Dead Spell

by Belinda Frisch

  “Jim, a hand over here, please?”

  Just as her uncle started to come over, Adam appeared at the clerk’s window.

  “I got her,” he said, counting out a stack of bills for bail. He slipped what was left of the wad of cash into the back pocket of his slim-fit jeans and pushed his blue-streaked bangs out of his eyes.

  “See, he’s got her.” Joan scowled and pulled Brea past the holding room.

  Harmony saw Adam and pulled away from the window, sitting back down on the bench, quiet.

  Adam thanked Gina, the clerk, for calling him and waited for Mike to open the door.

  11.

  “Thank God she called you.” Harmony scooted across the bench seat of Adam’s truck and curled up against him, but he pushed her away.

  “I don’t even want to know how this happened.” He held up her tattooed wrist. “Is this why you couldn’t see me tonight? Big plans with the tattooist?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you, Harmony. What don’t I give you?”

  “Don’t be mad.” She opened her mouth against his neck and drew out a long, wet kiss.

  He wiped the saliva away and shuddered. “I just shelled out half my rent in there and all you have to say is don’t be mad?”

  “What if I make it up to you?” She reached for the inside of his thigh and he grabbed her tattooed wrist sending a burning pain up her arm. “Now we’re talking. Hurt me.”

  There was a flash of disgust in his eyes and she could tell he was going to say something but stopped.

  “What, Adam? Are you going to tell me you can fix me? Make this all better? I’m fucking broken. Don’t you get that? There is no fix.”

  “Are you off your pills again?”

  She laughed. “You think it’s that easy? A few antidepressants and I’m better? My mother doesn’t even get me the pills half the time.”

  “And the other half you don’t take them.”

  He pulled into the driveway of his apartment building—twelve units, mostly Section 8 subsidized, but a paradise compared to the dump she lived in—and shut off the truck.

  He took a black garbage bag from the bed of the truck and marched her out ahead of him. “This has to stop.”

  “What has to stop?” She felt like a prisoner.

  “The cheating, the lying, the stealing, the drugs. All of it.

  He unlocked the apartment and put the bag down on the tile entranceway floor. It sighed open and her favorite things were inside: clothes, her Ouija, her journal, everything that mattered.

  “What’s going on? What is all this? What are you doing with my stuff?”

  “I talked to Charity. She’s going through some stuff and we both agree that you’re better off here for a while.”

  Under other circumstances that would have been good news, but the order to stay spun it differently.

  “Better off here? It’s not for you to decide.” She pulled Lance’s tee-shirt over her head and threw it in the garbage. “You’re not my warden and I won’t be on some kind of sick house arrest.” She stood there, topless, waiting for him to acknowledge that or apologize or touch her. She stepped out of her skirt and underwear.

  He stared at her neck, revolted. “What’re you doing, Harmony? Will you put something on?”

  “I’m taking a shower.” She stormed off and slammed the door behind her.

  The bathroom was drab, olive green tiled from floor to ceiling, and in the soft yellow light she saw what he had been looking at. Four round fingerprint bruises surfaced on her neck where she urged Lance to push harder—to choke her.

  She felt dirty, and sick, and angry.

  “Why do you keep doing this?”

  She turned the shower on so hot that it quickly fogged over the mirror. She wiped a towel across it to see what else she missed.

  “You don’t deserve him,” she said to her reflection. “You don’t deserve anyone.”

  She slid open the shower curtain and a chill crept up her back. She shuddered and looked over both shoulders.

  The swath of cleared mirror went black and the sink faucet turned on.

  Tom’s presence surrounded her.

  “No. Please. Don’t.”

  He knew when she was vulnerable.

  Flashes of light like kegs of exploding gunpowder went off in front of her and she slipped on the humidity-soaked tile.

  Her tail bone crushed against the side of the tub, her spine thrust upward.

  Adam was playing death metal so loud in the living room that the neighbor was pounding the wall.

