Grim

by Anna Waggener

  Shawn led his sisters to a row halfway down the aisle and waited for them to be seated before he took his place beside Rebecca. The pews were made of burnished oak, cool to the touch, and the faux-leather Bibles smelled softly of myrrh.

  The congregation at Saint Jerome’s settled into place, pretty in their church clothes. They waited for the priest to bring them closer to God.

  The room had been scrubbed free of dust by the time Erika returned, the four-poster remade with fresh linen and clean blankets. She washed her face and stripped off the borrowed gown and its soft scent of vanilla, but, after an hour of staring at the carved ceiling, felt resigned to not falling asleep. She slipped out of bed.

  In the hall, Erika felt along the wall with her fingertips to avoid tripping in the dark. Feet cold on the marble staircase, eyes adjusting to the midnight shadows: She was a child waiting for Santa. A cheerleader crazy in lust and holding her breath until a set of headlights swung into view. A mother desperate for her children. Erika tried not to dwell on the repetitions of her life — she’d always been afraid to wake those who knew better.

  The candelabra still burned at the end of the dining table, but the wicks had sunk into pools of melted wax and sputtered in a desperate attempt to stay lit. The dishes too were waiting to be picked up. Erika sat back down on her chair and studied the porcelain plate, where her earring lay in the pool of warm wine. She nudged it with her forefinger and watched as the reflection shuddered before growing still again. Erika sighed.

  Shawn felt his eyelids grow heavy. He’d only managed to catch a few hours of sleep. He dug his thumbnail into his palm to keep himself awake and shifted in his seat. When Rebecca threw an angry look at him, he turned away and rested his chin on the back of his hand.

  “Now, our Lord,” said the priest, “is merciful because He knows that we make mistakes. He knows that no person is perfect because He did not make us to be perfect. In truth, our faults make us beautiful to Him because they show Him that we are ready to change. That we are ready to become better in His name.”

  Shawn drifted off to sleep.

  Erika’s eyes widened as she saw the gentle waves from her breath glimmer and spread out in a slow starburst. She leaned in closer. There was Shawn, standing over a slash in the ground and looking down. And then she realized that the slash was a hole, and that the hole was a grave, and that it was her body lying inside. She blinked.

  When she opened her eyes, she was looking up at her son, an impossible stretch of smooth dirt keeping her away.

  He knelt down. The movement knocked a trickle of dust and clay into the grave. It settled in her hair and on her dress. She rubbed soil from her eyes.

  “Am I dead, Shawn?”

  He stayed there, above her, his face downcast. “Yes, Mom,” he said. He hesitated and then knelt down and reached deep into the grave. Erika got to her feet and stretched up on tiptoe to take his hand. She felt him shiver as he touched her bloodless skin. It broke her heart.

  Her voice shook as she spoke. “Am I scaring you?”

  When he didn’t answer, her knees buckled under her and she fell forward.

  “Mom!” Shawn leaned in to catch her but lost his own balance. He tumbled down beside her, headfirst, and landed with a heavy crack on the packed earth.

  Erika screamed and pulled away. She plunged through a chute of rushing air, out of the dream, and back into her own body. The wooden lattice of the dining chair bit into her spine as she fell backward with it and thumped to the ground. She rolled over onto her side and pressed her chin down against her knees.

  Erika’s breath came shallow as she sucked thin, trembling mouthfuls of air into her throat. Yes, Mom. Before she realized it, she was sobbing. Hot tears slipped down her nose and cheeks. The curls of her hair grew damp and sticky as she cried, and the floor felt like a cold compress against her flushed skin.

  It took Erika a few minutes to realize that she hadn’t left the room because she wanted Jeremiah. It took her longer to realize that he wasn’t going to come.

  She lacked the energy to move. She just lay there on the unwashed tiles, her body twisted into a question mark, and shivered against the satin of her nightdress.

  Shawn woke up on the floor of the church, with his head pounding. Rebecca towered above him, staring, horrified, at his limp body. Megan pressed her head against her sister’s ribs.

