The Precious Dreadful

by Steven Parlato

  I can’t help going on the defensive. “Nice of you to notice.”

  “Wow, sorry, I just—”

  “No worries. I just haven’t been sleeping. I have a lot on my mind.”

  He hesitates a moment too long, focused anywhere but on me.

  “Ed, is something wrong?”

  “No, I just wanted to . . . um . . . see how you’re doing. And, uh, ask if you want to grab something to eat.” He looks ultra-serious. “I mean, unless you and Aidan have other plans.”

  When I say, “I haven’t spoken to Aidan lately,” his features shift, disappointment and hope caught in a standoff, stranding his face on the border of doofy.

  I say, “Try not to look so happy about it. And I didn’t say yes to grabbing something.”

  “Oh.” Hands in pockets, he smirks.

  “I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea, Ed.”

  Smirk eclipsed by confusion, he says, “How do you mean?”

  Lowering my voice, I answer, “At Hale’s. The kiss?” Unable to read his expression, I continue. “It’s just, things aren’t perfect with Aidan, but I’m hoping to iron them out. So there’s no point complicating the situation. Agreed?”

  Not bothering to hide his smile, he says, “Sure, sure. I’ll text Glade and let her know it’s a no. Too bad, she was looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “Glade?”

  “Yeah.” Smirk returning, he says, “Wait! You didn’t think I was asking you out just now. Like, on a date?”

  Feeling my face go eight shades of pink, I manage a strangled laugh and sputter, “What? Ha! Too funny. Of course not! God, a date!”

  Now it’s Marisol’s turn to come to the rescue. Spotting my discomfort from across the room, she’s at my elbow. She asks, “Ready, Teddi?”

  Ed says, “This isn’t a poetry workshop, Marisol. Easy with the rhyming.”

  Following a polite laugh, we say good night to Ed and Eleanor, and head upstairs. Mari offers a ride, but I tell her I’m going to stay a few minutes longer to read over my writing. No need to admit I’m reluctant to leave early, in case Aidan comes looking for me.

  As Marisol passes through the double doors, I decide to hit the private study room. Spreading my stuff on the table, I page through my journal, read over what I’ve written tonight.

  It’s crap.

  Eleanor challenged us to upend our writing routine, to veer from our typical creative path. Tonight’s prompt involved taking on a persona, writing in a whole new form and voice.

  We were supposed to create dialogue in that new voice, and Eleanor suggested argument as a way to provide an innate sense of drama.

  Thumbing through the pages I scratched together in—of course—Brenda’s voice, I have to admit Eleanor was right about one thing, the inherent drama of a fight.

  I’ve written a heated mother/daughter exchange. For creativity sake, I refrained from calling the mom Brenda, went with Linda. At one point, the girl, Frankie—short for Francesca, because her mother put some thought into naming her—calls her mom selfish, and Linda replies, “Are you shitting me, Frankie? You’ve got nerve saying that to the person who’s devoted her life to wiping your nose, not to mention your ass.”

  Ken objected to the language. Explaining it wasn’t so much the words, he clarified. “It just doesn’t sound believable. What mother would talk to her daughter that way?”

  Must be nice to have such a rosy outlook on parent/child dynamics.

  Sighing, I check my cell. No messages, and class time was officially over fifteen minutes ago. If Aid were going to show up, he’d have been here by now.

  I’m stalling, avoiding the envelope from Adaluz. Taking it from my journal, I flip it over. Holding it to the overhead, anticipating the contents, I imagine Willa saying, “Just open it, Teddi!”

  The back flap is sealed with an Our Lady of Guadalupe decal. Counting the stars patterning her mantle, I peel off the image and stick it to the inside of my journal. Then, lifting the flap, I slide out the piece of stationery. In keeping with the envelope and label, it’s purple, featuring a larger Mary.

  Opening the card, I’m struck by Tia Luz’s tiny lettering. It fills the sheet in perfectly straight lines.

  Dear Teddi,

  I upset you the other day. Forgive me. I should not have pushed. The spirits can be imprecise, and as I told you, I sometimes hear them in Spanish, la lengua de mi alma. I’ve puzzled it, and while you are sure you see a girl, a boy speaks to me. It does seem I was wrong about the name.

