Behold the Bones

by Natalie C. Parker

  The silence shudders into more applause, and Mr. King folds Gage into a hug, one arm holding his head like a baby’s. It’s touching. I can’t deny it’s touching to see Gage close his eyes and listen to whatever private words his father whispers. Not to mention intrusive. Looking around, I see misty eyes and quivering smiles on every adult face.

  Only Abigail seems to share my sense of intrusion. She’s looking at the sky, willing her eyes to remain as dry as stone.

  I take her hand. Without shifting her gaze, she threads her fingers through mine and closes her eyes.

  The dancing starts a moment later. Gage and Nova take center stage and show us how it’s done. They cut a pretty picture as they move together—Gage in sleek black with gold trim, and Nova in the reverse, a gold damask gown with dark shadows beneath the filigree pattern. Mr. King pulls Old Lady Clary—dressed in all the colors of the peacock—to the floor. She’s the picture of delight, drinking up every minute of Mr. King’s attention. More couples follow. I give Abigail’s hand a tug and she lets me drag her into a dance neither of us knows how to do. It doesn’t matter. We choose the steps we do know, two-stepping and spinning and waltzing until we’re both laughing too hard to continue.

  Abigail abruptly stops and spins me around. Gage has come to claim his dance and stands there with one arm behind his back. Then, just as he did at the door, he bows and offers his hand. I can’t stop the sudden rush of blood to my ears. I don’t think I imagine the abrupt rash of whispers that surrounds us as the crowd shares my internal reaction. For just a moment, all eyes are on me, wondering how I managed the first nonfamily dance with Gage, and admiring that I have. I only hope my hand isn’t sweating when I place my fingers on his.

  The band carries us across the floor with some old-timey jazz number. Gage settles one hand on my waist, keeps the other in my hand, and somehow we become highly competent waltzers. I’m gratified to find my feet know more than I’d given them credit for. So is Gage, I suspect.

  “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I admit.

  “You know more than you think,” he says.

  I rarely have occasion to dance, but he’s right. I’m guided by the music and the gentle pressure of his hands, and soon my nerves relax. He lifts one arm and spins me in a tight circle. Dancers blur against the black sky.

  I have a sudden need to fill the silence, so I say, “My dad used to dance with me when I was little. We danced our kitchen floor into submission.”

  “Mine, too.”

  I laugh. “Oh my Lord, you’re not joking.”

  Gage shakes his head proudly. “A lot of times, Dad was all we had, so he had to do everything. Even the dancing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “My hand to God, it’s true.” Gage is all grins at the memory and my very unladylike, bald-faced gaping.

  He spins me again. This time he pulls me closer. My shoulder presses his and I see the small nick on his jawline he must’ve gotten while shaving not so long ago. His hand tightens at my waist and he fixes those dark eyes on mine.

  If I were brave, I would kiss him here and now. That’s what I want to do. He wants it, too, and why wouldn’t he? But counting now, we’ve been in each other’s presence for all of a few hours and therefore kissing is out of the question.

  Instead, I tip my head and study the sky.

  “There’s Aquarius,” I say.

  “And Sagittarius,” he adds, nodding to the opposite edge of the sky.

  I snap my eyes back to his. “You know constellations.”

  I’ve never met another person in Sticks—outside of my mom and dad, who read the night sky like a book—who could name any constellation other than Orion.

  “No matter where we went, they stayed the same.” Gage lifts his eyes. “Pegasus.”

  “Delphinus,” I counter. The game is on.

  “Sagitta.”

  “That’s almost cheating. Sagittarius and now his arrow?”

  “Technically a separate constellation.”

  “Dirty pool.”

  He grins.

  “Capricornus.”

  I see the skin tighten around his mouth. We’re approaching the limits of his considerable knowledge. “Aquila,” he says, less certain now.

  “Cygnus,” I answer, and I’m sure I’ve won.

  There’s a long pause. His eyes skim the sky for victory and I’ve started to smirk. Then there’s a low laugh, and when he looks at me, I know I’ve lost. “Cepheus,” he says.