  The priest stood planted at his pulpit, a Bible and the scribbled notes of his sermon on the dais in front of him.

  A few seconds went by before Shawn noticed that he had the attention of the entire congregation.

  Shawn reached for Rebecca’s arm, but she recoiled and he had to push himself up on his own. He pressed one hand against the back of his throbbing head and waved an embarrassed apology.

  “You’ll want to go to the clinic, young man,” said a woman in the next pew, a book of hymns clutched against her chest. She sounded as if Shawn had personally wronged her. “You may have a concussion.”

  Shawn turned to Rebecca for help, but she had already sunk back into her seat, her eyes fixed on the India-paper pages of an open Bible. Her lips formed a thin, irritated line.

  “I’ll pick you up after the service, then,” Shawn said weakly. When Rebecca didn’t answer, he turned on his heel and hurried down the aisle and through the heavy front doors.

  The priest looked back down at his notes as the doors swung into place.

  “Luke thirteen,” he said. “‘He answered them: Do you imagine that, because these Galileans suffered this fate, they must have been greater sinners than anyone else in Galilee? I tell you they were not; but unless you repent, you will all of you come to the same end. Or the eighteen people who were killed when the tower fell on them at Siloam — do you imagine they were more guilty than all the other people living in Jerusalem? I tell you they were not; but unless you repent, you will all of you come to the same end.’”

  Jeremiah sat on the terrace overlooking the back gardens. To the north, where the city’s center crouched, buildings posed themselves at angles, forming crooked, black teeth. It was past sundown, past curfew, and Limbo held its breath, but Jeremiah wasn’t listening. He had a sheet of paper pressed against his knee, and a glass of brandy in his hand.

  Jegud —

  I’ve come home, though you’ll know as much by now.

  There’s been a mistake. I must see you.

  Jeremy

  Jeremiah reread the note one last time before reaching for the candlestick on the table beside him. Martha opened the door as he peeled his ring from the molten wax.

  “Miss Erika is in the dining room, sir,” she said.

  He looked down at the sealed letter and let a small breath spill out. “I thought so,” he said, passing it to Martha. “Make sure he gets this by morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And make sure he opens it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “That’s all.”

  “And the miss?”

  Jeremiah took a final sip of brandy and looked into the mouth of the city. It waited, hungry and all too ready to swallow them up.

  “I’ll take care of her,” he said. “You know that.”

  Rebecca and Megan waited on the front steps of the church until Shawn pulled up, with the car windows rolled down. Megan gave him a peck on the cheek as they climbed in.

  “Jesus loves you,” she said.

  “The priest talked to us after mass,” Rebecca told him. “Apparently, God understands. That’s more than I can say for myself.”

  “I’m not having the best day, Becca.”

  “Really?” she scoffed. “Because mine has been spectacular. My family sees dead people in their sleep and my brother collapsed in church during a sermon about infidels. I’m surprised you didn’t sizzle when you hit the ground.”

  “It’s not like I was trying.”

  “Weren’t you? I’m impressed.”

  “You know, you can act like this all you want, but it wo
n’t help anything.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mom’s still around.”

  Rebecca glanced at Megan’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Don’t say that, Shawn.”

  “Say what?”

  “That. About her.”

  “I don’t mean that she’s going to pull up the driveway and ask us to help carry in groceries, Becca. But my dreams aren’t random. She’s watching us. I know she is.” His eyes flicked from the road to Rebecca and back again. “I’m not crazy,” he added.

  Rebecca stiffened. “Well, I’m not, either.”

  “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”

  “I just don’t find it necessary to talk about this with Meg here,” Rebecca hissed. “She might get the wrong idea.”

  “About Mom?” Megan asked. Her head rested against the tinted glass of one of the back windows. As she talked, she kept her eyes on the houses that slid past her. “I think Shawn’s right.”

  Rebecca let out a tired groan. “See?”

