rubbed her hand across her mouth—blood smearing across her chin.

  “Delaney.” Her voice shook, and she coughed again, another thread of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “I don’t feel good.”

  Outside there was the noise of an engine, and the gravel in the driveway crunched and popped. Mama was home.

  I tucked the baby up against my chest, ignoring the water soaking through my dress, and grabbed Addie by the arm. “Come on. Quick.”

  She stumbled after me, out the kitchen door and down the steps. There wasn’t time to run into the woods, and I didn’t think Addie would make it very far anyway, so I turned toward the tool shed.

  Addie tripped and fell. “Ow.”

  “Come on.” I pulled the door to the shed open. She pushed back up onto her feet unsteadily—blood running from cuts in her hands and knees. Staggered into the shed and collapsed against the wall, coughing and gasping for breath.

  I tugged the door shut behind us and crouched in the darkness with the baby in my lap. Threads of light crept in under the door and between some of the boards so it wasn’t pitch black. I could see Addie huddled across from me, spitting blood into her hands and tryin’ not to cough.

  “Delaney. Addie. Where you girls at?” That was Mama, yelling from the porch. I wiped the baby’s face with the edge of my dress and held my breath.

  Most times, if Mama couldn’t find us in the house, she would just sit down to wait. There’d been too many conversations with the social worker when we’d hid before for her to start stomping through the woods tryin’ to find us.

  Addie coughed. I couldn’t blame her. Whatever Mama had put in that cake, it had cut her up good. But once she started, she couldn’t stop—shaking and wheezing as bright red ribbons of blood poured out of her.