She asked about his job while they waited. He told her as much about being a copyeditor for a textbook publisher as he could without utterly boring her. That conversation lasted less than five minutes, and didn’t get them any closer to the door. “I am writing a novel, though.”
“Ooh,” she said, with apparent sincerity. “About what?”
He shrugged and waived his free hand dismissively. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Oh, you don’t get to tease me. Spill it.”
“It’s about a person who finds a thumb-drive in a bathroom with a video of what looks like a murder on it. The police tell him it’s just a prank when he takes it to them. He spends the rest of the book trying to get away from the killer who’s tracked him using a Trojan on the same memory stick. I told you, it’s just a genre novel.”
“I love thrillers. Have you read Neil Hunter’s ‘Missing Autumn’? It sounds kind of like that.”
His eyes went wide. He’d never met anyone else who’d read Neil Hunter.
The line moved forward and they inched closer to the door talking about their favorite books and Sam felt less and less like he needed that drink after all to help him relax into the conversation. Eventually, the bouncer waived them in when space opened up. They descended into the basement establishment, and found a pair of empty stools on the far side of the square bar. The bartender wiped his hands on a towel, leaned over, and asked what they’d like. With his vest, sleeve garters and handlebar mustache, he looked like a time traveler, or a ghost. Joye told him she wanted something “tart, with whiskey.” The bartender nodded, said, “Gotcha covered,” and went to work. A minute later, the man set a drink in front of her and waited. She took a sip and said, “Perfect.” He nodded, turned to Sam, and asked what he wanted.
Sam opened his mouth to ask for a Manhattan, when a flash of movement in the window behind the bartender caught his eye. He glanced up in time to see a child’s legs walking past the window. Sam waited a moment for a pair of adult feet to come chasing after them. But none did. A knot in his throat choked him as the bartender asked him again what he’d like.
“Um, a… Manhattan, I guess.”
The man furrowed his brow, and said, “You can get that anywhere. Let me make you something worth coming in for.” Sam nodded his head and the man went to work. This time, however, Sam wasn’t interested in watching him pour intuitive volumes of ingredients into a shaker and chip ice off of a block with a pick. He kept staring out the window.
“Are you all right?” Joye asked.
He nodded, though he felt certain his face was as white as the bartender’s shirt. “I’m okay. I think I just need to duck into the bathroom real quick. It must be the fish I didn’t eat.” He winked at Joye, but she still looked worried.
Sam blushed again. He wanted so badly to sit back down and grab ahold of her hand. Instead, he leaned over to give her a small peck on the cheek. She turned into it and he ended up kissing the side of her mouth. Her lips tasted like rye and lemon and he wanted to kiss her again. Taste more. Instead, he straightened up, shrugged off his sport coat, and draped it over his stool. “Save my seat,” he said, patting his jacket. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”
“Any more and you’re playing with it,” the bartender said as he mixed the ingredients for Sam’s drink in a Boston Shaker.
“You should leave that to me,” Joye purred. The bartender let out a wolf whistle and started stabbing at the block of ice in front of him with a long metal pick.
A lump grew in Sam’s throat and he tried to think of something witty to say in reply. Nothing came out but a hoarse whisper that was lost in the din of the bar. He turned and headed for the door.
The bouncer sitting at the door said, “No reentry,” as Sam stepped past him.
Sam stopped and looked at the man perched on the tall stool. “I just want to get some air,” he said. “It’s, uh, stuffy in here.” The air conditioning was cranked, but needing some air sounded more reasonable than that he thought he’d just seen a child walking all alone up a city sidewalk at ten at night and if he didn’t make sure he was all right, he was going to have a panic attack.
The doorman seemed unsympathetic. “Whatever, bro. Your call. In or out. You can’t be both.”
An anxious woman standing on the other side of the glass door opened up her palms as if to say, come on—just leave already. Sam held up a hand and mouthed, “Sorry,” to her. She rolled her eyes and began talking to her friend in line. Her raised voice filtered softly through the door. “Will you look at this asshole?”
Sam turned and nodded at the doorman who didn’t nod back, and went to the bathroom instead.
At the sink, he splashed some water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror for a moment trying to push his anxiety down. The man who stared back wasn’t a stranger; he had the same haunted look Sam was very familiar with. He’d been wearing that look for over a year now.
In the reflection behind him, he saw a pair of feet dangling under the first stall door. Small feet in bright colored sneakers that couldn’t quite reach the ground. Sam’s breath caught. He squinted his eyes shut and held his breath while he counted to ten. He opened his eyes when a man shoved his way into the bathroom took a place at a urinal, sighing loudly. Sam turned and looked at the stall. The door was open. No feet. No child.
He turned off the water and plucked a handful of paper towels off the counter beside the faucet handle, refusing to look at his reflection—or what might be behind it—again.
When he returned to his seat he found his drink waiting for him. Joye’s glass was full as well. Either she hadn’t drunk any of it during his absence, or she’d ordered a second already. He apologized for being gone so long. Joye said, “I was starting to worry.” He smiled and told her that everything was just fine. He took a sip of his drink and murmured his approval. Joye reached out and put her hand on his. “You sure everything is all right?”