  “I’m eight, Becky,” Megan said. “Not stupid.”

  When Erika woke, she didn’t know where she was. She stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, taking in the soft twist of gold fabric and trying to place it with a bedroom that she recognized. When she rolled onto her side and caught sight of the faded armchair, the heartbreak of last night came flooding back. Limbo wasn’t a dream — it was silk sheets swallowing her up and keeping her from her children. And she wasn’t alone.

  Jeremiah turned away from the window. When he saw her awake, his face relaxed into a smile.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Not well.”

  He looked down at her, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Are you coming down for breakfast?”

  She dipped her cheek against the plush of the pillows and drank in the fresh, expensive-smelling perfume they’d been sprinkled with.

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll have something sent up.”

  “Don’t,” she said.

  Jeremiah knelt on the floor by her bed and rested his chin against the mattress. The sleep-fluffed curls of his hair were a dark cinnamon in the morning sunlight. He smiled again. “You aren’t going to starve yourself, are you?”

  “Is that possible?” Erika asked. “I’m already dead.”

  Jeremiah lost his smile. He let a long breath out between his teeth.

  “Who would tell you something like that?” he asked.

  “Shawn.”

  He gave her a half laugh. “Your son? I’m sure you love him, Erika, but can you really trust him over me in a question of death?”

  Erika pressed her eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

  “Bless him,” he said. “No human being knows the first thing about death.”

  “Except for the dead ones.”

  Jeremiah smirked. “No,” he said. “Not even them. Especially not them.”

  He took Erika’s hand from the pillow and pressed her fingers against his palm.

  “Do you think that I could feel your heartbeat if you were dead? Do you think that I could feel your breath on my hand if your lungs had collapsed? Or hear your voice? Believe me. Trust me.” He grazed her fingertips with his lips before tucking her hand back beneath the covers. “I have to go to my study,” he whispered, “but let me know if there’s anything you need, Erika. Anything at all.” He got to his feet again and went to her door. She flexed her hand against her leg. Her fingers burned.

  “You would tell me, Jeremiah,” Erika said. “Wouldn’t you?” Her voice came out low and sad. He nodded his head.

  “I would tell you anything you asked me, Erika. It’s just who I am.”

  She knew that he was playing her. That he was beautiful and he was playing her.

  “She’s causing problems,” said Jeremiah as he jogged down the steps to where his brother stood, observing Kala in all of her caged glory.

  “Of course she’s causing problems,” Jegud said. He was dressed in a trim black suit, cut just to size. Of all the king’s sons, Jegud had taken to Limbo’s latest dictated century with the most ease. The brothers used to joke that it had been tailored for him. “She’s with you, isn’t she? She must be a quick learner.”

  “Jegud, you have no idea —”

  “I have every idea, Jeremiah. How hard this is for her. How easy it must have been for you.” He shot his little brother a look to cut diamonds. “I hear you struggled with her in the Passing Woods. Rumor wants to know why it took so long for young Jeremiah to crawl through this time. Rumor says he’s wounded.”

  “And maybe he is. I had to get back in, Jegud. Michael would’ve killed me.”

  Jegud jerked his head at the staircase. “And this was the first thing you could think of? Kidnap the nearest single mother?”

  “I didn’t know she had kids.”

  “Is that supposed to make you look better?”

  “I have to fix this,” Jeremiah said. “Will you help me?”

  Jegud turned back to Kala, still asleep for all the bickering.

  “She’s going to fall in love with you,” he said. “A soul shouldn’t be with their guide for this long.”

  “I know,” said Jeremiah. “But what can I do?”

  “You can try not to make it worse.” Jegud gave his brother a pointed look.

  Jeremiah cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “Thank you for coming, Brother. You always let me feel more myself.”

  Jegud glanced away. “I’ll find someone on staff to do your guide work. For now.” He slid back into his woolen coat and ran a finger around the brim of his top hat. At the door, he paused. “Jeremy, I —”

  Kala stirred and fluffed her feathers before settling back to sleep. The brothers watched her, sharing a sad smile.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” said Jegud, and went out.