  “No kidding.”

  It only sounded like Ron. But it was not a name at all. He’s saying “rana.” Silly to miss it. Foolish, second-guessing my Spanish. So think, Teddi. Rana. Frog. Does this mean something to you? The boy says it will. He drew a picture. I’m afraid he had to rely on my meager artistic talents (see back). Be well, Teddi. Be in touch.

  God Bless, Tia

  When I overturn the card, I’m assaulted. An intense stink—of smoke and swamp—causes me to spin, looking for the source. I expect a smoldering bookshelf, but nothing’s amiss. Next, the cicada buzz building and building in my ears, I hear the voice. Wild, gravelly, it gnaws inside my skull as it screams, “Fuckin’ bullfrog!”

  On the edge of blackout, I fold in my chair. Sliding from my hand, the Guadalupe letter lands, Mary side down. I tremble. Smiling up from the back, with his bulbous, goofy eyes, is Tia’s drawing. It’s Gordy, the cereal frog from Corey’s T-shirt.

  22

  Last night was a smudge of upset. In fact, ever since Tia’s drawing, I’ve been jangled, afraid to contemplate the Gordy picture’s meaning. I was tempted to contact Corey’s brother the minute I got home, so he could put me in touch with my friend.

  And I knew I should call Willa to see whether she’d heard about Nic and the play. Instead, seriously close to overload, I went into defensive sleep mode. Winding my worry in bedsheets, I crashed ’til noon. For once, it sort of worked. I know I had a bunch of crazy-as-shit dreams, but I’m fortunate not to remember a single one.

  I sort of expected to hear from Aidan today. Thought he’d at least text, to find out if Willa spilled the details about his attempted smooch. Unless he doesn’t care about my reaction. I’ve imagined a hundred scenarios for that kiss, each worse than the one before.

  Knowing would be better, but every time I start dialing Willa, I feel a gush of guilt-induced nausea, along the lines of “how dare I focus on anything other than Corey” after Luz’s message.

  I try again to erase her Gordy sketch from memory. If I could wipe away these last weeks entirely, I’d do it. Whoever established the link between ignorance and bliss was genius.

  But there’s no going back. I need to know.

  It’s been days since Micah’s virtual “Piss off!” so, just before sunrise, I log in to the friend site for the millionth time, hoping for a follow-up. Zilch. Tossing caution, I type:

  Hey, Micah. To clarify: NO, it wasn’t a “fucking joke.” Apparently, you’re not thrilled to hear from me. I get it. We were pretty obnoxious. Sorry for all those annoying tricks we played. General tagging along, lame questions. But we were kids. And we sort of looked up to you.

  Anyway, I really need to get in touch with your brother. Can you help?

  After typing my cell number, and signing Corey’s friend, Teddi, I brace myself and hit enter.

  Barely a minute passes before my phone shimmies on the nightstand. I practically fall off the bed lunging for it, bracing as I check the screen.

  It’s Willa.

  I’m just not ready to engage her, doubt I can without spilling what I’ve learned about Nic. I consider swiping decline. But that might be why she’s calling, maybe she found out about the play and needs to vent. This might make me a bad friend, but the last thing I want is to hear about her problems.

  Then again, this could be our chance to fix things.

  Snatching my phone, I’m about to tap accept when voice mail beeps. This is better. I’ll let Willa stew
. After all, she was mighty quick with that farting betrayal comment.

  I watch the clock, anticipating the final blip signaling her message is complete.

  “That was quick.”

  I give it a minute, assuming she’ll call again, to leave a signature multipart meander.

  The phone sits silent.

  Picking it up, I log into messages, zoom through robo-lady’s “You have one new voice mail,” and press 1.

  Willa’s voice is super bright. “Teddi, pick up.” A chip bag crinkles. “T Bear . . . I’m sorry. But we cannot let Douche-Meister G. come between us. Not happening.” Huffing, she pauses. “Look, we need to discuss the kiss . . . to . . . rate his technique. Kidding.” She laughs. “Call me!” Then, just before the tone, she says, “It’s Willa.”