“Right as rain,” he lied. He tapped his glass to hers and smiled before taking another sip. Joye lifted hers, and took a big swallow. She pulled her nearly empty glass away from her mouth and smiled. Her lips glistened with whiskey and his stomach knotted at the memory of kissing her a moment earlier. He wanted to shoot his cocktail and order them both another. He wanted to look like he had his shit together more, and kept sipping instead. Joye finished, and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, did I say something?” he asked.
Joye leaned forward and kissed him squarely on the mouth. “You better finish that. Unlike the fish, I hate to see good whiskey go to waste.”
“I… are you…”
“She left a twenty and a ten on the bar and stood. “Are you coming?”
He slammed the rest of his drink, not regretting for a moment not taking the time to savor it.
* * *
Sam opened his eyes in the dark and felt a moment of panic overwhelm him. He was disoriented with sleep and the dark room felt cavernous, less like a deep hole than a void. He lay there for a long moment, breathing deeply and letting the darker shadows in the room deepen into the silhouettes of his familiar things and ground him. His dresser, the bookshelf, the open door to the hallway came into focus as his eyes adjusted and revealed to him the things returned from nothingness. He turned his head toward the unfamiliar shape in bed next to him.
Another person. It had been so long since there was another person in his bed. He recalled Joye’s enthusiasm as he unlocked the door to his condo and let it swing open. Without waiting to be shown in, she’d stepped through first and reached back to pull him in after her. Liv hadn’t been assertive like that. She’d liked the dance they did when she dropped a subtle hint here or there, and Sam would wrap his arms around her and place a soft kiss on her neck, waiting a moment for silent permission to kiss her again. She’d lean her head back into his shoulder and he’d kiss her and nudge her toward the bedroom, and she’d say something like, “Oh you think so, do
you?” reminding him who was in control.
Once again, Joye was her opposite and wasn’t.
He watched the shadow outline of her shoulder against the deeper black of the room beyond her body. He watched until he saw the subtle rise and fall of her shoulder with her breath. Then he let his out.
He touched her hip with a timorous hand. Her bare skin was warm and soft and felt like electricity under his fingers. He let his hand slid down the arc of her hip, to thigh, to bent knee. She didn’t stir, but let out a contended sounding sigh. In the dark, he had only hints of the features of her face. A small chin, a long thin nose, and hair that seemed like a burst of darkness. A dark stain that made his stomach tighten and his heart beat a little faster.
Everything’s fine, he told himself. He pulled back the sheets gently and slipped out of bed. He found his boxer briefs on the floor and stepped into them, though he thought he might slip them off again when he came back to bed. Even though he lived alone, it felt strange walking around the house without anything on. As if he might have to run out into the hallway in a hurry and beg a neighbor to use the phone because oh god she isn’t breathing and my battery is dead and please just call 9-1-1 and tell them to send someone right away because she’s not breathing and cold and I don’t know what to do because I can’t find her phone and mine is dead and please help me, and he didn’t want to ever feel as vulnerable as that again, and wearing clothes felt a little like being in control. He was in control of his body, if nothing else.
He stepped into the bathroom and lifted the lid, careful not to let it bang against the tank behind. He tried to pee into the bowl at the edge of the water so the splash of his urine wouldn’t wake Joye. He felt a little splash against his shin and re-aimed, frustrated that he’d missed. But he was still groggy from wine and whiskey and sleep and hadn’t turned on any lights.
So not to wake Joye.
Because when she woke up it would all be over. She would get dressed, maybe kiss him a little, and then she would collect her things and go home, because, even though she’d slept with him, this was still a first date and she wouldn’t want to stay the whole weekend. It was too early for a weekend together. Slowly. One day at a time.
Just like surviving.
He finished, closed the lid quietly and debated whether or not to flush. He decided the noise was a better risk than leaving that for Joye to find if she woke up before he did. He waited until the loudest part of the process was finished before opening the door and returning to the bedroom.
He padded down the hall, and stopped in the doorway. It took him a minute to make sense of what he saw. She was sitting up in bed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered. She said nothing. “Joye?” He turned on the hallway light, thinking that she might have to use the bathroom too, but didn’t know where to go in the unfamiliar dark. Light will cast out the darkness.
The child sitting on Joye’s chest looked at him with black eyes that reflected back the hallway light. It stared at him the same way it had in the restaurant.
He wanted to scream at it to get away from her, but he lost his breath. His throat felt constricted like strong little fingers had wrapped around it. The child leaned forward, closer to Joye’s face, but didn’t turn its gaze away from him.
“Stop,” Sam choked out. He took a rasping breath and tried to say it again. “Stop, please. Don’t.”
The child’s eyebrows knitted and it titled its head a little to the side. “Why?” it asked.
Same didn’t know what to say. Why? Why?
“Because, I like her. Please, stop. I need this. I need her.”
The child’s face shifted, upturned eyebrows knitting together, making its expression as dark as any moonless night or bad intention. “I needed you.”