  The air tasted electric, like newly struck lightning, pregnant with rain. A rush of wind swept through the city, making the stones weep against the cold. The beading water turned floors and walls to glass.

  She came in, barefoot, with her curls pinned back and a fluted oil lamp in her hands. The flame burnished her skin to the color of autumn-ready leaves.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she said.

  The king stepped away from his parlor window and tipped up her chin.

  She had eyes like chips of jade, plucked from rock and polished till they blazed. If he could name her, he would; call her something precious. Instead, he kissed her cheek. Her skin went warm at his touch, and he smiled when he caught her blushing. The queen had never let herself be as delicate as this remarkable, breakable rogue. But because of that, the king believed, she had never been as strong, either. He felt himself pulled to this spirit who’d been created to serve, but who had some secret tiptoeing through those eyes; a secret but an innocence, also, that he didn’t quite understand. No guile. He had never seen eyes so honest.

  He dipped his head close again, sending a warm rush of air against her earlobe, along her neck. She shivered. He’d sworn never to fall as far as his father had, but now he saw that it was too late.

  “I’ll build a house for you,” he said. “I’ll give you your gardens. Better than Boboli. Better than Babylon.” When she said nothing, he stepped back and took the lamp from her. Its brass base clattered against the windowsill as he set it aside.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked. “Of me?”

  “No,” she said.

  “And why not fear strangers? You don’t know me.”

  The rogue took his hand. “I know all there is to know,” she said.

  The king smiled at that, and believed.

  Erika stayed in bed for another hour at least, lulled by the steady drip, drip, drip of the bathroom faucet, which had developed a leak. Martha came in with a tray of bread and fruit and left it, without a word, on the seat of the armchair.

  After Martha closed the doo
r, Erika crawled out of bed, her skin cold on the wooden floor, and looked through the bureau for something suitable. Skirts and dresses, linen and lace; she slipped into black chiffon, the plainest piece in the wardrobe, and took her other earring out. She ran a finger down the chain of her necklace and closed her eyes. When she hooked her fingers around the emerald, Megan stood out in her memory, clear against everything else, and Shawn with her, and Rebecca looking happy, for once. The air smelled of cinnamon. Erika turned away from the dresser.

  Despite her lack of hunger, she nibbled at the food for want of something to do. The grapes and peaches were unripe, the bread salty. Afraid of making Jeremiah worry, she brought the plate to her window and let her breakfast fall into the bushes.

  There were two men standing outside the manor gate, both dressed in clean suits and carrying flowers that seemed out of place within the city walls. Just a few feet away, a gardener on a tall A-frame ladder battled with the dead limbs of an old oak tree, each eager snap of his clippers forewarning a falling branch. The men watched him intently, and he must have seen them, but neither party said a word to the other.

  After a few seconds, the shorter of the men outside the gate tapped his colleague on the shoulder and whispered something without turning his head. Erika caught the unchecked glance at her window and pulled back, hiding her face behind the heavy curtains. From her viewpoint, she could see the shorter man smile as wide as the Cheshire cat before he tipped his top hat to her empty window. The two of them walked toward the gate, beyond the window’s frame. Erika smoothed the skirt of her dress in one quick movement and headed out of her bedroom to find Jeremiah.

  When she walked into Jeremiah’s study, she was confronted with a portrait of herself. She froze. There she hung above the fireplace, dressed in a rich blue gown that clung to her shoulders. A lush garden sprouted all around her.

  “My mother,” said Jeremiah, and Erika started once more. She turned and found him behind a stocky rosewood desk, his expression as intent as the first time she’d met him. His study was a long, narrow room lined with glass-front shelving. Thousands of black and brown leather books waited behind the dusty panels, intermixed with brass and wood knickknacks. Jeremiah gave his mother’s portrait one last glance and then set aside the book he had been reading.