  “Help,” she whispered.

  She rolled on to her knees and tried to stand, but Tom grabbed two handfuls of hair and yanked her so hard she thought it would tear out at the roots. There was no reflection, no man, just her hands over her head and her hair whirling and thrashing around them.

  “Please…please stop this.”

  She clawed her way down the counter to the drawer with the grooming scissors and hacked off her long hair in chunks.

  “I told you to let me go.” She fought off the attack.

  He lost ground as the tufts of discarded hair rained down on her sweat-soaked skin, clinging to the damp sink, the counter, and floor.

  She tore through the last chunk and as fast as he came, he was gone.

  She dropped to her knees and squeezed her head. The pain was so intense that it blurred her vision.

  It took a minute to clear it.

  “I’m going to find you,” she said. “I’ll know who you are and I’ll stop you.”

  She climbed into the shower and yielded to its quiet, soothing warmth.

  * * * * *

  The shower was still running when Adam left the apartment and locked the door behind him. He was hurt and angry, but more at Lance than Harmony.

  She always made bad decisions.

  One of her legendary bad decisions had brought them together two years ago at one of Lance's parties.

  She had just turned fifteen, but said she was older. Lance thought it would be funny to sink her in a game of quarters, to make her drink far more than any ninety pound girl ever should. He was a ringer and she wouldn’t back down.

  An hour later she was toxic. Fall-down drunk and the center of attention.

  Adam held her hair while she puked, fending off the assholes that were trying to take advantage. There were too many to count and if any of them knew her real age, they didn’t tell him. He found out after four months of dating and even that was by accident.

  None of it mattered now. He loved and accepted her. Broken or whole.

  He drove to Lance’s trailer with the heat on full blast. The window was cracked open a good two inches to air out the sickening, lingering smell of sweat and sex that had clung to Harmony like a second skin.

  It was pouring rain and the long stretch of country road was nearly devoid of streetlights.

  Thinking about Lance tattooing Harmony, touching her, hurting her, sharpened Adam’s anger and refocused his frustration.

  “I’m coming for you, man.”

  He hit the high beams, ignoring the warnings of deer, and slammed on the gas. The deep hum of performance exhaust grew louder with speed. He lit up a cigarette and turned up the radio, drumming his fingers to the beat of Master of Puppets.

  By the time he pulled into Lance’s gravel driveway, he was at a tipping point.

  The run down double-wide was dark except for the glow of a candle visible through the bedroom window.

  “Asshole.”

  He slammed the steering wheel with the heels of his palms and got out of the truck. His shirt was so hot from the heater blowing on it that the cold rain steamed when it hit the fabric.

  He was too angry to even notice he was wet.

  “Open up, you prick.” The rain muffled the sound of his fists against the rattling metal door. “God damn it, open up!” He kicked hard and it swung open.

  Lance ran out of the bedroom shirtless, his hands choked up an alumi
num baseball bat. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here, now, before I call the cops.” His shaking hands betrayed his attempt at looking brave.

  Adam grabbed Lance’s throat and pushed him so hard that the drywall caved in and the bat fell from his hand.

  Lance was half a foot shorter than Adam and even lifted off the ground, feet dangling and kicking, he refused to look him in the eye.

  Adam leaned into him hard enough to hold him still. “You listen to me, you piece of shit, you touch her again and I’ll bury you, you hear me?”

  Lance’s eyes went wide as he struggled for breath. “And you’re going to drop those bullshit auto theft charges or she is pressing some of her own.” He pulled Harmony’s underwear from his pocket. “Proof, you got me?” But Lance was too choked up to answer. “Nod if you understand me.”

  Adam loosened up enough for Lance to nod and when he did, Adam let go, dealing a solid punch to his left eye and another to his jaw. “You’re fucking pathetic. She’s a goddamned walking target for people like you, people that use her and throw her away.” He kicked Lance in the ribs and an unnatural, wet noise rose up from his gut.