“I…”
Gooseflesh rose on Sam’s body and his breath billowed out of his mouth in a humid cloud that fell apart as fast as his courage. He felt a sheen of filth in him that couldn’t ever wash away. No matter what he put in the past, walked away from, it was there coating his mind, his heart, his entire essence. It was as black as the boy’s eyes and shiny like them too. And nothing he could ever think of to say would wash him clean. Not after what he did.
“I’m sorry.”
He knew saying I’m sorry never stopped a hand already swinging. It never took away the sting of a struck cheek or the feeling in a child’s stomach after the threats were made. Sorry did nothing. The child looked away from him toward Joye, still sleeping, a look on her face that mirrored the child’s own frown. It leaned forward and put its hands on her throat.
“Please. No. PLEASE! STOP!”
“Make me,” it said.
A child’s dare. Make me. Said in the full realization that he absolutely could not make it do anything. Not without touching it. And he knew that touching it was something he absolutely could not do. Not ever.
Not even to save Joye?
Make me.
He took a single step forward, and stopped. A hollow threat. The child knew it, and its fingers tightened. The image of Joye and the boy astride her blurred as tears flooded his eyes. His knees felt week, but he stayed upright and attempted another step.
Make me.
He reached out. His hand not held up to push or slap, or even to signal for the boy to stop. He reached out to merely lay his hand on the child’s back. To let it know he was sorry. For not being the person he needed to be, for not being strong enough to stay, for everything he had been too weak his entire life to face.
He was sorry for burying the boy without ever saying a word of regret for what that loss meant.
But sorry was not enough to heal a single scar.
It couldn’t bring back a lost boy.
It was worthless.
Forever.
He touched the child. A chill spread through his body, raising gooseflesh on his skin. His breath billowed out again in a cloud of condensation like his spirit escaping. The boy shimmered and Sam’s hand passed through him and settled on Joye’s chest. Her eyes fluttered open, and her frown became a smile. “Hey, you. You’re freezing.”
“Hey,” he said, trying not to sob out loud and failing.
“Are you okay?”
Sam shook his head. She took his hand from her chest and held it up to her mouth. She kissed the palm with which he’d tried to comfort a lost boy, and felt only hurt and hate. When he moaned, his breath hitching at the pain of her kiss, she pulled him down to her and held him against her warm, bare skin, and smoothed his hair, whispering “Shhh,” and “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Eventually, he fell asleep on her chest, listening to her breathing—to her heart beat.
* * *
In the morning, Sam awoke alone. He felt the emptiness of his bed gnaw at him and he placed his hand flat on the mattress, trying to feel the heat of a woman who wasn’t there. Another woman, who wasn’t there. But it was cold. He’d told her he wasn’t a project, but of course he was. He was a terrible, ruined project that had been started and abandoned and restarted and broken a little worse until he was a collection of pieces barely held together by a bond that was wearing away. He didn’t blame her for leaving. She’d said she was shit at projects. And he was an unfixable one.
He heard the clink of the coffee pot and sat up straight. He jumped out of bed, still in his underwear, and ran into the kitchen where Joye stood pouring herself a cup of coffee, wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxer briefs. Her hair was a mess and she’d scrubbed her face clean and was radiant. She smiled at him and he let out a long sigh.
“Good morning,” she said.
“I’m so sorry about last—”
Joye held up a finger to silence him. It worked. She took a sip of her coffee before asking if he wanted a cup. He nodded, still unsure whether he was allowed to speak. She grabbed down a mug that read, “Shhh,” at the top, “Almost,” in the middle, and “Now talk,” at the bottom. Liv’s favorite. She fil
led it to Shhh and handed it to him.
Leading him by his elbow over to the breakfast table, she pulled out his chair and waited for him to sit before pulling a chair over next to him. She sat and leaned against him while he drank, and didn’t say anything for a long time. She just touched him and was there.
Eventually, she broke the silence and said, “I was looking at your pictures.” She nodded toward the collection of framed photos hanging on the wall. Liv had said she always wanted them to be together for meals, even if they were apart, so she’d gone on the hunt for photos in shoeboxes and albums and thumb drives. She framed them and hung them in a cluttered collage on the wall beside the table. They clashed with the rest of their décor, but somehow she made it work. “Is that her?” Joye asked, pointing to a shot off to the side of the array of a woman smiling devilishly behind an ice cream cone.
“That’s her. She had a thing for ice cream.” He directed her gaze to another picture of a child holding a cone. Same smile. Same pose. “That’s her when she was a kid.”
“And who’s that?” Joye pointed to one next to it. The boy from the restaurant, from the street, and the stall… and the night stared at them from the frame. The boy’s face was solemn and drawn. He’d been told to stand there and smile, but he hadn’t wanted to have his picture taken. He didn’t want to smile. A woman’s hands gripped his shoulders, holding him in place. They could make him do that much.
“That’s me when I was a kid.”
“He’s cute.”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t like it. I asked Liv not to hang that one up.”
Sam hated being that boy, and as soon as he could manage, had made himself into someone else. Someone who couldn’t be told what to do, or how to feel. Who couldn’t be forced to endure things he didn’t agree to. He’d hated that boy for being weak. Hated him so much that he killed the thought of him and buried it deep in the desert of memory, certain there was no way back.
Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers Page 3