  “I’ve never even heard of that one. You made it up.”

  He laughs. “It’s definitely real.”

  “Who or what is it, then?”

  The song ends. Neither of us lets go.

  “He was Andromeda’s father, Cassiopeia’s husband, and,” he says, bringing my hand to his lips, “a king.”

  I can’t even begrudge him the victory.

  A new song begins and around us the dancers shift their steps to match. Gage steps back, once again bowing over my hand.

  “Thank you for the dance, Candace Pickens.”

  I surprise myself by responding with a short curtsy. “My pleasure,” I say, thinking this is the first time I’ve ever said those words and meant them.

  I return to my girls without feeling the ground beneath my feet, and the night wears on with more dancing and uniquely crafted hors d’oeuvres. As promised, the cameras roll out on broad platforms, each manned by two eager attendants including my damned cousins. Leo and Red are far from inconspicuous in their all-black outfits, with headsets and clipboards. Red’s all grins, Leo’s all business. The second they turn a camera on me, I flip them off.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, Nova joins us having scored several flutes of actual champagne, not the sparkling grape juice on hand for all the teens.

  “Please, save me from more socializing,” she says. “You are the only people here I feel like I know.”

  “Who are we to turn away a lady bearing gifts?” I answer for all of us.

  We drink the champagne quickly, with the exception of Sterling, who sees only her abusive, now absent father in alcohol. Heath, though, surprises me by tossing one back faster than the rest of us.

  The dancing halts when a very tall, very chocolate cake is wheeled onto the deck, melting with gold candles and icing. We sing a dramatically tuneless round of “Happy Birthday” before Gage lifts Thad to help him extinguish the candles. All in all, it’s a pretty spectacular party. Mr. King has played this round well; the town is his for the taking.

  While all attention’s on the cake, Nova and I sneak into the house and steal a few more flutes from the kitchen. Once they’re in our hands, everyone assumes they’re juice. Handy that they’re the same color. And maybe a little dumb on the Kings’ part. It would’ve been smarter for them to use red juice for the minors, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Cake acquired and demolished, Sterling and Heath return to the dance floor for a romantic experience, while Abigail, Nova, and I continue our efforts to become a roving speakeasy. It makes a good game and it’s not very long at all before my head starts spinning in that gentle way and I forget all about the pain in my pinky toes from my heels.

  “You know, I think I like you, Nova King,” I confess.

  “This night is turning out so much better than I thought it would,” Nova says after successfully nabbing another glass from a waiter. “I was afraid it would be all awkward and dull, but this is just . . . not.”

  Abigail laughs and pulls the half-empty flute from Nova’s fingers. “Let me help you with that.”

  “You’ve said that an awful lot tonight, Abigail.” Nova grins but doesn’t protest as Abigail assists her with her drink.

  “Do you think we could ride those ponies again?” I ask, suddenly bored and done with the dance floor. “What do you think they’re doing right now?”

  “Candy, you are brilliant!” Nova sets off and we follow a dimly lit and newly constructed marble path t
o the front of the house.

  There the two carriages stand side by side, unattended and empty. The horses stomp their feet and jingle their harnesses, clearly bored and in need of entertainment.

  “How hard do you reckon it is to drive a horse?” Nova asks with mischief in her mouth.

  I am not a reckless person. Chaos is the enemy I stand vigilant against. Yet in this moment I’m ready to do something perfectly senseless simply because the thought occurred to me, and I like the way it makes me feel.

  Beyond the carriages, the oak tunnel shimmers invitingly. I think complacency must be its own kind of chaos.

  “Won’t know until we try,” I say.

  It’s possible that if we weren’t several flutes in and ornery, we wouldn’t be climbing into the driver’s seat of a horse and carriage. It’s possible we’d have elected to leave our shoes on instead of tossing them to the floor of the carriage. It’s even possible I’d think better than to shout “Giddy-up!” before snapping the reins over the horse’s strong back.