  Lance rolled to his side and Adam left him there, gasping in a pool of his own vomit.

  12.

  Harmony woke up naked and alone with Adam’s side of the bed undisturbed. There was a bathrobe at the foot of the bed, a fresh prescription of Zoloft on the nightstand, and a note that said “I love and forgive you.”

  She was too sore, tired, and scared to keep fighting.

  “I love you, too.”

  She put on the bathrobe and wiped the tear running down her cheek.

  Oh, my god. My hair.

  She caught her reflection in the stand-up mirror. She looked hacked, like a kid that got a hold of her mom’s scissors. Swaths stood on end at varying lengths, some so close to her scalp that you could see it through them.

  She wondered if Adam had seen the chop job already or if the room was too dark when he got back.

  It was going to be hard to fix, but she had to try.

  She slipped inside the bathroom and took the scissors back out from the drawer. Adam had cleaned up the mess. Now she had to explain it.

  Part of her wanted to tell him about Tom and the attack. The other part of her knew better.

  She smoothed her hair with a comb, and section by section, lifted and cut it until it was relatively even. It ended up a very short, pixy-style haircut that made her feel like a chemo patient.

  “This is not a good look for you.”

  She wanted a hat or a hood or some coffee. An easy explanation would be good. She rinsed out the sink and went to the kitchen.

  “Morning.” Adam stirred his coffee with his left hand, icing his right. He looked worse than she felt.

  “Morning.” She noticed his wad of blankets and pillow on the couch. She lifted the cold pack off his hand. “Pay Lance a visit last night?”

  “Mmhm.” He poured her a cup of black coffee.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “So what now?”

  Adam shrugged. “We wait to hear if he dropped the charges.” He put a finger to her chin and turned her head to get a sweeping view of the new cut. “Nice job,” he said, “I had a hell of a time vacuuming this morning.”

  “Speaking of messes. What about us?”

  “I meant what I said in the note. I love and forgive you, but you need to get straight, Harmony. If this is going to work, you have to go back into therapy and start taking your pills.”

  “But not with Reed. I hate that guy. He thinks I’m like my mother.”

  Adam held her shoulders. “What do you mean like your mother? Did something happen in therapy?”

  “No, it’s nothing.” She untied her robe and pressed against him. Things were only right if he didn’t refuse her again.

  “Harmony, talk to me. What did Reed say?”

  “We can talk later.” She guided his hands to the small of her back and kissed him. “I kind of have other plans.”

  She dropped the robe and pulled off his shirt, kissing him with feverish need.

  He lifted her on to the counter and easily gave in.

  * * * * *

  Brea scooted down so her knees were against the back of the seat in front of her. Jaxon was coming in late so she had to ride the bus and its bucking down the pothole-filled road made it hard to hold her compact. She cleaned the mirror with a swipe of her finger and groaned. She hated how she looked: tired, plain, and child-like.

  Most of the junior girls hit some kind of super puberty over the last summer. They developed full breasts and grew several inches, but not her. She was still barely five feet and, given her genetics, unlikely to make it past 5’1. She was a little girl among women. A virgin, no less, terrified that she was so far behind she would never catch up. It was why most boys didn’t notice her and why she couldn’t help but feel that this thing with Jaxon was some kind of mean prank. Telling herself it wasn’t his style really didn’t help.

  She dabbed a few dots of liquid concealer under each eye and blended it over the dark circles with her fingertips.

  “This is hopeless.”

  The light purple coloring bled right through.

  She swept a thick line of black liner on her top and bottom lids, tousled her hair until the few dyed strands she hid from her mother showed, and called Harmony’s cell for the hundredth time since the police station.

  Voice mail. Again.

  “Harmony, it’s me. Call me when you get this, would you?”

  The bus pulled into the circle and she saw, or rather heard, Adam’s jacked-up, black Chevy crest the hill into the senior parking lot.

