by Scott Hale
“She did this.” Jasper twitched as a flash of lightning lit up the horizon. “She cheated on you, man.”
“She cheated for a reason.” Trent breathed out the anger that reminder had brought him. “If I just knew why, I could make things better.”
“Doesn’t work like that.” Jasper shook his head, ashamed. “It’s done, and you know it.”
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
Sea foam spilt over the shore, like the contents of a tipped cauldron. Crabs crowded around Gemma as she sat on her perch, legs swinging over the cave’s precipice. She watched the last of her kingdom wash away on the beach below. She could still hear them, the king and the queen, calling out for help, but she paid them no mind. They’d done it to themselves.
Fat drops of rain fell on Gemma’s knees and knuckles. She scooted backwards. A banshee wind howled across the cliff and haunted the cave. Lightning cracked the sky. Under its crooked grin, she scurried even further back.
Gemma considered staying here, to let the storm take her where it willed. Surely, wherever she went, it would be better than where she was about to go.
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
Fortune stood before her with a price tag too good to be true. Camilla searched it for signs of distress and forgery. She tapped on its bones, felt up its face. She pressed her ear to its heart and listened to its ticking beat. Between the pendulum’s sways, she could almost hear Trent telling her no, telling her it was too expensive, that they couldn’t afford it.
She pulled back, pulled it open to have a look at its innards. Like a haruspex, she saw future profits in its golden organs. If she didn’t buy it, then someone else would, and she wasn’t about to stop chasing happiness when it stood ready to be caught.
Mind made up, Camilla went to the front and asked the owner about the grandfather clock.
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
Beachfront properties had their perks, but being beaten into submission by storms on an almost weekly basis wasn’t one of them. They came in quick, and they came in hard. But for Trent, weathering abuse, in any shape or form, was something he had built up a tolerance for.
Trent got up from the kitchen table and went to the fridge. He opened it and stood there, staring at the leftovers on the second shelf. That’s what he’d be one day, he thought. A memory, one of many, put on ice and stored away in Camilla’s mind. And all the good there’d been between them, it wouldn’t last. He could with live that, or at least, that’s what he told himself. What he couldn’t live with was what would happen to Gemma. Camilla’s threats of divorce had already begun to cause their daughter to spoil.
“What’s up?” Jasper must have noticed Trent had been standing there a good minute or so. “You find the meaning of your life in that meatloaf there?” He rubbed his stomach. “Throw it out, brother. Was bad to begin with.”
“Don’t know about that,” Trent said, catching his meaning. He grabbed another beer and slumped back down into his chair.
Outside, a bolt of lightning stabbed the sea. Thunder, like cannons, bombarded the house, rattling it from its windows to its rickety foundations. It would go on like this for a while, the back and forth blows. But most of the time, they didn’t amount to much.
Jasper, fixated on the window that overlooked the ocean, mumbled, “Where’s Gemma?”
“She’s here. Heard her come in.” Trent cracked open his beer and sucked up the foam that bubbled out of it. “Didn’t she?”
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
The moment Gemma stepped out of the cave, the clouds must have decided it was time to drown the world. The rain hit her so hard it hurt. And there was so much of it that she couldn’t see but a foot in front of her. Between here and home, it was a quarter-mile trek across crabgrass and sand dunes. She’d done it before, more times than she could count. But between the deluge on earth and the warring heavens above, the path had never felt more wrong. In the elements, she was out of hers.
Arms wrapped tightly around herself, Gemma gave everything she had to moving forward. Though she would never admit it to anyone or anything but her diary, she was scared. Terrified. The wind kept shoving her in every direction but the one she needed to go. She could barely keep her eyes open, because the storm kept spitting in them. And every second that passed, she could hear the ocean coming closer, toppling over the shore, as though desperate to take her into its salty embrace.