  Possible. But I’ll never know how likely.

  We lurch forward with such enthusiasm that Nova rolls backward into the carriage with a shriek. I mean to aim for the oak river of lights, but when I twist to see that Nova’s okay, the carriage twists with me. Beside me, Abigail grumbles my name like a curse and tries to pull the reins from my hands.

  “I’ve got it!” I insist, struggling with her for control as the horse drags us along around the house.

  No. No, no, no, not around the house.

  I pull hard to the left, but it’s not soon enough. The whirling, twirling dancers come into view and all heads start to swivel.

  Abigail notices, too, and together we tug the reins straight back. In slow motion, the horse drops to a walk before stopping altogether. Right next to the dance floor, where all of our parents wait with scowls of varying severity.

  Except for Mr. King.

  He strides across the grass and he’s . . . laughing.

  “Nova!” he cries so that everyone can hear. “When I told you to take the girls on a carriage ride, I meant with one of the coachmen!”

  “Am I drunk?” I murmur to Abigail. In response, she reaches over to pinch my thigh. “Ouch! Shit. What?”

  “That hurt?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then you’re not lit up.”

  Mr. King is assisting his daughter down from the carriage. His smile is unwavering, but I think I detect a flash of tired irritation pass between them. Nova holds her shoes in one hand, her father’s hand in the other, and manages to look appropriately chastised as she apologizes for the misunderstanding we didn’t have.

  The crowd moves from whispers to bemused laughter. Searching for my parents and Abigail’s, I discover they’re laughing, too. They bought Mr. King’s blatant lie hook, line, and sinker.

  That’s when I realize I’ve found the first important piece of the puzzle that is Mr. King: the appearance of control is more important to him than immediate reprisal. I choose to ignore how familiar that feels and file it away for future reference.

  Beneath me, the carriage inches forward as the horse dances uneasily. Time to get down. Gathering the fabric of my skirt in one hand, I study the drop. It would be easiest to sit on the not-totally-clean floor and scoot off. I can just imagine the dirt my butt will collect in the process, but jumping seems similarly unwise.

  I press my eyes closed and take a deep breath. When I open them, there’s little Thad peering up with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I would like to assist you, Miss Candy,” he says, so serious beneath that brow I can’t bear to correct him. “But I cannot reach you.”

  Before I can assure him that I don’t hold his height against him, he throws up a hand and says, “Stay there!”

  There’s no telling what he’s gone off to find, but I’m reasonably sure I shouldn’t wait. From the other side of the carriage, Abigail’s accepting Mr. King’s hand. No time to waste. I spot the vicious-looking metal hook that coachmen must use to get up and down. It’s only a foot or so beneath the floor. Skirts still in hand, I twist to descend the carriage as I would a ladder. My bare toes find the hook easily enough, but it’s the next step that kills me. Too busy trying to save my skirts from dirt, I lose my balance and slip, but instead of hitting the ground in a graceless heap, I’m caught by strong arms.

  “Oh Jesus H.,” I say, realizing my skirt is hiked treacherously high at the moment.

  The hands around my waist loosen enough that I can lower my skirt and turn around.

  “Just Gage, if you don’t mind,” he quips with a quick grin.

  He’s so close I can feel his chest rise with his breath.

  The horse whinnies and hops behind me. Again, Gage’s hands grip my elbows. He pulls me away and I hear more than see why. Something has spooked the horse and it struggles in its harness.

  “Thad!” Gage barks, calling the boy to our side.

  When we’re several feet away, I can finally get a good look at the scene. Though one of the coachmen has arrived and stands before the horse with reins in hand, the horse hops and rears in panic, backing away as it does. We can hear the calming voice of the coachman between the horse’s distressed noises. It isn’t doing much good. The horse is inconsolable.

  On the other side, the crowd has started to move away as we did. Then someone shrieks and attention shifts to the dark hill at the edge of the dance floor. The one that slopes away toward the swamp. The one that, until a minute ago, was clear but for tall summer grasses rejuvenated by rain. Now the whole of the hill is covered by a thick, creeping fog that shifts quietly in the night.

