by Sarah Porter
“Everett, that sweater is full of holes. Can’t you put on something decent before you walk out in public?” Then he shakes his head and jabs a sharper look at me. “Why do I keep getting the impression that you’ve changed somehow? Is there something you should tell me?”
“I’m just in a horrible mood,” I say. “It’s the Dashiell thing.” And hey, that would be a totally factual statement, but one that still manages to hide the truth; basically it’s the same way Dash talks. I can’t tell who I am anymore, and right now I’m not sure if I’ll ever know again.
“Of course. It’s a difficult anniversary for all of us.” Dad turns off the burner and stares down into the pan. “Eat something. Have some eggs. Nothing anyone did could save your brother, but at least—his death can serve as a reminder that we can still take care of one another. We can cherish what’s left.”
It’s so far out of character for him to talk this way that I don’t even know how to answer. “Aren’t those for Ruby?”
“They’re for both of you.” He’s holding on to the side of the stove like he’s trying not to fall and his head is sagging. Defeated. That’s the word for how he looks. Dashiell fought him and messed with him and stole from him for years, but he couldn’t actually beat our dad.
Except by dying. I didn’t understand until right now, but now I get it: that was Dashiell’s one definitive victory, in a way.
I go up to him and hug him, and I don’t remember deciding to do that, either.
When it’s time to go I don’t even say goodbye to Ruby. It’s been, what, six days since Dash came back? So that’s all the time it took for her to betray me, and I bet she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Why was I in such a big hurry to save her, when what she actually wants more than anything in the world is to be Dashiell’s bitch?
* * *
I can’t concentrate at all in school. Because I can only guess at how things went down between Dash and Ruby. I don’t remember any of it—probably Dash hauled me out of bed and waltzed me all over the place while I was asleep, the way he likes to do with her—but I can’t rule out the possibility that my unconscious recorded the whole thing. Maybe the memory is knocking around in my head, just someplace where I can’t get at it—but if I really, really concentrate I’ll be able to track it down.
People are still looking at me a lot at lunch, trying to get my attention, but I’m in such a foul mood I don’t care. Oh, like I’m a fabulous man of mystery and I can afford to blow off my fans? I guess that is how I’m acting, and I guess it makes me a jerk. But I’m too busy digging around in my brain, and I can’t tell if I’m remembering fragments of what happened or just plain inventing them: my silent footsteps in the dark hallway, my hand brushing Ruby’s knob, and then my mouth opening and saying—what?
“Everett?” It’s Elena, right on cue; her neon blue highlights do this waterfall tumble as she leans forward. The reality, though, is that she’s not here for me, and I need to keep that in mind. The reality is that talking to her at all just gives Dashiell an opportunity to start reeling her in, and I’m the scum of the earth if I let him do that. “You look upset. Are you okay?”
I should be as rude to her as possible. I should do my best to make her run like hell, just so Dash can’t get at her. But, I mean, her eyes are wide and concerned, and she’s already sitting down close to me and curling a hand on my arm. Hurting her on purpose is more than I can stand.
“Not really.” I have a good excuse: Dashiell’s practically a legend at our school. “You know about my brother?”
“I know.” Her voice is instantly soft. “I never actually met him, but my sister did, and she still talks about him a lot. Everett, I’m so sorry—about what you went through. I can barely imagine how that must hurt.”
“Thanks. So today is his birthday, and I feel like complete shit.” I’d like to tell her everything. I’d like to say, Look, you’ve got no reason to be this sweet to me. Really the person you’re trying to be sweet to is him. But I can’t do that. “Elena, you should probably leave me alone. Okay?”
There. I did it, and I can feel kind of a burp of annoyance from Dashiell. Of course, he knows exactly what I’m up to; it’s not like he’s ever had any trouble seeing through me, because I’m just that crude and obvious. Especially compared to him.
“If you want me to, I will,” Elena says, not looking at me anymore, and gets up faster than she needs to. It’s not like I don’t want her to stay. If it was me she liked and not some sneaky ghost bastard, I’d call after her and apologize, but really she’s just another sucker for Dash and his creepy magnetism.