A blast of wind shoved Gemma to the side. She plodded into a pile of driftwood, lost her balance, and toppled over. The wet, gray murk rolled in and fell like a blanket over her. Maybe this wasn’t a bad place to be, she thought, shivering herself into the sand. If she could hold out a little longer, her mom and dad would come looking for her. To have them working together, side-by-side, without clawing each other’s eyes out—that just might be worth a bad cold and some scratches.
Gemma hated that she was giving in to the theatrics her mother often accused her of, but it had to be done. So she curled into a ball, clung to the driftwood, and pretended not to hear her name, which was now riding in on the chilling wind.
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
The owner of the antique shop was a man by the name of Gethin Yates. Much like the shop itself, he was a brooding, disheveled man who was both annoyingly unreasonable and frustratingly unpredictable. But what made him most unsettling were his features; his pale skin and frail frame; his elfish ears and long nails; his black eyes, wide and unblinking, like the sharks that came up along the bay from time to time. It’s not that the middle-aged mutant was intimidating. He just didn’t seem to belong in this town, or even this world.
“What can I help you with today?” Gethin purred from behind the register.
Getting through the antique shop took time. There were too many items out in the open, in unstable places. Rumor had it the man made more money off people breaking things than actually selling them. And now that the storm had rolled in and started having its way with the town, the lights in the shop were going out. So Camilla, half-way to the front, chose to ignore him, to watch her step, instead. She just wanted the grandfather clock. She needed it, and nothing else.
“Something catch your eye in the back?”
Camilla dropped her purse on the desk next to the register. She popped open her clutch and took out her credit card. At that moment, the rain picked up. It bashed against the roof, like millions of balled fists trying to get through. Somewhere outside, in that impenetrable gloom, a car skidded across the road.
“The grandfather clock,” Camilla said. She held out her credit card. “I’ll pay for it now, and pick it up first thing in the morning.”
Gethin Yates twitched. He looked past her, into the flickering dark of his shop. Voice dropping to a whisper, like he didn’t want the thing to hear them talking about it, he said, “Sorry, but it’s not for sale.”
“What? That’s not what the clock said—”
“I forgot to mark it. I’m sorry.” He wrung his hands. “Buyer bought it the other day over the phone.”
“Over the phone?” Camilla shook her head. Fights with Trent, she’d give up on. But she had to have this clock. “How did your buyer even know…? Gethin, how long have you had the piece?”
Glancing out the window, he said, “Storm’s getting bad. Close to closing time, anyways. You better get back.”
“No, listen to me.” Camilla slapped the credit card down on the desk. “You’re not selling that to some out-of-towner. Does loyalty mean nothing to you?”
“Loyalty? Years of window-gazing doesn’t exactly make you loyal. You’re unshackling yourself from your husband. Good for you, I guess. But don’t act like you’re not new to this collecting business. Please,” he said, pointing to the door, “it’s getting bad out there.”
She ignored him. “What’s the buyer paying you? I’ll pay more. For the first time in a long time, I’m getting what I want. And I want that clock. It’s the principle of the matter. How many times have I helped you out of a bind?”
> He shrugged. “Not… many?”
“Doesn’t matter. Listen, what do you want for it?”
Temples bulging, Gethin put his elbows to the table and buried his face in his palms. Camilla had never seen him like this before. He was letting her down on all fronts of assholery.
“Is there something wrong with the clock?”
Gethin’s head shot up. His forehead started to glisten. Looking more suspicious than he probably wanted to, he mumbled, “What did you see?”
At that moment, Camilla knew she had him. “A charity case. Something I can fix up. A project. I need something to take my mind off things. Where’s the buyer? They pay you?”
Gethin took out a ledger. He flipped to the back, to a page that was completely covered in dried, black ink. He pressed his finger to the entry, reading words that, as far as Camilla could tell, weren’t even there.
“Buyer’s name is Connor Prendergast,” he said. His hand started to shake. “From clear across the way. East coast. His payment hasn’t gone through yet. I thought—” he looked disappointed, broken even, “—I thought it had.”