  Gage draws a sharp breath. His fingers tighten on my elbow, pushing me toward the house. Instead of following his pressure, I follow his eyes to a point in the fog that billows ahead of the rest.

  It’s difficult to see through the lights of the dance floor. Did something dart forward just there? Yes. The sounds of shock from the crowd confirm it.

  I push at Gage’s hands, keeping my eyes on that shifting spot where I know something to be.

  Again, it shifts and—there!—a hand reaches through the fog to claw the earth. It’s followed by another, then the shape of a face, pale and nearly indistinguishable from the mist around it.

  The grass is cool beneath my feet. Wet from the rain. It squishes between my toes as I move.

  The hands appear again as the figure crawls up the hill. Closer and closer. I don’t take my eyes from its—her?—face. I don’t dare lose this sight. My world is this moment. Me and the girl climbing the hill with muddy fingertips.

  She pushes through the fog, crawling hand to foot to hand, with stringy hair swaying before her face and uneven patches shorn clean off. Her mouth moves and her eyes slide from side to side as though untethered. Her dress is tattered, torn completely away from the knees so she can crawl without catching on it.

  I move closer, leave the light and the party behind until I can hear that she’s speaking, or whispering clips or nonsense phrases that spin around and around each other in meaningless circles.

  “Take a stone, take a flower, flower, flower, these will only last an hour.” Her lips are cracked and she slurs her letters as though she’s missing teeth. “But take a bone or take some strife, these will last for all my life.”

  “Hello?” I ask, crouching down a few feet away.

  Her eyes snap to mine and widen. “Mary, Mary, Mary,” she sings. “She’s so mad, mad, mad, she’s so very bad!”

  The poem is familiar to me. I’ve read it hundreds of times, recited it hundreds of times, but hearing it like this, falling in and out of order from a troubled mind, it sends a shiver down my spine. I know this girl. I know her story and her name.

  Suddenly, she stands and with hunger in her eyes, she rushes me.

  Without thinking, I jump to my feet and hold up my hands. “Mad Mary Sweet!” I cry. “Stop!”

  But, of course, she doesn’t stop. Shrieking, she ru
shes straight into my hands. She’s cold, so cold against my skin, but then she vanishes like fog.

  For a moment, I can’t move. All I can hear is the thrashing of my heart in my head. My hands pass a shiver through the rest of my body. Finally, I stutter into a deep breath and turn to face the house. And I see three things that shock me equally.

  My town stunned into silence.

  A smile the size of California on Mr. King’s face.

  And cameras pointing their soulless eyes directly at me.

  PART TWO

  They say she was born ’neath a sad pale moon,

  And her grandfather died as she gave her first croon.

  They knew what that meant,

  Her path it was bent,

  By the power from which she’d been hewn.

  10

  I SAW A GHOST.

  This time there’s no denying it. I saw her, everyone saw her, and then they saw her vanish at my touch.

  This isn’t how I wanted things to go. I wanted to see ghosts, sure, but I wanted to see them the way the rest of the town does, privately or as part of some small group. I wanted to share in the spectacle so I’d stop feeling so ousted by it. Instead, I became the spectacle—the girl caught on tape talking to a ghost.

  Shuttered away in my bedroom, having run away from the party, forcing my parents to follow and us all to come home, my disappointments mount faster than mating rabbits. My phone won’t quit buzzing beneath a pile of dirty clothes, where I buried it the third time it lit up with a message about that ghost. I turn my stereo up and climb out of this ridiculous dress. The hem is a darker shade of green now than it was at the beginning of the night, stained with water and mud. Doesn’t matter. I don’t plan to wear it again. Cousins Carol and Irene can benefit from my current siblingless, future childless state.

  For now, I’ll trap it deep inside my closet. I don’t want to think about tonight any longer than necessary.

  Mom is determined to make that difficult. I’ve barely shed Gram’s pearls when my door opens. Without invitation, Mom turns my music down.