Just like Ruby. In which case, I guess, to hell with both of them.
DASHIELL
No sooner are we out the door of that dreary school than I catch a glimpse of the face Ruby-Ru brought to my attention last night. Then it was a hirsute mess above a chest hollowed out by a shotgun blast at close range; now it’s upright and looks minimally healthier. The blue marble eyes have returned to their usual location. People should know better than to provide artillery for the figments that populate their dreams. Even a slip of a girl can take out a grown man if you put a gun within easy reach. Now that I know the appearance in question, it’s simple enough to detect the essence hidden behind it: a mismatch between the carcass and the spirit putting it through its paces. If Never had any plans for his afternoon, they’ll have to wait for me to finish my business with her. Ah, now she’s spotted me too, and she’s spinning her pet corpus on its heels and shuffling away up the ochre-leafed street.
Once I shunt Never out of my way—without any trouble, since his consciousness is already slack and wandering—I fall into step beside her. She’s walking fast, which suits me admirably; soon enough we shake free of the slop of teenagers loosed by the same bell that freed me. All the usual accoutrements of bourgeois Brooklyn parade past: the prim brownstones with nests of ivy ruffling in their gardens, the babies in design-conscious strollers; it’s all vile, really, but I’ll admit I missed the place. Mabel’s new body is a poor fit for her, much too large to be wieldy, and she conducts it gracelessly, sometimes tangling its feet and nearly falling.
“Were you looking for someone?” I say. “Maybe hoping for another chance to converse with Miss Slippers? I’ve arranged to keep her out of your reach for now, so there isn’t much point in your waiting around here.”
Mabel’s head switches as if to dispel a nagging swarm of flies; presumably her host is offering the usual feeble resistance. Never proved himself to be vastly stronger than I ever would have anticipated. The boy can put up a genuinely troubling fight.
“Are you angry with me? You can’t be angry with me!”
“I can’t be angry that you went out of your way to interfere with me? To plant disturbing ideas in my dear sister’s mind? Of course I can’t. Tell me, Mabel, what did you say to her?”
She pouts defiantly; it’s comical, that child’s mope on her aging drunkard’s face. There are hideous blots of rash on the neck and hands, with pustules red and weeping. “I told her they know about her! And it’s true! They can chop up both your bodies and make you go back, and then what will you do?”
“Chop up Never and Ru? Won’t they need hands to swing the axe?” They do know where I am; I’ve been perfectly aware of that since they came chasing after Never. Clearly enough they were lying in wait, but it’s telling that they were obliged to lurk on the other side. On this side they appeared to have no one in their arsenal whatsoever; there wasn’t a single guard at the old squat in Queens. It tended to confirm the rumors I’ve heard, that they’ve been suffering from a dearth of hosts in recent years. Ah, how that must rankle Aloysius, to find himself fresh out of flesh, unable to lift a living finger against me. “They don’t have bodies that I know of, Mabel. And they won’t get hold of anyone easily. That’s the major difficulty with having kicked off decades ago, isn’t it? You don’t know anyone alive who might have enough emotional investment in you to come close and stick
out their neck. Or have you heard anything different?”
Mabel looks around skittishly and tries to shrink down between her overgrown shoulders. Cold wind buffets our cheeks. “I shouldn’t tell you! They came jumping after me already, claws all over, just for talking a tiny bit to your Ruby.”
“Claws?” I can’t stop laughing. Mabel apparently hasn’t registered the advantages of sporting a body six-foot-two in steel-toed boots. Plant one of those with force on an animal’s neck, and it wouldn’t be pestering her further. “Cats, Miss Mabel? Are you telling me they’ve collected a posse of fearsome kitties, and I should be on the lookout in case my sweet sister gets a scratch?”
Mabel scowls. “A lot of cats.”
It’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since I died. “I’ll set out a saucer of cream for Aloysius, then.” Now that I think of it, there has been a gray tabby skulking around the house; I didn’t pay it much attention, but next time it comes slithering by I’ll be sure to get a better look. “Cats aren’t much for chopping people up, Mabel. Their poor little paws can’t get a grip on the hatchet.”