  That last part was meant to be funny, but humor’s premature. Especially because she evidently hasn’t found out about Nic yet. That’ll be a trauma-fest.

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “What to do with you, Wills?” Even though I know the answer is make up, I’m not ready yet. Backing out of voice mail, I place my cell in its charger.

  I spend the next several hours couchbound, tandem-plowing through daytime TV shows, boxed snack crackers, and a two-liter root beer. Binks and I will need our sodium levels checked if this ennui keeps up. But something about the mindlessness of soaps and game shows, the persistent crunch and sugary goodness, helps to block out Aidan’s face, Willa’s voice.

  During the six o’clock news, I succumb to the laptop’s siren call. Checking the friend site again, I confirm expectation. Micah silence continues. Deciding to go for broke—what do I have to lose?—I message again. This time, abandoning self-deprecating humor and any attempt to be cordial, I type:

  Micah, don’t be a dick. Message me. Or text. Otherwise, so help me God, I’m calling your mother. Teddi

  I type my cell number again and hit enter.

  When I return from the bathroom (all that root beer), the friend site indicator flashes red. I click it to find a one-word plea from Micah.

  Don’t!

  My reply is almost as brief.

  Call me!!

  I expect him to blow me off, make an excuse, persist playing Dodge Teddi. What I do not expect is an invitation. But as I study the laptop, waiting for some curt reply, a screen chat speech bubble pulses in the left corner. When I hover my cursor over it, Micah’s picture appears, along with the word Chit?

  Stomach leaping, my immediate impulse is to power off. Instead, after checking my shirtfront for snack remains, I release my hair from its messy bun. Then, strapping on my emotional Kevlar vest, I type Chat!

  I always feel like someone’s shoved me through velvet curtains into a spotlight when I screen chat with someone new. It’s like this plunge into ultimate exposure, my image filling their screen. And catching my face in thumbnail totally throws me.

  Tonight, discomfort’s compounded by context. Last time Micah laid eyes on me, I was a prepubescent weirdo. Now I’m, well, a postpubescent weirdo. One who’s stalked and threatened him into communicating.

  We both gasp as our faces flicker into focus on each other’s screens. I feel my cheeks redden when Micah says, “Wow, you really grew up.”

  “You’re looking pretty adult yourself.”

  As if to prove it, he raises a beer bottle to his lips. “Yup.”

  We go quiet, and I question whether it was wise, forcing him to contact me.

  Micah must feel the same about inviting me to screen chat. After a speechless minute, he says, “Look, I better go. I’ve got work in half an hour.”

  I launch into stall talk. “Oh, you’ve got a job?”

  “Yeah, we’re off assistance. Surprised?”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . . all these years. What do you do?”

  “I deliver pizzas. Don’t pretend you give a shit.” His smile’s brief, joyless. “Look, it was . . . all right. Talking to you, but—”

  Desperate to keep his attention, I leap. “I’m in a writers’ group, and—”

  “Congratulations.”

  “—I’ve been working on a story about Corey and me.”

  He makes a point of looking disinterested, but his hand shakes as he swigs his beer.

  “There’s stuff I can’t quite remember, but . . . if I could just talk to him . . .”

  Micah’s expression robs me of words. Chin trembling, he says, “You really don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Corey’s gone.”

  “What do you mean ‘gone’? Where?”

  “Just . . . gone.”

  “Wait. When?”

  “I don’t fucking believe this.” His image blurs as he pushes back from the table. “It was in the papers, on the news when it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  From off-screen he says, “When my brother disappeared.”

  As if I’ve taken a jackboot to the stomach, I struggle to breathe. The room spins. Steadying myself, I ask, “When did this happen?”

  “When we were kids.” Sitting, he comes back into focus. “When we still lived there.”

  “But . . . that makes no sense. There was no search? No investigation? I mean, a kid doesn’t go missing and that’s the end of it. The cops had to have looked for him.”

  “They did, for a while.” Peeling the label off his bottle, he continues, “But we weren’t exactly”—his voice takes on a rasp that echoes Corey’s—“the sort of family people cared about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Glaring from my screen, he says, “Are you serious? Single welfare mom, two raggedy-ass kids?” His laugh is brief, brittle. “Plus, Corey was a couple shades too dark to matter much.”