“Then it’s settled. Break the news to him tomorrow, when I come to collect.” Camilla tilted her head. “What is it? Was it in a crime scene or something? Or—” she gasped, “—or is it cursed? Oh, spooky!”
Gethin snatched the credit card out of her hand. “I just don’t feel right having it here, let alone selling it to someone else.”
She grabbed his wrist. “Twenty-five hundred, like the price tag says. And why don’t you feel right?”
He swiped her card, chewed on his lip. “Because I don’t remember ever owning it. I went into my storage a few weeks ago and there it was, hiding in the back. Camilla, I have no idea where that grandfather clock came from. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve forgotten about something I’ve procured, but I don’t think that’s what’s happened here.”
Lightning lit up the sky outside. Nefarious faces in the clouds beamed down on the coastal town.
“Well, I’ll say one thing,” Camilla said, voice fighting against the thunder. “It sure has made you much more pleasant to work with.”
“It frightens me.” He handed her back the credit card. “I can’t sleep at night because of it.”
Camilla shrugged. “That’s what the twenty-five hundred is for.” She winked, gathered up her purse, and then got serious. “Really, though, what’s wrong with the clock other than you forgot you owned it?”
Gethin Yates shook his head. “Some items just don’t feel right. They’re like people. They have personalities. When you finally take this business seriously, you’ll see.”
Camilla looked over her shoulder, into the shadowy clutter of the antique shop. Though it shouldn’t have been possible, she could’ve sworn she heard the ticking of the clock’s hands, as though it were counting down the seconds until it would be fully in her possession. She liked that idea, the idea of owning something forever, and it being indebted to her as much she was to it.
“Clock felt good to me,” she said, at last. She looked at the downpour raging behind the front door and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
Trent and Jasper booked it to the cave Gemma had claimed as her own. With two large LED lanterns and loose-fitting rain slickers, they skirted across the coast like sickly ghosts in search of a late-night snack. Moving through the dusky murk was like moving through a dream. They never went as fast as they wanted, and never seemed to get to where they were trying to go. Though the bursts of lightning helped, it didn’t stop Trent’s mind from tricking him into thinking every shape he saw was the shape of his little girl’s body, dead in the sand.
“This is bullshit,” Jasper shouted, the wind trying to rob him of his words. “You’ve got to ground her ass after this.”
Trent squinted, held his lantern higher. The torrential rain seemed to congeal around them, so that rather than falling in drops, it drooled down in thick globs.
Jasper touched his brother’s shoulder. “She’s okay, man. She’s pulling some shit, but she’s okay.”
Trent could hear the blood in his ears, as it drummed up fear and sick guilt. If she came back with anything more than a bad scrape, he’d blame himself. What the hell was he thinking? He had known the storm was coming, so why did he let her go out? Parents weren’t supposed to be afraid of their children. But he was of her. These were delicate times. If he betrayed her more than he already had, he would lose her for good.
Jasper, spitting out the rain in his mouth, cried, “What’s wrong?”
Trent ignored him. Holding the lantern with both hands, he trudged onward. Selfish thoughts clung like barnacles to his brain. They refused to let go until he acknowledged them. What would Camilla say if he came home with Gemma crumpled in his arms? Would their damaged daughter be a strong enough binding to buy their marriage a few more years? He’d blame himself, but he’d do it in secret, in a bed he would still share with his wife, the once love of his life.
God damn it. Where are you? He swung the lantern back and forth, the stark light illuminating the waterlogged land. The cliff side tapered away beside him. Squinting, he saw this was one of the paths Gemma used to get to her cave. It was narrow, reinforced with boards. One slip, and one would slip over the side, plummet into the sea.
You wouldn’t go that way. He leaned over the cliff, tried to pierce the haze of the twenty-foot drop. You wouldn’t do that, he thought, not seeing her body bobbing in the breakers. You wouldn’t go that far, would you?
“Hey,” Jasper said, pulling Trent away from the cliff. “Hey, look here, look. What’s that?”