“They can try,” Mabel insists. “They can do something. And if they see me talking to you, they’ll do it to Old Body, too.”
“And what else did you tell Miss Slippers? I imagine she was observant enough to realize that body isn’t your native habitat. You’d have done better to pick out a girl, Mabel. The voice is a tad dissonant.”
Mabel is still sulking, glancing around as if the next turn might offer her a chance to run away. “I wanted a girl! It took me years and years to get anyone. And he was the first one ever who dreamed up a gun for me. Pow!”
“And did you mention that to my sister—how thoughtfully your staggering wreck there provided the gun you used to send his heart flying clear across the room?”
Mabel isn’t a stupid girl; she’s aware of why I’d like to know this, and she looks understandably worried. “No-oo,” she says, and the lie scrapes like a nail.
It won’t be long until Ruby Slippers parses the significance of our personal history, then: she’ll connect Mabel’s story with that nighttime swim we took together. I’ll need to be ready. “Thank you for your honesty.”
“You should let me have her,” Mabel says suddenly. “Ruby. I need a girl. And I’ll trade you Old Body.”
That makes me laugh again; only a child would think up something so preposterous. “And why would either of them cooperate with such a thing, Miss Mabel? I expect they’ve both learned their lesson. Your Old Body won’t be lured by a stranger again, and I’m confident that Ru-Ru would have the sense to avoid you.”
“You could ask her to do it,” Mabel coos hopefully. “I bet she’d do it for you.”
It might be entertaining to let the idea play out for a while, if I didn’t find myself resenting it so much. “Ruby-Ru is mine,” I say. “She’s my darling sister. I couldn’t trust you to take decent care of her. I don’t imagine you’d even brush her teeth at night.”
“You have your brother, anyway, so you don’t even need her! And you could do things with Old Body that you wouldn’t want to do with her,” Mabel adds with a sudden flurry of enthusiasm. “That thing you liked to do!” I know what she means, of course, but she feels the need to elaborate. “With the needle.”
That would be one advantage—the only one, really, to swapping a healthy sixteen-year-old for that poxy wretch she’s wearing. A more precious commodity than access to my sweet Ru, or even to Never, simply doesn’t exist; Aloysius and his crew would bargain everything they have for either one of them. Treat them reasonably well and they could be good for another seventy years or more, invaluable years of light and breath and sensation, of music and flavors and the sheer exuberance of commanding a physical self—though Aloysius does have a reputation for squandering the lives of his hosts at remarkable speed.
“You can’t have Ruby Slippers. Don’t let me hear you mention this again. And if you come after her at all, I’ll chop up your Old Body myself, Mabel. Please keep that in mind.”
I hear a light scrape on the pavement behind us, just a bit too close. I spin—if one of them does get his hands on a living human, then that could present real difficulties. Ah, but it’s only Never’s pretty friend Elena, her blue hair flicking like dragonflies.
A moment is all it takes to sort what must have happened: a glimpse of Everett talking to an old freak like Mabel was enough to pique Elena’s curiosity, and what she heard when she drew closer sent her into spasms of worry. She likes him far more than he’s capable of understanding, and I’d wager that she’s nurtured a quiet interest in him for years. So she followed us to eavesdrop, and no doubt she noticed that the voice wasn’t the one she’s used to hearing. That might be awkward for Never when he sees her in school tomorrow, but for me it doesn’t make much difference.
There’s no point in pretending that she hasn’t heard what she’s heard, so I don’t bother mimicking him. Instead I smile at her, and she skips back as if the smile was a knife.
Mabel takes advantage of my distraction, galloping to the best of her limited ability around the corner. It’s a subpar effort and I could catch her easily, but why bother? I’ve learned enough for now.
“What are you?” Elena asks, cowering back but not running herself. Ah, so she knows she’s not talking to Everett; she’d rather credit something far out of her experience, than believe in him putting on such an elaborate act. I’m pleased to see that she’s been so attentive to his character.