  Picturing my friend holding a bunch of wildflowers, I can’t believe anyone could feel that way. “We’re best friends. He matters to me.”

  Raising a fist, he says, “Black lives, right?”

  “My mother and I were in the same situation back then, Micah. If it had been me missing, you really think my complexion would have made a difference?”

  “Only to the people who counted.” He makes this sucking sound through his teeth, the way his mother would when she caught Corey acting foolish, telling tales. Tipping back, face out of frame, he guzzles his beer. Then he adds, “It’s too late now. Maybe if your mother let you help that summer.”

  My temples pound. “My mother?”

  “She wouldn’t let you come out the house.” Eyes glinting, his volume ticks up a notch. “My mom wanted to talk to you. She kept saying, ‘If anybody knows where Corey is, Little Teddi does,’ but your mother said you needed rest.”

  “Micah, I—”

  “Look. It’s not your fault. She was probably trying to keep you out of it. It was a crazy time.” He takes a final gulp of beer. “One we don’t talk about anymore.”

  “So you’re saying your little brother vanished. And nobody did a thing to find him?”

  “The cops mostly focused on my mother. And the guy she had living with us at the time.”

  “How could they think your mother—”

  “Come on, Teddi, don’t you watch TV? Family members are always suspects. Mom’s boyfriend? Classic.”

  “Wow.”

  “They tried to pin it on Corey’s dad next. Had this idea Corey’d gone off with him. I remember when they questioned the bastard. He was even on the news. The way he cried over his ‘little Naphtali’—”

  “Naphtali?”

  “Corey’s real first name. After his father. Asshole played concerned parent for the cameras like it was an episode of Crime Scene. As if he was ever really interested in Corey.”

  “I can’t believe you’re referencing some TV show! What’s the matter with you?”

  “Fuck you, Teddi! Just—” He’s about to throw his beer bottle, reconsiders.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just. I don’t know how to process this, Micah.”

  “Yeah well, try processing it from m
y end.” He rests his forehead against his folded hands, voice taking on that Corey rasp. “It got harder and harder to live with the possibility—”

  I whisper, “That he was really gone?”

  Micah chews his lip. “No. That he was . . . alive. It was so exhausting pretending he might . . . c-come h-home.” He swipes a sleeve across his face. “But I did it. For her. For years. Said I was sure he’d be back in time for his birthday. Or hers.

  “She even kept a bowl of those shitty sour apple candies ‘for when he came home.’ And we hung his stocking every Christmas. I have years of candy canes stashed in my sock drawer. Fucked up, huh?”

  “I think it means you still have hope.”

  “I wanted it as much as my mother, for a while. But I never believed in it the way she did. She never once said he might be dead. Not to me. She kept coming back to his father. That’s partly why we moved to Framingham. Bastard had family here,” he makes that sound with his teeth, “so my mother figured . . .”

  “What, Micah?”

  “She was holding out hope his father’s family really did have Corey. It would have meant he was alive.”

  “Is that so impossible?”

  He isn’t listening anymore. Doesn’t acknowledge my question. Rocking side to side, he says, “I started praying they’d find his body. Used to go looking for it. Even after we moved. I’d ride my bike for miles; wander the woods, sneak into basements. I was determined I’d rescue my brother’s bones. That became my hope. I strapped Corey’s old backpack to my handlebars. Told her it was to keep him with me, but really, I planned to use it to carry him home. That probably sounds crazy . . .”

  It sort of does.

  “. . . but I realized the only way to get my mother to live her life—our life—again was to get her to admit he was dead. So I had to bring his bones home to her.”

  “My God, Micah. I can’t imagine what that was like.”

  “No. You can’t. But even without his body, my mother and I finally managed to move on.”

  “How?”

  He must read accusation on my face, because his twists with anger. “It wasn’t easy. Especially for her. She insisted for a long time Corey was coming back. For me, it was tougher living with that possibility. I chose to face facts. I decided early on he . . . wasn’t.”