A dizzying rush of relief ran through Trent’s body. His eyes went to where his brother was pointing. A pile of driftwood. He ran ahead, working the lantern’s light across the ground. It climbed over the driftwood, revealing something at the center, curled and quivering.
“Gemma?” Trent bellowed.
Lightning split the sky, struck a tree in the distant woods.
His feet sank into the ground; it was like it meant to do him a service by stopping him, to not let him see his daughter and what may have become of her. He shook himself free, using Jasper for support.
“Gemma? Is that…?”
He ran to the pile of driftwood and dropped to his knees. In the center, Gemma lay, her eyes open, talking to herself in tongues, the gibberish she proclaimed was a language all her own.
“Baby, are you okay?” He set the lantern down, while Jasper waved his over the girl’s body.
Trent wrapped his arms around her and lifted her to his chest. “Sweetie, answer me. God, please, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Gemma looked like she was going to play dead. But at the last minute, she threw her arms around Trent’s neck and started crying.
“I got lost in it all,” she said, bawling into his rain slicker. She held on tighter as he, fighting against his bad knee, got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
TRENT GEMMA CAMILLA
Dad didn’t set her down until they were back home. She stood inside the house, at the front, mud worshiping at her feet. Uncle Jasper went to get her a towel.
“Are you hurt at all?” her dad asked. He rubbed her shoulders to warm her up.
Gemma shook her head, chattered out an apology.
“It’s okay. Just… you scared the hell out of me.” He smiled, turned, and traded places with Jasper, who had that towel.
“Get changed before your mom comes home,” Uncle Jasper said, handing her the towel to dry off.
Her dad said, “Let’s just keep this a secret, okay?”
Gemma, wringing out her hair, mumbled, “Yeah.”
“After this morning, it would be nice to eat dinner in peace,” Dad said.
Uncle Jasper nudged her. “Go change. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Teething her lips, Gemma said, “Okay,” dropped the towel, and headed upstairs to her room.
“Gemma
.” Her dad went to the banister. His face was pinched, and darker. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Dad’s mood swings. Good cop, bad cop in one, of late, permanently inebriated body.
“Do what?” she said, inching up the stairs, looking dumb for playing dumb.
He sighed, frustrated, and waved her off.
All bark and no bite. That’s how he lost her mother, she thought, stomping up the steps. He was a good man, Gemma knew that. She loved her dad as much as she loved her mom. But he only cared as much as he needed to. Good wasn’t good enough, anymore. Not for her mother, and not for anyone else, it seemed. And if the divorce went through, what would he be, then? Someone who resembled her dad, but wasn’t quite?
Gemma turned on the hall light at the top of the stairs. She hated this. Hated it so much it gave her ulcers. Whatever those actually were.
Looking like something the sea had spat out, Gemma slithered into her room and shut the door behind her. She locked it, went to the mirror, and gave herself the once-over. Hair was a mess. Skin was a splotchy finger painting of sand and seaweed. She peeled off her clothes until she was down to her bra and panties. Bruises on her legs. Bug bites on her belly. It was gross to look at it, but she was used to it. She had never been known to take it easy on herself. She liked the rough things in life. The things that scratched and slashed, bit and stung. Mom always thought she was hurting herself on purpose.
“Bleh,” she said, stripping down completely.
Gemma threw the wet rags into the hamper and slipped into her pajamas. She jumped onto her bed and buried her face in the blankets. Her hand closed around the stuffed bat on her nightstand. Pulling it close, she breathed it in. The little guy’s name was Scram. Uncle Jasper liked to make fun of her for it, saying she was too old for that ratty, batty thing. Her mom had bought it for her years ago, when she was two or three, at a yard sale. She’d tried to part with Scram a few months back, because she was “growing up,” but it didn’t feel right. Not with Mom and Dad biting each other’s heads off every single night. The more they fought, the worse the house and the things inside it felt, until she could barely stand to be around them. Her room and Scram were about the only things their arguments hadn’t ruined.