“That’s a valid question,” I tell her. “You’re a wonderfully engaging girl, so I’m sorry that I can’t oblige you by answering it.” I take a step closer and she almost shies away, then changes her mind and stays where she is. “I’m myself, Elena, and I’m here. Isn’t that what matters?”
RUBY SLIPPERS
I’m trying to read—Lord Jim, since we have an essay on it due next week—but all the things Ever said to me this morning keep slipping in between the words on the page: there is to my mind a sort of profound and terrifying logic in it skids into do you have any idea how he’s been playing with you?
I shake Everett’s voice out again—he was being so completely unfair. If he agreed to let Dashiell use his body, how could he think for one second that Dash wouldn’t come talk to me? So I make myself focus on the book: as if it were our imagination alone that could set loose upon us the might of an overwhelming destiny. Is it really imagination that creates our destiny? I longed for Dashiell and he came back to us. Does that prove Joseph Conrad was right? But if I’m responsible for Dash returning, then how did he wind up inside Everett? Does that mean they’re both trying to protect me, and keep me out of whatever is happening?
I won’t let them.
Whatever it is that’s come after Dash, whatever is using those cats to spy on us, this is my battle, too. I keep the blinds drawn now, in every room, but I can still hear them out there: a soft cheek nudging at my windowpane. A thin whine.
Ruby, you didn’t tell me that? And it’s Everett again, his shocked voice colliding with the voice in the story, sending it whipping off on some strange trajectory. I’ve covered five pages but I feel as if I’ve been reading for hours. This astounding adventure, of which the most astounding part is that it is true, comes on as an unavoidable consequence. I can only sustain my attention for that single sentence, though. I guess you’re completely on his side now, not mine. It’s a relief when the phone rings: I’ll take any voice but Everett’s, battering through my memory.
My dad, I think, though for some reason I have trouble deciphering the screen. He’s called four times today already, checking on me and making sure I don’t fall too deeply asleep. It’s maybe overkill but still sweet. “Hey. I’m feeling way better now.”
“I have a proposition for you, Ruby Bohnacker.” The voice is low and croaking, breaking up with eggshell fissures: definitely no one I know. “Come on down.” And then my phone starts squirming in my hand. It feels warm and pliant, like a li
ving muscle ripped from someone’s arm and still flexing. I can’t tell if I’ve thrown it in disgust or if it escaped on its own, but when I spot it again it’s on my floor, slipping toward a wide gutter in the pounding rain. An eddy picks the phone up and spins it back, and it rubs eel-like against a dropped shoe. I lunge after it, droplets bursting on my skin. As soon as my fingers close around it the gutter seems to spread itself wider, and I’m going down.
I can’t go too deep, I try to object. Dashiell said so. My dad said so. I might have a concussion. It’s not safe. But it doesn’t matter what I say, because the darkness dilates to take me in and then squeezes closed behind me. An infinite series of jet wings clap above my head.
When I land it’s as light as wind. A cat spools past my feet, halfway transparent, like smoke at the instant you blow out a candle. I’m not surprised at all this time to see the black gelatinous river lapping near my feet, the shacks, the glow that doesn’t need a moon to fall from. I must have known all along where I was going. In my hand my warm eel of a phone goes limp—and I know I need to get out of here, as fast as I possibly can.
But Dash isn’t here this time. He can’t show me the way out. I start walking along the bank, trying to move casually as if I belonged here. I don’t know exactly how Dash got me out before, but I’m pretty sure the exit was somewhere in this direction.
Right near that corpse with the blasted chest. There’s no other landmark I would recognize. The thought of looking into those gaping sockets again curdles my stomach, but I pick up my pace anyway—and nearly bash into a tall chain-link fence that wasn’t here before. It spreads in both directions so far that I can’t see its limit, pushing between the shanties on my left and cleaving the river to my right. It’s at least twenty feet tall and topped in hoops of razor wire.
“There you are, dearest Ruby. You’re looking captivating today. Won’t you come up and talk to me?”