  Harmony was half out of the passenger’s side window waving frantically for Brea to come over.

  Brea shoved her compact and make-up in the top of her overfull backpack and moved to the edge of the seat. When the driver opened the door, she rushed up the aisle, moved with the herd, and, after checking for monitors, broke left for a quick getaway.

  Harmony slid across the skull fabric bench seat and snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “What the…” The haircut left Brea speechless.

  “Never mind, just come on, would you?” Harmony took Brea’s backpack and helped her up.

  “I’ve been calling you all night.”

  “Oh my God, did you get reamed or what?”

  “You have no idea.” Brea leaned over and waved at Adam who, until that point ignored her. He waved back, still not saying anything, and she saw the knuckles of his right hand were split. “What happened to him? And what happened to your hair?”

  “You like it?” Harmony tousled her short bangs and chugged a half a can of Red Bull that obviously wasn’t her first. “I did it myself.”

  “What possessed you…?”

  “Possessed.” Poor choice of words.

  “I’m…sorry…” Brea apologized.

  Adam looked over. “Sorry for what?”

  “He speaks.” Brea gasped.

  Harmony rolled her eyes. “With me, he never shuts up.”

  “So, uh, Adam, what happened to your hand?”

  Harmony smiled. “He got Lance to drop the charges.”

  Brea scoffed. “Lucky for you. My mom’s pissed. I’m not supposed to see or talk to you and this time she means it.”

  “Yet here you are doing both. I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m not kidding, Harmony. I need you to swear you’ll only call my cell from now on. I know how you like to egg her on.”

  “You have my word.”

  Something fell over as Adam took a sharp corner and Brea saw Harmony’s bag, the one with the Ouija board in it, toppled over behind the seat.

  Adam turned on the road to Oakwood Cemetery and, at that point, she didn’t have to ask where they were going.

  “Nothing like returning to the scene of the crime.”

  13.

  The thinni
ng trees swayed in the forceful breeze and the leaves rustled in waves. Adam parked under the same lighting-struck oak as Harmony had the night before and turned off the truck.

  “End of the line.” He pointed down the narrow path between the headstones. “Truck’s too big to squeeze through.”

  Brea reluctantly opened her door. “Are you sure we should be here?”

  Harmony jumped down from the driver’s side and reached across for the bag with the Ouija board. “The cops aren’t coming back, Brea. Relax.”

  Brea’s foot tangled in the seat belt and she fell out the passenger’s door with a thud. “Stupid thing.” She looked at Adam. “Why can’t you have a normal truck like everyone else? Jacked up piece of junk.” She patted the dust from the butt of her jean capris.

  Adam laughed and climbed back in. “You done?”

  Harmony hooked her arm around Brea’s shoulder. “Yeah, she’s done. Come on.”

  “He’s not staying?”

  “I told him to go.” Harmony blew Adam a kiss. “See you in a couple hours.”

  “Call me if you want me to come back sooner.”

  The truck revved, fogging the air with a cloud of dark gray exhaust.

  Brea waited until he was out of sight to confront Harmony. “You plan on trying to talk to Tom, don’t you? You planned on it last night, too. God, I’m so stupid.”

  “Brea, I need this.”

  “Need what? Talking to Tom is only going to make things worse.”

  “I need more information. If I don’t know who is after me, I can’t figure out why. The name Tom isn’t enough to go on. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “You honestly think he’ll tell you anything else?”

  “If he doesn’t, at least I tried.”

  Brea followed Harmony past the newer headstones into what they called the “Lost Souls Department”—the oldest burial plots hidden behind a row of full pines and her favorite place to get rubbings.

  Harmony pushed through the sappy, pinecone-filled branches and pulled a pack of Newports from her pocket. “I think we stay out of the mainstream this time.” She shook a joint out of the cigarette pack and sat on the cracked granite step of the Smith mausoleum.